Ralph Compton Outlaw Town

by Ralph Compton

  “Ride,” he hollered, and buckled down to covering as much distance as they could before pursuit materialized.

  Chancy’s aim was to swing wide of the herd and reach the woods.

  Her hair streaming in the wind, Missy was grinning with excitement. She glanced over and laughed.

  Chancy could have hugged her and never let go. She was wonderful, this girl who had come out of nowhere and staked a claim on his heart. When they got to Kansas he’d have the first parson they came across hitch them, and forever after she’d be his. Visions of their life played across his mind, of the house they’d live in, and the kids they’d have, and how in their waning years they’d rock side by side on their porch and be as happy as anything.

  Long minutes passed, and he became so lost in his wonderful daydream that he didn’t realize Missy was hollering his name.

  She pointed behind them.

  Chancy looked but saw nothing to be concerned about. No one was after them. Yet how could that be? He hauled on the reins to bring the bay to a halt and Missy did likewise with her sorrel.

  “Why aren’t they chasing us?”

  “I don’t know,” Chancy admitted. He would have staked every cent in his poke that the outlaws would be hell bent to catch them.

  “They should be, shouldn’t they? You shot one of them and beat another senseless.”

  “I shot two,” Chancy said, remembering Franklyn.

  “Even more cause.” Missy swept her arm at the empty prairie. “But they let us go as easy as pie.”

  “I wouldn’t call that easy,” Chancy said. But she had a point.

  “What’s more important to them than us?” Missy asked absently.

  “The herd!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “All that matters to Krine is the herd. He didn’t come after us because he’s not in town. Only a few of them were. The rest must have left to attack my friends.”

  “They’re in great danger.” Missy stated the obvious.

  Chancy swung toward the distant woods. “Krine must be closing in on them even as we speak. We have to get to them first. We have to warn them.”

  “If we’re not too late already,” Missy said.

  Chapter 53

  Chancy and Missy rode as if possessed. In Chancy’s case, he was: possessed by a gnawing fear that he wouldn’t be in time, that the outlaws would surround his friends and slaughter them before he could get there.

  Missy impressed him with her riding ability. So did the grim set to her face. She fully appreciated what was at stake.

  Chancy tried not to think of the new danger he was putting her in. He thought of Ollie and Jelly and Rigenaw, and all the others. Please let me be in time, he prayed, and lashed the reins.

  To the northwest the blue of the lake glistened in the sun. To the north the longhorns were bunched under the watchful eye of four or five outlaws. One of the cutthroats spotted Chancy and Missy but stayed where he was. Apparently Krine had given orders that the herd guards weren’t to leave the herd for any reason.

  It puzzled Chancy, though, that he didn’t spot the main body of outlaws. He should be able to if they were making a beeline from town. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they were circling around to come at the woods from the west instead of the east and take the Flying V hands by surprise.

  Rising in the stirrups, Chancy scoured the woodland. It seemed peaceful, but he was too far off yet to tell much.

  “Chancy!” Missy yelled, jabbing a finger.

  Chancy was mystified until he made out stick figures to the west of the woods. They were on foot, a line of them, the sunlight glinting off metal in their hands. He had been right. The outlaws were coming at his friends from a direction they wouldn’t expect. And he was much too far away to warn them.

  In despair Chancy tried to push the bay harder. His frustration was boundless.

  The rest of the ride was the longest of his life.

  They came to the south end of the lake and started around just as gunfire crackled in the woods. Men yelled and screamed, their cries punctuated by the bang of revolvers and the louder boom of rifles. The battle rose to a frenzy.

  In desperation, Chancy swore and jabbed his spurs so hard it was a wonder he didn’t draw blood. The bay, though, was lathered with sweat and flagging. So was Missy’s mount.

  Chancy was so frantic to reach his friends that he would have recklessly plunged into the trees if not for her. He came to his senses just in time, and slowed as they drew near. At the tree line he stopped and swung down. Several long strides brought him to a broad trunk, and he squatted and palmed both six-shooters.

  Missy wasted no time in joining him. “What do we do?” she asked breathlessly. “There has to be something.”

  Judging by the din, the Flying V hands were putting up a fierce fight.

  Chancy couldn’t just hunker there while his outfit fought for their lives. “Stay here,” he said, and went to move around the oak into the underbrush.

  “Not on your life,” Missy said, gliding close to his side.

  Chancy shook his head. “Please. I can’t fight and protect you both.” A scream from deeper in made him want to run to the aid of his friends.

  “How can you leave me alone?” Missy said incredulously. “What if Krine or his men find me?”

  Chancy deemed that unlikely but he was wasting precious time. “All right,” he said, reluctantly giving in. “But you keep behind me and don’t stray.”

  “Like glue,” Missy promised.

  Hurrying, Chancy stayed alert for movement. It was a trick his pa had taught him when he was a boy and his pa took him hunting for the first time. Often a hunter would become aware of movement before he saw the actual animal.

  Chancy nearly jumped when Missy placed her hands on his back. He was going to tell her not to, but changed his mind. He liked the feel of them, liked the warmth. They reminded him there was more at stake than a herd of longhorns. Human lives were in the balance, hers included.

  He caught a flash of motion.

  Chancy stopped so abruptly that Missy bumped into him. She had the presence of mind not to blurt anything and peered over his shoulder, her cheek nearly brushing his ear.

  Up ahead, a man was slinking through the trees, a revolver in his left hand. He was focused on the middle of the woods, where the cowboys were making their stand, and hadn’t noticed Chancy and Missy.

  “It’s one of them,” Missy whispered. “His name is Larkin.”

  Chancy vaguely recollected seeing him in Prosperity.

  “What are you waiting for?” Missy said. “Shoot him.”

  Chancy smiled. He had found a gem of a woman. Taking careful aim, he thumbed back the hammer, steadied his arm, and sent a slug into Larkin’s torso. The slug appeared to catch the outlaw low in the ribs, jarring him. Larkin staggered and looked wildly about, unsure where the shot came from.

  Chancy shot him again.

  As the man crumpled, Missy touched Chancy on the neck and said softly, “Nicely done, handsome.”

  Chancy couldn’t reply for the constriction in his throat. He moved on, glad he had the two revolvers. The Colt was strange to his hand but the Remington was the same model as his own.

  “Another one!” Missy whispered.

  Chancy drew up short. He saw an outlaw, and then one more, and yet a third, creeping from tree to tree and brush to brush. The second outlaw had a rifle. It was Ackerman.

  “Drop them dead,” Missy whispered.

  Chancy hesitated. He wasn’t Wild Bill Hickok. He couldn’t down all three just like that. They’d return fire, and Missy might be hit. “Hunt cover,” he said.

  “I’m behind you,” Missy said. “I’m perfectly safe.”

  “No, you’re not,” Chancy said. It was common knowledge that slugs sometimes tore clean through the person
shot at and hit bystanders. He bobbed his chin at a tree about six feet away. “Over there will do.”

  “I don’t want to leave you.”

  “Consarn it all,” Chancy said. He was still watching the outlaws, which proved fortunate.

  Ackerman glanced over and saw them.

  Chapter 54

  Surprise rooted Ackerman for the heartbeats it took Chancy to point the Remington and fire. He didn’t aim. He just shot. Which made it all the more rewarding when Ackerman’s head snapped back and he took a couple of disjointed steps, then did a slow twirl to the ground with a bright scarlet hole in his forehead.

  Missy clapped and squealed in delight.

  Reaching behind him, Chancy gripped her wrist and pulled her toward the tree. They’d only taken a couple of steps when the other two outlaws got off shots. Missy cried out and fell against him. In terror for her life, he wrapped his arm around her waist and threw them both behind the trunk. Lead pockmarked the bark but they made it around and he dropped to his knees, pulling her with him.

  Missy doubled over and clutched her left shoulder.

  “How bad?” Chancy said, fearing the worst.

  Grimacing in pain, Missy removed her hand.

  The bullet had creased her, ripping through her dress and her flesh and leaving a bloody furrow a quarter inch deep.

  Rage seized Chancy. A fury so potent a red haze filled his vision and his blood boiled in his veins. He wasn’t even aware that he had stood and stepped from behind the tree until he had done it.

  In the act of rushing them, the two outlaws were caught off guard.

  Chancy shot the one on the right and then the one on the left. They returned fire and he took a step and shot the one on the left, twice. Something seared his side. Swiveling, he shot the outlaw on the right, again and yet again. Only when he realized the hammer was clicking on an expended cartridge did he stop thumbing and squeezing.

  The outlaws were down, the one on the right gurgling loudly, with crimson spurting every which way.

  “What were you thinking? You could have been killed.”

  Chancy turned. Missy had come around the tree and was right beside him. “You never listen when I say you should stay put.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?” Chancy asked without taking his eyes off the fallen outlaws. None were moving, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

  “I care too much.”

  Chancy grew warm inside. He made certain the outlaws were dead and noticed a black-handled Remington on the ground near the outstretched fingers of the last one to fall. Chancy dropped the Colt he’d been using and helped himself to the Remington. Now he had two. He liked this new one. Black handles like these were rare. They weren’t wood. Or pearl. Or ivory. He didn’t know what they were. But they fit his hand nicely. His grip was solid. He helped himself to cartridges from the outlaw’s gun belt too.

  Deeper in, the battle was winding down. There were fewer shots, fewer yells and screams.

  Missy had torn a strip from the hem of her dress, folded it, and was pressing it to her wound to stanch the blood. “Who do you reckon won?” she whispered.

  “Impossible to say.” Chancy suppressed an urge to call out to Ollie and the rest. He’d only draw lead.

  “Give me a gun.”

  “No.” Chancy would do whatever shooting was needed.

  “I’m serious.”

  Chancy looked at her.

  “It shouldn’t all be on you.”

  “You’re a dove, not a gun hand.”

  “And you’re a cowboy. So what?”

  “No.”

  “Give me one good reason.”

  “They see you with a pistol,” Chancy said, “they’ll shoot you.”

  Missy indicated her makeshift bandage. “They already have. At least let me defend myself.”

  “Consarn you.”

  “You’re saying that a lot today,” Missy remarked with a smile. “Don’t be so stubborn. Your friends might need us.”

  Chancy hated the idea, but he picked up the Colt he had discarded and handed it to her. “Happy now?”

  “Very much so.” Missy held it in both hands, pointed it at an imaginary enemy, and said, “Bang.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “Nothing ever is.”

  Chancy led the way. They didn’t see a soul but they did come across a body, an outlaw with half his face blasted away.

  Missy giggled.

  “What?” Chancy whispered.

  “He looks funny that way.”

  Hideous, was how Chancy would describe the gaping hole rimmed by strips of flesh. The handiwork of a large-caliber rifle slug, unless he was mistaken.

  Around them, the woods were unnaturally still. Not so much as a single bird chirped or a single insect stirred.

  “Where did they all get to?” Missy whispered.

  “Don’t start taking after Ollie.”

  “What?” she said. Then, “Oh.”

  More bodies appeared. A couple of outlaws, and Addison. The older puncher had taken several rounds to the chest and was sprawled with his limbs, and his mouth, wide apart.

  “Damn,” Chancy whispered.

  They went a little farther and there lay Mays. The young hand had been hit in the middle of his back. The shot had undoubtedly shattered his spine, yet he had managed to crawl four or five yards before someone had come up and shot him in the head.

  “Another of yours, isn’t he?” Missy whispered.

  Chancy nodded.

  “I wonder if there are any left.”

  “Let’s find out,” Chancy said.

  Chapter 55

  By Chancy’s reckoning, eight of the Flying V outfit were unaccounted for: Lucas Stout, Old Charlie, Ben Rigenaw, Jelly Varnes, Lester Smith, Drew Case, Finger Howard, and his pard, Ollie.

  A tangle of dead brush barred their way, and as they skirted it, Chancy subtracted one more from the total.

  Finger Howard had survived his appendix only to lose his life to a hail of lead. It appeared he had been shot six or seven times. His left eye was an empty socket, his mouth twisted in a silent scream.

  “Wasn’t he the one . . .?” Missy whispered.

  Chancy nodded.

  They neared the clearing. More bodies littered the ground. Some were outlaws. Some weren’t. There was Lester Smith with a hole in his gut, and Old Charlie, who’d caught one in the head.

  Chancy stopped.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “So many of them dead.” Chancy was afraid to go on, afraid of finding more.

  “We have to know,” Missy said, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. “I won’t leave your side.”

  Swallowing hard, Chancy crept on. The last of the vegetation parted and before them spread the clearing. It was empty. No bodies, no horses, nothing.

  “Where did they get to?” Missy said.

  She went to move past him, but Chancy stopped her and put a finger to his lips. He thought he’d heard something. As quietly as they could, they circled the clearing. They were north of it when he saw a pair of boots, toes up, sticking out of high grass. The boots were shaking as if the wearer had palsy, and someone groaned. Dreading who he would find, Chancy pointed the black-handled Remington.

  Lucas Stout was on his back, his dark shirt speckled with wet spots, his whole body twitching. His hat was half under him. His eyes were open, a haunted aspect to his features. He must have heard them or sensed them, because his eyes swiveled and he gasped out, “Can’t move.”

  Chancy scanned the woods. “The outlaws?”

  “They’re gone,” Stout said. “Went after those of us as were left.”

  “What can I do?” Chancy hunkered. “Dig the slugs out?”

  “I’m a goner,” Luca
s Stout said.

  “Don’t talk like that,” Missy said. “People have survived worse.”

  Stout didn’t respond.

  “How many are still alive?” Chancy was keen to learn.

  “Rigenaw,” Stout said. “But he was hurt. Drew Case is wounded too. Jelly isn’t dead yet, I don’t think. Now, there’s a hellion. He killed four of them his own self.”

  Chancy had to wet his mouth to ask, “What about Ollie?”

  “He went back to town as soon as he gave us their message.” Stout coughed, and drops of blood trickled from a corner of his mouth. “I told him not to, but damned if he’d listen. He was worried about you.”

  Missy placed her hand on the trail boss’s arm. “Is there anything we can do for you? Anything at all?”

  “No, ma’am,” Stout said. “I’ve played out my hand and lost. It’s the hereafter for me.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Missy said.

  Lucas Stout closed his eyes and shuddered. “If not me, then who? I lost the herd I was entrusted with. I lost most of my hands. I have proven next to worthless and I have got what I deserved.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Missy said.

  “It’s not over yet.” Chancy sought to give the man hope. “There are still five of us who can shoot.”

  With an obvious effort, Lucas Stout reached up and gripped Chancy’s wrist. Beads of sweat popped out on his brow and he licked his lips. “Listen to me, Gantry. I’ll only have time to say this once.”

  “You should rest,” Missy interrupted.

  “Quiet, miss,” Stout said. His fingers tightened on Chancy. “Find my horse and my saddlebags. In them are the papers on the herd, and where to get hold of the owners. Take over for me. You’re the new trail boss. Get the herd to the railhead.”

  “Me?” Chancy said in amazement.

  “Why not?”

  “Ben Rigenaw is a better hand than I’ll ever be,” Chancy said. “And there’s Jelly, and Drew Case. They’re all older. I’ll have one of them take over.”

  “I want you.”

  “You’re delirious,” Chancy said. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”