Ralph Compton Tucker's Reckoning (9781101607770)

by Compton, Ralph; Mayo, Matthew P.

  “Tarleton is not my man and certainly not my lover.”

  Vollo laughed. “No, no, no. I don’t care about him. I am talking about that man who killed your uncle. The man who killed my friend, Rummler. You know the one. That starving drifter.”

  He didn’t know his name, but Emma knew whom he was talking about. “Samuel? Samuel Tucker?”

  “Sí, yes, yes. That is the man.”

  Emma shook her head. “You’re wasting your time. I . . . He’s dead.”

  Vollo laughed again, long and loud. “Not unless he died in the last couple of minutes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know he was coming to town. I heard him and that skinny old dog talking, the one who does not stop yapping. I should have shot him when I had the chance. Or better yet, gutted him.”

  “Arliss?”

  “Yes, that’s the one. Nasty old thing, he is. Neither of them looked too good. They should have burned in that fire, I think, eh?”

  Emma felt a glow of hope. They had lived through it—so it had to be true. She begged with all her heart for it to be true.

  Vollo stepped closer. Emma moved away. He drew his pistol, turned his good eye on her, and cocked the hammer. “You should sit down in that chair there, away from the stove. I heard shots across the street, and your sweetie was pretty lathered up to see you. So if he lives through that big party over there at the hotel, then I bet he’ll come here looking for you.”

  “Why do you care? What’s he done to you?”

  Vollo’s good eye widened and he gestured broadly with his hands. “To me?” He wagged the pistol at the gaping wound in his head. “He did this to me—for no reason! And to my friend, Rummler, he killed him too. Yes, that man is a killer man. He is a no-good seed. My mama said that about me, but this one, he is much worse. He is el Diablo, for sure.”

  Vollo leaned closer to Emma, and she smelled his breath—blood and cigarettes and old food. In a low voice he said, “And Vollo don’t forget that you did this to him neither.” He pointed toward his broken nose and the crusty sore of his split lip. “He don’t forget.” Vollo winked at her and limped away to look out the gap in the shutters.

  Emma didn’t much care what he did or didn’t forget. She was allowing herself to enjoy the real thought that perhaps Arliss and Samuel were alive. She had to get out of here and find them. Before they came to the jail looking for her. It might only be a matter of time before they found out she was here. But what if Vollo was right and they were mixing it up with Tarleton and his two hired guns right now? Samuel Tucker and Arliss were no match for those expert killers, even if they hadn’t been through a fire. And Vollo had said they didn’t look too good.

  She got up, but her big boots scuffed and clunked on the floor. Vollo adjusted his gaze with his usable eye, and waved his pistol from side to side. “I tell you to keep yourself sitting, and what do you do? You stand up. Just like a woman. Tell her one thing and you end up getting blamed for another.”

  “I was going to make coffee. I need a cup of coffee.”

  He didn’t move, but the gun lowered a few inches.

  She reached slowly for the near-empty coffepot steaming on the woodstove.

  He just watched her.

  “I’m going to fill the pot and put it on to boil, so we can have coffee, okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah, okay, I’ll have some. But make it fast. I don’t have all night to wait, eh?” He wagged the pistol barrel at his head again.

  It was disturbing when he did that, and even worse that he just assumed he would soon die from the head wound. That meant he knew he had nothing to lose. Somehow she had to let Arliss and Samuel know Vollo was here, waiting for them.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  The door in front of Tucker opened wider and there stood Lord Tarleton, directly in front of Tucker’s rifle barrel. The belly of the man’s vest was spattered with fresh blood. Tucker looked at the man’s hands, but they were held behind him as if folded there, a pose he seemed quite comfortable with. His ornate chin hair and waxed mustache looked haggard, droopy. Above the mustache was a bloodied bandage, edges plastered to the man’s face. Someone had gotten in a good lick and broken the dandy’s sniffer. His nostrils twitched and his eyelids flickered as if he’d been too long without sleep.

  “Where’s the man I just shot?”

  The smug smile on the dandy’s face drooped. “Is that any way to greet your host?”

  “You are no host of mine, mister.”

  “I assure you, I am no mister. I am a lord. Lord Tarleton, as you well know. And you are still the much-sought Samuel Tucker.”

  “Yep. Now, where’s the man I shot?”

  Tarleton reached with a boot toe and nudged the door open wider. Tucker tensed, followed the move closely with his rifle barrel.

  “Rest easy, cowboy. I am merely going to show you what you wish to see.”

  On the floor behind the dandy, a man dressed in black lay sprawled on his back on the carpet. His right hand outflung, a mangled claw from Tucker’s close-range bullet. But that’s not what had finished him. He lay wreathed in a two-foot-wide puddle of red-black blood sopping into the carpet, his throat a deep-sliced gash separating stark white lips of flesh and muscle.

  “Somebody cut that man a new smile.”

  “Yes,” said Tarleton, glancing down at the man. “It does rather look that way.” He looked back up at Tucker. “Oh, that was me, by the way. It seems the frontier is a persuasive place of such violent inducements.” He looked back down to the dead man. “I did him a favor, really. His partner was dead and this one wasn’t half the shot the other was. Plus, he’s no use to me now, a mangled hand and all. I would guess you are to blame, really.”

  “How do you figure that?” Tucker kept his hands tensed. He heard Grissom’s measured breathing from the floor behind him.

  “If you hadn’t shot my men, I would not have had to take such drastic action as . . . this.” He pulled his arms out from behind his back, gestured at the dead man. The sleeves of Tarleton’s fancy frock coat were soaked in blood, his hands slick with it, and a straight razor was gripped open in one, blood stringing off the end of the square-ended blade.

  “Where is Emma Farraday?”

  The man cocked his head and squinted at Tucker. “Why? What is that uncouth hussy to you?”

  “Where is she?”

  Tarleton looked puzzled. Then his eyebrows rose. “Ah, it’s love, isn’t it? Good Lord, what on earth could she love about you? You are a savage cowboy who looks as if he’s been dragged through a keyhole in both directions. Whereas I”—he folded his arms across his chest—“I am an English lord.”

  “Yeah, yeah, so you keep sayin’. And I for one don’t give a rat’s ass. I—” As he saw the sudden rage spread on the dandy’s face, Tucker heard a grunting, wheezing sound from behind him. He dodged low, slipped to his left into the room just as Tarleton lunged for him, razor thrusting. Something grabbed at Tucker’s dragging bum leg and he pitched forward, trying to spin as he did. He cracked off a rifle shot, but it went high into the room.

  In the doorway, he saw the skinny English dandy on his knees, slashing at the squealing Grissom, who had risen on one knee and slapped at the crazed Englishman with a meaty paw while rummaging in his pocket with his other hand.

  Tarleton’s razor found purchase, first in the fat man’s suit coat. The next swipe slit the shirt and welled red. Grissom shrieked like a baby and pushed at the Englishman, but Tarleton had the advantage of height and a handy weapon. His slashing attack continued in a flurry. His weaponless hand clutched at Grissom’s face, grasped a mat of sweaty hair, and he brought the razor in to deliver a vicious killing stroke to Grissom’s throat.

  As the razor touched the thick-jowled flesh of Bentley Grissom’s neck, Samuel Tucker considered not pull
ing the trigger of his rifle. But the split-second thought passed and he sent one, two bullets into the kill-poised body of Lord Tarleton.

  The Englishman’s entire body spasmed, his head whipped backward, his eyes snapped impossibly wide, and bright red blood gurgled upward. It fountained out of his gaping mouth, staining forever his fancy waxed mustache and chin hairs. Lord Tarleton pitched backward and lay still, the straight razor gripped in his bloody hand, his legs bent beneath him.

  When the smoke broke apart, Tucker saw Grissom, bloodied from a dozen slashes and slices, on one knee, wheezing.

  The fat man looked over at Tucker. “Took you long enough.”

  Tucker struggled to his feet, using the wall for support, then stepped over to the big desk and poked inside the top drawer. He pulled out a small leather folder and untied the rawhide thongs, holding it closed. After a few moments, a weary smile spread across his face. He tucked the paper into his shirt pocket and set the folder on the desk.

  The entire time, Grissom watched him, wheezing, sweating, and bleeding.

  Tucker pushed by him and headed slowly into the hallway.

  “Where are you going?” said Grissom.

  Tucker stopped, looked down at the fat face. “I am going to round up some townsfolk. I believe they’ll be interested to know you are back in town . . . and open for business.”

  “Oh, don’t do that. They . . . they hate me here. I did my best for them. It’s true, but . . . Tarleton, it’s really his fault. He ruined it for everybody. He was greedy—that’s the truth of it. Greedy.”

  Tucker shook his head and made his slow way down the hall.

  “I can pay you, damn it.”

  “No,” said Tucker. “No, you can’t.” He didn’t hear another word from the fat man.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Tucker paused, looking at the scene beneath him in the hotel lobby. People filled the room. Among them a half dozen townsmen with guns were herding the last of Tarleton’s surveying crew back into the sitting room off the lobby. Tucker’s gaze landed on one figure. “Arliss!”

  He bounded down the last flight of stairs, stumbling and righting himself on the banister. He made his way over to the long leather divan where the old man lay, gray-faced but awake. He held a wad of bloodied cloth to his side.

  “Arliss, you’re hurt.”

  “Course I’m hurt. That buzzard Grissom shot me. You’d be hurt too if’n you took a bullet.” He looked at the awkward way Tucker stood. “Oh, I guess you did. Well, then, you know how much agony I’m in, don’t you? Instead of simpering over me, why don’t somebody fetch me some whiskey, dull the pain till that useless doctor gets here? Why in the hell do pregnant women always pick stormy nights to whelp anyways?”

  “Speaking of,” said a short, bald man. “Where did Grissom get to?”

  Tucker looked over his shoulder, back upstairs. “He’s up there. Waiting for you all. I expect he’s ready to take his medicine.”

  Just then they heard a single gunshot from far upstairs.

  “Hart’s gun,” whispered Tucker. “I should have remembered it.”

  The hotelier, Halley, who’d been rummaging behind the check-in desk, emerged with a half bottle of bonded whiskey. He avoided his wife’s stern glare and brought it to Arliss, who promptly uncorked it, then offered it to Tucker.

  Tucker shook his head. “I have to find Emma.” He turned to the others in the room. “Where’s Emma Farraday? And don’t you dare tell me you don’t know—I’ll tear every board loose from this town to find her!”

  He drag-walked from face to face, man, woman, it didn’t matter. He stared each one into submission. Finally Taggart, the storekeep he’d remembered who bought Payton Farraday’s gun from him, said, his bottom lip trembling, “She . . . she’s at the jail. Marshal Hart took her there.”

  Tucker narrowed his gaze and headed for the door. From behind him, he heard Taggart say, “But Hart’s dead, just outside the hotel door. We think Grissom did it.”

  Tucker didn’t turn around. He opened the frosted-glass door and headed into the storm as the townsfolk swarmed the stairs.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Tucker leaned into the wind, headed diagonally across the street. He’d just nearly stepped on the snow-blown form of Marshal Hart, and knew he was dead. Tucker had suspected as much since Grissom had shown up in the hotel with the marshal’s cherished gun—a man like Hart wouldn’t give up his sidearm without a fight, or an ambush. Tucker made straight across the street for the jail, hoping against hope Emma was safe.

  A sudden gunshot barked and a gout of flame flared from the jail. Tucker lurched back deeper into shadows. After a moment, he shouted, “Emma! It’s me, Samuel Tucker!”

  Nothing, then: “Hey, you! Killer man!”

  Tucker squinted into the whipping snow. There, something moved behind wooden shutters in the jail. “Who’s that?”

  “It’s Vollo and I got me some little ripe banana in here, eh? You gonna try to take her from me or am I going to have to just shoot her now, and then you after? It’s up to you which order we do this, killer man.”

  So close now, thought Tucker. He hoped that meant he’d not hurt Emma. He risked a hobble-run across the street, and flattened himself against the shop front next to the jail.

  “Why are you calling me that when you and Rummler are the ones who killed Payton Farraday? Answer that, murderer!” As Tucker spoke he moved out away from the front of the building and back into the street, the drifting snow slowing his wounded leg’s efforts. He half crouched behind a frozen water trough.

  His comment didn’t have the effect on Vollo that Tucker had hoped for.

  The bloodied killer just laughed. “You trying to get me all worked up, eh? Admit to something? You’d like that.”

  “Vollo, why go to the grave with that on your conscience?” Not that he has one, thought Tucker. “For that head wound of yours will surely be the death of you, anytime now.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know all about it. And the only thing I want to do before I die is to see you die. You killed Rummler and now you killed me. The least I can do is to kill you too, see?”

  As Tucker watched, the jailhouse door cracked open, and a face peered along the edge. Too dark, and barely lit from behind—Tucker didn’t dare risk a shot in that direction until he was sure Emma was out of the way.

  Then the door swung wider, no one in the doorway. As it opened all the way, a face peered around it again and shouted, “Where are you, killer man? I ain’t got all night, you know. You seen to that!”

  Tucker didn’t respond, just waited him out. In very short order, he suspected he’d know soon what the man intended to do. Tucker just had to be one step ahead of him. With a bum leg.

  Then Vollo moved farther into the light, jerking his head to one side as if he were trying hard to hear or see. He held the pistol before him, kept angling his head and then his torso farther into the open. “You hear me, killer man?”

  As Tucker watched, Emma appeared behind Vollo and swung her arm up hard and fast. She held something dark in her hand. It arched up high above Vollo’s head and for the merest sliver of a second, Tucker thought he saw stunned surprise on Vollo’s face as he realized the girl was behind him.

  Then Tucker saw a steaming coffeepot slam down on Vollo’s head, smacking hard, the tin top pinging off and scalding-hot water pouring out of it and down the man’s already wound-raw head. She jerked her hand free of the coffeepot and it rattled to the floor.

  Vollo screamed, a high, howling sound, flailed his arms, and jerked the trigger of his pistol. Tucker dashed forward, felt the bullet whistle past his head. By the time he got to the man, Vollo was down on his knees, weaving, the pistol gripped in his fingers. The skin on his head had bubbled immediately and the earlier furrowed bullet wound gushed anew. He tried to raise t
he pistol, but it seemed too difficult a task for him. Tucker pulled the pistol from Vollo’s grip. The man made a grunting noise and flopped to his side, dead, his tongue distended, blood from his head pooling on the gritty wooden floor of the dead lawman’s office.

  After a few quiet moments, Emma hugged her hand close to her chest, only then realizing she’d burned it by grabbing the scalding metal handle of the coffeepot. Tucker stepped over Vollo’s body and took her hand, kissed it softly, then led her out the door and across the street to the hotel’s lobby.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Emma Farraday and Samuel Tucker pushed through the door, edging apart a handful of townsfolk. Louisa Penny shouted, “Emma!” and rushed to her. She hugged the bedraggled girl, but Emma didn’t respond in kind. Louisa pulled back, looked closely at the younger woman. “Emma, are you hurt?”

  Emma looked at her for a few seconds. “Yeah, I am.” She took a deep breath. “I can’t talk to you right now, Louisa. Later, maybe. But not right now.”

  Louisa looked down, nodded. “I understand,” she said, and left through the front door. The few remaining people, red-faced, drifted off to the parlor.

  “What are you wearing, Emma?” Tucker looked her up and down, taking in the rumpled, oversized jailhouse castoffs, all pulled on over the bunched-up and bloodied wedding dress.

  “It’s a dress, sort of. A wedding dress.”

  “I reckon you look better in ranch-hand duds.”

  “Good, because it seems every time I wear a dress, bad things happen.”

  “Then on our wedding day, you can wear whatever you want.”

  Emma stood back, regarded him a moment. “That’s mighty bold of you, Samuel Tucker. But what makes you think I’d want to marry you?”

  He pulled her close. “Who else would have you?” He kissed her before she could reply.

  From his corner on the long leather divan, Arliss took a pull on the whiskey bottle and chuckled softly. “He’ll do. Oh, I reckon he’ll do, all right.”