Thunder Valley Read online

  It was as beautiful and fertile a valley as Roy ever saw, and he’d known the moment he set eyes on it that here was where he’d live out the rest of his days.

  “What’s your hurry, Pa?” Matt was taking two strides for each of his. “Ma didn’t say you had to run.”

  “If I was running, I’d have to pick you up and carry you. You couldn’t keep up.”

  “I could so,” Matt said. “Almost.”

  Roy grinned. The boy was forever trying to show he was as good as his older brother.

  Separated by strips of trees, the other sections they passed had already been plowed. Roy was working on the last. Once he was done, he could set to planting.

  “Sally was saying we’re going to town next week,” Matt brought up. “Is that true?”

  “It is,” Roy confirmed.

  Now it was Matt who grinned. “I like going to town, Pa. Do you reckon I could have a piece of that hard candy from the general store?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “I’ve been good, haven’t I?” Matt said. “It’s only a penny. That’s not much.”

  “Your penny or mine?”

  “Pa?”

  “Is it your penny or my penny we’d spend on the candy?”

  “Well, yours,” Matt said. “I spent the one I got for Christmas a good while ago.”

  “If you get into the habit of spending money you don’t have,” Roy said, “it’ll cause all kinds of problems when you’re older. A body has to learn to live within their means.”

  “In what way, Pa?”

  “Never spend money you don’t have. Once you start, before you know it you’re in debt up to your chin. That can ruin you. Trust me. I’ve seen it happen.”

  Just then a snake slithered out of the grass onto the path, and stopped.

  “Look, Pa!” Matt squealed. He glanced about, spied a rock, and scooped it up. “I’ll kill it.”

  Roy gripped his son’s wrist. “You’ll do no such thing. It’s not a rattler.”

  “But it’s a snake.”

  Roy squatted and pulled his son down beside him. “Take a look and tell me what kind it is.”

  Matt tilted his head back and forth. “It’s all green so it’s a green snake.”

  “And what did I tell you green snakes eat?”

  Matt scrunched his brow. “Bugs and such.”

  “And one thing we aren’t short of is bugs,” Roy said. “Why kill a snake that’s doing us a favor?”

  “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

  “Killing for killing’s sake is wrong,” Roy said. “I thought I taught you better.”

  Matt sheepishly dropped the rock. “I’m sorry, Pa. Sometimes I do stuff before I think about it.”

  “Don’t feel bad, son,” Roy said. “A lot of grown-ups do the same.”

  “Do you?”

  Roy grinned. “I try not to but I do.” He stood, and in doing so startled the green snake, which darted into the high grass.

  “It sure is fast, Pa.”

  They walked on, Roy remembering back to when he was a boy in Ohio, and his dad, and the talks they’d had. He hoped he was as good a father to his son as his father had been to him.

  “Where are your brother and sister?”

  “Sally was in the house helping Ma bake cookies,” Matt answered. “I haven’t seen Andy since you sent him to clean out the manure.”

  Ahead the ground sloped toward the low rise the house sat on. Roy was surprised to see his wife on the front porch, waiting for them. He walked faster.

  “Gosh, Pa, you have long legs,” Matt puffed at his side. “I can’t hardly keep up.”

  “Did your ma say what this is about?”

  “She sure didn’t. She just said to fetch you.”

  It troubled Roy even more when they got to the yard and he saw his wife pacing. She never paced unless she was upset. He also noticed a horse at the corner of the house, its reins dangling, nipping grass. “You didn’t tell me someone is here, son.”

  “Oh,” Matt said. “It’s Mrs. Kline. Ma took her into the parlor and shooed me out.”

  Martha came to the top of the steps. “Thanks for coming so quickly.”

  As Roy always did, he drank in the sight of her. He wasn’t one of those men who barely tolerated their wives. He didn’t just love her, he loved her with all he was. She had raven-black hair that hung past her shoulders and which she often tied into a tail, like now. Some would say her features were plain, but not him. He had every line, every dimple, every inch of her skin memorized. Many a night he lay awake while she slept and stared at her face and marveled that she cared for him. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Irene. She came over in a dither. She’s worried about what Tom will do. Someone got to his hogs.”

  “Someone?” Roy said. He would have thought it would be a mountain lion or a bear or maybe even wolves.

  Martha nodded. “You’d better come and talk to her.”

  Nodding, Roy followed Martha in. The screen door smacked behind them. They turned into the parlor and he saw their daughter by the window, looking nervous. Sally smiled and he smiled back.

  On the settee sat Irene Kline. She and her husband owned the next farm over and had been to Roy’s house many a time for social visits. Roy liked them. Irene was a bit humorless but Tom liked to toss back a beer and joke and was easy to get along with.

  “Irene?”

  She was sniffling, her head bowed, her hands clasped in her lap. Looking up, she dabbed at her thin nose with a handkerchief. “It’s awful. Just awful.”

  “What is?”

  “Didn’t Martha tell you? They got into our hogs. You know how Tom is about them. They’re his pride and joys.”

  Roy nodded. Tom Kline raised some of the biggest and best hogs anywhere, and sold them for top dollar.

  “Whoever it was, they—” Irene stopped and glanced at Sally and Matt. “Well, it’s awful. You have to see for yourself.”

  “You keep saying ‘they,’” Roy said.

  Irene nodded. “There’s footprints. There was more than one of them.”

  “Who would kill hogs,” Martha asked, “and just leave them lying?”

  “Maybe it was Injuns, Ma,” Matt piped up.

  “No, boy,” Irene said, and sniffled. “They weren’t wearing moccasins.”

  “I’d best ride over,” Roy said. “Matt, go to the barn and tell Andy to saddle my horse and bring him around.”

  “Yes, sir, Pa.”

  Roy went upstairs to their bedroom. He opened the closet and moved some of the clothes so he could get at his rifle and box of cartridges. When he turned, Martha was in the doorway.

  “What’s that for?”

  Roy shrugged. It bothered him a little that she was so against guns. He hadn’t known that when he married her. Not that it would have made a difference if he did. He’d still have said, “I do.”

  He understood why. A favorite uncle of hers had blown part of his head off when he tripped over his shotgun as he was about to go off pheasant hunting. She’d been only seven at the time, and had seen it, and ever since she couldn’t stand guns of any kind.

  Roy sat on the edge of their bed and commenced to load his Whitney-Kennedy rifle. It was a .40-60 caliber. He’d bought it because he liked the S-shaped lever. That, and it cost less than a Winchester.

  “Do you really need that? If it’s not Indians?”

  “Anyone who will kill a hog will kill a man just as easy,” Roy replied without thinking.

  “That’s not so, Royden,” Martha said. “A hog’s not a person. It’s an animal. Killing an animal isn’t the same as killing a human being.”

  Inwardly, Roy winced. She used his full name only when she was annoyed. It was the rifle. “Maybe you’re right,” he tactfully acknowledged. “But why take chances?”

  “Well, you be careful. You’re no gunsman like that Chace Shannon the newspapers were talking about a while back.”

  Now it was Roy who was irr
itated. “I can take care of myself, thank you very much.” It was true he’d never shot anyone. But he hunted a lot. And while he wasn’t what you would call a marksman, he usually hit what he aimed at. He went on feeding the shells until the magazine was full. “I left Samson out on the back forty. He should be fine until I get back. If I’m delayed, have Andy bring him in.”

  “Be careful,” Martha said again.

  Roy nodded. She stepped aside and he started past but paused to kiss her on the cheek. “I’ll be fine.”

  Irene and Sally were out front, Sally still looking nervous, Irene on her horse, waiting.

  “I’m grateful for you coming over. I’m hoping you can calm my Tom. He’s fit to ride into Teton and cause a ruckus.”

  “No one from town would do such a thing,” Roy said.

  “Not any of those who live there, no,” Irene agreed. “But there’s all sorts who pass through. You’ve seen some of them yourself.”

  Yes, Roy had. Teton was getting a reputation for wildness that he didn’t much care for. It was the timbermen. They came in on the weekends and got drunk and rowdy. The worst that ever happened was fistfights, but still.

  Sixteen-year-old Andy came out of the barn leading the saddled bay. Matt was at his side.

  Roy moved to meet them.

  “What’s this about Mr. Kline’s hogs being slaughtered?” Andy asked.

  “You know as much as I do,” Roy replied as he took the reins. He slid the rifle into the scabbard, gripped the saddle horn, and swung up. “Is that manure shoveled yet?”

  Andy frowned. “Just about, Pa.”

  “You should have been done an hour ago.” It bothered Roy that his oldest cared so little for farm work, or, for that matter, work of any kind. He worried the boy would turn out shiftless.

  “Ten cows is a lot of shit,” Andy said.

  About to cluck to the bay, Roy gave him a stern look. “Don’t use that kind of language where there are women who might hear.”

  “But that’s what it is.”

  “A man doesn’t use bad language in the presence of a lady. Ever.”

  “Sally’s no lady. She’s my sister,” Andy said, and laughed.

  Roy would have liked to take his son aside and have a talk but Irene was looking at him impatiently. “Keep an eye peeled while I’m gone.”

  “Are you expecting trouble, Pa?” Andy asked.

  “You never know,” Roy said.

  3

  The town was called Savage. It seemed a strange name for a town until you learned it was named after Lucian Sauvage, a French trapper. Sauvage built a trading post and the post drew others, and when there were a dozen or so buildings the settlers called a meeting and decided they were a town.

  In its prime Savage boasted one hundred and seventy-six inhabitants. But it was so far north of anywhere, near up to Montana Territory, that once the fur trade dwindled, jobs became scarce. Now fifty-three people lived there. A lot of the buildings were boarded up. Others had simply been abandoned to the dust and the tumbleweeds.

  In a few years Savage would wither and die and be just another of the many ghost towns that speckled the plains and the mountains.

  Once, though, Savage lived up to its name. Once, it was a slab of raw meat dripping the red juice of human blood. Gun affrays and knife fights were common, and Boot Hill never lacked for fresh graves.

  Those were the old days. There hadn’t been a killing in Savage in nigh on seven years. There had been a few woundings, though, and plenty of fights.

  The Hascomb outfit was to blame. Ike Hascomb prided himself on hiring the wildest and woolliest cowpunchers this side of Hades. With their monthly wages in their pockets, they liked to ride into Savage whooping and hollering and discharging their pistols.

  That was when the three saloons did a thriving business. Liquor was chugged by the gallon. The doves wore out their backs and their bedsprings.

  It was pure chance that the man with the white hair showed up when he did. If he’d come the day before the Bar H hands blew into town or the day after they took their empty pokes and pounding heads back to the Bar H, the newspaper wouldn’t have had anything to write about.

  It was the second day of the monthly cowboy spree when the white-haired man rode in from the north. His horse was as fine a Palomino as anyone in Savage ever saw. But it was the man, himself, who attracted the most attention. For starters there was that white hair—shoulder-length, and combed down so that the ends curled up over the collar of his gray slicker. His hat was gray, too, and reminded some who saw it of a wide-brimmed Confederate officer’s hat, without the insignia and the braid. He drew rein at the Tempest Saloon and dismounted. Those near him noticed that his pants were gray and that his shirt, what they could see of it, was also gray. They couldn’t see much else because the rider made it a point to keep his slicker close around him as he stepped under the overhang and paused at the batwings.

  Sam Jolson, who happened to be walking by on his way to the blacksmith, would later say he saw the man better than anyone, and what struck him was that although the man’s hair was as white as snow, his face wasn’t that old. Sam guessed the man couldn’t be more than forty. It was a handsome face, Sam said afterward, but a sort of sad face. The man looked at him, and Sam was startled to see that the man’s eyes were the same gray as his hat and his clothes. Sam also noticed bulges on the man’s hips under the slicker but didn’t think much of it at the time.

  The gray man entered the saloon. He paid no attention to the dozen or so cowhands playing cards and lounging about. He went straight to the bar and in a quiet voice asked for a whiskey.

  Dorsey, the bartender, brought a bottle and a glass. Dorsey liked his job and he liked people and he was always friendly to everyone. He smiled and said, “You’re not from around here.”

  “No,” the gray man said. He watched as the whiskey filled the glass, then raised the glass to his lips and almost delicately sipped. A suggestion of a smile touched his lips.

  “Goes down smooth, don’t it? You won’t get no watered-down red-eye here, mister,” Dorsey boasted.

  The gray man fished out a coin. He took another sip and closed his eyes as if savoring the taste. “Been a while,” he said softly, with a Southern drawl.

  “Since you had a drink? Where have you been? Off in the middle of nowhere?”

  “More or less,” the gray man said. “Stayed away as long as I could.”

  Dorsey didn’t understand, and said so.

  “It’s personal,” the gray man said.

  “Ah.” Dorsey had learned a long time ago not to pry. He was about to turn away when shadows fell across the bar and four Hascomb punchers bellied up, two on either side of the newcomer.

  “What do we have here?” The speaker was a cowboy with close-set eyes and no chin to speak of. The reek of alcohol clung to him, and his dark eyes glittered as he appraised the man in gray.

  “Don’t you start, Rick,” Dorsey said. “This gent is entitled to drink in peace.”

  “Did I ask you?” Rick said. He pushed his hat back on his tangle of hair and leaned on the bar. “I’m Arn Richter, mister. Most everybody calls me Rick.”

  “I don’t want trouble,” the man in gray said. He wasn’t asking. There was no worry or fear in his voice. He was stating how it should be.

  “Well, now,” Rick said, grinning. “You hear him, boys? He don’t want no trouble.” Rick touched the gray slicker. “Nice fish you’ve got on. Don’t see many gray ones. Most are yellow.”

  “It’s army issue,” the gray man said.

  “Why, bless my soul,” Rick said, pretending to sound surprised. “Do we have us a Reb here?”

  “Rick,” Dorsey said.

  Rick jabbed a finger at him. “Stay out of this, bar-dog, or so help me.”

  Dorsey held his hands up, palms out, and took a step back. “I’m just sayin’ you should leave him be.”

  “Is that right, mister?” Rick said. “You afraid we won’t leave you
be?”

  The man in gray set down his glass, and sighed. “There won’t ever come the day I’ll be afeared of a puny gob of spit like you.”

  Rick blinked. “What did you just say?”

  “He insulted you,” another of the punchers said. “I heard him as clear as anything.”

  “Called you puny,” declared a third, and snickered.

  Rick took a step back and raised his voice. “Why, you miserable Reb son of a bitch.”

  Throughout the room, cowhands looked up from their cards or stopped their conversations and turned toward the bar.

  “Oh, hell,” Dorsey said.

  The gray man raised his glass and took several swallows. He set the empty glass down and said to no one in particular, “Some things never change, I reckon.”

  “Mister,” Rick said, his hand poised over his six-shooter, “you’ve got half a minute to eat crow and say you didn’t mean that.”

  His hands flat on the bar, the gray man did a strange thing; he smiled. “That will be the day.”

  “You will, or else,” Rick warned. “In case you ain’t taken a tally, there’s a lot more of us than there are of you.”

  “There are eleven of me,” the gray man said.

  “Hell,” another puncher said, and snorted. “He’s so roostered, he can’t count.”

  “On one drink?” Dorsey said.

  “There ain’t no eleven of you,” Rick said. “And I won’t wait forever for that apology.”

  “Sure there are,” the gray man drawled, and he opened his gray coat.

  “Lord Almighty,” Dorsey said.

  An ordinary brown leather gun belt was strapped around the gray man’s waist. But there was nothing ordinary about the way he wore his holsters, or the revolvers in them. The holsters were reversed so that the butts of the six-guns jutted out and up. The revolvers were a matched pair of Colt Navies with pearl handles and nickel-plating.

  “Look at how he wears his artillery,” a puncher remarked.

  “The only hombre I ever heard of who wore them like that was Wild Bill Hickok,” chimed in one other. “And he’s long dead.”

  Rick sneered at the gray man. “Is that who you think you are? Wild Bill?”