Massacre at Idyll Valley Read online

  “Don’t want to have to get it from anyone else.”

  She pulled the needle off the thread and placed the dull back end between her lips. “Can’t talk now,” she said out the side of tight lips, “I’ve got a needle in my mouth. You’ll get the name all wrong.”

  Jake smiled. Nodded. Looked over at the neat row of stitches in his shoulder. “Fine job, Whatshername,” he said. “I’ll invite you to my next quilting party.”

  She laughed. “That would mean. . . never?”

  He touched the side of her face. “I’ll not say. That way we’ll both have to be curious about something.”

  FOURTEEN

  “What’s on your mind?” she said.

  Lily had gone home, content with Galen’s blessing for the stranger she kept in her barn. Crissy and Galen remained, sitting at the long table.

  The fact that he promised the town folk he and Sabo would go away the following morning to try and locate the Dry Creek Gang was weighing heavy on his mind. He was unusually quiet that evening. Crissy assumed it was about the challenging and dangerous journey he faced the following day but she couldn’t be sure. That’s why she asked.

  Galen smiled. A patch of red appeared under each eye.

  “You’re embarrassed about something. What is it? Nothing much makes you embarrassed.”

  “Just thinking,” he said.

  She looked cross-eyed at him. “That doesn’t tell me much.”

  Galen leaned back. “I thought women always knew these things.”

  “What things?”

  “You know. Private things.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “Galen Clay! You are going to have to be more specific. I can do a lot of wonderful things but can’t read your mind—at least not yet.”

  Galen cleared his throat. “I was remembering.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, you remember the last time I went away for something dangerous the next day?”

  “The gunfight with Horse Diggins’ men. Sure.”

  “Right.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  She tilted her head and looked at him slantwise. “Galen?”

  “What.”

  “You want to tell me more?”

  He was silent. Uneasy.

  She watched him trying to put two and two together. Her face quickly radiated. She laughed. “Oh. I just figured it out.” She leaned back with a knowing smile. “I know what you mean.”

  “What do I mean?”

  “Galen Clay you are the most opaque man sometimes.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “I know that. I was making an observation. It took me a little while but I finally figured out what you’re talking about.”

  “You sure?”

  “Try me.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay. That night before you went out to face the Diggins’ gang I was still sleeping upstairs in the attic. You were in your bedroom downstairs. That was before we were sleeping in the same bed.”

  She paused. “I know what you’re talking about. I know, Galen Clay, but we sleep in the same bed now. You can have me any time you want.”

  “Yes. But that was. . . “

  “Special?”

  “Ummm. Well, yeah.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll get to the good part.”

  Galen was almost drooling. His condition did not escape her sharp eyes.

  You were about to go off to a gunfight and I wanted to do something. . . I hesitated upstairs not sure if I should. I didn’t want to ruin things. I finally decided that since you could get wounded the following day or even get killed that we had to have a least one evening of. . . of joy.”

  She paused. Galen said nothing.

  “So I came down to your room in the middle of the night. I knocked on your door and let myself in, not waiting for a response. The moonlight was angling across the room so I stepped into the light and stood there, letting it drizzle over me like sweetmilk, shining all over my body, shadowing my face, my breasts, my legs. . . You watched me. I know you watched me even though I couldn’t see you. I felt your eyes moving over me. After a little bit I slowly, slowly lifted my nightgown up, up, up over my head and stood there naked and let your eyes find what they wanted to find.”

  She stopped. Galen was helpless. Toast.

  She smiled broadly. “Then I came over to your bed, Galen Clay, lifted the covers and lay my naked body right down beside you.”

  She was leaning over the table now, smiling, waiting.

  Two minutes passed, staring at each other, minutes so full of electricity that neither minded the wait nor wanted it to end.

  Finally, he cleared his throat. “Can we do that again?” he said.

  ****

  Next morning Galen and Sabo struck out at the crack of dawn. The town was still sleeping. Lily was making her rounds, leaving fresh milk on doorsteps.

  Galen imagined the stranger harbored somewhere inside her home, keeping him hidden, at least for now. The town would have to learn of him and his story in small pieces. Too much at once could cause explosions.

  Galen began calculating how much time it would take to get to the canyon. A horse can walk at about four miles every hour, maybe six to seven hours in a day. That means between twenty-four and twenty-eight miles if the terrain is flat and easy. It’s not.

  The canyon is about fifty miles away. The closer one gets to the canyon the more uneven the terrain is. What usually take two days might take three.

  Then you have to account for unforeseen difficulties along the way, including staying out of sight at important times when danger approaches. Two men on horseback traveling long distance over uneven terrain tracking twenty to thirty men hold up behind some cliffs in a canyon. . . this is going to be tricky. Then he had an idea.

  Between Possum Trot and Caprock Canyon, off to the side a few miles, is an Apache camp. Sabo can speak Apache. The Apache would surely know if the Dry Creek Gang was present and where they were. And, how one might approach without being seen.

  ****

  Back at Possum Trot Parson Jebediah Tull was making his rounds. He particularly liked to call on the Angel Dust now that Horse Diggins was gone and the place was being run by two delicious women, Rosalie and Martha, both well experienced in the service of mankind.

  He walked in and placed his gun on the bar as was his custom. It was both a signal of peace but also as a possible threat in case the going got rough. Which, in recent times, it never did.

  Oscar served him up his usual dark whisky and Jebediah’s gun stayed put. Rosalie spotted him from the upstairs office and came down to put her arm around his shoulder. “Good to see you here, Parson,” she said. “You’re early to come by us this morning.”

  “Checking on my sheep,” he said.

  “So glad you are helping in the defense of our town.”

  “My past, of which I do not speak, has given me lots of experience in defense. And I’ve always had a soft spot for you women. I recognize that you might need a little extra protection if a bunch of dirty men come riding into town.” He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “I think you know what I mean.”

  She kissed him on the cheek and allowed her breasts to press against his shoulder. She could see him steam up around his hairline and she watched his cheeks turn cherry. She understood the private ways of a man and could recognize even the slightest change in emotion, even more so, when they were as obvious as the parson.

  She caught Oscar’s eye, gestured to the parson’s drink. “This one’s on the house,” she said. Then she walked away.

  Over at the General Store George Pickens was opening shop. He was aware of a tension in the town. It reminded him of his two years service in the Confederate Army, how every day you lived with the suspicion that at any moment you could be attacked, shot dead or severely wounded, even while sleeping, or headed off to the latrine. No safe space. No home free. Therefore, no one slept well. No one laughed much.
Every shadow was a man with a gun.

  He checked around his store to make sure no one had stolen in while he was gone and robbed him. He unlocked the drawer where he kept his Winchester lever action and patted the Colt Army at his side. Fine way to do business, he thought.

  Over at the Rusty Bucket things were brighter. Jackson Charles, his wife Missy and their three girls, always gifted with an indomitable spirit of joy, were making morning preparations. Their vigor and optimism always showed in their religious activities on Sunday, in the songs they sung to entertain the clientele in their restaurant and bar, and in the spirit of resilience that seemed to dominate their day no matter mysterious house fires or ugly competition with Horse Diggins.

  Their lives were proceeding pretty much as before, only with a little stronger reliance upon the generosity and grace of their Lord and Savior.

  Ruth Ann, sitting at her stool by the front window over at The Outfitter’s Shop watching, as she usually does, the events of the town played out in the theatre of the street, the passages, the wagons moving into and out of town, the conversations along the board walk, all of that and more, was paying attention now with a great deal more intensity.

  Ruth Ann, a rather large woman who wears floppy hats, doesn’t get off her stool very often. But she has eyes enough to recruit to her mind the constant happenings out the portal of her front window. People took care to wave at her as they passed by. She waves back. By this ritual she feels she is in the street, in the action, even though she doesn’t have to move.

  Each resident of the town now lived under the constant tension that the fate of Possum Trot might be linked in some way to that of Idyll Valley, each resident responding in their own manner and by their own distinctive personalities. They all knew that Galen was going away that day. They had pinned upon his courageous trip the hopes that the murderous gang activity they’d seen so cruelly displayed next door, could somehow be made to pass them by.

  Despite all their differences, the men and women of Possum Trot shared, at least, that one thin hope.

  FIFTEEN

  Lily returned to the barn that morning to find her border collie, Ralph, asleep beside Johnny. Johnny was just waking.

  “New friend?” Lily said.

  Johnny gazed over at Ralph. “He got spooked last night. Came whimpering into the barn. I petted him a bit and he went to sleep.” He turned to Lily. “Have you trained this dog?”

  “To eat and run around. That’s about it.”

  “He’d make a fine cutting dog. Do I have your permission to give him some lessons?”

  Lily looked at man and dog. She felt like her approval would only be window dressing upon a curiously sudden friendship that had already begun. “Sure,” she said. “Don’t expect too much.”

  Johnny laughed. “That way you’ll be astonished no matter.”

  Johnny made an attempt to stand but his legs were weak. Lily came over and kneeled down beside him. “You think you’re ready?”

  He nodded. “I’ll start to rot if I don’t move around.”

  “I’ll help,” she said. And placed her arms under his armpits from behind. Together they stood him. He stayed put a moment getting his bearings, then lurched forward, staggered a bit. He walked to the barn door and stood looking out.

  “You’re living in a little slice of heaven,” he said.

  “That’s why I’ll never leave here,” she said.

  “Don’t blame you.”

  “Yeah, I reckon they’ll have to carry me out feet first.”

  He looked around. “If you trust me with some tools and my gun, just for protection, I’ll see what I can do to help out around here. I owe you big.”

  She brought his pistol and strapped it around his waist. She showed him the closet with the tools. He picked up a shovel and pick ax and, with one stiff left leg, struck out into the morning.

  Thirty minutes later she called him in to breakfast.

  Ralph followed, close behind.

  ****

  One day out on their journey Galen and Sabo stopped for the night. They reckoned they were half way to Capstone Canyon and if, at some point next morning, they headed off to the northeast instead of toward the canyon they’d be approaching the Apache settlement. The Apache settlement was notoriously hard to find but Galen was hoping Sabo would manage. Already there were signs they were being watched.

  “Might as well build your fire,” Sabo said. “They know we’re here.”

  They bedded down for the night, rose early next morning before sunrise and hit the trail illuminated by the ascension of light as it moved through its range.

  Two hours out and Sabo said, “We turn here.”

  Galen looked up and saw nothing to indicate that this was a trail. “How do you know?” he said.

  “The sign over there.”

  Galen looked around. “Don’t see nothing.”

  Sabo moved closer to a pile of rocks. “Here,” he said.

  Galen had a puzzled look on his face. “There’s no trail here.”

  “Stones don’t get stacked by themselves,” Sabo said. He dismounted and stood near a pile of stones. “Here’s one stone upon another. That’s a signal. Then there is a stone next to them off to the side pointing in the direction we need to take.” He stood behind the stones and sighted over the top.” It’s pointing to that butte over there. That’s where we need to head.”

  Sabo mounted and started off.

  “There’s no trail here, not even hoof prints,” said Galen.

  “The Apache spread out to the side and take a wandering, backtracking course so as not to leave an obvious set of tracks. That discourages trackers.” He paused. “Unless you know their habits.” He paused. “We, on the other hand, have to stick close to the markers.”

  An hour later, half-way to the butte, Sabo stopped.

  “What?” asked Galen.

  “We turn right.”

  Galen scoured the ground ahead of them and saw nothing to indicate a right turn.

  “What are you seeing?”

  Sabo dismounted and walked up to a clump of prairie grass. “See this? There’s no wind on earth that can tie a knot in a clump of grass.”

  Galen looked closer and, indeed, there was a knot.

  Sabo stood over it. “See the tuft at the top, above the knot?”

  “Sure.”

  That points our new direction. He looked off in the distance for a sighting object. “This will be harder, he said. We have to keep a straight line, which means looking back at our trail to make corrections since it is always the tendency of people to walk in circles.”

  He stood behind the knotted grass and sighted in the direction it indicated. He marked a large boulder in his mind. Then he turned around the opposite direction and looked behind, standing in the line between the knotted grass and the boulder. He saw the stone face of a mountain in the distance. “These will be our two markers,” he said.

  Thirty minutes later the terrain changed. Large boulders scattered around like bowling balls of the giants. Sabo stopped in his tracks. Galen followed suit.

  “We’re about to be joined,” he said and looked off to the ridge to the left where a horseman stood out in the open, another off to the right on a small hillock. “They only show when they’re about to confront.”

  A hundred yards ahead of them, out from behind a large rock came a party of five men on horseback, carrying an assortment of war tools.

  “Hold very still,” Sabo said.

  The party of five approached deliberately and halted thirty yards away. They stood stock still as if inspecting their visitors with all five of their senses.

  After about four minutes a lone horseman rode out ten yards and stopped. He carried no arms.

  Sabo rode out ten yards. He clasped his hands in front of his body, the left hand down.

  A minute passed. The Apache horseman rode closer and stopped. A conversation began which lasted about ninety seconds. Sabo came back to Galen.


  “What was that signal you gave?”

  “It was the sign of peace.”

  “Any progress?”

  “It’s a rare moment,” he said. “We’re invited in.”

  SIXTEEN

  Jake strolled out of the General Store and saw the two sages sitting on the bench. “You guys ever move?”

  “Not while you’re watching,” said Ed.

  Jake sat down.

  “Had a rough day?” said Ty.

  “More than usual.”

  Ed leaned over. “Getting quite a reputation and you’ve only been here. . . what? Just a few days now?”

  “Don’t know what you mean.”

  Ed looked at him with emphasis. He raised one sandy eyebrow. “Oh. You plugged the sheriff’s cousin on your front porch, stared down the sheriff himself when he came to your house—which never happens, by the way—took on the town bully in a fist fight in the middle of the street—that stupid son of a bitch—got sliced, then stitched up by the town beauty. Not bad for fanfare music.”

  Jake shrugged. Leaned back. Popped in a toothpick.

  Ed looked out over the town. “Change one thing and everything shifts a little.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re the stone drop in the pond,” he said. He reached in his pocket for a little chew and placed a soft wad between his gum and cheek. “We got into a little stagnation around here recently. Church crowd dwindled, the bars got calm, people stayed at home a lot. . . mostly it’s the attitude of the Sheriff and his Deputy.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, he bends the law a little for his family and friends. People ‘round here call it ‘The Elastic Bill of Rights.’ As a result his friends get rich and others kinda suffer. It’s a bit like living with a rattlesnake under your porch.”

  Jake stroked his chin. “Thanks for the insight,” he said. “You do tours as well?”

  Ed ignored him but passed a little smile. “What I mean,” he said, “is that you have set a ripple through the community. A change like that will have implications you could not predict.”