Ralph Compton - Do or Die

The tracker found hoofprints leading to the southeast. “It’s them. With someone else along. They lit out yesterday mornin’.” He was on one knee, running his fingers over the ground.

“If only we knew where they were heading,” Ubel mentioned.

Trask uncurled and stared off across the expanse of shimmering grass. “If they keep on as they are, there’s only one place they could be goin’. It’s a small settlement in the middle of nowhere called Painted Rock.”

Chapter Seventeen

Painted Rock

Kansas

Tom Shadley was sweeping the floor of the Lucky Star when he heard riders ride up to the hitch rail outside. He thought little of it. Spurs jangled, and the door was shoved wide. Shadley glanced up with a smile on his face. It froze there, just as he froze with his broom in midsweep. “Kid! We weren’t expecting you back so soon!”

“I bet you weren’t,” Kid Falon said. He grinned at Susie Kline, drew his right Colt, and shot Tom Shadley through the head.

It was so quick, so unexpected, the dove never screamed. One second Shadley was alive and well and humming to himself, the next he was a lifeless husk with a bullet hole smack between his wide-open eyes.

The Kid stalked to the bar. Two locals hastily backed toward the wall, each as pale as paper. Twirling the Colt into its holster, Kid Falon helped himself to the bottle they had been sharing.

Into the saloon filed the rest of the Hoodoos. Curly Means went to Shadley’s body, said, “I’d like some redeye, barkeep,” and laughed. Brock Alvord walked past it, frowning. Noonan didn’t waste a glance. Big Ben, though, hunkered and went through Shadley’s pockets. The money he found, along with a folding knife engraved with a scantily clad woman, he stuck into his own.

Kid Falon jabbed a finger at the locals. “Round up everyone who lives here. Every man, woman, and child. Any who give you sass, we’ll fetch ourselves. And tell them we won’t be nearly as nice about it.”

“And have everyone bring their dogs,” Curly Means added. “On a leash.”

The oldest man nodded vigorously. “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” The pair bolted like jackrabbits fleeing ravening wolves.

“Look at ’em go!” The Kid chortled and moved around the bar. “Belly up, gents. The drinks are on me.” To Susie he said, “Get upstairs and stay there.” Then his gaze alighted on Brock Alvord. “What’s eatin’ you? You look as if someone shoved a rifle up your ass and was fixin’ to squeeze the trigger.”

“We’ve crossed a line we can never cross back over. From here on, everything has changed.” Brock indicated a bottle of whiskey, and the Kid gave it to him. “Stealin’ horses is one thing, treein’ a town is another. No one will want to do business with us after this.”

“Get that from your crystal ball, did you? Hell, Brock. You’re gettin’ to be as squeamish as an old woman. When folks hear about that coot with the rifle who shot Abby, they’ll understand.”

Curly reached across the bar to grab a bottle for himself. “It’s not as if we’re goin’ to kill the females and the brats.”

“Who says we’re not?” Kid Falon asked.

Brock bent his head so the Kid couldn’t see his face and went over to a table to join Noonan and Big Ben. Noonan was honing the bone-handled knife. Big Ben was amusing himself by biting into a gold coin he had found on Shadley. “I need to know where you boys stand.”

“I stand behind whoever is top dog,” Noonan said.

Big Ben quit chomping for a moment. “You’re about the smartest man I’ve ever met, Brock, and I’d follow you anywhere. But this town did the Kid and the rest of us wrong. They’ve got what’s comin’ to them.”

The first to arrive was Jack Taylor, the owner of the general store. He took one look at Shadley and recoiled in stark terror. “Poor Tom!” Wringing his hands, he looked at Brock Alvord. “Why would you allow such a thing? We’ve always done right by the Hoodoos, haven’t we?”

Kid Falon pounded the bar and snapped, “Talk to me, not him! I’m the one who lost the gal he loved.”

Beads of sweat broke out on Taylor. “But we buried her decent, just like you wanted. Over by the creek where it’s shady. And Floyd carved the nicest headstone you’d ever want to see.”

“Did he carve one for the varmint who shot her?”

“Sure. But nowhere near as fine.” Jack Taylor smiled. And died. A slug from the Kid’s Colt cored his left eye and burst through the rear of his cranium. Taylor tottered like he was adrift on a wave-tossed raft, then collapsed in a heap.

Brock Alvord downed a third of his bottle in twice as many swallows. He looked at Noonan and Big Ben, but neither met his gaze. “All my effort, all my plannin’, all for nothin’.”

Again the door swung open, framing the muscular bulk of Floyd Havershaw, Painted Rock’s founding father. His shirt was off, and his hairy chest was slick with sweat. Clutched in his ham-sized right hand was his blacksmith hammer. “What’s all the shooting about?” He stopped as if he had run into a wall, and his arms slumped to his sides. “Lord Almighty, no!”

The Kid hopped up onto the bar and swung his legs over the front. “Been workin’ hard, have you, blacksmith?” He still held the smoking Colt. “Poun din’ your anvil so loud you didn’t hear us ride up?”

“You murdered them! My two best friends!”

“I’d give you the same, but I hear Abby would be proud of her headstone.” Kid Falon flipped his Colt into the air, caught it with a deft flick of his arm, spun the pistol forward, spun the pistol backward, border-shifted, border-shifted a second time, cocked the hammer, and shot Havershaw in the left knee.

Floyd cried out as he fell, his heavy hammer thumping beside him. A thin red geyser misted the floor until he clamped a hand over the hole.

Kid Falon slid off the bar and methodically commenced reloading. “You’ll limp the rest of your life, but it’s more than Abby can do, so count your blessin’s.”

“Bastard!” Floyd was red in the face, his veins bulging, his big arms twitching in a paroxysm of rage. “Put those guns down, you scalawag, and fight me man to man! I’ll break you in half!”

“Some folks don’t have enough brains to grease a skillet.” Kid Falon shot him in the other knee.

A howl was torn from Floyd Havershaw’s throat. Doubling over, he sputtered and shook, the lower half of each pant leg stained crimson.

Voices arose outside, among them that of the old man who had gone to do the Kid’s bidding. “We’re all here, mister! Is it safe for us to come in?”

“It’s a hell of a lot safer than if you don’t!” Kid Falon rejoined. “Hurry it up! I’m about to lose my patience.”

In they came, fear on every face, their movements stiff and awkward, mothers clasping children, sisters and brothers clinging to one another, the men with their heads bowed and their hands up. Three of the women broke into tears. So did many of the children. A little girl ran to Havershaw and threw her arms around his shoulders, crying, “Pa! Oh Pa!”

“Ain’t this touchin’ as hell?” The Kid drew his other Colt.

Curly Means was in motion. “Hold on there, pard.” He walked in among the townspeople, taking leashes from those who had brought their dogs. A mongrel with a leather collar growled and refused to budge until Curly kicked it in the ribs. Yelping, it allowed him to drag it out with the others.

“What is he going to do with Fluffy?” a boy asked.

“Hush!” his mother scolded him.

Kid Falon strutted across the room, and they drew back in fright. “My pard is fixin’ to do what I should do to all of you, only I’m too kindhearted.” He scanned their pale faces and focused on the old man.