Trouble in Lonely Valley: Part Two

THE CULLING

KATE USED THE DARKNESS to mask her from the camp’s sentries as she slipped into the draw a mile upstream. She buckled her gunbelt, tied down the holster, and stuffed Hank’s heavier Russian in her waistband—its close-range stopping power might make the difference in tight confines. A deft touch assured her the Bowie was on her other hip and the boot knife rested safely where it belonged.

This was her only chance. Slip into the camp and kill King. With their paycheck gone, the hands would drift. She wished there was another way, but he owned the law. Joining Matt and Dusty in the cabin wouldn’t help in the long run. King would simply starve them out or get Lizzie and use her to force them out. Then he’d kill the whole family. No, this was war. Kill or be killed.

By the time she worked her way down the draw, most of the hands lay sprawled in their bed rolls, stars for their roof, a saddle for a pillow, banked embers for warmth. A single officer’s tent, almost as large as the cabin she and Matt shared with their two children dominated the middle of the camp.

A bend in the draw, a mere twenty yards from King’s tent, captured driftwood during spring run-off every year. Two years ago, a long, thick log wedged in the space forming a shelter of sorts. Kate slipped behind the log and settled in. An hour remained before moonrise and the added glow of the waning moon would help her navigate the Bar KB camp.

So, she waited—and contemplated killing a man.

King wasn’t an elk to feed the family. He wasn’t an angry grizzly. Despite his actions, King was a human being. He would be asleep in his bed. Kate was under no delusions—what she intended was coldblooded murder. Yet, in its own way, wasn’t this as much about protecting her family as shooting the catamount last summer? The lion had been in the act of attacking and she shot it. No difference.

Could she bring herself to kill King?

The moon’s leading edge poked above the eastern mountains. Time to find out.

Kate checked her weapons one last time. She eased her head over the embankment, but any night watch was out of sight, so she boosted herself out of the draw. Shifting the Russian to the small of her back, she dropped to the ground, and made her way forward.

Soft snores mingled with cricket chirps and the flutter of bats’ wings. Somewhere a coyote barked, and another answered. The camp remained quiet. Smoke from smoldering embers burned her nostrils and stung her eyes. As she belly-crawled toward her target, wetness from the summer-time dew soaked through her shirt, drawing a shiver from her. A loud snort interrupted a random gunhand’s snore. Nature and the camp fell silent. The man sat upright, looking confused.

Not five feet in front of him, Kate froze in place. He looked right at her, the whites of his eyes large and bright in the moonlight. Even if he didn’t see her, she was certain her heart would give her away. The more she willed it to be still, the louder it seemed to pound. Surely the vibrations from its thumping would warn the camp. Her mind raced through options. None were good.

The man squinted and peered hard in her direction.

Had he seen her?

Kate stretched for her gun

Fingers touched the Colt.

Her palm embraced the butt. Her thumb wrapped over the hammer.

But then the cowboy-turned-soldier hauled his blanket over his shoulder and laid his head back on a saddle.

Sagging into the wet grass, Kate forced herself to take deep breaths. She allowed her hand to release the weapon’s grip. She felt the hand shaking. Her heart calmed like a train slowly reducing speed as it approached a town.

The cowboy’s soft breathing reawakened the valley’s nightlife.

Finally relaxed, Kate inched forward.

King’s tent loomed before her. Kate rose. A quick glance at the moon told her thirty minutes had passed getting here—seemed twice that. With her ear to the canvas, she listened. Soft snores filtered through the thin wall. As she reached for the Bowie, creaks and rustles came from inside. The soft, whistling sleep sounds stopped, replaced by earthshaking rumbles. King must have flipped to his back.

The sharp edge of her Bowie split the canvas with a single, near silent slice. Kate paused to make sure King’s sleep continued, before slipping through the long slit. Moonlight filtered through the slit behind her, drawing a straight line to his cot. Placing each foot carefully on the rough, uneven ground, she crept the five feet to his side.

And stared down at the man who threatened her family.

Could she do this?

She imagined him with the face of a grizzly.

The weight of a buffalo pressed on her chest. The veins in her temples throbbed. She had to do it. Just kill him and be done. She thrust the edge to his throat. He didn’t stir.

Kate’s hand shook and the knife tumbled from weak fingers. She couldn’t do it.

Cold steel—a gun barrel—poked into her neck.

Rage overpowered the tears that threatened to spill. So focused on the task, she’d never heard him. Now what?

“Didn’t know if you’d go through with it or not for a second,” Hank whispered in her ear, his foul breath rank in her nose. “Always good to know what your adversary is capable of, don’t cha think? Now, don’t move.” With his free hand he drew his gun from her belt. “I love this gun. Thanks for bringing it back.” Hank took a limping side-step, keeping his gun on Kate, and set the weapon on King’s nightstand, well out of Kate’s reach. “I won’t underestimate you again, Little Woman.”

King sat up.

“I told you she’d try it,” Hank said.

King swung his legs out of the cot and reached to light the oil lamp beside his bed. As he stood, his shadow wrapped from the wall to the sloped ceiling of the tent. He was a big man, both tall and heavy. Pudgy cheeks and thick waist told the story of a powerful man no longer active, instead using others to do his bidding. Looking down at Kate, his expression inscrutable, he replied, “So you did.”

The barrel of Hank’s gun bit into the flesh under Kate’s ear. “Very carefully unbuckle your belt. Hand that hogleg to King.”

After she complied, Hank grabbed her wrist and wrenched it behind her back.

King glared at Hank. “Tie her up tight. No mistakes this time.”

The ranch ramrod grabbed Kate with his other hand and hauled her back. Anger and momentum carried her into a fast spin. She slapped Hank as hard as she could as she wrested her arm from him. The force of the blow stung her palm and pain radiated all the way to her shoulder. Speed was everything. The slit she’d cut represented freedom and another chance.

She made it one step. Her long hair pulled taut and the tent floor slammed into her back, emptying Kate’s lungs. Before she could recover strong hands flipped her onto her stomach and Hank dropped his weight on her lower back. Piggin’ strings lashed her hands behind her and her feet together.

“Should I gag her?”

“Let her scream. That’ll draw her hubby out real quick.”

Hank nodded his assent and dumped Kate in the corner of the tent. Yellow flame glinted off the steel of her Bowie by King’s bed. Hank retrieved it. Kneeling beside his captive he touched the blade to her cheek. Kate tried to lean away. The tent canvas gave an inch, but prevented her escaping Hank’s advance. With the slow, deliberate movement of a predator stalking its prey, he pressed the blunt side of the point into her flesh and traced the line his pistol barrel had drawn earlier that day.

She felt a thin welt raise.

“King tells me I can do anything to you I want to get your hubby out of that stone cabin of yours. I can think of lots of things to make you yell real loud.”

“I won’t scream,” Kate spat back. “You can’t make me.” Bile rose in her throat.

“Oh, I think I can. Can’t wait for sunup.” He tapped the flat of the blade against her cheek. “Rest up. You’re gonna need your strength tomorrow.” Hank laughed and walked out.

After he left, King settled into the chair next to his cot.

“So, you’ll use a woman to get to her man,” Kate spat.

“One could say your husband is using a woman to fight his battles. I don’t see him tied up here in my tent.”

“It isn’t like that, and you know it. We fought for this land. Weather. Indians. Wild animals. Long before you ever came to this territory.”

“Oh, my dear. You don’t get it. This land belongs to whoever is strongest. Indians took it from weaker Indians. You took it from them. Now, I’m taking it from you. Besides, this territory needs big, powerful landholders, politically connected cattlemen if we ever hope to be a state.” King rose and walked over to her. Staring down at her, he continued, “When I control all this, I can bring the railroad. Bar KB steaks will grace the tables of families all along the east coast. You small-timers could never hope to do that. Never hope to be strong enough to entice the railroads. Never strong enough to compete against Texas beef. No, this country needs me. And if a few nesters have to die…” He shrugged. “Well, so be it. It’s a small price to pay for progress.”

“But we’re not nesters. We have legal claim to this land. We were here and filed on it long before you came. It’s ours.” Kate clenched her fists. Feelings of rage and frustration flooded over her. But she was helpless. She kicked her tied feet at King but accomplished nothing.

He laughed. “Settle down. If you scream real loud for me tomorrow, I’ll let Johnnie take care of Hank before he can hurt you. Those two have been itching to get at one another since you escaped them on the mountain.”

Johnnie. Kate allowed herself a glimmer of hope. For a killer, he seemed a decent sort. Maybe he would listen. Change sides. Maybe help her escape.

But no. In her heart she knew. Johnnie rode for the brand, and he was signed on to the Bar KB. If she was going to escape, it was up to her.

King sat back in his chair and opened a book. At one point he held it up, looking at her. “Machiavelli. Ever read him?”

Kate glared back but shook her head.

“Too bad. Maybe then you’d understand.”

Kate said nothing.

King read well into the night.

The .38 Colt Lightning had been rolled with her belt and left on a nearby table. The gun was close, if only she could get free. Piggin’ strings bit deep into Kate’s wrists and her hands grew numb. Clenching and unclenching her fists, she tried in vain to loosen the knots. Hank might be the ramrod, but he still knew how to rope a calf. Kate suspected he had no desire to experience King’s wrath a second time.

As King read, her eyes grew heavy. She hadn’t slept the night before while helping Mary O’Shaughnessy deliver her baby girl. Then, with Lizzie showing up at the door with news of the attack, and all the subsequent events, there had been no time to rest. Exhaustion drained her of hope. For all her bold talk, she knew Hank would have little trouble making her scream. How would Matt react? He would have little choice. But even if he secured a promise of safe passage for the family, it would mean little once King had possession of the deed.

And what of the O’Shaughnessy’s? Mary’s husband was in the high pastures tending their herd and wasn’t due back for a few weeks. Would he have a family left? Matt had tried to talk him into abandoning the herd and bringing his family down to Lonely Valley, but O’Shaughnessy wouldn’t hear of it.

Was this the end?

Kate’s chin dropped onto her chest.

—

KING’S LOUD SNORES WOKE her from an uncomfortable sleep. Pre-dawn darkness blanketed the tent. Kate’s hands felt thick, stiff. Pain, as if she grabbed barbed wire, stabbed her fingers and palms as she flexed them—she swallowed the groan threatening to rise from her gut. She’d need to free her hands, and soon. But her Bowie was stuffed in Hank’s belt, not far from his reclaimed Russian.

Twisting back and forth, she tried to work her hands under her hips. Hank had tied them too tight for that. Kate kicked her heels on the canvas floor in frustration.

Her boot knife shifted.

A smile curled her lips. Hank hadn’t searched her for other weapons. The knife’s hilt dug through the denim material of her slacks and bit into her calf. She kicked her heels again.

The noise caught King mid-snore, drawing it into a wheeze.

Kate held her breath, but he rolled to his side, immediately quieting his sleep.

She rolled onto her back and tried shaking her legs. The blade didn’t fall. Excruciating pain radiated through shoulders already bent at an awkward angle and now forced to support her entire body weight. Still she worked at it. The blade, after some initial movement, would not drop. She sat up, relief flooding her shoulders as despair crashed back into her soul.

Through the slit in the tent, she watched as false dawn touched the eastern sky. Hank would return for her soon. The knots in her stomach drew tighter than the ones at her wrists. Kate tried to roll to her side, hoping to have another go at retrieving the knife, but now she was stuck. Somehow her wrists had slipped under the edge of the tent floor and caught on something. What? Jerking and yanking got her nowhere. Whatever it was held her wrists tight to the ground. With numb fingers, she probed for whatever the object. They touched something cold, metallic. She thought for a minute. Her eyes widened.

A metal tent stake.

The edges weren’t razor sharp, but they weren’t blunt either. She sawed her wrists. In desperation, she missed often, opening gashes along her wrists. Blood flowed, wetting the strings, tightening them. Still she worked on. Back and forth.

“Time to wake up, Kate. Today’s our big day.” Hank’s loud voice carried from the edge of the camp. She must hurry before he woke King.

As if in tune with her thoughts, King stirred.

Kate’s pulse raced. Sawing her wrists harder, she felt some slack. Two more tries and her wrists were free.

Hank’s voice neared. “Kate, darlin’. Time to wake up. You have a show to perform.”

Free of the strings holding her wrists, she kicked and clawed her feet loose.

Wobbly legs fought to support Kate. She reached for the tent wall to steady herself, leaving a bloody handprint behind.

“Are you all ready for me, sweet Kate?” Lips smacked. Hank was right outside.

Short, shallow breaths made Kate dizzy, but she must act now.

King sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Hank, you fool. I was sleeping.”

Kate took one step for freedom before remembering her gun. Three steps and she grabbed her weapon. Don’t stop. Keep moving. The slit she cut the night before beckoned her. She glanced back as she stepped through, just as Hank opened the front flap.

Their gazes locked. Lust turned to shock followed by fury.

“Son of a bitch.” Hank lashed out at a nearby table. Wood splintered. “Stop her. She’s getting away.”

Kate bolted for the draw. Hank’s angry screams scorched her ears. Twenty yards became fifteen. Her heel tangled in a hurriedly discarded blanket. Her breath caught as she fell. Sprawled on the ground. A bullet raised gouts of dirt next to her. Bear crawling, driven by surging adrenaline, each breath ragged in her throat, she fought forward.

Ten yards.

Shouts stirred the camp.

Five yards.

A shot rang out.

The whine of the bullet passing close overhead sent Kate diving for the draw. She tumbled into the soft sand below.

Scrambling to rise, pain shot through her right wrist. It wouldn’t move. Already swollen and numb from being tied all night, now it was sprained, too. And that was her gun hand.

Hunkered under the lip of the draw, she scrambled to crawl behind the driftwood she’d hidden in earlier.

More shouts rose from the camp.

“Where’d she go?” one asked.

“There! I see her,” someone else shouted.

“Fools, that’s Slim. Check the stream,” Hank called.

No way she could stay here. Not in daylight.

“Find that woman,” King Blanchard bellowed. “Two hundred dollars to the one of you who brings her to me. And don’t be gentle. I want her caught.”

Quickly Kate buckled on her revolver. If today was the day she would die, she would go down fighting. On her terms.

Rising from the sandy bottom, she peeked over the rim. Scrub hid her from sight above, and a bend in the draw hid her from searchers upstream and down. King stood by his tent, fully dressed, carrying his rifle.

Stiff fingers refused to bend. She flexed them over and over until a small amount of movement returned. It would have to do.

She boosted herself up, but her right wrist collapsed under her. Falling forward, she landed on the valley floor.

King spotted her as she stood. “There she is.” He swung his rifle and took a few steps toward her as he cried out.

All thought left Kate. It was reaction. Pure instinct. Her hand flashed to the gun at her waist, it cleared leather and she palmed the hammer as she pulled the trigger. One smooth movement. Practiced.

But her wrist was wrong.

Her shot took King high in the shoulder. He grabbed for the wound, dropping his gun. His eyes went wide. She stepped forward and palmed the hammer again. With each shot another step, drawing her closer to King.

Slugs from other handguns struck the earth around her, but the Bar KB hands didn’t dare fire too close for fear of missing, hitting one of their friends, or killing her—King needed her alive.

Slugs buried themselves in King’s torso, each one twisting him back and forth. In only a few seconds her hammer fell on empty chambers. But the weapon had done its job. King fell face first, unmoving.

Dropping to her knees beside him, Kate wept. She had never killed a man before. Couldn’t do it last night, when she had the chance. Relief. Grief. Guilt.

Around her, ranch hands hesitated. First one, then others picked up their saddles. “No more paydays here.”

Vaguely she became aware of another presence.

A strong hand grabbed her by her hair and twisted her face around. Stars exploded in her head and she landed on her back.

“I’m gonna kill you, bitch,” Hank snarled, his fist poised for another blow. Hank’s weight pinned her hips. “You’ve caused me a great deal of grief.” His hands pawed at her.

Kate raked her nails across his face and aimed a punch for his nose. He caught her fist and laughed. Bucking her hips, she fought to unseat him. With her other hand she reached out, searching for a weapon. Something. Anything. “I’m gonna enjoy this. I like a woman with spunk.”

Her eye landed on the Winchester King had dropped—just out of reach.

He leaned in close. “I intend to get what I was promised.”

Rotted teeth and other maladies fouled his breath. This time Kate retched, spewing Hank with what little remained in her stomach.

“What the f—” The ramrod jumped back, away from the spray.

The move lifted his weight from her, and Kate was free. She scrambled away, grabbed the barrel of the rifle, and swung it as hard as she could.

Hank dodged and the stock splintered on his hard chest. Snatching what remained of the smashed stock, he yanked the weapon from her and snarled, “You’re gonna pray for death long before I’m done with you.”

Kate backed away, eyes wide.

He drew her Bowie from his belt. “Maybe I’ll send pieces of you back to your husband.” He slashed a figure eight in the air as he stalked forward. Swifter than she imagined possible, he leaped at her, dragging her back to the ground. Knife at her throat his other hand grabbed her hair, forcing her head back.

The knife’s edge pressed against her exposed throat. His strength, fueled by rage and lust, grew moment by moment, while hers waned. In that instant Kate understood she would die a horrible death. She had won the war. She killed King. Her family would be safe. But she would die at the hands of this monster.

Unless?

Flat on her back, Hank’s weight pinning her under him, she lifted her knee out and down, pulling her foot closer to her hip. Kate relaxed.

Hank grinned. “Much better. Play nice with me and—.” His grin fell and he looked down. Kate’s boot knife protruded from his chest. He slumped to one side and fell off Kate.

“I told you to kill him. Save me doing it.” Johnnie approached from the side, riding a dun with the Bar KB brand.

Tears spilled from Kate’s eyes. In the heat of the fight, first with King and later with Hank, she’d forgotten about Johnnie. Exhausted, she closed her wet eyes and waited for the bullet she knew was coming.

“I’d have been here sooner, but Hank sent me away early this morning. Sent me to the pregnant woman’s place. Said I’d find your daughter there—that she’d make you much more cooperative.”

Kate’s eyes flew open. Lizzie! “Where—.”

“Relax. She’s fine. On my way back in I ran into a couple of the men. Said King was dead. So, I deposited her outside your cabin with your husband and son.” Sawing the reins, he turned the horse and rode away. Kate was alone in the camp. She looked up in time to watch Matt, Dusty, and Lizzie walking toward her.

—

AS THE SUN BEGAN to snuggle behind the western peaks, Kate and Matt shoveled the final loads of dirt over Beau. Kate took a bouquet of daisies from Lizzie, who had, with Dusty’s assistance, picked several dozen. Tears streaked Kate’s face as she laid the flowers over the grave. She scrubbed her cheeks with the back of her hand.

“Time we were getting home,” she said. “Tomorrow’s gonna be a busy day. Don’t suppose anyone will object if a few hundred head of Bar KB cattle wander into our herd now.”

The four laughed together.

D.N. Sample

D.N. Sample comes by his love of storytelling naturally. From his paternal grandfather, a Wesleyan Methodist preacher who sprinkled his sermons with stories only—cough, cough—mildly exaggerated, to his maternal grandfather—a crack shot who could shoot a dancing tick off the back of a racing deer at a hundred yards—exchanging fish stories with friends over a game of draughts, to Sunday dinners where the whole family gathered to enjoy Mom’s cooking and exchange humorous family anecdotes, he was raised to spin yarns and tell tall tales.

Born in western New York, he moved his wife and young son to the Saint Louis area via Conestoga wagon— or a Dodge Shadow—in ‘93, where they still reside along with their two 70-pound pups of questionable heritage.

Like many of the old west’s characters, Sample’s trails in life have been many. He shepherded a flock as pastor of a church, rode night herd over 250 rambunctious young men as a college resident hall director, corralled young soccer stars as both referee and coach, wrangled with the IRS as an Enrolled Agent, and rustled grub in his fifth wheel on the road with his sweetheart and the two grub-hogs.