Murder in Mushroom Valley Read online

  MURDER

  IN

  MUSHROOM VALLEY

  SCOTTY V. CASPER

  Copyright © 2017 by Scotty V. Casper. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book may contain views, premises, depictions, and statements by the author that are not necessarily shared or endorsed by Rusty Spur Publishing LLC.

  For information contact: [email protected]

  Cover Design by Outlaws Publishing LLC

  Published by Rusty Spur Publishing LLC

  November 2017 Second Edition:

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was July of 1886 and it was beastly hot. Summer temperatures in Mushroom Valley, Utah’s Central Desert, customarily ranged from 90 to 105. On this day, it was 101 degrees, and the landscape was broiling in blast-furnace like heat because there was a breeze fanning the sun’s rays. The hoodoos and gargoyle-like rock projections rolled and heaved to an indistinct horizon from the heat rising off the desert floor. A bald eagle glided lazily overhead on the thermals rising from the broiling landscape. A Midget Faded Rattlesnake slithered into a shaded pocket beneath a hoodoo hollowed out by kangaroo rats. A coyote skittered into a field of hoodoos and disappeared from sight.

  Mushroom Valley’s hoodoos were created by an ancient flood plain. Geologists claim that Mushroom Valley, later named Goblin Valley, was located on the shore of an ancient sea some million years ago, and the surreal rock projections were left there by the action of long ago tides. Regardless, Mushroom Valley appears to be wrought by a mentally unstable God.

  A Murphy wagon, known as “Wheels That Won the West,” topped out on a ridge and started an easy descent. A young, vibrant pioneer couple sat on the spring seat and were having a playful argument.

  “Michael Bagley, if I had known you were going to drag me into the desert to broil me alive in this heat, I wouldn’t have come on this ill-conceived honeymoon,” Amanda Bagley said, punching Michael on his shoulder.

  He faked an injury, gasped and rubbed his arm. “Amanda Remund Bagley, my little darling, let me remind you of the very meaning of your first name. It comes from the Latin and means lovable, capable of being loved. Disparaging my idea of a honeymoon and punching me around certainly doesn’t seem in keeping with that Latin meaning,” he said as he tweaked her nose and planted a little kiss on her lips.

  “Oh, you’re just impossible. How far is Hanksville? I really am very uncomfortable out here in this inferno.”

  “Hanksville is only ten miles from here, and we’ll be there in about three hours. In the meantime, little darling,” he said, tweaking her nose again, “I wanted you to see Mushroom Valley. Have you ever seen the likes of it?”

  “No. It truly is extraordinary.” But she shook her head to clear her vision of the legions of hoodoos stretched out before her. She figured she had more important matters to deal with, mainly that she was broiling in the heat. “You know, Michael, I do love you fiercely, even if your idea of a honeymoon has turned out to be a dreadful decision. I honestly feel most fortunate that I met you in that Mormon history class at the Brigham Young Academy in Provo. You really are a dear, but we definitely have to get out of here. Now take the reins to those mules, and let’s drive on to Hanksville before I burst into flames. Then we can properly firm up those teaching positions promised us by the town’s mayor. After all, we mustn’t let these expensive educations go to waste. Now get us moving; slap those mules on their rumps.” She slugged his shoulder again and then cooed in his ear, telling him she was sorry and that she loved him terribly. She proceeded to kiss his shoulder better and then moved on up to his lips.

  “Why you crazy little thing,” he said, mockingly rubbing his fake shoulder injury. “I’ve just come to realize you are crazier than a buzzy bug. But it’s a cute sort of craziness, and you must know I simply adore you.”

  “Who me?” she asked, staring into his eyes with a limpid innocence.

  But suddenly the quiet desert air was disturbed by the whooshing sound of an arrow in flight. The arrow buried in Michael’s throat and came near to passing all the way through. All that was left of the arrow was the fletching, resting against his skin. Amanda screamed and then began weeping. The scream streaked across the desert and disappeared into infinity, most likely absorbed by the red-rock formations. But then she straightened herself out and with considerable effort stopped the weeping. She reminded herself that she was made of stout pioneer stock and her people didn’t weep, they just buckled down and fixed things. She tilted Michael toward her, grasp hold of the arrow shaft and with great effort managed to break it in half. Then she took hold of the fletching and pulled the arrow out of Michel’s throat. But that might have been the wrong thing to do because the arrow served to stanch the bleeding. She tore a strip from her petticoat and stuffed pieces of it in both the entry and exit wounds. It did little to stop the bleeding. She pulled his head down into her lap and swayed back and forth and tried to console him. Blood gushed from his mouth, and he began making gurgling noises. She rocked him until his body relaxed in death. He hadn’t been able to utter a single word during the entire trauma. More than likely his vocal cords had been severed.

  After he died, she hopped down from the Murphy wagon and grabbed a Henry Yellowboy rifle from the back of the wagon. A dozen Indians came shortloping their ponies and stopped alongside the wagon. They had been hiding behind an outcropping of red rocks and they had taken a few minutes to come rushing at her. She lowered the Yellowboy and blew one of the Indians right off the back of his pony. Her father had taught her how to shoot and she was a marksman. She hit him square in the chest, so he was dead before he hit the ground.

  Then she noticed one hard case, a white man riding with the Indians—a man who appeared uncurried and suffering from mange. He leaped down from his pony, snatched the Yellowboy from her hands, and backhanded her across the face, knocking her to the ground. “You little bitch,” he said. “First off I’m gonna teach ya some manners and then I’m gonna throw ya a little somethin’ that will probably have ya beggin’ fer more, and believe me, I got plenty to throw.” He laughed until he gagged, thinking himself a great wit.

  Amanda managed to get to her feet even though she was fighting to stay conscious. The white man had really clouted her upside the head. At that instant she resolved to stay brave even though she knew she was in for great torment. She tried to kick the white man in the groin and when he blocked that she tried to claw his face, but he blocked that as well.

  “Why you little bitch,” he screamed and he punched her in the face with a closed fist. She landed on her back on the desert floor and her eyes closed down like the lens of a camera. She tried to fight it off, but she slipped into a comfortable and velvety state of unconsciousness, a world infinitely more pleasant than the conscious state she was currently experiencing.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Indians piled off their horses and surrounded her, wanting to get a look at their prey. The ruthless Apache Victorio was their chief, and he hollered at them in guttural tones. He warned them to get back from her. Generally, all he need do to command obedience from his subordinates was transfix them with his obsidian eyes—eyes that didn’t register any sort of pity or humanlike traits. But this time it took a little longer because they were really curious about their female captive.

  During the war against the white man in the early days of the Westward migration, Geronimo received most of the notoriety, but his
fighting style was far less cunning and ferocious than Victorio’s.

  Victorio and this particular small band of Apaches had raided up into Utah. They were way out of their territory, the reason being that Captain Crook of the U.S. Infantry had made it too hot for them down in Arizona. They had ranged far north to escape capture. Captain Crook had been commissioned by the federal government to either shove the American Indians, standing in the way of colonization, onto reservations or kill them.

  The Apaches dreaded being sent off to the reservation. So Victorio and his band had raided up into Utah. They would ride into a ranch or farm and raise havoc. They’d kill most of the menfolk right off and rape the women. Then they would build a little fire under a tree and hang the men upside down above the fire, letting them slowly roast until their skulls burst and set their brains free. Or, another favorite they enjoyed was staking the men to the ground, building a fire, and pouring the red-hot coals on their stomachs. Then, as their victims suffered that fiery torment, the Apache band would pluck out their eyes with a knife, cut their male apparatus off, and stuff it into their mouths.

  Once they completed their merciless handling of the white people, they’d pillage the ranch or wagon train and take everything they considered valuable, including the horses and livestock. A buck’s prestige rested on the number of horses and wives he possessed and the number of scalps hanging from his coup stick. Lots of times they would ride the stolen horses until they foundered and they would kill them and eat them.

  At the time there was only one man standing in the way of their predations in the American Southwest and that was Captain Crook and his Cavalry Troop. Crook rode a mule and led another pack mule in order to follow the Apache into rough terrain. He had been so effective as an Indian fighter that he had earned the Apache’s begrudging respect, and they named him Nantan Supan, which means Gray Wolf.

  After a few minutes Amanda started to come around and remember her perilous situation. She wanted to cry and shriek, but she willed herself to stay strong. She simply must stay strong and not let these heathens see how terribly afraid she really was.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Amanda was stretched out on the ground, and it felt like a swarm of hornets was buzzing around in her skull. The fist to her face had definitely rung her bell. The uncurried white man named Seth Blacker had really clouted her one upside the head—a most ungentlemanly action, to say the least. When she opened her eyes, she was met with the spectacle of a dozen Apache warriors staring down at her, all bearing a grim visage. At that point, she hardly cared. Her beloved Michael had just been brutally murdered, and her world had been uprooted. She decided then and there that she would fight these demonic Indians tooth and nail. The outcome hardly mattered—just so she made a mark on them, the vile creatures. They stunk of body odor and campfires.

  “Pull this white eyes to her feet,” Victorio said, supplementing the spoken language with sign language. “She will warm our blankets at night, and then we will kill her. I, Victorio, the greatest of all Apaches, will then take her scalp. I will add her fine scalp to my coup stick, and it will give me much pleasure to see when I am old and my great strength has faded.”

  Amanda was amazed at Victorio’s command of the English language. Unbeknownst to her, he had attended a white man’s school in Arivaca, Arizona and had been a member of the Nuestra Senora del Refugio Church. Apparently, the teachings hadn’t taken root. She also marveled at how the Apaches were dressed. They all wore breechcloths that did a poor job of concealing their maleness. Some were wearing assorted items of clothing they had taken during their bloody raids. One buck was wearing a woman’s dress, one was wearing a cow pie wool hat, one a run-down pair of Hyer boots, one a Union Greatcoat, and another a Nankeen shirt. Under other circumstances, she would have blushed.

  The swinish fellow named Seth intruded on the attention she had been giving the Apaches. “Git up,” he said, as he boldly ran his eyes over her body. She decided not to obey him. She resolved never to obey him, to fight him every step of the way. He might savage her and defile her, but by the Lord Harry, she would never go willingly with any of it. However, in the end, it would hardly matter to him. He would do to her what he must, and whether she was willing didn’t matter. He grabbed her by her arms and yanked her to her feet. But as soon as she gained her footing, she raked the side of his face with her nails. It left four bloody red streaks down his face, and the wounds gave him major grief because they burned like hellfire. He bellowed in rage and raised a fist to strike her, but Victorio grabbed his arm and stopped him.

  “No, Seth,” Victorio said, throwing Seth’s arm down with contempt. “It is not yet time to torment her body with injuries. She must remain lovely in order to bring pleasure to our warriors.”

  “You will pay fer this,” Seth said, fixing Amanda with a pair of dead eyes.

  “If I get the chance, I will kill you,” she said.

  “Well, ya ain’t never gonna get the chance,” Seth said, laughing maniacally.

  Amanda turned to the Apaches. “Why did you pigs kill my husband? We were just married in the Mormon Temple over in Manti. We were on our honeymoon . . . we had our whole lives in front of us. He . . . he. . . .” She struggled for composure. “He, he was such a lovely man, a selfless man, a devoted Christian, and he had never done anything to hurt anyone. You swine are, simply, just simply beastly.” The corners of her eyes welled up with tears.

  Seth laughed, and the Indians failed to understand, with the exception of Victorio. He knew all too well what she said and what it meant. “We kill the whites as we find them. They are spreading across our ancestral land like locusts. They kill our buffalo, they spread disease, they leave their garbage in their wake, and they pack us off to reservations onto land unfit to make a living. That is why we kill.”

  “But my Michael hasn’t done anything to harm your people, nor have I. We were on our way to Kanesville to take positions as schoolteachers. What’s the harm in that? We wanted children, we wanted a comfortable home, we wanted to attend church on Sunday and pay homage to our Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ. We wanted the richness of a life filled with work, love, and devotion to our savior.”

  A multicolored lizard skittered across the sand and clambered atop a rock. Then it stood perfectly still as its sides heaved in and out in an effort to dissipate the heat. A red hawk screeched from just outside a cloud bank that looked like scalloped potatoes. The clouds portended a gully washer, and Goblin Valley and environs was no place to be during a heavy rainstorm. The gullies during these downpours have the potential of filling with water in an eyewink, drowning one in torrents of rushing water. The sides of the gullies are scoured clean, testimony to the many times over the years that torrents of water had rushed through, moving with the speed of an express train.

  “The Great Spirit tells us during our ceremonies as we nibble at peyote and smoke the peace pipe that all whites are to blame and all must die.”

  “But that’s absurd,” Amanda shouted, “absurd.”

  Seth noisily interposed on the scene by hawking up stubborn phlegm lodged in his throat and spitting into the dust.

  Amanda fixed a set of light-green eyes on him and scrunched her face up in an attitude of revulsion. “You, sir, are a cretin,” she said, “and you have the manners of a barnyard hog.”

  “A kreeeetin? A what? What’d ya call me? Let me tell ya this, this ol’ barnyard hog will soon be a teachin’ ya manners. So ya kin call me a kreeeetin as ya please, but she’ll soon be comin’ home to roost on ya,” he said, laughing maniacally.

  “Cretin, you dimwit cretin. You are a cretin,” she said, taking another swipe at his face with her fingernails. But he anticipated it and pulled his pockmarked face back out of harm’s way. He had contracted smallpox as a child, and his face and back had been marred by hundreds of little craters. Seth wasn’t what one would consider to be handsome. He had a nose nearly twice the size it should be, a beetled brow, and deep-set eyes. He had gone
bald—except for a donut ring of hair at the bottom of his skull—and he was missing half of his teeth. Those teeth still intact were a deep shade of yellow, except for the ones that had gone black with decay. He was wearing a linsey-woolsey shirt that was begrimed and in tatters. His trousers were woolen and in shreds, and his hat was a Boss of the Plains Stetson that had gone a good ten years past its usefulness. The only item on his person that had benefitted from constant upkeep was his holster and Harrington and Richardson .38. It was immaculately clean and lightly oiled—a death instrument in prime condition and ever ready for use in the commission of murder.

  The dozen Apaches began looking over the two mules used to pull Amanda and Michael’s Murphy wagon. Then they focused their interest on the contents of the wagon itself. Apaches love to loot, and they were happy to discover the wagon was rich in goods. Amanda and Michael were in the process of moving from Provo, Utah to Kanesville, and their Murphy wagon was chock-full of their personal effects. It contained pots and pans, clothing, food to sustain them on the weeklong trip, pistols, rifles, knives, silverware, antiques, lingerie, belts, leather goods, books, college diplomas, and seeds for starting a truck garden in Kanesville. Most of the items the Apaches wouldn’t commandeer, but there were many that piqued their interest. The mules alone were a treasure. They would ride them, work them to near death, then eat them. They would come in handy to help them make the journey back to the Sonora Desert in Arizona territory.

  “That’s it, boys,” Seth said, hawking up another gob of phlegm and spitting it at a lizard. “You fellers look over the truck in yon wagon and take it ’cause this here whore belongs to me. Come to think of ’er, you boys should gather yer dang blasted wares from the wagon and head fer Hanksville. Camp in that little grove of cottonwoods north of the town, and I’ll catch up with ya sometime tomorrer. Me and this little lady are gonna get ta be best pals,” he laughed maniacally.