Payback At Black Valley Forge Read online

  Payback at Black Valley Forge

  John Mitchum arrives in Sagegrease straight into a heap of trouble. Someone is stalking him. To get some answers he must ride the long trail to Black Valley and towards his own past.

  The race is on. Who will get there first? Mitchum must contend all the way with Turkey Joe Mulligan and his vicious gang of outlaws. But there are others with a stake in the eventual outcome: the rich owner of the Quarter Circle and the mysterious stranger Challoner.

  It’s payback time for somebody, but who?

  By the same author

  Last Reckoning for the Presidio Kid

  Payback at Black Valley Forge

  Emmett Stone

  ROBERT HALE

  © Emmett Stone 2011

  First published in Great Britain 2011

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2302-2

  The Crowood Press

  The Stable Block

  Crowood Lane

  Ramsbury

  Marlborough

  Wiltshire SN8 2HR

  www.bhwesterns.com

  This e-book first published in 2017

  Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press

  The right of Emmett Stone to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  Chapter One

  Outside the saloon a lot of yelling and shouting was taking place but it was good humoured. Jess Stevens, the town marshal, leaned against a stanchion and watched the cowpokes having a good time. They had just sold the herd of cattle they had driven up from the Gulf country and were blowing their hard-earned wages on drink, gambling and girls. It made for good business; any town like Sagegrease stood to benefit if it wasn’t razed to the ground in the process. He had seen a few cow towns come and go – Baxter Springs, Ellsworth, Cheyenne. The thing to worry about was not the activities of cowboys at trail’s end but the extension of the railroad to a new cattle trail terminus. Sagegrease was enjoying its brief spell in the sun. It would be nice to think it might survive, but it would take some effort.

  The uproar became louder as the batwings swung open and a tall, thin figure emerged. Stevens observed him more closely. There was something about him which seemed different from the rest of the cowhands and it had nothing to do with his general appearance. He wore the usual soiled range clothes and Stetson hat. It was more to do with the way the rest of the men regarded him, quietening their antics to acknowledge him with a nod, moving aside to let him pass down the boardwalk. He strolled as far as the grocery store and went inside. After a few moments the door opened and was held ajar by the man as a lady Stevens recognized as Lucy Wetherall came out carrying some bags. The man closed the door gently and lifted his hat in acknowledgement of something she said to him. He carried another big bag and placed it carefully in a buggy drawn up by the boardwalk. Then he turned away, walking back to the Legal Tender and stepping down to unfasten his horse, a big Appaloosa, from the hitchrack. At the same moment the batwings swung open and two men appeared. They stepped down from the boardwalk and continued moving away from him, fanning out as they did so. Suddenly one of them turned.

  ‘Mitchum!’

  The sound of his voice was harsh and seemed to cut across the other noises like a wedge separating what had gone before from what was about to happen next. The man addressed as Mitchum didn’t turn but continued to stand with his back to them.

  ‘I called your name,’ the man said.

  There was no response from Mitchum. Even now the marshal hadn’t registered that anything untoward was taking place.

  ‘Mitchum, you’re a two-bit cowardly prairie dog.’

  Very slowly, Mitchum began to turn. At these last words the marshal started from his lethargy. He looked closely at the men but didn’t recognize them. It seemed unlikely they were part of the Gulf country outfit.

  ‘I’m callin’ you, Mitchum. Some folk say you’re quick. I say you’re a washed out piece of buffalo dung.’

  The marshal took a step away from the stanchion. At the same instant he saw the man who had accosted Mitchum go for his gun. Mitchum was sideways on to both men and it seemed he could not have seen the man’s hand drop to his holster, but before the man had his gun in his hand, Mitchum’s revolver was drilling hot lead into his chest. The other man had drawn his weapon and his finger was on the trigger as Mitchum spun and fired again. The two guns went off simultaneously. For a moment both men stood as if transfixed, looking at one another. The street seemed oddly silent after the crash of gunfire; gunsmoke hung like a gauze curtain between the two combatants. A number of people had emerged from the stores lining the street, watching the scene from a distance with shocked attention. Another instant of time went past with leaden feet. The two men still stood immobile but then the marshal saw blood running down the face of the man whose companion lay in a crumpled heap in the dirt. The man was looking at Mitchum with a puzzled look and then without warning he toppled forward like a felled log. Mitchum remained still for just another instant and then he stepped forward a few paces and looked down at his two assailants. He put his gun back into its holster and looked up to where the marshal was approaching.

  ‘Didn’t want to have to do it,’ he said. ‘They gave me no choice.’

  ‘I saw it,’ the marshal replied.

  Mitchum reached into a pocket and produced a couple of silver coins.

  ‘Give that to the undertaker,’ he said.

  The marshal kneeled down to examine the two dead bodies.

  ‘Do you know who these men are?’ he said.

  ‘Nope. Ain’t made their acquaintance.’

  Mitchum turned and walked back to his horse. Some of his fellows from the saloon had gathered round and one of them patted him on the back. He finished untying the horse and stepped into leather. He turned and nodded at some of the roistering cowboys. Someone shouted:

  ‘Good luck, Mr Mitchum!’

  Stevens noted the respectful tone of the address. The stranger touched the horse lightly with his spurs and it moved off slowly down the street.

  Mitchum kept on riding till he was a long way from town. The sun was sinking low when he finally stopped to set up camp in a spot formed by a bend in a stream, framed by willows and cottonwood trees. He tended to the Appaloosa and then set about making himself comfortable, building a fire and laying slabs of bacon in a pan. By the time he had eaten, the moon had climbed high; he pulled out a pouch of tobacco and rolled himself a cigarette. A gentle breeze blew down from the hills and he felt refreshed. He had money in his pocket from the cattle drive and time on his hands. He had got along well with the rest of the men on the trail but he felt distanced from most of them. Maybe it was his age. They had urged him to ride back with them to the Apple Bar but he wanted a change. A change to what he didn’t know. He didn’t intend wasting any effort thinking about it.

  He awoke in the small hours. In an instant he was alert and his gun was in his hand. He had moved back from the fire to where he had a view of the clearing. The last embers had died away but he could see enough by the light of the stars. Nearby, the whisper of the running stream and the soughing of the wind in the trees was the only sound to disturb the stillness of the night. From a little way off his horse stamped and snorted. He listened intently and caught the faint rhythm of horses’ hoofs. It carried on the wind for a few moments and then vanished away. For a while longer he sat up and then he lay down again and closed his eyes. When he opened them it was dawn.

  He got up and made his way to the pool. He took off his clothes and dived in. The water was cold and when he came out his skin was tingling. He dressed and then relit the fire. It was while he was eat
ing that he heard the sound of hoofs but he wasn’t concerned. He had been half expecting to have visitors. After a time a voice called out and then a couple of the Apple Bar boys rode into the clearing accompanied by a third man who wore a star.

  ‘Howdy,’ Mitchum greeted them. ‘Guess you could do with some coffee.’ The ranch-hands looked grim. The three riders swung down from their saddles and joined him by the fire.

  ‘I got a feelin’ that what you’re about to tell me ain’t gonna be good,’ Mitchum said.

  The cowpunchers looked to the marshal.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I don’t intend beatin’ about the bush.’

  He turned to Mitchum.

  ‘I don’t know if this has anythin’ to do with what happened yesterday. After you left, the rest of the boys were enjoyin’ themselves and things got a bit colourful. To cut a long story short, there was trouble. A fight broke out.’

  Mitchum looked at the two Apple Bar riders.

  ‘That ain’t all,’ one of them said.

  ‘Seems like your boys upset a bunch of cowboys from the Quarter Circle Bucket. That’s a big spread to the north of town. Your boys came off best. Trouble is, seems the Quarter Circle men weren’t prepared to leave it at that.’

  The marshal looked towards the two men from the Apple Bar, Bill Casper and Ron Murray. They were good cowhands.

  ‘They bushwhacked a couple of us on their way back to camp. Shot ’em down in cold blood,’ Casper said.

  Mitchum was suddenly attentive.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Who?’

  ‘Clint Darcy and Ron Hayes.’

  Mitchum’s mouth set in a grim line.

  ‘I know you finished your business with the Apple Bar,’ Murray added. ‘But we all figured you’d want to know.’

  Mitchum got to his feet.

  ‘Appreciate it,’ he said.

  He turned to the marshal.

  ‘What’s your role in this?’

  ‘I’m ridin’ on over to the Quarter Circle right now,’ the marshal replied.

  ‘You get on back,’ Mitchum said to the other two. ‘There ain’t nothin’ more you can do.’

  They started to expostulate but Mitchum cut them short.

  ‘This don’t involve you any further,’ he said. ‘Best thing you can do is get on back to the Apple Bar.’

  ‘What about you, Mr Mitchum?’ Murray inquired.

  Mitchum took a moment to consider.

  ‘I’m goin’ with the marshal,’ he said.

  The marshal merely nodded his head.

  ‘Sure,’ he replied.

  The Apple Bar riders were still reluctant but didn’t stop to argue the matter any further. With a final word of farewell they swung into leather and rode away.

  ‘Guess I’d better introduce myself properly,’ the marshal said when they had disappeared from sight. ‘Name’s Stevens, Jess Stevens.’

  ‘Mitchum, John Mitchum.’

  The marshal looked closely at him and was thoughtful.

  ‘You wouldn’t be the same John Mitchum tamed Red Rock?’ he said.

  The suggestion of a smile lifted the corner of Mitchum’s mouth.

  ‘Some might say that,’ he said. ‘I’d say things just quieted down some.’

  ‘Didn’t stay that way,’ Stevens said. ‘Not after you left.’

  Mitchum shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘I never went back.’

  The marshal decided to turn the conversation in a different direction.

  ‘Sure happy to have you along,’ he said, ‘but do you mind if I ask one question: why?’

  ‘Ron Hayes was my deputy in Red Rock. We rode a few trails together before and since. He was ramroddin’ the cattle drive. It was him who asked me if I wanted to come along. Guess I’m just returnin’ the favour.’

  There were a few other things the marshal would have liked to ask but he decided to leave it.

  They were riding towards the hills. As they rode Marshal Stevens filled Mitchum in with some details about the ranch.

  ‘Those hills is full of mustangs,’ he said. ‘Old Sam Bucket saw the potential for some horse-breedin’.’

  ‘Never figured mustangs were much use as cow ponies.’

  ‘Maybe not. I guess hosses is just as different as folks.’

  ‘So he rounds ’em up and breaks ’em in. Can’t be a lot of money in that.’

  ‘I guess it’s more of a hobby. Sam don’t need to concern himself about money. He made his pile; don’t ask me how. He just enjoys playin’ the role of big rancher.’

  ‘Does he spend a lot of time away?’

  ‘Used to. He’s kind of retired now. Wait till you see the place. Imported furniture, the best wine and whiskey, paintin’s.’

  ‘You figure we’ll get that far?’

  ‘Big Sam is OK,’ the marshal replied. ‘That’s why it seems kinda strange that any of his boys would get involved in a shootin’ affair.’

  Mitchum did not reply. Instead he looked up towards a ridge where he had just seen a flash of light. Before he could utter a word of warning, there came a puff of smoke followed by the crump of a bullet and Mitchum felt a stab of pain as the shot ripped into his shoulder. Neither man hesitated; in a second they had slid from the saddle and pulled their horses to the ground. A second shot rang out and tore up dust nearby. Mitchum had his rifle to his shoulder and fired in the direction of the smoke curling into the air above them. Stevens did the same. Mitchum’s eyes scanned the hillside.

  ‘Seems like there’s only one of ’em,’ he said.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Stevens asked.

  Mitchum looked down at the blood oozing from his shoulder.

  ‘Yeah. It’s only a flesh wound. Nothin’ seems to be broken.’

  They were expecting more shots but none came. Then, from somewhere on the opposite side of the hill, they heard the sound of hoofs.

  ‘Looks like he’s decided to call it a day,’ Mitchum said.

  They waited a few moments longer and then stood up, raising their horses.

  ‘Let’s take a look,’ the marshal said.

  They mounted and rode up the spot where they reckoned the gunman had been concealed. There were scuffs in the soil where the gunman’s boots had trod and, further back, the imprints of hoofs. The marshal returned to the spot where the gunman had been situated and commenced to look more closely. After a while he shouted to Mitchum and held something up.

  ‘A cartridge case!’ he called.

  Mitchum rode up. Together, he and the marshal examined it.

  ‘.50 calibre,’ Mitchum said. ‘Nothin’ unusual there.’

  ‘Remington. A favourite with sharp-shooters.’

  ‘He weren’t so sharp,’ Mitchum said. ‘He only grazed me.’

  The marshal looked thoughtful.

  ‘Less’n it was meant as some kinda warnin’.’

  ‘For me or for you?’ Mitchum said.

  ‘It was you he hit,’ the marshal replied. ‘I don’t figure he was that bad a marksman.’

  When Stevens had cleaned Mitchum’s wound with water from his flask and bound it with their bandannas, they mounted and rode on.

  Stevens was right about the Quarter Circle Bucket; even from the outside it presented a grand appearance. It wasn’t like anything that Mitchum had ever seen before. The ranch house was long and high and rambling, with a variety of excrescences and additions. Verandas and covered passageways linked the main building with a number of others. Windows were not flat but projected. If Mitchum had known anything about architecture, he might have recognized it as belonging to the American Bracketed style, but he didn’t. It just seemed an extraordinary thing to find near a place like Sagegrease.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ the marshal said. ‘Ever seen anythin’ like it?’

  They rode on past some outlying buildings of a more conventional type into what passed as the yard, where they dismounted and tied their horses to the hitching rail. As they did so the door of the ranch
house opened and a man appeared who, in his own way, seemed as eccentric and unlikely as the house. He was well built but his whole frame appeared to be twisted to one side. His hair was white and hung in untidy locks to his shoulders, but his white beard, by contrast, was cut short and carefully trimmed. He was smoking a pipe of a kind Mitchum had not seen before. It was a calabash pipe with a meerschaum bowl carved into an elaborate design which seemed to include horses. Over the years the white meerschaum had matured into a warm golden brown colour. As he advanced along the wide veranda, the man seemed to walk with a distinctive roll.

  ‘Marshal Stevens! Good to see you again.’

  He paused to look at Mitchum.

  ‘Good to find you lookin’ well,’ the marshal replied. ‘This here is John Mitchum.’

  He waited while Mitchum and Bucket exchanged nods before adding:

  ‘He used to ride with an outfit called the Apple Bar.’

  The marshal, like Mitchum, was observing the old man carefully but there was no sign of a response.

  ‘The Apple Bar hit town lately with a herd of beefs.’

  Bucket returned Mitchum’s gaze.

  ‘Yeah? Hope he got a good price for ’em.’

  ‘We got a fair price,’ Mitchum replied.

  Bucket reached into a pocket of his jacket to produce a tamper with which he pressed down on his pipe. The aroma of the tobacco hung in the air with a distinctive fruity tang.

  ‘Come on in,’ the rancher said when he had finished. ‘Guess you must be thirsty after ridin’ the trail.’

  He stood back while Mitchum and the marshal entered. The inside of the house was almost as remarkable as the outside. It wasn’t a particularly large room but still gave an unusual impression of spaciousness. Mitchum couldn’t at first see why this was the case and then it struck him that the room was devoid of the usual clutter of furniture. Instead there were only a few chairs, a settee and a table which seemed marooned in a sea of wood flooring on which, here and there, a few expensive rugs had been tossed in an apparently casual but in fact calculated fashion. There was a large, heavy chandelier and a cabinet containing bottles and glasses. Bucket walked over to the cabinet.