Thunder Valley Read online

  “I’m telling you,” the timberman said. “Folks saw him as clear as day. White hair. Pearl-handled Navies. Dressed all in gray.”

  “That sure sounds like Rondo James,” someone said.

  “I’ll be damned,” Ritlin said.

  “How many was it he killed?” the bartender asked.

  The timberman ticked them off on his fingers and announced, “I saw seven bodies.”

  “By God, that’s some shootin’.”

  “Seven at one time? I ain’t ever heard the like.”

  “When it comes to man-killin’, there’s no one like Rondo James.”

  Ritlin turned to the last man and his hard face became harder. “How would you like to see seven men shot right here?”

  “Don’t,” Brule said.

  The man who had admired the total went pale under Ritlin’s glare. “What’s got you so mad?”

  “Rondo James is Southern trash. The same as Jesse and Frank James and that Wales.”

  “Hold on,” said a townsman in a suit. “I’m from the South.”

  “I wore blue in the war, mister,” Ritlin said, “and I’m sick of hearing about all the boys in gray who get wrote up and fawned over like they were special.”

  “Not that again,” Brule said, and put his hand on Ritlin’s arm. “Let it drop. We have work to do, remember?”

  “Damned, stinking Rebs,” Ritlin said, and moved -toward the batwings. Those in his path were quick not to be.

  “Talk to him,” Axel said to Brule. “We can’t have him doin’ this.”

  Brule nodded and went out. A wagon was going by, raising dust. “You’ve got to control that temper.”

  Ritlin was leaning against a post, his thumbs hooked in his gun belt. “He’s ahead of me now.”

  “Who is?”

  “Who were we just talking about? Rondo James. From what I hear, the tally was about even. Now he’s ahead.”

  “Who cares how many he’s killed?”

  Ritlin’s eyes blazed. “I care. I’m as good a man-killer as he is, but he’s famous and hardly anyone has ever heard of me.”

  “That happens.”

  “It’s because he’s from the South. All those Southern boys get admired and talked about.”

  “Hell in a basket,” Brule said. “It’s been, what, more than twenty years since the war ended? How can you still hold a grudge?”

  “I lost both my brothers to Rebs,” Ritlin said. “Grudge doesn’t hardly cover it.”

  Brule went to the post and leaned on the other side. “Listen to me. I’m one of the few friends you have, so don’t hold what I’m about to say against me.”

  Ritlin grunted.

  “Sure, you’ve done more than your share of killin’. But it’s the kind that can get you hung or thrown behind bars. So naturally folks don’t know about it.”

  Ritlin didn’t say anything.

  “Damn it, Win. Why you are always goin’ on about bein’ famous, I will never know. The work you do, that’s the last thing you want.”

  “It’s not fair,” Ritlin said.

  “Will you listen to yourself? You’re a hired assassin, for God’s sake.”

  “Hickok was famous. Longley was famous. Ben Thompson and King Fisher. Everyone talked about them.”

  Brule muttered something, then said, “Hickok was shot in the back of the head. Longley got himself hung. Thompson and Fisher were blasted to pieces. Is that what you want to happen to you?”

  “Be serious,” Ritlin said.

  “I am, damn it. What did their fame get them? An early grave. And if word got out about all the killin’ you’ve done, that’s what you’d get, too.”

  Two women walked past. Brule smiled at them and touched his hat brim. Ritlin ignored them.

  “I don’t hear you agreein’,” Brule said.

  “I’d like to be remembered.”

  “Do you think anyone will remember Hickok fifty years from now? Hell, hardly anyone remembers Longley and he’s been dead less than ten.”

  “Since I was a boy I’ve wanted to make a name for myself.”

  “Then you picked a piss-poor line of work. You should have gone into politics. Or be on the stage.”

  Ritlin looked at him. “I’m no talker. And it’ll be a cold day in hell before I’ll prance around in tights.” He paused. “What I am is a killer. And I like it. Killing suits me to my marrow.”

  “I will admit,” Brule said, “that I’ve never met anyone who likes it as much as you do.”

  “It’s the one thing I’m good at,” Ritlin said. “And it eats at me that no one will ever know.”

  “You are damned peculiar.”

  “It’s human nature.”

  “Not mine,” Brule said. “The both of us are better off in the shadows. Be thankful you’re not famous or you wouldn’t be able to do the killin’ you love so much.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Cheer up, damn you.” Brule grinned and clapped the man in black on the shoulder. “Tell you what. When you’re ready to give up bein’ an assassin, there’s a quick and easy way to be as famous as anyone.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “It’s simple. You find someone who already is, and you blow out their wick where everyone can see.” Brule laughed and turned and went into the saloon.

  Ritlin stared after him. “Well, now,” he said. “As brainstorms go, that’s not half-bad.”

  6

  Martha Sether came out of her house wearing her work gloves and carrying a small basket that contained her hand hoe, trowel, fork and weeder. She went down the steps and turned toward the flower garden.

  Behind her, Sally said, “Who’s that, Ma?”

  Martha was startled to see a man and a horse not ten steps away. The man was dressed all in gray, with a long coat buttoned in the middle. He was holding the reins to a Palomino. “My word,” she blurted.

  The man took off his hat and held it at his chest and gave a slight bow. “My apologies, ma’am, if I’ve given you a fright,” he said courteously. “I didn’t mean to.”

  Martha saw that his hair was white but he wasn’t all that old. “That’s quite all right. We didn’t hear you ride up.”

  “I didn’t ride, ma’am,” the man said. “I walked.” He turned and gently touched the Palomino’s right foreleg. “General Lee, here, has come up lame.”

  “Oh, my. I hope it’s not serious.” Martha liked the man’s Southern accent.

  “I’m worried it might be an infection, ma’am. I’d like to take off the shoe and have a look. Maybe give him some oats and let him rest.” The man motioned at the barn. “I’d be willin’ to pay.”

  Martha also liked how polite he was. “I’m willing but it’s not entirely up to me. My husband will want his say.”

  “I understand, ma’am. Is he inside?”

  “No, he’s out at what we call the second field. Follow that track, there, past the row of trees.”

  “I will, ma’am, and I thank you most kindly.” The man placed his hat back on. “Is it all right if I leave General Lee here?”

  “It certainly is.”

  The man let the reins dangle and started off.

  Martha didn’t know what made her say, “Hold on. I’ll go with you.” She set down her basket and removed her gloves and placed them on top of the tools. A tug at the back of her dress reminded her she wasn’t alone.

  “What about me, Ma?” Sally asked. “Do I go with you?”

  The man smiled at her and doffed his hat again. “I’d be delighted to have your company, as well, young miss.”

  “Oh,” Sally said, looking flustered.

  Martha took her daughter’s hand. “We don’t get many visitors.”

  “I’d imagine not, ma’am.”

  Martha wanted to keep him talking so she said, “That’s a fine animal you have.”

  “General Lee is more than an animal, ma’am. You might say he’s my friend.”

  “Named after General Robert E. Lee, I pres
ume?”

  “You presume correctly, ma’am.”

  Martha noticed that the man was matching his pace to theirs, something she wished Roy would do more of. It was a trial keeping up with his long strides. “And may I also presume from your hat and your coat that you served in the Confederate army?”

  “Proudly, ma’am.”

  “We don’t see many in a Confederate uniform anymore,” Martha commented. “Used to be we did, the first few years after the war.”

  “Might I ask your name, ma’am?”

  “Forgive my manners,” Martha said, and introduced herself and Sally. “Might I ask yours?”

  The man seemed to hesitate. “It’s Mosby, ma’am. Nathan Mosby.”

  “Wasn’t there a Confederate general by the name of Mosby?”

  “What a remarkable memory you have, ma’am. If it’s the gentleman you’re thinkin’ of, he was a colonel.”

  “Any relation?”

  “No, ma’am. We’re not kin.”

  “Your accent,” Martha said. “Are you by any chance from Tennessee or one of the Carolinas?”

  “I hail from Old Dominion, herself. The grand and sovereign State of Virginia. Some would call her the backbone of the South.”

  “Do you ever miss home?”

  “I would if it was still there. Yankees caused it to burn to the ground during the war.”

  “I’m sorry,” Martha said. “Was it that General Sherman I recall reading about?”

  “No, ma’am. Sherman marched through Georgia.”

  “Do you still have family back there?” Martha was intensely curious to learn all she could. She so seldom got to talk to anyone from the South.

  “My mother died in the Union shelling. As near as I could find out afterward, they mistook our house for a supply depot that was down the road a ways.”

  “How dreadful. And your father?”

  “He died at Gettysburg.” The man in gray didn’t expand on how.

  They were nearing the trees. Martha would have liked to carry on their conversation but she saw her husband and the boys off in the field and waved to him.

  Roy was going down the recently plowed furrows looking for large rocks and clumps that would interfere with the planting. “What have we here,” he said, and immediately made for his wife and the stranger.

  “Is he in the army, Pa?” Matt asked. “That’s a uniform of some kind, ain’t it?”

  “Isn’t it,” Roy corrected him. “And, yes, it is. A Confederate uniform. Haven’t seen one in years.”

  “Look at how white his hair is,” Andy remarked. “It’s as white as snow.”

  A memory tugged at Roy’s mind but slipped away before he could grab hold of it. “Hush about his uniform and his hair. It’s not polite to talk about how people look.”

  “How come?” Matt said.

  “Good manners, your mother would call it.”

  “And we know how she is about manners,” Andy said.

  “That’ll be enough out of you,” Roy said. His oldest had taken to being much too critical of late, of just about everything. Roy smiled and held out his hand and said, “How do you do. I’m Roy Sether.”

  “This is Mr. Mosby,” Martha said as they shook. “He has a problem with his horse.”

  “Oh?” Roy was impressed by the other’s firm handshake. He’d always believed that you could tell a lot about a man by how he shook hands.

  “I’d like to have a few words about it in private, if I may.”

  Roy was puzzled by his wife’s evident surprise. “Honey, if you’ll take the kids on back,” he said, and was even more puzzled at how hurt she looked.

  “As you wish,” Martha replied. To the man in gray, she said, “I trust it wasn’t anything I said?”

  “Not at all, ma’am,” the Southerner said, and bestowed a kindly smile. “It’s man talk, you might say.”

  “Lordy,” Martha said. “You men and your secrets.” She draped an arm over Sally’s shoulders. “Come along, boys.”

  “But we’re men,” Matt said.

  “Go with your mother,” Roy directed. He wondered what the man could possibly want to say. It occurred to him that he was unarmed and there were suspicious bulges under the Rebel’s coat.

  He balled his fists, ready to defend himself if need be.

  “I reckon they’re out of earshot,” the man in gray said. He looked Roy in the eyes. “I deceived your missus because I thought it best but I won’t lie to you.”

  “Deceived?” Roy repeated.

  “My handle isn’t Mosby. I told your wife that so as not to scare her. My real name is Rondo James. Could be you’ve heard of me.”

  The memory that had tugged at Roy acquired form. Hiding his astonishment, he said, “I believe I have. You, sir, have a reputation as a gunny.”

  “I’m not much fond of brands,” Rondo James said. “But if I have to be branded I prefer pistoleer.”

  “What’s this about your horse?”

  Rondo studied Roy. “I take it you haven’t heard, then? I was in a shootin’ affray up to Savage. Some cowpokes tried to throw down on me and I had to kill some.”

  Roy had talked to men who had been to Savage but he had never been there. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I need you to trust me and you won’t if I lie or hold somethin’ back.” Rondo James unbuttoned his slicker and swept it back.

  Roy had seen a lot of revolvers in his time but few with pearl handles and fewer with nickel plating. He whistled in appreciation.

  “They are pretty, aren’t they?” Rondo placed his hands on the pearl handles. “They’ve saved my hide more times than I care to count. Saved me in Savage, too. But I had to light a shuck. Shoot one cowboy and you have a whole passel after you.”

  Roy gazed off across Thunder Valley. “Are they after you now?”

  “No,” Rondo said. “I reckon I gave them the slip. General Lee can outrun most anything on four legs. I aimed to push on clear to Denver but late yesterday General Lee commenced to limp and it’s gotten worse since.” He fished in his pocket and produced a double eagle. “For boardin’ the General in your barn for the night.”

  “That’s too much,” Roy said. It was twenty dollars. In Teton a man could put up his animal for a dollar.

  “Those cowpokes had friends who might be after me,” Rondo said. “They catch up, they’re liable to shoot up your barn to flush me out and you’ll regret I didn’t give you more.”

  Roy was struck by the Southerner’s thoughtfulness. “You’re thinking of me when it’s your life at stake?”

  “I’m used to it.” Rondo James held out the double eagle. “It’d sit easier on my conscience if you take it. That is, if you’re agreeable to my proposition.”

  “You’re the first quick-draw artist I’ve met.”

  “We’re not a common breed,” Rondo acknowledged. “But what’s your point?”

  Roy was frank with him. “The newspapers and the penny dreadfuls have it that your kind are heartless killers. I’d half expect you to go around forcing people to do your will at gunpoint.”

  “There are those as would, I reckon.”

  “I have no objection to you using my barn,” Roy said. “But there’s one thing you should know.”

  Rondo James looked at him.

  “I don’t lie to my wife. Never have, never will. As soon as we get back I’ll tell Martha who you are and what you’ve done, and it might be that she won’t like the idea.”

  “Your wife and kids.” Rondo lowered his arm. “I didn’t think of them.”

  “I’m not saying she will.”

  “It’s not that.” The Southerner scowled. “All I was thinkin’ of was your barn when I should be worried for your family. I stick around, it could put them in danger.”

  “No man in his right mind would shoot a woman or children,” Roy said. “They’d be strung up so fast, their head would swim.” He smiled and made bold to give the man in gray a light clap on the arm. �
�Let’s go tell her the truth and see what she says.”

  “I’m obliged. I truly am.”

  “I’d do the same for any man in need.”

  “I’m not just any man,” Rondo James said.

  7

  Charlton Rank never went anywhere without his six “enforcers,” as he called them. He also never went anywhere without Bisby, his male secretary, and Floyd, his manservant. So when he swept into Teton with his entourage, he attracted attention.

  Rank didn’t care. He was used to it. Lesser men were always fascinated by their betters. He drew rein at the Timberland. As a hotel it wasn’t much, but it was all the town offered. When the manager found out who he was, the man fawned over him, eager to meet his every whim. Rank was used to that, too.

  Installed in the most expensive suite, Rank sat in a plush chair and sipped a sherry cobbler—he brought his own oranges—that Floyd had prepared. Rank was fond of them. Some might say it was a weakness, but Rank didn’t allow himself weaknesses.

  Bisby was perched on the edge of another chair, awaiting orders.

  “I want you to go to the Grand Lady saloon. There will be four men seated at a table. One will look like a bear, another will have an eye patch, and the third, from what I hear, likes to dress all in black.”

  “And the fourth?” Bisby asked.

  “He’s smarter. He blends in.”

  “Sir?”

  “Don’t annoy me with trivialities,” Rank said brusquely. “You will go up to the bear and ask if his name is Brule, and if he confirms that he is, you will inform him that he and his cohorts are to come to the rear of this hotel half an hour after the sun goes down. You will be waiting for them and escort them up the back stairs. Am I understood?”

  “You wish that they not be noticed.”

  “I wish it very much.”

  Bisby stood. “On my way.”

  Rank sipped, and as his secretary was reaching for the door he said, “And Bisby.”

  “Sir?”

  “Be very careful. The bear and the one who blends in are rational enough but the other two are rabid. They bite without provocation.”