Ralph Compton - The Ghost of Apache Creek

A few minutes passed. Among the wild oaks the jays were too hot to quarrel, but crickets sawed love songs in the long grass and a rustling breeze added a descant.

There was a gray tinge to the sky that could signal a weather change, but the sun burned strong and there were no clouds.

After a silence, Pace said finally, “Jess ain’t in the tent, so that means she ain’t here. Unless she’s in one of the deacon’s wagons.”

Down on the flat, Harcourt was talking to Santee and there was a woman with them—not Jess, but one of the deacon’s wives.

Even at a distance, Pace thought Santee seemed tense. His body posture was stiff and his hand movements were quick and jerky.

Could it be that his killing of the Harcourt drover was troubling him?

Pace doubted it. If all the talk was true, the man had killed so often in the past, the death of a nameless, faceless cowboy would hardly disturb him.

Then it had to be the Peacock brothers. But why would the deacon care?

Lake gave Pace no more time to ponder the question.

“Lookee,” he said. “The tent.”

Pace moved his gaze to the tent. He noticed nothing out of the ordinary.

“What did you see?” he asked.

“Canvas moved. There’s somebody in there.”

“One of them Peacock boys looked and saw nothing.”

“He didn’t see what he wanted to see,” Lake said. “A feller by the name of Mash Lake. The woman didn’t interest him.”

“Jess?”

“My bet.”

A minute ticked by, and then Jess Leslie made her run.

The tent flap triangled open, and the woman stepped outside.

She glanced quickly at Harcourt and the deacon, then hitched up her skirts and bolted for the shelter of the trees.

“Hey! Stop!” Harcourt yelled.

He drew his gun and fired.

Pace saw an exclamation mark of dirt spurt near Jess’s feet.

She kept on running. Still with a hundred yards of open, broken ground to cover.

“Well, shit!” Pace said. “Now the hog fat’s in the fire.”

He pulled his Colt and fired at Harcourt, scaring the man badly enough that he dived for the cover of a clump of brush. Beside him the deacon did the same.

Now Lake was shooting.

The range was too great for accurate revolver work, but he and Pace bought Jess precious time.

The woman was almost at the trees.

Pace thumbed off a couple of quick shots, then ducked as a bullet racketed through a low-hanging oak branch inches above his head.

Lake was firing steadily, not scoring hits, but keeping Harcourt’s and the deacon’s heads down when it mattered.

He turned to Pace, his face revealing concern. “Let’s git the hell out of here, Sam. The shot that near took your head off was the deacon’s. He’s getting the range, damn him.”

A quick glance told Pace that Jess had reached the trees. Needing no more urging from Lake, he bellied down the slope a couple of yards, then got to his feet and ran.

He and Lake reached the hollow where they’d left the horses, and mounted. They galloped away from the ridge and bullets followed them.

Pace turned and saw the deacon on the rise, two-handing his revolver at eye level. The man was screaming obscenities, dancing a mad little jig, but he made no hits, though a couple of his shots split the air close to Pace’s head.

“Sam,” Lake said when the danger had passed, “don’t let’s ever do that again.”

“Suits me just fine,” Pace said.

He thought about the deacon.

Even at long revolver range, he’d come mighty close. In a spitting-distance gunfight, he’d be deadly.

It was the kind of worry guaranteed to keep a man awake o’ nights.

Chapter 29

Deacon Santee was in a killing rage.

Beau Harcourt had kidnapped his woman, he’d been shot at, and when he’d dived for cover he’d landed belly first in a steaming pile of cow shit.

Harcourt realized the danger he was in and desperately tried to rewrite the history of the last few minutes.

“Hell, Deacon,” he said, “I was saving her for you.”

“Humping her for me, you mean?”

Santee looked small and narrow and his eyes were ugly.

“I swear I didn’t touch her,” Harcourt said. “I was saving her for you, Deacon. I figured when we got paid for the herd, I’d loose her to you, as a celebration, like.”

Santee’s eyes glowed with blue fire, and Harcourt knew he was now walking the edge.

“I can’t trust you anymore, Harcourt,” the deacon said. “Verily the traitor shall perish in the flames and the demon ravens will peck out his lying eyes.”

“I didn’t taste her, I swear,” Harcourt said. He bowed his head in mock humility. “All I did was try to please you, Deacon.”

“Where are my sons?”

Santee’s question took Harcourt by surprise.

“Why . . . why, they’re with the herd.”

“My other sons, Jeptha and Enoch. You had the woman here, so their search for her was in vain. My boys should be back by now. Where are they?”

Harcourt shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Did you have them murdered to get to the woman?”

“No, Deacon. I found the woman in the ghost town.”

“Did you kill my boys, Harcourt?”

“No, no. I swear on the Bible I didn’t.”

“I hope you’re telling the truth. If my sons have been killed, better that their murderer had never been born. Better he tie a millstone around his neck and cast himself into the depths of the sea.”

The oiled blue metal and yellowed ivory of the deacon’s guns caught and held Harcourt’s attention.

How fast was he? Hell, Harcourt had seen his draw.

He was faster than anyone could imagine .

He’d answered his own question.

But he consoled himself with one thought: A bullet in the back was the ultimate equalizer.

Santee turned and called out to the young woman who’d been bathing earlier. He peeled off his reeking frock coat and vest and threw them at her. “Wash those.”

The girl wrinkled her nose and held the clothes at arm’s length with a forefinger and thumb.

“Oooh, they stink,” she said.

The deacon’s anger flared. “Do as I say or I’ll take a crop to you.”

The girl sniffed and flounced toward the creek, still holding the deacon’s coat and vest at arm’s length.

He watched her go, grunted at Harcourt, then pulled his right-hand Smith & Wesson, broke it open, and punched out the spent shells. He reloaded with rounds from his pocket and did the same for his second revolver.

Santee holstered his guns and smiled at Harcourt.

The rancher’s handsome face creased as he returned the smile. It seemed that, despite everything, the deacon had forgiven him.

Santee drew and fired.

The bullet took off Harcourt’s left thumb at the base, ranged downward after striking bone, and severed his forefinger at the second joint.

Harcourt screamed and clutched his wrist, staring in horror at his mutilated hand.

The deacon smiled. “That’s your comeuppance for deceiving me, Beau. For hiding my woman from me.”

“You bastard!” Harcourt shrieked. “You piece of motherless scum.”

Harcourt’s right hand dropped to his gun, but the deacon’s voice stopped him.

“I’ll take the other one off at the wrist, Beau.”

Harcourt very much wanted to live, an instinct stronger than his urge to kill.

He held his wrist again, his lips tight, grimacing against the pain.

Women tumbled out of the wagons and watched the scene in numb fascination. The cook and Harcourt’s remaining puncher came running, then stopped when the deacon swung his icy eyes on them.

The puncher, a tall drink of water wearing batwing chaps and a worried expression, stepped beside Harcourt and said, “You all right, boss?”