Ralph Compton Nowhere, TX

by Compton, Ralph

  “You and your wife get along fine,” Randy said, puzzled by the trail their talk had taken.

  “That we do, son. But only because Helen isn’t one of those women who holds grudges. She doesn’t carp a man to death over every little thing she thinks he’s doing wrong.” George hung the sign, aligning it so it was straight. “I can’t say as my daughter is quite as forgiving.”

  “Sure she is.” Randy defended his love. “Sally is the nicest girl who ever drew breath.”

  George was behind the counter again. “She was hoping you would ask for her hand, you know.”

  Randy kneaded his hat as if it were bread dough. “A man has to be sure the timin’ is right.”

  “Women won’t wait forever, Randall. Some things in life just can’t be put off.” George smiled. “I’ve always liked you, though, for what that’s worth.”

  Now Randy was worried. Severely worried. The door to the living quarters opened and Sally was there, her golden hair as lustrous as ever, her eyes the same marvelous emeralds. Randy reached her before she could blink and clasped her hands in his. “At last! Let me drink in the sight of you.”

  “You’re finally here.” Sally glanced at her father, who excused himself and shut the door.

  The instant he was gone, Randy enfolded her in his arms and breathed deep of her fragrant scent. “I’m sorry it’s been so long. I’ve thought of you every minute. You can’t know how much I’ve missed you.”

  “There have been some changes,” Sally said.

  It dawned on Randy that she was not returning his hug. “So I saw. Nowhere is livelier than Beaver City and that takes some doing.” He kissed her forehead. “I reckon nothin’ ever stays the same.”

  “All too true.”

  Randy stepped back to admire her. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinkin’, and you and I have some serious talkin’ to do.”

  Sally stepped to the vinegar barrel and perched on top of it. “That’s for sure.”

  “This is one of the happiest days of your life,” Randy said. “Your wish is about to come true.”

  “All that praying finally paid off?” Sally bowed her chin and her hair fell across her face. “Who would have thought it?”

  “That’s right,” Randy said. Sinking onto his right knee, he gently took her right hand. “I don’t rightly know how it’s supposed to be done but this is how my pa proposed to my ma, so here goes.” He cleared his throat. “Sally Ann Palmer, will you do me the honor of becomin’ my wife?”

  “No.”

  “I ain’t much to brag on but give me time and I’ll prove I can—” Randy stopped. “What did you say?”

  “I decline your offer, Mr. Quin,” Sally said formally.

  Randy thought she must be teasing. He prayed she was teasing. “But you’ve wanted me to propose for months. Now you’re sayin’ you want me to hold off askin’ after I finally get up the gumption to do the deed?”

  “I’m saying I shouldn’t tie myself to one man. I’m young yet. I’m fairly pretty. I should keep my prospects open.”

  Randy went to stand but his legs nearly gave out from under him and he had to grip the vinegar barrel for support. “I must be havin’ a nightmare. How can things go from rosy to awful so sudden?”

  “What’s so sudden about it?” was Sally’s tart rejoinder. “I wasted pretty near a year of my life waiting for you to show some backbone.”

  “You call our love a waste?” Randy had gone as white as snow.

  “If what we had was love, it was the most peculiar love since Romeo and Juliet,” Sally bluntly replied, then softened. “The blame isn’t all yours. I was too patient. Too caught up in how a lady is supposed to behave.”

  “But you are a lady,” Randy said softly.

  “In some respects. But being a lady is only half of it. There’s also being a woman.”

  “I’ve lost your trail,” Randy admitted. His legs were steady enough for him to let go of the barrel and he stood staring down into her incredibly lovely face with his heart breaking into shards and bits.

  Sally gripped his hand. “Goodness, your fingers are cold.” Her eyes bored into his as if plumbing to the depths of his soul. “I’m truly sorry. The last thing I wanted is to hurt you. You’ve always been a sweet dear. Most any girl in the territory would be glad to have you court her.”

  “I waited too long? That’s what this is about?” Sally slid off the barrel and walked around the counter. “It’s about feelings, Randy. They change. If you had asked me to marry you six months ago, I’d have said yes before the words were out of your mouth.” She bit her lower lip. “Now I’m not so sure it’s for the best.”

  Randy was desperately trying to make sense of the disaster. “You’re ashamed of how I make my livin’, is that it?”

  “No, no, it’s not that.”

  “I’ve been savin’ every dollar I can—”

  “It’s not that, either,” Sally said, with more than a trace of exasperation. “Haven’t you been listening? It’s about feelings. My feelings. I thought they were chiseled in rock but I’ve learned different.”

  “You don’t care for me as much as you did?” Randy couldn’t keep the hurt from his voice.

  “Yes. No. I don’t know!” Sally suddenly covered her face with her hands, then just as quickly lowered them again. “You’re making this terribly difficult. Yes, I still care for you, but not in the way I cared for you before.”

  “How can it change? Just like that?” Randy snapped his fingers.

  “It’s been six weeks. A lot can happen.”

  Randy moved to the counter. “What can have happened to bring on this? One month you say you love me more than anyone has ever loved anyone, the next you’re throwin’ me out with the dirty dish-water.” He halted, the shock beginning to register. “That is what you’re doing, isn’t it? Cuttin’ my tether?”

  A tear formed under Sally’s left eye and trickled down her cheek. “We need to be apart for a while, is all. To give us time to think about things.”

  “I don’t think with my heart.”

  “Randy . . . ,” Sally said, and now a tear moistened her other cheek. “You have no idea how hard this is for me.”

  “You have no notion of how hard this is on me. I’ve never loved anyone before. Not this way. Not this deep.”

  “Please. No more.”

  “I feel like you’ve stabbed me in the gut with a knife made of fire.” Randy reached for her but she stepped back. “Can’t we at least talk this out?”

  Sally wouldn’t look at him. Shaking her head, she said, “There’s nothing else to talk about. Go, and don’t make it worse.”

  Slowly turning, Randy shuffled like a man bound for the gallows. His legs felt like wooden sticks. “I never thought—” he said, but he didn’t come out and say what it was he was thinking. He fumbled to open the door and at last succeeded. Then he looked back. “I love you so much.”

  “Go.”

  Randy quietly shut the door and stood blinking blindly at the busy street. Several punchers passed him on their way to the restaurant and gave him peculiar looks. Pulling his hat brim low, he crossed to the barbershop and stood under the overhang. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he stared forlornly at the general store, at the window and the golden-haired beauty inside.

  Sally stood with her head down for the longest while. Then she turned and took a few steps toward the front. She stopped when her mother came out of the back. They embraced, and Sally’s body shook, as from weeping. They began talking.

  Randy headed back over. His legs were in motion before his brain stopped them at the edge of the boardwalk. He waited for Helen to go into the back so he could be alone with Sally.

  At length the mother did. Sally stepped to a mirror and dabbed at her eyes. Randy was in motion again when someone else came from the back hallway, and an icy chill rippled down his spine. Without consciously doing so, he clenched his fists so tight, it hurt.

  Another man had moved up behind Sall
y. She turned, and they hugged. Her head fell to his shoulder and he stroked her hair, the whole while grinning.

  Randy heard a roaring in his ears that came from inside of him, from his blood boiling in his veins. He grew as hot as a burning brand. A heavy sensation in his chest made it difficult to breathe.

  Sally stepped back and was saying something to her suitor.

  To Randy, it was as if blinders had suddenly been slipped over his head. He saw Sally and the other man, and that was all he saw. The rest of the world, the rest of Nowhere, the street and the punchers and the townsfolk moving about, were blotted out as if they didn’t exist. It was like looking down a long tunnel, with the general store at the other end. He willed his legs to move.

  “Watch where you’re going, you lunkhead!”

  The shout barely registered. The same with the whinny of a horse and a muttered oath. Randy came to within ten feet of the store and stopped, waiting.

  Sally and her suitor were talking. The other man made a comment that brought a vigorous shake of her head. He reached for her arm but she shrugged his hand off and headed for her living quarters. Over her shoulder she made a last comment.

  Grinning broadly, his gaze on the floor, her suitor strolled to the door. He opened it and stepped outside and raised his head. “Well, what have we here? You must be Quin.”

  In a rush of insight Randy realized he hated this man. Hated as he had never hated before. “Who are you?” Randy’s voice sounded strange even to him, a cross between a growl and a hiss.

  “You don’t know? I would have thought you’d have heard by now.” The other man planted his legs wide and hooked his thumbs in his gun belt. “I’m Billy Braden, cowpoke. Sally’s new beau.”

  “What have you done to my girl?”

  “Your girl?” Billy scoffed. “I didn’t see your brand on her anywhere. Nor no ring, neither.”

  Randy took a step. “You’ve been seein’ her behind my back.”

  “Hell. You think I’m too yellow to court her in the open? Everyone in these parts knows I’ve been payin’ my respects these past weeks. Everyone except you, because you weren’t here.” Billy laughed. “Maybe you ain’t heard the old sayin’. Leave the henhouse open and a fox is bound to get in.”

  “I had plans,” Randy said.

  “It’s what a person does that counts, cowpoke. Or, in your case, what they don’t do. You sparked her for months and made no more headway than a bog-stuck wagon.”

  Randy was silent.

  “Don’t blame me for your faults,” Billy said. “And now that she’s given you the boot, don’t let me catch you triflin’ with her.”

  The roaring in Randy’s ear grew louder. “Be careful.”

  “Or what? You’ll pull on me?” Billy Braden lowered his hand to his side. “I hope to hell you do, you lump of stupidity. I’m under orders not to kill unless I don’t have a choice, so please, don’t give me a choice.”

  Randy’s hatred overwhelmed his reason. A fierce determination seized him, and he tensed to draw. Suddenly both his arms were seized and he felt himself being hauled down the street. “What the hell!” he fumed. “Let go of me!”

  “Simmer down,” Amos Finch cautioned. “You wouldn’t stand a prayer against that gunny.”

  “You’re just lucky we happened by,” Moses Sikes said.

  “Let go, damn it!” Randy saw that Billy Braden was sneering at him, and he fought harder.

  Moses had a calloused hand on Randy’s wrist so Randy couldn’t draw. “Not now, boy. Not when you’re like this.”

  Randy sought a final time to shake them off but his strength inexplicably evaporated and his limbs went limp. A groan escaped him, and he was glad his friends were holding him, because without them, he would have fallen in the dirt.

  “If you promise to behave, I’ll go fetch Lin,” Amos offered.

  At that very instant, from inside the saloon, came the blast of gunfire.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lin Cooley felt a tug on his sleeve and Kip Langtree whispered, “Shouldn’t we side with Joe?”

  “It’s his to do,” Lin said. “An hombre throws his own rope in this country. You know that.”

  “Damn etiquette all to hell,” was Kip’s response.

  Joe Elliot and Hap Evans and seven more Bar J punchers were on one side of the poker table. On the other side stood Longley and the twins and the scrawny man in the floppy hat. The player accused of cheating was still in his chair, holding the deck of cards. Everyone else had pressed to the sides of the room.

  “On your feet, card cheat!” Joe Elliot commanded.

  “The name is Craven. Clell Craven. And I’ll thank you not to bellow.”

  “I’ll shout if I damn well want to!” Joe retorted. “Now get up! The boys and me are about to show everyone what we do to card slicks hereabouts.”

  Clell Craven set down the cards and slowly rose. The pistol he wore slantwise across the front of his belt was a Merwin and Hulbert open top model, and judging by the worn grips, had seen a lot of use. “You’ve had too much to drink, cowboy. You only think you saw me deal from the bottom.”

  “Like hell,” Joe Elliot growled. “I could drink all night and all day and still not be that booze blind. Shuck your artillery. We’re fixin’ to run you out of town.”

  “Go to hell,” Craven said.

  Joe gestured. “Maybe you’re the one who is booze blind. Or can’t you count? I’ve got plenty of friends.”

  “I’ve got friends of my own.”

  The two sides took each other’s measure. Some of the Bar J hands were nervous, and rightly so. They were cowpunchers, not shootists.

  Joe pounded the table again and jabbed a finger at Craven. “Hidin’ behind your pards won’t help! This is your last warnin’!”

  Longley spoke for the first time. “And this is yours. Back off, cowboy. I can take you and your pards by myself.”

  Joe Elliot glanced at Longley’s nickel-plated Remingtons. “Who the hell are you and why are you buttin’ your nose in where it can be stomped?”

  “I’m his partner,” Longley said, with a nod at Craven. “Anyone who goes up against him goes up against me.”

  “That suits us just fine,” Joe declared. “Make a play for those fancy guns and you’ll be pushin’ up weeds.”

  Ike Longley smiled grimly. “If that’s what you think, you loudmouthed sack of pus, quit spewin’ hot air and show us what you’re made of.”

  Cooley saw Joe Elliot’s eyes narrow. Joe was calculating the odds and maybe trying to figure out who he was up against. Another few seconds and Joe would probably sheath his claws to spare his friends.

  But then one of the younger Bar J punchers, whose name Cooley couldn’t remember, cried out, “Let’s teach these polecats!,” and clawed for his revolver with all the finesse of a two-year-old.

  Twin streaks of lightning flashed and Longley’s Remingtons were clear of their holsters. He fired both simultaneously, sending a slug into the young puncher and another into Joe Elliot. The young puncher was rocked off his boot heels. Joe twisted to the impact, then drew his own pistol and fired from the hip, rushing his shot. He missed Longley and hit the man in the floppy hat, who clutched at his right shoulder and howled.

  “No more shootin’!” Hap Evans cried, but he was ignored.

  Clell Craven had drawn his pistol and now he fired at a Bar J cowboy leveling a Colt. The Merwin and Hulbert boomed, belching lead and smoke, and the cowboy folded like a collapsed house of cards.

  Longley fired again, into Joe, who had taken hold of his revolver with both hands and was trying to steady his aim. Again Longley’s twin pistols spoke. Joe was jolted but somehow stayed on his feet, somehow tried to get off a shot even though his shirt was stained scarlet and he couldn’t lift his arms higher than his waist.

  “Enough, damn you!” Hap Evans shouted at Longley as Joe Elliot collapsed. “You’ve shot him to pieces!”

  “He brought it on himself,” was the killer’
s rebuke.

  Clouds of gun smoke hung in the still air above the three prone figures. Longley trained his revolvers on the rest of the Bar J crowd and demanded, “Any one else want some of these pills?”

  There were no takers.

  “Then drag your friends out of here,” Longley demanded. “And be damn sure you don’t start any more trouble.” With a flourish, Longley twirled the Remingtons into their holsters, then stalked away, supremely confident he would be obeyed.

  Lin hurried over to where Hap Evans was cradling Joe Elliot’s head in his lap. “How is he?”

  “Breathin’. But barely.”

  “Tom and Woolsey are dead,” someone said.

  The Bar J boys lifted their fallen and carried them out. Cooley and Kip Langtree trailed along, Cooley holding Joe Elliot’s hat.

  “Did you see that fella with the fancy hardware draw?” Kip said. “He’s greased lightnin’ and then some.”

  Hap Evans had taken charge of the Bar J punchers. “Deke, go see if Old Man Taylor has his buckboard handy so we can get the bodies back to the ranch. Sam, you go ask Svenson if we can put Joe in that shed he has out back of the blacksmith shop. It’s big enough and quiet enough.”

  “Quiet enough for what?” a puncher asked.

  “So Joe can die in peace.”

  Onlookers were gathering. From out of them strode Marshal Lunsford, a Colt jammed under his belt. He was in need of a shave and part of his shirt-tail was hanging out and his hat was on crooked.

  “What’s going on here? I heard shooting down to the jail.”

  Hap Evans briefly detailed the gunfight.

  “So the Bar J boys drew first? You’re positive of that?” Lunsford asked when the old cowboy was done.

  “It was that hothead Woolsey,” Hap said. “He had more green than earwax between his ears.”

  Lunsford regarded the batwing doors. “There’s nothing I can do, then. The other side was within their rights.”