Ralph Compton the Law and the Lawless

by Ralph Compton

  Boyd agreed but held his tongue.

  “I told her it was the right thing to do. That a woman had been taken, and that it was an affront to decency and all good-hearted men everywhere.”

  “Goodness, you have a way with words,” Titus said.

  Divett blushed. “I read a lot,”

  “I never learned how,” Lefty said. “Can’t write neither, except to make my mark.” He drew an X in the air.

  “Here we are, talking marks, when we have outlaws to catch,” Vogel said.

  Boyd didn’t mind letting them relax a little. It would help calm them for what lay ahead.

  “We catch these hombres,” Lefty said, “we’ll be the talk of the territory.”

  “I can do without that, thank you very much,” Divett said.

  “Why?” Lefty said.

  “Who wants to be famous?”

  “Not me,” Sherm Bonner said. “All I care about are cows.”

  “Thanks, pard,” Lefty said drily.

  “I wouldn’t mind,” Titus said, grinning. “If they write about us in the newspaper, I’ll cut out the clipping and send it to my mother. She’ll be proud of me for helping that lady and doing what was right.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself, boy,” Lefty cautioned. “To become famous you have to stay alive.”

  “I’m not a boy,” Titus said indignantly, “and I intend to.”

  Boyd decided it was time to break up their fun. “Finish up, and let’s be on our way. It’s light enough now that we can see the marks Dale makes.”

  “We sure don’t want to miss any,” Lefty said.

  Vogel looked over at Boyd. “I trust you plan to use me to good effect.” He patted the Maynard in his lap. “With this, I mean.”

  “If we can pick them off from a distance without any harm comin’ to Miss Wilson, you’re the man I’ll rely on,” Boyd assured him.

  “I once brought an elk down at five hundred yards,” Vogel reminded him.

  “That’s fine shootin’,” Lefty replied. “Only I bet that elk wasn’t shootin’ back or huntin’ cover.”

  “I can drop one or two of the outlaws before they do,” Vogel said.

  “In that case,” Lefty said, “make sure it’s the Attica Kid and Mad Dog Hanks. They’re the dangerous ones. Am I right, Marshal?”

  “You’re right,” Boyd agreed. Without the gun hand and the rabid killer, the outlaws would be considerably weakened.

  “Ira Toomis has shot a couple of men,” Sherm Bonner mentioned.

  “True. But he’s no gun hand,” Lefty said. “It’s the Kid who worries me the most. They say he’s as fast as anything.”

  “At long range I’ll match my rifle against his pistol any day,” Vogel said.

  “That’s the way to do in an hombre like him,” Lefty said. “From a safe distance.”

  Boyd emptied his cup, and stood. “When I said to finish up, I meant it. It’s time to get this done.”

  “Or die tryin’,” Lefty said, and chuckled.

  “That wasn’t even a little bit funny,” Divett said.

  “I wasn’t tryin’ to be,” Lefty said. “Look around you, mister. Come tonight, some of these faces might not be here.”

  “What a terrible thing to say,” Divett said. “I prefer to look at the bright side of things. Come tonight, we could all of us still be alive.”

  “Keep dreamin’,” Lefty said.

  • • •

  Cecelia Wilson was overcome by sorrow. She’d liked Harvey Dale. The old scout had put his life in peril on her account, and always treated her with courtesy. And now he was dead, a bullet between his eyes, thanks to a vicious young killer.

  She was astride Dale’s horse, her wrists tied once again, riding in single file with the rest. They had placed her between Cestus Calloway and the Attica Kid, and now she glanced back at the Kid and let her spite show.

  “Quit doin’ that, lady,” the Kid said. “It annoys me.”

  Cestus Calloway wheeled his horse around so it was beside hers. “You should listen, ma’am. You don’t want to make the Kid mad.”

  “I’m not afraid of him,” Cecelia said.

  “You should be,” Cestus said. “Rilin’ him could get you shot, and I’d rather you stayed alive awhile yet.”

  “As bait for the marshal,” Cecelia said resentfully.

  “You’re sure in a mood today.”

  “What do you expect? I saw a friend gunned down right before my eyes. Harvey Dale gave his life for mine. I’ll never forget his sacrifice as long as I live.”

  “It was a fair fight,” Cestus said. “The Kid gave him his chance, but he didn’t take it.”

  “Fair, my foot,” Cecelia said. “Your friend is a professional shootist, I believe the term is. Mr. Dale didn’t stand a prayer against him and you know it.”

  Behind her the Attica Kid said, “Keep bitchin’ about it, lady, and I’ll make it a point to drill that marshal of yours personally.”

  “See?” Cestus said to her.

  Just then hooves drummed a short way back in the forest, and Ira Toomis trotted into view and came past Bert Varrow, Mad Dog, and the Kid. “I left a couple more marks like you wanted.”

  “Good,” Cestus said. “We still haven’t found the perfect spot yet.”

  It was late in the morning. They had been on the go since daybreak, and Cecelia was tired and sore. She noticed Toomis glaring at her and said, “Something the matter?”

  “As if you don’t know,” Toomis growled. “My head still hurts from the wallop you gave me with that rock.”

  “I’m sorry,” Cecelia said even though she wasn’t sorry in the least. “It had to be done.”

  Toomis turned to Calloway. “When it comes time to do her, I want it to be me. Not you or any of the others.”

  “I haven’t made up my mind about that,” Cestus said. “I gave my word she wouldn’t be harmed.”

  “To a man who broke his word to you,” Toomis said. “Your word to him no longer counts.” He reached back and gingerly touched his head where Cecelia had struck him. “I’ve got a goose egg and keep gettin’ dizzy and it’s her doin’. She’s mine, and I won’t take no for an answer.”

  “You will if Cestus says so,” the Attica Kid said.

  “Not this time,” Toomis said. “Not even if you back him. This bitch hurt me. She has it comin’, from me and no one else.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind if and when the times comes,” Cestus said.

  Toomis glowered at Cecelia, sniffed in hate and contempt, and reined around to fall into line.

  “You’ve made an enemy there, ma’am,” Calloway said, and moved ahead of her again.

  Cecelia grew despondent. She used to think she had more spunk than a lot of women, but she was wrong. She felt completely drained. She wanted to lie down and curl into a ball and not move for hours on end.

  Normally the scenery would interest her. It was spectacular. Miles-high peaks rose in majestic array against the backdrop of an azure sky. Tiers of timber-covered slopes stretched for as far as the eye could see, the green of the pines mixed with the different green of the firs and the shimmering belts of aspens. A bald eagle winged on the air currents, and to the west, high on a cliff, spots of white might be mountain sheep.

  Cecelia sighed. No, the scenery held no fascination for her today. All she could think of now was Boyd and the men with him, men who were coming to her aid and might end up like Harvey Dale. She would do anything to keep that from happening.

  But what could she do, a lone woman against five outlaws?

  The answer that leaped into her mind shocked her.

  Cecelia told herself no, that it was ridiculous for her to even contemplate doing it. But the more she thought about it, the more appeal the idea held. So what if she was female? A woman co
uld do anything a man could do. And so what if she was unarmed? A rock had worked once, and would work again. And rocks were all over.

  Clearing her throat, Cecelia asked, “Will you be calling a stop soon, Mr. Calloway?”

  “Not for a while yet, ma’am. Why?”

  “I could use a rest. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  “Whose fault is that?”

  Cecelia didn’t press the issue. It might make him suspicious. They would stop, eventually, and she would put her plan into effect.

  Suddenly she wasn’t despondent anymore. She felt a rush of hope, and energy. She would stand up for herself, even if it got her killed. She owed that much to Harvey Dale and to Sam.

  Boyd’s image floated before her, but she refused to let that dissuade her. As much as she cared for him, as much as she looked forward to possibly becoming Mrs. Cecelia Cooper one day, this was more important. For her self-respect, if nothing else.

  “There’s a clearin’ up ahead,” Cestus Calloway called out. “We’ll stop and rest the horses a bit.”

  Good, Cecelia thought. Turning in her saddle, she smiled in delight at the Attica Kid.

  “Why are you lookin’ at me that way, lady?”

  Cecelia didn’t answer. She couldn’t come right out and tell him that she was going to kill him.

  Chapter 32

  Boyd squatted and poked at the charred remains of the outlaws’ campfire with a stick. Not so much as a wisp of smoke rose. Casting the stick aside, he straightened. “They got an earlier start than we did,” he guessed.

  The rest of the posse were still on their mounts. All except Vogel, who was moving about the clearing, examining the ground.

  “We’re still not far behind,” Lefty said. “We keep on hard, we’ll catch them by nightfall.”

  Divett licked his lips and swallowed.

  Boyd was about to climb back on the chestnut when the blacksmith called his name. Vogel was on a knee, touching his fingertips to something. “What is it?” he asked, going over.

  “Blood.”

  Boyd remembered that the accountant thought he’d heard a shot, and went over.

  Red drops had spattered the grass, dozens of tiny drops that no one would have noticed unless, like Vogel, they were looking for sign.

  “Notice anything?” Vogel asked.

  “Besides the blood?” Boyd wasn’t sure what the blacksmith meant.

  “The grass,” Vogel said. “Clumps have been pulled out and then the dirt smoothed over.”

  Now that the blacksmith mentioned it, Boyd realized there were more than half a dozen fist-sized patches where grass had been removed. “What the hell?”

  “See how these are clumped together?” Vogel said, indicating a spot where the most grass had been pulled. “What do you want to bet they had more blood on them?”

  Boyd stood and took a step back, and a pattern came into focus. The tiny drops he’d first seen were the periphery of the spray. Most of the blood must have splattered where most of the grass was missing. “I’ll be damned.”

  Vogel looked up. “Someone was shot.”

  A sinking feeling came over Boyd. The outlaws wouldn’t shoot themselves. That left one possibility. “Cecelia,” he said breathlessly.

  “We shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” Vogel said. “But . . .” He didn’t finish. Rising, he gazed about the clearing. “Whoever it was, I doubt they took the body with them.”

  “You think they buried it?” Boyd said skeptically. Digging a grave, as hard as the ground was, would take an hour or more.

  “No,” Vogel said. “What would you have done if you were them?”

  “Drag the body into the woods and cover it,” Boyd reckoned.

  “That would be my guess.”

  Boyd followed the blacksmith to the trees and then along the tree line.

  “I don’t see any drag marks yet,” Vogel said.

  “Maybe they carried it.”

  Over on his horse, Lefty called out, “What’s goin’ on, Marshal? What are you two up to?”

  It was Vogel who answered, “Someone was shot. We’re trying to figure out what happened to the body.”

  The cowboys and the townsmen dismounted and joined the search. It was Sherm Bonner, who was scouring the ground on the south side of the clearing, near where they had entered it, who hollered, “Lookee here. I found some blood.”

  Everyone hurried over.

  The blood wasn’t much, a handful of drops in a straight line. Drops that led into the forest.

  “It must have been dripping and they didn’t notice or they’d have pulled out the grass,” Vogel said. Bending, he pointed. “There’s a boot heel. And here’s another. They’re different. Two of them were carrying whoever they shot.”

  “But who would they . . . ?” Lefty began, and glanced sharply at Boyd. “Oh Lordy. I hope not.”

  “Hush, you lunkhead,” Sherm said.

  Vogel entered the trees with Boyd a few steps behind. Boyd dreaded what they might find. If his fear came true, it proved that Cestus Calloway’s word wasn’t worth a pile of horse manure. Calloway hadn’t kept Cecelia alive, as he’d promised.

  “Here’s another footprint,” Vogel said, “and some brush they broke walking through.”

  “They took the body a ways,” Lefty said.

  “So we wouldn’t find it,” Sherm said.

  “Should we have left our horses untended?” Divett asked nervously. “I’d hate to be stranded afoot.”

  Boyd put an end to the grisly images of a murdered Cecelia that had been filling his head. “Go back and keep watch over them,” he directed.

  “Glad to, Marshal,” the accountant said, and scampered away as if the ghost of whoever had been shot was after him.

  “Should I go with him?” Titus asked.

  “If you want to.” Boyd didn’t care. He was only interested in one thing.

  “I reckon I’ll stay with you. I want to see.”

  Vogel went around a blue spruce and drew up short. “We found it,” he declared.

  Limbs, leaves, and brush had been piled in a mound six feet long and three feet wide.

  “This wouldn’t have taken them long, all of them working together,” Vogel said. “They did it quick and lit a shuck.”

  Boyd tried not to think of who lay under the pile. “Let me,” he said, and moving past the blacksmith, he knelt and scooped at the piled. He didn’t have to scoop more than a few times before he exposed an arm.

  “Oh hell,” Sherm Bonner said.

  “That’s a man’s hand,” Lefty said, “not a gal’s.”

  “The man’s shirt,” Vogel said. “It’s buckskin.”

  It couldn’t be, Boyd told himself, and yet it was. He scooped faster, exposing a shoulder and part of the dead man’s chest.

  “Is that who I think it is?” young Titus said in confusion.

  Boyd grabbed a handful of leaves and threw them to one side. In doing so, his fingers scraped cold flesh.

  A face stared blankly skyward, the eyes glazed, a bullet hole at the top of the bridge of the nose.

  “Harvey Dale!” Lefty exclaimed.

  “How can this be?” Titus said. “Did he get careless and they caught him?”

  “Dale was too smart to let that happen,” Lefty said.

  Boyd held up a hand. “Quiet, both of you. I need to think.” He removed more of the brush and sat back on his bootheels, pondering. Dale had been shot in the clearing. That much was obvious. He must have been staying close to the outlaws for Cecelia’s sake, and somehow or other they got hold of him. “It could be,” he said, sharing his thoughts out loud, “that Harve tried to sneak in and free Miss Wilson.”

  “That must be it,” Vogel agreed. “He waited until he figured the outlaws were asleep, but one of them wasn’t and shot
him.”

  “Makes sense to me,” Lefty said.

  “What doesn’t make sense,” Sherm Bonner said, “is why they went to all this bother with the body. Why didn’t they leave it where he fell?”

  “To rub our noses in it?” Lefty said. “Good point, pard.”

  Boyd had no answer to that.

  “Do we leave him like this or plant him ourselves?” Lefty wanted to know.

  As much as Boyd would like to give Dale a decent burial, there was Cecelia to think of. “We’ve lost too much time as it is. For now we leave him. We’ll come back later and do it right.” The others helped him cover the face and chest and arm, and together they hustled to the clearing.

  In his eagerness to make up for the delay, Boyd brought the chestnut to a trot. He hadn’t gone more than a quarter of a mile when, on climbing a short slope to a shelf, he drew rein in bewilderment.

  The rest of the posse came up on either side of him, and it was safe to say they were as astounded as he was.

  “How can this be?” Lefty said.

  “It can’t,” Vogel said.

  Yet there it was, for all of them to see: an arrow carved in a tree.

  • • •

  The outlaws weren’t paying much attention to her, which suited Cecelia just fine. Her bound hands in front of her, she pretended to be idly walking about to stretch her legs while all the time searching for a rock that would suit her purpose.

  Ira Toomis was over by the horses. Now and then he glared at her to remind her he was still mad about the knot on his head.

  Cestus Calloway, the Attica Kid, and Mad Dog Hanks were huddled out of earshot, talking in low tones.

  Bert Varrow had gone off into the woods and not returned yet.

  Cecelia was conscious of running out of time. They had stopped minutes ago, and Calloway wouldn’t stay there much longer. His rests were always short.

  She had to find a rock, and quickly.

  So far Cecelia had only seen small flat rocks and small round ones, neither of which would do. She needed a long one, with a sharp point. About to turn toward the trees, she stopped. Sticking out of the ground in front of her might be the answer to her prayer. Several inches of stone, tapered to a tip, jutted from the soil.