by Ralph Cotton
She looked ashamed. “Billy is a good boy, Ranger. But I’m afraid he’s been pushed aside. He’s only twelve, turning thirteen. This has all been too much for him to handle.” She gestured a tired hand about the shack as if referring to the life she lived.
“I see,” Sam said quietly. While a pot of water heated, Sam found a small bag of coffee beans in a battered travel trunk. He wadded the top of the bag good and tight, crushed the beans with his pistol butt and then emptied the bag into the pot as the water showed the first signs of boiling. “If that’s the case, I doubt if Willie John had to twist his arm for help. When a boy that age feels abandoned, he’s apt to turn to bad company if any’s available.”
“I didn’t abandon my son, Ranger,” she said, her voice lacking any real conviction. “I’ve done my best to keep body and soul together for us.”
“People can be abandoned in lots of ways. I’m not judging you.” He switched the conversation by asking, “What about your son’s friends? What kind of boys are they?”
“Billy is sort of a loner,” said Hattie. “He only has one friend, a boy named Alvin Bartels. Alvin’s a good boy, but he’s a little slow. He’s like a faithful dog, always following Billy around.”
“Then I’ll need to go talk to him first thing,” said Sam, lifting the pot lid and checking on the boiling coffee. “Where will I find him?”
Before answering, Hattie Odle asked, “Didn’t you say you were on the trail of the Ganstons? That you didn’t have any time to waste here?”
Sam offered a patient smile, picking up two dusty coffee cups from inside the open travel trunk and rounding a finger in them as he spoke. “I wouldn’t call looking for your son and helping the two of you get these possemen off your backs a waste of time, ma’am.”
Hattie took the cup as he held it out to her. Then she studied his face as he poured the hot coffee into it. “Thanks, Ranger, I’m much obliged.” She hesitated for a moment, then asked, “Is there anything I can do for you . . . I mean for free, for helping us?”
“No, but thank you all the same.” Sam blushed and studied his cup as he filled it. “Well, now that you mention it, there is one thing you can do. You can promise me you’ll stay away from the opium, at least until we get your son back.”
She fell silent, her eyes vacant and lost and seeming drawn to the swirl of steam above her cup. “I can’t promise I’ll leave it alone, Ranger. But I promise I’ll try . . . real hard.”
“That’s all I ask, ma’am,” Sam said. “A hard try is all a promise’s made of.” He smiled again, and this time, so did Hattie Odle.
When Sam Burrack arrived in the front yard of Alvin Bartels’s house, a small wood-frame job on the edge of Hubbler Wells, Alvin shinnied down a tree and hurried over to him before Sam could step up onto the front porch. Seeing the badge on the Ranger’s chest, Alvin’s breath stopped in his throat. “It wasn’t me who done it!” he said.
The Ranger stopped and looked down at him. “Are you sure about that, young man?”
“I swear!” said Alvin crossing his heart. “I didn’t do nothing.”
Sam Burrack managed to hold back a smile. “Want to tell me what it is you didn’t do?”
Alvin looked confused for a second, then said in an almost pleading tone, “I don’t know . . . but whatever it was I never done it! Billy made me leave, said I’d get in trouble if I stayed around. So I did leave, just like he said, before the fighting was over. So I never done nothing!”
“All right, take it easy, young man,” said Sam, stooping down to put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’m not here to cause you any trouble. I wanted to ask you where I might find Billy Odle before he gets himself into some bad trouble. Do you understand?”
“You’re not telling my ma and pa I was there, are you?” Alvin asked.
Sam looked at the house and around the yard. “Where are your folks?”
“They’re gone out to the new house today. Pa’s building a new place for us on a hundred acres he’s buying. I didn’t go because I was supposed to go to school.”
“So . . . you skipped school, then played around town until you and Billy Odle ended up witnessing the shoot-out? Is that what happened? You just got caught in things before you knew it?”
“Not exactly . . .” Alvin thought about it, scratching his head for a second. “See, Billy knew the Indian, and when the Indian rode in he warned Billy and me to get off the street. Billy said it was because he must’ve been aiming to rob the bank. So we hid and watched. Except they didn’t rob the bank because—”
“Because the posse stopped them,” Sam said, finishing his words for him. “But then Billy made you leave . . . so what was the last thing you remember seeing?”
“Well, I remember the Indian was shot and him and another man ducked back into the alley beside the mercantile store. That’s when Billy made me leave. He said I’d seen enough. You’re not going to tell my pa are you, about me not going to school?”
“No, I’m not going to tell your pa,” Sam replied. “Where do you think Billy and the Indian went? Do you and Billy have any secret hideout around here?”
“No, I don’t . . . but Billy does. He told me he had one out in the hills. But he wouldn’t tell me whereabouts. He can be a real smart aleck sometime . . . always wants to be the one who’s seen something nobody else has seen. Only this time, I’ve got news for him. On my way home from the shooting, I ran smack into one of the outlaws!”
“No kidding?” said Sam, studying the boy’s face, trying to determine whether or not he was telling the truth.
“Yep, the one who’s been staying at the hotel for the past couple of days. He was running around the corner of the alley beside the saddle shop and bam! We hit head on! He almost drew a pistol on me he was so scared. He hollered for me to stop, but I kept on running, figuring he might have shot me if I didn’t.”
“How do you know he was one of the outlaws, Alvin?” Sam asked.
“Because I saw him and the Indian looking at one another when the Indian first rode in. They were across the street from one another, but I could tell they were in cahoots, just from the way he acted. Then when the shooting started, I saw him shout at the Indian then disappear.”
“I see . . .” Sam turned and looked all around the yard. “What did he look like, Alvin?”
“Tall,” said Alvin, holding a hand high over his head to illustrate. “Had on a big wool greatcoat and a brown derby hat. He was carrying a black valise like a businessman carries. I’m not going to get in any trouble for any of this, am I?”
“No,” said Sam, “but I want you to do something for me. After I leave, I want you to shinny back up that tree where you were and stay hidden until your folks get home, or until I come back and tell you it’s okay to come down. Will you do that for me?”
“Sure, so long as you’re not going to tell my pa about me skipping school,” said Alvin.
“Listen to me, Alvin,” said Sam. “This is more important than skipping school. If that man comes around here, don’t let him see you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I do. That’s one reason I was up there to begin with. I knew you wasn’t him, that’s why I came on down.”
“Smart thinking then, young man,” said the Ranger. “Now get out of sight and stay put.”
Alvin started to turn back toward the tree, but then he stopped and asked, “Do you really think he’ll come looking for me?”
“No, Alvin,” said Sam. “I think he probably got on a horse and lit out of here before now. But let’s not take any chances.”
Leaving the boy’s yard, Sam walked to the barbershop on Front Street where he found a shaken barber sweeping dust from his boardwalk. “I’ll be with you in a minute,” the barber said as Sam stepped up beside him. The barber took note of the badge on Sam’s chest, then asked, “You weren’t with that bunch on the roof earlier, were you?”
“No,” said Sam, “I just got into town.”
“Whoo-iee, what
a sight,” the barber said. He wiped a hand across his forehead and started to go into details when Sam stopped him politely.
“I’m hoping you can tell me where a person might purchase some opium if he had a mind to,” Sam asked.
The barber eyed him curiously. “You don’t look like the type who’d be interested in black tar, Ranger.”
“I’m not,” said Sam. “I just need to talk to the person who sells it.”
“That would be Russell Miegs,” he said, jerking a thumb toward the far end of the street. “You can find him at his shack just outside town. Look for a buffalo’s skull atop a pole. Miegs calls himself a horse trader, but he does more gambling and drinking than anything else. Don’t expect a fair shake from him.”
“Much obliged,” said Sam, stepping down off the boardwalk.
“Don’t you want a haircut and shave, Ranger? You sure could stand it.”
“Maybe later,” said Sam, picking up the reins to the Appaloosa and walking away.
Beside the horse trader’s shack, Sam found Russell Miegs standing at the gate of a small corral. Miegs wore a wisp of a red mustache and goatee. His fingertips stroked his chin as he puffed on a thin cigar. “What can I do for you, Ranger?” he asked as Sam came closer. “I’m all out of horses, I’m afraid.” Instinctively he eyed Sam’s Appaloosa stallion. “But I’m buying, though, if you’re looking for quick cash.”
“You’re Miegs?”
“Yep, I’m Tucker Miegs . . . everybody calls me Russell. Don’t ask me why.” Miegs grinned, biting down on his cigar.
“I’m not looking for cash, Miegs,” Sam said without returning the smile. “I’m told you’re the man to see if I wanted to get my hands on some black-tar opium.”
Miegs’s smile turned wary. “Hey, I’m not breaking any town law, Ranger, and if I was, you’re a long way north of Arizona.”
“Take it easy, Miegs,” said Sam. “I’m not butting into your business. I’ve got a friend who’s been buying from you lately, but now she wants to quit. I’m asking you to cut her off.”
Miegs nodded. “I see . . . Hattie Odle, that’s who we’re talking about, right?”
“Right,” said Sam. “How’d you know?”
Miegs shrugged. “I could tell she wasn’t going to last long. Some people can handle black tar, others can’t. In Hattie’s case, I’d lay four-to-one odds she’ll be dead from it before the year’s over.”
“And you’d be selling it to her right up to the end,” said Sam.
“I do what I do, Ranger,” Miegs said with a shrug. “Hattie’s problem is she ain’t cut out to be what she is. She’s a whore whose heart ain’t in it. You can’t blame her for that.” His smile came back, more confident. “She smokes tar to face whoring . . . and she has to whore to pay for the tar. Kind of like a dog chasing its own tail, ain’t it, Ranger?”
“I suppose so,” Sam nodded. “But that’s going to change. I want you to turn her down next time she comes to buy from you.”
Miegs cocked his head slightly. “Can’t help you, Ranger. There’s not many to sell to around here yet. My enterprise is what you might call still in its early stages. If Hattie wants it, I’ve got to sell it to her. Besides, did you ever see what kind of shape a person gets into trying to quit black tar? It would turn your stomach, Ranger. You wouldn’t want to do something like that to poor Hattie, would you?”
Sam took a breath, looked back along the street toward town, then turned back to Russell Miegs. “Maybe I need to put it another way, Miegs.” Sam stepped in closer, almost nose to nose, raising a finger for emphasis. “If I see Hattie using any more black tar, I’ll figure she got it from you . . . then I’ll come back here and settle with you.”
“Settle with me?” Miegs was not going to be talked down to by some young Ranger riding outside his jurisdiction. “I take that as a threat.” He took a step sideways, letting his hand fall to his side and pulled his coat back behind the holstered pistol on his hip.
“I was sort of hoping you might feel this way, Miegs,” said Sam, taking a step back, his hands relaxed but ready at his sides.
In the saloon, all talking about the day’s excitement stopped, and all heads turned toward the sound of the gunshot coming from the far end of town. “Lord God!” said Selectman Collins. “What’s going on now?” Hurrying from the bar and spilling out onto the boardwalk, the townsmen stared toward the lone figure of the Ranger riding the big Appaloosa up the middle of the street at a slow walk. Behind Sam sat Miegs, holding his right leg with both hands, trying to stay the flow of blood. Across Miegs’s face, the red welt left by Sam’s pistol barrel had already started to swell. Sam circled the stallion in close to Selectman Collins and flung Miegs to the ground at his feet. “He needs a doctor,” said Sam.
“The doctor’s with the prisoner in the jail,” said Collins. He threw his arms up, and as if asking heaven, he exclaimed, “My God! What’s happening to this town?”
Sam looked back and forth along the dirt street, then asked Collins, “Where’s Fuller and his men?”
“They’ve already left, Ranger,” Collins replied. “They headed south on the Ganstons’ trail no sooner than you and the woman left the saloon. Where is Hattie anyway?”
“She’s resting,” said the Ranger. “Leave her alone for a spell.”
“Resting?” Collins shrieked. “Her son has taken up with a murdering thief, and she’s resting?”
“Don’t go accusing the boy until you know what you’re talking about,” said Sam.
“Now just one damn minute, Ranger,” said Collins. Don’t forget this is not your territory here. You can’t start issuing orders here. I won’t stand for it!”
Sam ignored him. He backed the Appaloosa a step and turned it past Collins. Looking down at Miegs in the dirt, he added, “And don’t forget what we talked about, mister.”
“What does he mean?” Collins asked Miegs as the Ranger rode away slowly. “What did you talk about?”
Miegs only shook his head and moaned.
Collins dusted his hands up and down his arms and said to the rest of the townsmen, “Well, I think I just let that young Ranger know how we stand on things around here.” But when Collins turned around, he cursed under his breath, watching Sam rein the Appaloosa up to the hitch rail out in front of the jail.
Kirby Bell sat at the sheriff’s desk with his boots propped up on it as the door swung open and Sam Burrack stepped inside. Bell slowly stood up. “What can I do for you, Ranger?”
Sam nodded at the open cell door as he walked over to it. Inside the cell, a heavyset doctor stood over the cot rolling down his shirt sleeves. On the cot, Bootlip Thomas lay as still as stone. Kirby Bell stood up and followed Sam, saying, “Hey, wait a minute! Did Collins say you could do this?”
“He didn’t say I couldn’t,” Sam replied, giving Bell a narrowed stare. Bell shrank back.
“If you need to talk to him, you better make it quick,” the doctor said, throwing his black frock coat across his shoulders and stepping out of the cell. “He’s about gone, I’m afraid.”
At the cot, Sam looked down at Bootlip and saw his weak eyes open a little and try to focus on him. “Is that . . . you, Ranger?” Bootlip whispered in a labored breath.
“Yep, it’s me, Bootlip,” Sam said. “You made it here without them killing you.”
A faint smile came to the dying outlaw’s thick lips. “Yeah, I know. It . . . just didn’t seem fair . . . them killing me.”
Sam hesitated for a second, then said, “Willie John got away, Bootlip.”
Again a faint smile stirred on the thick, parched lips. “I figured he might. He’s . . . hard to pin down.”
Sam nodded, then asked, “How flush are Hopper and Earl Ganston right about now?”
Bootlip shook his head weakly. “They ain’t flush . . . they’re nearly broke.”
“You mean all the robbing they’ve done on the way up here, they’re broke?”
“It costs . . . money, on the r
oad,” said Bootlip.
“So, they need to get themselves some cash before heading over into Old Mex,” Sam said, thinking out loud.
“Yep . . .” Bootlip’s voice trailed.
“I see,” Sam nodded, knowing this was the Ganstons’ best place to rob a bank of any size before cutting to the border. This time as Sam spoke, he bent down close to Bootlip to keep Kirby Bell and the doctor from hearing. “They’re coming back here, ain’t they?”
“Oh yes,” Bootlip whispered in reply, “They’ll be . . . coming back . . . most any time.”
When Sam left the jail he saw Collins and the townsmen gathered at the jail’s hitch rail. “I left word with Bell that nobody was to visit that prisoner,” said Collins.
“Good idea,” said Sam, adjusting his hat down on his head as he unspun his reins. He stepped up into his saddle.
“So . . . did you talk to him?” Collins asked, keeping his composure.
“Yep.” Sam backed the Appaloosa, causing some of the townsmen to get out of his way.
“Well!” Collins waved his arms, walking quickly alongside the stallion, “What did he say?”
“He said you better be ready,” Sam replied without looking down at him. “The Ganstons are coming back.”
“Coming back! But why?” Collins stood with his arms raised, a helpless look on his face watching once again as the Ranger rode away. “Whatever will we do?”
“I don’t know, Collins. It’s not my jurisdiction, remember?” said Sam.
“I know that, but you have to stay here and help us, Ranger!” Collins called out.
“Nope,” Sam called back to him. “I’m going after the Indian.”
At the long alleyway behind the strip of buildings along Front Street, Sam stepped down from his saddle and led his Appaloosa behind him. At the rear corner of the saddle shop, he looked all around for bootprints on the cold ground but found nothing. But walking along the alley he found the black valise Alvin Bartels had mentioned lying wide open in the dirt. In their haste, Fuller and his men had overlooked it. He picked it up, looked it over, then put it aside. At the rear of the saddle shop, he saw rubbings where the reins of a horse had been wrapped around a tin downspout. Even in the cold stiff dirt he could tell that this horse had left in a hurry. “All right, Black Pot,” he said to the stallion, “let’s see where these tracks will take us.”
