Ralph Compton - Bullet for a Bad Man

‘‘Don’t try to deny it. You pulled the wool over my eyes for a bit, but I sensed something wasn’t right about your father’s death and I had my doubts about your mother’s.’’

‘‘So you are accusing me on a guess?’’

Doc Baker stepped to a chair and tiredly sank down. ‘‘Hear me out, Eppley. That is all I ask.’’

‘‘I would not make you leave now for anything. I am not easily surprised, but you have surprised the skin off me.’’

Placing his left ankle on his right knee, Doc Baker held his black bag in his lap. ‘‘I have been a doctor for fifty-two years. Did you know that?’’

‘‘I knew it was a long time.’’

‘‘I have seen all the hurts and wounds and diseases there are. I have mended more broken bones than you can count. I have healed more sores and blisters. I’ve delivered more babies. In range parlance, I am an old hand at what I do.’’

‘‘There is a point to this,’’ Epp said.

‘‘Men fall from horses all the time. They break arms, they break legs. Every so often a man lands on his head. Concussions are common. Fractured skulls happen a lot. But it’s rare for a man to die from the fall.’’

‘‘It does happen, though.’’

‘‘Yes, it does,’’ Doc Baker conceded with a nod. ‘‘But here is the thing. In all the falls from horseback that I am acquainted with, not one rider fell on his head the way your father did.’’

Epp said irritably, ‘‘A head is a head. Make sense.’’

‘‘Bear with me.’’ Doc Baker opened his black bag and took out a large magnifying glass. ‘‘Do you know what this is?’’

Epp frowned. ‘‘What do you take me for?’’

‘‘Of course you do. It is not an instrument a doctor uses much, but my eyes are not what they used to be. It helps when I lance a boil or need to stitch a cut.’’ Doc Baker paused. ‘‘Or when I examine a wound like your father’s.’’

Epp went on frowning.

‘‘You see, when a man falls from a horse, usually there is a lot of bruising. Your father hardly had any. And when a man takes a tumble like his, usually he lands on the back of his head or on the side of his head or the front of his head, not smack on top of it. For your pa to hit the way he did, he would have to be upside down when he fell.’’

‘‘You make it sound impossible but it’s not.’’

‘‘True. But then there is the other thing. His skull was caved in a good three inches. I measured it. And with my magnifying glass I found bits of stone embedded deep in the wound.’’

‘‘So?’’

‘‘So you claimed he hit his head on a boulder. Boulders are harder than bone. They don’t splinter.’’ Doc Baker fiddled with his bag. ‘‘I took your word about how he died. But it bothered me, Epp. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t stop wondering if maybe he didn’t die the way you said he did.’’ The physician took a deep breath. ‘‘Then your mother gave up the ghost.’’

‘‘You told everyone her heart gave out.’’

‘‘It was the logical conclusion. After all, you told me she was having chest pains. But when I examined her, I saw something in her throat. Something so far down, I almost missed it. I fished it out and didn’t say anything, because at the time my doubts had not become a certainty.’’

Epp clenched and unclenched his fists. ‘‘What was in her throat?’’

‘‘A feather.’’

‘‘A what?’’

‘‘A feather. The kind you find in a mattress. Or in a pillow. A feather that had no business being where I found it.’’

‘‘That is plumb ridiculous. Maybe she swallowed it when she was thrashing around on the bed.’’

‘‘You said there was no sign of a struggle. She died as peaceful as could be. Your very words.’’

‘‘I could have been mistaken.’’ Epp picked up the whiskey bottle but put it down again without taking a drink. ‘‘All of this amounts to a lot of hot air. I am insulted you think I would do such a thing.’’

Doc Baker was silent a bit. Then he cleared his throat. ‘‘You are right. I can’t prove a thing. But I know you did it, and I am going to keep an eye on you from here on out. If anyone else dies under peculiar circumstances, anyone at all, I will take my suspicions to the United States marshal.’’

Epp started to come up off the settee, but Doc Baker’s hand suddenly rose out of his black bag, holding a derringer.

‘‘Stay where you are.’’

‘‘You are a bundle of surprises, Doc.’’

‘‘I never go anywhere without this.’’

‘‘And you, a healer. What would people think?’’

Doc Baker rose. ‘‘I no longer trust you, Eppley. I will see myself out. Don’t try to stop me. Don’t come after me. I told several of your funeral guests I was coming back, so if I turn up missing you will get a lot of attention you might not want.’’ He backed toward the hall, the derringer steady in his varicose-veined hand. ‘‘Be seeing you.’’

Epp did not stir until the front door slammed. Then he swore and said, ‘‘You can count on it, old man.’’

Curly Wolves

They had pushed the stolen herd hard and were well north of the border. Old Man Radler allowed only brief rests. When their mounts tired, they switched their saddles to stolen horses.

Finally, Old Man Radler consented to stop and make camp, but only because Drub Radler was pale and sweaty and his right sleeve was stained bright with blood.

‘‘You are a damned nuisance,’’ the father told the son as Drub sat glumly on a boulder.

‘‘I am sorry I got shot, Pa.’’

‘‘Don’t apologize, damn it. How many times have I told you a man never says he is sorry? Take what life throws at you and don’t whine.’’

‘‘It hurts an awful lot,’’ Drub said.

Vance Radler’s cruel features split in a smirk. ‘‘What an infant. How we can be related I will never know.’’

Suddenly whipping around, Old Man Radler slapped him. ‘‘Shut your mouth, boy. Your ma was too scared of me to ever lie abed with another man.’’

‘‘Hell, Pa,’’ Vance said, rubbing his cheek, ‘‘I know she was a lady. I was only joshing.’’

‘‘Some things shouldn’t be joshed about.’’

Boone Scott had taken a folding knife from his saddlebags. The blade was six inches long and honed sharp; the hilt was a deer hoof. Unfolding it, he examined Drub’s shoulder. ‘‘You need to take the shirt off or I will have to cut it.’’

‘‘I will take it off. I only have the one.’’ Drub clumsily pried at the buttons.

‘‘Slow as a turtle,’’ Vance said.

Boone switched the knife from his right hand to his left. ‘‘You might want to find something else to do besides insult your brother.’’

Vance looked at his father, and when his father did not say anything, he growled, ‘‘Oh, hell!’’ and tromped off.

‘‘Thank you, Lightning.’’

‘‘Keep unbuttoning.’’

The slug had caught Drub high in the right shoulder. It missed the bone and lodged in thick muscle. But it did not go clean through, and he had a bulge in his skin the size of an acorn.

‘‘This will hurt some,’’ Boone said.

‘‘Do what you have to, pard. I can hardly lift my arm and I need it for eating.’’

Old Man Radler watched as Boone carefully made a slit and lightly pried with the tip of the blade. ‘‘I don’t know what to make of you, Lightning. I truly don’t.’’

‘‘What did you mean back there about maybe having to kill me?’’ Boone casually asked. The tip scraped metal and he parted the skin for a better look.

‘‘I can’t have weak sisters in my outfit,’’ Old Man Radler replied. ‘‘To put it simply, you are too nice.’’