Valley of the Gun (9781101607480)

by Cotton, Ralph W.

  “Yes, but not you, ma’am,” Sam said, checking her hands, making sure he saw no weapons as the old cliff dweller moved aside and he and Mattie walked closer.

  “Is this man your husband?” he asked, hoping to engage her in something other than her fear of them.

  “He—” She stopped, seeming to have to think about it for a moment, then said with her head still lowered, “Yes, he is my husband.” But she sounded unsure.

  “What happened to him?” Mattie asked, quietly, feeling the woman settle down a little. She noted the woman’s black eye even with her face half turned away, a strand of long silver-gray hair shrouding her cheek.

  The battered man blurted out deliriously, “The same thing that happens to any man! Hold that line, boys! Hold her solid! Kill every fornicating cat in the litter! Look at them out there, look at them out there! Oh God, the craven devils fornicate before our eyes!”

  “Shhh, now, Brother Phillip,” the woman coaxed, placing the wet cloth back down on his purple, split forehead. “Quiet now, before you start swearing again. You know how Dad feels about swearing.”

  “Dad? Dad . . . ?” The man’s eyes rolled around toward Sam in the flickering torchlight.

  Sam let out a breath and shook his head.

  “I warned you, this one is an idiot, Ran-jur,” the old cliff dweller whispered, leaning in close to Sam.

  “Yes, you did,” Sam replied almost in a whisper. “Who did this to him?”

  The woman spoke up before the old Mexican could.

  “I’m afraid I caused it all,” she said, almost in tears.

  Mattie gave her a close and curious look as she listened to her continue.

  “Dad unbound several of us from himself and bound us to any of his brethren he felt were worthy of us.” She tilted her chin up in Orwick’s defense. “It was a wonderful, God-inspired act. I am ashamed to admit it, but I selfishly rebelled at the idea.”

  “Whoa! There it goes!” Phillip Kendrick blurted out. “Something dropped loose inside my head!”

  “There, there, Brother Phillip,” the woman said, pressing the wet cloth against his forehead. Finally looking directly at Mattie and the Ranger, she shook her head.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “Brother Phillip struck me. I should say corrected me for my own good. One of Dad’s secular associates saw it and took offense, and before I could explain that it was my fault, he beat poor Brother Phillip with his pistol barrel—as you can see.”

  “Oh my goodness,” said Mattie, suddenly struck almost breathless by her recognition of the woman. “Isabelle? Isabelle Rourke? Is that you?”

  When she heard her maiden name spoken for the first time in what seemed like forever, a strange look came upon Isabelle’s face. She stood up slowly, staring at Mattie as if in a stupor.

  “Oh no,” she said, “my name is Isabelle Orwick, or so it was. Now, I suppose it has become—”

  Sam watched, taking it all in, already seeing the resemblance between the two women. Twins . . . ? No, but their similarities were not far from it, he decided. Seeing the woman standing, he noted, Same height, same size and build, near the same age, their hair worn the same way, almost the same shade of gray.

  “Isabelle, stop it!” Mattie demanded, her voice sounding like a cold slap in the face. “It’s Matilda, your sister! Look at me! Clear your mind and look at me!”

  “Matilda?” Isabelle said, struggling with it. She paused tensely, then said, “Mattie?”

  “Yes, Mattie! It’s me!” Mattie said, stepping quickly around the prone battered man lying on a blanket on the stone floor.

  Sam watched the two embrace tearfully. Glancing at the old Mexican, he saw him shrug his thin shoulders.

  “But—but you’re dead, Mattie,” Isabelle said, holding her sister at arm’s length. “You died long ago. . . .”

  “No, Isabelle, I didn’t die. You were only told that I died. You were lied to, the same way I was lied to. I was told that you were dead. It was Dad and his brethren. They lied to us—they used us. The way they are still using you.”

  Sam eased back a step and looked all around the large cave in the flicker of torchlight. Eyeing the old Mexican, he finally said quietly, “Come on, you mentioned watering the horses. I’ll go with you, give these women some time to talk.”

  —

  While the old cliff dweller watered and grained the horses, the Ranger took the opportunity to look the place over and gauge the number of riders by the abundance of hoofprints and debris left by Dad’s group. After a few minutes he concluded the old man had been telling the truth. Over a dozen riders had passed through here within the past couple of days.

  Walking back to where the horses stood drinking water from two short oak water buckets, Sam checked the animal over and slid his rifle back into its boot. In his saddlebags he carried two bundles of money stolen from the mine payroll, one he’d taken from the body of Burt Tally, the other he’d taken off the deacon’s body earlier that day. Opening the flap, he riffled a hand down through the bundles of cash, then reclosed the flap.

  “What was burning here earlier?” he asked as the old man finished with the horses.

  “One of their wagons,” the old man replied. “I was there among the wagons when the man was beaten senseless. Luckily for the man who gave him the beating, one of the wagons caught fire when he left, so Orwick’s men did not go after him.”

  “Who was the man?” Sam asked.

  “His name is Bannis,” said the old Mexican.

  “Frank Bannis?” Sam asked.

  “Sí, Frank Bannis,” the old man said. “You know him?”

  “I’ve heard of him,” Sam replied. “What do you know about Orwick?”

  “Not so much,” said the old Mexican. “I only knew him for a year, since he started moving all his people to Mexico.” His voice dropped secretively. “I only see him one time, when his men did not know I was there.”

  Sam just looked at him.

  “They want no one to see, Ran-jur,” he whispered.

  “Why do you suppose that is?” Sam asked, trying to get a better understanding of the men he was hunting.

  The old Mexican shrugged and spread his upturned palms as if submitting to lack of knowledge.

  “Forgive me. I do not know,” he said. “Perhaps they did not want the world to know that a man so young could have such power and lead such a large band of followers?”

  “So young?” Sam asked.

  The old Mexican cliff dweller went on as if he hadn’t heard the Ranger’s question.

  “Perhaps he is ashamed to be a man so young, yet with so many esposas who are old enough to be his madre.”

  “His wives are old enough to be his mother?” Sam asked. “Are we talking about the same man here?”

  The old Mexican’s eyes widened as he turned in a circle, his arms outstretched, a supplicant to the silent ancient ruins surrounding them.

  “What . . . ?” he asked, staring wildly from one dark open dugout doorway to the next as if seeing the entities from the past staring back at him. “Yes, yes, I hear you! Yes, of course, I hear them coming!”

  But as he turned back to share this revelation with the Ranger, Sam heard the sound too. It was not information offered by unseen entities—it was something offered by the stone walls themselves. It was the sound of horses’ hooves, and as he listened, he heard the rumbling sound become clearer as it rolled closer up the hill trail.

  “Riders,” he said aloud, already gathering the reins to his and Mattie Rourke’s horses. As he hurriedly led the horses out of sight, he saw Mattie appear from the crevice and come running toward him, her rifle in hand.

  “I heard them too,” she offered, seeing the questioning look on Sam’s face. She took her horse’s reins from him as they rounded a stone edge a
nd stopped out of sight from the trail.

  “Wait here and keep me covered if I need it,” Sam said, jerking his rifle from its boot. “I have a hunch I won’t need it,” he added coolly. “It’s about time we ran into somebody up here who doesn’t want to kill us.” No sooner had he said it than he looked around the edge and saw six dusty, sweat-streaked riders come into sight.

  In an upsurge of freshly stirred dust, at the head of the six riders, Sam saw Clayton DeShay’s horse spin in a circle before settling down and coming to a halt. Off to the side of DeShay, Dee Ragland sat unsteadily in his saddle, an arm clamped around his bloody bandaged middle. Behind the two rode Arlis Fletcher and Morgan Almond. Behind Almond rode two hatless, bloody prisoners on the end of a short lead rope. Their hands had been bound behind their backs; their battered faces were blackened with dried blood. Their eyes were swollen shut. Their heads bobbed limply on their chests.

  “Wait here anyway,” Sam said to Mattie Rourke. “It looks like their bark’s on.”

  “Careful . . . ,” she said, before she could stop herself.

  Sam only looked at her. As a precaution, he handed her his rifle. Then he stepped out into sight, his hands raised chest high.

  “DeShay,” he called out across the stone floor covering the wide area in front of the crevice.

  DeShay spun toward the sound of the Ranger’s voice, horse and all, his rifle coming up pointed until he recognized Sam and eased in his saddle. Ragland and Fletcher turned their horses as well.

  “Easy, fellows, stand down,” DeShay said to the other two men. To Sam he called out, “Ranger, we are mighty damned glad to see you!”

  Sam lowered his hands and gestured for Mattie to step out beside him. He took his rifle from her slowly and held it in the crook of his arms.

  “No more than we are to see you, Sheriff,” he said, the two of them walking forward.

  “I need to get back to my sister, Ranger,” Mattie said, now that she saw everything was all right.

  Sam only nodded and walked on as she turned and hurried back toward the caves.

  Chapter 14

  Sheriff Clayton DeShay stepped down from his saddle and over beside Dee Ragland. The Ranger arrived at the sheriff’s side in time to help him lower the wounded scout from his saddle. Moving his horse next to the two prisoners Morgan Almond was leading, Arlis Fletcher raised a boot and gave one of the men a hard kick, sending him to the ground. He raised his boot again, but this time before he could get in his kick, he caught the hard stares of both DeShay and the Ranger. Almond turned in his saddle with a look of anger on his sweaty face.

  “That’ll do, Fletcher,” said DeShay. “These men won’t be mistreated while I’m in charge.”

  “Let’s not forget that these men—these lousy sons a’ bitches—are the reason our tracker is standing there with a bullet stuck in his gut, Sheriff,” Fletcher said. “I don’t mind keeping them under a heavy hand right up till we swing them from a limb.”

  The man in the dirt struggled to his feet and tried to stare up at Fletcher through eyes swollen almost shut.

  “Do I look like I’m afraid of swinging from a limb to you, you fine-haired bastard?” he said through split, puffy lips. He spit toward Fletcher. Fletcher jumped his horse forward and started to kick him again.

  “Damn it, stand down, Fletcher!” DeShay shouted, his rifle coming up pointed at the cold-eyed gunman. “What you’re doing is against the law.”

  As quickly as Fletcher’s temper had erupted, it settled. He spread his gloved hands in submission, a bemused look on his face.

  “Whatever you say, Sheriff,” he said. “You know me, I’m all about law and order.” He swung down from his saddle, walked over to the other prisoner and said cordially, “Please, sir, may I help you down from your saddle?”

  “Jesus . . . ,” DeShay grumbled and shook his head. Turning to Sam, he said, “It’s been this way from the get-go with him. I’ve never wanted to kill a man any worse in my life.”

  The two helped Ragland over to the shade of a large rock and sat him in the dirt. The old Mexican appeared with a goatskin full of water and gave the wounded scout a drink.

  Stooping down beside Ragland, Sam pulled open the wounded man’s buckskin shirt, lifted a blood-soaked cloth and looked at the bullet hole.

  “Are you able to make it back to Whiskey Bend?” he asked the wounded trail scout.

  “You tell me, Ranger,” said Ragland. “It didn’t go all the way through.”

  Sam wiped the blood aside enough to see the redness surrounding the wound. He gave a grim look and set the bloody cloth back in place.

  “It’s got to come out of there,” he said.

  “Then you do it, Ranger,” Ragland said. “If there’s no whiskey around, I’ll just lie still and cuss you the whole way.”

  “It could be in there deep,” Sam warned.

  “Cut it out for me, Ranger,” Ragland insisted.

  “Let me see this deep wound,” the old Mexican said, taking on a sudden air of authority.

  “He says he used to be a priest,” Sam said, seeing Ragland’s questioning eyes. “You judge.”

  But the old Mexican didn’t even wait to hear from Ragland. He stooped down and rolled the scout onto his side. Ragland grunted in pain. Sam watched the old Mexican expertly probe a purple lump on Ragland’s back.

  “It’s too deep from the front,” the old Mexican said, “but it’s not so deep from here.” He took the Ranger’s hand and guided his finger to the lump on Ragland’s back and pushed on it. “There, do you feel it?” he asked.

  “Yes, I feel it.” Sam nodded, the hard nose of the bullet on his fingertips. The bullet had bored straight and deep, digging into the scout’s back. It had been stopped short by Ragland’s muscle and sinew.

  “Get to cutting, Ranger,” Ragland said with resolve. “The sooner, the better.”

  Almond and Fletcher had led the horses and the two prisoners over beside DeShay for a closer look.

  “First let’s get you inside the cave,” Sam said. “It might be best if this man cuts it out. He seems to know what he’s—”

  “Huh-uh,” said Ragland, cutting him off. “Last time a Mex cut on me it was over a whore in Sonora. I swore it would never happen again.”

  Ignoring Ragland’s remark, the old Mexican stood up and took a step back.

  “I have a keg of mescal buried in the rocks,” he said. “It will help deaden the pain.”

  “Mescal. . . . ? A keg of it?” Ragland perked up.

  “Sí, more than enough, so that you will not know when I do my cutting,” the old Mexican said. Only then did he look down at Ragland as if seeking permission. “Shall I go get it?”

  Sam started to answer for Ragland, but the wounded scout spoke ahead of him.

  “Well, hell yes, go get it. We’re going to do this thing right from the start, hombre.”

  The old Mexican left to get the mescal and Sam and Morgan Almond helped Ragland to his feet to move him inside the torchlit caves.

  Mattie came out of the black crevice and moved toward them with a grim look on her face. Halfway across the stone walkway, she stopped and waited for the Ranger.

  “My sister’s husband is dead,” she said quietly.

  Sam just looked at her.

  “When I got back,” Mattie said, seeing the look on the Ranger’s face, “she told me he just stopped breathing.”

  DeShay looked back and forth between the two of them.

  Sister? Husband . . . ? He turned to Sam. “What’s going on here, Ranger?” he asked.

  “I must get back to her,” Mattie said.

  “We’ll talk about it later,” Sam said to DeShay, stepping in beside Mattie as she turned to hurry back to the cave.

  —

  Inside th
e cave, Isabelle Rourke stood out of the flickering torchlight with her arms folded tightly across her bosom, as if trying to ward off a hard chill. Seeing Mattie return with the Ranger at her side, the two looking down at Phillip Kendrick’s limp body, she turned away before speaking to them.

  “I didn’t kill him,” she said, although no one had brought up the possibility. “I stepped away for a moment, and when I returned, this is how I found him.”

  As she spoke, Sam kneeled down beside the body and closed its gaping mouth. He spread the bloodstained shirt collar open a little and looked at the throat for any signs of strangulation.

  “What’s he doing?” Isabelle asked her sister. “Doesn’t he believe me?”

  “Of course he believes you, Isabelle,” Mattie said. Then she asked Sam, “Don’t you, Ranger?”

  Sam closed the shirt collar and stood up, seeing no signs of foul play.

  “He took a bad beating,” Sam said, looking at not only the long barrel marks on Kendrick’s face, but at an assortment of deeper gashes as well—gashes made by the deadly hammering edge of a gun butt. “The shape he was in, there’s no point speculating. We’ll never know exactly what killed him.”

  Even as he spoke, Sam noted that one corner of the blanket beneath the body was folded over. He imagined how easy it would have been for a strong hand to hold that blanket edge down over the man’s face and nose until the body ceased to struggle.

  Stop it. He put the notion aside, hearing DeShay and the others walk into the cave from the narrow stone hallway.

  The two prisoners looked at Isabelle through swollen eyes, and down at the body of Phillip Kendrick on the blanket.

  “Recognize him?” Sam asked them.

  “It’s Brother Phillip, one of Dad Orwick’s main saints,” said one of the prisoners, “or what’s left of him.”

  “It couldn’t have happened to a more deserving son of a bitch, far as I’m concerned,” said the other. He turned his battered, swollen face to Isabelle. “It’s us, ma’am,” he said, “Bob Hewitt and Donnie Dobbs.”