Ralph Compton Outlaw Town

by Ralph Compton

Rigenaw held up a hand when Chancy went to speak. “Not meaning no insult. We have more experience, is all.”

  “I’ll take them as they come, thank you very much.” Chancy resented the implication that they needed to protect him.

  “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  “Would you do any less if you were me?” Chancy demanded.

  “I surely would not,” Rigenaw admitted. “Which is why I won’t hold it against you. You have to do what you have to do. The same for Jelly.” He paused. “And the same for me.”

  “I don’t know as I like the sound of that. You’re not to do anything that will get you killed, you hear me?”

  “In a gunfight?” Ben Rigenaw said, and he did what anyone would do; he laughed.

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  Midnight arrived on the legs of a turtle. Each minute was an eternity, or so it felt to Chancy. He woke Jelly Varnes about half an hour before they were to head out. The instant he touched Jelly’s arm, the blond gun hand sat bolt upright with his hand on his Colt.

  “Oh. It’s only you.”

  “You must be part cat,” Chancy said.

  Chuckling, Jelly stretched and studied the sky. “It’s almost time. Did you and Ben get any rest?”

  “No.”

  “If you’re going to be trail boss, you have to learn the trick. Stout could fall asleep as soon as he laid his head down.”

  Curious, Chancy said, “There’s a trick to it? No one ever told me. What’s the secret?”

  “Empty your head. Just stop thinking. Wipe all your thoughts away like you’re wiping a blackboard clean.”

  “I tried that,” Chancy said.

  Ben Rigenaw had overhead. “It’s easier for some than it is for others. They have emptier heads to begin with.”

  Jelly Varnes took the rib good-naturedly. “I admit I’m not much for thinking. Waste of time, if you ask me. I’m more of a doer. I go and I do, and that’s that.”

  “The things you learn about the fellas you work with,” Chancy said.

  Pushing to his feet, Jelly stepped to the fire. He tucked at the knees several times, then windmilled his arms. “Limbering up,” he said.

  Chancy didn’t see the need. No amount of limb waving would do away with the tension that clawed at his innards. To take his mind off it, he said, “We have to take the night guards without using our pistols. Any ideas?”

  “We can bean them with rocks,” Jelly said.

  “I’m not much good at rock chucking,” Rigenaw said. “Even if we can find some to chuck.”

  “Sneak up close and rope them, then,” Jelly said.

  “They’ll have time to squawk and alert the rest,” Chancy said. “We want them dead before they hit the ground.”

  “I’ve got my boot knife,” Jelly said. “I hardly ever use it, but it will cut a man’s heartstrings as quick as anything.”

  “I have a knife too,” Rigenaw said.

  “I’ve got a folding knife in my saddlebags,” Chancy remembered. “But it’s a mite small for throat slitting.”

  “How about this?” Jelly said. “You two grab a guard and keep him from hollering, and I’ll do him in with my blade.”

  “Works for me,” Chancy said. “Ben, are you up to it? You’ve been moving a little slow.”

  “I’ll do what I have to.”

  Chancy climbed to the rim for a look-see. There was no moon, not so much as a sliver. They’d only have the pale starlight to work by. Which was both good and bad. Good, in that it would be harder for the outlaws to spot them. Bad, in that it was easier to blunder in the dark.

  Ben Rigenaw and Jelly Varnes came up on either side.

  “Ready when you are, trail boss,” Jelly said.

  Chancy glided up out of the gully. Staying low, he stalked toward the cattle. His hand was on the Remington.

  Jelly loped at his side as effortlessly as a panther on the prowl, his teeth white in the night in that perpetual smile of his. The stories told about him were true; he did smile when he killed.

  Ben Rigenaw appeared to struggle to keep up. Twice he stumbled, if only slightly, and caught himself.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” Chancy whispered.

  “If I wasn’t, you’d know.”

  It upset Chancy, Rigenaw being so evasive, but what could he do other than let the man come along and hope for the best?

  The low of a longhorn brought them to a stop. When Jelly slicked his Colt, Chancy did the same with his Remington. Ben Rigenaw, oddly, left his six-shooters in their holsters.

  The longhorns had long since settled in for the night. Many were lying down. Horns glinted, and a big steer roved restlessly.

  A night guard came into view, the outlaw hunched in his saddle, his horse moving at a slow walk.

  “He looks half-asleep,” Jelly whispered. “This will be easy as pie.”

  Chancy wished he could be as confident, but too many things could go wrong. He motioned for Jelly to swing to the left and for Rigenaw to go right while he crept directly toward their quarry. Either he or Ben would get a hand over the man’s mouth as they pulled him from his mount, and Jelly would strike.

  The last ten feet were a nightmare of apprehension. He thought for sure the outlaw would hear him, and turn, but the man did indeed appear to have dozed off. It wasn’t unheard-of to sleep in the saddle, but should a Flying V hand be caught at it, he’d be lucky to keep his job.

  On soundless soles, Chancy slipped in behind the horse. Jelly crept up from one side, and nodded. Chancy looked for Ben Rigenaw to do likewise, but there was no sign of him. Puzzled, he slowed and peered into the darkness. All he saw was prairie. He glanced at Jelly, who was also looking, and Jelly shrugged to signify he had no idea either where Rigenaw had gotten to.

  Chancy figured the wound had taken its delayed toll, and Ben had collapsed and was too weak to help. He had a choice to make. Carry on or go look. With the night guard mere yards away, the answer was obvious.

  Chancy nodded at Jelly and pointed, and Jelly nodded in return. They moved faster, Chancy coiling for the leap he must make. He was so close he could touch the animal’s tail when the rider did the last thing they wanted.

  He straightened and shifted in the saddle.

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  Chancy reacted without thinking. He took two long bounds and sprang. The outlaw opened his mouth to shout, but Chancy struck him on it even as he hooked his other arm around the man’s shoulder and neck. He let their combined weight and gravity do the rest, punching again and again as they toppled. They struck hard. By a fluke, Chancy was on top, and rammed his fist into the man’s throat. Cursing vehemently, the outlaw clawed for his six-shooter.

  Chancy was sure they were making so much noise the other two night guards would come at a gallop. He drew back his fist to hit the man again, and steel flashed out of nowhere. Jelly’s knife, driven to the hilt, went clear through the man’s neck. With a powerful wrench, Jelly sliced the knife up and out, in effect half severing the man’s neck from his body. Chancy threw himself back as blood sprayed every which way. Some spattered his shirt and his pants, but it couldn’t be helped. Scrambling to his knees, he drew the Remington.

  The outlaw was already fading. His mouth opened and closed as he tried to gulp in breath like a fish out of water. He broke into convulsions, his back arched into a bow, and he uttered a long, low hiss. His eyes locked in fear on Chancy, and he was gone.

  “Damn, that was slick,” Jelly Varnes said, and laughed.

  The humor was lost on Chancy. He started to swipe at the blood on his clothes but stopped. He’d only smear it worse. “We were lucky.”

  “Luck, hell. You were punching him so hard he didn’t have a chance to yell for help.” Jelly wiped his knife on the man’s shirt. “I keep this as sharp as my razor. Never know when a blade might come in han
dy.”

  “I would have taken you for guns only,” Chancy said.

  “I’d rather shoot than stab, but either will do when the need calls for it.”

  Chancy looked around. “Where did Ben get to? He should have helped.”

  “Maybe he got lost.”

  “This is no time for you to try to be funny.”

  “Try?”

  The outlaw’s horse had gone a short way and stopped. Apparently the smell of blood didn’t disturb it, because it stood there looking at them as if it was bored.

  Chancy walked in a circle. “I don’t see him.”

  “Could be he’s dead.”

  “You’re a big help.”

  “That slug is still in him, or didn’t you know? It’s been sloshing around in his vitals, and that can’t be good.”

  “Sloshing?”

  “Whatever a bullet does when it’s inside you. He should have let the sawbones take a look at him. The man has too much pride.”

  Chancy could have said that Jelly was a fine one to talk, but didn’t. “Let’s find him. We’ll spread out.”

  “You’re not thinking straight, trail boss,” Jelly said. “The outlaws are more important. The other two might wonder where their pard got to and give a holler, and we’ll have all of them on our heads. Do you want that to happen?”

  No, Chancy didn’t. “Good point. We’ll take care of the other two first.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  Chancy almost punched him. Instead he started around the herd, staying close to the cattle so his silhouette would blend into theirs. Jelly padded in his wake.

  Troubled by Ben Rigenaw’s absence, Chancy struggled to concentrate. He nearly collided with a cow that stepped into his path. Rather than smack it on the rump, he moved wide. He didn’t go much farther when a hand fell on his shoulder, bringing him to a stop.

  “Yonder,” Jelly Varnes whispered.

  It was the second night guard, moving away from them. He was wide-awake, and turning his head from side to side. On the scrawny side, he didn’t look all that tough, but looks could be deceiving.

  Chancy commenced a silent stalk. He froze whenever he thought the outlaw might be about to look back. Before long he was as close to the man’s horse as he had been to the other one. He matched his steps to those of the horse so that all the man heard was the animal.

  Jelly, at his elbow, motioned for him to get to it.

  When he was good and ready, Chancy told himself. They couldn’t afford a mistake. He crept past the horse’s tail, its thigh, its flank. Only a stride behind the saddle, he saw his chance when the outlaw let his arm dangle. Lunging, Chancy grabbed the man’s wrist, dug in his bootheels, and pulled.

  The outlaw let out a yip as he was unhorsed. Chancy swung at his throat to smother the outcry, and missed; he clipped the man’s shoulder. As the outlaw fell, he jerked his pistol. Chancy heard the click of the hammer and swooped his hand over the cylinder. Instinctively he slid his forefinger between the hammer and the frame so the hammer couldn’t strike the cartridge. The outlaw stroked the trigger and pain flared from Chancy’s hand to his elbow. He fought an urge to pull loose. The hammer might rip his finger open.

  Out of the night flew Jelly Varnes. Legs bent, his knife held aloft in both hands, he slammed his knees onto the outlaw’s chest while simultaneously plunging his knife into the man’s chest. The scrawny cutthroat went to yell, and Jelly clamped a hand over his mouth.

  Like a bucking bronco, the outlaw heaved and thrashed. Tenacious of life, he sought to throw them off. Gradually he weakened, until, with a gurgling grunt, he went as limp as a wet towel.

  “Tough hombre,” Jelly whispered.

  Chancy removed his hand from the man’s revolver and regained his feet. Two night guards down, one to go. He continued on around the herd but didn’t see the third guard.

  The campfire came into sight. Chancy figured most of the other outlaws would be asleep, but he was wrong. Three were still up, seated around the fire: Krine, Ives, and one other.

  Chancy flattened before they saw him.

  Jelly dropped next to him, bumping his arm. “Let’s shoot the buzzards.”

  “Not yet.” To Chancy, it was wiser to deal with the last guard first, but it could be the man was on the far side of the herd.

  “Tell that to him,” Jelly whispered.

  “Eh?” Chancy looked up.

  Ben Rigenaw, his thumbs hooked in his gun belt, was casually strolling toward the outlaw camp.

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  “What’s he doing?” Chancy blurted.

  “Hogging the big apples for himself,” Jelly Varnes said, and went to go past Chancy toward the fire.

  Thrusting an arm out to stop him, Chancy said, “Hold on. We go barreling over, they’re liable to see us.”

  “So what?”

  “So they’ll give a yell and all the others will be on their feet and Ben’s right there among them.”

  “It’s where he wants to be. He waltzed on over by his lonesome, didn’t he? Must reckon he can take Krine and Ives both.”

  “This isn’t about hogging,” Chancy said.

  “Then what is it?”

  Chancy remembered how Rigenaw had been favoring his side and wouldn’t let him examine the wound, and how pasty he was, and how much he sweated, and an awful truth became crystal clear. “Oh no.”

  “What?”

  “He’s doing it for us.”

  “What are you babbling about?” Jelly said in confusion.

  “You’ve seen how poorly he looks. He’s dead on his feet. He doesn’t have much time left, so he’s going to try to blow out the wicks of the deadliest of them so we don’t have to face them.”

  “The hell you say.”

  “Come on.” Chancy stalked forward. The outlaws had possessed the good sense not to make their fire too close to the herd, and it was a good twenty-five yards away.

  Krine and Ives and the third outlaw had put down their tin cups and were on their feet. By their expressions, they were surprised by Ben’s Rigenaw’s brazen act.

  “We’d best hurry like hell,” Jelly said, “or we won’t get there in time to help.”

  “They’ll hear us,” Chancy said. But he burst into a sprint anyway, pumping his legs for all he was worth.

  Ives had taken a step so that he faced Rigenaw square-on. His hands were at his sides, brushing his holsters. He was sneering, and said something that made the third outlaw chortle.

  Ben Rigenaw hadn’t moved. His thumbs were still in his belt.

  With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Chancy realized he and Jelly wouldn’t get there in time. A fourth outlaw, woken by the talking, had sat up in his blankets. Soon they would all be awake.

  And then several things happened at once.

  Ives’s hands flashed. So did Ben Rigenaw’s. Flashed so fast they were blurs. Six-gun explosions rocked the night. Before Chancy could tell who was hit, hooves pounded to their rear, and Jelly Varnes bellowed.

  “Behind us! The last night guard!”

  Chancy spun. Beside him Jelly’s Colt boomed. So did a six-gun the night guard was pointing at them. A hornet buzzed past Chancy’s ear as he returned fire. Jelly grunted.

  The outlaw was almost on top of them when Chancy thumbed the hammer and fired again. Suddenly Jelly took half a step to one side and fanned his Colt three times, as quick as could be.

  As if smashed by a club, the outlaw was flung from his saddle and tumbled boots over head. His horse galloped on by and kept going into the dark.

  Jelly immediately commenced to reload.

  Fearing the worst, Chancy whirled toward the fire.

  Ives was on his knees, looking down at himself, incredulous at the holes in his chest.

  Ben Rigenaw had a six-shooter in
each hand, and was swaying.

  For some reason neither Krine nor any of the others had resorted to their hardware, but now the others did.

  Chancy hurtled forward, yelling, “Ben! Get out of there!”

  Revolvers boomed like thunder. Outlaws fell. Ben Rigenaw pitched to his knees. Still game, he shot right and left.

  Krine, amazingly, hadn’t drawn his six-gun. Suddenly it appeared in his hand as if out of thin air, and spat lead once.

  Ben Rigenaw was slammed onto his back.

  “No!” Chancy raged. He fired even though he wasn’t close enough to be sure.

  All the outlaws were up and those still alive turned toward him, their own revolvers banging.

  Chancy shot, saw a man stagger, shot again. He would have gone on firing but his right boot came down on a rock that moved under him, and he stumbled. It might have saved his life. Lead plucked at his sleeve, at his hat. He fell onto a knee, saw outlaws rushing toward him.

  Then Jelly was there, his Colt low at his waist. He fanned, shifted, fanned, shifted, fanned twice more.

  The abrupt quiet was more thunderous than the gunfire.

  Chancy’s ears were brass bands. He shook his head, but the ringing persisted. He rose and took a step and pain shot up his leg. Gritting his teeth, he tested it. He had twisted his ankle, bad.

  Jelly had been shot in the thigh. The glow of the firelight revealed a spreading stain on his pant leg.

  Bodies lay scattered. Dark pools were spreading. One man gasped and gulped and shook.

  “We did it,” Chancy said in breathless wonder.

  “Don’t count your chickens yet,” Jelly said. He was reloading once more.

  “Ben,” Chancy said, and made to go to their fallen friend.

  “We check the owl-hoots first,” Jelly said. “Unless you want to be shot in the back while you’re bending over Rigenaw.”

  “They don’t look to have any fight left in them,” Chancy remarked.

  As if to prove him a liar, an outlaw rose onto his elbows, his pistol gripped in both hands, and pointed it at them.

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