VALLEY OF HATE
CHAPTER ONE
They crested the grassy hill together, stirrups nearly touching, each man rising up a little in his saddle, their faces marked by youthful expectation and sudden hunger. Behind them was a herd of three hundred or so trail weary cows; ahead lay their future.
They were a pair, these two, young and rangy and flushed with energy and desire. Each had a little bit of baby fat still on his early twenties face, Abel Meagan more so than Carrot Bedders. They wore like costumes: woolen pants, long sleeved white cotton shirts without collars that had long since gone gray, high-heeled boots with small rowelled diggers, and sweat- and dirt-stained hats – Meagan a buff colored fedora and Bedders a battered old Montana peak that may have at one time been the color of snow.
Atop that nameless hill, the Wind River Range a snow-dappled, purplish haze off in the distance, standing beneath a buttery sun, the two men paused, their eyes locked on the valley below. It was a green land, several miles wide and more than twice that deep. The end of the valley disappeared in a wide sweep around an outcropping of rock the color of a ripe apple. Close to that outcropping was a pond. An active stream fed the pond so that it was really not much more than a wide spot in the stream, but the water looked clean and clear and a dozen cattle cropped grass near it. There were trees on both sides of the water, too, cottonwood and bur oak and golden willow.
"Damn, if you wasn’t right," said Abel Meagan, his chocolate brown eyes aglow. He had nearly come out of his saddle, leaning far over the neck of his weather beaten roan mare, as if his whole body yearned for what lay below.
Although trail worn, Abel Meagan retained some of his town-fed fullness and the hint of softness a young man gets when he hasn’t worked sunup to sundown for weeks on end. Still, he was narrow of hip and muscular, with quick eyes and a jut to his jaw that gave him a chiseled appearance. He had soft brown hair that had paled under the constant sun along a month of trail driving, and it had grown full and a little wild.
Beside him, Carrot Bedders’ smile was endless. A light shone in his eyes like a beacon down into that fertile valley. Although nearly empty of livestock, his mind’s eye saw a large milling herd of white-faced cattle scattered about and a pineboard house – not too large – at the edge of that cool pond, a corral filled with fine, fiery horses, and a hay barn bulging with golden bales. It was a strange sight for his mind to conjure. He had always been like a pebble rolling downhill. But this valley was magnetic and it called his name.
"A place for us to make a real start, friend," Bedders said joyfully. "Make our own way."
"With land like this, Nix, we’ll do more than that. We’ll make our fortunes."
Carrot Bedders wasn’t listening. His mind was again swallowed by the dream. His narrow frame sat comfortably in the saddle for despite his youth he had spent nearly ten years in saddles such as this one, doing a man’s job of work starting at the age of fourteen when he lit out for horizons that never ended. He was rangier than Meagan was but broader across the chest and shoulders, a physique built on equal parts post-hole digging, calf wrestling, and hay bale lifting. He had done all of that work and more. He had ridden fence in the dead of winter, trail drove herds riding drag and swing and chewing in a day as much dust as he did beans, and he had fought a running gun battle with a rustling band of drovers gone bad. Much had he done in his short life, and all of it showed in the creased lines of his face, the rough and raw texture of his sun browned skin, the lanky, rangy muscles of his lean frame. Only the mop of curly red hair, aglow with a golden halo in the bright early summer sun, and the easy, slightly mocking twist to the edge of his lips reminded of the youth he still was beneath the hard casing of a cowman. He was not even twenty-four years old.
"We got us a few more head down there," said Meagan, with a nod toward the pond.
"There’s a couple of big outfits to the east and west. The beeves probably belong to them."
"They’re strays," Meagan told him. "We’ll give ‘em our brand and that’ll be that. Isn’t like we didn’t pick up a few strays on the way up here." Meagan cast a sly grin at his partner.
It was big country and cows got lost every day. Bedders said nothing. For a moment they enjoyed the view in silence.
"You say that valley goes on?"
Bedders pointed toward the apple red rock along the eastern slope of the valley. "Goes around that outcropping for another couple of miles. Good grass all throughout the valley."
"And water."
"We’ll do just fine down there. Plenty of room to grow. More than we’ll need right now, of course, but that’ll change in a couple of years." Bedders’ eyes filled again with the image of an expansive herd of bawling, white-faced cows. "We’ll build us a house over there maybe," he added, climbing down from his piebald pony to point to a raised area toward the western edge of the valley.
Meagan stayed atop his roan, a veiled expression coming into his face.
"What is it, Abel?"
"Nix, you and I have been pals a lot of years. Even when you were gone, which was a lot of the time, we was still friends."
"We drove that herd up here and managed to stay friends, too, didn’t we?" Bedders laughed easily, remembering the difficult journey the two of them alone had just made. During the day was tough enough, but at night, riding circle around the herd, singing to them, sweet talking them through thunder and lightning and wolves and coyotes, they lost a lot of sleep, and perhaps a bit of their youth.
"We sure did." Meagan looked away from Bedders and gazed back down on the valley with its long grass flowing in the light breeze and the cool pond rippling and glistening. "But, Nix, I ain’t never seen two friends fall out as quick as when they team up in business."
"Well, that’s others," Bedders protested.
"Sure. And they all thought that, too, I expect." Meagan looked down on Bedders now from atop his roan, his face compacted into a look of deep concern and sincerity. "I don’t want that happening to us, Nix. You’ve been a pal, coming back for me like you did and cutting me in on this. Oh, I know I did my share helping to wrangle them beeves, and I took as many night turns as you did."
"Sure, we’re partners," Bedders cut in.
"But now that we’re here I think we oughta make a go of it each on our own."
Bedders kicked a stone and watched it roll downhill, gathering dust and pebbles along the way.
"It’ll be a lot harder that way, friend."
"Sure it will. Why, this just can’t be easy any way you slice it. But if we make it, it’ll be ours. All our own. Beholden to nobody." Now Meagan climbed down from his horse and went to Bedders. "You’ve got to understand, Nix, what I’ve done in my life. It ain’t been nothing. Not a damned thing have I accomplished. I’ve been working for other men my whole waking life."
Bedders smiled and laid a hand on Meagan’s shoulder. He could see a strange desperateness come into his friend’s face, a little bit of a wild look in his eyes.
"Well, whata ya think I been doing? This is my chance, too, to work for myself."
"Sure," Meagan said, tearing away, "you’ve worked for others. But you’ve done it out here, under these wide-open skies. You’ve ridden and roped and raised hell since you were fourteen. But me. I’ve clerked and swept barns and kept books for other men didn’t know the first thing about business. All of it from inside of four walls, and for what? Pennies. Pennies dropped at my feet like I was some street beggar. This is my chance, Nix, to do things my way, the way I’ve always believed they should be done."
Bedders looked down into the valley, so serene and alive. "You want to divide this valley?"
"It’s yours, Nix. You found it. That’s up to you. I just know that now that I’m here I’ve got to try and make it on my own."
"This first winter will be hard. We won’t have time to help each other build a house."
"No. We’ll build one together for now. A shack down by the pond, it won’t be much. But it’ll hold us through winter. We’ll get our cows fat this summer and then come spring we’ll combine our brands and drive them to market. After that we can turn our attention to making real homes for ourselves."
Bedders climbed up onto his piebald and turned away from the view. "Come on. We ain’t doing nothing without getting them beeves into the valley."
"Sure," Meagan said, smiling, "that’s right, Nix. First things first."
Milling at the bottom of the hill, the herd parted to accept the return of the men. They were restless creatures, smelling water nearby, and were easily turned toward the wide valley opening. It was a job slowing their pace as the smell of water grew stronger. Several of the strange cows looked up briefly then returned to cropping grass.
The cattle settled, Meagan loped out of the valley to where they had left a buckboard pulled by a team of two horses. He hawed at the animals to get them moving and drove the riderless rig into the valley. Aboard was their meager outfit: tools, food, clothes, and the like. Meagan had taken his last wages from Parmenter’s mercantile and bought the supplies. Bedders had furnished the buckboard and horses. That rainy afternoon, in the mud and on the last cold snap before spring thaw, Meagan had loaded the buckboard himself. In the three years he had worked for Parmenter this was the first wagonload of supplies he had ever put aboard with enthusiasm.
They set up camp, pitching a tent and gathering stones for a campfire. Meagan seemed content to sit in the shade of a cottonwood that whispered in the soft breeze and look out on the valley. It had been a long journey with just the two of them riding herd and he thought sitting on something quiet and still was a grand reward for their efforts.
Bedders, though, was anxious to ride. There was more to see beyond that red streaked outcropping of rock that hung from the hillside like a ripe apple on a tree. The valley went on, and Bedders wanted to as well.
Nervous energy driving him, Bedders stayed atop his piebald and joyfully choused the cows, getting them all to the pond to drink. He had just crossed the feeder stream when he noticed several riders approaching.
"Get up, Abel, we’ve got company," he said. His pistol was still rolled up in the blanket tied behind his saddle so he pulled at the Remington in his saddle boot to make sure it would clear quickly if needed.
Meagan hopped to his feet and climbed aboard his roan, kicking the animal into a gallop. He rode out from camp a quarter of a mile then skidded to a stop, drawing the Colt’s pistol from his hip. The riders – four of them – didn’t rein up immediately, even though Meagan’s gun was in plain view. They continued on until their horses were nosed up to the roan, then stopped.
Bedders cursed his partner for rashness and rode out after him, stopping a few dozen yards away and to the right of Meagan.
"Who are you?" asked one of the riders. He was tall and beefy with hands like bear claws and leathery skin browned by years in the sun. His horse seemed to sag underneath him.
All of the riders were scowling and fidgeting in their seats. No man’s hand was far from his gun, whether he wore it in a holster about his hip or had a rifle sheathed in a saddle boot.
"We’re drovers," Meagan said, slowly.
"That I can see," the man said sharply. "What I want to know is what’re you doing on Cavanaugh land?"
Bedders smiled. "We’re not on anyone’s land, mister. And that’s a fact. I checked in Lander before driving up with my herd."
"Them cattle have the Cavanaugh brand," the man said, tossing his head toward the valley. "This is Star-M range."
"Must not be too big an outfit," Meagan said. He looked back at Bedders, a gleam shining in his eyes. Bedders squinted pointedly. It was a look of warning, but his friend ignored it, a mischievous grin growing across his face, and turned back to the riders. "Why, there cain’t be more’n thirty head of yo’rn loose on this whole range. You couldn’t make enough selling them cows for beef to pay for their feed. Unless of course they’s milk cows and you come for the afternoon milking."
One of the men reached toward his gun but the fellow with the big hands stopped him. A dark red glow had come into his face. His black eyes were large and cavernous and they bore out at the young drover with a powerful hatred. He stepped down from the saddle, his horse grunting in relief, and crossed to Meagan.
"Step out of that saddle," he commanded.
"Oh, dear, have I made a mistake?" Meagan asked, still grinning.
"You surely have. Now step down."
Very deliberately and very loudly Bedders cocked his rifle. The riders, who had been intent on their man, anticipating bloody vengeance for Meagan’s insult, turned their eyes carefully to Bedders. The big man froze.
"We’ve had a long, hard drive, men," Bedders said. The rifle he held crooked in his arm was loosely aimed in their direction. "I’m sure you know what that’s like. My friend and I are right friendly except when prodded or without sleep for days. We have no quarrel with you and mean no insult. But this is not Cavanaugh land. It’s ours now. You’re welcome to your cows, but we want you gone."
Without turning the big man said, "Are you planning on shooting me if I teach your friend a few manners?"
"You know, Nix," Meagan said, "I’ve been thinking on it. I think this big fella needs a lesson in manners hisself."
The Cavanaugh rider let a slow grin stretch across his face. "I know my boys will let this play out without guns, won’t you boys?"
The other riders were grinning, too. Each nodded his head vigorously, laughing. "Go ahead, Lincoln," one of the other riders said, "we’ll see to that crippled ol’ steed of yo’rn."
"I think," said Bedders with quiet forcefulness, "you should apologize, Meagan, and let this go."
Meagan chuckled. "How ironic. After a month on the trail the wild range rover is the careful one, and the timid store clerk is ready to bust out fighting."
With a sudden jerk, Meagan lashed out with his boot, catching Lincoln on the chin and sending the big man flopping to the ground. Meagan jumped out of the saddle landing atop Lincoln, awkwardly straddling the big man’s chest. Going down to one knee, Meagan balled his fist and slammed it into Lincoln’s face. A gout of blood shot out from the man’s nose and he let out a rumbling roar.
Bedders looked over to the other three who were all sitting, their arms folded away from their guns. Each of them was still smiling, their faces eager with anticipation.
Meagan was laughing, too, as he drove another powerful blow down at Lincoln. But the blow never landed. Lincoln’s hand shot out and enveloped Meagan’s fist. Then, with a mighty tug, the big man jerked Meagan off his feet, tossing him to the ground. Meagan yelped in pain as his arm was twisted.
Slowly, Lincoln got to his feet. With the back of his hand he swiped blood away from his nose. Seeing his hand bloody brought a new fire to his eyes. He reached down and plucked Meagan off the ground, holding him up by the back of his shirt. With his bloody fist he backhanded Meagan, sending the rangy youth pinwheeling to the dust.
Bedders had been watching helplessly when a shot was fired. For a moment he almost fired his rifle at the three riders until he saw two more galloping up, guns in hand, and skidding to a stop.
"Lincoln!" one of the new riders yelled. He was an older man, although not much past his thirties. He had a full head of gray-blond hair and craggy lines filled his face. He was a big man, although not as big as Lincoln. Still, he rode tall and majestically, and his eyes had a depth of kindness Bedders found contrary to the cruel tone of his voice.
"What the hell are you doing? You want to kill that boy?"
Lincoln let go of Meagan, who collapsed to the ground in a heap.
"Yes, sir, Mr. Cavanaugh. I believe I do."
Cavanaugh shook his head angrily. Then he cast his gaze over to Bedders.
"What are you two doing here?"
"That’s Abel Meagan and I’m …."
"Didn’t ask your damned names," Cavanaugh interrupted roughly.
"…. and I’m Carrot Bedders."
"Carrot, huh?" Cavanaugh said. He glanced up at Bedders’ red curls and a grin appeared briefly on his face. "I guess that’s right." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I’m Amos Cavanaugh. I run the Star-M. One of my men came to get me when Lincoln spotted a strange herd and drovers on the range. Thought there might be trouble."
Lincoln had stepped back to his horse and was wiping his bloody nose with a dusty kerchief. Meagan had managed to sit up. He nursed a sore arm and a bloody nose, and he seemed a little dazed as he wobbled slightly on his seat.
"I guess that’s right," said Bedders.
"Yeah. Well, I own this land, son …"
"No, sir. You do not. I’ve been to Lander. This is open range. And we aim to homestead on it."
Cavanaugh took another long, slow breath, his eyes never leaving Bedders. For his part, the youth returned the rancher’s stare with calm sureness.
"We sometimes graze this land, though not much," Cavanaugh admitted. "It’s a good place to find our strays."
Bedders nodded. "There were a few head scattered about when we arrived. If they’re yours, your welcome to them, of course."
"Fact is we wouldn’t’ve even been this far outside our range if we weren’t looking for strays."
Lincoln said, climbing into this saddle, "I’ll go round ‘em up."
"No," Cavanaugh told him. Dull confusion passed over the big man’s face. Cavanaugh continued with Bedders. "You’ll be spreading your herd out tomorrow. I’d be obliged if you’d bunch my cows up and chouse ‘em to the mouth of the valley. I’ll have a couple of my men pick them up tomorrow."
Again Bedders nodded. "Okay."
Glancing down at Meagan, Cavanaugh asked, "Is he going to be all right?"
"Sure," he told the rancher, a smile cracking his stoic features. "He’ll be right as rain tomorrow."
Cavanaugh turned his horse and the others followed his lead. He was about to gallop off when he looked back at Bedders.
"You’ve seen the trail, of course, to get you down to the UP come this fall," the rancher said. "And you know where Lander is for supplies. There’s a cut at the elbow of this valley that will take you right into town, just about. Saves a trip around the hills. And you can take a buckboard through."
"Much obliged, Mr. Cavanaugh. ‘Though we won’t be doing a fall round up this year. Need to breed the stock a bit first."
"I guess that’s right."
Cavanaugh nodded once then nudged his mount into a gallop and led his men away.
Bedders dropped from the saddle, grabbed his canteen, and ran to Meagan. The store clerk had a dazed look in his eyes still but they were beginning to focus behind the welts and the bruises and the slow realization of pain. He looked up at his friend, a dopey, half-drunk look in his face, and Bedders laughed.
"Your eyes are bigger than your stomach, friend."
Meagan took the canteen and swilled the warm liquid, splashing it around in his mouth, then spit out a pink-tinted mouthful. "Don’t I know it!"
Bedders got a fire going and brought supplies from the buckboard. He had seen game in the hills, deer, some elk, rabbit, and even what looked like a stray sheep. But he had no strength left with which to hunt. The long drive and the tense few minutes with Lincoln and Cavanaugh had left him drained. So he made coffee and pan biscuits and fried up some bacon. The buckboard held several cans of beans but Bedders had had his fill of them on the trail. They would go into the larder for the lean times he knew would be coming.
By the fire, with the last of the coffee, Meagan recalled with amusement the brief fight with Lincoln. This surprised Bedders, who had seen his friend turn mean and spiteful at times when others got the better of him. Just before they left Spearman for the last time Meagan had nearly beaten a man unconscious over some petty comment made about his wearing an apron in the mercantile. He had tried not to think about why Parmenter, the storeowner, had offered no hand or word of encouragement as Meagan packed to leave the next day. Meagan had been surly, embittered; Parmenter had simply been relieved.
"That man had the biggest hands what I’ve ever seen, Nix," Meagan laughed now, slapping his knee, "and that fist was like one of them bowling balls out of the Sears & Roebuck catalog. Haw! He like to knock my head off."
"You are lucky to be alive, pardner."
Meagan’s eyes turned cold with a sudden thought. "Didn’t see you jumping in."
"I said my piece. You could have backed out of that with just a few words, if you had wanted to. But I had a gun on the others."
"Aw, hell." Meagan brightened again and laughed. "I just had to try him! Imagine taking down a man-mountain like that? Why, we’d own this country!"
Bedders laughed, tossing another stick onto the fire while Meagan swallowed from the canteen. But the taste left him grimacing.
"That water’s right from the creek," Bedders said. "Tasted good to me."
"’Tain’t this." Meagan tossed the canteen aside. "I’m the kind of dry water can’t cure. Tell you what, tomorrow we’ll get back up on our poor, tired old horses and ride on into Lander for a beer."
"Not tomorrow."
"We deserve it, pardner. Just the two of us hauling all these cattle up from Texas, dragging our own chuck wagon, and we didn’t lose a head."
A dark expression played on Bedders’ face that the dancing shadows of the fire could not hide.
"Picked up a few is more like it."
Meagan waved a hand. "Hell, way I hear it you always pick up a few on the way. Strays, loners, whatever. At least most of them were unbranded." The youth’s smile encompassed his whole being – except his eyes. "They’re ours now. Ain’t they?"
After a moment, Bedders agreed. "They’re ours."
Morning found them both in their saddles. The sky was clear again and deep blue, but the sun would not clear the eastern rim of the valley until almost mid-morning. They let the cattle linger for a time at the pond, waiting for them to get hungry and mill around looking for soft grass. There was plenty of it in the valley.
With the cows on the move, Bedders and Meagan nudged the animals away from pond and spread them evenly about the valley floor. The herd wasn’t big and the cattle, standing alone or in pairs, tended to fade into the backdrop. As they worked their own herd, they cut out the Star-M strays, and found a few animals from other outfits as well. These they bunched together toward the south entrance to the valley.
At mid-day, as they were ready to head back to their camp for dinner, Meagan whistled and waved, pointing toward the northwest elbow of the valley. A dust cloud rose up, disappearing against the rocky and tree-lined background. At the base of that cloud was a rider coming on fast.
Meagan stood up in his saddle and craned his neck as if that would give him a better view. He looked over to Bedders some hundred yards away and shrugged.
Something spat into the ground at the feet of Bedders’ piebald, chipping rocks and dirt into a sudden spray. A crack echoed in the valley as the horse shied and whinnied.
Meagan looked over at Bedders, his face bunched with concern and confusion.
Another crack echoed just behind an angry buzzing that swept passed Bedders’ ear. Bedders felt no confusion. That rider was shooting at them.
Sliding his Remington from its scabbard, Bedders brought the weapon to his shoulder and sited along the barrel toward the approaching rider. With deliberate motion he worked the lever and chambered a .44-40 round. Then, eye squinting, he squeezed the trigger.
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