Ralph Compton - Doomsday Rider

Fletcher nodded. “Riding out this morning.”

The waitress’s face changed. “Didn’t you hear? There’s been a lot of trouble with the Indians.”

“Lately I’ve had all the Indian trouble I can stand,” Fletcher said. “We’ll ride careful.”

As the girl poured coffee she told them cavalry patrols had been sent out into the plains from Fort Hays. “They’ve been told to find the president and his hunting party and bring them back to the fort,” she said.

“From what I hear, the president has more than enough fighting men with him to take care of any war party,” Fletcher said. He smiled. “And he was a general.”

The waitress nodded. “Oh, I know. But still, don’t you think it’s a very worrisome thing?”

“From where I sit it is,” Fletcher said. “But I don’t know how Grant feels about it.”

What was more worrisome to Fletcher was the possibility that, once on the plains, he and Estelle could miss Falcon Stark entirely. If one of the patrols escorted his hunting party back to Fort Hays they might have to follow the man all the way to Lexington again, or even Washington.

Fletcher and Estelle ordered bacon and eggs, and while they waited for the food the gunfighter built himself his first cigarette of the day and smoked it with his coffee.

He was about to crush the butt into an ashtray brought to him by the waitress when the door swung open and a man bundled up in a sheepskin mackinaw stepped inside. He was tall and thin-faced, his sweeping cavalry mustache gray against the sunburned, mahogany brown of his skin. When his eyes went to Fletcher and Estelle they were green, shot through with golden brown, the eyes of a hawk.

The man wore a deputy marshal’s badge pinned to his coat, and he carried a rolled-up poster under his arm.

“’Morning, ma’am,” the lawman said to Estelle. Then, several degrees colder, “How are you, Buck?”

“I’m fair to middling, Dan,” Fletcher replied, his eyes wary.

“Mind if I sit?” the deputy asked. Without waiting for a reply he dropped into a chair opposite Fletcher, laying the now-open poster printed side down on the table.

Fletcher turned to Estelle. “Estelle Stark, this is Dan Cain.”

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Cain said, smiling faintly.

“Never expected to see you wearing a tin star, Dan,” Fletcher said. “Last I heard, you were riding with Jesse and Frank and the Younger boys over to Missouri way.”

“Times change, Buck,” Cain said. “And sometimes change is forced on a man.” He hesitated then said: “After Jesse shot that bank president in Russellville four years back, I felt a noose tightening around my neck and figured it was time I left the James boys and found me a new line of work.”

The lawman shook his head. “The way things are, there just ain’t no future in bank robbing anymore, Buck, and that’s a natural fact.”

Fletcher’s eyes went to the poster, and Cain, seeing this, covered it with a gloved hand, his fingers spread wide. The waitress poured the lawman coffee and said to Fletcher, “Your breakfast will be ready in a few minutes. The cook had trouble getting the fire started in the stove.”

Cain tested his coffee, said, “Hot,” then leaned back in his chair, stretching. “Got to bury a man today.” He yawned, looking hard at Fletcher, his arms above his head. Finally Cain let his hands drop to the table. “Of course, I’m not telling you something you don’t already know.”

“It was a fair fight, Dan,” Fletcher said, his voice even. “Jack Dunn drew down on me.”

Cain nodded. “That’s the way I heard it. Heard too that you was standing up for some sodbuster.”

“He was just a kid. He was scared of that tinhorn.”

Estelle turned to Fletcher, her eyes wide. “Buck, you never told me this.”

“I know,” Fletcher said. “But I was meaning to tell you over breakfast.” He looked back toward the kitchen. “If we ever get it.”

“Buck here did the city of Hays a favor, Miss Stark,” Cain said. “Jack Dunn was a lowlife, and so was his sidekick, Will French. Frenchy pulled his freight for parts unknown last night, by the way.”

Cain suddenly sat upright in his chair. “Wait a minute. Estelle Stark! I knew I’d heard that name before, or part of it, at least. Are you any kin to—”

“Senator Stark is my father,” Estelle said quickly.

“A fine man,” Cain said. “Told me he plans to bring law and order to the West, and now I’ve changed my ways, I sure can’t fault him for that.”

Estelle was spared the need to reply because the waitress suddenly showed up with their food, apologizing for the delay.

The bacon was good and the eggs were fresh, and, despite the disturbing presence of Cain, Fletcher and Estelle found they each had a ravenous appetite. As they ate, the lawman spoke to them of other things, how high the prices were in Dodge for everything and how ridiculous were the size of women’s bustles in the town, even those of the respectable sort.

“Saw one gal, and I swear she was carrying around six inches of snow, just a-setting there on top of a bustle as big as a shed roof,” Cain said. “It’s a wonder she didn’t freeze to death.”

When Fletcher finished, he pushed away his plate and began to build a smoke.

“Dan,” he said, “you didn’t come here to talk about bustles.” He looked at the lawman, his eyes hard and cold. “Get it over with. Say your piece.”

Cain nodded. “Buck, you and me go way back. We rode the same trails, knew the same men, stepped from one side of the law to the other when times were hard. You even saved my hide a time or two.”

“Never made any complaint about you, Dan,” Fletcher said. “When the shooting started you always stood up and did your share.”

Fletcher knew Dan Cain to be fast and deadly with a gun. A man who rode with Jesse and Frank could be no other way.

“That’s good to hear, coming from you, Buck,” Cain said. “And I surely do appreciate it.” He gave an apologetic shrug of his shoulders. “You told me to speak my piece. Well . . . there’s this. It’s part of it.”

Cain turned the poster over and handed it to Fletcher. “The drawing is from the picture they made of you in prison. It’s a good likeness, though it ain’t real pretty.” Cain smiled. “But then, neither are you.”

“Thanks,” Fletcher said, taking no offense.

He glanced down at the poster, a reward dodger routinely sent out to lawmen throughout the West at that time.

Fletcher, his face bleak, read it aloud: “‘Buck Fletcher. Wanted dead or alive. For the murder of a sheriff and a prison guard.’” Fletcher looked at Cain. “This dodger is offering a reward of a thousand dollars—in gold.”

Cain nodded. “That about says it all.”

“Would it make any difference if I told you I was set up, that I didn’t commit these murders?” Fletcher asked.

“It might. But then, that’s for a judge to decide.”

“You planning to arrest me, Dan?”

Fletcher opened his coat, clearing his guns, a motion Cain noticed, recognizing its significance.

“Buck,” the lawman said, his voice steady, “in my time I’ve known a lot of men, some of them I called friends, who were killed so some bounty hunter could collect his blood money. That’s not my style, and it surely discourages me that you would think otherwise.”

“I know you’re no bounty hunter, Dan. But you’re a lawman. You have a duty to perform.”

“You don’t have to preach to me about my duty. I know my duty.”

Cain looked from Fletcher to Estelle and seemed to make his mind up about something. “Buck, you rid Hays of Jack Dunn, and I’m beholden to you for that, and once, maybe twice, I’m beholden to you for my life.”