Читать книгу Dark Valley - Jackson Gregory - Страница 7

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The Morgans, whenever they spoke of their lofty, cliff-guarded demesne, called it simply the Valley. For them there were no other valleys; this one, which they loved with a fierce, passionate ownership-love, sufficed. For them there was the Valley with those who dwelt therein, the Morgans; the rest of the world was vaguely “Outside.” The Outside covered everything from the Mexican border to the Canadian, from the Pacific to the eastern plains that melted away at last into the Atlantic. Here you had the Valley, the Morgans; elsewhere, the Outside, the Outsiders. And since time out of mind—since at any rate the first Morgan, Duke’s granduncle Jeff Morgan came here—there was little commerce between the two.

When now and then the Morgans found it necessary to ride out of their Valley, or when some uncurbed impulse prompted the brief sortie, it was the usual thing for at least a half dozen of them, often a dozen or even a score, to ride together; and more often than not their excursion was one of high-handed lawlessness. They went forth like a pack of wolves; they ravished and robbed and looted; hot with liquor when they started, they were red-eyed drunk when they came storming back. All this was known for a hundred miles in all directions from their snug little mountain kingdom; that they were permitted from year to year to go on their way was due to several factors: First, they were Morgans and had lived thus since the first white man, a Morgan, led the hunters and trappers westward unto these high places. They were based in habit and in tradition.

Further, in the Valley there were thirty or forty of them, all Morgans or men with some dash of Morgan blood in them; and though many a time hatred and jealousy flamed up among some of them and they fought like mountain lions, yet always they banded together against an invasion of the Morgan privileges and prerogatives. They boasted that they were here a long while before the Outsiders, of late grown milksops, started electing them their sheriffs; that never had a sheriff once penetrated the Valley save as a friend and on invitation from the Morgans.

Still further, making their bold tenure here a thing which seemed assured to continue with its swagger, their strength was not alone restricted to their intrenchment in this all but inaccessible fastness. Among the Outsiders, where they were universally feared, they had a pretty fair sprinkling of friends. These were for the most part the undesirables of the back country, the parasitic element which inhabited the mountain places of disorder, the saloon and gambling houses; there were, too, men who had their small, unkempt ranches and appeared to live without toil or any great reward; there were the hunters and trappers and goldseekers who came and went their devious ways, sometimes in peace, sometimes ruffling the high serenity of the brooding wilderness country. Some of these were Morgan sympathizers; some of them came, perhaps twice a year, to the Valley, to stuff their hides full at the roistering barbecues, to drink themselves skin-tight on the heady Morgan whisky, to ride away provisioned and with money in their pockets.

For the Morgans, after their own interpretation of the word, were kingly. Freebooters and robbers, they occasionally opened a strong hand and let gold pieces trickle through the fingers for smaller men to glean. These smaller men earned and were worthy of their hire; among the Outsiders they were little more than Morgan spies.

And so it was that at the trading post where a settlement was already starting, and at Red Luck Ravine where a rough-and-ready little town grew up at a crossroads in a mountain meadow, when a number of men chanced to gather they did not always speak everything that was in their minds. For there was always apt to be some hanger-on for whom no one could altogether vouch, a man who might be a Morgan Outsider. Certain it was that only last spring a fiery old cattleman, Ed Daly from Rincon Alto, rather overindulged in his constitutional rights of free speech, was utterly indifferent who his audience might be, said things about the Morgans which everyone knew to be true, passed along in his tirade to making a few threats—and a week later the Rincon Alto was raided, its stock scattered, its buildings burned, Ed Daly badly hurt and two of his strapping tall sons dead with bullets through them. The raid took place on a dark night; the raiders were masked; no one could swear that they were Morgan men and everyone knew that they were none other.

Nor was any man dead sure which of the dozen who had listened to the old cattleman’s denunciations and threats had been the one to carry the tale to the Valley. It grew to be the custom hereabouts, when two men spoke together and when a third joined them, for them to fall silent.

Dark Valley was an abiding place of eternal shadows. And here of late a shadow within the valley grew so tall that it towered against the sky. Dark Valley was a priceless, lovely heritage for the Morgans to swagger and roister and wax great in, for them to love as they loved nothing else on earth, for them always to have and to hold—unless somehow it slipped out of their grasp. And now, among the shadows of the Valley the tallest, blackest gloomiest shadow of all was the fear that the century-old tenure was in danger of breaking.

When infrequently an Outsider came uninvited to Dark Valley he stopped and rapped for entrance, in a way of speaking, at one of the three barred doors giving access to the Morgan demesne—the gate through which Bolt had entered, South Gate at the far lower end, and Middle Gap Gate. Slung to a cross pole over each gate was a big bell. Rumor, fast taking on the old lichen-tone of legend, said that the three bells once swung in a lonely adobe church, long since melted back into mother earth, called the Little Santa Anita. Long dead Morgans, if the tale had it aright, had wrecked the church because its priest refused to do their bidding in some unholy travesty of wedlock they had demanded, and had brought the bells here to serve them as they did now.

Bolt Haveril heard the reverberating, not unmusical clamor of a bell, and did not in the least know what it portended, since he had failed to mark the bell itself above the gate and half hidden by the overarching trees. The notes swelled out sonorously, filling the long narrow valley, echoing against the cliffs, carrying word to every Valley dweller that someone at the North Gate came upon some matter of urgency.

Duke Morgan, having laughed away the episode of his fiend of a young son having set the wolfish Stag on Lady, had started toward the stable to have a look at what the boys had found in the newcomer’s bed-roll. Now, at the swelling bell notes, he halted and stood frowning in a concentration of effort to read some particular significance into the sound. In the end however he turned, still scowling, toward Budge, demanding:

“Who’s that? It wouldn’t be that fool sheriff coming back, would it?”

Budge strode away, down toward the bridge. A man met him there, coming from the gate. The two spoke briefly, then Budge returned to report.

“It’s Rick Mooney.” When Duke, having forgotten the name, continued to frown and stare, Budge completed his explanation: “He’s that yeller dog, Duke, that used to work for old Ed Daly over at Rincon.”

Duke remembered, grimaced and spat.

“Let him in. Bring him to me if he’s got anything I want to hear. If he’s just trying to horn in again on past performances, cut his ears off and boot him to hell out of here. I’ll be at the barn.”

“I’ll come along with you,” said Bolt Haveril. “If you’re headed for a look-see at what’s mine, I might as well be handy.”

Duke shrugged heavily and went on; it seemed natural enough that this fellow, whom he took to be Don Diablo, would wish to be on hand while others looked into his pack. There was nothing to make him suspect that Bolt Haveril’s entire interest was given to the bell ringer, the man who came with urgent word from the Outside and who, did his message prove to be important, was to be brought straightway to Duke Morgan.

But there were those who knew where Bolt Haveril’s interests would be sure to center at a moment like this—Sheriff Dan Westcott of Rincon County and Sheriff Dave Heffinger of Juarez, who were at the moment listening to the same bell notes and nodding their graying old heads together over them.

“It’s sort of like a funeral bell for them hell-bustin’ Morgans, only they don’t know it,” said old Dan Westcott. “They wouldn’t, not bein’ dead yet, but——”

“Not dead by a damn’ sight, Dan,” muttered Dave Heffinger, and shook his head soberly. “And it strikes me there’s apt to be funerals for me’n you both before the Morgans are turned under.”

“Shucks, Dave, that’s no way to talk,” snorted Dan. “But come along; let’s get going.”

They had met by prearrangement in a dense bit of woods less than half a mile from the spot where Dave Heffinger had ambushed Bolt Haveril. The older man, after his duel with the lone rider, had in reality but made pretense of a retreat south to his headquarters in Rincon County; he had merely withdrawn to his tethered horse and had arrived where he now was by riding a short unseen arc through the timber.

From their vantage point they had taken in a good deal of what had happened. They had watched the induction of a certain stranger—be he what he claimed, Bolt Haveril from Texas, a rancher, or the ill-reputed Juan Morada, Don Diablo of the border—into the Morgan valley. They had pursed their lips and fingered their chins and done their bit of placing their mental bets on the outcome.

They mounted and rode, of one mind to come into Red Luck as soon as possible. As they started, Dave Heffinger pulled off his hat, spun it on a horny forefinger, regarded it dismally and remarked:

“I can’t say, Dan’l, as I’ve got to regard all your friends as my friends. That damn young pup mighty near drilled me between the right eye and the left eye. If I hadn’t heard the bullet coming, and dodged——”

Dan cackled at him, and then pulled off his own hat.

“Look at it,” he said, and managed a sort of giggle unbecoming his years and official status. “Shot me, Bolt did, just like he did you. And I’m here to tell you, Davie boy, of all the shots I know Bolt Haveril’s the nearest. He can trim your eyebrows and never burn your hide.”

“All I know,” grunted the sheriff of Juarez County, “is that he’s done gone and spoiled a good hat for me.”

“It lets the air blow through so as to keep you cool,” chuckled Dan Westcott, and they rode.

In due course, following a circuitous and little traveled trail, they came to Red Luck. That is to say, they arrived at a small nucleus where ganglions of the whole mountain country centered. It was not so much a town as a cluster of houses at a crossroads. There was the blacksmith shop with the little frequented hotel as an adjunct, the place where the stage stopped to take on or discharge a passenger or two; there was the lunch counter across the road; there was most of all the saloon where the thirsty and adventurous drank doubtful whisky and danced with undoubtable girls. The two sheriffs headed straight, like homing pigeons, for the saloon. The Barrel House it was called, not without reason.

There was a small back room which reeked of privacy. They sat and drank their whiskys straight.

“Now,” said Dan.

“Yep, just about now,” agreed Dave, and downed his drink like a man who needed it. He looked fidgety; he was nervous; he didn’t try to conceal from an old friend who knew him from the crown peak of his sombrero to the bottoms of his lop-sided boot heels that he was worried. “Spill it, Dan’l.”

“You’ve got most of the story already,” said Dan Westcott.

Dave Heffinger dabbed at his wet lips with a bright red bandana.

“Have I?” he said laconically. “I got a short letter from you, Dan’l, which left out about twice as much as you said. I played out my hand the way you told me to; I had me my run-in with this friend of yours; he shot me through the hat and I stood for a good cussing from Budge Morgan. Outside of that, if anybody asks me, I can just say I don’t know.”

“It’s like this,” said Dan. “First off, you know how things stand in Dark Valley, and what Duke Morgan’s game is.”

“Sure,” said Heffinger. “I got that.”

“Bueno. Now young Haveril cuts in. That’s who he is all right, Bolt Haveril, from Texas, like he says.” He indulged again in his good-humored chuckling noises. “He’s a big rancher down there; he runs stock over a hundred thousand acres. Likewise and also he’s more than that. He got himself made a deputy sheriff.”

“Just for fun?” said Dave.

“More than that. He had him a notion to go out and get Don Diablo. Now he’s out to pull the Morgans down.”

Heffinger stared into his empty glass, then cursed into it. Dan Westcott saw that it was promptly filled.

“I’ve been sheriff up here seven years, Dan,” said Dave. “You’ve been sheriffing down in Rincon County for twice that long and mebbe more. All this time I’ve wanted to get my rope over the Morgans’ horns, and you know it. No can do. You, too; you’ve tried and couldn’t nail them. They how come this young hop-o’-my-thumb Bolt Haveril thinks he can cut the mustard? And being deputy sheriff down in Texas won’t help him; this ain’t Texas!”

“He’s young,” said Dan. “So he’s hopeful. That’s the way young fellers are. Remember, Dave? What’s more, there’s what I wrote in my letter; there’s a Morgan girl in the Valley, they call her Lady, and her brother got clear of the Morgans somehow and spilled all the beans to Bolt. And when he got himself shot up, knocked over by that feller Don Diablo, why Bolt did him some figgering, and stepped up here to fix things. That’s clear enough for a child of three to understand, ain’t it?”

“What a child!” groaned the Juarez County sheriff and drank deep. “I’ve seen just enough sense in what you’ve said to play along with you, Dan’l; but I’m damned if I understand.”

“You’re damned anyhow,” said Dan complacently. “But here it is: We’ve given Bolt a proper send-off in the Valley; the Morgans are dead sure he’s a mal hombre and that the law’s after him, seeing they heard and watched when Bolt and me had a gun fight, and also when you and Bolt did the same. And he’s in the Valley, where most folks can’t get very easy. Next, we’ve started a ruckus out here, and we know from hearing the Morgan bell ringing that word of that same ruckus has been carried into the Valley. Come night time, the Morgans will be swarming out of their snug places like a swarm of hornets you throwed a rock into. Then, says Bolt Haveril, he’ll grab the girl somehow, one way or another, and get her out of there. That done, where’ll the Morgans be?”

“Where?” asked Dave, as one who wanted to know.

“Morgan Valley,” said Dan, “belonged to Thad Morgan. He had two kids; one was the boy that broke free and got shot up down in Texas by Don Diablo, with this Don Diablo getting his orders straight from Duke Morgan; the other is the girl they call Lady. Like I say, the boy, Bob, got away. If Bolt Haveril gets Lady out before she is of legal age and can sign her property rights over, well then the Morgans haven’t any more claim on the valley than you have. Or me. And though they might squat tight and make trouble for a year or two, they know damn well they’d go out on their ears. Got it, Dave?”

“Hell, yes,” said Dave. “Only what makes Bolt Haveril, the young hat-shooting hellion, think he can do what you and me have tried to do for years? He’d do it in five minutes!”

“He’s young, like I said,” sighed Dan. “I know the kid. I knowed his daddy. I hope he don’t get filled up with Morgan lead—but I’ve got my doubts. Duke Morgan ain’t only a wolf and a tiger and a bear and a skunk and a rattlesnake, but he’s also a damn fox. Bolt had better look out.”

“And it’s all set to happen pronto?” said Dave.

“Yes. Pronto. Tonight, mebbe.”

“Most likely there’ll be hell popping soon,” said Dave resignedly.

“Just you sit back and listen for it,” said Dan Westcott, sounding comforting. “You’re apt to hear her pop any minute now. We’ve took the lid off and Bolt Haveril has dropped the match in the powder barrel, and all we got to do, Dave, is wait—and while we’re waiting, have another drink? Good whisky, ain’t it?”

“It sure is,” said Dave.

So they waited.