Fight for Powder Valley!

by Brett Halliday

  Dock Stevens eeled away from Boyd’s restraining hand. He panted, “They can’t do that to my dad,” and darted from the room.

  “Do you mean what you just said?” Sally asked in a low, anxious tone.

  “You bet I mean it. Mistake was … Pat wouldn’t let me go after ’em with my gun. So that’s what happened.” Boyd made a savage gesture toward Pat. “I’ll see that mistake ain’t repeated.”

  “Dock! Where are you going?” Sally cried out in sudden alarm, turning her head to look past the rancher.

  “Jest … out.”

  Boyd turned in time to see the youngster dart out the front door. He had donned his leather jacket and hat, and carried a .22 rifle over his shoulder.

  “Stop him, John,” Sally cried frantically. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s likely to …”

  Without waiting to hear more, Boyd ran to the window near the door. In the last glimmer of fading daylight, he saw the small figure starting to climb into his father’s saddle.

  Boyd trotted into the yard, roaring, “Wait, Dock. You crazy little cuss, you can’t …”

  He made a lunge and caught the horse’s bridle just as Dock wheeled the animal away.

  “You let go,” Dock sobbed. “Lemme go. I’ll show ’em they can’t do that to Dad … nor to Powder Valley neither.”

  “You get down off that hawse an’ listen to me.” Boyd reached up and caught the lad’s belt, pulled him down and shook him angrily. “You get back into the house to your ma. She’s got trouble enough without worryin’ her pretty head about you. I told you it was my fight … and I’m aimin’ to end it my way. Promise me, now, that you won’t get no more fool idees.” He gave the boy another shake.

  “Well … all right … I promise,” Dock Stevens agreed reluctantly. “But if I was jest a little bigger, I’d ride with you an’ nobody would stop me.”

  “When you get a little bigger, nobody’ll try to stop you,” Boyd growled. He gave the lad a shove toward the house, waited until he slouched inside defiantly, then mounted his own horse and rode away toward the Bar X.

  Three hours later Sally Stevens sat in a rocking chair before a crackling fire of piñon logs in the fireplace. Her young face was unwontedly grave and the dancing flames did not strike sparkling reflections from her eyes. She was patching one of Dock’s shirts, and her fingers plied the needle nimbly though she was scarcely conscious of what she did.

  Pat sat in his deep chair at the opposite corner of the fireplace. Constant application of cloths wrung out from ice-cold spring water had reduced most of the swelling, but his face was still a mass of livid bruises and cuts inflicted by Ross Culver’s hard knuckles. Pat’s voice was grave and deep-toned as he explained to Sally:

  “That’s what we’re up against, honey. Jumpin’ in and fightin’ with my fists was plump foolish for a grown man. I admit it. But we’re going to have to fight for Powder Valley, Sally … every way we know how.”

  “There must be some better way than fighting,” she cried fearfully. “But that’s all men ever think of. Look at you. That’s just a sample. Next time it’ll be bullets. I thought … we were done with bullets in Powder Valley.”

  “We’ve got to keep the farmers out,” Pat argued. “It’s for their sake as well as ours. Lots of them will put every cent they’ve got into a little farm here. They won’t be able to move after they learn they’ve been tricked an’ can’t raise crops. There’ll be women and children … hungry. You know what that means. When a man’s family is hungry he’s ready to do anything. Our calves’ll be slaughtered … I tell you there’ll be hell to pay, Sally.”

  “But surely they’ll know better than to think they can come up into the mountains to farm. As soon as they see how things are …”

  “But they won’t see until they’ve already spent their money and moved out here,” Pat pointed out somberly. “A man that’s slick with words like Biloff will make Powder Valley sound like a slice of heaven to them farmers in the East. They’ll come crowdin’ in … hopeful and broke …” Pat shook his head sadly. “We got to stop it before it gets started.”

  As he ceased speaking the sound of a trotting horse approaching the ranch came to them both. Pat turned his head slowly to listen. Sally tensed and her fingers stopped their work. She knew a sudden feeling of suffocation. It had come to that already. The sound of a horse in the night was enough to send a stab of uncertainty through them both. Like the old days when every rider might be an enemy—when Pat had slept with his guns within easy reach and had never struck a light when answering a night summons.

  Sally felt her heart constrict with fear as the ridden horse stopped outside. She didn’t think she could stand to go through a period like that again. She began a little wordless prayer, stopped it when a loud knock sounded on the door.

  Without moving from his chair, Pat Stevens called curtly, “Come in.”

  Sally’s breath stopped as the door opened. She didn’t start breathing again until she recognized Sheriff Ed Grimes.

  She jumped to her feet with a smile of welcome and cried gaily, “I’m certainly glad to see you, Sheriff. What brings you out to the Lazy Mare at this time of night?”

  Sheriff Grimes was a heavy man, with dark strong features. A fair man, and completely without fear, he was a close friend of Pat’s who had campaigned for him throughout the county at the last election.

  He took off his hat slowly and nodded to Sally, but without an answering smile. “Good evening to you, Miz Stevens. I come out to have a word with Pat.”

  Pat was studying the sheriff queerly, with a crooked smile twisting his bruised lips. “Draw up a chair, Ed. I’m in a mood for listenin’.”

  The sheriff strode forward hesitantly, clearing his throat and glancing at Sally. “It’s a man-talk,” he muttered defensively.

  Sally smiled sweetly and seated herself in her chair, took up her sewing again. “Then I won’t interfere, Sheriff. Go right ahead. I won’t mind one bit.”

  The sheriff stepped onto the hearth and teetered back and forth on the high heels of his boots, spreading his hands out to the flames. Without looking at Pat, he said, “I had to arrest John Boyd tonight.”

  Pat’s gaze became guarded and remote. He didn’t say anything. Sally looked down and was surprised to see that her fingers were working away steadily, though she felt numb and unable to direct them.

  “The danged old coot,” Sheriff Grimes sputtered. “Come high-tailin’ it into Dutch Springs with that fancy-butted six-gun of his strapped around his spindlin’ belly an’ breathin’ fire outta both nostrils. Ravin’ about how you’d got yore manly beauty all disfigured in a fist fight an’ how it was up to him to git the man that did it. I’m admittin’ you ain’t looking so purty,” the sheriff went on with a level look at Pat’s countenance. “But losin’ what beauty you had ain’t worth a killin’.”

  “There’s more to it than that,” Pat muttered.

  Grimes started to stride back and forth in front of the fireplace, gnawing his under lip and shaking his head. “I’m the duly elected sheriff of this here county,” he burst out, as though it was a point he had been arguing with himself. “You an’ John Boyd an’ all the rest of the ranchers put me in office to keep the peace. The minute I start doin’ my dooty, all of you jump on me like a ton of brick.”

  “What happened when you arrested Boyd?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. He’d passed the word around about them surveyors from Denver an’ some wild story about them planning to dam up the crick and settle farmers in the bottoms. I grabbed him when he started out gunnin’ for that Ross Culver man. Danged if I’d more’n got John to the jail before the whole dang county was threatenin’ to tear it down and get him out. Yet they call themselves law-abidin’ citizens.” The sheriff snorted his disgust loudly.

  Pat chuckled and asked, “How’d it all come out?”

  “It ended with me takin’ John’s gun an’ putting him under a five-hundred dollar pea
ce bond,” snapped the sheriff. “And I aim to do the same with you, Pat Stevens, less’n you’ll give me yore word you won’t interfere no more with them surveyors in their work.”

  Pat shook his head slowly. “No man ever took my gun while I was conscious.”

  “All I ask is yore word not to start trouble,” pleaded the sheriff.

  “What am I supposed to do when they start surveyin’ off my creek section?” asked Pat coldly. “Get down on my knees an’ beg ’em to please not do it?”

  “But it ain’t yore crick section no more, the way I understand it. You sold that section, Pat. You ain’t got no more claim to it.”

  “Do you know how I was tricked into sellin’ it?”

  “That ain’t either here nor there. You sold it. Another man owns it legal. Accordin’ to law, he’s got a right to survey it an’ fence it.”

  “So you’re siding with a bunch of crooks?” Pat asked scornfully.

  “I ain’t sidin’ with nobody,” snapped the exasperated sheriff. “It’s my job to see the law’s obeyed.” He paused, then asked slowly, “Do you know it’s a thousand-dollar fine or six months in jail … or both … for maliciously pullin’ up section stakes set out by a surveyor?”

  Pat frowned and shook his head. “No. I sure didn’t know about that.”

  “I didn’t know it till tonight. Culver showed me in a book of Colorado laws he’s got with him. That’s what both you an’ John Boyd are liable to for that stunt you pulled this afternoon.”

  “I reckon Culver’s going to swear out a complaint against us?”

  “No.” The sheriff shook his head solemnly. “He said he didn’t want to do that. He’s a right nice feller, Pat. He’s hired to do a job, an’ he figgers on doin’ it. He ain’t carrying no hard feelin’s for what happened this afternoon. But, like he says, he can’t afford to keep on settin’ stakes an’ havin’ ’em pulled up. So, if it happens again he swears he’ll have the law on you.”

  “And you’re backing his play?” asked Pat slowly.

  “I ain’t backin’ neither his play nor yores. I’m sheriff and it’s my job to see the law’s obeyed like it’s writ on the books. If Culver breaks a law I’ll slap him in jail as fast or faster’n I would you.”

  “But it’s not breakin’ a law to steal a man’s land and dam off the cattle water he needs?” Pat asked sarcastically. “It’s legal, I reckon, to sell that land for ten or twenty times what was paid for it to poor devils who’ll come out here with their families to starve while they try to raise crops. You’re going to stand up for a man that figgers on ruining this valley?”

  “I don’t know of any law that’s been broke,” asseverated the sheriff doggedly. “If you can show me one I’ll shore be proud to slap Culver and his gang in jail.”

  “Maybe there isn’t any law covering it,” Pat argued angrily. “But that doesn’t make it right, Ed. You’re a cowman. You know what a dam in Powder creek will mean to this valley.”

  “But I’m the sheriff, too,” said Grimes helplessly. “I’m bound by my oath on the Bible to uphold the law.”

  “You’re crazy. You can’t set yourself against every man in the valley. Maybe you can arrest two or three of us. But that won’t do any good. We’ll whip you, Ed. You know you can’t stand up to us.”

  “That’s threatenin’ an officer of the law,” Grimes said heavily.

  “Call it what you want, it won’t help you any.”

  “I was afraid you’d take it this way, Pat. I’ll have to warn you … I’m deputizin’ Ross Culver and all his men. The law’s on their side, the way I see it.”

  “Good God, Ed! Deputizing Culvers men? That means killing … lots of it.”

  “I can’t help it, Pat. My dooty’s plain. If I don’t do it, Culver threatened to send word to Denver to have the United States Marshal come down. You know what that means. Government troops … martial law, maybe. You can’t fight a big company like that, Pat. Don’t you see you can’t?”

  Pat Stevens’ eyes blazed with anger. “I’ve fought worse than that in the past. You’re a fool, Ed, to think we’ll ever back down.”

  The sheriff stopped his pacing and drew himself up with a queer assumption of dignity. “I’ll repeat what I said when I first came out. Either give me yore word you’ll leave them surveyors alone … or I’ll take yore gun and put you under a peace bond like I did John Boyd.”

  “I warn you,” said Pat heavily. “Don’t push me too far.”

  “You mean you won’t give me yore word?”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry. You’ll have to get yore coat and ride to town with me. It’s my sworn dooty to hold you till you make bond.”

  Pat said quietly, “You’ll have to arrest me, Ed.”

  “I don’t want to do that. If you’ll ride along peaceable …”

  “Which I won’t,” snapped Pat.

  The sheriff sighed regretfully. “You always were a stubborn cuss. But I’m stubborn, too.” He drew a pair of shiny handcuffs from his pocket and dangled them in front of Pat. “I never thought I’d be fittin’ this kind of jewelry on you.”

  Sally’s sewing slid from her lap to the floor as she sprang to her feet. Her face was flushed and her eyes blazed. With one swift movement she placed herself in front of Pat and faced the sheriff.

  “If you lay a hand on him you’ll regret it, Ed Grimes. He’s not leaving this house tonight. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

  “Well … I …” The sheriff got out a bandanna and mopped sweat from his face.

  “You should be. After all Pat’s done for this valley.” Sally’s voice broke for a moment, then it became taut and hard again. “You get on out the door and don’t come back until you’re ready to apologize.”

  The sheriff hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Well, I … I reckon maybe Pat is too sick to be took out tonight,” he agreed with relief plainly evident in his voice. He backed away. “I … I guess I’ll be going.”

  Neither Pat nor Sally answered him. He blundered his way to the door where he paused unhappily, then turned and went out. A moment later they heard the pound of his horse’s hoofs as he spurred away from the ranch.

  Sally stood quite still for a moment. Then she collapsed across Pat’s chair, sobbing as though her heart would break.

  He looked down gravely at the bright blond head pressed against his chest and remonstrated, “Shucks, now, old woman. This ain’t any way for a fightin’ female to be actin’.”

  She sobbed, “I’m so … so ashamed, Pat.”

  He grinned wryly, his fingers toying with the silky tendrils of hair at the nape of her neck. “Ashamed of what, honey? Me, I was right proud of the way you stood up to Ed Grimes.”

  “Ashamed of the way I felt. And afraid,” Sally wailed. She twisted to turn her tear-wet face up to his. “It frightens me to find out I have that sort of thing inside of me. I … why, I was ready to do anything, Pat. If I’d had my hands on a gun …” Her voice trailed off into an awed whisper.

  Pat bent his head to touch his bruised lips to her damp cheek. He said gruffly, “Reminds me of a time ten years ago when you stood alongside me and traded lead with John Stout’s gang of outlaws. I fell in love with you that day,” he concluded reminiscently, “an’ now I reckon I’m fallin’ in love with you all over again.”

  Sally sighed and stirred uneasily in his arms. “This is different, Pat. Those other men were killers. We were fighting for peace and security in Powder Valley. The right to settle here and raise a family in decent surroundings.”

  “We’re fighting for the same thing this time,” Pat told her grimly. “Jud Biloff and his land company is a worse menace to Powder Valley than John Stout was.”

  “But they’ve got the law on their side this time. Ed Grimes and those surveyors … they’re right, too. When we turn against the law, we become the outlaws.”

  “I recollect a similar occasion when we were fightin’ Stout. Looked like he had th
e law on his side for a time. But you stayed with me, Sally. You rode off beside me when it looked like we were headed for the owl-hoot trail sure.”

  “I’d do it again, Pat,” she told him fiercely, “but …”

  “Don’t be frettin’ yourself too much. What’s right has a way of bein’ bigger than man-made laws when it comes right down to it. We’re in the right in this fight … an’ that’s what really counts.”

  The sound of ridden horses through the night again brought Sally up, tense and frightened. Pat’s hand tightened on her shoulder comfortingly. “Two of ’em this time,” he announced. “I wouldn’t worry about Grimes coming back tonight … not after the way you stood him off.”

  These riders were in a hurry. They galloped up swiftly, and bootheels thudded as the horses stopped outside. Sally sprang up from her undignified position in Pat’s lap and hastily wiped away the stains left by her recent tears. There was a knock on the door, but it was thrown open before she could reach it.

  Her eyes lighted happily when she saw the two men who came tramping in unceremoniously. They were Sam Sloan and Ezra, Pat’s two gun-partners from long ago, settled now on a ranch at the south end of the valley where they had put away their guns and turned to peaceful pursuits after Pat married Sally and took over the Lazy Mare ranch.

  But they wore their guns tonight. That was the first thing Sally noticed when they came through the door. Sam Sloan was in the lead. A small, dark-featured man, there was an air of devil-may-care assurance about him as he stalked forward followed by the huge and terrifying figure of Ezra with his scarred face and his one good eye, who had the strength of a range bull in his mighty frame, with a placid temperament that was slow to anger yet awful when aroused.

  They stopped short in front of Sally, and Sam removed his hat with an exaggerated gesture of deference. He drawled, “Howdy, ma’am. We hear yo’re wearin’ the pants in the Stevens family tonight. Mighty lucky thing for yore shrinkin’ violet of a husban’ yonder he’s still got you to fight his battles.”

  Sally smiled feebly. She was accustomed to Sam and Ezra’s rough witticisms and knew that their roughest insults to each other covered a deep regard that was as near to love as strong men can feel for each other. She said, “I suppose … you know what’s happened.”