Ralph Compton Ride the Hard Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “Maybe you should change your handle to Judas.” Chancy began to refill his glass, pouring slowly. “I reckon I should treat myself to one more before you start throwing lead.”

  “I have done my job and am out of it,” Pike said.

  Lute Bass sat back. “Go ahead, boy. We will not begrudge you a last drink. But no tricks, hear? That Sharps is the same as a cannon. It will blow you near in half.”

  Chancy glanced at the rifle and inwardly smiled. Rufus had neglected to pull back the hammer. “I don’t suppose I can talk you out of this?”

  “You can flap your gums until you are blue in the face and it will do you no good,” Lute Bass confirmed. “When we take a job, we always see it through. That is part of why we are paid more than most manhunters.”

  “What is the other part?”

  “We are like that outfit that wears the red coats up in Canada. We always get our man.”

  “Must make you proud.”

  “Now, now,” Lute Bass said. “Let’s keep this civil. Or are you going to be one of those who spews insults and carries on?”

  “I will do as my brother says to do, and stay calm,” Chancy said.

  “The more I hear of him, the more it is a shame I have to kill him.” Lute Bass fingered his glass but did not lift it. “Where is he now, by the way?”

  “I have plumb lost him,” Chancy replied.

  “Listen. I have a proposition for you. How would you like to live a little longer?”

  “Little as in minutes?”

  “Little as in days. You do something for us, and we will not kill you here and now,” Lute said.

  Chancy laughed. “You want me to do a favor for vermin who have been paid to feed me to the worms?”

  “There you go again with the insults.” Mort broke his silence. “The next will be your last.”

  “That it will,” Rufus confirmed.

  Lute Bass motioned at them. “Take it easy. He can save us a lot of effort if he will cooperate.”

  “What is it you want me to do?” Chancy stalled.

  “Did you have any schooling? Can you write? Some of those we hunt can’t do more than make an X for their name.”

  “I can scribble some, although it looks more like chicken scratches,” Chancy said. “Our ma thought it important we learn the alphabet.”

  “Good,” Lute Bass said. “We will get paper and ink, and you will write what I tell you.”

  “If it’s a letter to Pettigrew asking him to call you off, I am all for it,” Chancy said. He casually slid his right hand to the edge of the table.

  “It will be to your brother,” Lute Bass said. “Asking him to come to Mason right away.”

  “You are ridiculous,” Chancy said.

  “If you do it, you get to live until he shows up. Wouldn’t you like that? The two of you bucked out together rather than one at a time?”

  Chancy chuckled while sliding his other hand to the table’s edge. “You should sell ladies’ corsets.”

  Rufus bleated like a sheep. “That was a good one, Lute. I could see you doing that too.”

  Bass’ eyes grew flinty. “I am doing you a favor, boy. In return, you do us one. That is fair, isn’t it?”

  “Fair for you; stupid for me,” Chancy said. “What kind of scum do you take me for? Betray my own brother? If you are not drunk, you should be.” He planted both his boots flat on the floor and braced himself.

  Efram Pike was laying a black eight on a red nine. “I don’t suppose you could take this to another table and let me play my solitaire in peace?”

  “If you want your hundred dollars, you will shut up until we are through,” Lute snapped.

  “I won’t be talked to like that.”

  “I will talk to you or anyone else as I damn well please,” Lute Bass declared. “We are conducting business, and you pester me with a trifle.”

  Pike slapped the deck down. “I might need your money, but I do not need to put up with you. Give me the hundred and go somewhere else.”

  “No tinhorn tells us what to do,” Lute Bass said coldly.

  “Listen to the pot call the kettle black,” Pike said. “As man killers you three would make great store clerks.”

  “Be careful,” Lute Bass said.

  “I will have my money and I will have it now,” Pike demanded. “If not, I will send all three of you to an early grave.”

  “The hell you say.”

  The moment Chancy had been waiting for had come. All three manhunters were looking at Pike. Tensing, he heaved upright, upending the table as he rose. Then he clawed for his Colt.

  Etta June, seated on the top step of her porch, was gazing up at the stars, when her youngest came out and sat beside her. “You are supposed to be in bed, Elizabeth.”

  “I can’t sleep, Ma.”

  “Why not?” Etta June draped an arm across her shoulders. “Something you ate?”

  “No. I am worried about Mr. Gray.”

  “I am worried too.” Etta June kissed her daughter on the forehead. “It is sweet you care.”

  “Do you care for him, Ma?”

  “The questions you ask.”

  “What?” Beth snuggled against her. “Tommy says he might be our new pa.”

  “It is too soon to talk like that,” Etta June said. “I would have to know him—or any man—a good long while before I commit to that.”

  “He is nice, isn’t he?”

  “Very nice. The nicest I have met since your father passed on. But nice is not always enough. When you are a grown woman, you will understand.”

  “Tell me, Ma. I want to understand now.”

  Etta June stroked her daughter’s hair and leaned back. “A husband and wife are more than two people agreeing to live together. They need to be in love.”

  “Like I love you and you love me?”

  “Like that, but different. I love you with all my heart, and I loved your father with all my heart. But I do not love you like I loved him.”

  “I am confused, Ma,” Beth admitted.

  “I was too, at your age. It wasn’t until I met your father that I understood.”

  “Why?”

  “Because until I met him, I had no idea what the other kind of love is like. Oh, I knew about it in my head, but I had never felt it in my heart. His smile, the way he talked, everything about him, kindled the new love inside of me until it burned like the brightest flame.”

  Beth giggled. “You make it sound like you were on fire.”

  “In a way, I was. You will be too one day, when the right man comes along. You might think you won’t. You might think it will never happen to you—that you are different from every female who ever lived. But you are not. It happens to all of us whether we want it to or not.”

  “I have no say at all?”

  “Not where love is concerned, no,” Etta June said. “You can fight it. You can hide in a shell, but it will drag you out.”

  “Now I am scared,” Beth said.

  Etta June smiled and squeezed her shoulder. “It is nothing to be afraid of. It has happened to every woman since the dawn of time. Think of it as a seed deep inside you, and when the right moment comes—when the right man appears—that seed takes root and buds.”

  Beth laughed and patted her tummy. “I have a seed inside me now? Wait until I tell Tommy.”

  “I would rather you didn’t. This is just between us. Mother to daughter, and no one else.”

  “One of our special talks?”

  “Yes, one of those.”

  They fell quiet, staring at the heavens, until Beth stirred and said, “I am not sure I want to grow up.”

  “We have no choice,” Etta June said.

  “You keep saying that. But didn’t you tell me once we always have choices?”

  “Back when we had our talk about right and wrong, yes,” Etta June said. “I told you to think of life as a path. Every now and then you will come to a fork, and you must decide which path to take.”

&nb
sp; “How do we know which is the right one?”

  “Sometimes we don’t. Sometimes we must guess. Sometimes we pick the wrong one through no fault of our own.”

  Beth looked up at her, worried. “I wish I could stay as I am now forever.”

  “Life does not let us.”

  “Who made things this way? God?”

  Etta June stared at the sparkling points in the sky. “So the Good Book says. ‘In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth,’ “she quoted.

  “So God made women and God made men and God made love. Is that how it goes?”

  “You learned about Adam and Eve, remember?”

  “They were in a garden, and they were bad, and God was mad at them.”

  “They took the wrong path,” Etta June said.

  “Will God be mad at me if I take the wrong one?”

  Etta June cupped her daughter’s chin. “Your brother never asked questions like these.”

  “You don’t want me to ask them?”

  “You can come to me anytime, about anything. I may not always know the answers, but I will share all I know, and you can use it for what it is worth.” Etta June rumpled her hair. “Now, let’s get you back into bed.”

  Beth hugged her tight. “I want to stay with you. It is nice out here, and I am not tired yet.”

  “Very well,” Etta June said reluctantly. “I don’t often let you stay up past your bedtime, but I will make an exception tonight.”

  “Tell me more about Mr. Gray. About what it is about him that you like so much.”

  Etta June sighed and gazed across the valley into the night. “Some things are hard to put into words. It is like when you see a real pretty flower. You want to tell everyone how pretty it is, but words are not enough to describe the prettiness.”

  “Is there no way, then?”

  “Not unless you are an artist and can paint or sculpt, and even then—” Etta June stopped. “I will be honest with you. I should not be saying this, but the moment I set eyes on Lin, something deep down inside of me stirred. It is why I asked him and his brother to come work for me. I want to get to know him better, to see if the stirring continues.”

  “Now you sound like you are a stew, Ma.”

  Etta June chortled. “Kids say the darnedest things. But what it boils down to is this. Tell your brother that if I do decide Lin will be your new pa, I will let you know well in advance.”

  “Why isn’t he back yet? Tommy says Mr. Montfort might have hurt him—hurt him bad.”

  “I need to have a talk with your brother tomorrow.”

  “Is Tommy right?”

  “I don’t know, little one.” Etta June shivered, but she was not cold. “All we can do is wait and pray Lin makes it back to us alive.”

  “If he doesn’t, will you be sad?”

  “Very sad.”

  “As sad as you were when Pa died?”

  “I have changed my mind. I am getting you to bed.”

  “Aw, Ma.”

  Chapter 24

  As Chancy Bryce drew, he whirled toward the door. For once he was doing what his brother always said he did not do often enough: he was using his head. The three manhunters would disentangle themselves from the table and the chairs at any moment. He could shoot them, but he might take a slug or two himself. So he was getting out of there.

  Chancy was halfway across the room when a revolver blasted and lead buzzed his ear. He twisted, saw that both Lute Bass and Mort were partway to their feet and snapped off a shot at Mort, who was taking aim to shoot again. Whether he hit him, Chancy could not say, but both ducked behind the table, gaining him the precious seconds he needed to plunge on out into the cool night air.

  The hitch rail was only a few yards away. Chancy bounded toward the zebra dun. He was almost to it when inside the saloon the big Sharps boomed, the window shattered into shards and the top of the zebra dun’s head exploded in a gory shower.

  Stunned, Chancy stopped in his tracks as his horse crashed to the ground. He had been fond of that dun. He had ridden it for years.

  His only recourse was to steal one of the other mounts tied to the rail. He would have too, but boots pounded inside, galvanizing him into whirling to the west and racing down the street. A pistol cracked, but the shot did not come close.

  Chancy smothered rising panic. He was outnumbered and on foot. But he was still breathing and he was unhurt, and he had an ally in the dark. The three killers could not shoot what they could not see. He reached the last of the buildings and kept running. A score of yards out, the ground suddenly seemed to give way under him. He stumbled, tried to recover his footing and sprawled onto his hands and knees. Pain shot up both legs.

  He had fallen into a small hollow, a depression no bigger around than a small room. Scrambling to the top, he removed his hat and peered over.

  Figures were moving toward him.

  “Where did he get to, damn it?” Lute Bass snapped. “I was sure he came this way.”

  “He has to be around here somewhere,” Mort said. “We should spread out and hunt him down.”

  “I will watch the street,” Rufus said. “Odds are, he will try for a horse, and when he does, I will do him like I did his animal.”

  “Doubling back is what I would do,” Lute Bass agreed. “I will take the south side of the street; Mort, you take the north.”

  They separated and turned back toward the settlement.

  Chancy sank flat and jammed his hat back on. For the moment he was safe. But he could not stay there all night. Once they were convinced he was not hiding in Mason, they would scour the surrounding prairie. They would find him.

  Chancy was under no delusions about the outcome. He was a fair hand with a Colt, but he was not Lin, and something told him all three of the manhunters were uncommonly good at dispensing death.

  Lin. Chancy wished his brother was there. Then again, maybe it was best he wasn’t, since Lin still refused to go around heeled. Chancy could not understand why. If Lin had not shot those men, they would have shot Chancy. In the back. For Lin to keep kicking himself over it was pointless.

  Suddenly Chancy stiffened. A boot had crunched. He thought they were all back in Mason, but one must be somewhere close. Slow footfalls came nearer. He stared at the top of the hollow, waiting for a silhouette to appear. The instant it did, he would fire.

  To his great relief, the steps faded.

  Chancy waited a couple of minutes, then crept from concealment. He figured to circle around to the other side of Mason, sneak back in and help himself to a mount. Rufus was keeping a lookout, but he would deal with the buffalo runner when the moment came.

  A twig cracked under Chancy’s foot. He froze, hoping none of them heard, but one did. Footfalls pattered, coming in his direction. They slowed, then stopped. Chancy swore he could hear breathing. Every nerve in his body tingled.

  Then someone swore, and the footsteps moved away.

  It had sounded like Mort.

  This time Chancy stayed put a good fifteen minutes before he began circling Mason. When he was past the last of the buildings, he cat footed to the east end of the street. It was deserted save for the horses. Everyone was wisely staying indoors to reduce their risk of taking a stray slug.

  The sight of the zebra dun lying in a pond of blood set Chancy’s blood to boiling.

  A figure stepped into the street at the far end: Rufus, cradling his Sharps. He crossed to the other side and disappeared between buildings.

  Chancy hunkered and sought some sign of the others, but they did not show themselves. His patience frayed. He never did have much to spare, and he was tired of the cat and mouse.

  The wind gusted. A flapping noise drew Chancy’s attention to clothes on a line behind the last house on the left, on the other side of a rickety picket fence. Wash hung out to dry had been left there until morning.

  An idea blossomed. Chancy moved toward the fence. It was so low, he easily stepped over. Among the articles hung to dry were
a man’s homespun shirt and pants. He took the shirt down and held it to his chest. It was much too big. He raised it over his head to slip it on over his own shirt, when without warning the door opened and a rectangle of light splashed over him.

  “What the hell?” a man demanded loud enough to be heard in Montana. “What do you think you are doing, mister?”

  Chancy dropped the shirt and ran. Without breaking stride, he vaulted over the fence and wheeled to the north.

  The night abruptly rocked to revolver shots. Chancy felt a jarring blow to his left shoulder. He had been hit! He spun, saw a form rushing toward him and replied with two shots of his own. Whoever it was either fell or went to ground.

  Chancy resumed running. A wet sensation spread down his back and arm. Pain flared. He gritted his teeth to keep from crying out. A bellow from Mort spurred him to run faster.

  “Over here! He is over here! I think I winged him!”

  Chancy fled for his life. He ran and ran, losing all sense of distance and time. He grew sweaty all over. His breaths came in great gasps. A new pain in his side hurt worse than the wound. When he finally glanced back, the lights of Mason were fireflies. He touched his side. His shirt was soaked with blood.

  Chancy plodded on. He became dizzy—so dizzy he thought he would be sick. His limbs grew weak. It was all he could do to hold his head up, and presently even that was beyond him.

  The night seemed to fade into blackness. His last thought, as consciousness deserted him, was that this was not how he wanted to die.

  A golden crown framed the horizon when Lin Bryce forked leather and headed east. After an hour he left the grassland behind and wound up a trail into heavy timber. The morning air was crisp, birds were warbling. Occasionally deer bounded off with their tails held high. Squirrels scampered in the upper terrace.

  All was as it should be. Lin had no reason to suspect he was in danger. Then a hornet nearly stung his cheek, and a heartbeat later the flat crack of the shot rolled down over him. He was out of the saddle before the echo died, diving onto his shoulder and rolling up into a crouch behind a pine.

  The buttermilk pranced a few yards but stopped when Lin softly called to it.

  The forest had gone quiet. Not a single bird chirped.