Ralph Compton - Bullet for a Bad Man

‘‘I am happy to, Pa.’’

‘‘I shouldn’t tell you this. But your brother has made me so mad, I am considering changing my will.’’

Another lie tripped glibly off Epp’s tongue. ‘‘I didn’t know you had one. I just figured that if you and Ma died, everything would go to Boone and me.’’

‘‘That is what the will says. Your mother had me make it out about five years ago. Now that your brother has turned bad, I am thinking about dropping him and leaving the Circle V to you.’’

‘‘That wouldn’t be fair to Boone, Pa.’’

‘‘He gave up any claim he had when he turned his back on us.’’

‘‘I still don’t think it is right.’’ Epp paused. ‘‘But tell me. If Ma and you were to die, and Boone never comes back, would the ranch fall to me anyway? Without you having to change the will, I mean?’’

‘‘I want it in writing so that if he does come back, he can’t claim so much as an acre. As soon as this rustling business is settled, we will take your ma to Tucson and while we are there we will visit Shepherd, my law wrangler.’’

‘‘Maybe we should stop counting and go get the will changed right away,’’ Epp suggested.

‘‘Where would the sense be in that? We are here. We will keep on with the tally.’’

‘‘Whatever you say, Pa.’’

They neared the base of the butte. Shattered rock was strewn everywhere. The giant slabs were like so many brown dominoes, lying in a jumble.

‘‘We will split up,’’ Ned proposed. ‘‘You go left and I will go right. I will meet you back here when you are done.’’

Epp reined to the left and rode off. He only went a short way. Then he stopped and shifted in the saddle. The moment his father disappeared around a massive slab, Epp wheeled his mount and trailed him. He kept to a walk and repeatedly rose in the stirrups.

Ned never looked back. He scoured the ground for tracks and checked behind monoliths.

Epp came to where a column of rock twenty feet high and fifty feet long lay on its side. It had buckled in the center when it fell, leaving a gap wide enough for a rider. Ned had gone through the gap. But Epp didn’t. Drawing rein, he swung down and led his horse into shadow.

Epp stepped to the gap. On the left the stone had broken cleanly; there wasn’t so much as a fingerhold. But on the right were cracks wide enough for his hands and boots. He searched the ground and a chunk of rock about the size of a small melon, with a jagged edge, caught his eye.

It was awkward to climb with the rock in one hand, but Epp managed. He climbed until he was ten feet up. Carefully turning, he jammed his boots into suitable cracks.

Now all Epp could do was wait. The breeze had died and the air was a furnace. He felt slick with sweat. He listened but did not hear the sound he wanted to hear.

A small ant came scuttling across the slab toward him. Epp paid it no mind until a second, larger ant came hurrying after the first. The larger ant quickly overtook the smaller. They merged, antennae waving. The mandibles of the larger ant opened and closed and the smaller ant no longer had a head.

Epp grinned in amusement. ‘‘You are me,’’ he said to the large ant. Then he reached over and crushed it with the rock.

The minutes dragged.

Epp licked his lips and swallowed, but he did not have much spit. He spied a Gila monster moving from under one slab to another. In the distance several buzzards flew in circles seeking carrion to feast on.

Drained by the heat, Epp closed his eyes and sagged. No sooner did he do so than the clatter of shod hooves on rock snapped him alert. He craned his neck toward the gap. The clack-clack-clack grew louder. The head and neck of his father’s horse poked out of the gap and then his father came through, so close that Epp could have kicked him if he wanted. Instead, Epp launched himself into the air. He timed his blow just right and brought the jagged rock smashing down on top of his father’s head.

Ned cried out and flung his arms skyward. His horse, startled, bolted, and Ned tumbled to the earth and was still.

Epp came down hard on his hands and knees. Pain speared his left leg, but he gritted his teeth and moved to his father’s side. Bending, Epp rolled him over. He started to smile, but the smile died a stillbirth as his father’s Colt blossomed before his eyes.

‘‘What are you doing, Pa?’’

‘‘Son?’’ Ned said weakly. A scarlet halo was spreading from under his head.

‘‘What happened? It felt like something fell on me.’’ Ned groaned and trembled and started to lower the revolver.

‘‘It was a rock, Pa.’’ Epp snatched the Colt from his father’s grasp.

‘‘What are you doing?’’ Ned could not seem to stop shaking.

‘‘I wouldn’t want you to shoot me. Not after all the trouble I just went to.’’

‘‘What was that?’’ Ned blinked, then shook his head as if to try and clear it. Drops of blood flew every which way. Gasping for breath, he stared up at Epp. ‘‘What is that in your hand?’’

‘‘Your six-shooter.’’

‘‘In your other hand.’’

‘‘The rock I smashed your skull with.’’

‘‘Oh God.’’ Ned moaned and got his hands under him, but the highest he could rise was to his elbows, and that cost him so dearly, he sank down, spent. ‘‘This can’t be happening.’’

‘‘Just lie there and die. It shouldn’t take too long. I can see your brain through the bone.’’

Tears welled in Ned’s eyes. He tried twice to speak but could only gurgle. Finally he managed, ‘‘Why, Epp? In God’s name, why?’’

‘‘For the same reason I advised Boone that if he came back it would break your hearts. I want the Circle V. I was content to wait a few more months to make my move, but then you went and had to do a tally. You forced my hand. I couldn’t let you find out that I had a hand in the missing cattle.’’

‘‘No, no, no.’’

‘‘I’ll tell everyone a rattler spooked your horse and your horse threw you.’’ In mock sorrow Epp added, ‘‘I did all I could but you were too far gone.’’

Ned used the last of his fading strength to croak, ‘‘Your mother! What about her?’’

‘‘Don’t you worry, Pa,’’ Epp said. ‘‘She will join you directly.’’

Border Ruffians

There were exactly ten of them.

Ten riders who swept out of the night toward Porter’s, ten tough men on ten tired mounts. Their slickers and hats and boots were caked with dust. In the pale starlight they appeared to be gray. An onlooker could be forgiven for thinking they were the Confederacy, risen anew. But there were no onlookers. Not in this wild land, at this time of night.

They thundered up on Porter’s and climbed down. One of the ten stayed with the horses. One of them always stayed with the horses. It was a rule set down by their leader, and they never broke his rules. Never, ever.

It was their leader who barreled inside ahead of the rest, their leader who nodded at Drub and Wagner and Galeno. Their leader who stopped cold at the sight of the stranger at the table, their leader who said something out of the corner of his mouth that resulted in the rest spreading out as they entered so that they ringed the table and those sitting at it.

‘‘What the hell is this, boy?’’

‘‘It is good to see you again, Pa,’’ Drub Radler said.

‘‘I asked you a question.’’

Drub smiled and gestured. ‘‘This here is my new friend. We call him Lightning.’’

A dust-covered scarecrow next to the leader snorted. He was tall and razor thin and wore a black slicker. Under it were a black shirt and black pants and black boots. Even his belt was black leather. A belt with two holsters that sheathed black-handled Colts. The grips were mother-of-pearl, about the rarest type on the frontier, or anywhere else. Those grips told anyone who was gun savvy that the two Colts were custom models, made to fit the man. And a man who went to that much trouble was more than likely to be more than uncommonly good with them.