Ralph Compton Nowhere, TX

by Compton, Ralph

  He had left early enough to arrive at the Circle C ranch house by sunset but he wasn’t in any hurry to get back to Nowhere so he made camp several miles out, and that night the yip of coyotes lulled him to sleep instead of the tinny clink of a piano. He was on the go early and by along about nine several Circle C punchers spotted him and came to investigate. Once they were assured of who he was, they informed him that he had strayed west of where he should be. Kip Langtree volunteered to take him direct to the ranch house.

  Lunsford hadn’t been to the Circle C in years. Little had changed. The house had shutters now and there were more flower gardens and the corral had been expanded.

  Only a few hands were around. The rest, Lunsford’s escort explained, were busy scouring the length and breadth of the Circle C for cattle.

  “It’s not roundup time, is it?” Lunsford had never ranched but he knew enough to know there were two roundups, one in the spring when calves were gathered and branded, and another in the fall to collect beeves for market and brand any calves missed in the spring. Here it was October, well past the second roundup.

  “It’s a special gather the boss wants done,” Kip Langtree said.

  They were near the house and the man in question stepped out to meet them, his wife at his side. “Mar shal Lunsford! This is unexpected. To what do we owe this visit?”

  “Oh, honestly,” Dixie said. “Your questions can wait. Our guest must be tired after his long ride.” She came down the steps. “Paul, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  Lunsford squeezed her hand and she led him inside and seated him at the dining room table near a wide window.

  “Would you like some ginger beer? Or maybe lemonade would be more to your taste?”

  “Water will do me fine. I don’t want to put you to any bother.”

  Dixie grinned. “Lemonade it is.”

  Chick sat at the head of the table. “Don’t feel put upon. She’s been telling me what I want since I said ‘I do.’ ”

  Out in the garden a wren was warbling and over at the chicken coop hens were pecking in the dust. Farther off, cattle grazed.

  “Is your foreman around?”

  “Lin’s off making a tally of our herds and won’t be back for days yet,” Chick said. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “The night Joe Elliot was shot, I asked Cooley to talk to you. I never heard back, and I’d like to know why he didn’t.”

  “He did,” Chick said.

  “Then why didn’t you send word whether the Circle C will back me if I go up against Black Jack and his killers?”

  “No answer was answer enough.”

  “So you won’t help me?” Lunsford couldn’t keep the accusation out of his tone. “You’ll let Nowhere go to the mongrels?”

  “The plain and the short of it?” Chick said. “It’s not our fight. Nowhere let the vermin in. Nowhere should sweep the vermin out.”

  Lunsford flexed his good hand. “It’s hard for me to sweep with one arm.”

  “Have you asked Seth Jackson for help?”

  “Seth didn’t ride in with guns blazing when Black Jack’s lobos shot Joe Elliot and those other two Bar J hands,” Lunsford mentioned. “I doubt he’ll want to do it now that he gets to sit at Black Jack’s personal table when he’s in town.”

  Chick said, “It’s come to that, then.”

  “They’re on the best of terms. Once a week Seth is in town, guzzling red-eye like a fish. He does more staggering than walking these days. The other night I saw him try to climb on his horse five times before he made it. I went over and suggested he stay in town and sleep it off. Do you know what he said?” Lunsford didn’t wait for Storm to answer. “He said he didn’t need help. That he could find perdition all on his own.”

  “He was a good man once.”

  “I can’t think poorly of him, not when I had my own mouth glued to a bottle’s teat for so long.” Lunsford extended his arm. “Chick, I’ll be honest with you. The Circle C is my last hope of cleaning the buzzards out.”

  “My men are punchers, not gunnies. I’d be getting a lot of them killed. My conscience won’t let me.”

  “But it will let you sit here sipping lemonade while Nowhere sinks deeper and deeper into quicksand? What happened to the days when we were our brothers’ keepers?”

  “There are plenty of able-bodied men in Nowhere. Swear them in and give them guns and do the job yourselves.”

  “I’d be better off deputizing your cows.”

  Into the dining room came Dixie Storm. “Here you go. With a spoonful of sugar.” She set a glass of lemonade in front of him. “Is there anything else you need, Paul?”

  “If you only knew.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The trouble started with two cowboys drifting north from Dallas. Pete Weaver and Arvil Bickam were on their way to Denver. Pete had come into some money when an uncle died and they planned to spend it making the rounds of every whorehouse in the Mile High City.

  Along the way they heard about the three girls at Dub Wheeton’s, so Pete decided a detour was in order. On a wild and festive Saturday night they arrived in Nowhere and immediately repaired to the saloon to wash down the dust of miles of travel. The place was packed wall to wall. Cowhands, drifters, townsmen, all drinking and playing cards and laughing and smoking. Men doing what men loved to do.

  The three winsome forms moving among them were not having nearly as good a time. For Belle James, Susie Metzger and Shasta Cunningham, Saturday was the hardest night of the week. They didn’t get a moment’s rest from sundown until after midnight. When they weren’t trolling the room encouraging customers to buy more drinks, they were in the back rooms. It was long, tiresome work, and by ten all three were dragging their heels—even the veteran of their trade, Belle James. She was at the bar when Pete Weaver and Arvil Bickam bought her a drink and proposed that she take both of them at the same time.

  Belle shook her head. “The rule is one gent at a time, boys. Two or more always makes for grief, and that I don’t need.”

  “But we’re best friends!” Pete declared, clapping Arvil on the back.

  “Hell, yes!” Arvil wholeheartedly agreed. “We partnered up five years ago and get along like two peas in a pod.”

  “I really can’t,” Belle said, with a glance toward the corner where Black Jack was engrossed in a card game.

  Pete flashed a wad of bills. “We’ll pay you twice the going rate. How would that be?”

  Belle wavered.

  “Three times the going rate!” Arvil offered. “And we won’t tell a soul so you can keep the extra for yourself.”

  As larcenous as the next dove, Belle caved. “I want the money in advance. And you two better not act up.”

  The last room on the right was the one Belle regularly used. She went right to the bed and began undressing. “Shuck them clothes, boys. I ain’t got all night.”

  Pete and Arvil stood with their hats in hand, looking at her and at one another. Then Pete whooped and sprang but Arvil snagged his arm.

  “Hold on. Who says you go first?”

  “It was my idea,” Pete said, tugging loose.

  “So? I think we should flip for the honor. I don’t much like having another man’s leavin’s.”

  “What difference does that make? I’m your pard, aren’t I?” Pete reminded him. “It ain’t like she’s corn on the cob.”

  “I still think it’s fairer if we flip,” Arvil insisted. He dug a coin from his pocket. “Heads or tails?”

  “Neither. I still think I should go first. It’s my money payin’ for this spree.” Pete threw his hat on the bed and went to undo his belt.

  “Hold on,” Arvil said, stepping in front of him. “Just because it’s your inheritance doesn’t give you the right to take on airs. We’ve always shared and shared alike, haven’t we?”

  Belle James had her dress half off. It was sparse on buttons and stays so she could shed it like a second skin. “Enough silliness,
you two. Make up your minds and get on with it.”

  Pete’s jaw was thrust forward. “Now you listen here, pard. I aim to have her first and I’m going to have her first, and if you give me any fuss, you can forget comin’ to Denver with me.”

  “That’s the whiskey talkin’,” Arvil said.

  “No. It’s me talkin’. I’m rarin’ to take this gal and I don’t much like you buttin’ in.”

  Arvil thrust his jaw out. “All I’m doin’ is sayin’ we should flip a coin, damn it.”

  “I’ve changed my mind,” Pete announced, pushing his friend aside. “Go get yourself one of the other girls. This one is mine.”

  “The hell you say.”

  “Quit cussin’ at me,” Pete warned.

  “We cuss all the damn time, you jackass,” was Arvil’s response. He held the coin out. “Now do we flip or not?”

  “Not,” Pete said, and swatted the other’s hand.

  The coin sailed in an arc and fell onto the bed next to Belle James. She scooped it up, saying, “If you two don’t quit your squabbling right this second, I’m not servicing either of you.”

  “No!” Arvil said. “It’s not my fault he’s being such a baby. Give me a minute and I’ll talk some sense into him.”

  “Like hell you will.” With that, Pete drew his revolver and shot Arvil Bickam in the stomach at a range of two inches.

  At the blast Arvil staggered back, too shocked to do more than bleat. Pressing a hand to the wound and his smoldering shirt, he recovered his wits enough to blurt, “You knothead! You’ve done shot me!”

  “And I’ll do it again if you don’t get out of my way,” Pete said.

  Belle James jumped up and backed against a wall. “No gunplay, boys!” she yelled. “No gunplay!”

  “He started it,” Arvil said, and drawing his own Colt, he shot Pete in the belly.

  Jolted, Pete clutched himself and staggered into the hall. He snapped another shot at Arvil but missed.

  By now shouts had arisen. Dub Wheeton came running from the front, an empty mug in his hand. “What is this? What is this?” he excitedly demanded. “I don’t allow gunplay!”

  “Allow this,” Pete said, and snapped a shot at him. The slug bit into the wall and Dub hastily retreated.

  Out of the back room lurched Arvil. His shirt was stained red and he was huffing and puffing but he raised his pistol, thumbed back the hammer, and fired. He hit the ceiling.

  “Damn you!” Pete said. “Quit shooting at me!”

  “You started it!” Arvil repeated.

  Pete staggered into the saloon. Men were scurrying to give him room, pushing and shoving in their haste to avoid taking stray lead. Pete waved his revolver at them and bellowed, “Out of my way, you mangy sons of bitches!”

  Arvil came through the doorway, waving his own artillery. “This is a private spat! Anyone who butts in will regret it!”

  Pete turned and fired at him and hit the jamb.

  Arvil cursed and fired and a man across the room cried out, clutched his chest, and pitched to the floor.

  Over in the corner, Black Jack took a cigar from between his clenched teeth. “Those yacks are spoilin’ my game.” He nodded at Ike Longley, who rose and came around the table.

  Pete aimed at Arvil but this time there was a metallic click. “Damn,” he said. “A misfire.”

  “Now will you listen to reason?” Arvil asked.

  Longley stepped from the crowd with his hands on his Remingtons. His right arm blurred and a Remington spat smoke and lead and Pete Weaver melted in a heap with a hole between his eyes. Longley’s other arm moved and the other Remington cracked and this time Arvil Bickam did a slow pirouette into eternity.

  The gleaming Remingtons were twirled into Longley’s studded holsters, and a collective sigh of relief was exhaled.

  Then the batwing doors parted and in rushed Old Man Taylor holding an equally old squirrel rifle. “What’s all the shooting about?” He spied the bodies and halted.

  Ben Towers stepped from among the onlookers. “What’s it to you, old man?”

  “The marshal left me in charge while he’s gone,” Old Man Taylor said, and stepped to the mortal remains of Pete Weaver. “Who are these boys?”

  “Who the hell knows?” someone said.

  Dub Wheeton was wringing his apron. “One of them mentioned something about being from Dallas.”

  Old Man Taylor saw the third figure on the floor. “Isn’t that Sam Ketch from over to Bowdry? Why’d he get shot?”

  “He made the mistake of standin’ in front of a bullet,” a drinker said, which sparked some laughs.

  “What started it?”

  No one could answer until Belle James stepped from the back. She had dressed and brushed her hair. “They were fighting over me.”

  Old Man Taylor examined the bodies. “They’re all dead, sure enough. Three lives lost over a sage grouse. I guess it’s fitting the Texas boys killed themselves.”

  “I killed them,” Longley said.

  “You?”

  “He had to,” Dub Wheeton said.

  “No one is allowed to take the law into their own hands,” Old Man Taylor said. “I’ll have to ask him to come to the jail and stay there until the marshal gets back.”

  “Ask all you want,” Longley replied. “It will never happen.”

  Old Man Taylor leveled the squirrel gun. “I’m afraid I must insist. I’ll let you keep your guns and I’ll make your stay at the jail as pleasant as I can.”

  Longley stood stock still. “Old man, you’d best think this out. I can draw and put two slugs into you before you squeeze that trigger. Take your antique and go back to your whittlin’ and leave the law to the cripple.”

  “He asked me to do him a favor.”

  “Did he ask you to die for him?”

  Black Jack’s chair scraped as he rose. “Taylor, what in hell’s gotten into you? Quit makin’ a nuisance of yourself. Leave Longley with me. I give you my word he’s not going anywhere. When the marshal wants him, he’ll be here.”

  Old Man Taylor slowly lowered his rifle. “I reckon that will have to do. No hard feelings, I hope?”

  Tension drained from the room and eager drinkers were bellying to the bar when Lafferty, the owner of the feed and grain, declared loud enough for everyone to hear, “I guess we have two sets of law in Nowhere. One for ordinary folks and one for gun sharks.”

  “That was uncalled for,” Dub Wheeton said.

  “Easy for you to say,” Lafferty argued, “when they’re the ones lining your pockets. You’ve forgotten you’re a part of this community.”

  Black Jack came toward the center of the room. “I’d quit jabberin’, were I you.”

  Lafferty had nearly drained a large glass of rye. He shook it at Longley, saying, “Why should he be treated special? If I shot someone, no matter what the provocation, I’d be behind bars until my hearing.”

  Dub nervously put a hand on the thin man’s shoulder. “Will you cut it out? The marshal will handle everything when he gets back.”

  “Don’t patronize me,” Lafferty said. “I have every right to speak my peace. I live in this town, don’t I?”

  “You should go home,” Black Jack said.

  “And you should realize there are some people you can’t boss around. If I want to stay here drinking, I’ll stay here and drink. You might intimidate these others but I’ll never back down to the likes of you.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Old Man Taylor stepped between them. “Laf ferty, please.”

  “Someone has to say it.” To Black Jack, Lafferty said, “Do you think we’re blind? That we don’t see what’s been going on right under our noses? You’ve taken over this town to the point where you dictate how the law is applied.”

  Dub tried to push him toward the batwings. “You’ve had too much to drink. Go sleep it off.”

  “I’m perfectly fine. I’ve been saying all along that Nowhere is no place for his ilk. We
should run them out of town while we can still claim to have a shred of dignity left.” Lafferty scanned his listeners.

  “Who’s with me? Who thinks we should clean up Nowhere?”

  No one spoke.

  Black Jack put his big hands on his hips and laughed. “Looks to me like you’re preachin’ to empty pews.”

  Lafferty startled everyone by walking up to Black Jack and poking him in the chest. “Mock me all you want. But I brand you for the sinful oaf you are! And your scalawags as gunsmen scum!”

  A hush fell. A hush so total, the ticking of the pedestal clock behind the bar was unnaturally loud.

  “Get out of here.” Dub tried one last time.

  It was too late. Black Jack’s right fist swept from his hip to Lafferty’s jaw—a short yet immensely powerful blow that crunched Lafferty’s teeth and lifted him off his feet to crash to the floor, unconscious. Black Jack raised a boot to stomp his face.

  “Don’t!” Old Man Taylor cried, and jerked his squirrel gun.

  There was a sound like thunder and Thomas Taylor’s chest exploded. Ben Towers had fired a single barrel from his twelve-gauge shotgun into the stableman’s back. The buckshot left a cavity the size of a cannon ball.

  Black Jack was furious. “What did you go and do that for, damn it?”

  “He was fixin’ to drill you,” Ben Towers said.

  “He wouldn’t have fired.” Black Jack nudged the body with a boot, and sighed. “Well, what’s done is done. Clell, get a bunch of these boys to clear out the mess. The rest of you, the drinks are on me.”

  A chorus of whoops and cheers rose to the ceiling.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Marshal Lunsford still had half a mile to go when he heard gunfire—shot after shot, some singly, others in sporadic volleys. Alarmed, he brought his horse to a trot. He was a lot closer when he heard shouts and laughter. Closer still when he heard glass shatter.

  The lawman couldn’t hold the scattergun and ride at the same time, so he had to leave the scattergun in the bedroll for the time being even though every nerve screamed for him to arm himself. He slowed when he came within sight of those doing the shooting, then stopped entirely.