Ralph Compton the Evil Men Do

by Ralph Compton

  They spent a fruitless half hour searching for Creech’s animals and were about to give up and head for the pass when a whinny drew them to a dry wash, and there they were.

  “We should strip the saddles, smack them on the rump, and let them run free,” Fred suggested.

  “No.” Aces had been struck by a brainstorm. “I have plans for them.”

  “You have a plan for everything,” Fred said.

  Tyree hardly said a word. The biggest day of his life, a day he had yearned for since he could remember, was at long last about to take place. He thought only of Dunn and Lute, and his ma and pa.

  Fred came last, leading the extra animals. He wasn’t in any hurry. The blood they were about to spill, or have spilled, was blood he could do without. He wondered how he’d let himself be roped into this, and then remembered. He’d roped himself.

  Aces concentrated on staying calm. That he had to showed he wasn’t. The calmness should come without being forced. The truth was, though, he was a mite on edge. Tangling with Dunn and Lute was perilous enough. If ten to twenty other outlaws were with them, it’d be a miracle to make it out alive.

  Despite all the revolver fights he’d been in, Aces had never given much thought to dying. He did now. There was such a thing as biting off more than you could chew. Ten to twenty outlaws was a big bite.

  Just then a raven screeched, and they looked up to see one of the big black birds gliding overhead.

  “That’s a bad omen,” Fred said. “My grandmother used to say that crows and ravens are what she called harbingers of death.”

  “Spare me your superstitions,” Tyree said.

  “You’re the one who believes in luck,” Fred said. “Me, I believe in stayin’ alive. You can’t enjoy life if you’re dead.”

  “Wise words,” Tyree said, and chuckled.

  Aces expected to emerge from the far end of the pass high on the divide, with slopes below, stretching on forever. He was wrong.

  Before them was a grassy tableland dotted by islands of aspens and belts of cottonwoods. In the distance were buildings. Most were made of logs.

  “I’ll be switched,” Tyree exclaimed, drawing rein. “We’re here.”

  “Another fifteen minutes yet,” Aces said, his estimate of how long it would take to cover that distance.

  Fred unpinned his badge and stuck it in a pocket. There was no sense in advertising he was a lawman. “What was that quote I gave from the Bible? Into the valley of the shadow we go.”

  “That’s not no valley,” Tyree said.

  Aces turned in his saddle. “I may not have the chance to say this later, so here goes.” He smiled at Tyree and Fred. “It’s been an honor to ride with you. That day you found me in . . .” He stopped, his mouth open, looking past them.

  Tyree and Fred twisted around.

  A man had come from behind a giant boulder. His hat had a hole in it and was frayed around the brim, and he had a beard that fell to his waist. The beard was gray, but there was nothing old about how he moved or the menace in his eyes. He had trained a Winchester on them. “What do we have here?”

  “Howdy,” Fred said, smiling to give the impression they were friendly. “You must be posted as a sentry to keep an eye on the pass.”

  “That I am, mister,” the outlaw said, sounding amused that Fred had said something so obvious. “And to shoot those who have no business being here.”

  Chapter 35

  Tyree was mad at being thwarted so close to his goal. He was tempted to try for his Colts but didn’t. The sentry had already cocked the Winchester and, that close, wouldn’t miss.

  Aces wanted to kick himself. He should have expected the outlaws to have a guard or two. His hands happened to be on his saddle horn, and fast as he was, he couldn’t possibly draw and shoot before the man put a round in him. Simmering, he had to submit to being told that they were to raise their arms and slide from their mounts using only their legs.

  Fred Hitch was awkward at it. He got his arms up and his right leg over the saddle horn, but when he went to slide, he lost his balance and fell to his hands and knees. “Sorry,” he blurted as the muzzle of the man’s Winchester was trained on him.

  “I thought you were tryin’ something,” the sentry said.

  “Not me,” Fred said. “I’m just clumsy.”

  “I want all of you to face your animals and put your hands on your saddles. I’m going to disarm you. Any of you so much as twitch, you’re dead.”

  Fred believed him. Standing, he faced his bay and placed his hands on his saddle.

  He winced when the Winchester was jammed into his spine. He felt his six-shooter being snatched from its holster and heard the thud of it being tossed away. Then a hand patted him down searching for more weapons.

  “Stay right where you are.”

  “Yes, sir,” Fred said.

  Tyree had contrived to face his horse so that one hand was on his saddle and the other on the end of his bedroll. He tensed as boots crunched behind him, and frowned when the Winchester’s muzzle gouged his back. “Go easy there, mister.”

  “Shut the hell up, boy.”

  Tyree’s Colts were jerked and thrown.

  “You totin’ any other sidearms?”

  “No.” Tyree’s derringers were in his saddlebags. So was his bowie. His saber too was no longer on him. He’d taken his pard’s advice about not going around like a walking arsenal.

  The man laughed. “Now, why don’t I believe you?”

  Tyree was patted down from his neck to his ankles. He turned his head enough to see the sentry step back.

  “I reckon you were tellin’ the truth, boy.” The man turned to go to Aces and finish disarming them.

  Tyree slid his hand into the bedroll. The hilt of the saber was right where it should be. Gripping the hilt, he struck like lightning, yanking the saber out and thrusting it at the sentry’s neck. The man sensed the attack and spun just as the saber sheared into his neck and out the other side. With an inarticulate cry, the outlaw attempted to point the Winchester, but Tyree swatted the barrel aside. Suddenly one of the man’s hands was on his throat, the fingers digging deep. Tyree twisted the saber and the man gurgled but didn’t go down.

  Aces leaped to help. Drawing his Colt, he clubbed the sentry even as he grabbed the Winchester and wrenched. Fortunately the rifle didn’t go off. He tore it from the man’s grasp and went to club him again, but there was no need.

  The sentry was folding. Blood streaming from his neck, he collapsed onto his side. Already his shirt was soaked. He tried to say something, but all that came out was more blood.

  Tyree had held on to his saber. Now, placing a foot on the sentry’s chest, he sliced outward, severing half the man’s throat in the process. Stepping back, he grinned. “Pretty slick if I say so myself.”

  “You’re being cocky again,” Fred said, but he was impressed. The boy had acted quickly and decisively.

  “Get your guns,” Aces said. He was gazing toward Robbers Roost. There was no sign of anyone coming their way. As far off as it was, he doubted they’d been seen. But he didn’t like being out in the open.

  They hoisted the body over one of the extra horses, which had the good sense not to shy, and took off toward some cottonwoods.

  Only when they were under cover did Aces breathe a little easier. He tied the palomino and moved to where he could see the Roost. They were within rifle range, but there was no one to shoot. The place looked deserted.

  “No one is there,” Tyree said, shocked. After they’d come all this way, it simply couldn’t be.

  “What do you know?” Fred said. Secretly he was pleased. It could be that all the outlaws were off robbing a stage or a train. Maybe they could still get out of there alive.

  “No, wait,” Aces said.

  A couple of men came out of a log building wi
th batwings. They each had bottles and were grinning and talking. Almost at the same time, a slovenly-looking woman opened a cabin door, stepped out, shook a blanket, and went back in.

  “They’re there all right,” Aces said. “At least some of them.”

  “Thank goodness,” Tyree said.

  Fred sighed and said, “I should have known.”

  “Where are their horses?” Tyree wondered.

  “There,” Aces said, pointing. “At the side of the saloon. You can just make out their tails.”

  “How do we do this?” Fred was concerned to find out. “We can’t just ride on in. They don’t cotton to strangers.”

  “My plan was to give the extra horses swats on their rumps and send them in,” Aces revealed. “The outlaws would come out to investigate, givin’ us some idea of how many are there. But I’ve changed my mind.”

  Fred was glad. Drawing the outlaws out was the last thing they should do. It would put them on their guard.

  “What else, then?” Tyree asked.

  Aces cocked his head at the sky. “The day is too young yet to wait for dark. So we crawl on over through the grass.”

  Fred thought of his poor knees. “That’s a long crawl. It must be pretty near two hundred yards.”

  “More like a hundred.”

  “Well, that makes a difference,” Fred said. But he got his rifle when the others did, and before he knew it, he was slithering through the grass and scraping his belly. He hated it, but he trusted that Aces knew what he was doing.

  Tyree was near giddy. At long last, he’d have Dunn and Lute in his sights. He would show them no mercy but shoot them down like the dogs they were.

  Aces hoped he wasn’t making a mistake. Should anyone be looking out a window, they might be spotted and hell would break loose.

  Fred kept his head as low to the ground as he could. The grass wasn’t all that high and he was afraid the top of his hat showed. He almost took it off, but he refused to go around bareheaded.

  Feminine laughter wafted from the saloon, followed by a man’s gruff voice.

  By Aces’s reckoning they weren’t more than thirty yards out when another cabin door opened and out strode a black man. His hat and his vest were black, and he walked with a swagger. He wore a brace of pistols and a big knife as well.

  “Lute!” Tyree exclaimed, tingling all over. It had to be. There weren’t that many black men in those parts.

  “Hush, consarn you,” Aces said.

  Fred was impressed by how the outlaw carried himself. Lute had a deadly air about him, if such a thing were possible.

  The black man was almost to the saloon when he abruptly stopped. He stared toward the pass for an unusually long time, then stepped to the batwings and shoved on in.

  “What was that about?” Fred whispered.

  “He was lookin’ to see if anyone was comin’,” Tyree guessed.

  Aces prayed the boy was right. “Keep movin’.” He quickly crawled to the side of the saloon. Thankfully there was no window. Rising into a crouch, he brushed grass from his Winchester.

  Tyree was still tingling. On the other side of that wall were the two men he was after. It took all his self-control not to go barging in.

  Fred reached the wall last. His elbows and knees were scuffed and his belly was sore. “I’m glad I wasn’t born a snake,” he muttered.

  “We need to see in,” Aces said. “We go in blind, we’re askin’ for trouble.”

  Just being there, Fred reflected, was asking for trouble, but he didn’t say anything.

  “Remember,” Tyree said. “Dunn and Lute are mine.”

  “We can’t make any promises, pard,” Aces said. “Once the lead starts flyin’, it will be hard to pick and choose.”

  Tyree didn’t like the sound of that. He had to be the one to deal with Dunn and Lute. He just had to.

  Aces led them around to the rear. Again, there was no window. There wasn’t even a door. “Can it be?”

  “What?” Fred said.

  “There’s only the one way in and out.”

  “So?”

  “Don’t you see? They’ve made it easy for us. We have them trapped.” Aces crooked a finger. “Come on.”

  Seven horses were tied to the hitch rail.

  “Only seven to three,” Tyree said, encouraged. Things were looking better and better.

  “Don’t take that for granted,” Fred warned. “There could be more.”

  Aces moved to the front but didn’t show himself. No one was out and about. Smoke rose from a cabin chimney, the only sign of life.

  “I’ll go first,” Tyree said. He was tired of waiting. The time had come to end his hunt.

  “Not so fast,” Aces said. “We do this smart, like we’ve done everything else.” He contemplated, then said, “Marshal, I’d like for you to stay here and keep an eye on the cabins and shacks. Anyone pops out, you discourage them.”

  “Without being killed, of course,” Fred said.

  “Tyree, as much as you want this to all be on you, we do this as pards. We go in together and start shootin’ together and we don’t let a damn one of those coyotes make it out alive.”

  Tyree nodded. His mouth had gone dry and his pulse had quickened.

  “Don’t wait for them to start it,” Aces said. “We drop as many as we can before they collect their wits.”

  “Enough talk,” Tyree said. “Let’s do it, damn it.”

  Aces nodded.

  Shoulder to shoulder they walked to the batwings. Without slowing, without any hesitation, they pushed on in.

  There were nine men, not just seven, and two women.

  Aces fired first. He shot a bucktoothed man who had a glass to his mouth, worked his rifle’s lever, and shot a hairy man in the act of pouring from a bottle. He shot a third who was fondling a dove.

  Tyree was slower to act. As he came in he spotted a pair of men at a corner table. One was Lute. The other, big and broad with blond hair and the hardest face he’d ever seen, must be Dunn. The two weren’t amateurs. They heaved out of their chairs and stabbed for their six-shooters, and Tyree started toward them. He should have stayed close to Aces, but something snapped inside him. His mind stopped working and his body grew hot, and he advanced as if in a dream. He aimed the Winchester and fired at Dunn, shifted, and fired at Lute. He got off his shots before they could get off any, but then they were shooting back. Pain seared his shoulder and his arm. He jacked the lever, fired, jacked the lever, fired. Dimly did he hear the boom of other guns. All he saw were Dunn and Lute. They seemed to fill his vision, to be his whole world. He shot at Dunn and he shot at Lute and his left leg exploded with pain, but he kept advancing and shooting. Everything was a haze except the two men he hated. The men who had murdered his ma and his pa. He wanted to scream at them, to shriek that he was paying them back for his folks, but he shot instead. He shot and he shot, and then his Winchester went empty or jammed because it wouldn’t shoot and he dropped it and grabbed his Colts.

  Aces saw the boy move toward the table, but there was nothing he could do to help. His own hands were full. An outlaw in a bear-hide coat produced a revolver from a pocket and Aces shot him in the forehead. Two men rolling dice pushed to their feet, scrambling to draw, and Aces shot one in the chest and the other in the temple. The bartender brought a scattergun from under the bar but had to thumb back the hammers to shoot. Aces drilled him in the face.

  Outside, Fred saw the slovenly woman step from her cabin. He pointed his Winchester and she went back in again. “That was easy,” he said.

  Tyree had tears in his eyes. He didn’t know where they came from, but they were there and his vision was blurring. Dunn and Lute were still on their feet, but Lute had a hand on the table to keep from falling. Tyree fired at him and then at Dunn. He was struck an invisible blow in the ribs that rocked h
im, but he continued to walk and shoot and now he was so close to the table that he could have reached out and touched it. Lute was sprawled over the top and Dunn had sagged against the wall and was sluggishly raising his six-shooter.

  “For my ma and pa,” Tyree said, blinking the tears away. He shot Dunn in the chest, methodically, one shot after the other, shot and shot until both his Colts clicked empty. A hand squeezed his arm.

  “They’re dead,” Aces said. He had rushed over to help, but it wasn’t needed. The killers had been shot to pieces. So had his pard.

  Tyree looked down at himself. He had taken lead in the shoulder and the arm and been hit in the ribs and his legs. “I’m still breathin’,” he marveled.

  The batwings creaked and Fred barreled in. He swung his Winchester from side to side and declared, “God in heaven.”

  “We need to take a look at you,” Aces told Tyree, “and see about patchin’ you up.”

  “Sure,” Tyree said, nodding absently. “Whatever you say, pard.”

  Fred ran up to them. “Is that it?” he said. “It’s over already?”

  Aces stared at him.

  “What?” Fred said.

  “I’m mighty tired,” Tyree announced. He felt as if he were slipping into a deep, dark hole.

  “Don’t die on us, son,” Fred said.

  “I’ll try not to,” Tyree said, and the dark hole claimed him.

  Chapter 36

  Years after

  Frederick Hitch returned to Sweetwater and spent the next ten years as their marshal. He didn’t spend nearly as much time in his office as he used to, and he hardly ever was seen with his flask. He was over sixty when he turned in his badge. The town honored his long service with a watch and a plaque. He’d bought a small house and he spent his declining years enjoying a few beers at the saloon now and then or rocking on his porch and gazing to the west in the direction of the Tetons.

  Aces Connor hired on with the Bar T. Within two years he was foreman. He married a pretty gal and they had two sons. No one remembered his gun hand days, and he liked it that way. He taught his sons to shoot but impressed on them that they must never, ever take another’s life unless they had no choice. Neither son followed in his boot steps. The older became a lawyer. The other took to retailing and went to Chicago to work for Sears, Roebuck and Company in their mail order business.