Blood Valley by William W. Johnstone

exposin’ the butt of my .44.
    Big Mike stepped away from the crowd, droppin’ his hands to his guns.
    â€œSold to the sheriff!” the auctioneer screamed, puttin’ an end to what might have been a shootin’. “Next box!”
    â€œGoddamn you!” Big Mike hissed at me.
    â€œYou sure are a sore loser,” I told him.
    â€œI’ll knock you down to size someday!” he warned.
    â€œYeah? Well, you a big feller all right. I never knowed shit come stacked that high.”
    Man, he turned about five different shades of red. He took a step toward me. A.J.’s voice stopped him.
    â€œNo trouble here, Mike. There is always another time.”
    I didn’t think Mike was gonna pay any attention to his boss’s words. He was so mad he was shakin’. Finally he turned around, shovin’ both men and women out of his way. He stomped off into the night.
    A.J. looked square at me. “You’re a fool, Sheriff.”
    â€œWhat I am, is hungry. How about you? Ya’ll gonna stick around and join in the festivities?”
    â€œI do not wish to associate with ruffians and common trash . . . like you!” Joy said, giving her head a toss.
    A.J. and Joy, Matt, and Wanda all trooped off, heads held high.
    I looked around. Lydell Townsend was lookin’ at me, a grin on his face. He shook his head and wandered off.
    â€œWith them gone, now we can all have some fun!” a man shouted.
    The biddin’ started again.
    â€œYou made a bad enemy, Sheriff,” the voice come from my left side.
    It was Pepper’s brother, Jeff, and he was smilin’ at me. “Yeah, I reckon so.”
    â€œI’m sorry to hear you’re hungry, Sheriff.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œWell, let’s just say I hope you have an iron stomach. My sis can’t fry chicken worth a damn!”

Chapter Four
    I’d et worse. Just don’t ask me where or when. It might have been that winter I got snowed in early up near the Musselshell and cooked a coyote. Up to this point, that was the awfullest food I ever tried to eat.
    Pepper was tryin’ to keep from laughin’ at the expression on my face. “You don’t have to eat it. I’m really a good cook.... I just can’t fry chicken.”
    I wanted to be real tactful, so I didn’t say nothing.
    She covered her mouth with a hand, stiflin’ her gigglin’.
    I laid that drumstick down on a napkin and half expected it to walk off. I wished it would. “Pepper, would you like to stroll down to the hotel dinin’ room and have supper?”
    She laughed, and it was a nice laugh. “I sure would. I’m hungry!”
    We walked over to her ma and pa, with her proddin’ me along, like a kid goin’ to the woodshed for a hidin’. She introduced us. They seemed like real nice people, and it was then that I knew what she had meant about old money.
    Rolf and Martha Baker had that quality that comes with breeding. Just like with cows or horses. It wasn’t nothin’ that stuck out obvious-like, but it was sure there.
    â€œThank you for standing up to Big Mike, Sheriff,” Martha said. “Pepper cannot tolerate that animal and neither can we.” She indicated her husband. “You’re the first person who’s had the courage to bid against him.” She smiled—looked like she wanted to bust out laughin’. “It didn’t take you and Pepper long to finish eating.”
    I got it then. Pepper had fixed that awful chicken deliberate—for Big Mike. “No, ma’am. Not long.”
    But my mind was workin’ hard. Out here in the west is where a man saddles his own horse and kills his own snakes. Yet, this man, Rolf Baker, owner of one of the three biggest spreads in the Territory, and a wealthy man to boot, somehow lacked the sand to stomp a snake named Big Mike Romain. It just didn’t make no sense to me.
    And I knew that he knew I was