Ralph Compton - Bullet for a Bad Man

‘‘The other thing?’’

‘‘Don’t start with me.’’ Ned placed the saddle over the top rail and reached for the saddle blanket. ‘‘I have had a long day and I am not in the mood for your shenanigans.’’

‘‘Fine. I will talk about something else. What is this I hear about you were out counting cattle?’’

‘‘They are my cows. I can count them if I feel like it.’’ Ned led the bay into the corral, removed the bridle and came back out.

‘‘Isn’t that what we have a foreman for? Morgan has never miscounted at the roundup, has he?’’

‘‘Dan Morgan is as fine a cowman as ever drew breath,’’ Ned said. ‘‘What he doesn’t know about cows is not worth knowing.’’

‘‘Then why count them again?’’

Ned gripped the saddle and threw it over his shoulder. Carrying the saddle blanket in his other hand, he made for the stable.

Epp went after him, saying, ‘‘You haven’t answered me.’’

‘‘I am counting them because of a letter I received,’’ Ned revealed. ‘‘A letter from Cramden.’’

‘‘The cattle buyer for the army? Why would he write to you?’’

Ned stopped and faced the spreading darkness to the east. ‘‘It seems a man by the name of Hanks offered to sell the army some cattle. Two hundred head. Cramden had this Hanks bring them to be inspected, and at first he thought he was buying a cow-pen herd.

He paid and Hanks rode off. Only later did Cramden take a closer look at the brands.’’ Ned resumed walking. ‘‘They had been blotted.’’

‘‘But what does any of that have to do with us?’’

‘‘The brand artist was good, but Cramden was able to make out some of the original brands. By his reckoning, about a hundred of them were Circle V.’’

‘‘Some of our cattle have been rustled?’’

‘‘And now you know why I was out counting today and why I will be out counting tomorrow and the day after tomorrow and for as long as it takes to find out how many the rope and ring man has helped himself to.’’ Ned came to the stable door, and stopped. ‘‘If you would like to help, you are welcome.’’

‘‘You really want me to?’’

‘‘What kind of fool question is that? You are my son. When I am gone, the Circle V will be yours. You have as much stake in the ranch as I do.’’

‘‘I will be happy to help, Pa. It means a lot to me, you asking. Sometimes I get the notion that you don’t think as highly of me as I think of you.’’

‘‘Damn, boy. How many times must I tell you? You mean everything to me. The same as Boone.’’

‘‘It was wrong of him to run off the way he did. He was ashamed of what he had done, I guess.’’

‘‘I always credited him with more sense. It goes to show that you just never know about people, not even those closest to you.’’ Ned managed a smile and entered the stable.

Epp wheeled and headed for the house. ‘‘Damn you, Blin Hanks,’’ he snarled in a whisper. ‘‘Now I have to do it that much sooner.’’

Sidewinders

It was as hot and dry as a desert, but the ground was rock, not sand.

In the middle of the vast bleakness squatted a structure that the rider mistook for a mirage. It was as brown as the ground and had an unreal aspect, shimmering there in the heat haze as if it had no more substance than the lake he had seen earlier.

The rider shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. His backside was chafed and sore and he yearned to stop and rest, but the compulsion that had driven him to keep on the go was as strong as ever. The sun had burned him so brown that were it not for the color of his hair and eyes, he might be mistaken for an Indian.

Drawing rein, the rider wiped a sleeve across his sweaty brow. He licked his dry, cracked lips and reached for his canteen but stopped himself. ‘‘No,’’ he croaked out loud. ‘‘I mustn’t.’’

He had taken to talking to himself a lot. He never felt so alone; it helped to hear his own voice. There had been just him and his horse for so many days that the rest of the people in the world might as well be as dead as his past.

The rider touched his spurs to the buttermilk and the weary palomino plodded on, head low.

‘‘I am sorry to put you through this,’’ Boone Scott said.

The building did not dissolve into thin air as Boone approached. Made of planks, it looked like something built by a drunk with a broken hammer and not enough nails. An overhang provided shade for three horses and a mule. None of the animals showed the least interest as the palomino came near. It was too hot to move.

The water trough just out of their reach caught Boone’s eye. He eagerly brought the buttermilk over and scowled when he saw that the trough was dry. Tiredly climbing down, he worked the pump lever and was elated when water trickled out. He worked the lever harder and faster and the trickle became as thick as his finger. Cupping some, he gratefully sipped.

‘‘That will be two bits, boy.’’

Boone turned.

The speaker was a butterball with a face as round as a plate. He had no hair to speak of save for fringe above his ears. His clothes were in as shabby a shape as the building. But there was nothing shabby about the double-barreled shotgun he held. The twin muzzles were pointed at the ground, but his thick thumb rested on one of the hammers.

‘‘Cat got your tongue, boy?’’

‘‘Don’t call me that.’’

The man shrugged. ‘‘I am easy to get along with. It is why I have lasted as long as I have. But that will still be fifty cents.’’

‘‘You charge people to drink?’’

‘‘It is my water. I found the spring and I built this place and I will by God do what I want with it.’’

Boone fished in a pocket and flipped the man the money. He tugged on the reins to bring the buttermilk to the trough.

‘‘That will be another two bits for your animal.’’

Boone looked at him.

‘‘Think what you will of me,’’ the butterball said defensively. ‘‘I have to live, the same as everyone else. And not a lot of paying customers come by, as you can imagine.’’

‘‘Customers?’’

The man indicated a sign near the door. The letters were faded but Boone could make them out. PORTER’S SALOON AND STORE, the sign read.

Boone gazed out over the bleak landscape and then at the man with the shotgun.

‘‘I know what you are thinking. I must be crazy, living out here. But this suits me better than a town. I do not like people all that much. I am Ira Porter, by the way.’’

The buttermilk dipped its head into the trough.

‘‘Fifty cents, remember?’’ Porter’s shotgun started to rise. ‘‘The money in advance or your animal can go dry.’’

Boone’s right hand flicked.

‘‘Jesus!’’ Porter froze, his shotgun not nearly high enough. ‘‘Don’t shoot me! Please!’’

‘‘Take your thumb off that hammer.’’

‘‘I will do better than that.’’ Porter slowly lowered the shotgun to his side so the stock was on the ground and he was gripping it by the barrel. ‘‘There. I can do you no harm.’’

Boone twirled his ivory-handled Colt into his holster. ‘‘You will get your money, but my horse will drink first.’’

‘‘Whatever you want. I am not about to buck a man who can draw as fast as you can.’’

Boone resumed pumping, but he did not take his eyes off the butterball. ‘‘How long have you lived in this godforsaken spot?’’

‘‘Going on twenty years. I was one of the first in these parts.’’

‘‘The Apaches don’t mind?’’

‘‘They could have killed me a hundred times over. Six of them showed up shortly after I built the place. I had left the door open and was pouring myself a drink, and suddenly there they were, in the doorway. I about wet myself.’’