Ralph Compton Nowhere, TX

by Compton, Ralph

  “That’s nice to hear.” Billy didn’t like how Hiram kept fingering the rifle’s trigger but he pretended not to notice and brought the buttermilk nearer. “It would ruin my day something awful.”

  Maude laughed and set her knitting needles on the seat. “I daresay it’s nice to hear another human voice. We’ve been weeks on the trail and haven’t seen another soul in forever.”

  “Surely you’re with a wagon train?” Billy asked.

  “Would that we were,” Maude said. “But Hiram was confident we could make it all the way from Wichita to Amarillo on our own. He didn’t want to pay the fee those wagon masters charge.”

  “Why pay for something you can do yourself?” Hiram interjected.

  “You’re mighty brave to do it on your own,” Billy flattered him.

  Their prairie schooner was the large model—a third again the size of those that routinely made the trek from St. Joseph to the Oregon Country. Rising in his stirrups, Billy saw that the bed was filled with scores of household items and tools, everything from a plow to a washbasin. “You’re about to overflow in there.”

  “That’s why our front wheel broke, I suspect,” Maude said.

  One of their spokes had split. A jack was under the axle, and Hiram had been turning the hand crank when Billy rode up.

  “Anything I can do?”

  “No.” Hiram still had the Sharps in his hands. “I believe in doing my own work. Another half an hour and I’ll have this done.”

  Maude wagged a finger at him. “There you go again. Can’t you be civil? I swear, sometimes I suspect you were raised under a rock.”

  “I wouldn’t be so hard on him, ma’am,” Billy said. “It doesn’t pay to be too trustin’ in these parts. But to prove I’m not the scoundrel he thinks I am, how about if you hold this for me so I can lend a hand?” Unbuckling his gun belt, Billy kneed the buttermilk to the Conestoga and handed it to a delighted Maude.

  “Now aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Hiram? Treating this sweet boy as if he were Jesse James when he’s more Christian than you are?”

  “I won’t apologize for being careful.” But Hiram leaned the Sharps against the wagon and thrust out a calloused knob of a hand to shake. “If you really want to help, hop on down.”

  Billy had rarely felt such immense strength. He volunteered to turn the hand crank and had to use both hands to do so, the wagon was so heavy. “You carry spare spokes, do you?”

  “Spokes and felloes and an axle too,” Hiram said. “Always be prepared, that’s my motto.”

  Maude had slid to the end of the seat and was observing. “So tell me, young man. Where are you from?”

  “I was born in Indiana,” Billy related. “My parents left when I was six and I don’t recollect much about it other than it was green. My pa had a job lined up in Leadville but we weren’t there a month when winter set in, and along about Christmas my folks were killed in an avalanche.”

  “Goodness gracious!” Maude exclaimed. “Who looked after you?”

  “No one,” Billy said, turning the crank harder.

  “You were cast adrift all alone at that tender an age? It must have been terrible. How did you survive?”

  Shrugging, Billy replied, “Any way I could. I learned early that we do what we have to in order to get by in this world.”

  “I must say, you’ve done your parents proud. Look at you now, going out of your way to help strangers in need. Why, any woman would be glad to call you her own.” Maude’s expression was kindness personified.

  “You’re an angel to say that, ma’am,” Billy said, then devoted himself to finishing the repairs. He made sure to do as little of the work as possible, and stood by while Hiram slid the wheel off the hub bearing, loosened the iron rim, then removed two of the curved felloes to get at the broken spoke.

  The whole time, Maude chattered with hardly a pause for breath about their farm in Wichita and how they had sold it so they could move to Amarillo and take up farming anew on property adjoining that of Hiram’s brother. “Our new farm will be five times the size of our old one. Almost a thousand acres, all to ourselves!”

  “Some ranches in Texas have over a hundred thousand,” Billy mentioned to show her he was listening.

  “So we’ve heard. Why, they say there’s one ranch as big as all of Rhode Island. What a body would want with that much land is beyond me.”

  Hiram had removed the broken sections and was inserting a new spoke into a socket in one of the felloes.

  “Cattle need more land than cabbages,” Billy said.

  “I suppose,” Maude responded. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to be hungry, would you? We have jerky to spare. Or how about a honey popcorn ball? I made a batch before we left and there are still some left in the tin.”

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever had one.”

  “Then you’re in for a treat. I’ll just be a second.” Maude ducked into the wagon, remarking, “Now where did I put that tin?”

  “Go slow in there, woman!” Hiram shouted. “I don’t want this jack tipping over on me.” For the first time he grinned at Billy. “A word of advice, boy. When you get married, find yourself a wife with more common sense than a tree stump.”

  “I’m not the apron string kind,” Billy informed him.

  “That’s what we all think until we’re smitten. Then one day we look at a gal and our insides turn to mush and we’re never the same again.” Hiram began reassembling the wheel. “But don’t let me fool you. I’d rather be nagged to death than single.” A loud thump from inside the wagon caused him to glance up sharply. “What did I tell you about moving around in there?”

  “Sorry, honey bunny.”

  “Honey bunny?” Billy chortled.

  “Her pet name for me. Women do fool things like that all the time. Why, the stories I could tell you . . .” Hiram left the statement unfinished.

  Maude reappeared on the seat clutching a tin box. “Here they are.” She leaned down so Billy could take it. “Help yourself.”

  Hunkering, Billy pried the lid open and popped one of the honey popcorn balls into his mouth. He liked the sweet taste and how the ball crunched when he bit down. A second and third followed it down his throat. “Right tasty.”

  “I thank you, kind sir.” Maude was delighted. “I hope they’ll convince you to stick around for supper. It would be wonderful to have your company.”

  Billy munched on another honey popcorn ball and watched as Hiram slid the wheel onto the axle. When the wheel was secure, he replaced the lid on the tin and gave it to Maude. “Do you suppose I could have my pistol back now?”

  Maude glanced at Hiram, who nodded, then gingerly picked up the gun belt. “You’ll think this is silly of me but I’ve never been all that comfortable around guns. My grandfather lost half his leg in a hunting accident and I can never forget the sight of all that blood and his horrible screams when the doctor amputated it.”

  “Guns have their uses.” Billy strapped on his gun belt and twirled the Colt from its holster. He spun it forward several times and spun it backward several times, then shifted on the balls of his feet, cocked the hammer, and shot Hiram Bradshaw through the right knee.

  The burly farmer toppled, clutching his leg, his teeth clenched against the pain. Red mist spurted from between his fingers.

  For a few seconds Maude was too shocked to speak or move. Then she let out with a screech and vaulted from the wagon with an agility and speed her years belied. “Hiram!” Dashing past Billy, she dropped to her knees. “Dear God, no!”

  Billy saw the husband look at the Sharps and he quickly took it and placed it on the seat, well out of their reach. “Now then. Suppose we get this over with.”

  Tears glistened on Maude’s cheeks and her lips were quivering. Groaning, she gripped one of Hiram’s hands in both of hers. “How could you do this after we were so kind to you?”

  “Your husband was right, lady. You can’t trust anyone in No Man’s Land.” Billy took a few steps to
the left so he had a clear shot at the husband. “Fork over your money and I’ll make this easy.”

  “We don’t have any money,” Maude said. “What ever gave you the notion we did?”

  “You sold your farm in Kansas, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. But we spent it all on this wagon and our new farm near Amarillo. We hardly have twenty dollars left to our name.”

  “Sure you don’t,” Billy said, and shot Hiram Bradshaw again, through the other knee.

  Crying out, Hiram thrashed in torment, spittle dribbling into his beard. Suddenly uncoiling, he heaved erect and lunged, but his knees betrayed him and he buckled just as his outstretched fingers clawed for Billy’s throat.

  Again the Colt boomed. This time the slug tore through Bradshaw’s left thigh. An artery or vein was severed, because scarlet gushed from the wound like scalding water from a geyser. Hiram howled in rage as much as in agony, and clamped his palms over the entry and exit wounds. “I’ll kill you for this, boy! So help me, I’ll send you straight to hell!”

  “The money,” Billy said.

  Racked by sobs, Maude slowly rose and came toward him, her hands clasped in appeal. “Please, young man! I’m begging you! Leave us be and we’ll never tell a soul.”

  Billy backhanded her across the face. “Some people just never sweat the fat off their brains.”

  Maude staggered back, more stunned than hurt, a red welt on her cheek. “You—you struck me!”

  “This ain’t no church social,” Billy commented, then had to skip aside as an outraged Hiram, bleeding like a gut-shot buck, scrambled at him on all fours and tried to seize his legs.

  “Don’t you touch her! Do you hear? Don’t you dare lay a finger on her again, or it will be the last thing you ever do!”

  “I’m tired of your squawkin’,” Billy said, and shot him smack between the eyes.

  The rear of Hiram’s head exploded outward, showering brains and grisly bits, and Hiram sagged, his eyes frozen wide in astonishment. He oozed to the ground like melted wax, drool seeping from a corner of his mouth.

  Maude was transformed to marble.

  Calmly flipping open the Colt’s loading gate, Billy began replacing the spent cartridges. “All he had to do was tell me what I wanted to know and he wouldn’t have suffered near as much.”

  “You’re an animal!”

  “Woof, woof,” Billy said.

  “You’re a vile, despicable beast!” Maude cried. “I pray to God I live to see the law throw a noose around your neck.”

  “You won’t,” Billy said. He shot her in the left leg.

  Screaming, Maude toppled and flopped about in anguish, repeating over and over, “You shot me! You shot me! You shot me!”

  Billy twirled his Colt into its holster and stood over her. “For the last time. Where’s the money hid?”

  Maude stopped thrashing and glared, her tears of sorrow now tears of fury. “It will be a cold day in hell before I tell you!”

  Bending, Billy slid a double-edged knife from his right boot and held it so the blade glittered in the sunlight. “Want to bet?”

  Chapter Four

  Old Man Taylor grinned when the Circle C hands drew rein at the livery stable. He stopped whittling long enough to say, “Well, look at this. I wonder what brings you two cowbirds to Nowhere.”

  “I don’t want to hear it,” Randy Quin said.

  “Could it be a certain golden thrush?” Old Man Taylor teased with a lopsided grin. “The kind that lives over behind the general store, maybe?”

  Lin Cooley dismounted and handed the reins to Taylor. “There you go with the birds again. You sure that you weren’t born a loon?”

  “I happen to like birds. I like them more than most people, in fact.” The stableman gave each of them a pointed look. “Truth is, at one time I had me a dream of becoming an ornithologist.”

  “An orni-what?” Randy said.

  “An ornithologist. That’s a bird wrangler, you ignorant lump. I could have spent my whole life studying birds and their habits.”

  “That would fit you like long underwear,” Cooley said. “Why didn’t you?”

  Old Man Taylor’s features mirrored deep regret. “To be one you have to go to a university and that costs money. Money my folks didn’t have. Money I couldn’t rustle up short of robbing a bank. So I never became one. But I still love birds as much as ever.”

  Cooley gazed out over the prairie. “Then why settle here, where there aren’t enough birds to fill a thimble? Why not go East or on to California or somewhere they have heaps of birds?”

  “The pain, my fine eagle. The pain.”

  “He’d addlepated,” Randy declared.

  “Every time I see one of our feathered friends, it sears me to the quick,” Old Man Taylor explained. “I’d rather spare myself the pain, if you don’t mind.”

  “So you live where there’s hardly any birds?” Randy said. “I had no idea.”

  “I daresay there’s a lot you don’t know.” Taylor stiffly stood and accepted their reins. “The thing to keep in mind is that sometimes we only get one chance at happiness and if it passes us by we spend the rest of our days waiting for dirt to be shoveled on top of our cold corpse.”

  “You sure have an inspirin’ gift for gab.”

  “Mock me all you want, my young cowbird. Just so you don’t end up like me.” Old Man Taylor led their horses into the stable. “Is it a stall and oats for both or aren’t you boys spending the night?”

  “The night,” Randy confirmed, with a hopeful glance in the direction of the general store, and nudged Lin. “Let’s go wash down the dust.”

  Dub Wheeton was pouring red-eye for three Bar J punchers when Cooley and Quin entered the saloon, and one of the Bar J boys let out with a wild whoop.

  “Well, lookee here! Chick Storm has let two of his swivel dudes come to town all by their lonesomes. Some day he ought to break down and hire himself some real cowboys.” The speaker chortled and clapped his companions on the back. He was short and muscular and favored a brown leather belt decorated with silver studs, a high-crowned hat, and boots with heels an inch higher than most.

  “You’re a fine one to be calling us swivel dudes,” Randy shot back, grinning as he shook the other cowboy’s hand. “It’s good to see you, Joe. Even if you do bray a lot just to hear your own voice.”

  “Drinks for my friends, barkeep!” Joe Elliot bawled. “And that jar of pickled eggs while you’re at it!”

  Randy stuck a finger in his ear and jiggled it. “Do you always have to holler so? I swear, after an hour of your company my eardrums are fit to burst.”

  “Hell, hoss, I come from a family of fourteen kids!” Joe declared. “In our house it was always the loudest who got the most attention, and the most food at the feed trough.”

  “In that case,” Randy said, “your folks must not have known they had thirteen others.”

  Joe chuckled. “Why, you’re almost gettin’ good at this. Are we on for poker tonight? I sure hope so! I feel lucky.”

  “Count me in,” Cooley said.

  “Not me,” Randy said. “One drink, and I’ve got business to attend to.”

  Joe Elliot looked at Cooley and said in mock seriousness, “For the life of me I can’t figure what that girl sees in this pard of yours. Why give him the time of day when she could be courtin’ a handsome devil like me?”

  “Sally has good taste,” Randy said.

  Dub came over carrying the jar of pickled eggs. “It’s days like this that make me glad I set down roots here. Good whiskey, good friends, and good times. Life doesn’t get any better than this.”

  “I don’t know,” Joe said. “A ranch of my own, a wife who likes to give back rubs, and a pretty cook who will meet me in the root cellar every afternoon is my idea of the good life.”

  “If you like women so much, you should spend your free time in Beaver City,” Randy said.

  “It takes too long to get there,” was Joe’s reply. “I go whe
n I’m so in need I can’t stand still.” He gulped a shot of whiskey. “I wouldn’t have to go at all if Dub, here, would get us some females.”

  “How many times must I tell you boys?” Dub defended himself. “I’ve tried. Honest to goodness I have. But the only doves who would give this place consideration are too broken down to earn enough to make it worth my while.”

  Randy drained his glass and dropped a coin into it. “All this talk of females and such has me hankerin’ for a stroll. See you gents later.” Tilting his hat at a rakish angle, he hurried out and across the street to the general store. The door was open for ventilation and he stood in the doorway watching Sally Palmer rearrange merchandise. No one else was there. She stacked cans of peaches and tomatoes, then folded the top blanket on a pile of blankets, and turned.

  “Oh!”

  “You’re so pretty you take my breath away.”

  Sally came around the counter and was about to throw herself into his arms when she glanced at a door at the rear and primly pecked him on the cheek, whispering, “He’s in the back but he might come out any second.”

  “I savvy,” Randy said

  “I’ve missed you,” Sally stated. “Missed you something awful.” She gripped both his hands. “Why do you only get in here once a month?” Her green eyes feasted on him as a starved woman’s would on a plate of food. “The Bar J crowd are here every weekend.”

  “The Bar J is a lot closer to Nowhere than the Circle C,” Randy reminded her. “They can get here in a couple of hours. With us, it takes most of a day.”

  Just then a roly-poly ball of energy came bouncing out of the back. “Randall! How good to see you again.” George Palmer was carrying sacks of flour, which he deposited on a shelf. “My daughter has been pining away since your last visit.”

  “Daddy!” Sally squealed. “I have not.”

  George grinned and wiped his hands on his apron, then shook Randy’s hand. “I take it you’ll stay for supper? And maybe let me beat you at checkers later?”

  “You always win fair,” Randy said. “I wish I were half as smart as you. I wouldn’t be nursemaidin’ cows for a livin’.”