Ralph Compton - Doomsday Rider

“Coffee smells good, Lem,” Sieber said to the corporal.

The man waved a hand toward the pot. “Help yourself, Al. Might as well, because if you’re here to see the general he’s tied up right now with the officers.”

The soldier’s eyes moved from Sieber to Fletcher, taking in his two guns and the relaxed but ready way he held himself, reading what was there to see and speculating on what was not. The corporal was familiar with weapons and their use, but this tall rider, quiet as he was, nevertheless spoke loudly of men, matters, and armed conflicts foreign to him.

Fletcher ignored the man’s stare and poured himself a cup of coffee, then did the same for Sieber.

“How long will the general be?” the scout asked.

The corporal shrugged. “Who knows? They’ve been talking for an hour now, and you know how the general likes to talk once he gets going.”

Sieber nodded. “I know. He’s a right sociable man.”

The door opened, letting in a blast of freezing air and a scattering of snow, and a tall man in buckskins and a shapeless black, broad-brimmed hat stepped quickly inside and slammed the door shut behind him.

“Cold as a mother-in-law’s kiss out there,” he said, striding quickly on moccasined feet toward the stove, hands already spread to its warmth.

The man, who looked to be in his late sixties, stopped and turned, recognizing Sieber.

“Hell, Al, I didn’t notice it was you standing there,” he said. “What you doing here? I thought you was down in the Gila Mountain country.”

“Orders,” Sieber replied, that one word saying it all. He waved a hand to Fletcher. “Charlie Moore, meet Buck Fletcher, a friend of mine.”

Moore nodded at Fletcher and said “Howdy” with scant interest and continued his path to the stove.

Then he halted in midstride, recognition slowly dawning on him. He slapped the top of his thigh and said, “Hell, I knew that name seemed familiar to me, and now I recollect where I heard it afore.” He turned to Fletcher, careful to make his movements slow and unthreatening. “It was when you was over to Abilene, runnin’ with John Wesley Hardin and Gyp Clements and that hard crowd. I was in Kansas scouting for the Second Cavalry at the time. You boys was cutting a mighty wide path in them days, on either side of the law, and there were some as said Buck Fletcher was wilder and a sight more dangerous than any of them.”

“Did some riding with Wes Hardin, but that was a spell back,” Fletcher allowed. “A man changes. Gets older and maybe a little wiser.” He smiled, remembering. “Wes is all right, but trouble naturally follows him wherever he goes.”

“You could say that about a lot of men,” Moore said, his old eyes shrewd and knowing.

The scout stood over seven feet tall in his Cheyenne moccasins. His buckskins bore Cheyenne beadwork, with its emphasis on red and white, and round-headed brass tacks were driven Indian-style into the stock of his Winchester Model of 1866 saddle ring carbine. His beard was gray, shot with black, and fell thick to his belt buckle, and hair of the same color spread over his wide shoulders.

Looking at him, sizing him up quickly, Fletcher decided that, despite his years, Charlie Moore was still a man to be reckoned with.

Fletcher didn’t sense danger, just Moore’s instinctive and carefully understated belligerence toward any man who sold his gun for a living. Killing was a thing Moore understood, and in the past he had done his share and would likely do so again, but killing for money was beyond his comprehension, as was the way of the gunfighter.

“Charlie, I ain’t seen you in a right smart spell,” Sieber said, dropping the words into the tense silence that hung chancy and expectant in the room. “Why are we standing here sipping coffee and jawin’ when we could be over to the sutler’s store a-drinking of Anderson’s rye whiskey?”

“That sets fine by me, Al,” Moore said, his shoulders relaxing, the tenseness draining out of him. “Been a long time since you bought anybody a drink.”

“How about you, Buck?” Sieber gave Moore a sidelong glance. “I’m buying.”

Fletcher nodded, his sudden smile unexpected and warm. “I’ll drink any man’s whiskey, so long as he’s paying.”

Sieber turned to the orderly, who had been listening intently to this exchange, and said, “Can you let us know when the general is free?”

“Sure thing.” The man nodded. He hesitated, then added, “Only thing you should know is that Scarlet Hays is over to the sutler’s store. He killed a man this morning, and he and his boys are celebrating another notch on ol’ Scar’s gun.”

“Scarlet Hays,” Fletcher said. “He’s a long ways from Texas.”

“I’d say he is,” the corporal agreed. “Killed a muleskinner by the name of Long Tom Strider before sunup, and all over the last cup of coffee in the pot. Way I was told it, Long Tom drawed down on Hays. I don’t know if Tom made many mistakes before, but that was sure as hell his last one.”

“You know this Hays feller, Buck?” Sieber asked.

Fletcher nodded, his face hard and unsmiling. “Our trails crossed in the past. Scarlet’s real good with a gun and he claims to have killed eight men, the last a couple of months ago, some hick sheriff down Laredo way with a tin star cut from a peach can pinned to his vest. Now I guess he’s made it nine.”

“Long Tom was no bargain his ownself,” Moore said. Then he grinned, trying to take the offense out of what he was about to say. “You know, Fletcher, this isn’t a criticism, mind,” he began, “but it just don’t come as no surprise to me that you and Scarlet Hays are acquainted.”

Quickly Fletcher thought that through, decided to let it pass, and smiled. “In my line of work you meet all kinds of people,” he said. “They come at you in a lot of different ways, wearing different faces, saying different things, but you learn to judge a man by what he does and how he is.”

“And Hays?” Sieber asked, interested.

“He’s a snake,” Fletcher said. “And just like a snake he’s fast and deadly and poison mean. He’s a man best left alone.”

“Well, there’s three of us, so I’d guess he won’t be inclined to cause trouble,” Moore said. “Besides, looking around, I reckon that we ain’t any of us pilgrims.”

“Ain’t that the damn truth.” Sieber smiled. “So let’s go belly up to the bar until the general gets through talking, and be damned to Scarlet Hays and his bunch.”

The three men stepped outside into the cold evening, snow spiraling around them, driven by the keening wind.

They crossed the parade ground, leading their horses, and walked to the sutler’s store, a low log cabin with a sagging roof, smoke belching black from an iron chimney sticking out of one wall. A faded sign hanging from rusty chains under the cabin’s narrow porch said, James Mulligan Prop., Liquor and Dry Goods, and oil lamps glowed warm and welcoming behind its two front windows. But there was no welcome on the face of Scarlet Hays.

The gunman stood in the doorway of the store, watching Fletcher and the others come, his thumbs hooked into crossed gun belts, the walnut butts of his Colts worn from much handling.

As Fletcher tied his horse to the hitching rail, he studied Hays out of the corner of his eye.

The man stood straddle-legged and arrogant, the bellicose pose of a man-killer confident of his considerable gun skills.

Hays was about twenty-five years old that January, dressed in a black shirt and pants and scuffed, run-down boots. He wore a derby hat tipped forward over his eyes, and a muffler of bright yellow wool was looped carelessly around his neck. But the scarf was for show, not warmth. The cold did not make Scarlet Hays shiver, since his heart was icier than any winter wind. Nor did summer’s heat make him sweat, because the angry furnace in his belly that drove him was hotter than any sun. If this man once had a soul it had died long before, leaving only an empty husk that knew nothing of love, compassion, or the slightest empathy for a fellow human being.