Blood Valley by William W. Johnstone

Mike, that you wouldn’t sing a Christian song in memory of that poor little girl and her pa? I can’t believe that a fine, upstandin’ citizen like you, or that you claim to be, wouldn’t sing a song for them unfortunate folks now on their way to heaven.”
    Big Mike looked at the piano man, and when he spoke, his voice was full of disgust. “Play it!” he growled.
    And then we sang. We calmed the stormy seas and then we sung a couple of Charles Wesley’s hymns . . . I ’specially liked that one about “Jesus, Look Upon A Little Child.”
    And then I passed the hat.
    Actually, I passed Big Mike’s hat. I asked him, real solemn-like, if he would be so kind as to take up the collection for Marie and her pa. Please? Man, he turned about four kinds of red.
    â€œI’ll return your hat to you.” I said. “And bless your heart, Mike.”
    What he said to me was mostly unprintable. Except for, “Keep the goddamn hat!” Then he hollered for his riders to clear out! Back to the ranch.
    Johnny Bull, he kinda dragged his feet to be the last Circle L hand out. He stopped by me at the bar and said, “I didn’t have nothin’ to do with what happened to that girl, Cotton.”
    â€œI believe you. That wasn’t your style, Johnny.”
    And it wasn’t his style. Johnny Bull was a stand-up, look-you-in-the-eyes-and-shoot-you sort of fellow. He was a hired gun, yeah, but of them all, Johnny had him a queer sense of decency about him.
    â€œI enjoyed it, you know that? I really did, Cotton. Took me back years, back to when I was just a little boy.”
    â€œYeah. Me, too, Johnny.”
    â€œSee you, Cotton.”
    â€œSee you, Johnny.”
    The Circle L boys were gone, but there was still some mean ol’ boys in that barroom, them that was ridin’ for the Rockinghorse brand. And now I knew who was hired on to who.
    Still sittin’ in there was Pen Castell, Ford Childress, Fox Breckenridge, Waldo Stamps, Dick Avedon, Hank Hawthorne, Sanchez, Joe Coyle, and Tim Marks.
    I figured me and the boys had stretched our luck ’bout as far as it was gonna stretch. “Thanks, boys,” I said. “The widder Simmons will sure appreciate your gesture.” I lifted the heavy hat—Mike had him a head about the size of a hot-air balloon—and walked outside.
    â€œYou like to live dangerously, don’t you?” Pepper asked me, her blues darkened from concern, I reckon.
    I shrugged. “Sometimes.”
    â€œI’ll be waiting for you to call on me, Cotton. And make it soon.”
    â€œI’ll sure be there.” To George Waller, “Will you tell Mister Truby he’s got hisself another customer?”
    But Truby was already hot-footin’ it up the street. Little fellow was quick after a shootin’.
    I walked over to Juan’s Cantina and stepped into the beery dimness. A bunch of clodhoppers had gathered there after the funeral. I dumped the contents of Mike’s hat onto a table.
    â€œOne of you boys see that the widder Simmons gets this, please. It was give by some with a guilty conscience and by some who didn’t have nothin’ to do with what happened durin’ the nightridin’.”
    One of the men who’d come to the office to fetch me that tragic morning stepped over and slowly counted the money, stackin’ it up, and it come to a right smart amount. Lookin’ up at me, he said. “It’ll sure come in handy, Sheriff. We thank you.”
    â€œThank me when I hang them that done it.” I thought about that. “Or shoot them,” I added. “That’s Big Mike’s hat. He don’t want it back. One of you can have it.”
    A farmer got up, got the hat, and walked off towards the back, to the privy, unbuttonin’ his overalls as he walked. I had me a pretty good idea what he was gonna put in that hat.
    And it wasn’t his head.

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