Valley of the Gun (9781101607480) by Ralph W. Cotton Page A

looked down his chest at another bullet hole pumping dark blood with each beat of his slowing heart. “What did you shoot me for anyway?” He jerked his shirt open and let a broken bundle of stolen money spill out onto the dirt.
    â€œI think you know,” Sam said. “What’s your name?”
    â€œBurt Tally,” the wounded man mustered.
    â€œWhere are all your pards meeting up, Burt Tally?” Sam asked.
    Tally took on a stubborn look, but only for a second.
    â€œAw, to hell with it,” he said with a bloody cough. He swiped a handful of bloody money up into his fist and let it fall wistfully onto him. “I don’t owe them nothing.” He relaxed the side of his face down onto the dirt. His voice turned shallow, weaker. “They’re all meeting at Munny’s.”
    â€œWhere’s that?” Sam asked. Seeing the man succumb to death, he said louder, “Where is that?”
    â€œI know where it’s at,” Mattie said from the open door behind him.
    Sam swung around at the sound of her voice. Catching himself, he lowered his Colt.
    â€œYou should have waited outside,” he said.
    â€œSorry,” she said. “But I do know Munny Caves. They’re caves Dad’s men have been using for years.”
    Sam lowered his Colt into its holster.
    â€œHungry?” he asked.
    â€œStarving,” Mattie said, stepping over to the skillet warming on the bed of coals. She picked up the skillet and set it on the table.
    With no chairs, the two sat on the edges of the rickety table and converged on the warm meat with their fingers. They ate until the snake meat sated their hunger. Then they found a battered tin cup and shared coffee, not bothering to go to their horses and get their own cups.
    When they were finished, they sat resting for a moment, the Ranger’s gloves off, lying across his knee. After a silent pause, Mattie sighed and pushed the tin skillet away from them.
    â€œI know what you saw at the water hole today,” she said quietly. “I hope that’s not what you’ll see every time you look at me. I don’t want pity.”
    Sam only nodded, not knowing what to say. Finally he raised his eyes from the hearth and said, “It won’t be what I see, Mattie. What I saw today will only remind me that you’re a strong woman for what you’ve lived through. Strength is always to be looked at with respect, never with pity.”
    She gave him a faint, tired smile and said, “A strong woman, yes, but never a very good child bride. I fought that old devil every time he forced himself on me. The whippings always followed. I was one of his captive wives for twenty-three years. I bore seven children. All of them from unwelcome seed, yet they are my children nonetheless.” She looked away again and said, “For a time I told myself I couldn’t leave because my children were too young. . . .”
    â€œI understand,” Sam said. He saw her eyes glisten and fill, but her voice remained strong, as if willing itself so.
    â€œBut one day, young children or not, I knew I must leave, or else take my own life. Either way, my children would no longer know me. Either way, there would be other wives to look after them. I chose to live, Ranger.” She paused, then said, “You’re a man of the law. Did I do wrong?” Now she turned her eyes to him; a single tear spilled down her cheek.
    Sam reached his hand over, rubbed the tear away with his thumb and cupped her cheek. He knew that as a lawman he had no say or right of judgment in such matters. But if he knew that something he said could offer her comfort, who was he to deny her that?
    â€œMattie, it’s never wrong to choose living over dying.” He brushed a strand of silver–gray hair back from her face. “That’s what those seven children would tell you too.”
    She breathed deep and let her cheek relax against his