Ralph Compton Ride the Hard Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “It taught me not to be pistol-whipped,” Lin replied.

  “You were stupid to come back, but I thank you,” said another. “We will be paid extra for blowing out your wick.”

  Wiley was quick to interject, “Mr. Montfort does not want to upset Etta June Cather, remember?”

  “She will not be upset if he is not involved,” the short killer said. “We are doing this on our own. You are all witnesses that Montfort had nothing to do with it.”

  “He hired you,” Wiley said.

  “Do not prod us, you old goat,” the short man warned. “You have your job, and we have ours.” He turned to Lin. “You are a mess, mister. You look as if you were stomped by a bull. I bet you are so stiff and sore, you can hardly move.”

  “You will find out directly.”

  “Three to one,” the short man said. “Odds we can live with.”

  “Or die by.”

  “You have sand, mister,” said the second quickdraw artist. “Or is it that you are so dumb you don’t know when you have stepped in it?”

  “I have not been too smart,” Lin conceded. “I should have finished this when I was here before. I will not make that mistake twice. I might be slow, but I learn my lessons.”

  The short man grinned. “I reckon you never learned the one about baiting a wolf in its lair.”

  “Start the dance whenever you are ready,” Lin said.

  The second assassin gestured. “It is too bad Stone and Lassiter are not here. They are keen on doing you themselves.”

  “Stone will get his try,” Lin said. “Lassiter already had his.”

  The short man blinked. “What?”

  “Lassiter and the three who were with him,” Lin said. “They will not be coming back.”

  “You curled up the toes of all four?”

  Lin nodded.

  “You are a damned liar!” declared the second man. “I have seen Lassiter practice, and there are few as fast.”

  “There is always someone better,” Lin said.

  The short killer tensed. “Hogwash. You are trying to put fear into us, and it will not work.”

  “Whether you are afraid or not, the end will be the same,” Lin informed him. “If you care to make peace with your maker, I suggest you do so.”

  The third man snorted. “Will you listen to him? As brazen as brass. Let’s fill him with lead and see how brazen he is.”

  The punchers on bunks near the three assassins were quietly moving back to reduce the risk of taking a stray slug. Wiley, though, stayed where he was, saying to Lin, “For what it is worth, I did not beat on you when the others did. Some of us cannot abide Montfort’s antics of late.”

  “That is good to hear.” Lin swept the rest of the hands with a steady gaze. “Stay out of this, and none of you will come to grief.”

  Young Andy, who was on a bunk next to Wiley, shot to his feet. “I don’t much care for the airs you put on.”

  “Hush, pup,” Wiley said.

  “I will not,” the young puncher declared. “Our boss made it plain this jasper is not welcome on the Bar M. I think we should lend the lead chuckers a hand and throw him off the ranch.”

  Before Wiley could respond, the short shootist said curtly, “We do not need your help, boy. Yours, nor any of this cow crowd. And we are not tossing him off the spread. We aim to bury him on it.”

  “Stay out of it,” said the second killer.

  “None of you are worth a damn with a gun, anyhow,” remarked the third.

  The insult did not go over well. Cold glares were fixed on the three curly wolves, and a puncher Lin had not seen before took a step toward them.

  “I will listen to no more bluster. I have worn a six-shooter since I was old enough to strap one on. I might punch cows for a living, but that does not mean I cannot shoot the head off a prairie dog at ten paces if I am so inclined.”

  “Prairie dogs do not shoot back,” said the short killer. “Now, hush, and let us earn our pay.” He faced Lin and squared his shoulders. “All right, mister. Whenever you are ready.”

  Lin sighed. “Can’t you just ride off? I would rather not kill you if I can help it.”

  “Sprout a yellow streak all of a sudden?” the man mocked him.

  “I have no hankering to spill more blood, is all. Maybe the keepsake I brought will persuade you to change your minds.”

  “Keepsake?” the man repeated. “What in hell are you talking about?”

  Lin reached into a shirt pocket. “Here,” he said, and tossed what he took out in a high arc.

  The gun shark caught it in both hands, took one look and recoiled in shock. “What the hell!” He dropped it as if it were a hot coal, and it fell to the floor with an audible plop. “It is an ear!”

  Everyone stared. Adam’s apples bobbed, and several men looked fit to be sick. One covered his mouth.

  Wiley glanced from the ear to Lin and back again. “Whose is it?” he quietly asked. “As if I can’t guess.”

  “Lassiter’s.”

  A cowpuncher laughed.

  The three hired guns did not find it anywhere as amusing. They spread out, and the short one shook a fist at Lin.

  “This is supposed to convince us to spare you? Are you loco? He was our friend.”

  “I doubt Lassiter was anyone’s friend,” Lin said.

  The man looked at the ear. “I get what you are up to. You figure you can scare us. But it won’t work. There are three of us, and you can’t drop us all before one of us drops you.”

  “Yes, I can,” Lin said.

  One of the killers splayed his fingers over his revolver. Another tucked at the knees.

  “I will ask you one more time,” Lin said. “Walk out and ride off, and you can go on breathing.”

  The man on the left, the finger splayer, spat on the floor. “To hell with this nonsense, and to hell with you.”

  “Now!” the short man shouted.

  The trio went for their six-shooters.

  Lin drew and fanned his Colt three times. Fanning was an iffy proposition unless the fanner knew exactly what he was doing and could hit what he was shooting at. Lin seldom missed.

  Each of the gun sharks was jolted by the impact of a .45-caliber slug coring his forehead. Hats, hair and bits of bone and brain sprayed over the floor and bunks and some of the punchers. None of the three cleared leather. Life faded from their wide eyes as their bodies plopped to the floor. The short man twitched, then was still.

  Lin began reloading.

  “God in heaven!” a puncher exclaimed.

  “I saw it, and I still don’t believe it!”

  Wiley moved to the crumpled forms and felt the wrist of each. “They are dead, sure enough.”

  “What do we do?” asked a cowhand at the back.

  “There are eleven of us.”

  Wiley looked sharply at him. “And how many are willing to die? I am not, but you go right ahead if you are of a mind to.”

  “We were hired to ride herd on cows, not swap lead.”

  Young Andy stepped to the center of the aisle. “Listen to me, all of you! We should do what Mr. Montfort would want us to do, and he does not want this gent on the Bar M.”

  “Be quiet, infant,” Wiley said.

  “I will not. I have as much right to speak as you or anyone else. And I am loyal to the brand even if you are not.”

  “How dare you, boy,” another puncher said.

  Andy said loudly, “Either we shoot this bastard or we keep him here for Mr. Montfort to deal with when he gets back.”

  Lin slid his Colt into his holster. He did not expect them to stop him. So he was mildly surprised when he started to turn and one of the cowhands barked a command.

  “Stay right where you are! We have not decided what to do with you yet.”

  “I have decided,” Wiley said. “He is free to light a shuck.”

  “You are not the boss,” Andy disagreed. “We do not have to listen to you.” He lowered a hand to his holster
.

  Lin did not have a quarrel with any of them. He said so, adding, “Don’t do this. Let cooler heads prevail, and all of us will live to see the dawn.”

  “You are slick with a six-gun, and you are slick with words,” young Andy said. “But there are more of us than you have pills in the wheel. Unbuckle your gun belt and let it drop.”

  Wiley took a step toward him. “Damn it, kid. Leave it be.”

  “Am I the only one here with a backbone?” Andy asked, and answered his own question by swooping his hand to his revolver.

  Chapter 28

  They left Chancy alone in the evenings. They assumed he was too weak to go anywhere. So Lute Bass and Mort and Rufus would leave him there, and after Abe Tucker locked the door, they drifted over to the saloon.

  They figured his wound would keep him on that counter until they were ready to take him off it and stake him out in the street as bait for his brother.

  They figured wrong.

  The general store had been dark and quiet for only a couple of minutes when Chancy slowly sat up. He was not fully recovered, but he had more vigor than they suspected. Enough that he could slide his legs over the side and carefully ease down until he stood panting slightly and leaning against the counter to keep from falling.

  By now Chancy knew where practically everything in the store was to be found, and he made straight for the shirts and selected one that fit. Getting it on took some doing since his shoulder protested any and all movement. But by gritting his teeth, he succeeded. Next he found a hat to his liking. They had taken his Colt and his gun belt, but Tucker kept half a dozen revolvers in stock and had a few gun belts on pegs on the wall. Ammunition was stacked on a shelf.

  Chancy started for the door, then stopped. Tucker fed him twice a day but never enough to suit him. He was always hungry when he was done eating, yet Tucker refused to give him more.

  “I have to pay for your food out of my own till,” the store owner complained. “You do not get to make a pig of yourself.”

  Selecting a can of beans, Chancy opened it and went to the front and warily watched the street as he ate. The zebra dun still lay where it had dropped. No one had bothered to strip off his saddle and saddle blanket, perhaps out of fear of Lute Bass and his friends.

  Chancy’s anger resurfaced, boiling hotter than ever. They had killed his horse and they had shot him, and he would be damned if he would let them use him to lure in Lin. He had decided to buck out as many of them as he could before they brought him down.

  Chancy and Lin had been close growing up. They did chores together; they played together. It was not until their pa died that they drifted apart, largely because Chancy took to spending too many nights in Cheyenne, neglecting his share of the work. Chancy knew it was wrong, but he couldn’t help himself. He was mad at the world and he resented everyone and everything in it. His temper, always quick to flare, became quicker.

  Chancy regretted shooting the banker, Pettigrew, but he did not regret it that much. Only to the extent that thanks to Pettigrew, Lin and he were on the run. But what was done with was done with.

  Chancy focused on the here and now. He spooned out more beans and thoughtfully chewed.

  Most every male in Mason was at the saloon by now. So far as he knew, no punchers were there; Montfort was long gone. Nor, to his knowledge, had any strangers shown up. It would be him against the three killers. Hopefully, no one would interfere.

  Chancy finished eating and set the can and the spoon on top of a pile of towels. He moved the shade and peered out again. Stars had blossomed. Many of the windows glowed with light.

  Turning, Chancy went down the aisle, past the counter and down a short hall to the back door. He worked the latch and poked his head out. No one was in sight. Slipping out, he left the door ajar and moved with his back to the wall to the corner.

  A gap between the buildings was plunged in shadow. He crossed to the saloon.

  The back door was not bolted. The first room he came to had a stove and a sink and enough empty liquor bottles to fill a Conestoga. Drawing the Colt he had helped himself to, he crept down a short hall. Voices reached him, mixed with laughter and the tinkle of chips.

  Chancy swallowed. He had never killed anyone before. For all his cockiness, he was not like Lute Bass and Bass’ ilk. He was not a coldhearted killer.

  Steeling himself, Chancy stalked forward. His shoulder hurt, but otherwise he was feeling fine. Just shy of the light that spilled into the hall from the main room, he halted.

  Seven men were present, not counting the bartender. The three he was interested in were at a table indulging in cards. None were looking his way.

  Chancy raised the Colt. He had a clear shot at Mort’s back and at Rufus but not at Lute Bass, who sat on the other side of the table, across from Mort, and it was Bass who Chancy wanted most of all.

  Chancy debated whether to wait for Mort to move or to shoot whom he could. He centered the Colt smack between Mort’s shoulder blades. All he had to do was squeeze the trigger. He curled his finger around it and grimly smiled. Here goes, he thought to himself.

  But his finger did not tighten.

  Chancy swore under his breath. Again he gave the mental command, and again his finger would not do as he wanted. It seemed to have a mind of its own. But the truth was, Chancy could not bring himself to shoot someone in the back. In the front, yes, like Pettigrew, but not like this.

  Chancy was mad at himself. He tried a third time. But his hand shook so badly, he could not hold the revolver steady enough to aim. “Damn me,” he said under his breath. “I am next to worthless.”

  Unexpectedly, Mort stood. “I better go check on the boy. We do not want him sneaking off on us.”

  Chancy hated being called a boy. He almost shot Mort then and there.

  “Sit back down,” Lute Bass said in that deep voice of his. “He is in no shape to go anywhere.”

  “I would not be so sure,” Mort said. “And a lack of backbone can do wonders.”

  “Meaning he might crawl off on us?” Lute Bass said.

  Chancy burned inside. Now they were saying he was a coward. He never could abide slurs, and these rankled.

  “Yellow is as yellow does,” Rufus said. “He is a miserable little worm, and worms should be squished.”

  Before he could stop himself, Chancy stepped into the open. “Who are you calling a worm, you wretch?”

  * * *

  Lin almost felt sorry for the young puncher. Almost. But it did not stop him from drawing and putting a slug into Andy before the cowhand could draw and put one into him. He did not shoot to kill but shot him high in the shoulder.

  Andy staggered back, letting out a yip, and would have fallen had Wiley not leaped to catch him.

  “He…he…he shot me!” the young hand bleated, and went limp.

  “He’s dead!” a puncher roared.

  “No, he is not!” Wiley said. “He fainted.”

  The smoking Colt in Lin’s hand dissuaded anyone else from trying Andy’s stunt. But many of their faces betrayed fury and resentment. It was one thing for Lin to shoot the shootists; it was another for him to shoot one of their own. “You all saw,” Lin said. “He forced me.”

  “You better skedaddle, mister,” Wiley advised. “I am on your side, but Andy is one of us.”

  “No one drills a Bar M hand and gets away with it!” declared a beefy cowhand near the wall on the right.

  Lin began to back out. He had no quarrel with these men. “Don’t come after me.”

  “We better not catch you on the spread come morning.”

  “You won’t.” Stopping in the doorway, Lin said, “Give your boss a message. Tell Montfort that if it were up to me, this would end here. But the deaths of the Dixon women are on his shoulders, and I will not—”

  “What’s that?” Wiley broke in. “Pat and Sue Dixon are dead?”

  “Lassiter killed them.”

  “Oh, hell,” Wiley said.

  “They were
fine ladies,” said another. “They always had a smile and a kind word for me.”

  “For everyone,” a third man chimed in.

  “What about Cody Dixon and his sons?” Wiley asked.

  “Alive and out for blood,” Lin informed him, thinking it prudent to add, “They do not hold any of you to blame—only the gun crowd and the one who hired them.”

  “This is not good,” a hand said.

  Yet another puncher nodded. “I don’t know as I want to belong to an outfit that kills women.”

  “But it wasn’t us. It was those hired killers.”

  “Hired by the same gent who hired us.”

  “Hell, hell, hell,” Wiley said.

  Lin had more to say. “If your boss steps foot on the EJ, he will not step foot off it. As for the Dixons, it was all I could do to keep them from coming here to avenge Pat and Sue. They still might.”

  “I would not blame them,” Wiley said. “And I would not stand in their way. They have a right to vengeance.”

  “That they do,” a lanky puncher agreed, and turned toward a bunk. “This is the last straw for me. I will be gone at first light. Anyone who wants to tag along is welcome.”

  “I’ll go with you,” said someone across from him. “I hear a spread down to the Green River country is hiring.”

  “But Mr. Montfort! We can’t up and desert him.”

  “The hell we can’t!”

  The argument grew heated. No one noticed when Lin slipped out into the cool of the night and hurried to the buttermilk. Gripping the saddle horn, he forked leather. He reined around to ride to the north but did not use his spurs. His gaze had drifted to the ranch house—to Montfort’s home and hearth, the crowning glory of Montfort’s years of toil.

  “Dare I do it?” Lin asked aloud. He gigged the buttermilk and rode around to the rear. No one tried to stop him. The punchers were still in the bunkhouse.

  Dismounting, Lin tried the back door. It opened without a sound. Inside, it was quiet, but he doubted the house was empty. The servants were bound to be there.

  The first room Lin came to was the kitchen. A lamp was lit and a pot of coffee was on the stove, so he was right about the servants. He began opening drawers and cabinets. A stack of towels caught his interest. He heaped them on the floor at the base of a wall.