Valley of the Gun (9781101607480)

by Cotton, Ralph W.

  “Who is it we’re killing anyway?” he asked.

  “He’s wanting us to kill Dad Orwick,” Bannis said in a lowered tone. “Now shut up, Morton. Let’s hear what the good churchman here has in mind.”

  Chapter 20

  When Barcinders’ two wives escorted Mattie from the house, they walked flanking her like guards until they were on the trail leading downhill from the large house to where they lived in one of the long plank buildings on the valley floor. One of the women carried a small oil lantern to light their way. Walking down the dark trail, Mattie looked back toward the house.

  “What about my horse?” she asked.

  “Don’t worry, Isabelle,” said Stowie, a tall, thin woman whose hair hung in a single long braid down her back. “Someone will take the horse to the common barn down here where we’re going.”

  As the three walked on, Anna sidled up close to Mattie and looked all around as if to make sure she wouldn’t be overheard.

  “If you’re unhappy about being unbound and replaced, don’t feel alone, dear. So are we,” she said almost in a whisper.

  “There are seven of us Barcinder wives, and we’re every one being replaced as soon as Elder Barcinder brings his new wives down from the territories,” Anna said in the same guarded tone. “From what we’re able to gather, all the saints’ wives are as upset as we are.”

  Mattie looked both women up and down.

  “If everybody is so upset, why doesn’t anybody do anything about it?” she asked, even though she knew the question was meaningless.

  “You know why, Isabelle,” said Stowie. “These are our husbands. The Lord says we have to obey them.”

  Keep quiet, Mattie warned herself. Nothing had changed here, not in all the ten years since she’d made her getaway.

  “One good thing about all of us being replaced,” Anna offered, “is that since we’ve been in Mexico, we’ve sometimes had a chance to talk to other wives when no one is watching. We’ve gotten to share information about our children, where they’ve gone, what wonderful people they’ve become.”

  Mattie clenched her jaw as they walked on. She wasn’t going to ask anyone anything, not until after she’d killed Dad Orwick. If there was time afterward, she would ask about her children. But not now. For now, killing Dad was foremost on her mind.

  “It’s terrible that all of us have lived so close together over the years, yet we’ve never been allowed to visit and keep in close touch with each other,” said Stowie.

  “I wouldn’t say we haven’t been allowed,” Anna offered. “Perhaps not been encouraged is a better way of putting it.” She smiled in the circling glow of lantern light.

  Mattie kept her thoughts to herself. These were women who did not realize how much had been taken from them over the course of their lives. If they did, she wouldn’t have to tell them to do something about it; they would have done so on their own, the way she’d had to do those many years ago.

  When they reached the bottom of the hill a few minutes later and turned off the trail toward a long, plain building, the two women stopped and turned to Mattie.

  “We know we shouldn’t do this, Isabelle, but would you like to see Dad’s new wives?” Anna whispered.

  “Yes, I would,” Mattie replied. “Are they nearby?”

  Anna pointed at another building standing thirty yards away in the pale moonlight.

  “They’re staying there until the bonding ceremony,” Anna whispered. “Stowie, put out the lantern,” she said.

  In the pale moonlight, the three crept forward hand in hand to the rear of the building and up to a dusty rear window. Looking inside, Mattie made out a long, sparsely furnished room. Small army-style cots lined the wall, a large potbellied stove stood in a far corner, a few small bundles of clothes and personal items were arranged on the floor. Then Mattie looked closer at the five young women gathered around a small table in a corner, two of them sewing, one brushing another’s hair.

  “My God, they’re only babies,” she whispered to Stowie and Anna. She became so stricken by the sight of the young women who looked barely in their teens that she turned around and leaned against the building for support.

  “Maybe so,” Anna whispered, leaning beside her, “but they’re the right age to start bringing new babies into the world.”

  “They’re no younger than we were,” Stowie whispered. “Dad and his saints like to start them breeding young. Anyway,” she sighed softly, “that’s the new wives, soon to be bound in spirit to Dad.”

  “They’ve replaced you, just as other young women are on their way to replace us,” Anna whispered, giving a quiet little giggle. “I can’t say I’m sorry.”

  “Neither can I,” said Stowie.

  Mattie felt her stomach churn, seeing the young girls inside the building, a building no different from an army barracks or a prison dormitory.

  “I want to go on,” she said, pushing away from the building.

  The two women looked at each other.

  “This way,” Stowie whispered.

  Carrying the blackened lantern, she led the way to their own building. But she and Anna both stopped outside and turned to Mattie.

  “The others are looking forward to seeing you, Isabelle,” said Stowie, “but before we go in, we want to tell you how much it meant to us, what your sister, Mattie, did years ago, getting away.”

  Mattie only stared at them. She knew Isabelle must’ve taken some harsh comments and cold stares from the men—Dad’s handpicked saints.

  Anna cut in, saying, “We know she violated the rules and even broke the sacred covenant our people have with God. But in spite of that, when she ran away, most of us always felt like a little piece of ourselves went with her.”

  “Of course we couldn’t come out and say it,” said Stowie. “We even made ill remarks ourselves, just to look right in Dad’s eyes.” She squeezed Mattie’s forearm affectionately. “But wasn’t there something grand and joyous in her gaining her freedom?”

  “Wherever she is, do you suppose she would feel good knowing that?” Anna asked.

  Mattie felt her eyes well up with tears. She held them back as best she could.

  “Oh my goodness, yes, gals,” she whispered. “I just know she would.” In spite of her effort, she felt a single tear spill down her cheek

  “Gals . . . ?” Stowie smiled. “Gracious me, Isabelle, I don’t believe I’ve been called a gal since as far back as I can remember.”

  “Well, you are gals,” Mattie said, collecting herself. “We all are. We’ve had a lot of things taken from us—but we’re still all gals at heart.”

  “Old gals now,” Stowie said with a tired smile.

  “It’s too bad we haven’t talked like this over the years,” Anna said.

  “They would never have allowed it,” Mattie said with a bitter twist to her voice. Then she asked, “Do you have any idea where you’ll go when the new wives are bounded?”

  The two looked at each other.

  “No.” Anna shrugged. “I once overheard Elder Barcinder tell another of the saints that it is a shame the women are not treated as well as their ridging stock and field beasts. He said the animals were dealt with more humanely than we.”

  “At least Elder Barcinder has our best interests in mind,” Stowie said.

  “Yes, he’s all heart,” Mattie said wryly.

  “What will you do, Isabelle?” Anna asked.

  Mattie remained silent for a moment, but finally couldn’t help herself.

  “I’m leaving the first chance I get,” she said.

  “You mean going to where Brother Phillip sends you?” Anna asked.

  “No,” Mattie said, “I’m leaving on my own. You’re welcome to join me if you like. Only keep quiet about it. Meanwhile I need to look around the c
ompound some without you saying anything. Can I count on you?”

  “We’re not supposed to keep secrets from our husband, Isabelle. You know that,” Stowie said, on the verge of chastising her.

  “He won’t be our husband much longer, Stowie,” Anna said. She looked at Mattie and saw the apprehension in her eyes. “Don’t worry. We won’t say anything about your comings and goings. But I don’t think we can just up and leave with you.”

  “Why not?” Mattie asked. “There’ll be nothing to hold you here. All you’ll have to do is slip away and go.”

  “You make it sound easy,” Anna said, “but it’s not.”

  “Not unless someone tells us it’s all right,” said Stowie.

  Mattie just took a deep breath and nodded, understanding their thinking on the matter.

  “If you decide to change your mind, you better do so quickly,” she said. “When it’s time to go, I’m gone.”

  The two turned with her toward the door to the building.

  “Now you sound like your sister, Matilda, all those years ago,” Anna said. “Had we gone with her back then, God forbid, there’s no telling where we’d be today.”

  —

  In the middle of the night, the wagon rolled into the center of the torchlit compound with armed churchmen surrounding it. From the edge of the darkness, Frank Bannis and Morton Kerr stepped forward and watched as Uncle Henry Jumpe and two of his men dragged the Ranger to the rear of the wagon and threw him to the ground. One of the men—a large fellow with a red-gray beard, two purpling swollen eyes and a red swollen nose—saw the Ranger land on the hard ground with a grunt.

  “There, lawman,” he said, “that serves you right for laying hands on one of us.”

  The Ranger wobbled to his feet and stood with his hands tied in front of him. His left eye was puffed and red. Once standing, he steadied himself and looked all around, like a man who had no plans for staying there long. He looked on as a churchman unhitched his copper dun from behind the wagon and led the spirited horse away toward a long common barn.

  “The Ranger must’ve nailed the big fellow in the nose before they tied his hands,” Kerr offered to Bannis, who stood beside him.

  “Not so,” said a young outlaw named Riley Dart, overhearing him. Dart had met the churchmen and Uncle Henry along the trail. “His hands were tied when he got him,” he said in a lowered voice. “The big fellow backhanded him for no reason, but the Ranger was having none of it. He grabbed the big fellow by both ears and head-butted him three times hard as he could before the other brethren pulled him away.”

  “Jesus,” said Kerr, “that had to hurt.”

  “Yep, I bet it did,” said Dart. He grinned. “But it was fun as hell to watch.”

  “What are you doing here, Dart?” Bannis asked.

  “I came looking for you, Bannis,” Dart said, “like you said I should if I needed work.”

  “You’re about three weeks late, Dart,” Bannis said.

  “Funny, that’s exactly how long I was stuck in jail over in Sonora,” Dart said with a smile. “I guess if everything’s all done here, I’ll just ride on and see what’s past the next hill line.”

  Bannis and Kerr looked at each other.

  “Stick around, Dart,” Bannis said. “We might have something you’ll want to help us out with. I can’t imagine you’d mind shooting holes in somebody, would you? For pay, that is?”

  “I’m up for shooting holes in somebody, pay or not, Frank,” the young outlaw said, “as long as I don’t have to answer to these religious sons a’ bitches.”

  Bannis grinned at Kerr knowingly.

  “No problem there,” he said to Dart.

  As the churchmen stepped down and dragged the Ranger off toward a small timber and ironclad building, Bannis gave Kerr and Riley Dart a nod and the three outlaws followed along behind them.

  From back in the shadows, Elder Barcinder stood watching as Uncle Henry Jumpe walked over, his peg leg thumping with each step, and stopped in front of him.

  “There’s the Ranger, signed, sealed and delivered to you,” Jumpe said, a thick hand resting on the big pistol holstered and tied down on his hip. “It looks like everything’s starting to go our way on this thing.”

  “Indeed it does,” said Barcinder.

  “Are you going to tell Dad we caught him tonight?” Jumpe asked, glancing up toward the largest house on the dark hillside, where a trimmed lantern was glowing low in a second-story window.

  “Tonight?” said Barcinder. “Oh no, I don’t think so tonight.” He gave a thin, twisted little smile and held his hands folded behind his back. “Dad left orders not to be disturbed.”

  “I see,” said Uncle Henry. “Then I take it he must be busy breaking in one of his new wives tonight?” He glanced again up toward the large house.

  “The Lord’s work must go on,” Elder Barcinder said with the same twisted smile. In a lowered tone he added, “He has several new wives to choose from—each one of them as sweet as a handful of peaches.”

  Jumpe shook his head slowly and wiped a hand across his brow just envisioning the scene.

  “Whew,” he said. “Times like these, I’d say the Lord’s work is plumb enviable.”

  “Yes, it is,” said Barcinder. He stepped forward, closer to Uncle Henry. “But keep in mind, the Lord helps those who help themselves. Once we do what God has commanded me to do and take this ministry over, you’ll be ordained as one of my saints, and be required to take on wives of your own.” He stared into Jumpe’s eyes. “Can you live with that?”

  “I can, Elder Barcinder,” Jumpe said. “I can also live with taking charge of these outlaws and keeping them in line when we set out to raise money to support ourselves.” He paused, then added, “That is, if you don’t mind me taking over that responsibility.”

  “Mind?” said Barcinder. “No, Uncle Henry. I won’t mind. In fact, if I never have to lay eyes on another of these robbing, murdering heathens, it will suit me fine.”

  Chapter 21

  Sheriff DeShay and Arlis Fletcher had followed the copper dun’s prints to a spot on a bald ridge where something seemed to have gone afoul for the Ranger. Cautious, the two had followed the trail down until they sighted wagon tracks, which appeared to make a wide swing and head off toward the Valley of the Gun. Without speculating aloud, they shared the silent feeling that the Ranger had been taken prisoner by Orwick’s men.

  Fletcher, still suffering the aftereffects of too much strong mescal, sat slumped to one side in his saddle, an open canteen of tepid water in his hand. Finally he stated what they both knew.

  “They got him, Sheriff,” he said quietly, looking down, shaking his aching head. “What do you want to do now?”

  Sheriff DeShay looked all around in the dark moonlight. Gazing back over his shoulder for an extra moment, he finally turned forward in his saddle and crossed his wrists on the saddle horn.

  “I’m going on,” he said.

  “That’s foolish,” said Fletcher.

  “You asked,” said DeShay.

  “Yeah, I asked,” said Fletcher, “but I’ve got to call it how I see it.”

  “You can turn back here,” Sheriff DeShay said. “You don’t owe me a thing.”

  “You’re damned right I don’t,” said Fletcher with a slight chuckle under his breath. “And I most especially don’t owe the Ranger nothing.”

  “I’m obliged for your help as long as it lasted, Fletcher,” DeShay said. He nudged his horse a step forward.

  “Whoa, hold on,” said the hungover gunman, sounding suddenly irritated. “What the hell is that supposed to mean—obliged, as long as it lasted?”

  DeShay stopped his horse and stared at him.

  “It means just what it sounds like,” he said. “I’m obliged for your help. Now
go on home.”

  “Huh-uh,” said Fletcher, “you’re not getting by with that, saying I haven’t done my part.”

  “Damn it, Fletcher, what the hell is wrong with you?” said DeShay. “I’m trying to say thanks. I’m not trying to stick glass in your biscuits.”

  Fletcher sat staring sullenly at him.

  “I just don’t want bad said about me later on,” Fletcher replied. As he spoke, he almost fell off his horse. But he managed to right himself in his saddle.

  “Jesus, look at you, Fletcher,” said DeShay. “I don’t know if you can make it back home, let alone ride on with me. Are you all right?”

  “Damn right, I’m all right,” said Fletcher. “I could ride on if I wanted to. I just don’t want to.”

  “All right, I understand, Arlis,” said DeShay. “Adios, then.” He nudged his horse forward, this time up into a gallop.

  Fletcher sat slumped and watched the sheriff ride off into the purple darkness for a moment.

  “Damn it,” he said aloud to himself, “I’ve been gut-shot with bad mescal and I know it.” He kicked his horse forward behind DeShay and called out, “Wait up, Sheriff. You ain’t leaving without me! I’ve still a hand in this game.”

  Catching up to DeShay, the gunman swung his horse in close and gave him a scorching look.

  “I’ve never run out and left a job half-finished in my life,” he said harshly, “and I won’t be accused of it.”

  DeShay looked him up and down, then turned his head quickly and stared back along the trail behind them.

  “Why do you keep doing that?” Fletcher asked, clutching a hand to his growling midsection.

  “Doing what?” DeShay asked.

  “Looking back like you think somebody’s following us,” said Fletcher.

  DeShay listened closely back along the moonlit trail before answering.

  “Because it sounds like somebody’s following us,” he finally said, his voice lowered. “It sounds like they’re coming at a hard gallop and they’re getting closer by the minute.”

  With his hand still gripping his sick stomach, Fletcher listened too.