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Authors: William W. Johnstone

Blood Valley (20 page)

BOOK: Blood Valley
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I got me a room at the hotel, shaved, and changed out of my dusty clothing. Then had me a cafe-fixed meal. At the telegraph office, I identified myself to the agent.
The Marshal who had swore me in had give me a whole batch of government scrip—to use in place of money—and I laid some of that wad down on the counter.
“Grease your tappin' finger, Mister Agent, 'cause you got a lot of messages to wire out of here.”
 
 
I was in that town for the better part of three days before I got replies to most of my inquiries. And when I added them all up, it didn't make for no real pretty picture.
They had thought themselves to be mighty slick young men, Matt and A.J. and Rolf. But when you skimmed off the grease that rose to the top of the stew, all they turned out to be was swindlers, foot padders, con men, and murderers. I seen right there and then why they didn't want no telegraph wires runnin' out of their valley, and why they chose such an out-of-the-way place to settle down in.
And the wives of the Big Three? Well, I couldn't prove it, but after a whole batch of wires from California, it looked like, when you compared dates, that the three women was mail-order whores out of San Francisco.
The description of one of them filled Martha to a T. So she wasn't no hotsy-totsy fine lady from New Hampshire; she was a saloon girl from the Barbary Coast. Her real name was Cindy Meeker. And if it was true, and I suspected it was, she had her a shady past.
According to the wires I got, and there was a whole slew of them, the young men had been borned in what was known as the Old Brewery in New York City . . . in the old Five Points section. I didn't know what that meant; I was just readin' what was wrote down for me, and the telegraph agent was probably glad to see me go. I 'bout ruined his writin' hand. The U.S. Marshal's office in far-off New York City had give me a good batch of background on the Old Brewery.
Coulter's Brewery, as it was originally known, had been built back in 1792. Then, in 1837, the big place was turned into a tenement house, with more than a hundred rooms in it. The hallways was known as Murderer's Row. Lots of kids that was borned there didn't even see daylight until they was well into their teens. It must have been quite a place.
Hell-hole would probably be a better name for it.
Folks was killed there for no more than a penny, and that was proved by the police. Before the good women of the Ladies' Home Missionary Society moved in and bought the place back in '52, it was estimated that there was a murder a day for fifteen years. Over five thousand killin's. When the police finally moved in on the place, in force, they toted out more than a hundred sacks of human bones.
This, then, was what Matt and A.J. and Rolf had been borned into or moved into. A world of thugs and murderers and rapists and the whole scummy lot of such people. I couldn't even imagine what it must have been like, not in my wildest dreams—or nightmares, as the case would be.
They was the sons of whores and worse. And they had the best teachers in the world for crime. And they all three learned their lessons right well.
They moved out of the Old Brewery, according to the wires I got back, when they was young men, and began to educate themselves. But their hearts remained black as sin. The three of them formed up a gang and killed for money . . . killed, among other things. Really, there wasn't nothin' the three of them wouldn't do for money. Nothin' at all.
They made them a small fortune and then the coppers got on their trail after a particularly savage rape, murder, and kidnappin'. The three young men headed out west.
The rest was history. They dropped out of sight and become cattlemen, gettin' rich and powerful doin' it.
I guess Rolf figured that I was the perfect patsy for his daughter. As Sheriff, married into his family, he figured I'd play along with whatever he done, and the Big Three had probably drew straws or high carded it or something to see who was gonna be the bad guys and who would be the nice one. That was just head-thinkin' on my part. I didn't know for sure. But when I hung on the U.S. Marshal's badge, that changed the whole picture.
Seemed like the messages from back east and from California never would quit comin' in . . . all of them about Rolf and A.J. and Matt and their once-loose women. And them women had been rounders . . . bad through and through. There wasn't no tens of thousands of dollars of reward money on the men's heads, not like what was on the James Gang, say, but there was a right smart amount of money involved.
I didn't want no reward money for this. I couldn't never look at Pepper again if I took money for turnin' in her father. So, me? Hell, I didn't know exactly what to do.
I wired back to the U.S. Marshals' office in New York City and told them that maybe I had something on the men. . . . I'd let them know.
It just seemed to me that I'd lost Miss Pepper no matter which-a-way I turned or done or planned to do. One thing was for certain in my mind, however, and that was when I finally made up my mind what to do with the Big Three, when it was over, and if I was still alive, I wasn't gonna stay in the valley. Not without Pepper.
Well, I was in love, but I could get over it.
Least that's what I tried to convince myself.
Chapter Four
I took my time headin' back, just lookin' around. Really, I was checkin' out the country for a place to settle, and I found me a nice little valley about fifty miles south of Doubtful. The valley was all lush and green and pretty with wildflowers; had a little stream runnin' through it. I found me a place where a cabin would fit nice. It was all a wild and beautiful and lonely place.
And the quiet valley fit my present state of mind right well.
Now, I knowed I wasn't no thing of beauty, but I guess I was sort of wild and uncurried, and it looked like I was gonna stay lonely. I guess I was feelin' sorry for myself. And that ain't something I often do.
But damnit, a man needs a woman and vice versa. A man who don't never take a woman for wife grows old bitter-like, all dried up and sour-actin'. And I didn't want to turn into no withered old sour apple.
I picketed Pronto and climbed me a little hill, place I'd thought the cabin would fit, and hunkered down, lettin' the wind blow gentle on me, while I squatted amid the grass and sweet-smellin' wildflowers.
“Now, you just wait a minute, Cotton,” I said aloud, speaking to the big empty—it really wasn't empty, of course, but it felt that way. “Pepper's pa told you she didn't want you around no more. But you never heard it from her. So until she speaks the words, just pull yourself together and straighten up some.”
Pronto, he nickered low and lifted his head, lookin' at me, like he sorta understood what I'd just said. And then all of a sudden, his ears come up and he tensed.
When he done that, I come up and rolled, hittin' the ground just as I heard the boom of the rifle. The slug slammed into the ground right where I'd been, with another one right behind that. I rolled towards the slim protection of a little fallen log. Another round sent splinters flyin'. Rollin' again, I jerked out Pronto's picket pin and we went runnin' into a stand of timber. Jammin' the picket pin deep, I shucked out my rifle.
Whoever it was that'd been trailin' me was plenty good, and I had me an idea who it might be.
Haufman.
Takin' me a big swallow of water from my canteen, I looped the canteen straps back around the saddle horn and commenced to get my bearings.
It had to be Haufman. For I'd heard it said that once you done him a hurt, or humiliated him, he was on your trail forever; bastard didn't forget nothin' . And I sure hurt and humiliated him plenty good.
Pronto was protected from anything but a stray bullet, and I was in a good position in the thick timber. But I wasn't really sure just where the shots had come from.
Squattin' behind a tree, I studied the terrain above me, then pondered a while on where I'd been hunkered down when the slugs struck. I thought I knew just about where the German might be shootin' from.
With that in mind, I thought, all right . . . so now what? We could spend the whole rest of the day pot-shootin' at one another and never hit nothin' except air.
“Well, Cotton,” I muttered, “let's us just take the fight to him.”
I slipped out of the far end of the timber and then, with the woods to my right, began workin' my way up the hill, always stayin' low, behind plenty of good cover.
Then the timber abruptly came to a halt and, for a minute, I figured I wasn't no better than I had been. But then, lookin' around, I seen where I had a better view of his approximate location. I made up my mind to just sit tight for a time.
He fired a couple more times into the timber, just to keep me honest, I reckon. But his smoke gave me his exact location, and it was a good one, so I thought at first glance.
Just then the wind picked up right smart and I seen where Haufman—if it was him—had made his second mistake. His first mistake was takin' a shot at me and missin'.
The wind moved the bushes behind where he was; moved them enough so's I could see the rock wall behind his location. Grinnin', I eared back the hammer on my Henry. Ricochets are something terrible to hear, and they make ugly, rippin' wounds. So I just leveled that Henry and let it bang as fast as I could pull and lever.
Man, he went to cussin'. I could hear him as plain as if he was standin' right next to me. Shovin' fresh loads into my rifle by feel, not takin' my eyes off where I now knowed he was, I put another half dozen rounds off that rock wall.
He tried to return the fire, but the location he now had to fire from was not a very good one; it left him too exposed. I put some rock splinters into his face and that done it for the back-shooter.
He just couldn't take no more of it. He made him a run for it and I drilled him, dustin' him from side to side. He went up on his toes, stayed there for a few seconds and then fell forward on his face. He slowly slid down the hill a few feet and then was still. He was dead, or standin' so close to it he could feel the chill, for I'd seen my bullet pop dust when it entered and then splat blood as it come out the other side of him.
Makin' my way over to him, movin' slow, stoppin' often behind cover just in case he had taken him a partner. But he was as alone in death as he had always been in life.
Not that I was feelin' sorry for him, for I sure as hell wasn't.
It's all black and white. It's got to be that way. There are them that want to change that; to make a thug or criminal or whatever you want to call them that are bad something else. And someday they'll probably get their way, too. Even out there in the West times was changin'. But when the mood of the people changes to where they're feelin' sorry for the bad ones, something precious will be lost. Nobody ever locks the doors to their houses; the latch string is always open. That'll change fast when the laws start favorin' the criminal.
I shook off them thoughts, not wantin' to be around if and when something that dreadful ever occurs.
I located his rifle; another .44-.40, then found his horse and led him over and picketed him. Goin' through Haufman's pockets, I found a wad of money. More than five hundred in gold and paper.
I debated on what to do with the money, and had made up my mind to try to find some relative of his to send it to; that is, until I found the note in Haufman's purse.
As we talked of, Sheriff Cotton Pickens must be eliminated
.
It was signed
R
.
Well, I just sat there and give out a sigh. For that pretty well blew the candles out on the cake, right there and then. R couldn't stand for nobody else other than Mister Rolf hisself. That, and the way the note was worded all fancy-like. And there was something else: I'd seen Baker's handwritin' several times before at his place. That kinda tied it all up with an ugly-colored bow. Right final.
So I stuck the money in my pocket. Right nice amount of cash to tote around. Made a body feel important. When I got back to town, I'd just, by God, buy the fanciest watch ol' George had in his store—compliments of Rolf Baker.
But first, I had me a job of work to do.
Gettin' the bedroll from behind the saddle of Haufman's horse, I rolled him up in the tarp and tied him snug. He was a load puttin' acrost the saddle—dead weight, you might say. But I tied him down good on that sudden skittish horse and walked down the hill to the timber where I'd left Pronto. Pronto didn't like the smell of that dead man either.
“Settle down, Pronto. I can testify that he didn't smell no better when he was alive.”
Pronto tried to bite me, but I got out of the way in time.
It was kinda eerie that night, campin' with a dead man all rolled up. And that presented yet another problem: I didn't want him to stiffen out straight. Hell, I'd never get him bent over the saddle again. So before turnin' in, I horseshoed Haufman and staked him in that position, so when I waked up and he was stiff, he'd fit proper over the saddle.
I ain't totally ignorant.
 
 
I hit Quartermoon range just about noon the next day, and when a puncher seen me and that wrapped-up body, he lit out for the big house.
Me? Hell, I just rode right up onto the front yard as big as pie. Rolf and Jeff was waitin' on the porch, both of them wearin' short guns. No sign of Pepper or her ma. The hotsy-totsy former Cindy Meeker from Frisco, turned New England swell.
“I told you that you were not welcome at this ranch, Pickens,” Rolf said. “Now what is the meaning of this intrusion?”
“I brung your man back to you, Baker.”
“I don't have the foggiest idea what in the world you are babbling about this time, Marshal. Get that disgusting burden off of my lawn.”
I had gone over in my head a few lies I was gonna tell if it come to it—just to see what kind of reaction I'd get out of the Brewery Kid.
I jerked my thumb toward the horseshoed Haufman. “Haufman.” Rolf paled and took a quick intake of breath, his eyes narrowin' down.
“Really? You don't say.” He could recover quick. “Well, men who live by the gun usually die by the gun, don't they, Marshal?”
I sat my horse, just starin' at him. I had to admire the man's actin' ability. He'd sure missed his callin' by not goin' on the stage.
“Well, Marshal . . . why in the world would you think Haufman worked for me?”
I smiled at him. OK, if that's how he wanted to play it. “Well, Baker, you see, I found a note in Haufman's pocket. And he talked some 'fore he passed on to his Maker. I wrote it all down and left it and the note with the sheriff a couple of counties over. Insurance, you might say. Then I wired the U-nited States Marshal's office and told him what I'd done . . . without mentionin' no names, of course.”
Rolf, he had to steady hisself agin' the porch railin'. Man looked like he was about to have him a stroke or two.
I could see that Jeff's hands were shaking. He wasn't in real good shape either. And I wondered how much about his ma and pa's background the young man knowed. If I had to guess, I'd say plenty.
“What . . . uh, what . . . uh, do you? . . .” Rolf stuttered. He cleared his throat. “What is your next move, Marshal?”
“A lot of that depends on you, Baker. If you get my drift and all.”
“I . . . uh, certainly get part of it, Marshal.” He cut his eyes to the house and I knew that somebody was in ear range of our words, and he didn't want them to hear none of it.
“I'll be usin' the sheriff's office in Doubtful 'til I can get my own proper office that's fittin' a U-nited States Marshal like me. Now, I'll be ridin' out to see Miss Pepper, since we have some business of the heart to attend to. I'd take it unkindly if you was to try to stop that. I might take it so unkindly that I'd do something for pure hatefulness. Like sendin' some telegraph wires to folks back east. New York City would be one of the places.”
Rolf slowly nodded his head. And right there and then, I seen a man age before my very own eyes. He knew that I'd done sent all them wires, and that I was holdin' the hole cards. All of them aces, too. And he wasn't holdin' nothin'. My hand was pat, his was busted. Rolf, he had been, up to that moment, a right nice-lookin' man . . . handsome, even, I suppose. But now? Hell, he looked like a wore-out tramp on the dole. The flesh on his face seemed to sag with age. Jeff had sat down in a porch chair, his hat off, his face in his hands. The little shit knowed it all. And he agreed to be a part of it. Damn his black heart to hell!
Rolf had lowered his head. He lifted his eyes to mine. His eyes were lifeless. “Well, Marshal.” His voice was awful shaky. “I think that . . . no, I'm sure that . . . well, we can work our way of this terrible morass . . . this situation,” he hastened to explain, and I'm glad he did, 'cause I sure didn't have no idea what more-ass meant. Well . . . I knowed what it
sounded
like. “Yes, I certainly believe we can.”
“That sounds good to me. I like a sweet pie.”
Some of the life came back into Rolf's eyes. Jeff's head come up and he stared at me. They both bit at it and took it, swallerin' the bait and the hook. I always had liked that sayin' about if you was to give a fellow enough rope, he'd hang himself.
Stepping out of the saddle, I cut Haufman loose. The body hit the ground with a dull smack.
Inside the house, I heard a woman give out with a little gasp. That had to be Pepper. Cindy Meeker had seen more dead bodies than me. Workin' the Barbary Coast like she'd done, she'd helped murder and steal and shanghai men out to sea many, many times during her short but colorful career . . . most of it spent on her back.
And with Pepper there, and able to hear all the words, I didn't want to drag her into none of this slimy mess. I'd tell her I was settin' up her pa, the next time I see her. “I'm tired of totin' him around, Baker. You plant him.”
“Oh, but of course, Marshal! Son,” he said, with a sly smile. “I guess I'd better get used to callin' you son, hadn't I?”
BOOK: Blood Valley
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