Hanging Valley

by Jack Ballas

  Barnes hadn’t intended to say anything about recognizing the two sets of prints, but when Sam admitted to knowing the two men who’d made the prints, and not liking them, he relented on that intent a little. He glanced at Slagle, but would still hold back on letting Slagle know why he was here.

  5

  SLAGLE STEPPED UP beside Lingo. “Let’s go rattle the lock on that door. Maybe we can pull it loose.”

  Barnes had been tempted to do that very thing, then had second thoughts. “Nope. We walk to that door we’re gonna let them know somebody’s been here. I figure at least one o’ those three can read sign well as we can. ’Sides that, I don’t know what we could expect to find in there that would help us know where Colter might’ve gone.” He shrugged. “Don’t reckon I’m gonna find me a job today.”

  Slagle looked from Lingo to the door, then again looked at Barnes. “Hell, man, I’m gittin’ more’n enough dust outta my diggin’s to keep me livin’ right good. Why don’t you bunk in with me ’til Colter shows up. Know you must a rode the grubline while cowboyin’, so figger this here as bein’ one o’ them ranches you stopped at. Ain’t gonna hurt me none to feed ’nother mouth.” He grinned. “ ’Sides that, I like your company.”

  A rush of warmth flooded Lingo’s chest, and with it came trust. He looked Slagle in the eye, and at the same time the warmth pushed up across his face. “Slagle, I’ve not been perfectly honest with you. If you’ll not judge me until I tell you the story I’d be beholden to you.”

  Slagle eyed him a moment, then motioned down the hill. “C’mon, we’ll go sit in my cabin, drink a little o’ my whisky, an’ you can tell me why you don’t trust me.”

  Lingo shook his head. “Didn’t say I don’t trust you. What I’m sayin’ is, I needed to know more ’bout you ’fore I made up my mind.”

  Slagle gave a jerky nod. “All right, let’s git on down there an’ you tell your story.”

  In Sam’s cabin, sitting across the table from each other, Lingo started with the stage holdup and brought Slagle up to where they sat at the table. Lingo spread his hands, palms up. “So you see, Sam, I didn’t know who to trust. My ranch is in a hangin’ valley not too far on the other side of the mountain. I’m not broke. I know I led you to believe my pockets were empty but I had to have some reason to ask ’bout Colter’s mine, an’ try to find out somethin’’bout him.”

  Sam frowned, pulled Lingo’s glass over in front of him, tilted the bottle, and poured them each another drink. He grinned. “Tell you what, young’un; figger I’d’ a played the hand much like you done.” His brow creased, a deep furrow between his eyes. “Son, I wantta help if we can think o’ any way we can work it without messin’ up your way o’ findin’ the man. Little as I knowed ’im, I liked ’im. Hope nothin’s done happened to ’im”—he shook his head—“but I ain’t holdin’ out much faith that hope’s gonna pan out.”

  “For Emily’s sake, I hope you’re wrong.” Barnes knocked back his drink, shook his head when Sam held the bottle to pour him another, and said, “But yeah, let’s look at the things I gotta know, an’ see if there’re any you can help with. Don’t want to get you a pack o’ trouble though—or stop you from doin’ your own work.”

  Slagle, his face thoughtful, sat a moment, then nodded. “Tell you what, Lingo, I need to take a few days off from that back-breakin’ work in the mine, an’ trouble here ain’t the issue. Me wantin’ to help will help all o’ us here in Silverton. We don’t want that kind o’ folks around. We got ’nuff troubles with Saturday night fights, don’t need no more.”

  They studied the problem awhile, then Lingo asked if Sam had any writing paper and a pencil. Sam pulled a tablet from a cabinet drawer, rummaged about in another drawer, and found a pencil. Then they rehashed the things they’d talked about.

  As each item for investigation came up, Lingo wrote it down; the first on his list was to find the man who made the low-quarter shoe tracks.

  Lingo looked at Slagle. “Neither of those two have the brains to do anything on their own. Maybe this other man doesn’t either, but he’s our next target. We find him, we may be able to find what they’re tryin’ to do. Right now, I’m inclined to think they’re tryin’ to steal Colter’s mine, an’ findin’ out the old man had a daughter threw a rabid skunk into the henhouse.”

  A frown creased Slagle’s red, weathered brow. “We been wonderin’ if they wuz anythin’ I could do, well, reckon we done found somethin’. Them two dumb ones will know you, but not that you know Emily Lou. You already got trouble with ’em if they see you, so why not let me roam ’round town an’ see can I find who their partner—or boss—is. Bet money all three been seen together here in town. Don’t figger they spent all their time in Durango.”

  Pencil point resting on the tablet, Lingo nodded. “You’re right. It won’t settle anything for me to tangle with ’em here in town. Besides, I figure you being a citizen o’ this town, you can get around an’ ask questions without arousin’ suspicion. Fact is, none o’ those three might be pullin’ the strings on what’s happened. Might even be somebody here in town got wind of Colter’s big strike, an’ figures to take over his mine.”

  “Way I got it figgered, too. I gotta be gosh-dinged careful how I ask questions.”

  Lingo only nodded, then looked around the room. “Reckon I could talk you into lettin’ me make a pot o’ coffee?”

  “Why dadgum it, I wuz jest gonna ask if you wanted a cup. I’ll put it on since I know where the makin’s are.” Sam stood, went to the cupboard, and said over his shoulder, “Once I find them two rascals ain’t in town, why don’t you move your stuff up here? Ain’t no sense in you payin’ a hotel bill even if you can afford it.”

  A slight smile crinkled Lingo’s lips. “Only if you’ll take some money from me an’ buy provisions with it. Not gonna mooch offa you.”

  Sam nodded. “Reckon that’d sortta make us partners in this, but yeah, we’ll split the cost o’ what I spend.” He frowned, obviously pondering the problem further. “Hey, know what? If I go around buyin’ stuff, it’ll give me a good chance to ask questions in each store I go in. Reckon I can git started now. We’ll git you moved down here after dark. You stay here ’til I git back.”

  Lingo nodded. “I’ll be here.”

  Slagle—already deep into where to get started—left, thinking maybe the general store would be the best place to start.

  In the store, he wandered around, looked at items of clothing, went to the grocery shelves, scanned them, and wished he’d made a list of things to buy before leaving his cabin. After his second trip around the store, Ted Murchison, the proprietor, walked over to him, grinning. “Damn, Slagle, you’ve been around the store twice, still lookin’ like you don’t know what you wantta buy. Can I help you?”

  Sam shrugged. “You right. I left the cabin without makin’ a list.” He grinned. “Always hate pickin’ up a pencil ’cause I know writin’s a hard chore fer me. Thought if I walked around an’ saw anythin’ I wanted it might let me know what I need.”

  “Tell you what, I just got a shipment of them airtights, vegetables, fruits, stuff like that. Why don’t you go in the back and look the boxes over, pick what you want, an’ I’ll sack it up for you. Ain’t had time to put ’em on the shelves yet.”

  Sam nodded and grinned. “Bet they’s stuff there I ain’t tasted since last spring when some o’ them farmers outside Durango brought in some. I’ll go back there an’ see what you got.”

  He headed for the back of the store. In the musty, dusty, dark confines of stacked boxes he read the labels on each box, made a mental note of what he wanted—cans of beans, peaches, greens, cherries, dried apples—and then came to a box without a label defining what was inside. It had a name on it he didn’t recognize: Randall Bartow. He scratched his head. He’d heard the name somewhere but couldn’t place it. He knew the man wasn’t a mine owner, and wondered what was in the box. He checked it further; the box came from a company in Baltimore, Maryland. Sla
gle knew every miner in the area by name, and by sight. Several of them were Easterners, but none was named Bartow. He went out to the front of the store again, and selected pipe and cigarette tobacco, coffee, cornmeal, flour, and other items until Murchison, after taking care of a customer, walked to his side. “Find anythin’ back yonder you want?”

  Sam nodded, called out a list while the proprietor wrote it down, then said, “Seen a box for a man named Bartow. Don’t recollect makin’ ’is acquaintance. He a miner?”

  Murchison shook his head. “Don’t know. He ain’t very friendly. He come in here with a woman by the name o’ Maddie Brice. They got a cabin up a draw somewhere outta here. Don’t make no pretense as to bein’ married, but they’re livin’ together, which ain’t none o’ my business. She comes in here to buy groceries an’ other things once in a while. She ain’t talkative neither. Ain’t seen neither one of ’em in a week or more.”

  Still holding the pad of paper on which he’d written what Sam wanted, he nodded toward the pad. “You want anythin’ else, or you want me to sack this stuff up?”

  Figuring he’d gotten all that he could out of Murchison without arousing suspicion, he thought a few moments, frowning. “Don’t know, Ted. Why don’t you put it all in a gunnysack an’ hang on to it while I roam around town awhile. If I think o’ anythin’ else while I’m gone, I’ll get it when I git back. Tally up what I owe you an’ I’ll pay when I git back.”

  While walking about the town, he went in stores and bought things he really didn’t need, but wanted an excuse to talk. He bought a belt, Sunday-go-to-meeting shirt, and trousers, didn’t get anything out of talking to those storekeepers, then thought of boots—or shoes. Maybe the bootmaker would know something. He looked down at his boots, grimaced, and reckoned he could use a new pair; the ones he wore were cracked out at the sides.

  When he walked through the door of the bootmaker’s shop he was butted head-on with the greeting, “Hey, Sam, I figured you’d damn near be barefooted by now. Reckon you need a new pair of boots?”

  Slagle grinned. “Never mind givin’ me your special brand o’ horse hockey. Yeah, figger these ain’t gonna last much longer, an’ ain’t got nobody to leave them nuggets an’ dust to, so I’ll git me a new pair.” While removing both boots for the bootmaker to measure his feet, he looked up. “You ever make low-quarter shoes fer anybody?”

  The bootmaker, who went by the name of Stanton Levell, frowned. “Funny you should ask.” He nodded. “I just a couple weeks ago wuz asked to make a pair of those kind o’ shoes for a man. Told ’im, yeah I could make ’em, fact is that’s all I ever made in Boston ’fore comin’ to this here country.” He scratched his head. “Cain’t remember his name, let’s see.” He turned to pick up a scratch pad from his workbench. “Yeah, here’s his name. Man by the name of Bartow, Randall Bartow. Said he’d come by an’ pick ’em up when I got ’em made.” Levell grinned. “Told ’im to give me three weeks.” His grin widened. “Didn’t tell ’im we’d most likely have snow butt-deep to a Texas longhorn by then. Those shoes ain’t gonna give ’im much comfort with snow piled over the tops of ’em.”

  “You got an idea when he’ll pick ’em up?”

  Levell checked his pad again. “Yep. Told ’im November tenth. He said he’d be here.”

  The bootmaker noted the measurements of Slagle’s feet, then Sam put his worn-out boots back on and left to check out the saloons. He’d not asked about Gates and Mayben in the places he’d been.

  In the fifth saloon he went in, the bartender remembered the brawny troublemaker and his short sidekick. “Yeah, they come in here ’bout every night, ’cept they ain’t been in here in some sort of time.” He frowned. “Hell yes, I remember ’em. You friends o’ theirs?”

  Slagle shook his head. “Ain’t no way. I got a friend who’s had trouble with ’em. Wanted to tell ’im to stay clear o’ where them two hang out. Ain’t no point in borrowin’ trouble.”

  The bartender nodded. “An’ I guaran-damn-tee you I ’preciate him stayin’ away. Don’t need my place wrecked agin.”

  “Figger to keep ’im outta here ’til we’re sure they ain’t gonna be here. He got the hell beat outta him last time they tangled over in Durango, an’ he’s still hurtin’.” Sam dug in his vest pocket and pulled out a small leather bag, obviously containing heavy nuggets. “Want a couple bottles o’ the best whisky you got.” He raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Gonna sample a shot outta both them bottles ’fore I take ’em.” His smile widened. “Whisky, even the same brand, out here, can taste one helluva lot different from bottle to bottle.”

  “Don’t blame you, but my good whisky comes straight outta Kentucky. Seal ain’t broke ’tween here an’ there.” He hesitated. “Tell you what I’m gonna do; you keep your friend outta here, an’ I’ll sell you two bottles o’ my good stuff for what it cost me. Okay?”

  Sam nodded. “Reckon I’d keep ’im outta here forever for that kind o’ deal.” He picked up the two bottles the bartender pushed across the bar, checked the seal around the cork, paid the saloon keeper, and left.

  Outside, he leaned against the wall, frowned, and wondered where the bully and the gunslinger were. His guess was that they had gone to Durango. If he could have looked in a cabin up Catamount Draw, he’d have known better.

  Randall Bartow, Bull Mayben, and Shorty Gates stared across the table at each other. Maddie Brice stood by the stove listening to what they had to say.

  Bartow, knowing the two were afraid of him—and his sleeve gun—enjoyed browbeating them. “Since you two stupid bastards can’t seem to do anything right, I think I’ll keep you close to me for a while. Maybe you won’t mess anything else up that way.”

  Gates squirmed, stared into his empty glass, then looked at Bartow. “Boss, wasn’t nobody could’ve got that girl here. We had too many men to fight.”

  Bartow stared at Shorty for several long moments. “You just shut the hell up.” He twisted to look at Maddie. “Don’t stand there like a dumb cow. Our glasses’re empty. Fill ’em.”

  He raked Bull and Shorty with a look he tried to make contemptuous. “Tell you what I want you to do. I’m gonna be gone for a couple of days. This hick town doesn’t have an apothecary shop, but I know of one in Durango. I need to get some medicines.” He picked up the fresh drink Maddie poured, knocked it back, coughed, then gave the two men a hard look.

  “While I’m gone, Maddie’s gonna fix up some good food. Want one o’ you to scout out the mine each mealtime, be sure there isn’t anybody can see you go to it, then I want you to take the old man a good supper, or breakfast, or dinner, or whatever the hell meal it is. I want him fed three times a day. I’m gonna bring back medicine to doctor the burns and cuts we’ve given him.”

  “What you gonna do that fer, boss? We damned near got ’im where he’ll talk.”

  Bartow pinned Bull with a look that yelled, Dumb, dumb, dumb. “It ever enter your thick skull that rather than talk, he’s ’bout dead, an’ if he ups an’ dies we won’t get a thing outta him? He’s the only one who knows where that rich vein is. We’ve looked for it in the shaft, and in the area outside. We haven’t come close to finding it.” He didn’t say that none of the three would know the vein if they bumped head-on into it. Their knowledge of geology was absolutely nil.

  He looked at Maddie. She poured him another drink. He shivered and swept Bull and Shorty with another look. “While I’m gone, I don’t want either of you in town at the saloons or whorehouses. You stay right here, an’ I’m tellin’ you both, keep your eyes and hands to yourself. You bother my woman, even a little bit, an’ I’ll kill you. Understand?” They both nodded. “All right. Get outta here. Go to your cabin. Being it’s only ’bout fifty feet from here, shouldn’t anyone see you. Stay there except to take meals to the mine.”

  As soon as they cleared the door, Maddie shook her head. “Randall”—she never called him Randy; it made him angry—“Randall, you ever think that one day they might shoot you?”r />
  He nodded. “Yeah, but I’d have to turn my back to them—an’ run outta money. Long’s I have gold to pay ’em, an’ they don’t know where I’m gettin’ it, they won’t shoot me.”

  “How’d you find out ’bout Colter’s strike?”

  He stared at her a moment, long enough for her to shrink back into the corner. “First place, woman, that’s not any o’ your damned business, but I’ll tell you this much: There was a pretty reliable rumor goin’ ’round the saloons in Durango that he’d made a good strike. I decided I’d take over his claim; didn’t know he had a daughter, but I’ll get rid o’ her.”

  “Yeah, if you can find ’er.”

  “Don’t smart mouth me, woman. Now get my clothes packed; gonna leave early in the mornin’.” Maddie’s shoulders slumped. She reminded him of a dog that just got kicked. He liked to keep her like that.

  Emily Lou finished setting the table while Kelly dished up the food. When she’d placed the silverware beside the plates to her liking, taking more care than usual, she continued staring at the table. Kelly shook her head. “Em, that big man’s all right. He ain’t gonna get into nothin’ he cain’t get outta all by hisself.” She put a bowl of mashed potatoes in the middle of the other dishes. “An’ I know you’re worried ’bout your papa somethin’ awful. Don’t be. Lingo’ll find ’im, an’ get ’im outta whatever mess he’s in.”

  Emily looked up. “There isn’t anything you can think of that you don’t believe Lingo can’t take care of, is there?”

  Kelly smiled. “Nope. An’ I’ll tell you like it is; ask Wes, he’ll tell you the same thing. There ain’t any ten men in this country can stop Lingo Barnes when he sets his mind to somethin’.”

  Wesley sniffed. “Reckon we could talk while we eat. All the smells o’ that food mixed together’s got me ’bout starvin’.”