by Cole Shelton
Brett stood up and walked over to her window.
He let his eyes follow the trail back up to the pass he’d ridden through. He glimpsed a small cloud of fine grey dust lingering there in the stillness.
He told her, ‘I had a couple of Cheyenne riders follow me in.’
Harmony drew in her breath sharply. ‘I don’t suppose they were an old warrior and a young buck?’
‘Describes them pretty well,’ he said quietly.
She trembled. ‘Could be the same two who’ve been here before.’
‘Right here? On your land?’
‘Yes,’ Harmony told him, ‘at least three times. Could have been more.’
‘What happened?’ he asked, his eyes searching the pass.
The widow recalled, ‘I saw them on my land twice, riding across my range like they owned it. I just stood at the window with Tom’s old rifle in my hand. I was shaking, hoping and praying they were just passing through. And that’s what they seemed to do. That was a couple of weeks ago. Then, the third time was at sun-up. I woke up and opened the door. I was right in the doorway, Brett, about to go outside in my dressing gown to feed my mare like I’ve often done and that’s when I saw these two Indians, right close to my cabin. They were the same two I’d seen before. One was thin with long grey hair. He stayed on his pony by the stable, but the other, who was indecently half-naked, was less than twenty paces from the cabin, right by the water trough.’
Brett had been listening intently to her talking while looking at the pass. Finally he saw the two Indians who’d shadowed him, resting astride their ponies, almost concealed by a bunch of arrowhead pines north on the balcony rim. They were motionless, as if carved there. He might easily have missed them but for the sun’s glint on one of their rifle barrels.
‘Reckon they’re up there in the pass right now,’ he said.
Anxiously, she asked, ‘You can see them?’
‘By the pines in the pass.’
‘Dear God!’
‘Tell me what happened when they came calling.’
‘I knew what the younger one wanted sure enough,’ Harmony said, standing close beside him. ‘I could see it on his face. Made me feel real scared.’ She lowered her voice to a husky whisper. ‘The kinda terror only a woman knows.’
‘But you handled it?’
‘Lady Luck was on my side,’ Harmony told him. ‘Just as things could have been getting ugly, my prayers were answered. A couple of homesteader men rode by my spread. They spotted the two Cheyennes close to my cabin so they decided to pay me an early morning visit. When the homesteader men started heading across my land, my unwelcome callers left me and rode away over the creek behind my cabin.’
‘You’re a brave woman, staying here on your own.’
‘Some say brave, others say foolish,’ Harmony admitted. ‘My parents live in Pennsylvania. When they heard of Tom’s death, they wrote urging me to pull up stakes, come home and be with them, but I felt then, and still feel now, that Lonesome Valley is where I belong.’ She looked up at him. He still had his eyes fixed on the two Cheyennes motionless in the pass. Impetuously, she asked a curious question. ‘Have you ever belonged anywhere, Brett?’
‘Been a drifter most of my life, Harmony,’ he replied. ‘Drifter by choice.’ He thought about it. ‘Longest time I’ve ever stayed to put down my roots was almost five years in a mountain town called Buckskin.’ He said wryly, ‘That’s where your letter caught up with me.’
‘Sorry I took you away.’
‘No apology needed,’ Brett assured her. ‘I came because I wanted to.’
The sun was no longer glinting on that rifle now as the Indian riders retreated into the pass. She breathed a sign of relief, but Brett stayed watching for several minutes before resuming his seat.
‘So have the other settlers had Indian trouble too?’ he asked.
‘Yes, just recently,’ she said. ‘Last four or five months in fact. Will Quade found one of his sheep full of arrows, then Buck Jamieson, who owns the first spread you see when you come down from the pass, saw some Cheyennes trying to steal his three ponies. Buck told me he sent the varmints all packing with a hail of bullets. Then, only last week, some homesteaders swapped lead with Indians trespassing on their land. It’s all strange, Brett. We’ve been at peace with the Indians ever since we came here. We’ve even traded with them. Tom once took me to their camp and bought me an Indian shawl for my birthday. I remember wearing it to church the next Sunday.’ She fought back her tears. ‘That was a couple of weeks before his accident.’
‘Has anyone been stirring up trouble with the Cheyennes?’
‘There’s only one man with a motive.’
‘Delaney,’ he supplied.
‘We homesteaders already feel under threat because of those masked riders and if the Indians keep making trouble, that will spook us even more,’ Harmony told him. ‘That’s why many of us believe Delaney is somehow provoking the Indians – but no one knows how.’ Bitterly, she added, ‘But even if we found out and had proof, the sheriff in Red Butte would just sit on his big fat ass, pardon my language, Brett, and do nothing except chew the cigars Delaney supplies him with. Same goes for his useless, drink-sodden deputy too. You see, Brett, Delaney holds all the cards.’
‘And you’re up against a stacked deck,’ he stated.
‘Yes,’ she said forlornly.
Brett watched her closely over the table. The future of the homesteaders in Lonesome Valley seemed bleak indeed. Garth Delaney was a crafty, ruthless adversary and it was highly probable he was behind both the masked raiders and provoking the Indians. He’d come up against low-life like Delaney before, power-hungry, relentless, evil, and many of those men were now under the earth in their local graveyards, courtesy of his twin Colts. Those guns felt very much at home against his thighs right now.
‘How many men does Delaney have on his payroll?’
‘At least half a dozen, but the main ones are Buff Malloy, a crazy Dutchman named Anton De Heus and Kid Jorgenson.’
Brett frowned. ‘Heard of Malloy. Sneaky as they come. He shot a cardsharp in Tombstone City, gun under the table. Malloy accused the tinhorn of cheating and fired a bullet right through his gut. It was point blank range, blew him clean off his chair. Then he raked in the money on the table and walked out, cool as you please. No one challenged him either. Haven’t heard of the others.’
Harmony continued, ‘Don’t know much about Anton De Heus. He’s rarely seen in Red Butte, but I’m told he’s in charge of Delaney’s business interests outside of town. Delaney has a stake in anything that makes money and De Heus is one of the few men he really trusts. As for Jorgenson, well, my husband Tom once punched him to the ground. We were walking the boardwalk outside the Dance Hall in Red Butte when Kid Jorgenson made a rather uncouth, crude remark about me. Tom took exception to it. I told Tom it didn’t matter and to forget it. But Tom was so irate he hit him square on his jaw, flattening him. Jorgenson just crashed to the boardwalk. He pulled his gun from its leather but Tom’s boot ground his wrist into the wood. I remember hearing his bone crack like a snapped twig. Jorgenson wailed like a baby and Tom snatched up his gun.’
‘Your Tom sure had guts.’
‘You two would have got on well,’ Harmony said, smiling.
He agreed, ‘I’m sure we would have.’
‘Brett,’ Harmony said, looking steadily at him, ‘we homesteaders called a big meeting just over two months ago. It was held in Will Quade’s hay barn. Some of the settlers were ready to pack up and quit their land. Others were seriously thinking about it. Mostly, though, they wanted to stay. We’d all come hundreds of miles with our possessions stacked in wagons to start a new life here. We weren’t breaking the law. Claiming public land is perfectly legal. Why should we leave? We talked over lots of plans of action but no one could agree. The meeting looked like it was about to break up, nothing resolved, when I stood up and made a suggestion. They wondered what on earth a widow could cont
ribute.’
She said nothing for a moment, clasping her hands.
Then she recalled, ‘I told the meeting Tom and I had once met a man who was a professional gunfighter. His name was Mr Brett Cassidy. I said I’d heard he’d retired but I said that maybe, just maybe, he might still be willing to help. I told them I was volunteering to write a letter.’
Brett told himself this woman had hope and courage, more grit than many men he’d met on this far frontier had. He couldn’t help but admire her.
‘So they agreed?’
‘Well, yes, but . . .’
‘But what? They didn’t all agree with approaching a professional gunfighter?’
Brett Cassidy had known this to happen in the past. Mayor Whittaker had confided in him that several members of his Town Committee had qualms about hiring what they called a ‘professional killer’ but they were over-ruled by others who were more realistic.
‘A couple of settlers were concerned but in the end they agreed,’ Harmony said. ‘However, they were worried about – about your fee. They asked how much your fee would be. I just said I didn’t know. Will Quade and some of the other men said a professional gunfighter would cost us over a thousand dollars but when they passed the hat around later, they only raised . . .’ Looking embarrassed, she had to admit, ‘They raised just three hundred dollars. That’s all they could afford.’
‘Harmony, this one’s on me,’ Brett put her mind at rest. ‘I’m not doing this for money. I’m here because your husband Tom once saved my life. I owe him. I owe you. That’s why I rode all this way to lend a hand.’
‘Thank you, Brett,’ she exclaimed gratefully.
It was then Brett heard the thud of hoofs.
‘Reckon you have company, Harmony,’
‘I know who that will be,’ she said confidently.
‘Someone friendly?’
Walking to the door, she predicted, ‘It’ll be Will Quade, my neighbour. He and his wife Amanda have been keeping an eye on me since I lost Tom.’ She reached the doorway. ‘Yes,’ she confirmed, ‘it’s Will. He must have seen you ride in and decided to check I was OK.’
Brett and the widow both stepped outside as the rider came closer.
CHAPTER FOUR
Brett watched as the rider approached.
William Quade was a thick-set man with broad shoulders, bulging stomach and a bull neck. He was on the wrong side of seventy, hatless, showing a shiny bald spot right in the middle of his shaggy, unkempt grey hair. He gave the impression he was prepared for any eventuality because he was armed to the teeth.
Two rifles hung in saddle scabbards and a couple of Colt.45s rested ready in his holsters. A short-handled shovel was strapped to one scabbard and coiled rope dangled from his saddle horn. He was astride a brown gelding already streaked with foamy sweat, and he rode the snorting animal past the old wagon right up to Harmony’s cabin. He glanced first at Harmony, then a little warily at the stranger.
Still in the saddle, one hand resting on a rifle, Quade leaned forward and asked anxiously, ‘You OK, Harmony?’
‘I’m fine, as you can see, Will,’ Harmony assured her anxious neighbour.
Quade nodded. ‘Just thought I’d mosey over and check.’
‘I’m obliged, as always,’ Harmony said gratefully.
Quade fixed his wary, questioning eyes on the tall stranger. Guardedly, he greeted Brett with, ‘Howdy, Mister. . . .’
The widow then introduced the gunfighter. ‘Will, this is the man I spoke about in our meeting. Meet Mr Brett Cassidy. If you remember, and I hope you do, I promised to write to him on behalf of all the Lonesome Valley homesteaders. I did just that, Will. I came home, sat down and wrote that very night. Posted it from Red Butte next day. Well, the letter took a while to reach him, but here he is.’
Quade’s scarred, wizened old face lit up like a beacon. Grinning, he eased his burly frame out of the saddle and planted big boots in the dust.
‘You don’t say! So you actually came!’
He waddled towards them. He had a slight limp, legacy of a foolish act of bravado when he and his wife were passengers on a stagecoach. Outlaws held up their stage west of Carson City and Quade played the hero, groping for his gun. One of the outlaws pumped lead into his left leg. Later, on reflection in the doctor’s rooms, he counted himself lucky not to have been killed.
‘Just arrived,’ Brett told him.
‘Name’s William Quade, but my friends just call me Will.’
‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Will,’ Brett said briefly.
‘Same here,’ Quade said warmly. ‘When Harmony said she’d write to you, most of the settlers thought she was wasting her time. In fact, only several in the meeting believed you’d actually come. . . .’ Proudly, he added, ‘I was one of ’em. True believer, that’s me.’ He stopped short, suddenly feeling embarrassed. Clearing his throat, he asked tactfully, ‘Uh, has Harmony informed you of our financial position?’
‘Not looking for money,’ Brett said.
The homesteader blinked, considering. He remarked, ‘That’s mighty unusual talk for a professional gunfighter.’
‘I’m here for personal reasons.’
‘Come inside, both of you,’ Harmony invited.
They followed her into the cabin. Brett elected to stand while Harmony found enough coffee brewing in the pot to pour some for her neighbour.
‘Does Mr Cassidy know what we’re up against?’ Will Quade asked the widow as he sat down.
‘He knows everything,’ Harmony said.
‘Well, there’s something Mr Cassidy doesn’t know, that’s for sure,’ Will Quade announced. ‘It’s something that might explain why the local Cheyennes are making trouble for us. They could be missing some of their women.’
‘Better explain that,’ Brett said.
‘Let me start by saying the Reverend Jason O’Toole, the preacher in Red Butte, does some circuit riding,’ Quade said. ‘He preaches in his Tabernacle Church on Sunday afternoons and during the week rides out to deliver the Word to families who live out of town. Most of these folks live in Rattler Canyon, west of Red Butte. They’re not homesteaders like us. Mostly they’re holed up there because they’ve had disagreements with the law and the sheriff’s not partial to riding that far out of town. Anyway, Preacher O’Toole still regards them as part of his flock.’ He muttered, ‘I say he’s welcome to them.’
‘Maybe get to the point,’ Harmony prompted.
‘Yeah, right,’ Quade conceded. ‘My wife says I ramble on too much.’
‘So do folks at our meetings,’ Harmony laughed.
Quade resumed, ‘Fact is, I was in Rattler Canyon myself a few days ago. I delivered a milking goat I’d sold to ole man Blight and his Mexican woman. On my way back I happened to come across Preacher O’Toole who was headed home after preaching to the converted. That’s when I discovered the real reason O’Toole likes circuit riding in Rattler Canyon. I could smell him a mile away. You see, away from his wife, who’s the president of the Red Butte branch of the Temperance Union, he’d been drinking red-eye with his flock and when I met him plumb in the middle of Rattler Canyon, he’d sure had more than enough. Mind you, he boasted he’d be stone cold sober by the time he got back to Red Butte but that wasn’t all he said. He told me he’d had a strange vision while riding home.’
‘Preacher O’Toole often has strange visions,’ Harmony reminded Quade. ‘A lot of folks will tell you that.’
‘Well, the preacher said he’d seen a vision of some Indian women stacked in the back of a wagon. He said there were half a dozen. According to O’Toole, this wagon-load of Indian squaws was pulled by a couple of horses. It was too far away for him to elaborate but he swore he had this vision. Normally I’d take what Preacher O’Toole says with a grain of salt, maybe even half a grain, but this time I’m saying I believe he saw those Indian girls being taken away in a wagon. Even if he was blind drunk he couldn’t make up that sort of story!’
‘W
ho was driving the wagon?’ Brett asked.
‘Asked O’Toole that same question,’ Quade replied. ‘He said there were two white men on the driving seat, but he was too far away to see their faces. He did tell me the wagon was travelling like a bat out of hell.’
‘In what direction?’
‘It sounds crazy, I know, but he said the wagon-load of Indian squaws was heading in the direction of Red Butte.’
Brett thought about the way station owner’s warning and the ominous smoke signals he’d seen on his way here. White men stealing Cheyenne women could be the spark that fired up an Indian War and these settlers, on homesteader plots in Lonesome Valley, would be easy targets if wholesale shooting started. A really big Cheyenne raid could easily decimate the homesteaders and scare any survivors off their acres, thus giving Delaney what he wanted, public land back for extras beeves.
‘I’ll take a ride to Rattler Canyon in the morning,’ Brett decided.
‘I’ll come with you,’ Quade volunteered. ‘I can show you where I met up with the preacher.’
‘I leave at sun-up.’
‘I will be here.’
The two men walked outside after Quade had finished his coffee.
‘Never thought I’d meet up with a real professional gunfighter,’ Quade said. He added gleefully, ‘I’ll let the others know.’
‘Not yet,’ Brett told him firmly. ‘For the first couple of days I want to mosey around without folks knowing who I am or why I’m here.’
‘If that’s the way you want it.’
‘That’s the way it needs to be.’
‘Sure, Mr Cassidy. You can rely on me to keep my trap shut.’
‘See you at first light.’
Quade climbed into his saddle and picked up his reins. Speaking in low, confidential tones so only Brett could hear, he said, ‘I know the coroner ruled that Tom McBeath’s death was an accident and Harmony had to accept his finding. I suppose she thought what else could she do? And she needed some sort of closure. But I’ve never swallowed the accident story. Neither have some of the other homesteaders.’