Ten Mile Valley

by Wayne D. Overholser

  Mark tiptoed off the porch, not wanting to hear any more. He was excited by the thought that Sharon liked him, that he probably wouldn’t even have to ask her to go to bed with him, then he had a weird feeling that Ruth was standing beside him, and he was ashamed.

  Bronco caught up with him, breathing hard and red in the face. He said: “You stay away from that bitch. She won’t do nothing for you but give you a dose. I never seen a woman like her. She’s just like a man with a good-looking girl in the house.”

  Mark said nothing. He wondered whether Bronco was genuinely concerned about him, or whether he was jealous. Probably the latter, he thought, and, glancing sideways at Bronco’s dark face, honed down by hard work until his features seemed to be all sharp points and angles, he told himself that Bronco was not genuinely concerned about anything or anybody but the Cross Seven and himself.

  That morning Bronco put Mark to cleaning out the corrals. The crew saddled up and rode out with Bronco, all of them ignoring Mark except Andy Wheeling, who yelled: “Get to work, buckaroo! Lean on that fork handle.” Gene Flagler spoke sharply to him, and Wheeling grinned and nodded.

  From that day on nothing was the same between Mark and Bronco. The old relationship was gone. The spring before Mark had been a good enough hand to work cattle with Bronco, but now he was a laborer, a chore boy. The crew pretended he didn’t exist, the lone exception being Andy Wheeling who hoorawed him every chance he had.

  Mark couldn’t quite put his finger on the trouble between him and Bronco. Maybe it wasn’t trouble at all, maybe it was just that Bronco was so immersed in his dreams and schemes that he had no time for Mark. Even on the few occasions when the two of them were together in the ranch house, Bronco would sit in morose silence in front of the fireplace, pulling on his cigar, his forehead puckered in thought.

  Mark had expected to ride on fall roundup, but, no, the tulle swamp must be drained or there was firewood to chop for Lee Sam or Sharon, or wood to be hauled from the ridge above the house, where it had been cut the previous summer. At times Mark had the feeling Bronco would be relieved if he pulled out, but that didn’t make sense. He wouldn’t have sent Gene Flagler to the Circle J to bring him back if that was the way he felt.

  More than once Mark made up his mind to leave, but there was always that will-o-the-wisp promise Bronco had made about a partnership, and, if Mark rode out, there would be a final breaking between them. If he stayed, something might come of it. But when he thought about it, he knew it would be years, and he couldn’t wait. So he stayed, teetering in indecision and thinking that each day would be his last, yet nothing happened that forced a decision.

  On the afternoon before Bronco was to start south with the little jag of steers that was to go with the Triangle R herd to Winnemucca, Sharon came out of the house and walked to where Mark was sawing wood. It was an unseasonably hot day for so late in the year, and Sharon’s face was red and sweaty from standing over the kitchen stove.

  “You’re working too hard, honey,” Sharon said as she sat down on the chopping block. “You’ll never get paid, but I guess you know that.”

  Mark kept sawing until he finished the cut and the block at the end of the log dropped into the pile of sawdust. Then he took off his hat, wiped his forehead with his sleeve, and sat down beside her. “How do you know?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “Because I know Bronco Curtis, and I knew Jacob Smith before I knew Bronco. They’re a lot alike, using other people to get where they want to be, or using somebody for their pleasure like Jacob done with me. When he got tired of me, he threw me to Bronco. It’s the same as tossing a bone from the table to a hungry dog. I’m the bone. Bronco’s the dog. He’s hungry, honey. Believe me, he’s so damned hungry he’ll eat anything that’s in front of him.”

  Sharon had been very careful to appear indifferent to Mark after that first morning, probably because she was afraid of Bronco, but now she sat with her knees tucked under her chin, her arms around her legs, her eyes on Mark. Again he felt the throbbing sense of excitement, then the uneasiness, and he looked away from her.

  “Bronco’s always talked about a partnership,” Mark said. “Why do you think he won’t pay me?”

  “Sure, it was a partnership as long as he needed you, honey,” she said. “Well, he don’t need you now. You can stay here as long as you’re willing to work for your keep. Just don’t expect nothing more.”

  Mark sat staring at the old cabin that had been his and Bronco’s home last winter, then he shifted his gaze to the brush along the creek where the Paiutes had hidden. He thought about how hard he and Bronco had worked at calving time, and about the killing of Monk Evans, and about how Gentry had attacked Ruth and wounded him and then been killed by Bronco. It was hard to believe that his relationship with Bronco meant so little, yet he knew it was true. He just hadn’t wanted to believe it, so he had come back to the Cross Seven, hoping for something that he hadn’t found.

  “You’re almost twenty, aren’t you?” Sharon asked. He nodded, and she went on: “You’re a man. Man enough to get married, I’d say from the looks of you. Bronco says you’re in love with the Jackson girl. Marry her, honey. Don’t wait. It’s a short ride from birth to death. Make it a good ride, Mark.”

  “I don’t have anything,” he said miserably. “That’s why I’ve been waiting.”

  “You’re a fool,” Sharon said impatiently. “You’re in love with her, aren’t you? She’s in love with you, isn’t she? What more could you bring her?” Suddenly restless, she got up. “Get back on the saw and for me back to that hell-hot kitchen.”

  He didn’t move for a time, watching Sharon until she disappeared into the house. Maybe she was a “bad woman,” as his mother would have said, but he liked her. She’d had a hard life, he thought, and certainly one filled with disappointments, but still she had a quality of kindliness he had found in few people since he had thrown in with Bronco.

  Well, he’d have it out with Bronco. Tonight. He wouldn’t wait until Bronco came back from Winnemucca. He couldn’t stay here that long. He’d go to Ruth. Still, if he could get even a little money out of Bronco …

  He got up and began sawing again, condemning himself because he was still a boy dreaming a boy’s dream. He’d get nothing from Bronco. He’d ask, but he’d get nothing. He might as well face the truth.

  That evening Bronco came in late for supper. He was in a sour mood, barking at Sharon and morosely silent with Mark. As soon as they finished eating, Mark said: “I’m leaving, Bronco. I’m asking again for my wages.”

  “Damn it, you’re not leaving,” Bronco said harshly. “We’re still partners. I don’t know why I have to keep saying it. When Cross Seven shows a profit, you’ll get your share. You’ve just got to make up your mind to wait.”

  He sat back with his usual rumbling belch, lit a cigar, and turned to Sharon. “You know that old goat of a Jacob Smith pretty well, don’t you?”

  “I know him, all right.” She pushed her plate back. “What do you want to know about him?”

  “We can use another herd,” Bronco said. “I aim to make him send another one north. Next summer, I mean, after we’ve brought his cows through the winter and had a good calf crop, but Flagler says he won’t do it.”

  “Flagler knows what he’s talking about,” Sharon said. “He was foreman of Smith’s ranch on Quinn River for years. What do you think Smith sent him up here for?”

  “To keep an eye on me,” Bronco said sullenly.

  “No. Smith wants him to get the lay of the land so he’ll be able to ramrod Cross Seven when the time comes. When it does, Jacob will send his herd north, but you won’t be around. When they’re ready, they’ll push over the hills into Sherman Valley and south against Nolan and Ardell. You’re trying to use him, but what you don’t know is that he figures on using you and has been from the first. Ever since he started buying Orry Andrews’s steers, he’s wanted a toehold up here, so, when you made your offer, you played right into his hand.
”

  Bronco chewed on his cigar, muscles at the hinges of his jaws bunching into hard knots. He glared at Sharon, not believing a word she said.

  “You’ve gone a long ways up, Bronco,” Sharon said, “so you’ve got a long ways to go down. You won’t stay up very long, either. The biggest mistake you ever made was to throw in with Jacob Smith. He doesn’t have any children. Andy Wheeling is his heir, so he figures on Andy being the big poobah up here with Gene Flagler’s help.”

  “That wet-nosed kid?” Bronco said incredulously. “Now I know you’re crazy.”

  “That’s a weakness of yours, not believing your friends,” Sharon said. “When Jacob gets set, I mean when you’re out of the way, they’ll push south from here and north from Nevada, and they’ll have Runyan, Nolan, and Ardell in a squeeze. In time they’ll own the whole country and Jacob will have his second million.” She leaned forward. “I tell you, I know him, Bronco. I’ve heard the silver dollars go chunk-chunk in his veins. His heart’s a dollar sign. That’s all it is.”

  Bronco rose and kicked back his chair. “You’re full of horse manure. Maybe he’s tough, but he’s going to find out I’m tougher.”

  He stalked out of the room. Sharon smiled at Mark. “There goes a worried man, honey. You’re the only friend he’s got on this spread, and he’s throwing you overboard.”

  There was no use talking to Bronco tonight, Mark knew. It was no better in the morning, Bronco burdened by worries as he was. Mark remembered what Herb Jackson and Matt Ardell had said, that he was going too far too fast.

  He left at sunup with the steers, Gene Flagler going with him the first day, his face unsmiling. He said nothing to Mark when he left, and Mark wasn’t sure Bronco had even seen him. The rest of the crew rode out, only Andy Wheeling remaining behind.

  “I’ve been waiting for Curtis to get out of the way,” Wheeling said. “You whipped me once, but you’ll never do it again.”

  Mark stared at the lanky youth in surprise, not dreaming that Bronco had been responsible for Wheeling letting him alone. Now, looking at Wheeling, he saw the passionate hatred in the man’s face, and he wasn’t sure whether this was to be with fists or guns. All he could think of was that his revolver was in the house.

  Then Wheeling drove at him, and Mark was relieved. He turned aside, slamming Wheeling on the side of the head and sending him reeling. Mark was no fighter and he knew it, but Wheeling was even less. The difference was that Wheeling fancied himself a fighting man, and that gave Mark an advantage.

  Wheeling whirled and charged back, swinging from his boot tops. He was awkward and slow. Mark ducked under the punch and Wheeling was wide open. Mark caught him on the jaw, a sledge-hammer blow that snapped back his head, then Mark followed with another right while Wheeling was still reeling. The second punch knocked Wheeling down and piled him up against the corral, the back of his head hitting a post with an echoing thud.

  For a moment Wheeling lay motionlessly, his eyes glassy, then he shook his head, rolled over, and reached for his gun. He had it clear of leather when Mark brought a boot hard against the man’s wrist. Holding it there, he bent down, twisted the gun from Wheeling’s hand, and stepped back.

  “You had another try,” Mark said, “and you came out the same way. Better forget it.”

  Wheeling swiped at the blood that ran down his chin from a cut lip. “Forget it, hell,” he said hoarsely. “Next time it’ll be with a gun.”

  Mark walked away, a strange queasiness working into his middle. Wheeling was the kind of madman who would do exactly what he’d threatened, and Mark wasn’t sure he’d come out as well with a gun as he had with his fists.

  When he went into the house for dinner, Sharon said: “I saw you handle Andy. I enjoyed it. Andy’s a no-good brat who’s been spoiled since the day he was born. Now he thinks he’s one size bigger’n God because he’s Jacob’s nephew.”

  “I was lucky,” Mark said.

  “More than luck, I’d say,” Sharon disagreed, “but I’ll tell you one thing. Watch him, or he’ll get you in the back.”

  At supper that night Sharon was strangely silent, her eyes on Mark, a bright expectancy in them. When he went to bed, he thought about putting a chair under the doorknob. There wasn’t any lock. But he didn’t. He took off his boots, shirt, and pants, and lay down on the bed, certain she would come, but not knowing for sure what he would do.

  A few minutes later she did come, this time wearing only the lace robe. She closed the door and sat down on the bed. “You were expecting me, weren’t you?” she asked.

  When he didn’t answer, she leaned over and tousled his hair. “I never saw hair as wiry as yours, honey,” she said. “It kind of fits you. Bronco told me how he met you, your folks murdered and you blubbering ’cause you’d lost them, but he said you got tougher’n a boot heel before the summer was over. He ain’t real proud of himself the way he performed when them Paiutes showed up, but he said you rubbed out three of ’em slicker’n goose grease.”

  She put her feet on the bed and sat on them, her thighs making a round bulge under the robe. “Funny thing about people. I figure you were raised by a couple of doting parents, so it wasn’t what they did that put the iron in your backbone. It had to be there all the time, or Bronco wouldn’t have brought it out.” She shook her head. “Had to be something that was born in you, I guess, just like I was born to go to hell on a toboggan.”

  He didn’t move. He felt hot and then cold as he lay there looking at her, knowing that all he needed to do was to reach for her, but he was thinking of what Bronco had said, about her giving him a dose, and then he’d give it to Ruth.

  He said wearily: “Go away and leave me alone.”

  He saw the hurt that was in her face, then it left her and her face smoothed out. She said: “You want a piece just like any man. You’ve been fighting it ever since you came back. Bronco knew where I was coming tonight, damn his soul, and, when he gets back, he’ll bat me around some.”

  She got up and pulled the robe more tightly around her. “It’s good to be in love. I’d almost forgotten. It’s sweet and full of dreams and promises. Don’t lose it, Mark. Don’t ever lose it.”

  She walked to the door as he got up and started putting on his shirt. “You’re leaving now?”

  He nodded. “Even after all the work I did, there’s nothing for me here. Took me a long time to see it, but I finally did.”

  She smiled, as if thinking there was a better reason for his leaving. “It’s best this way. I’ll find a sack for your clothes.”

  He was dressed when she returned, his gun belt buckled around him. She waited while he stuffed everything he owned into the sack. He put on his sheepskin and picked up his rifle.

  “Don’t hate me, Mark,” she said. “That’s my trouble. I hate two men, Jacob Smith and Bronco Curtis, and I’ll go on hating them as long as I live. I’m sorry for myself, but I can’t help it.”

  “I’ll never hate you, Sharon,” he said.

  He picked up the sack with his free hand. Then she came to him and put her arms around his neck, pulled his head down, and kissed him. “Good luck, honey. I wish I could come to your wedding, but it wouldn’t do. I like you too much.”

  She picked up the lamp and held it for him at the head of the stairs. She was still standing there when he went out through the front door.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Going to the Circle J the next morning was the hardest thing Mark had ever done in his life. It wasn’t just that Ruth and her father had been proved right about Bronco, and it wasn’t just that Mark was coming back with his tail dragging. More than anything else, he was bothered by the fact that he didn’t have a single cent in his pocket.

  He had counted on getting a little money from Bronco, on being able to come to Ruth and say: “I’ve got enough money to buy you a ring and pay the preacher.” Now all he could say was: “I love you and someday I’ll be back.” And yet he knew that if he said that, he might just as well keep
on riding and never come back. Ruth had had enough waiting, maybe too much.

  Mark left his sorrel in front of the house, the reins dragging. He saw Herb coming from the barn with a filled milk bucket, so he waited. Herb peered at him through his spectacles, as if trying to read his mind. He put the bucket down as he said: “Good morning, Mark. Have you come home to stay?”

  Home! He should have known. Of course this was home, if home was where the people you loved lived. It wasn’t Cross Seven. He should never have left here, but, if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have known.

  “I’d like to stay, Herb,” he said.

  Herb Jackson was not a man who found it easy to smile. He had almost forgotten how since he had discovered the bones of the horse he believed had belonged to Orry Andrews. But he smiled now, and laid a hand on Mark’s shoulder as he said: “I’m glad, Mark. Ruth hasn’t been worth shooting since you left. Come on in.” Jackson pushed the spectacles back up on his nose and reached for the milk bucket.

  They walked together to the back porch. Jackson opened the door and motioned for Mark to go in. Ruth was standing at the stove, frying flapjacks, her back to him. He said: “Ruth.”

  She whirled and cried out—“Mark!”—and ran to him. She put her arms around him and kissed him, and then clung to him, crying a little as she said: “Mark, don’t ever go away again.”

  He knew then he had come back in time; he knew everything was all right and the money that he had thought was important wasn’t important at all.

  Jackson had taken the milk bucket into the pantry. Now he stood by the stove and blew his nose. When he could speak, he said gruffly: “Go wash up, Mark. I’m hungry.”

  Reluctantly Ruth let him go. She turned back to the stove, saying: “I’ll bet you smelled breakfast. You got here just in time.”

  Mark washed, then tried to comb his wiry hair and gave up in disgust. He returned to the kitchen and sat down. Ruth poured the coffee and returned to the table, and Jackson said grace. When he finished, Mark said: “I might just as well get it said. You were right about Bronco. I was working for nothing, so I’ve got nothing. I’m mighty sore about it, too. I guess I’ve got a right to be.”