Ralph Compton Tucker's Reckoning (9781101607770)

by Compton, Ralph; Mayo, Matthew P.

  With the dapper man in the lead, they walked down the slope close by the tracks, then headed northwest, the lead man setting a brisk pace. Minutes later they were lost from sight by the train, but heard it rolling forward, gaining speed, and chugging west. Regular gouts of thick black smoke thrust high above the pines.

  Once they reached a wide, long meadow, the two men in black flanked the dapper man in brown. The one on the left said, “Where we headed, my lord?”

  The man in the middle made no comment for a few moments, the horses chuffing and the day growing darker before them. “We are headed to a little town called . . .” He retrieved a folded paper from his breast pocket. “Klinkhorn, I believe it is called, though why on earth anyone would wish to name a town as such is inconceivable. We are to meet a man named Bentley Grissom. We have corresponded for several months and he has made me a most interesting business proposition.” He folded the paper again and tucked it away. “From the looks of the skies, gentlemen, we are headed toward inclement weather.”

  “Begging your pardon, Lord Tarleton,” said the other man. “But is there really anything of value out here?”

  The dapper man laughed. “Tell me, what do you see all around you?”

  “Hill country, dark clouds, trees . . .”

  “And what is it we have been doing since leaving Denver weeks ago?”

  “Buying property.”

  “Yes, and more to the point . . . ?”

  The man in black slowly smiled.

  “Yes, you see now. And you?”

  The other man in black had been waiting for Lord Tarleton to call on him. “Yes, sir. It’s the trees, sir.”

  “Well done, man. I am, as the Americans say, a tycoon of various things, and soon will become a lumber baron. Logical when one thinks that an empire such as mine needs a constant supply of raw material. And this untouched wilderness is filled with old-growth species.”

  Lord Tarleton pulled in a deep lungful of air, exhaled, then puffed thoughtfully on his cigar. “The first time I read about the magnificent West of America, with her untouched wilderness, so unlike Britannia, I knew I had to see it for myself. It barely seems possible that I’ve been here less than five years and already my holdings are equal to those of my dear old papa back across the wide Atlantic.”

  The two riders in black had dropped back a few paces and now exchanged glances. Lord Tarleton’s money was good, better than most situations men handy with guns might find for themselves, but by gosh, the man could brag. Every chance he got. But they could live with it. After all, they’d signed on, and when he was drinking, the lord could be fun—and generous with his cigars and whiskey.

  “Do you know, gentlemen, why I chose to take you on this sojourn? To get out and away from the bustle and strife of Denver?”

  One man cleared his throat. “I assumed it was just in case you ran into folks who needed persuading—some that didn’t want to sell up.”

  “Precisely! I make this journey, pockets jingling with hard cash, and yet it astounds me, time and again, to learn that some people have less than no interest in becoming rich. They choose instead to whine and cry and carry on as if I were robbing them of something they might one day pass on to their offspring. But the land is useless if you can’t afford to feed the growling bellies of those tots. Am I right, gentlemen?”

  “Yes, my lord,” they both muttered.

  “Ah, what better time to trek deep into the hinterlands on horseback than in the fall of the year, when the much-loved foliage and russet hues bedazzle the hills?”

  An hour later, the clouds had parted and they crested a rise that revealed a long view of seemingly endless miles of vast, rolling forest, a mighty river coursing through the very heart of it like a silver thread in a woman’s gown, sparkling as sunlight shafted through the dissipating cloud cover far ahead. The three horsemen paused, taking in the wilderness before them.

  Lord Tarleton eyed the course of the river, envisioning lumber camps, sawmills, fleets of schooners at the shore waiting to carry his lumber all over the world. There were enough trees here to build a ladder to the moon—and have lumber left over for a fine mansion—maybe on this very spot, overlooking a kingdom befitting an English lord. The thought, Tarleton told himself, bore merit.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Emma had startled him, peeking around the office door. Marshal Hart saw her and stood, his chair clunking the wall behind him. “Emma, come in, come in. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “Sure, thanks.”

  She sat in one of the side chairs. The pretty girl he’d seen so many times smiling in town with Arliss or her uncle Payton now looked thinner, eyes dark for want of sleep. He handed her a stoneware mug of hot coffee, then sat on the edge of the desk. “I didn’t know you’d be coming into town so soon . . . after the funeral. I am sorry I didn’t make it out there.”

  “That’s okay. Most of the town showed up.”

  “Oh.” If that was meant to make him feel bad, it worked. “I’ll be out by and by to pay my respects. I was afraid to leave the prisoner here. Felt sure they’d lynch him, should I leave him for more than five minutes. People are riled up in Klinkhorn. Your uncle was a well-liked man.”

  “I know. Thank you, Marshal.”

  “You didn’t come here to listen to my excuses, Emma. What can I help you with?”

  “I came to talk with you about Vollo and Rummler.”

  “Oh, what about them?”

  “When I left here two nights ago, I rode home, but they bushwhacked me.”

  “What?”

  “Well, they tried to. It was dark. They shot and I shot back.”

  “They hurt you?”

  “Nothing to speak of. They nearly had me at one point, but I managed to get away.” She half smiled. “And I think I might have winged one, maybe managed to break the other one’s nose. That Vollo, I think.”

  He’d have to talk with Grissom again. The last person he wanted to see today.

  “Marshal, can’t we do something about them? They’re blights. Nobody here likes them.” She stood, paced the room. “For that matter, nobody likes Grissom.”

  He sighed. “Emma, we can’t just run people off for no good reason.”

  “No good reason? They tried to . . . Well, I don’t want to think what they had in mind. Oh, I guess Arliss was right.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “That everyone in Klinkhorn was afraid of Grissom, in his debt somehow.”

  “I’d guess he’s more right than wrong. I’ll see to it, Emma. Believe me, those two won’t know what hit them. Now, it’s funny you should show up, Emma. That skinny soak in there wants to see you, been asking for pretty near two days now.”

  She stepped forward, jaw thrust out. “I’ll see the buzzard again.”

  As Marshal Hart turned the keys in the thick wooden door that led to the cells, Emma Farraday once again smelled the reek of years of unwashed men confined in too small a space with little fresh air and even less natural light. It was midday outside, but in there it was as dark as the inside of the Devil’s belly, as her father used to say.

  “You’ll want to keep back from the cell door, Emma,” Marshal Hart whispered low.

  “Why?” The voice croaked from the dark before them.

  “Shut up, prisoner. You will keep your peace until spoken to, and then only respond when you have permission. You understand me?”

  There was no answer.

  “I said, ‘Do you hear me?’”

  A sigh sounded low and long, and then a less croaking voice said, “Yes, I understand just how it is.”

  Hart’s boot slammed the bars down low by the floor. “Shut it, you.”

  “Can’t have it both ways, Marshal,” said Emma, smiling.

  He regarded her
for a moment, unsure how to take that remark. He’d known Emma her entire life, and didn’t think there was anything devious about the girl.

  From the office up front, they heard a man’s voice calling to the marshal, repeating his name, as if trying to find him.

  “What?” shouted Hart.

  “Oh, there you are,” said the man, and they saw the outline of someone in the doorway. “Marshal, there’s a ruckus at the Ringin’ Belle. Some sort of fight between a whore and a man says she tried to rob him.”

  “I’m busy, Clem. Can’t you all take care of it?”

  “Well, that’s just it, Marshal. Everybody’s kind of figurin’ you’ve spent plenty of time nursemaiding that killer in there and not enough time tending to your duties around town.”

  “Oh, they do, do they?” But Hart knew there wasn’t much he could say to that argument. “Aw, hell,” he grumbled. They were right, of course. He turned to Emma. “Since I know how you feel about him, I guess you won’t try to bust him out. I’ll leave you two to talk . . . if that doesn’t bother you, Emma.”

  “No, that’s fine. I’m curious to know what this murderer might have to tell me that seems so urgent to him.”

  The marshal headed back up the hallway. “I’ll be back directly. You’re not going to shoot him, are you?”

  “Marshal,” said Emma, “do I look like the type of person who’d do that?”

  “There ain’t a type, Emma, if you’ll pardon me saying so. But if there was, you might just fill the bill.” He shook his head and closed the door behind him, but did not lock it. They heard him talking with the man who had brought the message, the sliding of desk drawers, his big boots sounding as they crossed the wooden floor, and then the door clunked shut behind him.

  A few long moments passed when no one spoke. Emma stood before the cell, though well back from his reach.

  “Ma’am?” Tucker finally said, staying in the dark of the cell.

  “What? What is it you want from me? What more can I possibly give you?”

  “Ma’am. I know you think I’m guilty. That I’m the one who killed your uncle, but it’s not true.”

  She snorted, looked away.

  “I’m not lying, I promise you.”

  “Uh-huh. That’s why you showed up in Klinkhorn with my uncle’s pistol, then sold it and got drunk with the money.”

  “No, that’s not . . . Well, it’s sort of true, but I tell you, I was starvin’.”

  “For drink, yeah.”

  “No, I wanted to do the right thing, but . . .”

  “But what? You’re a murdering drifter. Why should I believe you?”

  Tucker nodded in the dark of the cell. “Because the marshal said they’re going to hang me soon, and I can prove I’m innocent.”

  Emma wanted to reach through the bars and strangle him. Instead, through gritted teeth she said, “Prove it.”

  He moved closer to the front of the cell, and the scant light from the barred window fell on his face. And when Emma saw him, she gasped.

  “That bad, is it?” Tucker tried to smile, but it hurt too much. He guessed what she saw. Earlier in the day, when the morning light had lit the cell block strongest, he’d been able to see his wavery reflection in the washbasin water. His left eye was a puffed, bruised mess; he was unable to see out of it, though he guessed there might be a bit of light coming in through it now. His forehead bore similar welts, and most of his head felt like a bumpy log too, though his hair probably covered those lumps.

  His lips had split and were slowly crusting over. He didn’t think his nose had broken, amazingly enough, but it was puffy. And his chin throbbed every time he moved his mouth. He had also chipped a couple of teeth. The rest of him ached all over, mostly his gut where the big lawman’s ham-sized fists had driven in time after time.

  He was sure a couple of ribs were cracked. It hurt to draw deep breaths. And his own hands were scabbed about the knuckles and the small finger on his right hand was a purpled, swollen thing that looked like a raw sausage gone rancid.

  Emma regained her hard demeanor. “Nothing you don’t deserve—and more—for what you did to my uncle.”

  “I can see how you’d think that, but I’m telling you I didn’t do it. How else could I describe the two men who shot him? I saw it all.”

  “Why didn’t you help him?”

  “I am ashamed to say I did not—it’s true. But I had no weapon, no money, nothing at all except my horse, Gracie.” At the recollection of her, his throat tightened, as it had each time he’d thought of her since he ended up in jail. “I wonder if you could look in on Gracie. Whatever happens to me, she doesn’t deserve to be mistreated. She’s a good old girl. I miss her so.”

  “Where is she?”

  Emma’s voice was hard and tight, but he figured that her asking was some sort of positive sign.

  “I took her to the livery when I . . . when I got the money from the gun. She needed a feed, a rubdown.” When the girl didn’t answer, he continued. “I’d be obliged if you’d see that she’s being cared for. She’s hard to miss, pretty thin, but a stately old girl.” He smiled, thinking of her spirited ways. “Maybe you could find a home for her, a pasture where she can spend her final years in peace. Lord knows she deserves more than I ever gave her.”

  “Fine. I’ll see to her. What about these two men you say killed my uncle?”

  “They were each a-horseback, one on a bay, the other on a roan, decent horse, that one, but the other, not so much. Been abused, worked too hard. Sounds familiar. The man on that horse was runty, not very tall. He wore a black hat, looked like he needed a shave, and his tunic was probably white at one time. He also wore his guns cross-draw fashion, and I can’t be sure, but it sounded almost as if he was foreign, probably Mexican. The other man was taller, also grimy and in need of a shave. He wore a somewhat white shirt, black vest, and a brown hat.”

  The girl studied him, and he couldn’t be sure, but it seemed almost as if her features had softened a bit. Was there something of recognition there?

  “That all?” she said.

  “No, but they . . . This won’t be pleasant to hear, I’m afraid.”

  “I’ve been through worse, believe me.”

  “Okay. They had shot him in the back before I saw them. I was on the southern edge of this pretty green meadow, saw that all three were riding toward me, though by the time I climbed up out along that ridge just this side of that river, they had shot him in the back. He had the big pistol out and was trying to make it work, but it was almost like he couldn’t figure out how to do it. Then they circled him, laughing and whooping it up. Shot him again a few more times, in the hand, in the belly. He fell off the horse, but kept trying to get to his knees. By the time I really saw him, he’d already been shot at least a couple of times. They would have killed me too. Sure as shootin’.”

  “What happened next?”

  “His horse ran off, and then he fell over and lay on his side. They were laughing the entire time. Finally the short gunman climbed down out of the saddle. They were laughing, and he rummaged in the man’s coat pockets, then pulled out what looked like a piece of paper. White, I think. He unfolded it, read from it, then shouted to his friend, ‘We got it!’ or something like that, and climbed back up on his horse. Then they rode off toward what I later found out was this town.

  “I went to see if the man was truly dead, but he was. Or it looked like he was. Then I will admit to giving thought to seeing if he had any money.” He looked down at his feet as he said this. “I’ve never stolen from anyone.”

  She snorted as if she’d heard a lie.

  “It’s true. Even with the pistol, I intended to use it as a way of identifying him in town.”

  “Why did you leave him there?” Her voice cracked as she asked.

 
“Look at me, ma’am. I can barely carry myself through the day, let alone heft a big man like him. And besides, his horse was gone and Gracie isn’t in any better shape than I am. I had to leave him there. I did manage to find his hat, though, and I snugged it down over his face. I was afraid of leaving him exposed out there like that. Seemed the only thing I could do.”

  “But you sold his pistol in town.”

  “I know I did. But I hadn’t meant to. I had every intention of going to the marshal’s office right off. Explaining things to him, but then I smelled some home cooking and along about that time some kid whipped Gracie on her flank with a green branch. I felt so low, had to do something for her. So I cashed in the gun at the store.”

  For a moment neither of them spoke, and then Emma said, “That’s quite a story.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s the only one I have. But there’s something else.”

  “What?”

  “Your uncle. He spoke to me.”

  “What?” She looked to him, desperate and angry and hopeful and sad all at once.

  “It’s true. I swear it.”

  “I thought you said he was dead.”

  “No, I said I thought he was. But as I was checking his belly and chest for wounds, he grabbed my wrist in his big hand. Like to scared the daylights out of me. He looked straight into my eyes and he said, ‘Tell Emma . . . heart . . .’ And that was it.

  “At the time I didn’t know who Emma was or what he meant by ‘heart,’ but now I wonder if maybe he wasn’t talking about Marshal Hart.”

  “But why?” She said it as if to herself, so Tucker didn’t say anything. Then she looked at him, and he saw tears welling up in her eyes. And for the first time, he saw how pretty she was. And how sad.

  “I wish I had never come this far north, ma’am. I . . .”

  “Me too,” she said, and turned and stalked out of the cell block. Tucker didn’t bother shouting to her. There was more he wanted to tell her—things that could help prove he didn’t do it, things he might never have known, like why hadn’t he rummaged in the man’s pockets? Why not take the entire gun belt? Why not take bullets? Those things would make sense, but not taking them made no real sense.