Ralph Compton the Law and the Lawless

by Ralph Compton

  “You think they’re after the entire posse?” Boyd considered that, and shook his head. “They haven’t tried to kill Vogel or Harvey Dale.”

  “So far,” Cecelia said. “We should warn my brother, though, just in case I’m right.”

  “Of course,” Boyd said. A sudden fear crawled into his chest and took root. He’d not only unwittingly led the outlaws to Sam, but led them to her. Granted, she had a point that no one in their right mind would hurt a female, but at least one of the outlaws—Mad Dog Hanks—was reputed to be as crazy as they came, and vicious besides.

  “Are you sure you’re not feeling poorly? You became pale there for a moment.”

  “I’m fine,” Boyd lied. Inwardly he was in turmoil. He’d been appallingly, unforgivingly, careless.

  “Don’t fret too much over it,” Cecelia said. “Everything will likely be fine.”

  Boyd hoped to God she was right.

  • • •

  The Circle T wasn’t one of the largest ranches in Colorado, but it was one of the most mountainous. Four valleys and a section of prairie that opened into them provided most of the graze.

  Efram Tilman was the owner. A former Texan, he’d ranched for years until he developed a lung condition and was told by his sawbones that a higher altitude would help relieve some of the pain and discomfort. He had a cousin in Colorado and went there to test the doctor’s advice. Not only did his lungs improve, but he fell in love with the Rockies. It helped that his wife fell in love with them too, and it wasn’t long before they had a new ranch up and running.

  Efram was fussy about those he hired to ride for his brand. Punchers just learning their trade had to learn it somewhere else. He preferred seasoned men, those who could cut and rope and brand and do all the other chores cowboys had to do, and do them well. He paid above-average wages, and believed in getting top work for top dollar.

  His dealings with Comanches and rustlers in Texas had taught Efram that all things being equal, a puncher who was good with a gun was twice his worth as a puncher who’d never fired a shot except to kill a snake. Some ranchers wouldn’t hire anyone with a reputation as a shooter, but not Efram. He preferred them. Not that good shooters were all that numerous. Most cowpokes had neither the inclination nor the need to become uncommonly proficient with a firearm.

  Sherm Bonner was one of the exceptions. Efram had heard of Bonner down in Texas, where Bonner had worked a ranch in the Staked Plains country and been involved in a couple of shooting affrays of note. The first involved three rustlers. Bonner and some other cowpokes came on the brand blotters as they were using a running iron, and the rustlers went for their guns. Sherm Bonner shot all three dead before any of the other punchers could touch their hardware. Later, he was involved in a fracas in a saloon with a pair of border ruffians. The ruffians picked on the wrong man and ended up in early graves.

  Bonner was known as a gun fanner. Some shootists had contempt for those who fanned, claiming that in a fight a fanner had no chance against a man who was deliberate and aimed. But Efram had seen with his own eyes how ungodly quick Sherm Bonner was. Bonner could put three slugs into a target the size of an apple in the time it took Efram to blink. It convinced him that a gun fanner who knew his business was as deadly as anyone.

  Sherm never went anywhere without his pard, Lefty, so when Bonner showed up at the Circle T looking for work, Efram had to hire them both. Not that he minded. Lefty was a top cowhand. Efram never did find out why the pair left Texas for Colorado, although from a few remarks Lefty dropped, the rancher came to the conclusion it had something to do with Sherm and a rancher’s daughter and forbidden love.

  It was on a sunny summer’s morn that a rider showed up at the Circle T looking for work. Efram and his wife were taking their ease in the parlor, and at the knock on their door, they went together to see who it was. Efram took a dislike to the man at first sight. An older fellow, wearing a coat much too heavy for hot weather, doffed his hat to Efram’s missus and asked if they had any odd jobs he might do for a meal and a cup of coffee. Efram would have told him no, but Efram’s wife, always the tender heart, told the man he could pull weeds in her garden and that there was some wood that needed chopping for the kitchen stove.

  Efram kept an eye on the man out the kitchen window. There was something about the stranger, a seedy quality, that raised the hackles on the back of Efram’s neck. He noticed how the man kept looking all around as he worked as if he was taking stock of where things were and how the ranch hands went about their business. It bothered Efram. He sensed the man was up to no good, but he let his wife feed him and watched as the fellow rode off.

  That evening, in the cookhouse, Efram told his hands about the man and asked that they keep their eyes skinned for any sign of him.

  “If he’s a rustler, he’ll regret blottin’ any of your brands, Mr. Tilman, when we get hold of him,” a puncher assured him, and others nodded in agreement.

  Another cowpoke set down his fork and said, “Why, that must be the gent I ran into on my way in today.”

  “You did?” Efram said.

  “I asked him what he was doin’ on your spread and he told me he’d just chopped wood for your missus and was headin’ for the high country.”

  “Good,” Efram said. “We’re well shed of him.”

  “Only that wasn’t all,” the cowpoke said. “He asked me if I knew a hand by the name of Sherm Bonner.”

  “He never asked me that,” Efram said.

  The cowpoke scratched his chin. “He said as how he’d heard that Sherm had shot some outlaws and he would like to set his eyes on someone who was halfway famous. His very words, Mr. Tilman.”

  “Hmm,” Efram said. “What did you tell him?”

  “That I didn’t rightly know where Sherm was. I thought he might be up in the High Valley, as we call it, and he wouldn’t be back for days.”

  “What did the fellow say to that?”

  “He shrugged and said he was obliged and rode off,” the cowpoke said. “I didn’t think much of it and came on in.”

  “I don’t like it,” Efram said. “I don’t know why I don’t like it, but I don’t.” He pointed at the cowpoke. “I want you to ride up to the High Valley in the mornin’ and tell Sherm. It could be nothin’, but he deserves to know.”

  “Could it have been one of them outlaws?” another puncher asked.

  “Do you reckon they’re out to do to Sherm like they tried to do to that deputy?” a different man brought up.

  “Could be,” Efram said, “which is why I want him warned.”

  “They try to gun Sherm Bonner,” a burly hand said, “they’ll learn right quick that they picked on the wrong hombre.”

  At that, a lot of the cowboys laughed.

  Efram didn’t find it as humorous. Even the quickest of shooters could be back-shot. “Forget waitin’ until mornin’. Davis, as soon as you’re done eatin’, I want you in the saddle.”

  “Yes, sir, boss,” Davis said. “You’re worried the outlaws might try somethin’, I take it?”

  “We shouldn’t put anything past them,” Efram said.

  Chapter 12

  To Mad Dog Hanks, all the skulking about was a waste of time. Were it up to him, he’d walk up to Marshal Cooper or that cowboy, jerk his pistol, and shoot him in the face. That was how to do things. Not all the skulking about that Cestus Calloway had them doing.

  Calloway was too cautious, by half.

  No one had ever accused Mad Dog of being cautious. Ever since he could remember, way back as far as when he was a boy of five or six, he’d done as he pleased, when he pleased, and the rest of the world be damned.

  Mad Dog didn’t think of it in exactly those words back then. He just liked doing what he liked to do. What boy didn’t? It just so happened that some of the things he liked to do got him in hot water with his folks and others.
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  For instance, early on Mad Dog grew to hate chickens. Nearly every farm had a coop so a family had a steady supply of eggs. It was one of his chores to go out to the coop each morning and collect the eggs laid the night before. But the coop always smelled of chicken droppings, and he’d get feathers on his clothes and sometimes up his nose, and the droppings on his shoes. To make matters worse, some of the chickens resented having their eggs taken, and would peck him or squawk and flap their wings and generally give him a hard time. It didn’t help that he wasn’t all that fond of eggs.

  One morning a chicken acted up and pecked him on the cheek as he bent to retrieve her eggs, and Mad Dog snapped. He grabbed her by the neck and slowly wrung it, laughing with delight as the hen thrashed and squawked. Sheer pleasure shot through him when she finally went limp.

  He’d liked it so much he took to strangling more. He was clever about it and wouldn’t do it more than once or twice a month, and he always took the body out in the fields and tossed it so his pa and ma wouldn’t find out what he’d done.

  They did, though. One day his pa heard a chicken squawking for dear life and caught Mad Dog in the act.

  It was the woodshed for Mad Dog. His pa took a switch to his backside and warned him that he must never kill another hen or he’d get another switching. His pa explained that eggs were a large part of the family diet, that they were used in cooking and baking, and they couldn’t afford to go without them.

  Then there was the hog affair. It was Mad Dog’s job to feed them their slop, and he hated it. Hogs had no manners. He’d no sooner approach their pen with the bucket than they’d be at the trough oinking and slobbering. When he tried to pour, they’d get in the way, pushing and shoving each other so that it was next to impossible to fill the trough without getting half the slop on them. His pa kept telling him he must be more careful.

  One day Mad Dog was feeding them, and hating it, when a hog bit at the slop oozing from the bucket and bit his hand. Hogs hardly ever bit people. It was an accident, but it made Mad Dog see red. Without thinking he grabbed a pitchfork, vaulted into the pen, and commenced to stab the offending hog again and again and again. The hog squealed in terror and tried to run, but the pen wasn’t that big and Mad Dog got him in a corner and finished him off.

  Just as his pa arrived.

  It was the woodshed again for Mad Dog, and now he hated hogs as much as he hated chickens.

  That was the thing about his childhood. Mad Dog had hated most everything about it. He hated milking cows and hated shoveling manure and hated all the chores he had to do, and he especially hated chickens and hogs.

  So it was probably only natural that one day Mad Dog had decided enough was enough. Ironically the family dog was to blame. His mother had an Irish setter that she was fond of, and that didn’t like Mad Dog. Probably because he’d pull on its tail when his ma wasn’t looking, or upend a water bucket over its head for the fun of it.

  The dog took to nipping at Mad Dog whenever he came near. Mad Dog didn’t mind so much until one time the family was on the front porch after supper, relaxing, and his ma asked him for a hug. She did that now and then. She was an affectionate woman and Mad Dog didn’t hug her enough to suit her, so she’d come right out and ask for one. He went to hug her, and the dog, which was lying between them, jumped up and bit him.

  It hurt worse than anything. Mad Dog saw red again. He usually wore a hunting knife on his hip, and he’d yanked it from its sheath, grabbed the dog by the throat, and proceeded to bury his blade, not once but more than a dozen times, stabbing in a fury. When someone grabbed at his arm to try to stop him, without thinking he stabbed them too.

  A scream brought Mad Dog out of himself. The red haze faded, and there, at his feet, lay his mother. Before he could say anything, a hand fell on his shoulder and he was spun around. He saw his pa cock a fist to hit him, and in pure reflex, he buried the knife in his father’s chest.

  That was the start of his outlaw days.

  He’d killed his own folks.

  Mad Dog fled, and the next he knew, the newspapers were writing about him. Only instead of calling him Harold Hanks, which was his name, they called him Mad Dog Hanks. He didn’t know if it was on account of the Irish setter or because he’d gone plumb mad and killed his parents. Not that it mattered. The name stuck, and to this day he was called Mad Dog.

  Truth was, he sort of liked it. It made folks wary of him. They were scared to be around him, scared of what he might do.

  For about ten years he’d drifted, robbin’ and killin’ as the whim moved him. Then one day he ran into Ira Toomis. He’d met Toomis before, and they got along well enough. It seemed Toomis had taken up with an outlaw by the name of Cestus Calloway, and Calloway was always looking for good men. Was Mad Dog interested?

  Mad Dog spent an entire night thinking about it. He’d always been a loner. To become part of a gang was a big step. He couldn’t just do as he pleased. He’d have to take orders from Calloway and try to get along with the others in the gang. He didn’t like that part, but he decided to give it a try.

  Now here Mad Dog was, skulking around, spying on the marshal to learn all he could so Cestus could plan out how and when to put windows in the lawman’s skull.

  Mad Dog saw it as a lot of bother when all they had to do was ride up to the marshal’s office one night, march on in with their pistols and rifles cocked, and blow the lawman to hell. He’d mentioned as much to Cestus, and Cestus said that wouldn’t do, that the killing had to be done just right, whatever that meant.

  Calloway had sent Toomis to nose around the Circle T and find out what he could about Sherm Bonner while Mad Dog was supposed to keep a watch on the marshal and learn his habits and whatnot so Calloway could decide when and where to strike.

  It was a stupid way to go about it, in Mad Dog’s opinion. But it wasn’t worth arguing about. Not when the Attica Kid would side with Cestus, as he always did.

  Mad Dog knew the Kid didn’t like him. Why, he had no idea. But ever since they’d met, the Kid was cold toward him. True, the Attica Kid was cold toward everyone except Cestus. But Mad Dog sensed there was more to it. He suspected the Kid was looking for an excuse to gun him.

  They’d never had cross words. Never even argued. Mad Dog was careful not to do anything that antagonized the Kid, and the Kid never did anything to antagonize him.

  It wasn’t that Mad Dog was afraid of him. Mad Dog had never been afraid of anyone. No, he treated the Attica Kid the same way he’d treat a coiled rattlesnake. You never provoked a rattler unless you were certain you wouldn’t be bit.

  If Mad Dog ever decided the Kid was actually out to get him, it would prove to be the Kid’s undoing. The Kid liked a stand-up fight. He wasn’t a back-shooter. He always gave the other guy a chance. Not Mad Dog. When he killed someone, he did it any way he could. Gun, knife, a rock to the head, he didn’t care so long as it got the job done. As for giving them a chance—that was plumb ridiculous. Killing was killing. You didn’t sugarcoat it with a right way and a wrong way. You got it done any way you could.

  Mad Dog would use that to his advantage if the Kid ever showed signs of being on the peck. He’d play on the Kid’s misguided sense of honor and turn the tables. It shouldn’t be hard. He’d sneak up behind the Kid sometime and let him have it with both barrels from a shotgun.

  If there was one thing Mad Dog was good at, it was being sneaky.

  He was being sneaky now as he approached the farm the marshal had gone to. He stuck to the woods that bordered the road so he wouldn’t be seen.

  Mad Dog recollected Toomis saying that he’d followed the law dog here. That it was the Wilson place, and Sam Wilson had been one of those who rode with the posse.

  Mad Dog would like to hunt up this Wilson and splatter his brains or slit his throat. But all he was supposed to do was follow the lawman around and note where he went and what he did. A l
ot of useless bother to go to, but that was what Cestus wanted him to do, so he’d do it.

  The farmhouse made Mad Dog think of the farm where he grew up, and of that blood-drenched day when he killed his folks and the Irish setter. He missed his parents now and then. He sure didn’t miss the damn dog.

  Drawing rein under a pine, Mad Dog saw a man in overalls come out the back of the house and go over to the barn. Sam Wilson, he reckoned. But where was Marshal Cooper?

  Curious, Mad Dog dismounted and tied the reins. He wasn’t supposed to go too close. Cestus had made that plain. But Cestus wasn’t there and Mad Dog would do as he pleased.

  He was about to break from cover and make for the side of the house when he caught movement at a window. He couldn’t see in from where he was, but that was easily solved. Gripping a low limb, he swung himself up and climbed.

  He only had to clamber about ten feet up and he was high enough to see inside the house.

  The window was to a parlor. The lawman was seated on a settee, talking to a woman with gray hair.

  “Ain’t this interestin’?” Mad Dog said out loud.

  The woman got up and came to the window and gazed out. For a few moments he thought she had seen him, but no. She looked up at the sky and off toward the barn and then returned to the settee.

  Wilson’s wife? Mad Dog wondered. No, that couldn’t be. He seemed to recollect that Wilson wasn’t married. A sister, then? Probably. The lawman must have come to visit her, not the brother. And if that was the case, then Cooper must be courting her.

  “Why, you devil, you,” Mad Dog said, and grinned at his little joke.

  This was good. This was something they could use when the time came.

  Chuckling, Mad Dog descended. He dropped lightly from the lowest branch, climbed back on his horse, and reined around. He’d seen enough. The marshal would likely be there awhile, and Mad Dog wasn’t sticking around.

  He headed back to Alpine. He should ride straight through town, or better yet, go around, but he was thirsty and reckoned a quick drink wouldn’t hurt. Not if he kept his head down and didn’t draw attention.