Ralph Compton Showdown At Two-Bit Creek

by Compton, Ralph

  The woman rose and stood by Fletcher’s chair, tall and breathtakingly beautiful, looking down at him. “I want you, Buck. I want you at my side always. My body is all yours, freely given. It’s not a reward. There’s no price on it.”

  Fletcher gently pushed Judith away and got to his feet. “Maybe later, when all this is settled. But not now, and not with dead men outside.”

  Anger flashed in the woman’s eyes. “What do you want, Buck? Tell me, and it’s yours.”

  “I want three days, Judith.”

  “What?”

  “Give me three days to find out who’s behind all this killing. Can you keep your men away from the PP Connected until then?”

  Judith was silent for a few moments. Then she said, “Very well, Buck. I’ll give you three days. You’ll need a horse, so keep the dun. It’s my gift.”

  “Thanks, Judith. Hold the hands back for three days. That’s all I ask.”

  “You’ve got them. But when the three days are over, either ride with me or don’t stand in my way.”

  Fletcher took the woman in his arms. “Judith, you have to trust me. I know you’re scared, and I can understand that. All I need right now is a little time.”

  He kissed her then, but this time Judith’s mouth was cool and unresponsive. Cold as ice.

  As he rode away from the Lazy R, Fletcher turned in the saddle and saw Judith standing in the doorway of the ranch house. He waved. She didn’t wave back.

  He swung the dun toward the south.

  It was time to talk to Amy Prescott.

  Chapter 15

  The PP Connected ranch lay thirty miles to the south, along Horsehead Creek. To the east, the ranch was bordered by the Badlands, hundreds of thousands of acres of sharply eroded buttes, pinnacles and spires. Here and there sparse, mixed grass prairie provided an unexpected green counterpoint to the weatherworn brown and rust red of the rock.

  It was the Badlands that had forced Pike Prescott to graze his herd miles farther south, all the way to the Platte, and explained why he so badly wanted the Lazy R grass. Judith Tyrone’s range was much closer to the Deadwood stockyards, and Prescott’s beef would walk off little weight during the short drive.

  The country Fletcher rode through was mostly hills covered in pine and spruce, with here and there aspen, now a riot of color in yellow and red. It was wild, beautiful country that had a way of making a man feel glad to be alive.

  He passed small groups of cows, all wearing the PP Connected brand. Most of what he saw was young stuff, rangy longhorns brought up from Texas, with the notable exception of a single magnificent Hereford bull that glared at Fletcher belligerently out of red-rimmed- eyes as he rode past. All the cattle seemed to be in excellent condition. Whatever else Pike Prescott might have been, Fletcher thought with grudging admiration, he was a rancher first and foremost. He’d known his business.

  The PP Connected ranch house lay at a bend of the Horsehead. It was a low wooden building, its walls whitewashed, surrounded by several large corrals shaded by huge, spreading oaks. A barn with a steepled roof stood behind the house, and a dozen tall haystacks were neatly built against the coming of winter. A cookhouse, bunkhouse, blacksmith shop and some sheds completed the spread. To Fletcher’s experienced eye, the whole place had the air of orderliness that comes only from careful planning and a lot of hard work.

  Day was already shading into night as Fletcher reached the house and sat his horse outside the door. Several hands drifted over, some looking at him curiously, others with open hostility.

  Looking around him, Fletcher recognized no gun-handlers of reputation, though the whole bunch looked pretty salty and didn’t seem the kind to be easily stampeded.

  The front door of the house opened, and a young, pretty woman stepped outside. She had black hair tied with a yellow ribbon at the back of her neck, and she wore a simple dress of blue gingham, a heart-shaped locket hanging on her breast. This could only be Amy Prescott—though, slender and delicately boned, she bore little resemblance to her huge, overbearing father.

  Fletcher touched his hat brim. “Evening, ma’am. My name is Buck Fletcher, and I wonder if we could talk a spell.” He smiled. “Maybe over supper on account of how I’m powerful hungry.”

  Before the woman could reply, Higgy Conroy, a red-checkered dinner napkin tied around his neck, stepped out of the house and said, “Amy, that’s the man I told you about, the one who’s squatting up on the Two-Bit. He’s the saddle tramp who attacked your pa in Buffalo City. He’s one of Judith Tyrone’s hired guns, an’ I suspect he knows who killed the boss, if he didn’t do it his ownself.”

  “Conroy,” Fletcher sighed, his contempt for this man obvious, “you’re not wearing a gun, so I won’t call you a liar. But go heel yourself, and I’ll call you a liar then.”

  One of the hands giggled, and Conroy flushed. “Damn you,” he snarled. “Wait right there.”

  “No!” Amy Prescott said. “There will be no shooting. Hig, go back inside and finish your dinner this minute.”

  Conroy stood his ground, glaring at Fletcher. Amy, iron in her voice, snapped, “Higgy Conroy, do as I say at once!”

  The man threw a last, angry glance at Fletcher and stomped back into the house.

  “Please step down, Mr. Fletcher,” Amy Prescott said. “I’ll turn no man away from my home hungry.”

  Fletcher stepped out of the leather, and a puncher led his horse toward the barn.

  Amy waved a hand. “Please, come inside.”

  The interior of the cabin was warm and comfortable, its wood floor and furniture mellowed over the years to a deep honey color. A log fire burned in a huge stone fireplace, and Fletcher smelled the good smells of coffee and roasting beef.

  The gunfighter removed his hat as Amy directed him to a chair at the table.

  “Are you going to allow that saddle tramp to eat at your table?” Conroy asked, his snake eyes yellow and ugly.

  “He’s a guest, Hig,” Amy said quietly. “Where else would I have him eat?”

  “Hell,” Conroy snapped, “he can eat with the hands. And even that’s too good for him.”

  Amy Prescott shook her head. “As I said, Hig, Mr. Fletcher is a guest. I won’t send him to eat with the hands.”

  “In that case,” Conroy growled, jerking the napkin from around his neck and throwing it on the table, “you’ll eat without me. I won’t sit with saddle trash.”

  “Hig, please,” Amy said plaintively.

  But the gunman ignored her and brushed roughly past Fletcher, his eyes black with anger.

  “I’m sorry,” the girl said, her face flushed. “Hig is my foreman, and he can be very protective.”

  As Fletcher took his seat, he glanced at Amy. The girl was visibly upset. He realized that she regarded Higgy Conroy as much more than just her foreman. A friend maybe? Or did her feelings for the man go deeper?

  It was something to study on later.

  There was a roasted joint of beef on the table, along with gravy, potatoes, a bowl of onions and another of frijoles.

  Fletcher poured himself a glass of buttermilk from a cool pitcher, then filled his plate. The food was good, and he ate heartily, aware that Amy Prescott only picked at the slice of beef on her plate.

  After he’d eaten, Fletcher sighed contentedly and sat back in his chair. His hand absently strayed to his shirt pocket, and he quickly dropped it again.

  Amy gave him a knowing smile. “Please smoke if you wish, Mr. Fletcher. I’ve lived all my life around men who use tobacco.”

  Gratefully, Fletcher rolled a smoke as the girl poured him coffee. He lit his cigarette, then, easing into what he had to say, declared matter-of-factly, “Two Lazy R hands were murdered this morning. Shot from ambush.”

  Through a cloud of blue smoke, his veiled eyes studied Amy Prescott’s reaction. The girl was shocked, the blood suddenly draining from her pretty, heart-shaped face.

  She was either a good actress, or this had come as a complete surpris
e to her.

  “I exchanged shots with the killer,” Fletcher pressed on, his voice flat, “but he got clean away.”

  “But... but that’s so horrible,” Amy said, a tangle of emotions breaking up her words. “I hope... I mean, Judith Tyrone doesn’t think I had anything to do with it, does she? Or is that why you’re here?”

  Fletcher let the questions ride, saying only, “The PP Connected has been pushing her mighty hard.”

  Amy Prescott stiffened. “Aren’t you forgetting something, Mr. Fletcher? My father was also murdered.” Her downcast eyes looked at Fletcher from under long lashes. “Hig Conroy says you killed him or had a hand in it.”

  Stung, Fletcher shook his head at her. “I’ve killed men, Miss Prescott. I’ve never made a secret of that. But the men I killed were armed and facing me. I never in my life shot a man from ambush.”

  “Then, if you didn’t kill my pa, who did?” Amy asked quietly.

  “I don’t know,” Fletcher admitted. “That’s why I rode out here to talk to you. I believe there’s someone else behind all this, someone who wants to push you and Judith Tyrone into a range war. Then, when it’s all over and the gunsmoke clears, he’ll move in and pick up the pieces. It will be easy for him because most everybody will be dead or forced out of the country.”

  Outside, Fletcher heard Higgy Conroy’s angry voice raised, trying to whip up the hands. He prayed silently that he wouldn’t have to shoot his way out of here. He’d die, that much was certain. But he’d take Conroy with him, and a few others besides.

  But then nothing would be solved. He’d be dead, and the only person to gain would be the mystery man who was manipulating this range with all the skill of a ruthless and cold-blooded predator.

  Did Amy know that Higgy Conroy had killed Jeb Coons? Somehow he thought that unlikely. When Fletcher had told her about the murder of the Lazy R hands, the girl had been genuinely shocked, even frightened.

  He watched Amy Prescott as she gazed down at her plate for a few moments then pushed it angrily away from her.

  “Mr. Fletcher, I don’t wish to have a war with Judith Tyrone,” she said. “I admit that my father wanted the Lazy R. He tried to buy it, but Deke Tyrone refused. Then, when the old man was murdered, there were plenty around who pointed the finger at Pa, Judith among them.”

  Amy’s fingers strayed to the locket around her neck. “Mr. Fletcher, I loved my father, and that’s why I wear his picture here. I know he was an ambitious, hard-driven man, and that there was no give in him, no room for compromise. This country breeds men like that. He was many things, not all of them admirable, but he wasn’t a murderer.”

  “He ordered me off the Two-Bit,” Fletcher pointed out reasonably. “Told me he’d hang me if I didn’t leave.”

  Amy nodded. “That doesn’t surprise me. In my father’s eyes, hanging was not murder, but justice. I was just seven years old when he made me watch him hang a man, a young rustler who had come up out of the Nations.

  “ ‘Amy,’ he told me, ‘this is a hard land, occupied by even harder men, and we must live by its code. It’s a harsh code, and maybe it’s not just, but it’s all we have, and so we must honor it.’ ”

  “And what about you, Amy?” Fletcher asked softly. “By what code do you live?”

  The girl shook her head. “As of right now, I don’t know. But I will tell you this: I believe the Lazy R and the PP Connected can live in peace. We can both sell beef to the miners and the army. Someday, when the gold runs out and the miners are gone, we can ship our herds together.”

  Amy looked Fletcher square in the eye. “Mr. Fletcher, I don’t want to get rich. I just want enough to get by, to keep this ranch going. Please tell Judith that for me.”

  “I will,” Fletcher said. “She’s already promised me that she won’t move against the PP Connected.” He smiled slightly. “Well, she gave me three days to find whoever is behind all these murders. She won’t do anything until then. But I think that you and her can be friends once I tell her how you feel.”

  The girl nodded. “I hope so. And I hope you find the person you’re looking for. There’s already been enough killing.”

  It was in Fletcher then to tell Amy Prescott how he felt about Higgy Conroy, that he planned to kill him for murdering Jeb Coons. But he let it pass. This was not the time or the place. Instead, he asked, “Amy, do you know a young woman named Savannah Jones?”

  Amy shook her head. “No, I don’t. Should I?”

  “Not really,” Fletcher said. Then, not wishing to go into it, he added only, “She’s a friend of mine is all, and she’s been missing for a while.”

  “I hope she’s all right,” Amy Prescott said, and Fletcher heard true sincerity in her voice.

  “And so do I,” he said.

  As Western hospitality dictated, Amy offered Fletcher the spare bedroom in the ranch house, but he opted to bunk with the hands for fear the girl’s reputation might be compromised.

  The bunkhouse was typical of its kind at that time in the West, a long, low-roofed building made from cottonwood and pine logs. Inside, the walls were whitewashed, and a buffalo robe and some wolfskins covered the wood floor. Logs burned in a crude stone fireplace at one end of the room, providing warmth for the men who would sleep in the dozen or so bunks lining the walls.

  When Fletcher stepped inside, his nose was assaulted by the familiar aroma of any bunkhouse: man sweat, dry cow manure, old work boots, the licorice in chewing tobacco plugs and the coal oil that burned in the lamps hanging from the ceiling.

  Some of the hands were out on the range, and only six, Conroy among them, were in the bunkhouse. They made no effort to welcome him, and Fletcher had to step carefully over outstretched legs before finding an empty bunk.

  Conroy wore his guns, and his face was a study in vindictiveness and hate as he watched Fletcher stretch out on the bunk.

  “Don’t get too comfortable,” Conroy sneered. “At first light tomorrow you’re riding out of here.”

  Fletcher, ignoring the man, tipped his hat over his eyes.

  A hand sniggered, and Conroy, snapped, “Did you hear what I said, saddle tramp?”

  Slowly, Fletcher lifted his hat and studied Conroy with a single eye that had hardened to gunmetal. “Conroy,” he said, deliberately spacing the words, “some day very soon you and I will have it out. But not tonight, and not here.”

  The hand sniggered again, and Conroy, full of impotent rage, snarled, “The sooner the better for me. I plan to kill you.”

  Fletcher nodded. “You can try.”

  Again the hand sniggered, but this time the sound died in his throat, cut off by the sound of roaring guns and the drum of hooves outside.

  “What the hell!” Conroy yelled.

  He pulled his guns and ran outside, followed by Fletcher and the rest of the hands.

  There were at least a dozen men, some of them carrying blazing torches, galloping and yelling around the house and barn. The night was an orange-streaked hell of blazing guns and burning haystacks.

  One stack went up in flames, then another and another.

  Guns roared at fleeting targets illuminated by the flickering red and yellow glare of the burning stacks. Fletcher saw a rider fall. Then one of the PP Connected hands went down, doubled up by a belly wound.

  Soon all the haystacks were ablaze. Torches were thrown through the open door of the bunkhouse, its dry timbers catching fire almost immediately.

  Conroy stepped in front of a rider carrying a torch, and his guns spat flame. The man screamed, “No, Hig!” and plunged backward over his horse. Bullets kicked up angry Vs of snow and dirt around Conroy, and he sprinted for the cover of the blacksmith shop.

  In the fire-and-bullet-streaked heat of the moment, Fletcher still noted that cry. The man had called out to Conroy as though surprised the gunman had shot him. The question was, why?

  But he had no time to ponder the answer, because he saw Amy Prescott step out of the house wearing a long white nigh
tdress. Fletcher yelled, “No!” He ran to the girl’s side and pushed her back through the door.

  “Leave me alone!” Amy protested angrily. “Fletcher, you brought this to us!”

  The gunfighter shook his head. “No, Amy. I had nothing to do with this. You have to believe me.”

  There was only scorn in the girl’s eyes. That and anger.

  Fletcher grabbed the girl’s shoulders and pulled her close to him. “Listen to me!” he yelled.

  An instant later a bullet chipped the doorframe where Amy’s head had been, and the girl opened her mouth to speak again. Fletcher didn’t wait for what she had to say. He bundled her inside the house and slammed the door.

  Fletcher looked around him in stunned disbelief. It seemed like the whole ranch was on fire. Only the main house was as yet untouched. But someone had tried to kill Amy Prescott. That shot had been no accident.

  A man in buckskins, riding a black stud, its white eyes rolling, galloped up to the door. He saw Fletcher at the last minute and smiled. “Sorry, Buck,” he said, “but business is business.”

  He leveled his gun, and Fletcher drew and shot him. The man jerked in the saddle and tried to bring his Colt into play. Fletcher shot him again, this time square in the chest. The gunman went out of the saddle, landing on his back with a thud in the snow.

  Fletcher stepped up to the man, his gun ready. He looked down and recognized the pain-twisted features of the Tin Cup Kid.

  “Damn it all, Buck,” the Kid whispered, shaking his head in admiration, “that was fast. I can hardly believe it my ownself.”

  “You didn’t give me no choice, Kid,” Fletcher said.

  The Kid nodded. “I know that. But hell, Buck, you’re the fastest I ever seen.” Then he closed his eyes and died.

  Now that the whole ranch was burning, the attacking riders galloped away. Three of their number, including the Tin Cup Kid, lay dead on the ground, and with them three of the PP Connected hands and another who was gut-shot and could not live.

  It had been a devastating attack, perfectly planned, and it had accomplished its aim—to burn down Amy Prescott’s ranch around her ears.