Ralph Compton - Blood and Gold

Wingo nodded, his smile slipped and his face hardened. “I prophesy before we reach the Brazos I’ll make you change your mind on that score.”

Lila opened her mouth to speak, but Ned surprised me. “You let my daughter be, mister,” he said, taking a step closer to Wingo, his fists clenched. “She’s young and she doesn’t yet understand the ways of the world.”

“Then I’ll teach her,” the gunman said, his eyes ugly. “Same way I teach a horse, with a whip if necessary.” Up until then Wingo had ignored Ned, but he turned to him. “And you, from now on keep your trap shut. I don’t want to hear nothing from you. Open your mouth again, an’ I’ll close it permanently with a bullet.”

Wingo had laid it on the line and I felt the weight of my Colt as the gun lay heavy at my side, the handle between my elbow and wrist. Hank was out of it, but if put to it, could I draw fast enough to drop both Wingo and Ezra?

No, I decided, that would be a suicide play. From what I’d heard, both gunman were faster than me, and if we were equals, it would probably mean we’d all three be lying dead on the ground and nothing would be resolved.

I knew that for now I had to bide my time and swallow whatever insults came my way or were directed at Lila and her pa.

As it happened, the tense moment passed when Hank toppled out of the saddle and hit the ground with a thud.

Wingo turned to Ezra. “Get him in the wagon.” He nodded at me. “You, boy, go help him.”

I swung out of the saddle and helped Ezra carry his groaning brother to the tailgate of the wagon. Wingo dismounted and stepped beside us.

His glance took in Lila’s organ and the dresser and he snapped: “Get that stuff out of there,” he said.

“This damn wagon will be slow enough without us hauling all that junk.”

Lila ran beside us. “Leave it alone,” she cried. “It was my ma’s furniture, just about all she ever owned.”

“Well, your ma ain’t here,” Wingo snapped. He jerked his head at me. “Boy, toss it all out.”

Lila opened her mouth to protest again, but I took her by the arm and turned her to me. “Lila,” I said urgently, “let it go. We’ll come back for it, trust me.”

Wingo grinned. “Sure you will, boy, sure you will. Now do like I told you.”

I climbed into the wagon and, as gently as I could, removed the dresser and organ and stood them on the grass beside the trail. Then I helped Ezra get Hank into the wagon.

Lila bit her lip, her face very pale.

I stepped beside her. “It will be all right, Lila,” I whispered. “Now isn’t the time.”

The girl looked at me like I’d just crawled out from under a rock. “You could have stopped this,” she said. “You didn’t even try.”

Wingo, who was standing close by, overheard and laughed. “Oh, he could have tried, little lady. Only thing is, right now he’d be dead.” He looked at me, his blue eyes hard. “What’s your opinion on that, boy?”

Playing the part of the green puncher again, I shrugged. “I don’t see much point in dying over a tinpanny organ.”

Wingo nodded. “Boy, you named that tune, sure enough.”

He looked down at the grimacing Hank. “How you feeling?”

“I’m hurting bad, Lafe,” Hank gasped, his lips very white against the leathery brown of his face and beard. “Just . . . just get me to a doctor.”

Wingo smiled, a cruel, uncaring smirk. “You’re gut-shot, Hank. There ain’t a damn thing a doc can do for you.” He motioned to Lila. “See to him.”

It was in the girl’s mind to refuse, I could tell, but in the end she stepped beside Hank and brushed the man’s hair away from his forehead. “You won’t let me die, will you, little lady?” the gunman asked, desperation in his eyes.

“I’ll do what I can for you,” Lila answered.

She walked to my horse and got the canteen from the saddle, poured water into her handkerchief and tenderly dabbed it over Hank’s parched lips. “Don’t swallow,” she said. “But it will help you feel less thirsty.”

Hank saw me standing behind Lila. “What the hell are you looking at?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Then get the hell away from me,” Hank yelled, his fevered eyes wild.

Wingo laughed. “Don’t gun the boy just yet, Hank,” he said. “We may need him.”

He turned to Ezra. “Mount up.” And to me: “You too. We got some ground to cover before nightfall.”

I swung into the saddle and Ned Tryon whipped the oxen into motion. Lila tied Hank’s mount to the rear of the wagon and many times afterward I heard the outlaw moan as the wheels jolted over ruts on the trail and the terrible pain in his belly consumed him.

Wingo rode in the lead, his eyes constantly searching the trail ahead and the surrounding low hills.

I noticed that Ezra always rode behind me, wary and alert. It occurred to me that the man didn’t trust me, and the reason became apparent when he suddenly kneed his horse beside mine.

“Haven’t I seen you someplace, boy?” he asked. “Seems to me your face is mighty familiar.”

I felt a sudden jolt of unease. Did Ezra Owens see my face as I lay on the ground after Wingo shot me? Did he remember me?

Trying to make light of it, I said: “I’ve been up the trail a few times, to Dodge mostly. Could be you’ve seen me there.”

Ezra’s eyes were thoughtful. “Maybe so.” He shook his head. “Nope, I just can’t recollect, but it will come back to me by and by.”

Right then I realized how fast I was running out of room on the dance floor. If Ezra remembered me, then he’d figure why I was here and after that my life wouldn’t be worth a plugged nickel.

If I was to make my move and get back the money, I’d have to do it soon—even if the odds weren’t in my favor.

And now I had an even more urgent concern: Lila.

Lafe Wingo was accustomed to taking what he wanted, and he wanted the girl. Soon, very soon, I’d have to stand between them, and that meant a gunfight with two skilled pistoleros, a fight I was not sure I could win.

It was a worrisome thing, and as we rode through the blazing heat of the day, my churning mind uncovered only more and more problems but no solutions.

Above me, I saw buzzards wheel in the sky, grim messengers of death.

But whose death?

I didn’t know it then, but I would have that answer sooner than I expected.

Chapter 14

That night we made camp in a stand of cottonwoods by a wide creek with a couple of feet of milky alkaline water running along its pebbled bottom.

As far as the eye could see, the country around us was flat, dry and sandy with few trees. Here and there clumps of sage and mesquite competed for space with low-growing cactus and the scarred land had still not healed from the passage of the spring herds. This was featureless, unlovely country, indifferent to all human enterprise or desire, a wild place where a man’s dreams dried up under the relentless sun and blew away like dust in the wind.

Many had tried to live here and all had failed, leaving the plain to brood alone over its fading memories of the buffalo and the Comanche and a time gone that would never return.

Ned Tryon guided the wagon into the cottonwoods and I helped him unhitch the oxen. We lifted Hank from the back of the wagon and laid him on the ground and the wounded gunman cursed us for our clumsiness, his face stark white from pain and the fear of death.

Wingo, who did not seem to care much for honest labor, told me to gather some dry wood for a fire, since the Apaches, if any were in the vicinity, would be reluctant to attack at night over open ground where there was little cover.

I did as he said and then filled the coffeepot and placed it on the coals to boil.