Ralph Compton the Law and the Lawless

by Ralph Compton

  “You shouldn’t,” Boyd said.

  “No?”

  “What if a fight breaks out at a saloon? Or there are shots fired? Or someone needs us and is hollerin’ for help? How would you hear any of that?”

  “Oh. But none of that happens much.”

  “Mitch . . .”

  “All right, all right,” Mitch said, but he wasn’t happy. “No more cotton in my ears. I’ll have to try and block him out with my brain.”

  “What brain?” Mad Dog said, and laughed.

  “Just take it easy, Mitch. I hope you have a quiet shift.” Boyd smiled to encourage him, and departed. He had errands to run. First a visit to the millinery to see if the bonnet he’d seen in the window the other day was still there. It was, and he bought it. Next he visited Mrs. Rumpole, “the flower lady,” as she was called, and bought a rose. By three he was in the saddle and on his way out of town.

  Boyd hummed as he rode. He was happy. Genuinely happy. He couldn’t recollect the last time he could say that. Before taking up with Cecelia, the best he could say was that he’d been content.

  He remembered to check behind him. No one was back there. With Mad Dog behind bars, the outlaws had stopped shadowing him.

  Or had they?

  A puncher from the Circle T had stopped in the other day. Efram Tilman sent him to let Boyd know that someone had been nosing around Tilman’s spread. Whoever it was had done the nosing over a week ago, though, and nothing had come of it.

  All was right with the world, Boyd decided, as he drew rein at the Wilson Farm. He practically skipped to the front porch and gave a light knock. He was holding the bonnet and the rose behind his back when the door opened.

  “Why, Marshal Cooper,” Cecelia said with a grin. “What a delight to see you again.”

  “I hope so,” Boyd said, and held out the bonnet and the rose.

  Cecelia put a hand to her throat, and her eyes sparkled. “Oh my. For me?”

  “No, for Sam,” Boyd said.

  Laughing, Cecelia took the bonnet and fingered it. “What brought this on? It’s not my birthday and it’s not Christmas.”

  “How about just for bein’ you?”

  “Oh, Boyd,” Cecelia said softly. Accepting the rose, she raised it to her nose and sniffed. “A flower too. I must say, your romantic streak pleases me greatly. I’d never have suspected you could be so sweet.”

  “Because I go around drownin’ kittens and stompin’ on puppies?”

  “Oh, you,” Cecelia said, and laughed anew. “Come in, won’t you? I’ll put this rose in a vase.”

  Doffing his hat, Boyd made himself comfortable in the parlor. He listened to the ticktock of the grandfather clock and the chimes on the half hour.

  Cecelia returned with raspberry tea, a favorite of hers.

  Boyd wasn’t much of a tea drinker, but for her he would put up with it. They sat and sipped and chatted, the minutes flying by so fast that it was six o’clock before he knew it, and Sam came stomping in from the fields.

  “You’re becomin’ a regular fixture,” Sam joked as he sank into a chair by the mantel. “Why not marry her and you can stay permanent?”

  “Samuel Wilson,” Cecelia said.

  “It’s not as if he hasn’t thought about it,” Sam said. “Or am I wrong?”

  Boyd could have throttled him. “No, you’re not wrong,” he admitted, and felt his face once again grow warm.

  “Stop that talk this instant,” Cecelia chided her brother. “We’re taking things slow for now.”

  “At your age you might not want to.”

  “Sam!” Cecelia exclaimed.

  “Well, it’s true,” Sam replied. “You’re neither of you whippersnappers. You like each other’s company so much, you should quit pussyfootin’ around and get on with it.”

  “I’ll thank you to keep your wedlock advice to yourself,” Cecelia said archly. “We’re grown adults and know what we’re about.”

  Sam winked at Boyd. “All the more reason to cut the courtin’ short. We can have the ceremony here. Invite all our friends and neighbors and do it up right with a dance after the I dos.”

  “I will by God hit you,” Cecelia said.

  “Save me, Boyd,” Sam said. “Sis has a mean right.”

  Chuckling at their banter, Boyd stood. “I hate to say it but I have to go. I can’t stay too long at one stretch. Not until this Mad Dog business is over with.”

  “We can hurry things there too,” Sam said. “I’ll get some of the men together and we’ll put on hoods and have a necktie social.”

  “Don’t even joke about vigilantes,” Cecelia said. “Breaking the law to hang a lawbreaker is the rankest hypocrisy.”

  “Do you hear her?” Sam teased. “That’s what comes from all the reading she does.”

  “Ignore the dunderhead,” Cecelia said, and taking Boyd’s hand, she led him down the hall and out onto the porch. “Thank you again for the gifts.”

  They kissed, and all Boyd could think of on the ride back was how soft her lips were, and how sweet she tasted. He was so caught up in Cecelia that he didn’t notice two men under the overhang at the jail until he had dismounted and was tying the reins.

  “Marshal,” one of them said, stepping out. “You have trouble comin’.”

  Chapter 16

  Their clothes and boots and the dirt on their faces and hands pegged them as miners, a common sight in Alpine. As well they should be, given that three mines largely accounted for the town’s existence. The three were the Britenstein, the Livingston and the Tilden. Among them they employed a couple hundred workers, the backbone of the town’s economy. Usually those workers behaved on their off hours, but now and then one drank too much and became too boisterous and had to spend a night behind bars to dry out. Boyd imagined that was the case now. “What sort of trouble are we talkin’ about?”

  “My name is Pike,” the one introduced himself. “Me and Charley here work out to the Livingston.”

  Charley nodded.

  “We were on our way in on the work wagon when we saw somethin’ peculiar,” Pike went on.

  “Some others saw it too,” Charley interrupted. “We volunteered to be the ones to come tell you.”

  “What exactly did you see?” Boyd asked.

  “Riders,” Pike said.

  “Five of ’em,” Charley clarified.

  Boyd remembered the comment Mad Dog made about his five pards. “Go on,” he said, all interest.

  “They were a ways off and we couldn’t see much except they were packin’ sidearms and moved quicklike,” Pike said.

  “Quicklike?” Boyd repeated.

  “Like they were in a hurry to get across the road.”

  Charley once again elaborated. “They came out of the woods on the north side and went into the woods on the south side. Which struck us as strange. Why ride in the woods when you can use the road?”

  “Hunters, maybe?” Boyd said.

  “Didn’t look to be,” Pike said. “They weren’t dressed like hunters. And when they heard our wagon and looked our way, they used their spurs.”

  Troubled, Boyd asked, “Anything else you can tell me about them?”

  “Not much,” Charley said. “One wore a derby, I think it was. And another was dressed all in black.”

  Boyd bit off an oath. Bert Varrow wore a derby, and the Attica Kid was partial to black.

  “Anyhow, we reckoned you might want to know,” Pike said, “what with all that’s been goin’ on of late.”

  “You did me a favor,” Boyd said. “I’ll look you up and treat both of you to a drink when I have some free time.”

  “No need, Marshal,” Pike said. “We just did what we thought was right.”

  “We’re family men,” Charley said. “Got wives and kids, and we don’t want any damn ou
tlaws skulkin’ about.”

  Boyd thanked them again and shook each of their hands. Gnawing his bottom lip, he went into the jail and stopped short when he saw Deputy Mitchell with his feet propped on the desk, sound asleep. Going over, he swatted Mitch’s boots and Hugo sat up with a start.

  “What? Who?”

  “You couldn’t pick a worse time to sleep on the job,” Boyd said.

  Over in the cell, Mad Dog snickered. “Some lawman he is. That boy should take off that tin star and take to clerkin’.”

  “Quit proddin’ me, you,” Mitch said.

  “Go fetch Harve,” Boyd instructed him.

  “What for? His shift doesn’t start for a couple of hours yet. He’s probably asleep right now.”

  “Do I have to tell you twice?”

  Mitch blinked, and shook his head. “Sorry. And I didn’t mean to doze off. Honest. It just happened.”

  “You need to be more vigilant, Mitch,” Boyd said. He couldn’t get mad at him, not after all Mitch had been through. “Now off you go.”

  Mitch vacated the chair, saying over his shoulder, “I didn’t use the cotton in my ears, at least.” He smiled sheepishly as he hastened out.

  “What a jackass,” Mad Dog said.

  “He’s a good man.”

  “Boy, you mean. He’s so green it’s pitiful.”

  Boyd sat and swiveled the chair so it faced the cells. Setting his heels on the edge of the desk, he folded his arms and thoughtfully regarded his prisoner. “What are your friends up to?”

  “Huh?” Mad Dog said.

  “Did they get word to you?”

  “How in hell could they?” Mad Dog rejoined.

  Boyd scowled. Mad Dog had a point. The cell didn’t have a window, and he didn’t let anyone near their prisoner except for Ethel when she brought the food.

  “Why these questions about Cestus and the rest?” Mad Dog asked. “You must know somethin’ I don’t.”

  “I know they were seen close to town,” Boyd revealed. “But I don’t know why.”

  “Do tell.” Mad Dog grinned. “Maybe they’re fixin’ to bust me out.”

  “They’re welcome to try,” Boyd said, although, truth to tell, the prospect continually worried him. Under cover of night they might be able to sneak in close without being spotted and burst into the jail with their guns blazing.

  “Your nerves are showin’,” Mad Dog said. “I like that.”

  “They try anything, you’re the first one I’ll shoot.”

  “Hell,” Mad Dog said. “If it’s the Attica Kid who comes in through that door, you won’t clear leather.”

  “He’s as good as folks say?”

  “Mister, I mean to tell you,” Mad Dog said, “I never saw anybody so quick with his hands. I don’t like him much and he doesn’t like me, but he’s the real article.”

  Boyd was inclined to believe him. It tallied with the saloon talk about the Attica Kid. Gun sharks were a favorite topic. Men would argue for hours over who was faster and who had more kills and what would have happened if, say, Wild Bill Hickok had tangled with, say, Cullen Baker or Wes Hardin.

  “Close to town, you say?” Mad Dog said, and grinned. “That’s real interestin’. Don’t you find that interestin’, Marshal? Or are you too busy soilin’ your pants?”

  “Have your fun.”

  “They’re comin’ for me. You know that, don’t you?”

  Boyd’s answer was to stand and take a scattergun from the rack. He made sure it was loaded and set it on the desk as he reclaimed his seat.

  “Got you worried, does it?” Mad Dog said, and cackled.

  A quiet quarter of an hour went by. Then the door opened, and in came Mitch and Dale. The old scout looked as if he’d been roused from a deep sleep, as Mitch had predicted. Dale hadn’t slicked his hair back before jamming on his cavalry hat, and it stuck out at all angles.

  “Here he is,” Mitch said.

  “What’s so all-fired important?” Dale asked. “I could have used another hour in the sack.”

  “We might have company,” Boyd said, and jerked a thumb at the cells. “His friends.”

  “Oh Lordy,” Mitch blurted. “I hope not.”

  “Don’t go weak sister on us, boy,” Dale said, moving past him. “What makes you think so, Coop?”

  Boyd related the information the miners had imparted, ending with “I don’t think it’s likely, but then again, outlaws are nothin’ if not unpredictable.”

  “Damnation.” Dale removed his cavalry hat, ran a callused hand over his hair a couple of times, and jammed the hat back on. “What do you want us to do?”

  Boyd knew he could count on Harvey, but he entertained doubts about Hugo. The younger man had gone pale and kept glancing at the window as if afraid the outlaws would burst in on them any moment. “You scared, Mitch?” Boyd bluntly asked.

  “No, not really,” Mitch said. “It’s just that I’ve been shot once this month and I’d rather not be shot a second time.” He smiled thinly.

  Boyd had intended to send them out to patrol the streets while he stayed at the office, but that might not be wise, given the state Mitch was in. “Since you’re still on the mend, I’ll give you a choice. Stay here and watch Mad Dog or take a shotgun and prowl around town.”

  Dale picked up the scattergun on the desk. “You don’t have to ask me which I’d like. Sittin’ in that chair too long makes my backside go numb.”

  “I reckon,” Mitch said uncertainly, “I might as well be the one who stays. The doc said I shouldn’t overdo it for a while.”

  “Are you sure you’re up to it?” Boyd had half a mind to tell Mitch to go to his room at the boardinghouse and rest.

  Mitch nodded. “I’m not helpless. And it’s not as if those owl-hoots are comin’ to town just to do me in.” He added hopefully, “If they come at all.”

  “What puzzles me is why they were ridin’ south,” Harvey Dale said. “There’s nothin’ down that way but ranches and farms.”

  Sudden fear spiked through Boyd. The Wilson Farm was south of town, and Mad Dog knew about Cecelia and him. But Mad Dog hadn’t had the opportunity to share that with the other outlaws, so Cecelia, and Sam should be safe.

  Dale stepped to the rack, took down the other scattergun, and brought it over. “Here you go. Do we stick together or split apart?”

  “Split,” Boyd said, breaking the scattergun open to see if it was loaded. “You take the west side. I’ll take the east. Poke into every saloon. And be careful around the alleys. Remember what happened to Mitch.”

  “I’m not likely to forget.”

  “Me either,” Mitch said.

  Boyd rose and came around the desk. “Don’t doze off again.”

  “Not likely,” Mitch said. Slipping into the chair, he placed his hands flat on the desk, licked his lips, and said, “Well.”

  Boyd and Dale exchanged glances.

  “You know what?” the scout said. “When I was your age I fought the Sioux a few times. They’re sneaky, those devils, and I was always so nervous about them I about wet myself.”

  “You?” Mitch said skeptically.

  “When we were on patrol, I’d imagine all sorts of things,” Dale continued. “Redskins springin’ out and puttin’ arrows into me, or sneakin’ in when we were camped and slittin’ my throat.”

  “I’d have worried about that too,” Mitch said.

  “But a scared scout ain’t much good to anyone,” Dale said. “I knew I had to stop worryin’, but I had no notion of how to go about it until another scout by the name of Cody told me a trick he used to take his mind off his worries.”

  “Cody, you say?” Mitch said. “Not Buffalo Bill Cody, the famous one?”

  “Might have been him,” Dale said. “The important thing is that his trick worked for me and should wor
k for you.”

  “What is it?” Mitch asked eagerly.

  “Whenever you start to fret, think about your ma.”

  “My ma?”

  Over in the cell, Mad Dog slapped his leg and laughed.

  “Pay him no mind,” Dale said.

  “Why my ma?” Mitch asked.

  “That’s what I asked Cody. And he said who’s the one person in the world most everybody feels kindly about? Their mas. Thinkin’ about them makes us feel good inside. Think about yours and you’ll forget all about the outlaws.”

  “I suppose I can give it a try,” Mitch said.

  “There’s a simpleton born every minute,” Mad Dog said.

  “Hush up, you,” Boyd said. He made for the door, held it open for Dale, and nodded at Mitch. “All you have to do is give a holler and we’ll come on the run.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mitch said.

  Boyd closed the door and he and Dale walked out into the street. Traffic was light. Most people had headed home for supper. “Did you really know Buffalo Bill Cody?”

  “Never met the gent. I would like to. They say no one can spin a yarn like Buffalo Bill.”

  “So you were spinnin’ a yarn of your own about that talk he had with you,” Boyd said.

  “Afraid so.”

  “And havin’ Mitch think about his ma?”

  “It was the only thing I could think of. Who knows? It might help.” Dale turned, but he only took a couple of steps and stopped. “What do you make of that?”

  Boyd glanced around.

  Smoke rose in a thick spiral coil from the far end of Alpine. More than there would be if someone were burning trash, or had a cook fire going. A whole lot more.

  “I’d best go have a look-see,” Dale said. “Maybe some kids are up to no good. Remember last year? The one who used a lantern to set that outhouse on fire?”

  “I’ll go with you,” Boyd said. The smoke had increased to alarming proportions even as they talked.

  No sooner did they start off than a frantic cry was borne on the breeze.

  “Help! Help! A house is on fire!”