Ralph Compton Nowhere, TX

by Compton, Ralph

  Shasta Cunningham raised her hand as if she were in school. “What about the children? Surely we won’t harm them?”

  Everyone stared at her.

  “She has a point,” Black Jack said. “Killin’ kids will rile up everyone within a thousand miles. We’ll herd the younguns in here and roll a wagon against the doors so they can’t get out.”

  “Aw, shucks,” Dingus grumbled.

  “We’re forgettin’ the tin star,” Ben Towers said. “I want to deal with him myself.”

  “Why waste the lead?” Black Jack responded. “We’ve spread word he had to leave town and no one knows he’s locked in his own jail. Another couple of days and he’ll die from starvation or thirst.”

  “I’d still rather do him myself.”

  “Then save him for last. Let him sit in there lis tenin’ to the screams, knowin’ we’re treein’ his town and there ain’t a damn thing he can do about it. It will tear him apart.”

  Ben Towers chuckled. “You’re a man after my own heart.”

  “One thing,” Clell Craven said. “How long before you reckon the cowboys show up?”

  “Not until tomorrow at the earliest,” was Black Jack’s guess. “Plenty of time for us to have all the fun we want. So let’s get to it.” He was first out of the stable and made straight for the blacksmith shop, several others tagging along.

  Svenson was shaping a red-hot horseshoe, his muscular arms rippling as he swung his big hammer with methodical precision. “I vill be wif you in a moment,” he said in his thick accent.

  Black Jack walked to a bench covered with tools. He picked up a file, then put it down in favor of a pair of long metal tongs.

  A few more strokes of Svenson’s hammer, and the brawny blacksmith set it down and turned to them, wiping his huge hands on his apron. “How may I help you?”

  “Your poke,” Black Jack said, as Clell Craven and Zech Frame moved to either side without being obvious about it.

  “My what?” the Swede said.

  “Your poke. Your money. Your savin’s,” Black Jack made it clearer. “Since there isn’t a bank within sixty miles, you must have it stashed somewhere handy. In your house, I reckon.” The house was next to the shop.

  “You vant my money?” Svenson smiled like it was a joke.

  “We vant your money,” Black Jack mimicked him. “Make it easy on yourself and tell us where it is.”

  It sank in that they were serious, and Svenson balled his massive fists. “You cannot haf it. Leave, or I vill hurt you.”

  Black Jack nodded at Clell and Clell drew his revolver and shot Svenson through the right thigh. The blacksmith lurched against the anvil, tried to run toward the side door to the house, and fell. Before he could rise, Clell and Dingus had him by the arms and Zech jammed his revolver against the Swede’s ear.

  “Now then,” Black Jack said, using the tongs to grip the fiery red horseshoe. “Where’s your money?”

  Blood stained Svenson’s overalls and he was puffing like a fish out of water but he shook his head and said, “I vill never say.”

  “Why is it,” Black Jack said to Clell, “that so many people are so damn stupid.” He undid the blacksmith’s apron and started on the overalls.

  “No!” Svenson started to resist but stopped when Zech thumbed back the revolver’s hammer. “You can’t!”

  “Your money,” Black Jack said. When the Swede glared, Black Jack thrust the horseshoe down his pants. There was loud sizzling and an odor reminiscent of fried bacon filled the shop. Svenson howled, his face the same color as a beet, every vein in his neck bulging.

  “The money,” Black Jack said again.

  Tossing his head from side to side, Svenson sputtered and spat but wouldn’t say.

  “I can do this all day.” Black Jack walked to a pile of horseshoes and gripped one and placed it in the furnace. “There won’t be much of you left down there, but that’s your decision.”

  “Enough!” someone cried.

  Black Jack wheeled. Svenson’s wife, Greta, was in the doorway, holding a large brown leather pouch.

  “I saw you come in. I heard what you said.” Her English was a lot better than her husband’s. “This is all we have. Take it and go.”

  The pouch contained three hundred and fourteen dollars. “It’s a start,” Black Jack said, and motioned for the others to precede him out. Once they had, he drew his Smith and Wesson and shot Svenson through the head.

  “You devil!” Greta Svenson shrieked, and hurled herself at him, her nails hooked to rend and rip.

  Black Jack smashed her across the temple, twice, and she sprawled in the sawdust and dirt beside her husband, whose body was still convulsing.

  Nowhere was in an uproar. Shots rang out up and down the street. Helen Palmer came running out of the general store, screeching hysterically. George Palmer was a few steps behind her, his face bloodied, limping but trying to keep up. He glanced back and extended his arm. “Don’t!”

  Billy Braden grinned. “Where do you think you two are going?” He stroked the trigger of his pearl-handled Colt and part of George Palmer’s skull went flying.

  Terrified, Helen halted and wept as Billy came up to her, seized her wrist, and hauled her back into the store. The door slammed shut, and a high-pitched wail keened.

  Heads were poking out of windows and doorways. Lafferty stepped from the feed and grain, armed with a rifle. He never saw Longley. But he had to feel the twin slugs that ripped through his chest. He was dead before he struck the boardwalk.

  Black Jack strolled past building after building, liking what he saw.

  In the barbershop, Renfro was on the floor, curled into a ball, while Jeb and Jed kicked and kicked and kicked, staving in rib after rib and reducing one of the barber’s ears to a smear.

  In the restaurant, Maddox was pistol-whipping Tim Wilson while his wife gaped in horror, held fast in Tine’s grasp.

  In the new millinery, Belle James was slapping the owner into unconsciousness while Susie Metzger and Shasta ripped dresses to shreds.

  “We should tree towns more often,” Black Jack said. He saw Dub Wheeton and the Renfro boy come from the saloon. Dub promptly retreated indoors but the boy raced toward the barbershop.

  “Pa! Pa! They’re killing people!”

  “And you’re next,” Ben Towers said. He brought the boy down with a twin blast from his shotgun that exploded the boy’s head like a ripe melon and left a stump where the boy’s neck had been.

  “Yes, sir,” Black Jack said, angling toward the saloon. “I haven’t had this good a time since that night we hurrahed Salina.” He halted well short of the batwings and hollered, “Dub! It’s me. I’m comin’ in.”

  “No!” Wheeton shouted. “I’ll shoot! I swear!”

  “What’s gotten into you?” Black Jack stalled as Ben and Clell hurried around the side.

  “I saw what you’re doing to everyone! I won’t let you do it to me!”

  “How long have we been friends now? How long have I been drinkin’ your whiskey and givin’ you a share of the money my girls make? Do you really think I would hurt you?”

  Up the street a pistol cracked and a woman screamed.

  “Hear that?” Dub said. “I don’t trust you, Black Jack. I don’t care what you say. Don’t step foot in here or you’ll be sorry.”

  “And I don’t take kindly to threats.” Black Jack had to keep him distracted. “We should talk this over face to face. Come on out where I can see you and I give you my word you won’t be harmed.”

  “Do us both a favor and go away.”

  The sounds Black Jack had been waiting for, the thump of a heavy blow and the thud of a body striking the floor, galvanized him into rushing inside. Dub Wheeton lay at the end of the bar holding a hand to his head, with Clell standing over him.

  “Now then,” Black Jack said, “about that money I’ve been sharin’. I’ve changed my mind. I want it back.”

  “I won’t give it to you.”

&nbs
p; “Think so?” Black Jack gestured, and Clell and Ben pinned Dub to the floor, holding the saloon owner’s arms so he couldn’t move them if he tried.

  “What are you doing?”

  Black Jack was next to Dub’s pudgy right hand. He raised his boot. “This is your last chance.”

  “Do your worst,” Dub blustered.

  Black Jack brought his boot crashing down. Bone crunched and blood spurted, and Dub Wheeton was overcome by paroxysms of torment. He thrashed and howled and blubbered.

  “I can do this all day or you can tell me where the money is.”

  Dub tried to say something but couldn’t.

  “I can’t hear you.”

  “It’s in a tin behind the second keg!”

  The total turned out to be over a thousand dollars. Black Jack placed it in the brown leather pouch and patted the pouch. Drawing his Smith and Wesson, he bent over Dub. “Didn’t you say to do my worst?”

  Black Jack stroked the trigger.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The Circle C hands were halfway home. Lin Cooley and Randy Quin were in the lead. Several riders appeared in the distance and Lin raised a hand, bringing everyone to a stop—including Moses Sikes, who was handling the team pulling the buckboard that bore the mortal remains of Chick Storm.

  In addition to the Circle C punchers, half a dozen Bar J hands had tagged along, among them Joe Elliot, Hap Evans and Toby Gill. Elliot brought his horse up next to Lin’s.

  “Who do you reckon it is?”

  “The one in the middle is a woman or I’m a sheep-man,” Lin said.

  Randy was as intent as a hunting hawk. “Why, it’s Mrs. Storm! She came all this way to meet us.”

  “I shouldn’t have sent Kip and Amos on ahead to tell her about about Chick,” Lin said, glancing at the canvas that covered the bed of the buckboard. “I should have known a woman like her wouldn’t be content to wait.”

  “Has a lot of spunk, does she?” Joe Elliot asked.

  “No more than a grizzly.” Lin swung down. The canvas had bunched up, exposing an arm. He smoothed it and took off his hat and turned.

  Dixie Storm wore range clothes; a man’s hat, a man’s shirt, a man’s pants. Around her waist was a gun belt, in the holster a Bisley revolver with ivory grips and a nickel finish. Without saying a word, she brought her pinto alongside and nodded at Lin.

  Lin pulled back the canvas.

  “Damn.” Dixe bowed her head, but only for an instant. When she raised it again, her jaw was set like a steel trap. “Tell me how it happened.”

  “Didn’t they—?” Lin began, motioning at Kip and Amos.

  “I want to hear it in your own words,” Dixie said. “You’re foreman. I entrusted his life to you.” As she said that last, her hand dropped to the Bisley.

  Lin complied, leaving nothing out, quoting as best he could the things Chick and Seth had said. In the silence that ensued he waited for the Bisley to clear leather and to feel the burning sensation of a bullet as it ripped through his body.

  Dixie’s gun hand rose to her reins. “So. Chick talked when he should have pulled iron. I warned him. I told him he was a better friend to Seth than Seth could ever be to him. Now he’s dead and I’m a widow and the bastards who made me one will pay.” She shifted toward Moses. “Mr. Sikes, I will be grateful if you’ll take my husband to the ranch and put the body in the springhouse. It’s cool there. He’ll keep there until I get back.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “The rest of you,” Dixie said, facing them, “are welcome to ride with me or not. Chick was my man. None of you are obligated.”

  Lin placed his hat back on. “That was uncalled for. We work for you as well as him, and we’re loyal to the brand.” He swung onto his mount. “I’m with you, ma’am, come what may.”

  A chorus of agreement confirmed that not a hand among them would bow out.

  Randy Quin was loudest of all. “We’ll wipe those varmints out or be buried ourselves!”

  Dixie looked at him, her face softening. “Randy. I was so caught up in my loss, I almost forgot about yours.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “We ran into Charley Lone on our way here,” Dixie said. “He was on his way back from Nowhere.” She did a rare thing for her. She hesitated. “I don’t know how else to say it so I’ll come right out with it. Sally Palmer is dead. She shot herself. I don’t know all the particulars but it had something to do with that Billy Braden character.”

  Randy was mute with shock.

  “I’m sorry to break it to you like this. If you would rather not ride with us, I’ll understand.”

  “That’s a poor joke, ma’am.” Randy found his voice. “I have as much reason as you do now. Count me in.”

  “Then let’s ride!”

  Lin had questions to ask but he decided they could wait. He trotted on Dixie’s right, aware that she glanced at him now and again.

  Joe Elliot came up on her left. “I hope you don’t mind us helpin’ out, ma’am.” Joe had to raise his voice to be heard about the rumbling hooves. “But the Bar J has a stake in this, too.” When she didn’t respond, he said, “I’m right sorry about your husband. Mr. Storm would do to ride the river with.”

  “Mr. Storm was a man,” Dixie said, and did not say anything more after that for a long while.

  They pushed on past sundown. Lin thought she would call a halt about eight but on they rode. By the stars it was close to midnight, and the lights of Nowhere were twinkling on the horizon, when Dixie Storm drew rein. “This is as far as we go until morning! Bed down if you want but keep your horses close. And no fires. We don’t want them to know we’re coming.”

  Lin had to hand it to her. Being in charge came naturally.

  Dixie turned to him. “I want you to take fifteen men and circle to the other side of town. We don’t want Black Jack’s coyotes slipping out on us.”

  “No, ma’am,” Lin said.

  In the act of swinging down, Dixie unfurled. “I beg your pardon? With Chick gone, you’ll do as I say.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Explain yourself, Lin Cooley, and make it good.”

  “I let you down once already, ma’am,” Lin said. “I let Mr. Storm die. But I won’t make the same mistake twice. I’m stickin’ to you until this business is settled. Send Joe Elliot to the other side of town.”

  “Mr. Elliot doesn’t work for me.”

  Joe immediately said, “I would if you asked me.”

  “Then as of this moment you’re on the Circle C payroll,” Dixie said. “You, and any Bar J hand so inclined. Which means you take orders from me. And my first order is to take the Bar J punchers and five or six others and camp on the other side of Nowhere. We go in at first light.”

  Joe Elliot was the happiest man in all creation. “You heard the lady,” he said to Hap and Toby and the rest.

  Climbing down, Lin watched them trot into the night. He stretched to relieve a kink in his back, then noticed Randy Quin was missing. Roving from puncher to puncher, he found the younger man off by himself in a patch of night so black, Lin wouldn’t have known Randy was there had Randy’s horse not nickered. “Here you are. I thought maybe you’d gone into town by yourself.”

  “I’d like to be alone, pard,” Randy said, squatting. “To think about Sally and all.”

  “Sometimes it helps to talk.”

  Randy toyed with his belt buckle. “I killed her, Lin.”

  “And I shot Abe Lincoln.”

  “I’m serious. If I’d got up the gumption to ask for her hand in marriage all those months I was courtin’ her, she’d never have looked twice at Billy Braden and would be alive right this moment.”

  “Are you fixin’ to take credit for every settler the Comanches have killed and those the flood drowned last year?”

  Randy rotated so his back was to Lin. “You’ve never been cruel until now.”

  “I see it as doing you a kindness. We can’t be blamed for things we ca
n’t control. Sally was a sweet gal and I liked her but she didn’t know a good man when she had one or she would have waited for hell to freeze over for you to propose.”

  “I won’t have you paintin’ her as less than she was.”

  “Fair enough.” Lin stood. “But is it right to paint yourself as less?”

  Randy didn’t say anything.

  “You courted her proper. You treated her like a lady, with respect and courtesy. Whatever Braden did to cause her to kill herself had to be something you would never have done because you loved her too much to ever hurt her.”

  “I loved her more than anything.”

  “You didn’t kill her. She brought it on herself, with help from that slug.”

  “Billy Braden,” Randy said.

  “So quit whippin’ yourself over this.” Lin ended his argument. “And come and have some coffee.”

  “If you don’t mind,” Randy said, “I’d still like to be by myself.”

  “It’s your grief. But don’t forget I have two ears.” Lin smiled and returned to find the saddle had been stripped from his horse and his bedroll had been spread out. When he saw who had done it, he was rooted in surprised. “Ma’am?”

  Dixie Storm had spread out her blankets next to his and sat facing Nowhere, her legs bent, her hands around her knees. “I’ve been waiting for you. We need to talk.”

  “We do?” Lin said uncertainly. He eased cross-legged onto his blanket. “Shouldn’t we get some sleep? Mornin’ will be here before we know it.”

  “I loved Chick, Lin.”

  “He loved you,” Lin said, unsure where this was leading.

  Dixie seemed not to hear. “I loved him, but he’s gone now, and I have to get on with my life. That might sound cold but I’ve never been one to twiddle my thumbs when things needed doing.”

  “No, ma’am, you sure haven’t.”

  “I can run the Circle C by myself. I’m as good a rancher as Chick, maybe better, bless his soul. But I’m fairly young yet and the nights are long and I don’t much like the idea of spending the rest of them alone.”

  Lin glanced to both sides but none of the punchers were close enough to hear. “You can’t be sayin’ what I think you’re sayin’.”