Ten Mile Valley

by Wayne D. Overholser

  No answer that made sense came to Mark. Having been utterly irrational, it occurred to him that Herb might do something that was still worse. If he couldn’t get the sheriff to make a move, he might go directly to Cross Seven and try to kill Bronco. Being the kind of man he was, he would succeed only in getting himself killed. Maybe it had already happened.

  Mark didn’t mention this possibility to Ruth. The suspense was bad enough for her as it was. Then, on a Saturday morning nine days after Herb had left for Cañon City, a kid rode out from town with a note from Sharon Cameron.

  Your father-in-law is back.

  Red Malone’s here, too.

  He wants to see you.

  That was all, the words scrawled in pencil on a sheet torn from a cheap tablet. Mark stared at it for five minutes after the boy had started back down the slope toward Scott City. Why had Herb stayed in town, and why was Red Malone here, and why did he want to see Mark?

  Mark didn’t want to leave Ruth alone, but he had to. He walked slowly to the house, trying to mask his face against the turmoil that was boiling in him. He went into the kitchen where Ruth was baking bread.

  “I think I’ll take a ride,” he said as casually as he could. “I’ve been working too hard. Or maybe it’s just that I haven’t been off the ranch for a long time.”

  She looked at him and nodded as if she knew he deserved some time off. He went on past her into the front room and, taking his gun belt off a peg near the door, buckled it around him. He was reaching for his rifle when she came into the room.

  “Mark!”

  She knows, he thought.

  He turned to face her. “I thought I’d see if I could bring in some fresh meat. We sure can’t afford to butcher a steer. Herb and me figure beef prices will be higher’n a cat’s back this summer.”

  She believed him. At least she wanted to. He saw relief cross her face. He leaned the rifle against the wall, went to her, and put his arms around her, and kissed her.

  “You’ll be all right, won’t you?” he asked. “I feel ornery about going off and leaving you, but I guess I’ve got cabin fever or something.”

  “I’ll be all right,” she said. “Wait a minute and I’ll fix you a lunch.”

  “Don’t bother. If I get hungry, I’ll come home.”

  She stood in the doorway until he was in the saddle, then she waved at him and disappeared inside the house. He wasn’t sure whether she believed him or not, so he had to act out the lie. He rode north toward the timber. He swung west as soon as he was hidden from the house and made a wide circle, wasting time he couldn’t afford to waste.

  He hoped he would find Herb in town, but if he had started for Cross Seven, Mark had to catch him before he got there. Then the thought came to Mark that Ruth deserved to know the truth, that he had been wrong to lie to her. It was something he had sworn he would never do, but he had. It was too late to change anything; he couldn’t go back. Yet worry nagged at him all the way into town. If he and Herb were both killed today, and it could happen, what would become of Ruth?

  There was some money. She would have the Circle J and a small herd that was worth a lot of money, or would be later in the spring when the soldiers at the fort needed beef. But who would look after her? Maybe she would get married again after the baby came. Or would she? He didn’t know. All he knew was that he didn’t want to die, that these months since the wedding were the nearest to being perfect of any in his life.

  The instant Mark reached town, he sensed that something was wrong. A combination of warm weather and the end of the week had brought a dozen or more ranchers to town. They stood in little knots in front of the store and the saloon and the hotel, and, as he reined toward the saloon, they glanced at him, then pretended to look away, but he knew that they were furtively eyeing him.

  Uncertainty added to the worry that was in Mark. Maybe Herb had left town, or maybe he was dead. Maybe Bronco had killed him and was still in town, knowing Mark would come.

  He tied his horse, his gaze shifting from one group of men to another. He knew most of them, ranchers who had come to the Circle J begging for hay and had left cursing Herb and making dire threats. Probably every one of them wanted to see Herb dead. If Bronco had killed him and was waiting for Mark, he knew whose side they would be on.

  Crazy, maybe, but the situation was crazy. These men were broke, and they would consider Bronco one of them because he was broke, too, if Cameron had told the straight of it. There was nothing else as tight as the fraternity of poverty, Mark thought.

  He stepped back to loosen the cinch and took the opportunity to ease his gun out of the holster and gently lower it. Ridiculous to think he’d have trouble with these men, he told himself, yet it would have been ridiculous to think they would come to the Circle J and beg for hay that they knew Herb couldn’t spare and then threaten his life when he refused.

  Mark strode toward the saloon door, not thinking he would find Herb there, but knowing he had to look. Three men barred his way. They didn’t move as he approached the batwings, but stood glowering at him. Mark laid his shoulder roughly against a man and shoved him half around and out of his way. Cursing, the man reached for his gun, but one of his friends grabbed his arm.

  “Hold it, Dutch,” the rancher said. “No sense of us buying into the ruckus.”

  Mark went on inside, not looking back. Matt Ardell stood at the bar, a filled shot glass in front of him. He looked old and beaten, much thinner than he had been in the fall, his skin hanging loosely from his jowls.

  “Howdy, Mark,” Ardell said. “I figured you’d be along.”

  Mark shook hands with him, asking: “How are you, Matt?”

  “Busted,” Ardell said. “I’ll be picking bones before the summer’s over.”

  “That bad?”

  “It’s that bad,” Ardell said. “I’m going to Cañon City to see the bank. If I get turned down there, I’ll go to Winnemucca. If I still get turned down, I’ll go to Jacob Smith and make the same fool mistake that Bronco Curtis made.”

  “No, you won’t,” Mark said.

  Ardell picked up his glass and gulped his drink, then set the glass back on the bar and grinned sheepishly at Mark. “No, I won’t when it gets down to cases.” He motioned toward the street. “But it’s funny what happens to a man when he’s cornered. Them ornery sons hate me and Dave Nolan and Herb because none of us would give ’em hay. But me ’n’ Dave Nolan didn’t have no hay to give ’em, and Herb did, so they hate him worse’n they do us.”

  “Where is Herb?”

  “In bed in the hotel. Worn down to a nubbin. I stayed in town last night and was ready to pull out this morning when Herb rode in with a gent named Red Malone. It’s hell getting over the pass on foot when you ain’t used to snowshoes. Herb should have stayed the night at Jenner’s ranch, where he left his horse, but he was on his way home and he wouldn’t stop. When he got here, he fell flat on his face, so me ’n’ Malone put him to bed. He’ll be all right. Just needs some rest.”

  “Malone?”

  “He’s in the restaurant talking to Missus Cameron. She’s the one who got the talk started about Bronco. She heard it from Malone. Seems he was hanging around the sheriff’s office in Cañon City, trying to get news of Bronco, when Herb shows up with a skull and a Henry rifle he says belongs to Orry Andrews. He claims Bronco murdered Orry.”

  “What’s it to everybody?” Mark asked angrily. “Do they love Bronco all of a sudden?”

  Ardell shook his head. “No, it’s just that they hate Herb. They’ll get over it, give ’em time, but right now they figure Bronco’s gonna plug you ’n’ Herb, and they’ll be tickled to see it.”

  Ardell reached for the bottle and filled his glass. He let it stand, staring at it. Finally he said: “Bronco’s on his way here. Missus Cameron sent him word like she done you. Seems that Malone’s gunning for him. Dunno why.”

  Mark turned from the bar.

  Ardell asked: “Where you going, boy?”

&n
bsp; “To see Malone. I hear he wants to see me.”

  “All right,” Ardell said, “but come back here soon as you see Malone. Bronco’s the one you’ve got to look out for. Herb’s gonna go after Bronco when he wakes up. Malone says that’s all he could talk about on the way back. The sheriff didn’t believe his story. Wouldn’t lift a finger, so Herb says he’s gonna handle it hisself.”

  “What kind of word did Sharon send Bronco?”

  “Dunno.”

  “I’ll find out,” Mark said, and left the saloon.

  He went directly to the restaurant, feeling the eyes of every man on the street on him. Sharon met him in the door, her face grave. She said: “Mark, I sent for you because I thought you ought to know what’s going on. This fellow, Malone, says he’s got something he wants to tell you. Listen, but stay out of the fight. Malone’s going to brace Bronco as soon as he shows up.”

  Mark stared at the woman, sensing the excitement that was in her. This was her way of getting Bronco killed, or so she hoped. But if it came to a fight between Bronco and Malone, she’d be disappointed. Bronco would take Malone. Mark was as sure of that as he could be sure of anything.

  “How’d you get hooked up with Malone?” Mark asked.

  “He got into town early this morning with Herb Jackson,” she said. “Jackson was out on his feet, so …”

  “I know,” Mark interrupted. “Ardell told me.”

  “Well, Malone came in for his breakfast and started talking. He gave me the whole yarn. I egged him on some, all right. I found a man to go after Bronco, and I figure he’ll come a-running.”

  “I guess that’s what you want.”

  “You’re damned right it is,” she shot back at him. “But it’s your father-in-law I’m worried about. If Malone don’t get Bronco, there’ll be hell to pay. I know what Bronco thinks of Herb Jackson. He told me a dozen times that, if Jackson ever pushed that Orry Andrews business, he’d plug him. Well, now everybody in town knows that Jackson found the evidence he’s been looking for, so Bronco won’t have no choice.”

  Mark looked past her at Malone, who had stepped out of the kitchen. The scene in Prineville came back to Mark as if it had been yesterday; he remembered exactly how Malone looked, and when Malone said—“Howdy, Kelton.”—Mark remembered the voice.

  Mark said: “I’m going to kill you, Malone. You knew that when you came here, didn’t you?”

  “No, I don’t think you will, sonny,” Malone said easily. “You see, you got things mixed up. It was Bronco Curtis who murdered your parents, not me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  For a moment Mark stood staring at Malone, stupefied. The possibility that Bronco had killed his parents had occurred to Mark, but he had never given it serious thought, partly because stabbing two people to death when they were sleeping was not Bronco’s way, particularly when one was a woman, but mostly because it was inconceivable that a man would have thrown in with the son of two people he had just murdered. Oh, he might have taken him as far as the Baxes’ place, or even to Prineville, but to have “nursed a wet-nosed kid” for the entire summer was more than Bronco or any man guilty of murder would have done.

  Now that he faced Malone, the old, poignant memories flocked back into Mark’s mind: the discovery that his parents were dead, his headlong run and exhaustion, Bronco’s coming along the road and taking him to the Baxes Ranch, the simple funeral, and seeing Malone in Prineville and recognizing his voice.

  The edge of his grief had been blunted long ago. He had his own life now: a wife, a baby that was on the way, and the knowledge that there was nothing he could do to change what had happened. Still, the need to punish a terrible crime that had been committed almost two years before was in Mark, and it would continue to be in him as long as the murderer went unpunished.

  Maybe he couldn’t prove Malone had done it any more than Herb Jackson could prove that Bronco Curtis had killed Orry Andrews, prove it conclusively so that Malone would be convicted in court and hanged. But he knew, and now, staring at Malone, Mark realized that this same kind of haunting knowledge had been in Herb Jackson’s mind all this while, driving him back onto Cross Seven range time after time.

  The moment of shock passed. Mark said: “You’re a liar. I don’t know why you’re here. I wasn’t going to hunt you, because I didn’t know where you were.” He took a long breath, stepping away from Sharon as he nodded at Malone. “But you are here, and I’m going to kill you.”

  “Hold on, boy,” Malone said. “I’m not after you. It’s Curtis I want. I’ve been looking for him nigh onto two years, and now, by God, I’ve run him down and I’ll kill him.”

  Sharon grabbed Mark’s right arm. “Let him talk, Mark. I didn’t send for you to fight him. All I wanted was for you to hear what he had to say before he plugged Bronco or Bronco got him.”

  Malone was ready to draw if Mark forced a fight. Mark read it in the redhead’s eyes, in the way he stood, right hand close to gun butt. “All right,” Mark said. “I’ll listen, but it won’t make any difference. Talk, and then I’ll kill you.”

  Malone laughed. “Sonny, you’re talking like a fool. You won’t kill me. You’ll kill Bronco Curtis.”

  “That why you want to tell me your cock-and-bull story?” Mark asked. “You figure I’ll take Bronco on and save you the trouble?”

  “It’s a good reason,” Malone said blandly. “It don’t make no difference to me whether you do it, or I do, but I can tell you one thing. Bronco Curtis won’t leave this burg alive. He double-crossed me. Let Curtis do it and so will the next man. Now you ready to listen?”

  “I said I was.”

  “All right. This is the way it was. Bronco got into a high-stakes poker game in Albany. It lasted thirty-six hours. I never saw the beat of it. When it was over, he was broke. Didn’t worry him none because we’d knocked over a couple of banks and a few stagecoaches, so we knew we could fill our pockets again, but Bronco had heard about your pa selling his farm for $8,000 and going to central Oregon to buy a ranch, so he says we’ll tag along. When the sign’s right, we’ll lift the dinero. Be easier than tackling a bank or a stage.

  “You didn’t know it, but we trailed you all the way over the Santiam Pass and clean to the Deschutes. We waited till your folks got there so we’d be out of Linn County and wouldn’t have the Albany sheriff on our tail. Bronco got into the wagon while you and your folks was sleeping. He killed ’em. Wasn’t me.”

  “It was you I caught coming out of the wagon!” Mark shouted. “You had the metal box. I heard your voice. You had a beard. Bronco didn’t.”

  “Sure, it was me you caught coming out of the wagon,” Malone said, “but what you didn’t know was that Bronco had already been in the wagon and killed both of ’em. He claimed he couldn’t find the box, so I got inside and I found it. That’s why I’m gunning for him. He’d found the box all right and took most of the dinero. When we opened it later on, there wasn’t but about $2,000. Bronco cussed a blue streak and claimed we’d heard a bunch of lies about what your pa got for his farm. Like a fool I believed him. Didn’t know any difference till I got to The Dalles and read a paper. Then I knowed he’d cheated me, but by then he’d disappeared. Been looking for him ever since. I wintered in Cañon City and heard what Jackson had to say. That’s why I’m here.”

  “You’re still lying,” Mark said bitterly. “You’re so damned yellow you’re afraid to jump Bronco. You figure I’ll do it and save your hide.”

  Malone laughed again, a short, barking sound. “Kid, I never ducked a fight in my life, and I sure ain’t gonna duck one with Bronco, but, if you think you’ve got a better claim to him than I have, you can have first chance. Trouble is, you ain’t man enough to take him, so you’d better work out a scheme with Jackson to ship-saw Bronco when he shows up.”

  Mark still believed Malone was lying, but now there was doubt in him, just enough doubt to keep him from pulling his gun. So he stood there, staring at Malone and hating him because by
his own admission he had helped rob Mark’s parents and had shared in the results of that robbery. Then Mark thought about the money Bronco had been carrying. He had said it had come from a poker game, exactly the opposite to Malone’s story.

  Apparently Sharon had been thinking the same thing. She asked: “Mark, how much money did Bronco have when he first hooked up with you? Could it have been $7,000?”

  “He never told me,” Mark said, “so I don’t know, but I don’t think it was nearly that much. All I know is that he had $3,000 to give Orry Andrews for Cross Seven.”

  “Which he got back from Andrews when he murdered him,” Malone said.

  “We don’t know he murdered Andrews,” Mark said stubbornly. “He sure didn’t have much after he bought the ranch.”

  “That’s where you’re making your mistake, Mark,” Sharon said. “He had to have some money. He put up new buildings. Bought more horses. Had to pay a big crew once Jacob Smith sent a herd north with Gene Flagler.”

  “Smith loaned him the money,” Mark said.

  “Oh, no!” Sharon cried. “Not Jacob Smith. He’d risk a herd of cattle just to get his toehold up here that he’d been wanting, but Bronco spent thousands of dollars putting up those buildings and buying horses and mowers and the rest of that stuff. Jacob’s too tight to gamble both money and cattle. Bronco had it, Mark. I don’t know how he got it, but he had it.”

  Now the doubt grew in Mark, grew and festered until he knew he had to face Bronco, had to face him and ask questions. He didn’t believe Bronco would lie. If he did, Mark thought he would know it.

  “All right,” Mark said finally, “I’ve listened and I’ll jump Bronco when he shows up.” He jabbed a forefinger at Malone. “But don’t leave town. Sharon and I heard you admit you helped rob my parents. You’ll go to jail for it, or I’ll kill you.”

  “You can try,” Malone said smugly. “I won’t leave town. You can count on that. Now, if I was you, I’d get Jackson to help me. Bronco’s a bad one. You can’t take him by yourself.”