Murder in Mushroom Valley

by Scotty V Casper

  That afternoon, the family had continued their fast, read passages of the Bible, and then prayed. She had loved her parents to distraction, and she was so looking forward to her forthcoming marriage with Michael. Being an only child, she had always been spoiled. Her father was a professor at Brigham Young Academy, and her mother taught at a local grade school. She had been imbued with the importance of education from the very early days of her childhood.

  Then, a mere two days after that, she received her diploma from Brigham Young Academy. Shortly thereafter, she and Michael had exchanged wedding vows in the Manti Temple when they were on their way to accepting teaching positions in Hanksville. They were sealed to one another for time and eternity. It was hard for Amanda to imagine how her life could have been any more complete and fulfilling.

  She looked back fondly on that first night spent with Michael. That experience—the sexual passage into adulthood—had been a first for both of them, and it was magical. But now—a scant five days later—her beloved Michael had been killed by Apaches, and she was very close to being killed herself. Her lip continued trembling out of fear and agitation, but she made a resolve, at that time, that these heathens might kill her, but she would not allow them to take her alive. By the Lord Harry, she would fight them with every fiber of her being. They might do her great harm, but she would make them pay heavily for their depredations.

  Yes, the native people had been treated harshly by the United States government. They had been murdered, their buffalo had been slaughtered, and they had been displaced from their ancestral land. Then many of their kind had been shunted off to reservations in Oklahoma and Florida. Yes, the food rations sent out from Washington, DC to their people were being systematically stolen by unscrupulous white men. Yes, in some instances, they were being brutalized by the whites. But she wasn’t responsible for any of their woes, not in the least. It was just too horrid to even contemplate why they were after her.

  At that time, she decided to try and get Bryan to tell her a little about his childhood in the foothills above Midway, Utah. They had practically been neighbors, but they had never met. She shook her head in disbelief because she was in the company of the infamous Kid Utah . . . and he was her traveling partner and companion in several skirmishes with the Apaches, of all things.

  She wondered how many men he had killed. The truth was that the high number would be almost too shocking to be borne. But then, he claimed he had never killed a man who hadn’t deserved it. But she wondered if that were true. “Bryan, Bryan,” she said, shaking his shoulder gently. “Please tell me about your younger days living in Midway. Just give me a sketch of what your life was like there. Please, we might soon be dead, and I need to know a little about you because what we are about to share I consider to be quite intimate. Just spend ten minutes on it, and then I’ll let you sleep. Don’t worry, Bryan, when they come at us, I will alert you in plenty of time so we can do our best to fight them off. But for now, just disclose a little about yourself.” She was fighting off bursting into tears, but she knew that was the wrong thing to do. She simply had to keep her chin up and stay strong, like Bryan. She was astonished by his great courage.

  “Don’t you worry. Those war whoops are not going to kill us—not if I have anything to say about it.”

  “Bryan, come on, you are so weak you can’t even stand. It doesn’t look good for us.”

  Bryan laughed and it came out weak, but it was a laugh. “It doesn’t take much to pull a trigger, Amanda, just a twitch of the finger. Don’t fret, girl. I am going every last one of them when they show up. I’m putting them on a very strict lead diet. Don’t despair; we should be all right. I’ve got six beans in the wheel of this here six-gun for close-up work, and my Winchester to reach out and touch them from long distance.”

  “It sounds like your weakness has made you delusional,” Amanda said.

  “Amanda, I’ve been drifting for years, and I haven’t had much experience with women. Are all women as contrary as you?”

  “I refuse to let you get me riled up with this contrary business. Let’s be civil, okay?”

  “Okay, I can do civil if you’ll do me a favor.”

  “Oh, and what’s that?” Amanda asked.

  “Dig that bottle of Who-Hit-John out of my packs, and let me have a couple snorts. These wounds are grieving me some.”

  “It’s alcohol, right? You want me to bring you alcohol—the devil’s own libation?”

  Bryan laughed at that. “Yes, bring me the hooch. I need a couple swigs.”

  She stamped her foot again.

  “A body can wear out a perfectly good set of moccasins going around stomping the ground as much as you do. But here we are, back to not being civil. Just bring me the bottle, please. I’m hurting.”

  She brought him the bottle, and he took a couple of hefty pulls on it. When the fiery liquid hit the bottom of his stomach, it seemed to settle him down. “Now I suppose you want to hear a little of my backstory?” he asked.

  “Yes, then I’ll let you sleep until we are attacked,” Amanda said.

  “Well, there isn’t much to tell. I was an only child, and my mother died of diphtheria when I was ten years old.”

  “How dreadful.”

  “Yes, then my father took to drinking. I take a shot or two of whiskey on rare occasions, but he got soused nearly every night. Then he was no good during the day, and that left all the work for me. From the time I was ten years old, I milked five cows morning and night and handled all of the other chores associated with operating a small dairy farm. By milking those cows like I did, I built a pair of hands strong enough to bend a railroad spike. Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but I have a grip like you wouldn’t believe, and I think it has a lot to do with how fast I can hook and draw a six-shooter.”

  Amanda cleared her throat, wanting to intervene. “Did your father ever straighten himself out?”

  “No. When I was seventeen years old, he went over to a saloon in Heber and, on the way home, fell off his horse and broke his neck. It happened just after he crossed the Provo River Bridge. When we planted him, I couldn’t bring myself to shed a single tear.”

  “Then what did you do?” she asked.

  “I sold off two of the cows and bought me a Colt Peacemaker and a beautiful black holster. For the next two years, I practiced the fast draw morning and night. I had plenty of time on my hands because I only milked three cows after that, but it provided me with milk and a little left over to sell. I did manage to keep up the dairy farm so it wouldn’t go to seed. But, in my opinion, my finest accomplishment was learning to shuck a six-gun in increments of a second and hit a target—every time.”

  Amanda shook her head in disapproval. “Why is that? Why was that so important?”

  “Because in case you haven’t noticed, this Western land is raw and uncurried. There is no law. If a man can’t protect himself, there are others who will run over him roughshod. For an example, the Savage brothers—who had a little rawhide cattle operation up in Lake Creek—decided they wanted my dairy farm. See, my father left it to me, and I have the deed to it. They were determined to move their operation from Lake Creek on to my dairy farm ground because I had better water and graze.”

  “What happened?” Amanda asked, her eyes wide with anticipation.

  “They came in the night and tried to burn me out and kill me. There are quite a few people named Savage in beautiful Heber Valley, friendly and law abiding, but these two were the spawn of the devil. I killed them both with my Colt and rather than answer all the questions surrounding the killings and being the guest of honor at an inquest, I packed up and left that very evening and I haven’t looked back. But I still own that piece of land in the foothills above Midway. This all happened ten years ago, so I think the shooting has been forgotten. So I intend to go back there, sell that piece of land, and establish a horse ranch on up into Snake Creek Canyon. I’ve saved lots of money earned as a bounty hunter, and the dairy farm should br
ing a fair piece of change. I figure I will have ample funds to start that ranch. Besides, I’ll have me a good hand to help operate the ranch—that tyke in Hanksville named Bobby.”

  Amanda smiled, pleased that Bryan had opened up to her a little. “Bryan, go ahead and close your eyes. I’ll wake you when they come.”

  Their campfire popped on occasion, and several crickets started in with a quirky sort of symphony. The night sounds at that time didn’t seem out of the ordinary, so Bryan figured the Apaches weren’t close yet. But he knew as soon as they closed in, the desert would go quiet.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  At four in the morning, Mule and Cayuse began stomping and snorting, and that alerted Amanda to the imminent danger. Two Apaches came at them in a rush, carrying long, wicked knives and tomahawks. They had broken with tradition and attacked during the night. The Apaches had spent two hours crawling on their stomachs across the open ground in order to get close enough to make the advance.

  “Bryan, they are here, two Apaches,” Amanda screamed.

  Amanda panicked and cut loose with her Winchester, but she didn’t hit anything because of the stygian night and the fact that the Apaches were gliding across the desert floor like wraiths.

  Bryan came fully awake and grabbed his six-shooter that was nestled in his blanket near his right hand. He peered out into the night and searched for a target, but it was hard seeing anything. The moon and stars had tucked in behind a weather front, and it was darker than the inside of a cow. But suddenly, he spotted a form gliding in towards their campsite. He was coming in on a bias and closing the distance rapidly. Bryan simply pointed the pistol at the spot he felt the Apache would soon fill and pulled the trigger. His Colt bellowed, shattering the night and filling the air with smoke. The Apache screamed, fell to the ground, and skidded along the sand. Bryan didn’t bother to see if the Apache stayed down. He instantly started searching for the second Apache because Amanda said there had been two.

  Amanda screamed unexpectedly, and that tipped Bryan off as to the second Apache’s whereabouts. Apparently, he had grabbed Amanda, or was about to do so. Bryan cut his eyes to the left, and sure enough, the Apache had Amanda in his arms, trying to drag her off into the night. But Amanda, bless her heart, was biting, kicking, and scratching to beat the band. It’s strange how things will come to a man’s mind unbidden when they don’t really help to solve a problem. Bryan wondered why Amanda hadn’t been able to shoot the Apache with her Winchester and avoid all this. He supposed she was too scared and just blazed away into the dark recesses of the desert, and then he figured she had run out of ammunition. He could hardly blame her for that; it wasn’t as if she was a seasoned Indian fighter.

  Well, he decided he was going to shoot the Indian as soon as he got a chance, and he wasn’t going to miss. But he knew he must bide his time until a large enough portion of the Apache presented itself—then he would shoot. He was aware that he was taking a terrible risk and that he might shoot Amanda. However, he decided to take the shot regardless because if that Indian were able to pull her into the desert night, she would be lost forever.

  Because of his wounds, Bryan grasped the fact that he couldn’t follow them into the night. The struggle went on for a time because Amanda was giving him a hard time. He imagined that the Apache had been chawed and clawed something terrible. It almost made him laugh. Then suddenly, he got his opportunity. The Apache’s breechcloth shone dimly in the dark and he took the shot, praying he wouldn’t hit Amanda. The Apache screamed—and not Amanda—and for that he was grateful. Then the Indian got to flopping around on the ground like a chicken with its head cut off. “You shot him right in the bum,” Amanda said, stifling a laugh because she didn’t think it proper to ridicule a man who had just been shot in the ass, regardless of the man’s villainy.

  “Well, clear away from him, Amanda; he is still dangerous,” Bryan said. “He might stick you with a knife or something.”

  “Oh, I hardly think he can do that because,” her Winchester bellowed and racketed off the nearby red rocks, “I suspect he might be dead,” she said as she sort of giggled.

  “Amanda, did you just shoot him?” Bryan asked incredulously.

  “I did. He might be the one who killed my Michael. I just sent the odorous piece of trash to hades.”

  “You are a caution.”

  “What do we do now?” Amanda asked. “This band of Apaches started out twelve in number, including Seth, the white trash. We have killed nine members of the band, so there are only three left.”

  “Like I said before, Indians are notional. Victorio might decide to cut his losses and light a shuck for Arizona, or he just might be mad enough to try and seek revenge against us. We should just proceed on with extreme caution,” Bryan said with his weak, little voice. He hadn’t yet recovered his strength.

  “Do you think you can ride when the sun comes up?” Amanda queried.

  “Yes, of course, if you tie me to the saddle again.”

  “How far is La Sal?”

  “About twenty miles. There is a place called Three Step Hill that is going to be a challenge. We will have to drop down off a plateau to ride into La Sal, and it is steep as all get out. There’s a spot nearby called Hole-in-the-Wall, where Mormon pioneers were forced to take their wagons apart and lower them off the summit piece by piece with ropes. Those were the saints who settled La Sal. Brigham Young sent them there to set up new industries. But for years, their progress was hampered by the Paiutes who raided, stole horses, and killed when the opportunity presented itself.”

  Amanda proffered her opinion, “I guess settling the West hasn’t been any different in the La Sal area than anyplace else. It has been a struggle fighting Indians, weather, heat, cold, starvation, rivers, and disease.”

  “That is true, Amanda. I’ve heard it said that there are three or four unmarked graves along every mile of the Mormon Trail, and there are those who say that figure is low.”

  “Well, what do we do now?” Amanda asked.

  “It’s your turn to sleep. I will watch for Indians and let you get a couple hours sleep. I’m okay now. I can stay awake for a couple of hours.”

  “No, I won’t allow that. You need your rest in order to recover from your wounds.”

  “Amanda, I’ll be fine. I have to watch for further attacks from those Apaches. Besides, I’m not sure that the one I shot farther out there on the desert floor is actually dead. He might be playing possum, and he’ll wait a couple hours and try to sneak up on us. If he does, I will make the welkin ring with this here Winchester and send him to hades.”

  “Make the welkin ring? Where on earth would a drifter like you learn the concept surrounding the welkin ring?” Amanda asked, chuckling.

  “Hey, Amanda, I’m not just a pretty face.”

  “A pretty face, is it?” Amanda asked, giggling. She stretched out on the edge of the blanket and was soon fast asleep, snoring softly.

  A large mule deer went bounding by in the night. Bryan could hear it as it hit the ground after each twenty-foot leap. The gunfire had quieted down, and the natural world had slipped back into its ordinary rhythms. A pack of coyotes atop a nearby summit raised their heads and howled at the moon—or at least it seemed like that’s what they were doing. But, more than likely, they were communicating with a neighboring pack that soon answered with their own mournful wailings. A pack rat stirred and left its partially constructed den, soon returning with a sage sparrow’s feather, yet another item to make its nest more comfortable. Its work was never done.

  Three large cumulus clouds slid silently across the blackened sky and glided above the snowcapped La Sal Mountains. Some believe the storied La Sal region in Southern Utah was named by the explorer, Father Escalante. It is said that he believed the snowcapped La Sals looked like they were encrusted with salt, and the Spanish word for salt is La Sal. Nobody will ever really know the origin of the name for sure because others believe the name was derived from the aforementioned sal
t formations in the nearby foothills.

  For the next couple of hours, Bryan struggled to stay awake and they had no more problems with Apaches. Bryan assumed the one he had shot out on the desert floor was dead, or at least he was so grievously injured, he couldn’t move. They would check on him at first light, and if he wasn’t dead, they would make sure he got that way.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The next day, Bryan and Amanda rode into La Sal right at noon. La Sal wasn’t much of a town. There was a general store, café, barbershop, bank, doctor’s office, blacksmith shop, livery stable, motel, and saloon. There was only one saloon because the Mormon influence was strong in La Sal. After all, it had been settled by Mormons a few years earlier. Cattle and ranching kept the town afloat—just barely.

  Bryan and Amanda rode directly to the motel, if one could call it that. The office was built with slabs—the rough-cut lumber with the bark still on—and the rooms were nothing more than three Sibley tents. The proprietor came out, and he didn’t look or smell as if he’d had a bath in ages. He was wearing a pair of linsey-woolsey pants that were frayed along the bottom, and it appeared as though they, at one time, had been gray. It looked like he had just slipped his feet in a pair of brogans because the laces weren’t tied, and up top, he was sporting a pair of red- handled underwear—at least they had been red at one time. His britches were held up with a pair of galluses that seemed to be stretched to the breaking point as they expanded over his massive belly. “Good afternoon, ma’am, are ya lookin’ fer a room this fine day?” he asked in a squeaky little voice that belied his size, his maleness, and his girth.