Death of a Bad Man

by Ralph Compton

  ‘‘That’s all?’’

  Nodding at Sol, Oberlee replied, ‘‘That’s all.’’

  ‘‘I can get you another cot, sir. Just give me a moment.’’

  Sol gritted his teeth, which was enough to get his point across. Oberlee sat up and dropped back into his cot a moment later. ‘‘I think there was a possum in here,’’ he said. ‘‘Or maybe a rabbit.’’

  ‘‘Fine. I’ll see if I can flush it out.’’

  ‘‘No!’’ Oberlee snapped. ‘‘It’s gone. Henry tripped. That’s all there is to it. I just want to get back to sleep!’’

  Either the guards were accustomed to being snapped at like that or the man outside wasn’t very anxious to tuck a couple of rich men under their covers. Either way, the man outside didn’t make an effort to come into the tent. After a bit of a pause, he replied, ‘‘All right, then. Have a good night.’’ Those words were followed by the crunch of boots against dirt.

  Taking another page from Nester’s book, Sol inched forward while trying to maintain his glare. The mixture of that glare and the guns in Sol’s hands kept Oberlee squirming and cowering like a beaten dog waiting to be swatted on the nose.

  Once he was close enough to Oberlee, Sol pressed the barrel of his gun beneath the man’s chin. ‘‘Good job,’’ he whispered. ‘‘Now we can have a little chat.’’

  Chapter 24

  The rifleman’s knuckles cracked against Nester’s jaw and sent the old man staggering backward. Shaking his aching hand, the rifleman smiled to show a set of teeth that had been bloodied only a few seconds before. Before he could give voice to the taunt he’d been thinking, the rifleman felt a sting in his eyes as a handful of dirt was thrown into his face.

  Nester let his mouth hang open so the air could cool the pain that flooded through his head. That last punch wasn’t the first that had landed and all of those blows had turned Nester’s already grizzled face into a mess. Even so, he wasn’t about to let the younger man get over on him.

  Ducking beneath a hooking punch, Nester stepped forward to deliver a punch of his own that landed in the rifleman’s gut and doubled the younger man over. Nester straightened up, raised his left arm over his head and dropped it straight down so his elbow slammed against the rifleman’s neck.

  The rifleman didn’t so much as glance toward the camp as he put some distance between himself and Nester. He swallowed his pride and scurried around the rock he’d been using as a backrest before the fight began. It wasn’t until he’d scampered all the way around that the rifleman finally found the very thing he’d been looking for. The Sharps rifle lay upon the ground against the back side of the rock, covered in shadow so well that the rifleman might not have seen it unless he was so close to the ground.

  Snatching up the Sharps, the rifleman rolled onto his back in preparation for Nester’s next attack. He was ready to fire the moment he got a target in his sights, but that target never arrived. Content to alert the camp if he couldn’t shoot Nester right away, the rifleman took aim at the sky over the wagons.

  Suddenly, sharpened steel cut through the air and opened a bloody gash in the rifleman’s forearm. Letting out a snarled curse, he tried to pull his trigger, but instead found his finger trapped within the guard. Nester had come around the rock and now had a hold of the rifle in one hand. The old man twisted the rifle around even more as he lashed out with the knife in his other hand.

  The rifleman tried to let go of the Sharps so he could get away from the incoming blade, but his finger was still caught under the trigger guard. Turning away from Nester, he felt the knife cut into him again. This time, the blade raked along the back of his shoulder.

  Nester’s face was twisted with rage. He snarled like an animal as he viciously tried to pull the Sharps away from its owner. After he heard the wet snap of a finger bone cracking in half, Nester was able to wrest the Sharps out of the younger man’s grasp.

  The rifleman started to yelp in pain, but Nester pressed the side of the rifle against the back of the man’s head and shoved his face into the dirt. That way, when the younger man did yell out, the only sound he made was a muffled groan that could barely be heard over the rush of the wind.

  ‘‘Stay down,’’ Nester growled.

  The rifleman squirmed and kicked while trying to turn onto his back.

  Somehow, Nester managed to keep the younger man down as he shoved the rifleman’s face even harder against the dirt. ‘‘Stay down, damn you. I’ll tie yer hands together and be on my way.’’

  Not only did the rifleman keep struggling, but he also managed to land a few glancing blows with his wild swings and thrashing legs.

  Nester brought the rifle up an inch or so and then slammed it down again. When that impact didn’t slow the younger man down, Nester pressed his knife hand against the rifle as well and pushed all of his weight down upon the back of the man’s head.

  Breathing through gritted teeth, Nester smacked the handle of his knife against the younger man’s head to keep him from turning his face away from the dirt. The old man took a quick look up and around to find no real movement in the camp and nobody coming toward the rifleman’s perch. By the time Nester looked down again, the rifleman was only fighting with half the force he’d had before. It became easier and easier for Nester to keep him down now that the younger man was losing his steam.

  ‘‘There you go,’’ Nester whispered. ‘‘Sleep tight, now.’’

  When the rifleman’s body went limp, Nester pushed on the back of his head just to be certain. The rifleman didn’t budge. Nester eased up on the Sharps, but was ready to lunge forward if the need should arise. The rifleman still didn’t budge. Pulling the Sharps up, Nester watched the rifleman for a few more seconds and then glanced toward the camp.

  Everything was still fairly quiet in the distance, but Nester wasn’t the sort to put too much faith in a run of good luck. He nodded, took a deep breath and then checked the Sharps to see how many bullets were left in the rifle.

  The rifleman twisted around like a creature that had just come back from the dead. He grabbed hold of Nester’s shirt and delivered a sharp, straight punch to the old man’s face. Nester’s head snapped back, but he was too shocked to feel any pain from the blow. He was also just a bit too slow to keep the rifleman from reclaiming his Sharps.

  The rifle slipped from Nester’s fingers and the younger man crawled away with it. Gasping for air, the rifleman placed his hand around the grip and was just about to touch the trigger when he felt a powerful blow to his ribs.

  Nester kicked the younger man and planted his foot to settle in above his prey. From there, Nester wrapped a fist around a portion of the younger man’s shirt and slammed the rifleman’s shoulder against the ground. Nester’s other hand dropped straight down to bury the blade of his knife into the rifleman’s chest.

  There was no mistaking it this time. Nester didn’t have to wait and see if the younger man would stop moving and he didn’t issue any commands. Instead, Nester glared directly into the rifleman’s eyes and pushed the blade in all the way to the hilt.

  It took a moment for the pain to set in, but the rifleman started to feel it before long. When a groan worked its way up from the back of his throat, it was silenced by a callused, leathery hand placed directly over his mouth.

  Nester’s face had become colder than the desert night. He barely even concerned himself with the rifleman any longer. Instead, Nester took in his surroundings with the sharp, calculating eyes of a true predator.

  The camp was still quiet.

  No shots had been fired.

  Nobody was coming to check on the man that had just been killed.

  When he looked back to the young man’s face, Nester paid no attention to the smell of death that drifted through the air. He gave the knife one last stab just to see if there would be any reaction in the rifleman.

  There was none.

  The younger man was gone.

  Nester pulled the blade free and used the rifl
eman’s shirt to clean it off. The shirt was loose and came free easily, since the rifleman had worn it more as a jacket over his other clothes. Now that the outer shirt was pulled aside, Nester could see something much more interesting worn by the younger man: a badge.

  Nester bent down to pull the badge away from the dead man’s shirt. After studying the tin star, Nester let two words drift through the night.

  ‘‘Aww, hell.’’

  Sol moved one of the two stools inside the tent to a spot where he could sit and keep an eye on both of the other men. Henry was still stretched out on his cot and Oberlee was sitting with his legs hanging over the side of his own cot. Since Oberlee was only wearing a baggy nightshirt without any place to hide a weapon, Sol didn’t see the harm in letting the man sit up like an adult.

  ‘‘Your name’s Oberlee?’’ Sol asked.

  ‘‘Yes.’’ When he saw the warning glare in Sol’s eyes, Oberlee lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘‘It is,’’ he said quietly. ‘‘Morgan Oberlee.’’

  ‘‘And you work for the Jessup Mining Company.’’

  Oberlee nodded.

  ‘‘You know a man named Charlie Lowell?’’ Sol asked.

  Furrowing his brow, Oberlee concentrated until the effort seemed to give him a cramp behind the eyes. ‘‘It sounds familiar. Does he work at one of our interests in New Mexico?’’

  This time, Sol nodded. ‘‘A silver mine in Warren.’’

  Oberlee’s eyes widened a bit as if he might forget himself and speak loudly enough to alert some of the nearby gunmen. Just then, Sol realized there wasn’t a lot he could do to keep Oberlee quiet other than stuffing a gag in his mouth. Since that would defeat the purpose of his visit, Sol put some more fire into his eyes and pressed the pistol a bit more against Oberlee’s neck.

  ‘‘I do remember that name,’’ Oberlee said in a whisper that was so quiet, Sol could barely hear it. ‘‘He manages the mine in Warren. Been doing so for quite a while.’’

  ‘‘Do you know who I am?’’

  Letting out a slow breath, Oberlee nodded again. Pale resignation settled upon his face and he closed his eyes as though he was standing at the wrong end of a firing squad. ‘‘You’re the one who robbed that shipment.’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘You also killed those men. I assure you, there’s no reason to kill me.’’

  ‘‘What men?’’ Sol asked. ‘‘The only man I shot was one of the men who was supposed to be robbing Charlie. If there was supposed to be more than that, Charlie just cooked up some story to make me look bad.’’

  ‘‘Right,’’ Oberlee sighed. ‘‘I’m sure it was all a big misunderstanding.’’

  ‘‘Believe what you want, but you should believe your own eyes first. I didn’t kill you and I didn’t kill that other one over there, even though neither of those tasks would have been too difficult.’’

  Oberlee glanced over at Henry and found him still crumpled in his cot. The other man might not have been in the best condition, but he was most definitely breathing. Dead men didn’t pant and twitch in their sleep like they were dreaming about chasing rabbits. Looking back at Sol, he asked, ‘‘What do you want from me?’’

  ‘‘Charlie did a whole lot of talking when I had him at gunpoint. He told me all about the way your company shaves off a cut of the profits while the miners are allowed to starve or are shot when they complain about how they’re treated.’’

  ‘‘Really?’’ Oberlee said. ‘‘That’s terrible.’’

  ‘‘But you already knew about all that, didn’t you? I can see it in your eyes.’’

  Oberlee shook his head. ‘‘No. I swear.’’ Since his voice had started to get louder, he dropped it back to a whisper and fixed pleading eyes upon Sol. ‘‘If Charlie was cheating me, I can look into it. I can have him investigated. We have accountants who can go over the ledgers and see what he’s been doing. If he’s mistreated his workers, I can investigate that too. Just give me a chance.’’

  Sol shook his head as things began to come into focus. ‘‘You want to clear things up? Then start by telling me where this money is going. Aren’t there perfectly good banks in Albuquerque?’’

  ‘‘What money?’’

  Fighting to keep his voice down, Sol growled, ‘‘The money that was shaved off of the official profits. Don’t sit there telling me you don’t know about any of this.’’

  ‘‘I don’t. I swear. This shipment may be a little light to make up for some of what was stolen, but—’’

  ‘‘But nothing,’’ Sol cut in. ‘‘You’re going to tell me what’s in those wagons and how I can get inside them.’’

  ‘‘Fine, fine. If there’s a problem with Charlie Lowell, I can try to rectify it. If there’s any wrongdoing, the proper men should be the ones to pay for it. If you kill me or my associate, it won’t solve anything.’’

  ‘‘Or I could take you and those wagons out of here so you can show me what’s in that shipment,’’ Sol said as he felt the anger inside him grow into an inferno. ‘‘I’ll need to take those wagons out where I can look through them properly.’’

  Chuckling nervously, Oberlee said, ‘‘I don’t know how you can do that. The guards won’t allow it.’’

  ‘‘They will if you come along with me.’’

  ‘‘And what should I tell them?’’

  Keeping his gun pointed at Oberlee, Sol walked over to the stool where Henry’s clothes were neatly folded and stacked. ‘‘Just tell them that you and your partner want to double-check the money. I’m sure that’s not anything too unusual.’’

  Oberlee shrugged, but Sol wasn’t too interested in what the man had to say about it. Sol pulled on Henry’s coat, put on his hat and kept his gun aimed at Oberlee. When he was done, Sol felt downright proud of himself for being able to do two things at once.

  ‘‘All right,’’ Sol said as he stuffed his gun hand into Henry’s coat pocket and pushed it through until the pistol ripped the seams so the gun’s barrel poked out from beneath the coat. ‘‘I’ll have this on you the whole time. You make one wrong move and I’ll shoot.’’

  ‘‘What do you want me to do?’’

  ‘‘Once we drive those wagons away from here, you’ll open the lockboxes or safes or whatever is in there and we’ll see how your story holds up.’’

  ‘‘If there is money in the lockboxes, that doesn’t prove anything.’’

  ‘‘It proves you’re in on this dirty dealing and that you’re a liar and a cheat,’’ Sol snapped. ‘‘It’ll also make things real difficult for you to explain to the rest of the company when they realize how short you are in another shipment.’’

  Oberlee twitched when he heard that, so Sol knew he’d hit a tender spot.

  ‘‘You’re coming with me to those wagons and if you don’t get those lockboxes open or if you raise any sort of alarm . . .’’

  Oberlee nodded in resignation. ‘‘I know,’’ he sighed. ‘‘You’ll shoot.’’

  ‘‘Very good. Play your cards right and we’ll all walk away from this.’’

  When Sol waved him toward the door using his partially concealed gun, Oberlee headed for the tent’s flap and pulled it open. He took a step outside without making a sound and turned to walk in the direction of the wagons.

  Henry’s hat didn’t fit too well, but its brim covered most of Sol’s face. As he walked out of the tent with his chin held low, Sol felt proud of himself. Not only would this robbery happen without a single shot being fired, but he’d drag a snake even bigger than Charlie out of its hole. That sunny outlook lasted right until Sol took another step outside of the tent.

  Oberlee was standing a few paces to Sol’s left. The businessman had turned around to face Sol and was grinning from ear to ear. ‘‘Just so you know,’’ he said, ‘‘my partner’s name isn’t Henry and the walls of that tent are a lot thinner than you must think.’’ Shaking his head, Oberlee added, ‘‘You’re really not too good at this, are you?’’

  Fl
anking Oberlee on all sides were men who all had their guns drawn and their sights set upon Sol. One or two of them had shotguns. Another carried a hunting rifle. Two were even wearing badges, but none of those men caught Sol’s eye more than the one who stood at the edge of the group. The last time Sol had seen that man, they’d been shooting at each other over another batch of money around a campfire outside of Warren. That time, however, Sol had been in a slightly better spot.

  ‘‘You?’’ Garver grunted. ‘‘What in the hell are you doing here?’’

  ‘‘You know this man?’’ Oberlee asked.

  Garver nodded. ‘‘He’s one of the fellas who robbed that money from me and the kid a while back. He’s the one who shot Bill.’’

  ‘‘One of the fellas who robbed you?’’ Sol chuckled. ‘‘I was the only one and I wounded you to boot. How long did it take you to crawl back to town after that?’’

  Garver’s lips curled into an angry snarl and he lunged toward Sol. Before Garver could get too close, a shot cracked through the air and something hissed through the gap between Garver’s and Sol’s heads. Sol tripped over his own feet while shuffling back into the tent. Garver jumped and reflexively fired a shot that missed Sol by a matter of inches. After that, all hell was unleashed as other men in the group fired into the darkness or into the tent to answer the shot that had gotten the ball rolling.

  Even before his backside hit the dirt, Sol could feel hot lead ripping through the air all around him. Some of the shots clawed at his arms and shoulders, but most of them passed over his head. Fortunately, the tent flap had been loose enough to cover all but his feet once he’d fallen backward. As he blinked to clear his head the best he could, Sol could see holes being torn through the canvas in the spot where he’d been standing less than a second ago.

  Outside, Oberlee turned to the man beside him and slapped him directly on the spot where the badge was pinned to his chest. ‘‘Arrest that man! Shoot him! String him up! Do something to earn what I pay you!’’