Ralph Compton the Law and the Lawless

by Ralph Compton

  “The marshal helped,” Sherm said.

  “So you and the law dog can split the money,” Lefty proposed.

  “I doubt the undertaker would go for that,” Mitch said. “Once he gets his hands on a body, he figures it’s his to do with as he pleases.”

  “If I’d known we could make money from it, I’d have propped that old buffalo hunter against a tree and charged folks the same as the undertaker,” Lefty said.

  “You would not,” Sherm said. “You’re just mad that the undertaker is makin’ money and we’re not.”

  “It’s not fair,” Lefty said.

  “The marshal said it was all right by him so long as it’s done orderly,” Mitch remarked. “He doesn’t want the street blocked by crowds.”

  “Larner won’t draw no crowd,” Sherm said.

  “All he’ll draw is flies,” Lefty joked.

  Both cowboys chuckled.

  It had occurred to Mitch that the other cowboy wasn’t saying much and he turned to him and said, “What do you think, mister? Who should get the money? The undertaker or Sherm here?”

  “I heard where they do that over to Kansas,” the cowboy said. “Put bodies out for folks to see.”

  The cowboy was looking down at the table, and Mitch couldn’t see much of his face because of the man’s hat brim. But a feeling came over him that he’d seen the puncher somewhere before. “Do I know you?”

  “Never met you before, Deputy, that I know of,” the cowboy said.

  “What’s your name?”

  The cowboy seemed to hesitate. “Hayes.”

  “You have the same name as the president?” Mitch said. “Are you any relation?”

  “None that I know of,” the cowpoke said.

  “Nobody famous ever had my name,” Mitch said.

  “Me either,” Lefty said. “And they ain’t likely to.”

  “What’s your last name, if you don’t mind my askin’?” Mitch said.

  Lefty glanced at Sherm.

  “Go ahead and tell him,” Sherm said, grinning.

  “It’s Barnhelm,” Lefty said.

  “Barnhelm? I don’t believe I’ve ever heard that before,” Mitch remarked. Which wasn’t unusual. There were a lot of names he’d never heard of until he heard them.

  “It’s German,” Lefty said. “I hardly ever use it, and you’d better not tell anybody.”

  “You don’t like your name?”

  “Do you like yours?” Lefty rejoined.

  “I never thought about it much,” Mitch said. “What good does it do? We’re stuck with what our folks name us.”

  “That’s not true,” Sherm said. “People change their names all the time. Outlaws in particular.”

  “I like bein’ called Lefty, but I’m not about to go around tellin’ everybody I’m Lefty Barnhelm.”

  “I don’t see why not,” Mitch said. “Look at Mr. Hayes here. He doesn’t mind bein’ named after a president.”

  “Who would?” Lefty said.

  “A name is a name,” Sherm said.

  Mitch turned to the other puncher. There was something about the cowboy’s square jaw that pricked at his brain. It was about the squarest jaw he’d ever seen. Sort of like an anvil. “What’s your first name, Mr. Hayes?”

  “You sure are nosy,” Hayes said.

  “I don’t mean nothin,” Mitch said. “It’s just that I still think I know you from somewhere.”

  “It’s Farley,” Hayes said. “Farley Hayes.”

  “Farley Hayes?” Mitch repeated, and had to admit, “No. I’ve never met anyone with that handle.”

  “Told you,” Hayes said. He raised his glass and took a quick gulp of whiskey and set the glass down again.

  Mitch caught a glimpse of his face, and for some reason, alarm spiked through him. But he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why. He wondered if maybe he’d seen the man’s face on a wanted poster but couldn’t recollect one that matched. “What ranch do you work at?”

  “I don’t,” Hayes said. “I’m driftin’.”

  “Ridin’ the grub line?” Lefty said. “I’ve had to do that a time or two my own self. Never do like bein’ out of work.”

  “Me either,” Sherm said. “Makes me feel lazy.”

  “I don’t mind lazy,” Mitch said. “The days where I don’t have much to do are the days I like best.”

  “Not me,” Lefty said. “I have to keep busy. Sittin’ around twiddlin’ my thumbs drives me loco.”

  “How about you, Mr. Hayes?” Mitch said.

  “How about me what?”

  “Do you like keepin’ busy or bein’ lazy?”

  “I like to mind my own business.”

  “Here, now,” Mitch said. “You have no call to get mad. All I did was ask your name.”

  “And where I work,” Hayes said. “And whether I like bein’ lazy or not.”

  “Seems to me you’re a mite prickly,” Mitch said. He noticed that Sherm was looking at Hayes as if he too was puzzled by how Hayes was acting. “You should have another drink and relax.”

  Hayes did, another quick swallow that didn’t please him much because he scowled as he lowered the glass.

  Mitch had another glimpse of the cowpoke’s face, and this time it triggered a rush of memory: of him coming down Main Street that morning, and of two men at the hitch rail in front of the Alpine Bank and Trust Company. One of those men had been Ben Larner. The other one had stepped in front of Mitch and smiled and said that there was someone in the bank who wanted to see him. Mitch had gone on in. He hadn’t thought to question who the man was or how he knew someone in the bank wanted to talk to him.

  And now it all came back.

  The man who had stopped him had been dressed like a cowboy. The other thing Mitch remembered was that the man had a square jaw. A jaw like an anvil. Exactly like this puncher’s jaw.

  Mitch’s mouth suddenly went dry. The cowboy who called himself Hayes wasn’t a cowboy at all; he was one of the outlaws. Mitch tried to remember the man’s name. Marshal Cooper had told him when Mitch related his encounter. It was Mc-something or other. Suddenly it came to him. McGivern. Butch McGivern.

  Mitch hadn’t ever heard of McGivern killing anyone, but an outlaw was an outlaw. McGivern would likely shoot rather than be taken to jail. And here they were, practically brushing elbows.

  “Somethin’ wrong, Deputy?” Lefty asked. “You look sickly.”

  “No,” Mitch said quickly, his voice hoarse. Coughing to clear his throat, he said, “It’s been a long day, is all. What with the robbery and chasin’ those outlaws.” He deliberately avoided looking at McGivern.

  “I wonder how Cestus Calloway will take losin’ one of his gang,” Lefty said. “It’s never happened before.”

  “They’re outlaws,” Sherm said. “They don’t expect to die in their sleep.”

  “I reckon so,” Lefty said. “They get what they have comin’ to them for all the robbin’ and killin’ they do.”

  Mitch glanced at McGivern and wondered how he was taking this kind of talk. McGivern had bowed his head, so he couldn’t tell.

  “Larner sure got what he had comin’,” Sherm said. “Him shootin’ poor Parsons like he done.”

  Taking a grip on himself, Mitch realized he must do something. Any moment, McGivern might get up and walk out. As casually as he could, he placed his right hand on his hip above his holster. He was no quick-draw artist. His best bet was to unlimber his revolver unnoticed and train it on McGivern before the outlaw caught on.

  As if the badman had read his mind, McGivern declared, “I reckon I’ll be goin’, gents. It’s awful late and I need some shut-eye.” He drained his glass and clutched his bottle.

  Mitch took a gamble. Suddenly pushing his chair back and heaving to his feet, he drew his six-shooter and po
inted it at McGivern. “You’re not goin’ anywhere, mister,” he exclaimed more shrilly than he intended.

  What happened next happened so fast that it was over before Mitch could collect his wits.

  McGivern threw the bottle at him and sprang back, McGivern’s chair crashing to the floor as he clawed for his revolver. McGivern was quick, but Sherm was quicker. Even as McGivern drew, Sherm was up and cleared leather and fanned his Colt twice. The booms were loud in the confines of the saloon. Both slugs caught McGivern dead center in the chest and smashed him back, causing him to trip over the chair and fall.

  Mitch took a step to one side to have a clear shot, but another shot wasn’t needed.

  The outlaw’s square jaw jutted at the ceiling, and his eyes were already glazing.

  “What the hell?” Lefty said. “What was that about?”

  “He was one of the outlaws,” Mitch said, enlightening him. He swallowed to wet his throat. “I’m obliged for the help, Mr. Bonner.” To be sure, he stepped to the body and nudged it with his toe.

  “This makes the second gent I’ve shot since I got up yesterday mornin’,” Sherm said, coming around the table. “This has been some day.”

  “You can say that again,” Mitch said.

  Chapter 8

  Marshal Boyd Cooper and his deputy had become the talk of the town, if not the whole state, and Boyd didn’t like it one bit. TWO OUTLAWS SLAIN! the True Fissure’s headline screamed the day after Butch McGivern was shot at the Daisy Mae, followed by ALPINE LAWMEN STRIKE BLOWS FOR LAW AND ORDER. The account went on to relate how Boyd had a hand in shooting Ben Larner, and how Deputy Mitchell had recognized Butch McGivern in the saloon, and how that led to McGivern being shot.

  That Sherm Bonner had done the actually shooting didn’t seem to matter much to the town newspaper. Bonner was mentioned, but he didn’t get near the attention he should, in Boyd’s opinion. Probably because Sherm and Lefty had returned to the Circle T and been sent out on the range, and the newspapermen couldn’t find them to get the particulars.

  Boyd had a suspicion that was deliberate on Bonner’s part. The cowboy didn’t want the publicity, and Boyd didn’t blame him. Acquiring a reputation as a man-killer was an invite to trouble.

  Boyd was being treated as if he were the best lawman who ever toted tin, and that bothered him. He was good at his job, but people were heaping praise on him he didn’t merit. Why, one news account compared him to the likes of the Masterson brothers and even Wild Bill Hickok, which was so preposterous he’d almost gone to the newspaper to throttle the journalist who wrote it.

  As it was, Boyd had to put up with having his hand shaken by nearly everyone he encountered, or so it seemed, to say nothing of the praise heaped on him. He couldn’t walk into a saloon without someone insisting he have a drink, and twice now—to his amazement—ladies had asked him to kiss their babies.

  So it was that three days after Butch McGivern and Ben Larner went to their final rest on Boot Hill, Boyd decided to get away from the hullabaloo for a while. He wanted to go fishing. Nothing relaxed him like an afternoon at the pond.

  He also had something else in mind.

  Boyd informed Mitch and Harvey Dale that he’d be away from the office for a while. Mitch wanted to know where he was going and Boyd simply answered, “I have business to tend to. You two hold down the fort.”

  “You can count on me, Marshal,” Hugo Mitchell said, and rubbed his badge with his sleeve.

  It bothered Boyd that Mitch was eating up the newspaper stories and the adoration that had resulted with a king-sized spoon. He feared it had gone to the young man’s head, and Boyd intended to have a talk with him when he got around to it.

  Now, astride his chestnut and wearing his best shirt, Boyd rode out of Alpine on the road that led to the Wilson Farm. He had decided to take Sam’s advice to heart.

  The sun was at its zenith, the sky a clear blue. A robin warbled and sparrows chirped. It was as pretty a day as there could be, perfect for what Boyd had in mind.

  He shouldn’t be nervous. Not a man his age, with his experience. But he was. This was a huge step. If things worked out, it would forever change his life. Which was all right by him.

  Boyd was tired of being alone. He wouldn’t mind a companion. Someone to come home to. Someone to share his bed with. Someone to listen to his complaints and have a sympathetic ear.

  Someone, say, like Cecelia Wilson.

  Boyd had thought of her a lot the past several days. Of her frank manner and her warm smile and especially about how fine a figure of a woman she was, even at her age. They were both in their fifties, which some would say was over the hill. Not by his reckoning, though. He preferred to think of him and her as seasoned and mature.

  And dang, Cecelia sure did look fine in a dress.

  The farmhouse was the same as it had always been, yet somehow it looked different. Boyd noticed details he hadn’t before: the flowers on a trellis, that the pump was freshly painted, that a new birdhouse had been hung in a tree.

  Climbing down, Boyd adjusted his hat and smoothed his shirt. He stepped onto the porch and over to the screen door and went to knock, but hesitated. What if she had changed her mind about him? he reflected, and then snorted at how foolish he was being and knocked.

  Shoes scraped softly, and Cecelia appeared out of the shadowed hall. Her dress was the color of the sky with a splash of yellow trim at her throat and at the ends of her sleeves. “Marshal,” she said, and bestowed one of those warm smiles of hers on him.

  “This isn’t a formal visit,” Boyd said.

  “You don’t say,” Cecelia said.

  “You can call me by my name.”

  “I will if you will.” Cecelia pushed on the screen door and stood back so he could pass her. “Come in, please. We’ll repair to the parlor.”

  Taking off his hat, Boyd entered. For some reason he was reminded of the first time he ever went courting, and how nervous and shy he’d been. “Is Sam to home?”

  “He’s out in the fields,” Cecelia said. “It’s just us.”

  Boyd grew warm all over, and gestured for her to precede him, as a gentleman should. “I’m sorry about his horse.”

  “It wasn’t you who shot it,” Cecelia said. “It was that awful outlaw. And he’s dead now. Good riddance, I say.”

  “Most folks in town are right happy about the fact,” Boyd remarked. He’d rather not talk about the killings, but she was the one who’d brought it up.

  “They should be,” Cecelia said. “Lawbreakers are a blight on any God-fearing community. I’d as soon every last one of them was hanged.”

  “I had no idea you were so bloodthirsty,” Boyd teased.

  The parlor was comfortably furnished, with a settee and chairs and a piano. A painting of a waterfall hung on a wall. On another hung a large cross.

  “Have a seat, why don’t you?” Cecelia offered, and followed him to the settee. As she sat, she said, “It’s not bloodthirsty to want justice done. The world won’t be a safe place until all those like that Larner and McGivern have been sent to hell where they belong.”

  This was a side of her Boyd hadn’t seen before. “I don’t rightly know if that day will ever come. And it’s not them I’m here to talk about. It’s us.”

  Cecelia sat back, her eyes twinkling. “You don’t say. It’s about time. But better late than never.”

  “I like you, Cecelia,” Boyd began.

  “I like you too.”

  “I’ve liked you for a while now but didn’t have the gumption to say so to your face.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed,” Cecelia said, “I noticed.”

  Boyd wondered if she was laughing at him. “It’s a little awkward for me, doing this. I mean, at our age.”

  “What is it you’re doing exactly? Besides stalling?”

  Now Boyd was c
ertain. He amused her. “I’d like to come courting. I’d like to take you places. And visit whenever I wanted.”

  “To be clear,” Cecelia said, “visit me or visit the fish in the pond?”

  “Oh, Cecelia,” Boyd said.

  She laughed merrily. “Boyd, Boyd, Boyd. I’ve been waiting for this day for more than a year. You are more than welcome to come courting anytime you so desire.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I have to say, though,” Cecelia said, “I’m curious as to what finally brought you out of your shell.”

  Boyd wasn’t about to get Sam into trouble by telling her that her brother was responsible. Instead he said, “I wasn’t aware I was in one.”

  “Oh, a lot of men have shells. Women too. People put shells around themselves for protection. We can’t be hurt if we don’t open up to others.”

  “If you say so,” Boyd said. “But it’s not that I think I need protectin’ so much as you scare me a little.”

  Cecelia blinked. “I beg your pardon? I scare you? You’re the one who guns down outlaws, for goodness’ sake.”

  “Outlaws can’t hold a candle to a woman when it comes to bein’ fearsome,” Boyd said.

  “You’ll have to explain.”

  Boyd wasn’t certain he could. “A woman like you is a mystery to a man. We don’t know what you think or how you feel. Add to that how beautiful you are, and you can’t blame me if it took a while for me to grab the bull by the horns, so to speak.”

  Cecelia asked softly, “Do you really find me beautiful, Boyd? An old gal like me?”

  “More beautiful than a sunrise,” Boyd admitted.

  “Oh my.” Cecelia’s cheeks flushed pink. “No one has claimed that about me in a good many years.”

  “Probably because that shell of yours hides your face.”

  Cecelia grinned. “Touché, as Mr. Laurant at the restaurant would say. But you shouldn’t exaggerate. Not when it comes to my looks. With young women, yes. Flattery is a given. It’s expected.” She paused. “A woman my age has only to gaze in the mirror to shatter any illusions.”

  “A rainbow doesn’t think it’s beautiful either, but to the person lookin’ at it, it is.”