Ralph Compton Tucker's Reckoning (9781101607770)

by Compton, Ralph; Mayo, Matthew P.

  And why wouldn’t he take the man’s horse if he’d been the one to kill him? It had certainly been a more reliable mount than poor old Gracie. Why stop there? Why not take his fine clothes, his boots? Why, for that matter, would he ride just a few miles back toward where the man must have come from and wave the dead man’s gun around? And then he stopped short.

  Why, indeed? He’d done just that and now he was painted guilty, despite the obvious fact that no one in their right mind would have done that. But these people didn’t care. Even the thin string of hope he’d held on to, the notion that maybe the marshal had had something to do with it, that he’d suspected some sliver of guilt in the man, even that had dried and crumbled when the dead man’s niece walked out of the cells, away from him. He’d bet he’d never see her again, unless it was one last time from the scaffold, as she watched him drop and twitch out his last.

  The utter hopelessness of his situation washed over Tucker like a dunk in a cold stream. He stood in the dark cell, pressing his cheeks against the cold bars as much for comfort as for support. He closed his eyes and felt his last flicker of hope fade, then pinch out, like a blown match. He was surprised he had even that much hope left, considering how far he’d fallen in the past couple of years.

  He heard a slight rustling sound and opened his eyes. She’d returned and stood once again before him. Instead of arms folded as if to defend herself, her hands were thrust into her coat pockets, jaw stuck out, and she regarded him as if she’d come to some sort of decision.

  He met her stare. “Haven’t you ever made a mistake, a bad mistake?”

  “Not yet.” She eyed him, considering the weight of something big. “But I have a feeling I’m about to.”

  She turned and walked away once again. As Tucker watched her leave, he couldn’t be sure, but he thought he felt a twinge of something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was the relief of knowing there was someone who might have heard what he was saying. He closed his eyes again and felt the coolness of the bars on his face.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “You what?” Marshal Hart stood by the little stove, a short length of split birch in his hand, the door to the stove open and puffing smoke into the little room.

  “Open your damper, Marshal.” Emma nodded at the smoking stove.

  “Oh, right.” He spun the wire handle in the pipe, poked the coals with the end of the wood, then stuffed it in and clunked the door shut. “Emma, I don’t understand you. A couple of days ago you felt like the rest of the folks in this town. Wanted to string him up. This one seems cut-and-dried to me.”

  “I know that, Marshal, but he told me things that made me doubt that.”

  “Such as?”

  “Among other things, he said two men did it, and the descriptions he gave me sounded an awful lot like Vollo and Rummler.”

  “You wouldn’t just be saying that because you’re so fond of them, would you?”

  “No, I might not like those jackasses, but I wouldn’t do that.” Emma shook her head. “Tempted, but no.”

  “What is it exactly you’re asking of me, Emma?”

  “I guess I’m asking you to call it off. Let me oversee him, at least until we can prove him guilty or innocent. Or until there’s a trial.”

  Marshal Hart grinned and shook his head. “That simple, huh? You have it all worked out?”

  Emma shrugged, nodded. “Look, Marshal, if there’s anyone who has the right to doubt him, it’s me, right?”

  He considered this a moment, then said, “Maybe.”

  “So if I’m not totally convinced he’s guilty, then that should say something.”

  “I suppose, but it’s a pretty shaky argument there, Emma.”

  “I know. But what if he really is innocent? What if Vollo and Rummler really did do it? Knowing what I know of them, it wouldn’t surprise me at all. No man should hang for something he didn’t do. I can help prove him innocent, if he’s telling the truth.”

  “What do you expect me to tell the rest of the town, Emma? They all want his hide.”

  “Don’t tell them anything. You’re the only one with a key to the cells, the only one who goes in there anyway, right?”

  “This is harebrained, Emma. You know that, don’t you? Why not just leave him here, then go prove him innocent and we’ll let him go?”

  “Because I don’t trust the townsfolk.”

  “What if someone got wind of the fact that he wasn’t really here anymore?”

  She shrugged. “Tell them he escaped? Look, Marshal, if you won’t do it for me, what about for my daddy and Uncle Payton?”

  He felt his face redden, narrowed his eyes. “Emma, that is not a card you want to play lightly.”

  Emma nodded. “I know, Marshal Hart. But something about all this stinks to high heaven. And a man’s life might be at stake. Otherwise, do you think I really would have done that? We’ve already lost good men for no reason in this town, two of them who were close to me. Why risk another person’s life? I have a feeling that Vollo and Rummler are involved in this somehow and I want a chance to prove it.”

  “I’ll grant you that they are rats of the lowest order. But that doesn’t mean they killed Payton and the prisoner didn’t.”

  “Doesn’t mean they didn’t either.”

  Marshal Hart regarded her a long moment, smoothing his mustache with a thumb and forefinger. He chewed the bristly ends, thinking that this just might be a solution to a real problem. This could work out well—or it could put him in deeper with Grissom. He darned sure knew the residents of Klinkhorn would not be impressed. If that man wasn’t under his roof, it would be awful easy for someone to kill the skinny soak, and then all manner of problems might disappear. At the least it would save him the trouble of housing him until the judge happened by. Because he certainly hadn’t yet sent for the judge.

  “I am headed to lunch,” he said. “But as a rule, I always leave my keys in my top desk drawer. Always seemed safe enough. Pity about the cells back there. Bad as most of them prisoners are, they really should have more than the one window set in that door.” Hart looked at Emma. “You know the door I mean, that one that leads to that blind spot in the alley out back?”

  He stepped to the door, looked out. “Fixin’ to rain again.” He looked at Emma. “Might want to cover your load for the trip back to your place.”

  “Marshal? Aren’t you worried about my safety? With him possibly being a killer and all?”

  “You? Nah. There might, just might, be a grain of truth in what you’re saying. Besides, something about him just don’t seem the type.”

  “I thought you said there was no type.”

  He headed through the door, chuckling. “Just like a Farraday to trip me up at every turn.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Keep your mouth quiet and your head down. And drape that blanket from the cell over your head. We can’t let anybody see you, or you’re done for—and I expect I wouldn’t be too popular in town either.” Emma looked past the mule toward the front of the alleyway. “Hurry up! You want to get caught before you’re even started?”

  Tucker shuffled out of the jail’s back door, a gray wool blanket with holes draped over his head and shoulders. It managed to cover him all but for his boots. He reminded Emma of an old woman or a monk, enough so that she had a hard time keeping from laughing.

  As he struggled up onto the wagon’s bed, he said, “You always this bossy?”

  “Only with people who might be killers. Now get up in the front and I’ll drape this canvas over you.”

  He lay down, angling his thin form around boxes filled with canned goods, a keg of flour, and sacks of cornmeal and dried beans. “This is what you eat? No fruits or vegetables?”

  “We have beef, venison.”

  �
�That’s not a vegetable or a fruit, ma’am.”

  “Stop calling me ‘ma’am,’ damn it. My name’s Emma. But you can call me ‘boss.’ And besides, if eating fruits and vegetables lands you in the shape you’re in, I’d as soon stick with my beans and biscuits, thanks very much.”

  She rummaged for the tarp. “If you’re so all-fired excited about fruit and vegetables, you can scout up some and cook them for us. Now shut up or you won’t have to worry about fruit ever again.”

  She threw the tarp over him, dropped a coil of new rope on top to keep it from slipping off him, and climbed up into the seat. Then he sat up again.

  “What now?” she said, keeping an eye on the alleyway.

  “What about Gracie?”

  “Who?”

  “My horse. You said you’d—”

  Emma sighed. “She’s fine, I’m sure. The livery’s the best in town.”

  “It’s the only one in town, I’ll bet.”

  “Well, yeah. Now lie down, damn it, or I’ll drag you back in there. I swear it.”

  “I’m not going anywhere without Gracie.”

  Emma closed her eyes. “Okay, okay. We’ll go get her. But you’re paying for whatever she eats. Now lie down! Make a move and we’re both in a world of hurt. You understand?”

  They rolled out of the lane behind the long row of buildings, at the end of the street just across from the livery. Emma stopped the mule, set the brake, and hopped down. She leaned over the side of the wagon, fidgeting with the canvas, and talking low. “Keep still—you hear me? I’ll be back with your horse in a couple of minutes.”

  “I might owe a little cash on the bill.”

  Emma sighed. “Of course you would.” She lifted the coil of rope and slammed it down hard where she guessed his head was.

  “Ow!”

  “Oops,” she said, lips unmoving, but she was smiling.

  She leaned her head into the cool, dark interior of the stable. “Halloo, anybody here?”

  Off to the right, in an empty stall used for storage and filled with a clutter of dust-caked saddle blankets, heaps of old rope, and puckered tack, Horace Marquand emerged from a pile of straw, bits of chaff clinging to him. “Hey there, Emma. How you doing today?”

  “Hey, Horace. I’m okay, thanks. Got a request for you. I’m here to lay claim to that old horse belonging to that worthless buzzard in the jail.”

  From behind her, she heard a muffled oath. She coughed, made a show of clearing her throat.

  “You need a drink? Help yourself to the pump yonder. Ladle’s clean.”

  “Thanks. Just dusty down here.”

  “Yeah, that’s a stable for you. What you want with that horse, girl?”

  “Marshal said it was payment of a sort for what that lousy, no-good, murdering coward took from us.”

  “Aw, heck, that ain’t no fair trade. She ain’t but a rack of bones. Best chopped up, used for coyote bait.”

  “I know, but it’s all we’re getting out of this mess.”

  He nodded, scratched his stubbly chin.

  Here it comes, thought Emma.

  “I have had that horse for a couple of days now. . . .”

  “What’s he owe you, Horace?”

  “Well, now, Emma. It don’t hardly seem right you paying off the debt of the man who . . . well, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know. What’s he owe you?”

  Marquand scratched his chin again. “I could let that horse go for a couple dollars.”

  “Two dollars, Horace? I best see what it is you’ve done for this horse to justify two dollars. You yourself just got through telling me it wasn’t worth a bean.”

  “Aw, Emma, I’m just trying to make an honest living here. Times are hard, as you well know.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” She narrowed her gaze at him.

  “Nothing, but money’s not going near as far as we all would like nowadays.”

  “Tell you what. I’ll pay you a dollar now.” She handed him one. “And another if when you lead that horse out here she looks worthy of a second dollar. Seeing as how I happen to know that bum in the jail already paid you when he brought the horse here, I’d say that’s the best offer you’ll get all day.”

  Horace disappeared back into the barn, muttering and rubbing his chaff-specked hair. He emerged a minute later with a horse that had seen better days. In fact, Emma wasn’t sure she’d ever seen such a rough-looking beast. And yet there was something there in the sorrel’s eyes, an alertness. Time would tell. The horse was no dewy colt, but Emma watched the horse walk toward her, stood off to the side to see her gait, and recognized a decent frame, good height. This was a real horse, underneath the patchy coat and jutting hipbones, all angles and points.

  “We’ll get you fattened up, eh, girl?” She let the horse sniff her hand, traced the horse’s jawline back, and rubbed her neck. The horse lowered her head and nodded slowly, liking the attention.

  “Your horse, then, Emma.” The man held out the old, knotted reins.

  “She come with a halter? Anything?”

  “Just that sad excuse for a hackamore.”

  “I’ll have to think about that second dollar, Horace. She isn’t in nearly as good a shape as I was led to believe she might be, especially after two days under your roof.”

  “You are a Farraday, make no mistake.” He shook his head and retreated to the interior of the dark barn.

  Emma tied the old horse to the rear of the wagon and made the long, slow turn around the livery, then headed on up Main Street, knowing full well that every person in town had stopped and was watching her lead the horse of the man they all knew to be her uncle’s killer. What was going through their minds, she could only guess. As she passed the Lucky Shot, Vollo and Rummler walked out onto the porch and leaned against posts. They each gave her a hard stare.

  Instead of doing what she wanted to, which was to whip the mule into a run and drag her loaded wagon bouncing on out of there, she halted right in front of them and sat for a moment.

  She cut her eyes toward them, but kept her head rigid, as though she were staring straight ahead. This bothered them, she could tell. It took a few seconds before their bluster and bravado bubbled to the surface.

  “Well, lookee here, Vollo. Got ourselves a honey with a wagon full of goods.”

  From the wagon, she heard a muffled curse, saw the canvas shift slightly.

  “Don’t you dare,” she said, low and even, barely above a whisper. If he popped up out of the wagon now, they were both sunk.

  “You talking to me, girly?” Rummler stepped down off the porch. “What you got in there, girly? Anything good to eat? I’m a mite peckish.” He reached toward the side of the wagon to lift the canvas.

  With speed born of anger, Emma snatched up her uncle’s rifle from where it leaned by her feet. She levered a round, then laid the barrel across her right forearm. It happened to be aimed at the tall man.

  In a loud, clear voice that carried up and down the silent street, Emma said, “Well, whatever happened to that head of yours, Rummler? Tangle with a bobcat? Or maybe you got yourself grazed by a bullet from a rifle not unlike this one while you and your nasty little friend, Vollo, were trying to rape a girl on her way home the other night?”

  The man’s gray face reddened. “I . . . I don’t know what you mean.” He waved at her as if dismissing the rants of a crazy woman.

  “Speaking of worthless buzzards,” she continued in a near shout. “How’s that nose of yours, Vollo? Looks as if something like a rifle stock—why, not unlike this one here—might just have slammed into it, maybe while you were half-drunk and grabbing at a girl on her way home the other night.”

  From behind Vollo, a large shape emerged, cut a wide shadow on the worn porch boards in t
he afternoon sun.

  Bentley Grissom hooked a finger around a thick cigar and plucked it from his puckered pink lips, blew a plume of smoke, and said, “Bold talk for a girl who’ll soon not have a pot to piss in, nor a window to toss it out of.”

  That caught Emma up short. In all the commotion, she’d not given much thought to the loan Hart and Louisa had both mentioned. Grissom’s fat, confident tone and smug smile stopped her cold. She felt her own confidence shrink like a parched plant in hot sun.

  She couldn’t let him talk to her that way in front of everyone. How easy it would be to shoot him now, just pump a handful of shots into the big sack of fat, and take Vollo and Rummler too while she was at it. She was sure no one in town would mind. The fat man owned them all six ways from Sunday and had a lock on their Sabbath too, she’d bet.

  She was about to reply when Marshal Hart stepped up behind Grissom and looked her square in the eye. He shook his head, warning her to shut her mouth.

  She couldn’t help herself. “You go to hell, Grissom.” His name tasted like poison on her tongue. She spat in the street and snapped the lines on the mule’s back. The last thing she saw was Vollo and Rummler smiling their foul, dumb grins. Above them, Grissom’s heavy-lidded eyes regarded her from deep in his face, and his grinning mouth and fat, wet lips continued to suckle on the black cigar.

  Behind him, the marshal shook his head, as if he were sorry for her. She clucked the mule faster, the rifle cradled in her arms.

  “Oh Lord,” she said, sighing when they’d left the last straggling shanties of Klinkhorn behind. “Just like Daddy and Uncle Payton and Arliss have told me. I will never learn to keep a civil tongue in my mouth.”

  “I believe they are right. You are a lost cause . . . boss.”

  “Shut—” She stopped herself and sighed again.

  Neither of them spoke for long minutes. Then he said, “I need some air. It’s stifling under here.”