Fight for Powder Valley!

by Brett Halliday

  “We got Sheriff Grimes’ side of the story down the road a piece,” Sam told her happily. “Plumb disgustin’ the way you females nowadays take the play away from men-folks. Ezra an’ me formed a rescue party an’ helled it out here when we heard in town the sheriff was figgerin’ on arrestin’ Pat, an’ danged if you didn’t spoil ever’thing by sendin’ him scootin’ away like a houn’ dawg that’s bin turpentined.”

  He moved past Sally to stand in front of Pat, his black eyes sparkling with malicious merriment. He cocked his head on one side and surveyed his old friend’s marred face with complete enjoyment, then drawled, “Looks like you tangled with a threshin’ machine instead of a boy scout in knee-high boots. What were you doin’ while he worked you over thataway?”

  Ezra followed him across the room, his one eye becoming big and round as he took in Pat’s appearance. “They told us in town you jest fought with one man,” he ejaculated. “Looks from here like a troop of cavalry had trompled yore face.”

  “Looks like Pat never will get a lick of sense in that thick haid of his’n.” Sam shook his own head lugubriously. “I seen Ross Culver in town afore we come out. Shucks, Pat, he looks nigh as tough as a fresh-sprouted rosebud. You ought to’ve knowed better than to tackle him without some help like Dock, mebbe, to back up yore play.”

  Pat grinned wryly and waved a hand at them to sit down. “When you get through with your jokes that ain’t funny, tell me how things’re shaping in Dutch Springs.”

  “There’s hell to pay,” Sam Sloan told him succinctly. “Grimes has swore in those surveyors as deputy sheriffs an’ he swears hell call in the state militia if anybody starts trouble. There’s gonna be shootin’ an’ plenty of it unless somethia’ happens quick. Like old times,” he ended happily, subconsciously dropping a wiry hand to caress the worn butt of a .45 swinging low at his right hip.

  “I reckon folks have found out how we’ve been tricked?” Pat asked.

  “Yep. Word’s got around fast.” Sam paused to draw in a deep breath and admitted uncomfortably, “Ezra an’ me got hooked along with the others.”

  “You an Ezra? I thought your ranch would be so high above the creek they wouldn’t want it.”

  “They wanted two sections real bad,” Sam told him grimly. “Them upper end sections of ours is where they figger on buildin’ their dam. Across the lower end of our colt pasture. That’ll make a lake a couple of miles long and near a mile wide … if an’ when they get their dam built,” he ended with significant emphasis.

  Pat shook his head. “That’s bad. I’d hoped maybe they hadn’t bought their dam-site yet.”

  “They bought her all right. Man by the name of Biloff come around to us last winter an’ spun us a song about raisin’ blooded hawses on those two sections. Promised us the use of his Arabian studs to build up our herd,” Sam ended disgustedly, “an’ we fell for it, hook, line an’ sinker.”

  “If they build the dam,” said Pat harshly, “Powder Valley is ruined for cow-country. We might as well all move out.”

  “I don’t reckon they’ll build it,” drawled Sam. His fingers touched his gun-butt again. “And I don’t aim to make the mistake of fightin’ with my fists. Lead talks louder.”

  Pat nodded his head slowly. His battered features became a grim mask that hid his inner feelings. “But we’ve got to go slow,” he warned. “We can’t afford to get the militia called in. We’ve got to make ’em think we’re takin’ it lyin’ down.”

  Sam looked disappointed. “Shucks. What I say is let’s run them surveyors off right now …”

  “They’ll just send in more. No.” Pat’s eyes were bright now as a plan shaped itself in his mind. “Here’s what we’ve got to do. Sit down and listen to me … then start ridin’ through the valley telling all the ranchers. It’s the only way we can beat this thing without startin’ a civil war.”

  Sam and Ezra nodded solemnly and drew up chairs for a conclave that was to be the beginning of a history-making epoch in the West. They knew Pat Stevens’ capacity for leadership, his ability to think things through and lay a plan of campaign that had a chance to succeed. They and the other valley ranchers would be willing to listen to Pat’s counsel up to a certain point. Beyond that … well, that was on the laps of the capricious gods.

  5

  Sally Stevens was inside the general store in Dutch Springs, ordering a list of groceries to take back to the Lazy Mare ranch, when the covered wagon stopped in front. It was late afternoon and the sun was low in the west, streaming through the dusty plate glass windows in front.

  The ungainly, canvas-covered top of the prairie schooner blotted out the sunlight when it stopped in front of the store. Sally squinted down at the penciled list on the counter, suddenly thrown into darkness by the shadow of the covered wagon.

  She couldn’t make out the next item on her list, and she glanced behind her through the dusty window at the rickety old wagon outside. Two hungry-looking horses stood with drooped heads in the traces. They were so thin that Sally could see the stark outlines of their ribs from where she stood. A tall man, wearing faded overalls and a tattered straw hat, was handing over the lines to a sunbonneted woman who sat beside him on the high spring seat. A ragged-looking milk goat was tethered behind the wagon, and the dirty faces of three tow-headed children peered around the back of the canvas top.

  Sally Stevens felt a queer tightening of her throat muscles, a premonitory twinge of worry as she stared out at the strange-looking vehicle. It was the first prairie schooner she had seen for many years. Dutch Springs wasn’t on any through route from the east to California. Anyone coming here … well, they were coming here.

  The tall, straw-hatted man was entering the store. Sally turned her gaze away from him and hastily scanned her list again. She said, “Ten pounds of sugar and three pounds of Arbuckle’s coffee,” in a clear, crisp voice.

  The storekeeper turned away to get the items from his shelves. Sally was conscious of a tall figure who approached and stood beside her. She kept her eyes turned away from the intruder, studied her list and went on briskly, “And I need some salt pork, too, Mr. Winters.”

  The man who stood beside her cleared his throat diffidently. The smell of man-sweat came from his angular body. Sally kept her eyes turned away from him. She heard a child’s bare feet pattering into the store behind her, then a childish treble saying, “Mommy says get some ’lasses, too. A little can … if it don’t cost too much.”

  Despite her resolution, Sally turned her head and looked at the little girl who stood at the counter beside her. Mary Hartsell was just about the age of Dock. She met Sally’s gaze with a timid smile and confided, “We’ve come a nawful long ways but we’re almost there now. Mommy says everything will be nice when we get settled in our new home. We’re going to like it here.”

  Sally heard herself saying, “I hope you do.” Mr. Winters brought some sacks and set them on the counter in front of her. Sally studied her list again. It was blurred so she couldn’t read the next items. Or, perhaps her eyes were blurred with tears. She moved aside a step and suggested, “Suppose you wait on this other customer, Mr. Winters. I don’t seem to be able to read what I’ve got written.”

  The storekeeper was a bald man, with a fat paunch and a jolly, moon-like face. But he didn’t look jolly as he eyed the lank overalled man in front of him. He asked, “Driving through?” in a voice that was hard with suspicion.

  “We’ll be driving on a little way, I guess.” The lean face of the man from Kansas glowed hopefully. “According to the map I’ve got, my place will be a couple of miles north. Have there … are there many other settlers ahead of us?”

  Mr. Winters leaned forward and rested both elbows on the counter. His hard gaze appraised the tall farmer as he might have looked upon a visitor from Mars. He demanded, “You figure on settling here in Powder Valley?”

  “We sure do. My land’s bought and paid for.” There was a thin note of pride in Hartsell’s voice. “We’ve drove
a mighty long road and we’re wearied to get settled. Looks like real good farming land to me.”

  “It ain’t.”

  “Ain’t what?”

  “No good for farming. You’d best turn right around and go back where you came from.”

  “We can’t do that. We sold out everything when we left. Look here, Mister, how-come you say it’s no good for farming? I can’t see there’s ever been a plow put to it.”

  “There hasn’t never been.” Winters paused to let his words sink in. “And there ain’t never going to be.”

  Joe Hartsell looked confused and uncertain. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he stammered, “I reckon you’re mistaken, Mister I aim to cultivate my place soon as I get settled.”

  Winters shrugged and drew back from his position on the counter. He turned his back on the man and girl, asked Sally, “You made out what else is on your list, Mrs. Stevens?”

  Sally had been engrossed in the conversation and hadn’t been trying to read her list. She said, “You haven’t waited on him yet.”

  “I’ve got nothing here to sell him.” The store-keeper’s words were deliberate and harsh. “Let him go out and raise a crop if he’s hungry.”

  “Look here, Mister. I’ve got to have a list of groceries. We’ve used up most everything and I figured on stocking up before I drove out to locate my place.”

  “You’ll do no stocking up here.” Winters kept his back turned on the travel-weary man. “We don’t want your kind in Powder Valley, and the quicker you find that out and get out the better off you’ll be.”

  Sally’s heart gave a great leap of pity as she glanced sideways and observed the effect of Winters’ blunt speech on the Kansan. Joe Hartsell stiffened as though he had been struck a blow in the face. The little girl pressed close to him, her eyes big and wondering, slowly filling with tears which welled over and made little ditches through the dust on her thin cheeks.

  “I guess you can’t refuse to sell a man a few groceries,” Hartsell said after a moment. “I’ve got a wife and two more hungry kids out in the wagon. We’re out of most everything … and they tell me this is the only store around here.”

  “Don’t be sniveling to me about your wife and kids,” Winters said impatiently. “We didn’t ask you to come here … and we don’t want you to stay. Now, Mrs. Stevens …”

  Sally bent her head and looked at her list again. Her eyes were dry and burning. She heard the little girl’s frightened whisper, “What’s he mad at us for, Pa?”

  “I don’t know, Mary. But never you mind. We’ll make out …”

  Another voice obtruded from the front of the store, “I declare, Joe, I forgot we were out of corn meal. You’d better get five pounds …” It was a woman’s voice, lilting and almost gay; with a strained undertone which denied the assumption of gaiety.

  Sally turned and saw the sunbonneted woman who had sat on the front seat of the prairie schooner with her husband when it drove up. She looked pitiably thin and undernourished, but there was a sweet look of contentment clinging to her face which told of her happiness at being so near to the end of their long trek.

  The little girl scampered across the floor and flung herself against her mother, sobbing wildly, “They’re mean people here, Mommy. They won’t sell Papa anything. They don’t like us.”

  “Now, now, Mary. There must be some mistake. Of course they’ll sell us …”

  But Joe Hartsell was advancing toward her slowly, shaking his head. “We’d best be driving on, Molly. I’m afraid we’re not … very welcome here.”

  “Where can we drive on to? Without a thing to eat in the wagon! You know we planned to buy everything we needed here before we went on to the farm.”

  “I know we did, Molly.” Joe Hartsell’s back was to Sally. His voice was low and it throbbed with bewilderment and hurt. “Seems like there’s some mistake. We’ll figure a way to make out …”

  “We will not.” Molly Hartsell spoke hotly. She pushed past her husband. “I’m not going to see our children go hungry.” She approached the counter. “I need some flour and corn meal and a can of baking powder … and some side meat …”

  Mr. Winters kept his back turned as though he was unaware of her presence. He said, “You haven’t told me what else, Mrs. Stevens.”

  “Don’t you be treating me like the dirt under your feet.” Molly Hartsell’s voice was brittle. “We’ve got money to pay for what we buy. Just as good money as anybody else’s.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, ma’am.” Mr. Winters turned around to face the outraged mother. “Your money won’t buy anything anywhere in Dutch Springs.”

  “But I … don’t understand.” Molly gripped the counter with thin fingers. Her voice was edged with strain. “We’ve … bought a farm here in the valley. As soon as we can get settled with some chickens and a cow, get a garden planted, we’ll be all right. But we’ve got to have food right now … food that we’re willing to pay for …”

  The storekeeper shook his head. He got out a bandanna to mop his face, averting his gaze from Molly Hartsell’s tragic, pleading eyes. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m not a hard man, but it’ll save a mighty lot of trouble if you folks turn around now and go back. This is cow-country, and we don’t cotton to hoe-men in Powder Valley.” He blew his nose vehemently and turned his back on the Hartsells.

  Molly dented her under lip with a row of even white teeth. She turned her stricken gaze slowly toward Sally, swaying a trifle as she clung tightly to the counter for support. “What … am I going to do?” she whispered. “Our team needs a rest and grain. We’ve been on the road for two weeks.”

  Sally’s gaze went beyond the woman to Joe Hartsell, and to Mary, clinging to her father while the tears silently ran down her pinched cheeks.

  Sally thought of Dock. Suppose he were hungry—among strangers!

  She turned back impulsively to Molly Hartsell and gave her a secret smile of encouragement and a nod of her blond head. Aloud, to Mr. Winters, she said, “I can read my list now: Flour and corn meal, and a can of baking powder. And some side meat …”

  The storekeeper turned about with a slow frown. “I just wrapped you up some salt pork.”

  “I know, but I want side meat, too. About …” She turned and looked inquiringly at Molly. The Kansas woman moved closer. Her eyes were bright with understanding. She smiled shyly and her lips formed the word, “Three.”

  “About three pounds,” Sally told Mr. Winters briskly.

  The storekeeper hesitated, but Sally gave him a level, direct glance. “Set those things out while I study out some more from my list.”

  When he moved away reluctantly, Sally stepped close to Molly and asked in a low tone, “Do you need anything else?”

  “A sack of potatoes and a piece of boiling meat. That’s all.”

  Sally stepped back to the counter and calmly ordered the rest of the things the Hartsells needed. When all the things were set out, Sally directed coolly, “Total these up separately from my other order and put them in a box.”

  “See here, Sally Stevens.” Mr. Winters faced her with his arms akimbo, his red face glowering. “If you’re buying this stuff for these trashy nesters …”

  “I’m buying it,” Sally told him icily. “That’s enough for you. My money has been mighty good in this store for ten years.”

  “People are going to be plenty mad when they hear about this, Mrs. Stevens. They listened to Pat and let things ride along on his say-so, and you know that this here was his plan … that we’d starve ’em out before they got settled …”

  “Put that order up for me, Mr. Winters,” Sally cut in. She took out her purse. “How much is it?”

  The amount was slightly over five dollars. Sally paid it, and Mr. Winters accepted the money, trembling with indignation but not quite daring to refuse to make the sale to one of his most important customers. When the transaction was completed, Sally turned to Molly Hartsell with a smile. “Now, I’m going to sell thi
s to you. But … take my advice and don’t try to stay here in the valley.”

  “I thank you, ma’am, for getting us the groceries and for the advice. But I don’t see what else we can do except stay. We’ve got nowhere else to go. We sold out everything in Kansas before we started.” Molly was counting out the exact sum Sally had paid for the groceries. Joe Hartsell came forward to lift the box onto his shoulder, saying humbly:

  “We don’t’ understand what any of this is about, ma’am. We’re not aiming to start any trouble. All we want is a chance to farm the land we bought fair and square …”

  A disturbance outside the store drew their attention. While they had been inside endeavoring to buy the necessities they desperately needed, an ominously silent crowd of cowpunchers and ranchers had gathered about the covered wagon outside. Up and down the main street of Dutch Springs the word had flown that the first of the invading army of hated farmers had reached the valley, and grim-faced men had been drifting down the board-walk to see what happened when Winters refused to sell them any groceries according to a prearranged plan figured out by Pat Stevens.

  Now there was a loud altercation going on in the dusty street at the rear of the wagon. From inside the store, their view was cut off by a close-packed ring of grinning men, but there were shrill exclamations of anger and the sound of blows on bare flesh, and billowing clouds of dust rising above the heads of the watchers.

  With a little cry of fear, Molly Hartsell darted out of the store. Sally was close behind her as she forced her way through the ring of grinning men. Two small forms were entwined in the dusty street, a tangle of arms and legs and faces so dirty they were unrecognizable.

  Molly Hartsell bent over them, crying, “Joey! Stop it, Joey. Let go! Do you hear me?”

  While the ranchers guffawed loudly, Molly caught a flailing arm of her seven-year-old son and dragged him up out of the dust. His nose was bleeding and he was weeping defiantly, trying to pull himself away from his mother to get another whack at his youthful antagonist.