Blood Valley by William W. Johnstone Page A

Seven
    Steppin’ out of the office, I took a deep breath and smelled pure spring in the air. And I knowed that for the most part, except for the real high-up places, the winter was gone for this season.
    The smell of wildflowers was soft in the early morning air; a whiff of sage drifted to me, the odor of cedar and the sharpness of fresh-cut pine was all mingled in.
    One week to the day had passed since Marie and her pa had been planted. A week of peace in the area.
    But I wasn’t kiddin’ myself, I knew that peacefulness wasn’t gonna last. I’d heard reports that the Circle L and the Rockinghorse brands were hirin’ more gunslicks and were stockin’ up on ammo. I figured when it did bust loose, all hell was gonna break loose from it.
    I had gone callin’ on Miss Pepper, and we had us a picnic, with food that was fitten to eat this time around.
    I was kinda gettin’ used to and likin’ that gooey feelin’.
    When I brung Miss Pepper back to her house—and it wasn’t no palace like the Circle L mansion, just a big house with a homey, lived-in look—she’d kissed me . . . right on the lips, right there in front of God and ever’body.
    I felt that goo changin’ to quicksand. And I knew I was in trouble.
    But then, I’ve always been partial to trouble.
    Out of that quiet week’s time, I’d spent three days of it just ridin’ around the area, gettin’ to know the lay of the land and some of the people.
    People like Walt Burton, who ran a small ranching operation. People like Pete Taylor and Lee Jones, who also were small ranchers. There was a couple of farmers who ran some mighty big operations, Bob Caldwell and Bill Nelson. And lots of other men who was either farmers or ranchers or sheepmen. They all sized up to be pretty decent, hardworkin’ people.
    Unlike a lot of them who’ve spent most of their lives on the hurricane deck of a horse, shovin’ beeves around, I never objected much to sheep; I reckon that’s ’cause I’ve seen where and how sheep and cows can get along.
    There’s always been plenty of talk about what sheep do to the land. Some of it is true, some of it ain’t. If sheep are moved properly, they don’t do no permanent damage to the land, and the sheep-people I’d seen in the valley seemed to know what they was doin’.
    I met some of the sheep-tenders, Basques they was called. Seemed like nice enough folks, but kinda suspicious of me at first. But then, maybe they had good reason to be. I doubt if they had many good memories about comin’ face to face with cowboys.
    I’d hauled down a box-load of books, most of them on the law—found ’em in a wooden box stored at the office—and had taken to readin’ at least an hour a day. I even took one with me when I went ridin’ over the area. I’d read while I took my noonin’. There was a book by Shakespeare there. It was interestin’, but it was hard readin’. Just didn’t make a whole lot of sense to me.
    I took to them words written by Lord Byron, though. I mean, I really took to it. I toted that little book with me all the time, in my saddlebags. I liked them lines that went: Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, sermons and soda water the day after.
    That man, he knew what he was talkin’ about, seems to me.
    I mentioned Lord Byron to Pepper, and she seemed right impressed; said she had a book by some fellow name of Tennyson—another Lord—and said she’d loan it to me. When I come back to the office one afternoon after my roamin’ around, there it was, on my desk.
    She had underlined a passage, with pretty blue ink, and dated it. The date was the first day we’d seen one another. The line went: Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to love.
    I was sure glad none of the deputies was in the office when I read that. I turned as red as the lantern on a