Ralph Compton: Bullet for a Bad Man

After the glare and blare out in front, the small empty room they entered was a haven of quiet.

Epp closed the door and took a seat at a table. He patted the chair next to him, saying, ‘‘You are welcome to sit in if you want.’’

‘‘Sit in on what?’’

‘‘What else? Poker.’’ Epp patted the table. ‘‘Condit will be here soon and bring other players.’’

‘‘Who?’’

‘‘Charley Condit. He doesn’t own the Acey-Deucey, but he runs it. You would be smart to make his acquaintance. He is a big man here in Ranson. Give him a few years and he will be one of the biggest in the territory. Almost as big as me.’’

‘‘You must have plans.’’

‘‘Grin if you want. But yes, I have made plans. Plans that might surprise you.’’

The door opened and in whisked a portly volcano in an expensive suit and bowler. ‘‘Epp!’’ he exclaimed, his moon of a face alight with delight. ‘‘I wasn’t expecting you until next week.’’ He stopped and glanced quizzically at Boone. ‘‘Who is this?’’

‘‘My kid brother. I told you about him.’’ Epp motioned. ‘‘Boone, I would like you to meet Charley Condit. Anything you need, you ask him.’’

‘‘Indeed,’’ Condit said, offering a pudgy hand. ‘‘Any kin of Epp’s is a friend of mine.’’

Boone shook. ‘‘I had no idea my brother is so well liked.’’

Condit went on shaking long after he should have stopped. ‘‘Your pa owns one of the richest spreads around, and rich makes a fellow popular.’’

Epp patted the chair on his right. ‘‘How about it, little brother? Do you want to play some cards?’’

‘‘Not at the moment,’’ Boone said. ‘‘I want to take a stroll and see what Ranson has to offer.’’

‘‘You do that. It is your first time here.’’ Epp smiled but his smile faded as soon as the door closed. He glared at Condit. ‘‘What the hell were you thinking? Rich makes me popular?’’

Condit blanched. ‘‘The Circle V is one of the largest spreads in the territory.’’

‘‘I don’t care. Watch what you say. For this to work he must not suspect.’’ Epp scowled. ‘‘Do you know where Jarrott is?’’

‘‘Over to Maddy’s. She has a new girl.’’

‘‘Fetch him. Tell him to come in the back way. If he doesn’t want to leave the girl, remind him of what it means to make me mad.’’

Charley Condit turned to go. ‘‘Why Jarrott anyhow? I can think of four or five I would pick over him.’’

‘‘Some others might be faster, but he is always careful and that counts for more.’’

‘‘You are not letting any grass grow under you.’’

‘‘Why should I? I finally talked the kid into coming. I want this over with so I can get on with the rest.’’ Epp paused. ‘‘Why are you still here?’’

‘‘On my way.’’

Epp sat back and drummed his fingers on the table. He took his watch from his vest pocket, opened it and noted the time. He removed his hat and placed it beside him, then put it back on again and pulled the brim over his eyes.

The bartender brought the best whiskey the saloon offered, glasses and an unopened deck of cards, all on a wooden tray. Without saying a word he set the tray down and left.

Epp consulted his watch again. He opened the bottle. Forgoing the glass, he tilted the bottle to his mouth. After several swallows he smacked his lips and set the bottle down. For a while he did more finger drumming; then he scowled at the door, opened the cards and began playing solitaire. He stiffened when voices sounded, but no one entered and he put a black jack on a red queen. Catching himself, he swore and picked up the jack.

The door opened. In came Charley Condit, trailed by a short, sallow man in clothes that could stand a washing. So could the man. He had buckteeth and stubble and grime under his chin. Shifty eyes and full cheeks lent him the look of a ferret. His hat needed stitching and his boots were badly scuffed. Wedged under his belt was a Smith & Wesson that looked to have seen as much use as his clothes.

‘‘Here he is,’’ Condit said.

‘‘Wait out at the bar.’’

Condit nodded and departed.

Epp pushed out a chair with his foot. ‘‘Have a seat, Jarrott.’’

‘‘I am fine as I am,’’ the ferret man said, sounding as if he had a mouthful of marbles.

‘‘It is time,’’ Epp informed him.

‘‘Condit told me. So you got him here like you wanted. I will take care of him. But you owe me money first.’’

‘‘Our deal was half in advance, half when the deed is done. That was what we shook on and that is how we will do it.’’

Jarrott shrugged. ‘‘So long as I am paid. The last hombre who cheated me did not live to brag of it.’’

‘‘Are you threatening me?’’

‘‘Not now, not ever. I am only saying.’’ Jarrott came to the chair and placed his left hand on top of it. His right hand was close to the Smith & Wesson. ‘‘Let’s not have a spitting contest. I will do what you want. You will pay me the rest. And that will be that.’’

‘‘Remember what I told you. He is a kid but he is god-awful fast. Do not let him touch his hardware.’’

‘‘Relax. I know my business. I am the killer, not him. His speed does not worry me.’’

‘‘It should.’’

‘‘I have done fast gents before. The trick is to take them by surprise.’’

‘‘Condit will point him out. Do it in the back. Claim he was drawing on you. I will act shocked when they come to tell me. Then I will tend to the body and take it home to my folks.’’

‘‘Your own brother.’’ Jarrott smirked. ‘‘And for what? A few handfuls of dirt.’’

‘‘The Circle V is more than a few. And as he reminded me a while ago, he is entitled to half. Since I am not inclined to share, I have hired you.’’

Jarrott grinned. ‘‘Your brother is as good as dead.’’

Den of Chance

Boone Scott looked older than he was. His bronzed skin, from countless hours spent under the burning sun, had a lot to do with it. But it was his ivory-handled Colt, conspicuous on his hip, that drew more than a few glances as he mingled with the saloon’s patrons. Fancy Colts like his cost a lot of money, and men who wore them were the kind to watch out for.

The poker games interested Boone for a while. All the players were armed, some with revolvers stuck under their belts, others with their jackets swept back to reveal holsters. They sat like roosting hawks, tense, alert, their movements quick, their faces as inscrutable as they could make them.

The professional gamblers stood out because they were so at ease and relaxed. They also stood out because of their black frock coats and wide-brimmed black hats. They did not flourish weapons but there was no doubt they were heeled.

Boone had played poker before. On occasion he would sneak out of the ranch house and join the Circle V punchers in the bunkhouse for their usual Saturday night game. His mother branded poker—and all gambling— as the devil’s handiwork and urged him to resist temptation. His brother was doomed to perdition, she would say, but he need not be.

Boone’s father did not like that perdition talk. No son of his, Ned maintained, was bound for hell, and he would thank his wife to stop saying they were.

Ned went to church with Lillian when she visited Tucson, and he said grace at the supper table, and when the boys were little he had said prayers with them at bedtime. But about a year ago Ned shocked Boone considerably one night by remarking that religion was for those who did not like the way life was so they made up a way to make life tolerable.

‘‘Are you saying you don’t believe in God, Pa?’’ Boone had asked.