Old Man Radler rose in the stirrups and let out with a whoop worthy of a Comanche. At the signal, he and his men crashed out of the brush and smashed into the Mexicans. Two vaqueros were shot from their saddles before they could touch their pistols. Then the americanos were in among the horses, yelling and whistling and yipping. Predictably, the horses broke, and it was a credit to Radler and his men that they kept a large bunch of the horses together and drove them in a body to the north.
Vaqueros shouted and swore. Gun muzzles blazed and roared. In the camp, vaqueros were scrambling out from under blankets to get to their mounts and take part. A number of them came charging toward the rustlers on foot, firing at anyone who was not wearing a sombrero.
In the midst of it all, Drub Radler giggled.
Boone, bent low, had his ivory-handled Colt in his hand. But he did not shoot. Not even when lead sizzled the air over his head. Or when a vaquero materialized in front of him, frantically reloading. Instead, Boone reined in close and slammed his Colt against the vaquero’s temple.
Drub giggled again.
The horses were in full flight, their heads high and their tails flying. As they swept past the camp, vaqueros tried in vain to stop them.
Radler and his men cut the vaqueros down, shooting as fast as targets presented themselves. Some of the rustlers laughed with glee at the death they dispensed. Skelman shot more vaqueros than anyone, but he did not laugh.
Then they were clear of the camp and racing into the night. They rode hard, risking limb and life, but it was either that or have the vaqueros overtake them, and the vaqueros would not show any mercy. When aroused they were formidable, and nothing aroused them more than to have the horses they were guarding rustled out from under them, and to lose amigos they were fond of to the bullets of the rustlers.
Boone had no difficulty keeping up. Every now and again he patted the palomino’s neck.
They rode and they rode, and eventually the eastern sky brightened, and dawn broke. Now that they could see, they slowed and checked their back trail for pursuit.
‘‘They aren’t after us,’’ Vance marveled.
‘‘They will be,’’ Old Man Radler said.
It was Wagner who exclaimed, ‘‘By God, we must have three hundred head or more!’’
He was not exaggerating. They had most of the herd.
Old Man Radler smiled and said, ‘‘We will do as we did the last time. Skelman, you take care of it.’’
They had gone three-quarters of a mile when the sharp-eyed among them spotted dust tendrils to their rear. Skelman began bawling names, six in all. Boone was one of those he picked. Drub stopped too, even though he was not one of those chosen.
‘‘What do you think you are doing?’’ Skelman demanded.
‘‘What my pard does, I do.’’ Drub smiled at Boone.
‘‘Fine. Just don’t get yourself killed. Your pa will never forgive me.’’
Skelman barked orders. They melted into the brush, spreading out and turning their mounts to the south to await the source of the dust.
‘‘Isn’t this fun?’’ Drub whispered to Boone.
Boone made sure no one was close enough to hear him whisper in reply, ‘‘Taking something that doesn’t belong to you is wrong.’’
‘‘You don’t like to steal horses? I have been doing it all my life.’’
‘‘I don’t like to steal anything. I was raised different. My folks would have a fit if I did this.’’
‘‘My pa would have a fit if I didn’t. I have to do as he says or he beats the tar out of me.’’
‘‘You are big now, Drub. You do not need to take that from him if you don’t want to.’’
‘‘Fight my pa? Are you loco?’’
‘‘I am beginning to wonder. If someone had told me a year ago that I would join up with the Radler gang and rustle Mexican stock, I would have thought they were drunk.’’
‘‘But you said you never heard of him before you met me.’’
‘‘I fibbed. It seemed like the thing to do at the time. I am young, but I like to think I am not stupid.’’
‘‘Then you must have heard of Skelman too.’’
‘‘He has a reputation.’’
‘‘Yet you’re not scared of him, like most everyone else. How come?’’
‘‘I have never been scared of anything except losing my ma and pa when they grow old.’’
‘‘I don’t get scared much either. Vance says it is because I am too stupid to know what scared is.’’
‘‘For a brother he is awful mean.’’
‘‘What about your brother?’’ Drub asked. ‘‘Does he treat you as mean as Vance treats me?’’
‘‘We have our spats,’’ Boone said. ‘‘We do not see eye to eye on a lot of things. But he has never been as mean as Vance. Mostly, he likes to go off and drink and womanize and play cards, and leaves me be.’’
‘‘I wish Vance would go off somewhere and never come back.’’
Hooves drummed. The vaqueros, unaware of the peril, came galloping toward them, following the trail of the stolen horses.
‘‘Don’t shoot until I do!’’ Skelman commanded, but not so loud that the vaqueros would hear.
‘‘Have you ever done this before?’’ Drub asked. ‘‘I have. We shoot them to ribbons and they fall down and get blood all over everything.’’ He cocked his revolver.
‘‘Stay alive, Drub.’’
‘‘I’ll try. I want to go on being your pard. You are the first true friend I ever had and it means a lot to me.’’
‘‘Just stay alive,’’ Boone reiterated.
‘‘You too.’’
The vaqueros, bunched together, were almost on them. In the lead was a handsome man with bandoleers crisscrossing his chest. A trimmed mustache adorned his upper lip, and a pistol was on either hip. He was scanning the brush. Suddenly he hauled on his reins and shouted a warning.
Skelman burst into the open, a black-handled Colt in each hand. He cut loose with ruthless precision, thumbing and firing, blasting vaquero after vaquero. The other rustlers followed his example. Drub too broke from cover to send lead into the mass of Mexicans struggling to control their mounts while getting off shots of their own.
Boone stayed close to Drub. He palmed his Colt and thumbed back the hammer and he did not squeeze the trigger. Not until a pair of vaqueros came charging toward them, banging away, and Drub said, ‘‘Ouch!’’
Two shots as swift as thought, and Boone sent both vaqueros into eternity. He turned to Drub, who had clutched his shoulder and was grimacing. Quickly Boone grabbed Drub’s reins, wheeled their animals and retreated into the brush, pulling Drub after him.
‘‘What are you doing? We can’t leave yet.’’
‘‘You have been hit.’’
‘‘It’s only a scratch. We should go back before my pa finds out. He is liable to be mad.’’
No sooner did Drub speak than Old Man Radler was broadside in front of them, barring their way. Boone had to draw rein to keep from colliding with him.
Brandishing his revolver, Old Man Radler snapped, ‘‘Where in hell do you think you are going?’’
‘‘Your son has taken a slug.’’
Another strange look came over the outlaw leader. ‘‘I don’t know what to make of you, Lightning.’’ He kneed his animal up next to his son’s. ‘‘How bad is it? Can you hold out awhile?’’
‘‘Sure, Pa. Don’t worry about me. And please don’t be mad at my pard. He is only trying to help.’’
Old Man Radler lowered his six-shooter but glared at Boone. ‘‘I will overlook you not doing as I wanted, this time. But it could be I will have to kill you before too long.’’
Ruler of the Roost
The second funeral was not as grand as the first.
Most of the punchers attended, as did Maria the cook and her family and cousins, and seven ladies came from Tucson, but only two of their husbands could make it. There was no band and no feas
t although Maria did cook supper for those who stayed over.
Epp Scott wore his sorrow like a shroud. Only when no one else was around did he crack a smile or chuckle and once, up in the bedroom where she had died, he hopped into the air and squealed for joy.
Doc Baker remarked over and over how it was a shame, Lillian’s heart giving out the way it did. Ned had meant the world to her, and with him gone she wanted to die. ‘‘I see it all the time,’’ he told them, and used one of his favorite lines. ‘‘The human heart is a fragile thing.’’
By ten the next morning Epp had the ranch house to himself. He dismissed Maria and the other servants, saying he would like to deal with his grief alone for a couple of days. Much to Dan Morgan’s annoyance, he gave the punchers a couple of days off too, after he assured them that despite the recent tragedies, the Circle V would go on as it always had.
Nightfall found Epp at the kitchen table carving a slice of meat from a slab of beef. He was watching the back door and when someone knocked, he said, ‘‘Come on in, you lunkhead.’’
The man who entered never used soap and water. His clothes were filthy, his boots had never seen polish. A slouch hat hung over bushy brows. The revolver on his hip was the cleanest thing about him. ‘‘I came all the way from Ranson like you wanted me to, and I am here when you needed me to be, and what do you do? You insult me.’’
‘‘I will insult you all I want, Hanks,’’ Epp said. ‘‘That was sloppy work with Cramden and I will not have sloppy men under me.’’
‘‘Hell, we changed the brands as good as they could be changed. That army buyer is sharp.’’
‘‘We have to be sharper.’’
‘‘I do my best but I am not you. You are hog fat and axle grease rolled into one.’’
‘‘I did not send for you so you could flatter me,’’ Epp said flatly.
‘‘Why did you send for me? I thought you were going to wait awhile before you bared your fangs.’’
Epp was about to fork a piece of meat into his mouth. ‘‘You are dumber than a stump.’’
‘‘And you are prickly tonight. I only meant that no one on the Circle V has any idea what you are really like. They will be some surprised when they find out.’’
‘‘You are a lunkhead and a jackass.’’
‘‘Here, now. I will only stand for so much of that kind of talk. If I am doing so poorly, cut me loose.’’
‘‘I finally have the Circle V all to myself and you want me to throw it away. The foreman and the punchers must never suspect. If they do, they will treat me to a strangulation jig.’’ Epp bit the meat off the fork and jabbed the tines at Hanks. ‘‘There will be no baring of fangs until I say, you hear?’’
Hanks spread his hands in a gesture of innocence. ‘‘When have I ever gone against your wishes? Thanks to you, I stand to make more money than I’ve made my whole life long. Do you think I would do anything to jeopardize that?’’
‘‘Tell it to the army buyer. You are lucky he caught on after you sold those cows to him, and not before.’’
‘‘I never did savvy what you were up to,’’ Hanks said. ‘‘Why have me and the boys rustle your own cows when you could just as well have sold them to the army yourself?’’
‘‘My pa did all the selling. Oh, he probably would have let me if I’d asked. But then he would want to know why I needed the money and I couldn’t very well tell him I was selling them to make good on a few gambling debts.’’
Hanks snickered. ‘‘So you stole your own cows. Don’t you beat all?’’
‘‘What did I tell you about the flattery?’’
‘‘I can’t help it. You have more sand than most ten men.’’
‘‘I will need it for the next step,’’ Epp said.
‘‘So soon? You just planted your ma.’’
‘‘Why waste time? I aim to roll in money up to my armpits, and I don’t mean five years from now.’’
‘‘You could sell the Circle V and make a heap of it,’’ Hanks said.
‘‘That there is why you will always take orders and I will always give them. Yes, I can sell. But the money won’t last forever, and when it is gone I will have nothing.’’
‘‘You will still have your holdings in Ranson.’’
‘‘But they are not respectable. I need the Circle V to help me hide my other activities. In the long run I will make more money by holding on to it than I would by selling it. Which brings us to why I sent for you.’’
‘‘I am all ears.’’
‘‘It is time to extend our rustling. Pay the Bar Thirty a visit, and the Box T. Round up as many of their cows as you can. But be damn sure you cover your trail.’’
‘‘I do not want to get caught. They are salty outfits. But what about your own hands?’’
‘‘I am the big sugar now. My punchers will do as I say or they will look for work elsewhere.’’
‘‘Just so they don’t get curious and nose around.’’
‘‘Let me worry about that.’’
‘‘Begging your pardon,’’ Hanks said, ‘‘but it is my hide they will perforate. I can’t help but worry.’’
Epp began to slice another piece from the side of beef. ‘‘How many men have you rounded up?’’
‘‘Seven, besides me.’’
‘‘Good men?’’
‘‘If they were good they wouldn’t be fit for the job, would they?’’ Hanks cackled, showing teeth as yellow as pus.
‘‘Warn them against itchy trigger fingers. Rustling is one thing. We can get away with it for a good long while if all we do is steal cows. But kill a rancher and the whole territory will be up in arms. Or you will have the law after you.’’
‘‘After us,’’ Hanks amended.
Epp scowled as he chewed. ‘‘We are lucky Arizona has so few tin stars. If this was Texas, we would have Rangers behind every bush.’’
‘‘We’ll be careful,’’ Hanks promised.
‘‘Off you go. Report to me when you get back. Just come to the back door any night between eight and ten.’’
Hanks placed his hand on the latch. ‘‘I am glad to be working with you. I won’t let you down.’’
‘‘You better not.’’ When the door closed, Epp laughed. He sliced more meat onto a plate, and, taking it with him, he left the kitchen and bent his steps to his father’s liquor cabinet. His father had always kept it locked. The key was on a hook next to the cabinet, but no one was to touch it without permission. ‘‘Look at me, Pa,’’ Epp said to the ceiling. He opened the cabinet, selected a bottle of Cyrus Noble and deposited his food and drink and himself on the settee in the parlor. Once again he raised a mocking grin to the ceiling. ‘‘How about you, Ma? Remember that time you smacked me for eating Saratoga chips in here?’’
Epp ate with relish, smacking his lips as his mother would never let him do. He washed each mouthful down with the Noble. He was enjoying himself so much that when a knock came on the front door, he almost didn’t answer it.
‘‘I hope I am not disturbing you,’’ Doc Baker said. He had his hat in one hand and his black bag in the other.
‘‘Not at all.’’ Epp stepped aside so he could come in. ‘‘I figured you would be back in Tucson by now.’’
‘‘I was halfway there and turned back.’’ Doc Baker sniffed as he walked past. ‘‘Unless I miss my guess, I could ask you for a drink and the bottle would be handy.’’
Epp slowly closed the door. His brow knitted but otherwise he was composed as he ushered the aged physician into the parlor. ‘‘Have a seat, why don’t you? I will fetch a glass.’’
‘‘That is all right,’’ Doc Baker said. Going over, he drank several quick swallows straight from the bottle and set the bottle down again. When he turned, his face was flushed. ‘‘I needed that.’’
Epp crossed to the settee and reclaimed his seat. ‘‘What is on your mind, Doc?’’
‘‘You.’’
‘‘Me?’’
‘�
��Don’t bandy words with me,’’ Doc Baker said. ‘‘I want to know why, Eppley. Your folks were two of the finest people I know. They were good to you and your brother, and raised you proper. Why did you murder them?’’
‘‘Hell,’’ Epp said. ‘‘If it ain’t chickens, it’s feathers.’’
‘‘Don’t try to deny it. You pulled the wool over my eyes for a bit, but I sensed something wasn’t right about your father’s death and I had my doubts about your mother’s.’’
‘‘So you are accusing me on a guess?’’
Doc Baker stepped to a chair and tiredly sank down. ‘‘Hear me out, Eppley. That is all I ask.’’
‘‘I would not make you leave now for anything. I am not easily surprised, but you have surprised the skin off me.’’
Placing his left ankle on his right knee, Doc Baker held his black bag in his lap. ‘‘I have been a doctor for fifty-two years. Did you know that?’’
‘‘I knew it was a long time.’’
‘‘I have seen all the hurts and wounds and diseases there are. I have mended more broken bones than you can count. I have healed more sores and blisters. I’ve delivered more babies. In range parlance, I am an old hand at what I do.’’
‘‘There is a point to this,’’ Epp said.
‘‘Men fall from horses all the time. They break arms, they break legs. Every so often a man lands on his head. Concussions are common. Fractured skulls happen a lot. But it’s rare for a man to die from the fall.’’
‘‘It does happen, though.’’
‘‘Yes, it does,’’ Doc Baker conceded with a nod. ‘‘But here is the thing. In all the falls from horseback that I am acquainted with, not one rider fell on his head the way your father did.’’
Epp said irritably, ‘‘A head is a head. Make sense.’’
‘‘Bear with me.’’ Doc Baker opened his black bag and took out a large magnifying glass. ‘‘Do you know what this is?’’
Epp frowned. ‘‘What do you take me for?’’
‘‘Of course you do. It is not an instrument a doctor uses much, but my eyes are not what they used to be. It helps when I lance a boil or need to stitch a cut.’’ Doc Baker paused. ‘‘Or when I examine a wound like your father’s.’’
Ralph Compton Bullet For a Bad Man Page 9
