Ralph Compton - Bullet for a Bad Man

‘‘What?’’

‘‘Don’t your ears work? I asked how old you are.’’

Boone rose. ‘‘I don’t know as I should say.’’

‘‘Why not?’’

‘‘Some think I am older than I am and I would like to keep it that way,’’ Boone explained.

She nodded toward the spring. ‘‘By some do you mean the Radlers and the rest of those serpents?’’

‘‘They gave me the impression they are friends of yours.’’

‘‘I like Drub. He is the only worthwhile one in the bunch.’’ She waited, then said, ‘‘Well?’’

‘‘Well what?’’

‘‘Are you going to tell me or not?’’

‘‘Why do you want to know?’’

‘‘Damn, you are contrary. But you look to be about my age and I hardly ever meet anyone as young as me. I am sixteen.’’

‘‘Promise to keep it a secret?’’

‘‘May I be shot if I don’t.’’

‘‘I am the same age as you.’’

The girl smiled and stepped boldly forward and offered her small hand. ‘‘Sassy Drecker. What is yours?’’

Boone opened his mouth, then hesitated.

‘‘Don’t tell me you have forgot.’’

‘‘It is another secret.’’

‘‘You sure as hell have a lot of them.’’

‘‘And you sure do cuss a lot. My ma says that ladies should not cuss like men do.’’

‘‘If you want your mother I am wrong for the part. So will you tell me or should I make a name up? Because if I have to make a name up, I think I will call you Silly. How would that be?’’

‘‘I am called Lightning but my real name is Boone. Boone Scott.’’

‘‘Lightning?’’ Sassy said, showing teeth as white and even as teeth could be. ‘‘Why in creation would anyone call you that?’’

Boone’s hand moved, and the ivory-handled Colt performed its magic. ‘‘This is why.’’

Sassy’s green eyes widened in appreciation and she whistled softly. ‘‘Land sakes. I am impressed and I do not impress easy.’’ She looked him squarely in the eye. ‘‘There is a lot about you that impresses me.’’

‘‘The way you talk.’’ Boone coughed and twirled the Colt into his holster with a flourish. ‘‘What did you mean by Methuselah?’’

‘‘That is the name of the bear. He is big and fat and getting on in years and I always wave to him when I see him.’’

‘‘You named a wild bear?’’

Sassy gazed fondly at the surrounding oaks and undergrowth. ‘‘I give a name to every critter. They are my friends.’’

‘‘A bear is no friend to anyone. Aren’t you afraid he will decide you make a tasty meal?’’

‘‘I have this,’’ Sassy said, patting the Spencer. ‘‘And I am a damn good shot, if I say so my own self.’’

‘‘There you go again.’’

‘‘There I go again what?’’

‘‘Cussing.’’

‘‘Are you a preacher or something?’’

‘‘Hell no.’’

They looked at each other and laughed.

‘‘Why don’t you come for a walk with me and I will show you around?’’ Sassy suggested.

‘‘I can think of nothing I would like to do more.’’

Sassy’s cheeks tinged pink as she turned and headed away from the spring and the cabin. ‘‘These wilds are my home. We came here shortly after Ma died. Pa took to the bottle and has not climbed back out. Most of the time I am all alone, if you don’t count the Apaches.’’

‘‘Apaches?’’ Boone said in sudden alarm.

‘‘I find their tracks and camps from time to time,’’ Sassy said. ‘‘I suspect they know we are here, but I reckon we are not worth their bother or they would have gouged out our eyes by now.’’

Boone had a thought, an ugly thought, and his trigger finger twitched. ‘‘When you are a little older maybe they will not think you are so worthless.’’

‘‘There is that,’’ Sassy said, and placed a hand on the knife at her hip. ‘‘But I will slit my own throat before I let any man, red or white, do that to me without my say-so.’’

‘‘God, you are frank.’’

Sassy bestowed another smile on him. ‘‘Do I scare you?’’

Boone looked at the ground and at the sky and finally said, ‘‘More than anything has ever scared me in all my born days.’’

‘‘Good,’’ Sassy said. ‘‘Can I tell you something?’’

‘‘Will it scare me more?’’

‘‘Probably.’’ Sassy did not wait for him to give his consent. ‘‘I am glad we met. More glad than I have been about anything in all my born days.’’ She laughed, and her laughter was music.

‘‘Are you poking fun?’’

Sassy stopped, so he stopped. She put a hand on his arm and leaned close and said so quietly he barely heard her, ‘‘I would never do that. Not now. Not ever.’’ Her hand stayed there. ‘‘Don’t you feel it?’’

‘‘Feel what?’’

‘‘Feel what I am feeling?’’

‘‘Oh, hell,’’ Boone Scott said.

‘‘And you say I cuss a lot. If your ma were here I would tell on you.’’ Sassy grinned and they walked on, her hand brushing his.

Boone Scott broke out in a sweat that had nothing to do with the heat.

A Secret Place

Boone Scott had not smiled this much since that awful night in Ranson. He walked with a lighthearted tread, his arm occasionally touching Sassy’s. Or her arm would touch his.

Sassy knew the valley from end to end, every tree, every boulder, every shadowed nook and shaded cranny. She showed him a tree the black bear she had named Methuselah liked to scratch, and a squirrel nest, and a fox den. She showed him where grouse liked to roost and the tracks of wild turkeys. She took him to where deer liked to lie up, and the trail the deer used when they went for their evening drink at the spring. She showed him, in short, everything there was to know about her valley.

Boone lost all track of time. He listened to her wonderful voice, and drank in the sight of her with sly glances, and he was content.

They came to the far end of the valley. A cliff wall loomed, a barrier that kept the wildlife from drifting into the mountains beyond, and Sassy suddenly clasped his hand.

‘‘I have a treat for you.’’

‘‘You can take me anywhere,’’ Boone said.

Sassy pulled him toward the cliff. ‘‘It’s my special place. The place I come to when I want to be alone. I have never brought Pa or anyone else. I have never wanted to.’’

‘‘I am honored.’’

‘‘You should be.’’

Soon they emerged from the oaks. Above them reared the cliff, sheer and unbroken, reaching to the sky.

‘‘Is this it?’’ Boone asked.

‘‘No, silly. What is so special about here?’’ Sassy grinned and pulled him to the right.

For a good five minutes they hiked along the base of the cliff. Then Sassy stopped and pointed. ‘‘What do you think of those?’’

Boone looked, and was puzzled. Hand and foot-holds had been carved into the rock face. Their rounded edges suggested they had once been well used. They were old, very old, maybe as old as the valley itself. ‘‘I’ll be.’’ Stepping back, he craned his neck and saw that they went up the cliff for as high as he could see. ‘‘Who made them?’’

‘‘How would I know?’’ Sassy shrugged. ‘‘Indians, I reckon. They are long gone.’’ She slung her rifle over her back by the rawhide cord that was tied to the barrel and the stock, then began to climb. ‘‘Come on. My special place is higher.’’

‘‘Is it safe?’’

‘‘Are you yellow?’’ Sassy teased, gripping the next niche.

Had a man said that, Boone would have pistol-whipped the culprit.

Now he grinned and said, ‘‘I will show you how yellow I am.’’ And he followed her.