Thunder Valley Page 13

  Sally raised the apron. “I have to get these inside.”

  “Let me hold the door for you.”

  Martha was at the stove turning over slices of sizzling bacon.

  Andy and Matt were already at the table.

  So was Rondo James, his back to the wall. He always took the chair Roy usually sat in but Roy didn’t say anything.

  “Breakfast is about ready,” Martha said.

  Roy inhaled deep. He loved the smells. The coffee, the bacon, the eggs. He noticed a stack of pancakes on a plate, and maple syrup beside it. Ordinarily, they’d have eggs one meal, pancakes the next; Martha was showing off for their guest. “Can I help with anything?”

  “You can sit down so you’re ready to eat when the food is served.”

  It tickled Roy that the pearl handles of Rondo’s Colts poked above the table.

  “What are you grinning at, Pa?” Matt asked.

  “I was just thinking.”

  Sally was setting out a plate stacked high with toast. “About not being afraid?” she said with more than a hint of sarcasm.

  “Now, now.”

  Andy said, “Mr. James told us he’s leaving right after breakfast.”

  “I know, son.”

  “He’s going to Teton.”

  “I know that, too.”

  His adoration as obvious as his nose, Andy said to the Southerner, “How will you go about finding them, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “It shouldn’t be hard,” Rondo answered. “We know there are four.”

  Andy’s face went blank.

  “How many times have you gone into town?” Rondo asked.

  “I’ve never counted,” Andy said. “Thirty or forty, I guess.”

  “And how many times did you see four men walkin’ around together?”

  “Most men are alone or maybe with a friend or a couple of friends.”

  “All I have to do is look for four men joined at the hip.”

  “What will you do when you find them?”

  “There will be a reckoning,” Rondo James said.

  22

  Federal Marshal Tyrell Gibson didn’t resemble the dime-novel depictions of a marshal. He wasn’t tall. He didn’t have broad shoulders. He would never call himself handsome. If asked, he would say that thanks to his bulbous nose and cleft chin, he was downright ugly.

  Tyrell wore an ordinary Colt in an ordinary holster. His clothes were ordinary and his hat was ordinary. There wasn’t anything fancy or unusual about him except that he pinned his badge to the front of his belt near the buckle and not on his shirt as most marshals did.

  It was the middle of the morning when Tyrell rode into Savage. He drew rein at the hitch post in front of the Tempest and wrapped the reins and went in. The few patrons looked at him but no one said anything. They couldn’t see the badge under his coat.

  Tyrell preferred it that way. He didn’t like to draw attention to himself more than was usual. He found that he could accomplish more. Lawbreakers had a tendency to make themselves scarce when they knew a lawman was in the area.

  Tyrell crossed to the bar and asked for a whiskey and, when the glass came, downed it in a gulp without batting an eye or coughing.

  “Now, you are a drinker,” the bartender good-naturedly complimented him.

  “I should be,” Tyrell said. “Been doin’ it for pretty near forty years.” He was one of the older marshals and he wasn’t at all amused that some of the younger ones had taken to calling him “Gramps.”

  “Care for another?”

  “What’s your handle, friend?”

  “Dorsey.”

  Tyrell rested an elbow on the bar. “I hear tell you had a shootin’ in here not too long ago.”

  “That we did,” Dorsey confirmed. “None other than Rondo James shot seven punchers.”

  “Seven is what I heard,” Tyrell said. “I found it hard to believe.”

  “As God is my witness,” Dorsey said. “I saw it with my own eyes, and I don’t hardly believe it, myself.”

  “Tell me plain, is this true or hogwash? It’s not a story you started to sell drinks?”

  Dorsey wasn’t offended. He chuckled and said, “You can go out back and count the graves. We don’t have a boot hill so they were buried in last year’s turnip patch.”

  “I’ll be right back.” Tyrell went out and around, and sure enough, seven fresh mounds testified to the truth of it. “I’ll be damned,” he said to himself, and ambled back in.

  Dorsey was wiping the counter. “Satisfied?”

  “I am,” Tyrell said. “Now I’d like to hear the whole account from beginnin’ to end.”

  “You’re taking quite an interest.”

  Tyrell moved his coat so his badge was visible. “I have cause. Gibson is the name. Federal marshal.”

  “Well, I’ll be,” Dorsey said. “You’re the first federal I’ve met in the flesh. And the first tin star of any kind with your kind of skin.”

  “There aren’t all that many of us.”

  “Folks say that the few there are have uncommon grit. I guess you’d have to, the kind of work you do.”

  “It’s the skin more than the work,” Tyrell said. “Now, about the shootin’?”

  Tyrell listened to the account and when Dorsey was done he said, “I can use another drink.”

  Dorsey laughed. “It does have that effect, don’t it?”

  “Seven, by God.” Tyrell drank half and set the glass down. “All of them in the head, you say?”

  “Smack in the face.”

  “There hasn’t been a massacre like this since that Newton affair back in ’seventy-one,” Tyrell marveled. “And there was more than one shooter involved in that.”

  “I seem to remember it,” Dorsey said.

  “Only four died at the O.K. Corral,” Tyrell went on. “And four down to El Paso that time, with Stoudenmire. But again, there was more than one shooter.”

  “You keep up with your gun affrays.”

  Tyrell sheepishly smiled. “You might call it a hobby of mine. Some people have a memory for faces. I have a memory for shootin’s.”

  “That’s a new one on me,” Dorsey said.

  Tyrell nodded at the bloodstains on the floorboards. “This might be a record.”

  “It sure has brought in folks from miles around. If Rondo James ever shows up here again, he can have drinks on the house for all the business he’s brought me.” Dorsey’s eyes narrowed. “Say, are you fixing to go after him?”

  “What for?” Tyrell said. “Sounds to me like a clear-cut case of self-defense.” He considered a moment. “Tell me true. What was your impression of the man?”

  “My impression?”

  “There are so many stories, it’s hard to tell the facts from the tall tales,” Tyrell said. “You talked to him in person. What was your sense of how he is? What is he like?”

  “I honestly haven’t given it any thought,” Dorsey said. “The best I can do is say that he looked tired.”

  “Tired?” Tyrell repeated. “As in he needed sleep?”

  “No. As in he was tired deep down, if that makes sense. Haven’t you ever met anyone like that?”

  “Weary of the world,” Tyrell said.

  “Yes,” Dorsey said. “That’s it, exactly. Rondo James is a man who is weary of the world.”

  Tyrell finished his drink with another gulp. “Which direction did he head when he left?”

  “I didn’t see him ride off,” Dorsey said, “but those who did told me he rode south.”

  “I haven’t been out this way in a while but I recollect that Teton is the next town thataway.”

  “It is,” Dorsey said.

  “Then I reckon I’ll mosey in the same direction. Wherever that man goes, there is bound to be more trouble.”

  “Who knows, Marshal. Maybe you’ll get to meet him like I did.”

  “I doubt it,” Tyrell said. “A man like him doesn’t stay in one place too long.” He turned to go, and stop
ped. “Damn. Where are my brains. I might as well ask about the gents I’m after while I’m here. There are four of them.”

  “What did they do?”

  “One of them murdered a mixologist like yourself. His name was Hanks.”

  “The hell you say.”

  “Stabbed him and rode off. What they didn’t know was that Hanks had a woman. A Shoshone he picked up somewhere. He always made her stay in the back. Probably for her own good. Drunks and red skin don’t always mix.”

  “I’d imagine that drunks and your skin don’t always mix, either. She saw who did it?”

  “She heard voices and peeked out once and saw there were four of them but she didn’t get a good look at their faces except for one. Whether he did it or not I can’t say but when I find him I’ll find out. He wore an eye patch and had a scar on his face.”

  “I haven’t seen many men with eye patches, and none recently.”

  “His name is Charles Smith but he goes by One Eye. He’s a backshooter who will do it for money.” Tyrell touched his hat. “I’m obliged for the information. You ever get down to Cheyenne, look me up and I’ll treat you to a drink.”

  “You’re a damn fine gentleman, sir,” Dorsey said. “And because you are, you might not want to go just yet.”

  “I generally don’t have more than two drinks before noon.”

  “It’s not about liquor,” Dorsey said. “It’s about the Bar H.”

  Tyrell stepped back to the counter. “I’m listenin’.”

  “They’ll be mad if they find out I told you.”

  “They won’t hear it from me.”

  “Your word? I wouldn’t put it past them to wreck my place and string me up by my feet.”

  “When I say I will or I won’t, I damn well do or don’t,” Tyrell said.

  “Fair enough.” Dorsey bent toward the lawman and lowered his voice. “Ike Hascomb didn’t take kindly to havin’ his punchers shot up. You might say he’s mad as hell, and that wouldn’t be the half of it.”

  “To be expected,” Tyrell said.

  “He doesn’t care that his boys started it.”

  “Right and wrong don’t count for much when someone is out for blood.”

  “Ike Hascomb sure is. He stood about where you’re standing, and I can quote what he said.” Dorsey paused. “‘That no-good bastard Reb won’t get away with this. He’s wiped out half of my hands, and by God, he’ll pay. He’ll pay if it takes every dollar I have.’”

  “Maybe it was whiskey and anger talk,” Tyrell said. “Maybe it will come to nothin’.”

  “It already has.”

  “Him and the rest of his punchers have gone after Rondo James?”

  “No. He’s not stupid. He knows they wouldn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell against a shooter like James. So he decided to fight fire with fire, as he put it.”

  “He sent for someone?” Tyrell guessed.

  Dorsey nodded. “Two someones, in fact. Do the handles Shotgun Anderson and Kid Slade ring a bell?”

  “God Almighty.” Tyrell had heard of them, all right. So had most everyone else thanks to newspaper accounts of their shady doings. They hired out as assassins. Everyone knew it, and every law officer west of the Mississippi River wanted to see them behind bars, or hanged. But they never killed where there were witnesses, and those who hired them weren’t about to testify against them. The result: There wasn’t a lick of evidence that would hold up in court. “I’ve changed my mind. I’ll have another drink, after all.”

  Dorsey turned to the shelf and grabbed the bottle by the neck and poured. “I figured you ought to know.”

  “I’m obliged a second time.” Tyrell sipped and pondered.

  “Maybe it’s not as serious as it sounds,” he ruminated out loud. “It could take Hascomb weeks or months to track that pair down. By the time they show up, Rondo James will be long gone.”

  “That’s good calculating but your numbers are off,” Dorsey said.

  “Don’t tell me.”

  “I’m afraid so. A couple of Bar H punchers were in here last night. They were drinking and didn’t pay much attention to me and I heard one of them say that Anderson and Slade are on their way to Teton, the same as you were about to do.”

  “So soon?”

  “I’m only telling you what I heard. One of the punchers wasn’t too pleased that Ike Hascomb is paying those two assassins a thousand dollars. Can you imagine?”

  “I’m in the wrong line of work,” Tyrell joked. “I don’t make that much in a year.”

  “Well, anyway, the puncher allowed as how he’d do the job for half as much.”

  “If I can find Rondo James before they do, I can warn him,” Tyrell said.

  “You’d do that?”

  “Why not? He’s not wanted anywhere. And he wasn’t to blame for the shoot-out here.”

  “But he wears gray. And you’re, well, you.”

  Tyrell tapped his badge. “You see this? To the law, skin doesn’t matter.”

  “What happens if Shotgun Anderson and Kid Slade find out?” Dorsey said.

  “I imagine they’ll try to kill me, too.”

  23

  It felt good to be in the saddle again. Rondo James wished only that the saddle was on General Lee.

  It also felt good to get away from the Sethers for a while. Rondo liked them. They were good people. But he could tell Martha was nervous about having him around, and the last thing he wanted was to cause the family unease.

  Not that he could blame them. Rondo was all too aware of the effect he had on people. Not on all, but a lot. They acted as if he were a scorpion about to sting them with its tail.

  Nor did it help that he was a mite on edge, himself. He couldn’t shake the feeling that someone would come after him over the shootings in Savage. He’d had similar feelings before, and learned to his regret not to ignore them.

  Rondo passed several riders along the way. Two were cowboys who worked for Buchanan. The third was Prost, who smiled and said, “A good day to you, sir.”

  There were four roads into Teton. A road for each point of the compass. Rather than ride in from the east, Rondo circled and rode in from the south so no one would associate him with the folks in Thunder Valley. There might be a few townsfolk who would remember him from the other day when he was with Roy, Moses and Tom, but he couldn’t do anything about that.

  Rondo pulled his hat brim low and kept his chin down so no one got a good look at his face. His white hair was a giveaway, but once again, he couldn’t do anything about it except cut it short and he wasn’t about to do that. He’d worn it long since the war. It was another way of telling the Yankees to go to hell.

  He strolled into the Timberland with his saddlebags over one shoulder and his bedroll over another and asked for the cheapest room they had.

  “How long will you be staying, sir?” the desk clerk inquired.

  “I ain’t rightly sure.”

  “We’ll need at least one day in advance.” The clerk turned the register toward him and held out a quill pen. “You have to sign your name. If you don’t know how to write, an X will do.”

  Rondo wrote an X.

  The clerk produced a key. “Here you go, Mr. … ?”

  “Stonewall,” Rondo said.

  “Here’s your key, sir. Your room is up the stairs and down the hall at the rear.”

  “I wonder,” Rondo said, and gave his most pleasant smile, “if I could trouble you for a room on the third floor, at the front.”

  “They cost a few dollars more and you said you didn’t care to spend a lot.”

  “I will for a room that looks out over the street,” Rondo said. “I like to watch the people go by.” He paid and climbed the stairs to the third floor and Room 301. Shutting the door, he threw his bedroll and saddlebags on the bed and dragged the chair to the window and sat.

  From his vantage he had a clear view of most of Main Street. Stretching his legs, he spent the next several hours looking fo
r sign of four men walking or talking together.

  Once he did see four but two were townsmen.

  Evening was falling when Rondo rose. He tucked his long white hair under his collar and made sure his slicker concealed his pearl-handled Colts, and went out. His first stop was the livery stable. The stableman said that no, he hadn’t rented stalls to four men who showed up together, not in a year or so, anyway. His second stop was the general store. The proprietor couldn’t remember four men coming in together and buying supplies, but then, he was usually so busy, he didn’t pay a whole lot of attention to the comings and goings. His third, fourth and fifth stops were at saloons. Rondo asked each of the bartenders if they had seen four men keeping company together. They all said no.

  By then Rondo was hungry. The aromas from Mother’s Kitchen drew him in. It was the supper hour and most of the tables were in use. Fortunately, a corner table was being vacated and he claimed it and sat with his back to the wall.

  At a table in the opposite corner sat two men, the tallest dressed in black, the other with a big belly and a rumbling laugh. At none of the tables were there three men, let alone four.

  Rondo consulted the menu. Fresh elk meat had been scribbled at the bottom. His mouth watered. It had been a coon’s age since he ate elk. It came with potatoes and whatever the vegetable of the day happened to be. He also ordered coffee.

  Folding his hands, Rondo mulled his lack of success. He would have thought four men would be easy to spot. Apparently not. Or it could be the four had moved on and he was wasting his time. Regardless, he’d told Roy he would stay for a week and if he didn’t find the four by then, he’d return to the farm. Roy had promised to look after General Lee.

  Rondo’s meal came. The menu hadn’t lied. The elk meat was fresh, a slab two inches thick, so juicy it melted in his mouth. The baked potatoes were smothered in butter, the vegetables were chopped carrots. There was also thick gravy and several slices of corn bread to mop up the gravy.