Valley of Thunder

by Sam Clancy

  Ford unbuckled the gun belt and let it fall to the earth. Then he climbed down and sat on the ground a few yards from the roan. ‘What now?’ he asked.

  ‘We wait.’

  He didn’t have to wait long. Ten minutes later, he heard the drum of hoofbeats. Slowly they grew louder until two riders appeared out of the night. They drew up and asked the guard, ‘What’s goin’ on, Mills?’

  Ford recognized the voice instantly and his blood ran cold.

  ‘He’s just lettin’ you know you’ve got a visitor,’ he said.

  The deputy marshal could see the rider’s head snap about in the moonlight. ‘Ford, is that you?’

  ‘Yeah, Gibson, it’s me.’

  ‘Son of a bitch,’ Gibson cursed loudly. ‘You should be dead.’

  ‘If you’d been a better shot I would be. Guess I was lucky, you can’t shoot for sh—’

  ‘By hell I won’t miss now,’ Gibson snarled.

  ‘Hold it, Matt!’ the second rider cut in. It was Hayes.

  ‘Where there’s one you’ll find the other,’ Ford said.

  ‘Let me shoot him, Hayes,’ Gibson almost pleaded.

  ‘No, we’ll take him to the boss,’ Hayes decided. ‘He can figure out what to do with him.’

  He turned to Ford. ‘Get on your horse, Marshal. It’s time to meet the Lord.’

  The three of them drew up outside a long log cabin, complete with veranda. Lamplight shone through the windows and cast a dull yellow glow over the approaches to the entry.

  Ford climbed down from the roan and was about to tie him to a sturdy hitch rail when Hayes stopped him.

  ‘Matt, get rid of the horse,’ Hayes ordered. ‘Put him with all of the others.’

  Gibson grumbled but did what he was told. As he walked off, Ford warned him, ‘Be careful of him. He’s a mule-headed, cantankerous son of a gun. And he’ll try to nail you if you ain’t careful. But you treat him good or I’ll kill you.’

  Gibson snorted contemptuously and led the horse away.

  ‘Right,’ said Hayes. ‘Let’s go and see the Lord. You lead.’

  Ford swung the door open and was immediately taken aback by the quality of furnishings that decorated the large room of the cabin. Handmade, polished furniture, wall paintings, kerosene lamps, a lounge and a bear-skin rug on the timber floor in front of a blazing log fireplace.

  The animal on that rug almost made Ford take a backward step. Especially when it stood up. It was a dog, though unlike any he’d seen before.

  It had a grey, shaggy coat, stood somewhere over waist height and Ford estimated it weighed somewhere in the vicinity of 120-130 pounds.

  With a deep guttural growl, it took a step towards him and made Ford freeze.

  ‘Down, Caesar,’ a voice snapped and Ford watched as the large canine settled back on the rug.

  He felt the tension drain from him at that single movement.

  ‘Quite something, isn’t he?’ commented the voice. This time, Ford could clearly recognize the accent as English.

  ‘Yeah.’ Ford nodded. ‘He’s somethin’ all right.’

  ‘He’s an Irish Wolfhound. I brought him with me from England when I came to this uncivilized place four years ago. He was but a pup then.’

  Ford dragged his gaze away from the dog and focussed upon the speaker.

  The man had risen from a high-backed chair that fronted the fire. He stood facing them, backlit by the fire’s orange glow.

  Ford guessed he was forty-five or close to it. He stood a shade over six feet and his solid frame was well dressed in a tailored suit.

  ‘My name is Lord Bruce Ferguson,’ the man said in his heavily accented English. ‘Welcome to my home. My valley in fact.’

  ‘His name is Josh Ford, Lord Bruce,’ Hayes introduced him. ‘He’s a United States Marshal.’

  Ferguson frowned. ‘I see. An officer of colonial law. We seem to have had an influx of policemen lately, Mr Hayes. First that other man and now Mr Ford. It would seem that someone outside of our world has taken an interest in our operation.’

  ‘He’s the feller that killed Pike and Cross,’ Hayes informed his boss.

  ‘I see.’ Ferguson nodded grimly. ‘The question is, what to do with you, Mr Ford.’

  Ford remained silent.

  ‘I think we’ll put you to work until I decide,’ Ferguson said. ‘What do you think, Mr Hayes?’

  ‘I’ll see to it, Lord Bruce.’

  ‘Nothing to say, Mr Ford?’ the Englishman asked.

  ‘Yeah.’ Ford nodded. ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘I already told you. I am Lord Bruce Ferguson.’

  Ford shook his head. ‘No, there’s more to it than that. Why would an English lord leave his country and come all the way out here to this “uncivilized country”? Your words, not mine. It don’t add up to me. I think you’re nothin’ more than a common outlaw with an accent and no more relation to the British aristocracy than Hayes here. See, I know a few big words myself.’

  Ferguson turned red as his rage built. There was silence as he fought to bring his ire under control and when he next spoke, it was measured and clipped.

  ‘Put him with the others, Mr Hayes,’ Ferguson ordered. ‘I’ll not stand in my own home and be insulted by a commoner such as this.’

  Hayes grabbed Ford by the arm to lead him away when Ferguson stopped them both.

  ‘One other thing, Mr Hayes. Tomorrow I think we’ll show Mr Ford how we deal with insubordination. I think five cuts with the cat should suffice for a first offence.’

  Hayes smiled coldly. ‘I think so, Lord Bruce.’

  ‘Good, it’s settled,’ Ferguson announced. ‘And you, Mr Ford, once it’s over, shall understand that there is only one law in this valley. Mine.’

  Ford staggered as the rough hand propelled him forward through the door. He stumbled over something on the floor and crashed headlong into the far wall. All that prevented serious injury were his extended arms trying to arrest his fall.

  Ford got up and cursed loudly then began to stumble back towards the closing door when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Easy there, young feller,’ a voice from the darkness advised him. ‘It won’t do you any good.’

  ‘Who’s there?’ Ford asked.

  A new voice joined in. ‘Is that you, Ford?’

  ‘Brady?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s me,’ the governor’s man said.

  ‘What the hell is this place?’

  ‘I can tell you,’ Brady said. ‘But you ain’t goin’ to like it.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Come over here and take a seat against the wall and I’ll fill you in.’

  Going more by feel than anything, Ford made his way to Brady and sat down and leaned against a solid wall. The cloying stench of many unwashed bodies hit him and took his breath away.

  ‘How many people are in this building?’ Ford said, covering his mouth and nose with his hand.

  ‘As near as I can figure,’ Brady told him, ‘about ten.’

  ‘What’s it all about?’

  ‘In one word, gold. The feller who runs this operation had himself a big old mine in a cliff face here somewhere and is usin’ slave labour to dig it out.’

  ‘I’ve met him,’ Ford said and went on to tell Brady what had happened.

  ‘From what I can gather, this Lord Bruce’s floggin’s are a regular occurrence,’ Brady said. ‘He once flogged a man to death for tryin’ to escape. And another feller was hunted down usin’ that damn dog of his.’

  Ford’s blood ran cold at the thought of being mauled by the big Irish Wolfhound.

  ‘Tell me about the mine,’ Ford said.

  ‘I don’t really know much about it.’

  ‘I can tell you,’ a voice said from the darkness.

  ‘Who are you?’ Ford said.

  ‘His name is Thaddeus Finn,’ Brady said. ‘He’s one of those who’s been here the longest. Finn, this is Josh Ford. He’s the man I was tellin’ you abou
t.’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘How long?’ Ford asked.

  ‘As near as I can figure, about three years,’ Finn answered. ‘I was the first. Some of the ones who came after me are long dead. Worked to death in the mine.’

  ‘Has he been taking slaves for that long?’ said Ford, amazed.

  ‘Yeah,’ Finn said. ‘At first, he started with drifters, prospectors and the like. He used a few Indians, too. The deeper the mine went, the more workers he needed. And more men to guard them. Then he came up with the wagon train idea.’

  Ford thought for a moment and said aloud, ‘If he hadn’t started taking the wagon trains, no one would have been the wiser to his operation in this valley.’

  ‘That’s what greed will do to you,’ Finn said. ‘The more he has, the more he’s wanted. He was bound to slip up sooner or later. I just wish it had been sooner.’

  ‘What does he do with the gold?’

  ‘He waits until he has enough and it goes out by mule train.’

  Ford frowned. Yellow Bull never mentioned anything about mule trains.

  ‘How do they get them out?’ Ford enquired.

  ‘There is another way out,’ Finn explained. ‘Only accessible by the mules and horses. A wagon can’t make it.’

  ‘So where does it all go?’

  ‘He ships it to Seattle. Word is he has another man on that end who stores it.’

  ‘How do you know all this, Finn?’

  ‘I got ears. I hear things.’

  ‘What about the women and children?’ Ford asked. ‘What happens to them?’

  ‘Everybody works in the mine,’ Finn’s voice grew harsh. ‘Men, women, and children. Except for a select few who cook and clean and . . . and entertain the guards.’

  ‘Bastards,’ Brady cursed.

  ‘How many guards?’

  ‘Approximately thirty of ’em, give or take.’

  ‘What are we goin’ to do, Ford?’ Brady said. ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘Get through tomorrow to start with,’ Ford said. ‘And after that, who knows. However, one thing is for sure. I ain’t stayin’ here and neither are these people.’

  Chapter 9

  The door to the log prison flew back with a crash and let in a stream of blinding sunlight. As two men entered and filled the doorway, they blocked most of the light.

  ‘Everyone out,’ a man ordered. ‘Now.’

  With a few moans and muffled curses, the filth ridden prisoners climbed to their feet and shuffled towards the door. The two guards moved aside to allow them to pass.

  Ford and Brady joined the end of the procession and as they exited their cell, the two men grabbed Ford by the arms.

  ‘You come with us,’ one of them snarled. ‘Everybody gather over at the scaffold.’

  Ford had resigned himself to what was going to happen. To be able to escape, he needed to get through it and work out a plan from there. Therefore, when the two men led him away, he didn’t even struggle.

  They took him to what could have been classed as a parade ground. A large square patch of earth was long devoid of grass, surrounded by log huts, and at its centre stood a triangular scaffold, a rope dangling from its apex.

  Ferguson stood to the left, impeccably dressed and immaculate in his suit. He smiled coldly, his dog by his side. ‘Tie him to the scaffold ready for punishment to be carried out,’ he ordered. ‘Learn from this, Mr Ford. It may benefit you in the future.’

  Ford ignored the autocrat’s statement and let his gaze wander over the gathered crowd. Men, women, and children. They were all there. All looked beaten and downtrodden. Clothes were dirty and ripped beyond repair.

  The new arrivals, however, stood out in stark contrast with their clean apparel amongst the sea of filth. Their faces were masks of fear and confusion.

  Ford was forced to remove his shirt and could feel the pricks of the early morning chill on his exposed skin.

  Then the two men tied Ford roughly to the scaffold, arms raised above his head.

  ‘I’m goin’ to enjoy this,’ Gibson whispered harshly into his ear. ‘I just wish it was more than five.’

  Ford turned his head to face the outlaw. Gibson’s smile was full of mirth.

  ‘Just so you know, Gibson,’ Ford said matter of factly, ‘I’m goin’ to kill you before this is all done.’

  The marshal let his hard gaze linger on Gibson’s face and for a moment, he thought he caught a glimpse of fear in the killer’s eyes. Fleeting though it was, Gibson gave him one last flinty smile then walked around behind Ford.

  Ferguson then stepped forward to address the gathered crowd.

  ‘Those of you who have been with us for a while will know by now that I will not tolerate insubordination of any kind,’ he started. ‘Those of you who are new, take heed from what you are about to witness. This is what happens when you colonials decide to ignore the rules that are in place. Prepare yourself, Mr Ford, for you are about to feel the kiss of the Captain’s Daughter.’

  Ferguson looked across at Gibson who waited patiently for the signal with cat in hand. He nodded and Gibson stepped forward for the first lash.

  The cat o’ nine tails as it was known throughout the English armed services was crudely fashioned from a length of wood and cotton cords plaited together. Knots were tied at the end of each two and a half foot strand.

  Ford frowned thoughtfully. Navy men had another name for it. The Captain’s Daughter.

  His thoughts were quickly replaced by lightning bolts of pain behind his eyes with the burn of the first lash of the cat. The resounding crack of the tails on bare flesh echoed across the punishment ground.

  ‘One!’ Ferguson shouted loudly.

  Ford bit back the cry that emanated deep in the back of his throat.

  The lash whistled through the air again, telegraphing its arrival. The knots bit deep into Ford’s skin. This time, a small gasp escaped his lips.

  ‘Two!’

  On the third, a louder gasp and in addition to the burning fire on his back, Ford could feel the blood start to run.

  The fourth lash made his legs tremble but still there was no outburst or cry of pain. The fifth and final lash landed amongst the blood and torn flesh of Ford’s back but he refused to give Gibson the satisfaction of a vocal cry. Beads of pain-induced sweat ran down the marshal’s brow and dripped from his nose into the dirt at his feet.

  The two men who had tied Ford to the scaffold now took him down. They supported his weight until he gathered himself then they left him to stand by himself.

  In staccato movements, Ford turned until he faced Gibson, who still held the blood-spattered cat.

  ‘What are you lookin’ at?’ Gibson hissed.

  Through all of his burning pain, Ford managed a smile. A cold, hate-filled smile. When he spoke, it was low and menacing and sent a chill down the killer’s spine.

  ‘I’m lookin’ at a dead man,’ he said, just loud enough for Gibson to hear.

  Gibson snarled and raised the cat to lash out at Ford but was stopped short.

  ‘Mr Gibson!’ Ferguson’s voice cracked. ‘That will be enough. Punishment is over.’

  ‘Yes, sir, Lord Bruce.’ Gibson scowled.

  ‘Mr Hayes. See to it that Mr Ford gets put to good use. Have someone take care of those wounds first. I’d hate for him to get an infection and die before we’ve finished with him.’

  ‘I’ll fix him up, Lord Bruce,’ said Finn as he stepped forward.

  ‘I’ll help him,’ put in Brady.

  Ferguson nodded. ‘Very well. See to it, Mr Hayes, and then come see me in my quarters.’

  ‘Yes, Lord Bruce.’

  While the others dispersed, Brady and Finn helped Ford over to the shade of a tall tree and lay him face down on the grass.

  ‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ Finn said as he turned and walked over to Hayes.

  ‘How bad is it?’ Ford asked.

  ‘Looks a lot worse than it is,’ Brady assured him.

&nbs
p; ‘Hurts like hell,’ Ford told him.

  ‘This will hurt a lot more,’ Finn said on his return.

  ‘What is it?’ said Brady as he looked at the small pouch in the man’s hand.

  ‘It’s salt,’ he informed them both. ‘I’ll put it on the wounds. Like I said, it’ll hurt like hell, but it will stop any infection.’

  ‘Get it done,’ Ford said through gritted teeth.

  Finn looked over at Brady. ‘Hold him down.’

  ‘You wanted to see me, Lord Bruce?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Hayes,’ Ferguson said. ‘When will the next shipment for the mule train be ready to leave?’

  ‘Maybe four days,’ Hayes told him.

  Ferguson nodded and walked over to stand by the open fireplace. He stood there in silence, deep in thought.

  ‘I want you to delay it for another week to ten days.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I believe that our position here is rather tenuous,’ Ferguson explained. ‘First, we had that other man snooping around and now we have a Deputy United States Marshal in our midst. It is my opinion that it will not be long before a lot more, possibly a troop of cavalry, come looking. Before that happens, I want to get as much gold out as possible.’

  Hayes couldn’t believe his ears. ‘But what if they come before then?’

  ‘I suggest that we post lookouts along the trail, five miles out. That should give us fair warning.’

  Hayes nodded. ‘Is that all you require me for?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘I’ll see to it straight away,’ Hayes said and left the room.

  ‘Well, this is it,’ Finn announced.

  Ford and Brady stopped and surveyed the large granite rock face in front of them and the large hole at its base.

  ‘Not quite as big as I envisaged it to be,’ Ford said.

  ‘Nope,’ Brady agreed. ‘Why then do they need so many people to work a small mine like this?’

  ‘You see, it’s bigger than it looks. The main seam branches inside,’ Finn told them. ‘It splits three ways. Up until that point, you could obtain the gold real easy. But after it branches, you can mine all day and get pitiful amounts.’

  Ford watched the enslaved civilians come and go from the mouth of the mine. The exiting workers bent double under the weight of their loads.