Ten Mile Valley

by Wayne D. Overholser

  Mark wheeled and left the restaurant. Malone’s game was plain enough. He was a coward just as Mark had said. He had it figured out how to get Bronco killed without running any risk himself. With Herb Jackson feeling the way he did about Bronco, and with Mark’s natural desire to avenge his parents’ murder, Malone was confident Mark would take his suggestion and team up with Herb to kill Bronco without giving him a chance.

  To hell with Malone, Mark thought as he returned to the saloon. He’d talk to Bronco. That was all. He wasn’t sure what he’d say, but he had to try.

  The men were still bunched along the street just as they had been, their eyes following Mark as he strode toward the saloon. The ones in front of the batwings hadn’t moved. As Mark walked past them, one of them said something. It was the same man he had pushed out of his way when he had first gone into the saloon. Mark wasn’t sure what the man said, but judging from the tone, the rancher was hungry for a fight. Mark hesitated, then went inside. At the moment it wasn’t important.

  The saloon was empty except for the bartender and Matt Ardell. Ardell’s eyes were questioning. Mark asked: “Seen Herb?”

  “No.”

  “If he comes in, get him back outside. I want to talk to Bronco alone. Soon as he rides in, ask him to come inside.”

  “I’ll try,” Ardell said.

  “Keep everybody else out.”

  “Now hold on, Kelton,” the bartender said. “You can’t keep customers …”

  “I can and I will,” Mark said. “After this is over, you’ll sell more whiskey than you’ve sold all year. Matt, this is important.”

  “I said I’d try.” Ardell followed Mark to a table. When Mark sat down facing the batwings, Ardell asked: “What’s up?”

  “Malone says Bronco murdered my parents two years ago,” Mark said. “I don’t believe it. I think Malone did it, but I’ve got to talk to Bronco.”

  “You’ve got a wife,” Ardell said. “Bronco’s a killer. Don’t forget what happened at the fort during the Indian trouble.”

  “I haven’t, and I haven’t forgotten Ruth, either,” Mark said, “but this is something I’ve got to do.”

  Ardell nodded as if he understood. He walked to the front window and stood looking into the street.

  Mark drew his gun and laid it across his lap. He sat there, knowing he could not let himself think of Ruth or the baby. Or of his parents. Or of how much he owed Bronco and the dreams they once had shared. Or of death and the ethics of a fair fight. If Bronco got tangled in his own lies and convicted himself, Mark would shoot him under the table. It would not be murder; it would be a long-delayed execution.

  He remembered something Herb had said once, something Mark had forgotten but that now returned to his mind. A man can’t escape that which is destined to be.

  He sat staring at the green table top as the long minutes dragged out, wondering if fate had decreed that he must die under Bronco Curtis’s gun.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Mark had no idea how long he sat at the table. His mind simply had no capacity to judge time. He didn’t even think about it. He would wait if it took all day. His only fear was that Herb Jackson might waken from his sleep of exhaustion before Bronco got here.

  The saloon man remained behind the bar, glowering at Mark. Matt stood at the window, watching. Then without glancing around, he said: “Bronco’s here.”

  “Fetch him in,” Mark said.

  Ardell turned, hesitating, staring at Mark as if mentally searching for some way to stop this whole thing. Then he shrugged and stepping into the street, called: “Bronco!”

  There was some talk Mark couldn’t hear, then Bronco came through the door and strode directly to Mark’s table. Ardell followed for three steps before he veered off toward the bar, where he stood, watching.

  This was the first time Mark had seen Bronco since last fall when he had left Cross Seven with his jag of steers to join the Triangle R’s drive to the railroad. Mark was shocked. Bronco carried himself as coldly confident as ever, shoulders squared, back straight, chin jutting forward, but there the resemblance to the old Bronco Curtis ended. His clothes were ragged, he hadn’t shaved for two weeks, there was a deep network of lines around his eyes, and he was whittled down to hide and bone.

  He had the wolf look about him again, just as he’d had two years ago during the summer Mark had ridden with him, but now he didn’t even have a whelp to ride beside him. A solitary he-wolf who had withdrawn from the pack, Bronco Curtis was more dangerous than he had ever been in his life.

  Mark intended to ask immediately what part Bronco had had in the murder and robbery of his parents, but before he opened his mouth, Bronco said: “I fired that bitch the minute I got back and found out you’d left. I don’t blame you for wanting to get married, but why’n hell didn’t you come back after I got rid of Sharon?”

  Mark stared up at Bronco, who stood, spread-legged, on the other side of the table, scowling. He was not a man who could be soft or gentle about anything; this was as near as he could come, but it seemed to Mark that, in spite of the rough words and tone, Bronco was trying to say that he had missed Mark. Or maybe it was what Mark wanted to think Bronco was trying to say. He wasn’t sure.

  “I told you before you left I was pulling out,” Mark said. “It wasn’t because of Sharon.”

  “The hell it wasn’t,” Bronco said. “You ain’t like me, wanting to take any woman any time you can get into bed with her. You were thinking of Ruth, and it was too damned tough to stay there with Sharon wanting to crawl in with you, so you had to leave. All winter I thought you’d come riding back, but, by God, you never did.”

  “You’ve got things wrong,” Mark said. “Maybe you’ve forgotten how it was. When we hit this valley, you were calling me your partner. It was the same the first winter we were on Cross Seven, but when I came back after the Indian trouble, you’d thrown in with Jacob Smith. From then on I was just a chore boy. I stayed home and hauled manure. I wasn’t even good enough to ride with the crew.”

  “Why, hell, boy, I didn’t know …”

  “Yes, Bronco, you knew, all right. I asked you for wages enough times. You turned me down. I got married without a cent. Herb Jackson made me a real partner when I first got to the Circle J. We sold a few head of steers to the fort, and he split the money with me. If it hadn’t been for that, I wouldn’t have had enough money to buy my wife a wedding ring.”

  Bronco blinked as if surprised. Maybe he hadn’t thought about it, Mark told himself, thinking about himself as much as he did. Mark said: “I’m going to ask you a question. I want a straight answer. I’ve got my gun on my lap. If you lie to me, I’ll kill you. Why did you run herd on me that first summer, Bronco?”

  Bronco laughed. “You won’t kill me for the same reason that you’re the only man alive I wouldn’t kill.” Then the laughter fled from his bearded face. “What are you talking that way for?”

  “Answer my question.”

  “That why Matt called me in here?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Where’s Red Malone?”

  “In the restaurant with Sharon.”

  “I might have knowed. So he got together with that bitch first thing. What’d he tell you?”

  “Answer my question, Bronco.”

  “All right, damn it. I found you sitting beside the road. You were big enough to be a man, but you wasn’t. You didn’t know how far was up. If I hadn’t taken a hand, Malone would have killed you in Prineville, and you know it.”

  “Yes, I know it, but you still haven’t answered my question.”

  “’Cause I felt sorry for you. That’s why. You’d have starved to death, and the coyotes would have picked your bones clean. You were mighty god-damned helpless. I’d have picked up a starving pup for the same reason.”

  “But you wouldn’t have kept him,” Mark said. “I guess that’s what I’m trying to ask. I’m grateful for what you did, but that’s not going to keep me from shootin
g you for killing my parents.”

  “For what?” Bronco shouted. “My God, boy, I didn’t kill your folks. I didn’t even know they were dead till I found you and you told me. I didn’t believe it even then. I had to go back and see for myself.”

  He’s not lying, Mark thought. Still, what he’d said about being sorry for Mark wasn’t good enough. Bronco Curtis wasn’t a man to load himself with a helpless parasite of a boy because he felt sorry for him.

  Speaking slowly, Mark said: “Red Malone says you were in the wagon before he went in. He says you murdered my parents, took most of the money, claimed you couldn’t find the box, and got out. Then he crawled in and found it.”

  Bronco didn’t move for a time. He stood motionlessly, as coldly furious as Mark had ever seen him, a pulse pounding in his temple, the corners of his mouth quivering. When he did speak, his words were barely audible: “I never thought you’d believe that bastard.”

  “I don’t believe all he said. He admitted helping rob my folks, and I aim to take care of him, but right now I’m asking you.”

  “I’ve got nothing to say,” Bronco shot back. “If you don’t know me well enough by now to know I wouldn’t stab a man and woman to death when they’re asleep, then you wouldn’t believe a word I said. But I will tell you why I ran herd on you that summer. I felt sorry for you like I said, then I got to liking you. You had sand in your craw. I found that out that time in Nevada. I saw it more’n once after we got here. Like with them Paiutes. I told you a man looked out for me once. I couldn’t pay him back, but I could do something for you. Maybe you’ll find a kid someday to pay me back.”

  He turned and strode toward the batwings.

  Mark said sharply: “One more thing, Bronco.”

  Bronco wheeled back to face him. “I’m going to look for Malone. I’ll shut his lying mouth for good, and I’ll fix that damned bitch of a Sharon so she’ll be sorry she ever listened to Malone.”

  “They’ll wait,” Mark said. “Both of them.”

  He hesitated, believing what Bronco had said. He was a selfish man, but it was possible he had honestly liked Mark, and it was possible he had felt a debt to a man who had once looked out for him. But there was the trouble with Herb Jackson, and this was the time to have it out.

  “Well?” Bronco asked.

  “Heard about Herb Jackson?”

  “What about him?”

  “He found some human bones on Cross Seven range that he says are what’s left of Orry Andrews. Also a Henry rifle he recognizes. He’s been in Cañon City with his evidence and charged you with the murder, but the sheriff won’t do anything. Herb’s back, and he’s going to get you, he says.”

  Bronco returned to where Mark sat, the fury strangely gone from him. He put his hands on the edge of the table. He said slowly: “Then Jackson’s a dead man. I’m sorry about that for your sake, but he knows what I’ll do if he keeps pushing that lie of his at me. I’ll kill him. I was willing to let him alone if he’d let me alone, but I reckon he won’t do that.”

  “No, he won’t,” Mark said. “I can’t let you kill him, Bronco.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Bronco demanded. “Stand still while he fills my hide full of holes? I won’t do that. Not even for you, boy.”

  “He’s my father-in-law,” Mark said.

  Mark’s finger tightened on the trigger of the gun he held under the table. He stared across the green top at Bronco, feeling that what he was going to do was terribly wrong, but he knew Bronco was bound to shoot Herb because Herb wouldn’t let the Orry Andrews’s business drop. Mark couldn’t let Bronco do it.

  “Father-in-law or not,” Bronco said, “I don’t aim to stand here and let you …”

  Bronco slammed the table hard against Mark, sending him sprawling backward onto the floor, the gun going off as he fell. Then Bronco was on top of him, his knees driving into Mark’s belly, knocking breath out of him. He twisted the gun out of Mark’s hand, rolled off, and got to his feet. Then he stood looking down, the gun lined on Mark’s chest.

  “You were fixing to shoot me under the table,” Bronco said as if he could not understand it. “But you ain’t yellow, boy. I’ve lived with you too long to think you are.”

  Mark didn’t say anything.

  “You knew you couldn’t outdraw me,” Bronco went on, “so you figured this was the only way to keep me from beefing Herb Jackson. That it?”

  “That’s it,” Mark said. “If you kill Herb, I’ll hunt you down and I’ll shoot you, Bronco. That’s a promise.”

  Bronco backed toward the batwings, his lean face turned bitter. “If you try it, I’ll have to kill you, too, Mark, and that’s the last thing I want to do.”

  He kept on backing toward the door, and it came to Mark in a flashing insight of truth that avenging his parents’ death was not as important as he had thought, but keeping Herb Jackson alive was.

  “I hear you’re broke, Bronco,” Mark said. “Leave the country. Herb can’t hurt you if he can’t find you.”

  Bronco slipped Mark’s gun under his waistband. He said: “I’m broke, but I’ll get started again. I’m not leaving the country, boy. Not for you or Herb Jackson or anyone.” He went on toward the batwings, then paused. “I’m going after Malone. Then I’m leaving town. If Jackson comes after me, I’ll do what I have to do to save my life. Tell him that.”

  He wheeled and pushed the batwings apart with his hands and went on out into the sunlight. Jackson would go after him, Mark knew. There was nothing he could do to stop Jackson. He got up and walked toward the door, not seeing either the bartender or Matt Ardell. Then, just two steps from the door, he heard the sudden, slamming sound of gunfire in the street.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Mark charged through the swinging doors. Bronco was on his hands and knees, struggling to get up. Failing, he fell flat on his stomach. The three men who had been standing near the door were diving frantically for cover. Malone stood in front of Sharon’s restaurant, a smoking gun in his hand. Mark heard Sharon’s scream, a high, sustained sound that went on and on as if it would never stop, just as it seemed this terrible moment would never stop.

  Apparently Malone had been waiting for Bronco to come through the saloon door so he could kill him if Mark didn’t.

  Mark stooped and jerked his gun from Bronco’s waistband. As he straightened, Malone threw a shot at him, the bullet splintering the top of one of the swing doors behind Mark. Then Mark saw why Malone had missed. Sharon had darted out of the restaurant and grabbed Malone’s right arm. He hit her with his left hand, a hard blow that knocked her sprawling into the street. Then he whirled and disappeared into the restaurant.

  Mark ran across the street. As he raced past Sharon, she screamed: “He’ll kill you, Mark! Let him go!”

  But that was something he could not do. He ran through the door and past the counter and on into the kitchen, expecting Malone to make a stand, but the man wasn’t in sight. Mark charged on into the weed-covered lot.

  As Mark cleared the back door, he glimpsed Malone running west. Mark fired and missed, then Malone was out of sight around the corner of the next building, running in a headlong gait as if his only concern was to get away.

  Mark sprinted after the fugitive, wondering why he didn’t make a fight out of it. As Mark rounded the corner of the next building, he saw that Malone was almost across the street, headed for the livery stable.

  Mark stopped and brought up his gun, intending to shoot the man squarely between the shoulder blades. Malone was the one who had murdered his parents, not Bronco. It was Malone’s way, just as shooting Bronco down without giving him a chance was Malone’s way. Running now, instead of facing Mark, was part of the same pattern of behavior.

  Mark squeezed off a shot just as Malone reached the archway of the stable, but the bullet was low. It caught Malone in the right thigh, knocking his leg out from under him as effectively as if he’d stumbled over a taut rope. Mark ran across the street, yelling: “I’l
l kill you if you try to use your gun!”

  Cornered and unable to run, Malone rolled over on his left side. He still held his gun. He threw a shot that kicked up dust in front of Mark. Then, seeing he had missed, he screamed: “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

  But he was too late. Mark’s finger was tight against the trigger. He could not have stopped the impulse even if he had wanted to. He heard the shot and felt the hard buck of the gun against his palm, and through the drifting cloud of smoke he saw Malone’s head jerk, then Malone collapsed into the barn litter that covered the ground in the archway.

  Mark walked to the man, his gun still covering him. When he reached Malone, he holstered the gun. Malone had been killed instantly, the bullet hitting him just below the nose. If Bronco was dead, Mark would never know the full truth about his parents’ deaths, about Bronco’s part in it. But Malone had lied. Of that Mark was sure.

  For a moment he stood, staring down at the dead man, seeing again in his mind the bodies of his parents as he had found them that morning on the Deschutes, remembering the stark terror that had been in him. He had avenged their deaths, for whatever good that was. At least Red Malone would not murder again, and, if Bronco was dead, Herb Jackson would find peace at last.

  As Mark turned away, the street suddenly became alive. Men who had dived for cover now appeared. Cameron ran out of his store. Sharon had crossed to where Bronco lay in front of the saloon, and Herb Jackson, awakened by the shooting, stumbled out of the hotel, looking as if he were not yet fully awake.

  Matt Ardell was bending over Bronco. He straightened and, jerking a hand in Mark’s direction, called: “Bronco’s hard hit, Mark. He wants to talk to you.”

  Mark ran toward the saloon. As he passed Jackson, he paused to say: “Malone shot Bronco Curtis, and I shot Malone.” He went on, and Jackson, shocked awake, followed.

  By the time they reached the saloon, Bronco had been carried inside and laid on a cot in a back room. Sharon was kneeling beside him, crying: “I’m to blame, I’m to blame.” She was saying it over and over, unable to stop until Matt Ardell slapped her on the side of the face. She stopped, the blow returning her to sanity, but she remained on her knees, sobbing.