Ralph Compton - Bullet for a Bad Man

Epp Scott smiled. ‘‘That was the idea.’’

Sassy Tree

Early one morning the rustlers passed through thick swaths of mesquite and paloverde. A short climb brought them to manzanitas. Higher yet, and they were in oak. Now and again a prickly pear cactus reminded them they were still in desert country. By noon they were amid woodland of piñons. By one o’clock they were riding among tall ponderosas. The forest went on for miles. They were grateful for the shade and a faint breeze.

Then came a forest of fir. The moss on the trees seemed out of place, more suitable for Oregon or Washington than Arizona.

They rode alertly. By now they were convinced they had shed the vaqueros, but they were in Apache country and there was no predicting Apaches. They had enough men and guns—particularly guns—to discourage a war party. But the Apaches might decide those guns were worth the risk of an attack. So they rode with their hands on their revolvers or had rifles across their saddles.

Finally, they reached the rim. From its heights they beheld a breathtaking spectacle of endless canyons and bluffs, sprinkled here and there with the green of valleys.

‘‘Where are we bound?’’ Boone Scott asked his new friend.

Drub Radler yawned. ‘‘Let’s see. We have been to two ranches and sold off some of the horses. The next one will be—’’ He stopped, and a broad smile spread over his face. ‘‘Why, the next will be Sassy Tree.’’

‘‘If that is a town, I have never heard of it.’’

Galeno was next to them, and he threw in, ‘‘It is no town. It is a ranch, Senor Lightning.’’ He had taken to calling Boone that, and when he did, he always smirked.

‘‘Hell,’’ Wagner said. ‘‘Calling it a ranch is being charitable. It is no more a ranch than I am the president.’’

‘‘That means it doesn’t amount to much,’’ Drub told Boone.

‘‘I know what it means.’’

‘‘Ben Drecker owns it,’’ Wagner continued. ‘‘And if we are lucky, he will be sober when we get there.’’

The trails they took were not the trails most men took. Old Man Radler had been a rustler for a lot of years and he knew game trails and Indian trails that no one else did.

The valley they came to was small and isolated, but it had water, and in Arizona water was everything. Enough grass for a fair-sized herd and an oak woodland lent a picturesque quality. From a distance the cabin with smoke curling from its stone chimney and the stable and corral looked respectable enough. But up close the illusion was shattered.

The cabin had been put together by someone who could not cut logs the same length if his life depended on it. The chinks had been filled with clay, but only here and there, so that on cold nights the fireplace would be put to good use. The corral rails had not been completely trimmed. The stable consisted of old planks with cracks and holes and looked fit to come down if someone sneezed on it.

Old Man Radler drew rein and the rest of them did the same. He pushed his hat back on his head and leaned on his saddle horn. ‘‘You in the cabin! Are you awake in there? You have visitors.’’

Burlap covering the window moved and a rifle poked out. ‘‘That there is far enough, stranger.’’

‘‘Drecker, you damned idiot! How long have you known me?’’ Old Man Radler returned. ‘‘I have come with the horses you told me you wanted. And if you have wasted my time, by God there will be hell to pay.’’

The rifle was pulled in and a moment later the cabin door creaked open on leather hinges. Framed in the uneven doorway was an unkempt man of fifty or so. His clothes were little better than nothing at all, his boots were ventilated with large holes and the rifle in his hands was an old Sharps. ‘‘Radler! I had about figured you weren’t going to show. It was, what, seven months ago you stopped here last?’’

‘‘If you can remember that far back, you are off the booze, which will make this easier.’’

‘‘I am not off it by choice. I ran out of money.’’

Old Man Radler stopped in the act of dismounting. ‘‘The hell you say. Then why did I bring horses?’’

‘‘Oh, I have my stash for those,’’ Drecker quickly answered. ‘‘I was not about to touch it, not after we shook and all.’’

‘‘Then you do have some common sense.’’ Old Man Radler alighted. ‘‘We will camp yonder.’’ He pointed at oaks fringing a spring. ‘‘Mosey on over and we will dicker. Bring that sprout of yours if you want. I can use a laugh and she is always worth plenty.’’

‘‘She?’’ Boone said to Drub.

‘‘Sassy,’’ Drub said with a vigorous bob of his chin.

Ben Drecker asked, ‘‘What was that about dickering? I thought we had set how much they would be?’’

‘‘Come talk,’’ Old Man Radler responded.

They stripped the saddle horses, and the stolen horses were put under guard and a fire was kindled and coffee put on. In a friendly frame of mind because everything had been going so well, the rustlers sat around talking and joking. Skelman did not talk much, and he never told a joke, but when he did speak the others listened.

Drecker joined them, hunkering by the fire with Old Man Radler and Vance.

Boone and Drub were seated with their backs to trees a short distance away, along with some of the others.

It was Wagner who snorted and said, ‘‘Look at that old goat. Talking business. As if he can afford more than four.’’

‘‘Four is more than none,’’ Drub said. ‘‘Even I know that.’’

‘‘Four makes for a great horse herd. Why, in ten years he might build it up to eight or ten.’’

‘‘You don’t think much of Drecker?’’ Boone asked.

‘‘Hell, I don’t like or dislike him. He is an old drunk who will never amount to much except in his head. But he does let us stop over when we are passing through, and that girl of his is a delight.’’

Boone looked around. ‘‘She must be lying low.’’

‘‘Likely as not she is off hunting,’’ Drub said. ‘‘That is what she does the most.’’ He paused and then said almost shyly, ‘‘I like her, Lightning. I like her a whole lot.’’

‘‘You like puppies and kittens too,’’ Wagner said.

‘‘Don’t you?’’

Boone rose. ‘‘I am going to stretch my legs. We have been in the saddle for so long, I have plumb forgot how to walk.’’

Drub cackled and slapped his big thigh. ‘‘I will have to remember that one to tell Pa.’’

Wagner swore in disgust. ‘‘The world is full of simple—’’ he started, and then his eyes darted toward Boone’s ivory-handled Colt. ‘‘That is, I reckon I will take a nap.’’

Boone strolled off. As he went deeper into the oaks, birds chirped and warbled and somewhere a jay squawked. A doe bounded off. He saw sign of other wildlife that used the spring. Bear tracks caused him to dip onto a knee to study them. They were in a patch of bare dirt, and the claw marks were as clear as could be.

‘‘That would be Methuselah.’’

The voice startled him. Not so much because Boone had not realized he was no longer alone but because it was female and of such pitch and tone that it sent a shiver down his spine. He glanced up and was thunderstruck.

She was no more than five feet tall, but every inch of her was superb. Sandy hair cut below her small ears and swept back added a dash of pixie to a face that was as smooth as a baby’s bottom but as bronzed as an Apache’s. Eyes the same green as the forest peered at him with interest. She had a small, perfect nose, and a small, perfect mouth. Her clothes were a duplicate of her father’s, only hers were cleaner. She was barefoot. Cradled in her arms was a Spencer rifle. ‘‘How old are you?’’