Return to Sundown Valley

by Cole Shelton

  ‘Ride,’ Luke said under his breath.

  They headed together along the creek bed until they were out of sight of the Apaches. The death song still rose, eerie and wavering, like the cry of a ghost, as they drew rein under an arrowhead pine.

  ‘I will ride back and tell my father of Blood Knife’s death,’ the Navajo told him. ‘There will be rejoicing. And when the soldiers come from Fort Beaver, we will be safe from any Apache murder raids.’

  ‘Also tell him to prepare to return to the Armijo land in Sundown Valley,’ Luke said.

  ‘I hope this will be so, Luke Dawson, my friend.’ The Navajo chief’s son added, ‘We fight well together, Luke Dawson. I could still help. I want to help you. You saw I can shoot straight! Once I tell my father the news, I can ride swiftly to Sundown Valley and be alongside you.’

  ‘Thanks for the offer, but from now on this is my game,’ Luke said.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Shiye, you said the Apaches will not take long with their religious duties,’ Luke reminded him. ‘I suggest you and me both ride now, I’ll go to Sundown Valley, you to Na Dené Canyon.’

  The Navajo grinned as he quoted Luke, ‘So we get hell out of here?’

  ‘Right now,’ Luke said. He spoke in the Navajo tongue, ‘Ya’at’eeh, my friend.’

  ‘See you later,’ Shiye confirmed.

  Luke headed Buck away, his eyes fixed on the twin peaks that overhung Whispering Pass. He turned in the saddle just once to make sure Shiye rode unharmed past the wailing Apaches.

  Satisfied his Navajo friend was safely well on his way, Luke rode into the wilderness.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Luke rode all day, then the next, resting two nights without a campfire. On the third morning he left Whispering Pass behind and took the trail he knew down through the pine forest. He reached the widow’s cabin. Rose was milking her cow and she waved briefly to him as he rode by. Minutes later, the trail took him to Wishbone’s place. Even as he rode into the clearing, the door burst open wide and Annie came running out.

  As Luke slid from the saddle, she rattled off, ‘Thank God you’re back safe and well. You shouldn’t have ridden all that way after having that bullet cut out of you. Luke, I was so worried—’

  ‘And she was, too, Luke,’ Wishbone greeted him from the doorway. ‘You were on her mind day and night. Reckon there must be a reason.’

  Annie’s cheeks flushed crimson at her father’s words. She warned him, ‘Pa! Careful what you say, Pa!’

  ‘I had to make that ride,’ Luke said.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ she agreed. ‘I was just so worried, that’s all.’ Eyes shining, Annie invited him in. ‘Coffee pot’s warming on the stove.’

  ‘Yeah, we need to have a talk,’ Wishbone told him.

  ‘I could use that coffee, Annie, but it’ll be just a real short talk,’ Luke said. ‘Five minutes, no more.’ He explained, ‘I have business to attend to.’

  ‘I reckon you might have, too,’ Wishbone agreed. Then the trapper told him in a cryptic tone, ‘There’s something you need to know, but first, tell us what happened with you.’

  Luke filled them both in as he drank Annie’s home-brewed coffee and munched her freshly baked cookies. Wishbone and his daughter listened in silence. Annie was white-faced and couldn’t help but let out a few sobs while Luke told them about the Sundown Valley massacre. However, they were relieved and thrilled to learn that a few Navajos had survived. Even the hardened old trapper shed more than a tear when Luke let them know Chief Nastas now had his hero son’s Medal of Honour in his safe keeping.

  He concluded with, ‘Had a brush with Blood Knife on the trail home but Shiye, the chief’s last remaining son, took care of him. Tell you about it later.’ He downed the last of his coffee and prompted Wishbone, ‘You said there was something I should know?’

  ‘Yeah, reckon so,’ Wishbone said, retrieving a cigarette he’d half-smoked from its ashtray. He relit the cigarette in the warm ashes of the potbelly stove. ‘Been having trouble with a pesky bobcat. Killed my turkey I was raising for Thanksgiving. Trailed the varmint yesterday. Tracks led along Wild Wolf Ridge, right by your place and when I rode past, I noticed something different.’ He drew on his cigarette. ‘Your fence had been fixed. I saw new wire, some new posts, even a new gate by the trail.’

  ‘There’s more,’ Annie recalled what her father had told her. ‘Pa saw riders on your land.’

  ‘It was close to sundown, dusk, so I couldn’t see them clearly, but I’d swear on the Good Book they were Triple Z men. One was the Irishman, O’Neill. I’m sure of that. The other, well, can’t be too sure but I reckon he looked like Heck Halliday. They were roaming your land real casual like, just as they would on Zimmer’s Triple Z range.’

  ‘Pa came home and said it was like the Triple Z had taken over your spread,’ Annie remembered.

  ‘Because they thought I was buzzard-bait,’ Luke figured grimly, imagining what the back-shooting Halliday must have told his boss on his return from the outlaw canyon. ‘Well, thanks to you, Annie, I’m not only still breathing but I’m aiming to right some wrongs.’

  ‘Sounds like fighting talk,’ Wishbone said seriously.

  Luke shrugged. ‘Thanks for the coffee, Annie.’

  ‘Zimmer’s a mighty powerful man and he has many guns on his payroll,’ Wishbone said, stubbing his cigarette into the ash tray, then hesitated before adding bravely, ‘but I’m willing to ride with you.’

  Luke looked at Annie’s father. He was an old man who meant well. Wishbone had been a good, useful sidekick when he rode to investigate those shots on the first night he was here, but the mission he was on now was different, very different. Besides, Wishbone deserved to live out his remaining years in peace.

  ‘You’ll stay right here with Annie,’ Luke said flatly.

  ‘Hell’s bells, Luke! You can’t take on Zimmer and his whole flamin’ outfit on your own!’ Wishbone protested.

  ‘I aim to try.’

  Luke stood up, leaving Wishbone to shake his head in sheer disbelief. Annie followed Luke to the door, then to his waiting horse.

  ‘I know why you have to do this,’ she said tremblingly, ‘so I won’t try to talk you out of it.’ She smiled. ‘You wouldn’t listen anyway.’ After he’d mounted Buck, she reached up and clasped his right hand in both hers. ‘Come back to me because I love you, Luke Dawson.’

  With her passionate declaration ringing in his ears, Luke rode out of Wishbone’s clearing and headed for his own Bar LD spread. He took the narrow track that threaded down through pines and mossy logs to the track that followed his fence line. The sun warmed him when he emerged from the forest.

  The fence was indeed fixed. There were no coils of wire in the grass, no strands hanging from fence holes, no gaps. The post he’d seen uprooted when he’d first come back from the war had been hammered back into the soil and the gate’s rusty hinges had been replaced with shiny silver ones. He halted Buck under a low-slung pine branch and looked out over his Bar LD range.

  That’s when he saw movement. Steers! About a dozen brown beeves grazing on his land, just north of his cabin. He looked hard at the closest steer. Big, brown, with patches of white, with the Triple Z brand burned darkly into its hide. He knew for sure now. Trusting Heck Halliday’s word that the former Union soldier was dead, the greedy Dallas Zimmer had acted to simply take over the Bar LD spread, adding to his growing empire of land.

  Then, as Luke remained in the saddle under the sheltering pine, he saw a rider on a lanky grey horse. Cold anger gripped him as he watched the man drifting slowly, almost nonchalantly, through the small herd. Luke recognized him. He was one of the two Mexicans he’d seen riding with Zimmer when the Triple Z crew had challenged Honani and himself on that first day they’d returned to Sundown Valley. He wore an oversize sombrero, white shirt, black pants and two guns. The Mexican had obviously been given the job of looking after the initial herd to graze here. He was whistling like he didn’t
have a care in the world.

  Luke urged Buck to the gate, leaned over and lifted the iron catch.

  He booted the gate open, lifted his Peacemaker and rode on through.

  Hearing the gate smack hard against the fence, the Mexican halted his grey gelding and looked over the steers at the incoming rider. Brimming with rage, Luke charged straight across the grass. The Triple Z cowhand stared at Luke like he’d seen a dead man. Tentatively, he jerked his left hand down towards a holstered Colt .45, but seeing Luke’s levelled gun, he panicked. The Mexican’s fingers froze, dangling mid-air as Luke’s bay horse barged through the beeves and came to a snorting standstill beside him.

  ‘Don’t shoot me,’ the Mexican rider pleaded.

  Luke demanded, ‘What the hell’s going on, greaser?’

  ‘Sorry, sorry!’ the Mexican wailed.

  ‘This is my land, you’re trespassing.’

  ‘Pedro obey Señor Zimmer, just do job for paydirt,’ the rider pleaded.

  ‘Well, you listen, greaser, and listen good,’ Luke said slowly.

  Pedro the Mexican nodded. ‘Sí, sí, I listen.’

  ‘Ride back to your boss. Give him my thanks for fixing the Bar LD fences, my fences.’ Luke Dawson then added slowly and coldly, ‘Give the filthy snake the message that I’m about to come calling. Tell him he’s about to pay for arranging those outlaws to commit the cold-blooded murder of Lance Corporal Honani. He’ll also pay for bringing along a bunch of killers and a Gatling gun to massacre the Navajo people. And that’s just for starters.’

  The Mexican’s jaw dropped. He warned, sternly now, ‘Do not come calling! Stay away! Señor Zimmer will not like you spoiling his big day. Today he marries his señorita.’

  Luke stared at the Mexican. He didn’t ask Sierra when the wedding would take place. All he remembered was she had said it was in less than two weeks. He’d had too much on his mind to count the days but he figured it’d been ten, maybe eleven days since he’d spoken with her. So the scheming, murdering bastard would be wed today.

  He thumbed back the hammer of his Peacemaker. The Mexican whimpered in fear as he heard the sharp, metallic click.

  ‘Where? The ranch house?’

  ‘No,’ Pedro replied, shaking. ‘Spanish Wells.’

  ‘Go there now and tell him I’m riding in to settle our score.’

  ‘Sí, señor, I ride,’ the Mexican cried, sweat running down his olive face.

  ‘Now!’ Luke snapped.

  Pedro wove through the milling beeves and rode hell-for-leather towards the open gate. Luke watched him as he galloped along the fence line, heading for the slope that led into Sundown Valley, and the trail to Spanish Wells.

  Dallas Zimmer selected and lit a fat Turkish cigar from the ornamental box, a pre-wedding gift from the town mayor. He was standing in front of a wardrobe mirror in the main bedroom on the first floor of the Spanish Wells Hotel that he owned, just one of his growing chest of assets. It was here, in room one, where he was changing into his new pinstriped suit, designed by a Philadelphia tailor especially for his wedding to Sierra Cooper.

  He imagined his bride putting on her wedding dress now, getting ready in her home, which after today she wouldn’t need; she’d be his wife living in the Triple Z ranch house. He buttoned up his white shirt, then buckled his leather belt. Looking again into the mirror, Zimmer had to admit he was much older than Sierra, but that didn’t matter. Grinning, he glanced at the four-poster bed they’d share tonight. It wouldn’t be long now before she’d be his.

  The Gospel Chapel’s bell began to ring, reminding the town that Mr Dallas Zimmer’s wedding was going to take place in one hour. Not that the folks of Spanish Wells needed reminding. The marriage had been front-page news in the latest edition of the Clarion. Two canvas banners on ropes had been hung across Main Street. There were posters on the town noticeboard, at the school, in the saloon, even in the perfumed Blue Room. In addition, Fenwick had agreed to paste one in his store window. Everyone knew.

  Not everyone was invited to the wedding, of course, but there would be ample onlookers and well-wishers. Brother Cain and his fancy lady had come all the way from Tombstone City. Zimmer’s son George had taken the day off from the law office, leaving Deputy Kel Drake in charge. Zimmer frowned once more when he thought about Drake. The Methodist lay preacher was far too narrow-minded as far as he was concerned. Maybe one day he’d have to be edged out, but that would wait. There were more important things to think about, like putting a ring on Sierra’s finger and then plundering her in this hotel room as soon as the nuptials and supper were over.

  He heard the thunder of hoofs. Glancing out of the window, he looked down on Pedro Rodrigo, one of his Mexican riders, raising dust as he rode hard down the centre of Main Street. He frowned. Hadn’t he ordered the greaser to stay and mind the steers on his new slab of land on Wild Wolf Ridge? He shrugged, making a mental note to get O’Neill to remind the Mexican to obey orders.

  Pedro halted his horse right below his balcony window. The Mexican almost fell in his haste to dismount. Even from his room, Zimmer heard the frantic drumming of boots on the wooden boardwalk, then the sudden sound of a door being wrenched open and slammed shut. The rancher blew cigar smoke as the urgent sound of raised voices, one belonging to Pedro, the other being O’Neill’s, penetrated up through the floorboards of his room. Boots pounded the staircase and when Zimmer threw open his door he saw O’Neill and the Mexican standing there. The Irishman’s face was set grim while Pedro Rodrigo was puffing and blowing like a railroad engine going uphill.

  Zimmer demanded, ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  ‘Pedro brings bad news,’ the ramrod said.

  ‘Well, spill it! I don’t have all damn day!’ Zimmer reminded them, ‘I’m getting hitched in less than an hour’s time.’

  ‘It’s Dawson,’ O’Neill spoke for the Mexican. ‘He’s still alive.’

  ‘He can’t be,’ the rancher said hoarsely. ‘Heck shot him dead.’

  ‘Men like Dawson don’t die easy,’ O’Neill said. He suggested, ‘Maybe Heck just winged him and he survived.’

  ‘Heck was sure he was dead,’ Zimmer insisted, dropping his cigar.

  O’Neill shrugged. ‘With men like Dawson you need to make sure, and knowing Heck Halliday, he didn’t hang around to check.’ He sneered derisively, ‘We both know he’s a yellerbelly.’

  ‘Look, I’ll deal with Dawson later,’ the cattle baron said, shrugging dismissively. ‘He’s not gonna spoil my wedding day.’

  ‘I reckon he might, Mr Zimmer,’ O’Neill said quietly. ‘Tell him, Pedro.’

  The rancher’s face turned ashen as the Mexican recalled his meeting with Luke Dawson. Eyes narrowing to dark slits, blue veins standing out on his temples, Dallas Zimmer listened to every stammering word uttered by his nervous rider. So Dawson knew about the Navajo massacre. He knew about his former liaison with Scurlock’s outfit. Zimmer regretted sending the Mexican to his new land on Wild Wolf Ridge. He should have given the chore of minding the steers on the Bar LD to Ramrod O’Neill. The Irishman would have simply shot Dawson dead as he rode across his grass. But this was no time to nurse regrets. Luke Dawson was coming to settle the score. He told himself a man like Dawson who knew too much had to be silenced one day, so it might as well be now. Damn inconvenient, though.

  ‘Pat,’ the rancher addressed his ramrod, ‘seeing as Luke Dawson’s on his way in to town, we need to take care of him once and for all.’

  ‘I’m with you, Mr Zimmer.’

  ‘First, call on my bride, Sierra,’ the rancher told him. ‘Just tell her the wedding’s off for today, postponed till next week, because I have important business to deal with.’

  ‘Miss Cooper won’t like that, Mr Zimmer,’ the ramrod warned, raising his shaggy eyebrows.

  ‘Just tell her our future’s at stake,’ the rancher said. He added, ‘A woman who’s about to be queen of my empire will understand such things.’

  O’Neill was dub
ious about that. ‘Well, OK.’

  ‘And let the preacher know too,’ Zimmer added.

  ‘Uh, sure, boss.’

  ‘Then get the boys together,’ Zimmer ordered his ramrod. ‘They’re in town for the wedding, but instead we’ll turn it into a funeral for Luke Dawson. Tell them to strap on their holsters, load their guns and get here to this hotel pronto.’ He vowed darkly, ‘We’re going to fill the interfering polecat with lead and bury him before sundown.’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ O’Neill assured him.

  O’Neill and the Mexican left and tramped back down the stairs.

  Dallas Zimmer didn’t bother to take off his wedding suit.

  Sweating and muttering expletives under his breath, the rancher simply clawed for his leather gun belt.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Nigh noon saw Luke Dawson ride his bay horse across Sundown Valley. An hour later he followed the Triple Z ranch fence line, circled the ancient towering butte and headed through the shadows of Sagebrush Pass. Buck’s hoofs were beating a steady drum as Luke emerged from the pass and took the trail that led to Spanish Wells. The morning breeze had dropped right out and the town ahead of him shimmered in the mid-afternoon heat. He rode closer to town limits, following the trail over an old wooden bridge that spanned a tepid creek.

  After this, he topped a timbered rise. Spanish Wells was just below him. It was shrouded by an all-pervading silence, like the silence of Boot Hill. Luke saw no movement, no stagecoaches coming in or out of the town, no riders stirring the dust, and so far not even a man or woman on the streets.

  He nudged Buck into a walk, taking the dusty road that led past the empty stockyards into town. He reached Buffalo Street. Just ahead, the Confederate flag hung limply on its pole beside Major Wallace’s home. Luke gave the flag a cursory glance as he neared Wallace’s gate. It was then he heard Wallace’s sharp warning.

  ‘The barn! One varmint’s staked out in the old barn!’