Ralph Compton - Bullet for a Bad Man

‘‘I feel like a fool.’’

Epp smiled and ushered him to the steps. ‘‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. Isn’t that what you told me after my pa died? Take the rest of the day off. Relax. Sort out your thinking. Take a look at things from my point of view and maybe you will see them differently.’’

Dan went down the steps. ‘‘I will be here at eight and we will hash this out like you want.’’

‘‘I want nothing more than to set things right.’’

‘‘If I am wrong, and it is beginning to look as if I am, I apologize in advance.’’

‘‘We all make mistakes.’’ Epp hurried back inside.

Dan stared at the door awhile; then he bent his boots toward his shack. ‘‘The benefit of the doubt,’’ he said to himself. ‘‘I have not given him the benefit of the doubt.’’

Once inside, Dan kicked the wall and kicked the table and then sat with his chin in his hands and did more thinking. He went over the little incidents that led him to believe Epp was rotten to the core. Doubt crept in. He got up and paced, and when that did not relieve the tension he was feeling, he walked to the stable to see whether his saddle was there. It was, and the cinch was being repaired. He took a chance and asked the stable hand, an old puncher whose bones and joints were no longer up to punching, if he thought the cinch broke or had been cut.

‘‘My eyes ain’t what they used to be, but I would say it busted. Do you think different?’’

‘‘I was just asking.’’ Dan got out of there and for a spell walked in aimless confusion among the buildings.

The day dragged. Dan did not see anything of Epp. He was in his shack changing into clean clothes when a noise drew him to the window. The buckboard had been brought out and the team was being hitched. Maria and her cousins were on the porch, watching.

Dan finished dressing.

At the appointed hour Dan headed for the house. He left his six-gun behind. It wasn’t fitting to go to supper armed.

Twilight was falling. Most of the punchers were in the bunkhouse, the horses in their stalls and some in the corral, the chickens in the chicken coop.

‘‘I am glad you came. It will be good to get this out in the open.’’

‘‘I have been thinking and I admit I might have been wrong about you,’’ Dan said.

Epp smiled and led the way down the hall to the kitchen. ‘‘I can’t tell you how happy this makes me. I need your trust. We must work together if the Circle V is to prosper.’’

‘‘I have always been loyal to the brand.’’

‘‘That you have. No one is more loyal than you.’’

‘‘Tomorrow I will show you just how loyal. I’ll take ten of our hands and ride to the barrens to confront Hanks.’’

‘‘There is an idea.’’

‘‘You’ll come along, won’t you?’’

‘‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’’ Epp held the kitchen door open. ‘‘After you.’’

Dan walked past him. He felt a searing pain in his chest and looked down at a knife hilt jutting from his body. Shock seized him. Then he saw Blin Hanks. Dan went to cry out and a hand came from behind and clamped over his mouth. He struggled, but his legs were mush and the next thing he knew he was on his back and the world around him was fading to black.

A face filled his vision. A cruel face. A mocking face. ‘‘You were right about me. I always want more. And if the only way to get it is to get rid of you, all I can say is—’’

Dan Morgan did not hear the rest. He did not hear anything at all.

Plans Awry

Minutes had never dragged so slow in Boone Scott’s life. At last the sun perched on the brink of its daily extinction, blazing red in farewell and splashing the sky with orange and yellow.

Old Man Radler called a halt in a wide canyon. Charred embers, a pile of dry brush and old tracks showed they had been there before. A new fire was kindled and coffee put on to brew.

Boone left the palomino saddled and joined them. Drub was across from him and would not meet his gaze.

The coffeepot hissed and steam rose from the spout. ‘‘We have one more ranch to visit and then we can split the money,’’ Old Man Radler announced.

‘‘I can’t wait,’’ said a rustler named Roerig. ‘‘I want a shave and a bath and a woman and whiskey.’’

‘‘Give me bug juice before anything else,’’ said another, and smacked his lips. ‘‘I miss that the most.’’

‘‘Keep that up, Aten, and you will end up like Ben Drecker,’’ Old Man Radler told him. ‘‘You will be so far down in the bottle, you will never climb out.’’

‘‘Why say a thing like that?’’ Aten asked.

Old Man Radler turned to Boone. ‘‘How about you, Lightning? Is there anything you miss?’’

‘‘No.’’

‘‘Oh? I could have sworn you had taken a fancy to Drecker’s daughter, Sassy. Or doesn’t she count?’’

Boone grew cold inside. ‘‘Talk like that can get a man bucked out in gore.’’

‘‘Quick is not everything,’’ Old Man Radler said.

‘‘Meaning?’’

‘‘Smart will beat quick if the smart is done right.’’ Old Man Radler nodded at Skelman, who stood with his hands close to his black-handled Colts. Old Man Radler nodded at Vance, and Vance shifted the rifle he was holding in his lap so the muzzle pointed at Boone. Old Man Radler nodded a third time, and Drub put his hand on his six-shooter, but he didn’t draw it. Old Man Radler frowned.

‘‘What is this?’’ Boone snapped.

‘‘I don’t want you flying off the handle when Galeno and Wagner get back,’’ Old Man Radler said.

Boone glanced around the campfire and gave a start. He began to rise, but a flicker of movement from Skelman froze him in place.

‘‘See what I mean?’’ Old Man Radler said. ‘‘Smart will beat quick if the smart is done right. You might want to work on being smarter and then you will be twice as dangerous. Provided you live that long.’’

‘‘You had no right.’’

‘‘Did you really think you could keep it a secret? That Galeno would keep his mouth shut if you paid him? Hell. Trusting him is like trusting a rattler not to bite you. He came to me straightaway and I sent him and Wagner to fetch her.’’

Something in Boone’s expression prompted Skelman to say, ‘‘Don’t try it. You might get two or three, but we will sure as hell get you.’’

‘‘Listen to him, Lightning,’’ Old Man Radler said. ‘‘If I had wanted you dead, you would not be breathing.’’

‘‘Then what?’’

‘‘I like that girl. I have known her since she came to my knees. And I can’t think of anything more stupid than to let her ride alone through Apache country.’’

‘‘She has stuck close to us,’’ Boone said before he could stop himself.

‘‘And that will stop Apaches? Damn, boy. If you weren’t so young I would have you shot for being so dumb. Have you ever tangled with them? I have. And they are smart and quick. If they spot her they will snatch her and either make her one of their women or do things to her that would turn your stomach.’’

‘‘You care what happens to her?’’

Old Man Radler glowered. ‘‘What the hell? Why wouldn’t I? Have you been listening to a word I’ve said?’’

‘‘I just thought . . .’’ Boone said, but he did not go on.

‘‘What do you think of me? Yes, I am a rustler. It is my trade. But have you ever heard of me robbing banks? Or killing folks just to kill them? Or murdering women and children?’’

Boone looked down.

‘‘You son of a bitch,’’ Old Man Radler said. ‘‘I have not been this insulted since Hector was a pup. Give me one good reason why I should not snap my fingers and have you shot to pieces.’’