Ralph Compton - Bullet for a Bad Man

Boone could not let the Apaches get their hands on him. If they did, if he fell, who would save Sassy? The thought of her in Epp’s clutches terrified him. Surely, he told himself, he could not have met her only to lose her so soon after? Fate could not be so cruel.

Or could it?

Once, Boone would have said no. Back when life was good, when he lived in a fine house on a fine ranch and had all a man could want. Back when it seemed that fate had singled him out as special, as deserving of a happy life, free of want.

But now Boone knew better. There were two sides to life, the comfortable and the cruel. It did not take much to send a man slipping over the edge from one side to the other. From comfort to need. From safety to peril. From light to dark.

Six months ago, if someone had told Boone he would one day roam the Arizona wasteland homeless and friendless and as alone as a man could be, he would have branded the notion as silly. But the silliness was in his own head. Life should never be taken lightly. He was living proof it did not allow for mistakes.

A stretch of tall grass appeared. Beyond were hills, and the shade Boone and his horse needed. ‘‘Soon,’’ he croaked, patting its neck. ‘‘A little while more and you can rest.’’ Until the cool of night, when they would push on again.

The soft sound of the grass swishing against the palomino’s legs soon had Boone’s chin dipping to his chest. He fought the impulse to doze. He kept the tracks in mind, and what the makers of those tracks would do if they got their hands on him.

Manzanita broke the monotony of the grassland. Barely six feet high, their bark was cherry red. They did not provide much shade, so Boone passed on through. In the bare dirt near the last of them was another track, this one so fresh it was made minutes ago.

Boone drew rein. His sweat turned cold. His hand on his Colt, he searched the tall grass, but nothing moved. Not a bird, not an animal, nothing. He swallowed, or tried to, and realized he had made a mistake. He should have stopped hours ago. He was exhausted. Worse, the palomino was exhausted.

Apaches were never exhausted. Their iron sinews were capable of enduring heat that would wither a white. And they were also adept at conserving their strength and their energy for when they would need them the most. Such as when attacking a white man foolish enough to brave their territory alone.

Boone blinked sweat from his eyes, ignoring the sting. He was sure the Apaches were close. They might even be watching him. In which case, he must stop thinking about Sassy and his brother, and think about saving his own hide.

Apaches were smart. Apaches were crafty. They favored the element of surprise. Kill without being killed was always foremost on their minds.

Boone glanced at the track again. Army scouts could tell the size and weight of a warrior by the warrior’s footprint. Some could even tell which tribe the warrior belonged to. Boone could not do any of that. To him a track was a track, and that was all.

It really didn’t matter. All Apaches killed whites, and he was white.

Suddenly the palomino raised its head and pricked its ears.

Boone stiffened. Something was out there, or someone. He palmed his Colt and thumbed back the hammer. He had a Winchester in the saddle scabbard, but a Winchester was for distance. When the Apaches jumped him, they would be close up. Much too close for his liking, but there it was.

The distant hills and welcome shade, and maybe water, beckoned. All he had to do was reach them.

Boone moved into the open. He held to a walk and constantly turned his head from side to side, scanning, always scanning, looking for anything out of the ordinary, any sign of a dark bulk in the grass, any hint of movement, anything at all.

Boone was well aware that Apaches were masters at blending into the terrain. They were so skilled at it that some folks claimed they were ghosts in human guise.

The dull thud of the palomino’s hooves, the swish of the grass and always the burning heat. Boone yearned for the hills, and relief. More than that, he yearned to see the Circle V. Not once since he took to the high-lines had he been homesick, but he was homesick now. It hit him like a physical blow. He missed the ranch where he had been raised, missed the great white house and the punchers and the cattle. Most of all, he missed his ma and pa. To think of them gone, to know he would never see the love in their eyes or hold them again, was almost more than he could bear. He felt his eyes moisten and his vision blurred.

The palomino nickered.

Boone shook himself. He had let himself drift, the very worst thing he could do. He scanned the tall grass again, and realized he was in dire trouble.

He was not alone.

Off to his left the grass rustled as if to the breeze—only there was no breeze, absolutely no wind at all.

Off to his right more stems moved, ever so slightly.

The Apaches were on either side.

Panic swelled, and Boone almost lashed his reins to get out of there. Every nerve, every instinct, screamed at him to ride, ride, ride . But he mustn’t let on that he knew. The instant he did, they would be on him.

Boone had the Colt low against his leg, hoping they wouldn’t notice. His hand grew so sweaty he wanted to wipe his palm, but he dared not raise the revolver.

Now more grass moved, ahead and to the right.

Boone reckoned at least three, possibly more. He tried to remember if he had five beans in the wheel, or six. Usually he kept the chamber under the hammer empty, but he seemed to recollect that the last time he reloaded he had filled every chamber.

More sweat trickled into Boone’s eyes. He started to raise his arm to mop it, and stopped. That was all it would take. Him, with a sleeve over his eyes. The Apaches would be on him before he lowered it.

Boone wondered what they were waiting for. He almost wished they would get it over with. Or else that they would leave him be. But that was too much to expect. He was their enemy. He must die.

A shadow flitted across him. Startled, Boone glanced up, but it was only a hawk, circling in search of prey.

Icy fingers clutched at Boone’s chest as he realized what he had done. He had taken his eyes off the grass. He remedied that just as the ground in front of the palomino erupted and out of it reared an Apache. Boone glimpsed a stocky, swarthy body clothed in a long-sleeved brown shirt and a breechclout and leggings. He saw steel flash, and he fired from the hip, two swift shots that slammed the Apache back and down.

Boone used his spurs. To his right and left more figures reared, and they had rifles. He fired at a warrior on the left, swiveled and fired at a warrior on the right just as the warrior’s rifle banged. Pain seared his side but he didn’t stop.

Ahead rose two more, with bows this time. Strings twanged and arrows took flight. Boone fanned a shot, but the Apaches went to the ground. He reined to the left just as a feathered shaft whizzed past his neck. He was not as lucky with the second. It sheared into his left shoulder, and the shock nearly unhorsed him.

The palomino was at a gallop. Soon the Apaches fell behind; they never kept coming once it was pointless. They would follow, they would track him at their own pace, and if his wounds brought him down, they would finish what they had started.

Boone gritted his teeth and rode. Waves of pain rippled through him. But in a way the pain was good. It kept him alert.

He nearly wept for joy when the grass ended. Clattering up a slope, he paused to look back. There was grass and only grass. Not an Apache to be seen.

Boone put another hill behind him, and then three, and still he didn’t stop. He had to be sure they wouldn’t come on him in his sleep.