Casper - Murder in Mushroom Valley: Scotty V. Casper

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 authors 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.

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Cover Design by Outlaws Publishing LLC
Published by Rusty Spur Publishing LLC
November 2017 Second Edition:
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CHAPTER ONE

It was July of 1886 and it was beastly hot. Summer temperatures in Mushroom Valley, Utahs 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 suns 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 Valleys 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 wouldnt 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 doesnt seem in keeping with that Latin meaning, he said as he tweaked her nose and planted a little kiss on her lips.

Oh, youre just impossible. How far is Hanksville? I really am very uncomfortable out here in this inferno.

Hanksville is only ten miles from here, and well 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 lets drive on to Hanksville before I burst into flames. Then we can properly firm up those teaching positions promised us by the towns mayor. After all, we mustnt 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. Ive just come to realize you are crazier than a buzzy bug. But its 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 Michaels 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 didnt 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 Michels 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 hadnt 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 Indiansa 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 Im gonna teach ya some manners and then Im 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 eyeseyes that didnt 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.