Ambush at Shadow Valley

‘‘The sort of story we all hope to find within us: the bloodstained, gun-smoked, grease-stained yarn that yanks a reader right out of today.''

—Terry Johnston

‘‘Cotton writes with the authentic ring of a silver dollar, a storyteller in the best tradition of the Old West." —Matt Braun

"Evokes a sense of outlawry . . . distinctive."

—
Lexington Herald-Leader

‘‘Disarming realism . . . solidly crafted.''

—
Publishers Weekly

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First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
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First Printing, May 2008

Copyright © Ralph Cotton, 2008

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Prologue

Memphis Warren Beck stopped the buggy and looked back through the shadowy blue light of dawn toward the town of Little Aces. The glow of firelight in the distance had died, and by now he was certain Emma Vertrees, widow of Sheriff Dillard Vertrees, had made it back to town on Beck's big dun horse. Beck thought about it. Bringing Emma Vertrees with him had been a mistake, but luckily she had seen it before they had gotten too far for her to ever turn back.

Emma had once ridden the outlaw trail with Beck and the Hole-in-the-wall Gang, but that had been a long time ago, in the wild, restless days of her youth. Seeing him ride into Little Aces after all these years must have made her think she could relive the past. But something seemed to have dawned on her last night as the two of them fled the town beneath a hail of gunfire. She had suddenly stopped the buggy in the darkness in the middle of the trail and said to him, ‘‘I'm sorry, Memphis. I can't do this.''

If she'd expected that Beck would try talking her into it, she'd been mistaken. He knew that the new sheriff of Little Aces, Vince Gale, lay bleeding in the dirt back in town, and he knew that there had been something at work between Emma and Sheriff Gale before Beck had arrived. Without a word on the matter, Beck had taken the buggy reins from her hands and said quietly, ‘‘Go back to him, Emma. I understand.''

She'd attempted an explanation. ‘‘I—I don't know if I'm going back to Sheriff Gale, or if I've just been away from this too long and need the security of—''

‘‘You never had to explain yourself to me, Emma,'' Beck had said, cutting her off gently. ‘‘I hope you and Sheriff Gale are as happy together as you and Dillard Vertrees were.''

Those had been his last words to her before he sat listening to the dun's hooves turn and walk away in the darkness.

Beck smiled to himself in reflection, recalling a time gone by when Emma and he had lived wild and free, with the wide valley of Hole-in-the-wall, Wyoming, their sanctuary from the world, always there for them.

‘‘But that was then. This is now,'' he'd murmured to himself in the darkness, realizing that just because he'd left Little Aces and a railroad detective posse behind didn't mean there wouldn't still be men on his trail.

The Railroad Alliance is still out here,
he'd reminded himself, looking around warily in the grainy morning darkness as he shook the buggy reins enough to send the horse upward onto a higher trail. ‘‘So long, Little Aces,'' he'd said quietly, a free hand pressed to the bandaged wound in his side.

He traveled on throughout the day, stopping only long enough to water the horse at runoff streams along the trail. In the evening, stepping down beside such a stream, he let the horse lower its muzzle to the cool, clear water while he looked around at the rough, steep terrain and examined the healing gunshot wound in his side. He had another reason for stopping here besides watering the horse or checking his wound. Moments earlier he'd caught a glimpse of two riders moving quietly through the brush and bracken, off the trail to his left.

Without searching too closely, Beck had kept an eye on the hillside of rock and scrub cedar, hoping that whoever was out there might be innocent travelers who would come forward and show themselves. But that wasn't to be. When the two men did appear, they did so suddenly, out of the brush along the trail, on foot less than twenty feet away.
Detectives? Bounty hunters?
What was the difference?

‘‘Raise them high, Warren Beck!'' a voice shouted. ‘‘One move, you're dead!''

Hearing the nervousness in the man's voice and seeing the two had the drop on him anyway, Beck raised his hands chest high and relaxed, already watching for his chance to make a run for it. ‘‘Easy, fellows,'' he said, adding a weakened sound to his voice. ‘‘I'm wounded here. I couldn't put up a fight if I wanted to.'' As he spoke, he recognized one of the two men.

‘‘Watch him close, Davis,'' Beck heard one man say to the other as they drew nearer.

‘‘Neil Deavers, is that you?'' Beck asked, cocking his head slightly as if it might aid his recollection.

‘‘Yeah, Beck, it's me,'' said the serious voice, ‘‘but keep those hands up all the same.''

Beck had deliberately lowered his hands an inch when he'd called the man by name. Quickly raising them again, he asked, ‘‘What are you doing packing a gun for the railroads? Last I heard you'd gained yourself a reputation wearing a badge somewhere. Kansas, Missouri—?''

‘‘Things change, Beck,'' Deavers said, cutting his question short. As he spoke, he reached behind his back and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. ‘‘Here, cuff him, Davis,'' he ordered the other man, as Davis lifted Beck's gun from its holster and shoved it behind his belt. To Beck, he said in the same authoritarian tone, ‘‘Lower your wrists for him, Beck. The quicker you're cuffed, the quicker we can get you somewhere and get that wound looked at.'' He nodded at the bullet hole and the washed-out bloodstain on Beck's shirt.

‘‘Obliged,'' said Beck, not about to tell him that the wound in his side had all but healed.

‘‘Wait,'' said Davis Dinsmore as he took the handcuffs from Deavers. ‘‘You mean we're going to nursemaid him all the way across this high country, just so the railroads can kill him once they get their hands on him?''

‘‘I'm no assassin,'' said Deavers. ‘‘We're taking him in alive, for the reward. What the railroad does with him is not my business.''

‘‘This thieving dog doesn't deserve any mercy,'' said Dinsmore with disgust. ‘‘If you don't have the stomach to put him down, I do.'' He leveled his Colt out at arm's length.

‘‘Pull that trigger, Davis, you'll be dead before Beck hits the ground,'' Deavers said matter-of-factly, his own Colt cocking on the upswing and resting an inch from Dinsmore's ear. ‘‘I told you when you sided with me that I wouldn't stand for murder.''

‘‘But you'd kill me flat out if I put a bullet in this outlaw trash?'' Dinsmore said in amazement. ‘‘That makes no sense at all!'' He made no sign of lowering his gun.

‘‘ ‘Making sense' won't be so important to you once you're feeding buzzards,'' Deavers said quietly. ‘‘Now, lower it or make it bark. I'm through talking.''

Davis Dinsmore gritted his teeth, but he lowered his gun and let the hammer down. ‘‘All right, Beck, he saved your hide this time. Make one false move while we're on the trail, and I'll kill you, no matter what he says.'' He jerked a rough nod toward Deavers.

‘‘Now holster it,'' Deavers said, seeing Dinsmore still hadn't settled the matter in his mind.

‘‘Damn it.'' Dinsmore let out a tight breath, calmed himself and slipped the gun into its holster. ‘‘There, satisfied?'' he asked Deavers.