Ralph Compton the Law and the Lawless

by Ralph Compton

  “You’ll be shot.”

  “Not if my men cover me,” Boyd said, coiling his legs under him.

  “It’s too risky. Please don’t.”

  “Are you my woman or not?”

  Cecelia looked at him in surprise. “I am.”

  “Then we work together and do this. Be ready.” Boyd turned his head just enough to scan the brush without being obvious. None of the outlaws had shown themselves. Taking a deep breath, he exploded into motion. In a bound he reached Cecelia and scooped her into his arms. The pain was tremendous, but he shut it out and raced for the edge of the shelf. He stayed doubled over, although it was difficult to do with Cecelia in his arms. She helped by pressing close to his chest to give him better balance.

  Guns boomed behind him.

  Boyd winced at a searing pang in his left leg. Stumbling, he almost fell. Then the heads and shoulders of the posse members rose over the rim, all with rifles, and they opened up on the outlaws, firing as rapidly as they could work their weapons.

  Boyd weaved, or attempted to. His left leg wasn’t working as it should. He had been hit in the thigh, and the leg was throbbing.

  “Run, Marshal, run!” Lefty hollered.

  Boyd did, for dear life. A slug plucked at his shirt; another nicked his hat. Then he was at the slope and threw himself over it. His bootheels hit hard. Before he could dig them in and stop, his momentum, and Cecelia’s weight, pitched him forward. A boulder filled his vision, and for a moment he feared he would smash headfirst into it. But iron fingers clamped hold of his upper arm and he was yanked to a stop inches from disaster.

  “Got you,” Vogel said.

  The big blacksmith lowered them to the ground. “Easy. You nearly bashed your brains out.”

  Cecelia wriggled free and Vogel helped her to sit up. “We’re alive!” she said in amazement.

  Rifles still thundered. The posse and the outlaws were swapping lead fast and furious.

  “I need to help the others,” Vogel said. Jamming the Maynard to his shoulder, he flattened himself and joined in.

  Boyd wasted no time in freeing Cecelia. Her knots were as tight as his had been, and resisted.

  “I see a couple of ’em!” Lefty bawled. “They’re scamperin’ away!”

  The shooting gradually died. By the time Boyd finished with Cecelia, the last shot had been fired. His ears rang in the abrupt silence. He turned, and swore.

  Divett lay sprawled on his back with his arms out, his right eye and part of his forehead blasted away. For all his carping, the accountant had died game.

  Vogel was examining a wound in his right arm. The slug appeared to have gone clean through.

  “Nice to see you again, Marshal,” Sherm Bonner said. “You and your lady friend.”

  Lefty, grinning, was reloading his rifle.

  Young Titus gaped aghast at Divett.

  “Calloway thought he had you dead to rights,” Boyd said to Vogel. “That you’d ride on up and be picked off.”

  “I snuck ahead of the others on foot,” Vogel said while using two fingers to enlarge the bullet hole in his shirt to expose the wound. “When I saw you two sitting there, I got suspicious. It seemed strange that your horse wasn’t anywhere around. Strange too that there wasn’t a pot of coffee or food on the fire. Why else make one in the middle of the day?”

  “Good thinkin’,” Boyd said.

  “When the others came up, we gave the horses a slap on their rumps to see what would happen,” Vogel continued, “and here you are, safe and sound.”

  “Sort of,” Boyd said, bending to inspect his leg.

  “That poor man isn’t so sound,” Cecelia said, staring sadly at Divett.

  Lefty was peering over the top. “I only saw the two skedaddle. How many were up there?”

  “Four,” Boyd said.

  “Did we get the other two?”

  “Only one way to find out,” Sherm Bonner said.

  “Not yet,” Boyd said. “I need a gun. They relieved me of mine.”

  “You’re welcome to my rifle,” Sherm said, holding it out. When Boyd took it, Bonner drew his Colt. “I’m partial to my pistol anyway.”

  “Wait,” Cecelia said, and pointed at Boyd’s leg. “You’ve been hit. You’re bleeding. We should see how bad it is.”

  “No time for that,” Boyd said. He wanted it over with. He wanted the outlaws dead, and to take Cecelia home.

  “You should make time, Marshal,” Vogel advised. “I saw you limping. As slow as you are, they’ll drop you, easy.”

  Reluctantly Boyd loosened his belt enough to slide his hand down in his pants. The wound was about five inches long and a quarter inch deep, and the bleeding had pretty much stopped. “I’ll live,” he announced, and hitched his pants up. “Vogel, you stay with Miss Wilson. The rest of us will tend to this.”

  “Not on your life. Have the boy guard her,” the blacksmith said. “I’ve come this far. I’m in for the finish.”

  Boyd shrugged. “Titus?”

  “I heard him, sir.”

  Cecelia reached out and clasped Boyd’s hand. “I can’t thank you enough. All of you.”

  “It’s not over yet,” Boyd said. He squeezed her fingers, then dropped flat and crawled to the rim. With extreme care he raised his head high enough to see over. The fire had almost gone out, and there wasn’t a trace of the outlaws.

  “It could be a trick,” Lefty said. “It could be they’re waitin’ to drop us as soon as we show ourselves.”

  “Let’s find out,” Boyd said.

  Chapter 36

  Boyd looked at the others. “Ready?” When they nodded, he rose and burst toward the brush-covered slope. On his right came the cowboys, on his left the blacksmith.

  They weren’t halfway when a rifle cracked. Lefty cried out and pitched to his knees. Instantly Sherm Bonner had hold of him and hauled him along.

  Vogel fired on the run, his heavy-caliber Maynard booming like thunder.

  Boyd didn’t see anyone to shoot at. He reached the vegetation and hunkered. This high up, the growth consisted mostly of stunted trees, dwarf shrubs, sedges, and high grass. Many of the trees and shrubs had been bent and twisted by the relentless wind, creating a tangle.

  Vogel was covering them with his Maynard. “I think I hit one. I’m not sure who it was.”

  Lefty had a hand to his side and groaned. “Of all the dumb luck.”

  “Hush, you baby.” Sherm Bonner unbuttoned his friend’s shirt partway and raised it to peer under. Recoiling as if he’d been slapped, he blurted, “No.”

  “Got me good, didn’t they?” Lefty said. He was his usual self, grinning at the world and everyone in it, but there was nothing usual about the dark blood that trickled from a corner of his mouth. “I think I’m lung-shot, pard,” he said, and coughed violently.

  Sherm looked at Boyd in appeal, but there was nothing Boyd could do.

  “Shouldn’t have shown ourselves, I reckon,” Lefty said. “But we had it to do.” He clutched Bonner’s arm and pulled him lower. “Get word to my folks. Let my pa know I died game.”

  “Damn it,” Sherm said.

  “Don’t start blubberin’,” Lefty said as more dark blood oozed. “You never once gave me cause to be ashamed of you. Don’t start now.”

  “Pard . . .”

  “Who’s the infant?” Lefty rejoined, and started to laugh. Another coughing fit struck him, and he quaked from his hat to his boots. Looking at Sherm, his chin smeared with blood, he chuckled and said, “Ain’t this a hell of a note?”

  And with that, he died.

  Boyd grew hard inside. Another life to chalk up to the outlaws, another life they must pay for.

  Sherm Bonner had gone rigid and his face had become like rock.

  “I liked that cowpoke,” Vogel said quietly. “He was a goo
d man at heart.”

  “He sure was,” Sherm said softly, “and he was my pard.” Suddenly he rose and hurtled into the brush, disappearing around a bent tree.

  “Wait!” Boyd cried, too late.

  “That cowboy is going to get himself killed,” Vogel said.

  “Stay here,” Boyd said, and ran after Bonner. He scurried around the bent tree, but Bonner wasn’t there. He darted to a patch of scrub, but Bonner wasn’t there. He heard boots pound and plunged on through. Bonner was just going past another tree. Boyd swallowed a yell that would give him away, and sprinted to catch up. He heard a shot, and then he was past the tree and two men were to his left, separated by a dozen feet.

  Mad Dog Hanks, sneering in defiance, was propped against a log, a red stain on his shirt. He had fired his rifle, and was working the lever to feed another cartridge into the chamber.

  Sherm Bonner fanned the hammer of his Colt three times, too swiftly for the eye to follow.

  Smashed back, Mad Dog let out a screech of rage. He gamely tried to raise his rifle.

  “No, you don’t.” Sherm Bonner took aim and shot Hanks in the head. “That was for my pard, you son of a bitch.”

  Keeping low, Boyd went over. “That was reckless.”

  “I’m goin’ to kill every one of the varmints,” Sherm informed him while reloading.

  “You’re not in this alone,” Boyd said, helping himself to Mad Dog’s six-shooter, “and you’re to do as I say.”

  “They shot Lefty,” Sherm said. “I do as I please.”

  This was the last thing Boyd needed. But there was no time to argue. “We’ll separate and look around. Lefty saw two of them running off, so there has to be another here somewhere, breathin’ or not.”

  “I find him and he’s breathin’, he won’t be for long.”

  As it turned out, Boyd found the body. A limp hand poking out of high grass drew him to it.

  Ira Toomis lay on his belly, part of his head blown away. It had to be Vogel’s handiwork, and that Maynard of his. Brains, hair, and parts of Toomis’s hat were splattered all over.

  Sherm Bonner came up, and frowned. “One less for me.”

  “There’s still the other three,” Boyd said.

  “What are we waitin’ for?” Turning on a heel, Sherm started back.

  Boyd would have liked to take the bodies down, but the gun hand was on the prod and nothing he said or did would change that. He hurried after him, saying, “We do this my way, remember?”

  Bonner didn’t respond.

  As they emerged from the growth, Vogel rose and acted surprised when the cowboy strode past without even looking at him. “I take it his dander is up?”

  “Higher than the mountains,” Boyd said.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Stick with him and hope for the best.”

  Bonner was already in the saddle and heading out when Boyd reached Cecelia and Titus. The younger man looked relieved when Boyd instructed him to stay with her.

  “Why can’t I go with you?” Cecelia asked.

  “You know better.” Boyd limped to the chestnut and grabbed the reins. He was loath to leave her, but it had to be done. “We should be back before dark,” he said with more hope than confidence. “If we’re not, find a spot to make a fire where it can’t be seen.” Wincing at his hurt leg, he swung on and straightened. “If we’re not back by daybreak, take Miss Winslow to Alpine.”

  “I sure will, Marshal,” the young man said.

  “Don’t let her talk you out of it,” Boyd cautioned. “If we’re not back, it will mean the outlaws have won and might be comin’ for you.”

  Titus swallowed. “Don’t you worry. I won’t let anything happen to your sweetheart.”

  “Boyd,” Cecelia said, and reached out a hand.

  “Take care,” Boyd said, and got out of there.

  Vogel came alongside and didn’t say a word. Together they trotted to overtake Sherm Bonner, who was holding to a fast walk. The cowboy barely glanced over.

  Bonner was intent on one thing and one thing only

  “This doesn’t bode well,” Vogel said to Boyd.

  The footprints were plain in the dust. Two of the outlaws had been running flat out. They’d gone around a bend to where Varrow waited with their horses and the three had fanned the breeze. Not north or northwest as Boyd reckoned they might, but due east, down the mountain.

  Sherm Bonner used his spurs and rode at a breakneck pace, quickly pulling ahead. He didn’t seem to care how steep the slopes were, or that a misstep could result in a broken leg for his horse, and a bad spill.

  “Damn, that puncher can handle a horse,” Vogel said in admiration.

  Boyd was more interested in not breaking his neck. He was no slouch in a saddle, but he couldn’t compare to the cowhand, who rode as if he and his horse were one. He was kept busy reining aside from obstacles and ducking to avoid low limbs. He had to lean back when a particularly sheer slope threatened to pitch him from his animal.

  It was the type of riding only a madman would do, or someone hell-bent on vengeance.

  Boyd could only hope Bonner was following the outlaws’ trail, because he’d lost all sight of any sign. He glanced ahead whenever he could but didn’t catch sight of Calloway and the others.

  Slope after slope fell behind them. The trees changed from firs and aspens to pines and spruce. There was less undergrowth, which made it easier, but it also let Bonner ride faster.

  Boyd didn’t know how the cowboy did it. He was about to shout to Bonner to slow up when, behind him, Vogel yelled something that Boyd’s didn’t catch. He risked a glance over his shoulder and Vogel pointed down the mountain.

  A quarter mile below, three riders were crossing a meadow. Even at that distance Boyd recognized them: Cestus Calloway, the Attica Kid, and Bert Varrow.

  The Kid appeared to be bent over his saddle.

  Sherm Bonner saw them too and let out with a sharp yip, like a hunting dog that had spied the buck it was after.

  Boyd was about to shout for the cowboy to wait for Vogel and him, when he swept around a wide spruce and without warning a deadfall barred his way. Reining sharply to avoid crashing into it, he lost even more ground to Bonner.

  The last slope came to an end. Before Boyd stretched the meadow, Sherm was already three-fourths of the way across.

  Boyd lashed his reins, but it was hopeless. He’d never catch up.

  At the far end, a rifle banged. Simultaneous with the blast, Bonner swung onto the side of his horse, Comanche-fashion, and then swung up again and used his spurs.

  It was superb horsemanship, a feat Boyd couldn’t duplicate in a hundred years. Drawing the revolver, he brought the chestnut to a full gallop. He glanced back again but didn’t see Vogel.

  Sherm Bonner suddenly veered and did his trick. A pistol cracked, but somehow Bonner and his mount made it into the forest.

  A bolt of alarm jolted Boyd. He was out in the open and rushing headlong into the outlaws’ guns. He reined wide in the opposite direction from Bonner. A revolver belched lead and smoke, enabling him to spot the silhouette of the shooter, and he responded in kind.

  Then the trees closed around him, and Boyd drew rein and vaulted down.

  Pistols popped like fireworks. Sherm Bonner and the outlaws were swapping slugs.

  Boyd started to rush to Bonner’s aid, and off in the greenery something moved. Boyd dived flat as a revolver cracked. He swore he heard the thwack of the slug coring a tree above him.

  The shooting suddenly stopped.

  Boyd crept past several small pines and went prone. An unnatural stillness gripped the wilds. The birds and other animals had gone quiet. It was as if the world were holding its breath, awaiting the outcome.

  Shaking the silly notion from his head, Boyd snaked to a log, crawled aro
und one end, and made for a boulder. He reached it, rose onto a knee, and went to go around.

  A hand holding a cocked six-gun was thrust at him, pointed at his chest.

  Boyd froze.

  “Got you, law dog,” Bert Varrow said, and stepped out from the other side of the boulder. Varrow’s derby and suit were caked with dust and smudged.

  “You shoot me,” Boyd said, “you’ll be a wanted man.”

  “I already am,” Varrow said, “and no one will ever know.” Tilting his head, he went on. “I’m sorry about this. I’m not a killer. But it has to be done so we can get away.”

  Boyd wouldn’t die meekly. Not after all that had happened. He coiled to spring aside.

  “Anything you want me to tell that nice gal of yours if I see her?” Bert Varrow asked. Not in mockery. He was being sincere.

  “You’re makin’ a mistake,” was all Boyd could think of to say.

  “Wouldn’t surprise me any,” Bert Varrow said. “I’ve made heaps of them.” He extended his arm. “Good-bye.”

  A rifle boomed, and the left side of Varrow’s head seemed to collapse in on itself even as the other side showered the boulder and the ground with gore.

  Boyd jumped back.

  With pieces of his brain oozing from the exit wound, Bert Varrow melted into a pile.

  Boyd looked over his shoulder. Back near the meadow, Vogel pumped his Maynard in the air, pleased at the shot he’d made. He was on foot, and ran toward Boyd.

  Boyd moved too, hunting for Sherm Bonner and the last two outlaws. A dozen strides brought him to the bank of a small stream. Not twenty feet from away, on the same side, stood Sherm Bonner. Across from the cowboy, on the other bank, was the Attica Kid, a bloodstain barely noticeable on the front of his black shirt. Farther off, his hands on his hips, stood Cestus Calloway.

  “Well, look who it is,” Cestus said, and laughed.

  “What in the . . . ?” Boyd blurted. Neither Sherm nor the Kid held a six-shooter. Each had replaced his revolver in his holster.

  “You’re just in time, Marshal,” Cestus said. “These two are fixin’ to settle somethin’.”

  “Sherm, don’t,” Boyd said.

  “Stay out of this, you hear? It’s between the Kid and me.”