Читать книгу Dark Valley - Jackson Gregory - Страница 8

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The man, Rick Mooney, shoved across the board of his destiny like a silly pawn, came to Dark Valley and rang the bell of North Gate because Bolt Haveril had so decreed. Yet it remained that Bolt Haveril had never heard of a man named Rick Mooney, and Rick Mooney had not the vaguest idea that an individual named Bolton Haveril existed.

All that Rick Mooney knew was that he had an earful of news which should be spilled immediately to the Morgans; he’d stand in closer than ever with them; they’d hand him money generously; they’d clap him on the back and somehow give him the feeling that he was a big gun. That made his pigeon breast stick out inches; it put warmth into the cold marrow of his spine.

And all that Bolt Haveril knew was that he was out to bring young Bob Morgan’s sister out of captivity, and with the same sweeping gesture cut the legs out from under the proud Morgans. Hell had waited for them long enough. So, with the coöperation of two sheriffs, he had arranged that today there should be such word brought to the Morgans as would send them buzzing forth from their valley. Whether the messenger was one man or another did not in the least signify. But after the bell had rung and he had heard the few words which had passed between Duke and Budge Morgan, he knew that the messenger had come and that it behooved him to hear what the message was and to take stock of what Duke Morgan had to say and meant to do.

And he heard the whole of it, since Rick Mooney, when he arrived, was so full of it and so excited that he blurted it out as fast as his profane tongue could waggle. He was brought to the barn where Duke Morgan and Bolt Haveril had already gone.

Duke Morgan stooped over the small heap of gold coins and bank notes displayed on Haveril’s tarpaulin. He took up one twenty dollar piece after another, studied it, dropped it back when done with it as though it had become after his scrutiny no more than a pebble. He straightened up and glared at the stolid, watchful Haveril.

“I marked that money when I sent it down to the border,” he said in his angry rumble. “I didn’t trust Juan Morada then and I don’t trust him now. But there’s no sense your lying any more. I paid you to nab that damn young fool Bob Morgan; I paid you to save him for me and see to it that I got him back alive. And I paid well.”

Bolt Haveril shrugged and the faintest hint of a smile touched the hard line of his mouth.

“Well?” demanded Duke. A deeper hot color had come into his face and the veins on his forehead stood out full of blood.

“If you want to claim that money, go ahead,” said Haveril as though the matter were a small one and beneath him. “You’ve got it here, you’ve got the odds against me——”

“Hell take the money!” roared Duke, and kicked at it with his heavy boot. “It’s Bob Morgan I want.”

Then it was that Rick Mooney, convoyed by Budge and Tilford, came hastening, almost running.

“Duke!” he called. “There’s hell to pay Outside. They’ve rounded up every one of your friends they could find—they’ve got seven of ’em in a herd—they swear they’re goin’ to hang every mother’s son of ’em, an’ hang ’em pronto. They’re in Pocket Gully——”

Duke stared at him as though he wouldn’t believe this, and for the moment forgot all other matters.

“Who told you?” he demanded curtly. “How do you know? What friends of mine are rounded up? And who did it?”

Rick Mooney couldn’t tell his tale fast enough.

“Nobody told me. I know because I was one of them. I got away in the dark, just before day. I had a hell of a time getting here; on foot all the way, an’ Gawd my feet hurt me! They’ve got the two Bedloe boys an’ ol’ man Adams an’ his son Jimmie, an’ Injun Joe an’ Slim Conroy an’ Doc Savage.”

Duke Morgan’s amazement matched his fury.

“Who did this?” he asked thickly. “How many of them were there—and what in hell’s got into them?”

“I don’t know who they are, Duke! There was only a half dozen of ’em, I’d say. They had their faces covered, an’ they was even careful how they talked, talkin’ mighty little an’ sort of mum’lin’. They caught me when I wasn’t thinkin’ of anything like that, in the dark jus’ before I got into Red Luck. I guess they jumped the other boys the same way, one at a time. Then they herded us over into Pocket Gully an’ hawg-tied us where the ol’ stone corral an’ the rock house is. They lef’ two fellers ridin’ herd on us, the others ridin’ off to round up Brocky Winch an’ the Tomkins outfit. Me, they hadn’t done a very good job tyin’ me up; it was dark, only for a little camp fire at the far end of the corral; I got loose an’ snuck into the brush an’ I been wrigglin’ an’ hidin’ like a snake an’ runnin’ an’ limpin’ ever since.”

It looked as though the distended veins in Duke’s forehead must surely burst. Yet instead of flying to new heights of gusty rage the man steadied himself and spoke in a strangely gentle fashion, almost under his breath.

“So they’re going to hang those boys, huh? Pronto?” His enormous chest swelled to a long, slow intake of air; only after his breath was expelled as slowly as it had been taken in he added, “Then I reckon the hanging’s all over by now, huh, Mooney?”

Mooney shook his head.

“Like I say, they didn’t talk much. But there was one feller who gave orders. He said as this was to be a public party. Nobody was to be hung until they’d gathered up all the Morgan Outsiders. Then the whole crowd was to be hung the same time. There was goin’ to be invitations; men was to come from Red Luck an’ Rincon an’ the ranches an’ all over. They figgered on the party for daybreak tomorrow mornin’.”

Duke turned to Budge.

“Get word through the Valley, Budge,” he said. “We’re doing us some riding, every damn man of us.”

Budge made that airy gesture of his, half salute, and turned away. Duke called him back before he had gone three swift steps.

“Hold on!” said Duke. “I’m talking before I think.” He steadied himself. “No hurry, Budge,” he went on. “They’ve either hung ’em already or there’s time aplenty. What’s more, we’ll leave some of the boys here. Who knows what’s in the wind? Maybe, if they think they can clean up on our friends Outside, they’ll even think of riding in on us here. Put good men on guard at every gate. We’ll ride about twenty strong, leaving the rest here with their eyes peeled and their guns oiled.”

“They’ll know Outside that Rick got away,” muttered Budge, “and that he most likely headed straight to the Valley.”

“Let ’em know and be damned!” roared out Duke, letting his ready rage sweep him away again. “Let ’em hang every man jack that’s a friend of ours, and I swear by the Lord we’ll hang ten of them for every one they swing for us.” And he ended with such an outburst of sulphurous profanity as to make Bolt Haveril, used as he was to outspoken men, lift his brows and stare.

Then a mellifluous voice, strange and new in Haveril’s ears, poured itself like oil over the violence of Duke’s subsiding wrath.

“Peace, Brother; peace!” said the voice. “When the day of wrath dawns, it is the Lord whom you blaspheme who shall hurl down the thunder bolts of His vengeance. So, peace, Brother, and still thine iniquitous tongue.”

Bolt Haveril turned to look at the speaker who had come up so silently, and saw a very large bodied, very fat, paunchy man with a beaming florid face, with jowls that hung down, with small wicked eyes like a pig’s. The man was dressed all in black with a round black hat and white collar, dressed like the preacher he said that he was. The “Reverend” Thomas B. Colby, he called himself. Were a Morgan to be buried, he officiated, hurling such curses at the Morgan killer or at the natural death which had snared him as to make a man shudder; were a Morgan to be married, it was he who performed the travesty of a ceremony, though the girl shrieked and begged on her knees to be spared. Of all the Morgan crowd this “Reverend” Colby was perhaps the wickedest, a great fat tub of a man who, were a pin stuck in him, would ooze blasphemy rather than blood.

“Tom Colby,” said Duke angrily, “some day I’ll forget how to take you as funny and will butcher you and feed you to the hogs.”

“Tut, tut, Duke,” chuckled Colby. “You talk sacrilege, to set your hand against a minister of the Lord.”

“A minister of hell,” snorted Budge Morgan, who had small liking for a man whom Duke tolerated because, most of the time, he enjoyed him.

That pleased and flattered Tom Colby, and his fat jowls puckered in one of his broad, buttery smiles. He was opening his wide, oratorical mouth for some further ribaldry when Duke, staring beyond him at someone approaching, burst out in a new and curious tone of voice:

“Now what? What’s all this?”

It was the girl, Lady, joining them. What Duke had noticed and what the others were quick to remark was the newly donned cartridge belt about her slim waist, the heavy gun at her side.

Her eyes were unafraid now and darkling with anger.

“If Stag ever shows his teeth at me again, I’m going to kill him,” she said, speaking quietly yet with an obvious pent-up force of determination. “I warn you, Duke Morgan. And—and Sid, too! If he dares——”

Duke stared at her a moment, then only laughed at her and turned his back. She came closer and stood listening, looking curiously at Rick Mooney, at Budge and Duke, at Bolt Haveril.

Bolt Haveril, pretending to ignore her, pretended something else also. After all his whole game here, if he meant to achieve his purpose the swiftest way, must at least for the moment rest on pretense, and his simulation needed to be the best. He managed to seem all eagerness when he spoke up, demanding of Duke:

“When you ride, Duke, let me in on it! It’s apt to be a nice, lively little party, and wouldn’t you say offhand that an extra man would come in handy?”

“From what I’ve heard of Don Diablo,” grunted Duke, “he’s just the sort of man I’d like to have with me on a ride like tonight’s—if I only knew he was with me.”

“Fine, Duke. Only, anyhow until we get to know each other a mite better, why not call me just plain Bolt Haveril?”

Lady’s eyes were upon him, puzzled, hopeful, apprehensive. Duke’s eyes fairly gimleted into him. Then Duke beckoned to Budge and started away; fat Tom Colby waddled after them and for a truly eager moment Bolt Haveril thought that he was to have a few words alone with Lady. But Duke paused to call back,

“Come ahead, Morada. Grab up your gold and anything else you want to have with you, and I’ll show you to a cabin where you can hole-up while you’re in the Valley.”

“Tell me what’s happened this morning, Duke?” called Lady. “What did this man Rick Mooney come back for? And where is it you’re riding?”

“You want to know too damn much,” he grunted at her. “Run along and play with your friend Crazy Barnaby. Come ahead, Morada.”

So Bolt Haveril didn’t so much as look at Lady again, but took up his bed-roll with its gold coins again in their little canvas bag, and followed where he was led, to a sturdy, one-room log cabin.

“You can bunk up here,” said Duke. “In a few minutes I’m riding down to the Lower End; the boys’ll have horses ready and you can come along. Most folks would give their ears to see what the Valley looks like from the inside.”

“Fine, Duke,” said Bolt a third time.

Bolt Haveril saw most of Dark Valley that day and marveled at it, finding it incredibly beautiful, locked away from the world by those tremendous cliffs which in many places towered sheer a good six or seven hundred feet. Before seeing the place he had wondered at it being so hard for one to escape save through one of the three always guarded passes; now he realized the utter impossibility of a man getting out on horseback, for no horse was ever foaled that could have accomplished the thing. A man on foot? But even that looked next door to impossible.

He saw many of the Morgan men and several of their women folk and a few small boys and girls. The Morgan men were pretty much all alike; he’d know one of them if met a thousand miles from here, stamped with force and vitality and lusty vigor and arrogance. The women, too, were alike; they were Morgan chattels, had been dragged here by the hair of their heads, were for the most part subdued, timid things. The children were all growing up willful, headlong Morgans.

Dusk came early in Dark Valley and Duke Morgan and a score of armed men gathered by Budge prepared to ride. Up to the last minute Bolt Haveril did not know whether he was to go with them or remain behind. All afternoon he had matched his wits against Duke’s. He knew that his seeming eagerness to go with the marauding party into Pocket Gully mystified the Morgan leader, that he had aroused Duke’s suspicions. Duke went aside and talked a long while grumblingly with Budge. Then he came striding back to where Bolt was saddling Daybreak.

“You stay here, Morada,” he said.

Bolt glared at him as though turned surly.

“No. I’m riding with you.”

“You stay here, hear me!” thundered Duke. “I’ll talk to you when I get back. You stay here. I don’t want any stranger along tonight, and I don’t care whether you’re Don Diablo or the devil himself. Get funny with me and, damn you, you’ll stay here tied up hand and foot.”

Then Bolt Haveril, having had his way, shrugged, yanked the saddle off Daybreak’s red back and went with it into the stable. The party, with Duke at their head, rode away.