Ralph Compton - The Ghost of Apache Creek

“Whoever’s up there took a shot at Dan—” He caught himself, about to say Danielle. “Somebody shot at Danny through the window!”

“I should have figured as much,” said Bob Dennard, peering upward, scanning the roofline as he spoke. “I tried telling you, these are big people you’re wanting to lock horns with.”

“I believe you, Dennard,” said Tim Strange, “but Danny says he wants nobody else riding with us—no offense.” As he spoke, Tim’s eyes searched along the edge of the roof, sweeping the darkness in case the rifleman tried to jump down and make a run for it.

“No offense taken,” said Dennard.

“Hey up there!” Tim called out again. “Either give it up and come down with your hands raised, or I’m coming up after you. Make up your mind!”

This time a weak voice called out from atop the roof, “I can’t come down . . . I’m hit bad.”

“Then throw down some hardware, pronto!” Tim responded. He looked over through the pitch blackness of the night and saw that Jed had taken the horse to a spot where, if anybody jumped down from the roof on the far end of the building, he would spot it immediately.

“Here . . . comes my rifle,” the halting voice said. After a second, a rifle fell to the soft ground a few feet out from the building.

“Now your pistol,” Tim Strange demanded.

“I . . . can’t get it drawn. I’m hit . . . bad, and laying on it.”

Time gave Bob Dennard a questioning look.

Bob Dennard shrugged.

“I wouldn’t take his word for it,” Jed warned.

“I’m not going to,” said Tim. He called up to the roof, “We’re coming up. If I don’t see both your hands empty when I step onto the roof, you’re worm bait. Is that clear enough?”

Danielle came limping from the alley, a Colt in one hand, her free hand pressed to her side. She’d thrown on a riding duster and closed the front to conceal her woman’s figure. “He’s not lying about one thing,” she said, stepping up to her brother and Bob Dennard. “He is hit. I don’t know how bad, but I shot him when he raised up with his rifle.”

As Danielle spoke, her eyes met Bob Dennard’s. “I reckon you remember me,” Dennard said, looking a bit sheepish.

“Yes,” Danielle replied, none too friendly. “You’re the one who mistook me for an outlaw and tried to ambush me outside of Fort Smith.”

“I sure don’t want any hard feelings between us, Danny Duggin,” Bob Dennard said, taking a quick glance at the cocked Colt in Danielle’s hand. “I made a mistake and I admit it. Lucky you didn’t shoot me for my ignorance. I’ve been telling your brothers that I want to—”

“Not now,” said Danielle, cutting him off. She turned her gaze to Tim. “Help me raise the ladder. I’m going up there.”

“No,” said Tim, taking her forearm and preventing her from walking over to the ladder on the ground. “You’ve got no business climbing a ladder, the shape you’re in.” He raised a hand and waved Jed in from the darkness. “Jed and I will go up there.”

Danielle started to protest but, thinking about it, she knew Tim was right. She let out a breath. “All right, I’ll stay here,” she said. “You and Jed be careful.”

“I’m going, too,” said Bob Dennard, “in case you two need some help.”

Tim gave him a firm look. “You can go up there, Dennard, but don’t think you need to watch over me and my brother Jed.”

Bob Dennard looked embarrassed. “I should have said that a different way. I’m only interested in seeing who that is. Call it my nosy nature.”

Danielle stood back and watched with her Colt ready in her hand as Jed joined Tim and Bob Dennard. Tim and Jed raised the ladder and set it in place while Bob Dennard kept an eye on the roofline.

Tim was the first to carefully climb the ladder, his Colt poised and ready. Jed climbed close behind him, then Bob Dennard followed, seeing Tim step over onto the tin roof.

Tim stepped across the roof as quietly as possible. Seeing the man lying in a heap against the front façade of the building, his hands empty and slightly raised, Tim called out, “Don’t try any tricks, ambusher, or I’ll kill you where you lay.”

“It’s no . . . trick,” the man said, lying over on his right side, his holster beneath him. “I’m . . . done for, sure enough.”

“Serves you right, mister,” Tim said, stepping closer, hearing Jed move in beside him. “You tried to kill, but ended up getting killed yourself.”

“I don’t . . . need no sermons,” said Branson.

“And you’re getting none either,” Jed Strange cut in. “Who are you anyway? Why’d you bushwhack our brother?”

“Name’s Pete . . . Bristol. I was going to—”

“He’s a damn liar,” Bob Dennard interrupted. “He’s a hired assassin named Clyde Branson. I’ve seen him a dozen times over the years. Most likely he’s working for the Delmanos. Ain’t that right, Branson?”

Clyde Branson raised his face weakly and said, “Is . . . that you, Dennard?”

“Yes, it’s me. Tell these men who you’re working for, Branson, before you make your trip to hell, you back-shooting snake.”

Branson coughed, struggling to catch his breath. “Don’t . . . act . . . so innocent, Dennard. You’ve done the . . . same thing before.”

“Who is it, Branson?” Dennard insisted, ignoring Branson’s remark. “It’s the Delmanos, isn’t it? They’re paying you to kill Danny Duggin.”

“What’s . . . the difference,” gasped Branson. “It never got done.”

“How much?” Dennard asked, stepping in closer, looking down at the wounded man.

“Two . . . thousand dollars,” Branson said, his voice faltering more and more. “But not . . . just for me. It’s open to all takers. Saul Delmano wants . . . Duggin dead . . . real bad. You might even be tempted—”

“How many men know about this two-thousand-dollar reward?” Dennard hissed, cutting him off.

Even as his breath weakened, Branson murmured, “Hell . . . every gunman from here . . . to El Paso. Now tell . . . these boys how you make . . . your living.”

“That’s enough of your mouth!” Bob Dennard cocked his pistol and aimed it at Branson’s head.

“No! Don’t shoot him!” Tim started to reach over and stop him, but even before he could grab Bob Dennard’s gun hand, Dennard let the pistol down with a sigh and nodded at Clyde Branson.

“Never mind, this mangy cur is dead,” said Dennard, straightening up and lowering his Colt into his holster.

Tim and Jed Strange both looked at the dead, hollow eyes of Clyde Branson, then back at Bob Dennard. “We don’t hold with what you were about to do, Dennard,” said Tim.

Dennard shrugged. “Well, as you can see, it never got that far.”

The three of them turned at the sound of Danielle’s footsteps on the tin roof behind them. “Is he . . . ?”

“Yes, he’s dead,” said Jed Strange. “Bob here knew him. His name is Clyde Branson—a killer for hire. He said Saul Delmano has a two-thousand-dollar reward on your head.”

“Yeah,” said Danielle, “heard most of it while I was back there on the ladder.”

“What are you doing up here, Danny?” Tim asked. “You were supposed to stay down there and take it easy.”

“Don’t worry, I took it as easy as I could,” Danielle said. As she spoke to Tim, she turned a cold gaze to Bob Dennard. “You were pretty quick to want to kill a dying man, Dennard. What’s wrong, was he saying things you didn’t want known?”

“Now look, Duggin,” said Dennard, “I don’t deny what I am. I make my living hunting down men for money. If it’s wrong, why do you think the law allows it? Because the law knows it can’t keep up with all the riffraff out here, that’s why.”