Thunder Valley

by David Robbins

  Axel. If it was the last thing he ever did, Tyrell would bring him to justice. He gazed at the distant lights of the farmhouse. The Sether place. Roy Sether must be warned. Or was it Rondo James they were after? They hadn’t said.

  Tyrell checked his holster. Jones hadn’t taken his revolver. He turned his head but couldn’t see his horse. Gritting his teeth, he used the tree to make it to his feet. A light-headed sensation came over him, and he had to stand there until it went away.

  Tyrell slowly moved toward where his horse should be. Wonder of wonders, it was still there. He gripped the saddle horn in both hands and put his brow to the saddle. He needed to take it slow. One step at a time. As much as he wanted to get to Roy and Rondo, he couldn’t do them any good if he passed out.

  Tyrell had to lift his leg three times before he hooked the stirrup. His chest hammering, he pulled himself up. More dizziness caused him to sway. He clutched the saddle horn until it passed.

  “Damn,” Tyrell said. His stomach was churning. “Don’t let me be sick,” he said. He clucked and tapped his spurs and rode out of the stand.

  The house was a long way off.

  Tyrell hoped he would make it. Another wave of weakness made him bow his head. When he looked up again he couldn’t see the farmhouse.

  “What the … ?” Tyrell said, and realized the lights had been extinguished and the windows were dark. That wasn’t a good sign. It was too early for Roy and Martha to be turning in.

  Tyrell rode faster. The pain in his chest was almost unbearable. He needed a sawbones but his duty came first.

  Tyrell grew hot and his skin prickled as if he had a rash. His mouth was dry and he broke out in a sweat. He was in a bad way. He should stop and rest but he pushed on.

  Tyrell kept thinking he’d hear shots but he didn’t. It suggested the Sethers were still alive. Or maybe Axel and his friends had killed the Sethers quietly. Even so, there was Rondo James to deal with. Tyrell could see them taking the Sethers by surprise but not that ornery Rebel. They’d have a fight on their hands with him.

  Tyrell chuckled. Here he was, hurrying to help a man who once fought for an army that, among other things, was defending the right of white folks to keep people with his skin color against their will. Life was plumb silly sometimes.

  More nausea brought him to a stop. Sweat poured from his pores and bile rose in his gorge and he was almost sick to his stomach.

  “You can do this, Tyrell,” he rallied, and gigged his mount. Lives were at stake. He must do what he must do, and his wound be damned.

  Out of nowhere he came on a whole lot of horses. Axel and his bunch had left them about two hundred yards from the farmhouse and gone ahead on foot.

  Tyrell drew rein and dismounted. The effort cost him, and he clung to the saddle until his head stopped spinning. He tried to pull his Winchester from the scabbard and gave it up as a lost cause.

  That was all right. He had his six-shooter. He drew it and shuffled toward the house, taking small steps so as not to trip and fall. If he did, he may not be able to get back up.

  It seemed an eternity before something hove in his path. The odor told him what it was. He moved around to the side and leaned against the outhouse.

  Over at the farmhouse, figures moved. A lot of them, coming and going from the barn.

  Tyrell tried to fathom what they were up to. They appeared to be carrying something. He was about to move into the open when he spied a man who wasn’t taking part. The man was at the rear of the house, covering it with a rifle.

  His back was to Tyrell.

  Gripping his revolver tighter, Tyrell crept forward. His vision swam and he feared he’d collapse. Not now, he chided himself. He needed to hold out, for the Sethers’ sake.

  From the front of the house came muffled voices.

  The man with the rifle had the stock resting on his thigh and was holding the rifle by the barrel. His other hand was on a six-gun on his hip.

  Tyrell extended his arm. He’d forgotten to cock the hammer and now he didn’t dare; the man would hear it. He had to get right up to him.

  Twenty feet more. That was all. Without warning the pain in his chest became twice as bad. Waves of agony washed over him and he stopped. He must have groaned because the man with the rifle glanced back and saw him.

  The next instant the night crashed to gunfire.

  41

  The man on the porch had made a mistake. While he kept Roy Sether talking so the others could pile hay and straw around the house, Rondo James was on the move. He went from the window at the front to a window on the east side and then a window on the west side.

  Only then did Rondo inform Roy that there was only one thing they could do.

  “What do you have in mind?” Roy asked.

  “We have to take the fight to them before they can light the fire.”

  “You want us to go out there and start shooting?”

  “Not us,” Rondo said. “Me.” It was against his nature to stay cooped up. He was an ex–-Confederate raider. He’d learned the art of war from guerrillas who lived by the code of strike fast and strike hard. “You stay here and shoot anyone who breaks in.”

  “Just you alone against all of them?” Roy said. “That’s not right. This is my house. My home. I can’t stand by and do nothing while you risk your life for me and mine.”

  Rondo looked at the front door and smiled a cold smile. “They aim to kill me too. I have as much at stake as you do.” He nodded at the stairs to the second floor. “Well, almost as much.”

  “I should help you.”

  “Listen to Mr. James,” Moses Beard said. “He’s right. You have Martha and the kids to think of.”

  Tom Kline nodded. “Your family comes first.”

  “Stay with Roy,” Rondo said to them. “And whatever you do, don’t any of you go outside.” He turned and hastened along the hall to the kitchen. Quietly throwing the bolt, he opened the back door a crack. A lone assassin with a rifle stood about fifteen feet off, watching the house. He was about to burst out when he spied someone behind the assassin, shambling toward him. It was so dark that Rondo couldn’t see the second man’s face. But then he realized, no, it was the man’s face that was dark, and he realized who it must be even as the assassin glanced over his shoulder.

  Rondo flung the door wide and bounded out. The man with the rifle had started to turn, and saw him. For an instant the man was riveted with indecision—should he shoot at Rondo or should he shoot at the man coming up behind him?

  Rondo drew and shot him in the face and didn’t give the falling body another look as he ran past it. “Tyrell?” he said.

  The lawman swayed and said thickly, “Thanks for savin’ me. I can’t hardly think straight.”

  Rondo saw a plate-sized dark circle on Gibson’s shirt and said, “You were shot?”

  “Stabbed.” Tyrell’s knees began to give.

  “Here,” Rondo said, and gripping him by the arm, he quickly propelled the lawdog into the kitchen. “Stay inside. Roy and the others are at the front.”

  “Wait,” Tyrell said.

  But Rondo had already turned and was racing back out. The other assassins had heard the shot and some of them were coming on the run. He ran to the west corner, and stopped.

  Boots pounded, and another rifleman rushed around the corner.

  Rondo shot him in the face.

  Shouts broke out on all sides. More boots drummed.

  Taking a deep breath, Rondo hurtled toward the barn. He had a plan, such as it was: he would draw the assassins away from the farmhouse and the people inside. He snapped two shots at moving shadows. Fireflies flared, and the night boomed to multiple thunders. He felt a tug at his shoulder.

  A man came hurrying out of the barn, his arms filled with hay. “What the hell?” he shouted, looking around in confusion. “Who’s doing all the shooting?”

  “Me,” Rondo said, and shot him in the face. Then he was in the barn and moving down the aisle, replacing c
artridges as he went.

  The firing outside stopped.

  Rondo swung onto his saddle, reined General Lee around, and stuck the reins between his teeth. With a pistol in each hand, he jabbed his spurs.

  A fierce cry tore from his throat, the Rebel yell he had voiced in countless battles and skirmishes. It was both a savage challenge and an exultation. It was rage at the Yankee machine that had destroyed his homeland and fury at the nameless assassins who were out to destroy his friends. It was the very essence of what made him who and what he was.

  General Lee exploded out of the barn. Some of the assassins were caught flat-footed and Rondo shot one on the right in the face and shot another in the face on the left.

  On the front porch a six-gun cracked and Rondo felt a pain in his leg. He swept past the porch and reined around to the side of the house and shot a man in the face. Hauling on the reins, he wheeled General Lee. He charged around the front again, into a pair of men who were rushing after him. Both had shotguns. He swept his pearl-handled Navies out and up and shot both in the face.

  Rondo didn’t know how many were left but it didn’t matter. He let out with another Rebel yell. He fired and a shotgun boomed but it missed and he shot a tall man in the face and a bearded man in the face.

  There was another shot, just one, but not from Rondo’s pistols.

  Roy Sether was in the front doorway; it was his rifle that blasted.

  A man dressed as a cowboy was struck in the back and knocked off the porch onto his hands and knees. He straightened and shifted and aimed a revolver at Roy, and Rondo shot him in the arm and the leg, both. The man cried out and dropped the six-shooter and clutched himself.

  Rondo slid down and limped over, his Navies leveled. He kicked the revolver out of the man’s reach.

  “He was about to shoot you in the back,” Roy said. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “You did right fine.” Rondo began to reload.

  The cowboy inched a hand into a sleeve.

  “No, you don’t,” Rondo said, and stomped on the hand. Finger bones cracked, and the man swore. Bending, Rondo discovered a derringer hideout. He tossed it and finished reloading. “Now, then. I’ve seen you in town. What’s your name?”

  The man grunted and said, “I didn’t think it would be like this.”

  “Your name?” Rondo repeated.

  “Today it’s Axel Jones.”

  Rondo shot him in the other arm. When the thrashing and cursing stopped, he said, “Your real name.”

  The man grinned and said, “Abraham Lincoln.”

  Rondo shot him in the knee. The man bucked and howled and rolled back and forth, spittle flecking his lips. “Your real name or the next one is between your legs.”

  “Mather,” the man said. “Jim Mather.”

  “Who hired you and these others?”

  Covered with blood and shot to pieces, Mather was nonetheless still defiant. “How do you know they weren’t working for me?”

  “I warned you,” Rondo said, and pointed a Navy at the man’s private parts.

  “Charlton Rank,” Mather said.

  “Now the big question. Why?”

  “The railroad wants this land.”

  “Where do I find Rank?”

  Mather told him.

  “I reckon that’s all I need from you,” Rondo said, and put a slug from both pistols into his face.

  Bodies littered the yards and tendrils and clouds of gun smoke hung in the air.

  Rondo reloaded. He twirled the right Colt into its holster and twirled the left Colt into its holster, and looked up.

  They were all on the porch. Roy and Martha and the kids, the Klines, and the Beards. Even Marshal Tyrell Gibson, sagging against the wall. Their expressions were mixed.

  Sally’s look of horror struck Rondo to his marrow. He turned and limped to General Lee.

  “Wait,” Roy said, coming down the steps. “What are you doing?”

  “What I should have done long ago.” Rondo winced as he mounted. The hole in his leg was bleeding, but not much; the lead had gone clean through.

  “You’re not leaving?”

  Rondo surveyed the carnage. “I’ve got somethin’ that needs doin’.”

  Martha came to the rail. “Your leg. You’ve been shot. Get down and I’ll bandage you.”

  Rondo glanced at Sally, and smiled. “No need.” He went to rein around but Roy put a hand on his boot.

  “Not like this. Come back in and stay until morning.”

  “You’re a good man, Roy Sether,” Rondo said. “Take good care of this family of yours.” He jabbed with his good leg and held to a trot until he had put more than a mile behind him and he no longer had a lump in his throat. He coughed, and breathed deep, and settled down for the long ride.

  Dawn had yet to break when Rondo reached Teton. Hardly anyone was abroad. He drew rein at the hitch rail in front of the Timberland and limped inside.

  The lobby was empty. A desk clerk dozed at the front desk, chin in hand.

  Rondo smacked the counter and the clerk gave a start and smoothed his jacket.

  “May I help you?”

  “Charlton Rank.”

  “What about him?”

  “Which room?”

  The climb to the third floor didn’t do Rondo’s leg any favors. He knocked, and when there was no answer, he knocked louder.

  A balding man in a heavy robe opened the door. Stifling a yawn, he said sleepily, “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “Are you Rank?”

  “No. I’m Floyd, his manservant.” He nodded at the closed door to what must be a bedroom. “Mr. Rank is asleep. He won’t be up for a couple of hours yet.”

  Rondo brushed past.

  “Hold on, sir,” Floyd said, catching up. “I’ll inform Mr. Rank that you’re here.”

  Rondo stopped. “Make yourself scarce.”

  “Sir?”

  Rondo swept his slicker aside, revealing the Colts. “I won’t tell you twice.”

  Shaking his head, Floyd backed away. “You won’t have to.”

  A hotel as fine as the Timberland, the door hinges were well oiled. The door opened silently.

  A man snored loudly on a four-poster bed.

  Rondo went up to it. Drawing his pistols, he tapped the sleeper on the nose. “Rank. Charlton Rank.”

  The man sputtered and muttered and opened his eyes. “What is it?” he demanded. “Who’s there?”

  “Are you Rank?”

  “Who wants to know?” the man demanded. He saw the Colts, and stiffened. “What is this? Who are you and how did you get in here?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “If you know who I am, you know I’m a very important man. Harm me and you’ll be a fugitive for however long you live.”

  “You must reckon you’re a mighty big man.”

  “Damn right I am,” Charlton Rank said. “I have the ear of the governor. I have a senator and a congressman in my pocket. I will ask you one more time. Who the hell are you and what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “This,” Rondo said, and pointed the pistols at his face.

  42

  The cool of a summer’s evening brought relief from the heat. Cornstalks and wheat and oats had turned the brown of the tilled fields green with growing life.

  Roy and Martha sat in their rocking chairs on the front porch. Roy had brought chairs from the parlor out for their guests and all four of them were sipping the delicious raspberry tea Martha made.

  “I wonder where he got to?” Martha was saying. “I still think of him a lot.”

  “So do I,” Roy said.

  Tyrell nodded, and smiled. “He was quite a man, that Rondo James.”

  “The way you all talk, I wish I had met him,” Bessie lamented.

  “A sheriff saw him in Denver,” Tyrell said. “I know that for a fact. Later there was word of him bein’ spotted in Kansas City and Saint Louis. The last report I got, a man claimed to have talked to him in Lexington, Ke
ntucky.”

  “Denver, Kansas City, Saint Louis, Lexington,” Roy recited. “He was heading east.”

  “To where?” Martha said.

  Roy pondered. “I suspect he was going home to Virginia.”

  “After all this time?”

  Tyrell nodded. “I think Roy is right, ma’am. Maybe Rondo James got tired of all the killin’. Maybe he finally accepted that the war was over.”

  “How about you?” Roy said. “How’s your chest?”

  Thunking it with his fist, Tyrell said, “Fine as can be. The doc says I’m healed.”

  “He also said you were the luckiest man ever born,” Bessie said. “You could have died.”

  “Look at the bright side,” Tyrell said. “It made me rethink things.” He glanced down at the spot on his belt where his badge used to be. “I don’t miss it as much as I thought I would.”

  Bessie’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “Runnin’ a boardinghouse has its advantages, Mr. Gibson.”

  “That it does, Mrs. Gibson,” Tyrell said, and laughed.

  Martha drank tea and slowly rocked. “I hear tell the Jacksons are back. And someone bought the McWhirtle place.”

  “Life goes on.” Roy stood and moved to the rail and gazed out over his fields. “Life always goes on.”

  “Thank God,” Martha said.