Hanging Valley

by Jack Ballas

  True to his estimate, about one-thirty the sounds of the driver yelling and the stage slowing to pass between the boulders broke the stillness and the dripping of the raindrops. The bandits, clearly in his sight, all straightened and flattened against the rocks, their rifles pointed in the direction of the oncoming stage. Barnes hoped his first shot would warn the stage driver and cause him to stop the stage out of rifle range. He thought to fire only to warn the driver, then figured to hell with it—that trash was intent on breaking the law, and probably killing all on the stage. He decided he’d eliminate any of Bartow’s bunch he could.

  Making certain he knew which one was Bartow, Lingo took careful aim between the shoulders of the man nearest to him. He squeezed off a shot, watched the man’s body jerk and go limp, then moved his sights to the next man.

  But now, the three remaining outlaws jumped to their feet, looked frantically around, and ran for their horses. Barnes squeezed off his next shot. The second man stumbled, took a couple of drunkenlike steps, and Lingo’s third shot took him through the head. He fell and didn’t quiver.

  Barnes jacked another shell into the chamber and sighted on the one Easterner left besides Bartow. He was already in the saddle. Lingo fired. Missed. Jacked another shell into the chamber—but too late. Bartow and his henchman were already out of range headed up the side of the mountain. Someone from the stage was firing and missing with every shot.

  Lingo sat still a few moments waiting for those on the stage to cease fire. When all went silent, still using the tree trunk as cover, he yelled, “Don’t shoot! It was me who fired on them to warn you. I’m comin’ out with my hands in the air.” He moved from behind the tree’s bole, and still out of sight of the stage walked around the pile of boulders. They came into his line of vision. He walked slowly, carefully, hoping none on, or in, the stage would fire on him.

  When sure they could see him plainly, he looked at the shotgun guard. “Any o’ you hit?”

  The guard, a young, slim, hard-eyed man, kept his shotgun pointed at Barnes. The driver reached across his chest, and with his right hand pushed the shotgun’s barrels up toward the sky. “Take it easy, young’un. That there man’s the one what saved our bacon. I know ’im.” He spat a stream of tobacco juice off to the side, grinned, and pinned Lingo with his gray-blue eyes. “Howdy, Barnes. How’d you know this’s gonna be a holdup?”

  Lingo let his arms drop to shoulder height. “Howdy, old timer. ’Fore I begin to explain, you care if I lower my hands all the way?”

  “Aw hell, Lingo, course I don’t care. Drop ’em an’ come up to this here bumpy bit o’ hell.”

  Barnes walked to the side of the stage, looked in, saw no passengers, and looked up at the driver and guard. “I followed ’em outta Chama yesterday, saw ’em buy rifles an’ ammo in Chama. They didn’t look like hunters, an’ knowin’ one of ’em I figured they were up to no good. So after they made camp last night I eased up to where I could hear ’em talkin’. Their words told me I’d figured right, so I set up to spoil their game.”

  The rawhide, tough-looking old man chuckled. “Reckon you done a mighty fine job o’ doin’ that. You know any o’ that bunch ’sides that one you spoke of?”

  Lingo shook his head. “Only one of ’em who got away. Didn’t want to kill ’im. He’s a special one to me. I want to get ’im hung.” He nodded. “Gonna do it, too.”

  The driver’s face lost any semblance of a grin. “Lookin’ at your eyes right now, if I wuz that there man I’d keep right on ridin’ slam outta the country. What you got agin’ ’im?”

  “Marshal Nolan knows what I got against him, an’ he’ll let me handle it my own way ’til time to put a rope ’round his neck.” He frowned. “You carryin’ anything of value this trip?”

  The driver nodded.

  Barnes thought about the time it would take, but offered anyway. “You want me to sit up there with you and the guard?”

  The old man shook his head. “Naw. ’Preciate the offer, but this here’s ’bout the only place what ain’t very safe headin’ on the rest o’ the way.” He took the huge chew of tobacco from his mouth, threw it aside, and bit off another chew, but only after he’d offered the guard and Barnes a bite. “You git on back to Durango—or go after them what figgered to take what we’re carryin’.” He grinned. “If they knowed Lingo Barnes wuz on their tails, reckon they’d build a fire under the tails o’ them jugheads they’re ridin’.”

  Barnes gave him a jerky nod, held up his hand in farewell, and turned toward his camp. “Probably see ya next trip.”

  The driver chuckled and popped his whip over the backs of his team. “Hope we don’t meet under these same conditions.” Before Lingo could think of anything else to say the stage disappeared through the pile of boulders.

  While he rolled his bedroll and tied it behind his saddle, Barnes wondered what he should do next. He was sure, in his own mind, that Bartow, Mayben, and Gates were tied into the abduction of Emily Lou, and of course that other holdup, but he had nothing to prove it to others, others like those who would sit on a jury. Of course, Mayben was out of the picture, but there was still Gates and Bartow. He wanted indisputable proof, proof that would put a rope around their necks. He’d better talk to Nolan.

  He rode toward Durango, and while riding pondered the problem. He’d ridden only a couple of miles when a rider came around a curve in the trail, his horse in an all-out run.

  The Outlaw Trail crossed this part of the Bar I-M range. Playing it safe, Barnes flipped the thong off the hammer of his Colt. When only about a quarter of a mile separated them, he smiled to himself and thumbed the thong back over the hammer. Quint Cantrell.

  Cantrell hailed him first. “Hey, amigo, what the hell you doin’ out here all by your lonesome?”

  Barnes had been riding on BIM range for the last twenty or thirty miles, long before he interrupted the stage holdup. He wasn’t surprised to see a BIM rider, but pleased to see his friend. “Howdy, Cantrell. Good to see you. What the hell you runnin’ your horse like that for?”

  “Heard rifle fire out yonder behind you. Somebody out to get you?”

  Lingo shook his head. “Other way ’round. Four men were gonna hold up the stage. I stopped ’em—got two of ’em. Two got away.”

  Cantrell’s face hardened into flat planes. “Well c’mon; I’ll hep you git them other two.”

  “No, not now. I know who they are. I’ll get ’em later.” Then trusting Quint’s judgment, he nodded. “Even better’n chasin’ ’em all over hell, I got somethin’ I wantta talk to you ’bout.”

  Quint slanted him a crooked grin. “Somethin’ tells me I ain’t gonna like hearin’ this. Ever’ time you talk to me like that it’s gun trouble.”

  Barnes grimaced. “Yeah, Quint, reckon it is.” He shook his head. “But I’m tellin’ you right now, I’m not askin’ you to step in, I just want some advice.”

  Cantrell frowned. “Too far back to the ranch to ask you to come on over an’ spend the night. Elena ain’t ’spectin’ me home fer a couple o’ days, she figgers I’m headin’ fer the north line shack.” He shrugged. “So why don’t we make camp, an’ you tell me what’s botherin’ you?”

  They set up camp in a place much like the one Barnes had chosen the night before. They fixed supper, and after eating, Cantrell broke out a bottle of whisky he’d been taking to his saddle partner, Art King. They spiked their coffee, and sat back to enjoy the hot liquid, as much as the dripping, constant rain would let them.

  While they drank, Barnes told Cantrell the story of Emily Lou’s getting taken off the stage, and all that he knew that had happened since then. When finished, he spread his hands palms up. “Quint, Marshal Nolan’s a friend to both o’ us. Somehow I feel like he’s stickin’ ’is neck out for me.” He gave Cantrell a straight-on look. “Gonna tell you, cowboy, there’s nothin’ I wouldn’t do for that old man.” He shook his head. “Don’t want ’im gettin’ in trouble of any kind ’cause of me.”

 
Quint slanted him a thin-lipped smile. “You know Nolan, I know Nolan, an’ I guaran-damn-tee you, even though we’re his friends, he ain’t gonna break no damned laws to protect nobody.” His smile widened into a grin. “I figger he’d uphold the law even if we wuz his brothers.” He shook his head. “Don’t worry ’bout it. You ain’t gitten’ ’im into no trouble.”

  Even though Cantrell had said exactly the words he thought he would, Lingo breathed a sigh of relief.

  Quint pulled the cork from the bottle and freshened their drinks. With a smug smile, he pushed the cork back. “Art King’s gonna be mighty proud we drank his whisky. He likes to feel like he’s been right hospitable.”

  Barnes chuckled. “Quint, that’s the damnedest outright lie I ever heard you tell. Art’s gonna be mad ’nuff to spit nails when he figures we sat here an’ drank his whisky.”

  “Naw, don’t reckon he will when I give ’im his pay Lion sent out with me, an’ tell ’im to take off for Durango a couple o’ days.” He slanted Lingo that hard, thin-lipped smile again. “But I’m here to tell you, I’d a drank ever’ drop o’ it jest to see ’im raise hell ’bout it.”

  Barnes wagged his head slowly from side to side. “No, you wouldn’t, Quint. That man’s close enough to you to be your brother.”

  Cantrell’s face sobered. “Reckon you’re right—same as you an’ that kid, Wes. You took ’im to raise, an’ you got the best friend you’ll ever have.” He stared into his now empty cup, apparently thinking hard, then he raised his eyes to pin Barnes with a no-argument look. “Gonna give King a few days off, then I’m gonna take them same few days off, go by the ranch, tell Elena I’m headin’ fer Durango, then I’m gonna side you in whatever trouble you got. A sleeve gun, huh? Know you’re fast, but not fast as a sneak shot with one o’ them little pepperboxes. Me an’Art’s gonna be there to see you git a fair shake.”

  “Aw hell, Quint, didn’t tell you all this to get your help. I saddled this bronc; I’m gonna ride ’im. Just wanted to know what you thought ’bout me gettin’ Nolan in trouble.”

  Quint grinned. “Nope. What you’re tryin’ to do is hawg all the fun to yourself.” He nodded. “ ’Nuff said. Me an’ Art’s gonna be there.”

  Lingo knew there was no sense in arguing. Cantrell had the bit in his teeth.

  13

  BARTOW DUG SPURS into his horse. He’d never felt fear like now. He’d not caught lead, but rock fragments had dusted his face and arms. His gut muscles pulled tight, his stomach churned, making him think he would lose his breakfast; every muscle in his body pulled tighter. He spurred again. “Let’s get outta here,” he yelled across his shoulder. “We’re not goin’ to Durango. We’ll ride around it, make camp on the other side.”

  D’Amato only cast him a look filled with blame and hate. They rode their horses hard for about thirty or forty-five minutes. Bartow looked behind every few seconds of that time, then reined his horse to a walk. “No need to kill our horses; there’s no one following.”

  “Damn you, Bartow, what you get me into? Those two men back there were friends of mine. We left ’em for some lawman to pick up. Left ’em for evidence to tie ’em to us.”

  Bartow stared at his “friend.” He shook his head. “No. They weren’t yours or anybody’s friends. They came out here to make a killin’ off of these hicks; same as you did.” He pulled a cigar from his shirt pocket, bit the end from it, lit it, and slanted D’Amato a cold look. “We can still get outta this game what I figured, if we can establish we were in Silverton while all this was going on. Don’t think whoever was shooting at us back there can identify either of us.” He shrugged. “That bein’ the case, we’ll go ahead an’ play the hand out like it was dealt.”

  D’Amato only stared at him. The look was enough to put the fear of the Almighty into Bartow. He’d known D’Amato since they swiped tobacco and candy from the corner store. The Italian had been ruthless even in those days; now it was obvious the man had only grown colder and harder. A chill ran up Bartow’s spine.

  They rode in silence for at least a half an hour, then D’Amato, his words falling between them like shards of a broken mirror, said, “So we’re gonna play the hand that was dealt, huh? Well I’m tellin’ you right now, Bartow, you better hope you got dealt a pat hand.” He slanted a look across his shoulder. “Any more shootin’ at me when I don’t know who’s shootin’, or when I got no chance to shoot back, I’m gonna be aimin’ my gun toward you. Know what I mean?”

  Bartow shrank into his saddle until he felt no more than a foot high. “Hell, Vic, I had no reason to think there’d be someone in those rocks who knew, or thought they knew there was gonna be a holdup.” He shook his head. “This deal I asked you to come out here for is a sure thing. Don’t worry ’bout it.”

  A thin smile broke the corners of D’Amato’s lips. “If either of us has a reason to worry, Bartow, I think you’ve about decided you’re the one.” His smile disappeared. “You’d better give it a lot o’ worry, ’cause you got two sides to think about—those you’re thinkin’ to take to the cleaners . . . an’ me.” His smile came back. He slowly shook his head. “Way I’ve got it figured, you’ve bit off more’n you can chew either way.”

  Bartow stared straight ahead. Fear wouldn’t allow him to look at his henchman. He knew his eyes would show that fear had him in a death grip. Still east of Durango, they rode on and all the while Bartow thought of ways to rid himself of the trap he’d gotten himself into.

  He’d thought at first he could take over Colter’s mine with having to kill only one person. Of course he’d thought Mayben and Gates would get rid of Emily Lou and that would only leave him her father to take care of. Then he’d decided he’d have to kill the two hick cowboys after he gained ownership of the mine. Then, when he’d had to call in friends from back East, he thought that eventually he’d have to get rid of them. Now there was only one left—Shorty Gates. Too, he would probably have to kill D’Amato as soon as he had a chance—in the back, or however. He had to eliminate him. That made two left he had to get rid of. He thought he’d take Maddie with him until he had no more need for her; she was good for taking care of his physical needs, as well as cooking and keeping his clothes clean.

  Then he noticed, as though his “friend” read his mind, he rode slightly behind, and when Bartow would slow his horse, so would D’Amato. Adding ice to his bones, D’Amato knew he carried a sleeve gun. He shivered.

  Barnes and Cantrell sat across the desk from Marshal Nolan, a full cup of coffee in front of them, the three slowly puffing clouds from their pipes, all obviously in deep thought. Lingo had already told the marshal about the holdup, and that he knew it was Bartow who pulled the strings on it. He’d asked Nolan to hold off on the holdup arrests until he took another shot at tying Bartow into the taking of Emily Lou.

  “Son, we got ’nuff to hang the Easterner without gittin’ him tied into snatching the girl offa that stage. Hell, let’s take ’im in, try ’im, hang ’im, an’ be done with it.”

  Lingo shook his head. “Nolan, we leave it like that an’ I won’t know who bossed snatchin’ Em offa that stage, or that she’s outta danger. There might be somebody else out there who wants her dead.” He sucked on his now cold pipe. “Gonna ask you, give me time to prove it one way or the other.”

  “You know where Bartow is now?”

  “Not for sure, but if he figures whoever attacked him at the stage couldn’t recognize ’im, he probably headed for Silverton, at least he was headed in this direction after I spoiled their game. Silverton’s where I think I’ll find ’im.” Lingo struck a lucifer and held the fire to his pipe. When he’d puffed life into it, he said through the cloud of smoke, “Quint an’ I’ve spent a day of searching through this town for the Easterner, he’s not been here, so I figure he circled the town an’ headed straight to Silverton. That’s where we’ll find ’im if he’s dumb enough not to keep goin’.” He took another drag on his pipe, then frowned. “If he figures nobody recognized him at the
stage holdup, he just might stay in Silverton an’ try to bluff it out.”

  Nolan switched his gaze to Cantrell. “What’s your interest in this, Quint? Seems to me you find enough trouble to keep Elena worried all the time without you huntin’ up things what ain’t none o’ your business.”

  Cantrell grinned. “Hell, Nolan, I’m ’bout to go crazy as a rabid skunk out yonder since we cleaned up that bunch from the owl hoot, along with what was left o’ the Hardester brothers. Lingo come along an’ give me a chance to have a little fun. Less’n you tell me flat out to leave it alone, I’d kinda like to cover his backside.”

  A hard, thin smile broke the corners of Nolan’s lips. “Know what, Cantrell? I shoulda not ever told you you wasn’t wanted by the law, then maybe you’da kept on ridin’ slam outta my life. All you ever brought me wuz a whole bunch o’ misery.”

  A belly laugh rumbled up from Cantrell’s stomach. “Hell, Nolan, you’da died from boredom a long time ago if people like Lingo an’ me didn’t come along to put a little Mexican spice into your days.”

  Nolan growled. “Like hell.” But his eyes twinkled, and the corners of his lips crinkled.

  He looked at Lingo. “All right. You go ahead an’ do it your way, but I’m tellin’ you right now, don’t you let that varmint git away. He needs to git hung.”

  Lingo looked at the old marshal. His face felt stiff and cold. “Nolan, that man won’t stand a chance o’ gettin’ anywhere without me ridin’ right close to his coattails.” He closed his eyelids to slits. “I have a special reason for wantin’ ’im to hang, an’ I damn well figure on seein’ ’im swing an’ jerk at the end of a rope.” He cocked his head to listen, and looked toward the window. “You reckon it’s rainin’? Water’s drippin’ off the roof and I didn’t figure it to rain when we came in here.”

  Cantrell shook his head. “Naw, ain’t rainin’, but I been expectin’ a thaw, early as it is in the fall.” He put a lucifer to his pipe, puffed until he had a cloud of smoke that engulfed the three of them, then finished his thought. “Reckon we gittin’ what I been expectin’.”