Ralph Compton Nowhere, TX

by Compton, Ralph

  “I agree there,” Sally admitted. “I gave up a man who adored and respected me for a piece of trash.”

  “Be careful,” Billy said.

  Sally walked up to him, her chin jutting in defiance. “Haven’t you been listening? You don’t scare me anymore. Hurt me as bad as you want. I don’t care.”

  “How about your ma and pa? Don’t you care about them either?” Billy gripped her left wrist and twisted it sharply but she didn’t cry out. “I’d just as soon hurt them as you.”

  “How could I have been so stupid?” Sally asked. But she wasn’t speaking to him.

  “If there’s one thing I know about women,” Billy said, “it’s that they only hear what they want to hear.” He pushed her away and stepped to the hall. “If I’m still around when you have the kid, send word and maybe I’ll stop by to see what it looks like. I’m sort of curious.”

  “Come anywhere near me after today and I’ll shoot you.”

  Billy laughed. “You don’t have the guts.” He walked to the door into the store and had his hand on the latch when he abruptly turned and crept back. Sally’s head was bowed and her shoulders were quaking, but when she raised her face, she wasn’t crying. She was shaking with rage. Smacking her fists against her legs, she moved to an oak cabinet. She opened it, rose on the tips of her toes and reached as far back as she could reach on the highest shelf. She was after a bundle that she carried to the table and slowly unwrapped.

  Billy’s eyes narrowed.

  A short-barreled revolver lay exposed, an Allen and Wheelock model. In the same bundle was a box of cartridges. Sally opened the box and began loading it. When she was done she held the revolver in both hands and stared at it. “Do I dare?”

  Billy almost yelled for her to go ahead and do it. His skin prickled and he scarcely breathed.

  Sally stepped to the mirror. She pressed the barrel to her temple. She took a deep breath and pulled back the hammer. “This is what I deserve.”

  Lit by anticipation, Billy inched forward.

  “I’m sorry, Mother,” Sally said to the mirror. “I’m sorry, Father.” A tear trickled down her right cheek. “But most of all, I’m sorry about you, Randy. I wronged you. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”

  Billy quivered with anticipation. He saw her finger curl around the trigger but she wasn’t quite ready yet.

  “This is best for everyone. It will spare me the shame. Spare my parents the humiliation. Spare Randy the heartbreak.”

  Billy waited. And waited some more. She held the revolver steady but it was soon apparent she didn’t have the courage, or the will, to do the deed. He crept toward her, staying to one side so she wouldn’t notice his reflection until it was too late.

  “I love you, Randy,” Sally said. “I know that now, when it’s too late. When I’ve lost you.”

  Billy had to skirt the sofa. Taking off his hat, he bent at the knees. Five or six feet and he would be next to her.

  “My grandmother used to say that pride goes before a fall,” Sally rambled on. “It’s true in my case. I was too proud for my own good. I thought that if Randy truly loved me, he would propose like I wanted.”

  Billy flexed and unflexed his fingers.

  “All that mattered to me was me.” Sally continued to justify the decision she had made. “I couldn’t be patient a while longer. I had to give in to temptation, just like Eve in the Garden.”

  Another short step or two and Billy would be close enough. Suddenly she half turned and he froze, afraid she would spot him.

  “But is this the right way out?” Sally asked the mirror. “Or is this the last resort of a coward?”

  Billy coiled his legs. He had to act soon. Her mother or father might walk in and spoil everything.

  Sally looked at the revolver, at the muzzle an inch from her face. “What will people say about me after I’m gone? How will I be remembered?”

  “As a stupid bitch,” Billy said. She tried to turn but he was behind her, sliding his hand over hers, his trigger finger over her trigger finger. At the last split second their eyes met. She divined his intention and started to lower her arm but all he had to do was squeeze.

  The revolver went off with a loud boom. Flesh and brains and bloody strands of golden hair splattered over the mirror and the wall, and Sally Palmer collapsed, her eyelids fluttering like a butterfly’s wings.

  Billy Braden laughed.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Randy Quin had never seen anyone hanged before but he had heard all the grisly details. Lynching was a lot more common back in the early days when vigilantes were the only law and order.

  Certain crimes, those considered the vilest, always merited swift justice. Harming a woman, for instance, was considered the vilest of the vile. So was horse stealing. In a land where a horse was essential for getting around, taking a man’s mount left him stranded and vulnerable. Cattle rustling also resulted in a lot of hemp socials. Cattle, after all, were a source of livelihood for ranchers and a source of badly needed milk and cheese for farmers.

  Randy and the Circle C punchers with him arrived on the bank of the creek just as three ropes were being thrown over a stout limb. He dismounted and hurried to Lin Cooley, who was covering the rustlers while Amos Finch and Ely Soames bound their wrists. “Was this all there were?”

  “The Twins lit a shuck,” Lin said. “Moses and some of the boys are after them.”

  Other punchers led three horses to the oak and positioned them under the ropes.

  “It gets ugly now,” Lin said.

  One of the outlaws was resisting, a heavyset man whose mouth and chin were smeared bright red. “You ain’t stringin’ me up! No sir, you ain’t!”

  “Want to bet?” Amos Finch said, and slugged him across the head with the butt of his revolver. Not hard enough to knock him out but enough to daze him so Amos and Ely could bind his wrists.

  The youngest of the rustlers was glancing this way and that, like a terrified puppy anxious to bolt for its life.

  Chick Storm stood with his arms folded across his chest. Surveying the scene like a general surveying troops, he said, “Get them on their horses. We don’t have all day.”

  “No!” the youngest rustler squealed, and fled. A two-legged jackrabbit, he bounded past several Circle C hands and was almost in the clear when a leg flicked out and caught him across the shins and down he tumbled.

  Randy felt sorry for them but they had brought it on themselves. Every male over the age of six knew rustling was a hanging offense.

  Amos and Ely boosted the dazed rustler onto a saddle and held him steady while another Circle C cowhand on horseback applied the noose.

  The young one kicked up a fuss but four punchers seized him by the arms and legs and bodily carried him to the second horse. He screamed as they hoisted him up, screamed louder as the noose was slid over his head and tight around his throat. “You can’t do this! Please!”

  The third man offered no resistance, but sat the saddle in sad resignation.

  “Anything any of you want to say?” Chick Storm asked.

  “I don’t want to die,” the young rustler responded.

  “No one ever does, boy. You might want to make peace with your Maker before it’s too late.”

  The young one’s face was slick with sweat. “Let me go and I’ll never rustle again as long as I live.”

  “It’s too late for that,” Chick said.

  “Please, mister,” the young rustler begged. “I have a mother and three sisters back in Ohio. I only left because I wanted to see the world. I never planned to hook up with Black Jack.”

  “Little mistakes lead to bigger ones. You should have stayed home.”

  The rustler with the bloody mouth had recovered sufficiently to begin cursing a mean streak and trying to slip his head from the noose but without the use of his hands it was hopeless.

  Chick said. “Lin, you know what to do.”

  Lin Cooley walked behind the three hor
ses and elevated his Winchester. He fired twice, as swiftly as he could work the lever. Simultaneously, Amos Finch whipped off his hat and hit one of the horses, bellowing, “Yeehaw!”

  Randy involuntarily flinched as the horses swept out from under the rustlers and the waddies were jerked from their saddles. Their bodies snapped taut, then all three were kicking and twisting and vainly striving to stave off the inevitable, all the while gasping and gurgling and uttering the most obscene sounds. Randy wanted to tear his eyes away but couldn’t.

  The young one was the most violent. In his wild flailing his right leg swung out and his spur caught in the shirt of the rustler with the red mouth. Both men thrashed harder but only for a few seconds. Gradually growing weaker, their movements became more and more sluggish until finally they ceased and the three hung as limp as empty grain sacks. The young one’s tongue jutted from his mouth and his eyes had rolled back in his head.

  “Lord Almighty,” a Circle C hand breathed.

  “Do we cut them down and bury them, Mr. Storm?” Amos Finch asked.

  “We do not.” Chick had turned away. “We’ll leave them there as a warning to the rest.”

  Hooves pounded on the other side of the stream, and out of the brush galloped Moses Sikes and the five who had gone with him. They forded and drew rein, and Moses reported, “They got away, Mr. Storm. I’m awful sorry. Those horses of theirs were as fast as antelope.”

  Chick wasn’t upset. “Rustlers always keep the best horses for themselves. Don’t worry. They’ll get theirs.”

  “Where to now, boss?” Randy inquired. “The Circle C?”

  “We’re not done yet. Everyone mount up. We’re paying Seth Jackson a visit.”

  “What about all these cattle?” This from Lin. “Some are ours.”

  “They’ll keep,” Chick said. “But I suppose it won’t hurt to leave ten of our men here to keep watch. You pick the ten. Be sure they stay hidden, and if more rustlers show up, to give them lead poisoning.”

  When the time came to ride out, Randy rode beside Lin. They were a grim, determined bunch, no one more so than Chick Storm. Randy had never seen his employer so stone-faced, so severe. “What do you reckon he’ll do to Mr. Jackson?”

  “There’s only one thing to do when you find a rattler in your bedroll,” Lin said. “You shake it out and stomp it to death.”

  The ride took hours. Four Bar J riders spotted them and came to see who they were. One was grizzled Hap Evans. He took one look and then the four flew toward the ranch house at a gallop.

  “Shouldn’t we stop them?” Randy asked Lin. “Now Mr. Jackson will know we’re comin’.”

  “It doesn’t matter. There is nowhere he can run.”

  Close to fifteen Bar J hands were clustered near the corral when they arrived. Among them were Joe Elliot, back on his feet after taking all that lead; Hap Evans, his cheek bulging with tobacco; Toby Gill, Deke Scritch and others, all sensing this wasn’t a social visit and wearing their worry on their sleeves.

  Chick Storm reined up near the front porch. No sooner did his boots touch the ground than the front door opened and out swayed Seth Jackson, holding a half-empty whiskey bottle.

  “I thought I made it plain I never wanted to see you again,” Seth said.

  The Bar J hands were drifting over but stood to one side.

  “Fan the wind,” Seth commanded, “or I’ll have my boys throw you off the Bar J.” When Chick didn’t say or do anything, Seth shook the bottle at him. “Why the hell are you lookin’ at me like that?”

  “I was wondering how it came to this,” Chick said. “How two men who were once so close drifted so far apart.”

  “I’m not the one who turned his back when the other needed a helpin’ hand,” Seth snapped. “If you ever came to me for money I would have given it to you, no questions asked.”

  “Is that what brought all this on? The money?”

  “Brought what on?” Seth demanded.

  “The rustling, for starters.”

  In the hush that followed Randy was conscious of several factors: the Circle C punchers with leveled rifles or their hands on their revolvers; the Bar J punchers looking at one another and at their Circle C brethren as if uncertain of what to do; and the raw, blistering hatred on the face of Seth Jackson.

  “How dare you! You show up on my spread with a small army at your back and make wild accusations?”

  Randy had the impression Chick Storm did not want to do what they were doing, and that was why Chick spoke much more kindly to Jackson than most anyone else would have.

  “You deny knowing about the four thousand head of rustled cows hidden on your ranch?”

  Seth Jackson stalled by taking a swig of whiskey. “You’ve seen these cows with your own eyes?”

  Chick nodded. “Seen them, and made human fruit of three of the rustlers.”

  At this the Bar J cowboys began talking among themselves in low tones.

  “What makes you think the cattle were rustled?” Seth asked. A wariness had come over him. That, and something else, something Randy could not quite identify.

  “There were ten brands or more,” Chick patiently answered. “Including my own.”

  Seth took a step back as if he had been punched. “Circle C cattle have been taken?”

  Randy was puzzled by the Bar J owner’s reaction. Jackson’s surprise was the genuine article.

  “It’s been going on for months,” Chick said. “I conducted a special tally and came up short. We found where the rustled cows were being bunched and followed the sign here.”

  “That can’t be,” Seth said.

  “I can take you to see the cattle if you want,” Chick offered. “I don’t recognize all the brands but enough of them to know the rustlers have ranged all over.”

  Seth Jackson asked a strange question. He said, “Not just from Kansas?”

  “No,” Chick replied.

  Seth leaned against a porch post as if he needed the support to stay upright. “So that’s the way it is.”

  “The way what is?”

  Straightening, Seth swallowed more coffin varnish. “I thank you for bringin’ this to my attention. It will be dealt with. I promise you.”

  “Yes, it will,” Chick said.

  “You can take your boys and leave.”

  Chick stayed where he was.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” Seth stepped to the edge of the porch. “Get on that horse of yours and ride.”

  “It’s not that easy,” Chick said gently. “I didn’t come all this way just to let you know.”

  “What are you sayin’?” Whether it was the alcohol, Randy couldn’t say, but Seth Jackson hadn’t grasped the terrible truth yet.

  Chick motioned at a towering maple tree that shaded the ranch house. “That will do nicely.”

  Seth glanced up and the blood drained from his face. The whiskey bottle thudded at his feet. “You can’t mean that.”

  “You know range law as well as I do.”

  “But I had nothin’ to do with it,” Seth said. “Nei ther me nor any of my hands.”

  Chick faced the Bar J punchers and spoke slowly, choosing his words. “The rustlers couldn’t run an operation that big and no one know about it. They had to be working hand in hand with someone here. Someone who could keep the rest of you away from where the rustled cows were being held.” He looked at the Bar J’s foreman.

  “And you reckon it was me?” Joe Elliot said indignantly. “Hell, if I’d known, I’d have hung them out to dry myself.”

  Chick turned to Seth Jackson and reiterated, “There had to be someone.”

  Joe Elliot wasn’t done. “Some of us have had suspicions, Mr. Storm. We saw signs, for one thing. And we were told to keep away from the northwest sector.” He raised his right hand as if he were in court and about to swear on the Bible. “But I give you my range word none of us knew for a fact what was happening until now.”

  A hush fell. All eyes were fixed on Seth Jackson, who was g
lowering like a mad bull.

  “I’ve heard you had become mighty friendly with Black Jack’s crowd,” Chick said to him. “I didn’t want to believe it. It’s not easy thinking the worst of someone when you’ve always thought the best.”

  “So I played cards with them a few times.” Seth said. “What does that prove?”

  “A man is known by the company he keeps.”

  Seth ran a hand across his mouth and glanced down at the whiskey bottle. “These wild accusations don’t prove a thing.”

  “Then why did you tell your punchers to stay away from where the cows were being held?” Chick softly asked. He nodded at Lin Cooley, who walked to his horse and took his rope from his saddle.

  “You can’t,” Seth said.

  “Sometimes a man has to do things regardless,” Chick said. “I’d have given anything for us not to come to this. I always imagined us twenty years from now grey-haired and wrinkled, sitting in our rocking chairs and reminiscing about the good old days.”

  “My hands won’t let you,” Seth said. “They’re loyal. As loyal as yours.” He gestured at the Bar J riders. “Show the high and mighty Circle C that we don’t take kindly to being falsely accused.”

  None of the Bar J men moved.

  “Come along, Seth,” Chick coaxed. “No need to make it harder than it is.”

  “God,” Seth said, and groaned. He looked at the whiskey bottle again, and bent down, saying, “The condemned is always granted a last request, and I want to finish this.” When he unfurled, he had the whiskey bottle in one hand and his revolver in the other and he fired twice.

  Quick as thought, Lin Cooley drew and answered in kind. His slugs rocked Seth Jackson on his boot heels and Seth tottered for a few moments, then crashed to the porch, two holes in his shirt above his heart.

  Randy was gaping at two other bullet holes. At one in his employer’s forehead, and one where his employer’s right eye had been.

  Chick Storm was dead.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  There had been a lot of days of late when Marshal Paul Lunsford wished he had never pinned on a badge. This was another. He stood next to the blanket draped over the crumpled body of Sally Palmer, and his insides churned. “So you’re telling me she took her own life?”