Ralph Compton the Evil Men Do

by Ralph Compton

  As Aces was paying for the box, Tyree said, “I don’t like that Bascomb. He looks at me strange.”

  Caleb heard, and his dull eyes glittered. “Don’t be talkin’ about Ira that way.”

  Tyree seemed startled. “Well, he does.”

  “How about I stomp you?” Caleb said.

  “What did I do?”

  Aces placed his hand on his Colt. “There won’t be any stompin’ today, if you don’t mind, and even if you do.”

  Caleb glanced at Aces’s holster and showed he wasn’t as dumb as he appeared to be. “I know about you, mister. You’re a shooter. Mr. Bascomb says to be careful around shooters.”

  “Does he, now?” Aces nudged Tyree. “Let’s go.” As they moved off he lowered his voice and said, “That was careless, provokin’ him.”

  “How was I to know he’d take offense?”

  “He works here, doesn’t he? That should have told you right there that he and Bascomb must be friends.”

  Aces came to the saloon and stopped.

  Over at the bar, Marshal Hitch was leaning on an elbow while drinking and talking to one of the cold-eyed men from the table. The lawman’s back was to Tom McCarthy, who had his head bent close to Bascomb’s. The two appeared to be whispering.

  Aces strode over. His spurs gave him away, and Bascomb moved away from McCarthy, wiping at the bar with his towel.

  McCarthy smiled.

  “What were you talkin’ to him about?” Aces asked.

  “Oh, this and that,” McCarthy said. “A fine gentleman, Mr. Bascomb. The world could do with more like him.”

  Aces didn’t like the sound of that. He didn’t like that Marshal Hitch was being friendly with one of the curly wolves either. He tapped the lawman’s shoulder. “We’re ready to light a shuck.”

  “What’s your rush, mister?” the wolf said. He was tall and lean with pockmarked cheeks and wore a Remington butt-forward on his left hip. “The law dog and me are just gettin’ acquainted.”

  “We’re leavin’,” Aces said to Hitch.

  “Sure,” Fred said. “Give me a minute.” He took another sip. “I’m going to have my flask filled.”

  Aces could have kicked him. “Make it quick.”

  “You’re awful bossy,” the wolf said.

  “What’s it to you?”

  The wolf grinned. “Bascomb there tells me you’re a quick-draw artist. I find that interestin’. I jerk a pistol pretty slick myself. Could be you’ve heard of me.” He paused. “Puck Tovey, from the Staked Plain country.”

  In fact, Aces had. Tovey was a notorious man-killer who had terrorized the borderlands for a dozen years or better. “You’re a mite off your range.”

  “That I am,” Puck said. “The Texas Rangers had it in for me. With them, you shoot one and they put a whole company on your trail.”

  Aces suddenly recollected something else. Puck Tovey was different from most shootists in that whereas those with any common sense avoided tangling with other leather slappers of note, Puck Tovey was noted for seeking them out and prodding them into going for their six-guns. Tovey was a shark who liked to kill other sharks.

  “So, how many has it been for you?” Puck asked.

  Aces didn’t need to ask what he meant. “None of your business.”

  “How about I make it mine?”

  Aces saw where this was leading. A feeling came over him, the sort of feeling a man had when he stood on the brink of a precipice and was about to go over. The other wolves had risen from their table. A glance at the mirror showed Bascomb had stopped wiping the bar and stood with one hand under it.

  Aces couldn’t count on Tyree or Hitch for help. The boy was fondling the box of cartridges as if they were a Christmas gift, and the lawman had his mouth glued to his glass.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” Puck Tovey asked.

  Aces set himself. “I heard an ass break wind.”

  Chapter 16

  Puck Tovey was sure of himself. He straightened and took a step back, saying, “Well, now. It’s been a coon’s age since anyone was dumb enough to insult me.”

  “Maybe you’re just too dumb to notice.” Aces took a step too, away from the bar. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Tyree had caught on that trouble was brewing and had lowered his right hand to his Colt.

  As for Marshal Hitch, he drained the last of his glass, sighed, and set the glass down. “That was nice. I could use another.”

  Puck Tovey gave him a look of amusement. “You might want to move, law dog, or you’re liable to take lead.”

  “Must be Mr. Connor is right about you,” Fred said. “Shootin’ a lawman isn’t very smart.”

  “I’ve done it before,” Puck told him.

  “Shootin’ a lawman whose brother is a federal marshal and whose uncle is a federal judge is even dumber.”

  “The hell you say.”

  “I just did.”

  This was the first Aces had heard about Hitch’s brother and uncle. Then again, there hadn’t been cause for Hitch to mention it.

  Acting as if he didn’t have a care in the world, Fred stretched and said, “Shoot me and there will be a federal warrant for your arrest. Every federal marshal in the territory will be after you. They might not be as formidable as the Texas Rangers, but do you really want that?”

  Puck was studying the lawman. “What did you say your last name was? Hitch? I never heard of any federal marshal with that handle.”

  “Met them all, have you?”

  “How do I know you’re tellin’ the truth? You could be makin’ it up to save your hides.”

  Reaching for the bottle, Fred began to refill his glass. “Oh, I doubt Mr. Connor’s hide needs savin’.” He stopped pouring and set the bottle down. “I’ve seen him draw, and you don’t have a chance in hell of beatin’ him.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Especially if he has help,” Fred said.

  “What kind of help can you be, you old goat? You don’t look to me to be no gun hand.”

  “I’m the kind who thinks instead of shoots,” Fred said, and threw the whiskey in his glass into Puck Tovey’s face.

  Backpedaling and blinking, Tovey stabbed for his Remington.

  Acres drew and shot the Texan in the head. Pivoting, he caught Bascomb in the act of bringing a shotgun from under the bar. He fanned two swift shots, just below the sternum. Jolted onto his heels, Bascomb dropped the scattergun and looked down at himself in shock.

  “Hell no,” he said, and melted.

  Aces was already swiveling to train his Colt on Tovey’s pards. Everything had happened so quickly that they were frozen in surprise. Not one had gone for his six-shooter. Now one started to but stopped at the click of Aces’s Colt. “If you’re hankerin’ to die, try.”

  Tyree had a six-shooter out but hadn’t fired. He seemed as awed as the rest.

  Of them all, only Tom McCarthy showed disappointment. “Well, hell. Bascomb said he would set me free for five hundred dollars.”

  “Your idea or his?” Aces said without taking his eyes off the others.

  “I might have mentioned it first,” McCarthy said.

  Fred grabbed hold of McCarthy’s wrists. “The hell you say! That’s what I get for turnin’ my back to you. From here on, you’re not to talk to anybody unless I say you can.”

  “I’m a walking dead man,” McCarthy said. “I’ll do what- ever I have to in order to keep that from happening.”

  “We’re leavin’,” Aces announced. “I’ll go last.” So he could cover them as they backed out.

  Fred grabbed the bottle. “This goes with us. I figure I’m entitled.”

  “Bring a case if you want,” Aces said.

  “Would that I could,” Fred said with a laugh. Pulling McCarthy after him, he made for the batwings.
r />   “Look out!” Tyree cried.

  Caleb was lumbering out of the store with his big fists balled. “You shot Ira!” he shouted at Aces.

  Aces trained his Colt on him. “I don’t want to have to shoot you too.” Two in under a minute was more than enough.

  Caleb was so mad his entire frame shook. “He was my friend and you killed him. You’ll answer for it, you hear?”

  “Let it go,” Aces cautioned.

  Seldom had anyone looked at Aces with such intense hatred. For a few moments Aces thought Caleb would rush him. Aces reached the batwings and pushed outside. Once Tyree and the marshal were in their saddles, he darted around the hitch rail and forked leather.

  Worried they might be shot as they rode off, Aces bawled, “Ride!” and used his spurs.

  But no one appeared. No one fired at them.

  Tyree let out a whoop and Aces almost did the same. They’d made it out in one piece. By nightfall they’d be so far from Sutter’s Stump he reckoned that no one stood a prayer of catching them.

  Only after they’d gone a mile did Aces slow.

  Scanning their back trail, Tyree chuckled. “That was fun. We should do it again sometime.”

  “We were lucky,” Fred said. “Of course, that business about my brother and my uncle helped some.”

  “Was that true or not?” Aces asked.

  “Not,” Fred said, and laughed.

  “Mighty quick thinkin’,” Aces said. “So was throwin’ your drink in Tovey’s eyes. You might have saved our hash.”

  “I’m happy to be useful,” Fred said.

  Tyree still held the box of cartridges. “I’m happy that I can practice all I want to now.”

  “That’s all you care about?” Fred said.

  “It’s what we went there for,” Tyree replied. Turning, he chuckled at Aces. “When word of what you did gets out, you’ll be downright famous. Folks will point at you and stare.”

  “I’ve had enough of that, but thank you,” Aces said. Adding to his tally was the last thing he wanted. All the ranchers in the territory would hear of it. Finding work would be harder than ever.

  “I don’t see why you’re so upset,” Tyree said. “If it was me, when we get to Cheyenne I’d celebrate.”

  “You worry me some,” Aces said. “You truly do.”

  “Why? I haven’t even shot anybody yet.”

  “You shot a horse,” Fred said.

  Tyree jaw muscles twitched. “I swear, you would make a great biddy hen. You should have been born a girl.”

  Tom McCarthy had been listening and now he snorted in disgust. “Hypocrites. You go around killing and talking about killing, yet you insist on turning me over to the law for doing the same thing you do.”

  “You’re loco,” Fred said. “A shootin’ affray isn’t the same as muderin’ your missus and her lover.”

  “What do you know?” McCarthy said. He was clearly in a mood for an argument, but Fred didn’t take the bait.

  That evening, Aces gave Tyree another lesson. He explained that it was important not to lose one’s head in a fight. “A clear head gives you an edge on a man who is mad or drunk.”

  Tyree was more interested in bettering his draw. He had a tendency to grab at his pistols instead of drawing them. Aces showed him how to do it with a smooth down-and-up motion.

  “No wasted movement. That’s the key.”

  Tyree was an eager pupil. He practiced drawing both his right and his left hands, singly and together, until they were ready to crawl under their blankets.

  As Aces was sinking back on his, the boy came over, beaming.

  “I think I have it.”

  “Show me.”

  Wagging his arms to loosen them, Tyree drew. “What do you think?” he asked anxiously.

  “Keep at it and you’ll be able to hold your own against most anybody,” Aces said. He’d like to see the boy be faster, but it was important to encourage him.

  “It’s the three who killed my ma and pa I want in my sights,” Tyree said. “If only I can find them.”

  “When you do, remember what I told you about keepin’ your head.”

  “That might be hard to do,” Tyree admitted. He began to spread out his bedroll, pausing to say, “I can’t tell you how much this means to me. No one has ever helped me like you’re doing.”

  It had been a long day and Aces was looking forward to catching some sleep. But just when he was on the verge of drifting off, Marshal Hitch came over.

  “Did you hear anything?”

  “For instance?” Aces said.

  “While you were givin’ the boy his lesson, I thought I heard hooves.” Fred pointed back the way they’d come. “A couple of horses, or more.”

  “Why didn’t you say somethin’?”

  “I heard it and then I didn’t. It could have been my ears playin’ tricks on me.”

  Aces stared into darkness. “We’ll take turns keepin’ watch,” he proposed. “Better safe than sorry.”

  “Fine by me,” Fred said. “I’ll go first, if you don’t object.”

  “Stay awake,” Aces cautioned.

  “You can count on me.”

  Aces hoped so. He folded his hands on his chest and waited, but sleep eluded him. He tossed and turned and finally succumbed, but he couldn’t have been asleep more than an hour when Marshal Hitch shook his shoulder to wake him.

  “Your turn, shootist.”

  “I’m a cowpoke and don’t you forget it,” Aces said irritably. “The shootin’ just happens.”

  “A lot,” Fred said.

  Sitting up, Aces riffled his hair and put his hat on and tried to get his brain to work. Fortunately, half a pot of coffee was being kept warm on a flat rock by the fire. He filled his tin cup and gratefully drank.

  Tyree was snoring. Somewhere out on the prairie a wolf howled.

  Aces had always liked to listen to wolves, to their high, throaty cries and their lonesome laments. At times a wolf could sound happy and at other times so inexpressibly sad that it plucked at a man’s soul. Some nights, packs would sing in chorus together, and he would lie there and thrill to the beauty of it.

  Aces finished his coffee and stood. He needed to stretch his legs and clear his head. Stepping around the fire, he went over to the horses. The palomino, the bay, and the sorrel were dozing. He went out farther, to where the glow of the firelight met the black of night.

  He saw nothing; he heard nothing other than the wolves.

  Aces admired the stars awhile, then returned.

  Tyree was muttering in his sleep and moving his arms and legs as if he were running.

  Aces wondered if the boy was dreaming about the men who murdered his folks. What a burden that would be, carrying a thing like that around in your head for the rest of your life.

  Aces refilled his cup. He was about to take a swallow when he heard a faint metallic clink. Not a click, as a gun hammer would make, but a slightly louder, sharper sound. He didn’t know what to make of it. It reminded him of a pickax striking a rock, but who would be using a pickax in the middle of the prairie in the dead of night?

  He hoped it would be repeated, but it wasn’t.

  But someone, or something, was out there.

  Aces set his cup down. The coffee could wait. He went back to the horses and stood between the palomino and the bay, his hand on his Colt.

  The minutes dragged and the fire burned low, the flames crackling softly. Now and again a piece of firewood popped. Smoke rose in gray ribbons.

  Aces figured he must be mistaken. Whoever or whatever was prowling around out there should have shown by now. He had started to come out from between the horses when he heard the clink again, closer this time.

  His palomino raised its head and pricked its ears. It was staring to the north, the way th
ey had come.

  Aces debated waking the others.

  Suddenly the bay and the sorrel both looked up. The sorrel nickered lightly and stomped a front hoof.

  Figures moved just beyond the firelight. It was hard for Aces to tell, but there appeared to be four or five. They were spread out like soldiers in a skirmish line.

  Aces let them come closer so he’d have targets to shoot. Faces took form, pale against the dark. One was a lot higher than the rest.

  Aces placed his hand on his Colt. Whoever they were, they must intend to shoot his friends in their sleep.

  The big one crept forward. For his size, he was as silent as an Apache. Metal glinted in his hand. He was carrying a long-handled ax.

  Aces had seen enough. He was about to step into the open when a gun barrel was jammed against his spine.

  Chapter 17

  It was rare for Aces to be taken so completely by surprise. He froze, his hand still on his Colt.

  “Not so much as a twitch,” the man behind him growled. “You do, and I blow you in half.”

  Aces’s hand was yanked away and his Colt was snatched from his holster. Whoever was behind him grabbed him by the back of his shirt and shoved from between the horses.

  “Walk toward the fire and keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Aces looked over his shoulder. His captor was one of the men who had been playing cards with Puck Tovey. Grizzled and thick-lipped, he wore a buckskin shirt and britches and a floppy hat. “Never had anyone sneak up on me like that.”

  “I’m good at sneakin’,” the man said. “I was a scout once.” He jabbed Aces with an old Maynard buffalo gun.

  Marshal Hitch and Tyree were sound asleep, the boy on his back with his blanket to his chin and his hat half-down over his eyes.

  “Your pards are in for a surprise,” the scout said.

  The silhouettes in the dark emerged.

  Caleb was the large one. He had a revolver around his waist but was carrying an ax. The other two were from the card game.