Ralph Compton - The Ghost of Apache Creek

“Me neither,” Ben said.

Harcourt glared at the man as though he wanted to haul off and punch him.

Ben caught the look and tried to deflect Harcourt’s anger. He said, “The deacon ain’t a man to be hurried, and you can’t push him too hard neither. He’s got a hair temper an’ hair triggers on his guns.”

The big rancher recognized the logic in that and let his irritation go. Hell, it wasn’t Ben Trivet’s fault that Santee was a stupid son of a bitch.

“There’s bacon and beans in the pot an’ fresh coffee,” Harcourt said. “Eat, then saddle up another pony. I’m sending you out again tonight.”

“He ain’t gonna listen to me, boss. No more’n he done the first time.”

“I know. But this time you’ll be carrying a note. From me.”

Trivet nodded. “Anything you say, boss. Maybe a note will make the difference—but the deacon ain’t about to give up his nuptials.”

As the puncher walked away, Harcourt called after him: “Heap Leggett is standing by the fire. Send him over here, will ya?”

Trivet waved a hand in acknowledgment.

“What’s the problem, Beau?” Leggett said. He took a guess. “Trouble with the deacon?”

Harcourt held open the tent flap. “We’ll talk inside.”

Leggett sat on the cot and Harcourt took his place behind a portable field desk. He reached under the desk, found a bottle and two glasses, and poured whiskey for both of them.

The rancher studied his foreman over the rim of his glass until Leggett began to shift uncomfortably, then said, “The deacon won’t be here tomorrow.”

“Why not?”

“He’s getting married.”

Leggett smiled. “Who’s gonna do the marrying? Himself?”

Harcourt shrugged. “Probably one of his crazy sons. All four of them are reverends, or so they say.”

“He bring the herd?”

“A thousand head, according to Trivet. He says they’re mostly scrubs.”

“Trivet is an idiot.”

“I know, but he knows cattle and does what he’s told. Above all he’s expendable.”

“Beau, we got three days to push the herd to Silver Creek at the Rio Puerco,” Leggett said. “It’s a ways and the army won’t wait. They’ll buy their beef from some other outfit.”

“Tell me something I don’t already know,” Harcourt said. He thought for a few moments. “But they’ll wait a day, maybe two, if they need the beef bad enough.”

“I reckon they need it bad enough,” Heap Leggett said. “I hear the Apaches are starving and the young bucks are making war talk.”

He was almost as tall as Harcourt, and just as handsome, as though both men had been cut from the same cloth.

Leggett had first gone up the trail to Kansas when he was fourteen. Later he’d been a Wells Fargo train guard, a town marshal, and then had graduated to hired killer.

For a three-month spell, two years before, he’d married and opened a restaurant, but it didn’t work out and his wife left him.

But the catering business taught Leggett one thing—honest work was for losers.

Now, as Beau Harcourt’s segundo , he made gun wages for very little effort and that suited him just fine. He’d killed seven men, and nary a one of them kept him awake o’ nights.

Harcourt was talking again, his eye sockets and cheeks shadowed by the orange glow of the oil lamp.

“I’m sending Trivet out again, this time with a note from me to the deacon. I want that herd here. Like you say, if we don’t deliver beef to the army on time, they’ll buy it elsewhere.”

“Suppose he still won’t come?”

“Then we’ll take it from him.”

“Boss, Deacon Santee ain’t a bargain, and neither are them crazy sons of his.”

Harcourt smiled. “I know, Heap. That’s why I hired you. It’s time you started earning your wages.”

The rancher pulled a sheet of paper toward him and began to write with a stub of pencil. He looked up from the paper.

“You afraid of the deacon, Heap?” he said, smiling.

“I’m afraid of no man.”

“Can you take him?”

“Any day of the week, I can take him.”

“He’s fast on the draw-and-shoot, they say.”

“I’m faster.”

Harcourt nodded, readily accepting Leggett’s word.

“Tomorrow morning ride over to that ghost town—what the hell is it called?”

“Requiem.”

“Yeah, that’s it. Make sure the wild man has moved on.”

“Sure thing, boss. And if he’s still there?”

“Kill him. I gave him his chance.”

Harcourt handed the note he’d written to Ben Trivet, who had come back to the tent after finishing his dinner.

“Can you read?” he said.

The puncher nodded. “Some.”

“Then read it.”

Trivet opened the folded note.

“‘Deacon, come on fast and bring herd. Army is waiting. Con . . . con . . .’” Trivet shook his head. He pointed to the paper. “What’s that word, boss?”

“Congratulations.”

“‘Congratulations on your . . . nup . . . nup . . .’”

“Nuptials.”

“I got it, boss.”

“Good. Now if you lose the note you’ll remember it. Tell the deacon the army is here. Tell him Apaches are gathering in the hills and they’re painted for war. Tell him I got women and whiskey waiting. Tell him anything you damn well please; just get him here with his herd.”

Trivet looked doubtful, but he said, “I’ll do my best, boss.”

“Do better than your best. I need that beef.”

After the puncher left, Harcourt poured himself a drink and lit a cigar. He wondered idly if the loco lawman was still alive after the beating he’d taken.

He doubted it. And if he was, well, it was only a minor inconvenience that Heap Leggett would clear up tomorrow.

He needed the timber from the town buildings to build his ranch house, where he’d install a permanent woman one day.

A crazy man was not going to stand in his way.

Chapter 6

This was the time, but not the place.

Sam Pace eased down the hammer of the Colt and laid the revolver on the desk in front of him.

He’d kill himself at the cemetery, near the spot where his wife and child were buried. Then all three of them could lie together for eternity.

They’d be a family again. Close.

Pace hurt all over and he was tired beyond measure. Blood crusted his scalp and face, and his body and legs were covered with purple and yellow bruises. A deep cut gashed down his thigh, angry and red.

The thought of the long walk to the cemetery unnerved him. He doubted he could make it that far in his present state. A little rest, then. To help his body heal. Tomorrow, at first light, he’d take the walk. His last.

He laid his head on his arms and closed his eyes. Within seconds he was asleep.

The candle on the desk guttered and shadows moved around the unconscious man. The wind sighed around the eaves of the office and rattled the wood shingles on the roof.

Over to the bank, a pair of hungry coyotes ate their own kind, tearing flesh, crunching thin rib bones, their muzzles stained scarlet.

The ghost of Requiem, silver pale in the moonlight, haunted the darkness and spoke with a voice all its own . . . a whisper . . . a creak . . . a groan . . . a lament for the doomed and the damned.

The voices woke Sam Pace.

He sat up, his head on one side, listening intently into the night.

Was that what he’d heard? Was it really voices?

He rose from the desk and glided across the rough pine of the office floor, his bare feet making no sound.

Outside on the boardwalk, Pace heard a distant muttering . . . coming closer. The steady shuffle of feet on sand.

He smiled, raised his arms heavenward.

They were coming back! Dear God in heaven, the people had returned to Requiem!