Short Story: Thunder in the Valley Part…

Short Story: Thunder in the Valley Part 4: Trail Of Fear

Maria maintained her vigil, and carefully ladled warm broth between Garrett's swollen lips. His eyes darted uncontrollably from side to side, as she did so. Brokenwing held on firmly to him, as he thrashed about in the last throws of pain and unconsciousness. Maria looked to Brokenwing with hope in her eyes, and the ancient Shoshone slowly nodded his approval.

Images raced through Garrett’s mind, to a time when he had been on the razor edge of his life. He had kept counsel with fate and eluded the hangman, by his quick wits and rapid reactions. Recollections came quickly and clearly to him, but the schoolteacher’s pleading face still haunted him.

News of the ‘Stage Killing’ had swept the range like running fire, and it ran hot and angry. Kinsfolk were boiling mad and quick with rage, and no match for slow words. In the temper of black revenge Garrett found himself at the hated end of a lynching noose. In the darkest, ugliest sweep of inhumanity and unreason, it takes one brave voice of conviction to quell such venting blood lust. The voice returned to Garrett again to pluck him from his deepest nightmare.

“No,” had said the voice. The voice had rung out clear, like a bell, and out across the dusty street and the dusty town.

“No! Cut this man down! I say - now! For the eyes of the almighty are peering into your very souls, and accursed will be ye all, in the sight of the Lord. For hell and damnation shall stamp upon your hearts - if no man heeds me this day!”

Garrett knew that were other words, tall words and fine, but only their music came to him, for his brain began to boil. He recalled the rope around his neck, as it began to burn with the sting of the branding iron. The preacher had saved his life for the justice of the Marshal, but that justice would have to wait for another day.

The preacher had appeared from no-where in particular; or had he always been there? Garrett could no longer split the truth from the fear, and the preacher in the long grey coat and the booming voice, seemed even now, as a dream. The mob had relented out of their own fear, for fear was their currency, and quickly spent. Garrett had been released with a mere slice of a knife and dumped unceremoniously into the dust of the street. The second new breath of life that punched into his aching lungs had kick - started quick hands and lightning reactions. So quick was he, that at the nadir of his life, he had in those moments become more than mortal. His quick hands had easily defeated the cold eyes and restraints of mere men, and he had escaped, only to find himself alone on the trail, a hunted man - alone on the trail of fear.

Yet that life seemed far away now, as he considered the wild tapestry of his life. For now he had a woman whom he loved. Garrett closed his eyes, and relaxed, as his sub-conscious mind departed from the web of its dream-time.

Slowly his blue eyes began to re-open, and he tried to focus on the afternoon light that poured in through the open window. Once again he was a spirit of the material world. His head rocked from side to side in a slow sweep, and his tousled hair fell across his immaculate face. It was true - he was back! He pulled himself upright, and rested his head against the log wall, and he smiled a half-smile at Maria.

“Hi….”

Maria turned to Brokenwing, but he had already left the room to cross the dusty veranda outside. Maria, although accustomed to his silent appearances and disappearances, she still found him rather disconcerting. He had gone; yet there was no sign that Brokenwing had ever been there, or indeed he would ever return.

*

Garrett now regretted slipping silently away into the bright new morning, yet the restlessness within him was a hunger that would never die. The old Indian had been right, there were strangers on the trail, and he too could smell the fear and the danger in the air. The hand of fate could be fickle, and now Garrett had more to lose than his own life.

Underneath the high afternoon sun, Garrett Hobourne crept along unseen to the ravine's edge. Far below him he could see the scampering herd of wild horses, as they swept back and forth on their never-ending dance in the dust. Their taut and strained necks were topped with wild heads, inset with blood-shot eyes of apprehension. Fear lived in those eyes, and the flying horses longed to be free. Garrett guessed that there were maybe twenty or more mustangs in the dusty swirl. There was no escape from the dry gully, but their instincts told them to keep trying. The entrance of their rocky enclave was blocked by a roughly erected barricade, of felled pines brushwood and boulders, and they remained trapped.

Garrett shielded the glare with his outstretched hand, until he grew accustomed to the sharp light, and he could just make out a figure far below crouched near a pile of axed pines. The man he could see in the shadows of the ravine, was pulling deeply on a smoke, and his free arm cradled a rifle. There was no doubt in Garrett’s mind, that there was a plan to rope and break the horses, and the distant figure was ready to back up the attempt with firepower. Garrett was irritated to think the wild horses that roamed over the Clarette range, could be taken without a fight. They were the life-blood of Maria’s ranch, yet his instincts told him to keep low. He wanted to be sure just how many guns he was up against, before he made his move.

Garrett inched his long body closer to the very edge of the ravine, and could make out the glowing embers of the campfire below. He could make out an odd assortment of tools, ropes and provisions, heaped up near the scree under the cliff. He could smell the smoke, and the scent of the felled pine, that drifted up from below. He scanned the natural enclosure and felt that another figure was present, but as yet this figure defied detection.

Garrett remained unmoving for what seemed forever, such that he began to lose the feeling in his shooting arm. He became concerned, for he feared the outcome of a slow arm on the end of his Colt. He moved . . . Loose rubble beneath his tasselled jacket flew from the precipice. The small stones rattled down the cliff face, gathering dust and noise as they fell. He quickly withdrew his face from the edge, and turned away. However, his motions were soon arrested, because not more than ten feet away the muzzle of a pistol pointed down at him.

A hulking figure stood over him; the face of the figure was square-jawed, with the head of a hammer. The big man sneered down at Garrett.

"So what's your game; you aimin' to bushwhack us, eh?" and the maw of the pistol was pushed down closer. The big man in the stained vest kicked away the Winchester that lay at Garrett's side.

“I should let you have it, here and now," growled the big man.

Almost at once Garrett thought of Maria, and the fear that he might not see her again angered him. He lashed out his boot, but the thick leg he struck was as stout as an oak. The blow was ineffective, and the big man returned a kick of his own. Garrett found he was slipping over the edge of the precipice, but managed to grasp a rocky outcrop as he tumbled. His grip slipped, and he could feel the full weight of his hanging body pulling him over the edge.

The big man glared down at him, with a face set in granite, but Garrett could read no compassion in the grizzled face.

"Come on! Help me up......." Garrett's words nearly choked him as he forced them out, but the giant did not move. Blood burst from beneath Garrett's fingers as he vainly tried to tighten his grip. The loose rock-face quickly broke up, and the rocky outcrop that held his life began to crumble away. He looked down and his mind began to spin. In a moment his body would be smashed upon the boulders far below. He gave out a grunt as he left the edge.

A large hand had already clamped itself upon Garrett’s jacket, and from nowhere, a powerful arm wrenched Garrett away from his death-plunge. Once again he was on the edge of the precipice, gasping for air.

"Let that be a lesson to ya," boomed the giant. "You can think ya self lucky… if it had bin' up to me . . . "

"… Thanks ..," offered Garrett, still trying to pull oxygen into his shocked body.

"Don't be thankin’ me yet, let’s see what Jamie's got to say ... Come on, get to ya feet," said the big man, and he proceeded to prod his pistol into Garrett's back. "And your shootin’ guns – you won’t be needin’ them!”

"Jamie? That the fella below?” asked Garrett, but was immediately interrupted, as the pistol was forced deep into his ribs. A powerful hand pulled at him, and he turned to face the pointing gun. The power of the man was awesome, and he towered over Garrett like a giant Redwood. Garrett looked into the large round grizzled face and felt the meanness of its owner.

"Just keep yer' mouth shut bushwhacker - if ya know what's good for ya!" He leaned over and took Garrett's side arms, pushed the guns under his belt, and shouted down into the ravine.

"Hey, Jamie! I got me a bushwhacker up here! Get the rope - we're sure gonna need it!" His voice boomed out into the vast opening of the ravine, and the figure below responded with a slow, wide sweep of his hat.

The big man seemed to match the vastness that surrounded him; it was almost as if he had been hewn from the cliff-face itself. Not many men could fill the space they occupied, but this giant of a man appeared to fill every part of available space through which he moved.

Garrett staggered to his feet, and proceeded to follow the prodding directions of the pistol. He moved slowly away from the rock-strewn ledge, and for every step he made, the large shadow of the big man followed him.

Beyond a cluster of boulders, near a thin row of green spruce, Garrett could see a glossy roan waiting patiently, with his own black horse. He doubted that the roan was capable of carrying its huge load over any great distance. The roan snorted as the pair approached, and Garrett noticed the carelessly discarded remnants of a meal nearby - his captor had been here some time.

The big man in the stained vest, watched and followed Garrett carefully on foot. The trail became clearer, as it snaked through the scattered boulders and sharp shadows. Garrett sensed the pressing danger. A little ahead, a gnarled spruce bough hung across the trail. The relentless wind had caused the brush to grow low to the ground at this point, and Garrett guessed this could be his best chance to slip away.

“Don’t be getting’ any notions, I’d hate for this trigger to slip…” sneered the big man.

The giant motioned with his pistol at the horse and the two men mounted. The big man cradled his gun upon the saddle-horn, and pulled at the reigns with his free arm.

Garrett glanced quickly around when the opportunity arose, to judge the big man's alertness, but the gun continued pointing at his back.

"Just keep ya eyes on the trail, boy! I wouldn't want you to fall and hurt yerself!"

In a slow movement the man-mountain swayed back upon the roan, and a belch of deep laughter roared out, that echoed across the ravine.

"You've no cause to keep me jinxed-up, you know - I'm out for steers, been tracking stragglers for some time. I didn't know you . . . "

"Shut yer' mouth boy -- you bother me. I ain't interested in the rights or wrongs of bushwhackers!”

"You've got it wrong, my friend, I . . ."

"Do you want to live 'til the top of this rise, eh?" The big voice became mean. "I could very easy slip this trigger by accident you know. . . . You sure got a big mouth for a dead man.”

Garrett could feel the big man's ignorance and hatred burning, and knew that he would act upon his threat. Garrett had no more cards to play, and felt the fear creep along the back of his neck.

The burning orb of the afternoon sun filled the land with heat and light, and the large rocks and boulders punched out their latent heat into the trail. The big man was beyond any powers of reason, for his mind had become cast in stone, and the pair continued slowly along the trail, to the bottom of the ravine.

*

Brokenwing appeared from around the corner of the cabin, and had one of the painted ponies from the corral in tow. The pony was tugging eagerly at its rope halter, and its shining speckled coat clearly pronounced its keen vitality.

Maria thought of shedding one of the new ponies from the corral, and presenting it to Green-Thorn. The thought had almost formed in her mind as she turned, only then to see Brokenwing approach, and once again he had anticipated her.

It was as well to keep on the right side of the tribes that still roamed the plains. A pony was a small price to pay for peace in this wild land, although the raiding parties could take anything if they really wanted. The few settlers and ranchers that had fought for a living in this harsh world could ask the Army for help, but the patrols were few and the Forts were scattered over vast distances.

Law and order was where you made it with a Colt, sometimes called the Peacemaker, and sometimes it worked, and sometimes it did not. The two burnt-out farms further down the valley were a testament to this. The tenants of these simple farms had broken off from the wagon trains that had passed along the overland-trail of the plains. The settlers had great hopes, and songs in their hearts. Deep within them, was a desire to throw off the shackles of the old-world, and a yearning for an untainted idyll. Unfortunately, some had also brought the old superstitions and ignorance with them, and the burnt-out farmsteads were evidence of their struggle.

Maria stood on the planked veranda and turned from Green-Thorn, and placed her hands upon her waist, and shook her head slowly. Once again Brokenwing had read her mind. She rotated her hands quickly to acknowledge his actions.

Green-Thorn leapt over the tether rail, and threw himself upon the pony. He quickly gathered the halter, and gripped the animal's flanks with his bare thighs. The young Sioux sat back and threw his bodyweight against the pull of the excited pony; which fought him only briefly. He steadied the marbled pony just long enough to pass a smile at the young woman, wheeled the lively animal around, and then galloped away in a scattering of dust.

The old Shoshone watched as the dust spiralled out after the keen rider. Had it been possible to examine the deep creases of his leathered face, the old man would have betrayed signs of fondness for the boy. The Sioux were an ancient enemy, yet this boy, a prince of his people, had stirred memories of his own youth. Outwardly the old Shoshone remained statuesque, as the lonely rider disappeared over the horizon, and only the strands of grey hair moved across his face in the warm Wyoming breeze. However, inwardly his heart was lifted to the Great Spirit, as he imagined himself flying away, on the wings of the eagle.

Maria thought she glimpsed a feint smile on the face of Brokenwing, but then again she could not be sure. She thought of the youth, and wondered what would become of him. Maria had learnt to recognise freedom, and understand the power it contained. It was a power that had drawn her and her husband from the settlements. It was now the pull of that power that made her linger in this wilderness, that and the new love she had found. Maria sat on the old bench in the long shadows of the veranda, and looked to the blue tipped mountains. She thought of Garrett, and his restlessness, and longed to have him at her side again. She watched as Green-Thorn rode away into the bright skyline, and back into his waiting life.

*

Garrett considered that his bindings were stretched far beyond his strength to free them. He resigned himself to the ignominious tenure of the tree stump. There was no escape. He watched the huge frame of his captor, and saw how his movements although ponderous, were deliberate and sure. 'Mule', as the other man had addressed him, was prodding sticks into the glowing embers of a dying fire. The big man's free hand now covered the handle of the coffee pot. Garrett wondered how many men had been sent to the Promised Land, from those mighty fists. Indeed, there would be no negotiating with ’Mule’, his thoughts were too singular and direct. He was a man not to be crossed, guided maybe, but never crossed. Garrett realised that the giant had cultivated an instant dislike for him and nothing but nothing would shake Mule from that belief.

"Here …. You'd better have this - it's beans," said lithe figure with the fiery red hair.

"You gotta' eat. Take no mind of Mule, he has his own ways of doing things. It's better you don't try to talk to him - he's not the best when it comes to conversation . . . "

Garrett accepted the hot tin plate that was held out, and could not remember when he had last eaten - for even the devil’s beans looked good to a hungry man!

". . . Thanks."

The sky was developing twisted bands of scarlet and mauve, and high in the heavens, stars were beginning to pierce the thin clouds. The day was beginning to draw its veil, yet there remained enough light for the two men to acknowledge each other's features, in the fading light.

The red - headed cowboy pushed his hat over the back of his buckskin coat, and the thin leather strap that hung from its narrow brim displayed an elegant silver clasp at the throat of the smiling man. Although the light was poor, the clasp flashed in the low light.

Garrett Hobourne could make out the many freckles on the face of the man opposite, despite the healthy stubble. His head was indeed blessed with a fine growth of rich red hair, and it hung down heavily in long curling locks at the sides, and garnered within the folds of a taut kerchief at the back. Garrett guessed that he was maybe thirty or more, yet his cherubic countenance belied his true age.

The redheaded cowboy stood his tall muscular frame upright, and withdrew a white porcelain smoking pipe, "Jamie Kitson’s the name," he said cupping a lighted match. " I'm afraid you’ll have to stay trussed up like that, ‘till we hear why you were slidin’ aboot up there, like a rattler.”

Garret studied the body language of the man sat opposite closely and tried to gauge the potential speed of his opponent. He sensed he would be fast, despite his revolver being tucked loosely under his belt. Garrett also sensed something sinister beneath the pleasant façade of this Jamie Kitson.

“I’m up from the Clarette ranch, to check on the strays hear-about,” offered Garrett quietly

“A ranch eh..?”

“Yeah, back a-ways along the trail. …Say, why don’t you loosen these,” asked Garrett, nodding in the direction of the knots that bound him, ” they’re kinda' unfriendly.”

“…Sure, maybe tomorrow,” replied Kitson coolly, and he drew heavily on his pipe, and watched the thin spurt of smoke as it wafted into the air. He smiled. “I reckon you're gonna' have to sleep like that, . . . ‘till I figga somethin’ out."

Mule advanced towards the two men, and they both turned and looked into the approaching shadow.

"Don't go yarnin' our business to that fella,” said Mule, and his voice became grave.

“If he knows too much . . ."

What followed in that moment astonished Garrett, for as the shadow of the giant covered them, Jamie Kitson dropped his impish smile and glared up at the man-mountain.

"… Get your rifle and move your fat backside to the top of that ridge - you know what will happen if you cross me again!"

The massive shoulders of Mule dropped, and his large head turned from the gaze that tore into his face. He moved slowly from the two men, and headed towards the roan.

Garrett Hobourne felt the hot sweep of power that held Mule in check - and wondered at this unfathomable power. He could sense the raw jeopardy that hung in the air, like a vulture about to tear into him from upon high. This was a new unknown danger that he now faced, and once again fate had spun its wheel.