The Alamosa Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “Very good, sir.”

  When Clay reached the back table, the stranger stood and amicably extended his hand. The moment he did so, Clay’s perception of him as a potential business prospect changed. The man was wearing a pistol with the holster low and tied down. The skirt of his jacket was kicked back to allow a quick draw. This wasn’t normal for a businessman.

  “Mr. Allison, my name is Chunk Colbert,” the man said. “Have you ever heard of me?”

  “Chuck Colbert? No, I can’t say as I have.”

  “Not Chuck, Chunk,” the man corrected.

  Clay smiled. “Unusual name,” he said.

  “Yes, sir, I suppose it is,” Colbert agreed. “I’m a little disappointed you haven’t heard of me. You see, it’s a name folks are beginning to take notice of.”

  “And why is that, Mr. Colbert?”

  Colbert flashed a toothy smile. “Because I’ve killed seven men in fair gunfights.”

  Clay’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve killed seven men, you say.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you are proud of that?”

  “I am, sir. Every one of those fights have been open and aboveboard.”

  “Why did you kill them?”

  “Why? Well, I don’t know that I can give you a reason for every one of them,” Colbert said. “But then I’m sure you understand. From what I hear, you’ve killed a lot more men than I have.”

  “I’ve never killed anyone, Mr. Colbert, who didn’t need killing,” Clay said.

  “Would you say that someone who is trying to kill you would need killing?”

  “Well, yes, but there has to be more to it than that. I mean, someone wouldn’t be trying to kill you unless they had a reason.”

  “It could be that they are just trying to get their name a little better known.”

  “That’s foolish.”

  “That’s easy for you to say, Allison. There’s not a man in the country, from New York to San Francisco, who doesn’t know your name, who doesn’t tell exciting stories of your exploits.”

  “Maybe so. But I haven’t sought such fame.”

  “Then that is where we differ, Mr. Allison, because, you see, it is something I seek,” Colbert said. “That’s why I’m going to kill you, tonight.”

  “What?” Clay asked in surprise.

  “Oh, not right this minute,” Colbert said quickly. He smiled, then held his hand out, offering a seat to Clay. “At least, not until after we have had our supper. I told the proprietor that your meal would be on me. I hope you ordered.”

  “I did order,” Clay said. “After you,” he added, indicating that Colbert should take his seat first.

  Colbert laughed. “I can see how you have survived as long as you have, Mr. Allison. You are a cautious man.” Colbert sat down, then Clay sat across from him. Clay’s food was brought to the table.

  “Since you are buying the supper, I’d like for you to pay the man now, if you don’t mind,” Clay said. “I wouldn’t want anyone to see me going through your pockets afterward and think I had shot you for your money.”

  Colbert blanched for just a second. Then he laughed. “Very good, Mr. Allison, very good,” he said. “You are trying to make me nervous. I think I’ll just borrow that little trick from you, since you won’t be needing it anymore after tonight” He removed his billfold from his inside jacket pocket, then took out the money to pay for the meal and handed it to the waiter. “There, your supper is all paid for. Plus a generous tip for the waiter.”

  “Thank you,” Clay replied.

  Over the next several minutes the two men enjoyed a leisurely meal. They exchanged stories and laughed so frequently that anyone watching might think they were two longtime friends catching up on old times.

  The other diners knew better, however, because some of them had overheard the initial conversation between the two men. They had passed it on to others until soon, everyone in the restaurant knew. Word spread beyond the cafe as well, so that before Clay Allison and Chunk Colbert were finished with their supper, every table was filled and there were many more present who were standing along the walls, watching. As a result of the unfolding drama, all other conversation in the cafe had stopped as everyone waited, silently, to see what was going to happen.

  Oddly, Clay Allison and Chunk Colbert were not aware that the other conversations had stopped, or that they were the objects of such close scrutiny. They were so intent on the business at hand that they were oblivious to the large and deathly silent crowd.

  As the last of the apple pie was eaten, Colbert signaled the waiter to pour them each another cup of coffee. The waiter did so, then withdrew quickly. Neither Clay nor Colbert noticed that the waiter’s hands were shaking.

  “Mr. Allison, it has been a most enjoyable experience,” Colbert said. “I drink to our newfound but, of necessity, short-lived friendship, sir.”

  As Colbert reached for his coffee cup, Clay saw that he was reaching for the cup with his left hand. Since Colbert had been using his right hand throughout the meal, that put Clay on instant alert. He gripped the handle of his pistol and waited.

  As the cup was halfway up to his mouth, Colbert suddenly drew his pistol with his right hand. Seeing this, Clay pulled his own gun at the same time. Colbert tried to whip his gun up into firing position, but he failed to compensate for the tabletop. The pistol sight caught the bottom of the table, preventing him from getting the gun any higher. In desperation, he fired anyway, but the bullet missed. By now, Clay had his own pistol up and clear of the table, and had an unobstructed shot. His gun flashed and roared. A small black hole pushed through just above Colbert’s right eye. Colbert’s chair pitched over backward with the would-be assassin dead before he could hit the floor.

  Even before the smoke cleared, Clay was on his feet, looking down at the sprawled body of Chunk Colbert, making certain that the shot was fatal. It wasn’t until he was totally satisfied that Colbert no longer represented any danger to him, that he glanced up. He gasped in surprise at the number of people who were there, looking at him in wide-eyed, openmouthed awe.

  Clay punched the empty casing out of the cylinder of his pistol, then slid another bullet into the chamber. Holstering his pistol, he signaled the proprietor over.

  “Why are there so many people here?” he asked quietly.

  “Someone overheard Mr. Colbert challenge you,” the proprietor replied. “Word spread that there was going to be a shoot-out. These people came to watch.”

  “The hell you say,” Clay said. He started to put the empty cartridge in his pocket.

  “I will give you ten dollars for that cartridge,” the proprietor said.

  Clay looked surprised. “Ten dollars?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Clay smiled. “Mister, you just bought yourself one worthless piece of brass,” he said, handing the shell casing to him.

  The proprietor took a ten-dollar bill from his wallet. “Mr. Allison, there is one thing I don’t understand,” he said. “If you knew Colbert was going to try and kill you, why did you agree to have supper with him? I mean, the two of you sat at the table and ate as if you were old amigos. There were some who left, believing the whole thing might be a hoax.”

  “I ate supper with him because I didn’t want to send him to hell on an empty stomach,” Clay replied.

  The proprietor laughed nervously. “Yes, to be sure, one wouldn’t want to go to hell on an empty stomach,” he said.

  Clay started for his hat. “I believe the bill is all settled?”

  “Yes, sir, thank you.”

  “Then I must be going. I’ve a long ride ahead of me in the morning.” He got to the door, then looked around at the crowded restaurant. Most were still staring at him. Clay held up his hand. “Oh, you folks really should try the apple pie,” he said. “It is absolutely excellent.”

  Not until he left the cafe did the crowd regain its voice. Everyone began talking at the same time, sharing what they had seen. As Clay walked
up the sidewalk toward the hotel, he could hear the cacophonous babble behind him.

  It wasn’t until that moment that the nervousness hit him, and his knees grew so weak that he reached out to the edge of the building to steady himself. He stood there for a long moment, taking deep breaths until he had regained his composure.

  Chapter 8

  El Paso was bustling when the three young cowboys rode into town on the morning of April tenth. Two trains were standing in the depot. One was a passenger train taking on travelers for its run back east. Even though the engineer was at rest, the fireman wasn’t. He was working hard, stoking the fire to keep the steam pressure up.

  In contrast to the fireman’s toil, the engineer was leaning out the window of the highly polished, green-and-brass locomotive. He was smoking a curved-stem pipe as he watched the activity on the depot platform, serene in the power and prestige of his position.

  A score of passengers was boarding or getting off the train as the conductor stood beside the string of varnished cars, keeping a close check on the time. Over on the sidetrack sat a second train. That one was a freight, its relief valve puffing as the steam pressure was maintained. The passenger train had priority over the “high iron,” as the main track was called, and only after it departed would the freight move back onto the main line in order to continue its travel west.

  Two stagecoaches and half a dozen carriages were also sitting at the depot, while out in the street behind the depot a horse-drawn streetcar rumbled by.

  As Chad, Gene, and Ken rode through the town, they looked into the faces of everyone they encountered, studying them for any reaction to their presence.

  “It don’t look like anyone’s takin’ any particular notice of us,” Ken said. “Maybe don’t nobody know we’re train robbers.”

  “More’n likely, they haven’t even heard about it in the first place, seein’ as how we ain’t really train robbers. Don’t forget, the train robbery never come off,” Gene said. “I don’t see no need to be worried.”

  “And anyway, nobody saw us. We were down in the ditch, in the dark,” Ken insisted.

  “Nobody saw us, that’s true. But they may find out who Hank and Eddie are,” Chad said. “And if they do, it won’t take much to connect them with us, ’specially since Hank was my brother.”

  “So what are you saying, Chad? That we should just stop livin’? That we should run away and hide somewhere?” Gene asked.

  “No, I’m not sayin’ that a’tall. But I don’t think we should ever talk about it. Don’t tell the other boys about it, and let’s not even talk about it among ourselves anymore, in case someone might overhear us,” Chad said.

  “Oh, hell, I’ll go along with that,” Ken said. “What we done was so damn stupid, it ain’t somethin’ I’d ever want to tell anyone about, anyway.”

  “Hey, there’s Barry Riggsbee!” Gene said, pointing to a man walking down the sidewalk. “Barry!” he called.

  Hearing his name shouted, Barry looked toward the street, then smiled when he saw the three cowboys weaving their way through the heavy street traffic, working their way over to him.

  “I see you got the telegram,” Barry said, greeting them as they dismounted to shake his hand. “Me an’ Tennessee both got one, too, telling us to come here.”

  “That’s what ours says as well. Have you seen Jim and Frankie yet? Are they in town?”

  “They’re not only in town—they’ve got money for anyone who signs up for the job. Me’n Tennessee have already got ours.”

  “Where are they?”

  “I’d try the Border Oasis if I was you. That’s a saloon just down the street. They’re supposed to meet Clay Allison there sometime today, so I reckon they’ll be hanging around there till he shows.”

  “Who?” Ken asked.

  “Clay Allison. Haven’t you ever heard of him?”

  “Of course I’ve heard of him. What’s he got to do with anything?”

  “Well, if you take the job the telegram was talking about then you’re going to be working for him. We all are. Seems he’s bought some horses he wants us to bring up from Mexico.”

  “What’s he paying?” Gene asked.

  “That’s the best part,” Barry answered. “He’s paying two hundred dollars apiece, and like I told you, you’ll get the first hundred soon as you agree to hire on.”

  “Have you and Tennessee hired on?” Chad asked.

  “Yep. So far there’s Tennessee and me, Jim Robison, and Frank Ford. And now you three, if you’re goin’ to do it.”

  “Hell yes, we’re going to do it,” Chad said.

  “Good, good. Glad we’ll be working together again. By the way, how’s your brother gettin’ along? And where’s Eddie Quick? Don’t seem right, seein’ you three without them along.”

  “They, uh, didn’t make it,” Chad replied.

  “Damn, I’m sorry to hear that,” Barry said. “But I read where a lot of good men died out durin’ the winter.”

  Chad, Gene, and Ken looked at each other. They hadn’t said anything that would suggest Hank and Eddie died during the winter. And they said nothing to correct Barry’s misconception.

  “I’ve got two questions to ask,” Chad said. “How do we get that money? And when do we start after them horses?”

  Barry pointed to the Border Oasis. “Like I said, you’ll prob’ly find Frank Ford or Jim Robison in there. And one or the other of them will have your money. But as for when we start after the horses? Well, I don’t reckon that’s goin’ to happen until after Clay Allison gets here.”

  Approximately six miles from El Paso, nineteen-year-old Marilou Kincaid walked out to the barn to call her sister and brother in for breakfast. Brenda, her seventeen-year-old sister, was milking, while fifteen-year-old Nate was pitching hay for the animals.

  “Breakfast is ready,” Marilou said.

  “Good,” Nate said, resting on the pitchfork. “I’m starving.”

  “You’re always starving,” Brenda said.

  “At least I’m not so skinny I look like a rope with knots tied in it,” Nate teased, tossing some hay at his sister.

  “Hey, watch that! You’re getting hay in my hair,” Brenda complained.

  “What are we having?” Nate asked.

  “Biscuits, sausage, and gravy. I made the biscuits myself,” Marilou said proudly.

  “Don’t eat the biscuits, Brenda! You’ll probably get poisoned,” Nate teased.

  “You don’t have to eat them.”

  “Oh, I’ll eat them, I suppose,” Nate said as the three started back up toward the house.

  “Now there’s a big surprise,” Marilou said, and she and Brenda laughed out loud. They were still laughing when Nate pushed the door open, then came to a complete halt, his eyes wide with confusion.

  There were three strange men in the kitchen. One was stockily built, with red hair. He was standing behind the children’s father. Another was a medium-sized, pale-skinned albino, with eyes so light a pink as to almost be colorless. The albino was holding a knife to their mother’s throat.

  The third intruder was small, wiry, and dark, with a narrow nose, thin lips, and a jagged purple scar that started just above his left eye, slicing down through it and leaving a puffy mass of flesh, then running down his cheek to hook up under the corner of his mouth. He was standing by the table eating a biscuit-and-sausage sandwich.

  “Well, now, would you lookie at these two girls? They’ll do fine, just real fine,” the scar-faced man said, looking at the two girls with unabashed lust in his eyes.

  “I know who you are,” Nate said. “I seen your picture on a wanted poster. You’re Will Shardeen.”

  “Boy, you ain’t needed,” Shardeen growled. He pulled out his gun and, before anyone could say a word, yanked the trigger. The gun roared, a wicked flash of flame jumped from the barrel of the gun and a cloud of smoke billowed out over the table. The bullet hit Nate in the forehead and as he fell back, heavy drops of blood from his wound splatter
ed Brenda’s face and hair.

  “Nate!” Marilou screamed as her brother fell to the floor. She dropped to her knees beside him and put her hands on his face, trying desperately to deny what she was seeing.

  “Murderers!” Nate’s mother yelled. She tried to stand up, but the pale-faced one shoved her back down in her chair, then cut a nick in her face with the tip of his knife. A bright red stream of blood began flowing from the gash.

  “Leave her alone!” the father shouted, but his shout was cut off by a blow to the back of his head as the red-haired man brought his gun down sharply.

  “What do you want?” Marilou asked. “What are you doing here?”

  “What do we want? What does anyone want?” Shardeen asked. “We want money.”

  “Money? Are you crazy?” the mother replied. “We don’t have any. We barely make a living from this place.”

  Shardeen looked pointedly at Marilou. “Are you a virgin?” he asked.

  “What?” Marilou asked, gasping at the impertinence of such a question.

  “It’s a simple question, girly. Are you a virgin? Have you ever been with a man?”

  “That’s . . . that’s none of your business,” Marilou replied.

  “Oh, but it is my business. Now I figure your little sister here is a virgin, for sure,” Shardeen said, looking at Brenda. “Seems to me she’s too young to be anything else.” He looked back at Marilou. “But you’re a little older. For all I know, you may of already spread your legs a few times.”

  “Why . . . why are you concerned, one way or the other?” the girl’s mother asked.

  Shardeen smiled. “Well, since you asked, there are people in Mexico who are willing to pay a lot of money for Anglo women,” he said. “And if they’re virgins, why, they’ll pay even more.”

  “You . . . would do such a thing? You would sell young girls to, to people like that?” the mother asked.

  “Not just young girls,” Shardeen said, putting his hand on the woman’s chin and lifting it so he could study her more closely. “Any woman. You’ll do, too. I know you’re no virgin, but I reckon we’ll get enough for you to make it worth our while to take you with us.”