Ralph Compton: Bullet for a Bad Man

‘‘You have never been there. I have, and I like it a lot.’’

Ranson was a wart that liked to call itself a town. It got its start as a trading post and grew to include a dozen buildings. That four of those buildings were saloons and three were houses of ill repute was the reason it had grown so fast. Cards, whiskey and women were to be had any hour of the day or night.

Cowhands from every ranch in the territory came to Ranson for entertainment. There was no law. There was no church. Shootings were common. Hardly a month passed that the cemetery did not sprout a new tombstone. Or at least a square of wood with the name of the deceased.

Ned Scott had told his sons to stay away from Ranson. ‘‘It is a nest of killers and gamblers and women of loose morals. If you go there you are asking for trouble.’’

Lillian had agreed. ‘‘Ranson is Sodom and Gomorrah rolled into one. Sin is its trade, and hell is its reward.’’

Boone had listened, and stayed away.

Epp went there every chance he got.

Now, as the brothers crossed the rich grassy range that would one day be theirs, Epp again urged, ‘‘Come with me after the roundup. You will like it more than you think.’’

‘‘I reckon it can’t hurt to go there just once.’’

Epp turned his head to hide his vicious grin.

Parting the Tie

The night was warm, the air as still as a held breath.

Boone Scott rose in the stirrups and stared at scores of glittering fireflies that seemed a mile away.

‘‘Nervous, little brother?’’ Epp Scott teased.

‘‘Got a kink in my back. And I have told you before not to call me that.’’

‘‘But you are my little brother,’’ Epp said. ‘‘Remember how when we were small I would pound you if you didn’t do as I wanted?’’

‘‘You don’t pound me these days.’’

‘‘A man would be a fool to try. You are greased lightning with that smoke wagon of yours.’’

‘‘No one can accuse you of being puny either.’’

‘‘I suppose not,’’ Epp allowed. ‘‘But unlike you, I do not show off what I can do.’’

‘‘I am no show-off.’’

‘‘A poor choice of words,’’ Epp said. ‘‘But you must admit you are not timid either. Ma is worried you will come to no good if you keep on as you have been.’’

Boone pushed his wide-brimmed hat back on his curly corn-colored hair. ‘‘I don’t savvy why she carries on like she does. I have never killed anyone. I don’t even get into fights.’’

‘‘It is all that practicing you do. For an hour every day, without fail, you bang away.’’

‘‘I like to shoot.’’

‘‘You do not just like it. You live and breathe it.’’

Boone nodded at the glittering fireflies. ‘‘Given how often you come here, is that what you live and breathe?’’

‘‘I love Ranson,’’ Epp admitted. ‘‘God help me, but I love the sights and the sounds and the feel. I love to play poker. I love the burning feel of whiskey in my throat. I love to have a warm dove in my lap with her fingers in my hair.’’

‘‘Lordy,’’ Boone said.

Epp laughed. ‘‘Ma would blister my ears for being a sinner if she heard me talk like that. But I am how I am and I will not change for her or anyone else.’’

‘‘Be nice, as Ma would say.’’

Epp shot him a sharp glance. ‘‘That was fine when we were little. It was important to her that we get along and be nice to everyone. But we are grown men now, and the world is not the nice place Ma would like it to be. If a man wants to make his mark, he must stake out what is his and not be nice about getting it and keeping it.’’

‘‘I don’t know what I want out of life yet,’’ Boone said.

‘‘I do.’’

‘‘What?’’

‘‘To be king of the roost and do as I damn well please. To snap my fingers and have work get done.’’

‘‘What will you do? Go off to St. Louis or New Orleans or some such and make your mark?’’

‘‘I can do all that right here.’’

‘‘Pa is young yet, only a little over forty, and fit as a fiddle. It could be twenty years or more before he is ready to give up the reins. And then you would have to share them with me.’’

‘‘You never know,’’ Epp said.

The fireflies had grown to rectangles and Ranson had grown to a bustling beehive. Horses at hitch rails and parked buckboards and wagons lined the main street. People were everywhere, hurrying to and fro, talking and joking and laughing.

‘‘It sure looks friendly,’’ Boone remarked.

Epp laughed. ‘‘A rattler looks innocent until you step on it. Make no mistake, little brother. There are nothing but wolves here, and they will eat you alive if you are not careful.’’

‘‘Bosh. You have been to Ranson many a time and made it home safe and sound.’’

‘‘I am a wolf my own self,’’ Epp said.

Now it was Boone who laughed. ‘‘You forget I know you. You are hardly a bad man.’’

‘‘How would you know? I am not the same at the ranch as I am here. For a reason.’’

Their conversation was interrupted by the pounding of hooves. They reined aside as half a dozen riders swept down on them from out of the night. Whooping and hollering, the six cowhands thundered past, one of them yelling, ‘‘Yonder she is, boy! We are going to have ourselves a fine time!’’

‘‘You are not the only one who likes to come here,’’ Boone said as he gigged his buttermilk.

‘‘Sin is more popular than being good.’’

‘‘What a thing to say.’’

‘‘It’s true. Look at all these people. More than you will find in church in Tucson on Easter Sunday. And why? People would rather drink and gamble and bed whores than pray to God.’’

‘‘Stop,’’ Boone said.

‘‘Stop what?’’

‘‘You are just saying that to rile me.’’

Epp leaned on his saddle horn and regarded his brother with amusement. ‘‘Since when did you become a defender of public virtue? I am saying it because it is true.’’

‘‘Don’t ever say it to Ma. She will keel over, and we wouldn’t want that to happen.’’

‘‘Of course we wouldn’t.’’

Around them was bedlam just this side of chaos, men and women hurrying every which way, batwings constantly opening and closing, and the bawdy houses doing a booming business in carnal delights.

‘‘It sure is something,’’ Boone said.

‘‘I keep forgetting you are only sixteen. You are big for your age and look older.’’

‘‘So?’’

‘‘Nothing.’’ Epp reined toward a hitch rail. ‘‘This is my home away from home, you might call it.’’

The saloon was the Acey-Deucey. It was the largest and most popular. It was also the noisiest, thanks to a singing troupe of four ladies who performed on a stage with considerable enthusiasm, if not much talent. As skimpy as their outfits were, no one cared whether they sang off-key. Every table was filled, the floor crammed, the bar lined end to end. When the songs ended and the ladies left the stage, the babble of voices rose to the ceiling.

The Acey-Deucey was a giant heart pulsing to the throb of Ranson’s wild nightlife.

Boone gazed about him in wonderment. ‘‘You have told me what it is like, but I never imagined it was like this.’’

‘‘Stick close.’’ Epp shouldered into the crowd.

Hooking his thumbs in his gun belt, Boone trailed in his brother’s wake. Curious glances were thrown his way. A dove in a tight red dress brushed against him and asked him to buy her a drink. ‘‘Maybe later.’’

There was no space at the bar. Epp motioned to get the nearest bartender’s attention, and the bartender immediately came over and pointed at a long hall at the rear, saying, ‘‘Your room is reserved as always. I will bring a bottle of your favorite and the glasses.’’