Ralph Compton Ride the Hard Trail

by Ralph Compton

  Another scream caused Reb to half turn toward the hall. “Damn him to hell.”

  “Make up your mind,” Harry said. “If you are going to get yourself killed, go do it. If not, lend a hand here.” He pointed at Lin. “Roll this hombre over. Lassiter wants us to finish beating him to death.” He put a hand on the butt of his Starr.

  Reb stooped and hooked a forearm under Lin. “Why not just shoot him? Or I have my knife.”

  No, Lin had it. As the Southerner lifted him, Lin drew the long blade and plunged it into Reb below the ribs, thrusting it to the hilt. Reb stiffened and sucked in a breath, his eyes widening in surprise.

  Harry, who was behind Reb and had not seen Lin stab him, said, “What is it?”

  Lin twisted the knife. Reb grunted and sagged, his whole body going limp. Grabbing the shotgun, Lin threw himself to the right, onto his shoulder. He cocked the twin hammers as he dropped.

  Startled, Harry swore and jerked his pistol. Lin let him have one of the barrels full in the gut. The blast lifted Harry off his feet and sent him staggering against a wall. A red smear marked his slow slide down. He half sat, half lay, his lifeless eyes fixed on the emptiness that had claimed him.

  On a hunch, Lin patted the pockets of Reb’s coat. He found what he was looking for: extra shells. Helping himself to a handful, he crawled toward the doorway. He reached it just as boots thudded down the hall. Poking his head out, he saw two more gun sharks hurrying toward him. The one in the lead was looking back and saying something to the other one.

  Lin set down the shells and raised the shotgun. He fired at the same instant the man turned.

  The buckshot caught him in the face and made a mess of his head; he was dead before he hit the floor.

  Lin ducked back to reload. The danger now was that the second killer would rush him, but apparently the man sought cover instead. A wary peek showed the body and an otherwise empty hall. But a door on the left that had been closed was now open a crack.

  Lin centered the shotgun on the crack at the same height as the latch, and unleashed both barrels at once. A sharp cry was drowned out by the boom. Lin’s ears rang as he hastily reloaded. He peeked out again. The door had a hole in it the size of a melon. There was no movement inside.

  “You in the room yonder!” Lin hollered. “Throw out your hardware and I will let you live.”

  No one responded.

  “Do you hear me?” Lin tried again. It could be a trick. But he did not have the luxury of waiting the other man out. He must get to the women; he must get to them right away. Accordingly, using the wall for support, he made it upright. For a few harrowing seconds his legs once again threatened to give out, but they didn’t. Taking one painful step after another, he moved toward the buckshot door.

  The only sound was a peculiar sucking. A push on the door revealed the source.

  The killer was on his back, half his throat blown away. Somehow he was still alive. But even as Lin set eyes on him, the man stiffened, exhaled and was no more.

  Lin continued down the hall. He still had Lassiter to deal with—maybe more. He wished he had his saddlebags, but the shotgun would suffice.

  The hallway forked. Lin debated which way to go and bore to the right. The screams had come from that direction.

  Ten yards more and Lin came to a wide doorway without a door. He smelled coffee and the lingering aroma of cooked eggs. Leveling the shotgun, he poked one eye past the jamb.

  It was the kitchen. In the center stood a round table, to the right an oak counter and cupboards, and to the left a large stove and a stack of wood. Lying near the table, bound wrists and ankles, and gagged, was Patricia Dixon. Her tear-filled eyes fixed on him in mute appeal.

  Lin gave the room another scrutiny. On the far side, a door to the outside hung open. No one else was there. He started to enter, then drew up short in shock. He had forgotten; he was buck naked. He looked down at himself, and then at the woman who had so tenderly nursed him back to the land of the living, and he shambled in, holding the shotgun over the part of his body that no one should ever see. “I am sorry,” he said.

  Pat wagged her arms and tried to talk, her words muffled by the gag.

  “Where is Lassiter? And your daughter?” Lin pried at the knot with his fingernails and it came undone.

  “He took her!” Pat sobbed. “Go after them! Stop him!” She raised her bound wrists to her mouth and tore at the rope with her teeth.

  Lin shuffled to the open door. In the distance was Lassiter, leading a horse by the reins. Slung over the second animal was a figure in a dress. “Damn.”

  “Can you see them? Stop him!”

  “I wish I could.” Lin leaned against the wall. He was about done in. The exertion had taken everything out of him. “I am sorry.”

  “Stop saying that.” Pat got her wrists loose and bent toward her ankles. “If you can’t ride, I can. I will go after them myself.”

  “He will kill you,” Lin said. “Both of you.”

  “He will try. But that is my little girl he took. I have to do it.” In a maternal frenzy, Pat tore at the rope and the knot parted. Rising, she darted to the door. A sob escaped her. She whirled and disappeared down the hall, only to return half a minute later carrying a Winchester.

  Lin held out an arm to block the doorway. “Give me five minutes and I will go with you.”

  “I can’t wait that long!” Pat pushed his arm aside and charged on out, sprinting madly for the corral.

  “My saddlebags!” Lin shouted. “Where are they?”

  “In the stable!”

  Lin marshaled his strength and walked out into the harsh glare of the midday sun. He had spent so many days abed, the brightness hurt his eyes. He blinked and squinted and held a hand up to shield them. “Pat?”

  She had the gate open and was vaulting onto a sorrel. In her anxiety, she did not bother with a saddle blanket or saddle. She slapped her legs and flew out of the corral.

  “Pat!”

  She paid him no heed. Bareback, she galloped in pursuit.

  Lin headed for the stable. The more moving he did, the less the bruises and welts pained him. He broke into a stiff-legged run, each step easier. Thankfully, the stable doors were open. The stable itself was bigger than the stable at the EJ Ranch, with a third again as many stalls. As luck would have it, the buttermilk was in the very last stall on the right.

  Lin’s saddle blanket and saddle were draped over the side. He looked for his saddlebags but did not see them. Setting down the shotgun and the shells, he opened the stall and brought out the palomino.

  At the rear of the stall were his bedroll—and his saddlebags.

  Lin sank to his knees. In one bag were his spare shirt and pants. In the other was the thing he had not touched since the shooting affray. He opened the one containing his clothes. The shirt had seen a lot of wear and the denims were torn, but they were all he had. He dressed as quickly as he was able. He did not have a spare belt, but the pants fit tightly enough to stay on. Nor did he own spare socks or extra boots. He would have to go barefoot.

  Lin reached for the other saddlebag but did not open it. Instead, he swung both bags over his shoulder and hurriedly saddled the buttermilk. He tied the saddlebags and bedroll on, then reclaimed the shotgun and the shells.

  It felt good to be in the saddle again. Lin brought the horse to a gallop. Pat Dixon had long since vanished into the thick timber to the south.

  Lin imagined that Lassiter would head for the Bar M—or would he?—given that he did not have Seth Montfort’s permission to do what he was doing.

  Dust motes hung suspended in the air at the point where Patricia had plunged into the trees. Lin slowed, threading in among them. Following her trail proved to be no chore at all; she had crashed through the undergrowth like a cow elk gone amok.

  Lin hoped she did not catch up to Lassiter. Not before Lin caught up to her. In the emotional state she was in, she would be easy to pick off. He kept fearing he would hear a shot.


  The minutes dragged. Lin considered firing into the air to get Pat’s attention, but Lassiter might hear too.

  Lin glanced at the saddlebag he had refused to open. Maybe he should reconsider. What difference did it make how he killed Lassiter so long as he killed him? Principles were fine and dandy, but they could be carried too far. Chancy certainly thought he was being pigheaded, but the man Chancy shot had lived. Lin would give anything to be able to go back and relive that day. He would not let his brother—

  Abruptly, up ahead, that which Lin dreaded, happened. A shot cracked. A horse whinnied. Then a woman screamed in terror.

  It sounded like Pat Dixon.

  Lin rode for all he was worth.

  Chapter 21

  Lin almost missed her. He was racing pell-mell through the wood, intent on the terrain ahead, when a splash of color at the edge of his vision drew his gaze to a form sprawled in a twisted heap. Instantly, he reined toward her, and was out of the saddle before the buttermilk came to a stop. He forgot the condition he was in. His momentum nearly threw him to his hands and knees.

  Her mouth was moving, but no words came out. The slug had cored her high on her bosom, and the hole was oozing red.

  Kneeling, Lin set the shotgun down and gently cradled her head on his leg. “You should have waited for me.”

  Patricia Dixon shuddered. The pink tip of her tongue rimmed her lips and she whispered, “He was waiting for me. Shot me from ambush and rode off laughing with my Sue.”

  “If it is the last thing I ever do,” Lin vowed, “he is not long for this world.”

  Her hand fumbled at his clothes—at his arm—and found his hand. She squeezed him, hard. “Save her. Please.”

  “I will try.”

  “Go,” Patricia urged.

  Lin watched more blood ooze from the bullet hole. “I can’t leave you quite yet.”

  Her fingernails dug into his hand. “You must! I can’t bear the thought of him, and her.” A tear formed at the corner of her eye. “I’m begging you, Lin. I know why you won’t go. But she is more important than I am.”

  Lin had to cough in order to say, “It won’t be long.”

  “Dear God,” she said weakly, and sobbed. “My husband and my sons! They will go after Montfort. You mustn’t let them.”

  Lin did not know how he could stop them.

  “I mean it,” Pat said. “They will get themselves killed, and one death is enough.”

  Lin looked away. It was that, or lose control.

  “Please don’t stay. Save my sweet baby.” She stopped and made a choking sound.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t talk,” Lin said.

  “So what if I hurry it along?” Pat replied. “I would rather it was sooner if it gets you on your horse.”

  “I just can’t. I am sorry.”

  Pat shifted her head toward him and wanly smiled. “It is too bad she is more fond of your brother than you. But then, you have Etta June.”

  “I do not have anyone yet,” Lin said.

  “I told you she fancies you.” Pat placed her other hand on his. “You could do worse. She is as fine a woman as you will come across.” Pat paused. “Now will you go? It could take me half an hour to die.”

  “I will wait,” Lin said.

  “No, you won’t.”

  And just like that, she rolled away from him. Lin’s surprise rooted him in place for the time it took her to snatch up the shotgun. Too late, he guessed her intent. “Don’t!” he cried, and lunged, but she had pressed the muzzles to her chin and thumbed back one of the hammers.

  Their eyes met.

  “Please,” Lin said.

  Pat squeezed the trigger. The buckshot blew half her head off. One moment her face was whole and seamed with pain and love, and the next what was left of her brain was bulging through the cavity in her skull.

  Lin’s stomach churned. He turned away, thinking he would be sick, but all that came up was bile. Steeling himself, he spat it out and turned back. Her remaining eye stared at him accusingly.

  Flesh and bone and blood were spattered all over. Over her, over the ground, over him, over the shotgun.

  Picking up the gun, Lin wiped it as clean as he could on leaves, then replaced the shell. “You shouldn’t have,” he said to the corpse.

  The buttermilk had shied at the shot but had not bolted. Talking softly, Lin got close enough to snag the reins. He forked leather and rode on. After he dealt with Lassiter, he would come back and bury Patricia, then bear the sorrowful news to her husband and her sons.

  Her death shook him. Lin found it impossible to concentrate. The image of her face, or what was left of it, filled his mind’s eye. He shook his head, but it would not go away. “Damn me,” he said, and lashed the reins.

  Trees and limbs and brush flowed past on either side. The buttermilk vaulted logs, avoided boulders, skirted impenetrable thickets. Lin had never ridden so fast in heavy timber, or so recklessly. He was determined to catch up before the unthinkable happened. He owed that much to Pat. Her sacrifice must not be for nothing.

  Lin cast about for signs. There should be tracks, broken brush. Pockmarks in a small clearing showed he had not lost them. Now and again he rose in the stirrups and scanned the woods but did not spot them. He began to regret staying so long with Pat. He would hate to fail her.

  The sun climbed. The buttermilk tired. Lin was forced to stop and give the horse a rest. He needed one himself. He was pushing too hard. The chase was taking a toll.

  Five minutes were all Lin could spare. He climbed back on and jabbed his heels. They had gone a short way when he stiffened.

  A horse was coming toward him. Lin recognized it as the animal Lassiter had thrown Susan on. Only she was not on it now. He reined to intercept it, and the animal halted of its own accord. It was lathered with sweat, and hung its head.

  Lin did not know what to make of it. Either the horse had thrown Sue and run off, or her absence was more sinister. He left it there. It would only slow him.

  The sun was hovering over the western horizon when Lin crossed a rise and descended a boulder-strewn slope toward more woodland. The buttermilk whinnied and bobbed its head. Drawing rein, Lin searched for the cause.

  A bare foot jutted from behind a boulder lower down.

  “Lord, no,” Lin breathed. He clucked to the buttermilk, and the horse grudgingly obeyed.

  Lin slid down. Wary of a trap, he scanned the vicinity The double click as he pulled back the twin hammers was reassuring.

  He was almost afraid to look. He stepped over the foot, and this time what came up was not bile. Wheeling, he doubled over and was violently sick. He could not bring himself to look again, but he had to.

  “God, no.”

  It was worse than anything Lin had ever beheld. He could not imagine how anyone could do what Lassiter had done. Slumping, he bowed his head.

  He felt numb inside. Both women, dead.

  Lassiter had done the killing, but Seth Montfort was to blame. The owner of the Bar M had hired him.

  “You are both on my list,” Lin said out loud.

  As he girded himself for the grisly task ahead, it occurred to Lin that part of the blame was his. He’d had a chance to kill Montfort, and hadn’t. He could have killed Lassiter too, now that he thought about it. If he’d worn his pistol instead of stuffing it in his saddlebags, the women might still be alive.

  Lin pressed a hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. How could something like this happen? He had tried to do right—tried to do as his conscience guided him—and it had all turned out wrong. What sort of world was it where something so bad could result from a man trying to do good?

  It did not make any kind of sense at all. If this was what happened when someone did the right thing, why bother trying? Turn the other cheek, the Good Book said. He had done his best to live that creed, and look at the consequences.

  Lin was the first to admit he was not a deep thinker. He never could understand why things were the way th
ey were. But now he was more confused than ever.

  The hoot of an owl brought Lin’s brooding to an end. It would be dark soon. Unless he wanted the remains to lie there all night, and draw every wolf, coyote, bear and mountain lion that smelled the blood, he had better get busy. Rising, he gathered up rocks and small boulders. He had nothing to dig with, so he would do the next best thing.

  It took forever, but at last Lin stepped back and stared at the mound. Folding his hands, he said to the sky, “I suppose I should say some words. She was a good woman, Lord. She tended me when I had one foot in the grave. If that doesn’t earn her a place in heaven, I don’t know what would.” He stopped, afraid that might offend the Almighty. “It is your decision, I know. If I were you, that is what I would do. But you do what you want.” He searched his mind for a suitable quote. All he could think of were a few lines from the Old Testament. He was not sure he had them in the proper order, but he said them anyway. “There is a time to laugh and a time to weep, a time to heal and a time to kill, a time to be born and a time to die. Amen.”

  Lin stepped to the buttermilk and wearily climbed on. It was a long ride back to the Dixon ranch. The smart thing to do was make camp and go back in the morning. But he had Pat to bury yet.

  “Damn stupid world,” he said.

  Stone was in the bunkhouse when word came to him. He bent his steps to the ranch house and discovered his employer in a rocking chair on the porch. “You sent for me?”

  “That I did,” Seth Montfort said. “It has been too long. Lassiter and the others should have been back by now.”

  “Maybe they lost the trail.”

  “Could be, but Reb is a good tracker. He can track an ant over solid rock.”

  Stone let the exaggeration pass. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Pick two men. One of them should be Frost. He can track almost as good as Reb. Find out what happened to Lassiter.”

  “I don’t see the need, but you are paying me.”

  “I cannot help thinking of that day you tangled with Lin Gray. I particularly remember the look on his face. He is a tiger when aroused.”

  “But he was in no shape to lick Lassiter when he left,” Stone noted. “Hell, he was in no shape to lick a kitten.”