Ralph Compton - Bullet for a Bad Man

‘‘Pa was smarter than I thought.’’

Lillian smiled sweetly. ‘‘He would be proud to hear you say that. It meant a lot to him, you standing by us when your brother ran off.’’ She made a teepee of her hands. ‘‘Lord, watch over my Boone and bring him back to us.’’ Suddenly Lillian grasped Epp by the wrist and pulled him toward her. ‘‘You must find him, Epp. You must send men out. Have them cover the whole territory. They are bound to find him, and when they do, they are to let him know we will welcome him back with open arms.’’

Epp reached around behind her and took one of her pillows and placed it in his lap. ‘‘Let me fluff this for you.’’

‘‘Did you hear me?’’

‘‘Yes, Ma. I heard.’’ Epp squeezed her shoulder. ‘‘But you shouldn’t get worked up like this.’’

‘‘I can’t help it. I am so distraught over Boone, I can’t think straight. Promise me you will do as I asked. Promise me you will leave no stone unturned to find him.’’

Epp chuckled. ‘‘Funny that you should mention a stone.’’

‘‘What? Why?’’

‘‘Oh, no reason.’’ Epp bent and kissed her on the forehead. ‘‘All in all you have been a good mother. It’s not your fault.’’

‘‘What isn’t? Your brother running away?’’

‘‘Sometimes people do not turn out as everyone expects. They try and they try, but they just don’t see the sense to living like sheep when they are a wolf.’’

‘‘I don’t understand.’’

‘‘You don’t need to. All you need to know is that I am sorry your heart could not take the strain. I am sorry it burst and you died in your sleep, and there was nothing anyone could do.’’

‘‘What are you talking about?’’

‘‘This,’’ Epp Scott said, and jammed the pillow over her face.

Border Ruffians

Hard men in a hard land.

They thundered south, riding with an assurance born of experience and a belief in their own invincibility. No one spoke. No one joked or even smiled except for Drub, who every now and then glanced at Boone Scott and grinned.

The border they were bound for was not much of a border. It was not much of anything besides an imaginary line on a map that divided the country to the north from the country to the south. On a map the border existed, but in reality there were no guards or markers or any signs to show that north of the line was one country and south of the line was another.

The hard men had crossed back and forth so many times that they knew exactly where the border was. They knew it was rarely patrolled, and the times those rare patrols took place. They knew that to the people and government of Mexico, they were gringos. Worse, they were notorious desperados, killers and horse thieves. Men without souls.

The purpose for this raid was to help themselves to a lot of horses. As Old Man Radler explained to Boone before they left Porter’s, ‘‘Horse stealing is my bread and butter. I have buyers on this side who will buy all I can get from the other side.’’

‘‘Do the buyers know the horses are stolen?’’

Old Man Radler had given Boone a strange look. ‘‘What kind of question is that? Sure they know. So what? They get the horses for less than if they bought them on this side, and I make a profit since I get the horses for free.’’

‘‘How do the Mexicans feel about you helping yourself?’’

‘‘About as you’d expect. Which means you could have your brains blown out if you’re not careful. You might be as fast as Skelman, but speed does not make you bulletproof.’’ Old Man Radler had glanced at Drub. ‘‘Since my son has taken a shine to you, Lightning, I will give you a word of advice. Be like a cat in a room full of dogs. Have eyes in the back of your head. Because if you don’t, I can guarantee you won’t make it back.’’

They rode at night and lay up during the day. It was night when they crossed the border. They always crossed at night and then rode back in broad daylight so they could see whether the Mexicans were after them.

Ten more miles brought them to the Menendez Rancho. One of the oldest and biggest in all Mexico, the Menendez family were famed far and wide for the quality of their horses. They raised the finest anywhere, and were protective of those they raised.

The patriarch of the family, Anastasio Menendez, hired only the top vaqueros. To qualify, a vaquero had to be good with a caballo and good with a reata and good with a pistol. That last was important. They had to be very good with a pistol because the vaqueros on the Menendez Rancho were fighting vaqueros.

They fought off Indians, and they fought off anyone who thought they could help themselves to Menendez land, but mostly they fought off rustlers.

This was imparted to Boone by Vance Radler when they came to a ridge overlooking grassy lowland broken by arroyos and sprinkled with mesquite. ‘‘I don’t much like greasers,’’ Vance concluded, and then grinned at Galeno. ‘‘But I sure as hell have a healthy respect for the Menendez vaqueros. If they see you they will shoot on sight, and you better be damn quick shooting back or you will be damn quick dead.’’

Drub was listening. ‘‘Don’t you worry about my friend, Vance. He can take care of himself.’’

‘‘He can shoot bottles,’’ Vance said. ‘‘But bottles do not shoot back. How do we know he can handle this?’’

Skelman was listening too. ‘‘Idiot,’’ he said.

That shut Vance up.

Old Man Radler waved an arm and they descended to the flatland, riding at a walk with their hands on their revolvers, and peering every which way. Dawn was still an hour and a half off and without the moon they might as well be at the bottom of a well.

‘‘This always spooks me,’’ Drub whispered to Boone.

‘‘Hush, you infant,’’ Vance snapped.

Old Man Radler twisted in the saddle to glare at both of them. His mouth worked, but he did not vent the cusswords he plainly wanted to utter. His meaning, though, was clear: Open your damn mouths again and you will by God answer to me!

They did not open their mouths again.

It was half an hour before lights appeared. Not many but enough to tell Boone that they were close to the Menendez hacienda.

Old Man Radler reined to the west and led them another half mile. Drawing rein, he raised an arm and the rest did the same. He motioned at Galeno, who went on ahead. In five minutes Galeno was back. He whispered in Old Man Radler’s ear, and Old Man Radler turned.

‘‘This is it, boys. The herd is where we thought it would be. Five hundred or more.’’

‘‘Are we taking all of them?’’ Boone asked.

‘‘I wish to hell we could. But we will be lucky if we get half. A dozen vaqueros are riding herd and over thirty more are camped nearby.’’

‘‘That is a hell of a lot of vaqueros,’’ Wagner said. ‘‘Menendez keeps hiring more all the time.’’

‘‘From here on out, no slacking. All of you know what to do. Lightning, this is your first time, so stay close to Drub. And, Drub, you remember that the vaqueros will be out to kill you. The last time you nearly got a bullet in your brain.’’

‘‘I’ll remember, Pa.’’

‘‘Good. Let’s go.’’

They moved as silently as their creaking saddles and the dull thud of hooves allowed. Soon they spied the herd, a mass of horseflesh at rest in a broad open area. Around the perimeter rode men in sombreros, the silver conchas on their gun belts, and the silver on their saddles gleaming in the starlight.

Old Man Radler rose in the stirrups and let out with a whoop worthy of a Comanche. At the signal, he and his men crashed out of the brush and smashed into the Mexicans. Two vaqueros were shot from their saddles before they could touch their pistols. Then the americanos were in among the horses, yelling and whistling and yipping. Predictably, the horses broke, and it was a credit to Radler and his men that they kept a large bunch of the horses together and drove them in a body to the north.