Ralph Compton - The Ghost of Apache Creek

Lake bowed his head and his voice rose.

“I recollect ol’ Heap kilt Matt Agnew and John Judith and them two were polecats and would’ve been hung anyhow, so don’t hold them killings agin him either. Same with that rancher feller Luke Battles, Lord. Remember him? He was what you might call a prayin’ and psalm-singing man, so all Heap done was hasten him into a better world than this’n.”

Lake shuffled his feet, like a man who knows he’s overstayed his welcome.

“Well, I ain’t got much left to say, Lord, ’cause I didn’t know ol’ Heap that well. But I’m sure he loved ladies and little children and the beasts of the field and said his prayers when he remembered.”

Lake tossed a handful of dirt onto the grave. “He’s all yours now, Lord, and if’n you ever have a range war with the Devil and need a fast gun, ol’ Heap is your man. Amen.”

Lake turned to Pace, his eyebrows lifting. “Well? Ain’t you gonna say something?”

“About what?”

“Hell, how did I do?”

“I just wish his white-haired old mother could’ve heard that speech.”

Lake’s grin was lost in darkness.

“Damn right. Sam, I think you’re a loco galoot, but you ain’t as crazy as you make yourself out to be.”

“But I am, Mash. Trust me, I am.”

Lake put his flute to his mouth. “This is a lament for the dead called ‘The Flowers of the Forest’ and it’s real purty. We’ll see Heap off in style.”

“Apache?”

“Nah. A Scottish feller waitin’ to be hung teached it to me.”

Lake played and the notes of the melody drifted in the wind . . . all the way to the listening ears of Beau Harcourt.

Chapter 18

Harcourt drew rein at the edge of town, and his eyes reached into the darkness. The street was deserted, the only light the rectangles of orange that were the marshal’s office windows.

The notes of the flute fell around Harcourt like a ticking rain and brought him no joy and less comfort.

Pace wasn’t a flute player, nor was Leggett. So who the hell was the musician? An element of the unknown had intruded on Harcourt’s plan and he didn’t like it one bit.

He shivered, but not from cold or fear. From something else. “Dread” was the word that described it, as though the black eyes of the night watched him, weighed him, and found him wanting.

The grulla pawed the ground, uneasy, impatient to be going. Harcourt quieted the horse and considered his next move.

The flute music came from the other end of the town, by the old graveyard. It would be dark there, way too dark for accurate shooting if it came to that.

Also, how many men were with Pace?

The answer dawned on him with terrible certainty.

The crazy man was burying Heap Leggett, and he’d at least one other with him, maybe more.

Despite the coolness of the night, Harcourt felt sweat bead on his forehead.

He couldn’t chance a ride down there in darkness, into the guns of Pace and his cronies. It would be courting death.

Harcourt slid his rifle back into the leather and gave his situation some thought.

Finally he decided to go back to camp and round up his men. Come dawn, they’d return shooting and end this thing once and for all.

But suddenly Harcourt saw something that brought a smile to his lips—a woman alone—and his course of action became crystal clear.

The door of the marshal’s office opened and Jess Leslie stepped onto the boardwalk, the timbers creaking under her feet.

She stood for a couple of minutes, listening into the night, then turned and walked back inside.

A canny man lets his first impulse pass and acts on the second.

But Beau Harcourt was not a canny man.

He rode the grulla to the marshal’s office, swung out of the saddle, and jumped onto the boardwalk. He kicked the door open and charged inside.

Jess made a dive for the Winchester in the gun rack.

Harcourt had a fleeting impression of the woman.

Young . . . thick yellow hair, huge eyes, a wide mouth, narrow waist . . .

He beat Jess to the rifle, grinned, then backhanded her hard across the face. The girl bounced away from him and crashed, unconscious, onto the floor.

Harcourt, a big man and strong, picked up Jess effortlessly, carried her outside, and threw her across his horse.

He stepped into the saddle and galloped out of Requiem.

As the grulla covered ground with its sure canter, the situation Harcourt had left behind amused him.

Obviously Pace was sleeping with the girl—and what man wouldn’t?

Like a rat, the loon would wait until first light and then dart from his hole and come looking for her.

Out in the open he’d be easy to kill.

Chapter 19

“She skedaddled, Sam, just as you said.” Mash Lake shook his gray head. “Little gal sure had me fooled.”

“Seems like.”

Pace glanced around the office; then his eyes caught and held on a patch of floor near the gun rack.

“Mash, come here, quick,” he said. “Look at this.”

Lake studied the warped timbers for a moment, then said, “It’s blood. And there are other spots on the wall.”

“Yeah. And I’m willing to bet that it’s Jess’s blood.”

Lake’s eyes wandered to the door. “What do you reckon happened?”

“Somebody came in here and took her, is what happened.”

Pace rubbed a smear of dry blood between his fingers. “You ever hear of Deacon Santee?”

“Hell yeah. Everybody’s heard of the deacon. I was told he got hung years ago down Texas way.”

“He didn’t. He’s alive and well, sprightly and horny enough to take Jess as his seventh wife. But she ran away and when she stumbled on Requiem she warned me that Santee would come after her.”

Lake whistled through his teeth. “The Deacon Santee I heard about, if it’s the same one, ain’t nobody to mess with, Sam. He’s got a bunch of sons who are just as wild as he is and they’re known for cuttin’ up folks with bullwhips. The deacon his own self is pure pizen with a gun and he’s as crazy as a loon.”

The old man’s eyes showed his concern. “Hell, Sam, he’s even crazier than you, and that’s sayin’ something. Mind you, that only goes if this deacon is the original article.”

“He’s the original article all right. There’s no doubt about that.”

“What will he do to the girl?” Lake said.

“I think you know the answer to that, Mash.”

Pace stepped to the window and leaned the top of his shaved head against one of the cool glass panes.

“You know Jess is a whore?” he said without turning. “Been selling it since she was fourteen, she says.”

Lake was old enough and experienced enough to take that in stride.

But he didn’t answer, his face betraying nothing.

“I reckon there ain’t a thing the deacon and his sons can do to Jess that men haven’t done to her before,” Pace said.

“Except kill her,” Lake said.

“Right. Except kill her.”

“What will we do, Sam?”

“Not we, Mash. There’s only me on this one.”

“What will we do, Sam?”

“She’s my prisoner and I’m responsible for her. I’m going after her.”

“And I’ll ride with you,” Lake said. “Whore or no, I like that little gal. She kinda grew on me, like.”

“All right, if that’s the way you want to play it.”

“That’s the way of it, Sam.”

Pace crossed the room and opened a drawer in his desk. He took out a holster and cartridge belt.

“Leather is still supple,” he said. “Even when I was at my craziest, I never forgot to oil them.”

He filled the cartridge loops and shoved his Colt into the holster.

“We’ll leave at first light,” Pace said. He smiled. “I’m not much of a hand at tracking folks in the dark. I don’t see that good. You?”