Hanging Valley

by Jack Ballas

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Hanging Valley

  A BERKLEY Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2002 by Jack Ballas

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  For information address:

  The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://www.penguinputnam.com

  ISBN: 0-7865-2539-8

  A BERKLEY BOOK®

  BERKLEY Books first published by The Penguin Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY and the “B” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Electronic Edition: May, 2002

  Titles by Jack Ballas

  HANGING VALLEY

  WEST OF THE RIVER

  TRAIL BROTHERS

  THE RUGGED TRAIL

  GRANGER’S CLAIM

  BANDIDO CABALLERO

  THE HARD LAND

  IRON HORSE WARRIOR

  MONTANA BREED

  MAVERICK GUNS

  DURANGO GUNFIGHT

  TOMAHAWK CANYON

  ANGEL FIRE

  POWDER RIVER

  GUN BOSS

  APACHE BLANCO

  In Memorial:

  To My Love, My Wife—Harriette

  1

  LINGO BARNES GLANCED at the pile of boulders a couple of hundred yards ahead, looked from them to the copse of pines up the hill above them, and reined his horse toward the trees. Although it was late summer, this Colorado country could heat up pretty quick on a clear day and get cold enough at night to freeze the horn off an anvil.

  In the shade of the pines, he pulled his pipe from his shirt pocket and packed its blackened bowl. About to strike a lucifer, he paused, his gaze locked on the trail below. Four men coming from the direction of Durango dismounted, pulled their horses and what looked like a packhorse behind the pile of boulders. Then, two on each side of the trail took up positions in the rocks.

  Barnes studied them a moment. Everything they’d done bespoke of a holdup. He shook his head. It was about time for the Chama to Durango stage—but coming from Chama it would carry no gold shipment, and they’d apparently brought a pack horse to carry whatever they intended to take.

  Still pondering that thought, the rattle of trace chains and the crack of a whip cut into his thinking. He hooked a leg around the saddle horn, stuck his packed, unlit pipe back in his pocket. Then waited to see what would happen.

  The stage rounded a curve, and the team—not yet in the all-out run the driver would whip them into when only a few hundred yards outside of town—slowed of their own accord; two of the men Barnes had seen go into the boulders stood in the trail. One of them held up his hand, palm outward. The driver pulled the team to a standstill. The men now had bandanas tied over their faces.

  “What you gents want? I ain’t carryin’ nothin’ but one passenger—no gold comin’ from this direction.” Barnes heard the driver as clearly as though standing next to him.

  “Shut up and hold them horses steady.” The bandit who’d held his hand to signal the driver to stop stayed where he was, the barrel of a shotgun pointed at the driver. He looked at the other bandit. “Git the girl outta there an’ let’s git outta here.”

  Lingo glanced at what he’d thought to be a pack saddle and from what he could see of it, partially hidden behind the boulders, decided it was a sidesaddle. Then one of the bandits pulled the horse to the side of the stage, opened the door, and pulled a petite, brown-haired girl from it. She swung her reticule to the side of the outlaw’s head. He moved his head aside, grabbed the slight figure by the hair, jerked her head down, and snatched the reticule from her hand.

  Blood surged up behind Barnes’s eyes. He stiffened his legs to dig spurs into his horse and ride down the hill. He stopped barely in time. Hell, he’d get himself and the stage driver killed; maybe the girl, too. He settled into his saddle. He’d wait and see what happened.

  The bandit who’d taken the reticule picked the slight form up and threw her into the saddle. “We wuz sent out here to take you off’n that there stage. We done it. Now you be good an’ we ain’t gonna hurt you, yet.”

  That “yet” tightened Barnes’s neck and chest muscles. It was clear that none of what the bandits had in store for the girl was good, but Lingo figured he’d best be patient.

  The bandit who’d stopped the stage, a short wiry man, tilted the shotgun, pulled the trigger, and the driver slumped into the boot. Barnes had no doubt the man was dead. Then, one of the bandits climbed to the boot and made sure the straps were tied securely to the brake. He apparently wanted the horses to stay where they were until someone came along, thus giving the four, and the girl, time to get as far as possible from the scene.

  The riders toed their stirrups and, leading the girl’s horse, headed up the side of the mountain across the trail from where Lingo sat his horse. Before leaving, a big rawboned rider edged alongside the stage and pulled a valise from its top. Barnes assumed it held the girl’s belongings. He stayed in the pines until the five disappeared around a bend into some jumbled rocks. Not until then did he ride from under the trees. The acrid smell of gunsmoke still hung in the air.

  He glanced in the direction of Durango, checked the driver, and as he’d thought, the man was dead. He loosened the straps from the brake and popped the whip over the horses backs. They headed for Durango.

  He sighed for want of seeing the sights he’d not seen for two months, worked his tongue around his teeth imagining he could taste and smell the whisky, and at the same time wished for a water glass full of the strong liquid. He reined his horse in the direction the bandits had taken. There would be time for the bright lights after he had the girl safely back to wherever she’d been heading.

  At the jumble of rocks he dismounted, walked to the shoulder of the farthest one, and peered in the direction in which he thought the outlaws might go. They’d first put distance between them and Durango, then if they had a cabin, or hideout of any kind they’d cover their tracks as well as they could and head for it.

  He studied the country ahead. A steady climb showed itself. He pulled the knots from a couple of pigging strings behind his saddle and draped his sheepskin across the saddlehorn. It would not take long for the higher elevations to push the heat aside, although the warmth had been welcome down along the trail.

  An hour later, he shrugged into his coat. The bandits had shown no fear of being followed and at first he had no trouble following them; then the going got rougher. In most places smooth rock covered the trail. The only clue as to which way they’d gone was an occasional scrape mark on the smooth surface, then their hoofprints in soft soil would prove he’d taken the right course. The hoofprints dug deeply into the underfooting that had washed from the sides of the mountain; then again they’d ride across rock.

  Purple shadows pushed their way from under trees. Lingo glanced at the sky. It would show a clear blue long after dark settled in here, far below the peaks. Should he try riding after dark and risk losing the gang, or should he take the chance that they’d leave the girl alone until they got where they were going?
After studying on the kind of men he trailed, he decided to keep going. They’d sit around a fire, and eventually they’d decide the girl could give them that for which they hungered.

  He followed until darkness blotted the tracks from sight, but he noticed the bandits followed the easiest path alongside the mountain. They obviously let their horses pick their way. He did the same, but ever so often he stopped his horse to listen, then he’d test the air for the smell of wood smoke.

  Finally, his sense of smell and hearing were rewarded at about the same time. The scent of smoke, and loud, boisterous laughter broke the silence. He had ridden too close, but had been riding on one of the stretches of soft soil and had made no noise. The down-slope wind carried the smoke to him, but would also carry the scent of the bandit’s horses. He reached around and held his hand over his horse’s nose. When he removed his hand, he felt certain his horse would not announce their coming.

  Lingo climbed from his saddle, picked his way back along the trail, found a place to tether his horse, then headed back toward the campsite. He’d been in situations like this before and had felt fear pull at his neck muscles. Tonight was no different.

  About ten feet from where he’d first stopped, he planted his feet again, firelight shimmered and danced along the top of a huge boulder. If he could see the reflection on that rock, the fire had to be between him and the rock. He found a crack between two boulders and peered between them. He could almost touch the back of one of the outlaws who sat leaning against one of the rocks he looked between. He moved his gaze out into the small clearing. The other three sat, legs crossed, warming their outstretched hands by the fire. Where was the girl?

  He searched the area twice before his eyes settled on what at first he’d thought a small pile of rocks. He moved his gaze away, then back. Now he was cetain he looked upon the huddled form of the young woman. Her legs were pulled up tight against her stomach, her hands tied behind her, her feet lashed together. Her head rested on what he took to be her valise. Her eyes blazed between tendrils of tangled brown, almost auburn hair. She lay in plain sight of the bandits. Lingo memorized every inch of the campsite: where each man sat, where their saddles and blankets lay, where they’d stashed their rifles. Each wore a sidegun. At the girl’s back, bare ground about four-feet wide stretched. Barnes sighed. He saw no way to free her without being seen. Then he’d probably get them both shot.

  The horses. He had to find them—and move them, if he could do so without alarming them and the outlaws. Then he’d worry about getting the young woman out of their grasp.

  He slipped back down the trail they’d come in on for a few feet; then began circling the camp. About halfway around, the form of one horse loomed out of the dark, then he spotted the other four, all standing in a circle, their noses almost touching.

  Horses were social animals, so he wasn’t surprised to find them like that. He left them like he found them, went back to his own horse, gathered the reins in his left hand, and tested every inch of soil in front of him, making sure his pony’s shoes wouldn’t ring against stone.

  Coming in on the downwind side of the five horses, he stroked each powerful neck to quiet them, then placed his own horse among them. When he left he looked for a place, not too far from where they were, but far enough to cause the outlaws confusion when not finding their horses where they’d left them.

  About fifty yards from where the bandits had staked them out, he found a small clearing, checked that he’d have a clear path of escape, then went back to where the six horses were tethered.

  When he stood in the middle of them, he pondered how to move them without being heard. If he moved all six at once they’d make too much noise. If he moved them one at a time it would take too much time. He decided to take two and make three trips.

  He gathered the tethers of two horses when they all seemed to take notice of him. They blew, then moved enough to stamp their hooves.

  Standing in the middle of them, holding tether ropes with his left hand, he squatted and drew his Colt .44. Sure enough, one of those in the camp took notice of the noise and came to check.

  Before reaching them he bellowed, “What the hell’s botherin’ you jugheads? Ain’t nothin’ out heah gonna bother you. Now settle down.”

  Barnes watched while the man walked to the nearest horse, patted him on the neck, and turned back toward the fire. Lingo willed his tight-drawn muscles to relax. He breathed deeply a couple of times and thanked every deity he’d ever heard of that the man had not counted the horses.

  The outlaw, apparently now at the fire, said, “Wan’t nothin’. Them bangtails mighta got spooked out yonder alone. They know we’re in country where they’s many a big cat huntin’.” He chuckled. “Reckon they don’t wantta make a meal fer one o’ them cats.”

  While he talked, Barnes led two horses from the small bunch, then went back for two more. He left his horse until he led the last two from where the bandits had tethered them.

  Then, he worked his way back to the edge of the clear area behind the girl and studied long on what to do next. Not so much what to do, but how to do it. Getting close enough to free the young woman of her bindings without being seen wasn’t even a consideration; they’d see him before he got two feet into the area.

  He smelled the rich aroma of coffee before one of the outlaws stood, went to the fire, poured himself a cupful, then hung the coffeepot back on a hook hanging from a green bough spanning the distance between two forked sticks on either side of the fire. Blood surged through Lingo’s head, his muscles tightened, his lips thinned. He knew how he’d cause them to react—hopefully before they put thought to their actions. Now, should he try to get the girl’s attention to let her know to expect something, or would it be best to set hell to breaking loose without warning her? He decided that to try to get her attention would be too risky—then impulse took over.

  He pulled his Colt in one smooth motion. Fired into the coffeepot. It jumped and bounced from the hook; threw scalding coffee on at least two of the bandits and most of the fire. He thumbed another shot into the fire. Hot coals scattered among the outlaws, and the light furnished by the fire dimmed to a dull glow. The bandits all had their handguns in action. Blinded by the sudden darkness after staring into the fire, they threw shots in every direction.

  Barnes holstered his .44, sprinted to the small, huddled shape, scooped her and the valise into his arms, and ran like Satan had tied a can to his tail. Every muscle in his body braced against the stunning impact of a bullet. The numbing pain he expected didn’t happen. He reached the horses.

  Not waiting to free the girl of her lashings, he held her with one arm, grabbed the horn with his free hand and lifted her to the horse. She lay facedown across the horse’s neck in front of him. He slipped out of his sheepskin, placed it over her slight body, then gathered the tether ropes of the other horses and went from the small clearing at a run letting his horse pick the way. The girl had not uttered a sound. Lingo marveled at that. Most women would have been screaming and raising all sorts of hell.

  He slowed the horses, figuring the bandits would stumble around in the dark not knowing what hit them, then by the time they had it figured out, he and the young woman would be beyond their reach; until they could get horses.

  After about a half hour, he reined in, turned the extra horses loose, swung his leg over his horse’s rump, and pulled the girl off. He then cut her bindings and looked down at her. Even in the dark, he saw that she was petite, and an uncommonly pretty young woman. “Sorry I had to treat you like a bag o’ grain, young lady, but I had no choice.”

  In a soft, husky voice, she said, “I know. You did what had to be done.” Then almost so soft he had trouble hearing, “Thank God. The horrible things they talked of doing to me were things I had only heard whispered by those who survived the war.”

  “Ma’am, I listened to them make their brags. I’ll assure you nothing like those things’re gonna happen to you. We’ll ride awhile, then I�
�ll set us up a camp. We’ll talk then.”

  He looked from her to his horse. One saddle, his saddle, no sidesaddle. “Ma’am, didn’t have time to get that sidesaddle. I’ll ride behind an’ hold you in front of me.”

  She nodded, toed the stirrup, and swung to his saddle sitting sideways. He swung up behind her, and led them from the clearing.

  Careful to make sure he did nothing she might misconstrue as trying to get familiar, he held her caged between his arms while holding the reins. They rode for another two hours, then rounding a bend, Lingo moved into a jumble of large boulders and climbed down. He held his arms up and helped her slide to the ground. He had no doubt that she was tired to the bone, but he’d not heard one whimper from her.

  “Ma’am, know you’re worn out, you just sit over there by that rock while I get a fire started an’ put on a pot o’ coffee. Those who took you won’t be close until they find horses. I figure they’ll walk back to Durango before they find any.”

  “Durango is where I was going. My father was to meet me. Is there no chance we could make it there tonight? He’ll be worried sick.”

  “We’ll talk about that after I get you comfortable.”

  Barnes worked at collecting broken branches, bark, and pieces of sturdier wood. He started the fire while she talked, then he set about pouring water from his canteen into his coffeepot, which he’d untied from the cantle of his saddle. He took the old blackened pot with him even if going to town.

  Finally, the fire burning to his satisfaction, he glanced at the girl. “Ma’am, come close to the fire, I know you must be chilled.”

  She smiled. “Hardly, sir, you’re the one who must be cold. I’m wearing your coat.” She nodded toward the valise Barnes had dropped at the side of the horse. “I have a coat in that bag. If you’ll hand it to me, I’ll give you back your own.”

  It took only a moment for them to shrug into their own coats.