Ralph Compton Nowhere, TX

by Compton, Ralph

  Sunset wasn’t far off, and long shadows dappled Nowhere from end to end. Every hitch rail was filled. Other horses were bunched wherever there was space. It was the busiest Saturday yet, and a rowdy crowd of cowboys, numbering close to thirty, were drinking and hollering and firing their pistols in the air. As yet they hadn’t noticed him.

  Lunsford swung wide of town and passed behind the buildings on the east side of the street until he came to the stable. After tying his horse to a rail, he cat-footed to the front. The rocking chair was empty. “Tom?”

  A partially whittled block of wood lay in the dust. So did the stableman’s folding knife.

  “Tom Taylor?” Marshal Lunsford entered the stable. “Are you in here?”

  A pair of legs was sticking from a stall.

  Hoping the old man was taking a nap, Lunsford edged closer. He thought there would be one body. There were four; Taylor and Sam Ketch and two men Lunsford never saw before. To go by the flies and the smell, they had been there all day, or longer.

  Shock gave way to anger. Just then Lunsford heard footsteps, and dashing under the hayloft, he cocked his scattergun.

  A hand poked inside the livery, then a head, and George Palmer asked, “Marshal? Are you in here?”

  Marshal Lunsford showed himself.

  “I thought it was you!” George was so happy, he gripped the lawman’s good arm and pumped it. “You won’t believe what we’ve been through! It’s been hell! Pure hell, I tell you! We’ve all been afraid for our lives. To say nothing of the lives of our wives and children.”

  “Suppose you calm down,” Lunsford said. He indicated the stall. “Start with them and fill me in.”

  “I don’t know all the details,” George answered. “There was shooting in the saloon the night you left.

  Taylor went running in, and then there was more shooting and after a while men came out carrying the dead.”

  “And since then?”

  “Everything was all right until a few hours ago. Several drunks came out of Dub’s and started shooting into the air and generally making nuisances of themselves. Svenson tried to get them to stop but they made him dance a jig by firing at the ground near his feet. When they tired of their sport he went back into his blacksmith shop and hasn’t been back out since.”

  “What did the rest of you do? Wilson and Renfro and Lafferty and the others?”

  “Lafferty is laid up. Something to do with a fist-fight with Jack Shelton. I told you. We’ve been through hell.”

  “It ends now.” Lunsford moved to where they had a clear view of the street. The cowboys were down in front of the restaurant, shooting holes in a water trough.

  “My wife is terrified,” George said. “She made me close the store. I was hiding behind the pickle barrel, watching, when you showed up.”

  “I want you to go to Svenson, Renfro and Wilson and have them meet me at my office in fifteen minutes. I’ll arm and deputize you.”

  “Us?” George had the look of someone who had swallowed a cactus. “But we’re not peace officers. I’ve never fired a gun in my life.”

  “Odds are you won’t have to. Crowds are only as wild as their leaders. Once we arrest the ones causing the ruckus, the rest will disperse.”

  “You’re asking too much.”

  Lunsford grasped Palmer’s arm. “Damn it, this is your home, too. And I can’t do it alone.”

  George backed toward the doorway. “That’s what we pay you for. To stop things like this. I’m sorry. I would help you. Really I would. But I wouldn’t be of any use. All I would do is get myself killed.” He scurried to the general store.

  The cowboys were having too much fun to notice.

  Ducking out, Lunsford stayed close to the buildings until he reached the saloon. Only a handful were left. Among them, Black Jack and three of his underlings; Ben Towers, Clell Craven and Ike Longley.

  “Look who’s back, boys!” Black Jack declared. “Where have you been, Marshal? Word was, you pulled up stakes and skedaddled.”

  “I need deputies,” Lunsford said.

  The four killers looked at one another.

  “You heard me,” the lawman said. “I can try to restore the peace alone. But to avoid bloodshed it’s best to have deputies backing me.” Lunsford nodded at each of them. “I hereby appoint you four.”

  “Us? Deputies?” Black Jack threw back his head and roared. “Are you drunk?”

  “It’s in your best interests,” Lunsford noted. “You want this town to grow, don’t you? Most folks won’t stay if there’s no law and order. How long will Nowhere last without the general store, the blacksmith, and the restaurant? You’d have to ride clear to Beaver City for supplies.”

  “So?” was Ben Towers’s response.

  “Go peddle your patent medicine somewhere else,” Clell Craven said. “We’re not sippin’.”

  Longley didn’t say a word.

  But Black Jack did. He laughed and thumped the table and declared, “By God, you tickle me! You truly do! And you’re right. A dead town ain’t any use to me. So how about it, boys? Want to have a little fun?”

  “Me a deputy?” Ben Towers said. “Now I’ve heard everything.”

  “Leave it to me.” Longley rose and hitched at his gun belt and strode toward the batwings.

  Marshal Lunsford hurried after him but couldn’t match the tall man’s stride and was a few steps behind when Longley moved to the middle of the street and advanced on the rowdy revelers. A few saw him and nudged others. Most were watching four inebriated cowboys ventilate the sign above the restaurant.

  Black Jack, Ben Towers and Clell Craven tagged along, Black Jack chuckling and tittering like he was having the time of his life.

  Longley was ten yards from the crowd when he stopped, his hands close to his Remingtons. About half were aware of him by now and had turned into a forest of human trees. The four cowboys emptied their revolvers and began to reload, and in the quiet that ensued, Longley said, “Enough.”

  Marshal Lunsford had never seen so much fear in so many eyes.

  All but one of the four cowboys imitated a scare-crow. He had his back to Longley, and was the drunkest of the bunch. “Who said that?” he demanded, turning on wobbly legs. “We’ll show you what we—” His mouth dropped open. “You! They told us about you!”

  “Holster your hardware,” Longley instructed them.

  Every man who didn’t have his revolver out promptly obeyed.

  “No more yellin’, no more shootin’,” Longley commanded. “You want to drink, you drink in the saloon. Anyone who objects, step up and say so.”

  No one stepped up.

  “Scatter,” Longley said.

  They scattered—some to the restaurant, some to their horses, most toward the saloon.

  Marshal Lunsford stepped to Longley’s side. “I want to thank you. I could never have done that.”

  “You’re right. You couldn’t.” Longley wheeled and stalked off.

  Ben Towers was still incredulous. “I never thought I’d live to see the day when a lawman asked us for help. Too bad that old stableman wasn’t more like you. I wouldn’t have had to kill him.”

  “What?” Marshal Lunsford said.

  “Maybe we should be deputies permanent,” Clell Craven proposed. “That way no one would ever cause a lick of trouble.”

  “I like that notion,” Black Jack said.

  Marshal Lunsford pointed his scattergun at Ben Towers’s belly. “Shed that shotgun. I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Thomas Taylor.”

  The three killers instantly grew somber.

  “What’s this?” Ben Towers said. “What sort of game are you playin’?”

  “My job.” Marshal Lunsford thumbed back a hammer and they all clearly heard the distinct click.

  “Careful with that thing,” Ben Towers cautioned. “At this range you’ll blow me in half.”

  “I use slugs,” Marshal Lunsford said. They didn’t blow a man apart like buckshot, but s
lugs allowed for greater range and still had enough wallop to knock a man down.

  Clell Craven looked at Black Jack. “What do we do? Say the word and there will be one less cripple in the world.” His gun hand was twitching but the scattergun prevented him from doing anything rash.

  Black Jack asked, “Are you sure you want to do this, Lunsford?”

  “Your man will have a fair hearing. In cases like this, we send over to Beaver City for Judge Arnold. He’s the closest thing No Man’s Land has to a circuit judge.”

  “I know who he is. He was a judge in Iowa or some such once, and he’s always gabbin’ about how No Man’s Land needs law and order.”

  “He’s also big on stretchin necks,” Clell Craven commented.

  Ben Towers hadn’t done as Lunsford directed and still held his shotgun. “You’re not takin’ me anywhere, tin star. Pull that trigger and I swear I’ll pull mine before I go down.”

  “Then we both die.” Lunsford set himself. “Which will it be? Jail for a while or a pine box for eternity?”

  Towers looked at Black Jack. “If he kills me, empty your revolver into the bastard.”

  “No need,” Black Jack said, abruptly smiling and at ease. “I want you to do as he says.”

  Towers blinked. “What in hell has gotten into you? First you let him deputize us. Now this?”

  “He’s right about both of you being blown to bits, and I don’t want you dead. Go with him,” Black Jack said. “Everything will work out. You’ll see.” He took Towers’s shotgun. “I’ll take good care of your cannon.”

  Marshal Lunsford backed off a few steps. “I’m glad you’re being reasonable.” To Ben Towers he said, “Walk ahead of me and keep your hands where I can see them. My left arm might be useless but there’s nothing wrong with my trigger finger.”

  “I’ll remember this.” Ben Towers headed for the jail. People stopped to stare but he looked straight ahead, his spine as stiff as a broom handle.

  More of Black Jack’s owlhoots were in front of the saloon. Zech Frame came to the edge of the street and put a hand on his hogleg but he didn’t draw. Dingus Mechum looked fit to bust.

  Marshal Lunsford didn’t feel safe until he swung the jail door shut behind them. He ordered Towers into the cell, then closed the door and locked it. Placing the scattergun on his desk, he sat in his chair and reached for the drawer that contained his flask. But after staring at it, he slid the drawer shut again.

  “What do you hope to prove?” Ben Towers was on the cot, one knee bent. “Black Jack won’t let anything happen to me.”

  “I keep telling you. It’s my job.”

  “Do you really think the sheep in this town will give a good damn when you’re feedin’ worms?”

  “They don’t figure into it. I took an oath.”

  Several small boys had their faces pressed to the window.

  “Get out of here!” Marshal Lunsford cried, and rose to shoo the sprites off. Up the street, Black Jack and Clell Craven were huddled with Zech Frame and Dingus Mechum.

  “You had impressed me as savvy but I guess I was wrong,” Ben Towers said. “When you’re gone, I’ll ask Black Jack if I can fill your boots. That would be fittin’, don’t you think?”

  Marshal Lunsford moved to the bars. “How many men have you killed?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “I’m curious. Longley, Craven, Black Jack, you. I’ve never had to deal with killers of your caliber before.”

  “Killin’ isn’t anything we brag about,” Ben Towers said. “It’s just something we do when we have to.” Towers removed his hat and rubbed his bald head. “The first was an uncle who abused my sister. The second was a man who tried to rob me. The third, a sheriff who tried to arrest me for the uncle.” Towers placed his hat on his knee. “After that, I was branded for life.”

  “And the others?”

  “Craven started out killin’ darkies. His pa was a Confederate major who died in the war, and he hates them worse than anything. Black Jack shot a drummer when he was ten for money to buy gumdrops and he’s been killin’ ever since. Longley, I can’t say. He never talks about his past.”

  “I wish you’d picked some other town,” Lunsford said.

  “Your only chance is to let me loose and light a shuck.”

  Marshal Lunsford stood and cradled his scattergun. “I have to see about some burials. Later I’ll bring you supper from the restaurant.”

  “Don’t bother being nice. It won’t save you.”

  The street was quiet. The sun had gone down and lamps were being lit. Marshal Lunsford stayed in the middle of the street where he could see trouble coming. He doubted Black Jack would try anything so soon, but as he went about gathering townsmen to help load the bodies onto a buckboard, he felt a growing sense of foreboding.

  Barring a miracle, his days, if not his hours, were numbered.

  Chapter Twenty

  Another grueling day of searching the chaparral.

  Lin Cooley and Randy Quin threaded through the dense brush with a skill that came of experience. Lin was in the lead, raking the ground for signs, the morning sun warm on his chest and legs.

  “Are you sure this is the smart thing to do?” Randy Quin asked. “I can ride back and fetch some of the others.”

  “We need to know,” Lin said.

  “I still can’t believe it. I never thought anyone would have the gall.”

  Glad he was wearing his buzzard wing chaps, Lin avoided thorns as long as his thumbnail. He rose in the stirrups but for as far as the eye could see there was nothing but brush, brush and more brush.

  “How did they know to come this way?” Randy asked. “How did they know there would be a trail?”

  “They made their own,” Lin said. The chopped vegetation had been scattered about but the chopped ends were plain to see.

  “As much work as it took,” Randy said, “they’d have it easier raising cattle honest.”

  For the next hour they hunted in silence except for the plod of hooves and the creak of saddle leather. Then Lin rounded a stand of scrub oak and immediately reined up. Before them the brush had been cut and flattened to form a sizeable clearing. Beyond, a wide trail, pockmarked with tracks, led south.

  “Here’s where the cows were bunched,” Lin deduced, “before they were taken.” He made a circuit of the clearing, Randy close behind. “I figure seventy head, or thereabouts, and four riders.”

  “Only four?” Randy said. “Let’s go after them ourselves then.”

  Lin smiled. “You’re as fickle as a spinster. We’ll report to the big sugar and let him decide. My hunch is he’ll want to catch the whole outfit.”

  “You think there are more than four?”

  “Could be,” Lin allowed. “Let’s follow a little ways and hope they change direction. If they don’t, the boss will have even more cause to be upset.”

  Miles later the tracks were still pointing south. Reining up, Lin announced, “This is far enough. We’ll go break the bad news.”

  “What is this world comin’ to?” Randy asked.

  “It’s always worse when it’s someone you know who strays too far over the line,” Lin said.

  It took most of the afternoon to reach the ranch house. Lin took his tally book and went up the steps and knocked.

  Dixie came to the door with a pair of scissors and a comb in her hands. “I’m trimming his hair.”

  “I’ll come back then.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. His ears work just fine.”

  Chick was in a chair in the kitchen, stripped to the waist, a towel over his shoulders. “Do you have the final tally?”

  “That and more,” Lin said. “And you’re not going to like it.”

  Dixie said, “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

  Lin placed the tally book on the table. “The Circle C is missin’ close to five hundred head. Most from south and east of the Coldwater. They use the heavy cover and move the cows at night. Th
e last time was about a week ago.”

  “They take the cows south?” Chick asked.

  Lin nodded.

  Chick started to stand up but Dixie pushed him back down. “Sit still. The rustlers can wait until I’m done.” She ran a comb through his hair and snipped with the scissors. “How will you handle it?”

  “I’ll go straight to Seth and demand he return the cattle or he makes restitution,” Chick said.

  “Hold still.” Dixie cut close to his right ear. “That’s not enough, Chickory, and you know it.”

  “What else?”

  “Range law is plain. It’s not written down in a law book but every rancher from here to the Rio Grande lives by it.” Dixie shifted to trim his other ear. “Let him off easy and you lose respect. Worse, the Circle C will get a reputation as a weak-sister outfit and we’ll have every brand artist in creation thinking they can help themselves.”

  Chick squirmed in his chair. “It wouldn’t be as bad as all that.”

  Dixie stepped in front of him and wagged the scissors in his face. “Don’t you dare. Didn’t you learn anything when you were over there last? You said yourself that he told you he hated you.”

  “He was drunk.”

  Dixie put the scissors and the comb on the table and clasped her husband’s chin in her hands. “Listen to me, and listen good. You’re the most decent man I know but you’re too softhearted. Remember those squatters? You wanted to let them stay when that woman looked at you with tears in her eyes because they had eight or nine kids. I had to run them off myself.”

  “I remember,” Chick said.

  “And that time those old buffalo skinners helped themselves to four of our cattle and you were willing to let them off with a warning because they were half starved? I had to get the boys to make an example of them.”

  “Seth is a friend.”

  “Seth is a rustler.”

  “What you want me to do will mean the end of the Bar J.”

  Dixie straightened. “Would you rather it meant the end of the Circle C? Would you rather all our years of toil and sweat came to nothing?”

  “Of course not,” Chick responded.