Ralph Compton Brother's Keeper

by Ralph Compton

  “Some folks would say I have too much pride. Maybe they’re right. I like to think of it not as pride, though, but grit. Cowards tuck trail. Yellow curs back down. I’m not boastin’ when I say I’m neither.”

  “I admire a man with grit,” Ursula said.

  “Even when it’s put to a use others frown on? A lot of folks won’t have any truck with quick-trigger artists. They brand us as snake-mean, and as too prone to violence. I’m none of those things. I’m a man who won’t be trifled with or abused.”

  “I admire that too.” To prove her point, Ursula reached across the table and placed her hand on his. “Fact is, I admire a whole lot about you.”

  A flush spread from Jesse Lee’s collar to his hair. “I admire a lot about you too.”

  “Is that so?” Ursula said, and gave him her most charming smile. “What do you suppose we should do about that?”

  Chapter 19

  The directions they had been given proved reliable, but it took two days longer than Thal reckoned it would to reach American City.

  The Sioux were to blame.

  Twice more, Thal and his friends spied Indians. Once on a ridge about half a mile off, moving away from them, thankfully. The second time they were descending a slope and spotted ten Sioux in a valley below. They quickly sought cover in some timber and had to wait six hours for the Sioux to move on.

  It seemed the closer they grew to American City, the more Sioux there were. It forced them to go slow, to always be alert, their nerves on pins and needles.

  Once they heard a horse whinny not far off. They drew rein and waited over an hour, but no one appeared.

  Eventually the rutted track brought them to the mouth of a gulch. A bend hid whatever lay beyond.

  “Do you see what I see?” Ned said.

  A sign on a post had been sunk in the ground. Several arrows stuck out of it, courtesy of the Sioux, and the post had been hacked by tomahawks but still stood.

  “Those Injuns have a sense of humor,” Crawford said.

  “What’s so funny about usin’ a sign for target practice?” Ned said.

  Thal led them over to it.

  “‘Blood City,’” Ned read. “‘The Paris of the Black Hills.’”

  “They think they’re that city in France,” Crawford said. “The one where everybody dresses tony, and they put on airs.”

  “I bet they don’t have Injuns there,” Ned said.

  “To the best of my recollection,” Crawford said, “they don’t have Injuns anywhere in their whole country.”

  “Must be nice,” Ned said. “Do they have saloons?”

  “I don’t rightly know,” Crawford said. “I have heard they’re more partial to wine than whiskey, so maybe not.”

  “They like grape juice more than red-eye? Those French must not have any taste buds.”

  “Ain’t you comical?” a new voice said, startling them, and a pair of men came out of the shadows carrying rifles. They wore grubby clothes and were grubby themselves.

  Thal distrusted them on sight. His hand was on his Colt, but since they weren’t pointing their rifles, he didn’t draw. “Who might you be?”

  “We’re keepin’ watch for the Sioux,” the shortest said.

  “Guard duty,” the second said.

  “You look more like prospectors,” Ned remarked.

  “We are,” the short one said. “But everyone takes a turn. It’s one of Mr. Galt’s rules.”

  Feigning ignorance, Thal asked, “Who might he be?”

  “Trevor Galt,” the short man said. “He runs Blood Gulch.”

  “He’s the mayor,” the other guard said, “although there ain’t been an election.”

  “We’ve got law and order too,” the short one said, “thanks to him and his deputies. Leastwise, that’s what they call it.”

  “I hope there’s not too much law,” Ned said. “I was hopin’ to have me a wild and woolly time.”

  The short man grinned. “Don’t worry, mister. The law here ain’t like any law you’ve ever seen.”

  “It does the opposite of the law you’re used to,” the other guard said.

  “I don’t savvy,” Ned said.

  “You will,” the short man said, and the pair looked at each other and both chuckled.

  “Can we go on in?” Thal asked.

  “That’s the easy part,” the short man replied.

  “It’s gettin’ out again that’s hard,” the other man said.

  The pair moved aside and motioned for them to proceed.

  “If you’re smart,” the short guard said, “you’ll turn around and go, but no one ever does.”

  “Some guards you are,” Ned said.

  “We’re friendly anyway,” the other man said.

  “I have to go in,” Thal said, enlightening them. “I’m lookin’ for someone.” He thought to add, “Maybe you’ve heard of him. His name is Myles Christie.”

  Both men gave starts.

  “The hell you say,” the short one said.

  “What’s he to you?” the other one asked.

  “My brother,” Thal said.

  “The hell you say,” the short one said a second time.

  “We heard he was shot and I came to find out if he’s all right.”

  The other prospector was shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. “Are you the same as he is?”

  “Hold on, Hiram,” the short one said, giving Thal and his friends another scrutiny. “They look like cowpokes to me.”

  “We are,” Ned said, “and proud of it.”

  “You are well off your range,” Hiram said. “You should have stayed there.”

  “Is my brother alive?” Thal asked.

  “And kickin’,” the short man said. “But just so you know, no one hereabouts calls him Myles. It’s either Mr. Christie or his nickname.”

  “What would that be?”

  “Shotgun.”

  Ned laughed. “What kind of nickname is that? He’s a farmer, for cryin’ out loud. Like Thal here used to be, and their pa.”

  “Cowboy,” Hiram said, “maybe Shotgun grew crops once, but he’s taken up a whole new line of work.”

  “The kind where buckshot means buryin’,” the short man said.

  Thal didn’t like the sound of that. “Tell me more.”

  “I don’t believe we will,” Hiram said. “Shotgun might not like it. The mayor neither. We get them mad at us, we’re goners. Go on in and find out for yourselves.”

  “And may God have pity on your souls,” the short man said.

  They moved back into the shadows.

  Troubled, Thal gigged his chestnut.

  “Now, what do you reckon that was all about?” Ned said. “And how come you never mentioned that your brother is fond of shotguns?”

  Thal stared at him.

  “Why do you keep givin’ me those kinds of looks?”

  Blood Gulch was narrower than Deadwood Gulch. High cliffs towered on both sides, and a small stream that flowed down the middle was lined with tents and a few cabins.

  The actual town didn’t appear until they were farther in. Thal’s first thought was that American City was Deadwood all over again. As they came closer, he saw that it was different. There were a lot more saloons, for one thing, and a lot of gambling halls and even a dance hall or two. The people were packed like pickles in a barrel.

  “Why, look at all the females,” Ned exclaimed.

  Thal had already noticed. A large number of those jamming the street wore dresses and carried parasols. Not homespun dresses either, like ones his mother wore, but the bright, gaudy kind popular with doves and ladies of the night.

  “Why, there must be a hundred or more,” Ned said. “We’ve done died and gone to female heaven.”


  “It’s peculiar,” Crawford said.

  Ned laughed. “No, you’re peculiar. Look at all those gals. It’s enough to tingle a man’s toes.”

  “You simpleton,” Crawford said. “There are more women here than we’ve seen anywhere.”

  “Lucky us,” Ned said.

  “This from the man who claimed he wanted to court my sister,” Thal mentioned drily.

  “I’ve just sayin’ they’re a sight for manly eyes,” Ned said.

  “But why here?” Crawford persisted. “Out of all the places we’ve been. Salina. Cheyenne. Custer City. Deadwood. Why are there more women here than anywhere else?”

  Thal realized what he was getting at. The women wouldn’t have drifted here on their own. Not this many. “They had to have been brought in,” he suspected.

  “To what end?” Ned said.

  “Why do you think?” Crawford retorted. “What’s the one thing women do better than anything?”

  “Smell nice?” Ned said.

  “No.”

  “Sashay around?”

  “No.”

  “Talk your ears off?”

  Crawford looked at Thal. “Tell me again why you have him for a pard? Did you get hit on the head when you were a sprout?”

  “What did I do?” Ned said.

  “The one thing women do,” Crawford said, “is the same as the one thing honey does.”

  “They taste good?” Ned said.

  Crawford bowed his chin and sighed. “I could just hit you.” Shaking his head, he said, “No. Women draw men like honey draws bears.”

  “Oh,” Ned said, and gazed at the bustling street they were about to enter. “You’re sayin’ all these females are here to draw men to this place?”

  “Finally,” Crawford said.

  Thal had noticed another sign, larger than the one at the mouth of Blood Gulch. The letters, to his eyes, were jumbled. “Someone read that to me,” he requested.

  “Let me,” Crawford offered. “If your pard does it, we’ll be here forever.”

  “I don’t read that slow,” Ned said sulkily.

  “No slower than molasses.” Crawford turned to the sign. “‘Welcome to American City, where anything goes. . . .’”

  “It says that?” Ned said.

  Crawford ignored him. “‘. . . Visitors welcome, although we prefer that you stay—”

  “What kind of sign says a thing like that?” Ned said.

  “‘. . . The Honorable Trevor Galt, Mayor. Population: We stopped countin’ at three thousand, two hundred and ten.’”

  “That sign is a marvel,” Ned said.

  Thal was absorbing the feel of the place. It was a beehive, like Deadwood, but where Deadwood had some semblance of order, American City impressed him as being darkly more sinister. It was a seething cauldron of greed and lust that catered to all the vices known to man. ANYTHING GOES, the sign had read, and he could believe it.

  Suddenly, deeper in, a gun boomed. It was answered by another, several times.

  No one appeared to take notice. A few raised their heads, but most went on about their business without so much as a break in their stride.

  “Why, look at that,” Ned said. “Anyone with common sense would hunt cover when shootin’ commences.”

  “Unless you’re so used to it,” Crawford said, “it doesn’t bother you.”

  “Who could get used to bein’ shot at?” Ned said.

  “I miss Jesse Lee,” Crawford said.

  “How come?” Ned said.

  Thal stayed to one side of the street to avoid the wagons moving up and down the middle. A sea of sound swamped him: shouts, the hubbub of constant voices, the peal of laughter, curses. Two women on a corner gave him saucy looks, and one wriggled her hips. Others smiled invitingly. The men weren’t nearly as friendly. Most eyed them like wolves sizing up prey. Even Ned noticed that something wasn’t right.

  “Except for the females, I don’t think I like this place.”

  “There’s hope for you yet,” Crawford said.

  A half-empty hitch rail drew Thal over. Dismounting, he stretched, then tied the reins. The strong smell of liquor tingled his nose. Yet another sign announced that they had found the Devil’s Due Saloon. Only a few of the letters didn’t look right, so he was able to read it.

  “Can you imagine your brother comin’ here?” Ned said as he swung down. “What was he thinkin’?”

  “Probably the same thing everyone else is,” Crawford said. “That he wanted to get rich.”

  “Give me cows and I’m content,” Ned said.

  Crawford grunted. “I like you again.”

  “When did you not?”

  Thal turned to the batwings and was about to enter when they parted and out lumbered a huge man with a bristly beard that hung to his waist. He had a revolver on one hip and a bowie on the other. His beady eyes fixed on them, and he drew up short. “What do we have here?”

  “Uh-oh,” Ned said.

  Chapter 20

  The past couple of days had been some of the most wonderful of Ursula’s life.

  She was smitten. She admitted it. But she didn’t let on when she was out and about with the object of her yearning. Anymore than she could help anyway. Proper ladies didn’t do that. Proper ladies, as her ma had impressed on her over and over, never threw themselves at a man. Which was too bad, because she very much wanted to throw herself at Jesse Lee.

  Since their meal at the restaurant that first night, they’d spent most of their waking hours together. He’d come and call for her in the morning and they’d wander about Deadwood, taking in the sights. Not that there were a lot of places for a single woman—a respectable single woman—to visit. Saloons were out of the question. So were the sporting houses and dance halls.

  The best entertainment to be had was at Deadwood’s theaters. She and Jesse Lee visited the Langrishe Theater the second night, and the Gem Theater the next. Ursula liked the Langrishe. Built by a noted comedian, it featured his act, as well as variety and musical acts. The Gem’s productions made her blush. Most had to do with skimpily clad ladies flirting and flaunting their skimpily clad bodies. The audience, mainly men, ate it up with a spoon. Many were half-drunk, and their applause was raucous and sometimes dangerous, as when an overexcited patron fired his revolver at the ceiling.

  It was as they were coming out of the Gem that Ursula learned how violent Deadwood could be. She’d heard about the many shootings and knifings from Mrs. Peal, who’d warned her to always be on her guard.

  “Womanly virtue isn’t as respected as it should be,” her landlady mentioned the second morning over breakfast. “We have the doves and tarts to thank. Since they share their charms for money, men get to thinking all women are the same, when we’re not.”

  “No has dared to bother me,” Ursula assured her. With Jesse Lee always at her elbow, she doubted anyone would.

  Then came the Gem Theater. They’d merged with the crowd flowing out the exit. The night air had a tendency to be chill, even in the summer, and Ursula paused to pull her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

  Two men hove out of the night in front of her. They reeked of liquor, and other odors. Both were big and thick-boned, the one with a red beard and the other with a red nose. Each had a revolver tucked under his belt rather than in a holster. Their eyes glittering, they looked her up and down.

  “Well, take a gander, Kincaid,” the man with the red beard said. “We’ve found us a right pretty filly.”

  “That she is, Jack,” Kincaid said, and reached out as if to stroke Ursula’s hair.

  “Don’t you dare,” she said, swatting at his arm.

  “Be nice, missy,” Kincaid said.

  “You don’t want to rile us,” Jack warned.

  It amazed Ursula that they paid no attention to Jes
se Lee whatsoever. Not until Jesse Lee growled, “Leave the lady alone.”

  Kincaid blinked watery eyes, focusing on him. “Stay out of this, boy.”

  “It has nothin’ to do with you,” Jack said.

  “It sure does,” Jesse Lee said. “You can see she’s with me. Back off, and I don’t mean tomorrow.”

  Kincaid nudged Jack and both laughed.

  “Listen to you,” Jack said. “A boy pretendin’ to be a man.”

  “Maybe you ain’t heard of us,” Kincaid said. “We kilt a man not long ago.”

  Jack, swaying slightly, nodded. “Folks talk about us in the same way they do Wild Bill or Jim Levy or Charlie Storms.”

  The only name Ursula was familiar with was Hickok. The others, she assumed, must be famous shootists, as he was.

  “The only place anyone has heard of you two,” Jesse Lee said, “is in your dreams.”

  “We’ve just been insulted, Jack,” Kincaid said.

  “By a kid, no less,” Jack said.

  Kincaid pointed at Jesse Lee’s ivory-handled Colt. “Look at you. Totin’ a man’s gun when you’re green behind the ears.”

  “A nice-lookin’ gun too,” Jack said. “I believe I’ll help myself to it and give him mine.”

  Jesse Lee’s face grew hard. He placed his left hand on Ursula’s arm and moved her to one side, saying, “So you don’t take a stray slug.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Tendin’ to these coyotes,” Jesse Lee said. Hooking his thumbs in his gun belt, he stared at the pair in contempt. “Now, where were we? Oh. That’s right. You were about to help yourselves to my hardware.” He smiled. “Please. By all means. Try.”

  Kincaid chortled. “You’re actin’ like you’re somebody when you’re not.”

  “That’s the trouble with kids,” Jack said. “You have to take them down a peg or three to make them respect their betters.”

  “The day you are better than me,” Jesse Lee said, “is the day cows fly.”

  Sensing that blood was in the air, other theater patrons had stopped to watch.

  “We’re going to witness a shooting, by God,” a man in a suit exclaimed excitedly.