‘‘We are Pa’s sons.’’ Boone’s horse was a buttermilk he had raised from a colt, and he loved it almost as much as he did his ivory-handled Colt.
‘‘So what?’’ Epp said irritably. He always rode whatever horse happened to be handy. Horses meant as little to him as cows.
‘‘So Pa expects us to follow in his footsteps and take over the ranch someday.’’
‘‘That does not explain why we have to attend every damn roundup.’’
‘‘A boss should show he does not mind getting his hands dirty.’’
‘‘Dirtying hands is what we pay the punchers to do,’’ Epp persisted. ‘‘When I am in charge I will be damned if I dirty mine.’’
‘‘When we are in charge,’’ Boone amended.
Epp looked at him. ‘‘I thought you were hankering to go see some of the world.’’
‘‘I am. I just can’t find the gumption to say so to Ma and Pa.’’
‘‘What you need is to get away from the Circle V for a while,’’ Epp proposed. ‘‘Come with me to Ranson after the roundup is over.’’
‘‘I don’t like that place.’’
‘‘You have never been there. I have, and I like it a lot.’’
Ranson was a wart that liked to call itself a town. It got its start as a trading post and grew to include a dozen buildings. That four of those buildings were saloons and three were houses of ill repute was the reason it had grown so fast. Cards, whiskey and women were to be had any hour of the day or night.
Cowhands from every ranch in the territory came to Ranson for entertainment. There was no law. There was no church. Shootings were common. Hardly a month passed that the cemetery did not sprout a new tombstone. Or at least a square of wood with the name of the deceased.
Ned Scott had told his sons to stay away from Ranson. ‘‘It is a nest of killers and gamblers and women of loose morals. If you go there you are asking for trouble.’’
Lillian had agreed. ‘‘Ranson is Sodom and Gomorrah rolled into one. Sin is its trade, and hell is its reward.’’
Boone had listened, and stayed away.
Epp went there every chance he got.
Now, as the brothers crossed the rich grassy range that would one day be theirs, Epp again urged, ‘‘Come with me after the roundup. You will like it more than you think.’’
‘‘I reckon it can’t hurt to go there just once.’’
Epp turned his head to hide his vicious grin.
Parting the Tie
The night was warm, the air as still as a held breath.
Boone Scott rose in the stirrups and stared at scores of glittering fireflies that seemed a mile away.
‘‘Nervous, little brother?’’ Epp Scott teased.
‘‘Got a kink in my back. And I have told you before not to call me that.’’
‘‘But you are my little brother,’’ Epp said. ‘‘Remember how when we were small I would pound you if you didn’t do as I wanted?’’
‘‘You don’t pound me these days.’’
‘‘A man would be a fool to try. You are greased lightning with that smoke wagon of yours.’’
‘‘No one can accuse you of being puny either.’’
‘‘I suppose not,’’ Epp allowed. ‘‘But unlike you, I do not show off what I can do.’’
‘‘I am no show-off.’’
‘‘A poor choice of words,’’ Epp said. ‘‘But you must admit you are not timid either. Ma is worried you will come to no good if you keep on as you have been.’’
Boone pushed his wide-brimmed hat back on his curly corn-colored hair. ‘‘I don’t savvy why she carries on like she does. I have never killed anyone. I don’t even get into fights.’’
‘‘It is all that practicing you do. For an hour every day, without fail, you bang away.’’
‘‘I like to shoot.’’
‘‘You do not just like it. You live and breathe it.’’
Boone nodded at the glittering fireflies. ‘‘Given how often you come here, is that what you live and breathe?’’
‘‘I love Ranson,’’ Epp admitted. ‘‘God help me, but I love the sights and the sounds and the feel. I love to play poker. I love the burning feel of whiskey in my throat. I love to have a warm dove in my lap with her fingers in my hair.’’
‘‘Lordy,’’ Boone said.
Epp laughed. ‘‘Ma would blister my ears for being a sinner if she heard me talk like that. But I am how I am and I will not change for her or anyone else.’’
‘‘Be nice, as Ma would say.’’
Epp shot him a sharp glance. ‘‘That was fine when we were little. It was important to her that we get along and be nice to everyone. But we are grown men now, and the world is not the nice place Ma would like it to be. If a man wants to make his mark, he must stake out what is his and not be nice about getting it and keeping it.’’
‘‘I don’t know what I want out of life yet,’’ Boone said.
‘‘I do.’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘To be king of the roost and do as I damn well please. To snap my fingers and have work get done.’’
‘‘What will you do? Go off to St. Louis or New Orleans or some such and make your mark?’’
‘‘I can do all that right here.’’
‘‘Pa is young yet, only a little over forty, and fit as a fiddle. It could be twenty years or more before he is ready to give up the reins. And then you would have to share them with me.’’
‘‘You never know,’’ Epp said.
The fireflies had grown to rectangles and Ranson had grown to a bustling beehive. Horses at hitch rails and parked buckboards and wagons lined the main street. People were everywhere, hurrying to and fro, talking and joking and laughing.
‘‘It sure looks friendly,’’ Boone remarked.
Epp laughed. ‘‘A rattler looks innocent until you step on it. Make no mistake, little brother. There are nothing but wolves here, and they will eat you alive if you are not careful.’’
‘‘Bosh. You have been to Ranson many a time and made it home safe and sound.’’
‘‘I am a wolf my own self,’’ Epp said.
Now it was Boone who laughed. ‘‘You forget I know you. You are hardly a bad man.’’
‘‘How would you know? I am not the same at the ranch as I am here. For a reason.’’
Their conversation was interrupted by the pounding of hooves. They reined aside as half a dozen riders swept down on them from out of the night. Whooping and hollering, the six cowhands thundered past, one of them yelling, ‘‘Yonder she is, boy! We are going to have ourselves a fine time!’’
‘‘You are not the only one who likes to come here,’’ Boone said as he gigged his buttermilk.
‘‘Sin is more popular than being good.’’
‘‘What a thing to say.’’
‘‘It’s true. Look at all these people. More than you will find in church in Tucson on Easter Sunday. And why? People would rather drink and gamble and bed whores than pray to God.’’
‘‘Stop,’’ Boone said.
‘‘Stop what?’’
‘‘You are just saying that to rile me.’’
Epp leaned on his saddle horn and regarded his brother with amusement. ‘‘Since when did you become a defender of public virtue? I am saying it because it is true.’’
‘‘Don’t ever say it to Ma. She will keel over, and we wouldn’t want that to happen.’’
‘‘Of course we wouldn’t.’’
Around them was bedlam just this side of chaos, men and women hurrying every which way, batwings constantly opening and closing, and the bawdy houses doing a booming business in carnal delights.
‘‘It sure is something,’’ Boone said.
‘‘I keep forgetting you are only sixteen. You are big for your age and look older.’’
‘‘So?’’
‘‘Nothing.’’ Epp reined toward a hitch rail. ‘‘This is my home away from home, you might c
all it.’’
The saloon was the Acey-Deucey. It was the largest and most popular. It was also the noisiest, thanks to a singing troupe of four ladies who performed on a stage with considerable enthusiasm, if not much talent. As skimpy as their outfits were, no one cared whether they sang off-key. Every table was filled, the floor crammed, the bar lined end to end. When the songs ended and the ladies left the stage, the babble of voices rose to the ceiling.
The Acey-Deucey was a giant heart pulsing to the throb of Ranson’s wild nightlife.
Boone gazed about him in wonderment. ‘‘You have told me what it is like, but I never imagined it was like this.’’
‘‘Stick close.’’ Epp shouldered into the crowd.
Hooking his thumbs in his gun belt, Boone trailed in his brother’s wake. Curious glances were thrown his way. A dove in a tight red dress brushed against him and asked him to buy her a drink. ‘‘Maybe later.’’
There was no space at the bar. Epp motioned to get the nearest bartender’s attention, and the bartender immediately came over and pointed at a long hall at the rear, saying, ‘‘Your room is reserved as always. I will bring a bottle of your favorite and the glasses.’’
After the glare and blare out in front, the small empty room they entered was a haven of quiet.
Epp closed the door and took a seat at a table. He patted the chair next to him, saying, ‘‘You are welcome to sit in if you want.’’
‘‘Sit in on what?’’
‘‘What else? Poker.’’ Epp patted the table. ‘‘Condit will be here soon and bring other players.’’
‘‘Who?’’
‘‘Charley Condit. He doesn’t own the Acey-Deucey, but he runs it. You would be smart to make his acquaintance. He is a big man here in Ranson. Give him a few years and he will be one of the biggest in the territory. Almost as big as me.’’
‘‘You must have plans.’’
‘‘Grin if you want. But yes, I have made plans. Plans that might surprise you.’’
The door opened and in whisked a portly volcano in an expensive suit and bowler. ‘‘Epp!’’ he exclaimed, his moon of a face alight with delight. ‘‘I wasn’t expecting you until next week.’’ He stopped and glanced quizzically at Boone. ‘‘Who is this?’’
‘‘My kid brother. I told you about him.’’ Epp motioned. ‘‘Boone, I would like you to meet Charley Condit. Anything you need, you ask him.’’
‘‘Indeed,’’ Condit said, offering a pudgy hand. ‘‘Any kin of Epp’s is a friend of mine.’’
Boone shook. ‘‘I had no idea my brother is so well liked.’’
Condit went on shaking long after he should have stopped. ‘‘Your pa owns one of the richest spreads around, and rich makes a fellow popular.’’
Epp patted the chair on his right. ‘‘How about it, little brother? Do you want to play some cards?’’
‘‘Not at the moment,’’ Boone said. ‘‘I want to take a stroll and see what Ranson has to offer.’’
‘‘You do that. It is your first time here.’’ Epp smiled but his smile faded as soon as the door closed. He glared at Condit. ‘‘What the hell were you thinking? Rich makes me popular?’’
Condit blanched. ‘‘The Circle V is one of the largest spreads in the territory.’’
‘‘I don’t care. Watch what you say. For this to work he must not suspect.’’ Epp scowled. ‘‘Do you know where Jarrott is?’’
‘‘Over to Maddy’s. She has a new girl.’’
‘‘Fetch him. Tell him to come in the back way. If he doesn’t want to leave the girl, remind him of what it means to make me mad.’’
Charley Condit turned to go. ‘‘Why Jarrott anyhow? I can think of four or five I would pick over him.’’
‘‘Some others might be faster, but he is always careful and that counts for more.’’
‘‘You are not letting any grass grow under you.’’
‘‘Why should I? I finally talked the kid into coming. I want this over with so I can get on with the rest.’’ Epp paused. ‘‘Why are you still here?’’
‘‘On my way.’’
Epp sat back and drummed his fingers on the table. He took his watch from his vest pocket, opened it and noted the time. He removed his hat and placed it beside him, then put it back on again and pulled the brim over his eyes.
The bartender brought the best whiskey the saloon offered, glasses and an unopened deck of cards, all on a wooden tray. Without saying a word he set the tray down and left.
Epp consulted his watch again. He opened the bottle. Forgoing the glass, he tilted the bottle to his mouth. After several swallows he smacked his lips and set the bottle down. For a while he did more finger drumming; then he scowled at the door, opened the cards and began playing solitaire. He stiffened when voices sounded, but no one entered and he put a black jack on a red queen. Catching himself, he swore and picked up the jack.
The door opened. In came Charley Condit, trailed by a short, sallow man in clothes that could stand a washing. So could the man. He had buckteeth and stubble and grime under his chin. Shifty eyes and full cheeks lent him the look of a ferret. His hat needed stitching and his boots were badly scuffed. Wedged under his belt was a Smith & Wesson that looked to have seen as much use as his clothes.
‘‘Here he is,’’ Condit said.
‘‘Wait out at the bar.’’
Condit nodded and departed.
Epp pushed out a chair with his foot. ‘‘Have a seat, Jarrott.’’
‘‘I am fine as I am,’’ the ferret man said, sounding as if he had a mouthful of marbles.
‘‘It is time,’’ Epp informed him.
‘‘Condit told me. So you got him here like you wanted. I will take care of him. But you owe me money first.’’
‘‘Our deal was half in advance, half when the deed is done. That was what we shook on and that is how we will do it.’’
Jarrott shrugged. ‘‘So long as I am paid. The last hombre who cheated me did not live to brag of it.’’
‘‘Are you threatening me?’’
‘‘Not now, not ever. I am only saying.’’ Jarrott came to the chair and placed his left hand on top of it. His right hand was close to the Smith & Wesson. ‘‘Let’s not have a spitting contest. I will do what you want. You will pay me the rest. And that will be that.’’
‘‘Remember what I told you. He is a kid but he is god-awful fast. Do not let him touch his hardware.’’
‘‘Relax. I know my business. I am the killer, not him. His speed does not worry me.’’
‘‘It should.’’
‘‘I have done fast gents before. The trick is to take them by surprise.’’
‘‘Condit will point him out. Do it in the back. Claim he was drawing on you. I will act shocked when they come to tell me. Then I will tend to the body and take it home to my folks.’’
‘‘Your own brother.’’ Jarrott smirked. ‘‘And for what? A few handfuls of dirt.’’
‘‘The Circle V is more than a few. And as he reminded me a while ago, he is entitled to half. Since I am not inclined to share, I have hired you.’’
Jarrott grinned. ‘‘Your brother is as good as dead.’’
Den of Chance
Boone Scott looked older than he was. His bronzed skin, from countless hours spent under the burning sun, had a lot to do with it. But it was his ivory-handled Colt, conspicuous on his hip, that drew more than a few glances as he mingled with the saloon’s patrons. Fancy Colts like his cost a lot of money, and men who wore them were the kind to watch out for.
The poker games interested Boone for a while. All the players were armed, some with revolvers stuck under their belts, others with their jackets swept back to reveal holsters. They sat like roosting hawks, tense, alert, their movements quick, their faces as inscrutable as they could make them.
The professional gamblers stood out because they were so at ease and relaxed. They also stood out because of their black frock coats and wide-brimm
ed black hats. They did not flourish weapons but there was no doubt they were heeled.
Boone had played poker before. On occasion he would sneak out of the ranch house and join the Circle V punchers in the bunkhouse for their usual Saturday night game. His mother branded poker—and all gambling— as the devil’s handiwork and urged him to resist temptation. His brother was doomed to perdition, she would say, but he need not be.
Boone’s father did not like that perdition talk. No son of his, Ned maintained, was bound for hell, and he would thank his wife to stop saying they were.
Ned went to church with Lillian when she visited Tucson, and he said grace at the supper table, and when the boys were little he had said prayers with them at bedtime. But about a year ago Ned shocked Boone considerably one night by remarking that religion was for those who did not like the way life was so they made up a way to make life tolerable.
‘‘Are you saying you don’t believe in God, Pa?’’ Boone had asked.
Ned scowled and shook his pipe as if about to hurl it at the Almighty. ‘‘I am not sure what I believe. I confess it is all too confusing for me and always has been.’’
‘‘What part confuses you?’’
‘‘Every part. But you can start with God is love. The parson says that all the time, and your mother, God bless her, must say it twenty times a week.’’ Ned had gazed out the parlor window. ‘‘But if God is love, why does he allow all the horrible things in this world? Why does he let people get sickly, and die? Why does he let our bodies wither and grow feeble to where we can’t use a chamber pot without help?’’
Boone was sure he did not know and said so.
‘‘The war opened my eyes, son,’’ Ned had told him. ‘‘The things I saw, the awful things I never talk about, changed me. Men with their arms and legs blown off, screaming and wailing in pools of blood. Boys no older than you, gutted like fish with their insides hanging out and begging for someone to put them out of their misery. An officer I knew, the nicest, kindest man you’d ever want to meet, took shrapnel in the crotch and would never be a man again.’’ Ned shuddered. ‘‘Now I ask you: How can a God of love let awful things like that happen?’’
Ralph Compton Bullet For a Bad Man Page 2
