Hanging Valley

by Jack Ballas

  He’d been riding deep in thought, not noticing anything about his surroundings until his horse walked through the door of the livery, stopped, and swung his head to look at his master as if to say, “This is where I want to go, you pick your own place.”

  Lingo chuckled, closed his eyes, and inhaled. “Hell, old hoss, I’ll get you fed and watered, then I’m gonna take care o’ my thirst and hunger.” He swung his leg over his horse’s rump, stepped to the ground, and told the livery man to take care of the gelding.

  He left the livery and walked down the street to the cafe on the opposite side, across from the saloon where he’d had trouble with Mayben. People stood against the wall waiting for a seat to open up. Lingo took his place at the end of the line. He stood there about twenty minutes, watching a few people leave, and those at the head of the line take their place at one of the tables. Then a short, wiry man alongside a huge, beefy man stood and came toward Barnes. They had come abreast of him, and were about to pass, when Mayben’s head snapped to the side to peer at Barnes. “Well I’ll be damned, jest the yellow bastard we come to town to see.”

  “Not in here, Mayben. Soon’s I get somethin’ to eat, I’ll meet you in the saloon across the street. We’re not gonna wreck this man’s place o’ business.”

  Bull lowered his head like one of his namesakes might do before charging. “Still scared, huh? You wantta put off gittin’ your butt kicked for now, give you a chance to run. Well, I ain’t gonna give ya that chance.”

  Lingo’s neck muscles tightened, blood rushed to his head, and his hand flicked his .44 from the holster. He pushed the barrel into Mayben’s gut. “Yeah, you gonna wait ’til I eat, then we’ll get it on. Now, ’fore I splatter your guts all over this cafe, turn around and walk out that door. Take that little worm you got with you or I might change my mind ’bout where I take care o’ you.”

  Gates, eyes slitted, hand clawed above his holster, pulled Bull to the side, then stared into Lingo’s eyes. “This’s the second time you made a sneak draw on us. After Bull breaks ever’ bone in that yellow body o’ yours, you an’ me’s gonna see who can shoot fastest an’ straightest.”

  Lingo stared into the worm’s eyes. “Get outta here ’fore I change my mind. I’ll meet you in the saloon in ’bout an hour. Be there.”

  Shorty glanced at Barnes’s gun, shifted his gaze to his face, nodded, and said, “We’ll be there, just make damned sure you show up.” They spun on their heels and walked out.

  Barnes glanced at the line and saw that everyone had been seated except him. No one seemed to have been aware that there had been a shooting situation very close to happening. Lingo slipped into a seat against the wall. He thought to have a few cups of coffee, steak, potatoes, and any kind of vegetable they might have, then changed his mind. To fight on a full stomach would not be the smartest thing he’d ever done. He shoved back from the table and went outside. He’d wait until he saw Slagle ride in. He wanted the big miner in the saloon—at Shorty’s back before he tangled with Bull.

  He slouched against the wall for several minutes before Sam rounded a curve in the street, rode to the hitch rack, and tied his horse. Lingo had crossed the street as soon as Slagle reined in to hitch his horse. He came abreast of him, and said out of the side of his mouth, “Get in behind the short one. Don’t do anything unless he looks like he’s gonna take a hand in the fight.” He walked on past, flicked the thong off his Colt’s hammer, and pushed through the batwing doors.

  Mayben stood, his back to the bar, telling all who would listen how he figured to stomp hell out of a yellow-livered coward who he figured would come through the door at any minute.

  Before Bull had time to note that the man he talked about had entered the saloon, Barnes pulled his .44, and held it pointed toward the two outlaws. “You two droppings from a cur don’t make a move toward your holsters.” The two of them simultaneously swung their heads to look toward the door.

  Shorty’s hand clawed above his holster. “This’s the third time you done drawed a gun on me without givin’ me a chance.”

  “Just wanted to make sure I had an even chance with your white trash partner. Now both o’ you shuck your hardware an’ lay it on the bar behind you.”

  Slagle had taken his position alongside Gates. Lingo looked at him. “You, mister, pat ’em down. Make sure neither of them have any weapons left on ’em.” Sam did as Barnes directed, then pushed holstered guns and sheath knives across the bar to the bartender.

  It was then the man behind the bar swung a double-barreled Greener to the top of the polished surface. “All right. I got their weapons, now you put yours right here alongside of ’em.”

  While Lingo walked to the bar, unbuckling his gunbelt, the bartender kept all three under the business end of his shotgun, then waved it toward the door. “None o’ you are gonna wreck my place of business. You gonna have a fight, take it outside.”

  Barnes spun on his heel and headed for the door. Off to the side, one of the miners yelled, “You make damned sure ever’ fight you have that you outweigh the man you gonna fight by ’bout fifty pounds, don’t you, Bull?” That started the betting.

  Sam was the first to pull his money belt from his waist. “Anybody gonna give me three to one odds? I figure the slim cowboy’ll win this.” Instantly, a surge of miners surrounded Slagle covering his bets. When Sam had emptied his money belt, another miner stepped to his side.

  “I ain’t never seed Sam Slagle back a loser. I’ll take some more o’ that three-to-one money he’s been coverin’.”

  Finally, the bartender taking care of the bets waved his Greener toward the middle of the street. “Now, git out there an’ get at it.”

  Bull ran to the middle of the dusty trail and turned—in time to catch a right to the ribs that Barnes brought straight out from his belt, then followed with a left to the gut. His fist sank into Bull’s gut a good couple of inches. Mayben stopped, sucked air, and swung his huge fist at Lingo.

  Barnes moved to the side in time to catch the blow on his shoulder. Despite the flab Lingo detected with his punch to the gut, Mayben’s punch showed he was something other than fat. His blow hurt.

  Barnes slipped to the side, then closed under a roundhouse swing Bull made with his right. Lingo pumped a right, a left, and a right to Mayben’s gut. Bull’s eyes bulged. He stumbled backward a couple of steps, caught his balance, and stepped toward Barnes. A roundhouse swing grazed Lingo’s head. Lights exploded behind his eyes. Blindly, he moved back, caught his heel on his boot toe and fell. As soon as he felt the ground at his back he rolled to the side. The kick Mayben swung toward Lingo’s head caught only air.

  Barnes grabbed Mayben’s foot and twisted. The big man rolled with the twist, fell, and in one fluid move Lingo gained his feet. He waited for Bull to climb back out of the dirt, then clubbed him with another right to the ribs. Bull’s eyes widened. He stepped back out of Lingo’s reach, pursed his lips, and sucked air. Barnes hit him again, working on the big man’s body, this time an inch or two below Mayben’s rib cage. Bull moved beyond Lingo’s reach.

  Barnes bored in, swinging with each step—every punch going to Mayben’s soft body. Each punch drew a ragged, sobbing breath from the big man.

  Lingo, at the fringe of his awareness, heard the crowd going wild. He shifted his blows to the heart. Bull’s face purpled. Lingo wanted to give the woman-stealing bastard something to remember. He shifted his punches to Mayben’s face.

  Mayben now gasped for breath, his arms hanging at his sides, barely leaving his body for a weak punch. This opened up what Barnes wanted. He meant for his punches to cut, to maim.

  A sharp punch to Mayben’s left eye opened a cut that gushed blood, spilling it into his eye. Knowing he was blinded in that eye, Lingo hooked a left to Bull’s right eye. It opened a long bloody gash. That punch flowed blood into that eye. The big miner stood, his head swung from side to side. Lingo had seen desperately wounded buffalo do the same. He wasn’t through.

&nbs
p; Thoughts of Emily Lou being pulled from the stagecoach clouded any thought of knocking the big man out. He’d make this last as long as he could swing a fist.

  He swung a right to Mayben’s mouth. The miner gagged, spit teeth, and tried to swing his hamlike fists at Lingo. They made only a slow arc in the thin air. Lingo went to work on the man’s cheekbones, opened cuts in both of them, then delivered a hard right that flattened the miner’s nose. When he saw no more places to cut the man, he dropped his right to his waist and swung, hoping it was hard enough to break his jaw—or his neck. The big man stood there, stared vacantly, stupidly at nothing, then took a staggering step toward Lingo, and fell. His face plowed dust and dirt in the street. He didn’t move.

  Noise erupted around Barnes. Every man on the street—bet winner or loser—yelled and pummeled each other on the back. One miner yelled, “Don’t give a damn if I did lose my poke, it wuz worth it. I been wantin’ that bastard to git his comeuppance fer a long time.”

  Lingo glanced around the crowd. Slagle stood in back of Shorty Gates, one arm wrapped around the little worm’s neck. “You ain’t gonna go to your partner. We gonna let ’im lie there awhile so’s the whole town kin see ’im, an’ most who look on ’im gonna be glad he got what wuz comin’ to ’im.” He continued to hold the short man.

  Barnes, his arms feeling like they were made of lead, walked through the batwings and to the bartender who still held his Greener, only now pointed at the ground. “Bartender, don’t know how you feel ’bout it, but I figure I earned wearin’ my Colt.”

  The barman grinned. “Reckon there ain’t a man here who don’t figger it that way. Go on, buckle your belt on, pour yourself a drink from that bottle under the bar while you’re at it.”

  Lingo nodded, staggered a step to the side. He was so tired he could hardly stand. “I figure on shuckin’ the shells from Gates’s an’ Mayben’s guns while I’m at it. Don’t want to kill ’em this time, but I’m gonna do just that next time we tangle.”

  A look around the crowd showed Sam Slagle pouring nuggets, minted money, and bills into his money belt, and pockets. Barnes smiled. He wished he’d had a few bucks of his own to bet. He shrugged. He’d gotten his satisfaction and pay from doing what he’d waited to do.

  Inside the saloon, he first poured himself a liberal drink into a water glass, tasted it, and felt it burn the inside of his cheek. He ran his tongue around his teeth, found them all there, and took another swallow. He’d taken more punishment at Bull’s fists than he remembered. Now, it seemed he had sore spots all over his body. He sighed. That rib had taken a few punches and had stood up under the punishment.

  After knocking back the rest of his drink, he pushed cartridges from the loops in Bull’s and Shorty’s gunbelts, emptied the cylinders of each gun, shoved them back in their holsters, walked to the nearest table, and slumped in a chair.

  Outside, Slagle glanced at the big miner, Whitey he was called, who had shared his faith in Barnes. “What say we buy these guys a drink? Reckon we done won enough to do that without makin’ a dent in what we won.”

  Whitey held his hands over his head and waved for the crowd to go inside. “C’mon, me an’ Sam’s gonna buy y’all a drink.”

  They ran for the batwings. The bartender, already inside, tossed Slagle a clean towel, handed him a bucket of water, and flicked his thumb toward Lingo. “Clean up the man’s face. I ain’t pourin’ nobody nothin’ ’til that man’s feelin’ better.”

  When Sam took the towel and bucket from him, Shorty Gates came to the bar. “Want me an’ my partner’s gunbelts and six-shooters.”

  The bartender handed them across the bar. “Tell you somethin’, Gates. Don’t want you or your partner in this saloon anymore. You come in, I’m gonna have you throwed out.”

  Without a word, but with a look that promised he and Mayben would be back, Shorty took the belts and guns from the bartender’s hands and walked out. Without saying any more, the barman picked up a bottle and poured drinks. Through all this, Sam gave no hint that he and Lingo were friends. The fact was, he asked Barnes what name he went by and made sure there were men standing close who would hear.

  Outside, Gates looked toward where Mayben had fallen. Bull apparently hadn’t moved. There were a few men who hadn’t gone in the saloon with the rest. They stood, staring at the man who most would have bet nobody could whip. Shorty handed one of them his and Mayben’s weapons, went to his partner, and squatted at his side. The big man didn’t stir.

  Gates stared at where Mayben’s eyes should be, but couldn’t tell whether he tried to open them. They were both swollen shut behind mangled, purple flesh. “Can you hear me? You can, jest nod your head; gonna see can I get you to a doctor. That scrawny cowboy worked you over somethin’ awful.” He shook his head. “Never figgered nobody could do that.”

  Mayben’s mouth opened, closed. He pushed a clot of blood and teeth between his cut and swollen lips, then mumbled, “He hit me ’fore I wuz ready. He cain’t do it agin in no fair fight.”

  Gates put his hands under Mayben’s shoulders and tried to pull him to a sitting position. “He ain’t gonna git no chance to do it agin, partner. I’m gonna fill ’im so full o’ lead he ain’t gonna be able to do nothin’. Gonna kill ’im, Bull. We ain’t gonna argue ’bout that. Next time I see ’im I’m jest gonna start shootin’.” He pulled on Bull’s shoulders again. “See can you stand an’ we’ll find a doctor. Then we gonna git a hotel room ’til you heal. Then we gonna go cowboy huntin’.” He helped Mayben stand, pulled his arm across his shoulders. “Don’t know where he’ll be, but we’ll find ’im.” A few staggering steps farther, Gates stopped, gasped under the heavy load, then said, “We wuz gonna keep that cowboy from drinkin’ in a miner’s waterin’ hole; now damned if that bartender ain’t said we wuzn’t to come in there no more.”

  Wes spent most of his time guarding the pass. Kelly brought him his meals, even brought him water, razor, and changes of clothing. Each time she came, she wore clean clothing, and smelled like she’d only moments before gotten out of the big tin tub they kept hanging on the wall outside of the kitchen door.

  He’d taken to looking at her—really looking at her. That poor little thing he’d kept out of the reaches of ne’er-do-wells down Taos way had grown up while he wasn’t looking. To his way of thinking, he’d never seen a prettier woman anywhere. Of course, that Emily Lou that Lingo had brought home was right pretty, too—but to his thinking, not as pretty as Kelly.

  The afternoon of the same day Lingo whipped Bull Mayben, Kelly harnessed the team and drove the buckboard to the pass with food for Wes.

  She jumped from the boot, spread a blanket, and set out plates for the two of them. She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Me an’ Em figgered you needed some company, so we packed a picnic dinner for you an’ me.” She then went about taking several pots and pans of food from the wagonbed.

  The smells of hot vegetables, baked venison, biscuits, even coffee, caused saliva to flow under Wes’s tongue. “Aw, hell, Kelly, you shouldn’t oughtta done that. It makes more work for you an’ Em. Beans an’ bacon woulda been good ’nuff fer me.”

  Kelly looked at him a full moment. “Wes, you been makin’ do with almost nothin’ good to eat ever since Lingo left you to do all the watchin’. ’Course I know he didn’t have no choice, but you cain’t stay healthy eatin’ the way you been doin’, so me an’ Em decided we gonna feed you right from now on.” She sat and patted the blanket next to her. “Now come on. Set an’ I’ll fix a plate fer you.”

  While they ate, he kept glancing at her, finally she pinned him with a no-nonsense look. “Wes Higgins, why you lookin’ at me that way? It’s—it’s . . . well, it’s almost like you ain’t never seen me before.”

  He finished chewing a bite of venison, then nodded. “Ain’t ’til just recent. Aw, I been lookin’, but I ain’t never really seen what wuz happenin’ right before my eyes.”

  A rosy glow flushed Kelly’s face. Her eyes opened
wide. “What wuz happenin’ right ’fore your eyes, Wesley Higgins?”

  It was his turn to blush now, and he did. He felt like his face was on fire. “Kelly, while I wuzn’t lookin’ real hard, you done turned to a growed-up woman—a danged pretty growed-up woman.”

  She lowered long lashes over her eyes, then looked at him straight on. “You know what, cowboy?” He shook his head. “I wuz beginnin’ to think you wasn’t ever gonna notice I wasn’t the same scrawny little thing you brought to yours and Lingo’s camp. You ain’t the same hell-raisin’ cowboy you wuz back then neither. You done growed up some yourself.” Her face turned pink again. “But you know what? You ain’t a danged bit better-lookin’ now than you wuz then.”

  She took a swallow of coffee. “Know why I don’t think you’re any better-lookin’?” She lowered her lashes, hid her eyes from him. “You ain’t no better-lookin’ now ’cause you wuz so pretty back then I knowed you couldn’t git no better-lookin’.”

  “Aw hell, Kelly, a man ain’t never pretty. He might be right good to look at, but he ain’t never pretty.”

  Kelly took another swallow of coffee, looked him in the eye, and nodded. “You are.”

  They ate in silence. Then, their meal finished, Kelly covered the pans, gathered the dishes, and placed them in the buckboard. She looked over her shoulder at him. “Wes, I wuz gonna offer to stay up here tonight, keep you company. Don’t reckon that’d be a good idea now.” She said it, but Wes detected a tone of hope that he’d ask her to stay.

  He wouldn’t do that. He wasn’t going to spoil something he’d only now realized that he’d had before his eyes for a long time. He shook his head. “Naw, now Kelly. Don’t reckon you an’ me better push our luck any more’n we already have. We got a long time in this life, an’ I want it to be somethin’ we’ll look back on an’ be right proud of someday.”

  Kelly pinned him with a look that entered his very soul. “Knowed you wuz gonna say that. Sorta hoped you would—an’ sorta hoped you wouldn’t; but you’re right. We ain’t gonna push our luck. ’Sides that, we gotta talk to Lingo ’bout what we done found out.”