Ralph Compton - Bullet for a Bad Man

Vaqueros shouted and swore. Gun muzzles blazed and roared. In the camp, vaqueros were scrambling out from under blankets to get to their mounts and take part. A number of them came charging toward the rustlers on foot, firing at anyone who was not wearing a sombrero.

In the midst of it all, Drub Radler giggled.

Boone, bent low, had his ivory-handled Colt in his hand. But he did not shoot. Not even when lead sizzled the air over his head. Or when a vaquero materialized in front of him, frantically reloading. Instead, Boone reined in close and slammed his Colt against the vaquero’s temple.

Drub giggled again.

The horses were in full flight, their heads high and their tails flying. As they swept past the camp, vaqueros tried in vain to stop them.

Radler and his men cut the vaqueros down, shooting as fast as targets presented themselves. Some of the rustlers laughed with glee at the death they dispensed. Skelman shot more vaqueros than anyone, but he did not laugh.

Then they were clear of the camp and racing into the night. They rode hard, risking limb and life, but it was either that or have the vaqueros overtake them, and the vaqueros would not show any mercy. When aroused they were formidable, and nothing aroused them more than to have the horses they were guarding rustled out from under them, and to lose amigos they were fond of to the bullets of the rustlers.

Boone had no difficulty keeping up. Every now and again he patted the palomino’s neck.

They rode and they rode, and eventually the eastern sky brightened, and dawn broke. Now that they could see, they slowed and checked their back trail for pursuit.

‘‘They aren’t after us,’’ Vance marveled.

‘‘They will be,’’ Old Man Radler said.

It was Wagner who exclaimed, ‘‘By God, we must have three hundred head or more!’’

He was not exaggerating. They had most of the herd.

Old Man Radler smiled and said, ‘‘We will do as we did the last time. Skelman, you take care of it.’’

They had gone three-quarters of a mile when the sharp-eyed among them spotted dust tendrils to their rear. Skelman began bawling names, six in all. Boone was one of those he picked. Drub stopped too, even though he was not one of those chosen.

‘‘What do you think you are doing?’’ Skelman demanded.

‘‘What my pard does, I do.’’ Drub smiled at Boone.

‘‘Fine. Just don’t get yourself killed. Your pa will never forgive me.’’

Skelman barked orders. They melted into the brush, spreading out and turning their mounts to the south to await the source of the dust.

‘‘Isn’t this fun?’’ Drub whispered to Boone.

Boone made sure no one was close enough to hear him whisper in reply, ‘‘Taking something that doesn’t belong to you is wrong.’’

‘‘You don’t like to steal horses? I have been doing it all my life.’’

‘‘I don’t like to steal anything. I was raised different. My folks would have a fit if I did this.’’

‘‘My pa would have a fit if I didn’t. I have to do as he says or he beats the tar out of me.’’

‘‘You are big now, Drub. You do not need to take that from him if you don’t want to.’’

‘‘Fight my pa? Are you loco?’’

‘‘I am beginning to wonder. If someone had told me a year ago that I would join up with the Radler gang and rustle Mexican stock, I would have thought they were drunk.’’

‘‘But you said you never heard of him before you met me.’’

‘‘I fibbed. It seemed like the thing to do at the time. I am young, but I like to think I am not stupid.’’

‘‘Then you must have heard of Skelman too.’’

‘‘He has a reputation.’’

‘‘Yet you’re not scared of him, like most everyone else. How come?’’

‘‘I have never been scared of anything except losing my ma and pa when they grow old.’’

‘‘I don’t get scared much either. Vance says it is because I am too stupid to know what scared is.’’

‘‘For a brother he is awful mean.’’

‘‘What about your brother?’’ Drub asked. ‘‘Does he treat you as mean as Vance treats me?’’

‘‘We have our spats,’’ Boone said. ‘‘We do not see eye to eye on a lot of things. But he has never been as mean as Vance. Mostly, he likes to go off and drink and womanize and play cards, and leaves me be.’’

‘‘I wish Vance would go off somewhere and never come back.’’

Hooves drummed. The vaqueros, unaware of the peril, came galloping toward them, following the trail of the stolen horses.

‘‘Don’t shoot until I do!’’ Skelman commanded, but not so loud that the vaqueros would hear.

‘‘Have you ever done this before?’’ Drub asked. ‘‘I have. We shoot them to ribbons and they fall down and get blood all over everything.’’ He cocked his revolver.

‘‘Stay alive, Drub.’’

‘‘I’ll try. I want to go on being your pard. You are the first true friend I ever had and it means a lot to me.’’

‘‘Just stay alive,’’ Boone reiterated.

‘‘You too.’’

The vaqueros, bunched together, were almost on them. In the lead was a handsome man with bandoleers crisscrossing his chest. A trimmed mustache adorned his upper lip, and a pistol was on either hip. He was scanning the brush. Suddenly he hauled on his reins and shouted a warning.

Skelman burst into the open, a black-handled Colt in each hand. He cut loose with ruthless precision, thumbing and firing, blasting vaquero after vaquero. The other rustlers followed his example. Drub too broke from cover to send lead into the mass of Mexicans struggling to control their mounts while getting off shots of their own.

Boone stayed close to Drub. He palmed his Colt and thumbed back the hammer and he did not squeeze the trigger. Not until a pair of vaqueros came charging toward them, banging away, and Drub said, ‘‘Ouch!’’

Two shots as swift as thought, and Boone sent both vaqueros into eternity. He turned to Drub, who had clutched his shoulder and was grimacing. Quickly Boone grabbed Drub’s reins, wheeled their animals and retreated into the brush, pulling Drub after him.

‘‘What are you doing? We can’t leave yet.’’

‘‘You have been hit.’’

‘‘It’s only a scratch. We should go back before my pa finds out. He is liable to be mad.’’

No sooner did Drub speak than Old Man Radler was broadside in front of them, barring their way. Boone had to draw rein to keep from colliding with him.

Brandishing his revolver, Old Man Radler snapped, ‘‘Where in hell do you think you are going?’’

‘‘Your son has taken a slug.’’

Another strange look came over the outlaw leader. ‘‘I don’t know what to make of you, Lightning.’’ He kneed his animal up next to his son’s. ‘‘How bad is it? Can you hold out awhile?’’

‘‘Sure, Pa. Don’t worry about me. And please don’t be mad at my pard. He is only trying to help.’’

Old Man Radler lowered his six-shooter but glared at Boone. ‘‘I will overlook you not doing as I wanted, this time. But it could be I will have to kill you before too long.’’

Ruler of the Roost

The second funeral was not as grand as the first.

Most of the punchers attended, as did Maria the cook and her family and cousins, and seven ladies came from Tucson, but only two of their husbands could make it. There was no band and no feast although Maria did cook supper for those who stayed over.

Epp Scott wore his sorrow like a shroud. Only when no one else was around did he crack a smile or chuckle and once, up in the bedroom where she had died, he hopped into the air and squealed for joy.

Doc Baker remarked over and over how it was a shame, Lillian’s heart giving out the way it did. Ned had meant the world to her, and with him gone she wanted to die. ‘‘I see it all the time,’’ he told them, and used one of his favorite lines. ‘‘The human heart is a fragile thing.’’