Murder in Mushroom Valley

by Scotty V Casper

  “I suppose you’re right. Good day to you, sir.” Captain Muhlstein gave a signal to the column to commence their march north into Utah territory.

  Once the infantry column was well on its way, Amanda fixed her eyes to Bryan, then pointed to the slender blonde. “Bryan, as I mentioned earlier, this is Cheryl Price.”

  Bryan nodded his head at the young girl. “Glad to make your acquaintance.”

  “Hello, Mister Kohler.”

  “Cheryl, just call me Bryan. We don’t stand on formalities around here.”

  “Okay, hello, Bryan,” she said.

  Amanda wrapped an arm around Cheryl. “Cheryl’s family was killed by the Apaches, and all of their possessions were either destroyed or stolen.”

  “Yes, I know,” Bryan said. “I happened on their burned-out wagon and her . . . well, I found her parents.” He looked at Cheryl. “Cheryl, I gave your parents a decent burial and read a little Bible verse over their graves, what little I know of the Bible.”

  That started the tears flowing from Cheryl’s eyes, but not only that, he looked over and Amanda was crying as well—for Cheryl’s loss and for the loss of Michael Bagley, her newly betrothed.

  Bryan couldn’t take it. One female bawling was bad enough, but two, now that was intolerable. He walked on the other side of Mule and made as if he were adjusting the panniers. After a while, he peered over the top of Mule and determined they had stopped crying, so he went back around to talk to them.

  “All right girls, you have been liberated from the Apaches. I’m sure you will have stories that you can someday tell your grandchildren.” After making that statement, he knew instantly that it was a mistake because it set off another round of waterworks. He went back behind Mule again to escape it. That round wasn’t as demonstrative and prolonged as the prior bawling session, and he was soon able to come out of hiding again.

  He decided to hold off discussing their ordeal for a while when it wouldn’t be so raw in their memories. “How’s about some grub, girls? Are you hungry?”

  Amanda patted his forearm and looked into his eyes. “We are starved,” she said. “What do you have?”

  “Beef and beans, a staple of the Western frontier—what else?”

  “I adore beef and beans,” Amanda said.

  “Me, too,” Cheryl proclaimed.

  “Well, let’s get to it. And how’s about some coffee?”

  “Yes, yes,” the girls agreed.

  “Cheryl, would you gather some wood for a fire? I hate starting a fire when it is so beastly hot, but we have to eat, right?”

  “Yes, we do,” Amanda said. “Uh, Bryan, what do you want me to do?”

  “Bring the panniers over with that grub, and I’ll work on building a fire. Oh, and girls, keep a lookout for those damnable Apaches. I’m sure the Cavalry scared them off and they are halfway to Mexico by now, but with Apaches, one never knows.”

  “Bryan, why don’t you let me cook the meal. Don’t take offense to this, but I’ve eaten a few of your meals, and . . . well. . . .”

  Bryan’s eyes got big. “Just what are you saying, Amanda?”

  “Well, I’m not saying it was bad, but I couldn’t help but wonder why the flies fled the area, and it looked like one had stopped to throw up.”

  Bryan laughed. “That bad, huh?”

  “No, Bryan, I’m just joshing you, looking for a few laughs. Cheryl and I haven’t been able to laugh much these past few days. For a man, your cooking isn’t all that bad. Nevertheless, I would like to cook today’s meal.”

  Cheryl dropped a load of wood and got there just in time to hear Amanda’s joke about the flies, and she burst out laughing.

  Bryan looked at her. “So you think that’s funny, do you? Maybe I will just leave you out here in the desert.”

  Cheryl stopped giggling. “I have looked into your eyes, and I know you wouldn’t be capable of such a thing. I think that you try to look tough, but you are just a big softy.”

  “A big softy?” Bryan repeated. “Give me strength.”

  After they ate, Amanda looked at Bryan and posed a question. “Well, don’t you want to hear about our ordeal? Or could it be that you just don’t care?”

  “I care, but let’s discuss it later.”

  “No, I want to talk about it now,” Amanda said.

  Bryan shook his head. “Okay then, talk.”

  “They never hurt us. I don’t understand it. What did they want with us?”

  “I believe they were going to take you down to Cocorit, Mexico, and sell you on the sex slave market. I’m thinking they didn’t want to hurt you because then you would be damaged goods, and you wouldn’t bring as much money.”

  “How awful.”

  “Yes, Amanda, awful. You see, their raid into Utah hasn’t been successful, and they were hoping to sell you for a good price so they could buy guns, ammunition, and horses to continue their war against the white man.”

  Amanda shuttered. “They were so coarse, so brutish. When nature called, they would just do their business right in front of Cheryl and me.” Amanda chuckled. “Poor little Cheryl. I thought her eyes would pop out of her head. They simply had no sense of decency . . . uh . . . of privacy.”

  Bryan got a very serious look on his face and cleared his throat. “Amanda, did they . . . did they. . . .”

  “Molest us?” she said, laughing. “Do you have a frog in your throat? No, they didn’t. A couple times, those bucks grabbed hold of us with evil intent, but Victorio stopped them. It made them very angry, but they didn’t dare defy Victorio.”

  “Amanda, you two gals don’t how lucky you are. There’s no figuring why they didn’t take advantage of you. The only thing I can think of is that Victorio didn’t want you messed with in the least so you’d bring a premium price on Mexico’s sex slave market. If you were to turn up pregnant in a couple months after the sale, the man who purchased you would be highly perturbed. A fat, soiled dove doesn’t sell well with Mexico’s men. When Victorio hauled more women to that Mexican market, they would refuse to buy.”

  Amanda cringed. “It is all so sordid, but this has really opened my eyes to the simply awful goings-on out here in the world. I lived such a sheltered life, attending Brigham Young Academy and residing in Provo, Utah among the saints.”

  “Yes, you did, Amanda. There is evil in this old world—plenty of it. Speaking of evil, now I must go after those two murderers I have set out to capture or kill. I will take you girls back to Kayenta and drop you off. Then I’m going after Ed Muir over on the Picketwire in Colorado. Lastly, I’ll pursue Mark Rollins on the Llano Estacado, the staked plains in Texas. But I suppose I should send a couple telegrams to the law authorities in both Helper and American Fork. I need to make sure the two killers haven’t moved on. I just hope they have a telegraph office in Kayenta.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  They traveled all the next day through the baking sun and set up camp along a small stream lined with cottonwoods. The girls went down to the stream, slipped off their clothes, and took a refreshing bath. “Don’t come near the stream for about a half hour,” they had warned Bryan.

  When the girls arrived back at the campsite, Amanda had a suggestion for Bryan. “Bryan, why don’t you slip down to the stream and take a bath?”

  “Oh, so what are you saying . . . I stink?”

  “I’m just saying that the flies are settling on you rather than on the piles of horse apples. Okay, mean joke, but it wouldn’t hurt if you took a little dip in yon stream, ahem.”

  Cheryl giggled, but cut it short when Bryan gave her the evil eye.

  Bryan threw his hands in the air. “Listen, the reason I smell a little ripe is because I have been traipsing across the desert for days upon days, trying to rescue you. And this didn’t have to happen if you had stayed in La Sal like I told you to do. Besides, I fully intended to take a bath when you girls got through. It’s not like I don’t have any common sense.”

  “Okay, sorry,” Ama
nda said, “I was just teasing you a little. But it doesn’t look like you have much of a sense of humor.”

  “Humor you say? Ha!”

  Later that evening, Cheryl pulled a harmonica from a pocket in her gingham dress and played a few tunes. Bryan and Amanda were surprised because the little girl played the instrument masterfully. She played three old standbys, and they enjoyed the music immensely: “The Camptown Races,” “Gentle Annie,” and “We Are Coming, Father Abra’am.” When Cheryl played “The Camptown Races,” Amanda joined in and sang a few lyrics: “. . . Goin’ to run all night, goin’ to run all day/I’ll bet my money on the bobtail nag, somebody bet on the bay. . . .” Amanda sang like an angel, and Bryan enjoyed the song very much. He wasn’t used to such amenities trekking about on the Western frontier.

  “Where did you learn to play like that?” Amanda asked.

  “We had a traveling band. We put on shows throughout the Midwest. My parents played nearly every instrument known to mankind. They taught me to play the guitar, the fiddle, the accordion, and this here harmonica. My parents had big dreams of putting on performances out in San Francisco and making oodles of money. That is, until. . . .”

  Bryan piped up quick like to keep her from starting in with the bawling again. He figured she deserved to cry some—after all, she had lost her parents—but he just didn’t want her to do it around him. “We enjoyed the music,” he shouted. “You’ll have to play more tunes for us later on. But for now, let’s dive into this grub I have prepared.”

  That did the trick. Cheryl sniffled a little and then got control of her emotions. Their repast was beef and beans, what else? While they were eating, the fire popped loudly and Bryan had one of his six-shooters out before you could say Jack Robinson.

  Amanda laughed. “You are as jumpy as a horn toad sitting on a cactus.”

  “Yes, Amanda, and that’s how I have managed to stay alive out on this frontier. You, of all people, should know that.”

  “Touchy, touchy. Sorry. You are more ornery than an old grizzly tonight.”

  “I am not. Let’s forget all this and talk about you and Cheryl’s future.”

  Amanda stared into his eyes, trying to divine what he had in mind. “Okay, we can do that,” she said.

  “I don’t have much of a future,” Cheryl said.

  “Do you have any relatives back east of here? You said your parents were traveling musicians.”

  Cheryl nodded her head. “Yes, my parents were traveling musicians. No, I don’t have any living relatives. I had an aunt who lived in St. Louis whom I just adored, but she died two years ago.”

  “Well, I’ll be jiggered. No relatives? I was going to put you on a stagecoach and send you east of here to live with a relative. But if you haven’t got any relatives, well. . . .”

  Amanda started cleaning up after the meal, but she took the time to look at Cheryl. “Cheryl, I have secured a position as a schoolmarm in Hanksville. Do you want to come and live with me?”

  “Could I? Glory be, that would be simply . . . marvelous. I didn’t know what I was going to do. I. . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence, and her eyes filled with tears.

  “Now listen, let’s not start in with the waterworks again,” Bryan said.

  “At times, you are so mule-headed. Don’t you think she has the right to cry a little?” Amanda asked. “She just lost her mom and dad.”

  Cheryl took a couple big gasps and wiped at her eyes. “I’m sorry, Bryan, I don’t generally cry very often,” she said, trying heroically to straighten up her face and smile.

  “I’m sure you don’t,” Bryan said, “but try to get control, and let’s sort out this thing. There is plenty of time to cry later on . . . when I’m not around.”

  “Yes, of course, you are right,” Cheryl said as she sniffled.

  “That’s a girl,” Bryan said.

  “So, Amanda, did you mean that? Could I come and live with you?” Cheryl asked.

  “Of course I meant it. After my husband was killed, I had decided to go back to Provo, but I have changed my mind. I think I will just take that teaching position in Moab. It’s what my late husband, Michael, would have wanted.”

  Cheryl smiled. “I didn’t know you were a teacher. That is wonderful.”

  Amanda’s face took on a serious demeanor. “But Cheryl, you need to understand one thing. You are not like a girlfriend to me or a live-in housemate. I am taking over as your mother. I make up the rules and you obey them, and if you don’t, I will take a willow switch to your behind.”

  “Okay, Mama,” Cheryl said, and everybody laughed.

  “One more thing. I will push you hard to complete your education. I’m sure you can read, write, and cipher, but I want to help you push beyond those rudimentary disciplines. I want you to finish your education. No kid of mine will be a dumbbell.”

  “Yes, Mama,” Cheryl said.

  Now everybody really laughed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Bryan rode into a small community with no name. There wasn’t much there. It was comprised of four buildings: a small motel, a saloon named Crawl and Puke, a restaurant, and one private residence. He rode up to the Crawl and Puke and tied his horse off to the hitching rail. He decided the first thing he needed was a beer to cut the trail dust from his throat. Bryan had dropped the weeping, whining females off in Kayenta, Arizona and made arrangements for them to ride a stagecoach into Moab, Utah.

  He was happy to be rid of them so he could get on with the bounty hunting. He intended on capturing or killing just two more hard cases, and then he would buy a horse ranch in Snake Creek Canyon above beautiful Heber Valley. Bryan was looking forward to settling down, hanging up his guns, and breeding purebred horses for the Salt Lake market. It would all work out if the young shootists would just leave him alone and not come around trying to beat him to the draw and killing him to bolster their reputations. Being called Kid Utah had been a curse, and he intended on outliving that moniker.

  The Crawl and Puke was as nasty as any saloon he had ever patronized. It stunk of stale beer, whiskey, cigar and cigarette smoke, and other aromas he didn’t care to dwell on. He walked through the batwing doors and stepped to the side to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Once acclimated, he looked the place over, searching for any person who might be detrimental to his health. He let his eyes slide over all of the patrons and their weapons. He most certainly knew better than to just stand there in the doorway silhouetted against the light. That would be just about like painting a bull’s-eye on one’s chest.

  The bar had two roughhewn planks spread across two whiskey barrels, and the floor was rammed dirt. Two highly inebriated drunks were sitting at the counter with their heads sagging near the planks, and their faces were a study in dissipation. Four more patrons were playing poker at a table in the rear. It wasn’t hard figuring out who was winning—that man was smiling and the other three were frowning. Then, of course, the winner had a sizable pile of greenbacks stacked in front of him.

  The bartender would have dressed out at around three hundred pounds, and he was as bald as a cue ball. The only hair evident on his face was a giant mustache and hair sprouting from his ears. The gnarly mustache did a fair job of hiding a tiny little mouth with thin lips. He had a stinky, nasty bar towel draped over his shoulder. “What’ll it be there, Buster?”

  “A beer. Is it cold?”

  The fat man laughed. “It’s lukewarm.”

  “That’ll do fine then,” Bryan said.

  “You’re new around here, ain’t ya?” the bartender asked.

  “Just passing through.” Bryan took a pull off his beer. The bartender was mistaken—the beer wasn’t lukewarm, but he went ahead and drank it. At least it was a liquid. “What’s your name?” Bryan asked.

  “I go by the name of Jeepers.”

  Bryan tossed a silver dollar on the plank in front of him. “Keep the change,” he said, smiling.

  “Thanks, that’s a generous tip. So what do y
a want?”

  “What do I want?” Bryan asked.

  “Yes, what do ya want? Ya want somethin’, right?”

  “I was wearing the gray during the War Between the States, and I fought in the Battle of Port Royal Sound with a fellow named Ed Muir. I hear tell he settled somewhere out here on the Picketwire, and while I’m passing through, I just wanted to say hello,” Bryan said, lying through his teeth.

  “You’re a law dog and you want to kill him. Ain’t that right?”

  Bryan laughed and lowered his voice. “You’re half right; I’m not a law dog.”

  “What’s your name?” Jeepers asked.

  “Bryan.”

  “Bryan, I wouldn’t mind so much if you killed him because he comes in here and raises holy hell from time to time, but I would miss the money he spends here. He has all sorts of money. What’d he do, knock over a bank?”

  “Yes, and he killed the clerk just for sport.”

  “That sounds like our man. He killed a man in here the other day just because the fellow fell asleep at the bar and was snorin’. Said he hated snorin’.”

  “Jeepers, where is he?”

  The fat man paled. “If I tell you and he gets wind of it, I’m a dead man.”

  “Say it quietlike, and nobody will ever find out you squealed.” Bryan leaned in closer to Jeepers.

  Jeepers glanced over at the two inebriates bent over the bar, and then he moved in close and conspiratorially. “He’s livin’ on a hog ranch about five miles north of here called Sand Creek. Ever heard of it?”

  “No, I can’t say that I have,” Bryan said.

  Jeepers moved in a little closer in order not to be heard. His breath would have knocked a fly off a gut wagon at fifty paces. “There was a big massacre there in 1864, or thereabouts. An army patrol attacked a village of Cheyenne. A lot of the Indians escaped, mounted an offense, and came back and gave the Army Patrol hell. Lots of people died on both sides, and a fellow named Chivington lost his command for muffin’ the attack.”

  “Thanks for the history lesson, Jeepers, but can you be a little more specific about where I can find this polecat Muir?”