House of Winslow 14 The Valiant Gunman

by Gilbert, Morris

  Cody grinned and smeared apple jelly on another biscuit. “I’m goin’ to try a big ol’ steer pretty soon,” he boasted loudly.

  “No, you ain’t, not till I say so,” Fred spoke up, then got to his feet. “Come on. We got to milk that cow.” Cody rose, still chewing the biscuit, and the two of them put on their hats. As they walked out, Buck following close behind, Hope and Amos could hear them arguing about what was the best bait for catfish.

  “Glad Fred’s here,” Amos observed. “He’s good with Cody.”

  “Yes. Sometimes they act like they’re just about the same age.” Hope fetched the coffeepot from the stove and poured coffee for them both, then sat down again. “Don’t forget to take your medicine,” she warned. “It’s doing you some good.”

  He shrugged but nodded. At Hope’s insistence soon after their arrival, he had gone to see War Paint’s only doctor, Walter Matthews. The doctor had looked him over, then said critically, “Not much I can do for you, Mr. Jenson,” to which Amos had replied, “I know that. Just give me some sort of sugar pills. It’ll make my daughter feel better.”

  Now as he sipped his coffee and picked at the food Hope put before him, Amos said, “If this is a hard winter, we’ll lose some cows. I been talking to Dutch Shultz at church. He says we ought to try to warn Willis about winters.”

  “He won’t listen, I reckon,” Hope shrugged. “Emma Shultz told me the same thing. I tried to talk to Willis, but he just laughed at me.”

  There was nothing more that Amos could say about the matter. They had settled into a pattern at the ranch, and it had been hard on them. Arrow had begun putting pressure on them almost at once. It had not been a violent thing, but the threat was always there. At one time or another, the men of Circle M had been challenged—which usually came in the form of a conflict over the range or the water. Since the range itself was open, Arrow had as much right to use it as Circle M. But time after time Caudill’s men would deliberately mix their cows with those of Malloy’s, which forced either Willis or Fred to go through the herds held by Arrow to get their own cattle back. When this happened, the Arrow hands usually had some crude, salty remarks to make. Malloy himself was tough enough to face the riders down, but they had quickly discovered that Fred Gibson was no fighter and had made his life miserable. Once when Og had been challenged, he had simply pulled out the huge shotgun he carried in his boot, and that had ended the argument.

  There had also been a number of instances concerning water, when Arrow had allowed their cattle to crowd into the narrow strip where the creek ran along the edge of the hills. This never failed to enrage Malloy, and he’d gone twice to Arrow to complain but had gotten no satisfaction. Silas Head had merely said, “You ought to know that you can’t stop thirsty cattle from going to water,” and then had pressured Malloy to accept his offer to buy the place. He had not, however, raised his bid, for Caudill had convinced him that sooner or later the Malloys would get fed up and sell as cheap as others had done.

  If the problems with Arrow were bad, matters at the Circle M itself were worse. Cody had never forgiven Malloy for offering Buck to the Indians, and though Hope forced him to be civil to his stepfather, he was never more than that. Malloy was hard on the boy, and it was only by a determined effort that Hope was able to keep the big man from whipping him. He had done so once, when Cody had glared at him and spoken impudently, and it had been a frightening thing. Willis had yanked off his belt and grabbed the boy by the arm, then beaten him in a blind rage. It was only when Amos had tried to come between them bodily that Willis finally stopped. “You’re gonna learn to show some respect, boy,” he had bellowed, “or I’ll bust you so hard you’ll be in bed for a month!”

  Hope had been badly shaken by the whipping and constantly worked at keeping such a thing from happening again. Amos had been a help, spending a lot of time with Cody. Together, the two of them had been able to keep Malloy from physically venting his anger at his stepson again. It was, however, like walking a tightrope, and the tension in the house was thick.

  As for Hope, she had come to the point where all she could do was endure Malloy’s attentions. She never complained, but she dreaded the nights and his heavy hands on her. Her only response to him was fear and revulsion, and she gave up ever expecting to feel anything else.

  Once, after his usual rough treatment of her, he’d demanded, “What kind of a woman are you? Don’t you ever feel anything? I might as well be married to a stump!” Finally he had taken to going to town, coming back smelling of liquor and cheap perfume. He hinted of his success with other women—never coming right out with it—but when he found that Hope never responded, he’d become sullen, grumbling, “I wish I’d never seen you, Hope! I need a real woman, and you sure ain’t nothin’ like that!”

  He had, more or less, left her alone since that time, and far from being angry, Hope was tremendously relieved. She liked best the times when he left to go to town—and dreaded to see him return. From time to time she wondered what it was like to know real love for a man, but her two experiences with marriage had been so traumatic, she could no longer nourish any tender or hopeful thoughts of such a thing.

  Amos watched her as she drank her coffee, noting that she was still a good-looking young woman. The strain of being married to a brute like Willis Malloy had erased her quick smile, he noted. She had lost weight over the summer, but so had they all. What concerned him most was that she didn’t have the gaiety of spirit that had always been such a part of her character. He blamed himself for this, but that was past praying for, so now he did his best to ease her pain as best he could. He asked, “Think we’ll have a crowd at church Sunday?”

  Hope reached over and put her hand over his. “I don’t know, Pa. That was a pretty rough sermon you preached last Sunday. May have thinned out the lukewarm folks a little.” A playful light appeared in her fine eyes, and she asked, “What was the title of that sermon? ‘Turn or Burn,’ wasn’t it?”

  Amos grinned ruefully, rubbed his chin, and admitted, “Well, maybe I did get carried away, Daughter. Dutch told me he could almost smell the brimstone during the sermon.”

  “Maybe you can preach on love next Sunday,” Hope suggested.

  “Sort of average out?” Amos slapped the table and laughed. “Well, I’ll do that. They’re good people, and they deserve a better preacher than me.”

  “No, they don’t,” Hope said instantly, shaking her head stubbornly. “You’re a fine preacher—a little outspoken sometimes, but it’s always from the Book!”

  They had found a small congregation meeting in an old store building on Sundays, but there had been no pastor for two years. The congregation, having subsisted on itinerant preachers, had welcomed Amos Jenson and his family to their fellowship. And when they had discovered he’d been a preacher for years, they asked him to pastor the church, which he’d refused. “I’m not strong enough for that,” he told the deacons, “but I’ll do as much as I can.” His refusal to take a salary had surprised the congregation, and they responded by bringing gifts. This was called “pounding the preacher,” and it was a time of joy for the church when they got together and filled Amos’ lap with all sorts of gifts—vegetables from their gardens, fresh milk and eggs, various and sundry household items, and even chickens and hogs.

  “You know, Daughter,” Amos remarked, sipping his coffee and musing about the services, “I think the congregation just puts up with my preaching to git my fiddle playing and your singing.” The two of them had brought a great deal of pleasure to the church with their music, and he added, “Let’s work up something for next Sunday.”

  “All right, Pa,” Hope agreed at once. Soon the house was filled with the hymns of Zion, Amos playing his fiddle and Hope strumming a mountain dulcimer. They had not played for long before the door burst open, and Cody came tumbling in, hollering, “Ma—it’s Fred! He’s hurt real bad!”

  Hope and Amos jumped to their feet, startled by the frightened look on the boy’s face. �
��What happened, Cody? Did he get thrown?”

  “No, it was some of them Arrow cowboys. They come up and started hurrawing Fred, and when he sassed them back, they pulled him off his horse and beat him up! He can’t even git on his horse, Ma!”

  “I’ll hitch the wagon,” Amos said. “He’ll probably need to see Doc Matthews.”

  He was right about that, for when they got to the Fred, Hope took one look at his face and said, “We’ll go right into town.” She had brought blankets and a pillow, but it took all three of them to get Gibson into the wagon bed. He was limp, and his head lolled helplessly as they struggled with him. Amos said, “We’ll have to go slow. He don’t need no rough ride.”

  They made the ten miles into War Paint by noon, and Fred never recovered consciousness. Amos drove straight to the doctor’s office, and by good fortune, Matthews was there. He came out to the wagon, looked at the still form of Gibson, then grunted to some of the men who had stopped out of curiosity, “Well, don’t stand there like ninnies! Alf—Benton—take him into my office—and be careful with him!”

  Doc Matthews was a stubby man of fifty with round cheeks and wild white hair. He was a good man for fixing broken bones and gunshot wounds, but was less successful with the baffling ailments of the ladies of the town. His office was two rooms—an outer office that was rarely used, and a larger room with three single beds, a desk, and two equipment cabinets.

  After the men had placed Gibson on one of the beds, he waved them out but said to Hope and Amos, “You two stay. You’re going to have to take care of him, so you might as well know what’s wrong with him. Son, you wait in the other room,” he said to Cody.

  He worked on the unconscious man swiftly and efficiently. When they stripped his shirt off, and he saw the ugly bruises, he said, “Looks like they used their boots on him.” While he was examining Gibson, the puncher groaned and began to thrash around.

  “Hold still now—!” Doc Matthews ordered. “You’re going to be all right. Just see if you can move your arms—this one first.”

  When he was finished, the injured man began to whisper, and Hope bent over to catch his words. “Tried to stop them—but there were—too many!”

  “You did fine, Fred,” Hope said, taking his hands. “Just rest now.”

  “Well, he’s alive,” the doctor stated bluntly. Rolling his sleeves back down, he lit his stubby pipe and shrugged back into his coat. He opened one of his cabinets and began rummaging through the assortment of bottles. “Got a busted nose, some busted ribs, some loose teeth, and he’s going to be stiffer than he’s ever been in his life. I can give you some laudanum for the pain, but the main thing is making him lie down and take it easy for a spell. I want him to stay here tonight, then I can look him over in the morning. If he’s not any worse tomorrow, you can take him home then.”

  “Thanks, Doc,” Hope said. She watched while the doctor poured out a large spoonful of dark liquid, lifted Gibson’s head, and gave him the laudanum. He laid Fred’s head back, then motioned toward the door. “Let’s go to the outer office.” When they got there, he took a bottle of whiskey from his desk, took two swallows, then shoved it back into the drawer. He gave Cody a long look, then asked abruptly, “Who beat Gibson up?”

  “Some Arrow punchers,” Amos answered.

  “Figures,” Matthews nodded, staring at them. “What do you plan to do about it?”

  “Why, tell the sheriff,” Hope said.

  “Well, you better do that, though it will do no good. Sheriff Rider’s authority stops with the city limits.”

  “Well, then, I’ll go find my husband,” Hope said. “He’ll want to handle it.”

  Doc Matthews lifted his eyes quickly, then said, “No, let me find your husband. You and the boy stay here with the patient.”

  He left the room, accompanied by Amos, who asked as they stepped out onto the street, “Why didn’t you want her to find Willis?”

  “Because the last time I saw him—which was this morning—he was all wrapped up with one of the girls from the Frontier Saloon.” He gave Amos a sharp inspection, then demanded, “She know he’s seeing other women, Jenson?”

  Amos nodded. “I reckon so—but thanks for sparing her having to see it.”

  They found Malloy in the Frontier playing poker, a buxom woman hanging on to his arm. When he looked up and saw Amos, he scowled. “What’re you doing here, Amos?”

  Doc Matthews’ answer was brief, and there was scorn in his tone. “One of your men was hurt. Thought you might find time from your busy social life to look into it.”

  Malloy shoved the woman away and got to his feet. “Who’s hurt?”

  “Fred,” Amos said. “Come on outside, Willis—”

  But Malloy demanded, “What happened to him? He get piled by a horse?”

  “No, he took a bad beatin’ from somebody,” Amos said. Everyone in the saloon was watching now, and several of the men were Arrow punchers. “We’ll tell you all about it outside,” he said quickly.

  Malloy just stared at him. “Beat up? There’s only one bunch who’d do a thing like that, I reckon.” He turned to face two men at the bar. “You two have anything to do with it?” he demanded.

  One of them, a tall man with a long face and a droopy cavalry mustache, shook his head. “Not us, Malloy. We been in town since day before yesterday.”

  “Well, tell that yellow-bellied foreman of yours, I’ll be around to collect for this.” He glared at the two. “Take exception to that remark?”

  The shorter of the two shook his head. “We’re just a pair of innocent bystanders.”

  Malloy spit on the floor, then spun on his heel and stormed out the door. “Come on. We’ll see about this!”

  Sheriff Rider could offer no help. They found him in his office, a tall man in his sixties with hazel eyes and a firm mouth. “Say this took place out on Circle M? Nothing I can do, as I guess you know.” He shook his head adding, “I been expecting this, Malloy.”

  “Have you? Well, you just keep on expecting, Sheriff,” Malloy nodded with a hard glint in his eyes. “Only next time it’ll be one of the Arrow crowd who gets hit!”

  Sheriff Rider had seen every sort of trouble that could take place in the West. He’d watched the struggle build up between the big ranchers, who’d come to thrive on the free range, and the smaller ranchers and farmers. Now he shook his head, offering the only advice he could. “Don’t jump into anything too sudden, Mr. Malloy. I seen a couple of range wars, and there wasn’t no winners.”

  As he had expected, however, Malloy snorted and walked out of his office. “Too bad, Ray,” he murmured to his deputy. “Looks like the ax is about to fall in this county, and there ain’t a blessed thing we can do about it.”

  “Malloy, he ain’t got no show at all,” Ray Shotwell observed. He was a short fireplug of a man with a face that had undergone just about every disaster possible. “If he goes after Arrow, they’ll cut him off at the knees, Sheriff.”

  “Likely, Ray. Very likely.”

  When they were outside, Malloy turned to Amos and ordered, “Go find Og. He’s somewhere in town. I’ve got some ridin’ to do.”

  “Don’t you aim to go by and see Fred?”

  “I’ll see him when I get this chore done.”

  “What about the cattle? There ain’t enough of us to watch ’em with Fred laid up.”

  “I’ll bring some help with me. The herd can’t stray far.” He turned and walked away, leaving Amos to stare after him. Instead of looking for Ozzie, Amos went straight back to the doctor’s office and told Hope what had happened.

  “What’s he going to do?” Hope asked.

  “He’s been talking to some of the small ranchers ever since we got here. They’re mostly in the hills, or on the fringes of the open range. Most of them are like Dutch and his family, good people, hard workers just trying to get by. Some of them come to church—the Millers, the Cox family, and the Proctors.” Amos paused, then added, “But some of the folks Arrow
’s pushed around are borderline cases—like the Littleton boys. It wouldn’t take much to get them riled.”

  A crease appeared in Hope’s forehead, and she shook her head. “I wish this whole thing would just quietly blow over.”

  “So do I. Anyway, this whole valley is like a powder keg. Only take one spark to set the thing off.”

  “What’s Willis going to do?”

  “Try to get them all together and fight Arrow. But that’s just what Head and Caudill want. They’ve built up a small army over at Arrow, and all they need is an excuse to sweep this country clean of small ranchers and farmers. The law’s too far away to do anything, and it’d be too late anyhow.”

  A cold fear came over Hope, which she struggled to ignore.

  “Why don’t you find Ozzie, and the two of you go back to the ranch. I’ll bring Fred out tomorrow.”

  “Might be best. You be all right, Daughter?”

  “Yes, I’ll be fine.”

  The rest of the afternoon Hope stayed close to the patient. One of the merchants, L.C. Chance, was also one of the deacons in the church. He stopped by soon after Amos left to offer his help. “Mrs. Malloy, let Cody come home with me. Him and my boy Sam get along fine. He can bunk with Sam, and you can pick him up when you’re ready to go back home.”

  Cody agreed, but whispered to his mother before leaving with Chance, “Ma, please come and get me. Don’t go home without me.”

  Hope nodded and smiled. “I wouldn’t do that, Cody. You be a good boy.”

  The hours ran on, and there was little for her to do. Doctor Matthews had no patients calling. He came by and sent her to get supper at the cafe at six. When she returned, he said, “Use one of the beds and get some sleep, Mrs. Malloy. No sense wearing yourself out.”

  “Yes, I’ll do that.”

  The day had been long, and Hope slumped wearily into a chair by the window overlooking the street below. It was a bleak enough view, for War Paint was like a hundred other small western towns. The main street was a dusty stretch between low buildings whose square fronts and overhanging board awnings had long ago lost the shine of fresh paint. As dusk fell, lanterns were lit, making a foggy shining out of dusty windows and casting eerie shadows through the locust trees that formed an irregular line along the walks. Saddle horses stood here and there before hitch racks, and the wide mouth of a stable yawned down the street.