Ralph Compton - The Alamosa Trail

“You all right?” Jim called to his cousin.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Frank answered.

The shooting drew a crowd, not only from those who were already in the Border Oasis, but from the rest of the town as well. For the next few minutes a steady stream of curious poured in through the front door. One of the first to arrive was the sheriff, and he saw Jim standing at the bar with his pistol in his hand.

“You want to put that way, mister?” the sheriff asked.

When Jim looked toward the sheriff, he saw that the lawman was holding a pistol on him.

“Anything you say, Sheriff,” Jim said, slipping his pistol back in its holster.

“Now are you the one who did this?” the sheriff asked, taking in the body with a nod.

“I reckon I am.”

“He didn’t have no choice, Sheriff,” the bartender said. “It was self-defense.”

“That’s right, Sheriff,” several others said, quickly. “Creech fired first.”

The sheriff thought for a moment, then put his gun away. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Robison. Jim Robison.”

The sheriff looked at the shattered mirror, the splintered bar, the smashed table, and the broken railing hanging in pieces from the overhead landing.

“Must’ve been one hell of a fight. Looks like more bullets were fired in here than were used at the Alamo.”

“Only four shots were fired,” one of the saloon patrons said.

“Only four? Someone want to tell me what happened?”

About five people started speaking at once, each eager to give his own account of the battle.

“Hold it, hold it!” the sheriff said, interrupting the babble. He looked at the bartender. “Did you see it, Ned?”

“Yeah, I seen it.”

“All right, suppose you tell me what happened?”

“Creech took one shot at this man,” Ned said, pointing to Frank. “When Robison called him on it, Creech swung his gun around and took another couple of shots at him. Robison shot back.”

The sheriff looked down at Creech’s body, then up at the smashed railing, then over toward the bar.

“You got him with your first shot?” the sheriff asked.

“I was lucky,” Jim said easily.

“Wasn’t luck at all,” the bartender said. “I seen it. You was cool as a cucumber.”

“What started the fight in the first place?” the sheriff asked. “I mean, all of you say Creech fired first. What I want to know is, why?”

“Now that I don’t know,” the bartender replied. “There wasn’t no words spoke or nothin’. Leastwise, not in here. Could be they had words somewhere else before.”

“You know this man?” the sheriff asked Jim.

“Never saw him before in my life.”

The sheriff looked over at Frank. “What’s your name?”

“Frank Ford.”

“What about you, Ford? Why did he shoot at you? Did you know him?”

Frank shook his head no. “Like my cousin said, we don’t know him.”

“The two of you are cousins?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then that tells me why you was willin’ to take a hand in this fella’s fight,” the sheriff said. “But it still don’t tell me why there had to be a fight in the first place.”

“Ask the gambler there,” Jim said. “Jensen gave Creech the signal to dry-gulch Frank. I saw it and yelled a warning. That’s when Creech started firing.”

“What? Why, that’s preposterous!” Jensen shouted angrily.

“Anyone else see this signal?” the sheriff asked. “What about you, Ned? Did you see any kind of a signal?”

“I didn’t see no signal,” Ned said. “I don’t know why Creech started shootin’. All I know is, he was the one who fired the first shot.”

“You know how Creech was, Sheriff. He always was a bit strange Maybe he just went loco or somethin’. If this here fella hadn’t killed him, no tellin’ how many of us Creech would’ve shot,” one of the other patrons suggested.

“Yes, including me, a totally innocent by stander,” Jensen insisted.

“Creech worked for you, didn’t he, Jensen?” the sheriff asked.

“What? No, he didn’t work for me. Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Funny. I seem to recall you usin’ him as a bodyguard.”

“Well, I would use him from time to time, but only if I was in a big game where there was a lot of money involved,” Jensen insisted. “He didn’t work for me regular. And certainly not for this game. Why, this game was for a pittance. I hardly thought it necessary to hire a bodyguard.”

“The last pot was for nearly four hundred dollars,” Perkins said. “That’s hardly a pittance.”

“That may be a large pot to you, Perkins, but I have played for thousands of dollars,” Jensen said haughtily.

The sheriff stroked his chin for a moment, then looked over at Jim. “Mr. Robison, everyone seems to back up your claim that it was self-defense, so I don’t aim to arrest you. But as far as Jensen sendin’ a signal, well, don’t nobody else seem to have seen that, so I reckon we’ll just have to let that drop.”

By now the undertaker had arrived and he was bending over to examine to corpse.

“Welch, get the body out of here,” the sheriff said to the undertaker. “It ain’t good for business.”

“The city will pay for it?” Welch asked.

The sheriff nodded in the affirmative, then he looked toward Jim and Frank. “Didn’t have no trouble till you two boys showed up. You planning on staying in town long?”

“Just overnight,” Jim answered. “We’re meeting someone here tomorrow.”

“Someone local? Who is it you are meeting?”

“Clay Allison.”

There were several gasps and exclamations of surprise at the mention of the famous gunman’s name.

“Look here,” the sheriff asked, his eyes narrowing. “You two aren’t planning on shootin’ it out in my town, are you?”

Jim laughed. “Sheriff, I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, but dumb isn’t one of them. I don’t plan to go up against Clay Allison in this town, or any other. We’re just going to discuss some business, that’s all.”

“Uh-huh,” the sheriff responded. It was obvious that he was still suspicious of Jim.

“Well, you and Clay Allison go on about your business. But just so’s you know, I plan to put on a few extra deputies to keep a watch on you.”

Chapter 7

Clay Allison once wrote an indignant letter to the editor of a Missouri newspaper. The paper had published a story that accused him of fifteen killings.

I have at all times tried to use my influence toward protecting the property holders and substantial men of the country from thieves, outlaws, and murderers, among whom I do not care to be classed.

It was noted by all who read the letter, that Allison had not actually denied the killings.

His reputation for savagery was validated when he rounded up a handful of friends to lynch a rancher who had been accused of killing his own infant daughter. The rancher had been arrested and was in jail, awaiting the outcome of the investigation, but Allison needed no investigation to reach his conclusion.

Under Allison’s leadership, the rancher was hauled out of his jail cell, taken to a nearby slaughterhouse, and lynched. Then Allison beheaded the corpse, stuck the rancher’s head on a sharpened stick, and took it to the next town, where it was put on display behind the bar of his favorite saloon.

He once killed a man who was standing at a bar because the man fanned his face with his hat. Allison’s defense was: “He was fanning his face with his left hand, and it wasn’t a warm night. I believed the man was attempting to distract me so he could draw his pistol and kill me.” The court bought his argument and ruled the killing as a justifiable homicide.