Ralph Compton - Bullet for a Bad Man

‘‘You have ears but you don’t hear.’’ Boone closed his eyes and shuddered, then opened them again. ‘‘My brother did more than that. All those people who died? He is to blame.’’

‘‘Pete said your pa was killed in a fall and your mother’s heart could not take the loss.’’

‘‘I will say it plain.’’ Boone took a deep breath. ‘‘My brother is to blame. Don’t ask me how I can be sure, but I am. He killed our pa and he killed our ma, and for whatever reason he killed our foreman and Doc Baker and God knows who else.’’

‘‘You don’t have any proof of that.’’

Boone squeezed her hands so hard, he had to stop himself before he hurt her. ‘‘I feel it, Sassy. In my bones. In my gut. In whatever you want to call the deepest part of me. My brother was never what I took him to be. He is a killer, and worse. I could never live with myself if I don’t force a reckoning.’’

‘‘But what about me ? What am I to do if you get yourself killed?’’

Boone kissed her on the cheek. ‘‘You will go on with your life. You will find another man. In time you will forget me.’’

‘‘Damn you to hell.’’

‘‘There you go again.’’

‘‘Forget you? A woman never forgets the first man to claim her heart. If she is lucky, the first is also the last. You go and die on me, Boone Scott, and I will be in misery the rest of my days.’’

‘‘I am sorry, then.’’

‘‘There is no changing your mind? What if I beg? What if I get down on my knees?’’

Sassy started to bend her legs, but Boone jerked her back up. ‘‘Drub! Get over here.’’

‘‘Here I am, pard.’’

‘‘Take her. Do as I told you.’’ Boone walked toward the saloon. He moved stiffly for three or four steps and then another quiver ran through him. By the time he reached the batwings he was his normal self except that his face resembled the keen edge of a saber.

‘‘Let the bloodspilling commence,’’ Boone said. And with that he strode on in.

Liquor into Smoke

Sounds slammed the ear like physical blows: the laughter, the swearing, the piano over in the corner, the bellows of customers trying to get the attention of the bartenders, the loud voices of those too drunk to talk quietly.

The Acey-Deucey was alive with vice. Greed lit many a face. Low-cut dresses revealed many a bosom. Cold eyes glinted with the perpetual threat of violence.

Into this liquor-seeped storm of lust and noise walked Boone Scott. He made for the far end of the bar. Some of the cardplayers and some of those standing about noticed his face—and when they did, they gave a start.

Boone was oblivious. When a winsome young woman in a green dress caught his arm and pressed her warm body against his, he fixed her with a glare that caught her breath in her throat. ‘‘Go away.’’

The woman went.

Boone reached the bar and shouldered two men aside. It angered them and one opened his mouth to say something but apparently thought better of it. Boone thumped the top of the bar. ‘‘Barkeep!’’

The nearest bartender approached. ‘‘What will it be, mister?’’ he asked with the smile of a man who was just doing his job.

‘‘Who owns this place?’’

‘‘Pardon?’’

‘‘You heard me. Who owns the Acey-Deucey?’’

‘‘If you want a drink I will pour you one.’’

‘‘I want an answer.’’ Boone placed his right hand on his ivory-handled Colt.

The bartender’s eyes grew round with sudden concern. ‘‘There is no call for threats.’’

‘‘There is if you don’t answer me. A man named Condit owned this saloon a while back, didn’t he?’’

‘‘No.’’

‘‘Don’t lie to me. I met him.’’

‘‘Condit ran the Acey-Deucey but he was not the owner. He ran it for someone else.’’

‘‘The name of this someone would be?’’

‘‘I am not supposed to say. The boss told us we are never to tell who—’’ The bartender stopped. ‘‘Wait a second. Haven’t I seen you somewhere?’’

‘‘His name,’’ Boone said.

‘‘Something about you is familiar. Who are you?’’

‘‘I am asking the questions. And I will not ask this one again.’’ Boone leaned toward him and his voice cracked like a bullwhip. ‘‘Who owns this saloon, damn you?’’

The bartender stiffened. His gaze dropped to Boone’s Colt, and then fixed on Boone’s face, and all the color drained from his own. ‘‘Oh God. I remember you now.’’

‘‘Do you?’’

‘‘You’re him. The one who went berserk. The one who killed Condit and all those others. I am right, aren’t I?’’

‘‘You are right. And you will be as dead as Condit if you do not loosen your tongue. I will count to five.’’ Boone paused. ‘‘One.’’

‘‘Epp Scott owns the Acey-Deucey. He owns a part interest in some of the other saloons and businesses too.’’

‘‘My own brother.’’

‘‘Your what? Listen, all I do is serve drinks. I am not told much and I do not pry.’’

‘‘I am obliged.’’ Boone turned.

‘‘Wait. That’s it? You aren’t fixing to cause trouble? That is all you wanted?’’

‘‘Does Ranson have a fire brigade?’’

‘‘A what? No. We aren’t Tucson. Folks don’t give much thought to fire.’’ The bartender blinked. ‘‘Hold on. That’s a damned peculiar thing to ask. What are you up to?’’

‘‘I would make myself scarce were I you.’’ Boone threaded through the throng to the narrow hallway. He went past several closed doors and came to a door that was ajar.

The bed had seen recent use; the blanket was thrown back and rumpled. A plump woman sat on the edge, doing her dress up. She was so intent on the buttons that she did not realize he was there. She kept trying to get a tiny button through a tiny hole, but it would not stay.

‘‘Ma’am?’’

Jumping, the dove glanced up. ‘‘Damn it, mister. Don’t you know better than to sneak up on someone like that?’’

‘‘You need to leave.’’

The dove tried the tiny button one more time and gave up in frustration. ‘‘I would like to shoot whoever made this dress. I bought it off the rack and have regretted it ever since. It is not made for a full-bodied woman like me.’’ She wriggled a fleshy thigh and showed slightly yellow teeth. ‘‘How about it? I am easy to ride, if I do say so my own self.’’

Boone walked to the small table and picked up the lamp. The kerosene in the globe swished when he shook it. ‘‘Off you go.’’

‘‘What are you on about?’’ The woman heaved up off the bed. ‘‘This is my room. Why should I go anywhere?’’

Drawing back his arm, Boone said, ‘‘It will be awful hot in here in a few minutes.’’

‘‘Dear Lord!’’ The dove backpedaled. ‘‘Don’t do that! It will set the place on fire.’’

‘‘That it will.’’ Boone threw the lamp with all his might. The globe smashed to bits and kerosene splattered the wall. Instantly, flames erupted. Small flames at first, they grew rapidly.

Shrieking, the dove lumbered from the room. She began bawling at the top of her powerful lungs. ‘‘Maniac! Maniac! There is a maniac on the loose!’’

Boone walked down the hall until he came to another open door. The room was empty. He never hesitated. The lamp suffered the same fate as the other. When he came back out, smoke was spewing from the first room. Shouts and pounding feet filled the front of the saloon.

Boone moved toward the rear. A bloodstain marked the spot where Jarrott had died. Boone stopped and opened the door to Lucy’s room. It too was empty, but the lamp was lit. He smashed it on the floor.