Hanging Valley

by Jack Ballas

  “Nope, but I got some tree bark in my eyes that scratches like hell.”

  Slagle guided Lingo to a chair by the table. “Here, sit an’ let me take a look. Supper’s ready to dish up, but it can wait.”

  Sam took a dish towel, wetted the tip of it, and carefully picked the remaining bark from Lingo’s eyes. Finally, Barnes pushed his hand away. “That’s good, Sam. Reckon my stomach’s hurtin’ more’n my eyes. Let’s eat.”

  While eating, Lingo told Slagle what had happened. When Lingo finished, Sam pinned him with a look. “Tellin’ you right now, boy, we ain’t lettin’ you outta this here cabin ’til I can find out if them two varmints done come back to Silverton. If they have, reckon we gonna know who tried to kill ya.”

  Barnes shook his head. “No way, Sam. I never hid from trouble in my life. Not gonna start now.”

  Slagle stared at him a long moment. “Well, damn me, I’m gonna lose a partner almost ’fore I got ’im.”

  Lingo chuckled, then laughed outright. “Hell, partner, don’t get me buried ’fore I’m dead.” He sobered. “Tell you somethin’, I’m a right hard hombre to kill, so don’t give up on me yet.”

  They talked on into the night, drank three pots of coffee, then a half bottle of Sam’s whisky. They decided to operate the same way they had been, definitely not letting on that they knew each other. The result was that Lingo would stay in the cabin the next day until Slagle could find out for certain whether Mayben and Gates were back in town.

  “If’n they’re here, Lingo, you figger to go out an’ brace the both o’ ’em?”

  Barnes shook his head. “That’s what I’m most tempted to do, but findin’ Emily’s pa is more important than me gettin’ even with those two.” He took a swallow of his drink. “But I’m tellin’ you one thing, partner, when we know where and how Miles Colter is, then, you can bet everything you own that I’m gonna get even. An’ whoever is givin’ em’ orders is gonna get it first, or last, if I gotta track ’im to hell an’ gone.”

  Sam gave him a sly grin. “You gonna let me get in on the act?”

  Lingo took another swallow, eyed Sam, wondered if he wanted to take a chance on the big man getting hurt, and decided he didn’t. “Reckon I dragged you into this, Sam. It’s none of your fight.” He shook his head. “Nope, want you to stay clear.”

  The next morning Slagle ate Barnes’s cooking, after allowing that there weren’t many men who could mess up eggs and bacon. Slagle made the biscuits.

  Most stores opened early, about six o’clock. Sam sat outside the general store when the sun inched above the eastern peaks. He spoke to most who walked past. One miner stopped, then studied Slagle a moment. “You sick, Sam? Ain’t never seen you sittin’ ’round when there wuz work to do.”

  Slagle chuckled. “Naw, ain’t sick. Jest figgered a man should oughtta take a day off once in a while. Thought I’d sit here an’ speak to all my friends; then I’m gonna go back to the cabin an’ read a paper Slim Goodrich give me a little while back.” All the while he talked, he glanced at every passerby, spoke to them whether he knew them or not, and moved his eyes to the next person.

  The saloons never closed their doors. Miners worked in different shifts around the clock, and the watering holes sat there ready to take the hard-earned dust or nuggets they’d torn from the hard earth. Sam showed special interest toward every person who pushed through the batwing doors. About eleven-thirty, he straightened from his slouch, closed his eyelids to slits, and studied the two men who’d only then stepped to the boardwalk in front of the Hole-in-the-Wall. He nodded to himself, figuring that now he knew who’d taken those shots at Barnes.

  Mayben looked like he’d been late getting out of a mining shaft when a dynamite charge went off. He peered through purple, swollen eyelids while Gates steered him toward the doors still flapping from the last person to enter.

  Slagle stood. He’d forfeit making another strike in order to hear the story the two would tell as to how Bull got in the shape he was in. He angled across the street in ankle-deep dust to the saloon.

  He wanted to set the record straight for all to hear as to the way Mayben came by his condition. No one that he knew liked the Bull, or the worm he’d partnered up with.

  He found a chair at a table close to the bar so he could hear what they said. Gates was talking when he sat. “. . . you shoulda seed Bull, fightin’ three men, an’ wuz doin’ right good for hisself, even though he don’t look like it right now. Fight lasted almost an hour when Bull knocked the last one out with a roundhouse right he brought from behind his back.”

  Sam stood. Then raising his voice so any in the room could hear, he walked to the bar, and turned his back to it. “Now I’m gonna tell y’all what really happened. First off, they wuz only one man, a cowboy, what whipped Mayben.” He shook his head. “Don’t know who he wuz, but I danged sure know who won, an’ how many they wuz fightin’.

  “I know. I wuz there an’ won a chunk o’ dust, double eagles, an’ paper money on that fight. That cowboy wuz maybe forty or fifty pounds lighter’n Bull, but he took it to that there big man like he weighed a hundred pounds more’n him. He . . .”

  Shorty Gates pulled his side gun and stepped toward Slagle. “You callin’ the way I done told it a lie?”

  Brassy fear bubbled to the back of Sam’s throat. Abruptly, the sour smell of yesterday’s whisky, and tobacco smoke caused his stomach to roil—and those smells really had little to do with his stomach turning over.

  He looked at the gun in Gates’s hand, and held his hands wide of his sides. “I ain’t packin’ no gun, Gates. You shoot me, an’ these here people gonna hang you higher’n an eagle can fly.”

  Then despite looking down the barrel of Gates’s handgun, he nodded. “Either you seen a different fight than I did, or you’re tellin’ the biggest lie in history.” He stared into Shorty’s eyes. “Yep, that cowboy done whipped the hell outta your partner.”

  Every miner in the room moved closer to Gates. His eyes swept the room, sweat stood in huge beads on his forehead, his face paled—and his hand moved to his holster. His .44 slipped into leather. His stare moved from all in the room to pinpoint Slagle. “Gonna git you, you dirt-grubbin’ bastard, gonna git you good. You ain’t always gonna be standin’ in the middle o’ your friends.”

  When Shorty’s gun slipped into its holster, Slagle slowly blew his breath out between stiff lips. He’d never come as close to meeting his maker as he’d only seconds ago come. And from the speed of Gates’s draw, he figured Lingo might have a hard time beating him. He’d have to warn his friend. Every time Lingo had pulled a gun on the thin, ugly partner of Bull’s, he’d never had to face the chance Shorty could beat him. And with all the faith Slagle had in Barnes, the speed with which the little wormy partner of Bull’s got his handgun out of its holster gave Sam a huge dose of fear.

  Gates took his partner’s arm and guided him from the saloon. As soon as they cleared the batwing doors, questions came at Slagle from every angle. He took time to tell about the fight, and that there had been several miners from here in Silverton who witnessed it. “Most o’ ’em lost their poke bettin’ on Bull Mayben, not ’cause they liked ’im, but ’cause he wuz so much bigger’n that there cowboy; but I’m here to tell you, that cowpoke took it to ’im from the start.”

  He told the story two or three times, then wanting to get back to his cabin, grinned, although he didn’t feel much like a grin, and said, “Reckon the holiday I took for myself didn’t pan out so hot.” He pushed his hat to the back and scratched his head. “Reckon I’ll have to be careful not to get so lazy in the middle of the week after this.”

  He left in the middle of warnings to watch out that he didn’t get back-shot. He didn’t expect trouble in the middle of town, in full daylight. He headed for his cabin, took a roundabout trail to it, and looked to his backside every step of the way.

  Back in his cabin, he walked past Lingo, reached in the cupboard, pulled out a bottle, and poured hi
mself a hefty drink. Barnes frowned. His friend did not usually have nothing to say, and he seldom had a serious expression. “All right, tell me what happened. You’re not your usual self.”

  “Almost wuzn’t any kind o’ self. Danged near got my fool head blowed off.”

  Lingo studied Slagle a moment. “Tell me about it.”

  Sam started at the beginning and told Barnes what happened, leaving out no detail. When he finished, he knocked back his drink and poured another, then, with a sheepish look, held the bottle out to Lingo. “Pour yourself one. Reckon I ain’t very polite right now.”

  Barnes took the bottle from Slagle, knocked the cork back in the neck, put it on the table, and shook his head. “So Mayben an’ Gates are back in town. Didn’t figure they’d come back ’til Bull lost all sign from his appearance that he’d had a fight and lost.”

  “Wouldn’t of made no difference if’n I hadn’t been there to call Gates a liar. The story they told might’ve been believed.” Sam pinned Barnes with a questioning look. “You figger it like I do? You figger one o’ them varmints took those shots at you?”

  Barnes frowned, causing a deep furrow to crease his forehead. After several long moments, he shook his head. “Might believe it happened that way, Sam, but if they had been the ones who shot at me they’d have known I was in town. If they’d known that, I figure they’d a stayed outta sight ’til they could get another chance at me.”

  He took a glass and poured himself a drink. “Don’t think they’d have showed themselves in town ’til they were sure they had me outta the way.” He stared into the amber fluid that filled his glass. “Way I figure it, somebody else took that shot at me.” He shrugged. “Wish to hell it had been one of those two. The way I got it in my head is that somebody else has me pegged for interfering in their game.” He knocked back his drink, shook his head, then packed his pipe and lit it. “Wish to hell I knew who it was, an’ why they figure I’m interested in what they do.” He shrugged. “I haven’t any interest in anything around here.”

  “Yeah, you do, Lingo. Stop an’ think, what wuz it brought you to this here town in the first place?”

  Barnes raised his eyes from staring at the table to look into Slagle’s eyes. “You think those shots had anything to do with Colter’s mine?”

  Sam squinted his eyes to stare at the wall, obviously mulling the puzzle around in his head. Finally, he nodded. “Only thing I kin think. But we gotta figger out why they think you got any interest in that there mine.”

  Lingo shook his head. “Don’t know, but what you say makes sense. Let’s think ’bout it awhile.”

  A couple miles away, in another gulch, Randall Bartow sat at the table next to the stove cleaning his rifle. It was the third time he’d cleaned it since the night before.

  Maddie turned from the stove and looked from the rifle to Bartow. “That gun ain’t got a speck o’ dirt, dust, or nothin’ else on it, or in it. Why don’t you hang it on its peg an’ forget it?”

  Bartow glanced at her. “Instead of messin’ in my business, why don’t you pour me a drink, then get busy an’ start cookin’ supper? I’m tired of bein’ around damned fools who don’t know how to do anything right.”

  She smirked. “Seems to me you didn’t do it right yesterday or you wouldn’t be sittin’ here stewin’ ’bout missin’ them shots. ’Sides that, you don’t even know that man was doin’ anythin’ ’cept ridin’ his horse past the mine.”

  She was right. Bartow knew it, and that stirred his anger even deeper. He had overreacted to seeing a horseman coming from the direction of Colter’s mine, and had exposed himself to having whoever that was he’d fired at getting curious as to why anyone would take shots at him. Too, he’d not gotten a clear look at the man, and wouldn’t recognize him if he met him face-to-face.

  His anger boiled over. He cast her a poisonous look. “No one asked you your damned opinion. Now, pour me that drink I told you to pour an hour ago, then get the hell busy with supper.”

  She poured a glass almost full. He snatched the glass from her, and when she shrank from him, he slapped at her, his hand passing only a breath away from her face. He uttered a raspy laugh. “Scared I might give you what you deserve? Better be, or I’ll forget supper ’til after I beat the hell outta you.” Maddie turned her back to him to busy herself at the stove, but not before he saw pure hate fill her eyes. To hell with her.

  He turned his thoughts to the old man lying at the back of the living quarters in the mine. He’d fed Colter a few solid meals, and doctored the open sores on his feet and legs. He’d soon have him well enough that he could start the torture process over again. He had to know where to look for the rich vein the old man had found—and he had to get rid of the daughter. Knowing Colter held a full house to his busted flush only infuriated him more. He didn’t dare kill the old man, and he knew that Colter knew he wouldn’t, couldn’t. He stood and poured himself another drink. Maddie glanced toward him, stark fear showing in her face.

  Over in Lingo’s hanging valley, Emily Lou listened to the wagon’s sound disappearing toward the pass. She stared at the wall. Why would Wes say what he did about Lingo caring about her? And then, clear as this mountain air, she’d reacted in a way to tell the world she felt more for the tall man than gratitude for him rescuing her from those sent to abduct and kill her.

  Then, despite her worry for her father—she had all the faith in the world that Lingo would find him—her thoughts centered on the cowboy. She trusted him to do anything he said he would do—only now it was the things he hadn’t said that occupied her thoughts. Did their unspoken words mean anything? Why had she chosen to construe them as meaning more than trust, meaning more than friendship, meaning, perhaps—caring? And why should it make a difference whether caring made a difference? She’d never seen a man who could stir her emotions, who could make her question the importance of caring. She smiled. Maybe she’d met a man who would make caring a part of her life. She nodded. Maybe!

  She busied herself cleaning the mess from supper, then sweeping the puncheon floor, then waiting to hear the wagon return from the pass. She’d never met two men who she put her total trust in . . . until now.

  A glance at the windows showed that the sun had long ago sunk behind the western peaks. She stood, and not wanting to waste a lucifer, took the tongs from beside the fireplace, plucked a coal from the fire, and put it to the lantern. Not long after lantern light pushed evening shadows to the far corners of the room, the rattle of the wagon told her Kelly had returned, had left her man up there alone to keep them safe. She sighed. Would this threat never end? At the same time, she was reluctant to admit it had to end. It might mean she’d no longer see her newfound friends. She clamped her jaws tight. She’d not let that happen.

  Kelly came through the doorway, her face glowing. “Oh, Em, life is so wonderful. For the first time I figger I ain’t gonna have to worry ’bout anybody ever tryin’ to do me harm agin.”

  Emily stood in the middle of the floor, stared at Kelly, then smiled. “What happened that’s so wonderful, Kelly? You look like the sun could rise right in the middle of your face.” Abruptly fear squelched her happiness for her friend. “You didn’t, well, you didn’t let him . . . ?”

  “Aw now, you know I didn’t—at least he didn’t try. But I’da let ’im if he did try. Em, he kissed me.” She spun around the middle of the room, almost as though she danced on air, her arms outstretched. “Oh, Em, it was wonderful. I always thought a man’s kiss would be somethin’ dirty, somethin’ slabbery, somethin’ with his paws all over me.” She sat at the table and stared starry-eyed at Emily. “Wa’nt nothing like that at all. It wuz probably the next thing to heaven with his arms around me.”

  Emily’s throat tightened against the knot that formed there. Her eyes flooded with tears she had seldom shed. She couldn’t see much in the room except for Kelly sitting at the table glowing brighter than any sunrise she’d seen. She went to the table, put her arms around Kelly’s
shoulders and hugged her tightly. “Oh, I’m so happy for you. He say anything about getting married?”

  Kelly shook her head. “Don’t reckon neither one o’ us is ready to look at that happenin’ ’til we talk with Lingo.” She looked at Emily. “What you reckon Lingo’s gonna say ’bout us carin’ for each other?”

  Emily smiled. “Why my newfound friend, almost a sister, I’d say the first thing you gotta get ready for is that Lingo Barnes is going to kiss you, tell you how happy he is that you’ve found your man, then he’ll give Wes a punch on the shoulder, grin, an’ ask ’im when the preacher’s gonna come visiting.” Her smile turned pensive, and under her breath she muttered, “Wish I had to worry about getting someone’s approval to love a man.”

  “What’d you say, Em? I couldn’t hear you.”

  Emily shook her head, wondering where the thought had come from, or why she’d wished such. Was she wishing she could find her father and get his permission—or was she wishing Lingo would ask her? “Didn’t say anything, Kelly. Must’ve been talkin’ to myself.”

  While Emily’s thoughts centered on Barnes, his thoughts went from her, to her father, back to her, and returned to Colter. Where could he have gone? Where would he have gone? Of course maybe he didn’t know that his daughter had pulled stakes in Baltimore and headed west. If he had known, he would have been in Durango to meet her.

  According to Em, she had written her pa. Had the letter gotten lost? Or had someone intercepted it so they’d know when she arrived, and had that person posted an outlaw gang to take her off the stage before she could get to the town and be met by her father? Who picked up his mail in Silverton? He’d have to check on that. But how could he check on it? The postmaster in Silverton didn’t know him, didn’t know why he’d have any interest in Miles Colter.

  Her brother had left Baltimore to come out here, but apparently had never arrived. What had happened to him? Had the same gang taken him off the stage upon which he was to arrive? The more Lingo mulled the problems over the more confused he became.