Ten Mile Valley

by Wayne D. Overholser

  Jackson helped himself to the flapjacks and passed the platter to Mark, then reached for the pitcher of syrup. “You had to find out for yourself, Mark. Nobody could tell you, which is natural enough.”

  Ruth had recovered from the shock of having Mark back. She said sharply: “I could have told him.”

  Jackson lifted his head and looked at her. “Ruth, you keep honing your tongue to a fine edge and you’ll be able to peel potatoes with it pretty soon.”

  Her face turned red. “I’m sorry, Mark.”

  “I know how you feel, if Ruth doesn’t,” Jackson said. “Curtis was with you the day your folks were buried, and he gave you the schooling you had to have to make out by yourself. He’s a hard man, and a little of that hardness rubbed off on you. Not much. Just enough. It’s natural that you’d be grateful, and that you’d keep hoping to find some goodness in him that isn’t there. He’s bad, Mark, as completely bad as any man I ever met.”

  Mark thought about the first summer they had ridden together, of Bronco’s buying food and clothes for him, and cartridges after his money was gone so he could learn to handle a gun. He thought about their winter together on Cross Seven and about Bronco’s dreams, which included Mark. If he had never made the connection with Jacob Smith, Mark was convinced that Bronco would have kept on including him, that at the time Bronco meant what he said.

  But there was no use arguing with Jackson, so he only asked: “Is any man all bad, Herb?”

  “I deserved that,” Jackson admitted. “There’s some of God in all of us and some of the devil, and we’re all on kind of a teeter board. It’s just that with Curtis the devil outweighs God.”

  They didn’t talk any more until they finished eating, then Jackson leaned back and filled his pipe. Mark knew he didn’t dare say anything about going away again and coming back with money in his pocket. They wanted him and maybe they even needed him, and so he would have to stay. He wanted to. Maybe that was the important thing.

  He glanced at Ruth, who was watching him intently and waiting for him to speak, but he didn’t know what to say. Maybe he could live here and work through the winter, and by spring he would have a little money, if Jackson could afford to pay him anything.

  But Jackson stopped that kind of thinking when he said: “You kids have been pulling and hauling at each other about getting married. I don’t see any sense in putting it off. There’s a preacher in Scott City. Go see him, Mark. Fact is, I’ve got a little jag of steers to take to the fort today. You can help me drive them, and then go on over to Scott City. It’s not far.”

  “Maybe you’d better let Mark speak for himself,” Ruth said in the same sharp tone she’d used before. “I’m not sure he even wants to marry me.”

  He looked at her across the table, the early morning sun touching her dark hair and bringing it alive. For the first time he thought he understood. She had made advances and he had not responded as she hoped he would. She had her pride about that just as he had his pride about money, pride that had become a wedge and had driven them apart, and suddenly he realized this was the most important moment of his life. He must lift the wedge and throw it away; he would never have another chance as good as this.

  Mark was aware of the silence that had fallen upon them, broken only by the snapping of the pine wood in the stove and the hammering of the clock on a shelf by the window.

  “Ruth,” he said, “I love you so much it hurts sometimes. I would be honored if you would be my wife, but I have nothing to offer you except my love. Is that enough?”

  She opened her mouth and closed it and swallowed, and finally said in a small voice: “It’s all I ever wanted, Mark.”

  Jackson rose, his pipe clutched between his teeth. He said around the pipe stem: “I’ll catch that bay for you, Mark. You’ll need a fresh horse.”

  He left the kitchen, and Mark came around the table and Ruth rose and ran into his arms. After he had kissed her, she said: “It’s funny, Mark. I would have married you a year ago when you came for Sunday dinner. Remember?”

  “I’ll never forget it,” he said, and knew it was better this way. He hadn’t been ready then, but he was now. It wasn’t the months and years that counted, but the heat of events in the crucible of life that fused and changed a boy into a man. He was surprised at the way the thought came to him. He must have heard Jackson say it sometime. He smiled at her as he asked: “Can you give me the date so I can tell the preacher?”

  She considered a moment, then said: “Would this Friday be too soon? Today’s Monday. That would give us most of a week to get ready.”

  “Tomorrow wouldn’t be too soon,” he said, and kissed her again. “Guess I better go help Herb.”

  They delivered the herd to the fort shortly after noon, and Jackson was paid $312. As they rode away, Jackson divided the money and gave Mark half of it. “No argument, son. Our partnership will be a real one, not the kind Curtis talked about.”

  “But I haven’t done anything to earn it,” Mark said.

  “You have, and you will.” From habit Jackson reached up and pushed his spectacles back on the bridge of his nose. “Mark, I like you and I welcome you as a son-in-law, and with your help we can run twice as many cattle as I have under the Circle J iron. But there’s more to this than that. I’m relieved because I know you’ll look out for Ruth. I’m not fooling myself. I’m a walking dead man, and I have been ever since Gene Flagler took that shot at me.”

  “Not if you stay off Cross Seven range.”

  “That’s something I can’t do. Don’t ask me to explain it. You won’t understand it any more than Ruth could understand why you had to go back to the Cross Seven.”

  Jackson took a long breath. “There’s another thing. Did Flagler mean what he said about Cross Seven coming across the hills next year?”

  Mark nodded. “Providing Bronco can get Jacob Smith to send another herd north.”

  Jackson shook his head, frowning. “I’ll never sell, so you see I need you more than ever. I couldn’t fight them off alone. Maybe we can together.” They had reached the junction with the Agency road, and Jackson motioned toward a cluster of buildings to the west. “Go see the preacher, Mark. I’ll tell Ruth you’ll be late.”

  Let Herb have his dreams, Mark thought as he rode toward Scott City. They’d have no chance either alone or together against the Cross Seven crew if Bronco made the move he had threatened, but that danger was eight or nine months away. He refused to worry about it now.

  He was surprised when he reached Scott City that so much town could have sprouted out of the sagebrush since the Indian trouble. Not that it was much of a town, but last June there had been nothing.

  He rode slowly, noting the store with Robert Cameron’s name on the false front, the saloon, the hotel, the livery stable, and the blacksmith shop, the buildings strung out on both sides of the road without any visible plan. He saw ten or twelve houses at both ends of the town, and he was fifty yards beyond the store before he saw the church, a squat, homely building with a cross in front.

  A cottage as graceless as the church stood a few yards to the west; a sign in front read Rev. Sylvester Jones. Mark stepped down and knocked on the door. The man who opened the door was tall and ungainly with an Adam’s apple that bobbed uncertainly as he said: “Good afternoon.” Mark noticed that the preacher’s hair needed trimming and was reminded of his own.

  “You the preacher?”

  “I’m Reverend Sylvester Jones.”

  “I’m getting married Friday night at the Circle J. Will you perform the ceremony?”

  “I shall be honored,” Jones said. “At what hour?”

  Mark hesitated. Ruth hadn’t told him. He said: “Eight o’clock.”

  “I shall be there.” Jones extended his hand. “Congratulations. Your name, sir?”

  “Mark Kelton.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you.” The Adam’s apple bobbed as the preacher swallowed. “Mister Kelton, I would be remiss in my duty as a man of G
od if I did not inquire as to the salvation of your soul and that of your bride. I consider it a matter of primary importance that a young couple be united with their Savior when a family is being started.”

  “I can’t say about my soul,” Mark said, “but I guess God would be mighty happy to save the soul of my bride. Her name is Ruth Jackson, if you need it. Good day, sir.”

  He strode back to his horse, resolved to break the reverend’s neck if he tried to turn the wedding into an evangelistic meeting. He stopped at the store and bought a wedding ring from Robert Cameron, a dour, long-necked Scotsman who had founded the town, then examined the suits and bought one for $18 dollars that fit reasonably well, and a white shirt and tie.

  As he left the store, the suit, which had been wrapped in butcher paper, under his arm, he saw Matt Ardell come out of the saloon across the street. Ardell stopped, not recognizing him for a moment, then, when he did, he called: “Mark, I want to see you!” Ardell stepped down off the saloon porch and strode through the ankle-deep dust. “Damned if I knew you for a minute. The last time I saw you, you were in bed. You’ve changed some since then.”

  He held out his hand, and Mark took it. “I feel better than I did the last time you saw me.”

  “You’ve grown,” Ardell said. “You’re as tall as Bronco. Come on over and have a drink. I was starting home, but a few minutes either way won’t make no difference.”

  Mark didn’t want to linger in town, for it would be dark now before he got back to the Circle J, but he couldn’t afford to turn Ardell down. The rancher was as fat as ever, his voice as squeaky as ever, and he had an infectious friendliness about him that reminded Mark how much he had liked the man when they’d met at the fort.

  “Glad to,” Mark said, and followed Ardell into the saloon.

  Both ordered beer and sat down at a rough pine table near a front window. When the bartender retreated to the other side of the room, Ardell leaned forward and said in a low tone: “I’m glad I ran into you. Been hearing some talk I don’t like. Remember I told you to slow Bronco down?”

  “Nobody can slow him down,” Mark said. “Least of all me. I’ve left the Cross Seven, and I’m living at the Circle J. I’m marrying Ruth Jackson Friday night. I hope you can come to the wedding.”

  “By golly, I will,” Ardell said, and shook hands with Mark. “Congratulations. She’s too good for you, son.”

  “I know,” Mark said, “but don’t tell her.”

  Ardell laughed. “I won’t. Never let a woman know she’s too good for a man. Most of ’em think it anyway. Now what about you ’n’ Bronco? I thought you were partners?”

  “He wanted cheap help,” Mark said, and drank his beer.

  He wondered how much he should tell Ardell. If it had been either John Runyan or Dave Nolan, he wouldn’t have said anything, but there was a simple honesty about Ardell that made him trust the man.

  So he told Ardell what had happened as briefly as he could, leaving out only the part that Sharon Sanders had played. When he finished, Ardell said: “I ain’t surprised. By God, I ain’t. That’s why I said what I did about slowing him up. He’s as crazy as a man eating locoweed. He could have stayed in Ten Mile Valley for fifty years and had a good spread and been friends with everybody, but the minute he threw in with Jacob Smith, I knew what would happen. So’d Dave Nolan. I dunno ’bout John Runyan. He don’t cotton much to Bronco after he plugged Monk Evans, but he’s scared of Jacob Smith.”

  Ardell finished his beer, then wiped the foam off his mouth with his sleeve. “Gene Flagler’s a tough nut. Some of what you just said has come to me, a little here and a little there. That’s why I wanted to gab with you a minute.”

  He scratched a droopy cheek. “I dunno, Mark. Damned if I do. If we’ve got to fight, we oughta do it before Jacob Smith sends an army of gunfighters up here, but then again maybe it’ll blow over. Part of it depends on how Bronco makes out through the winter. Depends on Runyan, too. If we could get some iron into his backbone and he closed his range so Cross Seven cattle couldn’t cross it, they wouldn’t be getting to Winnemucca in such good shape and Bronco would be up a tree.”

  Ardell rose. “Well, I’ve got to ride. Be morning now before I get home. I’ll see you Friday night. Me ’n’ my missus. Maybe Dave Nolan and his wife, too. So long, Mark.”

  Mark followed him outside and waited until he heaved himself into the saddle and rode away, turning back once to lift a big hand in a farewell gesture. Mark crossed the street and mounted, wondering if Ardell and Nolan would really come to the wedding, and, if they did, what would Bronco think when he heard?

  Bronco was sure they’d come to his housewarming because they were afraid of Jacob Smith, but Mark had a hunch that of the three cowmen, Bronco would see only John Runyan.

  * * * * *

  After Mark finished his late supper, he showed Ruth the ring. She tried it on and found that Mark had made a good guess as to size. She admired his suit, and then he had her trim his hair. After she had gone to bed, Mark told Jackson about his talk with Ardell.

  Jackson sat on his chair, listening closely, shoulders hunched forward, face in his hands, and, when Mark finished, he said in a troubled voice: “It was a wonderful country, Mark, before the people came.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The days from Tuesday morning until Friday evening were frantic ones for Ruth and her father and intolerable ones for Mark, who didn’t know what to do or what was expected of him. He did the chores and chopped wood until he had a pile as tall as the woodshed, and, when he got tired, he just sat on the chopping block and wondered what had happened to him.

  Jackson rode to the fort on Tuesday morning and asked Mrs. Bolton to stay with Ruth and help her get ready. The rest of the time he was riding over Sherman Valley, inviting people to come to the wedding. If it had been left up to Mark, he would have had no one there but Ruth and the preacher, but he soon discovered he was the forgotten man, that nothing was required of him except to stay out of the way.

  Jackson opened his ancient cowhide trunk and lifted out two silver candlesticks that Ruth and Mrs. Bolton polished until they could see their faces in them. Then he took out Ruth’s mother’s wedding dress, and for two days nothing went on in the house but cutting and fitting and pinning and sewing.

  If Mark or Jackson wanted something to eat, one of them had to rustle it. Mrs. Bolton apparently had her mouth full of pins from sunup to sundown and was as nervous as a heifer with triplets. If Mark poked his head into the front room, she was as likely as not to throw a stove stick at him and mumble: “Scat.”

  It seemed to Mark that the situation would be simplified if Mrs. Bolton swallowed the pins and died of a perforated stomach. Mark had cause to recast his entire attitude toward the state of matrimony, and he found himself in complete sympathy with Lieutenant Bolton’s dedication to the cause of Indian fighting.

  To Mark the greatest enigma of all was Herb Jackson. He had liked Jackson from the first time he had met him more than a year ago, but he had never pretended to understand him. Jackson was a deep-thinking man who loved to listen to his own monologues and who hated injustice of any kind.

  But he was also a lonely man. He had often told Mark that Orry Andrews had been his only close friend, but now he was bent on getting the biggest crowd that he could to the wedding. This made no sense to Mark, so he finally quit trying to understand it.

  Mark wished that Bronco could stand up with him, but by this time Bronco was probably in Winnemucca. Even if he were home, Mark could not have asked him to come to Herb Jackson’s house. Time after time through these four hectic days Mark wished he could talk to someone about the marriage relationship. There had been a day when he could have talked to Bronco, but Bronco wouldn’t have known anything. Besides, he could not share Bronco’s attitude toward women.

  He could have talked to Sharon Sanders if she had been anywhere except on Cross Seven. Not that she knew anything about marriage, but at least she would have been sy
mpathetic. His mind, more often than he wanted it to, conjured up the picture of her coming into his room that last night he was at Cross Seven, wearing nothing but the lace robe. He was titillated by it, yet he never regretted telling her to go away and leave him alone.

  That left no one but Herb Jackson, and Mark could never quite bring himself to opening up the question with him. Only once did Jackson come close to mentioning it. That was on Thursday evening when Mark was milking, and Jackson, who had just ridden in, came to stand in the runway behind the cow Mark was milking.

  “I guess you know my life is bound up in Ruth,” Jackson said, speaking slowly as if he were choosing each word carefully. “I don’t know of any other man I would give her to except you. You’ve heard me say her mother died when she was little. Well, I’ve raised her the best way I could, but there are times when I realize I’ve never really understood her. She’s pretty headstrong at times. The only advice I can give you is to be patient with her.”

  Mark looked up at Jackson’s face, and in the thin dusk light he saw the somber cast to it and sensed that even now Jackson had doubts about the wisdom of the marriage. Probably he would have opposed it at this time if he had not felt, as he had once said, that he was a walking dead man.

  “I’ll try, Herb,” Mark said. “I guess the main thing both of us want is to make her happy.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Jackson agreed. “I hope I live long enough to see my first grandchild.”

  That was a strange thing for a man as young as Jackson to say, but Mark understood why he said it. He would be drawn back to Cross Seven range time after time, and the odds were he’d go once too often.

  Ruth and Mrs. Bolton worked in the kitchen all day Friday, baking cakes and pies and making sandwiches, then they disappeared upstairs. Mark, shaved and bathed, polished his boots, and, with Jackson’s help, put on his new shirt and store suit. His fingers trembled, and there was a great yawning abyss where his stomach should have been.