Ralph Compton Bullet For a Bad Man

by Ralph Compton

  ‘‘We don’t work there anymore. Your brother up and fired me.’’

  ‘‘What? Why?’’

  ‘‘For speaking my piece.’’

  Jeffers nodded. ‘‘And when Pete was told to pack his war bag, I quit too. He is my pard and I will stick by him.’’

  ‘‘Lightning is my pard,’’ Drub said.

  ‘‘Who?’’

  Boone shook his head in bewilderment. ‘‘Why did my pa let my brother cut you loose? Tell me about him and Ma. What have they been up to? I want all the news.’’

  The two cowboys looked at each other. Pete cleared his throat and had to try twice to speak. ‘‘Then you haven’t heard?’’

  ‘‘Heard what? Don’t stand there looking as if you were just kicked by a wassup. Talk to me.’’

  ‘‘God, Boone,’’ Pete said. ‘‘I don’t rightly know how to tell you this except to come right out with it.’’

  ‘‘Maybe we should sit down somewhere,’’ Jeffers suggested. ‘‘It will be hard enough on him as it is.’’

  ‘‘I don’t like the fork this trail has taken. Quit stalling, Pete. Say it now and say it plain.’’

  Pain filled Pete’s eyes. ‘‘Here goes, then. Your pa is dead. He was thrown from his horse and his head was crushed.’’

  Boone blanched.

  ‘‘Your ma is dead too. She couldn’t stand losing your pa and her heart gave out. Or that was what Doc Baker said.’’

  ‘‘Ma? Dead?’’

  ‘‘Doc Baker died too,’’ Jeffers said. ‘‘I am not sure of the particulars, but they found him in his office and stiff as a board.’’

  ‘‘Your brother is running the Circle V,’’ Pete related. ‘‘I was glad at first. He never impressed me much, but he is one of the family, and he had Dan Morgan to make sure things ran as they should. Then Dan was butchered by Apaches and—’’ Pete stopped. ‘‘Are you all right?’’

  Boone was quaking like an aspen leaf in a chinook. Clenching his fists, he pressed them to his sides as if he were in pain. ‘‘God in heaven,’’ he breathed.

  ‘‘As I was saying, Apaches got Dan. No sooner did we bury him than your brother hired a new foreman by the name of Blin Hanks and Hanks hired on a bunch of hands who don’t know the hind end of a cow from the hind end of a horse. When I mentioned that some of us were unhappy with how the ranch was being run, your brother sent me packing.’’

  ‘‘Ma and Pa and Dan Morgan too?’’ Eyes wide, Boone swayed as if he were drunk, then leaned against the wall for support. ‘‘What have I done?’’

  ‘‘You?’’ Sassy said. ‘‘You haven’t been home in months. How can you blame yourself?’’

  ‘‘I should have caught on sooner. If I had, Ma and Pa would still be alive.’’

  Pete did not hide his confusion. ‘‘I don’t savvy. Even if you had been there the day your pa died, he would still have gone out to tally the cattle. He wanted to be sure none were being rustled.’’

  ‘‘The Circle V is missing cows?’’

  ‘‘Your pa thought so, but he never got to prove it one way or the other. But most of the hands think that a few here and there have been driven off.’’

  ‘‘And my ma? You say her heart gave out?’’

  ‘‘She died in her sleep. Went real peaceful, your brother said. I never would have thought it, as healthy as she was.’’

  A wild look came into Boone’s eyes, but it faded and a new look came over him. His face hardened, his jaw muscles tightened. ‘‘Where is my brother now?’’

  ‘‘We haven’t seen him since he fired me. We’ve heard rumors, though.’’

  ‘‘What kind of rumors?’’

  It was Jeffers who answered. ‘‘Some of the Circle V hands heard the new hands talking when they thought no one was around. Just snatches here and there. Enough to give them the notion that your brother is a big man here in Ranson.’’

  ‘‘We came to find out for ourselves,’’ Pete said. ‘‘We’ve been asking around, and while most won’t talk to us, one jasper claimed your brother runs the whole blamed town.’’

  Boone slowly straightened. He pulled his hat brim down and squared his shoulders, and when he was done, he was not the man he had been moments ago. ‘‘Drub?’’

  ‘‘Yes, pard?’’

  ‘‘Take Sassy back to camp. If she won’t go, pick her up and carry her. Do I have your word?’’

  ‘‘You have it, pard.’’

  Sassy took a step back. ‘‘Don’t you dare lay a hand on me, Drub Radler. I will not be treated like a sack of flour, thank you very much.’’

  Grabbing her wrist, Boone pulled her away from the saloon.

  Sassy stamped a foot and poked him in the ribs, but he held on. ‘‘I am getting mad. We made a promise to each other, remember? To always be there when the other one has need of us. And you need me now more than you ever will.’’ Sassy clutched at his shirt. ‘‘Dear God. Both your folks, and those others. If you want to cry we can go off alone and I will lend you my shoulder.’’

  ‘‘Cry?’’ Boone uttered a sound that was the growl of a wolf and the snarl of a mountain lion rolled into one.

  ‘‘I would if it was me.’’

  ‘‘I can’t afford tears.’’ Boone gazed up and down the street. ‘‘They say my brother runs this town. I wonder how he will feel when there is nothing left to run.’’

  ‘‘That is hate talking. You are one man. You can only do so much.’’

  Boone patted his ivory-handled Colt. ‘‘I have a friend. Now promise me you will go with Drub and not give him trouble. I can’t do what I have to do if you are here. I would be too worried.’’

  Sassy flung herself against him. ‘‘You are scaring me. You don’t want to worry? What about me, out at our camp? What do you reckon I will be doing? It won’t be boiling tea.’’

  ‘‘Aren’t you always saying we must be open and true with each other?’’

  ‘‘So?’’

  Boone took her hands in his. He kissed her right hand and then he kissed her left. ‘‘This won’t be easy. I am not used to airing my feelings. But I will try, for you.’’ He paused. ‘‘You heard my friends. While I have been off feeling sorry for myself, my brother has been busy.’’

  ‘‘So what if he stole some Circle V cattle? And so what if he is a big man here in Ranson?’’

  ‘‘You have ears but you don’t hear.’’ Boone closed his eyes and shuddered, then opened them again. ‘‘My brother did more than that. All those people who died? He is to blame.’’

  ‘‘Pete said your pa was killed in a fall and your mother’s heart could not take the loss.’’

  ‘‘I will say it plain.’’ Boone took a deep breath. ‘‘My brother is to blame. Don’t ask me how I can be sure, but I am. He killed our pa and he killed our ma, and for whatever reason he killed our foreman and Doc Baker and God knows who else.’’

  ‘‘You don’t have any proof of that.’’

  Boone squeezed her hands so hard, he had to stop himself before he hurt her. ‘‘I feel it, Sassy. In my bones. In my gut. In whatever you want to call the deepest part of me. My brother was never what I took him to be. He is a killer, and worse. I could never live with myself if I don’t force a reckoning.’’

  ‘‘But what about me? What am I to do if you get yourself killed?’’

  Boone kissed her on the cheek. ‘‘You will go on with your life. You will find another man. In time you will forget me.’’

  ‘‘Damn you to hell.’’

  ‘‘There you go again.’’

  ‘‘Forget you? A woman never forgets the first man to claim her heart. If she is lucky, the first is also the last. You go and die on me, Boone Scott, and I will be in misery the rest of my days.’’

  ‘‘I am sorry, then.’’

  ‘‘There is no changing your mind? What if I beg? What if I get down on my knees?’’

  Sassy started to bend her legs, but Boone jerked her back up. ‘‘Drub! Get over here.�
��’

  ‘‘Here I am, pard.’’

  ‘‘Take her. Do as I told you.’’ Boone walked toward the saloon. He moved stiffly for three or four steps and then another quiver ran through him. By the time he reached the batwings he was his normal self except that his face resembled the keen edge of a saber.

  ‘‘Let the bloodspilling commence,’’ Boone said. And with that he strode on in.

  Liquor into Smoke

  Sounds slammed the ear like physical blows: the laughter, the swearing, the piano over in the corner, the bellows of customers trying to get the attention of the bartenders, the loud voices of those too drunk to talk quietly.

  The Acey-Deucey was alive with vice. Greed lit many a face. Low-cut dresses revealed many a bosom. Cold eyes glinted with the perpetual threat of violence.

  Into this liquor-seeped storm of lust and noise walked Boone Scott. He made for the far end of the bar. Some of the cardplayers and some of those standing about noticed his face—and when they did, they gave a start.

  Boone was oblivious. When a winsome young woman in a green dress caught his arm and pressed her warm body against his, he fixed her with a glare that caught her breath in her throat. ‘‘Go away.’’

  The woman went.

  Boone reached the bar and shouldered two men aside. It angered them and one opened his mouth to say something but apparently thought better of it. Boone thumped the top of the bar. ‘‘Barkeep!’’

  The nearest bartender approached. ‘‘What will it be, mister?’’ he asked with the smile of a man who was just doing his job.

  ‘‘Who owns this place?’’

  ‘‘Pardon?’’

  ‘‘You heard me. Who owns the Acey-Deucey?’’

  ‘‘If you want a drink I will pour you one.’’

  ‘‘I want an answer.’’ Boone placed his right hand on his ivory-handled Colt.

  The bartender’s eyes grew round with sudden concern. ‘‘There is no call for threats.’’

  ‘‘There is if you don’t answer me. A man named Condit owned this saloon a while back, didn’t he?’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘Don’t lie to me. I met him.’’

  ‘‘Condit ran the Acey-Deucey but he was not the owner. He ran it for someone else.’’

  ‘‘The name of this someone would be?’’

  ‘‘I am not supposed to say. The boss told us we are never to tell who—’’ The bartender stopped. ‘‘Wait a second. Haven’t I seen you somewhere?’’

  ‘‘His name,’’ Boone said.

  ‘‘Something about you is familiar. Who are you?’’

  ‘‘I am asking the questions. And I will not ask this one again.’’ Boone leaned toward him and his voice cracked like a bullwhip. ‘‘Who owns this saloon, damn you?’’

  The bartender stiffened. His gaze dropped to Boone’s Colt, and then fixed on Boone’s face, and all the color drained from his own. ‘‘Oh God. I remember you now.’’

  ‘‘Do you?’’

  ‘‘You’re him. The one who went berserk. The one who killed Condit and all those others. I am right, aren’t I?’’

  ‘‘You are right. And you will be as dead as Condit if you do not loosen your tongue. I will count to five.’’ Boone paused. ‘‘One.’’

  ‘‘Epp Scott owns the Acey-Deucey. He owns a part interest in some of the other saloons and businesses too.’’

  ‘‘My own brother.’’

  ‘‘Your what? Listen, all I do is serve drinks. I am not told much and I do not pry.’’

  ‘‘I am obliged.’’ Boone turned.

  ‘‘Wait. That’s it? You aren’t fixing to cause trouble? That is all you wanted?’’

  ‘‘Does Ranson have a fire brigade?’’

  ‘‘A what? No. We aren’t Tucson. Folks don’t give much thought to fire.’’ The bartender blinked. ‘‘Hold on. That’s a damned peculiar thing to ask. What are you up to?’’

  ‘‘I would make myself scarce were I you.’’ Boone threaded through the throng to the narrow hallway. He went past several closed doors and came to a door that was ajar.

  The bed had seen recent use; the blanket was thrown back and rumpled. A plump woman sat on the edge, doing her dress up. She was so intent on the buttons that she did not realize he was there. She kept trying to get a tiny button through a tiny hole, but it would not stay.

  ‘‘Ma’am?’’

  Jumping, the dove glanced up. ‘‘Damn it, mister. Don’t you know better than to sneak up on someone like that?’’

  ‘‘You need to leave.’’

  The dove tried the tiny button one more time and gave up in frustration. ‘‘I would like to shoot whoever made this dress. I bought it off the rack and have regretted it ever since. It is not made for a full-bodied woman like me.’’ She wriggled a fleshy thigh and showed slightly yellow teeth. ‘‘How about it? I am easy to ride, if I do say so my own self.’’

  Boone walked to the small table and picked up the lamp. The kerosene in the globe swished when he shook it. ‘‘Off you go.’’

  ‘‘What are you on about?’’ The woman heaved up off the bed. ‘‘This is my room. Why should I go anywhere?’’

  Drawing back his arm, Boone said, ‘‘It will be awful hot in here in a few minutes.’’

  ‘‘Dear Lord!’’ The dove backpedaled. ‘‘Don’t do that! It will set the place on fire.’’

  ‘‘That it will.’’ Boone threw the lamp with all his might. The globe smashed to bits and kerosene splattered the wall. Instantly, flames erupted. Small flames at first, they grew rapidly.

  Shrieking, the dove lumbered from the room. She began bawling at the top of her powerful lungs. ‘‘Maniac! Maniac! There is a maniac on the loose!’’

  Boone walked down the hall until he came to another open door. The room was empty. He never hesitated. The lamp suffered the same fate as the other. When he came back out, smoke was spewing from the first room. Shouts and pounding feet filled the front of the saloon.

  Boone moved toward the rear. A bloodstain marked the spot where Jarrott had died. Boone stopped and opened the door to Lucy’s room. It too was empty, but the lamp was lit. He smashed it on the floor.

  Panic had gripped the Acey-Deucey. There were frantic shouts and screams and cries of ‘‘Water! Fetch water!’’

  Boone went out the back door. He left it open so the breeze would fan the spreading flames, and strolled around to the front.

  A crowd was gathering. People raced from every direction as yells spread up and down the street.

  No one paid attention to Boone. He leaned against a post in front of a restaurant to watch.

  The Acey-Deucey was emptying just as fast as those inside could move their legs. Many coughed and streamed tears. Through the front window men could be seen dashing water on the flames or trying to smother the flames with blankets. The dry wood had caught like tinder, and before long the saloon was abandoned to its fiery fate.

  The crowd quieted as it became apparent there was nothing anyone could do. Many were dumbfounded by the catastrophe. Then one among them woke up to the greater danger the fire posed and began bellowing that something must be done to save the rest of Ranson.

  A stampede started. Some fled in blind flight. Others sought to stem the spread. Finally one man assumed command by virtue of his ability to shout louder than the rest. He reminded them that Ranson had been built over a spring, that the spring could save them if they formed a bucket brigade and surrounded the saloon.

  Men rushed to the general store and anywhere else that might have buckets. They filled the buckets and lines were formed. A lot of the water was wasted, sloshing over the sides as the men hurried to take positions.

  The idea was a good one, but it had flaws. More men formed a line in front of the saloon than along either side, and fewer yet ran all the way around to the back. They did not think to space themselves and there were gaps here and there.

  Then there was their fear.

  A fir
e can be frightening. A large fire, with ten-foot flames roaring out of control, can chill the blood and stop the heart. By the time the hastily organized firefighters assembled, the saloon was nearly engulfed. Flames had climbed up the walls and shot from holes in the roof. A cacophony of sound exploded from the belly of the blazing beast. Wood snapped, crackled and popped. Glass shattered and tinkled. Bottles burst. Some of the shotgun shells behind the bar went off, and the people outside jumped and ducked.

  The man in command bellowed for the fire brigade to close in and use their buckets. But by now the flames were so big and the heat so intense that few could get close enough. The fire changed the water that was thrown into steam. Hardly any of the flames were extinguished.

  A new fear set in. When the wall facing the restaurant buckled and writhing flames poured out, the men on that side ran.

  Boone reclaimed his palomino and walked over to join onlookers farther away.

  The restaurant’s owner pleaded to have his establishment saved, but few were willing to rally to its defense. Those who did had no chance of stopping the spread. They dashed water and produced a lot of sizzle and flash, but that was all.

  From the restaurant the inferno spread to another saloon. Shock spread as the full gravity of the disaster became apparent.

  Barring a miracle, Ranson was doomed.

  There was nothing for the crowd to do but to watch in helpless dismay as structure after structure was consumed. Some ran to save personal effects. Some ran for their mounts or wagons and fled into the night.

  Varied emotions seized the watchers. Excitement in a few, sadness in many, fascination in nearly all. The conflagration was spectacular.

  Frontier towns suffered fires much too often. Some burned to the ground and were rebuilt. Several had burned down two or three times, only to rise, phoenixlike, from the ashes. Whether the same would happen to Ranson was anyone’s guess.

  Boone did not share in the general bedlam. The only time he showed any emotion was when a woman wailed that she had lost everything she owned.

  Men railed and cursed and wondered how the fire started. Someone said that he had heard a drunk knocked over a lamp. Another said that, no, he had been in the Acey-Deucey when it broke out, and the fire had been deliberately set. When others asked who was to blame, he replied that he had not seen the culprit, himself.