the Mountain Valley War (1978) (6 page)

Trent whipped a wicked left to the wind that wrenched an agonized gasp from the bigger man, who missed with the right. Trent stabbed another left to the bleeding mouth, but Hale floored him again with a right. Trent lunged up as another kick was aimed at him. Hurt, gasping with pain, he clinched with Hale and hung on desperately, fighting to clear his head. Hale threw him off and swung a left that cut his cheek to the bone. Trent stabbed the left to the mouth again and followed it with a right to the ribs.

He ducked under a right and smashed Hale in the belly with another right, then hooked a left over Hale's shoulder to cut him over the eye.

Hale rushed at him, grabbing for his throat, and Trent felt himself falling backward. He fell, but as he did so he grasped Hale's upper arms, put a boot toe in his stomach, and as he fell he pitched the larger man over his head to the floor.

King Bill staggered up, visibly shaken. Trent staggered back against the bar, wiping the blood from his eyes with the back of his hand. Hale was hurt, and he was shaken. Perhaps in that moment the bigger man realized for the first time that he might be beaten.

Trent moved in swiftly. He lanced a left to the mouth, crossed a right to the chin, and as Dunn started to come in, Hale waved him back. He put up his hands, his face twisted with hatred and fear. He started forward, and Trent feinted; as the hands moved, he struck hard with his right and Hale staggered and almost fell.

They stood toe-to-toe then, and both began to swing, but the power had gone from Hale's blows. The hard years of work that lay behind Trent now were saving him; he was getting his second wind now, steadying down. His head buzzed with the blows that had left him groggy, but he knew now what he had to do. He feinted again and struck hard with left and right. He feinted again and then threw both fists to the midsection. Hale's knees buckled, and Trent threw hard to the chin. The big man was slammed against the bar by the force of the punch, and as Trent moved to face him, he caught a glimpse of Cub.

The younger man's face was twisted with shock and something like horror, but mingled with it was something else, a kind of evil delight in what was happening. Sickened, Trent stepped back and moved around.

Hale was game. He started forward, and Trent swung a hard right to the jaw. The big man started to buckle at the knees, and Trent hit him before he could fall.

He fell then, flat out on the saloon floor, and he lay still. Trent, looking down to see if he would try to get up, felt a pang. It was a hard, hard thing to be so long a winner and then to be beaten, and beaten thoroughly, and in front of all these others over whom he had lorded it.

Had he been anywhere but surrounded by enemies, Trent would have picked the man up and told him he was sorry.

In the moment of silence, a cool voice spoke out clearly. "Now, you all just hold to w'ar you're stand-in', because I ain't a-wantin' to kill nobody, but sure as I'm Quince Hatfield, this here rifle is aimed an' steady."

Nobody moved or spoke, for the intent of the rifle was plain enough, and from the door they could see another. How many more there might be, they did not attempt to guess.

In three steps Trent was across the room and out-of-doors into the night. The buckskin was waiting for him at the edge of the boardwalk with the Hatfield horses, and he swung to the saddle and with almost the same motion slipped his Winchester from the boot. With a quick shot he sent the chandelier crashing, and then they were gone. A mile out of town they slowed down and Quince came up alongside.

"I d'clare, Trent, when you all set out to start somethin', you surely don't fool around! You just busted things wide open."

Trent shrugged, and it hurt so much that he almost cried out. Every move he made, he discovered another sore spot. "I tried to talk peace, but he wouldn't listen. Then I thought a good licking might teach the townspeople that he wasn't all-powerful. We're going to need friends."

"The Parson will be some upset when he hears about this, and him not seein' it. He's said time and again that all Hale needed was a good whoppin'."

"It will take more than that," Trent said. "He was a tough man to whip, and when he's able, he'll find another way. He's got the men and the money, Quince. We've only got ourselves."

"Maybe that's all we'll need, that an' the good Lord's help."

Nothing had been solved by the fight, and no allies would have been gained. Still, there might be a few who would now be doubting the outcome.

Taking to the brush, they used every stratagem to ward off pursuit, although it was doubtful if any pursuit would be attempted in the darkness.

Three hours later they pulled up at the Hatfield cabin. A tall young man stepped out of the darkness to greet them.

"It's us, Saul," Jesse said, "an' you missed a scrap! Trent done whupped King Bill Hale with his fists. Whupped him good."

"Reckon Pa will be please' to hear that!" he said. "And I am, m'self. Whupped him, you say? Wow! That must have been some fight!"

"They all abed?"

"Sure. Lijah was on guard up until a few minutes ago, but knowin' him, he's dead to the world by now."

"O'Hara here?" Trent asked. His jaw felt stiff and sore, and he ached in every muscle and bone. Hale was a puncher, and he had landed more often than he missed.

"He's here. Him, Bartram, an' Smithers. Come mornin', Pa wants us all to get together and figure out what it's best to do."

"We will have to fight," Trent said. "There's no question of that now. Hale wouldn't talk peace."

"So you whupped him. Serves him right. Nobody up here wants a fight, but we're all ready for it. We'll do what has to be done."

"I've a blanket and my slicker. I'll bed down over against the brush after I've washed up."

When he had stabled the buckskin, he stripped off his shirt and bathed in the. water trough. The water came from a spring in the shoulder of rock and was piped into both the house and the horse trough, where a continual flow kept it fresh.

The cold water felt good on his swollen, battered face. One eye was swollen almost shut, and there was a nasty cut on his cheekbone that might need a couple of stitches. He would see about that in the morning. Ma Hatfield was good at such things, but young Bartram had worked with a doctor for over a year and had planned to practice before deciding to come west.

He carried his blanket and the slicker to a corner of the woods near the spring and rolled up. Yet it was a long time before he fell asleep. His hands were swollen from the battering they had taken in punching Hale, although he had gone to the body as much as possible.

What would happen in Cedar now? Would the Hales hear of his visit to Nita? Had they any idea the two were old friends? He doubted that, and doubted they would know more than that he had gone to the Crystal Palace, a not unexpected thing, since the Mecca was controlled by Hale.

Slowly, as he lay awake, he turned over the various choices they had. They were outnumbered at least five to one, but that troubled him less than supplies.

There was game in the mountains, but not so much that it would not be seriously depleted by trying to live off it. Each of the families had some stores against bad weather or attack, yet none of them had enough. Supplies of food and ammunition were of first importance, and there was no chance in Cedar ... Or maybe there was.

An idea came to him, and he considered it from all angles, and somewhere during his considerations he fell asleep.

When he awakened again he lay for a few minutes watching the first graying of the night come to the Hat-field ranch. Slowly things became distinct. The peeled bars of the corral, and handmade shakes on the barn roof, the carefully hewn timbers of the log house. Parson Hatfield and his sons had expended much hard labor here, but everything was made with a loving touch. They had been building a home, not just a house.

He sat up. If he had his way about it, this would be their home as long as they wished to stay.

Chapter
6

The morning sun had scarcely lifted over the pines when the men gathered around the long table in the Hatfield home. Breakfast was over and the women had gone on to other work.

Trent sat at the foot of the table, making few comments. He was tired and stiff. One eye was black and badly swollen. He had four stitches taken in a cut on his cheekbone, and his lips and one ear was puffed and red. He was in no mood for conversation, yet it had to be. Looking at those around the table, he could not but wonder how many would be present when the time came to celebrate a victory, if there was to be one.

More than any of the others, he knew what lay ahead. The years since boyhood had dealt hardly with him, and on more than one occasion he had seen such troubles start, and so far he had lived to see them end. Many of those with whom he had worked and fought had not survived.

The five Hatfields were there. O'Hara and Bartram. The big Irishman was a game man who among other things had been a policeman in New York. Bartram was young, keen, and a man who had grown up, as most of them had, hunting meat for the table. He was excited by what lay ahead, and was ready for anything and everything.

Smithers was quiet and middle-aged, the oldest of them but for Parson himself. He was a small man, precise in his thinking and planning, avoiding trouble yet seemingly fearless. He was the best farmer of the lot, and the best businessman.

Two more rode in while they were sitting at breakfast. Jackson Hight was a wild-horse hunter, a former cowhand and buffalo hunter, and Steve Runyon a former miner.

Parson Hatfield cleared his throat. "This here meetin' better come to order. Them Haleses ain't about to wait until we uns get organized. There's a few things come first. We got to pick us a leader, and we got to find some way to get grub and ammunition."

Trent spoke up. "Parson? If I can put in a word. I believe it would be safer if we all came here, bringing what supplies and horses we can."

"And leave our places?" Smithers objected. "Why, they'd burn us out! They'd ruin our crops and run off our stock!"

"He's right," O'Hara agreed. "If we aren't there to defend them, they won't last long. That's playing right into their hands."

"Which of you feels qualified to defend himself against twenty gunmen? I don't feel I could. There isn't a place among yours where one man could stand off five men, let alone several times that many. You can only shoot out of one window at a time. They'll get around you, and you'd be dead within minutes.

"There's but two places among us that can be defended with any chance of winning. Mine and the Hatfields', and mine won't handle all the people we've got. Hatfield has more supplies on hand, he's got a place that can be defended, and there's already five men on the spot.

"If we get burned out, we can rebuild. Hell, there isn't a man here who hasn't already built more than once. But if you're dead, you aren't going to build anything."

"Strikes me as sensible," Hight said. "It's the old argument, 'united we stand, divided we fall,' so I move we all come together here."

"You may be right," O'Hara agreed. "Dick Moffit didn't do very well alone."

"That means I'll lose my barn!" Smithers protested.

Nobody said anything, and after a minute he said, "Well, I can always build a new one, even if it takes ten years."

"We will all help," Bartram replied.

"How about a leader?" Smithers asked. "How about you, Parson?"

"No, I'm obliged, but I ain't your man. I move we choose Trent here."

There was a moment of silence, and then O'Hara said, "I'll second that motion. After all, he whipped Hale."

Runyon shook his head. "No offense, Trent, but I don't know you. Fistfighting is one thing, handling a fight like this will be another. I've got no objections to Trent, but after all, Parson, you've done a lot of feudin'."

"That I have," Hatfield replied, "but let me say this here. Onct I was a sharpshooter and I rode with Jeb Stuart. One time ol' Jeb he sent us off on a special detail, and we'd been sent like that often, because we always got the job done. Well, this last time we got our socks whupped off us by a youngster Union officer. He only had half as many man as us, but he surely out-maneuvered us an' whupped us."

He poured coffee around the table, then put the pot down. "Point that I'm makin' is that that young Union officer who whupped us so bad, that was Trent here." He smiled slyly, eyes twinkling. "I never said nothin' to Trent about rememberin' him, because back then he had a different name than now, and a man's name is his own business."

"That's good enough for me," Runyon said. "If you say he's got the savvy, I'll take your word for it."

"All right." Trent wasted no time. "Mount up and go home, bring all you can load easy of ammunition and grub, but get back tonight. Two of you ride together as much as possible, and watch your back trail. They will be coming, you can depend upon it, and I want all of you back here alive. We need every man ... Don't try to fight unless you cannot get away, just come on to the Hatfields'."

Trent got to his feet. "We will let Hale make the first move. That isn't tactically sound, but we must have the law on our side. If they attack first, we have every right to defend ourselves.