Murder in Mushroom Valley

by Scotty V Casper

  “You’re an impatient sort, ain’t ya?” He removed the bar towel from his shoulder and took a couple swipes at a spill on the planks. The bar towel was so nasty that the planks came off in worse shape than if he just let them be. “You can’t miss the place. If you get within two miles of the hog ranch, you will smell it.”

  “Kind of like this saloon, hey Jeepers?”

  “Hey, talk like that is uncalled for. I try to run a tight ship here.”

  Bryan laughed. “A tight ship, is it? Okay, let’s say you are right and this is a tight ship, then it behooves me to mention you are failing in one area. You really should wash that bar towel or bring out another one. Uh, don’t you think?”

  “I bring out a new bar towel oncet a year, even if it ain’t really needed,” Jeepers said with certitude.

  Bryan pursed his lips and puffed, then shook his head. “Okay, Jeepers, okay. Anyway, thank you for the information.”

  “Quite all right—but remember to keep it under your hat.”

  “I will,” Bryan said, and then he pulled his beer in close and took a swallow. He made a face and slid it as far away from him as possible.

  “I see you ain’t appreciative of a fine lager beer,” Jeepers said, and he emptied it back into the barrel he kept behind the bar. “No use wastin’ a good lager, is there?” he asked.

  Bryan shook his head. He didn’t know what else to do.

  Suddenly, one of the poker players at the back of the saloon spoke up. “Hey you, with the fancy tied down Colt.”

  Bryan knew the statement was meant for him. He had heard it before, so he ignored it, hoping the man would go away. He knew the man wouldn’t shoot him in the back because there were too many witnesses.

  “Are your ears stuffed with horse apples?” the man asked.

  Bryan continued to ignore him. One of the inebriates down the bar a ways succumbed to the intoxicants and did a faceplant into the roughhewn planking. The other patrons, expecting trouble, got off to the side, not wanting to be in the line of fire.

  Bryan slowly turned around and hitched his holster into place in order to facilitate a fast draw—if it came to that. He hoped he could avoid gunplay, but one never knew. “Are you talking to me?” Bryan asked.

  “Yeah, I’m talkin’ to you. It looks like you are not only deaf, but you’re stupid too.”

  “Why are you speaking to me in such a manner? Do you know me?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, why do you have your underwear in a twist?”

  “I’m tired of the palavering. I’m gonna kill you.”

  “Why?” Bryan asked, jaded by the whole process. He had danced to the same tune many times before.

  “Two reasons, pig puke. I know who you are. You are the so-called Kid Utah, and the second reason is, you killed my brother over in Durango two summers past.” He had a Colt Walker Revolver on his hip, and he edged his hand close to the pearl-handled grips.

  “Who was your brother?” Bryan asked.

  “Carl Broadbent.”

  Bryan took a couple swipes at the air in front of his face because it was so thick with tobacco smoke, it was making it hard to see. “Carl was an evil man. He killed a farmer up near Goshen, Utah, then raped his wife and killed her. He stole all of their money and burned their ranch. Your brother had paper on him, and I tried to take him into Provo for trial. But he chose to go for his gun instead, and he came out second best in the hook and draw contest.”

  “So, pig puke, do you deny you are Kid Utah?”

  “Well, I don’t hold to the name, but yes, that is what they call me.”

  “I thought so—the great Kid Utah. Ha! Do you know what? I think your reputation with a short gun is highly exaggerated. Now draw. I’m tired of lookin’ at ya.”

  Bryan laughed. “You’re tired of looking at me? Now isn’t that rich. Have you peeked in the mirror lately? You are even uglier than your murderous brother, and that’s going some.”

  “Go for your hogleg. I’m gonna put a couple plums in your gizzard.”

  Bryan laughed again. “Now hold your horses. First, I want to know your name.”

  “It’s Earl Broadbent. Why do ya want to know?” Earl asked.

  “I want to know what to put on your tombstone.”

  Earl let out a roar like an enraged bull. “You are a smart-mouthed sumbitch, ain’t ya? Now draw.”

  “You don’t want to do this, Earl. Oh, is there any paper on you? I could use a few extra bucks.”

  Earl went for his hogleg, but before he could get it out of his holster, Bryan’s Colt barked twice, the two shots rolling into one another, almost sounding like one. Earl couldn’t believe it. It had gone all wrong because his Colt Walker wasn’t even out of the holster, and he was staring down the barrel of Bryan’s Colt. He stopped what he was doing and ran his left hand over his torso, feeling for a hole or blood. He found none. “Don’t shoot,” he managed to say.

  “Drop your hogleg on the floor, and scoot it over to me with your foot. Do you have a hideout gun? A knife?”

  “No.”

  “You’d best not because if you try something, I will kill you for sure this time around,” Bryan said.

  Bryan pushed the bullets out of the cylinder of Earl’s pistol and shoved it over to the bartender. “Jeepers, don’t give this ranny’s pistol back for two days.”

  Earl had broken out in a sweat and he was trembling. “But ya missed me, didn’t ya? Did the great Kid Utah miss?”

  “Look behind you,” Bryan said.

  There was a picture of a naked woman tacked to the wall just behind Earl, and there were two little holes punched right between the woman’s eyes. The holes were about a half inch apart.

  Bryan looked at Earl. “Get out of here, and don’t let me see you until I pull my freight early in the morning, or I’ll kill you for sure.”

  Earl left and his pace was brisk.

  The patrons went back to their poker and drinking, chattering about what they had just witnessed. It was a story that would take on legs and spread throughout the West, and the event would take on dimensions widely in opposition to the truth.

  Jeepers scratched a little patch of hair sprouting out of his right ear. “How do that? I ain’t never seen the likes of it.”

  “Thousands of hours of practice, and a scientific approach to shucking a gun in increments of a second and hitting a target. It would take too long to tell you all about it, but I will tell you this. I don’t aim; that takes too long. I simply think the bullet into the target and just point the pistol and fire.”

  “You don’t aim? How do ya hit anythin’ without aimin’?”

  “I just do. That picture back there speaks the truth in the matter. I thought about shooting up some of her private parts but decided ag’in it because your customers wouldn’t have anything to look at. Say, how much is that picture worth? I will pay you for it.”

  “Forget it. That picture stays right where it is. Can you imagine the men comin’ in here from far and wide just to see that picture and buy some of this fine lager beer from me? I’m gonna be rich.”

  Bryan smiled. “No, actually I can’t imagine it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The next morning, Bryan left the town with no name and rode to the banks of the Purgatoire River. The river was named by Spanish explorers in the sixteenth century. Spanish treasure-hunting soldiers died in the canyon without the benefit of clergy, so they named the nearby river Las Animas Perdidas en Purgatoire (the river of souls lost in purgatory). Later, French trappers shortened the name to Purgatoire. It was there that Bryan looked over dinosaur tracks. There were over one hundred separate dinosaur tracks—along with the tracks of other prehistoric critters—in exposed bedrock that stretched for over a quarter of a mile. He got down from his horse and looked around for a while. Bracing Ed Muir could wait. It was a wondrous stretch of country. Along with the dinosaur tracks, he saw rock art, stone tools, pottery, and the remains of dwellings of prehistoric
people.

  After looking over the site just west of La Junta, Colorado, he rode on and began thinking over a few matters. He couldn’t help but wonder if what he was doing was wrong—the killing men for money thing. While he was employed in that occupation, there were archeologists combing through digs at different spots in the world. He thought he might like doing that rather than killing people. For instance, he thought Egypt might be a fun place to go and explore the artifacts supporting the existence of ancient pharaohs. There were a few men out West searching for dinosaur bones. The Inca Empire needed men and women to examine it and gain an understanding. There just seemed to be so many ways a man could be useful in this old world without having to go around shooting people. It all seemed so sordid, so wrong. But then he rationalized that if he didn’t snuff out these evil men, they would continue killing, raping, and stealing. So he figured, in the end, that what he was doing wasn’t all that wrong. He had been over this ground before, and it always haunted him.

  Jeepers was right—he did smell the pig farm long before it came into sight. When he did finally spot the pig farm, Bryan immediately realized there would be no sneaking up on the place. Steep ridges led down to the farm from the east, west, and south, and the north approach was a narrow valley.

  It wasn’t much of a farm. It consisted of a hovel for human habitation, a shed, an outhouse, and a large corral for the pigs. The hovel had one amenity that seemed largely out of place—it had a squaw shade, which is a canopy of sorts that was attached to the front of the hovel. As it turned out, the squaw shade was nicer than the hovel. Bryan guessed the hard cases. He assumed there was more than one living there who would spend time, after a hard day’s work of stealing from others, enjoying sitting under the shade, bragging about the day’s exploits. What could be nicer than sniffing the aroma boiling off that pig farm and having a toddy or two—now that would be living high on the hog, no pun intended.

  Bryan was coming in from the north, so he decided that would be the best approach, rather than taking a descending route from any of the other three directions. There were a few places along the valley floor where a man could hide from bullets, but not many. He got within three hundred yards of the farm when a bullet sliced the air just inches from his head. He kicked his feet out of the stirrups and just let himself fall from Cayuse. He reached up and pulled his .44/40 Winchester from its boot, then he caught the reins, turned Cayuse around, and swatted him on the rear end. Cayuse took off back up the valley and Mule followed. He didn’t want his animals harmed. After all, what had they done to deserve taking on lead?

  Judging from the boom the rifle made that had spit the bullet at him, he guessed it was a .56 Spencer, or something similar. A Spencer throws a 350 grain chunk of lead at around 1,200 feet per second, and it is pushed out by 45 grains of black powder. If it hits man or beast, it will just naturally make a horrific wound. Bryan didn’t want to think about it. He just dove into a nearby depression that hid part of him, but not all. That exposed portion of his body was his rear end, wouldn’t you know? He considered there might be something to that old expression about getting your ass shot off. A couple more of those big bore bullets plowed the earth near him. One bullet came so close, it kicked dirt into his eyes and mouth.

  A boulder, loosened by one of the shots, rolled into the depression, plowing into his ribs. Luckily, it came from close-in because it hadn’t picked up enough speed to do him much harm. Actually, the boulder bruising his ribs like that turned out being serendipity. He rolled the boulder into a spot that protected his rear end—at least most of it. If the marksman down there in the hovel was good, he might be able to knock a few chunks off his heiny, but probably not enough to outright kill him. That knowledge almost cheered him up.

  It’s a curious thing, but a man about to be shot will get this creepy, crawly sensation on the skin. Bryan had that feeling—in spades. Then, as if things weren’t bad enough, a lizard crawled up within about six inches of his face. As soon as Mr. Lizard got in nice and tight, he transfixed Bryan with a set of evil, bright-green serpent eyes and then stuck his long tongue out a couple times. It was a provocation, and Bryan wasn’t about to stand for it. With the threat of bullets and then this primeval-looking creature—whose lineage stretched back to the cretaceous period—in tight with him, Bryan really got the creeps. His skin virtually itched. The sensation actually sent chills down his spine. “Mr. Lizard, you rapscallious villain, I don’t know who you think you are, but if you don’t get out of my face, I am going to shoot you,” Bryan said. Mr. Lizard, not wanting to be shot, suddenly scampered off.

  Now Bryan need only contend with the very real possibility that he was about to be shot. Having such knowledge is never fun. He considered himself a damn fool. Bryan chided himself, using these thoughts. Why didn’t you linger until nightfall to make your approach to this pig farm? Why didn’t you just sit tight and wait for Ed Muir to leave the pig ranch to go into La Junta for supplies? Why didn’t you approach the pig farm from one of the three hills descending to it; maybe there actually was better cover up there? Why didn’t you just go back to Heber Valley, buy that ranch, and take to raising thoroughbreds? Why? Why?

  Bryan turned his face to the sky. The sun was slapdab at its nadir, and the little declivity he was cowering in was hotter than the doorknob on the gates of hell. He was soaking wet from sweat—a condition, no doubt, brought on by heat and fear. A turkey buzzard floated on a thermal, describing large, lazy arcs just to the east of clabbered clouds. How did those damnable birds know it was nearing dinnertime? He figured if that despicable bird were lower, he would shoot it from the sky.

  Bryan determined that the self-recrimination wasn’t going to get him out of his situation with a whole skin. So he went to work, trying to figure out how to extricate himself. He was pinned down, and there was no chance he could cut and run without being gunned down. He decided his only chance was to wait for nightfall and escape in the darkness . . . maybe slip down and capture or kill Ed Muir. That tactic seemed his only hope, and that necessitated his laying in that hole and baking in the sun for hour upon hour—without water. His clothing was soaking wet with sweat. The dirt caked to it was creating mud, and of course, his skin continued itching to beat the band. Then there was the water situation. He would have paid a king’s ransom for just one swallow.

  Waiting until darkness seemed his only hope. But suddenly, he got another bright idea. He yelled at Muir, “How many rannies are with you trying to shoot me to doll rags?”

  There was a long pause. Finally, Muir said, “I have two men with me. You haven’t got a prayer. Make peace with your Lord.”

  Bryan laughed, and he couldn’t figure out exactly why. “I haven’t got a problem with your other two,” he shouted. “Why don’t you two just shoot ol’ Ed, and I will let you live and share the bounty reward with you?” Bryan had to cup his hands around his mouth and shout to convey these words over the distance separating them.

  He no more than said that when there was a shot and scream. “Kid Utah, you bastard, my good friend just tried to shoot me, so I just now shot him dead.”

  Bryan cackled. “He wasn’t much of a friend if he considered a chunk of money more important than you. Now you’ve got to worry about the other ranny; maybe he feels the same way.”

  There was another shot.

  Bryan laughed again. “Okay, who got shot this time around?”

  It was Ed Muir himself who spoke up. “It was my other friend. I just decided that not for peaches nor pearls could I trust him, either.”

  Bryan continued whooping. “Have you ever heard it said there is no honor among thieves?”

  “Shut up,” Ed screamed. “Now I’m going to kill you.” He emptied a .44/40 Winchester at the depression where Bryan was. Apparently, he had a Winchester at his disposal, as well as some sort of big bore. The bullets plowed up dirt so close to Bryan, he was quite certain he could feel the heat coming off them. Other chunks of lead caromed off the boulder
that was protecting his ass and whined off into the distance. Bryan was worried Muir would shoot the boulder all to pieces, and then he wouldn’t have any protection for his rear end.

  “You missed me,” Bryan shouted. “Would you like me to come down and give you a few tips on marksmanship because you ain’t really no good at it?”

  Bryan regretted that he taunted Muir because the hard case opened up and fired several more shots with the Winchester, using more precise and searching fire this time around. It paid off because a bullet tore a shallow groove across one of his haunches. It hurt so bad, Bryan wanted to jump up, grab the wound, and dance around. But Muir hadn’t emptied the Winchester at that point, and he knew if he did that, it would spell his doom. So he just had to lie there and endure the burning pain. It felt like someone laid a red-hot firebrand on his haunch. He couldn’t even put a soothing hand to it for fear of getting his arm shot. Bryan chastised himself. Why, oh why, did I allow greed to take control of me?

  Bryan edged a hand up, being careful not to expose it or the arm it was attached to, and wiped the sweat from his face. Perspiration was getting in his eyes and beginning to sting. He yelled as loud as he could, “Muir, surrender and you can come out of this alive—at least for a little while longer. If not, I’m going to wait until it is dark, and then I will be coming for you.”

  “Come and get me, you bastard,” Muir shouted.

  Bryan laughed. “There is no call for using that kind of language. If you don’t want to surrender to me, why don’t you come out of hiding and let’s take each other on, face-to-face. The fastest man wins.”

  Muir never answered. In fact, he went silent, and that lasted for two more hours. Bryan got so hot broiling in the sun that he thought he might burst into flames. However, he knew that Muir was scorching as well, but at least he was in the shade and wouldn’t be quite as inflamed.

  Finally, Muir called out from the hovel. “Kid Utah, how’s about letting me slop my hogs, then I will meet you face-to-face? I know I can shade you. I’ve always known I am faster.”