Thunder Valley Page 7

  One Eye grinned at Brule. “Not too smart, is he?”

  “Can’t blame him,” Brule said. “It’s not every day he has visitors like us.” Drawing his large knife, he moved to the first stall.

  “What in God’s name are you doing?” Jackson said.

  “What do you think?” Brule patted the cow on the head and rubbed its neck. The cow went on chewing its cud. “Dumb brutes,” he said.

  “Quit waving that knife around,” Jackson said. “You might hurt her.”

  “That’s the whole idea,” Brule said, and with a quick motion, he slashed the cow’s throat. Blood spurted, and the Holstein gave a start.

  “My God!” Jackson exclaimed, aghast. Forgetting himself, he started toward the stall. Suddenly his head seemed to explode, and the next thing he knew, he was on his knees and overcome with pain and nausea.

  “Behave yourself, cow-lover,” One Eye warned, “or I’ll cave in your skull.”

  “My cow!” Jackson lurched to his feet.

  The whole front of the Holstein was scarlet and blood was continuing to flow. She swayed and raised her head and mooed, which caused more blood to gush.

  “God, no.” Jackson took another step and a foot hooked him from behind and he was shoved to his hands and knees.

  “Stay down,” One Eye growled.

  Brule stepped to the next stall. His knife dripping red drops, he held it close to the next cow’s neck and grinned at Jackson. “Ask me real nice and maybe I’ll spare her.”

  “Don’t,” Jackson pleaded. “Please don’t.”

  “That wasn’t nice enough.” With a savage swipe and a twist, Brule cut the cow wide. He quickly stepped back as blood sprayed like rain.

  “Oh Lord.” Jackson pushed up but a blow to the side of his head felled him again.

  “You don’t listen worth spit,” One Eye said.

  “My cows,” Jackson wailed. “Not my cows.”

  “Be thankful it ain’t you.”

  Jackson saw the wide one move to the next stall, and the next. In shock and horror he heard the sickening thuck of the blade and saw the showerlike spray of death. “Please,” he said, near tears. “Please don’t.”

  Brule strolled back up the aisle and squatted. He grinned and wiped his knife clean on Jackson’s shirt and slid it into its sheath. “Are you payin’ attention?”

  “Yes. Please, mister, don’t kill any more of my cows. I’ll do anything you want. Give you whatever you want. I’m not rich but I’ve got a few hundred dollars.”

  “You’ll need it wherever you end up,” Brule said.

  “What?”

  Brule swiveled on his boot heels and indicated the red pools spreading from the stalls. “You don’t want to live here after today.”

  “What?” Jackson said again.

  “I thought you were payin’ attention?” Brule reached out and cupped the farmer’s chin. “Look at me.”

  “I am.”

  “You have one week to pack up all your things and go, and never, ever come back.”

  “You want us to leave?”

  “You’re slow but you’re gettin’ there.”

  “You want us to give up our farm? Our home? All that we’ve worked so hard for?”

  “It’s either that,” Brule said, “or lose every damn cow you own.”

  “And your own hides, besides,” One Eye said.

  “But … but … but …” Jackson sputtered.

  Brule drew his Smith & Wesson and held it so the muzzle practically touched Jackson’s right eye. “Are you sure you’re payin’ attention?”

  “Yes, God, yes.”

  “There’s no buts. Either you do what the hell we tell you, or we come back. And the next time we won’t be as nice as we’re bein’ now.”

  “You just killed my best milkers!” Jackson shrieked.

  Brule cocked his revolver. “I’d calm down, were I you. Splatterin’ your brains would mean no more to me than slittin’ cow throats.”

  “You don’t know what you’re asking. You want us to give up everything. How will I explain it to my wife? She’d never agree. She loves it here.”

  “You still don’t savvy,” Brule said. “If you’re still here a week from now, you’ll be here permanent. Only it will be six feet under.”

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” Jackson said. “I just can’t.”

  “You’d better. And you’d better believe a few other things. Go to the law and you’re a dead man. Tell your friends and you’re a dead man. Do anything but what we tell you and you’re a dead man.” Brule stood and let down the hammer and shoved the Smith & Wesson into his holster. He looked at One Eye and then past him. “Where did Ritlin get to?”

  “Where do you think?”

  From inside the farmhouse came a muffled scream.

  Frank Jackson started to stand but Brule slammed him down and put a boot on his back. “Stay put, mister. You go runnin’ in there, you’re as good as dead.”

  “Beth!” Jackson cried.

  “I wouldn’t worry about explainin’ things to her.” Brule grinned and winked. “When my pard gets done with your missus, she’ll want to leave Thunder Valley more than she’s ever wanted anything.”

  “Dear God in heaven,” Frank Jackson said.

  11

  Roy Sether almost laughed when he noticed that Tom Kline was doing the same thing he was. They were on the buckboard seat with Tom holding the reins. In the bed behind them sat Moses Beard and Rondo James.

  Every so often, Roy would turn his head just enough to glance at the notorious man-killer out of the corner of his eye. He saw Tom doing it, too. And once, when he looked over his shoulder, Moses was flat-out staring at the man.

  Rondo James had his head bowed and his hat brim low over his face and apparently wasn’t aware they were fascinated by him.

  Or was he? Roy wondered. He couldn’t imagine what it was like to have shot so many men. Or to be so famous. He remembered first hearing about Rondo shortly after the Civil War, in what was called the Gallatin Bloodbath. The newspapers made it a point to mention how Rondo shot each of them in the face. That became Rondo’s trademark, you might say—he always shot men in the face.

  That was more than two decades ago, Roy reflected. Back then, shooting affrays were widely written about in the newspapers. The exploits of the likes of Wild Bill Hickok and Jesse James were on everyone’s tongue. That reminded him. He cleared his throat and said, “Mr. James, do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  From under the hat came the low reply, “I’ve asked you to call me Rondo, Roy. I’d be grateful if you did.”

  “Sorry,” Roy said. He had to admit he was more than a little awed by the pistoleer’s celebrity. “But I’ve been meaning to ask. Are you any relation to Jesse and Frank James, you having the last name?”

  “So far as I know,” Rondo James said, “our blood never mixed. They’re not kin of mine.”

  “That’s too bad,” Moses said.

  Rondo raised his head, his eyebrows pinched over his nose. “Why bad, Mr. Beard?”

  Roy didn’t know what to make of the fact that while Rondo James called him by his first name, he always referred to Tom and Moses as Mr. Kline and Mr. Beard.

  Moses uttered a nervous laugh. “Well, you know. Him being so famous and all. If you were related, that would make you doubly famous, wouldn’t it?”

  “You are a wonderment,” Rondo James said, and bowed his head again.

  Moses smiled at Roy and Tom as if he had just been given the greatest compliment in the world.

  Tom looked at Roy and rolled his eyes.

  Now that the silence had been broken, Moses said, “I sure hope I can find some pups for sale. Or better yet, free.”

  “Didn’t think you were all that fond of dogs,” Roy recalled.

  “I’m not,” Moses confirmed. “Tilda wants one and what Tilda wants, Tilda gets.”

  “Better watch out,” Tom teased. “She’ll be cuddling it instead of y
ou.”

  “Don’t ever tell her I told you this,” Moses said, “but when it comes to cuddling, there are days I suspect she’d rather cuddle a tumbleweed than cuddle me.”

  “Women,” Tom said.

  “She wants it for a guard dog, mainly,” Moses said. “So what happened to your hogs won’t happen to our animals.”

  “A puppy isn’t much of a guard dog,” Roy said.

  “I still can’t get over someone doing that,” Tom said bitterly. “Slitting the throats of all my hogs. What sort of man does such a thing?”

  “There are all sorts in this world,” Moses said.

  “Nothing else has happened so maybe my wife is right and it was a bunch of drunks.”

  “It sure is strange they picked your hogs,” Moses remarked.

  Roy saw that Tom was becoming upset. “Enough about the hogs. It’s been weeks since I’ve been into Teton. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Did you hear about the high muck-a-muck who stopped for a night at the Timberland?” Moses asked. “Eb Harper was in town and saw them with his own eyes. He stopped and told me about it on his way to his farm.”

  “Didn’t hear,” Roy said.

  Moses nodded. “Some fancy pants in a suit and a derby. He had six men with him, all dressed as fancy.”

  “He have a name?”

  “He signed the register at the hotel as John Smith. But McCarthy over to the general store told Eb he thought he’d seen the gent before.” Moses paused. “Thought he was a railroad man.”

  “Not them again,” Tom said. “We already told them we’re not interested in selling our land.”

  Roy was vaguely troubled by the news. The railroad representatives had been persistent in trying to persuade them to sell. Which was an understatement. They’d practically demanded it. He’d finally had to tell them to get off his land and stay off.

  “No railroad is getting my farm,” Moses said. “Tilda loves it here and she means to stay.”

  Roy gazed to the west. He never tired of admiring the Tetons. They were magnificent. They rose so high and so sheer, it was as if they thrust up out of the earth ready-formed. He especially liked how they seemed to change colors. At sunrise they were splashed with rosy hues. Midday, they were mostly brown with white patches. In the evenings they were sometimes bluish and sometimes purple, depending on the sky.

  “You know,” Tom said. “I have an idea. We should ask around at the saloons when we get there, find out if anyone has been bragging about killing my hogs.”

  “Who would brag about that?” Moses asked.

  “You never know,” Tom responded. “Drunks tend to run off at the mouth.”

  “Tilda doesn’t like me to go in saloons.”

  “Are you a man or a mouse?” Tom said.

  “Need you ask?”

  Roy laughed. Come to think of it, he liked the idea of visiting a saloon. He hadn’t been inside of one in months.

  12

  The road wound around a small lake with stands of cottonwoods along the shore. Out on the water, ducks and geese swam. A large fish jumped with a loud splash.

  “Look there,” Tom said, and pointed.

  A cow elk was slaking her thirst. She’d waded a few yards out and her muzzle was in the water.

  “Lordy, I love it here,” Moses said. “Except for the snow and cold in the winters, it’s the Garden of Eden.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Tom said.

  Roy spotted a bald eagle high on a spruce. The eagle was scouring the lake for prey. Even as he watched, it took wing and swiftly rose. It circled and suddenly dived, its talons extended. There was a flurry of spray and a flash of silver, and the eagle rose again, a fish clutched tight.

  “How about you, Roy?” Moses asked. “Do you love it here as much as I do?”

  “I surely do,” Roy admitted.

  They entered forest and lost sight of the lake. Roy smelled the aromatic scent of the pines, and breathed deep.

  A yellow finch and its mate flitted from tree to tree, and somewhere a jay screeched.

  “Either of you heard if hostiles have been seen around here lately?” Moses nervously brought up.

  “I haven’t heard of any,” Tom answered.

  Roy shook his head.

  “I know the army says it has them under control,” Moses said, “but that’s not true and everybody knows it.”

  “Are you saying our government lies?” Tom said, and acted shocked.

  “It would to lure in settlers,” Moses said.

  Roy had heard the same rumor. Namely, that the bigwigs in Washington wanted more people from east of the Mississippi River to move west of it. A lot of folks were understandably reluctant after hearing about all the massacres and scalpings. To counter that, the politicians kept crowing about how safe the frontier had become. But then, politicians and lies went hand in hand.

  The road climbed slightly. Presently, in the distance, squares and rectangles were silhouetted against the backdrop of a towering mountain.

  “Teton,” Tom said.

  “We’ve got eyes,” Moses said.

  Roy had been so engrossed in the scenery and their talk that he’d nearly forgotten about the man in gray. He was reminded when Rondo James sat up and shifted so his back was to the side of the buckboard.

  “We have to talk, Roy.”

  “What about?”

  “I don’t want any harm to come to you on my account,” Rondo James said.

  “Why would it?”

  “Because I am who I am,” Rondo said in that slow drawl of his. “If word gets around I’m in town, there’s no tellin’ what might happen.”

  “I’m sure I speak for my friends when I say we won’t tell anyone.”

  “You wouldn’t have to. Thanks to the damn newspapers and those silly stories that’ve been written about me, I get recognized.” Rondo stressed with a scowl, “I get recognized a lot.”

  Roy shrugged. “If it happens, it happens. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  “No,” Rondo said. “We’ll cross it now. I aim to wander around by my lonesome and meet you at the buckboard when you say to.”

  “We’ll wander together,” Roy said. He had no specific purpose in going to town other than to be with his friends. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

  “That’s just it,” Rondo said. “I like your missus and I wouldn’t want her to become a widow and have it be my doin’.”

  “You can’t blame yourself if others are looking for trouble.”

  “I’m the piece of meat and they’re the flies.”

  “What a curious way to describe yourself,” Moses said.

  Rondo didn’t seem to hear him. “Usually I try to slip into towns quiet-like and slip out again without anyone guessin’ who I am but it doesn’t always work out.”

  “Pull your hat low and button your slicker,” Roy suggested.

  “It’s not always enough.”

  Roy put it from his mind. As Martha was fond of saying, what would be, would be.

  The road curved through another patch of woodland and when the buckboard rattled into the sunlight, there Teton was. Main Street spread before them, bustling with people on foot and on horseback. They passed the livery and the church with its white steeple and the Timberland.

  “The hogs and a pup can wait,” Tom announced. “First thing we do is wet our throats.”

  “I’m for that,” Moses agreed.

  Roy licked his lips at the prospect. He was about to comment that he was for it too when he spied several men in blue uniforms lounging in front of the general store. “Why, there are soldiers in town.”

  “They must be on patrol and stopped to rest,” Tom speculated.

  “Or they’re after redskins,” Moses said.

  “Or it could be,” Rondo James said, “they’re after me.”

  13

  The surrender at Appomattox not only brought about the end of the war, it almost brought about the end
of the South. The North wasn’t content with its military victory. The end of the conflict was the start of a new campaign to reduce the South to a helpless ruin.

  The North unleashed their dogs of avarice under the guise of rebuilding. The politicians were behind it. Using new laws they passed, they created an opportunity to plunder and pillage to their greedy hearts’ content.

  Like ravaging locusts, a horde of carpetbaggers descended on the Southern populace. The Northerners bought up all the land they could get their hands on, for cheap, then hired the recently freed blacks to work their farms and plantations, for cheap. They reaped profits hand over fist.

  The carpetbaggers took over industry after industry, from railroads to cotton production. All under the banner of reconstruction. Southerners were reduced to slaves of a new kind; they were in economic servitude to their Northern masters.

  The South wasn’t just defeated. It was pummeled with the sledgehammer of righteous reform and then its bleeding carcass despoiled of its lifeblood.

  For the men who served in the Confederate army, life was especially harsh. They were reviled by the new elite. They were despised for their service. They were looked down on and literally spat on and there was nothing they could do but grit their teeth and bear it or they would be thrown behind bars.

  The few who refused to bear it became folk heroes. The James brothers and their ilk, sons of the South who resisted the Northern tyranny by doing plundering of their own.

  And then there were men like Rondo James.

  Rondo was in Dodge City when he started on the road to unwanted fame. He was in a saloon, minding his own business, playing cards. As always, he was wearing his Confederate gray.

  Four Yankee soldiers were drinking at the bar. Rondo saw them glance his way a few times but he didn’t think much of it until they swaggered over to the table. The other players promptly got out of there.

  A big bulk of a sergeant sucked down some bug juice, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and sneered, “What do we have here?”

  “You don’t want to do this,” Rondo told him without looking up.