“First him and then you, cow,” McCarthy gloated. “And then this mouse.”
“No!” Matilda screamed.
Shots blasted from the saloon. McCarthy glanced up, startled. He let go of Matilda and backed toward the shack, shooting as he went. Matilda said, “Oh!” and clutched herself.
“Matilda!” Tilly wailed.
Aces was struggling to slide out from under her. He heard Tyree shout something, and the boy and McCarthy traded more shots. Matilda was on her knees, her hand to her chest, her fingers wet with blood.
“No, no, no,” Tilly cried.
Pushing against the ground, Aces strained every sinew. “You have to get off me, woman.”
“I’m tryin’, damn it. I can’t help it I’m not delicate.”
McCarthy disappeared around the shack. Flame stabbed the dark with a last shot, and boots drummed.
Tyree charged up, firing as he came. “You’re not getting’ away!” he bawled, and recklessly pounded after him.
Aces was practically beside himself. With a powerful wrench, he managed to extricate his legs. Crabbing to his Colt, he grabbed it and stood. Or tried to. His left leg spiked with pain and buckled. He had to thrust his arm down to keep his balance. Again he rose and this time his leg supported him, but his knee throbbed. Limping, he hobbled in pursuit.
Off in the night a six-shooter cracked and another replied.
“Tyree!” Aces hollered. He shouldn’t have, since McCarthy might send lead his way, but the kid would get himself killed if he didn’t use his head. Grimacing, he hobbled faster.
The night went quiet save for loud sobs from Tilly.
Aces stopped reluctantly. He had no idea where Tyree and McCarthy had gotten to. He flexed his leg, making sure nothing was broken.
Off a ways hooves drummed and rapidly receded. A last shot banged and someone cursed.
Aces waited. When a darkling figure materialized, he said, “You don’t listen worth a damn.”
“He got away,” Tyree said.
“Didn’t you hear me? You shouldn’t have run off after him. You’re lucky you’re not dead.”
“I saved your bacon and you do this?” Tyree said, and stalked past.
Aces didn’t press it. The boy had saved him, and that was something. He followed him around the shack to where Tilly cradled Matilda and rocked back and forth, tears streaming her cheeks.
“He shot her!” Tilly sobbed.
Aces thought she meant Tyree. Then he saw a blood-rimmed bullet hole between Matilda’s bony shoulder blades and realized she had been shot in the back, not the front. Tom McCarthy had been behind her; he’d done it.
“You have to go after him,” Tilly said, sniffling. “You have to see he pays.”
“Don’t you worry, lady,” Tyree said. “Tomorrow this ends, one way or the other.”
Chapter 20
They set out at daybreak.
Aces refused to push as hard as they had before, which angered Tyree. Aces pointed out that their horses hadn’t had enough rest, that McCarthy had an entire night’s lead, and that haste might cause them to lose the tracks they were following. Tyree gave in but he wasn’t happy.
Marshal Hitch, on the other hand, was in uncommonly good spirits. Aces mentioned as much when they were riding together.
“Why wouldn’t I be in fine fettle?” Fred said. “It’s a gorgeous day and no one is tryin’ to kill me.”
“Yet,” Aces said, and grinned.
“To be honest, this is the most excitement I’ve had in my whole life. I’m used to sittin’ in my office all day and not doing much of anything,” Fred said. “When we started out for Cheyenne I wasn’t pleased the mayor made me go. But now I’m sort of gettin’ used to it. I’m not nearly as sore from all the ridin’, and I find I like bein’ out and about.”
“I’m glad somebody is havin’ a good time.”
“The boy has been givin’ you grief, I know. Remember he’s young yet. He’s not as patient as you or me.”
“There’s more to it than that,” Aces said. He didn’t elaborate.
Fred inhaled and beamed. “Isn’t this day gorgeous? I’m beginnin’ to understand what some people see in the outdoors.”
“Took you long enough.”
“Are you pokin’ fun at my gray hairs?” Fred rejoined. “I admit I’m not the sharpest knife in the toolshed. It takes me a while to figure things out. I’m like the tortoise in that story about the tortoise and the hare.”
“You don’t say.”
“I do. A man should know his limitations, and mine are that I’m slow but steady. I’ll stick on McCarthy’s trail from now until Armageddon if that’s what it takes to bring him to bay.”
“Tyree will be happy to hear that.”
“He worries you, doesn’t he?”
“Some,” Aces admitted.
“Remember. People don’t usually change overnight. Or in a week or two either. You’ve only known him a short while and you’ve done him more good than anybody else. Give it more time and I bet he’ll change considerably.”
Aces admired the lawman’s attitude, but he was more practical. There was only so much he could do to help the boy. The rest, Tyree had to do on his own.
Toward noon they came on a herd of cattle. Aces spied several cowboys in the distance and figured the punchers would ride over to find out who they were, but the cowpokes were riding to the east and didn’t spot them.
McCarthy’s tracks continued north.
Aces wondered where the killer was bound. Certainly not to Sweetwater, where everyone knew what he had done.
“He’s pushin’ awful hard,” Fred remarked at one point.
“Probably switchin’ animals like he did before,” Aces said.
“Even two will tire out after a while,” Fred said. “He’ll be lucky to make it to the mountains.”
To Aces’s immense frustration, McCarthy did.
That night they camped in a clearing by a stream, ringed by pines and spruce. The beans had lost their appeal. Aces hankered after a thick steak dripping with fat juice, and a mess of potatoes besides.
Gazing about them, Tyree said, “Here we are again. In two days we’ll be in Sweetwater, and won’t that tickle your mayor?”
“He’ll make me a laughingstock,” Fred predicted. “Tell everyone I can’t do my job.”
“Well, we have lost McCarthy twice,” Tyree said. “It’s not anything to crow about.”
Aces was about to say that he would crow when McCarthy was behind bars in Cheyenne and not before, when a scream carried to them on a gust of wind, a faint, high-pitched shriek that hinted at unspeakable horror.
Fred shot to his feet. “Lord Almighty, did you hear that?”
“How could I not?” Tyree said. “It gave me goose bumps.”
Standing, Aces turned into the wind. “It wasn’t an animal.”
Fred came around the fire to stand next to him. “You don’t reckon it was McCarthy, do you?”
“It better not have been,” Tyree declared. “They pay more if he’s alive. Guess they want to put on a show with a trial and whatnot.”
After a while they sat back down. Aces refilled his tin cup and thought about something he should have thought about sooner. “The Arapahos.”
“What about them?” Fred said.
“It could be they’re still around.”
“You reckon they’re to blame for that scream?” Tyree said.
“We’ll take turns keepin’ watch,” Aces proposed.
No one objected. Fred offered to sit up first, and Tyree said he didn’t mind being second.
So it was that along about two in the morning, Aces was roused by a nudge on his leg. The fire had burned low and the horses were dozing. “Anything happen?”
“I was bored silly,”
Tyree said. “Heard some coyotes and a bear once, that was all.” Yawning, he shuffled to his bedroll. “I’m losin’ more sleep over McCarthy than I have over all the others I’ve gone after.”
A brisk breeze had brought a chill. Aces huddled with his hands close to the flames. His knee had stopped hurting, but his leg was stiff and gave him twinges when he moved. He wouldn’t be doing any running for a few days.
Other than the occasional chirp of a cricket, the night had gone unusually still.
Aces was glad he could sit there and relax. It had been one thing after another for days now, and the reprieve was welcome. He could use a deck of cards to pass the time. The thought brought back memories of his gambling days. He had no regrets about giving up a life of luck to tend cattle, although now and then he missed the excitement.
No sooner did that cross his mind than another scream pierced the night. As far off as the first, it was a tremulous wail of utter despair. Aces was on his feet before it died. He moved to the edge of the clearing, trying to gauge the direction and distance. To the northwest, he decided, maybe a mile or more. He was tempted to investigate, but it would be foolhardy to bumble around in the dark.
Neither Tyree nor Marshal Hitch stirred.
Aces scoured the mountains. In all that dark sprawl of untamed wilderness, there wasn’t a light anywhere. It galvanized him into going to their fire and putting it out. He should have done it sooner.
The rest of the night crawled on the tiny feet of a centipede. In the gray of predawn, birds broke into chorus and deer came out of the undergrowth to graze and drink.
All appeared normal.
Aces woke his companions. No one was hungry. They were saddled and ready when a golden arc blazed on the horizon.
Assuming the lead, Aces headed northwest. He went over a mile without finding anything and was about convinced that he’d been mistaken about the direction when he rounded a bend in a game trail and beheld a flat bank bordering a stream—and on it, staked out naked, a white man.
Tyree was first off his horse. “No, no, no,” he said, running over. “You damn jackass. Why’d you have to go and run off?”
“I was afraid of this,” Marshal Hitch said. “A man alone doesn’t stand a prayer. He brought it on himself.”
Alighting, Aces stood over the victim. “I reckon you’re sorry that you didn’t give yourself up at Sutter’s Stump.”
Tom McCarthy had been mutilated. Certain body parts had been cut off, and he’d been scalped. That he still had his tongue was a miracle, almost as big a miracle as the fact that he was still alive. “Is that you, Hitch? And Tyree?”
“It’s us,” Tyree said, moving closer. “What did they do to your eyes?”
“Cut them,” McCarthy said.
“Was it the Arapahos?” Aces needed to know.
McCarthy nodded, and winced. “Caught me when my guard was down. I hadn’t seen any sign of them, so I figured they were long gone.” He licked lips that weren’t there. “Never thought I would end like this.”
“I could have told you,” Fred said.
“You’ve cost me two thousand dollars, you stupid yack,” Tyree said. “Good riddance.” Turning his back, he walked off.
Aces hunkered. “Is there anything I can get you? Water? Food? You name it.”
“Brains,” McCarthy said, and laughed bitterly.
Aces fought down a wave of revulsion. “Tyree, you should join us.”
“The hell I will,” the boy replied. He was sulking and leaning against an oak. “He has spoiled everything.”
“Come join us anyway.”
Tyree cussed and smacked the oak. “I shouldn’t, but for you I will.” He came back and planted himself and folded his arms. “What do you want me to do?”
“Feel a little sorry for him.”
“Now I’ve heard everything,” Tyree said. “He’s a murderer, for cryin’ out loud. His wife, his friend, that dove. You want to feel sorry for someone; feel sorry for them.”
“That’s all right, kid,” McCarthy said. “I was your age once.” He closed his eyes and shuddered. “I’d like to be your age now, knowing what I know that I didn’t back then. I’d like to live my whole life over and not make the mistakes I did the first time.” He shuddered some more, his neck muscles bulging. “The pain,” he said softly. “The pain.”
“I can end it,” Aces offered.
“No, thanks,” McCarthy said. “I’ll milk what’s left to me, pain or no pain. I’ve never taken life for granted, and I won’t start now.”
“It was nice knowin’ you back in Sweetwater,” Fred said. “You always treated everyone decent.”
“For a murderer?” McCarthy said.
“For a human being.”
“That was kind of you, Fred. I won’t forget it.”
“For the love of heaven,” Tyree said. “Did any of you bring a violin? You’re dyin’, mister. You’ve been cut to ribbons and it’s what you deserve for what you did. Hell, you’d have been better off hanged.”
“That’ll be enough,” Aces said.
“You wanted me to join you,” Tyree said. “Here I am. Just don’t expect me to weep and blubber.”
“That’s the spirit, kid,” McCarthy said.
“I hate you,” Tyree responded.
Aces changed the subject by asking, “Which way did the war party go? Those Arapahos?”
“I couldn’t tell with my eyes put out.”
“Ask him what the sky looks like, why don’t you?” Tyree said.
Aces could have hit him.
“Would you like some words said over you?” Fred asked. “I’ve never read the Bible all the way through, but I know a few passages.”
McCarthy showed some interest. Tilting his head toward the sound of Fred’s voice, he said, “What would you say over me?”
“You want to hear it now?”
“I can’t when I’m dead.”
Flustered, Fred said, “I’ll have to think about it some. I know Psalm Twenty-three, but that’s hardly fittin’.”
“Why not?” McCarthy said.
“Well, in that case,” Fred said, and cleared his throat. “Let’s see. How does it go again?” He paused. “‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.’” Fred stopped and scratched his chin.
“Is that all you remember?” McCarthy said.
“No. Give me a minute.” Fred did more scratching. “Now I recollect.” He took a breath. “‘He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake—’”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Tyree interrupted. “He strangled his wife and you’re quotin’ Scripture over him?”
“Even a strangler deserves that much,” Fred said.
“Go on,” Aces said.
“I’m not sure I remember it all, but I do this next part,” Fred said. “‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.’” He started to go on, stopped, and sadly shook his head. “Dang. That’s all I can recollect at the moment.”
“That was fine,” McCarthy said, and turned his sightless eyes to the sky. “God, please forgive me.”
“Just die already,” Tyree said.
“Death comes to all of us, boy,” McCarthy said. He was weakening and they could barely hear him. “It’ll come for you one day, like a thief in the night, and that’ll be the end of you like this is the end of me.” He gasped, stiffened, and gave up the ghost.
“Finally,” Tyree said.
Chapter 21
Tyree was as mad as could be for three whole days.
He’d needed the two thousand he’d have been paid. He only had about forty to his name. To be so close to finally
learning the name of his parents’ murderers and then to be thwarted infuriated him.
Sometimes it seemed as if Tyree had been hunting their murderers forever. The hunt was everything to him. He lived it, breathed it. Some might say he was wasting himself, that he should come to terms with his loss and get on with his life. Especially since he had only been an infant when they were slain. He never knew his folks. He’d never heard their voices, never been hugged or hugged them in return. He had no idea whatsoever what they had been like. He didn’t even know the color of their eyes.
So it made sense to get on with his life.
Problem was, Tyree couldn’t forget them. Something inside him, something deep down that he couldn’t account for, drove him to find their murderers. He’d tried to explain it to others and couldn’t. It wasn’t love. You couldn’t love someone if you didn’t know him. It wasn’t out of fond memories. He didn’t have any. It was something else. A compulsion he could no more resist than he could eating or sleeping.
It was why he became a bounty hunter. The men he was after were criminals. Outlaws. To find them, he had to deal with others of their kind. He could ask around. Had they ever heard of an incident in Missouri? His hope was that one day he’d get lucky.
He was too young to wear a tin star or he might have become a lawman. A badge could sometimes get people to talk.
Since he couldn’t tote tin, the bounty work seemed a smart way to conduct his hunt. He had dealings with the criminal element, and he wasn’t tied to any one place. He could go wherever the trail led him.
It had been a tidbit of information from an outlaw he’d brought to bay in Kansas City that had brought Tyree to Cheyenne. The man bought his freedom with it. Tyree had asked his usual questions, and to his surprise, the outlaw claimed to know someone who knew the three men who were to blame. The outlaw had offered to tell him where to find the one who knew if Tyree let him go.
Tyree had agreed. He’d packed his saddlebags and left for Cheyenne the very next day. He looked for bounty work and a man offered him the chance to bring in Tom McCarthy.
He hadn’t counted on McCarthy dying.
He hadn’t counted on a lot of things this time.
Ralph Compton the Evil Men Do Page 15