The King Hill War (19 page)

“So, when you were in that gunfight a couple of weeks ago, when you killed Poke and Jules, you were afraid?”

“Yes.”

“Then I guess I shouldn’t be ashamed for being afraid a while ago.”

“Not in the least.”

“Did you mean it when you told Mama that we weren’t going to lose our ranch?”

“Yes, I meant it.”

“But how?”

“How, what?”

“How can you be so sure that Papa won’t lose his ranch?”

“Because your father is one of the best men I have ever known,” Hawke said. “And in the end, good always triumphs over evil.”

“I hope—” Hannah started, but Hawke interrupted her by putting his hand on her shoulder.

“I want you to believe me,” he said softly. “Your mother and father are not going to lose this ranch.”

Looking at him, Hannah thought she had never seen anyone more handsome, or brave, or reassuring. She wondered if she would ever be able to find someone like him.

Then, almost as quickly as she had the thought, she put it away, feeling that it was a negative comment on Jesse.

“I believe you,” she said.

“Hannah?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to understand that it might be necessary for me to do some things…some harsh things, things that might be hard for you to accept.”

“You mean you might have to kill Clay Morgan.”

“I’m afraid it won’t be just Clay Morgan.”

“I know,” Hannah said.

“I don’t want to lose your…respect,” Hawke said, looking for the word.

“Mr. Hawke, I don’t believe there is anything you could ever do that would cause me to lose my respect for you,” Hannah replied.

SOMEWHERE IN THE DARKNESS A LAMB BAWLED
anxiously and its mother answered. In the distance a coyote sent up its long, lonesome wail, while out in the pond, frogs thrummed their night song. The moon was a thin sliver of silver, but the night was alive with stars…from the very bright, shining lights, all the way down to those stars that weren’t visible as individual bodies at all, but whose glow added to the luminous powder that dusted the velvet-black sky. Beside the milling shapes of shadows that made up the small flock, Andoni Larranaga and Mikel Mendiolea, two young Basque men, were sitting, their shepherd’s hooks on the ground beside them.

The two were engaged in conversation, speaking in their native Euskera language.

“I can’t believe you don’t know the Eskal national anthem,” Larranaga said.

“We can’t have a national anthem,” Mendiolea replied. “The Basque don’t even have a nation.”

“Sure we have a nation,” Larranaga insisted.

“Really? Where is it? What does our flag look like? Who is the president of Eskal?”

“You don’t need borders and flags and presidents and governors to be a nation. All you need are people. And we have people, back in the Pyrenees of Spain and France, in Canada, in Mexico, and here in Idaho. The Basque people make up the nation of Eskal.”

“All right, what is the national anthem?”

“It is called ‘Gernikako Arbola,’” Larranaga said.

“Ha!” Mendiolea replied. “I know that song. It’s a folk song, not a national anthem.”

“It’s a song about our folk,” Larranaga said. “That makes it our anthem.” He began to sing, and Mendiolea, to show that he also knew the song, began to sing with him.

The lamb called again for its mother. And this time the mother’s answer sounded anxious.

“Sounds like one of ’em’s wandered off,” Larranaga said. “Maybe I’d better go find it.”

“Why bother? It’ll find its way back,” Mendiolea said.

Larranaga stood up and brushed the grass away from his trousers. “Mikel, for thousands of years the Basque people have been helping lambs find their way back to their mothers,” he said. “Should I stop now just because you ask me to?

Mendiolea chuckled. “You know your problem, Andoni?
You think you have to carry the history of all the Basque people on your shoulders. Go, find the little lost lamb.”

“I will,” Larranaga said as he disappeared into the darkness.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Mendiolea called after him.

Not getting an answer, Mendiolea stood and brushed off his trousers as well. “Andoni, do you want me to come with you?” he called again.

“Mikel!”

The scream that came from the darkness was filled with such terror that Mendiolea felt his blood run cold.

“Andoni! What is it?” Mendiolea shouted, running into the darkness toward where he’d heard the sound.

The sheep, so docile moments earlier, now began to run, and it was all Mendiolea could do to keep his feet as they rushed passed him.

“Andoni!” he called again.

Suddenly, a gunshot erupted in the night, and at nearly the same moment that he heard it, Mendiolea felt a heavy blow to his chest, as if someone had hit him with a hammer. He put his hand to his chest and pulled it away, looking at the blood in his palm as if unable to understand where it came from.

Then the pain subsided and Mendiolea felt himself growing light-headed. He fell.

What followed was the frightened shuffle of the sheep and the moan of a ceaseless wind.

No more than twenty yards from the two men he had just killed, Clay Morgan sat on his horse, his hat pulled low over his head. He took out a cheroot, struck a match on his saddle horn, lit it, then rode off enjoying the smoke.

It had been a good night’s work.

The town of King Hill was temporarily taken over for the funerals of Andoni Larranaga and Mikel Mendiolea, both of whom had worked for Emerson Booker. Not only did all the sheep ranchers come to the funeral, but so too did all the Basque shepherds and their families. In addition to the Basque who lived and worked in the Camas Valley, many others came by train, so there were as many Basque in town as there were citizens of the town.

The tolling of the church bell announced the beginning of the funeral. Larranaga and Mendiolea’s coffins were draped with the red, white, and green colors of the Basque and were borne on the shoulders of their fellow Basques along a corridor of onlookers down Main Street to the church.

The religious service began amidst expressions of grief and muted conversations. At its conclusion, the strains of “Gernikako Arbola,” the Tree of Gernika, came from the church organ.

As Larranaga and Mendiolea’s bodies, once more flanked by mourners, began their journey toward the graveyard, musicians preceded the coffins, leading the way to the music of the
txistu
and the
txalapata
, the flute and wooden rhythm percussion instrument. Behind the coffins, Larranaga’s wife, Enara, and Mendiolea’s wife, Usea, walked with relatives and close friends.

After the coffins had been lowered, family members dropped flowers and handfuls of earth into the grave as Josu played “Gernikako Arbola” on his flute. This time, all the Basques who were present joined in and sang.

After the funeral there was a traffic jam of horses and wagons as people hurried to leave the cemetery. Everyone was heading to the meeting that had been called at Emerson Booker’s house, and because he wasn’t married, Cynthia and some of the other wives had arranged to bring food.

As Hawke, Ian, Cynthia, and Hannah returned to their buckboard, they talked in quiet tones about the funeral. Ian stopped and looked toward the edge of the cemetery.

“What’s he doing here?” he asked, nodding at a clump of trees on the periphery.

“It’s Jesse,” Hannah said. She looked at Ian. “Papa, can I go talk to him?”

“Why in heaven’s name would you want to?” he asked. “You know what all has happened.”

“Yes, and it’s all bad,” Hannah agreed. “I just don’t believe that Jesse had anything to do with it.”

Ian held his hand out and motioned dismissively. “All right,” he said. “Go talk to him.”

Hannah brightened. “Thank you, Papa,” she said, kissing him on the cheek before she hurried over to see Jesse Carlisle.

“Thanks,” Jesse said when she came up to him. He looked back toward the cemetery. “I didn’t think you’d want to see me. Not after what I said the last time we spoke.”

“What are you doing here?” Hannah asked.

Jesse was holding a single red rose, and he looked down at it as he answered. “I, uh, came to visit my brother’s grave.” He pointed with the rose. “It’s right over there, if you remember.”

“Yes, I remember.”

Jesse sighed and shook his head. “No, that’s not right,” he said. “I didn’t come to see Johnny. I came to see you.” He handed the rose to Hannah.

“To see me?”

Jesse nodded. “Yes. I knew you would be here for the funeral.”

“It was awful, those two men getting killed,” she said. “Enara—that’s Mr. Larranaga’s wife—is pregnant. Now her baby will come into the world without a father.”

“I’m so sorry they were killed,” Jesse said. “And I’m sorry for their families. But, Hannah, I hope you don’t think I had anything to do with this.”

“Oh, Jesse, I know you wouldn’t have anything to do with it. Not personally. But don’t you see? It’s all part of this crazy war that’s going on between my people and your people.”

“It doesn’t have to be my people or your people,” Jesse said. “As far as you and I are concerned, it could just be us.”

“How?”

“It’s simple,” Jesse said. “Marry me and we’ll go our own way.”

“Marry you? Jesse, I’m only sixteen years old!”

“Some women get married when they’re sixteen. Pa told me that lots of girls down South get married when they are only sixteen, and sometimes even younger. And you’re from the South, aren’t you?”

“Well yes, but—”

“Hannah, if we don’t get married now, while we have a chance, I don’t know what’s going to happen to us. This…this business between the cattlemen and the sheep herders is never going to end.”

“I can’t, Jesse,” Hannah said, her voice pained. “Please try to understand. I can’t leave my mother and my father now, not while all this is going on.”

“Then this is it,” Jesse said sadly. “I’m sorry it had to turn out this way.”

“What are you going to do?” Hannah asked.

“What can I do?” Jesse replied. “You called it. You said my people and your people. I’m going to stay with my people.”

“Hannah!” Ian called.

“Your pa is calling.”

“Yes, I know. We’re all going to Mr. Booker’s house. He’s the one that Mr. Larranaga and Mr. Mendiolea worked for.”

“You’d better hurry, then,” Jesse said.

Hannah stood there a moment longer, then reached out and touched his hands.

“Hannah?” Jesse said.

Hannah said nothing, but continued to look into his eyes.

“I have to do this,” Jesse said. He pulled her to him and kissed her.

At first Hannah struggled against him. This was no place for such a thing, in a cemetery with mourners still present, and in the presence of her parents. But the harder she struggled, the more determined he was to hold her, until finally she abandoned the struggle and let herself go limp in his arms. The rose slipped from her hand and fell to the ground, there to lie just beneath the foot she lifted as she leaned into him.

Not until she abandoned the struggle and returned the kiss did Jesse break, leaving Hannah standing there as limp as a rag doll.

“Good-bye,” he said, turning and walking away from her. She noticed then that his horse was tied to a tree just a few feet away. She watched him until he mounted. He glanced back at her one last time but said nothing as he turned his horse and rode away.

“I FEEL GUILTY,” EMERSON TOLD THE PEOPLE WHO
had gathered at his house after the funeral. “Andoni and Mikel said they wanted to take the sheep out into the open range, and I told them to go ahead. I should have held them back until there were more who wanted to go.”

“It’s not your fault, Emerson,” Ian said. “What happened with Ed’s barn and with George and Mitch proves that Creed is going to make trouble, no matter where you are.”

“Yes, but this is more than trouble,” Ian said. “Two of the finest young men you would ever want to meet were murdered in cold blood.”

“What I don’t understand is why the sheriff hasn’t taken a hand in this,” Dumey said.

“Or at least a U.S. Marshal,” Patterson added.

“Yes,” Cummings said. “Eckert knows that we have a
right to be in the open range. It seems to me like he would get the U.S. Marshal to help him enforce it.”

“I’ve been thinking that same thing,” Emerson said. “And tomorrow I think I’ll just go into town and have a talk with Mr. Eckert.”

A banner spread across Main Street read:

105
YEARS OLD! HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AMERICA

All of the posts and porch pillars in town were wrapped in red, white, and blue bunting, and another big sign read:

FOURTH OF JULY GALA, NEXT MONDAY,
DOWNTOWN KING HILL

The Bureau of Land Management occupied an office on Park Street. Emerson Booker knew the office well, because it was here that he had filed his land claim when he first arrived in Idaho. The office consisted of two rooms—the front room, in which the entrance was separated from the reception area by a counter that ran from wall to wall, and the back room, which was the private office of the field manager.

The walls of the entrance and reception area were covered with maps of Alturas County showing land that was owned and land designated as open range. Emerson saw his own ranch marked out on the map, as well as the ranches that belonged to the other sheep herders. The cattle ranches were marked out as well, and he thought it interesting that just one cattle ranch was larger than all the sheep ranches combined.

“You’ve got all the land in the world,” he said under his breath. “Why are you trying to run us out?”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Booker, may I help you?”

Turning away from the wall map, Emerson saw Emile Horner, Eckert’s clerk.

“Yes, I’m here to see Mr. Eckert,” Emerson said.

“Just a moment, please, I’ll tell him you are here,” Horner said, stepping through the door that led into Eckert’s office. He returned a moment later.

“I’m sorry,” Horner said. “But Mr. Eckert said it would not be convenient for him to see you today.”

“Not convenient?” Emerson replied angrily. “Not convenient?”

“Yes, sir. He is meeting with Mr. Creed at the moment.”

“Well, fine,” Emerson said. “This effects Creed as well. I’ll just see both of them at the same time.”

Emerson opened the little gate and walked through.

“No, Mr. Booker, you can’t—” Horner said, but Emerson waved him off as he opened the door and stepped into Eckert’s office.

“Show a little gumption, man,” Creed was saying angrily.

“But you don’t understand, I—” Eckert started to say, his reply interrupted by an angry announcement from Emerson.

“Eckert, I need to talk to you, now.”

Both Eckert and Creed looked around at Emerson, their expressions revealing surprise and annoyance at his intrusion.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Booker,” Eckert said. “But as you can see, I’m busy with Mr. Creed at the moment.”

“Well, good, because this effects Creed as well,” Emerson said.

“I—” Eckert started.

“That’s all right, Eckert, let him speak his piece,” Creed said.

“Very well, Mr. Booker,” Eckert said. “What is it?”

“I’m sure you heard that two of my men were murdered the other night.”

“I, uh, did hear that two men were killed,” Eckert said. “I didn’t hear who they worked for, nor did I hear any of the details.”

“Then I’ll give you the details,” Emerson said. “They were tending my sheep when someone murdered them.”

“Where were your sheep?” Creed asked.

“My sheep were on the open range,” Emerson said.

“Oh, well, I’m sorry your men were killed, but they were violating the law. I’m sure you are aware of the injunction against any sheep grazing on open range.”

“Creed, you know damn well that injunction has been lifted. You were there when the judge lifted it. Yet you and the other cattlemen are acting as if it is still in effect,” Emerson said. “Why is that?”

“You are the official government spokesman here, Mr. Eckert,” Creed said. “Perhaps you should tell him.”

“Mr. Booker, they are acting as if the injunction is still in effect because technically it has not yet been dissolved,” Eckert said.

“What? What do you mean it hasn’t been dissolved?” Emerson demanded. “You know damn well it has been dissolved. We were both there when Judge Dollar dissolved it.”

Eckert shook his head. “Yes, you and I both heard him say that he was going to dissolve it. But until he actually signs the court order doing so, it is still in effect.”

“Are you telling me he hasn’t signed a court order?”

“I don’t know if he has or not.”

“How can you not know?”

“Look, Mr. Booker, I am a field manager for the United States government. I strive to remain absolutely neutral on
all disputes. And that means I cannot interpret. I am very strictly bound by the laws of the United States, and the law says that until such time as I have a written order rescinding a previous written order, the previous order remains in effect.”

“Well, when are you going to get that order?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No. And until the order is actually placed in my hand, I’m powerless to do anything to change the status quo.”

“How much is Creed paying you to do this?”

“I haven’t paid him one cent!” Creed said angrily.

“Mr. Booker,” Eckert said. “You are coming dangerously close to slandering a U.S. government official. I caution you, sir, that, that is a federal offense.”

Emerson stroked his chin, then nodded. “You have to have it placed in your hand, you say?”

“That is correct.”

“Very well, Eckert. I will go to Mountain Home myself. I am going to see the judge, and I am going to get two copies of his order. One, I will give to you, and the other I will give to the United States Marshal.”

“The U.S. Marshal?” Eckert said.

“I believe he has an office in Mountain Home.”

“Really, Mr. Booker, that isn’t necessary,” Eckert said.

“Oh, I think it is very necessary,” Emerson replied. “I’m taking the afternoon train. I’ll be back tomorrow with the judge’s order.”

Turning, Emerson left the office without saying good-bye.

“Oh, dear,” Eckert said after Emerson left. “Oh dear, that is very troubling.”

“It’s nothing you have to worry about,” Creed said.

“Oh, but it is. Don’t you understand? It is a very serious
crime for a public official to take a bribe. Why, if he goes to the U.S. Marshal and that gets out…I could lose my position. I…I could even go to prison.”

“I’ll take care of it. He’s not going to see the U.S. Marshal,” Creed said. “He won’t even see the judge.”

“How will you take care of it?”

“That’s none of your concern,” Creed said. “But as I was telling you before he came in here, you have to show a little more gumption. I want you to enforce the injunction.”

“How am I going to do that if I can’t use the sheriff?”

“You have as much authority as the sheriff,” Creed said. “Use it, man, use it!” Creed took an envelope from his inside pocket and put it on the desk in front of Eckert, who looked inside the envelope and saw that it was filled with greenbacks.

“Yes,” he said. “Now that you bring it up, I do have as much authority as the sheriff.” He slipped the envelope into his own jacket pocket.

Emerson Booker stood on the street outside the land office for a moment, breathing deeply to try and calm down. He got a big whiff of a fresh pile of horse droppings, deposited in the street just in front of the office, and laughed. That would teach him better than to take a big breath downtown. Over a period of time the streets had been completely paved with horse, mule, and oxen dung. It was bad enough on a clear day, but on days when it rained, the streets became a shimmering pool of liquid ooze, and then it became almost unbearable.

Mounting his horse, he rode down to the depot and bought a round-trip ticket to Mountain Home.

“The train leaves today, Tuesday, June twenty-eighth at two-fifteen and arrives in Mountain Home at four forty-five this afternoon,” the clerk said. “Your return train leaves
tomorrow, Wednesday, June twenty-ninth, at ten o’clock in the morning and will arrive here at twelve-thirty in the afternoon.”

“Thank you,” Emerson said.

“That will put you back in town in time for the big Fourth of July celebration next Monday,” the clerk said as he pulled the tickets from a book, then stamped them and handed them to Emerson. “You won’t want to miss that.”

“Thanks, I plan to be here for it,” Emerson said, pocketing the tickets.

Emerson then took his horse to the livery and made arrangements to leave it overnight. Before he turned the horse over, though, he reached down into his saddlebag and pulled out his holster and pistol.

“I don’t want to leave this here,” he said to the stable man.

The stable man chuckled. “No, sir, that might not be such a good idea.”

Emerson strapped on his pistol, then decided to go to the saloon and wait until train time.

When he stepped into the saloon, he saw Mark Patterson standing at the bar, drinking a beer. There were several others in the saloon as well, a few townspeople he knew, some he didn’t, and several cowboys he did not know by name but had seen in there before.

Seeing Emerson Booker come in, Patterson smiled and waved at him, inviting him over to the bar.

“Hello, Mark.”

“Emerson,” Patterson replied. “I am glad to see you in here. Seeing as I’m the only sheep man in here, I was beginning to feel like the hen in the fox den,” he said, chuckling at his reversal of the cliché.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Booker, what can I get for you?” the bartender asked.

“Hello, Dan. I’ll have a beer, please.”

“With or without a head?”

“With.”

“Very well,” Dan answered, leaving to draw the beer.

“So, Mark, what are you doing in here in the middle of the day?” Emerson asked.

“I came to have a new wheel put on my wagon,” Patterson said. “What about you?”

Emerson sighed. “I came to talk to Eckert,” he said. “I wanted to find out why he isn’t enforcing the judge’s order to let us use the open range.”

Dan put the beer, with a foaming head, in front of Emerson and picked up the nickel from the bar. “You plan to be here for the big Fourth of July celebration?” he asked. “The volunteer Fire Brigade Band is going to perform. I play the tuba, you know.”

“Well, then, I shall have to be here,” Emerson said.

“Oomp-pah, oomp-pah, oomp-pah,” Dan mimicked, pretending to hold a tuba as he walked back down the bar. Emerson and Patterson laughing at his antics.

“What did Eckert say?” Patterson asked.

Emerson took a swallow of his beer. “Ha! He said that the injunction has not been dissolved.”

“What? But it has, hasn’t it? I mean you and Ian and Hawke were all three there when the judge dissolved it.”

“Oh, it’s been dissolved, all right,” Emerson said, wiping the foam from his lips with the back of his hand. “But Eckert says that until the written order is in his hand, the injunction remains in effect.”

“Damn, that doesn’t seem right.”

Emerson chuckled. “I know, but don’t worry. He’ll have it in his hands tomorrow, because I’m catching the two-fifteen to Mountain Home and I plan to personally put the
order in his hand. And I’m also going to put the order in the hands of the U.S. Marshal in Mountain Home.”

“Good idea,” Patterson said. “That ought to end this mess once and for all.”

“Hey you
,
schoolteacher!
” a raspy voice called.

Looking in that direction, Emerson saw Clay Morgan standing beside his table, and sitting at the table, an evil smile on his face, was Josh Creed.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Emerson said, though he knew who the gunfighter was.

“I hear you are about to take a trip,” Morgan said, not responding directly to Emerson’s remark.

“I am,” Emerson replied. “I don’t know that it is any of your business, though.”

“Well, here’s the thing,” Morgan said. “If you leave town, that’s going to give me the idea that you don’t like my company. Is that it?”

“What? No, of course not.”

“Then I wish you would stay,” Morgan said.

“What are you talking about?” Emerson asked. “That’s a dumb comment.”

“Oh,” Morgan said. “So, now you are telling me that you’re going to leave town because you don’t like my company, and you’re telling me that I’m dumb.” Morgan’s raspy voice was cold and challenging.

Emerson suddenly realized that Morgan was baiting him. Everyone else in the saloon knew as well, because all conversation halted.

“I said no such thing,” Emerson said in as quiet and unchallenging way as he could.

“So, now I am a liar, am I?”

“What? No! You’re crazy!” As soon as he spoke, Emerson gasped. He realized, too late, that calling Morgan crazy was playing right into the gunman’s hands.

“You are really beginning to make me mad, schoolteacher. First you say you are leaving town because you don’t like my company. Then you call me dumb, then you call me a liar, and now you say I’m crazy. Just how many insults can a man take and still be a man? I’m calling you out.”

“No!” Emerson shouted, holding his hands out in front of him, as if by that action he could stop everything from happening. “What are you talking about?”

“Everyone in this saloon has heard you insult me.”