Hanging Valley

by Jack Ballas

  “You still gonna get ’im hung ’stead o’ shootin’ ’im.”

  Lingo nodded. “Yeah, if I can make it happen that way.” He sighed. “When we can we have to let the law handle things.”

  The next morning, Barnes sat huddled in his sheepskin on a blanket of pine straw about fifty yards from Colter’s mine. From where he sat, he had a clear view of the mine entrance, and could look down on the main street of Silverton. He’d eaten breakfast before daylight, before taking his station for the day. Abruptly, he straightened. The man he looked for came into sight, but not outside the mine. Bartow rode along Silverton’s main street in the direction of Durango. He had a bedroll tied behind the cantle, and a rifle in his saddle scabbard. Lingo watched him out of sight, stood, and headed for Slagle’s cabin.

  After pouring himself a cup of steaming coffee, and holding the cup with both hands to warm them, he looked across the room at his friend. “No need to watch the mine. Bartow just rode outta town, bedroll an’ all. I figure he’s gonna be gone awhile. When I get back we’ll take up watchin’ the mine again.”

  “You figger to follow ’im?”

  Lingo nodded. “Gotta see what he goes outta town so much for; might find out if he has any more henchmen to do his biddin’.”

  “Wuz Gates with ’im?”

  “Nope, just Bartow.” He shrugged. “Which means we still don’t have anything to tie the two together as operating with the same goal in mind.” He pressed his lips tightly together and clenched his fists. “But, Sam, I know damned well we’re not barkin’ up the wrong tree.”

  While Barnes busied himself packing for the trail, Sam packed provisions. Then finished with that task, he flipped his thumb toward the mine. “You reckon Gates might be nosin’ ’round the mine?”

  “No. I figure any interest the Easterner has in that mine, he’s keepin’ for himself.” He frowned. “But I do wish you’d keep track o’ Gates, see what he might be up to while Bartow’s gone.”

  Lingo picked up his bedroll and the gunnysack of provisions Sam had packed and opened the door. “See you when I get back.”

  He rode at a trot, a pace that would shake the guts out of a man unless his horse was smoothly gaited. It still wasn’t a comfortable ride, but he figured to bring Bartow into sight quicker. He was right.

  Before noon, he had the Easterner in sight. He held back far enough so as not to be recognized if Bartow looked to his backtrail. When they got to Durango, the Easterner took his horse to the livery and headed for the hotel. Barnes frowned. Why the bedroll if the man was going to stay in the hotel? He thought on that a moment and decided this wasn’t the end of the trail; Bartow would leave town again the next morning.

  Damn! He didn’t dare go to the hotel, the slippery Easterner might leave and he’d miss finding where he went. Lingo sighed and told the liveryman he’d sleep in the loft. It would be a cold night, but he wouldn’t take the chance on getting left behind.

  Sure enough, about four o’clock the next morning Barnes was wakened by the rustling of leather being dragged off a stall wall, then the sounds of a man grunting to throw the saddle across a horse’s back. He moved softly to the ladder and peered below. It was too dark to see, then the person below growled, “Stand still, you bastard, or I’ll kick your ribs in.” Lingo nodded. That was Bartow’s voice.

  He waited until Bartow rode from the stable, then saddled and followed. Again Barnes held a good distance between them. Bartow headed toward Chama. Lingo wondered what Chama held for Bartow that he couldn’t find in Durango. He shrugged mentally. Hell, finding the answer to that question was why he followed the man.

  Maddie Brice, after preparing breakfast for Bartow, and watching him ride off, sighed. She’d have a few days of peace. She fingered the double eagle Randall Bartow had tossed on the table before leaving, telling her to buy provisions, enough to last awhile, enough for more than the two of them. She stared at the money. He’d never let her have more than two or three dollars at a time. To leave her this much money he must have three or four people coming. She shuddered. He’d most likely pass her around to be used by them any way they saw fit. She stood, went to the area behind the curtain, and pulled a carpetbag from a pile of junk on the floor. She’d never have a better chance to be shed of Bartow than now.

  She’d no more than put her only spare dress in the bag when a light tap on the door sounded. She frowned, hid the carpetbag behind the curtain, then opened the door a crack. Shorty Gates.

  “What you want, Shorty?”

  “Need to see the boss. He here?”

  Maddie shook her head. “Gone, be gone a few days.”

  Shorty pushed his way past her into the cabin. “Let me in, cold out here.” He looked around, apparently noticed that food for breakfast was still on the cabinet, and said, “Fix me some breakfast; ain’t et yet.”

  “You want breakfast go back to your cabin. Maybe Bull Mayben’ll fix you some.”

  Shorty stared at her a long moment. “Ain’t Bartow told you?” He shook his head, and his face almost crumpled. “Bull’s dead; been dead a couple weeks or more.”

  Her heart softened. She had seen how close Shorty and Bull had been, and despite not liking either of them, knew how much it must hurt to lose a partner. “I’m sorry, Shorty. Wantta tell me what happened?”

  He shook his head.

  Despite her telling him to have Bull fix his breakfast, she went to the cabinet and broke a couple of eggs into the skillet, then placed some thick-sliced bacon, the rind still on, in the same skillet. “Set. I’ll feed you, then you gotta git gone.”

  “Why? Ain’t nobody here but you an’ me. I been thinkin’ ’bout you all the time Bartow’s been beddin’ you. He ain’t got a damn thing ’cept them pretty little shoes he wears what I ain’t got.”

  Maddie had been through situations like this many times since she was fourteen years old. At first she’d been terrified, then resigned to what befell her—now she was determined it wouldn’t happen again. She looked at him and smiled, knowing he probably wouldn’t even take his boots off.

  She pulled a chair over close to the bed. “Here hang your clothes on this here chair.” While talking, she unbuttoned her blouse. The firm swell of her breasts pushed above her shift. Shorty’s gaze locked on her bosom. He unbuckled his gunbelt and slung it over the back of the chair, pulled his belt loose, unbuttoned his trousers, and pushed them down to his boottops. She was right: He didn’t figure to pull his boots off.

  She unbuttoned the top two buttons of her shift, and looked him in the eye. “Git on over in the middle o’ the bed, I gotta have room to show you what I really can do for a man.”

  Shorty, his breath now coming in short gasps, his eyes glazed, jumped onto the bed, scooted to its middle, and drooling from the corners of his mouth, swung his eyes to look at her.

  As soon as his back hit the mattress, she reached for the chair, and pulled his .44 from its holster. It was heavy, so very heavy. She pulled at the hammer with her thumb, tried again, and it came back to full cock. Then, making certain she wouldn’t miss, leaned over the bed and pulled the trigger. Shorty bounced on the bed when the slug hit his gut. He reached for her, and the second slug went inside his reaching hands. It hit him dead center in the chest.

  “Y-you damned animal—trash, didn’t even figger to take your boots off. Now whoever finds you can bury you with your boots on.” She emptied the Colt’s cylinders into him, then her hand still holding the smoking .44 dropped to her side. She felt like she’d been beaten with a bullwhip, and at the same time a sense of freedom flooded her chest such as she’d never known.

  She didn’t know when the next stage to Grand Junction would run, or whether they could get over the pass. It might be choked with snow by now; but one thing she was sure of—she wasn’t going to be in Silverton. She threw her few belongings into the carpetbag, made sure she had every dime she’d managed to hold out of what Bartow had given her to buy groceries, took a last look at Shorty lying
on the blood-soaked bed, and left the cabin. She kept Shorty’s Colt .44.

  At the edge of town, walking at a frantic pace, she stopped, almost skidding on the slippery, mud-laden path—that poor man locked in the mine, the man Bartow had told her to be sure to feed and give water at least every other day. What would happen to him if she left now?

  She couldn’t—wouldn’t, go back to the cabin, but she had to make sure the old man didn’t die of thirst, or starvation. She did go back to the cabin. She needed the key Bartow had left with her. The key to the lock on the mine shaft door.

  As soon as she could get the heavy lock open and free of its hasp, she swung back the door, and left it swinging on its hinges. She went inside, groped her way around the wall until she found a lantern on a shelf about head-high, then struck a lucifer and lighted it.

  Unlike most mines, she stood in a living quarters. Shorty had been feeding Colter during Bartow’s other trips, but she’d heard them talk. She went to the back, pushed the curtain aside, and saw a frail old man strapped to a bunk.

  She fingered the knots on his bonds, failed to get them loose, then tried until the ends of her fingers were bleeding and so sore the pain brought tears to her eyes. Then aware that he stared at her, his eyes never leaving her, and that he seemed to be lucid, she thought to remove the gag he had around his head. “Cain’t git these knots untied. You got a knife anywhere ’round here?”

  Colter’s eyes slanted to the side. He opened his mouth to talk, but only a rasping, choking sound came. Maddie rushed to a water bucket and took a dipper of water to him. She let a few trickles flow into his mouth, then a couple more. She brought the dipper to his mouth again, but he pushed it aside with his tongue. “Knife in bottom drawer over yonder.”

  Maddie rushed to the cabinet, pulled the bottom drawer out, and pulled a heavy kitchen knife from it. Only a couple of slashes with the sharp blade had Colter’s bonds severed. “Oh, you poor man, let me help you.” She reached for his shoulders, tried to lift him, but even in his half-starved, skeletal state she couldn’t handle him—and he couldn’t move enough to help her.

  “More water. I’ll help all I can. Been lying here so long, don’t know how long, but I can’t seem to move.”

  Now afraid that someone would come and blame her for his condition, and with strength gained from terror, she shoved her arms under his legs and swung them to the side. It was then that she heard footsteps come through the entrance. “Hello in there. Who’s there?”

  Every nerve in her body tightened into knots. A knot formed in her throat such that she couldn’t answer. She pulled her carpetbag close and pulled out Shorty’s .44. Her throat opened enough that she got a few words out. “Come. Let me see who you are.”

  A big man, brawny and middle-aged, came into the room. He had a handgun in his huge fist. “Who’re you, ma’am? What you doin’ in here?”

  She pointed the Colt at him. “You put that there gun back in its holster; then we’ll talk.”

  The big man slipped his handgun back in its holster. “All right, let’s talk, but first let’s get that man outta here, an’ made comfortable.” Ignoring the gun she held on him, the big man went to Colter’s bunk, lifted him as though he was no more than a small child, and headed for the door. He looked over his shoulder. “You comin’ with me, git after it. Lock the door when you leave.”

  Maddie, Shorty’s gun hanging at her side followed the big man down the hill, around a ridge, and into a gulch. He walked to a cabin, snug by anyone’s standards, opened the door, walked in, and placed Colter on a neatly made bunk. He turned to her. “Ma’am, I’m Sam Slagle, been wonderin’ why that there mine door wuz always locked, then when I seen it open like it wuz, figgered I’d take a look.”

  Maddie stared at Sam a moment, put the Colt back into her bag, and shook her head. “Glad you did, Mr. Slagle. I couldn’t handle ’im. ’Fraid I wuz gonna have to leave ’im there without your help.” She went to Colter’s side. “ ’Fore we do anythin’, let’s git some victuals an’ water into this here man. He’s been sadly mistreated.”

  Sam showed her where he kept food, where the water bucket stood, and asked her for the key to the mine. He wanted to get Colter some clothes. He needed a bath, clean clothes, and a good night’s sleep. He’d take any weapons he found also.

  While Sam was gone, Maddie cooked, fed the old man, and despite his protests, stripped him, bathed him, and waited for Sam to bring clean clothes.

  When Sam returned with clothing and weapons, they dressed Colter for the night, put him into Lingo’s bunk, made sure he was comfortable, and only then did Sam tell him about the attempt to kidnap Emily, first assuring him that she was all right, but that they wouldn’t be able to get to her until they had a thaw. “You git a good night’s sleep now. Ever’thing’s all right. When you git up in the mornin’ gonna tell you all ’bout it, then I want you to tell us what happened.”

  “Reckon I kin tell you most o’ that side o’ the story.” Maddie blushed. “I ain’t proud o’ my part in it, but reckon I did have a part in it. I’ll tell you ’bout it an’ hope you’ll forgive me. I ain’t much of a woman, but I sure ain’t bad as I wuz bein’ forced to be.”

  She looked at her carpetbag. “I wuz ’bout ready to catch the next stagecoach to Grand Junction, hopin’ I could git away ’fore he, Bartow, caught me—then I thought ’bout that poor man there, all locked up in that mine without no water or food.” She shrugged. “I jest flat couldn’t leave no human bein’ like that.”

  Sam stood, pulled a Winchester off a peg on the wall, loaded it, checked his handgun, cleaned and loaded the weapons he’d found at the mine, then thinking he’d done all he could to make certain they could defend themselves, he shook his head, and shrugged. He looked over his shoulder. “They ain’t no stages leavin’ for Grand Junction. Pass is closed.” He hefted his Winchester and grimaced. “Wish we had more shootin’ irons, but these’re all we got. Glad I found them in the mine, but we gonna need more shells fer these guns we got.” He shook his head. “Hope we don’t have to do no shootin’ at all, but just in case, I better git shells.”

  “I got one gun here.” Maddie handed him Shorty’s Colt. Sam swung the cylinder out. The gun she’d held on him was empty, every cartridge had been fired. He chuckled. “Ma’am, this here gun ain’t got a live load in it. You been shootin’ it?”

  She looked from the six-shooter back to Slagle, then slowly nodded. “Mr. Slagle, I shot a man.” She shook her head. “Nope, not a man, a flat out animal. He wuz gonna use me like I reckon I got to figgerin’ all men would. I shot ’im, killed ’im, an’ I ain’t sorry one bit fer doin’ it.” She then told him about Gates, Bull Mayben, and their being Bartow’s henchmen. “They wuz sent out to take Mr. Colter’s little girl off’n a stage, do what they wanted to with ’er, then kill ’er. Them two are dead, but Bartow’s still alive an’ he’s done gone fer a few days. We gotta keep ’im from findin’ Mr. Colter when he gits back.”

  Sam took some cleaning patches from a drawer and proceeded to clean Shorty’s .44. Then he loaded it and set it alongside the other weapons. He looked from Colter to Maddie. “We’ll keep ’im right here. Git ’im fed, put a little meat on ’is bones, get a little strength in ’im, an’ set tight. We’ll see what Bartow does when he gits back. He ain’t got no reason to figger I had anything to do with settin’ his prisoner free.” He shrugged. “Hell, he don’t even know me, or nothin’ ’bout my cabin.”

  “Gotta tell ya, sir, I figger Bartow’s gone after more men. We ain’t gonna jest have him to deal with.”

  Sam glanced at the weapons again. His face hardened. “We’ll deal with ’em, Maddie. We cain’t git Colter to Barnes’s ranch by then. The pass into Lingo’s valley is snowed closed. We gotta wait fer a thaw, so I figger he can help us fight Bartow an’ whoever he brings with ’im.”

  For the first time, Colter entered the conversation. “I want Bartow, he’s mine. After what he did to me I’d like to return the favor, bu
t I think we’ll not have a chance for that sort of thing. If he comes here, I think we’ll have a fight on our hands.”

  Sam shook his head. “No. If possible, I want to turn ’im over to Lingo. Lingo Barnes figgers to hang ’im—an’ I got it set in my mind that if the law don’t do it, he’ll do it all by hisself.”

  Colter frowned. “He doesn’t sound like a much better man than Bartow.”

  “Aw now, I didn’t mean to make Lingo Barnes out as that sort o’ man. He’s a good man, soft as a kitten when he’s dealin’ with them he likes.” He shook his head. “But you do those he likes wrong, an’ he’s ’bout the hardest man you gonna ever meet.” He smiled. “You gonna like ’im. I guaran-damn-tee you gonna like ’im.” Then to himself he added that he hoped so, because he thought maybe Emily Lou and Barnes had ideas of their own about what her father would mean to them, although neither had said anything to each other about their feelings.

  He glanced toward the shelf he kept foodstuffs on. It was almost empty. He turned his eyes on Maddie. “You mind stayin’ here ’til this here business is all over?”

  She shrugged. “Ain’t got much choice.” She glanced at Colter, then back to look Sam in the eye. “But I’m here to tell you, Mr. Slagle, even if I had a choice, I’d stay to take care o’ Mr. Colter. I feel like I been partly at fault for ’im bein’ in the shape he’s in.” She nodded. “Yep, I’ll be here ’til you want me to go.”

  “Good. Now I gotta git myself down to the general store an’ stock up on provisions since we got more mouths to feed than jest me.” He went to a chest of drawers, picked up a pencil, found a blank sheet of paper, and handed them to Maddie. “See what I got an’ what I ain’t got to feed us pretty good. Make a list an’ I’ll go git what you done writ. Now don’t you try to save on the supplies, we gotta feed that there man good. Get ’im strong.”