Authors: William W. Johnstone
Blood Valley (23 page)
The Doc, he didn't have no more to say on the subject. He just got up slow and tired-like, looked at me, nodded his head, and walked slowly back down the boardwalk, toward his office. I felt sorry for the Doc. But even though I knowed it to be wrong, I just couldn't work up much pity for them that had got killed or hurt. It was just a damn fool thing they done.
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It was one whale of a funeral; started at ten o'clock and at five that afternoon it was still goin' on. Dolittle was not handlin' the services. Two preachers from another town had been brought in for that. Nobody had seen hide nor hair of Dolittle. And despite my feelings toward the fool, I was gettin' sort of concerned about the windbag.
So, puttin' aside what I'd told Doc Harrison, and leavin' the sounds of the mourners and marchers behind me, I strolled down to Dolittle's house, some ways from the church house.
His wife was sittin' on the front porch, in a rockin' chair, doin' some needlework. She stared at me without no greetin' .
“I come to inquire about your husband, Ma'am.”
“He isn't here, Marshal.” Her voice was low and sort of eerie-soundin' .
“Where is he, Ma'am?”
“Rode out this morning.”
A feelin' of despair struck me hard. I had a hunch what the preacher was doin', but I hoped I was wrong. “Rode out . . . where, Ma'am?”
“He rode east, Marshal.”
“Was he armed, Ma'am?”
“Yes. Yes, he was. Heavily armed.”
“He didn't tell you where he was goin', Ma'am?”
She stared at me. “He said only that he was going to vindicate himself.”
Now, I wasn't real sure what vindicate meant. But I figured it was gonna turn out bad for the preacher. I thanked the lady and left out of there, headin' for the stable.
That Rolf Baker, he was a strange one; yesterday, he'd had my horse, Critter, brung back to me and stabled. Critter still was some hurt but healin' well. I patted him and saddled Pronto, ridin' back to the Sheriff's office.
De Graff was sittin' out front. Due to the many funerals, I had to ride through the alleys and walk around to get to the front of the office.
“What's vindicate mean?” I asked him.
“Damned if I know, Marshal.”
I told him what Mrs. Dolittle had said.
“You gonna go lookin' for him, Marshal?”
“Thought I might.”
“I'll go with you.”
“You get your horse. I'll meet you back here in a few minutes.” I had spotted Pepper across the street. Duckin' through the crowds, I got across the street without bein' run down.
“Pepper, what does vindicate mean?”
“It means to clear oneself from doubt, blame, guilt or suspicion.”
That's what I thought it meant . . . sort of. I thanked her and ducked back across the street, avoidin' the professional mourners that was sobbin' and hollerin' and moanin'.
Me and De Graff rode out of town, headin' north towards Rockinghorse range.
“You think Dolittle's in trouble, Marshal?”
“Yeah. I think he's in bad trouble.”
Chapter Seven
We found his big horse first. The big fine animal was dead. Somebody, or a whole bunch of somebodies, had shot it about a dozen times. Wasn't long 'fore we come upon Preacher Dolittle, and it was a humiliatin' sight. It was something that I never believed in.
The man had been stripped naked and then tarred and feathered. He was staggerin' along, babblin' out of his head.
“Somebody comin' up behind us,” De Graff said.
It was Doc Harrison and Pritcher, from the
Doubtful Informer
, and they was in a wagon.
Doubtful Informer
, and they was in a wagon.
Doc's face turned white as a fresh-washed sheet when he spotted the Preacher.
And from the north, here come Matt Mills' boy, Hugh, with a couple of gunhands ridin' with him. As they come closer, I could see they had tar-spots all over their clothes.
Now, I didn't much care for the Preacher. He might have been a pompous windbag, but he wasn't no bad person. And he didn't deserve nothin' like what he'd just got.
“Preacher, can you understand me?” I had to ask it several times.
Finally, his eyes cleared some and he nodded his head.
“Who done this to you?”
He tried to answer, but no words would form.
“Was it young Hugh and his bunch?”
He nodded his head.
And Hugh and them gunhawks was grinnin' real smart-ass-like as they reined up. “What you got there, Marshal Pickens?” Hugh smirked. “Looks like a big ugly crow, don't it?”
I didn't say nothin' to him. I guess he was figurin' on anything but what I done. I just jerked him off that horse and dumped him on the ground. As I done that, De Graff dragged iron and eared the hammer back, catchin' them two gunslingers by surprise.
I give Young Hugh a right smart kick on the side of his head and he was still as a rock. Then I proceeded to strip him buck-assed nekid. I looked up at the gunhawks; their faces was gray. They had them a hunch what was comin'. But they was only half right.
“Get off them horses and peel down to the where-with-all,” I told them. “Or I'll kill you right now!”
They believed me. They come out of them saddles faster than a bat can fly and commenced to takin' off their clothes.
And I'm gonna tell y'all, they wasn't none of them no joyful sight to behold standin' there in their birthday suits.
“Take the preacher back to town,” I told the Doc and Pritcher. “And tell the folks in town I'll be comin' in right behind you. Have a welcomin' committee ready for this bunch.”
The Doc, he smiled grimly. “It will be my pleasure, Marshal. I'll notify Langford and have him ready, too.”
“I think that would be a real nice touch, Doc.”
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Young Hugh sure could fling words around. Buck-assed nekkid, barefooted, with his hands tied behind his back and a rope around his neck, he told me and De Graff what his daddy was gonna do to us. He swore on his grandmother's grave and on everything holy that he would see us horsewhipped, dragged, staked out on anthills, drawn and quartered, and all sorts of stuff.
Ever' now and then, I'd give a little tug on that rope and he'd go sprawlin' face-first in the dirt and then I'd drag him a few feet 'fore I'd let him get back up. After a while, he got it through his head that if he'd shut his mouth, I'd quit pullin' on the rope.
The gunhawks, they had more sense than Young Hugh; they din't say nothin', exceptin' an occasional “ouch,” or “damn!” when they stepped on a burr or a sharp rock.
I halted the parade when we come to the hill that looked down on the town of Doubtful.
“My, my!” De Graff said, with a wicked glint in his eyes. “Would you just take a look at all them folks linin' the streets of town.”
I looked back at the sorry trio. “You boys hold your heads up high, now. You 'bout to be the stars of a parade.”
That set Young Hugh off again. Man, but he done some cussin'.
Johnny Bull, he picked that time to come ridin' up from the east. He sat in his saddle for a few seconds and then he got to laughin' so hard he had to step down and sit down in the dirt.
When he finally wiped his eyes and got back up, I asked, “Do you know these two-bit gunhands, Johnny?”
“Oh, yeah. That one who's short in the pecker department calls hisself Blackie. The other one is a punk from down Utah way. His name is Ray. They're tinhorns, both of 'em.”
Blackie, he glared at Johnny. “Someday I'll kill you, Bull!”
That set Johnny off again. He wound down chucklin' and looked at me. “I done quit the Circle L, Cotton. You mind if I ride along with y'all?”
“Not at all, Johnny. You be lookin' for a job, then?”
“I might take one if it was right for me, for sure.”
“Why don't you talk to Rusty. He could use another deputy.”
Johnny, he smiled at me. “I just might do that, Cotton. Yep, I just might.”
“Goddamn traitor!” Young Hugh yelled at Johnny.
Johnny laughed at him. “I really hope I never have to see you again like this. I'll have nightmares for a month as it is.”
Hugh spat at him.
The whole town had turned out for this spectacle. Langford was there with his picture-takin' equipment, and he was pourin' the powder to it and poppin' away.
The crowds that lined both sides of the main street didn't act up none. Nobody tossed no rotten fruit or eggs at the men. They just laughed and laughed . . . and I think that hurt Young Hugh more than if they'd thrown things at him.
I looked back just in time to see a cloud of dust that looked like a prairie storm comin' our way. No one had to tell me who it was: Matt Mills and the whole Rockinghorse crew.
Rusty, he stepped off the boardwalk just as we reined in. “I'll take the prisoners, Marshal. Full responsibility for them.” He winked at me, then turned to Young Hugh. “I imagine you're gonna want to see your daddy, son. So I'll just tie this end of your lead-rope to the hitchrail, then y'all can jaw all you want.”
Young Hugh, he cussed and spat at Rusty. Rusty patted him on top of his head. “There, there, boy; you just settle down.”
The Rockinghorse men all reined up in a long line, spread out, facin' me and the boys and Matt's ass-showin' son and gunslingers. And they was some pitiful-lookin'. All dusty and sweat-streaked, their feet cut up and stone-bruised. Young Hugh just couldn't take no more. He just busted out bawlin' and yelled,
“Daddy!”
“Daddy!”
I caught the eye of Waldo Stamps. Now me and Waldo was on opposite sides of the fence in this matter, but he had to take off his hat and cover his face with it, it tickled him so. I could see Hank Hawthorne and Joe Coyle and Pen Castell, and even some of the regular Rockinghorse crew felt the same way. It was funny to them.
But it wasn't funny to Matt nor to Kilby Jones.
I looked at Young Hugh. “That all you got to say to your pa, boy? Just âDaddy'?”
Matt, he let me have it then. “This is the most uncalled-for act of barbarism I have ever witnessed, Marshal.”
“Even worse than what went on at the Old Brewery, Matt?” I tossed it to him softly; not many others heard it.
Even though I'd guessed that Rolf had told him and A.J. both, it still shook him. He had to grab hold of the saddle horn to steady hisself.
When he finally found his voice, he said, “The sins of the father should not be held against the son, Marshal.”
Just then, Doc Harrison pushed his way through the crowd. “Marshal, the Reverend Sam Dolittle just died.”
I waited until the crowd had stopped buzzin' at that news, then I looked at Hugh and Blackie and Ray. “The charge is murder, boys. Lock 'em down hard, Rusty.”
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I reckon that before Matt had left the ranch that mornin', he sent a rider gallopin' off to the nearest telegraph office and sent Judge Barbeau a wire . . . or maybe it had been done days before, I didn't know. But the judge had just taken his summer's vacation, would be gone for six weeks, or more. And then maybe the judge had seen some bad times on the way and just decided on his own to hit the trail. Like I said, I don't know. But he didn't appoint nobody to hear his cases while he was gone, so that left Hugh and Blackie and Ray in the bucket, safe from a hangman's noose for six weeks, or more, or so I thought.
I got word from the U.S. Marshal's office to go look into some outlaws that was supposed to be holed up down on the Crazy Woman. That was gonna be three or four days there and at least that many days back.
When I got back, the valley had exploded.
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Rusty had a bandage on his head, De Graff was favorin' one leg, and Burtell still had a mouse under one eye.
But what had first caught my eyes was that the front door of the jailhouse had been tore down.
“Break-out?” I asked.
“Lynchin',” Rusty said.
It had happened two days back. I had been to the Crazy Woman and didn't find hide nor hair of any outlaws. I was one day on my way back when, as Rusty put it, “Some gawddamned men wearin' hoods over their heads come bustin' into the jail and conked me on the noggin with a club!”
De Graff picked it up. “I come up out of bed in my drawers and broke my big toe when I run into the damn bedpost. By that time, them hooded men was all over us, punchin' and kickin'. They didn't come in to kill us, 'cause nobody dragged iron until the cells was open.”
Burtell said, “They hog-tied us and took the prisoners out in the country and strung 'em up. We found 'em about dawn. The last two days has been hell. Nesters' places burned down and the people shot as they ran outside. Men and women and kids alike.”
“Can you ride?” I asked De Graff.
“Oh, yeah. The swellin's gone down near to normal. I just have to be careful pullin' my boots on, is all.”
“You have any idea who it was busted in here?” I asked Rusty.
“Sure. But knowin' and provin' ain't the same. It was Gimpy over at the cafe, Leo Silverman, the pitcher-taker, Langford, Alex White from the Dirty Dog. Hell, it was the whole town and lots of the farmers!”
“Which way did you come in?” De Graff asked.
“Through the pass.”
“That's why you didn't see nobody, then,” Burtell said. “Nobody comes in, nobody goes out of Doubtful. Somebody blowed the west pass so's the stage can't get through, it's runnin' south of us now 'til the road gets cleared.”
“The Big Three have sealed off the town?”
“That's it,” Rusty told me. “That crazy-actin' Sanchez bunch has signed on with the Rockinghorse. Al Long's brothers is with 'em. The Springer boys is with the Circle L. And Rolf Baker's brought in a few. And Buck Hargon, Doc Martin, and the Canadian gunslinger, Sangamon, they went with the Quartermoon.”
“Miss Mary at the Wolf's Den?” De Graff said. “She pulled out day before yesterday. Just up and left.”
I looked around, missin' somebody. “I thought you hired Johnny Bull.”
“I did. He's out trying to talk some sense into some of the hardcases he knows right well. He's tryin' to convince them that doin' what they're doin' is gonna bring the Army and ever'body else in here after them. I don't think he's havin' much luck.”
“Pepper?”
“She's all right. She and Doc have taken over the church house and are usin' it for a hospital.”
“My brother?”
“He's still in town. Stayin' over at the hotel and stayin' out of trouble. I ain't got a clue as to who brung him in here.”
“Maybe nobody did,” I finally said, after thinkin' that over for a time. “I thought for awhile it was Rolf; but, now I'm not so sure. Well, I come in through the pass, I reckon I can go out the same way.”
“No, you won't,” Johnny Bull stepped into the office. “By now, they'll have it plugged up tight. I know,” he added grimly. “I just been there; found your tracks. I met your brother headin' out. He's gone.”
“Have any luck with the gunhawks?” De Graff asked him.
“Not a bit.” His voice was filled with disgust. “I told them they all ought to be ashamed of themselves, killin' women and kids. They just laughed at me. They said that nits grow into lice, so what the hell difference does it make?”
He turned to face the window lookin' out on the now nearly empty street. “I reckon I've killed twenty men. Half of them while wearin' a badge down in Colorado and Arizona. The other ten,” he shrugged, “range-wars, showdowns, stand-up-and-look-'em-in-the-eye fights. I had me a bad feelin' when I took this job of work. I almost didn't take it.”
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