Ralph Compton - Bullet for a Bad Man

‘‘They are as good as caught,’’ he told the palomino.

Epp Scott was sitting down to supper when the maid informed him that a rider was at the front door and anxious to see him.

‘‘He has ridden far and is covered with dust, senor. I told him you are about to eat and he should come back later, but he insists he must see you right this minute.’’

Epp sat back and placed his fork on his plate. ‘‘I would have Hanks take care of it, but I sent him on an errand. Very well. Show this rider in.’’

The stout man she admitted had a balding pate and wore store-bought clothes with drink stains. He wrung a bowler in his hands. ‘‘Remember me, Mr. Scott? I worked for you. I was a bartender at the Acey-Deucey. Jackson is my name.’’

‘‘Of course I remember. But I do not recollect firing you, or hearing that you quit.’’

‘‘Then you haven’t heard? It is good I came straight here. I figured you would want to know.’’

‘‘Don’t keep me in suspense, Jackson. I am a busy man. What brought you all the way from Ranson?’’

‘‘There isn’t one anymore.’’

‘‘Isn’t what?’’

‘‘A Ranson. The town burned to the ground.’’

Epp shot out of his chair and came around the table. ‘‘You must mean a building or two. The whole damn town can’t have burned.’’

‘‘Most of it. There is one house and the stable left, but they are half black from the flames.’’

‘‘The Acey-Deucey is gone? Tell me you are drunk and making this up.’’

‘‘I wish I could. But the Acey-Deucey is where the fire started. I reckon he broke a few lamps to get it going. That is all it would have taken, as dry as everything was.’’

‘‘You are getting ahead of yourself. Who is this ‘he’? And why would he burn down my saloon?’’

‘‘It was that loco bastard who killed Mr. Condit and Jarrott. I was working when he came in. He asked me if you owned the Acey-Deucey and I wouldn’t answer him.’’

Epp went as rigid as a board. ‘‘Wait. It was Boone ?’’

‘‘He didn’t say his name. But he did claim he was your brother.’’

‘‘And he wanted to know if the Acey-Deucey was mine?’’

‘‘Yes, sir. And then he asked if Ranson had a fire brigade. I didn’t know what to make of him. He went into the back, and the next thing, smoke and flames were everywhere. I was lucky to make it out alive.’’

Epp put a hand to his forehead. ‘‘The whole damn town, you say?’’

‘‘We couldn’t put the fire out, Mr. Scott. We tried but there just wasn’t enough water. The best we could do was save a few things and skedaddle before we were burned with the buildings. I never saw the like.’’

‘‘Boone,’’ Epp said. ‘‘But if he did that, then he must—’’ Epp put a hand on the table and bowed his head.

‘‘Are you all right, Mr. Scott?’’

‘‘I’m fine.’’ With a visible effort Epp regained control and forced a grateful smile. ‘‘You did right in coming to me as fast as you did. I might not have heard about the fire for another week and by then he will be here.’’ He reached into an inner jacket pocket and produced a roll of bills. ‘‘I won’t forget what you’ve done. After I rebuild Ranson—and I will rebuild it—I’ll need someone to run the new Acey-Deucey. You are now at the top of the list.’’

Jackson nearly split his face grinning. ‘‘I only did what I thought you would want me to do.’’

Epp peeled off bills without counting them and held them out. ‘‘Here. Since it is almost sundown, you might as well stay the night. Have the maid turn down the bed in the guest bedroom.’’

Jackson could not take his eyes off the money. ‘‘I don’t want to put you to any bother.’’

‘‘The maid, Theresa, does the work. Not me.’’ Epp ushered him out, closed the door and took his seat at the head of the table. But he didn’t eat. He stared at his steak and potatoes. He stared and stared. Then there came another knock. ‘‘Who is it?’’

‘‘Theresa, senor. It is Mr. Hanks.’’

‘‘What are you waiting for? Show him in.’’

Blin Hanks had the same tired, dirty look as Jackson. ‘‘You might want to sit down. I have news and some of it is not good.’’

‘‘Would that be the part about Ranson burning to the ground?’’

‘‘You know already? But you still might want to sit. I have news you haven’t heard.’’

‘‘That my brother is back?’’

‘‘Damn. You plumb amaze me.’’ Hanks grinned. ‘‘But they say the third time is the charm. Did you also know your brother is fond of a certain girl?’’

‘‘You don’t say.’’

‘‘Her name is Sassy Drecker. How would you like to meet her?’’

‘‘She’s here?’’ Epp glanced at the doorway. ‘‘Why didn’t you bring her in?’’

‘‘Sassy is with Old Man Radler. He wants to sell her and the horses, both. Him and his rustlers should reach the barrens in two days.’’

Epp rubbed his palms together in wolfish anticipation. ‘‘I can hardly wait. This Sassy is just what I need to lure my brother into an early grave.’’

Arrows and Lead

A speck moved in the vast emptiness. It was the only sign of life in the heat-blistered terrain. Northward, the speck traveled, the relentless sun overhead, the dry ground under his mount’s heavy hooves.

Boone and the palomino were weary to their marrow. Both drooped with fatigue, but they forged gamely on, the palomino in response to Boone’s urging, Boone refusing to stop for fear that it would cost him the precious life he held more dear than his own.

Boone knew he had to stop soon whether he wanted to or not. A horse could take only so much, and he had already pushed the palomino harder than he had ever pushed any mount. Guilt pricked him, but lost the inner tug of war to love. He could not stop thinking about Sassy; about her hair, about her eyes, about her lips, about her laugh.

‘‘I am coming for you,’’ Boone croaked, and was startled by the rattle that passed for his voice.

The sun burned him as it burned the land. An Arizona summer was hell on earth. Hot, hot, always hot, with scant relief in the shade, when there was shade.

Boone shut out all thought of the sun from his mind. It was the only way to endure the oven. He shut out thoughts of anything save Sassy. His brother, the rustlers, the chaparral he was passing through, they were of no moment. Only Sassy mattered. Sweet, wonderful Sassy.

Then, as it often did, reality intruded. Boone was given something else to think about: a footprint in the dust. A clear track made by a moccasin-clad foot, the toes pointing in the same direction Boone was riding.

Boone drew rein. His numb brain stirred, his sluggish blood quickened. The track had been made by an Indian, and the only Indians in that region were Apaches.

Newspapers called them the scourge of the territory. Some whites called them heathens; a few referred to them as demons. The truth was, they were fierce fighters defending land they called their own. They were as much a part of that land as the rocks and the dirt and the dust.

All whites feared them. Even whites who boasted they didn’t fear them, feared them. No one wanted to be captured by them. Whites who were that unlucky died in hideous pain. Most would rather shoot themselves than let that happen.

A drop of sweat trickled down Boone’s spine. He spotted a few more tracks and surmised that a small band of Apaches was somewhere ahead of him. Not all that far ahead either. He could not tell exactly how many. It might be four, it might be six. But even one Apache was too many.

Rimming his dry, cracked lips with his tongue, Boone blinked up at the sun and then pulled his hat down. He freed his Colt in its holster, then clucked to the palomino. ‘‘Let’s find a spot to lie low for a while.’’