by Cole Shelton
So Brett kept his rifle handy while resting the roan.
He had his six-shooters nestling in their holsters too. They hadn’t been sheathed there for a long time and their weight against his thighs brought back memories he thought he’d put behind him.
Harmony McBeath’s letter was in his shirt pocket. It was brief and poignant, obviously written out of sheer desperation, the words smudged by tear stains.
We are in terrible trouble, Mr Cassidy.
Our lives are in danger.
We need help.
Would you consider coming out of retirement?
I don’t know who else to turn to.
Harmony McBeath, Lonesome Valley
It was signed and dated three months ago with a grim postscript across the bottom of her note:
Sadly, my husband Tom passed away.
Brett Cassidy, living the peaceful life of a mountain trapper, had kept to his resolute decision not to strap on his gunfighter’s Colts again. He’d been enjoying life in Buckskin. The townsfolk had accepted him. He was making a living out of pelts and the sound of gunshots and smell of sudden death seemed far, far away.
But Harmony’s letter had changed all that.
If the request had come from anyone else, he’d have probably ignored it, but he couldn’t forget the day Tom McBeath saved his life and what he’d said after the gunfight: ‘I owe you.’
Maybe it was a long time ago, but those words amounted to a promise. He certainly owed Tom and, now he was dead, he owed his widow.
Harmony’s note was short on detail. He had no idea what ‘terrible trouble’ she was referring to and how many were affected. Before leaving Buckskin, he’d asked around. Hardly anyone had heard of Lonesome Valley, let alone any trouble there. It was purely a destination for homesteaders on wagon trains. He’d called on Big Sam on the way south and had a couple of drinks while the trader rummaged through a pile of newspapers.
‘If there’s been a ruckus in Lonesome Valley, it’s sure been hushed up,’ Big Sam said, shaking his head because the only reference to that valley he found was about some Cheyennes burning an abandoned cabin there. It was hardly a headline story and the reporter offered no reason for the arson. ‘Probably did it for the hell of it,’ Sam shrugged.
Brett remounted his roan.
He headed west again, keeping in the saddle until the shadows stretched across the trail. He rode through the pass without incident, not seeing any Indians. Of course, they could well be there, concealed, silent watchers. In addition, he hadn’t seen any more Cheyenne smoke signals, but he decided not to light a cooking fire. Instead he ate beef and biscuits he’d packed in his saddle-bag.
He didn’t sleep. He merely used the night to rest his horse, and one hour before first light he was on the trail again. Early in the day a Wells Fargo stagecoach came swaying out of a cloud of billowing dust. The driver was in no mood to spend the time of day with a lone traveller like Brett Cassidy and his eastbound stage thundered past him. The man riding shotgun merely waved.
An hour later Brett came upon Mesa way station, stopping briefly to water his horse in the slow-moving creek behind the dusty log building. There was but one man there, the morose owner, Bart Bayer, who lived there alone. He sold essential supplies, ammunition and had reward dodgers pinned to his walls. If any stage travellers stopping over wanted beds for the night, there were five old bunks for which he charged a dollar each a night, pillow and blanket extra.
Bayer wasn’t exactly talkative, but when Brett bought a beer, he did offer a warning, ‘Watch out for Cheyennes.’
‘Seen their smoke and they’ve been shadowing me.’
Bayer shrugged his bony shoulders. ‘Varmints haven’t given trouble for years, but for some reason they’re uncommonly restless right now. Keep your guns handy.’
Brett thanked him and rode out.
It was then, one mile west of the way station, that Brett saw two Indian riders following him along the sandstone rim that overlooked the stage trail. They were out of range, but Brett didn’t intend to use his rifle unless he had to. They had a right to ride that rim same as he had the right to this trail. He’d just keep an eye on them.
They followed him at a distance as he crossed a sagebrush flat and then headed down the dusty stage road into a steep-walled pass littered with towering arrowhead pines and a hundred marbled boulders. Ancient caves were like hollow eyes peering down at him. A couple of buzzards circled.
From what he’d been told, this was Sundown Pass.
Soon it would empty into his destination, Lonesome Valley.
And the Cheyennes were still shadowing him.
They were closer now, close enough for Brett to see that one was an older Indian, his face wrinkled and brown, thin, his shirt and pants made of skins. His companion was much younger, red-faced, long raven-black hair.
Brett could easily lift his rifle and take one, maybe both, but there was no real reason. He might have spent many years gun-fighting, but when he killed it was because he had to. However, now he kept his right hand resting on his rifle stock. Wary, he rode right through the pass to the flat rim that made a wind-swept balcony over a long, deep basin.
Lonesome Valley stretched below him.
He saw valley walls that were old and crumbling, eaten away by countless centuries of blazing sun, high winds and winter blizzards. He glimpsed a thin track hugging the rims on the valley’s northern side. Fed by a slow-flowing river, Lonesome Valley’s grasses were greener than he’d seen thus far on his westward ride. It was a verdant, sheltered valley, dotted with trees, perfect for settlement.
Sitting saddle on this high rim, Brett Cassidy saw where the trail dropped from the pass to cut a swathe through a dozen homesteaders’ acres. These landholdings looked like pieces of a patchwork quilt all the way to a distant town.
Brett nudged his roan into a steady walk and headed down-trail.
The two Cheyennes were still following him, riding together but keeping their distance.
He passed by the first acreage.
The Homesteader Act permitted settlers to settle on one hundred and sixty acres of public land. If the settlers remained there for five continuous years, they received official ownership. Brett had heard of homesteaders who’d found it almost impossible to get a living out of their holdings because of adverse soil conditions or lack of water, but Lonesome Valley looked to be good arable land and, by the time he’d ridden by the fourth homesteader spread, he’d seen plentiful cattle and sheep grazing and abundant crops growing.
He had no idea which part of the valley the McBeaths had staked out so he just kept riding, checking each spread as he passed by. Some pieces of land had signs nailed to their gate posts. Some just bore names, like ‘Kincaid’, ‘Jefferson’ and ‘Will Quade’. Others were more pretentious like ‘Lex’s Range’, ‘Buck’s Place’ and ‘Rankin’s Homestead’. Brett had just passed Will Quade’s spread when he came across a small, splintery wooden sign overhanging a wire gate.
The word ‘McBeath’, originally painted in large red lettering, had been faded by the sun. Under ‘McBeath’ were the words ‘Tom and Harmony’s Place’.
Brett reined his horse and looked back over his shoulder.
The Cheyennes too had halted their pinto ponies. The younger one raised his rifle and brandished it high above his head. It looked to be a deliberate act of defiance and provocation and Brett’s fingers closed over his rifle stock. But those fingers stayed there. He recalled the way station owner’s warning about the Cheyennes being restless and he wasn’t here to fire the first shot possibly leading to an Indian War. He heard the old Cheyenne warrior speak sharply to the younger, impetuous brave. At first the young buck spoke back, arguing, belittling the older man, but finally he reluctantly agreed to lower his rifle.
Moments later, both Indian riders turned their ponies and retreated to a wooded hollow. Brett saw the movement of pine branches, then he glimpsed the Cheyennes heading back towards the pass.
Brett waited, watching them for a full minute before opening the gate and riding through. The McBeath land was undulating, sandwiched between Quade’s place and another property that at a quick glance looked to have been abandoned. Harmony’s grass rolled down to a distant willow-lined creek which made a natural boundary, separating it from yet another homesteader spread.
The one hundred and sixty acres were fully enclosed by a fence that Brett could see needed mending in places. Riding down a straight, narrow track, he saw sheep, a couple of goats and a milking cow. He came across a wagon with torn canvas, obviously the one that had carried their belongings west. Past the wagon, and fenced separately, was an acre of corn. He rode by rows of beans, potatoes and pumpkins.
Ahead he saw a cabin constructed with hewn logs cemented together by dried mud. It was a small dwelling, not even as large as the one he’d raised for himself after retiring in Buckskin. He saw a single window with green curtains drawn right across, the door shut. A thin wisp of smoke rose from a tin chimney in the slate roof. The cabin seemed wreathed in silence. Not even a dog barked.
He slowed his roan to a walk.
That’s when he heard the whine of a door’s hinges.
The cabin door inched open just wide enough for him to see the naked muzzle of a rifle protruding. Then he glimpsed a furtive eye framed just above the rifle.
He called to her, ‘Mrs McBeath.’
The door was slowly pushed open until Harmony McBeath stood there.
Then her eyes lit up as she recognised him.
Trembling, she gasped and leaned her rifle against the door frame.
‘Mr Cassidy! It’s you!’ she cried incredulously. ‘Thank God you’ve come!’
CHAPTER THREE
Harmony watched the tall man dismount in the shadow of her cabin.
She was thinking he hadn’t changed much since that afternoon when she’d first seen and admired him in Jericho Creek. He was still lean, an imposing figure of a man, not an ounce of fat on his strong, muscular body. His hair, straight, needing a cut and poking out beneath his Stetson, was still black like a raven, not even a hint of greyness. And she remembered those eyes. They were still eyes that drew you, eyes of gratitude and friendship, with a hint of coldness. But now however, those eyes were smiling.
‘Good to see you, Mrs McBeath,’ Brett Cassidy said, tethering the roan to a hitching post by her lean-to stable. He looked straight at her as he added sincerely, ‘Sorry to hear about Mr McBeath.’
‘Tom was a good man,’ Harmony said as he finished securing the roan. ‘He’s been gone for over two years now, buried in the cemetery just outside the town of Red Butte, that’s down-valley from here. There’s a section reserved for we homesteaders, fenced off from the rest of the cemetery.’ She lamented, ‘And there are quite a few graves there already.’ Her soft blue eyes found and held his. ‘Far too many, Mr Cassidy.’
Brett walked to her. He was so tall that the top of Harmony’s head just reached the ridge of his broad shoulders. ‘May I ask how it happened? Frontier fever?’
Harmony replied, ‘Horse riding accident. Leastways, that’s what the Red Butte coroner said in his report.’ She faltered and said, ‘Guess I should scratch Tom’s name off the sign on the gate. I just haven’t felt like doing it. I mean, taking his name off seems so final, doesn’t it?’
‘My condolences, ma’am,’ Brett said, feeling that any words he would say at this time would be inadequate.
Harmony changed the subject, inviting, ‘You’ve ridden a long way so please come inside, Mr Cassidy. It’s a small, humble home Tom and I built with our own hands. Took us three weeks and it rained most of the time. No one helped us.’ She reiterated, ‘Come in and make yourself at home. I brew good coffee and it so happens there’s a cake baking in the oven.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’
Brett followed her inside. It was indeed small and humble, but it was homely. It had a woman’s touch with a decorative picture quilt affixed to the wall. A potbelly stove warmed the single room which was sparsely furnished with a table, two chairs, wardrobe and pantry. A hanging curtain half concealed a double bed bunk and dressing table.
‘I wasn’t sure whether you’d come,’ Harmony said. ‘After all, I had heard from several folks that you were no longer a professional gunfighter.’
‘I had put away my guns, Mrs McBeath,’ he said.
‘But you’re wearing them now,’ Harmony observed.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Brett affirmed quietly.
She poured strong, aromatic coffee for them both and took the freshly-baked johnnycake out of the oven. It smelled good.
‘By the date on your letter, it took almost two months to reach me,’ Brett explained as she cut the cake. Her hands, he noticed, were hardened from manual work. With her husband under the clay, she’d had to do everything herself. He said, ‘I came as soon as I received it.’
‘For which I’m very grateful,’ she told him.
‘Your letter said there was big trouble in Lonesome Valley,’ Brett prompted.
‘Yes, very big trouble.’
‘I’m here to listen so tell me about it, Mrs McBeath.’
‘Please call me Harmony,’ she requested.
He thought about that. ‘Be a pleasure, Harmony.’
He watched her sip her coffee. She had full lips and beautiful white teeth. In fact, he told himself, she was a fine-looking woman all over. Her full breasts and slim hips filled out her long gingham dress to perfection and her long hair made a rich golden cascade that kissed her slim shoulders.
‘At first when we arrived in Lonesome Valley, we thought it was Paradise,’ Harmony remembered. ‘Sheltered, lots of pasture, good soil for growing crops, friendly Indians and folks in Red Butte welcomed us. The town preacher, Mr O’Toole, even arranged a special service for us and the church folk put on morning coffee. We staked out our land, all legally, built our homes, bought goods from town traders, then began to fence our individual acreages off. Things were fine until a slimy snake named Garth Delaney began prodding us. Have you ever heard of this snake Delaney?’
Brett frowned at the mention of this name. He’d never actually met anyone called Delaney, but he remembered an old-time saloon friend, Buzzard Crocker, who could out-drink any man and play poker like a tinhorn gambler, once named his ‘three most ornery skunks in the west’. One was a back-shooting renegade named Sanderson, the second was Colorado’s rogue lawman, Baines. The third, he proclaimed, was a certain Garth Delaney, card cheat, wife-stealer, killer and someone who should have had a noose tightened around his neck years ago. According to Buzzard, Delaney was a ‘low-down rat’ who snuck out of Kansas when ‘things became too goddamn hot for him’.
‘I’ve heard of him,’ Brett said simply.
Harmony continued, ‘Delaney arrived here just a few months after we came. He bought the Lazy F Ranch, that’s the spread shaped like a diamond just this side of Red Butte. He also took over the Last Chance Saloon and then the general store. Most of the homesteaders don’t spend time in saloons so that didn’t matter, but he doubled prices on flour, salt, seeds, utensils, fencing wire and such-like in the store, meaning some of us couldn’t afford most of the essentials we need.’
‘Sounds like a real low-down rat,’ Brett quoted Buzzard Crocker.
‘There’s more, Mr Cassidy.’
‘If I’m to call you Harmony, then I’m Brett.’
She hesitated at this, but then said finally, ‘Brett, there’s more. Garth Delaney’s greedy. He has a perfectly good spread of land, acres of good grass, well watered, but that’s not enough for him. He’s made it quite plain he wants to double his herd, but to do that he’d have to use more grass than he owns and graze his cattle on public land.’
‘And you homesteaders have fenced off the only available public land in Lonesome Valley,’ Brett stated.
‘Precisely, Brett.’
‘So Garth Delaney’s been prodding you,’ he guessed.
‘At first there was some fence cutting in the night, stacks of hay mysteriously set alight, couple of gates opened so stock strayed and sheep stolen,’ Harmony said bitterly. ‘Then Delaney began turning the townsfolk against us, even the medico and the sheriff. Some townsfolk are employed by him so they do like he says. He cut out all credit for homesteaders at his general store so now we not only have to pay his inflated prices but we also have to pay cash.’ She paused, breasts heaving. Speaking more softly now, she asked, ‘Hope the cake’s tasty enough for you?’
‘Tastiest I’ve had for a long time,’ he replied.
Harmony’s cheeks flushed at the compliment.
‘Care to hear more or am I boring you?’ she asked.
‘Tell me everything,’ Brett urged.
‘Recently masked riders have been ranging up and down the valley after dark,’ Harmony said. ‘Previously a small amount of stock had been rustled, but these raiders started stealing whole herds. They also fired shots at homesteaders who tried to stop them. Only last week we buried Silas Long who was shot by a masked rider he caught trying to rustle every last sheep he had on his land. Silas and Meredith Long came west on the same wagon train as Tom and myself. We became good friends. I even assisted at the birth of her baby daughter.’ She swallowed. ‘Now my dear friend Meredith is a widow – just like me.’
‘Has anyone ever seen one of these raiders unmasked?’
‘Unfortunately, no,’ Harmony had to admit, ‘which means there’s no actual proof these rustlers are Delaney’s men.’ Then she flared, ‘But whose else would they be?’ She refilled his coffee mug. ‘They’re organised, Brett. Very well organised.’ She paused before saying, ‘And as if we didn’t have enough to contend with, we have Cheyenne trouble too.’