Hanging Valley

by Jack Ballas

  Bartow’s face reddened, veins stood out on his forehead, then his face purpled. “What the hell you mean, there’s no chest up there? By God there’d better be. I’ll kill you right here if there isn’t. I need that money.”

  Gates went dead calm inside. He figured he’d be dead in the next second, and again thought to try his luck at outshooting the Easterner—but couldn’t remember whether he’d emptied his revolver. He decided not to take a chance. “Tellin’ you right now, Bartow, there ain’t no chest up here.” His every muscle tightened, braced for the expected slam of a bullet. It didn’t come.

  Bartow still held his rifle on the skinny gunman. He grabbed the handle of the coach’s door, threw it open, and stepped from his horse. “Climb down and stand out here where I can see you.” Gates did as directed.

  Bartow went inside the coach, felt for money belts on both men, pulled them free, then went through their pockets. The money belts felt heavy, and their pockets yielded several hundred dollars in double eagles. He grunted. It wasn’t as much of a dry run as he’d first thought.

  And along with that thought had been the one in which he would get rid of Shorty Gates. The skinny bastard could take the hot ride to hell with his partner. Then he decided he would let the little outlaw live. He might need him later. He climbed from the coach and, careful to keep his horse between him and Gates, toed the stirrup. “Let’s get back to Silverton.”

  Gates swallowed a huge lump in his throat. “What we gonna do ’bout Bull? Cain’t jest leave ’im lie there in the dirt.”

  Bartow looked at him straight on. “The hell we can’t.”

  Shorty came close to letting anger override caution. His fingers twitched ready to make a sweep for his six-shooter. Again he didn’t know whether he still had any live loads in the cylinder. He took a deep breath, pushed his anger deep into his chest. “Gonna tell you, Bartow, them who finds Bull gonna know right away I wuz in the holdup with ’im, ’cause ain’t nobody never seen one o’ us ’less’n the other wuz there.” He threw a sly smile at Bartow. “There’s them ’round Silverton who’ve seen you with us, too. You want ’em to start lookin’ into what you doin’ out here? ’Sides that, they wuz a whole bunch of people seen us ride through Durango together.”

  The Easterner sat there a moment, not taking his eyes off of Gates. He obviously thought about Shorty’s words. He nodded. “Load ’im on your horse, you can walk to where we get rid of him. We’ll dump ’im into a ravine somewhere.”

  “Gotta have help gittin’ ’im across my saddle. I cain’t handle ’im alone; he’s too big.” Then hope swelled his chest. Maybe he could get his .44 out while they struggled with Mayben. Bartow squelched that thought as soon as it entered Gates’s head.

  He nodded. “All right, drop your gunbelt, keep your hands where I can see ’em, then I’ll help.”

  Hope left Shorty. He felt as though he’d been punched in the stomach. His hands went to the buckle on his gunbelt, loosened it, and his gun and gunbelt slipped to the ground. “All right, let’s get ’im across the saddle.”

  They rode well off the trail until they found a deep slash in the earth where snowmelt runoff had cut into the hard ground. With Bartow’s help Shorty pushed his partner down the side. He then slipped down the embankment alone and piled stones over his body.

  When convinced animals couldn’t paw the stones aside to get to Bull’s body, and despite Bartow cursing and telling him to get the hell back to his horse, he removed his hat, stood there a moment and asked God to be kind to Bull Mayben, the only partner he’d ever had.

  All the while he stood there, he expected to feel one of Bartow’s rifle bullets cut through him. Right then he didn’t give a damn.

  When he again climbed aboard his horse they circled around Durango to keep anyone from remembering they’d seen them in the area, then they headed for Silverton. He hoped Mayben’s horse found a place to stay in one of the mountain meadows, hoped the horse wouldn’t make it back to Durango or Silverton. People knew the horse and who he belonged to.

  After going to bed that night, Emily pulled the covers up under her chin and stared into the darkness. She should feel shame—but she didn’t. She had practically told Lingo how she felt about him. Weeell, not practically; She’d just flat stopped short of saying she loved him, and everyone in the room knew it. Should she feel unlady-like? Should she be ashamed of violating everything her father had taught her about behavior in both speech and actions when talking with a man? She mentally shook her head. She wasn’t ashamed, she admitted that to herself, but she wouldn’t admit to loving him. She thought an awful lot of him, cared whether he put himself in danger for her, cared that he wanted to keep her out of harm’s way, and yes, she thought it would kill her if anything happened to him.

  Then out of the dark came Kelly’s voice. “You don’t need to lie there fightin’ the bed, wondering why you said them things to Lingo. If you won’t admit it, I’m gonna tell you flat out: You’re in love with the big man.” Then from her bed, Kelly took her hand. “Em, me an’ Wes love Lingo, too, but our love ain’t the same as your’n. We got family love for ’im. You got man-woman love for ’im.” She chuckled deep in her throat. “Now, woman, admit it to yourself. Lie there an’ wish he wuz next to you an’ don’t feel no shame for the wish. There ain’t a woman alive who don’t have the same feelin’s ’bout her man. An’ after you do them things, Em, turn over an’ go to sleep.” She chuckled again. “Bet you have sweet dreams.”

  Emily didn’t answer Kelly. If she had, she would have to face up to something she wasn’t ready to face—yet. Despite not wanting to face up to it, she lay there until daylight pushed its way into the cabin.

  Despite being tired, sleepy, and wanting to snuggle into the covers and go to sleep, she wouldn’t think of letting Kelly shoulder the load of keeping things going. They had to eat, wash clothes, clean the cabin, feed the stock, even chop stove wood. She threw the covers back and dressed.

  From the moment Maddie Brice watched Bartow ride from the cabin to be gone about a week, she struggled with whether to pack her few belongings, catch a stage to anywhere, and see if she could find work—but she had no money to pay her fare. She didn’t have enough to even get out of Silverton.

  When Bartow had taken her out of the saloon in which she worked, her self-respect was dragging the bottom of the barrel, she thought. But now, after a few months with Bartow and being worse than his slave and personal whore, she realized there were not many things worse than what she had let herself in for. If she could get a few dollars, she’d made up her mind to leave. But where could she get even a few cents? The only things she knew were cooking, house cleaning, washing clothes—and warming a man’s bed. She had dealt the last thing out. She’d done all of that she intended to do—unless a man showed he cared for her . . . and she didn’t know where she’d find a man like that. She held the two dollars Bartow had left her to buy food. She took one of the cartwheels and stuck it in her shoe. She’d not eat but one meal every other day. She did the shopping, so she decided that when she went to the store, she’d keep some of the money for herself. Maybe by the time Bartow got back and left again she’d have stage fare. For the first time since she’d left home three years ago she felt like she might end up worth something.

  Barnes and Slagle decided that the only sensible thing was for one of them to keep track of things in Silverton, and the other in Durango. And in talking they thought it wouldn’t hurt to keep a closer eye on the Easterner. Slagle said the only reason he had to suspect the man was that he didn’t seem to have any kind of job. To Slagle’s thinking, every man needed a way to earn money to live on. Lingo agreed.

  The morning after they made their decision the two men sat in the cafe finishing breakfast. Lingo sat by the window. About to take a swallow of coffee before climbing on his horse and heading for Durango, he stiffened, and nodded to the hitch rack. Shorty Gates was looping the reins of his horse over the rail. “Never seen ’im without ha
vin’ Mayben taggin’ along at his side.”

  Sam shook his head. “Me neither, but it looks like he’s gonna come in here. You better cut out. Don’t wantta let ’im see you an’ me together.”

  Lingo stood, tossed a two-bit piece on the table to pay for his meal, and pushed out the door, brushing by the skinny gunman. He felt Gates’s eyes boring into his back until he’d toed the stirrup and pointed his horse toward Durango.

  Two days later, Barnes sat outside Durango’s general store. He’d already been to see the marshal and brought him up to date on the Emily Lou Colter situation. And after telling him that he had nothing new to report other than that Gates and Mayben had been gone for over a week, and that Gates had showed up in Silverton alone. Lingo thought it strange his partner hadn’t been with him, nor had the man the two left Durango with.

  Nolan told him about the Chama-bound stagecoach returning to Durango with two passengers, the shotgun guard, and the driver all dead. And that the passengers, well known, and known to travel with heavy money belts had no money belts strapped around their waists, and no money in their pockets when the stage brought them back. Nolan figured it as clearly being the result of a holdup.

  Now, a couple of hours later, Lingo sat on the smooth wooden bench, hunched down in his sheepskin, smoking his pipe and studying the people streaming along the street. Durango was a busy town.

  A man walked from the land office: Bartow, the Easterner. The first thing Lingo’s eyes honed in on were the man’s shoes. Yep, they were low-quarter. Barnes shrugged. Hell, that didn’t prove anything. He’d never seen a city man in boots.

  He squinted, looked at the man closer. He’d seen the same man in Silverton, so he wasn’t new to the territory. He glanced at the door from which the Easterner had come, nodded to himself, and stood. Maybe he’d find out what the man had been doing in there.

  The agent smiled and asked why Lingo wanted to know about the man. “Well, gonna tell ya, that man didn’t look like any miner I’ve ever seen. Just thought it odd he’d have business in your office.”

  The agent studied Barnes a moment, then nodded. “Reckon I had the same idea.” He pulled a map over in front of him. “This’s the area he asked about.” He pointed a pencil toward where Lingo knew Colter’s claim to be. “Strange, too, he wanted to know the names of the people who already had mines there. Don’t seem to me a man’d give a damn who owned the mines around him long’s he got the claim he wanted.”

  Barnes leaned in to see the map better. “He seem interested in any particular spot for his claim?”

  “Yep, he chose a spot right up the mountain above Miles Colter’s claim. I asked ’im if he knew Colter or much about mining.” The agent grinned. “He told me it wasn’t any of my damned business.” He shrugged. “If he’d been more polite, don’t think I’da told you what he was doin’.”

  Lingo smiled, thanked the agent, and offered to buy him a drink if he saw him in The Golden Eagle. He left.

  Why would anyone want to know the names of mine owners before selecting a claim? He pondered that question a few moments, shrugged, and chalked it up to people having strange quirks. But before casting the question aside, he thought it strange that the man’s claim was right close to Colter’s.

  He walked down the boardwalk toward the end of town, having it in mind to walk along the river and sort out his thoughts. He’d gone only two store-lengths when yelling and people running past him caused him to stop and look in the direction they ran.

  He frowned. People gathered around a riderless horse. He turned in that direction, stopped, and crossed the street to Nolan’s office. “Looks like there might be somethin’ out here that’s your business, Marshal. A horse just came into town with no rider, but still saddled.”

  Nolan stood, picked up his hat, and followed Barnes.

  They pushed through the crowd together. Lingo recognized the horse as soon as people opened a lane for him. It had the same markings as the bay Bull Mayben rode. As soon as he got close enough, he studied the black, dried buildup of something all over the pommel and down the fender. From experience, he knew dried blood when he saw it. He looked at the marshal. “Reckon I know why Shorty Gates wasn’t with ’is partner. That’s Mayben’s horse.”

  Under his breath Nolan muttered, “Reckon that’s one we won’t hang.” Barnes picked up the marshal’s words.

  “Nolan, I reckon it’s sort of a shame, Bull was just a big dumb animal who could be led by anyone with one brain cell more than he had—an’ he wasn’t overloaded with ’em.”

  Nolan took the reins of the horse, and led him toward the livery. The animal looked as though he’d not had food or water in days. When they reached the front of his office Nolan told Lingo to strip the gear from Mayben’s horse and take it into his office. He wanted to take a closer look at it.

  When Nolan got back to his office, he glanced at the saddle that Barnes had dropped to the floor at the side of his old scarred desk. He nodded toward the gear Lingo had dropped there. “Reckon we know at least one o’ them who robbed the stage.”

  Barnes stared at the saddle. “Nolan, there’s no way in hell you gonna prove that, an’ even less likely that you’ll be able to prove Gates had anything to do with it.”

  A jerky nod told Lingo that Nolan agreed. “Didn’t figger on tryin’ to prove they had anything to do with it. We find out who’s callin’ the shots in whatever game they’re playin’, an’ we hang that jasper an’ Gates, then I reckon I’d have to say justice has been served.”

  Lingo stared at his friend a long moment, then nodded. “Marshal, I reckon if we had more law officers like you, an’ less lawyers, we’d serve justice a helluva lot more often.”

  Nolan stared at Barnes a moment. “Son, gonna tell you right now, we gonna see the day when justice ain’t the issue. We gonna see slick-willy shysters take advantage of the law an’ git them who breaks the law off scot-free.” His face, to Lingo’s thinking, crumpled a little. “Son, when that day comes, an’ it’s almost here, a law officer’s job’s gonna be only for the most dedicated men around; men who’ll do their jobs against almost impossible odds.” He nodded. “Yeah, they’ll be a few officers who’ll git in this business for what they kin git outta it, we got some o’ that kind now, but for the most part they’s gonna be law officers who’ll make livin’ tol’able for honest folk.”

  11

  SAM SAT IN front of Murchison’s general store on the sunny side of the street. This crisp autumn day, he soaked up the warmth, nodded, then nodded again. Damn, he could get used to loafing right sudden. He nodded again, then jerked upright, all thought of sleep gone.

  His look held on the trail leading into town. The Easterner rode in alone.

  Sam thought about that for a moment. Who the hell did they think they were fooling? Gates, Bull, and Bartow had all disappeared from town about the same time, then when one showed up, not too long after another of the three made an appearance. He nodded to himself. Yep, he couldn’t imagine them fooling anyone. They been out of town together. He wished Barnes could know what he’d just seen.

  The Easterner, Randall Bartow. He’d seen, or heard the man’s name before—but where? Bartow tied up at the saloon and went in. Slagle stood and walked to the watering hole.

  Inside, at the bar, he ordered a whisky, straight, and when it came, picked it up and turned his back to the rough puncheon boards. Bartow sat at a table against the back wall. Gates stayed at the bar. Neither of them acted as though they’d ever seen the other. Sam knocked back his drink, made sure the two men had only then gotten a drink in front of them, then he pushed through the batwing doors.

  He walked directly to the hitching rack and studied the imprint of the horses’ hooves both Bartow and Gates had ridden into town on. He nodded, and walked to the edge of town. There, he singled out the tracks he’d only a few moments ago identified as those belonging to the horses Bartow and Gates had ridden. Here the tracks were separate. He turned his steps out of town. He
’d followed the trail less than a quarter of a mile when the separate tracks fell in side by side. To make certain one had not simply ridden past the other, he walked another half mile or so to prove to himself that they’d ridden together from wherever they’d been. Sam had proven that to his own satisfaction.

  He went back to sit outside of Murchison’s store. Many of his friends had stopped to ask if he wasn’t feeling well. His response had been, “Naw, I ain’t sick. Jest got a hitch in my back an’ figgered to give it a few days to get well—but I’m sure enjoyin’ jest sittin’ aroun’ doin’ nothin’.” His words seemed to satisfy them.

  He sat there a couple of hours and mulled over what he’d discovered. He was certain that Gates and the Easterner were tied in together, but couldn’t figure what their game might be. Too, he wondered where Mayben was. He sat there hoping to see the two leave, but on into late sundown they still hadn’t left the saloon. He wondered at people who could hang over a bar that long.

  He stood, stretched, and headed home—toward his empty cabin. He smiled into the night, wondering at how quickly he’d gotten used to having a friend close by. He’d not had anyone to share with since his wife had passed away eight years before from pneumonia.

  Slagle thought to find where Bartow’s and Gates’s cabin was—squat in the woods close by and see what they did, and where they did it. He quickly vetoed that idea. He wasn’t a woodsman, never had been. Lingo was the one to do the thing he thought to do. Lingo was an outdoorsman, a woodsman, an Indian fighter; hell, he could do things that Sam Slagle had never been able to do. Sam picked up an armload of stove wood when he got to his cabin, sighed, and went inside to fix himself something to eat.

  Wes shrugged into his sheepskin. The night air had the feel of snow in it, and up here on the mountain it pushed into his bones. He figured he’d stay at the pass until it began to snow, then he’d go down to the cabin, get warm, eat a good supper, and go to bed. He’d come back up here before daylight. What was he thinking? Eat a good supper? Long before he left the pass, the girls would probably be asleep. He shrugged to himself. He’d fix his own supper.