Blood Valley

by William W. Johnstone

“Stay out of this, you son of a bitch!” the man at the top of the stairs shouted. He turned his pistol toward Falcon.

  Falcon dropped his beer and pulled his own pistol, firing just as the man at the top of the stairs fired. The shooter’s bullet missed Falcon and hit a whiskey bottle that was sitting on the bar. The impact sent a shower of whiskey and shards of glass.

  Falcon’s shot caught the shooter in the chest, and he dropped his pistol and clasped his hand over the entry wound, then looked down at himself as blood began to spill between his fingers. The shooter’s eyes rolled up in his head and he tumbled forward, sliding down the stairs, following his clattering pistol all the way down. He lay motionless at the bottom, his head and shoulders on the floor, his legs still on the steps.

  Although the sound of the two gunshots had riveted everyone’s attention, the situation between Kofax and the sheriff continued to play out and, almost before the sound of the first two gunshots had faded, two more shots rang out. The sheriff’s bullet struck Kofax in the neck, forcing him back against the cold wood-burning stove, causing him to hit it with such impact that he knocked it over, pulling down half the flue pipe.

  As the smoke from four gunshots drifted through the saloon, only the sheriff and Falcon were still standing. Both were holding smoking pistols in their hands, and they looked at each other warily.

  “I thank you for taking a hand in this, Mister,” the sheriff said. “Most folks would have stayed on the sidelines.”

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t really have that much choice in the matter,” Falcon said.

  The sheriff chuckled and nodded. “I guess you didn’t at that,” he said. He put his pistol away.

  Falcon re-holstered his own gun.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” the sheriff asked.

  Falcon looked pointedly at his beer mug, which now lay empty, on the floor where he had dropped it when the shooting began.

  “I guess I could use a new one at that,” Falcon said.

  “Two beers,” the sheriff said.

  The barkeep, who had dived to the floor behind the bar when the shooting started, now stood up, drew two beers and put them on the bar.

  “Thanks,” Falcon said, taking a swallow of his beer.

  “The name is Calhoun,” the sheriff said as he lifted his own beer to his lips. “Titus Calhoun.”

  “Glad to meet you, Sheriff. I’m Falcon MacCallister.”

  Upon hearing Falcon’s name, Sheriff Calhoun coughed and sprayed beer. Slamming his beer down on the bar, he reached for his pistol, only to find his holster was empty.

  “Are you looking for this?” Falcon asked, holding the sheriff’s pistol.

  Seeing that Falcon had his gun, the sheriff put his hands up.

  “Put your hands down, Sheriff,” Falcon said. He put the pistol back in the sheriff’s holster. “Whatever you think you might have on me, it’s wrong. I’m not wanted anywhere.”

  “I . . . I reckon, under the circumstances, I’ve got no cause not to believe you,” the sheriff said.

  “Good. Now, maybe you can tell me about these two men we just had a run-in with.”

  “That one’s Rollie Kofax,” Sheriff Calhoun said, nodding toward the one he had shot. He looked over toward the stairs where the other man lay, half on the stairs and half off. “The one you shot was Willy Cardis. I just got word today that they was the ones that held up a stagecoach last week, over near Perdition. There was three of ’em, but Gilly Cardis, got hisself caught.

  “Gilly Cardis? You mean the two brothers, names were Willy and Gilly?” Falcon asked.

  Sheriff Calhoun nodded. “They was twins,” he said. “And I don’t expect Gilly’s goin’ to be none too happy to hear that his brother got shot. I’d say it’s a good thing he’s in jail right now, otherwise, you’d probably wind up havin’ another gunfight on your hands.”

  “Yeah,” Falcon said drolly. “Seems like just about everyone I’ve ever run across had a brother somewhere. And those brothers all want to make things square.”

  “What are you doin’ in Picacho, Mr. MacCallister? That is . . . if you don’t mind my askin’.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” Falcon said. “I have some property down around Oro Blanco. I was just down seeing to it.”

  Sheriff Calhoun shook his head and clucked, quietly. “That’s not a place that’s too healthy to be, right now. What with the Indian problem and all.”

  Falcon finished his beer. “Let me buy this round,” he said. “That is, if you’d care for another.”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Calhoun said.

  “There’s no Indian trouble now,” Falcon said. “I had a nice meeting with Keytano and . . .”

  Calhoun snapped his fingers and smiled, broadly. “I know where I heard your name now,” he said. “You and Mickey Free brought in Naiche a few years back, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Keytano? You had a . . . I believe you called it a nice meeting . . . with Keytano?”

  “Yes,” Falcon said.

  Calhoun chuckled, and shook his head. “Only someone like you could call a meeting with Keytano nice.”

  “Keytano is a good man,” Falcon said. “He’s a man of honor, and I like men of honor.”

  Falcon finished his second beer, then set the empty mug down. He glanced toward the two dead men who had been dragged to the back of the room and covered with a tarpaulin.

  “I don’t have to stick around for any kind of an inquest, do I?” he asked.

  Calhoun shook his head. “No, but I’m sure there’s a reward for Cardis. If you wait around a couple of days, I can get it approved and get the money to you.”

  “Do you have a volunteer fire department in town?” Falcon asked.

  “Yes,” Calhoun replied, puzzled as to why Falcon would ask about that.

  “Give any reward money I might have to the volunteer fire department,” he said. “I’ve never known one, anywhere, that couldn’t use a little extra money.”

  The sheriff nodded. “You’re right about that, Mr. MacCallister, and I’ll do that for you,” he said. “Speaking for the town, I’ll tell you that we are grateful.”

  Falcon stuck out his hand for a handshake. “I need to get down to the depot to make arrangements to catch the train,” he said. “Maybe I’ll see you again, sometime.”

  “It would be my pleasure,” Sheriff Calhoun said.

  “Who is that fella MacCallister, anyway, Sheriff?” the bartender asked when Falcon left the saloon.

  “He is the kind of man people tell tall stories about, Sam,” Sheriff Calhoun replied. “Only in Falcon MacCallister’s case, they’re all true.”

  When Falcon arrived in MacCallister the next afternoon, he stopped by the post office to pick up his mail. One of his letters was from his brother Andrew in New York, asking him again why he didn’t just cash in everything and come to New York.

  Falcon chuckled as he read the letter. He knew it was more than just brotherly love that made Andrew invite him. Despite his footloose lifestyle, Falcon was the wealthiest of all his siblings.

  The other letter was from Conrad Kohrs.

  Falcon held the letter for a moment or two before he opened it, wondering what the wealthiest cattle baron in America wanted with him.

  Chapter Two

  A rat, its beady eyes alert for danger, darted out from one of the warehouses onto the dank boards of the pier. Finding a piece of sodden bread, it picked up its prize, then darted back to the safety of its hole. Falcon MacCallister stood on the same pier, looking out over San Francisco Bay. He pulled the collar of his coat up against the damp chill air as he listened to a bell buoy clanging out in the harbor, its syncopated ringing notes measuring the passage of the night. From somewhere close, a bosun’s pipe sounded a shipboard signal, incomprehensible to landlubbers but fully understood by the ship’s crew.

  Gossamer tendrils of fog lifted up from the water and swirled around the pilings and piers so that the steel girders and wire cab
les of the dock loading-cranes became ethereal tracings. Long gray fingers of vapor had San Francisco trapped in its grasp.

  There was no breeze.

  The gaslights of the street lamps were dimmed and all sound was deadened by the heavy blanket. There was a dreamlike quality to the scene that made it hard to distinguish fantasy from reality. Figures moved along the streets and sidewalks, but they were no more than apparitions gliding through the fog, appearing then disappearing as if summoned and dismissed by some prankish wizard.

  Falcon was in San Francisco to take delivery of a horse for Conrad Kohrs. But it wasn’t just any horse, it was a very special horse, bred by King Abdul Aziz of Arabia.

  “A king’s horse have I bought and for it a king’s ransom have I paid,” Kohrs said in the letter he had sent to Falcon.

  Kohrs chose Falcon as his emissary, not only because the well-known cattle baron was Falcon’s friend, but also because he knew Falcon would be coming to Montana to attend the Montana Stockgrowers Association meeting.

  The horse had been brought to America onboard the Sea Dancer, a tall-ship that plied the Pacific Ocean. Because of the value of the horse, it was shipped under special circumstances, not sharing a stall with other horses, but enjoying a private suite, constantly looked after by its own groomsmen.

  Falcon had made arrangements to take delivery of the horse even before dawn because he intended to put it on the morning train.

  The Sea Dancer lay at anchor alongside pier number seven, flaunting its half-naked dancing-girl figurehead, the long, sleek, gilded black hull glistening in its own running lights. Someone was standing on the dock alongside the ship as Falcon approached. The man was wearing a dark peacoat and a billed cap. The sleeves of the coat, as well as the bill of the cap, were decorated with gold braid.

  “Captain MacTavish?” Falcon asked.

  “Aye, Captain Sean MacTavish at your service,” the sailor answered. “And you would be Falcon MacCallister, I take it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, ’tis a fine horse my old friend Connie is getting,” Captain MacTavish said.

  Falcon chuckled. “Connie?”

  “Aye, it was Connie we called him when he sailed with us,” MacTavish said. “I was a midshipman when first we met.” TacTavish chuckled. “Connie and I went ashore in Calais. Ahh, the French girls. We were just boys, mind you, but we’d been around the world a time or two, so we were pretty worldly for our age. But it turns out the Captain didn’t think so. We got a caning we did, the both of us.”

  MacTavish paused before he spoke again. “But the French girls . . . ah . . . the French girls. I tell you true, ’tis three canings I would have taken for the lessons those French girls taught us.” The captain turned toward the ship.

  “Mr. Peabody!” he called.

  “Aye, Cap’n,” a voice returned from the deck.

  “Land His Highness.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  MacTavish turned back to Falcon. “I don’t know what Connie will call the horse, but we’ve been calling him His Highness, for true it is that he lived better than anyone did on the voyage, myself included.”

  A wide gangplank was lowered from the side of the ship, then a sailor came down the plank, leading the horse. Falcon walked over to examine the animal when it reached the dock.

  The horse had a distinctive muscular profile with large, lustrous, wide-set eyes on a broad forehead; small, curved ears; and large nostrils. Falcon whistled softly.

  “He’s quite a beauty, isn’t he?” Mac Tavish said.

  “Yes, he is.”

  “T’was said, when we took him abroad, that he was the King’s favorite.”

  “Then why did the King part with him?”

  “’Tis said he wanted the bloodline to start in America,” MacTavish said. He rubbed his hands together. “Well, m’boyo, ’tis your responsibility now. Do give Connie my best.”

  “I’ll do that,” Falcon said.

  “You sure he’s pickin’ up that horse this early, Dingo?” Cyrus asked. “Hell, it ain’t even light yet.”

  “Yeah, He’s getting’ him early so he can put ’im on the eight o’clock train.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “’Cause I met some fella off the ship that brung the horse over,” Dingo said. “We was drinkin’ together. He got drunk and the next thing you know, he was tellin’ me about this here ten-thousand-dollar horse.”

  “You know that’s a load of bullshit,” Cyrus said. “There ain’t no horse worth ten thousand dollars. And even if there was, who would you find to pay you that much for it?”

  “This here horse is worth that much. He’s one of them special breed of horses that kings and the like have,” Dingo said. “But we ain’t goin’ to try and get that much money for him. If we sell him for five hunnert dollars, well, that’s five hunnert we don’t have now.”

  “Yeah, well somethin’ else we don’t have now is the horse,” Cyrus said.

  “Shhh,” Dingo said. “Here he comes now.”

  Falcon was riding a rental horse, and leading the Arabian. Suddenly there was a flash in the darkness and the sound of a gunshot echoed back from the line of warehouses. Falcon felt the impact of the bullet as it hit his horse, then the horse went down under him.

  “I got ’im!” Dingo said.

  “You got the horse,” Cyrus corrected.

  “It’s the same thing.”

  “No, it ain’t the same thing. If you hadn’t kilt the horse, we could’a had both of the horses. You should’a aimed at the rider.”

  “I was aimin’ at the rider,” Dingo said. “Come on, let’s check him out.”

  The two men moved up, cautiously, toward the fallen horse. They could see the rider lying, perfectly motionless, pinned to the ground by the horse that was on his leg.

  “I think he’s dead,” Dingo said.

  “What makes you think he’s dead?”

  “Look at the way he’s lyin’ there. His eyes is open, but they ain’t movin’. He don’t look like he’s breathin’.”

  “Check ’im out, Dingo. See if he’s dead,” Cyrus said.

  Holding his pistol beside him, Dingo leaned over the motionless form of the rider, then reached out with his other hand to check for a pulse.

  Falcon remained still until Dingo got close enough. Then, reacting quickly, Falcon reached up and grabbed the assailant’s gun, jerking it away cleanly.

  “What the hell?” Dingo shouted, taking a step back in surprise.

  Falcon’s leg only appeared to be trapped. In fact, it was under the soft belly of the horse, so it was very easy for him to pull it out.

  “Shoot ’im, Cyrus, shoot ’im!” Dingo shouted.

  Falcon sat up then cocked his pistol. The deadly, double click of the sear engaging the cylinder sounded exceptionally loud in the still morning darkness.

  “I wouldn’t listen to Dingo if I were you, Cyrus,” Falcon said.

  “Dingo, the son of bitch knows our names,” Cyrus said. “How does he know our names?”

  Falcon chuckled. Were these two so dumb that they didn’t even realize they had just given him their names?

  “Unbuckle the gunbelt,” Falcon said to Cyrus.

  “You goin’ to shoot us, Mister?” Cyrus asked, his voice cracking with fear.

  “I might,” Falcon said. “I don’t have time to take you to jail.”

  “If you’re goin’ to shoot someone, shoot him,” Cyrus said. “This here wasn’t my idea.”

  “Shut up, Cyrus. We was both in on this.”

  “But you was the one that come up with it,” Cyrus said. “You said there was this here real valuable horse and we could steal him and sell him. That’s what you said.”

  Falcon chuckled. “Were you going to share in the money, Cyrus?”

  “Well, yeah,” Cyrus said.

  “Well, there you go then. You are as guilty as Dingo.”

  “Yeah,” Dingo said. “There you go, you’re as guilty as
me. So he’s goin’ to shoot both of us.”

  Falcon sighed. He really didn’t have time to take them to jail, and he had no intention of shooting either one of them, even thought they were damn near too dumb to live. But he couldn’t just let them go. Then he got an idea.

  “Take off your clothes,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Take off your clothes, both of you.”

  “Are you sayin’ you want us to strip down to our long handles?” Cyrus asked.

  Falcon shook his head. “No, I’m saying I want you to strip down to the skin. I want both of you butt naked.”

  “Mister, I ain’t a’goin’ to do that,” Dingo said.

  “All right,” Falcon said. “Cyrus, you strip while I kill Dingo.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll strip,” Cyrus said. “You go ahead and shoot him.”

  “No, wait!” Dingo said, holding his hands out in front of him. “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot! What’s the matter with you, Cyrus, tellin’ him to shoot me?”

  “Well, if you won’t take offen your clothes like he said,” Cyrus said as he pulled off one of his boots.

  “All right, all right, I’ll strip,” Dingo said.

  Lifting up first one foot, then the other, the men started removing their boots.

  “Mister, this ain’t natural,” Dingo said. “It ain’t right, you makin’ us strip like this.”

  “It wasn’t right for you to shoot at me, either.”

  “I didn’t shoot you, I shot the horse.”

  “But you said you was shootin’ at him,” Cyrus said.

  “Cyrus, will you shut up?”

  A moment later, both men stood naked, shivering in the morning chill.

  “Now what?” Dingo asked.

  “Take your clothes over to the edge of the dock and drop them in the water.” Falcon shifted his gun to his left hand, then threw the gun he had grabbed from Dingo toward the bay. It made a little splashing sound as it went into the water. “Drop your holsters in there too.”

  Glaring in anger, the two men scooped up their clothes, then padded, barefoot, across the board dock. They looked toward him in one last, fruitless appeal. He waved his gun to tell them to go through with it.