Thunder Valley Read online

  “So we really don’t know anything at all.”

  Roy felt more glum than ever.

  “We should send someone for the marshal.”

  “I’ll ask Olander and Buchanan. One or the other can send a cowhand.”

  “I know one thing for sure,” Martha said. “You’re not going off again and leaving us alone.”

  “I won’t,” Roy said.

  “You promise?”

  “As I live and breathe.”

  Rondo James stripped the horses and placed them in their stalls. He was about to climb to the hayloft and spread out his bedroll when out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed movement in the barn doorway. He flashed his right hand down and up.

  “It’s Andy Sether,” the oldest boy said. “Sorry if I startled you.”

  As swiftly as he had drawn, Rondo twirled the Colt into its holster. “Don’t ever sneak up on a man like me.”

  “You wouldn’t shoot someone you know, would you?”

  “Not on purpose,” Rondo said. “But men like me are liable to put a slug into you before you can blink.”

  Andy came over. “Why do you keep saying men like you? You’re not a badman. My pa said so.”

  “I like your pa. He doesn’t go around judgin’ a book by its cover, as the sayin’ has it.”

  “You’re a book?” Andy said.

  “Everyone is. ’Course, you can’t really tell about a person until you get to know them, but nine times out of ten, their face and the little things they do will tell you how they are.”

  “If you say so,” Andy said uncertainly.

  “Just remember what I said about sneakin’ up on me and we’ll get along fine.” Rondo figured the boy would take the hint. He reached for the ladder.

  “Do you like people much?” Andy asked.

  Rondo stopped with a boot partially raised, and lowered it.

  “I’ve never been asked that before.”

  “Ma says that outlaws must hate people or they wouldn’t be outlaws. The same must be true for shooters.”

  “Don’t mix apples and oranges. A man can be a shooter and not be an outlaw. Look at Wild Bill Hickok.”

  “Didn’t he die a long time ago?”

  “Ten years, give or take.”

  “I was only six. I don’t remember him.”

  “He was a shooter. One of the best. He once shot a man by the name of Tutt through the chest at seventy-five yards. He liked to gamble and he liked his whiskey but he never turned outlaw. Wore a badge now and again, in fact.”

  “I still don’t understand why you say men like you.”

  Rondo sighed. He set down his bedroll and walked to the door. Hooking his thumbs in his gun belt, he gazed out over the farm and the valley. “Your folks have a nice place here, boy. Wouldn’t you say?”

  “I suppose,” Andy said. “It’s not the biggest farm ever but it’s not the smallest, either.”

  “Forget the size. It’s peaceable here, I bet. You can go the whole day without someone tryin’ to kill you. And at night you can turn in without worryin’ that someone will knife you in the back while you sleep.”

  Andy laughed. “Who would want to live like that?”

  Rondo looked at him. “I do. Each and every day. I can’t go anywhere but I have to watch out for those who want to do me in for no other reason than the uniform I wear. Or because they’ve heard of me and want to prove somethin’ to themselves.”

  “Seems to me,” Andy said, “that you could change that easy enough.”

  “Oh?”

  “That old uniform,” Andy said. “Why go on wearing it so long after the war? Wear clothes like everybody else wears and no one will know you were a Confederate.”

  “I want them to know,” Rondo James said. “I want to remind them there are some of us who didn’t bow to their will and never will.”

  “Remind who?” Andy said.

  “Those who decided they had the God-given right to lord it over those who didn’t think like they did.”

  “Are you talking about the war? I wasn’t even born then. All I know is the North fought the South over freeing the slaves.”

  “That’s what they want you to think but there was more to it. My family didn’t own slaves. I might not have joined up at all except for that tyrant Lincoln sendin’ troops to invade Virginia.”

  “Abraham Lincoln? My ma says he was the best president ever.”

  “To the Yankees he was. To those of us who had their kin killed and their homes burned and everything of value confiscated, he was a smooth-talkin’ dictator. He denied the states their rights. He pitted brother against brother, cousin against cousin. And killed more Americans than the British ever did. The day I heard he was shot, I tipped a drink to his assassin.”

  Andy gnawed on his lower lip. “You’d be better off talking to Ma about all that. She knows more history than me.”

  “You asked about the uniform.”

  “So you wear it because you’re proud of it?”

  “I’m not just proud, I’m damn proud.”

  “I don’t have much to be proud about,” Andy remarked. “I’m too young yet.”

  “Your pa does.” Rondo nodded at the farmhouse. “He’s carved out a good life for you and the rest of your family. I don’t mind admittin’ I envy him.”

  “You do?”

  “I can’t ever have what he does. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not whinin’. But I wouldn’t do a woman any favors by marryin’ her. Not when I could be bucked out in gore any day of the week.”

  “You could take a new name,” Andy said. “Move where nobody ever heard of you.”

  “I tried, boy. I went all the way to Montana and that wasn’t far enough. I suppose there’s always Alaska but I’m not partial to cold and snow. As soon as General Lee is cured of his abscess, I’m headin’ out. I don’t rightly know where yet but I can’t stay here.”

  “Darn. I was hopin’ you’d stick around and help my folks. Ma is worried something awful about the killings.”

  “She should be. Somethin’ bad is afoot.”

  “So will you or won’t you?”

  Rondo James didn’t answer.

  19

  Roy had never heard his house so noisy.

  They were all there.

  The two ranchers, Olander and Buchanan, sat in straight-backed chairs off to one side. Whether they felt they had to sit apart from the rest, Roy didn’t know.

  With Aaron McWhirtle dead and Frank Jackson gone, that left seven farmers, including Roy. Tom Kline and Moses Beard were on the settee. The other farmers were Haverman, Prost, Carson and Nettles.

  The wives were out on the porch. There weren’t enough chairs in the kitchen for all of them, and Martha had taken the tea outside.

  The kids were upstairs.

  Roy moved to the middle of the room and raised an arm and silence fell. “First of all, I want to thank all of you for coming on such short notice.”

  Nettles cleared his throat. He had a ruddy face and was much too fond of food but good with the soil. “Aaron dead and Frank gone? How could we not come? What in hell is going on, Roy?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know,” Haverman said, and some of the others nodded.

  “Don’t forget my hogs,” Tom said.

  “Or the other animals that were killed,” Moses mentioned.

  Prost raised his hand as if he was in school. “Do you reckon all of it is related somehow?”

  “Of course it’s related,” Carson said. He had coarse red hair and a lot of freckles. “It all happening at the same time can’t be coincidence.”

  Several started talking at once but stopped when Olander rose out of his chair. Olander was short, the shortest man there, but carried himself as if he were the tallest. He also loved to hear himself talk. “I never thought I’d see the day that a murder was committed in Thunder Valley. It’s been peaceful here. We all get along right fine. That isn’t always the case between cattlemen and corn growers—” />
  “We grow a lot more than corn,” Tom interrupted.

  Olander blinked. “Why, yes, Tom, you do. I didn’t mean that as a slight. I’m only saying we have a good thing here and I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “Hear, hear,” Haverman said.

  “Whoever is behind it might have already left,” Olander talked on. “Outlaws and riffraff don’t stay in one spot too long. But then again, it’s damned peculiar that they started out by killin’ a bunch of hogs and then came back and killed the McWhirtles and ran off the Jacksons.”

  “Damned peculiar,” Carson said.

  Buchanan, who rarely spoke, broke his silence. “That’s why it ain’t outlaws.”

  Olander looked down at him in confusion. “How’s that again, Sam?”

  “They didn’t kill the Jacksons. They ran them off. Outlaws don’t run people off. They rob them or they kill them. So it ain’t outlaws.”

  “It could be dumb outlaws,” Olander said.

  “Even dumb outlaws wouldn’t slaughter hogs for no reason,” Buchanan said.

  “Maybe they were drunk,” Prost said.

  “Drunk outlaws would be in town beddin’ whores,” Buchanan said. “They wouldn’t be ridin’ around lookin’ for hogs to kill.”

  “He has a point,” Carson said.

  “I suppose,” Olander said. “But I’ve seen people do a lot of strange things for no reason at all. The issue now is whether whoever is behind all this has moved on or hasn’t. If they have, it’s over. If they haven’t, it’s not.”

  “Come to that conclusion all by yourself, did you?” Buchanan said.

  “Now, now, Sam, don’t get irritable on us. We’re only trying to get to the bottom of this.”

  “I’m from Texas,” Buchanan said. “You’re from New Jersey. We talk different. We dress different. And we get to the bottom of things different.”

  “How do you intend to get to the bottom of this?” Olander asked.

  “I will shoot any son of a bitch who shows up on my spread and can’t explain why he is there. I’ve given orders to my hands to do the same.”

  “You can’t shoot people just because you don’t know them,” Olander said.

  “Watch me.”

  “This isn’t Texas. I’d like to think we’re a little more civilized.”

  “Listen to you,” Buchanan said. “And now you listen to me. Most Easterners are nitwits. They can’t tell a steer from a heifer unless they get down on all fours and look underneath. But I’ll hand it to you. You’re not a bad rancher—”

  “Thank you,” Olander said.

  “I ain’t done. You’re not a bad rancher, but you have the Eastern habit of thinkin’ rings around things. When there’s somethin’ that needs doin’, do it. Don’t think it to death. And the thing to do with killers is to kill them.”

  “Hear, hear,” Haverman said again.

  “I’m postin’ my land so it will be legal,” Buchanan said. “Not that legal matters much way out here.”

  Roy had been listening as intently as the rest. “It matters to me. Mr. Buchanan. And I think that’s a good idea. We should post Thunder Valley.”

  “Post the whole valley?” Tom said.

  “Post it how?” Moses asked.

  “We post signs,” Roy said. “I can have my Andy and Sally make them. We’ll tell of the killings, and warn that strangers must identify themselves or risk being shot.”

  “I don’t know if I can shoot someone,” Prost said. “I’ve never killed before.”

  “Who here has?” Nettles said.

  “Me,” Buchanan said.

  Everyone looked at him.

  “You did hear me say I’m from Texas?” Buchanan said.

  “Speaking of killing,” Olander said, and turned -toward Roy. “What’s this we hear about you taking in a boarder who has shot more men than there are in this room?”

  Roy hid his surprise. Tom and Moses had given their word they wouldn’t say anything. Then again, they had gone into Teton together, where a cowhand could have seen them and gotten word to Olander. “He’s not a boarder. He’s staying until his horse is healed.”

  “Maybe he’s behind all this,” Olander said. “The reputation he has.”

  “He’s not.”

  “You can’t be certain.”

  “He was with us when the McWhirtles were killed,” Roy said. “It couldn’t be him.”

  “He could have killed them the night before.”

  “Their blood hadn’t dried,” Roy said. “We got there soon after.”

  Buchanan stirred. “Who is this you’re talkin’ about, anyhow?”

  “You haven’t heard?” Olander said. “Mr. Sether, here, has seen fit to extend a helping hand to Rondo James.”

  “The hell you say,” Buchanan said, and stood. “Where is he?”

  Roy moved between the rancher and the hall. “I don’t want you giving him trouble. I tell you, he’s not to blame.”

  “Give Rondo James trouble?” Buchanan said, and for the first time ever, Roy heard him laugh. “Hell, I want to shake the man’s hand.”

  “You know him?” Olander said.

  “Never set eyes on the gent,” Buchanan said. “I wore gray in the War of Northern Aggression.”

  “I’ve never heard it called that,” Olander said.

  “That’s because you’re a damned Yankee.” Buchanan went to leave but Roy held out a hand.

  “Hold on. Shouldn’t we settle this business about the killings first?”

  “I thought we had,” Buchanan said.

  “Posting Thunder Valley won’t stop the killers if they’re out to kill more of us,” Roy said.

  “Maybe we should patrol it,” Tom suggested. “Like the army does.”

  “And who will work our farms while we’re doing the patrolling?” Prost asked.

  “In case you’ve forgotten,” Haverman said, “it’s planting season. I, for one, can’t spare the time.”

  “Me either,” Carson said.

  The seven farmers looked at the two ranchers and Moses Beard said, “Both of you have punchers.”

  “Who I need to help run my ranch,” Olander said. “I can’t spare any for patrolling.”

  “I could spare one or two,” Buchanan said. “But I’ve got a better idea.”

  Everyone waited.

  “We hire Rondo James to hunt the killers down.”

  Olander smiled. “Hire a man-killer to kill a pack of killers? I like it.”

  Roy saw some of the others nod. “I don’t know. He’s not an assassin. He’s a shootist.”

  “What the hell’s the difference?” Nettles said.

  “He might take it as an insult,” Roy said. “And I happen to like him.”

  “It can’t hurt to ask,” Buchanan said. “And I’ll do the askin’. One brother in gray to another.” He started out and the rest fell into step in his wake.

  Roy hesitated. He was sure Rondo would say no. Reluctantly, he caught up. The women all rose and a few asked where the men were going and all the women joined the exodus across the yard to the barn.

  Buchanan stopped and called out, and in a few moments Rondo James strode into the sunlight, his pearl handles gleaming bright.

  “What do we have here?”

  Buchanan introduced himself to James, adding, “I fought for the South, same as you. Damn all blue-bellies to hell.” He smiled and held out his hand.

  Rondo James shook.

  “I’ll keep it short,” the Texan said. “You know about the killin’s. We’d like to hire you to find however many are to blame and—”

  “There are four,” Rondo said.

  “You know this for a fact?”

  “We found their tracks at the McWhirtles’. Roy and me went after them but a storm spoiled any chance we had of catching them.”

  Buchanan glanced at Roy. “No one tells me a damn thing.”

  “What’s this about hirin’?” Rondo asked.

  “We’d like to pay you
to keep after them until they are dead,” Buchanan said.

  “I’m no assassin.”

  “I told them that,” Roy said.

  “He did,” Buchanan confirmed. “But I saw no harm in askin’. One Confederate to another.” He began to turn. “Sorry we bothered you.”

  “How much?” Rondo James said.

  “Eh?”

  “How much are you willin’ to pay?”

  “We hadn’t gotten that far,” Buchanan said. “I’ll put up three hundred dollars.”

  “I’ll match that,” Olander offered.

  Moses stepped forward. “I can spare a hundred.”

  “How about a hundred from each of the farmers?” Roy proposed. “That will bring the total to thirteen hundred dollars.”

  “Can’t have that,” Buchanan said. “It’s unlucky. I’ll add another hundred to make an even fourteen.”

  Rondo James became the focus of all eyes. “Gents—and ladies—you may consider me hired.” And he patted his pearl Colts.

  20

  One Eye cackled and smacked the whore’s naked fanny. “Not bad, darlin’,” he complimented her. “All that fat makes you softer than the bed.”

  “Go to hell,” the woman said sleepily.

  One Eye smacked her again, harder, and slid off the bed and gathered up his clothes. He was having a fine time. Earlier, he’d downed half a bottle and let Myrtle talk him into forking over the price of a poke. Now that was done with, and the night was young yet.

  “Yes, sir,” One Eye prattled as he pulled on his pants. “I’ll tell my pards about you. Any of them pays for a tumble, you give me a cut rate the next time, you hear?”

  Myrtle mumbled something.

  “That’s all right, darlin’. You rest. Bein’ with me always wears a gal out.” One Eye tittered and was soon dressed with the Remington at his hip and his hat jammed low. Whistling, he sauntered down the hall and descended the stairs.

  “Look at you, all smiles.” Alice, the madam, was reclining on a sofa fit for the queen of Persia. “I take it you got your money’s worth?”

  “Myrtle is a peach,” One Eye said. “I may let her do me again the next time I’m in the mood.”

  “I thought men are always in the mood?”