“I’m thinking about taking Bobby away from that old reprobate,” Bryan said as he lit a Quirly.
“That’s very thoughtful of you, but what would you do, drag him around capturing hard cases? That would be no life for a child, and you might get him killed.”
“I know, but I have made a lot of money in this line of work, and I intend on going after only two more desperadoes. Then I’m going to buy a piece of land in Snake Creek Canyon above Midway, Utah and raise thoroughbred horses. It’s the purtiest country you ever put an eyeball to. Besides, there’s a good market for quality horseflesh down in Salt Lake. Brig and the boys will pay through the nose for a stout horse.”
“You said you were going after a hard case over on the Picketwire. Where’s the other hard case?” Amanda asked.
“The last report I got on the crud named Mark Rollins, he was in the Llano Estacado—known as the staked plains—that straddles New Mexico and Texas.”
“What did he do?”
“He got drunk and killed his wife and three children over in American Fork—cut their throats. I really hope he tries to resist capture because I surely would love putting him down. How could a man do such a thing?”
“I don’t know,” Amanda said as she shrugged. “There’s just no explaining the evil that lurks in the minds and hearts of some men. Brigham Young said, ‘ It is better to die doing good than it is to live doing evil.’ ”
“I’ll admit that is a right smart statement, but I don’t hold too much to what ol’ Brig has to say.”
“Grr, he was a brilliant man and a prophet, a seer, and revelator. While we’re waiting for a waitress, let me tell you a few things about him. It may open your eyes. By the way, I am certainly hungry, aren’t you?”
“I’m so hungry I could eat the saddle blanket off a mule,” he said.
“How quaint,” Amanda replied.
“Anyway, go ahead, if you must, and tell me about ol’ Brig. I suppose Rosie is busy rustling up grub for those five people at the other end of this here table, and she won’t get to us for a while.”
“After the Missourians killed Joseph Smith in the Carthage jail just outside of Nauvoo, Illinois, Brigham Young had the foresight to lead the saints into the West—the promised land—to avoid further persecution. They had been run out of New York, Ohio, Illinois, and Missouri simply because of their religious beliefs.”
“Why do you suppose that was? It was because they were nutty religious beliefs.”
“No, not true. They were run out because people are narrow-minded. Anyway, he led the saints into Salt Lake Valley, and through him, the saints have made the desert bloom.”
“Anyone could have done it.”
“That’s not true. The Divinity played a part in making the Great Salt Lake Valley a fruitful and pleasant home for the saints. When Brigham Young began building the temple, he left shafts for elevators and holes in ceilings and walls for light fixtures. Those things haven’t been invented yet, but I’m sure they will be. The temple will be all set up for them, due to Brigham Young’s foresight. He received knowledge of these things through revelation.”
Somebody told a joke at the other end of the table, and everybody laughed uproariously. Pleasant cooking odors wafted from Rosie’s kitchen, whetting Bryan and Amanda’s appetites. There was an old hound sleeping on a bear rug near a potbellied stove. The stove wasn’t lit because it was summertime in Utah’s Central Desert. The old hound jerked about and flailed his legs. Perhaps he was chasing a rabbit in his dreams.
“Ol’ Brig probably got soused on sacrament wine and messed up the blueprints for the temple, leaving all those holes. Then he covered it up by saying he received a revelation to leave them there for elevators and electric lights.”
“Oh, you are impossible. Mormons don’t take wine for their sacrament, they take water. Anyway, then how do you explain the fact that he built State Street in Salt Lake six lanes wide? It’s because he was able to foresee the advent of horseless carriages. How do you account for the fact that the streets laid out in Salt Lake are all wide and run north and south, and east and west—streets all set up for the introduction of the horseless carriage?”
“Nonsense. He just wanted to make sure there was plenty of room for teamsters to move their wares throughout Salt Lake Valley and keep commerce moving briskly.”
“Oh you, sometimes I’d just like to slap you.”
“Go ahead and try it, and you’ll end up over my knee like I have threatened.”
Luckily, before violence broke out between the couple, Rosie stepped up to the table. The floorboards groaned when she approached because the woman would have dressed out at around 350 pounds. “Well, hello there. Ain’t ya a cute couple?” she said. “I’m Rosie. What can I get ya?”
“We’re not a couple,” Amanda said. “Perish the thought.”
“Well, ya coulda fooled me. Are ya here fer breakfast or just coffee?”
“We’d like a breakfast,” Bryan said. “What’s on the menu?”
“I can fix ya up with ham and eggs or, if ya prefer, eggs and ham.”
Bryan smiled indulgently. “Okay, Rosie, I’ll have the ham and eggs with coffee strong enough to float a horseshoe.”
Rosie looked straight at Bryan. “My, my, look at them blue eyes.” She cut her eyes to Amanda. If ya ain’t seein’ them eyes, honey—I mean seein’ them—then ya must be blind in one eye and can’t see outta the other.” She looked back at Bryan. “My coffee’s fairly strong, but I doubt ya can float a horseshoe in it. Still want it?”
“Bring it out, Rosie. I’ll take a chance on it.”
Rosie looked at Amanda. “What’ll it be, honey, the same as Mr. Blue Eyes here?”
“No, do you have oatmeal?”
“I could scare up a bowl of it. Do ya want it with bugs?”
“Excuse me, with bugs?”
“Raisins, honey, raisins.” Rosie laughed.
“Yes, please, with bugs.”
Rosie turned to wallow back to the kitchen, but Bryan stopped her. “Could you fix a second plate of ham and eggs with a tall glass of milk? We’ll soon have a little boy joining us.”
“Yeah, who is it?”
“The little tyke from over at the livery stable.”
Rosie nodded her head in the affirmative. “I can sure do that. I feel sorry fer Bobby. That dad of his is always drunk, and he neglects and beats him all the time.”
Bobby showed up before long. The three of them had a nice breakfast, and they talked and laughed. “Bobby, do you like horses?” Bryan asked.
“Do I ever; I love ’em. I’m a gonna git me a big black stallion someday.”
Bryan nodded his head. “Uh huh, I thought so. How’d you like to come live on a horse ranch with me?”
“Would I ever, whoopee!” Then Bobby’s face turned sad. “But what ’bout my pa? He’d never stand for that. Heck, if I were to even mention it, he’d give me a hidin’ I’d never forget.”
“I’m going to get a judge’s order to take custody of you, due to the fact your father beats and neglects you. See, your father won’t have a thing to say about it, and we won’t tell him where we are going. So what do you say? I could sure use a good hand on my horse ranch.”
“Mister—”
“Don’t call me mister. My name is Bryan; call me Bryan.”
“Okay mis—uh, Bryan, I certainly could use a better job. But do ya think I could have a horse of my very own, a black stallion?”
“Sure, Bobby, but you’d have to earn it.”
“I could do that.”
“Bobby, where’s your mother?” Amanda asked.
“She died when I was two.”
“I thought that was important, didn’t you, Bryan?”
“I guess I never thought about it.” After saying that to Amanda, he turned to Bobby. “Okay, Bobby, I’ll get a judge’s order first, and then I’ll be back through Hanksville before long to pick you up.”
“Where ya goin’?”
“I got some business over on the Picketwire in Colorado and then down on the staked plains in Texas.”
“How long will this business take?”
“At least a month, maybe longer. In the meantime, I want you to take this money and when your dad is sleeping off a drunk, I want you to slip over here and get some decent grub.” Bryan handed him forty dollars.
“Jeepers, are ya sure? I ain’t never had so much money all at twonced.”
“I’m sure, but don’t you let your pa see this money because he’ll take it from you to buy whiskey.”
“I’ll hide it good.”
“Now, as for you, Amanda, I think you might need a little extra money to tide you over as well until you can get back to Provo.” He slipped her two hundred dollars.
“I can’t take this, are you crazy? This is way too much,” Amanda said.
“Take it, or so help me, I will take you over my knee,” Bryan said as he widened his eyes.
“It’s too much.”
“Amanda, even though you have tried my patience to the breaking point, I feel the deepest sympathy and regret over your losses. I know how tough it must be for you to lose your husband. So please take this money. I really want to help you in your time of need.”
Amanda’s eyes welled up with tears, and she reached out and took the money. “Thank you,” she said.
Bryan always got edgy around crying females, so he decided to cut the blubbering short by making her mad. Her temper always seemed to be bubbling near the surface. “It’s a good thing you took the money because I was fixin’ to give you a spanking.”
Bobby laughed. “I’d like to see that, I surely would,” he said.
Amanda looked at Bobby. “You would, would you, you little devil. Now why don’t you both just hush?”
Everybody laughed and they stepped out of Rosie’s kitchen, that is, after Bryan left the plump, old gal a generous tip.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The only room for rent in Hanksville was above the Holy Moses Saloon. One of the crib girls had quit and taken her business east into Denver, so her room was available. There were two remaining rooms being used by the soiled doves, and at first, Amanda refused to take the room.
“You either sleep in the town’s one available room that happens to be above the saloon, or you sleep in the hay over at the livery stable with me,” Bryan said.
“Okay, I’ll take the room,” Amanda said as she took a punch at Bryan’s shoulder to show her frustration.
“I thought you’d come around.” Bryan laughed.
After Bryan got her situated in her room, he decided to go down to the bar for a drink and catch up on the gossip. Before Bryan left her room, they shut the door tight. He informed her the soiled doves used the rooms day and night and that she might possibly be privy to rude noises. She was horrified at the prospect. He laughed at her again. She was a rich source of entertainment for him. “If I hear any rutting noises, I just might throw up,” she said, causing him to laugh further.
The Holy Moses was like most other Western saloons—a meeting house, a house of gossip, a place to horse trade, a place of commerce, sometimes a place for conducting religious ceremonies, and even, at times, a place to get shot dead. He bellied up to the bar and ordered a rye with a beer chaser.
The bartender was older than dirt and stood just under five feet tall. He had a long, thin nose, a unibrow, and he wouldn’t have run more than one hundred and ten pounds wet and full of beer. At first, the wizened little fellow tried to serve Bryan homemade whiskey that probably had a rattlesnake head in it for bite and a dead rat for body. Bryan turned that down, and likewise, he turned down being served Buffalo Trace that he considered to be an inferior whisky. “I want a shot of the good stuff you keep behind the bar—the stuff you drink. I can pay for it.”
“Oh, all right,” the bartender said. “I most generally keep the good stuff for my own usage.”
“Don’t worry, I will only be wanting just one shot of it. I am not a heavy drinking man.” The bartender produced a good rye.
“I’ve never seen ya in here before. Are ya just passin’ through?” the bartender asked.
“Yes, I’m a drifting man, fiddle-footed as they say. Incidentally, where is the sheriff in this here town? I want to give him a warning.”
“You’re lookin’ at him.” The little fellow pulled his nasty-looking apron to the side to display a homemade badge. It looked like he’d had a blacksmith cut it from a piece of tin and give it a little polishing.
“Interesting,” Bryan said as he displayed a faint smile. “Who appointed you?”
“The mayor.”
“You don’t say. And who is the mayor?”
“You’re lookin’ at him.”
“You don’t say. And who appointed the mayor?”
“The judge.”
“You don’t say. And who is the judge?”
“You’re lookin’ at him.”
“Well now, ain’t this handy? Well,Judge, I need to get a judgment. I want to adopt Bobby, the livery man’s son. The little tyke is being neglected and beaten.”
“I’ll give ya that judgment without the slightest hesitation. I’ve known for some time that that evil bastard has been beatin’ on his son. When would ya like that judgment? Earl Widdison comes in here nearly every night and gets slobberin’ drunk.”
“What’s your name?” Bryan asked.
“Ted Wall. I’m originally from Wallsburg over north and east of here and near beautiful Heber Valley. Wallsburg is named for my father, who was one of the early settlers. I moved here out of necessity. A fellow I had been feudin’ with over irrigation rights got his throat cut, and they blamed me. Imagine that? I had to leave Wallsburg because the townsfolk was threatenin’ to use me as a decoration for one of those big ol’ Engelmann Spruce growin’ in that region.”
“No, Ted, I can’t imagine it. So can you give me a court order so I can take Bobby with me? I am going to start a horse ranch above Midway up Snake Creek Canyon. As you know, that is in beautiful Heber Valley, God’s country. I am going to make a horse wrangler out of him.”
“With pleasure. When do ya need the court order?”
“I’ve got some business over on the Picketwire and thereabouts, and I’ll be back through in about a month.”
“I’ll have the order ready for ya.”
“Thank you.”
“Say, uh, what’s your name?” Ted asked.
“Bryan.”
“Say, uh, Bryan, does that girlie with ya need work? One of my crib girls up and quit on me.” Ted snapped the head of a torpedo match and put fire to a Quirly.
“No, she doesn’t, and you’d best not mention such a thing around her, that is, if you value your cojones. That girl is devoutly religious.”
“I see. Well, it doesn’t hurt for a man to ask, does it?”
“No, Ted, I suppose not.”
“Another question. What does Bobby, the livery man’s boy, have to say about being adopted by ya? I hope he’s all right by it.”
“Ted, it made him happier than a romp of weasels in a hen-house.”
“Good, then this is the right thing.”
“Yes, I’ll do right by the boy.”
“Good, now another question.”
“Ted, you’re starting to irritate me with all your questions.”
“Come on, Bryan, none of these questions are all that personal.”
“I suppose you’re right, so shoot.” Bryan took a stiff drink of his rye and chased it with the lukewarm beer. Three cattlemen were at a table in the rear having a friendly game of poker. Suddenly, they erupted in laughter. Apparently, somebody had said something funny.
“Do ya know Lane Tandy and his Segundo, a big feller named Zeb Bannock? Lane has a big cattle outfit down on the Tonto Rim in Arizona. It’s known as the Shylane Cattle Company.”
Ted inhaled the smoke from the Quirly and let it dribble out his nose. “Can’t say that I do,” Bryan said.<
br />
“I was just curious. They are deliverin’ a herd of cattle to the Lone Lobo ranch outside Price. Last year, they got in a shootin’ war with an outfit named Peltrow Holdings. Twenty or so men were killed before the shootin’ war ended, and Lane wound up reclaimin’ five hundred head of cattle for Sandra Winterton and her ranch. A big feller named Trey Jensen was tryin’ for the big steal, and he got a dirt blanket for his efforts.”
“I can’t say I’ve ever heard of Lane.”
Ted took a couple swipes at the bar with the filthy rag. “Well, they say nobody can hook and draw a smoke pole faster than him. Anyway, the reason I’m tellin’ ya all this is to warn ya when ya leave here not to go near his herd. He’s got them on some pretty sparse grass just west of here. Apparently, they’ve had nothin’ but trouble with this herd, bringin’ them up from the Tonto Rim. Lane said they stampeded three times, and if a cricket so much as farted, they’d be off and runnin’. Anyway, I’m just warnin’ ya not to go anywhere near that herd because if ya spook ’em, those boys just might shoot ya.”
“No problem, Ted. I’m leaving out of here and going east. Now I have a warning for you. I was wondering if I might have one more shot of that coffin varnish you call premium whiskey. I’m sort of celebrating getting rid of that woman who is sleeping upstairs. She’s been a royal pain.”
While Ted was pouring the rye, two hard cases passed through the batwing doors. Both were wearing twin, tied-down six-guns, and they were covered in trail flour. They took their hats off and beat themselves to get rid of the dust. The tall one—dressed all in black—sneered. “Barkeep, get over here and bring us a beer.”
“Ya’ll have to wait your turn. I’m pourin’ a rye for this gentleman,” Ted said, refusing to be buffaloed by the brash trail trash.
Suddenly, the tallest hard case changed course. “Never mind the beer for now, barkeep, ’cause it’s gonna take me a few minutes to kill that sumbitch you’re pourin’ rye for.” He looked directly at Bryan. “You are Kid Utah, ain’t ya?”
“Yes.” Bryan took a pull off his glass of rye. “I’m Bryan Kohler. I’ve never cared for being called Kid Utah. But you have the advantage over me because I don’t know who you are?”
Murder in Mushroom Valley Page 5