Ralph Compton Bullet For a Bad Man

by Ralph Compton

  ‘‘You have grit, I will give you that.’’

  Porter was pleased by the compliment. ‘‘That will get you a drink on the house if you want one.’’

  ‘‘After you.’’ Boone took a step, then stopped and eyed the baked landscape. ‘‘Is it safe? My horse, I mean?’’

  ‘‘The Apaches have not stolen one from here in all the years I have been here,’’ Porter assured him. ‘‘But once you move on, don’t leave your animal alone for a second.’’ He too surveyed the parched terrain. ‘‘I don’t claim to understand them. They do not think like we do.’’

  Boone followed him in. The place smelled of sweat and booze and smoke. It was not much of a saloon and it was not much of a store either. A long, wide plank atop three upturned barrels served as the bar. To one side were shelves with merchandise, but the pickings were slim: a few blankets, a few canned goods, a few odds and ends. Tables and chairs took up most of the floor space.

  At one of the tables sat three men sharing a bottle and playing cards. They looked up, their expressions less than friendly.

  ‘‘Well, look at this,’’ declared a block of wood with a jaw that would pass for an anvil. ‘‘Porter has gone and found a pup.’’

  Porter stopped and frowned. ‘‘I wouldn’t, were I you, Wagner. He is lightning. As good as Skelman.’’

  All three men regarded Boone with interest. On Wagner’s right was a swarthy rodent who had some Mexican in him. He wore a sombrero. On Wagner’s left was an ox of a man with a corncob nose and ears that could pass for wings.

  ‘‘You don’t say,’’ the ox rumbled.

  The rodent had a laugh that was more akin to a bark. ‘‘No one is as quick as Skelman, senor.’’

  ‘‘I saw it with my own eyes, Galeno,’’ Porter said. ‘‘And I have seen Skelman too, so I should know.’’

  The ox rumbled again, ‘‘You don’t say.’’

  Porter pointed at him and turned to Boone. ‘‘I didn’t catch your name, but this big fellow here is Drub Radler.’’

  ‘‘Should that mean something?’’ Boone asked.

  Drub and Galeno and Wagner swapped glances and Wagner came out of his chair saying, ‘‘Was that an insult, boy?’’

  ‘‘Don’t call me that.’’

  Wagner smirked. Galeno sneered. Drub put his big hands flat on the table and said, ‘‘Maybe you better not, Wagner.’’

  ‘‘Hell.’’ Wagner came around the table. He wore a Bisley revolver on one hip and a bowie knife on the other. ‘‘The day I can’t handle them this young is the day I turn over a new leaf.’’

  Porter wrung his hands. ‘‘I don’t want any trouble in here.’’

  ‘‘Go polish a glass.’’ Wagner planted his boots as if he was digging them into the floor. ‘‘What do they call you, boy?’’

  Boone did not speak.

  ‘‘I asked you a question.’’ When Wagner still did not get an answer, color spread from his collar to his hairline. ‘‘Maybe you don’t know who we are.’’ He gestured at his companions. ‘‘We ride for Old Man Radler. Drub, there, is his youngest son.’’

  Drub smiled at Boone.

  ‘‘Old Man Radler is the top dog hereabouts,’’ Wagner boasted. ‘‘He does as he damn well pleases and plants anyone who crosses him. So you will tread light around us, boy.’’

  ‘‘I told you not to call me that.’’

  ‘‘Do I look like I give a damn?’’

  ‘‘You look stupid enough not to.’’

  The muscles on Wagner’s anvil jaw twitched. ‘‘I have just explained how things are. We ride for Old Man Radler.’’

  ‘‘There is that name again,’’ Boone said. ‘‘It means nothing to me.’’ He took a step to the left so Porter was well clear. ‘‘Call me a boy one more time. I dare you.’’

  Galeno cackled and smacked the table. ‘‘Did you hear, hombre? He throws it in your face.’’

  Drub said, ‘‘We should leave him be.’’

  But Wagner was a volcano about to explode. His fingers clenched and unclenched and he showed his teeth in a growl. ‘‘For that I will do you myself.’’ His right hand swooped for the Bisley.

  Boone drew, cocking the Colt as he cleared leather. But he did not shoot. His trigger finger curled but did not tighten.

  ‘‘Mother of God!’’ Galeno blurted.

  Drub Radler laughed. ‘‘Porter was right. He is Skelman all over again.’’

  Wagner was frozen in shock. The Bisley had barely begun to rise. Splaying his fingers so Boone could see he was not touching the revolver, he held his arms out from his sides. ‘‘Hell in a basket.’’

  ‘‘Are there going to be any more ‘boys’ out of you?’’ Boone asked.

  ‘‘Not this side of the grave, no,’’ Wagner answered, a note of respect in his voice. ‘‘Who are you, if you don’t mind my asking?’’

  ‘‘I am no one.’’

  Keen interest animated Wagner as he looked Boone up and down. ‘‘You have enough dust on you to cover this floor. That means a lot of hard riding. And there is only one reason to be riding hard in this heat.’’ He paused. ‘‘You are on the dodge.’’

  Boone holstered his Colt.

  ‘‘That’s it, isn’t it?’’ Wagner pressed him. ‘‘You are riding the owl-hoot trail. I would not have thought it, as young as you are. But it is plain now. What did you do? Rob a bank?’’

  ‘‘Enough of that,’’ Porter said. ‘‘You know better than to pry.’’

  ‘‘If he does not want to tell me, he does not have to.’’

  Boone walked to the plank counter and stood so he could watch the three men and the entrance, both. He leaned his left elbow on the counter. His right hand stayed close to his Colt.

  Porter ambled around behind the bar. ‘‘What will it be, Lightning?’’

  ‘‘That isn’t my handle.’’

  ‘‘It will do until you give me another. I have seen you draw twice now, and as God is my witness, Lightning fits you as good as anything. Besides, you seem to not want folks to know who you really are.’’

  ‘‘You can call me Lighting, then, although it is damned silly.’’ Boone patted his stomach. ‘‘Any chance of getting a bite to eat? I am not fussy. Fried lizard will do.’’

  Porter chuckled. ‘‘I can do better than lizard. I have a side of beef. How about an inch-thick steak with the trimmings?’’

  ‘‘You are a miracle,’’ Boone said.

  ‘‘I just like to eat, so I keep my larder filled. Give me ten minutes to fire up the stove.’’ Porter waddled out the back.

  Boone went to swipe at the dust on his shirt, but a shadow fell across him. He spun, his hand a blur, then saw that the source of the shadow was holding his big hands in plain sight to show he intended no harm. ‘‘What do you want?’’

  ‘‘Just to talk,’’ Drub Radler said. He imitated Boone and leaned on the counter. The planks creaked and sagged. ‘‘You and me are about the same age, I reckon.’’

  ‘‘What age would that be?’’

  ‘‘I just turned twenty last week,’’ Drub said. ‘‘I have an older brother by the name of Vance. He is twenty-four.’’

  ‘‘I have an older brother too.’’

  Drub brightened. ‘‘That is more we have in common. Do you like horses? I like horses. I like them a lot.’’

  ‘‘I have a horse I am powerful fond of.’’

  ‘‘There you go.’’ Drub offered his hand. ‘‘Can we be friends? I do not have many and I would very much like to be yours.’’

  Boone stared at the big paw and then at the bear it belonged to, and warily shook. ‘‘Pleased to meet you. You can call me’’—Boone barely hesitated—‘‘Lightning.’’

  ‘‘Gosh. That is a good one. I wish my pa had not called me Drub. It sounds too much like dumb.’’

  ‘‘What is it you do for a living?’’

  ‘‘Mostly,’’ Drub Radler said, ‘‘we rustle and kill people.’’

  Dead
ly Tally

  The butte was a red bull’s-eye at the center of a circle of green. It thrust at the blue vault of sky like an accusing finger. The two men searching for cattle were never out of sight of it.

  They had been at the tally two days when Dan Morgan came trotting toward them. Ned Scott drew rein, his brow furrowed. ‘‘I wonder what Dan is doing out here. He is supposed to be on his way to Tucson to hire new hands.’’

  Epp Scott leaned on his saddle horn and said he was sure he did not know. He stared at their old foreman like a snake would stare at a bird it wanted to eat, then caught himself and plastered a smile on his face.

  Dan Morgan started talking before he came to a stop. ‘‘So they were right. Chester and Billy said they saw you making a count. I didn’t believe them, but here you are with the tally book in your hand.’’ His back became ramrod straight with indignation. ‘‘I will quit now and save you the bother of firing me.’’

  ‘‘What on earth?’’ Ned said. ‘‘Why would I do that?’’

  Dan pointed at the tally book. ‘‘Because you think I miscounted at the last roundup.’’

  ‘‘That is the silliest thing I have ever heard. You are as honest as Daniel Boone.’’

  ‘‘Then I am confused.’’

  Ned tapped the tally book with the pencil. ‘‘Yes, I am doing a count. But only to be sure our stock is not being rustled.’’

  ‘‘The hell you say!’’ Dan declared. ‘‘Why didn’t you tell me?’’

  ‘‘You have enough to keep you busy. I intended to let you know when the count was done and I have proof.’’ Ned told him about Cramden, the buyer for the army, and the cow-pen herd that turned out to have blotted brands.

  ‘‘Hanks, you say?’’ Dan Morgan pursed his lips. ‘‘I seem to recollect a drifter who passed through about a year ago by that name.’’

  ‘‘He stopped at the ranch?’’

  Dan nodded. ‘‘I took him for a grub-line rider. He ate at the cook shack and was gone the next morning.’’

  ‘‘Anything else you remember about him?’’

  ‘‘I thought maybe he was looking for work, but he told one of our hands that he was on his way to Ranson.’’

  ‘‘And that was a year ago, you say?’’

  ‘‘Thereabouts.’’

  Epp pretended to be interested in the news. ‘‘Do you reckon this Hanks was passing through our range with an eye to helping himself?’’

  ‘‘Could be,’’ Dan Morgan said. ‘‘I will tell our hands to keep their eyes peeled. Strangers are to be confronted, and if they find this Hanks, they are to bring him to me.’’

  ‘‘And you are to bring him to me,’’ Ned said. ‘‘I do not want you to string him up before I have a chance to question him.’’

  ‘‘A hemp social is too good for the bastard. Rustlers are the scum of creation. The only thing worse is a horse thief.’’

  ‘‘There are the Apaches,’’ Epp said.

  ‘‘They have an excuse. I would be fit to kill too if someone was trying to take my land and stick me on a reservation.’’ Dan paused. ‘‘No-accounts like Hanks have no excuse. They are money-hungry but too lazy to work for it, so they steal.’’

  ‘‘We don’t have proof that this Hanks stole any of our cows,’’ Epp noted. ‘‘For that matter, he might have bought them from the real rustlers.’’

  ‘‘And then resold them to the army?’’

  ‘‘If the rustlers sold them cheap enough to him, he would make a nice profit,’’ Epp said.

  That prompted Ned to say, ‘‘I hadn’t thought of that, son. We shouldn’t jump to conclusions. If the new tally is short we will ride to Ranson and talk to this Hanks.’’

  ‘‘Talk, hell,’’ Dan Morgan said.

  Ned smiled. ‘‘Now that you have solved the mystery, shouldn’t you be on your way to Tucson?’’

  ‘‘I will wait for you to get done with the count and then go.’’

  ‘‘It is not like you to be contrary. Unless you have a better reason, I must insist. We are two hands short.’’

  ‘‘It is on account of your wife,’’ Dan Morgan said.

  ‘‘What now?’’

  ‘‘She has been crying again. Loud bouts that go on and on. She doesn’t bother to shut the windows and we can hear her, especially late at night. The men don’t complain, but it gets to them.’’

  ‘‘I thought she was over the worst of it or I would not have stayed away the past two nights,’’ Ned said sadly. ‘‘You did right in not leaving. Ride back and keep an eye on her.’’

  ‘‘What if—’’ Dan Morgan swallowed. ‘‘What if she goes into hysterics like that one time right after we heard that Boone had shot those men and disappeared?’’

  ‘‘Leave her be. The fit will pass, and after I get back I will take her to visit Doc Baker.’’

  They sat in silence and watched their foreman ride off. Epp was the first to break it, saying, ‘‘I will never forgive Boone for what he has done to Ma and you. It was wrong of him to run off like he did.’’

  ‘‘I don’t care to talk about it.’’

  ‘‘I can’t help it, Pa. He is my brother. He is your son.’’

  ‘‘He is and he isn’t,’’ Ned said. ‘‘Your ma gave birth to him, the same as she did you, but we did not raise either of you to be killers. To shoot all those people. And then that girl.’’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘‘I would never have thought it of him,’’ Epp said, adding salt to the emotional wound.

  Ned coughed. ‘‘Me either. I don’t know what got into him. He rode into Ranson and went bad, just like that.’’ He snapped his fingers. ‘‘And then he rode out of our lives without a word.’’ He looked at Epp. ‘‘Are you sure he didn’t say anything to you?’’

  ‘‘My ears work fine, Pa.’’

  ‘‘Could he have said something that gave some clue but you didn’t realize it at the time?’’

  Epp shammed thinking as hard as he could. ‘‘No. Sorry. I have thought about it and thought about it and he did not give so much as a hint.’’

  ‘‘All right,’’ Ned said softly. Rousing, he clucked to his sorrel. ‘‘Let’s get on with the count. The sooner we get this done, the sooner I can comfort your ma.’’

  So far they had counted the cattle on the north side of the butte and the cattle to the west. Now they were south of it, drifting east. Up ahead, the butte’s long shadow slashed across the valley. Scattered longhorns, accustomed as they were to cowhands, ignored them.

  Epp fell behind his father so he could study the butte without his father noticing. On three sides the butte was sheer cliff. But on the south side, part of the rock wall had buckled ages ago and giant stone slabs crashed onto the valley floor. Many shattered when they hit, but others did not.

  Epp nodded to himself, then gigged his mount to catch up. ‘‘We should search around the bottom of the butte.’’

  ‘‘That can wait.’’ Ned was making for a cluster of twenty to thirty head farther out.

  ‘‘But we are close to it,’’ Epp said. ‘‘Why not search there first and then do the rest?’’

  Ned considered the suggestion. ‘‘I suppose you are right. There might be a few among all that rock.’’ He reined toward the butte. ‘‘I want to thank you again for lending a hand.’’

  ‘‘I am happy to, Pa.’’

  ‘‘I shouldn’t tell you this. But your brother has made me so mad, I am considering changing my will.’’

  Another lie tripped glibly off Epp’s tongue. ‘‘I didn’t know you had one. I just figured that if you and Ma died, everything would go to Boone and me.’’

  ‘‘That is what the will says. Your mother had me make it out about five years ago. Now that your brother has turned bad, I am thinking about dropping him and leaving the Circle V to you.’’

  ‘‘That wouldn’t be fair to Boone, Pa.’’

  ‘‘He gave up any claim he had when he turned his back on us.’’

  �
��‘I still don’t think it is right.’’ Epp paused. ‘‘But tell me. If Ma and you were to die, and Boone never comes back, would the ranch fall to me anyway? Without you having to change the will, I mean?’’

  ‘‘I want it in writing so that if he does come back, he can’t claim so much as an acre. As soon as this rustling business is settled, we will take your ma to Tucson and while we are there we will visit Shepherd, my law wrangler.’’

  ‘‘Maybe we should stop counting and go get the will changed right away,’’ Epp suggested.

  ‘‘Where would the sense be in that? We are here. We will keep on with the tally.’’

  ‘‘Whatever you say, Pa.’’

  They neared the base of the butte. Shattered rock was strewn everywhere. The giant slabs were like so many brown dominoes, lying in a jumble.

  ‘‘We will split up,’’ Ned proposed. ‘‘You go left and I will go right. I will meet you back here when you are done.’’

  Epp reined to the left and rode off. He only went a short way. Then he stopped and shifted in the saddle. The moment his father disappeared around a massive slab, Epp wheeled his mount and trailed him. He kept to a walk and repeatedly rose in the stirrups.

  Ned never looked back. He scoured the ground for tracks and checked behind monoliths.

  Epp came to where a column of rock twenty feet high and fifty feet long lay on its side. It had buckled in the center when it fell, leaving a gap wide enough for a rider. Ned had gone through the gap. But Epp didn’t. Drawing rein, he swung down and led his horse into shadow.

  Epp stepped to the gap. On the left the stone had broken cleanly; there wasn’t so much as a fingerhold. But on the right were cracks wide enough for his hands and boots. He searched the ground and a chunk of rock about the size of a small melon, with a jagged edge, caught his eye.

  It was awkward to climb with the rock in one hand, but Epp managed. He climbed until he was ten feet up. Carefully turning, he jammed his boots into suitable cracks.

  Now all Epp could do was wait. The breeze had died and the air was a furnace. He felt slick with sweat. He listened but did not hear the sound he wanted to hear.