Return to Sundown Valley

by Cole Shelton

  ‘What happened, Uriah?’ Luke asked tonelessly.

  Kemp said nothing for a moment. Finally, he responded, ‘You might as well hear it from me. Mr McPherson and his dear wife Constance were murdered. Both found dead in their bed with bullet holes in their heads. The holes were plumb between their eyes.’

  Luke felt a coldness grip him. Clem and Constance McPherson were both his neighbours on Wild Wolf Ridge. They were good, peaceable folks, the salt of the earth, whose triple-roomed cabin had been raised ten minutes ride from his. He remembered them as likeable folks who never caused any trouble, always willing to help out if needed.

  ‘Who killed them?’ Luke demanded.

  Uriah Kemp shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘No one knows. Old Wishbone Clarkson came calling because he hadn’t seen or heard of them for a fortnight, and found them dead. Not a pretty sight, he told me. The sheriff and a couple of men from town rode out and poked around but the killer had left no clues. It was cold-blooded murder, sure enough.’ The undertaker muttered, ‘Some mean, ugly bastard’s got away with it.’

  Brimming with anger but also feeling helpless to do anything after all this time, Luke asked, ‘Why would anyone want to kill Old Clem and his woman?’

  The undertaker shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘The sheriff found no money in the cabin, Clem’s gold watch was missing and so was Mrs McPherson’s jewellery box, so he reckoned the motive must have been robbery. Everyone agreed with him at the time.’

  ‘Thanks for letting me know,’ Luke Dawson said. He picked up his reins. ‘So long, Uriah.’

  ‘Yes, so long,’ Kemp said, still lingering in the doorway.

  The town undertaker could have told him more – lots more, in fact – but maybe it was best that Luke Dawson found out for himself. And that would surely happen soon enough, Uriah Kemp told himself. He closed the door now, then reached for his measuring tape and approached his corpses. There was work to be done.

  Luke and Honani prodded their mounts into a steady walk as they rode ahead of the stagecoach and their two outlaw prisoners on their way further down Main Street. Half a dozen men lounging on a wooden bench by the town’s two wells and a couple of women leaving the Women’s Sewing and Quilting Circle meeting in the Mormon tabernacle stopped to watch as Luke Dawson drew level with them. The soldier had been away a long time. Onlookers noticed his face looked gaunt, there was a scar running across the top of his left cheek where a Rebel bullet had grazed him, and his hair needed a visit to the barber’s shop, but several men actually recognized him, and one of the women, who used to work in Fenwick’s general store, raised her arm to greet him. He was leaner, his face hardened by war, but he was Luke Dawson sure enough, the man they’d once hoped would wear the town’s badge. Luke had declined the Town Committee’s offer, however, and after he’d left for the war, they’d finally pinned their badge on someone else. One of the boardwalk loungers recalled Navajo Honani. The old timer’s pipe stuffed with tobacco fell from his cracked lips as he blinked at the lance corporal’s stripes clearly visible on his dust-smeared blue tunic.

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned! The Injun’s come up in the world. He’s a flamin’ officer!’

  The two riders headed by the wells, passed the blacksmith’s forge and slowed their mounts by the long garish front of the Lucky Deuce saloon. The enticing smell of redeye whiskey came to them and they heard the tinkle of piano keys.

  Luke was reminded it’d been a long time since he’d had a drink.

  He rode by the Gospel Chapel where he’d imagined his wedding to Sierra would take place. The church was made of adobe brick, and it boasted a high belfry where a big brass bell pealed on Sundays to summon the faithful to evangelical worship, led by the Reverend Dane Tregonning.

  They reached the sheriff’s office, built of red canyon stone and shaded by two ancient pinions. The law office had a single barred window and Luke saw black lace curtains edge slightly apart. Someone inside was watching. Luke dismounted by the notice board, which displayed half a dozen reward dodgers. He noticed that Bill Scurlock, who’d been robbing and killing before he’d left for the war, was still on the run from the law. The reward of five hundred dollars was double what it used to be. Waiting for the Navajo to join him, Luke knocked on the door. They were greeted by a long silence before hearing the thud of heavy boots on the floor followed by the sharp grate of an iron bolt.

  The door whined open and the Spanish Wells lawman stood there, his brows knitted into a frown, blinking in disbelief.

  Luke had expected to see slightly built Sheriff Seth Pringle peering at them over his black-rimmed spectacles, but instead this man wearing the tin star was big, bulky and much younger. Even though the sheriff was bearded, both Luke and Honani recognized him straight away as George Zimmer, the rancher’s son. Four years ago, George had boasted a young, freckled face and curly red hair. Now, however, his face was marred by two knife slashes, his nose was squashed and his hair hung like rat’s tails. He looked like he’d been in a fight.

  ‘Howdy, Dawson, so you survived the war,’ Sheriff Zimmer said, without an ounce of enthusiasm in his voice. He flicked ash from his fat cigar before finally adding, ‘Good to see you alive and well.’

  ‘We both survived, same as many others did,’ Luke said.

  George Zimmer offered no greeting to Honani. Instead, he looked past the Indian to the battered stagecoach, his eyes narrowing as he saw the two prisoners. ‘Well, well! What have we here?’

  ‘They gave their names as West and Thompson,’ Luke said.

  ‘We were on our way here when we came upon them holding up the stagecoach,’ the Navajo explained. ‘They’d killed the stage driver and way station man and terrorised passengers. So we brought them in.’

  Lawman Zimmer looked at the stripes on the Indian’s faded Union army uniform. ‘Hmmm! Lance Corporal, huh?’

  ‘He earned those stripes,’ Luke affirmed.

  Ignoring Luke’s remark, Zimmer said, ‘Reckon I know you, Indian.’

  ‘We have met,’ Honani said tersely. ‘It was where my people live, the place white men call Sundown Valley.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ Sheriff George Zimmer said with a shrug of his heavy shoulders. He folded his arms over his massive chest as his fat lips cracked a grin. ‘If I remember, we had a slight disagreement at the time. It was . . . uh . . . over a woman.’

  ‘White Lily was already promised to a Navajo buck,’ Honani reminded him. ‘It was not possible for you to have her.’

  ‘I didn’t plan to marry her,’ the new lawman sneered derisively. ‘I just wanted some fun.’

  ‘And at the time my father sent me to say no,’ Honani recalled the subsequent confrontation. ‘You were not pleased but we didn’t fight. You just rode away.’

  ‘Didn’t figure a bloody squaw was worth fighting over,’ Zimmer dismissed the subject. He lumbered past Luke and Honani, then planted his big boots beside the front of the Wells Fargo stagecoach. Puffing on his cigar, he looked up at Major Wallace and his wife. ‘So, folks, what’s your part in this?’

  It was Elizabeth who began telling the story, her voice choking and eyes brimming with tears when she came to the part where Clanton had tried to rape her.

  Mercifully, Luke interrupted her account, telling the lawman, ‘Mrs Wallace shouldn’t have to tell her story right here on Main Street.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ the lawman conceded. He ambled past the stage and appraised the two prisoners. ‘I’ll lock these turkeys up and you can all sign statements in the office.’

  Ten minutes later West and Thompson were prodded into cells two and three that lined the western wall of the office. Cell one, in the corner behind the desk, was occupied by a white-haired oldster who was fast asleep and snoring like a pig, even at this late hour. ‘Drunk and disorderly,’ the sheriff explained. The lawman slumped into the chair behind his desk, shuffled through his top drawer and produced sheets of white paper.

  ‘I want a signed statement from
all of you,’ Sheriff Zimmer told them. ‘Neat, truthful and accurate: that’s what Judge Grant Hammond will require. Then I’ll charge West and Thompson with robbery and murder and whatever else I can think of.’ He consulted his daybook. ‘The judge arrives this Friday, so I’m expecting a double hanging following the Sabbath.’

  George Zimmer walked to the open fireplace as the four witnesses used the pens and inkwells he provided to each write an account of the murders of the stage driver and way station owner. Meanwhile, the sheriff lit a new cigar in the fireplace’s glowing coals and strutted over to cell one, which he unlocked.

  Prodding the old timer with his boot, the lawman said, ‘I’ll let you off without charge this once, Monty, but next time you’ll get such a helluva big fine that you won’t be able to afford any more redeye for a month, which’d just about kill you. Savvy, Monty? Now git the hell out of here.’

  Mumbling, old Monty stumbled past the four witnesses, wrenched open the door and staggered to a boardwalk bench.

  The Navajo finished his statement first. He’d had two years of mission education but he wasn’t a man of letters. Zimmer, however, read what he’d written and nodded his approval. Elizabeth Wallace completed her statement next, followed by her husband and finally Luke. Zimmer accepted them all with a grave nod, puffed on his cigar and escorted the witnesses to the front door.

  ‘Some, maybe all of you, could be called as witnesses,’ Sheriff George Zimmer declared as they walked out on to the street.

  The law office door closed behind them.

  ‘We’ll be headed for home now,’ Major Wallace said with his wife clinging to his right arm. He added sincerely, ‘Once again, we’re beholden to you both.’

  ‘Yes, we certainly are,’ Elizabeth agreed.

  ‘Probably see you in court,’ Luke said.

  The two Union soldiers watched Wallace and Elizabeth walk towards their home in the narrow street across from Elva’s coffee house. It was the same street where Sierra lived. By now school should be over.

  ‘Just need to pay a visit before we ride to Sundown Valley,’ Luke said.

  ‘No need to explain, Private Dawson,’ Honani responded with a grin. ‘In the meantime, I’ll call into Quaker Fenwick’s general store. My supplies are mighty low, and besides, I want to take some food to my people. Sort of a homecoming present,’ he explained.

  Five minutes later, Sheriff George Zimmer rose from his desk chair, parted the curtains and let his cold brown eyes rove Main Street. His visitors had all gone their several ways. Only the dusty stagecoach and its horses stood alone and unattended, waiting for the local Wells Fargo manager to come and collect. This could take another hour, as Zimmer knew the bald manager would right now be enjoying the ministrations of his favourite saloon girl, Avis, in her notorious ‘Blue Room’ in the Lucky Deuce saloon. Come to think of it, he could do with a visit there himself. It had been a whole week since he’d indulged himself.

  Maybe later this evening, he decided.

  ‘Sheriff!’ Thompson summoned him.

  West rattled the bars of cell two and bawled impatiently, ‘Yeah, don’t just stand there, George.’

  Sheriff Zimmer gave them a cursory glance, pulled the curtains back and strolled to his desk, where he re-read the witnesses’ statements one by one. When he’d finished, he shrugged and screwed all the statements up into a single papery ball. Humming to himself, he walked across his office. Watched by West and Thompson, he tossed the ball into the hungry flames that were licking two glowing logs. Arms folded, the lawman of Spanish Wells stood waiting as the paper caught alight, flared and was consumed until all that was left of the written statements were black fragments amidst grey smoke.

  He bent over and picked up a battered coffee pot being warmed in the coals. Humming, he poured coffee into three stained mugs. After gulping down a single mouthful of his coffee, Zimmer carried two steaming mugs to his prisoners. Hands wormed through the bars to grab their drinks.

  ‘You’ll soon be out of here,’ George Zimmer told them, using his shirtsleeve to polish his shiny silver badge. He appraised his two prisoners. ‘I’ll come back at midnight, unlock your cells and set you free.’

  ‘Hell! Do we have to wait that long?’ West snapped.

  ‘Yeah, can’t you do better than that, George?’ Thompson moaned.

  Sheriff George Zimmer ignored their complaining. ‘I’ll have two hosses saddled and ready in the law office stable out back.’ He advised, ‘Ride slow and quiet and straight out of town.’

  ‘You don’t need to tell us that,’ Thompson said testily.

  ‘We’re not stupid,’ West agreed with his fellow outlaw.

  ‘One more thing,’ the sheriff said, ignoring their mutterings, ‘I’m taking a ride. Soon Deputy Drake’s due back from the barber’s shop and he’ll be in charge while I’m gone.’ He warned, ‘Don’t say a word out of place. Drake knows nothing – I repeat, nothing – and it needs to stay that way.’

  ‘Sure, George, we’ll keep our traps shut,’ West said.

  ‘Don’t worry! We’ll just sit nice and quiet, finish our coffee and have a nap,’ Thompson said, yawning.

  ‘See that you do,’ Sheriff George Zimmer concluded.

  Deputy Kel Drake returned to the law office just as Sheriff Zimmer downed the rest of his coffee. The puritanical deputy was well into his fifties, lean but lithe. As well as being a lawman he was a Methodist circuit rider, his silver hair trimmed neatly, because he had a weekend’s preaching duties coming up and his wife had urged him to look his best. He was known as upright and righteous. Unlike his sheriff boss, he didn’t swear, play cards, drink whiskey or mess around with any Lucky Deuce saloon women.

  Zimmer wasted no time informing him to keep a close watch on the prisoners until he returned about seven o’clock.

  ‘I sure will, Mr Zimmer,’ Drake assured him. ‘You can rely on me.’

  ‘I know that, Kel.’

  Leaving Deputy Drake in charge, Zimmer saddled his grey gelding and rode swiftly out of town.

  He headed straight for his father’s Triple Z ranch.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Luke halted Buck by the picket fence he remembered so well. It had been freshly painted gleaming white, and it fronted a well-tended garden of Indian Mallow, mariposa lilies and a single red rose bush.

  Sierra Cooper’s four-roomed adobe house in Buffalo Street had originally been built by her grandparents who’d come west well before Brigham Young and his Mormon emigrants explored Utah. When Sierra’s folks arrived, there were only Franciscan missionaries, sheepherders and half a dozen drifters in Spanish Wells. Some of those drifters, it was thought, were actually outlaws hiding there from the law.

  During the past ten years, all of Sierra’s family had died, parents and grandparents, buried four in a row inside the northern fence of the cemetery just in the town limits. Now Sierra was on her own, thirty-two years old, the one and only town school ma’am, unmarried and a prize more than one man in Spanish Wells had desired.

  Luke had waited for this moment for four long years. He’d thought about her during the bloody battles of Shiloh and Vicksburg, then Gettysburg later in the war. During the nights when often the guns fell silent, he’d imagined being with her. He’d thought about them becoming man and wife, sleeping together, bringing up kids. Folks in Spanish Wells had assumed Sierra would become Mrs Dawson because they’d been ‘keeping company’, but when Luke joined up, they’d agreed to postpone any decision to marry. After all, a man riding to fight the Johnny Rebs might not make it home.

  The night before he’d left, she’d promised, ‘I’ll wait for you.’

  Those words still rung in his ears as he walked up the path and knocked on her door. Soft footsteps sounded, then the door opened wide.

  Sierra stared at him for a long, incredulous moment before whispering hoarsely, ‘Dear God! It’s you, Luke!’

  She was the same as when they’d parted: slender, wide-eyed, hair tumbling in a black casca
de to slim shoulders, beautiful and desirable in a modest blue dress that couldn’t conceal her soft curves.

  ‘Been a long time, Sierra,’ Luke said, reaching for her.

  She came to him immediately, burying her face in his chest as he held her tight.

  ‘Come inside,’ she invited, trembling against him.

  Luke followed her into the house, closed the door and wrapped both arms around her. After all this time she felt good, oh so good, against him.

  Suddenly, however, she backed from his embrace and stood there by the glass-fronted glory box cabinet in her front room, arms folded over her quivering breasts. The instinctive joy at first seeing him was fading from her eyes and now her face turned strangely pale, like pastry.

  ‘Luke,’ Sierra said softly. Her voice began breaking. ‘I . . . I hadn’t heard . . . from you . . . for two years.’

  ‘Wasn’t easy to write,’ Luke explained. ‘There was a shortage of paper and ink. And the Johnny Rebs often held up stagecoaches carrying mail and burned our letters, just for the heck of it.’ Regretfully, he admitted, ‘Mind you, our bluecoat soldiers did the same to them. Mostly letters with Rebel stamps on were destroyed.’ He heard her sob deeply, but she was still dry-eyed, her back now pressed hard against the wall. He continued, ‘Come to think of it, I didn’t receive any letters from you for the last half of the war.’

  ‘I . . . hadn’t heard . . . so I assumed you were dead,’ she blurted out.

  Luke grinned. ‘Well, Sierra, as you can see, I’m very much alive.’

  ‘Yes, I can see,’ she said slowly, her eyes ranging over him like they used to four years ago.

  ‘Honani’s safe and well, too,’ he told her.

  ‘That’s good,’ she said tonelessly. ‘I’m pleased, very pleased for you both.’ She drew in her breath sharply as Luke took two steps towards her. Then she said formally, ‘Luke, you shouldn’t be here, not alone with me like this.’