Ralph Compton the Law and the Lawless

by Ralph Compton

  “You misjudge us,” the grocer said. Wheeling on a bootheel, he sniffed and said, “Come along, those who are with me. Our words of caution have fallen on deaf ears.”

  “You’re makin’ a mistake,” Lefty said.

  Malcolm looked back. “No, you are. I only pray it doesn’t get poor Cecelia Wilson killed.”

  • • •

  Harvey Dale was seething mad. Not at the outlaws. Not at the Attica Kid for sneaking up on him. He was mad at himself for being caught. In his younger days no one could have done what the Kid did. It was added proof that he wasn’t the man he used to be.

  Now, standing with his arms in the air, he was careful not to twitch as the Kid relieved him of his six-shooter and his knife, then stepped back. His rifle lay on the ground at his feet.

  “Cat got your tongue, old-timer?”

  “That was slick of you,” Dale complimented him.

  Other outlaws were hurrying out of the cave: Cestus Calloway, Mad Dog Hanks, and Ira Toomis.

  Dale racked his brain for a way out of the fix he was in, but for the life of him he couldn’t think of one.

  “What have we here?” Cestus Calloway demanded, his six-shooter out. “Why didn’t you tell me what you were up to, Kid?”

  “I had to do it quick,” the Attica Kid replied without taking his Lightning off Dale. “I saw him wave to the old lady and snuck out without her or him noticin’.”

  “Slick,” Ira Toomis said, and chuckled. “Real slick.”

  Cestus Calloway walked up to Dale and poked him in the chest with the muzzle of his revolver. “What are you doin’ here? I had the marshal’s promise that the posse wouldn’t come after us.”

  Dale knew that he if admitted the truth, the outlaws would be furious. He kept quiet.

  “I asked you a question.” Cestus looked around. “Where are the others? Or did the law dog only send you?”

  “Me,” Dale said, and an idea blossomed. “Just me.” His lie should buy the posse time if he could convince them to believe it. “The marshal was worried you wouldn’t keep your word. Or that one of these others wouldn’t. So he sent me to keep an eye on Miss Wilson.”

  “Let me gun him,” Mad Dog said, raising his six-shooter. “It will teach the rest to leave us be.”

  “No,” Calloway said.

  “Why in hell not?”

  Calloway poked Dale. “He came to watch over the woman, not to arrest us or do us harm. Isn’t that so, Deputy?”

  “It’s so,” Dale said, confirming his lie.

  Cestus grinned at his men. “Then I say we let him watch over her. In fact, he can come join us and stay with us until we’re ready to be shed of her.”

  Both Harvey and Mad Dog said, “What?” at the same time.

  “Think, Hanks. Think,” Cestus said. “Two hostages are better than one. We’ll tie him and take him with us. The posse won’t dare start somethin’ if the two of them might be hurt.”

  “We already have the woman,” Mad Dog said. “We don’t need the scout.”

  “Are you leadin’ this outfit or am I?” Cestus motioned at the Attica Kid, and the Kid moved around behind Dale. “After you,” Cestus said, motioning at the cave.

  His skin prickling as he walked past Hanks, Dale tried to act unconcerned. He mustn’t let them suspect that the rest of the posse wasn’t far behind.

  Bert Varrow was standing guard over Cecelia, and said, “Where in creation did he come from?”

  “The moon,” Cestus said, and laughed. Nudging Dale, he said, “Have a seat next to our other guest. Don’t get too comfortable, though. We’re headin’ out soon.”

  Dale had no sooner sunk to the ground than Toomis seized him by the arms and bound his wrists behind his back. The rope was so tight it bit into his flesh and cut off the circulation.

  “Let’s finish up,” Cestus Calloway said to the outlaws. “I want to fan the breeze inside the hour.”

  Cecelia had been staring quizzically at Dale. The moment they were alone, she said quietly, “I’m sorry you were caught, Deputy. I hate to see you suffer on my account.”

  Bending toward her, Dale whispered, “The marshal and the posse are on their way. They should be here before these varmints head out. Be ready to hunt cover when the shootin’ starts.”

  Cecelia brightened. “I knew Boyd wouldn’t desert me. In my heart I just knew it.”

  “Shhh,” Dale whispered. “Try not to give it away. You look so happy they’ll be suspicious.”

  “Oh.” Cecelia bowed her head and stopped smiling. “I’m sorry twice over. This captive business has me rattled.”

  Dale looked over his shoulder at the rope around his wrists. “I’m new at it too.” He scoured their vicinity for a sharp rock or something else he could use to cut himself free.

  “How will Boyd go about it?” Cecelia asked. “It’s not as if he can ride up and demand they surrender. They’ll put guns to our heads and make him back off.”

  “He’ll think of somethin’,” Dale said. “He’s crafty, that man of yours.”

  “Oh, Mr. Dale,” Cecelia said. “Despite what you might have heard, he’s not mine yet. Our romance has only just begun.”

  “What you just said, ma’am.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Romance.”

  “You’re turning red. Haven’t you ever had a romance of you own?”

  “Let’s talk about somethin’ else.” Dale was loath to admit that he’d had a wife, once upon a time. She died of consumption at the age of thirty. Later he’d lived with a gal who was part Cheyenne. One day he’d come home from a monthlong scout to find her gone. No note, no letter, nothing, to explain why. He’d pined for her for a good long while.

  “You must have talked to Boyd. How is he holding up?”

  Dale was thinking of the Cheyenne gal and answered without thinking, “Not very well.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Figuring he should be honest with her, Dale said, “He’s mad all the time. I never saw him act this way before. Not even after Mitch was shot.”

  “Is it because of me?”

  “I don’t know. It came over him after the attack on your farmhouse.” Dale scowled. “I was told your brother died in his arms. Maybe that has somethin’ to do with it.”

  “Goodness,” Cecelia said. She could only imagine how horrible that must have been. Sam and Boyd had gotten along splendidly. They genuinely enjoyed each other’s company.

  “Mad as he is, the marshal won’t let it get in his way,” Dale assured her. “He’ll corral these sidewinders quicker than you can blink.”

  “I pray you’re right.”

  Dale saw Mad Dog Hanks glare at them and cautioned her with “But you never know. Somethin’ might go wrong. When the posse gets here, be ready to drop on the ground so you don’t take a slug. And stay there until we say it’s safe to get up.”

  “I would hate for more blood to be spilled,” Cecelia said. “Hasn’t enough been shed already?”

  “I doubt Mad Dog Hanks thinks so. Spillin’ blood is what he likes to do best. And the Attica Kid ain’t likely to give up without firin’ a shot neither. He has enough sand for men twice his age.”

  “More blood, then,” Cecelia said sadly.

  Dale nodded. “More blood, and a lot of it.”

  Chapter 29

  Marshal Boyd Cooper led what was left of his posse through a high pass and descended to an imposing series of sheer cliffs. Drawing rein, he glanced over his shoulder at the remnant: Vogel, the blacksmith, Sherm Bonner and Lefty, and a pair of townsmen, Divett and Titus. Everyone else had gone back to Alpine.

  A tree with a carved arrow drew Boyd on. They hadn’t lost Harvey Dale’s sign, thank God. The crude arrow pointed into the forest. In a short while Boyd came on another that pointed due north. He rode para
llel to the cliffs until a dark maw appeared.

  It could only be one thing. A cave.

  Raising an arm to halt the others, Boyd put a finger to his lips to caution them to silence. He dismounted, slid his rifle from the boot, waited for the others to gather around him, and pointed at the cave. “That must be it,” he whispered.

  “At last,” Vogel said.

  “Spread out and don’t shoot until I do,” Boyd instructed them. “Pick a target, like we talked about, and whatever you do, don’t hit Miss Wilson. Keep your eyes skinned for Harvey too. He should be around here somewhere.”

  Cautiously advancing, Boyd glided from cover to cover. He smelled smoke, which told him the outlaws had a fire going.

  To his left, Vogel, who hunted regularly, made little noise. The cowboys weren’t quite as quiet about it, and the pair of townsmen were downright clumsy.

  But that was all right, Boyd told himself. He finally had the outlaws where he wanted them. He could avenge Mitch and Sam, and put an end to the Calloway Gang once and for all.

  Boyd didn’t hear voices or see movement. He reckoned the outlaws were deeper in the cave. Their horses too, probably, kept close so Calloway and his pards could make a quick escape if they had to. He’d nip that in the bud by having his men circle the cave mouth. The outlaws would face a ring of rifles and be cut down as they emerged.

  A tiny voice in Boyd’s head warned that Malcolm the grocer had been right and he was taking a terrible chance with Cecelia’s life. He smothered it in annoyance. He was doing what he had to. It was as simple as that.

  The last dozen yards, Boyd flattened and crawled. He came to a wide pine, one of the last before the cliffs, and crouched. From his new vantage he could see into the cave.

  Tendrils of smoke curled from a campfire that had gone out.

  Rising so he could see better, Boyd swore.

  The cave was empty.

  His arms and legs pumping, Boyd charged in. The others took their cue from him and did likewise. Their surprise mirrored his.

  “What in hell?” Lefty exclaimed.

  Boyd went to the fire. The embers were still warm. The outlaws hadn’t been gone long. He roamed about. There were plenty of tracks, but he wasn’t Harvey Dale. He couldn’t read them like the old scout. The best he could tell was that the outlaws had used the cave as their sanctuary for a long time, and that the horses had been kept along the right-hand cave wall.

  Divett and Titus were looking around in confusion. “What do we do, Marshal?” the former asked. “Where did they get to?”

  “I sure didn’t expect this,” Sherm Bonner remarked.

  “They must have lit out as soon as Calloway got back,” Lefty speculated. “They’re long gone by now.”

  Vogel had squatted at the entrance and was examining some tracks. “No, not that long. I can track elk and deer, and these tracks tell me they didn’t leave more than half an hour ago.”

  “Speakin’ of the old scout,” Lefty said, “where is he?”

  Boyd was wondering the same thing. There had been no sign of Dale’s horse either. It led him to conclude, “He must have gone off after them and is blazing the trail for us to follow.”

  “He should have kept them penned in here,” Lefty said.

  “Just him alone against the whole bunch?” Sherm Bonner said.

  “I reckon not, then,” Lefty said.

  Boyd stared to the north. The outlaws were heading for the far end of the cliffs. “If we hurry we might catch up before dark.”

  “Our horses are tuckered out,” Lefty said. “We push too hard and they’ll be useless.”

  “Would you rather the outlaws got away?”

  “They won’t with Dale markin’ trees for us,” Sherm said. “We can take our time and not lose them.”

  Boyd knew the cowboy was right, but taking his time was the last thing on his mind. He wanted it over with, once and for all. He wanted Cecelia safe, and the outlaws maggot food.

  He did what was best, though, and led them at a quick walk. Always on the lookout for arrows on trees, he went a quarter of a mile without coming across a single blaze. That puzzled him.

  His puzzlement grew to worry when they’d gone another quarter of a mile and they still didn’t find any of Dale’s sign.

  Vogel brought his mount up, the Maynard cradled in his big arm. “We should have found some marks by now.”

  “I know,” Boyd said.

  “What could have happened that Dale isn’t leaving any?”

  “That I don’t know.”

  “This isn’t good.”

  The understatement of the century, Boyd reckoned. None of them, not even the blacksmith, were anywhere near as skillful at tracking. Left on their own, they were bound to lose their quarry.

  And Cecelia.

  • • •

  Over the course of his many years, Harvey Dale had had good days and bad days, just like everyone else. But few were as bad as this one.

  At the moment he was belly-down over his horse, which was being led by Ira Toomis. His gut hurt and he’d lost his hat. He’d asked Toomis to stop and pick it up, but the outlaw ignored him.

  The cliffs were behind them and they were wending through heavy forest toward the northeast.

  “At least let me sit up,” Dale said. “I can ride with my hands tied.”

  “One more word out of you and I’ll shut you up the hard way,” Toomis threatened.

  Dale resigned himself to enduring more discomfort. He supposed he should be grateful he was still alive. He saw Cecelia Wilson look back at him. She was riding double with Bert Varrow. When she smiled he returned the favor, but his heart wasn’t in it. There wasn’t much to be encouraged about.

  His biggest concern was how long the outlaws would keep him alive. They didn’t need him when they had Cecelia. And if they found out the posse was still after them, they might take it out on him.

  Dale turned his mind to getting away. He’d been working at the rope around his wrists. It was so tight he’d chafed his skin raw, and he was bleeding. But that was good. The blood made the rope slick enough that he might be able to work his hands free. All he needed was time.

  Cestus Calloway called a halt on a flat-topped ridge that afforded a sweeping vista of the county behind them. He sat studying their back trail awhile, and then gigged his horse over to Dale’s.

  “I have a question.”

  Dale lay still and hoped Calloway didn’t notice the blood under his sleeves. “Oh?”

  “You wouldn’t have lied to me, would you?”

  “My ma raised me to be like George Washington,” Dale said. “She used to say that if a person can’t speak the truth, he shouldn’t say anything at all.”

  Cestus cocked his head. “Would you like your teeth kicked in?”

  “Not particularly, no.”

  “Then spare me your silly stories.” Cestus placed both hands on his saddle horn. “You see, when I sent Ira there to find your horse, he found it, and somethin’ else.” Cestus bent and his face hardened. “Can you guess what it was?”

  Dale didn’t answer.

  “He found a tree marked with an arrow.”

  “Injuns leave signs all the time,” Dale said.

  “This was new,” Cestus said, “and there hasn’t been a Ute in these parts in a coon’s age.”

  “Beats me who made it,” Dale said.

  “You’re a pitiful liar.” Straightening, Cestus turned in the saddle. “Mad Dog?”

  “I’m right here,” Hanks said.

  “Would you oblige me? Climb down and pull this old buzzard off his horse and stomp on him some, but don’t kill him.”

  “Happy to,” Mad Dog said.

  Dale braced himself, but it did little good. Rough hands fell on his back and he was wrenched off his horse and thro
wn to the ground so hard it jarred him to his bones. A boot caught him in the side and the pain caused him to cry out. He heard Cecelia yell his name. More blows landed, feet and fists both, and through a haze he saw Mad Dog Hanks sneering at him. He tasted blood in his mouth and was on the verge of passing out when the assault stopped. He was aware of having his shoulder gripped, and of being rolled over.

  Cestus Calloway was crouched over him, smiling. “Had enough?”

  “More than,” Dale got out.

  “Good. Answer me true or I’ll have Mad Dog stomp on you some more. Are you ready?”

  Dale swallowed blood and nodded.

  “It was you who carved that arrow in the tree.”

  “It was.”

  “For the posse.”

  “For them.”

  “So you weren’t sent just to watch over Miss Wilson. You were to blaze sign for the marshal and lead the posse to us.”

  “Why else?”

  Cestus Calloway sighed. “I am plumb disappointed. Marshal Cooper gave me his word, and I believed him. I promised him I wouldn’t let his gal come to harm and he promised me that he’d take the posse back to town. He’s broken his word. A man should never do that.”

  “Coop is doin’ what he thinks best,” Dale said. Truth to tell, though, he agreed with Calloway. A man never should break his word.

  “This changes things,” Cestus said, and straightened. “All of you hear? Folks like to say there’s no honor among thieves. There’s no honor among tin stars either.”

  “Honor is for jackasses,” Mad Dog Hanks said. “I get by without any.”

  “What do we do?” Bert Varrow asked. “They can’t be that far behind. How many are there anyhow?”

  “Dale?” Cestus said.

  “Eleven countin’ me.”

  “That’s a lot of guns,” Varrow said.

  “Not if they can’t shoot worth a damn,” the Attica Kid said.

  “They don’t have to be marksmen when they can fill the air with lead,” Varrow said.

  “That don’t scare me any,” Mad Dog boasted.

  “Hold on, boys,” Cestus said. “I’m tryin’ to think.” He gnawed on his lip and stared down the mountain. “Ira, did you get a good look at that mark you found in the tree?”