Ralph Compton the Law and the Lawless

by Ralph Compton

  It had been so long since Mad Dog had a drink that his mouth watered. He wasn’t hooked on the stuff, like some, but he did like a swallow or three now and again.

  Mad Dog didn’t think he was taking much of a chance riding into Alpine in the middle of the day. A lot of people were out and about. The streets were busy with riders and wagons and plenty of folks on foot. He’d just be one of many. He wasn’t like Cockeye, whose off eye always gave him away.

  Pulling his collar higher and his hat lower, Mad Dog followed the dirt road to a side street that in turn brought him to Main. A few townsfolk gave him casual glances, but that was all.

  Mad Dog passed a butcher’s and came to a hitch rail in front of a saloon. The Dusty Trail, it was called. A stupid name for a saloon, but the barkeep was friendly enough and filled Mad Dog’s glass to the brim.

  “How about if I join you, mister, and we drink to your health?” the man proposed.

  “Fine by me,” Mad Dog said, “so long as you’re payin’ for your own drink.”

  The bartender laughed. “I’m not a mooch, friend.” He placed another glass on the bar and proceeded to pour.

  Mad Dog was aware that someone had come up on his right and was standing close to him, but he didn’t look to see who it was. Raising his glass, he sipped and smiled contentedly. “It’s been a while.”

  “I admire a man who likes his liquor,” the bartender said. Glancing at the newcomer, he asked, “What will it be, Deputy Dale?”

  Mad Dog’s gut balled into a knot.

  “Nothin’, Keller,” the deputy said. “I’m workin’ at the moment. I came in to talk to this gent.”

  So much for not being noticed, Mad Dog thought. Still holding his glass, he half turned. The deputy wore a buckskin shirt and an old cavalry hat and was twice as old as he was. “You want to talk to me?”

  “Saw you ride in,” Dale said. He was holding a double-barreled scattergun close to his leg.

  “No law against that,” Mad Dog said.

  “True,” the old deputy said. “But there is a law against robbin’ banks and shootin’ folks. Which is why I grabbed this howitzer and came right over. You’re under arrest, Mad Dog Hanks.”

  “You have me mistook for someone else,” Mad Dog bluffed.

  “No. And I’ll tell you why. I was with the posse, Hanks. It was me who tracked all of you. I also got a good look at the whole bunch through my spyglass. Ever used one? It lets you see a gent up close from far away. I saw you as clear as could be, as if you were right next to me. Hell, you’re even wearin’ the same clothes you wore when you robbed the bank. So I’ll thank you to set down that drink and unbuckle your gun belt.”

  “Will you, now?” Mad Dog said, and threw the whiskey into Deputy Dale’s face.

  Chapter 13

  Harvey Dale couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw Mad Dog Hanks ride down Main Street and stop at a saloon.

  Dale happened to be at the window in the marshal’s office. He didn’t mind watching over things while the marshal was away, but sitting at the desk with nothing to do bored him, so he’d gotten up to stretch and gaze out the window at the passersby.

  Dale was sure it was Mad Dog. He’d seen them all through his telescope, and remembered every little detail. Cestus Calloway was a handsome cuss with curly hair. Bert Varrow dressed like a dandy. The Attica Kid wore black from hat to boots. And Mad Dog looked just like what you would imagine someone with that name would look like. Always scowling at the world, the stamp of violence on his features. Truth was, Hanks was as ugly as sin.

  To see him come riding down Main Street surprised Dale greatly. The man was uncommonly bold or reckless or both.

  Dale had been about to rush out when it occurred to him that he might need more than his pistol. Stepping to the gun rack, he took down a scattergun, opened the drawer in the desk that contained boxes of shells, and loaded both barrels with buckshot. He stuck extra shells in his pocket and hurried down Main Street to the Dusty Trail.

  Pausing at the batwings, Dale surveyed the room. It could be that Mad Dog wasn’t alone. Other outlaws might be there. But no, Mad Dog was at the bar talking to the bartender. No one else was with him.

  Pushing on through, Dale went over. He held the scattergun against his leg so it wouldn’t be obvious should Mad Dog glance his way. The outlaw was only interested in his drink, though.

  When the bartender greeted him, Dale announced that he was there to arrest Hanks. He expected Mad Dog to go for his revolver, and he was watching the killer’s gun hand. That proved to be a mistake. He should have watched both hands. He caught the movement when Mad Dog’s other hand flicked—and caught the glass of whiskey full in the face. Blinking to clear his eyes, Dale backpedaled while leveling the scattergun. He cocked it, thinking he was a goner, that Mad Dog would shoot him before he could get off a shot, and heard curses and a scuffle.

  Suddenly his vision cleared.

  Mad Dog had indeed drawn his six-shooter, but the bartender, Keller, had lunged and grabbed Mad Dog’s wrist in both hands and shoved Mad Dog’s arm at the ceiling. Mad Dog was struggling fiercely to break loose, and the barkeep was hanging on for dear life.

  Dale couldn’t shoot with the barman that close. The buckshot would blow both men to hell. He sprang to help, ramming the scattergun’s stock at Mad Dog’s head. But Mad Dog ducked and swung his other fist. Dale blocked the blow, pivoted, and slammed the stock against Mad Dog’s ribs. It seemed to have no effect.

  Customers were shouting and chairs were scraping the floor. Someone hollered that they should fetch the marshal.

  Reversing his grip and holding the scattergun by the barrels, Dale swung it like a club. He brought it down on Mad Dog’s gun arm, and Mad Dog howled in pain but didn’t let go of his revolver.

  “Do it again!” Keller bawled.

  Dale did.

  The revolver fell to the bar, and Mad Dog Hanks went berserk. Roaring like a riled bear, he smashed his fist into Keller’s face, knocking the barman against the shelves. Bottles wobbled and a few toppled and shattered on the floor.

  Dale found himself fighting for his life. Mad Dog’s hands were clamped around his throat and the outlaw’s feral face was inches from his.

  “Kill you!” the outlaw raged. “Kill you! Kill you!”

  Breath that reeked filled Dale’s nose. He tried to club Mad Dog away but only clipped him on the shoulder. Mad Dog retaliated by hooking a foot behind Dale’s leg and tripping him. Locked together, they crashed down, and the outlaw’s fingers gouged deeper into Dale’s throat.

  The scattergun went skittering.

  Dale was being throttled. His breath had been choked off, and his lungs were in dire need of air. Bucking, Dale sought to throw Mad Dog off, but the man was heavier than he looked, and tenaciously clung on. Dale tried to knee him in the groin. Dale dug a thumb into Mad Dog’s eye. Dale punched. But Mad Dog’s fingers continued to tighten like a vise.

  Then Dale glimpsed Keller, over Mad Dog’s shoulder. The bartender was clambering over the bar, a full whiskey bottle in one hand. Keller straightened, raised the bottle high, and brought it crashing down on the back of Mad Dog Hanks’s skull.

  The bottle broke into fragments, the whiskey splashed, and Mad Dog sagged. He wasn’t out cold, but he was stunned. His fingers loosened.

  Dale seized the moment and tore Hanks’s hands from his neck. He punched Mad Dog on the jaw, once, twice, three times, and Mad Dog slumped but shook his head to try to clear it.

  Quickly Dale pushed out from under him and rose.

  “Here! Use this!” Keller yelled. He had scooped up the scattergun and shoved it at Dale.

  Grabbing hold, Dale looked down. Mad Dog was struggling to stand. It would be easy to blow his head off. Instead Dale said, “Try to kill me, will you?” and clubbed him. Mad Dog didn’t go down. Dale clubbed him again, with all his str
ength. He thought he’d split the outlaw’s head open, but all Hanks did was groan and slump to the floor, finally unconscious.

  “Damn, he’s tough,” Keller gasped.

  Dale’s neck was a welter of pain. He sucked air into his lungs, conscious of others coming over.

  “That there is one mean son of a bitch,” Keller said, nodding at Hanks.

  “We got him, though,” Dale said. It hurt his throat to talk.

  “You ain’t got him yet, Deputy,” someone said. “What if he comes around before you get him behind bars?”

  That was the last thing Dale wanted. “I need you men to help me carry him to the jail.”

  “Who is he anyhow?” someone asked.

  “Why, that’s Mad Dog Hanks,” Keller answered. “Don’t you know anything?”

  “I know I wouldn’t want him mad at me,” the same man said. “Did you see him fight? He’s like an animal.”

  “Why do you think they call him Mad Dog?” Keller said.

  “I heard it’s because he likes to kill dogs. Now, who does that, I ask you? Cats I can understand. I never have liked cats. But dogs?”

  “Let’s get to carryin’,” Dale commanded, “or we’ll have to subdue him again.”

  “What’s this ‘we,’ Deputy,” yet another townsman said. “If Hanks wakes up, I’m runnin’ like hell.”

  Under Dale’s direction, they carried the outlaw across the street and into the jail without incident. Only when Dale heard the cell door clang did he breathe easier. Others had followed them, and a crowd was forming at the window. Dale thanked those who had helped, pumped Keller’s hand, and promised to buy him a bottle for saving his life; then he shooed everyone out. He told the gawkers to scat too, and they reluctantly did.

  Now, seated at the marshal’s desk, Dale stared at the crumpled figure on the bunk and marveled at what he’d done. “I caught Mad Dog Hanks alive,” he said to the air, and grinned.

  Once word got out, he’d be half famous.

  • • •

  Marshal Boyd Cooper rode back to Alpine with a troubled soul. He was concerned for Sam Wilson, and Cecelia. The outlaws knew where they lived, and there was no telling what that wild bunch would do.

  He was so worried that he rode into town without noticing much around him until a hand touched his boot and someone said, “Where have you been, Marshal? You missed all the excitement.”

  Drawing rein, Boyd looked up to find that a number of people had stopped to stare and others were coming toward him. “What’s that?” he said.

  The man beside the chestnut was a miner. Grubby with dirt, he grinned and said, “They say the fight was somethin’. I wished I’d seen it.”

  “Fight?” Boyd said in confusion.

  A woman in a bonnet nodded. “Your deputy has him over to the jail. I looked in and saw him. Goodness, he’s a sight. I daresay it would scare small children just to look at him.”

  “Look at who?”

  “Why, that terrible outlaw, Mad Dog Hanks.”

  “Hanks is in our jail?” Boyd exclaimed in amazement.

  “None other,” the miner said. “Too bad you weren’t around. I bet you’d have shot him like you did those six men I hear you shot over to Kansas. Or was it Oklahoma?”

  “Excuse me,” Boyd said to be polite, and gigged the chestnut. He trotted to his office and was out of the saddle before anyone else could accost him. Bursting inside, he stared in astonishment at the figure in a cell. “I’ll be damned.”

  Harvey Dale had his boots propped on the desk and was grinning like the cat that ate the canary. “Got a present for you, Coop.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Boyd went to the bars and peered in. “It’s him, by heaven. Mad Dog himself.”

  Dale came over, a strut to his walk. “I should get a raise. Or hire me full-time. I can use the money.”

  “Tell me everything.”

  Boyd listened with rapt attention. “You were lucky,” he said when the old scout finished his recital.

  “Was I ever!” Dale agreed. “Keller saved my hash.”

  “Have you checked to see if any of the others are in town?”

  “No,” Dale said. “I haven’t. I didn’t want to leave him alone. But he was the only one I saw ride in.”

  “Better safe than sorry,” Boyd said. “We’d better have a look around.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Locking the office door behind them, Boyd took one side of the street and had Dale take the other. They went from one end of Main Street to the other, going into every saloon, every business.

  “I reckon it was just him,” Harvey Dale said when they rejoined in front of the jail. “No one I asked has seen hide nor hair of the rest.”

  “Same here,” Boyd said, in relief. He’d become a laughingstock if folks learned that the outlaws were coming and going as they pleased. Inserting his key, he twisted it and went in.

  “Well, look who is back on his feet,” Dale said.

  Mad Dog Hanks was gripping the bars, his eyes pools of hate. “You miserable sons of bitches.”

  “Now, now,” Dale said. “You’re still breathin’, so don’t be callin’ us names. I could have shot you but didn’t.”

  “Your mistake, you old buzzard,” Mad Dog growled. “You’re dead, is what you are.”

  Boyd stepped to the cell but stopped well out of reach. “You’re goin’ to be our guest for a spell. We have to send for the circuit judge. Witnesses have to be contacted, and there will be a trial. You might get prison for life, or more likely you’ll be hanged.”

  “The rope hasn’t been made that will stretch my neck,” Mad Dog boasted.

  “Listen to you,” Dale said, and laughed.

  “Where are your friends?” Boyd asked.

  “Go to hell,” Mad Dog said.

  “Cooperate, and I’ll ask the judge to give you prison instead of hemp,” Boyd offered. It wasn’t much, but it was the most he could do, and he’d dearly like to put an end to the Calloway Gang.

  “Go to hell and take this old bastard with you.”

  “I’ll say this for you, Hanks,” Dale said. “Your disposition fits your name. You’re a two-legged cur if ever there was one.”

  “When I get out of here, I’ll skin you alive.”

  “Spare me your bluster,” Dale said. “Your days of killin’ folks are over. You might want to make your peace with your Maker.”

  “My days are over when I’m dead and not before. And don’t give me that religion bunk. I don’t believe in that.”

  “Explains a lot, right there,” Dale said.

  “Harve,” Boyd interjected, “I want you to make another patrol. Let everybody see that we’re on top of things.”

  “Sure,” Dale said. Smirking at Mad Dog, he walked to the door. “Be seein’ you,” he said cheerfully, and gave a little wave.

  “I can’t wait to kill him,” the outlaw snarled as the door closed.

  Boyd was interested in something else. “Was it you who followed me to the Wilson place today?”

  “It was,” Mad Dog admitted.

  “Why?”

  “I was out for some fresh air.”

  Boyd started to move closer but caught himself. “They have nothin’ to do with any of this. You should leave Sam Wilson be.”

  Mad Dog smiled. “Oh, it’s him you’re worried about, is it? Not that gal I saw you with in the parlor?”

  Boyd swore he could feel the blood draining from his face. “What about her?”

  “Like that gal, do you? I’d be worried as hell if I were you,” Mad Dog said. “Two of us are dead and we don’t take kindly to that.”

  “What does Calloway have in mind?”

  “It’s not just him,” Mad Dog said. “It’s all of us. We aim to show the whole territory what happens when th
ey stand up to us.”

  “Show them how?” Boyd persisted.

  “By goin’ on a killin’ spree,” Mad Dog said, and grinned.

  Chapter 14

  Ira Toomis was returning from the Circle T, where he had gone to nose around and find out what he could about Sherm Bonner, and came on a freighter repairing a busted wheel at the side of the road about a mile outside Alpine. Toomis would have ridden past without stopping except that the freighter called out to him.

  “Hey there, mister. Any chance I can buy your rope?”

  Toomis reined over and stopped. “My rope?”

  The freighter had one of those ruddy faces with cheeks like apples. “I’ll pay you twice whatever you paid for it. I really need one.”

  It was the middle of the afternoon. A buckboard was down the road a piece, coming their way, and the freighter didn’t look as if he had anything Toomis would want to steal, so he decided to be civil. “What do you want it for?”

  Gesturing at the back of the wagon, the freighter swore. “The load shifted when the wheel gave out and the gate broke. I can’t close it and I don’t want the crates sliding out when I get to those steep grades between here and Denver.”

  “Is that where you’re headed?”

  The freighter nodded. “Have a delivery that can’t be put off. Which is a shame. I would have liked to spend the night in Alpine. They’re fixing to have a celebration like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “What are they celebratin’?” Toomis asked. He didn’t keep track of the calendar, but so far as he knew, it wasn’t a holiday.

  “Guess you haven’t heard about the outlaw they caught,” the freighter remarked while bending over his toolbox.

  Careful to keep his voice calm, Toomis said, “Which outlaw would that be?”

  The freighter selected a hammer. “One of that wild bunch, the Calloway Gang. Could be you’ve heard of them?”

  “Most have in these parts,” Toomis said.

  Several spare spokes were on the seat and the freighter reached up and hefted one. “They robbed the Alpine Bank and now two of them are dead and this other one is in jail.”