Blood Valley

by William W. Johnstone

  “Lord have mercy! I don’t wanna die, Marshal!”

  “Who’s threatened to kill you, boy?”

  “All of ’em!” he fairly screamed it out. “I overheard them talking last evening.”

  “What was they talkin’ about?”

  “They’ve challenged Colonel Dolittle and his Irregulars to a battle. It’s happenin’ today, Marshal. North of town in the Big Piney area.”

  With a curse, I let him go and hustled over to the Sheriff’s office. The boys was up and havin’ coffee before headin’ out for breakfast.

  Quickly, I told them what the clerk had told me. “Burtell, you see if Dolittle’s in town.”

  “What do I do if I find him?”

  “Sit on him!”

  But Dolittle was gone, and so was his horse. His wife told Burtell he had gone to fight the Lord’s battle and would soon be returning, victorious and flush with victory.

  “Well, shit!” says I.

  “Maybe we can overtake them,” De Graff suggested. “What do you think, Marshal?”

  “No,” my reply was slow-given. “No, I think that’s what somebody would like for us to try.”

  “What do you mean?” Rusty asked.

  “They wouldn’t try to take the town,” Burtell said. “There ain’t nobody ever treed no western town that I know of. These shopkeepers and store-owners would get right hostile.”

  “Ambush,” De Graff said. “They’ve figured to kill two birds with the same stone. Us, and Dolittle’s army.”

  “That’s the way I see it. Well, Dolittle and his men are full-growed. If they ain’t got no better sense than what they’ve showed so far, I ain’t gonna try to stop them. We’ll just sit tight and see how flush with victory they are in a few hours.”

  It was a pitiful sight. Near’bouts a hundred men had ridden out. By late afternoon, they begun to straggle back in. And there wasn’t no flush from victory on none of their faces.

  “How many you counted so far?” De Graff asked me.

  “Thirty-four sittin’ their saddles. I don’t know how many was in them wagons over to the Doc’s office.” I looked at the boys. “Y’all stay put and keep alert. I’m gonna amble down to the clinic and see what there is to see.”

  It was bad. Dolittle’s Irregulars had rode right into an ambush. And if I’d ever seen a bunch of spirit-broken men, this was them.

  But I couldn’t find hide nor hair of Colonel Dolittle. I found Pepper, helpin’ the Doc’s wife with the nursin’.

  “Any word on what happened to the preacher?”

  “He turned tail and run away,” a man spoke from his pallet on the floor. “Last I seen of him he was high-tailin’ it back thisaway. He’s probably hidin’ under the bed at his house.”

  Some of the others who was able began talkin’ to me. The ambush had worked to a T. The Irregulars had ridden right into the trap, not suspectin’ nothin’ of the sort. One man said he personal seen ten dead; they was blowed out of the saddle right at the first volley.

  One man, he just laid on the floor, on his pallet, both his legs broke where his horse had fallen on him after being shot out from under him, cryin’ soundlessly, the tears runnin’ down his face.

  Like I said, pitiful.

  When I stepped back outside, the rest of Dolittle’s army was gathered around the office and the clinic. One man, Bill Nolan, one of the appointed Captains, walked up to me.

  “I reckon we was fools, Marshal.”

  “No. You had the right idea, but you just chose to follow the wrong man. And speakin’ of the wrong man, where is he?”

  “At his house. He’s all tore up inside, Marshal. Don’t be too hard on him. Basically, he’s a good man.”

  “Basically, he’s a puffed-up jackass. Preachers ought to preach and keep their noses out of everythin’ else.”

  Nolan, he sighed. “I reckon so, Marshal.”

  “You got any accurate count on the dead yet?”

  “For sure, thirty-eight.”

  Pitiful.

  The final tally turned out to be forty-four dead.

  It was noon of the next day when the Doc, all haggard-lookin’, walked slow up the boardwalk and sat down beside me in front of the office.

  “Have you spoken with the Reverend Dolittle yet, Marshal?”

  “Nope. Don’t have no plans to do so neither. The man’s a damn fool. I don’t like to associate with fools. Good way to get a man killed.”

  The Doc, he didn’t say nothin’, but I think he sort of agreed with me. “There will be a mass funeral tomorrow, ten o’clock.”

  “Good. This time of the year, a body don’t keep for very long.”

  “Have you formulated any plan for dealing with the men who ambushed the Irregulars?”

  “Nope.”

  Doc Harrison, he was some kind of surprised at that. “I beg your pardon, Marshal?”

  “First of all, Doc, it ain’t up to me. I’ll help out the sheriff if and when some warrants is issued. But look at it this way: Dolittle and his Irregulars was an armed body of men, ridin’ on private range, with intentions of committin’ an act of armed aggression. Mayhaps you’d like to tell me who is right and who is wrong?”

  “In other words? . . .”

  “None of the Irregulars I’ve spoke to can tell me a single name of the men who ambushed them. Like a pure-dee damn fool that he is, Dolittle led his army into the Big Piney; a place that seems made for ambush. He didn’t send out no scouts, he didn’t break up his men; had ’em all bunched up. The fire came from both sides of that wooded draw. Nobody saw nothin’. They just died.”

  The Doc, he didn’t have no more to say on the subject. He just got up slow and tired-like, looked at me, nodded his head, and walked slowly back down the boardwalk, toward his office. I felt sorry for the Doc. But even though I knowed it to be wrong, I just couldn’t work up much pity for them that had got killed or hurt. It was just a damn fool thing they done.

  It was one whale of a funeral; started at ten o’clock and at five that afternoon it was still goin’ on. Dolittle was not handlin’ the services. Two preachers from another town had been brought in for that. Nobody had seen hide nor hair of Dolittle. And despite my feelings toward the fool, I was gettin’ sort of concerned about the windbag.

  So, puttin’ aside what I’d told Doc Harrison, and leavin’ the sounds of the mourners and marchers behind me, I strolled down to Dolittle’s house, some ways from the church house.

  His wife was sittin’ on the front porch, in a rockin’ chair, doin’ some needlework. She stared at me without no greetin’ .

  “I come to inquire about your husband, Ma’am.”

  “He isn’t here, Marshal.” Her voice was low and sort of eerie-soundin’ .

  “Where is he, Ma’am?”

  “Rode out this morning.”

  A feelin’ of despair struck me hard. I had a hunch what the preacher was doin’, but I hoped I was wrong. “Rode out . . . where, Ma’am?”

  “He rode east, Marshal.”

  “Was he armed, Ma’am?”

  “Yes. Yes, he was. Heavily armed.”

  “He didn’t tell you where he was goin’, Ma’am?”

  She stared at me. “He said only that he was going to vindicate himself.”

  Now, I wasn’t real sure what vindicate meant. But I figured it was gonna turn out bad for the preacher. I thanked the lady and left out of there, headin’ for the stable.

  That Rolf Baker, he was a strange one; yesterday, he’d had my horse, Critter, brung back to me and stabled. Critter still was some hurt but healin’ well. I patted him and saddled Pronto, ridin’ back to the Sheriff’s office.

  De Graff was sittin’ out front. Due to the many funerals, I had to ride through the alleys and walk around to get to the front of the office.

  “What’s vindicate mean?” I asked him.

  “Damned if I know, Marshal.”

  I told him what Mrs. Dolittle had said.

  “You gonna go lookin’ f
or him, Marshal?”

  “Thought I might.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “You get your horse. I’ll meet you back here in a few minutes.” I had spotted Pepper across the street. Duckin’ through the crowds, I got across the street without bein’ run down.

  “Pepper, what does vindicate mean?”

  “It means to clear oneself from doubt, blame, guilt or suspicion.”

  That’s what I thought it meant . . . sort of. I thanked her and ducked back across the street, avoidin’ the professional mourners that was sobbin’ and hollerin’ and moanin’.

  Me and De Graff rode out of town, headin’ north towards Rockinghorse range.

  “You think Dolittle’s in trouble, Marshal?”

  “Yeah. I think he’s in bad trouble.”

  Chapter Seven

  We found his big horse first. The big fine animal was dead. Somebody, or a whole bunch of somebodies, had shot it about a dozen times. Wasn’t long ’fore we come upon Preacher Dolittle, and it was a humiliatin’ sight. It was something that I never believed in.

  The man had been stripped naked and then tarred and feathered. He was staggerin’ along, babblin’ out of his head.

  “Somebody comin’ up behind us,” De Graff said.

  It was Doc Harrison and Pritcher, from the Doubtful Informer, and they was in a wagon.

  Doc’s face turned white as a fresh-washed sheet when he spotted the Preacher.

  And from the north, here come Matt Mills’ boy, Hugh, with a couple of gunhands ridin’ with him. As they come closer, I could see they had tar-spots all over their clothes.

  Now, I didn’t much care for the Preacher. He might have been a pompous windbag, but he wasn’t no bad person. And he didn’t deserve nothin’ like what he’d just got.

  “Preacher, can you understand me?” I had to ask it several times.

  Finally, his eyes cleared some and he nodded his head.

  “Who done this to you?”

  He tried to answer, but no words would form.

  “Was it young Hugh and his bunch?”

  He nodded his head.

  And Hugh and them gunhawks was grinnin’ real smart-ass-like as they reined up. “What you got there, Marshal Pickens?” Hugh smirked. “Looks like a big ugly crow, don’t it?”

  I didn’t say nothin’ to him. I guess he was figurin’ on anything but what I done. I just jerked him off that horse and dumped him on the ground. As I done that, De Graff dragged iron and eared the hammer back, catchin’ them two gunslingers by surprise.

  I give Young Hugh a right smart kick on the side of his head and he was still as a rock. Then I proceeded to strip him buck-assed nekid. I looked up at the gunhawks; their faces was gray. They had them a hunch what was comin’. But they was only half right.

  “Get off them horses and peel down to the where-with-all,” I told them. “Or I’ll kill you right now!”

  They believed me. They come out of them saddles faster than a bat can fly and commenced to takin’ off their clothes.

  And I’m gonna tell y’all, they wasn’t none of them no joyful sight to behold standin’ there in their birthday suits.

  “Take the preacher back to town,” I told the Doc and Pritcher. “And tell the folks in town I’ll be comin’ in right behind you. Have a welcomin’ committee ready for this bunch.”

  The Doc, he smiled grimly. “It will be my pleasure, Marshal. I’ll notify Langford and have him ready, too.”

  “I think that would be a real nice touch, Doc.”

  Young Hugh sure could fling words around. Buck-assed nekkid, barefooted, with his hands tied behind his back and a rope around his neck, he told me and De Graff what his daddy was gonna do to us. He swore on his grandmother’s grave and on everything holy that he would see us horsewhipped, dragged, staked out on anthills, drawn and quartered, and all sorts of stuff.

  Ever’ now and then, I’d give a little tug on that rope and he’d go sprawlin’ face-first in the dirt and then I’d drag him a few feet ’fore I’d let him get back up. After a while, he got it through his head that if he’d shut his mouth, I’d quit pullin’ on the rope.

  The gunhawks, they had more sense than Young Hugh; they din’t say nothin’, exceptin’ an occasional “ouch,” or “damn!” when they stepped on a burr or a sharp rock.

  I halted the parade when we come to the hill that looked down on the town of Doubtful.

  “My, my!” De Graff said, with a wicked glint in his eyes. “Would you just take a look at all them folks linin’ the streets of town.”

  I looked back at the sorry trio. “You boys hold your heads up high, now. You ’bout to be the stars of a parade.”

  That set Young Hugh off again. Man, but he done some cussin’.

  Johnny Bull, he picked that time to come ridin’ up from the east. He sat in his saddle for a few seconds and then he got to laughin’ so hard he had to step down and sit down in the dirt.

  When he finally wiped his eyes and got back up, I asked, “Do you know these two-bit gunhands, Johnny?”

  “Oh, yeah. That one who’s short in the pecker department calls hisself Blackie. The other one is a punk from down Utah way. His name is Ray. They’re tinhorns, both of ’em.”

  Blackie, he glared at Johnny. “Someday I’ll kill you, Bull!”

  That set Johnny off again. He wound down chucklin’ and looked at me. “I done quit the Circle L, Cotton. You mind if I ride along with y’all?”

  “Not at all, Johnny. You be lookin’ for a job, then?”

  “I might take one if it was right for me, for sure.”

  “Why don’t you talk to Rusty. He could use another deputy.”

  Johnny, he smiled at me. “I just might do that, Cotton. Yep, I just might.”

  “Goddamn traitor!” Young Hugh yelled at Johnny.

  Johnny laughed at him. “I really hope I never have to see you again like this. I’ll have nightmares for a month as it is.”

  Hugh spat at him.

  The whole town had turned out for this spectacle. Langford was there with his picture-takin’ equipment, and he was pourin’ the powder to it and poppin’ away.

  The crowds that lined both sides of the main street didn’t act up none. Nobody tossed no rotten fruit or eggs at the men. They just laughed and laughed . . . and I think that hurt Young Hugh more than if they’d thrown things at him.

  I looked back just in time to see a cloud of dust that looked like a prairie storm comin’ our way. No one had to tell me who it was: Matt Mills and the whole Rockinghorse crew.

  Rusty, he stepped off the boardwalk just as we reined in. “I’ll take the prisoners, Marshal. Full responsibility for them.” He winked at me, then turned to Young Hugh. “I imagine you’re gonna want to see your daddy, son. So I’ll just tie this end of your lead-rope to the hitchrail, then y’all can jaw all you want.”

  Young Hugh, he cussed and spat at Rusty. Rusty patted him on top of his head. “There, there, boy; you just settle down.”

  The Rockinghorse men all reined up in a long line, spread out, facin’ me and the boys and Matt’s ass-showin’ son and gunslingers. And they was some pitiful-lookin’. All dusty and sweat-streaked, their feet cut up and stone-bruised. Young Hugh just couldn’t take no more. He just busted out bawlin’ and yelled, “Daddy!”

  I caught the eye of Waldo Stamps. Now me and Waldo was on opposite sides of the fence in this matter, but he had to take off his hat and cover his face with it, it tickled him so. I could see Hank Hawthorne and Joe Coyle and Pen Castell, and even some of the regular Rockinghorse crew felt the same way. It was funny to them.

  But it wasn’t funny to Matt nor to Kilby Jones.

  I looked at Young Hugh. “That all you got to say to your pa, boy? Just ‘Daddy’?”

  Matt, he let me have it then. “This is the most uncalled-for act of barbarism I have ever witnessed, Marshal.”

  “Even worse than what went on at the Old Brewery, Matt?” I tossed it to him softly; not many
others heard it.

  Even though I’d guessed that Rolf had told him and A.J. both, it still shook him. He had to grab hold of the saddle horn to steady hisself.

  When he finally found his voice, he said, “The sins of the father should not be held against the son, Marshal.”

  Just then, Doc Harrison pushed his way through the crowd. “Marshal, the Reverend Sam Dolittle just died.”

  I waited until the crowd had stopped buzzin’ at that news, then I looked at Hugh and Blackie and Ray. “The charge is murder, boys. Lock ’em down hard, Rusty.”

  I reckon that before Matt had left the ranch that mornin’, he sent a rider gallopin’ off to the nearest telegraph office and sent Judge Barbeau a wire . . . or maybe it had been done days before, I didn’t know. But the judge had just taken his summer’s vacation, would be gone for six weeks, or more. And then maybe the judge had seen some bad times on the way and just decided on his own to hit the trail. Like I said, I don’t know. But he didn’t appoint nobody to hear his cases while he was gone, so that left Hugh and Blackie and Ray in the bucket, safe from a hangman’s noose for six weeks, or more, or so I thought.

  I got word from the U.S. Marshal’s office to go look into some outlaws that was supposed to be holed up down on the Crazy Woman. That was gonna be three or four days there and at least that many days back.

  When I got back, the valley had exploded.

  Rusty had a bandage on his head, De Graff was favorin’ one leg, and Burtell still had a mouse under one eye.

  But what had first caught my eyes was that the front door of the jailhouse had been tore down.

  “Break-out?” I asked.

  “Lynchin’,” Rusty said.

  It had happened two days back. I had been to the Crazy Woman and didn’t find hide nor hair of any outlaws. I was one day on my way back when, as Rusty put it, “Some gawddamned men wearin’ hoods over their heads come bustin’ into the jail and conked me on the noggin with a club!”

  De Graff picked it up. “I come up out of bed in my drawers and broke my big toe when I run into the damn bedpost. By that time, them hooded men was all over us, punchin’ and kickin’. They didn’t come in to kill us, ’cause nobody dragged iron until the cells was open.”