Fight for Powder Valley! (6 page)

“Good God, Ed! Deputizing Culvers men? That means killing … lots of it.”

“I can't help it, Pat. My dooty's plain. If I don't do it, Culver threatened to send word to Denver to have the United States Marshal come down. You know what that means. Government troops … martial law, maybe. You can't fight a big company like that, Pat. Don't you see you can't?”

Pat Stevens' eyes blazed with anger. “I've fought worse than that in the past. You're a fool, Ed, to think we'll ever back down.”

The sheriff stopped his pacing and drew himself up with a queer assumption of dignity. “I'll repeat what I said when I first came out. Either give me yore word you'll leave them surveyors alone … or I'll take yore gun and put you under a peace bond like I did John Boyd.”

“I warn you,” said Pat heavily. “Don't push me too far.”

“You mean you won't give me yore word?”

“No.”

“I'm sorry. You'll have to get yore coat and ride to town with me. It's my sworn dooty to hold you till you make bond.”

Pat said quietly, “You'll have to arrest me, Ed.”

“I don't want to do that. If you'll ride along peaceable …”

“Which I won't,” snapped Pat.

The sheriff sighed regretfully. “You always were a stubborn cuss. But I'm stubborn, too.” He drew a pair of shiny handcuffs from his pocket and dangled them in front of Pat. “I never thought I'd be fittin' this kind of jewelry on you.”

Sally's sewing slid from her lap to the floor as she sprang to her feet. Her face was flushed and her eyes blazed. With one swift movement she placed herself in front of Pat and faced the sheriff.

“If you lay a hand on him you'll regret it, Ed Grimes. He's not leaving this house tonight. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“Well … I …” The sheriff got out a bandanna and mopped sweat from his face.

“You should be. After all Pat's done for this valley.” Sally's voice broke for a moment, then it became taut and hard again. “You get on out the door and don't come back until you're ready to apologize.”

The sheriff hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Well, I … I reckon maybe Pat is too sick to be took out tonight,” he agreed with relief plainly evident in his voice. He backed away. “I … I guess I'll be going.”

Neither Pat nor Sally answered him. He blundered his way to the door where he paused unhappily, then turned and went out. A moment later they heard the pound of his horse's hoofs as he spurred away from the ranch.

Sally stood quite still for a moment. Then she collapsed across Pat's chair, sobbing as though her heart would break.

He looked down gravely at the bright blond head pressed against his chest and remonstrated, “Shucks, now, old woman. This ain't any way for a fightin' female to be actin'.”

She sobbed, “I'm so … so
ashamed
, Pat.”

He grinned wryly, his fingers toying with the silky tendrils of hair at the nape of her neck. “Ashamed of what, honey? Me, I was right proud of the way you stood up to Ed Grimes.”

“Ashamed of the way I felt. And
afraid
,” Sally wailed. She twisted to turn her tear-wet face up to his. “It frightens me to find out I have that sort of thing inside of me. I … why, I was ready to do anything, Pat. If I'd had my hands on a gun …” Her voice trailed off into an awed whisper.

Pat bent his head to touch his bruised lips to her damp cheek. He said gruffly, “Reminds me of a time ten years ago when you stood alongside me and traded lead with John Stout's gang of outlaws. I fell in love with you that day,” he concluded reminiscently, “an' now I reckon I'm fallin' in love with you all over again.”

Sally sighed and stirred uneasily in his arms. “This is different, Pat. Those other men were killers. We were fighting for peace and security in Powder Valley. The right to settle here and raise a family in decent surroundings.”

“We're fighting for the same thing this time,” Pat told her grimly. “Jud Biloff and his land company is a worse menace to Powder Valley than John Stout was.”

“But they've got the law on their side this time. Ed Grimes and those surveyors …
they're
right, too. When we turn against the law,
we
become the outlaws.”

“I recollect a similar occasion when we were fightin' Stout. Looked like
he
had the law on his side for a time. But you stayed with me, Sally. You rode off beside me when it looked like we were headed for the owl-hoot trail sure.”

“I'd do it again, Pat,” she told him fiercely, “but …”

“Don't be frettin' yourself too much. What's
right
has a way of bein' bigger than man-made laws when it comes right down to it. We're in the right in this fight … an' that's what really counts.”

The sound of ridden horses through the night again brought Sally up, tense and frightened. Pat's hand tightened on her shoulder comfortingly. “Two of 'em this time,” he announced. “I wouldn't worry about Grimes coming back tonight … not after the way you stood him off.”

These riders were in a hurry. They galloped up swiftly, and bootheels thudded as the horses stopped outside. Sally sprang up from her undignified position in Pat's lap and hastily wiped away the stains left by her recent tears. There was a knock on the door, but it was thrown open before she could reach it.

Her eyes lighted happily when she saw the two men who came tramping in unceremoniously. They were Sam Sloan and Ezra, Pat's two gun-partners from long ago, settled now on a ranch at the south end of the valley where they had put away their guns and turned to peaceful pursuits after Pat married Sally and took over the Lazy Mare ranch.

But they wore their guns tonight. That was the first thing Sally noticed when they came through the door. Sam Sloan was in the lead. A small, dark-featured man, there was an air of devil-may-care assurance about him as he stalked forward followed by the huge and terrifying figure of Ezra with his scarred face and his one good eye, who had the strength of a range bull in his mighty frame, with a placid temperament that was slow to anger yet awful when aroused.

They stopped short in front of Sally, and Sam removed his hat with an exaggerated gesture of deference. He drawled, “Howdy, ma'am. We hear
yo're
wearin' the pants in the Stevens family tonight. Mighty lucky thing for yore shrinkin' violet of a husban' yonder he's still got you to fight his battles.”

Sally smiled feebly. She was accustomed to Sam and Ezra's rough witticisms and knew that their roughest insults to each other covered a deep regard that was as near to love as strong men can feel for each other. She said, “I suppose … you know what's happened.”

“We got Sheriff Grimes' side of the story down the road a piece,” Sam told her happily. “Plumb disgustin' the way you females nowadays take the play away from men-folks. Ezra an' me formed a rescue party an' helled it out here when we heard in town the sheriff was figgerin' on arrestin' Pat, an' danged if you didn't spoil ever'thing by sendin' him scootin' away like a houn' dawg that's bin turpentined.”

He moved past Sally to stand in front of Pat, his black eyes sparkling with malicious merriment. He cocked his head on one side and surveyed his old friend's marred face with complete enjoyment, then drawled, “Looks like you tangled with a threshin' machine instead of a boy scout in knee-high boots. What were you doin' while he worked you over thataway?”

Ezra followed him across the room, his one eye becoming big and round as he took in Pat's appearance. “They told us in town you jest fought with
one
man,” he ejaculated. “Looks from here like a troop of cavalry had trompled yore face.”

“Looks like Pat never will get a lick of sense in that thick haid of his'n.” Sam shook his own head lugubriously. “I seen Ross Culver in town afore we come out. Shucks, Pat, he looks nigh as tough as a fresh-sprouted rosebud. You ought to've knowed better than to tackle him without some help like Dock, mebbe, to back up yore play.”

Pat grinned wryly and waved a hand at them to sit down. “When you get through with your jokes that ain't funny, tell me how things're shaping in Dutch Springs.”

“There's hell to pay,” Sam Sloan told him succinctly. “Grimes has swore in those surveyors as deputy sheriffs an' he swears hell call in the state militia if anybody starts trouble. There's gonna be shootin' an' plenty of it unless somethia' happens quick. Like old times,” he ended happily, subconsciously dropping a wiry hand to caress the worn butt of a .45 swinging low at his right hip.

“I reckon folks have found out how we've been tricked?” Pat asked.

“Yep. Word's got around fast.” Sam paused to draw in a deep breath and admitted uncomfortably, “Ezra an' me got hooked along with the others.”

“You an Ezra? I thought your ranch would be so high above the creek they wouldn't want it.”

“They wanted two sections real bad,” Sam told him grimly. “Them upper end sections of ours is where they figger on buildin' their dam. Across the lower end of our colt pasture. That'll make a lake a couple of miles long and near a mile wide …
if
an'
when
they get their dam built,” he ended with significant emphasis.

Pat shook his head. “That's bad. I'd hoped maybe they hadn't bought their dam-site yet.”

“They bought her all right. Man by the name of Biloff come around to us last winter an' spun us a song about raisin' blooded hawses on those two sections. Promised us the use of his Arabian studs to build up
our
herd,” Sam ended disgustedly, “an' we fell for it, hook, line an'
sinker
.”

“If they build the dam,” said Pat harshly, “Powder Valley is ruined for cow-country. We might as well all move out.”

“I don't reckon they'll build it,” drawled Sam. His fingers touched his gun-butt again. “And
I
don't aim to make the mistake of fightin' with my fists. Lead talks louder.”

Pat nodded his head slowly. His battered features became a grim mask that hid his inner feelings. “But we've got to go slow,” he warned. “We can't afford to get the militia called in. We've got to make 'em think we're takin' it lyin' down.”

Sam looked disappointed. “Shucks. What I say is let's run them surveyors off right now …”

“They'll just send in more. No.” Pat's eyes were bright now as a plan shaped itself in his mind. “Here's what we've got to do. Sit down and listen to me … then start ridin' through the valley telling all the ranchers. It's the
only
way we can beat this thing without startin' a civil war.”

Sam and Ezra nodded solemnly and drew up chairs for a conclave that was to be the beginning of a history-making epoch in the West. They knew Pat Stevens' capacity for leadership, his ability to think things through and lay a plan of campaign that had a chance to succeed. They and the other valley ranchers would be willing to listen to Pat's counsel up to a certain point. Beyond that … well, that was on the laps of the capricious gods.

5

Sally Stevens was inside the general store in Dutch Springs, ordering a list of groceries to take back to the Lazy Mare ranch, when the covered wagon stopped in front. It was late afternoon and the sun was low in the west, streaming through the dusty plate glass windows in front.

The ungainly, canvas-covered top of the prairie schooner blotted out the sunlight when it stopped in front of the store. Sally squinted down at the penciled list on the counter, suddenly thrown into darkness by the shadow of the covered wagon.

She couldn't make out the next item on her list, and she glanced behind her through the dusty window at the rickety old wagon outside. Two hungry-looking horses stood with drooped heads in the traces. They were so thin that Sally could see the stark outlines of their ribs from where she stood. A tall man, wearing faded overalls and a tattered straw hat, was handing over the lines to a sunbonneted woman who sat beside him on the high spring seat. A ragged-looking milk goat was tethered behind the wagon, and the dirty faces of three tow-headed children peered around the back of the canvas top.

Sally Stevens felt a queer tightening of her throat muscles, a premonitory twinge of worry as she stared out at the strange-looking vehicle. It was the first prairie schooner she had seen for many years. Dutch Springs wasn't on any through route from the east to California. Anyone coming here … well, they were coming
here
.

The tall, straw-hatted man was entering the store. Sally turned her gaze away from him and hastily scanned her list again. She said, “Ten pounds of sugar and three pounds of Arbuckle's coffee,” in a clear, crisp voice.

The storekeeper turned away to get the items from his shelves. Sally was conscious of a tall figure who approached and stood beside her. She kept her eyes turned away from the intruder, studied her list and went on briskly, “And I need some salt pork, too, Mr. Winters.”

The man who stood beside her cleared his throat diffidently. The smell of man-sweat came from his angular body. Sally kept her eyes turned away from him. She heard a child's bare feet pattering into the store behind her, then a childish treble saying, “Mommy says get some 'lasses, too. A little can … if it don't cost too much.”

Despite her resolution, Sally turned her head and looked at the little girl who stood at the counter beside her. Mary Hartsell was just about the age of Dock. She met Sally's gaze with a timid smile and confided, “We've come a nawful long ways but we're almost there now. Mommy says everything will be nice when we get settled in our new home. We're going to
like
it here.”

Sally heard herself saying, “I hope you do.” Mr. Winters brought some sacks and set them on the counter in front of her. Sally studied her list again. It was blurred so she couldn't read the next items. Or, perhaps her eyes were blurred with tears. She moved aside a step and suggested, “Suppose you wait on this other customer, Mr. Winters. I don't seem to be able to read what I've got written.”