Thunder Valley

by David Robbins

  “Sir?”

  “They are murderous sons of bitches, Bisby. Try not to be murdered if you can help it.” Rank grinned at his own wit as his secretary bustled out. No sooner did the door close than he snapped his fingers and the chief of his Enforcers stepped forward.

  “Sir?”

  “Follow him, Bannister. Take Tate. Be inconspicuous and stay in the background but if they try to harm him, kill the bastards.”

  “Inconspicuous in these?” Bannister said, and touched the suit with a matching bowler that Rank required all of his Enforcers to wear.

  “I take your point. Tailor-made apparel is rare in these parts,” Rank said. He flicked a finger. “Off you go now.” He watched the pair leave, and settled back. He had every confidence in his Enforcers. Three were ex-Pinkertons, one an ex-marshal, another an ex–army captain, and the last, Tate, had once been a Texas Ranger. Rank had lured them all from their former vocations by offering the one thing he had more of than most anyone: money.

  “Anything else I can get you, Mr. Rank?” Floyd inquired from over at the bar.

  “Not at the moment.” Rank realized he had nothing to do for the next couple of hours. It was so rare for him to have time to himself that he didn’t quite know how to spend it. He wasn’t good at relaxing. He liked to be busy, to be on the go, to be doing this or that or the other. It was what made him successful. It was what had made him rich, and would make him richer. Because as Rank had learned long ago, he wasn’t the sort to be content with his laurels. He always had to have more, more, more.

  Rank gazed out the window at the pitiful excuse for a town and imagined how much bigger and grander Teton would be once his plan came to fruition. He would bring genuine civilization to this backwater bit of nothing and line his pockets and those of the board in the process.

  Rank drank and dreamed and when Bisby returned to inform him all was set, he smiled and set the empty glass aside and to his mild surprise, dozed off. He rarely slept during the day. He was too much a fountain of energy to sit still long enough.

  A tap on his shoulder awakened him. The window was dark and the lamps had been lit.

  “They should be here in the next fifteen minutes or so,” Bisby informed him.

  Rank coughed and rose and went to the mirror to adjust his clothes and brush his hair. He had Bannister and Tate and another Enforcer stand against one wall and the other three against the wall opposite so that their guests would be in a cross fire should the unexpected occur. Then he went and sat imperiously in his chair by the window.

  At the appointed time, Bisby hurried out. He wasn’t gone five minutes when he rapped lightly on the door and opened it and stood aside for their visitors.

  “Mr. Brule,” Rank greeted him without rising from his chair. “It’s good to see you again.”

  Brule nodded and indicated the others. “These here are the hombres I told you about. This tall one in black is—”

  “I know who each of you are,” Rank cut him off. “Did you think I would hire you and not have you investigated?” He pointed at the drab one. “Mr. Axel. He used to work as a cowhand until he became involved in the Hoodoo range war. He killed a man and was paid to kill a few more and ever since has hired his gun out.”

  “Those are the rumors,” Axel said.

  Rank pointed at the one with the eye patch. “Mr. Smith. If filth was gold you would be wealthier than me.”

  “Here, now,” One Eye said.

  “You killed your first man when you were sixteen and have been killing ever since. You lost that eye in a knife fight and were cut on the cheek, besides. You’re vermin, through and through, but you always get the jobs that you are hired to do done, and you are discreet.”

  “That’s better,” One Eye said. “But what does discreet mean?”

  Rank pointed at Brule. “You, sir, are the brains of this group. At least in so far as you have kept them from the gallows. Your given name is Ira Norman Brule. You’ve always been a brawler. It got you into trouble when you were younger and you drifted to the shadier side of the law. You enjoy beating on people with your fists, which is why you’re ideal for this particular work.”

  Brule smiled.

  “That leaves you,” Rank said, and pointed at the man in black. “Winifred Ritlin. You have a cruel streak that far surpasses Mr. Brule’s. The report I was given mentions acts I can only describe as despicable. There will be none of that here, do you understand? You are to leave the women and the children alone.”

  “I do as I please,” Ritlin said.

  Rank bent forward in his chair. “I’m paying you. You will restrain your baser impulses while in my employ. If you don’t like it, you can leave right this second.”

  Ritlin stiffened and went to respond but Brule gripped his arm and shook his head.

  “Ritlin will behave, Mr. Rank. You can count on it.”

  “He’d better,” Rank said. “There’s too much at stake.” He sat back and folded his hands in his lap. “I must impress on you the importance of this undertaking. I represent the Wyoming Overland Railroad. The W.O.R. intends to run a spur line to Teton. As your own eyes will attest, there’s timber in these mountains. Prime trees, awaiting the ax. Plus, we’ve found evidence of coal deposits. In short, gentlemen, this spur is worth millions of dollars to the W.O.R.”

  “Maybe we should ask for more,” One Eye said, and snickered.

  “Mr. Brule and I have already agreed on a price for your services,” Rank said. “And I expect you to abide by the terms.”He paused. “But to get back to the W.O.R. The most economical route for us to lay tracks is through Thunder Valley. A representative of ours approached the farmers and ranchers there about a year ago and offered to buy them out but they refused.”

  “How much did you offer?” Ritlin asked.

  “That’s none of your concern.”

  “Humor me, Mr. High-and-Mighty,” Ritlin said.

  Rank didn’t like his tone or his attitude but he said, “We offered them a fair settlement.”

  “How much?”

  “I fail to see why you want to know.”

  “I’ll bet you offered them less than they paid,” Ritlin said, “and made out like you were doin’ them a favor.”

  “That’s standard business practice.”

  “I thought so.”

  Rank looked at Brule. “What’s the matter with your friend? Is he deliberately trying to provoke me? Because if he is, those six gentlemen along the walls can demonstrate how displeased I am.”

  “Six isn’t enough,” Ritlin said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’ll get five of them myself and my pards here will do the last.”

  Rank snorted. “Oh, please. No one is that fast.”

  “I’m not fast,” Ritlin said. “I’m quick.” He faced the three Enforcers along the left wall. “Have them draw on me.”

  “You’re behaving childishly,” Rank said. He appealed to Brule. “Talk to your friend. The last thing I want in here is gunplay. It will attract too much attention.”

  “You should have them draw,” Brule said. “Win won’t shoot. He won’t need to.”

  Rank resented being told what to do. He decided to put the bastards in their place, and nodded at the three Enforcers. “If you please, Mr. Bannister. Would you and Mr. Tate and Mr. Hanks indulge them?”

  “Whenever they want,” Bannister said.

  “Now,” Ritlin said.

  Bannister and Tate and Hanks were fast. They swept their hands under their jackets but before they could sweep them out, Ritlin’s Colt was pointed at them and they heard the click of the hammer. All three froze.

  “Hellfire,” Tate said.

  Ritlin let down the hammer and twirled the Colt into his concho-studded holster with a flourish and a smirk. Then he turned to Rank. “You shouldn’t ought to have called me despicable.”

  Rank was taken aback. Bannister and Tate—-especially Tate—were supposed to be supremely fast shooters. It was
part of why he hired them. “We’re getting off on the wrong foot here.”

  Brule frowned at Ritlin and turned and smiled at Rank. “He doesn’t cotton to insults, is all. But you can depend on us. Honest.”

  “You can control your friend?”

  Brule nodded. “Me and Ritlin have been pards a good long while. He’ll do as I say. Won’t you, Win?”

  Ritlin grunted.

  “Why don’t you just take the land?” Brule asked. “Doesn’t the railroad have, what do they call it? Em-something or other?”

  Rank nodded. “The right of eminent domain, yes. But the farmers can fight it. They can take us to court. We nearly always win but courts take time and we don’t have a lot of time to spare. We want the new line laid as soon as we can.”

  “You want all that timber money,” One Eye said, and laughed.

  “I can’t stress enough that this must be done quietly,” Rank said. “No one must link your deeds to the W.O.R. If they do, there will be hell to pay.”

  “For us or for the railroad?” Brule asked.

  “For everyone,” Rank said.

  8

  Moses Beard loved his life.

  His farm was at the west end of Thunder Valley. Not three hours’ ride from Teton, it afforded him a magnificent view of the towering mountains. He loved to look at them. There had been nothing like them in his native Rhode Island. It was ironic that he’d moved from the smallest state in the Union to the wide-open spaces.

  Moses loved working with the soil. He’d had a small farm in Rhode Island and always dreamed of owning one a lot bigger.

  All the talk he’d heard about “Go west, young man” had fired his imagination. Not that he was young; he would turn thirty-five this year. But the idea of one hundred and sixty acres, or more, was heady to contemplate.

  Moses had the usual worries. Indians were at the top. He was deathly afraid of them. Back east, hardly a week went by that the newspapers didn’t print a story about whites being massacred or scalped. They did it so often that Moses suspected they liked to print them. Journalists, he decided, were ghouls who feasted on the misery of others.

  Ironically, it was his wife who put his fear to rest. Tilda reminded him that most of the tribes were tame. Many had been forced onto reservations. The few tribes still hostile were being harried by the army and it was only a matter of time before they were on reservations, too.

  Moses’s other worry was the weather. Winters in the Rockies were supposed to be ferocious, far worse than those in little Rhode Island.

  Once again Tilda calmed him by saying that snow was only snow and cold could be endured and that the mountains were rich in trees and thus rich in firewood.

  After a couple of years of seesawing back and forth, Moses asked Tilda what she wanted to do. She surprised him by saying they should head west.

  So off they went, seeking a spot to settle. In Denver they talked to a man who had been to Teton and who mentioned a fertile valley ripe for the plow.

  Now, standing on his porch and admiring what he liked to think of as his domain, Moses smiled and was greatly thankful to the good Lord for how well things had worked out.

  The screen door squeaked and Tilda came out carrying a tray with cups and a teapot and a sugar bowl. “They’re both asleep,” she announced, moving to the two rocking chairs.

  Moses claimed his. The tea was a nightly ritual, a way to relax after the hard work of each day. He sat and waited while she poured and spooned the sugar and stirred. “God, I love it here.”

  “Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain,” Tilda said.

  Moses didn’t think he had but he wisely kept quiet. His wife was a stickler for the Lord. He accepted his cup and sipped and savored the taste and the warmth that spread through his body. “You make the best tea ever.”

  “It’s passable,” Tilda said. She sat and sipped and slowly rocked.

  “Tell me true,” Moses said. “Are you glad we came?”

  “We’ve been here two years,” Tilda said. “Have you ever once heard me complain?”

  “Complaining’s not in your nature,” Moses complimented her. Disagreeing, on the other hand, was.

  “Yes, Moses, I like it here a lot.”

  “More than Rhode Island?”

  Tilda gave Moses what he thought of as her “putting up with him” look. “Get over your guilt, Moses. It’s over and done with. Look ahead, not back.”

  “Yes, dear.” Moses was always nettled when she took that tone. Which she did a lot.

  “You shouldn’t be fretting about something we did two years ago,” Tilda said. “If you must fret, fret for our cows and our horses and pigs.”

  “Why should I fret for them?” Moses wondered. Their livestock was healthy as could be.

  “Because whoever slaughtered the Klines’ hogs might well decide to slaughter more.”

  “What’s this about Tom’s hogs?” Moses remembered that he had seen Irene Kline ride up while he was out in the fields. The wives were always visiting one another.

  “Oh? Didn’t I tell you?” Tilda took another sip of tea. “Someone killed all of them.”

  “What?”

  “Slit the throat from ear to ear of every last hog the Klines owned.”

  “What?”

  “There was blood everywhere, Irene told me. Their barn stank of it.” Tilda indulged in another sip. “Five nights ago, it was.”

  Moses was dumbfounded. The Klines had their hogs killed and no one thought to tell him? What kind of neighbors were they?

  His old fear returned, and he found his voice and said, “Indians, I bet.”

  “You’d lose,” Tilda said. “Her husband and Roy Sether found tracks. It was white men.”

  “The hell you say.”

  “Don’t swear, Moses. You know I can’t abide swearing. It upsets me that you constantly forget.”

  Moses didn’t see how she could be more bothered by his cussing than by the slaughtered hogs. “Whoever paid the Klines a visit might pay us one.”

  “Didn’t I say that a minute ago?” Tilda said. “There’s not much we can do about the cows. We have over twenty and you can’t fit all of them in the barn. But you should take the horses out of the corral and put them in the barn and be sure you bar the door to the pigpen.”

  “I will,” Moses said. Although a barred barn door and a barred pigpen door wouldn’t stop anyone from getting in.

  “Maybe now you’ll agree we should have a dog,” Tilda said.

  Moses knew that was coming. She’d been pestering him about a dog for six months now. He never much cared for them. Dogs were noisy and smelly and forever licking your face, and who knew where their tongues had been. Cats, now, he liked. Cats were quiet and were always cleaning themselves and it was cute when they purred.

  “Moses, are you listening to me?”

  Moses realized he had missed something she said. “I was thinking about the cows,” he fibbed.

  “Think about your shotgun,” Tilda said. “You never keep it loaded, and I keep telling you that you should.”

  “I’ll load it first thing when we go in.”

  “That’s a start. You should also keep a lantern handy in case you have to run out in the middle of the night. And it’s warm enough at night that we can keep the window open and hear if there’s a ruckus.”

  “Yes, dear.” Moses hated to sleep with the window open. He could never shake the feeling that something might sneak in. “I should go talk to Roy tomorrow.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’d like to hear what he has to say.” Moses regarded Roy as the valley’s unofficial leader. Olander, the rancher, acted as if he was, but Roy had the most experience working the land, and was generous with advice.

  “I don’t see what he can say that I haven’t but if you must, you must.”

  “Honestly, Tilda,” Moses said.

  “I’m only saying.”

  Moses almost sighed but caught himself. She always gave him one of those lo
oks when he sighed, as if his sighs were a great annoyance. He sipped and did more pondering. “It’s too bad the county sheriff is so far away.”

  “There you go again,” Tilda said. “He is and that’s that. Deal with it.”

  Moses felt anger stir. “I won’t be talked to like that. You hear me, woman?”

  “I am your wife, Moses Beard. Use my name. Don’t address me as if you’ve just met me on the street.”

  Moses backed down. When she used that tone, he was on the brink of a tongue-lashing. And if there was anything he hated more than the marks of her tongue on his back, he had yet to come across it. “I’m flustered by the hogs,” he sought to justify his lapse.

  “Perfectly understandable,” Tilda said. “I’m concerned, too. Although if I’m right, we don’t have a whole lot to worry about.”

  “We don’t?”

  “Think, Moses. We know they were white men. Who in their right mind would do such a thing? The answer is no one. Then why did they do it? The answer is obvious.” Tilda paused. “They were under the influence.”

  “Could well be,” Moses said.

  “No could about it,” Tilda said. “Men and their liquor. They were drunk. No sober man takes a knife to an animal’s throat.”

  “A mean man would.”

  “A mean man would pick on other men,” Tilda said. “Not on innocent hogs.”

  Moses wasn’t sure he agreed, but then, this was his first hog slaughter. “There’s some men who will kill anything.”

  “They are few and far between and we don’t have any in this part of the country,” Tilda declared. “No, the devil’s poison was in their veins and it clouded their judgment.”

  Moses dropped the subject. Her dislike for liquor was so strong, she refused to let him have a drop of it anywhere in the house. Once, shortly after they were married, he’d snuck a bottle home and hid it in the pantry. She’d found it and called him outside and made him watch while she upended it and wasted all that wonderful whiskey on the grass. “Yes, if it was white men, that makes sense.”

  “They wore boots, Moses.”

  Moses had a startling thought. “Indians wear boots sometimes.”

  “Not many,” Tilda said. “They prefer moccasins.”