Valley of the Gun (9781101607480)

by Cotton, Ralph W.

  “Two riders, Brother Bud,” said Burns, “Morton Kerr and Deacon Jamison, coming up about twenty minutes apart.”

  “Thanks be to the Lord. It’s about time everybody started showing up,” said the rifleman, Brother Buddy Gentry. “I expect Young Ezekiel is with the deacon?”

  “No,” Burns said. He gave Gentry a look.

  “Umm-umm,” Gentry said, shaking his head, “and Dad already in a bad mood.”

  “Bad mood about what?” Liles asked.

  “Never you mind about what. You two did your job. Now ride back and stay watching,” he said dismissively. “We’ll have more men straggling in. Make sure they’re not being followed. I’ll tell Dad what you said.”

  Burns and Liles looked at each other.

  “I told you,” Liles said to Burns under his breath.

  “Where is Dad?” Burns asked, not to be put off. “I’d like to tell him myself.” He started to take a step toward the dark crevice.

  Brother Bud blocked his way, his rifle up across his chest.

  “I’m following Dad’s orders, Burns,” Gentry said, adding in a low, even tone of warning, “You two will not want to put me to hard testing.”

  Hard testing?

  Burns and Liles looked at each other again.

  “Well, hell no, Brother Bud,” Dallas Burns said with a dark chuckle. “I’d not put a man to hard testing unless I was all set to straightaway blow his head off.” He gave Gentry a flat, cold stare, his hand near his holstered Colt.

  “Let’s go, Dallas,” Liles said quietly, venturing a fingertip, poking Burns’ forearm.

  Burns rounded his arm away from Liles’ finger and kept his stare on Gentry.

  “I told you, Burns, it’s my orders. Nobody comes in, not until Dad tells me otherwise,” Gentry said.

  “Let’s go, Dallas,” Liles repeated.

  Burns released a tight breath, followed by a dark little chuckle.

  “You can sure get under my skin sometimes, Brother Bud,” he said, letting his gun hand uncoil at his side.

  “Sorry,” said Gentry, “but that’s not my fault.” He looked Burns up and down and said in a somber tone, “That comes from you not being saved—not knowing the word of the Lord.”

  “See? I tell him that all the time,” Liles said, keeping himself from grinning. “Let’s get riding, Dallas,” he said to Burns. “Now that you know what your problem is, we’ll see if you do anything to solve it.”

  The two turned and swung back up into their saddles.

  Knowing Liles was only mocking him, Gentry said, “It wouldn’t hurt neither of you to take to heed to the word of the Lord.”

  “Amen to that, Brother Bud,” Liles said, touching his fingers to his hat brim. “We see any more of our men coming, we’ll send them on through and watch their back trail.”

  The two turned their horses and rode away.

  “Did he strike you as being drunk?” Burns asked. “I could have sworn I smelled whiskey.”

  “These fools always strike me as being drunk,” said Liles. “As far as I’m concerned, it would be an improvement.”

  They rode on. Moments later, as they drew closer to the spot where they’d sat looking out over the trail, they both reined up sharp as they saw a big black blaze-faced horse step out onto the trail in front of them. Atop the horse sat Frank Bannis, a rifle standing straight up from his thigh.

  “Jesus, Frank!” shouted Dallas Burns as his horse circled quickly before settling against the hard tug on its reins. “You need to announce yourself!” Beside Burns, Liles was having a hard time with his own spooked horse.

  Bannis just stared at the two as they struggled with their horses and finally reined them down. Then he gave a flat smile.

  “Anybody as skittish as you two must feel guilty about something,” he said.

  “We wasn’t expecting you up here, is all,” said Liles. “We saw Kerr and we saw Jamison. But you surprised the hell out of us.”

  “Yeah, how’d you get up here past us anyway?” Burns asked, looking a little embarrassed.

  “Because I’m good, Dallas,” Frank said. “How far back are Kerr and the deacon?”

  “By now,” said Burns, “Kerr should be topping the lower ridge. Jamison is a few minutes behind him. We saw that Young Ezekiel isn’t with him.”

  “No?” said Bannis. “He should be. Last I seen them both I told them to set up above the water hole and take care of anybody on our trail.”

  “Maybe the kid will be along directly,” said Burns.

  “Could be his horse threw a shoe or something,” offered Liles.

  But Bannis was having none of it.

  “The deacon would have lagged back with him, if that was the case,” he said. He nodded in the direction of the crevice. “Is Dad back there?”

  “If he is, you couldn’t prove it by us,” said Burns. “His Highness ain’t talking to the likes of us these days.”

  Bannis stared at him, knowing this kind of talk could get his back skinned if Dad got word of it.

  “Frank,” said Liles, “Dallas don’t mean nothing. We was just talking about how hard it is to see Dad straight up these days.”

  “Don’t I know it?” Bannis said quietly. “But if I was you, I’d keep my mouth shut about it. Dad’s up to something, and it’s clear he doesn’t want us meddling.” He nudged his horse forward on the trail toward the crevice.

  “Forget I said anything, huh, Frank?” said Burns.

  “I already forgot it,” Frank said back over his shoulder. “I won’t even tell Dad that I slipped in past you.”

  “Obliged, Frank,” Liles called out to him as he rode away.

  —

  As he neared the crevice, Frank Bannis saw the horses tied at the hitch rail, but he saw no sign of Brother Bud Gentry standing guard, walking back and forth in his usual manner anytime Dad Orwick was at Munny Caves. Ever cautious, Frank backed his horse and rode over to a stand of brush and rock. There, he stepped down from his saddle, tied his horse’s reins to a rock spur and walked quietly to the cave entrance, his Colt out of its holster and cocked while he checked the thing out.

  He moved silently into the black crevice and walked along seventy feet until he felt the narrow stone tunnel begin to widen into a cavern. Across the thirty-foot cavern, a torch stood burning in its stand on the jagged stone wall, casting shadowy light for him to see by. He walked over to the torch, took it down and held it in front of him.

  Walking on into another narrow crevice opening that led into a wider tunnel lined with burning torches, he began to hear the sound of voices deeper inside the large cave. Gun still at the ready, he continued as the voices grew clearer. At a sharp turn in the tunnel, he stopped and stood back against the stone wall and listened.

  “But, Dad, please!” said Brother Bud’s sobbing voice. “You yourself drink. We all know it!”

  Instead of hearing Dad Orwick reply, Frank Bannis identified the voice of Elder David Barcinder, Dad’s second-in-command among the disciples.

  “How dare you compare yourself, Gentry?” Barcinder’s voice shouted angrily. “Your job was to guard and protect Dad! But instead you partook of strong drink, broke your pledge to God and shirked your duty to our leader.”

  “Dad, please, I’m begging you!” Gentry’s voice pleaded.

  Bannis heard Dad reply, yet the voice he listened to was not the usual deep, God-like voice of authority. The voice sounded low and shallow.

  “You know what’s expected of you, Brother Bud,” Dad replied. “There’s no mercy for you here.”

  What the hell . . . ? Dad?

  As Bannis listened, he couldn’t believe his ears. That wasn’t the voice of Dad Orwick he’d come to recognize these two years of riding for him.

  Lowerin
g his torch, Bannis edged forward and peeped around the corner of the stone wall. Across the cavern he saw Gentry on his knees in front of a large, high-backed chair that served Dad Orwick like a throne. Only today Dad was not on his throne. Instead, Bannis saw the broad-shouldered silhouette standing back in the shadows on the grainy outer edges of the torchlights. He saw Dad’s familiar wide flat-crowned hat, his long ankle-length riding duster.

  “Dad, I know I did wrong,” Gentry pleaded in a trembling voice. “But please don’t kill me. I will never do anything like this again, I swear to—”

  “Hold it,” said Barcinder, cutting the pleading man off. He turned and looked in Bannis’ direction.

  “Who’s there?” he demanded in a raised voice.

  Bannis cursed himself silently and waited.

  “Who’s there?” Barcinder demanded again. “Come forward, make yourself known!” He took a cautious step toward the torchlit tunnel, a rifle raised in his hands.

  Damn it. . . .

  “Take it easy,” Bannis called out. “It’s me, Frank. Is everything all right here, Dad?” He stepped forward, looking past Barcinder and Gentry. But Frank saw the black silhouette duck out of the cavern and disappear down another tunnel. Bootheels resounded from against the stone floor, moving farther away with each hastened click.

  “What the hell?” Frank said, hurrying across the cavern floor. “Dad, wait. Damn it, it’s me. I need to tell you—”

  “Back off, Bannis,” Elder Barcinder ordered in a threatening tone. “And watch your profanity when speaking to our leader.”

  “Go to hell, Barcinder,” said Bannis. “You don’t tell me what to do.” His Colt cocked in his hand, he started to go on down the tunnel after Dad Orwick. But as he advanced, two disciples appeared out of the shadows, shotguns raised and ready.

  “You are badly mistaken, Bannis,” Elder Barcinder said as the two disciples moved closer into the cavern. “I do tell you what to do. Now drop your gun.”

  “Huh-uh, I don’t drop guns,” Bannis said, leveling his Colt at Barcinder’s chest.

  “One word and they will smite you down in fire,” Barcinder warned.

  “Yep, I expect they will, but you won’t be seeing it,” said Bannis, not giving an inch. “Now give them that word. Let’s get this pony trotting.”

  “Frank, please don’t let them kill me!” Gentry pleaded from his spot on the cavern floor.

  “Shut up, Brother Bud,” Bannis said in a tight, level tone. “I’m a little busy right now.”

  “You can’t save him, Bannis,” Barcinder said, “if that’s what this is about. He’s one of ours.”

  “I know that,” Bannis replied. “I’ve got no say in you boys smiting one another down in the name of the Lord. But I came here to talk with Dad—tell him what’s going on. Not to get you and these Bible-thumpers pointing guns at me, telling me what I can or can’t do.”

  “Oh, so you’d have us believe you would die before you’d submit to my authority?” Barcinder said with a nasty, skeptical grin.

  “Find out,” Bannis said bluntly, his Colt leveled unwaveringly, ready to fire.

  A tense silence passed. Finally Barcinder turned his icy stare to the two shotgun-wielding disciples.

  “Lower your guns, brothers. Dad has left the cave now.” He turned to Bannis as the two lowered and uncocked their shotguns.

  “All right, Frank,” he said. “Dad is headed out now for Gun Valley. So feel free to report to me whatever you had to say to him.”

  “El Valle del Fusil. . . .” Bannis repeated the name in Spanish.

  “Yes, Valley of the Gun.” Barcinder gave him a resolved look.

  Bannis lowered his Colt an inch and looked all around. Seeing the shotguns stay put, he let out a breath and lowered the Colt back down to his side, but he kept it cocked.

  “I wanted to tell him that I split the mine payroll between me and the others instead of leaving it with one man, take a chance something happening to it,” Bannis said. “It’ll be showing up as the others ride in.” As he spoke, he unbuttoned his shirt, took out a bundle of cash and tossed it to Elder Barcinder.

  “You made a wise decision,” said Barcinder. “Dad will be told about it.”

  “And I’ve got some bad news,” said Bannis. “I wanted to tell it to Dad myself.” He looked around, then continued. “I told Deacon Jamison and Young Ezekiel to set up an ambush above the water hole. Deacon is riding in right now, but there’s no sign of Young Ezekiel with him.” He stood staring at Barcinder to see how the news would be taken.

  But the outlaw appeared unmoved. He only nodded and said, “Dad already knows. The two trail guards told us Deacon’s riding in alone.” He gave a thin smile. “So it turns out this whole gun standoff was completely for naught, wasn’t it?”

  “Still, I need to say it to Dad,” said Bannis, “since I’m the one sent them.”

  Barcinder nodded again and said, “I know Dad will appreciate your sense of honor.” He took a breath and said, “Now, are you all through?”

  “Yes,” said Bannis. “Where do I find myself some chuck around here?”

  “We’ve got family wagons camped a mile farther along the trail,” said Elder Barcinder. “My wives and some of Dad’s are cooking for us. Once we’re all fed, we’ll be moving out ourselves.”

  “Obliged,” said Bannis, realizing that must be where Dad was headed when he left here. Good enough; he’d look around for Dad when he got there.

  Hearing Gentry sobbing on the stone floor, he looked down and saw the helpless man crawl toward him. The two men with shotguns moved in closer, watching Gentry’s every move.

  “Please don’t let them kill me, Frank,” Brother Bud Gentry said. “I fought the demon liquor as hard as I could. Sometimes I just fall victim to it.” He tried to grab Bannis’ trouser leg, but Bannis shook him loose.

  “Can’t help you, Brother Bud,” said Bannis. “These are your good brethren, the ones you said you’re bound to,” he added coldly. “You knew how they were when you threw in with them.” He turned and walked back the way he came in. By the time he reached daylight at the front crevice, he heard the muffled blasts of the shotguns deep back in the earth.

  “These loco sons a’ bitches. . . .” He shook his head, holstered his Colt and walked on. “And they call us outlaws.”

  Chapter 11

  Liles and Burns sat atop their horses in the middle of the trail as Morton Kerr trudged the last few yards uphill toward them. In the afternoon heat he led his tired, sweaty horse behind him, the animal on the verge of balking with every labored step. When the older outlaw saw the two riders staring at him, he turned the horse loose and hurried ahead, both of his arms outstretched toward the open canteen Liles held down for him.

  “Boys . . . all I have thought about is water for the last five miles,” he rasped.

  “You’ve got it now,” Liles said, jiggling the canteen.

  Grabbing the canteen with shaky hands, Kerr took a long, deep swig. Water spilled out of both sides of his mouth and down the front of his shirt. When he lowered the canteen, he saw Frank Bannis riding toward them from the direction of the caves.

  “I see Frank already made it here,” he said when he’d lowered the canteen and run a hand across his wet lips.

  “He just rode in a short while ago,” said Burns as Frank approached the group, his rifle in hand. “Deacon Jamison is not far behind.”

  “Good,” said Kerr, “I’m glad we all made it ahead of the law.” He handed the canteen back to Liles and looked up at Frank, who had stopped and turned his horse quarterwise to the three of them.

  “Howdy, Morton,” said Bannis. “I expect you made it with no trouble?”

  “No trouble at all, Frank,” Kerr said. He patted his shirt where he carried the bundle of stolen payroll money. “T
his is one robbing spree that turned out pretty good, all things considered.” He looked off in the direction of the cave farther along the trail. “Is Dad happy with how things went?”

  “You can’t prove it by me,” Frank said. “Dad turned his back and walked away when I went to take him the money.”

  Kerr looked surprised.

  “Ain’t that a hell of a note?” he said. He glanced back and forth at the three men and saw something in the way they looked at one another. “All right, I smell something going sour around here. Somebody tell me what’s going on.” He stared up at Frank Bannis.

  “Maybe it’s nothing,” Bannis said. “I just don’t cotton to working with a man who won’t face me.”

  “Ha, is that all?” said the older outlaw. As he spoke he reached into his shirt, took out the bundle of payroll money and pitched it up to Bannis. “I’ve been riding with Dad longer than any of yas. I ain’t laid eyes on him in nearly a year. Dad gets some odd ways about him sometimes. I pay him no mind when he does.”

  Bannis caught the money, riffled it and shoved it inside his shirt.

  “Something’s not right,” he said. “I can feel it in my bones.”

  “Ah, all these self-righteous bastards all think they’re better than us,” Burns said, dismissing the matter. “To hell with them. Don’t let it bother you.”

  “I won’t,” said Frank, “after I look Dad in the eye and hear him tell me everything is square between us.” He looked at Burns and Liles and asked, “How’s the chuck down the trail?”

  “It’s good as it gets,” said Burns. “One of Dad’s older wives is in charge of the cooking. She cooks as good as a Mexican.” He smiled. “Comes from Dad keeping her stashed below the border so long, I reckon.”

  “You mean Isabelle?” Bannis asked.

  “Yeah, that’s the one,” said Burns. “She’s one of his oldest wives, but she can outcook the whole bunch.”

  “Dad’s no spring chicken himself,” said Liles. “Maybe that’s what’s wrong. He’s gotten old and sick and don’t want none of us seeing it.” He grinned. “Afraid we’ll steal all them homely horsewhipped womenfolk of his.”