Fight for Powder Valley! Page 8

  The only real enemies of the valley were the men who stood behind the scenes and pulled the strings: the officials of the land company who had tricked the ranchers out of their holdings and who were now tricking poor devils like Joe Hartsell out of their lives’ savings.

  And they couldn’t be touched. They were sitting secure behind mahogany desks in Denver, protected by the law while they exploited rancher and farmer alike. It made no difference to them how much blood flowed in Powder Valley—how many families like the Hartsells were burned out in the night. Their profits continued to flow in, no matter what happened in Powder Valley.

  Hot anger against those higher-ups of the land company seethed through Pat Stevens as he spurred on through the night to meet his friends and neighbors who had turned against him. He had hated many men in the past, but never as he now hated Jud Biloff. He had met other men with flaming guns and shot them down with cold ruthlessness, but they had been men. They had taken their chances and received pay-men for their folly in hot lead. The president of the land company was in a different category. Jud Biloff was taking no chances with his own precious hide. A thousand men might die because of his scheming; mothers and children might starve or perish miserably from the cold—but none of that could touch Jud Biloff.

  A special hell should be created for men like Biloff, Pat told himself as he pounded on, and his seething thoughts planned how he might personally arrange such a hell for the financier.

  Abruptly, he saw a dark mass of mounted men riding down the road ahead of him. He was meeting them almost opposite the padlocked gate leading in to the Hartsell property. He reined up in front of the advancing raiders, a single figure facing twenty armed and determined night-riders.

  The young cowboy galloped up happily from behind him. “Got here just in time,” he exulted. “I shore wouldn’t of missed this for nothin’. An’ I knew you’d wanta be in on it, too, Pat. I told ’em they was crazy as coots when they talked around town about you throwin’ in with the plow-hands.”

  Pat said, “Get away from me, kid, if you want to stay clear of trouble.” The advancing riders were close, less than a hundred yards distant. They were riding at a slow trot that was more ominous in its grim purposefulness than a wild gallop would have been.

  “What yuh mean?” the puncher demanded, gaping at his boss. “I got a right to be in on the fun.”

  “Fun, hell!” retorted Pat. “I’m warning you … don’t stay too close.” He rose in his stirrups and challenged the mass of riders, “Who’s that … headed where?”

  Above the jangle of spurs and thud of hoofs, he heard voices growling, “That’s Pat. Yeh … Stevens. Lookin’ fer trouble, mebbe …” They slowed in front of him and John Boyd’s voice came clearly above the muttering:

  “I reckon you know who we are and where we’re headed, Pat. You throwin’ in with us?”

  “To burn out a woman and her kids?” There was hot scorn in Pat’s reply.

  “To run them damn homesteaders out,” a rough voice bawled above Boyd’s. “Them that you an’ yore wife coddled in town.”

  “I know you, Jim Farrelly.” Pat dropped a hand to his gun. “You’re full of rot-gut whisky or you wouldn’t be talkin’ thataway.”

  “He’s settin’ hisself ag’in us,” Farrelly shouted. “We’ve listened to Pat Stevens long enough, fellers. What are we waitin’ fer? Who’s got them wire cutters?”

  “First man cuts a strand of that fence gets dropped.” Pat’s voice cut through the night incisively. He drew a gun, hunched forward in the saddle. “You boys know me,” he pleaded.

  “Shore, we know you. Too dang well.” Half a dozen voices were lifted angrily. John Boyd spurred his horse forward between them and Pat.

  “Don’t do it, Pat.” The older rancher’s face was resolute in the illusive light. “We got our minds made up. We listened to you before, but now we’re doing something.”

  “You must be proud of yourselves,” Pat jeered. “Twenty of you to burn out one nester. Don’t be fools. Those are innocent people. They’re asleep down yonder.” He waved his arm toward the creek where the dying embers of a campfire glowed in the night. “It’s murder, John. You know it is.”

  “Murder or not, that’s the way it’s got to be.” John Boyd spoke with the fervor of deep conviction. “You can’t stop us, Pat. No use you gettin’ killed tryin’.”

  “I’d rather be killed tryin’ than keep on living knowin’ I didn’t try. They’ll send troops in here, John …”

  An ominous murmur from behind Boyd greeted Pat’s words. “Let ’em try it! We’ll take keer of the troops. This is Powder Valley, b’God. We’ll run things here.”

  “Don’t you see how it’ll be, John? Some of those men behind you are shootin’ drunk. It won’t end with burning the ’steaders out. There’ll be killin’. And there’s women and children down there.”

  “We got women an’ childern too,” Jim Farrelly shouted. He spurred forward beside John Boyd drunkenly waving a gun. “We cain’t trust you no longer, Pat. If you wanta hunk of lead …”

  Pat drove his rowels into his horse’s side. The animal lunged forward against Farrelly’s mount and Pat slammed the barrel of his .45 against the drunken rancher’s chin. Farrelly slid sideways out of the saddle to the ground.

  Pat rasped out of the side of his mouth to Boyd, “You got to stand by me, John. You’ve got to.”

  The loud thunder of hoofs down the road from town interrupted his friend’s reply. Pat rode forward into the closepacked bunch of men, his eyes blazing. “If that’s the sheriff or some of his deputies, let me handle ’em. Don’t do any shooting. You can settle with me afterward.”

  He holstered his gun and pushed his horse on through the ranks of grumbling men who were upset and uncertain in the face of this new development.

  There were only two riders coming from town, driving their mounts to the limit of their speed. Pat rode twenty paces to meet them, then reined up suddenly. Even in the faint moonlight he recognized the huge man with his small companion. He turned his horse across the road and shouted. “Ezra! Sam! Pull up.”

  The riders pulled up in front of him and Ezra’s voice boomed out happily, “By Gawd, if ’tain’t Pat Stevens! We knowed that talk in town was crazy an’ thet you’d be Johnny-on-the-spot fer a job like this.”

  Between his teeth, Pat bit out, “Shut up your big mouth, Ezra. You an’ Sam are just in time to back me up an’ send these fellows high-tailing it.”

  “What’s that?” Sam barked out. “What kinda talk is that, Pat?”

  “It’s the only sensible talk going on around here,” Pat raged. “C’mon and get in front of these rannies. They’ll think twice before trying to jump our three guns.”

  He whirled his horse off the road to get between the raiding party and the land-company fence. From long habit of accepting orders from Pat Stevens, Sam and Ezra rode with him.

  As the trio lined up facing the mob, Pat warned, “There’s three of us now. Three of the fastest guns in Powder Valley. Anybody hankerin’ to do suicide to themselves?”

  “Is that right, Sam?” an incredulous rancher cried. “You an’ Ezra throwin’ in with Pat ag’in us?”

  “I reckon so,” Sam mumbled defensively. “Reckon he’s right when you think it over. He mos’ gen’ally is.”

  Taking advantage of the indecision of the group, Pat spoke crisply, “You’ll all hang on a murder charge if you don’t cool down an’ call this raiding party off. Don’t you see that’s just what the land company wants? They’re waiting for an excuse to put Powder Valley under martial law. You all know that. We lose the fight right now if we give them that excuse.”

  “He’s right, boys.” John Boyd rode forward and aligned himself with Pat, Sam and Ezra. “We jumped into this without thinkin’. Too much whisky an’ too much loose talk.”

  “What do you aim tuh do? Leave them damn nesters camped there?”

  “For the time being, yes,” Pat snapped. “They’re innoc
ent victims just like we are. A man named Biloff is to blame … not these poor people from Kansas.”

  “By golly, Pat’s right … Yeh, but that ain’t no answer … what are we gonna do?”

  Pat stilled the loud tumult by shouting, “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. We’re going after the one man that brought this whole mess on our heads. Jud Biloff. He’s the one we’ve got to deal with.”

  “That’s right. Get Biloff … but how you gonna do it? … He’s in Denver … He daren’t show his face here …”

  “We’ll go to Denver after him,” Pat shouted. “I will. I’ll explain exactly how things are here. I’ll show him he can’t build his dam nohow.”

  “That’s the ticket … now Pat’s talkin’ sense … get him out here … we’ll string Biloff up to a cottonwood tree …”

  “That makes sense,” Pat told them grimly. “I won’t lift a finger to stop you from swinging Biloff at the end of a rope. But these settlers are different. They didn’t steal our land by lying to us.”

  “Do you think Biloff will listen to you?” John Boyd asked anxiously. “More’n likely, he’ll give you the horse-laugh, Pat. ’Cordin’ to law he ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”

  “He’ll listen to me,” Pat promised grimly. He raised his voice to the other men: “I’ll start for Denver in the morning. Go back home and take off your guns. That’s not the way to fight this thing. Not yet,” he ended ominously. “Not till I see Biloff. If he won’t listen to reason … well, I’ll be ridin’ with you. That’s a promise. But not against women and children. Let’s fight someone that can fight back.”

  As the men began to disperse and turn back to town, Boyd muttered, “Lucky you was here to stop us, Pat. I reckon we was all blood-crazy. Scares me to think what might have happened. I saw a sheep camp burned out once … down in the San Luis Valley. I used to wake up at night years afterward hearin’ the screams of them sheepherders in my dreams.”

  Pat nodded somberly. “A mob is something no man can figure, John. It’s like a snowball rolling down a hill.”

  “By golly,” Sam said in an aside to Ezra, “it’ll be good to see Denver again, huh? You reckon that little redheaded gal is still down on Larimer Street?”

  Pat demanded, “Who said anything about you going to Denver?”

  “Shucks, Pat, you know we cain’t let you expose yoreself to the wicked sins of the big city without no one to watch over you. You bein’ a married man to boot …”

  “I’ll have enough trouble in Denver without worrying about you two,” Pat said flatly. “You’ll be needed here to keep the lid on things until I get back.”

  Ezra started to protest, but Sam nudged him sharply in the ribs. “Yep. I reckon yo’re right,” he said mournfully. “C’mon, Ezra. We might’s well be ridin’.”

  Pat stared after them suspiciously as they rode away. He didn’t like Sam’s tone. Sounded as if they were cooking up something. But he had plenty of other things to worry about if he caught the morning train from Hopewell Junction. He wondered if he’d better take Sally, decided against it even though he knew she would enjoy the trip. This was going to be a man’s job.

  9

  Pat Stevens had to leave the Lazy Mare at four o’clock the next morning to reach Hopewell Junction in time to catch the train to Denver.

  Sally was up at three-thirty preparing him a hot breakfast. She hummed happily to herself as she spread a fresh cloth on the dining table, set out a platter of sizzling steak, and a bowl of cream gravy to go on the cold biscuits left over from supper.

  For the first time in weeks a great load of dread was lifted from Sally’s mind. It seemed to her that Pat’s decision to go to Denver to interview the president of the land company was the first sensible thing that had been done since the surveyors came to Powder Valley.

  She had complete faith in her husband’s ability to persuade Biloff to call the whole project off. All he had to do was to present the true facts. Mr. Biloff would have to agree, once he was convinced it was utterly useless for him to go on with the dam and irrigation ditches.

  It all looked just that simple to Sally Stevens. She smiled admiringly at her tall husband when he strode into the breakfast room, freshly shaved and dressed in his best clothes for the city journey. He was a fine figure of a man. He wore the new boots he had ordered from Pueblo that spring, with russet leather tops inlaid with small diamonds of white leather and decorated with an intricately stitched design; a pair of tan trousers that Sally had pressed with a hot iron the night before, a red flannel shirt, buttoned at the throat with a black four-in-hand tie about his neck.

  Sally served him a generous breakfast of meat and biscuits and hot gravy, and saw that he had a steaming cup of coffee at his elbow. Then she sat opposite him and rested her chin in her palms, surveyed him with sparkling eyes.

  “You’re so darned handsome it scares me to have you go to the, city alone, Pat. Don’t you look too hard at any of those pretty Denver girls that’ll be flirting with you.”

  Pat stuffed a square inch of steak in his mouth and balanced half a gravied biscuit on his fork. “This is business, honey. Mighty important business. I reckon I’ll have my mind on something more important than girls.”

  The joking twinkle went out of Sally’s eyes. “You’re not looking, for trouble?”

  He shook his head. “I never look for it. But Biloff is a hard man. He’ll take a lot of convincing.”

  “You’re not … packing a gun, Pat?”

  He shook his head again, thoughtfully chewing a mouthful of steak and biscuit.

  “Nope,” he reassured her. “I’m not a big enough fool to go up against the city with a lone gun. If I can’t do the job with talking … well, we’ll have to try something else.”

  “He’ll surely understand,” she cried. “When you explain how things are …”

  Pat smiled across the breakfast table grimly. “Trouble is, Sally, I ain’t at all sure he cares whether the farms can be made to go or not.”

  She wrinkled her forehead and complained, “I don’t understand.”

  He said, “You wouldn’t. That’s what they call smart business, Sally. Don’t you see how it stands? Even if he knows people can’t raise crops, what’s it to him as long as they think they can and buy the land from him? In fact,” Pat went on deliberately, “might be best for him if they do starve out after a year or so. Then he can sell the land all over again to some other hopeful cuss from back East.”

  “But that’s terrible! It’s downright stealing to take people’s money for land he knows won’t support them.”

  Pat nodded. “You and me call it stealing. But men like Biloff call it smart business.”

  “I can’t believe any man would be so heartless,” Sally cried out.

  “That’s because you’ve lived here in Powder Valley so long where we figure things different. I’m not saying Mr. Biloff is like that,” Pat went on hastily, noting the look of dismay on his wife’s face. “I sure hope he ain’t. I hope he’ll listen to reason.” He shrugged his wide shoulders and cleaned up his plate with half a biscuit. “But I’m not bankin’ too much on making him see the light.”

  Sally hurried around the table and clung to him when he pushed back his chair and got up. “You’ll be careful,” she implored. “Don’t let your temper get the best of you no matter what happens. You’re not used to city ways.”

  Pat laughed shortly. “I aim to do all the persuadin’ I can,” he drawled.

  “You’ve got to do it, Pat.” Sally held him tightly. “It’s the only chance. After what happened last night …”

  He nodded somberly. “The boys ain’t going to hold back any longer if I come back with bad news,” he admitted. He turned Sally’s face up and kissed her lips, then strode out through the living room where he got a soft-brimmed Stetson and a sheepskin-lined leather jacket from a wall hanger.

  It was not quite daylight when he went out to the corral and saddled a horse. Sally stood in the open doo
rway silhouetted by the yellow lamplight behind her and waved to him as he rode away through the frosty air of pre-dawn.

  It was sun-up when Pat rode through Dutch Springs without stopping, and he had fifteen minutes left before train time when he reached Hopewell Junction.

  He left his horse at a livery stable to await his return, bought a round-trip ticket to Denver in the little depot that had been the scene of his first meeting with Sally more than ten years before.

  She hadn’t been Mrs. Stevens, then. She had come from Denver expecting to meet a husband whom she had seen only a couple of times, and had been met by a hard-faced stranger with the news that her husband had been murdered.

  They had faced plenty of trouble and danger together during the ensuing days, Pat reminded himself grimly. This time, though, it was a different sort of trouble—the kind that couldn’t be settled by blazing guns but infinitely more vicious than any he had ever faced before.

  He was the only passenger to get on when the little combination train puffed into the station. There was one uncrowded passenger coach directly behind the coal tender, with a motley assortment of freight and cattle cars hooked on behind, and a caboose at the very end.

  The train crew had some switching to do at the cattle pens below the station, and three punchers crawled into the caboose for the trip to the Denver stockyards after four cars of bawling yearlings were added to the train.

  Pat was sitting in the coach while the switching took place, and he didn’t see the three men get aboard. If he had seen them he wouldn’t have been so easy in his mind about his trip to the city.

  It was almost a day’s journey for the little combination train to Pueblo where Pat’s coach was switched on to the main line of the D. & R.G.W. The frequent stops between Pueblo and Denver gave Pat a sleepless night, and when he got off at the city terminus the next morning his eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep and he wore an unbecoming stubble of beard on his bronzed face.

  He went directly to the Oxford Hotel close by, the regular meeting place of cowmen from all over the west while in Denver, and paid for the luxury of a room with a bathtub and running hot water.