Ralph Compton Bullet For a Bad Man

by Ralph Compton

  Boone turned, and swayed. A low cry escaped him at the sight of her curled on her side on the floor with wet scarlet spreading from under her. ‘‘God!’’ He dropped to his knees and held her head in his lap.

  ‘‘Boone?’’

  ‘‘I am here,’’ Boone said softly.

  Lucy’s eyes were open and staring right at him, but she said, ‘‘I can’t see you. Why is everything so dark? Is the lamp lit?’’

  Boone opened his mouth and closed it again.

  ‘‘How bad am I? Am I dying?’’ Lucy’s right hand groped for his and he grasped it and held it to his chest. ‘‘Why won’t you say something? Please. I need to hear you.’’

  ‘‘I am here,’’ Boone said again.

  ‘‘That was Sam Jarrott, wasn’t it? Why did he shoot me?’’

  Boone glanced at the heap in the hall and his eyes became flinty. ‘‘I reckon he was after me and you got in the way.’’

  Lucy shivered as if she were cold. ‘‘I am growing numb. I can’t feel my legs.’’

  Boone had to force his next words from a constricted throat. ‘‘Maybe you shouldn’t talk.’’

  A fit of coughing made Lucy groan. ‘‘Oh God. I don’t want to die. Stay with me, please.’’

  Boone had a coughing spell of his own. ‘‘I am not going anywhere,’’ he assured her.

  ‘‘What a stupid thing to happen. I never did anything to Sam Jarrott. Where did he get to?’’

  ‘‘He is dead.’’

  ‘‘I didn’t hear you.’’

  ‘‘He is dead,’’ Boone said louder.

  Voices at the saloon end of the hall preceded the patter of running feet that slowed as they neared the body.

  ‘‘Look here!’’ a man declared. ‘‘It is Sam Jarrott! And watch you don’t step in all the blood.’’

  ‘‘Someone has bucked him out in gore!’’ another man cried.

  ‘‘Find Condit! He will want to know!’’

  ‘‘I am surprised he hasn’t shown up,’’ said the first man. ‘‘He had to hear the shots. Everyone else did.’’

  Boone felt a slight pull on his hand and looked down. Lucy was strangely peaceful save for a red line from the corner of her mouth to her neck. ‘‘I am still here with you.’’

  Lucy swallowed. ‘‘Thank you.’’ In a bubbly whisper she said, ‘‘I am not long for this world. I can feel myself slipping away.’’

  ‘‘God, no.’’

  ‘‘I am sorry we did not get to know each other better. I like you, like you a lot.’’ Lucy stopped and coughed. ‘‘Pay no mind to what I said about you being a virgin. I wish I still was. I wish I was a girl again and living with my folks in Ohio. I wish we never came west. I wish we never drank that bad water and they never died. Most of all, I wish I never met Charley Condit.’’

  Boone held his tongue. It had dawned on him that talking was all she could do. He did not suggest she stop.

  ‘‘It was Charley got me started in this work. Him and his sweet talk. He got me to trust him. Treated me like I was his own girl. Then he took me, and I had no choice but to do what he wanted.’’

  ‘‘Took you?’’ Boone said, and did not recognize his own voice.

  ‘‘You know,’’ Lucy said. ‘‘Plied me with wine and had his way.’’ She suffered the most violent attack yet, and when it subsided, she lay spent and exhausted and gasping for breath. ‘‘Life ain’t fair.’’

  ‘‘No, it’s not. I never realized how not fair it is.’’

  Heads poked past the jamb and excited babble filled the hall.

  ‘‘Look! It’s Lucy!’’

  ‘‘She’s been shot!’’

  ‘‘So what? She is just a whore.’’

  Boone glanced at the man who had spoken. ‘‘I will be getting up in a bit and coming out. If you are still there, you are dead.’’

  ‘‘What did I do?’’ the man bleated. He did not wait for an answer but turned and ran.

  Lucy plucked at Boone’s shirt. ‘‘I heard that. You are not to kill anyone on my account.’’

  Boone stroked her forehead, then bent and kissed her on the cheek. ‘‘I wish I had taken you up on your offer.’’

  ‘‘You sure are sweet, Boone Scott.’’ Suddenly Lucy arched her back. Her mouth opened wide but no sounds came out. Instead, her entire body deflated. She went completely limp as her eyes slowly closed, never to reopen.

  ‘‘I hardly knew you,’’ Boone said.

  ‘‘Lucy is dead!’’ someone yelled.

  Boone shook as he carefully lowered Lucy to the floor. Straightening, he clenched his fists so hard, his nails dug into his skin. He took several short, sharp breaths. Then he replaced the spent cartridges in his Colt, slid the six-shooter back into his holster and stalked from the room.

  Gun Spree

  The hall was empty save for the body.

  Boone Scott stopped. He drew back a leg as if to kick it but then lowered his leg, and squatted. He studied Sam Jarrott’s pasty face. He went through each of Jarrott’s pockets. In one he found a wad of bills. Close to five hundred dollars, by his quick count. He stuffed the wad in his own pocket, rose and made for the saloon.

  Faces peered at him from the far end of the hall, but they hastily drew back. None of the doors that lined the hall were open. Boone came to the room where he had left his brother. Again he paused. But he did not open it. He strode on.

  A stillness gripped the Acey-Deucey. All eyes were on Boone as he emerged. Frozen figures and fearful expressions showed that word had spread and everyone knew death was abroad.

  Two men wearing revolvers barred his way. One was stout, the other skinny. They did not look scared. They looked angry.

  ‘‘You there!’’ the stout one said.

  Boone stopped.

  ‘‘That was our pard you just killed. We came here with him, and we do not take kindly to what you’ve done.’’

  ‘‘We do not take it kindly at all,’’ the skinny one said.

  ‘‘An eye for an eye is how we see it.’’ The stout man’s thick fingers dipped toward his revolver.

  Boone drew and shot the stout man through the head and swiveled and shot the skinny man in the throat. Both collapsed, the skinny man thrashing and gurgling. Boone calmly replaced the spent cartridges and slid the Colt into his holster. ‘‘Where is Condit?’’

  No one had moved. No one had so much as twitched. Violence was not uncommon in Ranson, but this violence was of such suddenness and purity that it shocked most into a state of stunned amazement.

  ‘‘Where is Condit?’’

  A man near the bar stirred and motioned at another man standing amid the poker tables and together they converged. They wore suits, not work clothes, the cheap general store variety that could be ordered through a catalogue and seldom fit as well as advertised. The cheap suits matched the unkempt ugliness of the men. An ugliness of the soul reflected in their dull eyes.

  ‘‘You son of a bitch,’’ declared the man who had been by the bar. He was taller and wider and his jacket was pulled back to reveal a Remington. ‘‘Who the hell are you and what the hell do you think you are doing?’’

  ‘‘I want Condit.’’

  ‘‘We work for him,’’ the second man revealed. ‘‘It is our job to take care of troublemakers.’’

  The man with the Remington said, ‘‘That is three men you have shot. You will not shoot any more.’’

  The second man’s fingers were splayed over a Hopkins & Allen army revolver. ‘‘We are no bluff.’’

  ‘‘I’ll ask one last time. Where is Condit?’’

  ‘‘We have not seen him in a while. It could be he left and did not tell us.’’ The man held out the hand that was not poised to draw. ‘‘We want your hardware, mister.’’

  ‘‘You do not know where he is?’’

  ‘‘I just told you. Now hand that Colt over, nice and slow. You must answer for your killings.’’

  ‘‘There’s no law in Ranson.’’
>
  ‘‘True. There isn’t. You will answer to Condit. He decides what to do with your kind.’’

  ‘‘Go home,’’ Boone said.

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘If you have families, go to them. If you just like breathing, leave while you can.’’

  ‘‘Bold talk for a boy.’’

  ‘‘We are paid to do this. It is our job. Now give up the Colt. You have our word we will not harm you.’’

  ‘‘Did you know her?’’ Boone asked.

  The man with the Remington scrunched up his face in confusion. ‘‘Are you drunk? Is that why you are doing this?’’

  ‘‘Did you know Lucy?’’

  ‘‘Lucy Fuller? Of course. She works for Condit too. She is one of his doves.’’ The man stiffened. ‘‘Wait. Why did you ask?’’

  ‘‘You don’t know?’’

  ‘‘Mister,’’ said the man with the Hopkins & Allen, ‘‘all we know is that we heard shots, and then someone came out of that hall saying that Sam Jarrott was dead, and some girl was dead too. Would that be Lucy?’’

  ‘‘It would.’’

  ‘‘Who killed the little whore? And why, for God’s sake? She was good for nothing except spreading her legs.’’

  Boone drew and sent a slug into the man’s forehead. The lead blew out the back of the man’s head, showering hair, brains. Half the people in the saloon jumped. Several women screamed. Some were too stunned to move. Others, aghast, wiped at their spattered clothes.

  Boone slid the Colt into his holster and faced the man with the Hopkins & Allen. ‘‘Your turn.’’

  The man could not take his eyes off his partner. He also could not stop saying, ‘‘Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!’’

  ‘‘Where is Condit?’’

  The man licked his lips and held out his hands. ‘‘You just hold on! You just by God hold on!’’

  ‘‘Condit?’’

  ‘‘Honest to heaven, I don’t know!’’ the man said, shaking now, his face twitching as if he were on the verge of a fit. ‘‘He does not tell us where he will be every minute of the day.’’

  ‘‘Did you like her?’’

  ‘‘Who? Lucy? Sure I liked the little—’’ The man stopped and glanced at his dead friend, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. ‘‘Sweet gal. I liked her a lot. Shared drinks with her now and then. She talked about her folks a lot. They live back East somewhere. Have a farm, I think she said.’’

  ‘‘They are dead.’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘You lied.’’

  ‘‘Please!’’ the man screeched, and frantically tore at the buckle to his gun belt. ‘‘I don’t want to die! I never did anything to Lucy! It was Condit. He sweet-talked her and got her good and drunk and had his way with . . .’’ The man’s words trailed off. He was caked with sweat. ‘‘God in heaven, I am stupid.’’

  ‘‘Did you try to stop him?’’

  ‘‘What

  ‘‘Did you try to save Lucy Fuller from Condit?’’

  ‘‘He’s my boss. I have no right to tell him what to do. He tells me.’’

  ‘‘That is not what I asked you,’’ Boone said quietly. ‘‘Did you try to stop him from violating Lucy Fuller?’’

  ‘‘Violating?’’ the man said, and gave a nervous bark. He looked around at the faces fixed on him and then at Boone. ‘‘You are fixing to blow out my wick, aren’t you? Oh God, oh God, oh God.’’ His eyes rolled up in his head and his arms fell at his sides and he fainted.

  Someone laughed.

  Boone surveyed the room. ‘‘Anyone else here work for Condit? Don’t be bashful. Speak up.’’

  Apparently no one did.

  ‘‘Leave,’’ Boone Scott said.

  A roulette player nervously coughed. ‘‘What did you just say, mister? I am not sure I caught it.’’

  ‘‘Leave. All of you. Now.’’

  ‘‘Who do you think you are?’’ a dice player asked.

  ‘‘There is only one of you and fifty to sixty of us,’’ said a man at the craps table.

  ‘‘You can’t shoot all of us,’’ was the opinion of a man at the wheel of fortune. ‘‘You are the one who should skedaddle before more of Condit’s hired help show up.’’

  Just then one of the bartenders heaved up from behind the bar with a scattergun. ‘‘Out of my way!’’ he bawled at several drinkers who flung themselves at the floor.

  Boone’s ivory-handled Colt was already up and out. His slug blew apart the bartender’s left eye and burst out the rear of his cranium in a shower of grisly bits and pieces. A bottle behind the bartender shattered and a hole appeared in the mirror.

  In the stunned silence that followed, a man exclaimed in horror, ‘‘The boy is a natural born killer!’’

  Shock had piled on shock so that now a few people were drifting toward the batwings. Once they moved, others joined them, so that within seconds a mass exodus was under way. An orderly exodus, until some started to shove, and the people they shoved went and shoved back. Soon everyone was pushing and yelling and cursing.

  The saloon emptied.

  Boone stood all alone in the quiet and listened to the tick of the clock. He surveyed the bodies and then noticed a gray-haired faro dealer who had not left. The man had his hands in the air but appeared otherwise unconcerned. ‘‘You were supposed to go.’’

  ‘‘I must stay at this table until quitting time. It is my job.’’

  ‘‘Is it worth your life?’’

  ‘‘You won’t blow out my wick.’’

  ‘‘What makes you so sure?’’

  ‘‘I am unarmed. So far you have only shot those who were out to shoot you. Well, except for the idiot who insulted her. But he should not have talked the way he did.’’

  ‘‘I regret him,’’ Boone admitted.

  ‘‘I knew Lucy,’’ the faro dealer went on. ‘‘If her folks hadn’t died, she would be living a nice life in a nice house somewhere, maybe with them, or maybe with a husband and kids.’’ He sadly shook his head. ‘‘That poor girl did not deserve the hand life dealt her.’’

  ‘‘She did not deserve to die either.’’

  ‘‘That is how things are. Life beats on you and beats on you. You can only take so much and then you turn hard and wonder where is the sense to it all. Whoever made this world has a heart of darkness.’’

  Boone smiled. ‘‘Yesterday I would have thought you were loco.’’ The smile died and Boone turned and went down the hall to the first door. He opened it, found the room empty and went to the next. A naked woman and a half-dressed man were on the bed and drew back against the wall in stark fear.

  ‘‘Don’t shoot us, mister!’’ the woman bleated.

  ‘‘We heard what was going on,’’ the man said. ‘‘I don’t know no Lucy and I am kind to females.’’

  The next room was filled with pungent smoke. A woman, fully clothed, lay on her back on the bed, gazing dreamily at the ceiling. She looked at him and smiled a peculiar smile. ‘‘How do you do? I am right tickled to meet you.’’ She giggled and raised a long-stemmed pipe.

  The next door was to the room Boone had left his brother in. He pushed it open. Three of the four men at the table playing cards glanced over in alarm. His brother merely nodded and crooked a finger.

  ‘‘Come on in.’’

  Boone entered but kept his back to the wall and sidled to where he could see the other men clearly. ‘‘Condit,’’ he said.

  Charley Condit was peppered with drops of sweat and had a handkerchief in his left hand. He was holding it so that it bulged in the middle. ‘‘What do you want, boy?’’

  ‘‘Why did Sam Jarrott try to kill me?’’

  ‘‘You would have to ask him.’’

  ‘‘I can’t. He’s dead, but you already know that. So are two of his friends and one of your gunnies and a bartender.’’

  ‘‘Hell, boy,’’ Condit said. ‘‘Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a good bartender? Mixing drinks is a scienc
e.’’

  ‘‘Stand up.’’

  Epp sighed and put down his cards. ‘‘Enough of this.’’ He pushed out his chair. ‘‘What has gotten into you, little brother?’’

  ‘‘You did not come to see if I was all right,’’ Boone said. ‘‘You had to hear, yet you did not come.’’

  ‘‘All I heard was shouting and shooting,’’ Epp said. ‘‘I did not know it was you. Now you say you have shot five men? God in heaven, how will Ma and Pa take it? They didn’t raise a son of theirs to be a lead slinger.’’

  Charley Condit’s handkerchief started to rise, and just like that Boone drew and shot him in the face. The slug smashed Condit’s nose and made a ruin of the rest; he oozed onto the table and from there thudded to the floor. The derringer under the handkerchief slid from his lifeless fingers.

  The two other men jumped and gaped in fright at Boone and his smoking Colt.

  Epp merely nudged Condit with a toe and said, ‘‘Six, now. This will break Ma’s heart. It surely will.’’

  Boone walked over and gazed down at his gory handiwork with newborn dismay. ‘‘What do I do, Epp?’’

  ‘‘Why are you asking me?’’

  ‘‘You are my brother. You care for Ma and Pa as much as I do.’’ Boone swallowed, hard. ‘‘This will break her heart, won’t it? Pa’s too, I reckon.’’ He gripped his brother’s arm. ‘‘Please. You have to tell me. What do I do?’’

  ‘‘There is only one thing you can do,’’ Epp Scott said.

  The Living Dead

  The Circle V continued to prosper, but a shroud of sorrow clung to the owner and his wife.

  Ned Scott went through the motions of ranching, but his heart was not in it. Lillian Scott went through no motions at all. During the day she sat in a rocking chair on the porch and gazed longingly and forlornly out over the valley. At night she sat in her rocking chair in the parlor, rocking. She never spoke unless spoken to and she answered in as few words as it took to say what she had to say.

  The servants whispered among themselves and avoided her as much as they could. Maria, the cook, took to crossing herself every time Lillian walked past.

  Before the Ranson shooting affray, the Circle V was a plum ranch to work at. The pay was better than most, the food stuck to the stomach and the boss knew cattle and did not look down his nose at those under him.