Valley of the Gun (9781101607480) (2 page)

“Tell him I'll get some coffee boiling,” DeShay called out in an afterthought. He grinned down at Hornady as the two townsmen stooped to pick him up. “That'll help him clear away some of the dancing squirrels and pin whistles before he goes to cutting and stitching on Lightning Wade here.”

Hornady moaned at the prospect and closed his eyes.

The two townsmen laughed as they raised Hornady by his shoulders and bootheels and walked away along the dirt street with him hanging limp between them. But Hornady saw nothing funny about it. He cursed to himself and let his mind drift away into a dark tunnel of unconsciousness, blood dripping steadily from his wound.

“That blasted Ranger,” he murmured in a weak and trailing voice. “Just when everything's going my way. . . .”

Chapter 2

A few minutes had passed before Dr. Howard Lanahan stepped into his office. He stopped and stood in the open doorway of the surgery room, steadying himself with a hand on either side of the doorframe. He stared at the two men. His bleary red eyes ran along Lightning Wade Hornady, who lay prone and bleeding on a surgery gurney; then he looked Sheriff DeShay up and down, DeShay standing close beside the gurney.

“Which one of you three gentlemen wants to be my patient?” the big doctor asked, his voice clear but thick.

“Holy God,” Hornady moaned, hearing the doctor's query, knowing he and the sheriff were the only ones there.

“Jesus, Doc,” said DeShay with slight chuckle,
“he
is.” He gestured a hand down at the bloody Hornady. “Are you going to be able to—?”

“That was a little joke, Sheriff,” the big, red-faced doctor said, cutting DeShay off. “Of course I'm perfectly able to do my job. Sometimes I just like to lighten the air a little before dabbling these fingers in a man's guts.”

He grinned, taking off his battered derby hat as he stepped over to the gurney and looked down at Hornady. He deftly spun his derby toward a tall corner hat rack, but it missed the rack altogether and sailed out an open window.

Sheriff DeShay saw the doctor's error but wasn't going to mention it. He continued to stare at the doctor.

“I set a pot of coffee to boil when we got here, Doc,” he said. “It ought to be ready by now. Why don't I get you a cup? You can drink it before you get started.” He turned and headed for the kitchen in the rear of the clapboard house.

“A sterling idea, Sheriff. Bring the pot,” Dr. Lanahan replied to DeShay over his shoulder as the sheriff's boots resounded along the hallway. “That is, if my patient here doesn't mind me sipping whilst I work.” He stared down at Hornady with a leering grin and squeezed the wounded outlaw's thigh. “I'm tempted to ask which leg we're removing today, but I have a hunch you don't appreciate my keen sense of humor.”

“That's it. I'm out . . . of here!” Hornady struggled to raise himself up onto his elbows, but the doctor eased him back down. Blood surged up between the doctor's fingers.

“Now, now, take it easy,” Lanahan said. “There's nothing for you to get all excited about. From the looks of this wound, you'll most likely leave here in a box anyway.”

The doctor peeled off his swallow-tailed coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves. He reached to a shelf, took down a bottle of clear liquid and picked up a folded white cloth.

Hornady watched the doctor pour a few drops of chloroform liquid onto the cloth.

“Is that what you use to knock me out?” Hornady asked in weak voice.

“Yep, unless you'd prefer a sound blow from a blackthorn shillelagh I keep under my desk,” Dr. Lanahan said. He took a deep breath and held it.

Hornady started to ask, “Is there any danger in this stuff making a man
mumph—”
But his words stopped short. His eyes flew open wide. He caught the bittersweet taste and scent of the vapory liquid press down over his nose and mouth.

“Sweet dreams,” Dr. Lanahan said, holding the cloth firmly over Hornady's face. The wounded outlaw's whole body gave one stiff jerk, then fell limp. His eyes rolled up in their sockets and seemed to stick there.

From the doorway behind the doctor, Sheriff DeShay stood staring, coffeepot and empty mug in hand. He walked to the gurney, setting the pot down on a small table, and looked at Hornady's eyes.

“Is he all right, Doc?” he asked.

“That's a hell of a question, Sheriff,” said Dr. Lanahan. “I could damn near read a book through the hole in his chest.” He closed Hornady's eyes, then took the coffee mug and held it for DeShay to fill. “Other than that and losing enough blood to fill an ox bladder, he seems chipper enough.” He stifled a belch and sipped the strong, hot coffee, making an ill face as he swallowed.

“What's wrong, Doc?” DeShay asked.

“I hate putting so much effort into drinking just to stop short and sober up all at once,” the doctor said. He sighed, took another sip and shook his head. “It's a waste of both good whiskey and human endeavor.”

“Are you going to be needing my help doing any of this?” DeShay asked quietly.

“What you're asking me is, am I sober enough?” the doctor said flatly. “My answer is, what choice do I have? You see any other doctors running around here, drunk or sober? Either I fix him up or we get out the shovels and wax. Now step back and give me room to drink my coffee.” The doctor sipped and paused. “Better yet, get out of here. I work better without being watched.”

DeShay only nodded. He reached behind his back and took out a pair of handcuffs. Using both hands, he took off Hornady's right boot and let it fall to the floor. Then he cuffed the unconscious outlaw's ankle to a gurney rail and jerked it a little, testing it.

Dr. Lanahan raised both hands above Hornady's bloody chest and turned them back and forth. “I'd wash them first,” he murmured to himself, wiggling his fingers, inspecting them, “but I'm only going to get them bloody anyway.” To DeShay he said over his shoulder as if in afterthought, “Where will you be in case I need to send somebody for you?”

“I'm going to the livery barn to see the Ranger—talk to him before he leaves town,” said DeShay, already heading for the front door.

—

Crossing an empty side street on his way to the livery barn, DeShay spotted the lone figure slip from the shadows ahead of him and stalk toward the rear door of the barn, a rifle in his hands. When the man turned to check the street behind him, DeShay sidled quickly out of sight around a corner of a shack and watched. The figure continued on, then stopped and crouched behind a stack of building lumber, and DeShay took the opportunity to move forward himself.

The gunman's attention was so concentrated on the livery door that he neither heard nor saw the sheriff until DeShay stopped ten feet behind him and stood with Hornady's big Simpson-Barre pistol raised and aimed.

“Lay that long iron down easy-like and raise your hands,” DeShay said quietly.

Hearing the voice behind him, the gunman tensed, looking ready to spin and fire.

Seeing what the gunman had in mind, DeShay cocked the big Simpson-Barre, making sure the man heard it.

“That'll be the worst idea you've had all day,” he said. “Drop the gun. The next sound you hear won't be me telling you again.”

“Take it easy, DeShay,” the gunman said, recognizing the sheriff's voice. “Look, I'm laying it down. There we go.”

DeShay watched him set the rifle atop a pile of boards.

“That's part of it,” DeShay said. “Now turn around,
slow.
Let me get a look at you.”

The gunman raised his gloved hands chest high. Turning, he gave a sheepish grin.

“It's me, Albert Hirsh,” he said. “Looks like you caught me fair and square, Sheriff. I was about to relieve myself right back here behind this stack of planks.” He gave a shrug. “I know what you're thinking—you're thinking I'm too damned ornery to walk to the jake. And you're right. I don't blame you for thinking it. It's nothing but ornery and inconsiderate, a man pissing wherever he pleases these days when there's facilities aplenty in every direction—”

“Shut up, Hirsh,” DeShay said, cutting him off. “I saw what you were setting up to do here, you bushwhacking turd.”

“
Bushwhack?
No, Sheriff, you've got me all wrong,” the gunman said. “Improper personal habits, yes, I admit to. But bushwhack a man?
Huh-uh
, that's not my way.”

DeShay stared at him, the big custom revolver cocked and pointed at his chest.

“Where's the rest of Dad Orwick's men, the ones you rode in with earlier?” he asked.

“Oh, they've all gone on, Sheriff,” said Hirsh. “They sent me back to check on Lightning. We heard a shot after we rode out and when Hornady never caught up with us . . .” He let his words trail.

“So you figured something was amiss,” DeShay said flatly.

“Pretty much,” said Hirsh, giving him an innocent look. “Were we wrong thinking it?”

“
Lightning Wade Hornady got a bullet shot through him right after you and your pals left town,” DeShay said. “An Arizona Ranger shot him down.” He cocked his head slightly to the side. “But why is it I feel like you already knew all this?”

Hirsh shrugged again, his hands still chest high.

“That I can't tell you,” he said, “although I always said you're sharper than a briar when it comes to the knowing of things right off the top of your head. It must come from some deep inborn well of insightfulness would be my only explanation.”

“A deep well of
insight . . .
I see,” DeShay said as if considering it. “Let me tell you something else that keeps running through my mind. I can't help thinking you and your pals had a good laugh after riding out of here, thinking how you'd robbed the bank over in Goble and ridden straight to Whiskey Bend”—his expression darkened—“to
my town,
with a posse licking at your heels! And how do I hear about it? I hear about it when a Ranger rides in and shoots down one of your pards in the middle of
my
street!”

“Easy, Sheriff. Nobody meant you any disrespect,” said Hirsh, seeing the sheriff's gun hand tighten around Hornady's big custom revolver. “Anyway, I wasn't the one in charge, else I would have straightaway called you to the side. You and Dad being friendly as you are, I would have told you we'd been out on a spree. You can believe that.”

“Who was in charge?” DeShay asked.

“Arvin Peck,” said Hirsh. “Right before Dad and his
segundos
split off from the rest of us, he told Peck to get us through Whiskey Bend and on up the trail.”

“And my name wasn't mentioned, in any way?” DeShay said. He rubbed his thumb and fingers together in the universal sign of greed.

“Not that I heard, Sheriff,” said Hirsh, “and that's the gospel truth, so help me.”

“You're lying, Hirsh,” said DeShay.

Hirsh looked confused.

“I am?” he said. His eyes widened, seeing DeShay's gun hand tighten, along with the look on the bearded sheriff's face. “What part's not true?” he asked, as if genuinely confused.

“The part about nobody mentioning me,” DeShay said. “Nobody pulls a robbery and comes riding to my town afterward. Not unless they're taking care of me. It's a matter of respect.”

Hirsh looked relieved, knowing what part of his story he had to recount.

“Okay, you're right—that part was a lie,” he said. “But the rest really
was
the gospel truth. The last words out of Dad's mouth before he and his
segundos
cut out were ‘Peck, you see to it you take care of Sheriff DeShay.'”

“But he didn't,” DeShay said.

“I know and it's a terrible thing when folks can't be counted on to do what they're supposed to. I'd apologize if I thought it meant anything to you.” He studied the sheriff's cold stare and asked meekly, “Would it?”

“No, it wouldn't,” said DeShay.

Seeing the tip of the custom revolver rise from pointing at his chest and level on his face, Hirsh swallowed a hard knot in his throat.

“Can I say something?” he asked.

“Make it quick,” said DeShay.

“I see that's Lightning Wade's gun you're training on me. I just want to caution you that it
does
have a hair trigger, in case you haven't already shot it and found that out for yourself. I say this because if you don't really intend to shoot me, I wouldn't want it going off by accident. You see what I mean?”

“I do,” said the sheriff. “But you needn't worry about an accident.”

Hirsh swallowed another hard knot.

“Meaning . . .”

“Meaning just what you think it means,” said DeShay.

The big custom revolver bucked in his hand. Hirsh's forehead pitched back at a sharp angle, forcing him hard against the pile of building planks. A large red mist exploded from the back of his head as he collapsed to the ground, dead, and sat slumped against the stack of lumber.

“You're right about this hair trigger,” DeShay said, looking down at the smoking revolver in his hand. “I'll have to be careful about that.” He noted the rich, distinctive sound of the big gun, the deep after-ring of high-quality steel.
Very nice gun.

Looking out across the top of the stacked lumber, he saw the Ranger appear at the edge of the livery barn door.

“Ranger, it's me, Sheriff DeShay,” he called out. “I flushed us out an ambusher among these boards.”

Recognizing DeShay in the waning evening light, Sam walked forward, rifle ready in hand, and stared down at the dead outlaw. He looked at the rifle lying atop the lumber where Hirsh had dropped it.

“Do you know him?” Sam asked.

“His name is Albert Hirsh—was anyway,” said DeShay, staring down with the Ranger. “He's one of Dad Orwick's gunmen who was here earlier.” As he spoke he opened the Simpson-Barre, flipped out the spent round and replaced it. Smoke still curled from the long barrel.

“He was laying for me,” Sam said, seeing the location, the proximity to the rear bar door.

“That's the way I made it,” DeShay said quietly. “I could've been wrong. . . .”

Sam shook his head a little.

“You weren't wrong,” he said. “I'm obliged. Lucky for me you spotted him.”

DeShay dismissed the matter with a nod. He snapped the cylinder shut and stuck the big revolver down behind his belt.

“Orwick has two kinds of men riding with him,” he said. “There's gunmen like this one he calls his
company,
and there's another group he calls his
disciples
.” He looked at Sam. “All in all they make up the Redemption Riders. Pardon me for mentioning it, if you already knew.”