Ralph Compton Tucker's Reckoning (9781101607770)

by Compton, Ralph; Mayo, Matthew P.

  Tucker stood, a sack of beans swinging from each hand.

  “What?” said Emma.

  “Remember, I told you I saw those men taking that paper from his pocket?”

  “Yeah,” she said, her lips pursed. “Probably the—”

  From behind them, Arliss said, “Most likely it was his receipt for paying off the loan. The one I wished he had told you about, Emma. Grissom wouldn’t have wanted him to pay it off, else he’d lose control of Farraday lands, so he set Vollo and Rummler onto him to snatch that paper back.”

  Tucker nodded. “That way there would be no proof that he’d paid it off.”

  Arliss stepped up to Tucker, looked up at him, and pointed a finger at the tall man’s face. “Ain’t none of this is proved yet. And even then, you got some sort of explanation to get around on my good side. Might be you won her over, but me, I ain’t so easy to convince.” He turned away, then spun back, his finger extended closer to the tip of Tucker’s nose. “And I sleep with my double-barrel loaded with buckshot!”

  Samuel Tucker felt as though he’d had about enough, and faced them both. “I have a pretty good idea of what you think of me, not just for what you think I did—which I did not do, I will add—but also because of the way I look. It’s true that I don’t have much meat or muscle on my bones, and my horse isn’t much better off. I have my own reasons for the life I lead. But I didn’t kill Payton Farraday. The only thing I’m guilty of is in being at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “And selling his gun to Taggart at the mercantile,” Emma said, staring at him.

  Tucker nodded. “That is true. But I explained to you my intentions. I can only say that I was dry-gulched by hunger. Me and my horse.”

  Emma stared at him for a long moment, then finally said, “Speaking of that bone rack, you should see to her. I’ll fix up something for us all to eat. You going to be any use to us, you better get some meat on your bones.” Emma blushed almost immediately, then said, “Arliss? Maybe you could show him a stall for the horse, and where he can bunk.”

  “You’re dang tootin’ he’ll be bunkin’ in the barn. ’Cause I’ll be in the house.” He fixed Tucker with a hard stare. “Even if you ain’t a killer—and I ain’t saying you ain’t!—I know how things are with you drifters.” He pointed at Emma. “She’s my charge now. I’m responsible here, so I’ll be in the house.” He turned and pointed that finger up at Tucker’s nose again. “And I sleep with a—”

  Tucker nodded. “Double-barrel shotgun. I know. You said.”

  Arliss stalked off toward the barn, shouted over his shoulder, “Loaded with buckshot!”

  Tucker watched him for a second, then said, “Is he always this way?”

  “No.” Emma headed back inside. “Sometimes he’s grouchy.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  That night, Tucker woke up to see Arliss standing above his bunk in the barn, a shotgun cradled in his arms.

  “Arliss.” Tucker sat up. “What . . . can I help you with?”

  The old man stood staring at him, then handed him something in the dark. “Take a slug or two. Help you ease out of them booze tremblings. I seen your hands shaking earlier.”

  Tucker regarded him a moment, then shook his head. “No, I appreciate it, but I have to work through this on my own.”

  “No, sir. You’re in my barn, you go through it my own way. I been there, fella. I know what I’m talking about.” He held the bottle out to him again.

  Tucker took it slowly, uncorked it, and licked his lips, though he tried not to. He swallowed a stiff jolt, then another, and felt Arliss pulling the bottle from him. He struggled against it a moment, then let go and dragged a shaking hand across his lips.

  “I won’t give you the bottle. I’m teaching you to fish, like they say in the Good Book, or somewheres. If I give you this here bottle, you’d guzzle it down, wouldn’t be able to help yourself, not whilst you got the serpent curled around your gizzard so tight you feel like you might bust wide open. But if I teach you to ease off it and ease back into clear-eyed livin’, you might just be of use to yourself—and to us.”

  The old man shifted his shotgun and took a slug himself. “We got a powerful need for another set of hands around here. Lots of work. Course, being a bone rack like you and that horse of your’n are, I can’t expect you to be of much use to us for a while, but I got tasks that you can do. And there’s one thing we can provide is a bit of food and plenty of hard work so you’ll sleep hard, wake up feeling better each day, like you knowed something.”

  “Thank you. You were right—that was just what I needed.”

  “Good. Now you can do me a favor and don’t tell Emma.” He glanced toward the wall, beyond which sat the house, and lowered his voice. “She ain’t much of one for drinkin’, so any yammering you do will be on your own head. Now get some shut-eye. You’re a talkin’ fool, and I got sleep to tend to.”

  With that, he turned and stalked out into the night, muttering a blue streak to himself.

  “Thanks, Arliss,” Tucker said to the empty barn. And for the first time in a long while, he fell asleep without dreams of the past clawing at him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  For little more than a week, the odd trio at the Farraday spread kept their heads down, worked hard to ready the place for early snows that most often hit in late September and early October. They moved their small herd of beeves to winter pasture, separating the culls, cut firewood, and felled and dragged timber to season for next year’s projects. Arliss wanted to build a proper smithy and an open-sided building away from the barn where he could butcher beef and chickens easier. His current slaughtering space was wherever it happened to be convenient.

  Tucker fit in well, even if entire days went by without him being addressed by either Emma or Arliss. But he didn’t take it personally since he noticed that they rarely spoke with each other, except at mealtimes. It was a quiet place filled with hard work and heavy with grief.

  He grew accustomed to the routine, took comfort in it. With each day that slipped by, he felt himself regain strength, felt muscles form again where he hadn’t felt muscles on his arms and legs for years. His craving for booze, always tapping his shoulder and whispering a fluttering call for attention, was not something he indulged in or particularly missed, tired as he was at the close of each day. And each night he slept better than the night before. His bruised face and battered ribs slowly changed from dark purple and blue to lighter greens and yellows.

  The days had turned increasingly cold, even at midday. Arliss decided he wanted to butcher a few culls and get them to the folks in town who had requested beef. They’d spent a couple of days doing just that, and since it was work that Tucker had had experience with, he was pleased to be of use to them. He even suspected he impressed Arliss, though with the old man, that was a difficult thing to tell.

  They’d stopped for a big noonday meal and Emma and Arliss were watching in amazement at Tucker’s capacity for food. He was putting on weight, feeling fitter, and eating more beans, biscuits, and beef than either of them could have taken in in a week. He’d also managed to find wild carrots and onions and, to their surprise, the presence of the vegetables had added considerably to the meals.

  Arliss buttered another biscuit for himself, picking at it and trying not to raise his eyebrows as Tucker ladled another scoop of whistle berries onto his plate. They didn’t much mind, as he had turned out to be more than a fair hand at the cooking. Even better that he enjoyed it, as cooking had never appealed to either of them.

  “So, I wonder how ol’ big britches, Marshal Granville Hart, is managing to keep the lid on the town, what with this one gone and all.” Arliss wagged his bushy gray eyebrows. “Sure folks must know by now that he’s escaped from the calaboose.”

  Tucker paused, his mouth full. He’d barely given the to
wn much more than a passing thought all week. What had the marshal been doing to keep his disappearance a secret? Surely someone would have noticed he wasn’t in there.

  “We’ll find out soon enough,” said Emma.

  “How’s that?” Arliss asked.

  Emma sighed. “Arliss. We have to take the beef and eggs into town—soon as you finish butchering those culls. I don’t expect it will warm up anytime soon, but those folks are depending on us bringing beef in.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I forgot. Okay, me and Tuck here is about ready to start in on the last of the butchering anyway.” He looked down at the biscuit he was picking at, then tossed it on Tucker’s plate. “You might as well eat that too. You been eyein’ it for five minutes. Besides.” He smiled. “I’m savin’ room for a snort in town, and maybe a beer or three.”

  Emma lowered her gaze at Arliss, eyes narrowed.

  The old man shook his head, looked at Tucker. “Ain’t that just like a woman, though? Take away a man’s fun afore he’s had any!” He slapped the table and rose, his chair stuttering on the wooden floor.

  “At least we can talk with Grissom before you meet up with your chums at the bar.”

  “Yessiree, I aim to give that sloppy sack of guts a thing or two.” He held up a fist menacingly.

  “I’m serious. Doesn’t seem likely that a piece of paper could mean all that much. Must be some other form of proof that we don’t owe Grissom money, right?” She looked at Arliss.

  The old man only shrugged. “It’s a devil of a thing, not knowing where you stand.”

  She rose from the table and snatched up her plate. “I know where I stand. I was born here, I was raised here, and I will die here. Now or later, it makes no never mind to me. If he’s going to try to steal this place from us, paper or no, debt or no, he’ll have to do it over my dead body.”

  Tucker felt plenty of things he wanted to say, but it was too soon to express his opinion here, too raw.

  “I wish you wouldn’t talk like that, girl,” said Arliss. “We’ll get to the bottom of it, but I can’t take another Farraday leaving me. And if you go, where in the hell would old Arliss get to? Riddle me that, smarty!” He smacked the table a last time and left. Even Emma’s apology from across the room didn’t stop him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “Morning, Glendon.” The short, bald man leaned in the door of G. Taggart’s store, saw that it was free of customers. “Got a minute?”

  Glendon Taggart, he of the “G. Taggart” on the sign out front, stood in his usual spot behind the counter, tallying figures before his wife got on his back again about them.

  “Doing the accounts, eh?” Chet grinned, tried to read the tallied figures upside down.

  Taggart slammed the accounts book shut. He’d known Chet ever since they’d both arrived in Klinkhorn four or five years back. Chet was the owner of the feed, ranch, and hardware store down the street, but the little bald man could be annoying. “What can I do you for today, Chet? Business slow over at the shop?”

  “I tell you what, Taggart. I don’t seem to be able to pay Grissom’s ‘special taxes’ that he said us merchants were obligated to pay.”

  Taggart nodded, even sighed in what he hoped sounded like sympathy. “And I’ll tell you what, Chet. I understand, but I am in the same boat. Hell, we all of us listened to him when Mr. Bentley Grissom rolled into town in that wobble-wheeled buggy of his three years back. That alone should have told us something. Then he proceeded to sell us a bill of goods—told us what we wanted to hear and then stayed!” He chucked his spectacles on the counter and folded his arms. Damn Chet anyway for getting him riled. He did this every week. “Klinkhorn has never been the same since,” he said as a closing shot.

  “I can’t disagree, Glendon,” said Chet, his head wagging as if he were palsied.

  But Taggart knew they were plowing ground already turned a few dozen times a month around kitchen tables and business counters and card games and horse stalls all over town. And no matter how many times they yammered on about it to each other, nothing changed. Grissom had the entire town in a tightening grip about the neck. And they had let it happen so long now that they couldn’t afford to go against the grain where Grissom was concerned.

  Plus, there were Grissom’s promises of big business coming in, of their need to expand their business, the laying in of more and more expensive inventory. And that had necessitated that they partake of Grissom’s bank’s low lending rates. Why, in the beginning the man had practically given away money. Most business owners in Klinkhorn had felt the same way, and he had been all too eager to lend everyone in town money.

  The man’s promises so far had proven hollow. But they were all realizing it too late. The man owned controlling interest in most of the town’s buildings, a good many tracts of land in the surrounding region, plus the Lucky Shot Saloon and the office of mayor of Klinkhorn, for what that was worth. And if the rumblings around town were true, the biggest feather in his cap would be the controlling interest in the Farraday spread—all seven thousand acres of it.

  “Why are you here anyway, Chet?” The merchant placed his big ham hands on the counter. “You know something I should?”

  “Might be I do.” Chet half smiled, leaned against the customer side of the counter.

  “Out with it, or out of my store.”

  “Why, Glendon,” said Chet, wincing as if he were about to be struck. “I thought we were friends.”

  “We are, damn it. That’s why I don’t like these games. Out with it.”

  “It’s that foreigner, the English fella.”

  “What about him? We’ve seen strangers here before. Used to be a mining camp, you know.”

  “Yeah, but that fella has something going on with Grissom.”

  “That’s no surprise. We all do.”

  “Yeah, but ain’t none of us renting all the free rooms in town for his men.”

  “Men? He only came in with those two on the black horses.” He thought about it. They had been an unusual sight, armed as they were with double rifle rigs, double cross-draw hip irons, and Lord knew what all else under them dusters and in those elaborate black leather saddlebags.

  “That’s what I been trying to tell you, if’n you’d let me get a word in sideways. Word leaking out is that the English fella is some sort of royalty and he’s bringing in all sort of men who work for him.”

  “What for?”

  Chet shrugged. Useless, thought Glendon. He could at least have come in here with useful information. “Where did you hear this?”

  “Same place we hear anything about Grissom—those two fools who work for him.”

  “Rummler and Vollo,” said Taggart. He thrust his bottom lip outward, chewed it a bit. “When the wife comes in, I might just wander on over to the Lucky Shot for a beer.” Taggart winked. “Can’t get any less information than you’ve managed to offer.”

  “Aw, I don’t need this treatment from you, Glendon. I have a wife for that.” He headed out, the door’s top bell ringing behind him. As soon as it settled into place, he popped his head back in. “You’ll let me know if you hear anything, right?”

  “Yes, Chet. You’ll be the first to hear.”

  Chet smiled and whistled on down the boardwalk.

  “And then everybody will know. If I find out anything, that is.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  As she emerged from the narrow trail behind the house, Emma didn’t know who was standing before her, up on the hill where her mother, father, and uncle rested forever. He was a tall man with wide shoulders and a narrow waist, lanky and lean, but well muscled. He held his hat in his hand before him, as if out of respect for the three graves, and not just as someone gawking out of curiosity. Then the figure shifted weight to his other foot and she recognized the older but mended work denims and
shirt that had belonged to her uncle, and she realized it was Samuel Tucker. And a sudden knot of anger gripped her in the throat.

  “What are you doing up here?”

  He turned, eyebrows raised. “Emma—”

  “You didn’t know them, don’t have any reason to be here. You may work for us, but you don’t have any right to be up here. This is a private place. Besides, what do you know of death and grief? You’re just a drunk and a drifter.”

  As she said it she felt shame heat her face. But it was already said, too late to pull it back in. Instead she stood, arms folded in front of her.

  Tucker stepped away from the foot of the graves. “It’s very peaceful here.” He glanced at her. “But you’re right. I did not know them, Emma. And you’re right too that it’s a private place. And for intruding, I apologize to you.”

  He looked at her face until she met his gaze, held it. She noticed that his dark hair and sunburned face had cleared, now shaved and scrubbed, with mostly healed bruises and cuts, and with brown-green eyes free of the yellow tinge and tiny red veins that had made him look worn down to a useless, frazzled end.

  “I wasn’t always just a drunk and a drifter. Up until two years ago I had a ranch of my own. I bred horses, mostly. It was a fine place. I had five hundred acres of decent land near Tascosa, Texas. And I had . . .” His smile slipped and his voice cracked. He swallowed and spoke again. “I also had a wife and a daughter. Rita and little Sam, short for Samantha. Rita insisted we name her after me.” He gritted his teeth, looked up at the branches of the pines standing tall over the quiet knoll.

  “What hap—”

  Tucker plunked his hat on his head. His cold tone cut her short: “They’re dead. Both dead. Taken from me by sickness. So yes, Emma Farraday, I may be just a drunk and a drifter, but I know my share of death and grief.”

  “I am so sorry, Samuel. I didn’t know—”

  “That’s right—you didn’t.” He walked by her on the trail.