Ralph Compton Nowhere, TX

by Compton, Ralph

  Helen Palmer’s cheeks were slick with tears. George had an arm around her shoulders and was doing what he could to comfort her. “She—she had been—despondent of late,” Helen said. “She wouldn’t leave this room. Would hardly ever eat. Wouldn’t keep herself and her clothes as clean as she used to.”

  “Do you think she killed herself?” Marshal Lunsford asked the father.

  “It’s possible,” George said, struggling not to cry. “More than possible, to be honest. I don’t know what was eating at her but something was. I thought maybe it had something to do with her breaking up with him.” George nodded at the smirking figure in the chair.

  Marshal Lunsford had never wanted to hit anyone as much as he wanted to hit Billy Braden. “You couldn’t have stopped her, boy? You didn’t have a chance to take the gun away from her?”

  Billy had found a hairpin somewhere and was picking at his teeth. “Hell, Marshal, I had no idea she had that pistol until she pressed it to her head. And then all that blood and her brains splatterin’ all over. It was terrible.”

  Helen moaned and sagged against George. “Spare us the details,” Lunsford said. To keep from bashing Braden with his scattergun, he went into the store. Many of Nowhere’s residents were present, anxiously awaiting news. “It’s true,” he announced. “Sally has committed suicide.”

  It was Agnes Wilson who brought word to him. She had been in the store at the time, and George sent her to fetch him. She then imitated Paul Revere and went up and down the street informing everyone.

  “Why would she do such a thing?” Renfro wondered. “She was young and beautiful and had everything to live for.”

  “Who knows why people do what they do?” Marshal Lunsford responded. “The important thing now is to spare the Palmers as much misery as we can. Svenson, I need you to make a coffin. There are some planks lying over by the stable you can use. Renfro, you and your son help. We’ll bury her within the hour. No sense in dragging it out.”

  The blacksmith and the barber went to leave but only took a few steps, then stopped in disbelief.

  Marshal Lunsford turned, as shocked as the rest to hear cheerful whistling.

  Out of the hall sauntered Billy Braden, his thumbs hooked in his gun belt. “Do you need me for anything else, Marshal?”

  “You’ll want to help with the burial, I suppose,” Lunsford said.

  “Why?” Billy made for the street. “She and I were through months ago. It’s bad enough she got blood on my shirt.”

  The resentful stares cast his way had no effect. Pausing in the doorway, Billy snickered. “Would you rather I lied and said she meant the world to me when she didn’t? That wouldn’t be honest.”

  “You must have liked her a little,” Mrs. Renfro said.

  “Lady, the only one in this world I honest-to-goodness give a damn about is the handsome cuss I see in the mirror. Everyone else, and I do mean everyone, can go stand in front of a stampede for all I care.” Touching his hat brim, Billy laughed and left.

  Mrs. Renfro crinkled her nose. “I never!”

  “He’s despicable,” Mrs. Lafferty said. “That whole bunch is a blight on our town. They should be driven out.”

  Now it was Marshal Lunsford who bore the brunt of their stares. “I’d be more than happy to oblige, ladies. One of you come to the jail and file a formal complaint and I’ll demand Black Jack and his coyotes leave. I’ll also need volunteers to back my play if Black Jack refuses.”

  No one took him up on it.

  “I didn’t think so,” Marshal Lunsford said wearily. “Off you go, Svenson. I’ll stick around until the coffin is done.” He shooed everyone out and shut the door and hung the CLOSED sign up. Then he perched on the stool behind the counter and absently flipped through an old newspaper.

  A knock brought his reading to an end. Charley Lone, the Circle C cook, was at the door, shaking a sheet of paper with scribbling on it, and beckoning.

  Marshal Lunsford walked over. “Can’t you read?” He pointed at the CLOSED sign.

  “Can you?” Charley shouted back, and wagged that sheet again. “Palmer sent word my order is in and I’ve come clear from the Circle C to fetch it.” He shielded his eyes with his other hand and peered about the store. “Where’s George, anyhow? Why are you mindin’ the fort?”

  Lunsford threw the bolt and opened the door. “I take it you haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what? I rolled into town not two minutes ago.” The cook indicated a buckboard.

  “Sally Palmer shot herself.” Lunsford didn’t elaborate. “George and Helen are in the back and I’d rather not disturb them, if you don’t mind.”

  “Oh.” Charley scratched his beard. “I reckon I can wait around a little while. But I need to be back at the Circle C quick as I can. Those boys starve without me.”

  “The funeral is in an hour. After it’s over you can get what you need.” Lunsford returned to the stool. “Don’t you usually order from the general store in Beaver City?”

  Charley nodded, and grinned. “It’s the kid. Randy Quin. He wanted me to order from here now and then so he’d have an excuse to come in with me and see his girl.” Charley grunted. “Damn. I bet he’s heartbroke when he hears the news.”

  George Palmer came out of the back, his face pasty, his eyes wide and unfocused. “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.”

  “What’s wrong?” Lunsford asked.

  “She just told me,” George said.

  “Told you what?”

  “Helen has known all this time and she just now broke down and told me.” George looked wildly about.

  “What are you talking about?” Marshal Lunsford didn’t like the strange, disturbing gleam that had come into the store owner’s eyes.

  “Ask Helen.” Leaning on the counter, George uttered a low, mewing whine while gnashing his teeth as if he were in great pain.

  “George?” Lunsford slid off the stool and put his hand on Palmer’s shoulder but Palmer shook it off.

  “Ask her!” George practically screeched. “Just you go ask her!”

  Bewildered, Marshal Lunsford hurried to the living room. Helen was in the rocking chair, doubled over, her arms clasped about her legs and her entire body in the grip of convulsive sobs. He was loathe to intrude on her grief but he said, “Helen? What’s wrong with your husband?”

  The answer came in a whimper. “I told him. I shouldn’t have but I couldn’t keep it inside. Not after what’s happened.”

  Lunsford placed his hand on her shoulder, and she looked up, blinking back tears. “What could you possibly say that has him so upset?”

  “She was with child.”

  A chill started at the base of Lunsford’s neck and rippled down his spine to his feet. “Sally was pregnant?”

  Helen nodded, too overcome to speak.

  “Who was the father? Not—?” Lunsford couldn’t bring himself to say the name. He would rather it were Randy Quin. Or some other puncher. Anyone but—

  “Billy Braden, yes,” Helen said. “My baby wouldn’t tell me the particulars but I suspect she was forced.”

  Marshal Lunsford didn’t hear the rest. He ran down the hall and burst into the store. Charley Lone was still there but not George Palmer. The front door was wide open and so was a drawer behind the counter—the drawer where George kept a revolver in case anyone ever tried to rob them. “Why didn’t you stop him” Lunsford said to Charley as he snatched his scattergun off the counter.

  “What for? What’s going on?” the Circle C’s cook asked.

  The blazing afternoon sun caused white dots to dance before Lunsford’s eyes as he crossed the street. He dreaded what he might hear but he reached the batwings without shots ringing out.

  Black Jack, Longley and Clell Craven were at their customary corner table, Billy Braden beside them. They were frozen in place, as was everyone else.

  In the middle of the room stood George Palmer, the revolver held in trembling hands. He wasn’t trembling becau
se he was afraid. He was trembling because of the seething fury that twisted his features.

  “. . . hold on there, hoss,” Billy Braden was saying. “I have no notion what you’re talkin’ about.”

  “You—you—you—!” Palmer couldn’t bring himself to say it.

  Black Jack was as confused as everyone else. “What is this, storekeep? Why did you barge in here wavin’ that hogleg?”

  “He knows!” George screamed. “Ask the boy! Ask that filthy slug what he did to my Sally!”

  “We heard she died,” Black Jack said. “Are you sayin’ he killed her?”

  George took a couple of slow, deliberate steps. “He might as well have! It’s all the same!”

  Marshal Lunsford slipped inside unnoticed. “That will be enough, George,” he said quietly. “Lower the gun and come with me.”

  Palmer spun but instantly whirled back toward Billy Braden. “This has nothing to do with you, Paul!”

  “On the contrary,” Lunsford said. “We’re friends, aren’t we? What sort of friend would I be if I let you make a mistake like this?”

  “It’s no mistake!” George declared. “If you knew what I know, you would understand. He deserves to die! He’s scum! Pure rotten filth! And these are his last moments on earth!”

  “Murder is murder, George,” Lunsford noted.

  “There isn’t a jury alive who would convinct me. A man has a right to protect his own. A father has a right see that justice is done.”

  Lunsford sidled toward him. “Justice is one thing, revenge another. You won’t be able to live with yourself if you do this.”

  “I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t.” George cocked the revolver. “How does it feel, boy? Are you scared yet?”

  Billy was smiling. “Mister, I’ve never been afraid once my whole life long. Other men, maybe, but not me.”

  “What makes you so special?” George asked.

  “It’s simple. I don’t care whether I live or die.” Billy spread his arms wide. “So go ahead. Shoot.”

  “Don’t!” Marshal Lunsford cried.

  Indecision caused George to hesitate. He took aim but his arms were shaking so badly, he couldn’t hit the broad side of the saloon.

  “What are you waitin’ for?” Billy baited him. “Want me to make it easy and pull the trigger for you?”

  “Damn you!” George wailed. “Damn you to hell.” Beads of sweat dotted his face as he tried to steady his aim.

  Longley had turned his chair so he was facing the middle of the room, and now Clell Craven did the same.

  In a sudden spurt of speed Marshall Lunsford reached George Palmer and swung his scattergun. He connected with Palmer’s wrists and Palmer yelped and let go of the cocked revolver. It hit the floor and went off with a loud bang. Nearly everyone ducked, but the slug had buried itself in a wall.

  “Don’t try to stop me!” George shouted, and lunged at the six-shooter.

  Marshal Lunsford was a hair faster. He sent it skidding with a well-placed kick while at the same time he hollered, “Dub! Grab it and don’t let him have it!”

  With an ungainly bound, Dub Wheeton scrambled over the bar and got his pudgy hands on the gun a heartbeat before George.

  “Give it to me!”

  Lunsford rushed to separate them but he need not have worried. George was too distraught to do more than ineffectually flail at Dub’s shoulders and neck. “Enough, George. It’s over.”

  Weeping now, Palmer sank to his knees and covered his face with his hands. “It’s not fair! It’s just not fair!”

  “Help me,” Marshal Lunsford said to the Renfro boy, and together they helped George to his feet and guided him across the street.

  Helen was in the front of the store. Mrs. Svenson and Mrs. Wilson were comforting her. She ran to George and flung her arms around him and the two of them gave rein to their despair and sobbed in great racking heaves.

  Lunsford sent the Renfro boy back and bent his weary steps to the jail. From the blacksmith shop came loud hammering and the rasp of a saw. He didn’t stop. Once in his office, he shut the door and sat behind his desk.

  “What’s all the fuss about?” Ben Towers asked.

  “Nothing that concerns you.” Marshal Lunsford opened a drawer. His silver flask gleamed dully. He took off his hat and placed it beside his scattergun, then wearily rubbed his eyes and stared longingly at the flask.

  Lunsford slammed the drawer shut and rested his forehead on his good arm. He felt tired. So very tired. He didn’t mean to doze off but he did. The sound of his door opening awakened him, and he sat up.

  Black Jack, Longley and Clell Craven were filing into the jail. Black Jack sat on the desk, and smiled. “You’ve had him long enough,” he said, with a nod at Towers. “I need him.”

  “The judge hasn’t been here yet.”

  “Too bad.” Black Jack picked up the scattergun, thumbed back both hammers, and pointed it at him. “You have two choices.”

  The key was on a large metal ring on a hook. Marshal Lunsford opened the cell and stepped back, only to have his scattergun jammed against the base of his spine.

  “One out, one in,” Black Jack said, taking the key. He laughed as he locked the door. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  “When I get out I’m coming after you,” Marshal Lunsford promised.

  Clell Craven thought that was funny. “We’ll be tremblin’ in our boots until then, cripple.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The reason Black Jack needed Ben Towers had to do with the arrival of the Twins on lathered mounts they had nearly ridden into the ground.

  Black Jack sent word to his men to meet in the stable an hour after the funeral. With Taylor dead, hardly anyone ever went there except to tend to the horses. He ordered the Twins to close and bar the double doors so no one could walk in on them.

  They were all there: quiet, deadly Ike Longley; Ben Towers, happy to be out of jail, fondling his shotgun as if it were a lover; Billy Braden, sulking for some reason, as the kid often did; Jed and Jeb, as alike as shadows, as vicious as they came; Clell Craven, the scent of blood in his nostrils and relishing the prospect; Dingus Mechum, twitching and grinning; Zech Frame, who once slit a Sioux woman’s throat and drank her blood. And the rest of them, another half dozen, the ones nobody had ever heard of because they had yet to make a name for themselves: Maddox the Kentuckian and Tine the West Virginian, Rebs through and through; Tom Anis, Chester Park, and Bob Waxman, backshooters all; Jeff Dean, almost as young as Billy and so shy he never spoke and never looked anyone in the eye unless he was killing them.

  The women were there, too: Belle James, looking a lot the worse for her profession; Susie Metzger, as tough as any of the men and proud of it; and Shasta Cunningham, making moon eyes at Billy Braden.

  Black Jack started right in. “You’ve all heard the news. The Circle C found our rustled herd and by now has likely hung Sam, Coker and Stillman. My guess is they went on to the Bar J.”

  “Maybe the two outfits will take to swappin’ lead,” Clell Craven speculated. “Less of them for us to worry about.”

  “I’m not countin’ on it,” Black Jack said. “No, sooner or later they’ll show up lookin’ for us.” He let that sink in. “We have to decide what to do.”

  “What else?” Billy Braden said. “We kill every last one of the sons of bitches.”

  A few of the others grinned or nodded.

  “There’s nothin’ I’d like better,” Black Jack said, “but there are a lot more of them than there are of us, and I don’t want to lose any more of you.”

  Dingus Mechum voiced that dry, wheezy cackle of his. “Why, Black Jack, we never knew you cared.”

  “How would you like my boot up your ass?” Black Jack growled, and when Dingus shriveled, he went on. “The way I see it, we have two choices. We run or we fight. We can collect our things and be saddled and ready to ride in half an hour, if that’s what you want.”

  “I don’t much
like turnin’ tail,” Ben Towers said.

  Zech Frame bobbed his chin. “Folks will hear of it and think we’re yellow.”

  “What other choice do we have?” Susie Metzger asked. “How can we fight all those cowboys?”

  Black Jack pushed his hat back on his curly thatch. “We tree the town and set a trap and when the cowboys show up, we blow them to hell and back. Then we ride out with our heads high.”

  Laughter and nods greeted the proposal.

  “Now that I like,” Billy Braden said. “Especially the treein’ the town part. Why, we do it right, we’ll be plumb famous. Every newspaper in the country will write us up.”

  “Who cares about fame?” Clell Craven said. “This town is burstin’ with money, and all of it can be ours.”

  “Anything else we want, besides,” Zech Frame said.

  Belle James, always one of the shrewdest, cleared her throat. “Seems to me there’s a third choice. Why not tree the town and leave before the cowboys get here? That way we all make it out alive.”

  Black Jack had an answer ready. “Because I don’t like turnin’ tail either. We let these cowpokes run us off, then every cowboy from Mexico to Colorado will think they can do the same. It’ll be that much harder to rustle cattle from now on.” He looked at the deadliest of them all. “What do you say?”

  Ike Longley was leaning against a stall, his body relaxed, his slender hands on his Remingtons. “We stay. We tree the town. We kill the cowboys. We go.”

  Whoops filled the stable, and Black Jack raised his arms. “Quiet, damn you! We don’t want them suspicious until it’s too late for them to fight or run.” He paused. “Ben, you take Tom, Maddox and Tine, and Chester and Bob, and start at the other end of town. We’ll fan out from this end. Deal with the men first. The women can wait.”

  “Like hell they can,” Dingus joked, and gripped his crotch.

  “Use your heads,” Black Jack advised. “Find out where they’ve hid their pokes before you slit their throats.”