Ralph Compton Bullet For a Bad Man

by Ralph Compton

  A small ant came scuttling across the slab toward him. Epp paid it no mind until a second, larger ant came hurrying after the first. The larger ant quickly overtook the smaller. They merged, antennae waving. The mandibles of the larger ant opened and closed and the smaller ant no longer had a head.

  Epp grinned in amusement. ‘‘You are me,’’ he said to the large ant. Then he reached over and crushed it with the rock.

  The minutes dragged.

  Epp licked his lips and swallowed, but he did not have much spit. He spied a Gila monster moving from under one slab to another. In the distance several buzzards flew in circles seeking carrion to feast on.

  Drained by the heat, Epp closed his eyes and sagged. No sooner did he do so than the clatter of shod hooves on rock snapped him alert. He craned his neck toward the gap. The clack-clack-clack grew louder. The head and neck of his father’s horse poked out of the gap and then his father came through, so close that Epp could have kicked him if he wanted. Instead, Epp launched himself into the air. He timed his blow just right and brought the jagged rock smashing down on top of his father’s head.

  Ned cried out and flung his arms skyward. His horse, startled, bolted, and Ned tumbled to the earth and was still.

  Epp came down hard on his hands and knees. Pain speared his left leg, but he gritted his teeth and moved to his father’s side. Bending, Epp rolled him over. He started to smile, but the smile died a stillbirth as his father’s Colt blossomed before his eyes.

  ‘‘What are you doing, Pa?’’

  ‘‘Son?’’ Ned said weakly. A scarlet halo was spreading from under his head.

  ‘‘What happened? It felt like something fell on me.’’ Ned groaned and trembled and started to lower the revolver.

  ‘‘It was a rock, Pa.’’ Epp snatched the Colt from his father’s grasp.

  ‘‘What are you doing?’’ Ned could not seem to stop shaking.

  ‘‘I wouldn’t want you to shoot me. Not after all the trouble I just went to.’’

  ‘‘What was that?’’ Ned blinked, then shook his head as if to try and clear it. Drops of blood flew every which way. Gasping for breath, he stared up at Epp. ‘‘What is that in your hand?’’

  ‘‘Your six-shooter.’’

  ‘‘In your other hand.’’

  ‘‘The rock I smashed your skull with.’’

  ‘‘Oh God.’’ Ned moaned and got his hands under him, but the highest he could rise was to his elbows, and that cost him so dearly, he sank down, spent. ‘‘This can’t be happening.’’

  ‘‘Just lie there and die. It shouldn’t take too long. I can see your brain through the bone.’’

  Tears welled in Ned’s eyes. He tried twice to speak but could only gurgle. Finally he managed, ‘‘Why, Epp? In God’s name, why?’’

  ‘‘For the same reason I advised Boone that if he came back it would break your hearts. I want the Circle V. I was content to wait a few more months to make my move, but then you went and had to do a tally. You forced my hand. I couldn’t let you find out that I had a hand in the missing cattle.’’

  ‘‘No, no, no.’’

  ‘‘I’ll tell everyone a rattler spooked your horse and your horse threw you.’’ In mock sorrow Epp added, ‘‘I did all I could but you were too far gone.’’

  Ned used the last of his fading strength to croak, ‘‘Your mother! What about her?’’

  ‘‘Don’t you worry, Pa,’’ Epp said. ‘‘She will join you directly.’’

  Border Ruffians

  There were exactly ten of them.

  Ten riders who swept out of the night toward Porter’s, ten tough men on ten tired mounts. Their slickers and hats and boots were caked with dust. In the pale starlight they appeared to be gray. An onlooker could be forgiven for thinking they were the Confederacy, risen anew. But there were no onlookers. Not in this wild land, at this time of night.

  They thundered up on Porter’s and climbed down. One of the ten stayed with the horses. One of them always stayed with the horses. It was a rule set down by their leader, and they never broke his rules. Never, ever.

  It was their leader who barreled inside ahead of the rest, their leader who nodded at Drub and Wagner and Galeno. Their leader who stopped cold at the sight of the stranger at the table, their leader who said something out of the corner of his mouth that resulted in the rest spreading out as they entered so that they ringed the table and those sitting at it.

  ‘‘What the hell is this, boy?’’

  ‘‘It is good to see you again, Pa,’’ Drub Radler said.

  ‘‘I asked you a question.’’

  Drub smiled and gestured. ‘‘This here is my new friend. We call him Lightning.’’

  A dust-covered scarecrow next to the leader snorted. He was tall and razor thin and wore a black slicker. Under it were a black shirt and black pants and black boots. Even his belt was black leather. A belt with two holsters that sheathed black-handled Colts. The grips were mother-of-pearl, about the rarest type on the frontier, or anywhere else. Those grips told anyone who was gun savvy that the two Colts were custom models, made to fit the man. And a man who went to that much trouble was more than likely to be more than uncommonly good with them.

  The leader scowled. ‘‘You know I don’t like you making friends without my say-so. I have half a mind to throw him out.’’

  Galeno quickly said, quite politely, ‘‘I wouldn’t, were I you, Senor Radler.’’

  ‘‘No?’’

  ‘‘No, senor,’’ Galeno said. ‘‘Not this one.’’ He said those three words with great feeling. Then he looked at the rider with the mother-of-pearl Colts and he said very deliberately, ‘‘Not even you should think of doing it, amigo.’’

  That shook them. You could see that it shook them. They glanced at one another and shifted uneasily.

  ‘‘Is that a fact?’’ the man with the mother-of-pearl Colts said, and he sounded skeptical.

  It was Wagner who answered. ‘‘It is more of a fact than any fact you ever knew, Skelman.’’

  The leader studied the boy called Lightning. He might be sixty, he might be fifty; he never said, and no one had the gall to ask. Gray hair poked from under his hat, and his chin was speckled with salt and pepper. But the gray was deceiving. He was not in any way old. His body was well muscled and as durable as rawhide, and when he moved, his movements were those of a man ten to twenty years younger. ‘‘I am called Old Man Radler. I reckon you’ve heard of me.’’

  ‘‘No,’’ Boone Scott said.

  The rider on the other side of Old Man Radler cracked a grin. He was undeniably handsome, with a shock of black hair and blue eyes the ladies swooned over. ‘‘I reckon you’re not as famous as you think you are, Pa.’’

  ‘‘Shut the hell up, Vance,’’ Old Man Radler snapped, and scratched his salt-and-pepper chin.

  Porter came over, wiping his hands on his dirty apron. ‘‘What can I get you gents?’’

  Old Man Radler rounded on him. ‘‘What the hell is this?’’ He did not explain the ‘‘this.’’ He did not have to.

  ‘‘It is a free country,’’ Porter said.

  ‘‘Don’t give me sass. I don’t like it when someone gives me sass.’’

  Vance Radler grinned. ‘‘He sure don’t.’’

  ‘‘And I don’t like being threatened.’’ Porter held his ground. ‘‘Kill me, and where will you stop on your trips to and from the border? Kill me, and where will you get your whiskey and ammunition and whatever else you need without having to look over your shoulder?’’

  ‘‘I would not push it,’’ Old Man Radler said. ‘‘You are immune, but you are only immune so far.’’

  Porter nodded at Boone. ‘‘He rode in and wanted a drink, the same as everyone else. I did take my shotgun to him, but he draws faster than I can cock it.’’

  That shook them anew. All of them studied him, the man called Skelman with intense interest.

  ‘‘Tonight of all nights,’’ Old Ma
n Radler said, and turned back to his youngest. ‘‘What exactly do you aim to do with this new friend of yours?’’

  ‘‘I was thinking he could join us,’’ Drub said eagerly but uncertainly. ‘‘I haven’t had a friend since I was ten and my dog died. Remember my dog, Pa? Remember how he would lick me and play with me?’’

  One of the other riders laughed in scorn. ‘‘God, what a simpleton.’’

  To an onlooker it might have been surprising that Old Man Radler did not tell the man to shut up. Or that Vance Radler did not speak in his brother’s defense. But the biggest surprise was when Boone Scott stood. They all saw the ivory-handled Colt then, and a tense air gripped them.

  ‘‘Say you are sorry.’’

  The man who made the comment was astounded. He was of middle height and compact of build, and he favored a Smith & Wesson worn butt forward on his right hip. ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘You heard me. Apologize to Drub.’’

  ‘‘Like hell.’’

  Drub tugged at Boone’s sleeve. ‘‘He doesn’t have to, Lighting. I am used to talk like that. Barnes does it all the time, but he is not the only one.’’

  ‘‘We are pards now, aren’t we?’’ Boone said.

  Beaming, Drub declared, ‘‘Yes, we are. Real and true pards.’’

  ‘‘Then he will say he is sorry.’’

  Barnes looked at Old Man Radler. ‘‘Are you just going to stand there and let this pup get away with this?’’

  Old Man Radler glanced at Skelman, who was still studying Boone. ‘‘Are we?’’

  ‘‘I want to see him do it,’’ Skelman replied.

  Vance Radler laughed. ‘‘We sure do stand up for each other, don’t we?’’

  ‘‘I won’t tell you again to watch that mouth of yours,’’ Old Man Radler warned.

  Barnes shifted his weight from one foot to the next and seemed to come to a decision. ‘‘You better sheathe your claws, boy. I have killed more than my share.’’

  Boone waited.

  ‘‘As for saying I am sorry, not now, and not ever. Everyone knows Drub was born simpleminded.’’

  Boone waited.

  ‘‘In case no one told you, we are the Radler gang, and we don’t back down to anyone.’’

  ‘‘I was not talking to the rest of your gang,’’ Boone said. ‘‘I was talking to you. Either say it or turn tail.’’

  ‘‘Why, you miserable snot,’’ Barnes snarled, and his hand swept toward his Smith & Wesson.

  The nickel plating on Boone’s ivory-handled Colt flashed in the lamplight and thunder boomed.

  Barnes staggered back with a new hole between his wide eyes. The Smith & Wesson had barely started to rise from its holster when the shot rang out. His legs buckled and he fell to his knees and slowly keeled onto his side.

  ‘‘Jesus!’’ a rider breathed.

  Boone twirled the Colt into his holster and turned to Drub. ‘‘From here on out, no one insults you when I am around. Pards stick up for each other.’’

  ‘‘Pards stick,’’ Drub repeated, and grinned like a kid just given a handful of candy. Facing his father, he said, ‘‘Did you see, Pa? Didn’t I tell you he is my friend?’’

  ‘‘Son of a bitch,’’ Old Man Radler said.

  Vance was agog at the development. ‘‘I saw it but I don’t believe it. Barnes was no slouch.’’

  All eyes swung to the man called Skelman, who stepped up to the table. ‘‘Lightning, is it?’’ No scorn or ridicule laced his tone. It almost held respect.

  Boone shrugged. ‘‘It will do as good as any other.’’

  ‘‘I am top leather slapper in this outfit. It is not brag, it is fact.’’

  ‘‘He is a crack shot,’’ Wagner interjected. ‘‘The best I ever did see and I have been about everywhere.’’

  Skelman shifted toward Porter. ‘‘Fetch half a dozen empties.’’

  ‘‘Hold on,’’ Porter said. ‘‘Where do you intend to do it? Outside is better. I don’t want holes in my walls.’’

  ‘‘They already have holes, and it is dark out.’’ Skelman paused. ‘‘Do I have to tell you twice?’’

  ‘‘No, sir.’’ Porter hastened toward the bar.

  Drub was gnawing on his lower lip, but he stopped to say, ‘‘You’re not fixing to shoot my new friend, are you, Skelman?’’

  ‘‘No, Drub.’’

  Drub said to Boone in a half whisper that everyone heard, ‘‘I like him, Lightning. He never talks mean to me like the rest do. But he is scary.’’

  ‘‘Scary how?’’ Boone asked.

  ‘‘He can kill anything. Men, women, even babies. I saw him kill a whole litter of kittens once.’’

  Boone turned to Skelman. ‘‘Babies?’’

  ‘‘We came on some wagons that were hit by Apaches. The baby had an arrow in its belly, but it was still alive. I put it out of its misery.’’

  ‘‘And the kittens?’’

  ‘‘I hate cats.’’

  ‘‘He shoots real good,’’ Drub said. ‘‘Pa says he is the best who ever lived.’’

  Porter returned with an armload of bottles. ‘‘Where do you want these?’’ he asked unhappily.

  ‘‘Put them on a table over by the far wall,’’ Skelman directed. ‘‘Line them up in a row.’’

  Scowling, Porter swung toward the others. ‘‘Any of you want to help move a table? My hands are full.’’

  No one responded.

  ‘‘A free drink for those who lend a hand.’’

  Six men sprang and grabbed the table. Two others tried to take hold but were shouldered aside.

  Vance Radler hooked his thumbs in his gun belt and swaggered up to Boone. ‘‘That business about the insults. It does not apply to me. I am his brother and I will insult him as I please.’’

  ‘‘He insults me more than anyone,’’ Drub said.

  ‘‘It goes for you the same as everyone else.’’ Boone motioned at the crumpled ruin that had been Barnes. ‘‘When you feel the urge, think of him. It might help.’’

  ‘‘Damn you. Drub is my brother.’’

  ‘‘Then you should be nice to him.’’

  ‘‘Nice?’’ Vance blurted, and cackled. ‘‘What the hell are you? A Good Samaritan?’’

  ‘‘I am this,’’ Boone said, and patted his Colt.

  Now it was Skelman who laughed. Several of the others glanced sharply around, as if they had never heard him laugh before. ‘‘Damn, Lightning. You remind me of me when I was your age.’’

  Vance could not let it drop. ‘‘I do not like being told what I can say. I do not like it one little bit.’’

  ‘‘Feel free to object,’’ Skelman said, and laughed some more.

  Old Man Radler had been unusually quiet, but now he stepped forward. ‘‘Better rein in that temper of yours, Vance. We have a job to do soon and I cannot afford to lose anyone else.’’

  ‘‘Hell.’’

  Old Man Radler thoughtfully regarded Boone. ‘‘I like to take a while to judge whether a man is dependable or not, but you have cost me a man and you claim to be Drub’s friend so—’’

  ‘‘There is no claim about it,’’ Boone broke in.

  ‘‘All right. But he goes where I go, and if you want to go where he goes, then you have to join us. And by join I mean you do what I say, when I say, and kill who I say when I want you to kill. And you need to make up your mind here and now. What will it be?’’

  Just then Porter hollered, ‘‘The bottles are all set up. Just don’t blow holes in my table, damn it.’’

  Skelman crooked a finger at Boone and they moved to the middle of the room. Setting himself, Skelman swept his slicker back. ‘‘When I give the word. You take the three on the right and I will take the three on the left.’’

  ‘‘There is no need to do this.’’

  ‘‘There is for me if not for you. Don’t hold back. Give it your all.’’ Skelman’s voice cracked like a bullwhip. ‘‘Now.’’

  No one s
aw their hands move. Blurred motion was all.

  Skelman drew both of his revolvers simultaneously, each hand equally swift, and his were out and up even as Boone’s Colt rose. Six shots thundered and six bottles shattered.

  ‘‘Wheeeooo!’’ Wagner cried.

  ‘‘I never saw the like!’’ another man exclaimed.

  ‘‘They tied!’’ a third said.

  ‘‘No, Skelman was a shade faster.’’

  ‘‘You’re loco.’’

  Old Man Radler strode over and said brusquely, ‘‘Enough of this tomfoolery.’’ He focused on Boone.

  ‘‘It is time to decide. What will it be? Are you with us or not?’’

  ‘‘Count me in,’’ Boone Scott said.

  For Want of Breath

  The funeral was grand.

  Lillian Scott roused from her emotional lethargy to take charge. She spared no expense on the coffin. She insisted it be of the best wood and have red velvet inside. She also demanded that a red pillow be placed under her husband’s head.

  Tucson was a day’s ride by carriage or buckboard, so the guests had to stay the night. The evening after the burial, Lillian arranged a feast. She had Maria, her cook, call on Maria’s sister and cousins and an uncle for help. The dishes were a mix of Mexican and gringo, as Maria liked to call them.

  Tables were set up outdoors and everyone was invited to partake. Burying their friend and neighbor had put them in a somber frame of mind, and no one touched the food. Hardly anyone spoke.

  Lillian solved that. Dressed all in grave black, she went from table to table, insisting they get up and help themselves and have a good time.

  Over a dozen ranchers attended. So did a score of townspeople. Almost all the punchers were present. A band provided music, and to the astonishment of many, Lillian proceeded to dance and laugh and be as gay as she could be. More than a few thought it strange that she made merry so soon after losing her husband, but they were too polite to say anything.

  Epp Scott mingled freely. He too was in good spirits. He smiled as he shook hands and smiled as he was offered condolences. But he did not smile when, midway through the evening, Dan Morgan marched up to him.

  ‘‘What in hell has gotten into you and your mother?’’