Ralph Compton Doomsday Rider

by Ralph Compton

  Fletcher nodded. “Apparently there’s something you don’t know about me, Wilson.”

  “What’s that?” the soldier asked, his hard, gray eyes belligerent.

  “I don’t scare worth a damn.”

  Sieber laughed and anger flared red in Wilson’s face, but he dropped his hand from the bridle and stepped back. “I’ll be seeing you,” he said, no friendliness in his voice, only an unspoken menace.

  “You’re going to have to kill that man, Buck,” Sieber said as he and Fletcher rode out, swinging their horses to the northeast.

  “Or beat him to within an inch of his life,” Fletcher said. “Seems to be the only language he understands.”

  Five

  They camped that night near the dry wash of Deer Creek and staked their horses close to camp on a patch of black grama grass that grew as tall as a man’s waist.

  Around them the air crackled with frost, and cold nipped at their fingers and noses, and small creatures scuttled in the fallen needles among the surrounding pines.

  Sieber made coffee and fried salt pork and pan bread on a hatful of fire, trusting to the bare branches of the sycamore spreading above their heads to scatter the thin ribbon of smoke.

  A cold, waxing moon rode high in the sky, hiding its face now and then as dark clouds moved across its shining arc, their edges for a while rimmed with silver. The night smelled of sage and mesquite and of the piñon, cedar, and juniper that grew on the hillsides. A hunting mountain lion roared in the distance, perhaps angry at the twenty-dollar bounty the Territory had just placed on the heads of his kind, then fell silent.

  On either side of Fletcher’s camp stretched miles of rough, broken country. Gigantic boulders, hurled skyward from the sizzling mouths of ancient volcanoes, obstructed the streambeds that fed water to both grass and timber, and hemming in the basin on all sides were the towering, upflung peaks of the far mountains, vast arrowheads of snow on their red slopes pointing the way skyward.

  After they ate, Sieber pulled his rifle close and lit his pipe, watching with careful, speculative eyes as Fletcher rolled a cigarette.

  Fletcher lit his smoke and eased his back against the trunk of the sycamore. Without looking at the scout, he smiled and said, “Speak your mind, Al. Just sitting there studying me the way you are is spooking the hell out of me.”

  Sieber grinned around the pipe stem between his teeth. “Damn it, Buck, you don’t miss much, do you?”

  Fletcher let the question go and Sieber said, “I heard tell a while back, maybe it was when I was up Cheyenne way, that you took on a whole war party of Indians when you was just a younker. Them as told me called it Fletcher’s Vengeance Ride, and they said after it was all over you’d taken twenty scalps.” The scout took his pipe from his mouth and looked into the glowing bowl. “Did I hear the right of it?”

  “Stories grow with the telling, Al,” Fletcher said. He drew deep on his cigarette, thinking back, then said, “They were Sioux and there was four of them. My folks had a cabin up on Two-Bit Creek in the Dakota Territory, and the Sioux came down on them and killed them both. I was fifteen that year and near enough man-grown. I went after the Indians and killed them all, and I cut off the hands of the one that had scalped Ma.”

  “It was a reckoning,” Sieber said, nodding his approval, a fighting man’s recognition of another’s courage and ability with weapons.

  “That it was,” Fletcher agreed. Then, lower and almost to himself: “It was a reckoning.”

  He threw the stub of his cigarette into the fire. “After that, with Ma and Pa gone, there was nothing for me any longer on the Two-Bit, so I headed east and joined the war. I’d four long years of that and it made me grow up fast.”

  Sieber nodded. “No matter how tall a man’s daddy was, he has to do his own growing, and that’s a natural fact.”

  Fletcher picked up his Winchester. “Better get some sleep, Al. I’ll take the first watch and wake you in four hours.”

  Sieber nodded and put his cold pipe in his shirt pocket. He lay back, his head on his saddle, and, with the frontiersman’s ability to drop off instantly, was soon sleeping soundly.

  * * *

  The two men rode out at first light, heading north across a timeless land untouched but for the passage of the Apache, and before them the ancient Salado people who had lived in cliff dwellings farther south but had probed this far and farther in search of game. The hawk and the eagle had crossed this land times without number, but had touched it only with their shadows.

  Cattlemen had not yet moved into the Tonto Basin in numbers, and Fletcher and Sieber rode across flatlands between the hills and gorges, fertile, untilled land where Blackfoot and Crowfoot grama grass grew so high the seedy tips touched their stirrups.

  Saguaro, cholla, prickly pear, agave, and jojoba grew low on the hillsides and atop the mesas, and piñon and the checker-barked juniper clung to the higher slopes.

  To the north lay the colossal red and yellow rampart of the Mogollon Rim, a mountain cliff with slopes that fell away steeply to meet the dark green line of the timber.

  Both men rode easily but alert, rifles ready to hand across the horns of their saddles.

  Of Apaches they saw no sign, though once they made out talking smoke rising from a craggy spire of rock near the southern bend of the Salt River. It was as yet too far away to be a signal of danger, but it was a thing to be aware of, and both men rode with their eyes restlessly scanning the hushed land around them.

  Fort Apache lay among the foothills buttressing the escarpment of the Rim and was for Fletcher an opportunity to talk to General Crook and perhaps get a lead on Estelle Stark.

  Even if it was a cold trail, it could be a starting point, and a sight better than wandering aimlessly around wild and broken country made dangerous by hostile Apaches.

  The afternoon had not yet shaded into evening when Fletcher and Sieber crossed the Salt at the clear, pebblebottomed shallows near the scorched ruin of Sean Costello’s store and an hour later rode into Fort Apache. They saw a shabby collection of log huts and tents that was a fort only in name, occupied, at least temporarily, by three troops of the First Cavalry and their Paiute scouts.

  A rising wind was blowing long and cold off the Mogollon Rim, smelling of mountain ice and pine, bringing with it flurries of snow, and the sky was heavy with gray clouds. Although it was not yet night, oil lamps cast yellow and orange shadows on the windows of the huts along officer’s row, and the sentries on duty, muffled in greatcoats, fur hats, and scarves, stamped their feet against the cold, their breath smoking.

  The few women who were in sight walked quickly, heads bent against the wind, shawls drawn tight around their shoulders.

  Fletcher rode bundled in his sheepskin mackinaw, the collar up around his ears, as he followed Sieber to General Crook’s headquarters, a log cabin with a shingle roof, twice as big as the rest, but just as badly built and equally shabby and unwelcoming.

  Fletcher and Sieber dismounted, looped the reins of their horses to the hitching rail, and walked inside, Fletcher’s spurs chiming on the rough plank floor with every step.

  A young corporal orderly sat at a desk, and in the far corner of the room a potbellied stove glowed cherry red, burning wood that smelled of mesquite. A coffeepot stood on top of the stove, and a few tin cups littered a small table close by.

  “Coffee smells good, Lem,” Sieber said to the corporal.

  The man waved a hand toward the pot. “Help yourself, Al. Might as well, because if you’re here to see the general he’s tied up right now with the officers.”

  The soldier’s eyes moved from Sieber to Fletcher, taking in his two guns and the relaxed but ready way he held himself, reading what was there to see and speculating on what was not. The corporal was familiar with weapons and their use, but this tall rider, quiet as he was, nevertheless spoke loudly of men, matters, and armed conflicts foreign to him.

  Fletcher ignored the man’s stare and poured himself a cup of coff
ee, then did the same for Sieber.

  “How long will the general be?” the scout asked.

  The corporal shrugged. “Who knows? They’ve been talking for an hour now, and you know how the general likes to talk once he gets going.”

  Sieber nodded. “I know. He’s a right sociable man.”

  The door opened, letting in a blast of freezing air and a scattering of snow, and a tall man in buckskins and a shapeless black, broad-brimmed hat stepped quickly inside and slammed the door shut behind him.

  “Cold as a mother-in-law’s kiss out there,” he said, striding quickly on moccasined feet toward the stove, hands already spread to its warmth.

  The man, who looked to be in his late sixties, stopped and turned, recognizing Sieber.

  “Hell, Al, I didn’t notice it was you standing there,” he said. “What you doing here? I thought you was down in the Gila Mountain country.”

  “Orders,” Sieber replied, that one word saying it all. He waved a hand to Fletcher. “Charlie Moore, meet Buck Fletcher, a friend of mine.”

  Moore nodded at Fletcher and said “Howdy” with scant interest and continued his path to the stove.

  Then he halted in midstride, recognition slowly dawning on him. He slapped the top of his thigh and said, “Hell, I knew that name seemed familiar to me, and now I recollect where I heard it afore.” He turned to Fletcher, careful to make his movements slow and unthreatening. “It was when you was over to Abilene, runnin’ with John Wesley Hardin and Gyp Clements and that hard crowd. I was in Kansas scouting for the Second Cavalry at the time. You boys was cutting a mighty wide path in them days, on either side of the law, and there were some as said Buck Fletcher was wilder and a sight more dangerous than any of them.”

  “Did some riding with Wes Hardin, but that was a spell back,” Fletcher allowed. “A man changes. Gets older and maybe a little wiser.” He smiled, remembering. “Wes is all right, but trouble naturally follows him wherever he goes.”

  “You could say that about a lot of men,” Moore said, his old eyes shrewd and knowing.

  The scout stood over seven feet tall in his Cheyenne moccasins. His buckskins bore Cheyenne beadwork, with its emphasis on red and white, and round-headed brass tacks were driven Indian-style into the stock of his Winchester Model of 1866 saddle ring carbine. His beard was gray, shot with black, and fell thick to his belt buckle, and hair of the same color spread over his wide shoulders.

  Looking at him, sizing him up quickly, Fletcher decided that, despite his years, Charlie Moore was still a man to be reckoned with.

  Fletcher didn’t sense danger, just Moore’s instinctive and carefully understated belligerence toward any man who sold his gun for a living. Killing was a thing Moore understood, and in the past he had done his share and would likely do so again, but killing for money was beyond his comprehension, as was the way of the gunfighter.

  “Charlie, I ain’t seen you in a right smart spell,” Sieber said, dropping the words into the tense silence that hung chancy and expectant in the room. “Why are we standing here sipping coffee and jawin’ when we could be over to the sutler’s store a-drinking of Anderson’s rye whiskey?”

  “That sets fine by me, Al,” Moore said, his shoulders relaxing, the tenseness draining out of him. “Been a long time since you bought anybody a drink.”

  “How about you, Buck?” Sieber gave Moore a sidelong glance. “I’m buying.”

  Fletcher nodded, his sudden smile unexpected and warm. “I’ll drink any man’s whiskey, so long as he’s paying.”

  Sieber turned to the orderly, who had been listening intently to this exchange, and said, “Can you let us know when the general is free?”

  “Sure thing.” The man nodded. He hesitated, then added, “Only thing you should know is that Scarlet Hays is over to the sutler’s store. He killed a man this morning, and he and his boys are celebrating another notch on ol’ Scar’s gun.”

  “Scarlet Hays,” Fletcher said. “He’s a long ways from Texas.”

  “I’d say he is,” the corporal agreed. “Killed a muleskinner by the name of Long Tom Strider before sunup, and all over the last cup of coffee in the pot. Way I was told it, Long Tom drawed down on Hays. I don’t know if Tom made many mistakes before, but that was sure as hell his last one.”

  “You know this Hays feller, Buck?” Sieber asked.

  Fletcher nodded, his face hard and unsmiling. “Our trails crossed in the past. Scarlet’s real good with a gun and he claims to have killed eight men, the last a couple of months ago, some hick sheriff down Laredo way with a tin star cut from a peach can pinned to his vest. Now I guess he’s made it nine.”

  “Long Tom was no bargain his ownself,” Moore said. Then he grinned, trying to take the offense out of what he was about to say. “You know, Fletcher, this isn’t a criticism, mind,” he began, “but it just don’t come as no surprise to me that you and Scarlet Hays are acquainted.”

  Quickly Fletcher thought that through, decided to let it pass, and smiled. “In my line of work you meet all kinds of people,” he said. “They come at you in a lot of different ways, wearing different faces, saying different things, but you learn to judge a man by what he does and how he is.”

  “And Hays?” Sieber asked, interested.

  “He’s a snake,” Fletcher said. “And just like a snake he’s fast and deadly and poison mean. He’s a man best left alone.”

  “Well, there’s three of us, so I’d guess he won’t be inclined to cause trouble,” Moore said. “Besides, looking around, I reckon that we ain’t any of us pilgrims.”

  “Ain’t that the damn truth.” Sieber smiled. “So let’s go belly up to the bar until the general gets through talking, and be damned to Scarlet Hays and his bunch.”

  The three men stepped outside into the cold evening, snow spiraling around them, driven by the keening wind.

  They crossed the parade ground, leading their horses, and walked to the sutler’s store, a low log cabin with a sagging roof, smoke belching black from an iron chimney sticking out of one wall. A faded sign hanging from rusty chains under the cabin’s narrow porch said, James Mulligan Prop., Liquor and Dry Goods, and oil lamps glowed warm and welcoming behind its two front windows. But there was no welcome on the face of Scarlet Hays.

  The gunman stood in the doorway of the store, watching Fletcher and the others come, his thumbs hooked into crossed gun belts, the walnut butts of his Colts worn from much handling.

  As Fletcher tied his horse to the hitching rail, he studied Hays out of the corner of his eye.

  The man stood straddle-legged and arrogant, the bellicose pose of a man-killer confident of his considerable gun skills.

  Hays was about twenty-five years old that January, dressed in a black shirt and pants and scuffed, run-down boots. He wore a derby hat tipped forward over his eyes, and a muffler of bright yellow wool was looped carelessly around his neck. But the scarf was for show, not warmth. The cold did not make Scarlet Hays shiver, since his heart was icier than any winter wind. Nor did summer’s heat make him sweat, because the angry furnace in his belly that drove him was hotter than any sun. If this man once had a soul it had died long before, leaving only an empty husk that knew nothing of love, compassion, or the slightest empathy for a fellow human being.

  His skin was an unhealthy gray, marred by angry red eruptions across cheeks and forehead, and his flat blue eyes were set close together at the bridge of a narrow, pinched nose that whistled softly when he breathed.

  Hays was around five-foot-five and probably weighed no more than one hundred and thirty pounds, but he had the coiled strength of a rattlesnake and the ability to strike fast and without warning.

  In a gunfight Scarlet Hays was sudden and pitiless, and lesser men feared him, a fact known to him and from which he derived much pleasure. He stepped constantly along the ragged edge of insanity and it took very little to tip him over into the precipice.

  Buck Fletcher, as he stepped up onto the porch of the sutler�
�s cabin, spurs ringing, did not fear him, and this fact was also known to Hays, and from this he derived no pleasure.

  Fletcher, Sieber and Moore crowding close behind him, stopped a couple of feet from Hays. The man did not budge, still blocking the door. Fletcher’s coat was open, freeing his guns, and there was ice in his eyes.

  “Scar,” Fletcher said, “you can step aside and let me pass or I’ll walk right through you. The choice is yours.”

  The gunman quickly thought this through, weighing his chances.

  Fletcher watched him close, knowing Hays was frantically trying to remember how fast he’d seen the big man before him draw a gun. He remembered at last, drew no reassurance from that memory, and, his eyes ugly, tried a bluff.

  “I step aside for no man, Fletcher,” he said.

  There was a time for talking and a time for doing, and Fletcher, tired from the trail and cold, was in no mood for more talk.

  He reached out fast, grabbed the end of Hays’s muffler, and jerked the gunman close to him. Fletcher backhanded Hays across the face, then did it again, blood spurting sudden and red from the man’s mashed lips.

  Hays tried for his guns, hands streaking toward the butts of his Colts, but Fletcher saw it coming. He turned the gunman around and slammed him hard into the cabin wall.

  Hays’s head hit with a sickening thud, and his Colts dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers. Fletcher stepped aside and let the unconscious gunman fall to the muddy boards of the porch.

  Al Sieber stepped to Fletcher’s side and looked down at Hays’s bloody face without sympathy. “I got to hand it to you, Buck,” he said, shaking his head. “You sure have a way with folks.”

  “I asked him to step aside and he couldn’t quite see his way clear to do it,” Fletcher said. “I can’t abide incivility in a man for its own sake, so I gave him his chance.”

  “How’s about that drink?” Moore asked, his long legs stepping over the prostrate gunman. “Fletcher, I guess you’re buying.”

  Three of Hays’s cronies were at the bar when Fletcher and the others stepped inside. But they left quickly, and from the window Fletcher watched them carry the rubber-legged gunman to a nearby tent.