Valley Of the Sun (Ss) (1995)

  Slumped in the chair, his breath came in long gasps. His head throbbed, and the rat's teeth of agony bit into his side. He tried to force his fevered mind to function, to wrest from it one idea, anything, that might help.

  When Creet saw him there, he was going to shoot. The outlaw would give him no chance to plan, to think. Nor would he hesitate. Creet knew him too well. He would, at first glimpse, realize Brett Larane's tragic weakness. There would be no second chance. Joe Creet must die before he cleared the doorstep, while he was stepping across it. Brett frowned against the pain, and his thoughts struggled with the problem.

  He had no strength to lift a gun, no strength to hold a gun even, nor did he dare risk Marta's life by allowing her to use his gun. There was in his mind no thought of fair play, for there was nothing fair about any of this. It was murder, ugly and brutal, that they planned.

  They had not thought of fair play when they ambushed him. Creet hadn't thought of fair play when he lured Gay Tomason into a chance at his back while Indian Frank sneaked up with his knife. If he was to save Marta and the ranch he had worked for, it must be now, and by any means.

  Then he saw the box. It was a narrow wooden box, quite heavy, with rope handles. He had seen such boxes often used for carrying bar gold. The handles were inch-thick rope in this case, the ends run through holes and held on the inside by knots.

  "Marta," he whispered hoarsely, "break the near end out of that box. Force the nails without noise, if you can.".

  He sat at the table and stared as she worked, and in a few minutes she had the end removed. "Now, from the other end," he whispered. "Cut the rope handle out and put the box on the table!".

  Wondering, she did so, and looked at him curiously as he fumbled with the box to move it, the long way toward the door, the open end toward him. "Now," he said softly, "my gun.".

  Drawing it carefully from its worn holster, Marta placed it on the table beside him. Lifting the gun, he gripped the butt and pushed his arm and hand into the box, which was open on top. Marta, her eyes suddenly bright, caught his intention, and guided the muzzle of the barrel to one of the holes from which the rope had been taken. It was just large enough to take the muzzle of the six-gun.

  "Now," he said, looking up at her, "throw a cloth over it, like it was food or something, covered on the table.".

  His hand gripping the butt on the gun, and the box covered by the cloth, Brett Larane sat facing the door, waiting. They would come, and they would come soon, and he had the gun fixed now, in position, pointed directly at the door. And he needed no strength to hold it ready for firing .. but he had to get that first shot, while Joe Creet was in range, and he had to kill with that first shot. Afterward, Indian Frank might run off, or he might try to come through the door. If he came through the door, he, too, would die.

  "Will you be all right, Brett?" Marta asked him gently.

  He nodded, liking the feel of her hand on his shoulder. "Only, I hope they come .. soon.".

  She left him to put coffee on the stove, and his eyes strayed toward the door, knowing as well as she, what little chance they had. He must make desperately sure of that first shot. Indian Frank was not dangerous without Creet, but the outlaw would be dangerous at any time.

  She glanced from the window, but shook her head, and Brett sipped the coffee she offered him, a little at a time. His left hand trembled so, she had to hold the cup to his lips. He drank, then managed a few swallows of food.

  They came silently and were scarcely heard. A quick grasp on his shoulder and Brett opened his eyes, aware for the first time that he had fallen asleep. His heart pounding, he gripped the gun butt and his finger slid through the trigger guard. And then the door opened.

  It was Creet, but even as Brett Larane's finger tightened on the trigger, Joe turned sidewise and motioned to Indian Frank. "Come in!" he said, and then his head swung toward the room.

  For the first time he saw the man sitting across the table beyond the coal-oil lamp. He jumped as if shot, and his hand swept down for his gun, but at that instant, Indian Frank stepped into the doorway. Brett squeezed the trigger, and the concealed gun bellowed loud in the silent room.

  Frank, caught in midstep, stopped dead still, then sprawled facedown in the doorway, and Joe Creet leaped aside. Brett's second shot, booming hollowly, lost itself through the open door.

  Creet, gun in hand, stared at him. "Well, I'm forever damned!" he said softly. "You're a hard one to kill, Larane! A hard one! I'd have sworn you were dead back there, with blood all over you! And now you've got Frank .. well, that saves me the trouble. I never figured on him sharing the money. I had plans for him.".

  He looked at the table and the cloth-covered box. "Whatever you've got there, I don't know," he said, his eyes wary, "but you'd never be settin' that way, your hand covered an' all, if you could hold a gun. You'd never have missed the second shot you fired. Nor would you be settin' there now. You'd have turned that gun on me.

  "No, I reckon you're not dead, but you're not quite alive, either. You're hurt bad.".

  The outlaw's face was saturnine, and his eyes were wicked with triumph. "Well, well! I'm glad to see you, Larane! Always did sort of spoil my fun, thinkin' you wouldn't be here to watch.".

  Brett's fingers tightened on the gun butt, trying to ease it out of the hole in the box, but it would not come loose, or his strength was too little to exert the necessary pull.

  "Come over here!" Creet looked up at Marta. "Come over here and do what I tell you, or I'll drill him right through the head.".

  Marta Malone, transfixed with horror, stared from Creet's tense, evil features to the poised gun in his hand. Then, as if walking in her sleep, she started to move toward him.

  Brett Larane stared at Creet, too weak to lift a hand, helpless to prevent the outlaw from doing as he wished.

  Suddenly, something clicked in his brain. It was a wild, desperate, impossible chance--but there was no other choice.

  "Marta--!" he said, speaking as loudly as he could. "Think!".

  "Shut up!" Creet snarled at him. "Shut up or I'll brain you!".

  "Think, Martaffwas Brett begged. "Please think! Marta ..!" His voice lifted as she drew near Creet. "Think--. The door!".

  As if he had spoken his thought, Marta understood, and with all her strength she hurled herself at the side of the gunman! Her weight hit him, and he staggered. His gun blasted a stab of flame, and a dish across the room crashed into bits as Joe Creet went staggering into the open doorway!.

  As he hit the doorpost with his shoulder he ripped his next shot out, and the lamp beside Brett shattered into bits, splashing him with oil, and then his own gun bellowed, and the dark figure in the doorway jerked spasmodically. Brett triggered the gun again, and the outlaw screamed .. then broke his scream off in a choking, rattling sound, drowned by Brett Larane's last shot.

  Joe Creet, hit three times, toppled forward and sprawled on his face outside the door. For a moment, in a deathly silence, they could hear the scratching of his fingers on the hard-packed earth beyond the step. Scratching, and then silence, a lonely shuddering silence in which Marta Malone clasped Brett Larane's head against her breast and sobbed brokenly in relief and shock.

  There was sunlight in his face when he opened his eyes, sunlight, but he liked it, enjoyed it.

  He looked around, remembering Marta's room, and seeing the sharp, bright, cleanliness of it, and the look of home about it.

  The door opened as he lay there, enjoying the warmth and peace of it, and knowing it was early morning, and that he felt good.

  The door opened, and Marta came in, her face bright when she saw he was awake. "Oh, Brett! You're up at la/! I thought you would never awaken! How do you feel?" She put her hand on his face. He caught it and held it, looking up at her. "Like I never wanted to leave!" he said, smiling. "But what happened?".

  "Nothing, until the next morning. Then a man came out from Willow Springs to get some money I owed him, and he buried the bodies and then he w
ent in and sent the doctor out. I found the money they had stolen in Joe Creet's saddlebags in the bunkhouse.".

  "Better not think about it," he said quietly.

  "Tomorrow it will be an old story.".

  "Tomorrow, Brett? Why, it's already been more than two weeks! You've been awfully sick! Your side .. the doctor said if it hadn't had care right away, you would have died!".

  "Well, I didn't. Now we've got work. to do. I'll have to find a crew, and--".

  "We've got a bunch of boys, Brett.

  The doctor hired them for me, four of them, Texas men who were heading back after a cattle drive. You'll have a crew to boss when you can get around again!".

  "And I suppose they are all flirting with you!" he said darkly. "I reckon it is time I got around!".

  "No, they haven't flirted--mch. The doctor told them we were going to be married.".

  "Oh, he did, did he? And what did you say?".

  "Why, what could I say? He was such a nice man, and had been so helpful, I just couldn't have all those cowhands thinking he lied, could I?".

  Brett Larane sank back against the pillow and grinned weakly. "You sure couldn't!" he said. "You sure couldn't!".

  *.

  That Slash Seven Kid.

  Johnny Lyle rode up to the bog camp at Seep Spring just before noon. Bert Ramsey, foreman of the Slash Seven outfit, glanced up and nodded briefly. Ramsey had troubles enough without having this brash youngster around.

  "Say!" Johnny hooked a leg around the saddle horn. "Who's this Hook Lacey?".

  Ramsey stopped walking. "Hook Lacey," he said, "is just about the toughest hombre around here, that's all. He's a rustler and a horse thief, and the fastest hand with a gun in this part of the country since Garrett shot Billy the Kid.".

  "Ride alone?".

  "Naw. He's got him a gang nigh as mean. as he is. Nobody wants any part of them.".

  "You mean you let 'em get away with rustling?.

  We'd never cotton to that back on the.

  Nueces.".

  Ramsey turned away irritably. "This ain't the Nueces. If you want to be useful why don't you go help Gar Mullins? The heel flies are driving cows into that quicksand faster'n he can drag 'em out.".

  "Sure." Johnny Lyle swung his leg back over the saddle. "Only I'd rather go after Lacey and his outfit.".

  "What?" Ramsey turned on him. "Are you crazy? Those hombres, any one of 'em, would eat three like you for breakfa/! If that bunch tackles us, we'll fight, but we'll not go huntin' 'em!".

  "You mean you don't want me to.".

  Ramsey was disgusted. What did this kid think. he was doing, anyway? Like a fool kid, to make a big play in front of the hands, who were listening, to impress them how tough he was. Well, there was a way to stop that!.

  "Why, no," he said dryly. "If you want to go after those outlaws after you help Gar get the cattle out of the quicksand, go ahead.".

  Sundown was an hour past when Gar Mullins rode up to the corral at the Slash Seven. He stripped the saddle from his bronc, and after a quick splash and a wipe, he went in and dropped on a bench at the table. Old Tom West, the owner, looked up.

  "Where's the kid?" he asked. "Where's my nephew? Didn't he come in?".

  Gar was surprised. He glanced around the table.

  "Shucks, ain't he here? He left me about. three o'clock or so. Said Bert told him he could get Hook Lacey if he finished in time.".

  "What!" Tom West's voice was a bull bellow. His under jaw shot out. "Bert, did you tell him that?".

  Ramsey's face grew red, then pale.

  "Now, look, boss," he protested, "I figured he was talking to hear hisself make a big noise. I told him when he helped Gar get all them cows out, he could go after Lacey. I never thought he'd be fool enough to do it.".

  "Aw!" Chuck Allen grinned. "He's probably just rode into town! Where would he look for that outfit? And how could he find 'em when we ain't been able to?".

  "We ain't looked any too hard," Mullins said. "I know I ain't.".

  Tom West was silent. At last he spoke. "Nope, could never find 'em. But if anything happens to that boy, I'd never dare look my sister in the face again." He glared at Bert Ramsey. "If anything does happen to him you'd better be halfway to the border before I hear it.".

  Johnny Lyle was a cheerful, easygoing, free-talking youngster. He was pushing eighteen, almost a man by Western standards, and as old as Billy the Kid when Billy was leading one of the forces in the Lincoln County War.

  But Johnny was more than a brash, devil-may-care youngster. He had been born and raised on the Nueces, and had cut his riding teeth in the black chaparral between the Nueces and the Rio Grande. When his father died he had been fourteen, and his mother had moved east. Johnny had continued to hunt and wander in the woods of the Virginia mountains, but he had gone to New York several times each month.

  In New York he had spent a lot of time in shooting galleries. In the woods he had hunted, tracked, and enjoyed fistic battles with rugged mountaineers. He had practiced drawing in front of a mirror until he was greased lightning with a gun. The shooting galleries gave him the marksmanship, and in the woods he had learned to become even more of a tracker than he had learned to be in the brush country of his father, to which he returned for his summer vacations.

  Moreover, he had been listening as well as talking. Since he had been here on the Slash Seven, Gar Mullins had several times mentioned the rough country of Tierra Blanca Canyon as a likely hangout for the rustlers. It was believed they disposed of many stolen cattle in the mining camps to the north, having a steady market for beef at Victorio and in the vicinity.

  Tom West loved his sister and had a deep affection for his friendly, likable nephew, but Johnny was well aware that Tom also considered him a guest, and not a hand. Mullins could have told them the kid was both a roper and a rider, and had a lot of cow savvy, but Mullins rarely talked and never volunteered anything.

  Johnny naturally liked to be accepted as an equal of the others, and it irritated him that his uncle treated him like a visiting tenderfoot. And because he was irked, Johnny decided to show them, once andfor all.

  Bert Ramsey's irritable toleration of him angered him.

  Once he left Mullins, when the cattle were out of the quicksand, he headed across the country through Sibley Gap. He passed through the gap at sundown and made camp at a spring a few miles beyond. It could be no more than seven or eight miles farther to the canyon of which Mullins had talked, for he was already on the Tierra Blanca.

  At daybreak he was riding. On a sudden inspiration, he swung north and cut over into the trail for Victorio.

  The mining town had the reputation of being a rugged spot, and intended to keep it. The town was named after the Apache chieftain who had several times taken a bad whipping trying to capture the place. Several thousand miners, gamblers, gunmen, and outlaws made the place a good one to steer clear of. But Johnny Lyle had not forgotten the talk about Slash Seven beefs being sold there by rustlers.

  Johnny swung down from his horse in front of the Gold Pan Restaurant and walked back to a corral where he saw several beef hides hanging. The brand was Seven Seventy-seven, but when he turned the hide over he could see it had been changed from a Slash Seven.

  "Hey!" A bellow from the door brought his head up. "Git away from those hides!".

  The man was big. He had shoulders like the top of an upright piano and a seamed and battered face.

  Johnny walked to the next hide and the next while the man watched. Of the five fresh hides, three of them were Slash Sevens. He turned just in time to meet the rushing butcher.

  Butch Jensen was big, but he was no mean rough-and-tumble scrapper. This cowhand was going to learn a thing or two.

  "I told you to get away!" he shouted angrily, and drew back his fist.

  That was his first mistake, for Johnny had learned a little about fighting while in New York. One thing was to hit from where your fist was. Johnny's fist was rubbing his chin when Jensen drew his
fist back, and Johnny punched straight and hard, stepping in with the left.

  The punch was short, wicked, and explosive. Jensen's lips mashed under hard knuckles and his hands came up. As they lifted, Johnny turned on the ball of his left foot and the toe of his right, and whipped a wicked right uppercut into Jensen's huge stomach.

  Butch gasped, and then Johnny hit him with both hands and he went down. Coolly, Johnny waited for him to get up. And he got up, which made his second mistake. He got up and lunged, head down. A straight left took him over the eyebrow, ripping a gash, and a right uppercut broke his nose. And then Johnny Lyle went to work. What followed was short, interesting, and bloody. When it was over Johnny stood back.

  "Now," he said, "get up and pay me sixty dollars for three Slash Seven steers.".

  "Sixty!" Butch Jensen spluttered.

  "Steers are going for twelve--fifteen. dollars!".

  "The steers you butchered are going at twenty dollars," Johnny replied calmly. "If I ever find another hide around here, the price will be thirty dollars.".

  He turned away, but when he had taken three steps, he stopped. There was a good crowd around, and Johnny was young. This chance was too good to miss.

  "You tell Hook Lacey," he said, "that if he ever rustles another head of Slash Seven stock I'll personally come after him!".

  Johnny Lyle swaggered just a little as he walked into the Gold Pan and ordered a meal.

  Yet as he was eating he began to get red around the ears. It had been a foolish thing to do, talking like that. Folks would think he was full of hot air.

  Then he looked up into a pair of wide blue eyes. "Your order, sir?".

  Two days later Chuck Allen rode up to the ranch house and swung down. Bert Ramsey got up hastily from his chair.

  "Chuck," he asked eagerly, "you see him?".

  Chuck shook his head. "No," he said, "I. ain't seen him, but I seen his trail. You better grab yourself a bronc, Bert, and start fogging it for the border. That kid's really started something.".