“The Kid wants it this way,” Cestus said. “He says he has somethin’ to prove before he cashes in his chips.”
“Quit talkin’,” the Attica Kid barked, his gaze locked on Bonner.
Boyd debated what to do. By rights he should shoot the Kid, Bonner’s wishes be damned.
“I hear tell you’re a hellion with your shootin’ iron,” the Kid taunted the cowboy. “Folks say the same about me. I reckon I’ll put you to the test.”
“Whenever you’re ready,” Sherm said.
“Law dog, clap your hands,” the Attica Kid said.
“I will not,” Boyd replied.
“I will,” Cestus offered cheerfully, and without any hesitation, he brought his palms together with a sharp slap.
At the sound, two Colts blurred. The Attica Kid’s boomed first. The slug spun Sherm Bonner completely around. He held on to his Colt, though, and the instant he turned, he fanned it twice as fast as anything.
The Attica Kid was jarred onto his heels. Tottering, he looked down at the new holes in his shirt. “Well, hell,” he said. “I beat him.” His eyes rolled up into his head and he dropped where he stood.
Bonner was falling too, his hand pressed to his shoulder.
Boyd had taken his eyes off Cestus Calloway, and the outlaw leader had jerked his pistol and was pointing it. Boyd fired just as Calloway did. Calloway stumbled, and Boyd fired again. Calloway went to his knees, and Boyd fired a third time.
“It’s just not my day,” Cestus Calloway declared, and died with a grin on his face.
The undergrowth crackled and out burst Vogel, wheezing like the bellows in his blacksmith shop. “I came as quick as I could. My horse broke a leg.” He looked at the bodies. “Is it over?”
“I reckon so,” Boyd said.
Epilogue
Sherm Bonner recovered and was riding range at the Circle T inside of a month. Eventually he became foreman. He married and went off to Montana and started a ranch of his own. He never again drew his Colt on another human being.
Vogel went back to blacksmithing. When people asked about his experiences with the posse, he’d heft his big hammer and suggest they talk about something else.
One week to the day after the posse returned to Alpine, Marshal Boyd Cooper and Cecelia Wilson were wed at a small ceremony at the Wilson Farm. The parson wanted to perform the rite at his church, but Cecelia insisted it be the farmhouse, in memory of Sam.
Within a year, the town dried up. The mines weren’t producing. A lot of the townsfolk packed their bags and moved to St. Elmo, a new town where the mines were.
Boyd was out of a job. He considered applying at one of the Kansas cow towns or up in Dakota Territory, but Cecelia had a better idea. She’d heard all sorts of wonderful things about San Francisco. The climate was pleasant, the people were friendly, and businesses were booming. She talked Boyd into trying his hand at running a mercantile. Against his better judgment, he agreed, and became the proud owner of his very own store.
Several years passed, and one evening, as they sat on their porch in their rocking chairs, Cecelia asked Boyd if he missed being a lawman.
Boyd was gazing out over the bay and watching gulls on the wing. He thought about it and looked at her and shook his head. “Not a bit.”
“That’s good to hear. It would upset me considerably if you got a hankering to pin on a badge again.”
“Law work is for younger men.”
“You’re hardly old.”
“Why, thank you, my dear,” Boyd said. “If you care to join me in the parlor, I’ll show you that you’re right.”
Cecelia blushed, and laughed. “Why, Mr. Cooper. That was naughty of you.”
“But I didn’t hear you say no.”
“And you never will.” Rising from her chair, Cecelia grinned and held out her hand. “Why are you still sitting there?”
“Oh my,” Boyd said.
Read on for an excerpt from
BROTHER’S KEEPER
A Ralph Compton Novel by David Robbins.
Available from Signet in paperback and e-book.
Thalis Christie knew he was in trouble moments after he opened his eyes. Dawn was about to break, and he lay there debating whether to get up or wait a few minutes.
That was when something brushed against his leg.
Thal nearly jumped out of his skin. There shouldn’t be anything under the tarpaulin and blanket that covered him—except him. It didn’t help matters that before he’d turned in, he’d stripped off every stitch of clothing.
Thal was on his side, with just his head poking out of his bed. Goose bumps erupted as the thing that had crawled in with him slithered onto his shin. Snake, his mind screamed, and it was all he could do not to scramble out. He didn’t move for two reasons. The first was that he would rather die than let the other Crescent H punchers see him naked. The second reason mattered more. The snake might be a rattler. If he moved his leg, the thing might bite.
No one else was up yet except the cook, Old Pete, who was over at the chuck wagon fixing breakfast. A few of the hands were snoring. His pard, Ned Leslie, was closest to him, and snoring the loudest.
“Ned!” Thal whispered.
Ned went on sounding like a bear in hibernation.
Thal tensed as the snake inched up his leg. It was the creepiest feeling. Worse than that time a black widow spider had crawled up his arm in the woodshed. At least he could see the spider.
His mouth was so dry Thal had to try twice to say a little louder, “Ned, consarn you. Wake up.”
Another puncher muttered and rolled over, smacking his lips.
Thal swiveled his eyes from side to side, seeking anyone else who might be awake.
The snake reached his knee.
Thal blamed himself for his predicament. He shouldn’t have used the tarp, as hot as it was. But thunderheads had been rumbling noisily in the distance when he turned in, and he hadn’t cared to be soaked. It never did rain, though. The storm had passed them by.
Because of the heat, Thal had left a gap for air to circulate. That was how the snake had gotten in with him.
Of all the ways for a man to meet his Maker, Thal reflected, being bit in his bed was downright dumb. He’d be the laughingstock of the hereafter.
He saw the tarp bulge slightly as the serpent inched up his thigh, and he broke out in a cold sweat.
To the east the sky had brightened and the stars were fading. Others would wake up soon. The first puncher who did, Thal would ask for help. He didn’t know what anyone could do, but there had to be something.
Luck was with him, for just then Ned Leslie slowly rose onto his elbows and sleepily gazed around. Ned’s hat was off, and his usually slick black hair stuck out at all angles. He yawned and gave his head a slight shake, then saw Thal staring at him. “Mornin’, ugly.”
“I need help,” Thal whispered.
“What’s that, pard?” Ned said, scratching himself. “Didn’t your ma ever teach you not to mumble? You’ll have to speak up.”
“I need help,” Thal whispered a little louder.
“You sure do,” Ned said, his green eyes twinkling. “That filly over to the Mossy Horn Saloon wouldn’t warm to you nohow the last time we were there. And Lordy, how you tried.”
Thal smothered a few choice cusswords. Ned had been needling him about his attempt at romance for weeks now. “Snake,” he whispered.
“Shake?” Ned said, and sat up. “You got cottonmouth or somethin’? I don’t see how you could, seein’ as how we haven’t had a lick of liquor for days.” He ran a hand over his hair to smooth it down. “Maybe more whiskey would have helped you with that filly. Get a gal drunk enough and she’ll do just about anything.”
“Snake,” Thal said.
Ned didn’t seem to hear him. “The problem with that is
, by the time the gal is drunk, you are too. Some of those doves hold red-eye like it’s water. The last time a gal and me got drunk together, I woke up in an outhouse with no idea how I got there or what happened to her. So gettin’ drunk ain’t no guarantee you’ll get lucky.”
“Ned, snake, damn you.”
“What’s that, Thalis?” Ned jammed his hat on. “You’re actin’ awful peculiar. Quit whisperin’. My ears haven’t quite woke up yet, although the rest of me has.”
Thal took a gamble. He said out loud, “There’s a snake in my beddin’, you lunkhead.”
“You don’t say?” Ned said calmly.
Thal could have hit him. The reptile had reached his hip and was posed along his unmentionables. He shuddered to think of the thing’s fangs sinking into his private parts.
“That’s what you get for bundlin’ in all that canvas in the summer,” Ned was saying. “Snakes like hot spots and the inside of your beddin’ must be an oven.”
“Ned,” Thal said, “I’m unshucked.”
Ned started to laugh, and caught himself. “You’re buck naked?” he said, and then did laugh. “Well, ain’t this a pickle?”
“It could be a rattler.”
“Has it rattled yet?”
“Not that I’ve heard.”
“That’s good,” Ned said. “They usually only bite when they’re riled, and they usually rattle before they bite. So long as it doesn’t, you should be all right.”
“Ned, for the love of heaven.”
“Oh, all right.” Ned cast his blanket off. He had gone to sleep with his shirt and pants on. He’d taken off his boots, though, and now he commenced to pull one on.
Much too slowly, for Thal’s liking. “Any chance you could hurry it up? Bein’ snakebit ain’t nothin’ to sneeze at.”
“Maybe it’s not the heat,” Ned said, tugging harder. “Maybe it’s how you smell.”
“What?”
“You and your baths,” Ned said. “Always goin’ on about how you like to smell clean when we go to town so the gals will fancy you more. But bein’ clean didn’t help with that dove, did it? And after you sat in that river water for pretty near ten minutes, scrubbin’ yourself raw. I don’t see why you bother. You probably gave the fish fits.”
Thal couldn’t believe his pard was ribbing him, yet again, about his fondness for baths. Not at a time like this. “If I get bit and die, I’m comin’ back to haunt you.”
“That’s the spirit,” Ned said, reaching for his other boot.
“I mean it. I’ll come back and make you take baths just to get even.”
Ned paused. “Can a ghost do that? Make somebody do somethin’ they don’t want to do? If so, you can keep your darn baths. Twice a year was good enough for my pa and twice a year is good enough for me. That’s why wash pans were invented. Our face and our hair are all that counts. Who cares about the rest of us? No one can see how dirty we are if we have our clothes on.”
Thal felt a feathery touch on his thigh. The snake’s tongue, he reckoned. “Ned, honest to God.”
“Don’t be bringin’ the Almighty into this. It’s not His fault He gave you a brain and you don’t use it.”
The snake was on the move again. Thal felt it creep past his hip, climbing higher.
Ned stood and stomped each foot a couple of times. “There. I’m all together. Or pretty near.” Bending, he scooped up his gun belt and proceeded to strap on his six-shooter. When he was done, he patted his Colt. “I’m not Jesse Lee, but I reckon I can hit a snake in a bedroll.”
“Like blazes you will,” Thal said. “You’re liable to hit me.” Neither of them was much shakes with a revolver. They only ever used their six-guns, ironically enough, for snakes and such.
“I know what made it crawl in with you,” Ned said, and snapped his fingers. “It’s not the heat or your smell. It’s that yellow hair of yours. I bet the snake mistook it for the sun and you for a flat rock.”
“You’re not even a little bit funny.” Thal was whispering again. The snake had reached his chest. He nearly shuddered.
“Some folks might not think so,” Ned said. “But I like to start my day with a grin. It puts me in a good mood for whatever comes after.”
“The snake,” Thal whispered.
“Oh, Thalis,” Ned said with an exaggerated sigh. “The way you harp on the little things. It’s not as if you’ve got a bear in there. That filly doesn’t know how lucky she is that she didn’t let you lead her to the altar. You’d have harped her to death with all your gripin’.”
“I swear,” Thal said. The snake was almost to his shoulder. Peering down in, he imagined he saw the tips of its forked tongue.
This whole time, others had been waking up and rising. A pair of them ambled over. Like Thal and Ned, they were pards. Unlike Thal and Ned, who were both in their twenties, one of the pair was past forty and the other was the youngest hand in the outfit.
Jesse Lee Hardesty was seventeen. He hailed from North Carolina, and was Southern through and through. He liked to wear a gray shirt as a kind of tribute to his pa, who had lost an arm in the War Between the States. His shirt matched his gray eyes. His bandanna was red. Another splash of color decorated his hip. Where the rest of the punchers got by with an ordinary Colt, Jesse Lee’s sported ivory handles and nickel plating. He was uncommonly quick on the draw, and accurate. Around the campfire at night, he loved to hear stories about shootists. Some of the more seasoned punchers worried that if the boy wasn’t careful, he’d turn into one himself.
Crawford Soames was one of those worriers. He’d been Jesse Lee’s pard for going on a year. A lot of the men figured that Crawford had taken Jesse Lee under his wing to keep him out of trouble.
“What’s goin’ on?” Crawford now asked Ned Leslie. “Why is your pard still in bed? Is he sick?”
“Thal has come down with a case of snake,” Ned said with mock gravity.
“He’s done what, now?” Jesse Lee drawled.
“A snake has crawled in with him,” Crawford had realized. “That happens from time to time. I remember Charley Logan, over to the Bar H. A snake crawled in with him one time and bit him when he rolled on top of it. Lucky for him it was a copperhead and not a rattler. Copperhead bites don’t always kill, but he was in misery for months.”
Thal was about to burst with exasperation. “Are you three goin’ to stand there jawin’ or are you goin’ to help me?”
“Someone flip that tarp off,” Jesse Lee said, placing his right hand on his ivory-handled Colt. “I bet I can shoot the sidewinder before it bites him.”
“Sidewinders are desert rattlers,” Ned said. “Southwest Texas is a lot of things, but it’s not no desert.”
“Most likely the snake’s a diamondback,” Crawford said. “Timber rattlers like trees and we’re not near any woods.”
“We have diamondbacks in North Carolina,” Jesse Lee said. “Folks say they’re the most dangerous there is.”
“They are,” Crawford said.
The snake reached Thal’s shoulder. Now he definitely could see its tongue darting out and in. “I hope you all die,” he said.
“We’d better do somethin’,” Ned said. “I don’t want to have to break in a new pard.” He came over to the tarp. “I’ll grab this side. Craw, you take the other. When I count to three, we’ll flip it off and Jesse Lee can try and shoot the serpent before it can strike.”
“Try?” Jesse Lee said.
“Hold on,” Thal said, breaking out in even more sweat. “There’s got to be a better way.”
“What would you have us do?” Ned said. “Ask it ‘pretty please’ to not bite you, and come out and leave you be?”
Jesse Lee chuckled. “Wouldn’t that be somethin’? A snake with manners.”
“The things you come up with,” Crawford said.
“Let�
��s hear your plan,” Ned said to Thal. “Do you have a trick for lurin’ the reptile out?”
Thal was about to say that all he cared about was not being bitten when the snake’s snout appeared at the edge of the tarp. Eyes with vertical slits peered back at him with what he took to be malignant purpose. He recollected his grandma telling him once that snakes were evil, that they were Satan’s progeny on earth, as she’d put it, constant reminders of the fact that Satan had disguised himself as a snake to cause the Fall. “It’s right here,” he whispered.
“Here where?” Ned said.
The rattlesnake slithered into the open.
Thal nearly cried out. It was indeed a diamondback. Over three feet long and as thick as his wrist, the snake glided by within inches of his face.
As if it had become aware of the others, the rattler suddenly streaked toward a patch of high grass.
Just like that, Jesse Lee’s Colt was in his hand. He fired once, from the hip, and the snake’s head exploded. The body stopped cold, writhed spasmodically, and was still.
Shouts came from different quarters, cowhands demanding to know what was going on.
“Just a rattler!” Ned hollered, and smiling, he squatted and tapped Thal on the head. “Are you fixin’ to lie abed all day? Or did you wet yourself and you need a towel?”
“What I need,” Thal said, “is a new pard.”
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