Valley of the Gun (9781101607480)

by Cotton, Ralph W.

  “You’re right, Sheriff,” he said. “I say we stop right here and shoot it out with whoever rides up on us.”

  “No,” DeShay said firmly, “we might kill ourselves an innocent person.” He lifted a coiled rope from his saddle horn. “I’ve got a better idea. Let’s lift whoever it is from the saddle and see why they’re following us.”

  “I’m with you,” said Fletcher.

  With a dark chuckle, he took one end of the rope from the sheriff’s hand. DeShay let the rope uncoil as the gunman stepped his horse across the trail. Reaching out from his saddle, he wrapped two turns of the rope chest high around a young scrub pine standing near a tall pile of rocks. When he finished tying the rope, he stepped his horse behind the rocks, drew his rifle from its boot and sat waiting.

  Across the trail, DeShay secured the other end of the rope in the same manner around a chest-high stand of cactus, then backed his horse away into the darkness as the sound of a single set of hooves pounded closer.

  While they waited, DeShay began having second thoughts about what they were going to do. What if it was Morgan Almond or someone else on their side—someone attempting to catch up with them for any number of reasons?

  No, this is a bad idea, he told himself.

  At the last second, he started to shout out in the night and warn whoever was riding hard on the dark trail. But his change of heart came too late. Before he could get out a word of warning, the pounding hooves sped past him and kept going as a loud twang like that of some giant upright bass resounded above the trail. The rope, drawn tight between the cactus and the pine, had the effect of launching the rider from a slingshot. DeShay heard something whoosh backward twenty feet through the air and land with a solid rolling thud.

  The sheriff winced at the sound, knowing it was a person landing unexpectedly on the hard, rocky dirt. Farther along the trail the pounding hooves trimmed down to a walk, then stopped. DeShay heard a long agonizing groan and dropped from his saddle, rushing out onto the trail, the big custom pistol cocked in hand. From across the trail, Fletcher did the same.

  “Holy Gawd!” said Fletcher, the two of them staring down at Lightning Wade Hornady sprawled in the dirt, making a rasping sound as he tried to squeeze air back into his lungs. In the moonlight, they could see where the chest of his duster and shirt had been ripped apart and flung back over his shoulders, torn loose from the tops of his sleeves. Oddly, his hat brim had been ripped off the crown by the taut rope. The tall crown hung down his bare chest by the hat string around his neck, like some strange graining bag. The bandage that had covered his chest wound had been ripped off by the rope. Blood ran down his ribs.

  “Let’s get him up from there,” said DeShay.

  Between the two of them, they managed to pull Hornady to his feet as his breath started coming back to him in short gasps. As they walked the dazed outlaw back and forth, DeShay reached down and pulled a big revolver from Hornady’s waist and looked at it.

  “I could almost feel sorry for you, Lightning, if I didn’t know you had every intention of killing us.”

  “What . . . did you hit . . . me with?” Hornady managed to say.

  “Nothing,” said DeShay. “We set a skunk trap and you jumped right in it.”

  “I’ll . . . kill you,” Hornady said in a squeaking voice.

  Both DeShay and Fletcher shook him hard.

  “Don’t start threatening us, Lightning,” DeShay warned. “You’re in no shape.”

  “Are . . . you going to . . . kill me?” Hornady asked, starting to breathe a little better.

  “Not if you play your cards right,” said DeShay. “We think Dad Orwick’s got the Ranger. You’re going to guide us to Orwick’s compound, get us in past the trail guards.”

  “I’m not . . . going to do it,” said Hornady. “To hell with the Ranger.”

  DeShay reached up and gave him a sharp rap on the side of his head with Hornady’s own long-barreled custom revolver.

  “We’re not asking—we’re telling,” he said.

  “Jesus, all right,” Hornady said in surprise, cupping the side of his head. “I thought you and Dad . . . were on good terms . . . not you and the Ranger.”

  “Things change,” said DeShay. He gave the outlaw a shove to the side of the trail. “You’re riding between the two of us and getting us inside the Valley of the Gun. Make one false move, you’ll get yourself killed by your own gun.” He turned the big custom Simpson-Barre in his hand.

  “I’m bleeding,” said Hornady. “I’m hurt . . . bad.” He gestured at his bare chest, his hat crown hanging by its string.

  “You sure are,” DeShay said flatly. He raised the brimless hat crown and shoved it atop Hornady’s head. “Straighten your duster down over you. Let’s get going.”

  Fletcher cut in, saying, “Give me a minute, Sheriff. I need to walk off into the brush.” He held a hand clutched to his belly.

  “What’s wrong . . . with that one?” Hornady asked as Fletcher hurried away off the trail.

  “Bad mescal,” said DeShay.

  “Oh. . . .” Hornady understood. “If he got it from . . . the old hermit at Munny Caves . . . God help him.”

  “Yep,” said Sheriff DeShay, “that’s where he got it.”

  —

  A little while later the three were mounted and headed farther out along the trail running into the valley. When they reached a large rock shelf standing a hundred feet above one side of the trail, a flickering torch appeared above them and waved back and forth slowly. DeShay and Fletcher sidled up tight against Hornady on either side.

  “Halt and be recognized down there,” a trail guard called out to them.

  “Here’s your chance to show us how pretty you can sing,” DeShay said to Hornady almost in a whisper. He jammed the big custom revolver into the gunman’s ribs.

  “Who’s down there on the trail?” the voice called out again, sounding impatient.

  “It’s me, Lightning Wade,” Hornady shouted up in reply to the young-sounding voice.

  “Lightning Wade, who . . . ?” the voice inquired.

  “Damn it to hell,” Hornady growled under his breath. “It’s Lightning Wade Hornady,” he shouted up as loud as his injured chest would allow him to. “I’m riding in to see Dad. He knows I’m coming.”

  “Who’s that with you, Lightning?” another, older-sounding voice called down to them in a gruff tone.

  Recognizing the voice, DeShay called out before Hornady could answer.

  “It’s me, Sheriff DeShay from Whiskey Bend,” he said boldly. “The man with me is my new deputy, Arlis Fletcher.”

  The ridgeline above them fell silent.

  “Sit tight right where you are,” the gruff voice said. “We’re coming down.”

  “Jesus, Sheriff,” Hornady said in a lowered tone. “Why didn’t you keep your mouth shut? I could have told them anything.”

  “Like as not they’ll know me from town,” said DeShay.

  “Like as not you’ve got us killed if they don’t,” said Hornady.

  Fletcher and DeShay both stared at him.

  “You don’t get it, do you, Lightning?” DeShay said.

  “Get what?” said Hornady as the two trail guards walked down from around a rock, rifles in their hands.

  “I’ll tell you later,” DeShay whispered to Hornady, keeping the revolver out of sight but still aimed at him.

  “Howdy, Dale,” DeShay said to the older trail guard, recognizing him from riding through Whiskey Bend.

  “Sorry, Sheriff. I figured that was really you, but I needed to come down and make sure,” said Dale Fenders, one of the few outlaws who lived full-time with Orwick’s Redemption Riders.

  “I understand,” said DeShay, giving Hornady a look.

  “Did Dad send for you
, Sheriff?” Fenders asked.

  “No, but he’ll be happy to see me,” DeShay said confidently. “Ride in with me if it’ll make you feel better.”

  “Naw,” said Fenders, “I feel good enough.”

  Next to Fenders, the younger outlaw took note of the brimless hat stuck down atop Hornady’s head and stifled a little chuckle.

  “What kind of hat is that, Lightning?” he asked. “Something straight from Chicago, I’ll bet.”

  Hornady looked humiliated, but stayed straight and tall in his saddle.

  “Yeah, straight from Chicago,” he said wryly.

  “Well, you fellows can ride right along,” Fenders said, having eyed each of them up and down and noticed nothing unusual. “We’ll see you again when you ride out.”

  “Obliged, Dale,” said DeShay. As he spoke, he turned the custom revolver around beside his thigh and gave a glance toward Fletcher, seeing the gunman ready to raise a big Colt jammed out of sight back beneath his rump and start firing.

  The two trail guards started to turn and walk away, but the younger one stopped and looked closer at Hornady’s chest.

  “Are you bleeding there, Lightning?” he asked, taking a step closer to Hornady’s horse.

  “Walk away, Brother Toby,” Hornady said stiffly, seeing what was about to happen. “Walk away now.”

  But the young man only stopped and grinned dumbly.

  “It sure looks to me like you are,” he said.

  At that moment, for no reason in particular, the torn front of Hornady’s duster fell down past his shoulders, exposing his chest.

  Fender didn’t know what he was looking at, but he knew something wasn’t right. He jumped back quickly, raising his cocked rifle.

  “It’s a trick, Toby!” he shouted, getting off one wild shot.

  Before Brother Toby could get his rifle up, two streaks of blue-orange fire erupted from the barrel of Fletcher’s Colt, spun him in place and flung him dead on the ground.

  DeShay fired the big custom Simpson-Barre three times, rapidly fanning the hammers. The gun made a distinctly different sound from the Colt, but the outcome was equally deadly. Dale Fenders flew backward, his rifle flipping from his hands. He landed flat on his back, his dead eyes staring up in shock at the purple starlit heavens.

  At the sound of the shooting, Hornady’s horse fidgeted, but with his free hand, DeShay reached over and grabbed it by the bridle. The custom revolver pointed at Hornady’s belly.

  “Don’t shoot, Sheriff!” Hornady said. “I wasn’t trying to get away.”

  DeShay settled and swung the smoking revolver away from pointing at its owner. He looked at Fletcher, who raised his smoking Colt and twirled it on his trigger finger. Smoke left a wide silvery circle behind the twirling gun barrel.

  “They’re going to know you’re coming now, Sheriff,” Hornady said.

  “I expect they will,” DeShay said. “But I saw no good in getting the Ranger freed and coming racing back into these men’s rifle fire.”

  “Yeah, with Orwick’s men licking at our backs,” said Fletcher.

  “Sounds like you’re feeling better, Arlis,” said DeShay.

  Fletcher gave a dark grin.

  “I always feel better when I’ve killed somebody,” he said, stopping the twirling Colt, the barrel pointed upward in his hand.

  Chapter 22

  Sam listened to the sound of gunfire in the distance, recognizing the distinct metal after-ring of the big Simpson-Barre. Across the room, Uncle Henry Jumpe and Elder Barcinder turned to each other with thin knowing smiles.

  “It’s about time we heard from our friend Lightning Wade,” Uncle Henry said. “I wonder what he’s shooting at.”

  “I except he’ll be here sometime tonight,” said Barcinder. “You can ask him in person.”

  Sam knew that he had heard the sound of Hornady’s custom revolver, but he also knew it wasn’t Lightning Wade who had been firing it.

  “You men carry on,” Barcinder said to the two young churchmen guarding the Ranger. “Dad will deal with him first thing come morning.”

  “Yes, Elder Barcinder,” said one of the guards. They both appeared to be at attention as the elder and Uncle Henry turned and left. The two young men, Lyndel Rowe and Hiram Smith, relaxed now that the church leader was gone.

  They had shoved the Ranger into the small timber building moments earlier. Now they stood back looking down at him as he struggled up onto his knees in the darkness. The only light in the building came from the moon shining through an iron-barred window.

  “Look at him, Hiram,” Lyndel said under his breath. “They are all the same. They have no God, no beliefs. They’re no better than the dumb brutes in the field.”

  “And this one, a man of the law,” said Hiram with disdain.

  “Huh, what law?” Lyndel chuffed.

  “They are all heathens, men without souls, Lyndel,” Hiram replied, also under his breath. “Thank God Dad has shown all of us the right path.”

  “Yes, thank God,” Lyndel agreed.

  “Anyway,” said Hiram, “I wouldn’t want to be in this one’s boots once Brother Caylin gets his nose set and his black eyes attended to.”

  “He’s going to beat him senseless,” Lyndel said, shaking his head slowly.

  Sam looked up at them, his hands tied together in front of him with a few inches of slack rope between his wrists.

  “Can I get some water?” he asked quietly. His eyes had already made a sweep around the room.

  The only thing he’d spotted that might be of any help to him was a rusty spoon, half-covered with dirt, underneath a wall timber. As he asked for water, he stood in a crouch and moved over a few feet to the wall. He sat down and leaned back, a few inches from where the rusty spoon lay.

  “What do you say, Hiram?” Lyndel asked his guard partner. “Should I get him some water?”

  “No,” said Hiram Smith, “we brought him here. We’re watching him. That’s all we were told to do.”

  “Yes, but still, water . . . ?” said Lyndel Rowe. “What harm is there in that? I don’t mind going and getting him some.”

  “Do what suits you,” Hiram said. “I’m going to sit right outside the front door, where we’re supposed to be.”

  The two turned and left. Before the door closed behind them, Sam snatched the small metal spoon from the dirt. He felt along the bottom edge of the wall in the thin, grainy light and found a flat, thick foundation stone. Keeping as quiet as he could, he began rubbing the metal edge of the spoon back and forth, sharpening it.

  He stopped rubbing when the door opened and Lyndel Rowe walked back in and held a dipper of water down to him.

  Sam drank the dipper empty and handed it back to the guard.

  “Obliged,” he said quietly. He leaned back against the wall and watched as the guard turned and left.

  As soon as the guard had closed the door behind himself, Sam went back to rubbing the edge of the spoon handle against the stone. He needed the edge to sharpen enough to cut the rope wrapped twice around his wrists. After a few minutes, he held the spoon by its bowl and tested the sharpness of the handle’s edge against his thumb.

  It would have to do, he told himself.

  With a twist of his wrist he turned the spoon and started sawing the edge back and forth on the bite of the rope. But he stopped before cutting through the first wrap when he heard the thick nasal tone of the big churchman who had made the mistake of backhanding him earlier on the trail.

  “We’re not supposed to let anyone in there, Brother Caylin,” Sam heard one of the guards say on the other side of the thick door.

  “I promise you, Young Brother Lyndel, I won’t be a minute,” said the thick gruff voice. “Before Dad has him hanged, I owe this man a good bloodletting. Look at w
hat he did to me.”

  “Go on, let him in, Lyndel,” said Hiram Smith. “It’ll be fun to watch.”

  Sam heard the door latch lift on the outside.

  “I don’t want to watch,” Lyndel said. “I’ll wait out here.”

  “Boy, I do,” Hiram said, sounding excited at the prospect.

  Sam pushed himself up the rough timber wall to his feet and stood waiting, the spoon tucked away between his bound hands.

  When the door opened, the flickering glow of a small lantern entered the room. Hiram Smith stood holding the lantern up as the huge, broad-shouldered man stepped inside, rolling up his shirtsleeves.

  Lyndel Rowe backed out the door and closed it.

  “Well, well, Ranger,” Brother Caylin said to Sam, a nasty grin spread beneath his badly engorged nose, his black swollen eyes. “I was just telling these young men, before Dad hangs you I want a piece or two of you myself.” He swung his right hand behind his back and pulled out a long skinning knife.

  Sam only stared, his back against the wall.

  “Oh no, Brother Caylin!” said Hiram, his eyes going wide. “You never said anything about cutting him—”

  “Shut up,” said Caylin. “I’m saying it now. For what he did to me, he’s got a bad cutting coming.”

  Lyndel backed away, holding the lantern.

  Sam held his ground against the wall, his hands tied in front of him. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked quietly, his feet planted firmly apart as the big man loomed in closer, the knife blade drawn sidelong, ready to make a swing.

  “Oh yes, you bet I do, Ranger,” said Caylin. He crouched, moving in closer, as if at any second the Ranger would bolt and try to make a run for it. “I’ve thought of nothing except doing this ever since you—”

  That’s close enough, Sam told himself.

  He sprang forward from the wall with the quickness of a mountain cat, stopping Brother Caylin’s words short. The big churchman, his arms spread wide, moved too slowly to protect his face. All he could do was let out a torturous scream. So did Hiram Smith, who stood back watching in horror, seeing the Ranger make a hard lunging stab, handle in his right hand, and bury the bowl of the spoon deep into Caylin’s left eye socket, rounding it deep just beneath the eyeball itself.