Murder in Mushroom Valley

by Scotty V Casper

  Bryan rode along, thinking about what a fool he was and that he ought to just turn around and head back home. But then he thought about the woman and children Mark Rollins had killed, and he knew he must go on and capture or kill the man. Rollins had to be stopped, and he was the only one available for the job. Rollins was safe from the law dogs in the Llano Estacado. No, Bryan knew he had to stop him before he killed again. He was aware that if he turned around and went back to Utah, that decision would haunt him for the rest of his life and he would be unhappy.

  He rode through the Llano Estacado—a little section of hell—for several days and found a nice place to camp on the Pecos River. Unbeknownst to him, he had crossed the border, leaving New Mexico, and rode into Texas. Thus began his odyssey across the Texas tableland.

  For a change, his campsite offered water and graze for his animals, and shelter under cottonwood trees in case it rained. But shortly after he set up camp, two Indians came riding in. He stepped behind a cottonwood and palmed his Colt. The Indians were old Comanches who didn’t look like much of a threat, but Bryan wasn’t taking any chances. They were wearing breechcloths and were covered in trail flour.

  One of them gave him the peace sign, so he stepped out from behind the tree and holstered his Colt. However, he decided to watch them closely.

  The oldest Comanche spoke good English. “We come in peace, white man. We wish to share your campsite and have a meal with you. We mean you no harm. We have lived many moons, and we are done fighting the white man. We realize we can’t win, so we just want to live out the few years left for us in peace.” This message was conveyed in surprisingly good English.

  “My name is Bryan. What are your names?” Bryan asked.

  The oldest Indian was the spokesman. “My name is Golden Fawn, and this is Eagle Claw.” He pointed to the other Indian, who, it turned out, never spoke one single word during their entire visit.

  “Well, Golden Fawn, I have coffee and salt pork,” Bryan said. “What do you bring to this meal?”

  “We have been up in Northern Utah to visit my son who is living with a Ute woman up there. I have dried cattail shoots, camas bulbs, and sego lily roots. We can add them to your meat and make a stew.” The old Indian dug these dried plants from his pack and placed them on a rock.

  Oh boy , Bryan thought, cattails. He laughed . “Okay, I guess that is what we are going to eat.”

  Surprisingly, the stew turned out to be tasty. “Where did you learn to use these wild plants in your cooking?” Bryan asked Golden Fawn.

  “My son taught me about these plants. He said that the white beaver trappers cooked with these plants back in the 1820s.” The old Indian really used very good English, and Bryan wondered where he learned it.

  Bryan still didn’t quite trust the old Indians, so he slept lightly that evening.

  At three in the morning, Mule suddenly let out a bray and Bryan raised up in bed, grabbing his Colt. Golden Fawn was digging through one of his panniers, looking for items to steal. When Bryan cocked the Colt, the click was loud and ominous. The old Indian stopped what he was doing and froze.

  “I should shoot you, but it would be a waste of good lead. So Golden Fawn, you’d best hustle outta here before I change my mind. Now get, and don’t let me ever see you again.” The elderly Indians were gone within ten minutes.

  Damn, it’s getting so a man can’t trust anyone , Bryan thought to himself, and he settled back down and went to sleep.

  Odessa, Texas was simply an extension of the hellish country Bryan had been riding through for the last week. But something highly unusual had occurred the day before—it rained. So that rain turned Odessa’s main street into a quagmire. The road snaking between the buildings was a combination of clay, sloppy cliche, pig manure, chicken poop, and horse apples. It stunk to high heaven. Several of the businesses were tents, and the others were built from raw lumber that had faded to a light gray. As described earlier, the early Western town consisted of two stores, two whores, and a gristmill. Well, not quite in this case; there was a little more. There were about six businesses: a saloon/restaurant, a motel, a livery stable, a sheriff’s office, a blacksmith shop, and a hardware store.

  Bryan dismounted and walked into the sheriff’s office. It might have been Bryan’s imagination, but it seemed to him that Mule and Cayuse gave him the stink eye. He supposed they didn’t like standing up to their hocks in slop. “I’ll only be a minute,” he had told the disgruntled animals.

  The sheriff looked like he was about six feet seven and rail thin. When he stood up, Bryan thought his gunbelt was going to fall down to his ankles. “And what is it ya want?” the sheriff asked.

  “Friendly sort, aren’t you,” Bryan said.

  “I don’t like bein’ messed with when I’m tryin’ to have my mornin’ coffee,” the sheriff said.

  Bryan nodded his head with understanding, but he wasn’t liking it. “And here I thought a duly elected sheriff was bound by duty to be a servant to the people. But I guess I have been mistaken.”

  “Like I said, what do ya want?”

  “Before we get down to that, I’d like to start this thing all over.” Bryan walked back out the door, then reentered. He smiled brilliantly, and with a cheerful voice he said, “And a good morning to you, kind sir. How are you this fine morning?”

  The sheriff didn’t so much as crack a smile. “What do ya want?” he asked.

  Bryan decided there was no cheering the man up, so he proceeded. “What’s your name?”

  “It’s right there on that plaque,” he said, pointing to the front of his desk. “Are ya blind or what?”

  The plaque said Marvin Hatch. “All right, Marvin, I’ve taken all I’m going to from you. I walked in here looking for a little information. I have been polite, and I haven’t been particularly bothersome to you . . . and look how you have treated me. You are going to give me some service like a good sheriff should, or I am going to put a whole lot of knots all over that gnarly, old head of yours. Am I understood?”

  Sheriff Hatch sat back down and took a sip of his coffee. “I could throw ya in jail for threatenin’ an officer of the law,” he said.

  Bryan laughed at that and shook his head to clear it. “Are you for real?”

  “Yes, I’m for real. I’m just nursin’ a really bad hangover.”

  “That’s not my lookout,” Bryan said. He fished out the dodger on Mark Rollins. “Have you seen this man?”

  “Yes, he’s drunk a lot. He’s probably over in the saloon right this minute, soakin’ up the whiskey.”

  “Do you mean that saloon over there named The Kicking Mule?”

  “Yes, do ya see another saloon in this town?”

  “Look, I just rode in, so how am I supposed to know there is only one saloon?” Bryan asked.

  “Well, there ain’t.”

  “Why is the saloon named The Kicking Mule?”

  “Because after ya drink some of that homemade whiskey, when ya wake up the next mornin’, it feels like ya’ve been kicked in the head by a mule.”

  “So that’s what’s wrong with you this morning?” Bryan asked as he tucked the dodger back into his vest pocket.

  “Yeah, I got drunk last night, and it feels like a whole span of mules have kicked me in the head,” Hatch said. “Incidentally, this is Indian Territory, ya know, and alcohol is ag’in the law here, so it is homemade. I’ve been told it’s made with river water, sagebrush, raw alcohol, burnt sugar, chewing tobacco, a touch of strychnine, and a couple of rattlesnake heads for flavor and body. Isaac C. Parker—the hangin’ judge over in Fort Smith, Arkansas—will tack a man’s hide to the wall for sellin’ alcohol here in Indian Territory.”

  “You’re the sheriff. Aren’t you sworn to uphold the law?”

  “I ain’t gonna do nothin’ ’bout the alcohol problem. That’s the lookout of those dang outsiders. Besides, I like a little nip myself from time to time.”

  Bryan tapped Hatch’s desk with a forefinger. “Well
, so much for the alcohol problem here in Indian Territory. You say Rollins hangs out in the bar across the street?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Has he caused you any problems here in Odessa?”

  “Not so’s a man would notice. He’s just drunk all the time. I’ve put him in the cell a time or two to sleep it off. Say, who are you anyway, and what did he do?”

  “They call me Kid Utah. I am a bounty hunter, and Rollins killed his wife and children over in Utah.”

  When the sheriff heard he was Kid Utah, he blanched and probably wished he had been a little more polite. “Ya’re not gonna shoot up the town apprehendin’ him, are ya?”

  “Not unless I have to.”

  The Kicking Mule was a surprisingly nice saloon, considering Odessa was like a hog wallow. It had a twenty-foot-long oaken bar, a brass kick rail, and a long mirror behind the bar with golden gilding around the perimeter. There was some nice artwork on the walls. They even had a Frederic Remington hanging there . . . and with no bullet holes in it. The tables were made of polished oak, the chairs were padded and covered in red leather, and there was a lustrous puncheon floor. But, even more surprising, the bartender was dressed in spotless clothing, he was cleanly shaven, and the bar towel draped over his shoulder was unsoiled. Further, he addressed Bryan with courtesy. He said, “Can I help you, sir,” instead of saying, “Who are ya, and what do ya want?”

  Bryan shook his head in wonderment. He remembered what Sheriff Hatch had said about the homemade whiskey, and there he was, standing in a very nice bar. It didn’t add up. “Bartender, now don’t take offense to this, but I heard you serve some pretty rank homemade whiskey in this bar. I don’t want any of your homemade whiskey, but I was wondering, do you have any top-shelf stuff hidden away behind the bar? You know, the good stuff that you yourself would drink. I can pay.”

  The bartender reached down behind the bar, brought out a bottle of Old Forester, and poured him a double shot. “That’ll be four bits,” he said.

  Bryan dropped a five-dollar bill on the counter and said, “I’m figuring this will get me two double shots and some information.”

  The bartender laughed and took a couple swipes at the bar with the clean bar rag. “It will get you the two double shots for sure, but the information—that all depends. I’m not gonna give out anythin’ that might prove detrimental to my health.”

  Bryan nodded his head in agreement. “I understand.” He dug the dodger from his breast pocket and put it on the bar. “I know this man comes in here all the time and gets drunk. Do you know where he is today?”

  “Yeah, I recognize him all right. He comes in and always sits down at the end of the bar. He’s a strange duck. First, he likes singin’ a few old ballads, and his voice ain’t no good at all. Then he proceeds to get knee-crawlin’ drunk. He only drinks; he never socializes. He just looks into his whiskey and broods. I’d say there is somethin’ really botherin’ the man, a profound sadness.”

  Just then, the batwing doors opened with a sort of whoosh, and the bartender cut his eyes to the man walking in.

  “Thanks,” Bryan whispered. “He killed his wife and all of his children. I’ll try not to mess up this really nice bar.”

  “Dang,” the bartender said.

  The man took his seat at the end of the bar, so Bryan glanced over at him. There was no question about it. The man was Mark Rollins, scumbag and murderer of women and children. “Gus, give me the usual,” Rollins said. Then while Gus was pouring his drink, he broke out into song. Gus was right—the man’s voice was terrible.

  “Buffalo gals, won’t you come out tonight,

  Buffalo gals, won’t you come out tonight,

  ’N dance by the light of the moon.”

  Bryan took a shot of his whiskey, then turned to face Rollins. “Hello, Mark Rollins,” he said.

  Rollins’ Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, and he turned to face Bryan. “How is that you know my name, stranger?” he asked.

  Bryan took another sip of his whiskey. “Oh, I know your name, all right. I also know you killed your wife and children over in American Fork.”

  Rollins leaped to his feet and turned to face Bryan. “I don’t know who you are, mister, but I do know that you are a liar.”

  Bryan smirked. “If I’m a liar, how do you account for this dodger that’s out on you?” He pulled the paper from his breast pocket, unfolded it, and showed it to Rollins. Then he put it back in his pocket. “I’m a bounty hunter, and I am taking you back to American Fork to stand trial. So turn around and face the bar, and let me put these here cuffs on you.”

  There were about ten patrons in the bar at the time, and they all cleared out of the way in case bullets started to fly.

  “You’re not takin’ me anyplace,” Rollins said, “because I’m gonna kill you.”

  Bryan laughed and took another drink of his whiskey. “If you try that, it will be a big mistake. I’ll haul you in draped over your horse rather than sitting upright in the saddle.”

  Rollins paid no attention to the warning and clawed for his six-gun. He had his holster set up for a cross draw because he considered himself a pistolero. He wasn’t. In fact, he was almighty slow, and it cost him his life because he caught a .45 slug right in his face, and a thing like that will just naturally ruin a fellow’s complexion. He hadn’t even managed to clear leather when he caught the slug in the kisser.

  “I ain’t never seen a man pull a gun faster than that,” the bartender said. “Your hand was just a blur.”

  “Lots of practice,” Bryan said. “Some men can build a house, interpret The Good Book , or teach themselves how to make beautiful music on a guitar. No, not me. I have trained myself to shuck a gun and kill—in increments of a second. More’s the pity.” He shook his head in recrimination. “Well, I’m hanging these guns up and learning something more constructive. Who knows, maybe I will teach myself to play a guitar. At any rate, I’m hoping this is my last killing . . . it can begin to wear on a man, even if the men I am killing are evil.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Bryan spent several days riding as far as Santa Fe, New Mexico to offload Rollins’ body. He had loaded Rollins onto the man’s own private horse, not wanting to burden Mule with the bloody corpse. By the time Bryan arrived in Santa Fe, Rollins had gotten quite ripe. Bryan had wrapped him tight in canvas, but the odor still began to kick up.

  Sheriff Jack Wright accepted the body and gave Bryan a voucher for five thousand dollars. The bank in Santa Fe didn’t have enough money to pay the bounty for Rollins. Bryan gave Wright two hundred dollars for handling Rollins, and he told Wright to sell Rollins’ guns and tack, which should more than pay the expenses for putting him in the ground. Then he advised Wright not to put a marker over Rollins’ grave. “A man who cuts the throats of his wife and children doesn’t deserve any sort of marker.”

  The ride from Santa Fe to Kayenta seemed interminable, and by the time he arrived there, Mule had gotten downright hostile. Bryan hoped that giving the big, old red mule lots of grain, a good curry comb job, water, and a long rest would restore their friendship, but he wasn’t sure because Mule seemed inconsolable.

  Before he visited Amanda and Cheryl, he went to a boarding house for accommodations. The boarding house consisted of two tents with beds, nothing else. The sign over the men’s tent read: Men’s Fascillity—Bed, two dollars—Blanket, two bits—Pillow, two bits.

  Once Bryan arranged accommodations for his animals and himself, he walked across the street to Hogface’s Eatery for a decent meal. He had been living on hardtack, jerky, and water for nearly a month. He wondered why anyone would name their restaurant Hogface’s Eatery, but the reason became clear once he saw the man standing behind the counter. The man was hugely fat and had a face like an old boar. He had to be the ugliest human being Bryan had ever seen. “I know I ain’t pretty, but my grub is good,” the fat man said.

  Bryan chuckled. “Uh, Mr. uh, Hogface, what’s on the me
nu today?”

  “Thick chunks of beef, mashed potatoes and gravy, corn on the cob, and a slice of apple pie big enough to choke a horse.”

  But before he could place his order, somebody plowed into his back and said, “Oopsy-daisy.”

  He turned around, and there stood Amanda and the little girl named Cheryl. He was a bit ashamed of himself because his first thought was, Why in the name of all hell did I come to Kayenta because this woman can be a royal pain in the rear. I set up both these girls with lots of money — enough to start a new life — and I should have given this town wide berth.

  “Well, you needn’t look so happy to see us,” Amanda said.

  “Hi, Amanda, I thought you might have gone on to Hanksville to take that teaching position.”

  “No, I’ve been waiting for you. Did you catch up with the two criminals and bring them to justice?”

  “Yes, Amanda, I salted them down.”

  “Hi, Kid Utah,” Cheryl said.

  “Shh, now Cheryl, don’t call me that; my name is Bryan Kohler.”

  “Sorry, Bryan. Hi!”

  “I ain’t got all day,” Hogface said. “Are ya gonna order or not?”

  “Yes, Hogface, set us up with those three meals at that table over yonder,” he said, pointing to a table over in the corner.

  Hogface got a questioning look on his face. “I trust that ya got money?”

  “Yes, Hogface, I have money,” Bryan said.

  When Bryan turned back around to face the girls, Amanda crowded in on him, causing him to back up against the counter. Her breath was sweet, and he noticed little points of light playing off the most beautiful set of eyes he had ever seen. They were light green, and the sun had caught them just right. They were spectacular. He knew he was doomed. The danged woman had her hooks in him, and he realized his freedom and independence were about to disappear.