Valley of the Gun (9781101607480)

by Cotton, Ralph W.

  But it wasn’t Orwick and his men that bothered the Ranger as he rode back toward the caves. He could handle anything these men threw at him. What troubled him was knowing what Mattie had done the day she’d shot the ambusher. Not just any ambusher, he reminded himself, letting the dun choose its own pace again, this time with no sense of urgency.

  After all this poor woman had been through, he knew he couldn’t bring himself to tell her that by her own hand she might very well have killed her son.

  —

  Evening shadows had grown long and black across the tops of boulders and below the cliffs by the time the Ranger heard the distant sound of the single pistol shot resound on the flatlands behind him. He rode on with the nameless dead man’s rifle across his lap, crossed the natural stone bridge and headed upward toward Munny Caves.

  As soon as the sun dropped below the far western hill line, he felt the coolness of the gorge rise from the black darkness behind him. Before he reached the flat upper trail stretching toward the last few hundred yards to the caves, he sensed himself being flanked and followed by something risen from that deep abyss. Beneath him the dun grew restless, aggressive, and fought slightly against the Ranger’s stay of the reins. On either side of them the Ranger heard the soft brushing sound of padded paws whisk across stone and dirt. With a quick turn of his head, he caught sight of long, ghostly shadows darting in and out and over rocks like streaks of black liquid, growing bolder, edging closer with the encroaching darkness.

  Wolves. . . .

  He raised the dead man’s rifle from across his lap, realizing that by now the strong scent of both the dead man and his horse’s blood had drawn in the prowling night hunters and by morning the two would be well on their way back to the elements of the earth.

  So be it.

  He cocked the rifle across the crook of his left arm and at the next sight of one of the bolder wolves, he pulled the trigger and let go a blast and a streak of fire that sent the animals scurrying away.

  For the next thousand yards he rode alone, but then as if they had sunken into the land and magically resurfaced beside him, he saw their outlines reappear, a long line of them sitting as still as stone, eyes glowing red, their ears piqued tall, backlit against the purple sky.

  “Not tonight, fellows,” he said quietly to them.

  And he rode on.

  Ten minutes later he caught sight of a single rider moving in and out of the greater darkness, descending the hill trail toward him.

  Sam stopped and sidestepped the dun off the trail and sat waiting as the rider drew nearer. When the rider was close enough to hear him, Sam cocked the rifle across his lap and watched the horse come to a sudden halt.

  After a tense silence, DeShay’s voice said softly, “Ranger, is that you?”

  “Yeah, Sheriff,” Sam said. “What were you going to do if I said no?”

  DeShay let out a breath and nudged his horse toward the edge of the trail.

  “Start shooting, I guess,” he said. He let the Ranger hear him uncock the big custom Simpson-Barre .45 lying on his lap. “I wasn’t counting on any strangers out here making friends tonight.” He slid the gun into his holster. “Anyway, we started hearing shooting leading this way the past couple of hours, figured it was you. Everything all right?”

  “As good as it’s going to get for now,” Sam replied. “How about at the caves?”

  “Tense,” DeShay said. He turned his horse around onto the thin trail.

  “How’s Ragland?” Sam asked, turning the copper dun beside him.

  “Doing all right now,” said DeShay. “Everybody’s all right. Fletcher got into the mescal and got a little mouthy for a while, but he passed out before I left. He’ll be hell on hooves come morning.”

  “We might all be hell on hooves come morning,” said Sam. “I caught up to one of the men who shot the prisoners. He said Dad won’t be letting up on sticking his gunmen along the trail to keep us from getting to him.”

  “Hmmm,” DeShay said, considering it. “Must be nobody’s ever stuck to his trail this long. It’s got him spooked, you figure?”

  “Could be,” Sam said, not about to reveal why Dad hadn’t drawn his men back by now. It was not the sort of information that one lawman could keep from another. But for now he would. “Whatever it’s about, I’m not turning back. He’s gotten his people across the border now, heading for Valley of the Gun. Once they’re there, he’ll disappear. It could be months before he sticks his head up.”

  “You’ll ride into Ol’ Mex after him?” DeShay asked.

  “I will,” Sam said.

  After a pause DeShay said, “I’ll be riding with you, if you’ll have me, that is.”

  “I won’t,” Sam said flatly.

  “What?” DeShay sounded indignant.

  “You heard me,” Sam said. “You’re not that kind of lawman.”

  Another pause; then DeShay finally relented and said, “Okay, I know I haven’t been. But I want to be.”

  “Everybody wants to be,” said the Ranger.

  “I know, but I mean it,” DeShay said. “I’ve taken money from Orwick for looking the other way when him and his men rode through Whiskey Bend. To be honest I came after him because I didn’t like how he’s treated me the past year. Partly I came wanting to catch him. Partly I came wanting him to pay up.”

  “But something changed your mind after you got out here and got on the hunt,” Sam interceded for him.

  “It’s the truth, Ranger,” DeShay said, seeing he was being doubted. “A man puts on a badge, he means to do right. But after a while, sometimes he loses sight of what doing right means.”

  “And now you’re back on track,” Sam said, still sounding a little skeptical.

  “Can’t a man change, Ranger?” DeShay said.

  “I don’t know, Sheriff,” Sam said quietly. “You seem to be saying so.”

  “I’m saying I have, Ranger,” DeShay insisted.

  “And you want to prove it by riding across the border with me and killing a man you used to take money from?”

  “It sounds bad when you say it that way,” DeShay said.

  “It is bad when I say it that way,” Sam replied. “But there’s no other way to say it.”

  “All I’m asking for is a chance to make myself right,” DeShay said. “I’m changed, you’ll see.”

  After a silence, the Ranger said, “You better be changed if you ride into Old Mex with me.”

  The two rode on in silence, toward a flickering firelight dancing in the clearing at Munny Caves.

  Chapter 16

  As the Ranger and Sheriff DeShay reached Munny Caves and stepped their horses up onto the wide stone clearing out front, they rode past Morgan Almond, who stood guard at the edge of the trail, his rifle cradled in his arm now that he recognized the two in the grainy darkness. The two reined their horses at the hitch rail and stepped down from their saddles. Mattie, also standing guard, walked forward from the shadows, her rifle in arm. Isabelle stayed back near the crevice at the entrance to the caves.

  “We heard shooting,” Mattie said to the Ranger. “We were getting worried.”

  “Wolves,” Sam said. He only loosened the cinch instead of removing it from the copper dun’s back.

  Mattie noted he didn’t pull the dun’s saddle. Rather, he untied his blanket roll from behind it.

  “Are you expecting more trouble tonight?” she asked as he took down his rolled blanket and tucked it under his arm.

  The old cliff dweller whisked in like a spirit while the two spoke. He took the dun’s reins and led the horse away to water and grain it and place it with the other animals.

  “Yes, I am,” Sam said. Letting the Mexican take the reins, he turned to Mattie and said, “I killed one of Dad’s men. Before he died he told me Dad
has gone wild. He won’t be disappearing on us. Once he gets his wagons and people settled into Valley of the Gun, he’s going to turn the tables on us when we’re deep across the border.”

  “Maybe that’s better for us,” Mattie said, considering it. “Instead of us having to hunt him down, he’ll come to us. Usually he rides away and leaves the trouble for his gunmen to settle. That’s why nobody ever catches him. We’ll get him, Ranger, when he comes for us,” she added, her eyes aglow in anticipation. “Once he comes into—”

  “What about your sister, Isabelle?” Sam asked, cutting Mattie off in a slightly sharp tone of voice. He regretted what he was going to have to do.

  “Don’t you worry. I’ll watch over her,” Mattie said, noting the change in his voice. “Nothing’s going to happen to Isabelle ever again, not so long as I’m alive. She’s my older sister by two years, but I always looked out for the both of us . . . the best I could, that is.”

  Sam only stared at her for a moment. Finally he took a deep breath and proceeded with what had to be done.

  “Mattie, you’re not going any farther on this hunt,” he said firmly. “For your sake and Isabelle’s, you’re both going to Whiskey Bend come morning. Almond’s going to take Ragland back for medical care. He’ll take the two of you as well.”

  “Oh? And somehow that’s going to make everything safer for both of us?” she challenged, seeing he had given the matter consideration. “What about all these trail guards, all the ambushing going on?”

  “The back trail will be safe enough now that Dad’s men are across the border,” Sam said. “Sheriff DeShay, Fletcher and I are going on out across the border. We’ll do whatever needs to be done when the time comes.”

  “You won’t find Dad’s compound without somebody guiding you to it,” she said.

  “I doubt if we’ll have to find his compound,” Sam said. “According to what the gunman told me, I figure Dad and his men will be coming for us.”

  He stopped and watched her eyes, hoping he’d said enough. But she only stared at him, revealing nothing.

  “It isn’t like Dad to turn and fight,” she said. “I wonder why he’s doing it.”

  “Who knows?” Sam said, not wanting to go any deeper into the subject lest he have to reveal to her what he’d discovered. “A man like Dad Orwick makes a whole life out of not doing what he’s expected to do.”

  Mattie seemed to consider it for a second. Then she looked back at him with unflinching determination.

  “Well, it doesn’t matter why. I’m not turning back until he’s dead,” she said.

  “I’ve given that some thought too,” Sam replied. “I’m wondering if he’s dead already, maybe has been for a while. If he is, this whole trip is one you didn’t need to make.”

  “Dead, huh-uh,” Mattie said. “I’ll believe he’s dead when I stand with my boot on his chest.”

  “Whether he’s dead or alive,” said Sam, “you’ve taken this vendetta of yours as far as you can take it. The game has changed on you. It’s not just your life you’re risking now. You’ve got to think about your sister. And while you’re thinking about her, DeShay, Fletcher and I have to think about the both of you.”

  “Ranger, you know good and well that I can take care of myself as well as any man. If I’ve come up short in any way, I need you to point it out to me.”

  “You’ve done well, Mattie,” Sam said, not liking the words he had to say. “But it’s my decision, and I say that you have to go back to Whiskey Bend come morning. If Dad Orwick is alive, I will bring him down, you have my word on it.”

  Mattie looked at the determination in his eyes, gauging it against her own.

  “I can tell your mind’s all made up,” she said. “You and DeShay talked it all out on your way back here, and decided to cut me out.” Tears of anger and hurt welled up in her eyes. She looked away from Sam to keep him from seeing her face.

  “We did talk it all out riding back here,” Sam said, determined not to give an inch. “This is what I decided. DeShay made it my call, and this is it.”

  “And nothing I say is going to change your mind, is it?” she said, taking a deep breath.

  “No,” Sam said, “there’s no changing it.”

  “Then I won’t even bother trying tonight,” she said calmly, still turned away from him. “Can we talk some more about it first thing in the morning?”

  “No,” Sam said, “it’s done.”

  “We’ll see where we stand in the morning,” she said as if she didn’t hear him. “Sometimes things feel different after a night’s sleep.”

  Sam let out a breath, watching her walk away. There was nothing more to talk about in the morning. She knew it as well as he did.

  Still, something told him the matter was far from being resolved. Sam considered how she’d handled the conversation while he walked to the spot where the Mexican had taken the copper dun to be grained and watered.

  Satisfied that the horse was well attended, he walked into the cave, the Mexican by his side, and checked on Dee Ragland. They found the wounded man sleeping comfortably in the flickering torchlight.

  A few feet from Ragland, Arlis Fletcher lay facedown snoring in the dirt, his jaw cocked in a way that stirred a puff of dust with each breath.

  “This one likes my mescal very much,” said the Mexican, picking up the cask from the floor and jiggling it to gauge its contents. “He asked if I would like to remove an old bullet from the calf of his leg for practice.”

  Sam shook his head, looking down at the gunman. An empty tin cup sat inches from Fletcher’s fingertips. His Colt lay near his elbow, as if he’d dropped it before passing out on mescal.

  “The sheriff was grateful when he fell on his face and did not get back up.” The old Mexican grinned.

  “I bet,” said Sam.

  Stooping, he picked up Fletcher’s dust-covered Colt, shook it off and slipped it into the sleeping gunman’s holster. Fletcher’s snoring continued undisturbed as Sam turned and walked out of the cave.

  “Buenas noches. . . . Sleep well, amigo,” the old Mexican said quietly as Sam disappeared along the dark stone tunnel.

  —

  Outside the crevice, Sam kept out of the circle of firelight. Ten yards away in the shadow of a large rock, he wrapped his blanket around him, Mexican peasant–style, sat down with the rifle across his lap and leaned back against the hard stone. He watched the two women come in from the shadows and stoop at the fire’s edge for a moment. Isabelle picked up a battered coffeepot from the glowing coals, poured a cup of coffee and held it out to Mattie.

  Sam watched the two sit talking with an arm around each other’s shoulders. Mattie appeared to have taken Sam’s news well enough, but he still didn’t trust it. She had been too intent on killing Dad Orwick to be dissuaded so easily.

  “We’ll see where we stand in the morning,” she’d said. Huh-uh, he wasn’t buying it.

  For many reasons, the Ranger knew he wasn’t about to allow himself to sleep very soundly tonight. Even though both his mind and body ached for rest, he managed to keep his eyes open enough to watch the two women closely. When they both stood up and walked away from the firelight and out of sight again, he kept a loose track of time. But, to his relief, he noticed they hadn’t been gone long before Mattie walked back into sight, set her cup by the fire, picked up her blanket and dragged it back out of the firelight.

  The Ranger let out a breath as he saw her lie down on her side and gaze toward the fire. Maybe if she thought about the situation for a while, she would understand that going back to Whiskey Bend was the best thing for her sister, if nothing else. Sam relaxed his head onto his crossed forearms and allowed himself to doze for a few guarded moments. He didn’t care why she agreed to go back. Just go back, he thought, drifting off.

  Every few minutes th
roughout the night, he raised his head long enough to see the woman still lying on her blanket, half of it pulled over her body, guarding her from the chilled breath of night. His light sleep was such that had she stood up and walked away, he would have known it. When Morgan Almond walked into the firelight to warm himself for a moment, he knew it.

  “You sleep like a watchdog,” he heard a voice from the past say inside his head. He drifted on the edge of some ethereal realm, not awake, yet not asleep.

  It’s an old Comanche trick, he heard himself reply. Sleep with your eyes open. . . .

  And he continued drifting until he fully opened his eyes and saw the first slim orange-silver line of morning crawling up the eastern side of the earth. Knowing the woman was still sleeping there where she’d been all night, he swept his eyes back and forth across the campsite without raising his head or making any waking movement.

  A crackling sound came from the fire when the Mexican stepped into sight and pitched an armload of dried brush and downfallen pine into the glowing bed of embers. As the flames stood up from the coals and danced and licked at the wood, Sam saw the woman rise from her blanket, walk to the edge of the fire and rub her hands together over it.

  He eyed her up and down in the morning fire, hoping she had resolved things in her mind during the night. But as he started to look away, something demanded him to look back at her. Something was wrong here? Something was missing—something was not as it should be. . . .

  “Oh no,” he said under his breath as realization suddenly swept over him.

  Springing to his feet, his eyes on the ankle-high shoes on the woman’s feet, Sam raced to the fire, grabbed her by the arm and swung her around to face him. In the turning of a second, he’d already prepared himself for what he discovered.

  Isabelle turned her face away from his quickly and raised a hand as if to shield herself from the kind of man’s anger she was used to.

  “Please, don’t hit me,” she pleaded with Sam. “I—I tried to tell her not to.”

  From the shadows, Morgan Almond came running, rifle in hand, and slid to a stop. He stood watching in surprise.