Ralph Compton Outlaw Town

by Ralph Compton

  Any hope Chancy had of not attracting notice when they arrived was dashed when Lester Smith stood and said in that loud voice of his, “Well, look who’s back!”

  Ollie didn’t help matters by exclaiming as they dismounted, “My pard was in a fight. You should have seen it. He walloped the other fella good.”

  The simple act of climbing down brought a wave of pain. Chancy winced and turned and stopped cold.

  There stood Lucas Stout. “A fight?”

  “Uh-oh,” Ollie said.

  Chapter 19

  Morning broke clear and chill, despite it being early summer. Chancy lay awake listening to the sounds of Old Charlie, their cook, going about making their morning meal. Old Charlie was a character, as they liked to say. Cantankerous as anything, he regarded the chuck wagon as his personal domain. No one was allowed to go near it when Old Charlie was cooking. If he asked a cowpoke to do something, like, say, fetch a pail of water, that cowboy better well do it, or else.

  For all his crankiness, Old Charlie was well liked. His coffee was thick enough to float a horseshoe and his food mouthwatering. He was a wizard with a frying pan, a master with a Dutch oven.

  Chancy heard the clang of a spoon on a pot and glanced over. The simple movement caused him to wince. He hurt from head to toe. The beating he’d taken was worse than he’d realized. But the agony was worth it. The beating had spared him from being fired.

  Lucas Stout hadn’t been happy to hear about the fight. Not as first. But then Ollie and Jelly and the others made it plain that Reid had been to blame, that he had braced Chancy and almost gone for his six-gun.

  “My pard and me were just standing there minding our own business and he marched up mad as a wet hen,” was how Ollie related it.

  Stout had given Chancy a penetrating look, then said, “I won’t hold this against you. I gave you an order not to get into more trouble, but you can’t be blamed when a man comes after you.”

  “Thanks, boss,” Chancy had said in great relief.

  Even better, the beating had gotten him out of work for a while. The blood on his face from his nose and his mouth, and all the dark bruises, to say nothing of his half-swollen left eye and the fact that his bottom lip had puffed up to twice its normal size, had prompted Lucas Stout to relieve him of riding herd for a spell. He was to take it easy until further notice. Ordinarily Chancy would resent any suggestion that he wasn’t man enough to do his job. But now he had a secret reason not to, involving the lovely lady he couldn’t stop thinking about. He couldn’t sneak into town if he was riding herd.

  The sun wasn’t up yet and already he was looking forward to noon and his meeting with Missy. Getting to town still posed a problem. He wasn’t supposed to leave camp without permission.

  For now Chancy was content to lie there and spare himself worse pain. His eye hurt and his mouth hurt and some of the bruises were particularly sore. In the middle of the night he’d rolled over and made the mistake of bumping his bottom lip, and it had throbbed like the dickens for the longest while.

  It was a well-known fact that Texans by and large disdained fistfights. They preferred to resort to their six-shooters. Now Chancy understood why. Fistfights left a man hurting for days.

  Even so, he was glad he hadn’t had to pull on Reid. He’d never shot anyone, and heard tell that once a man did, it changed him. He didn’t see that Ben Rigenaw or Jelly Varnes were all that different. But they were treated different. Once a man acquired a reputation as a man-killer, others tended to walk easy around him.

  Chancy put man-killing from his mind and thought about his meeting with the lady who wouldn’t leave his head. The question he should be asking himself was, to what end? What did he aim to do about her? They’d talk, most likely, and what then? Stout had let it drop that the herd would head north in one more day. What did he hope to accomplish with regard to Missy Burke between now and then? Chancy asked himself. What could possibly happen in twenty-four hours? She’d fall in love with him and beg him not to go and they would marry and raise kids and live happily ever after?

  Chancy forgot himself and snorted at how silly that sounded. It caused his swollen eye and lip to act up.

  They hardly knew each other. All seeing her again would do was make him pine for her on the trail.

  Maybe the smart thing to do, Chancy mused, was not to. Make a clean break now, before it went any further. He’d pine for a bit and then get on with his life.

  “How are you feeling, pard?”

  Chancy hadn’t noticed Ollie sit up. “A few aches,” he allowed, “but only when I breathe.”

  Ollie chuckled, then yawned and scratched his head and jammed his hat on. “You look like you’ve been stomped by a bull. Your face is more black and blue than whatever color we really are.”

  “Whatever color?” Chancy said.

  “We talked about this before. Most folks say we’re white, but my grandma used to say we’re really pink, which makes no sense, since pigs are pink and we look nothing like pigs.”

  Chancy started to grin and caught himself. “I can always count on you to start my day off right.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “By being you.”

  “Who else would I be?” Ollie said. Casting off his blanket, he scratched his armpit. “We should have Laverne Dodger take a look at you. Could be all those punches rattled your brain.”

  And just like that, Chancy had an excuse for going into town. He didn’t have to sneak in. He’d come right out and ask Lucas Stout if he could go see the sawbones. “Pard, you are a marvel.”

  “If I am it’s news to me.”

  Others were waking up, and a general stir was about the camp.

  “You know,” Ollie said as he began to roll up his bedroll. “I was thinking last night before I fell asleep. We sure were lucky to find a town like Prosperity.”

  “It didn’t take much finding,” Chancy said. “They’re right on the cattle trail.”

  Ollie didn’t seem to hear him. “But it sure is a strange town. I don’t mean because the doctor isn’t really a doctor and their lawman isn’t really a lawman.”

  “What are you prattling about?” Chancy said.

  “The women.”

  “What about them?”

  Ollie looked over. “Didn’t you notice? Except for Missy Burke and Della and those other doves, there aren’t any. I didn’t see another female anywhere. No sprouts neither.”

  Now that Chancy thought about it, he hadn’t either.

  “Isn’t that strange? What kind of town doesn’t have wives and kids running around?”

  “I’ve never heard of one,” Chancy admitted.

  “There you go,” Ollie said.

  Chapter 20

  Chancy couldn’t get that out of his head. It nagged at him the rest of the morning. He’d never heard of a town without women. Doves didn’t count. Sometimes saloons had them; sometimes they didn’t. But towns always had ordinary females: wives and single women and little girls. The more he thought about it, the stranger it seemed. He made up his mind to ask Missy about it when they met.

  Getting there proved easier than he’d reckoned. Ollie inadvertently helped.

  Shortly after breakfast, Lucas Stout and Rigenaw came over. Stout, never one to mince words, took one look at Chancy and remarked, “You look like hell, Gantry.”

  “Doesn’t he, though?” Ollie piped up. “Maybe I should fetch him to that sort-of sawbones in Prosperity and let the doc have a look at him.”

  “He’ll live,” Rigenaw said.

  Ollie persisted. “The doc might have some medicine for the swelling. My pard can’t hardly eat with his lip swollen like that, and he can’t hardly see out of his left eye. It’s swelled almost shut.”

  “I was hurt worse when I was thrown by a bronc,” Rigenaw said. “And I never saw a doc.
”

  Chancy feared that the gun hand would talk the trail boss out of it.

  “No,” Lucas Stout said. “It’s a good idea. It’ll save me an extra trip in. They can leave in an hour or so and check on Finger Howard while they’re there and report back on how he’s doing. I didn’t figure to go in until this afternoon.”

  “If Finger is doing all right, why not leave today?” Rigenaw said.

  “The cattle and the horses can use the rest. And there’s all the graze and water. They’ll be well fed and rested for the final push to Wichita.”

  “Sounds smart to me,” Ollie said.

  Stout and Rigenaw looked at him.

  “What?” Ollie said.

  Chancy could have hugged him. But so as not to seem too eager, he said, “Are you sure it’s all right, Mr. Stout? I’m no shirker. I’ll do my share of the work.”

  “You’re off herd duty for the day,” Lucas Stout said. “Tonight, though, you’ll take a turn. So be rested up by then.”

  “I will,” Chancy promised.

  “You young ones,” Rigenaw said.

  “What about us?” Ollie said.

  “In my day we weren’t pampered. When we were hurt, we got right back up and went back to work.”

  “That doesn’t sound smart,” Ollie said.

  Rigenaw stared at him, then snorted and grinned. “The Lord must be fond of simpletons.”

  Ollie laughed. “My ma used to say the same thing to me when I was little. Then she’d pat me on the cheek and tell me how much she loved me. She stopped saying it when I got older. I figured it was because I stopped being a simpleton.”

  “You figured right, Ollie,” Lucas Stout said.

  Ben Rigenaw reached up and pinched his nose and closed his eyes and uttered an odd sort of sound.

  “You all right, Ben?” Ollie asked. “You sound like you’re getting a cold.”

  “Oh Lordy,” Rigenaw said.

  For the first time ever, Chancy saw the gun hand burst out in hearty laughter. Rigenaw walked away still laughing and motioning with his arm at Ollie as if he were swatting flies.

  “It must be that town,” Ollie said. “Everybody’s acting a mite strange.”

  “You go in with your pard,” Lucas Stout directed. “Stick with him the whole time.”

  “I’ll stick like glue,” Ollie said, smiling. “Although just not as sticky.”

  Lucas Stout turned, then glanced over his shoulder at Chancy. “You’re lucky to have him for a partner. You know that, don’t you?”

  “More than anything,” Chancy said.

  “What’s so special about me?” Ollie said. “All of us got pards. Rigenaw has Lester Smith. Addison has Mays. Jelly has Finger Howard. Parker has Webb. Lafferty has Collins. Drew Case has Long Tom. There are pards all over the place.”

  “Explain it to him,” Lucas Stout said, and walked off.

  Ollie turned to Chancy.

  “How do I put this?” Chancy said. “Not all pards are as nice as you.”

  “That’s true, I reckon. Lester Smith talks your ears off with his tall tales. Mays is young and has fits of temper. Drew Case thinks he’s mighty tough. Lafferty spits tobacco all over the place. And Webb is always picking his nose and eating the boogers. I don’t know how Parker stands that. Every time I see it, I pretty near get sick to my stomach.”

  “You and me both,” Chancy admitted.

  “Stout should make it a rule,” Ollie said. “No booger-eating on the trail drive. I might talk to him about it.”

  “Why cause trouble?”

  “I suppose.”

  The next hour was a test of Chancy’s patience. He daydreamed about Missy, and fidgeted. He was so obvious about it that at one point Ollie, who had just brought him a cup of coffee, gave him a worried look.

  “Do you have ants in your britches?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “You ought to check. You’ve been squirming around like they are eating you up.”

  When it was time to go, Ollie insisted on saddling both mounts and brought the horses over. “I got you the dun with the easy gait.”

  “I’m obliged,” Chancy said. He wouldn’t have thought of that. Pushing off his blankets, he rose. Every muscle in his body protested. His ribs spiked with pain and his swollen eye throbbed. A groan escaped him.

  “It’s a good thing we’re getting you to that doc,” Ollie said.

  Chancy had a better medicine in mind. Sweeter medicine. With lustrous hair and the prettiest face anywhere.

  Ollie held the dun’s reins out. “I just had a thought, pard. Now you’ll get to keep your date with Missy Burke.”

  Keeping a straight face, Chancy looked at him and said, “I hadn’t even thought of that.”

  Chapter 21

  It was the longest ride of Chancy’s life. He swore he could see Missy’s image floating above the town, beckoning him with her smile.

  In the light of the new day, Prosperity might as well be a ghost town. Only a couple of horses were at the hitch rails. Not a sound came from the saloon. A single door to the stable was open partway.

  “Where is everybody?” Ollie wondered. “Most towns, the people are up and about by now.”

  Chancy shrugged. “Maybe they like to sleep in hereabouts.”

  “The whole town?”

  Just then a short man in an apron came out of the general store and threw a washbasin of water into the street. He saw them and smiled and called out, “Howdy, gents. You’re welcome to come in and take a look. I might have something you need.”

  “I could use some socks,” Ollie said. “All the ones I got, my big toe pokes out. Why is it always the big one?”

  Chancy thought of Missy Burke. “I’d like to pay that store a visit my own self. Let’s go in.”

  “Shouldn’t we find the doc first?”

  “Laverne Dodger can wait,” Chancy said. “I’m not going to keel over from a beating.”

  “I hope not. I’d hate to have to break in a new pard. The three I had before you didn’t stay my pard very long.”

  This was news to Chancy. “You had pards before me? I didn’t know that.”

  “Like I said, they didn’t last long. The first one said I was too much of a chatterbox and the second one said he had to go to St. Louis to visit his sick grandma and I never heard from him again.”

  “What about the third one?”

  “He just gave me a peculiar look one day and laughed and rode off. To tell you the truth, I was commencing to think I’m a jinx when it comes to pards, and then you came along. Now I know I’m normal.”

  “You’re that,” Chancy said.

  The general store didn’t have a little bell over the door that tinkled when the door opened, like most. It didn’t have the same smell either. Most general stores had a sort of fragrance about them from the items they carried. Pickle and tobacco smells, for instance. This one had a musty odor. The shelves were sparsely stocked, with a couple with town clothes and a couple with foodstuffs and a few more with tools and whatnot.

  Then Chancy got to the back and stopped in amazement.

  Taking up half the rear wall were shelves crammed with hats and boots and pants and shirts and belts. Cowboy duds, all of it, work clothes for the most part, the kind he and the others wore.

  “What’s all this?” Ollie said.

  Chancy hadn’t realized the short man in the apron had come up until he stepped in front of them.

  “My trail drive collection, I call it. I carry the biggest between Kansas and Texas.”

  “You can say that again,” Ollie said. “I never saw so many used shirts and pants in all my born days. Where’d you get it all?”

  “Oh, here and there,” the store owner said. “If you and your friends have any you can spare, I’ll take them
off your hands.”

  “Take it how? You want them free or do you pay for them?”

  “I’ll pay, of course.”

  Chancy was flabbergasted. In all his travels he’d never come across a store that bought used clothes.

  “Well, now I’ve heard everything,” Ollie said.

  “You’re making more of it than there is,” the man said.

  “Mister, everything about this town of yours is peculiar.”

  “How so?” the man said, his tone hardening.

  Puzzled, Chancy gave him a closer scrutiny.

  The proprietor had a square face with a lot of stubble, unusual in a store owner. Most shaved regularly or trimmed their beards to give a good impression to their customers. The man’s apron was stained and dirty, and his clothes weren’t much better. His boots were scuffed and his expression at the moment was anything but friendly.

  “I asked you a question,” the man said to Ollie.

  “You don’t have no women, for one thing. I never yet saw a town without females.”

  “There are doves at the saloon—” the man began.

  Ollie broke him off.

  “I meant normal women.”

  The man scowled. “Some of the men have wives. They don’t get out and about much, is all. Not in the heat.”

  “That right there is strange,” Ollie said. “Womenfolk like to parade around, no matter how hot it is. My ma and my sisters always did.”

  “Good for them,” the man said.

  “I didn’t catch your name,” Chancy said.

  “I didn’t give it,” the man replied. “But it’s Welker.” And for some reason he glanced above the counter where a shotgun with sawed-off barrels hung on hooks on the wall.

  “You have anything for ladies?” Chancy asked. “Doodads and such?”

  The tension went out of Welker, and he smiled. “Gone courting, are you?”

  “I have a sweetheart I want to send something to.”

  “You do?” Ollie said.