Ralph Compton - Bullet for a Bad Man

Boone whistled. ‘‘Why so much more if I am breathing?’’

‘‘The way I understand it, alive he gets to do things to you he can’t do if you are dead. Things Apaches would do.’’

‘‘And you aim to collect?’’

‘‘I will have to share. Which is why I’d rather you were alive. More money to go around that way.’’

Several of the blanket-shrouded figures had sat up, among them Galeno. As yet none had drawn a pistol or produced a rifle. Or if they had, the guns were under their blankets.

‘‘You can see how it is,’’ Wagner said with a nod toward the others. ‘‘I saw Galeno wake up and he nudged the others. Why make it hard on yourself? Hand over that fancy Colt of yours and we will take you to the house come first light.’’

‘‘That won’t happen this side of the grave.’’

‘‘Be reasonable,’’ Wagner said. ‘‘Would you rather we shoot it out when we don’t have to? You are not bulletproof. Then where would Sassy be?’’

‘‘You shouldn’t have reminded me of her.’’

‘‘Why not?’’

Boone’s hand was a blur. He drew and fanned the Colt’s hammer and a hole appeared between Wagner’s eyes. Even as it did, Boone was spinning. Galeno’s arms were rising from under the blanket; he had a rifle. It went off a split second before Boone triggered the Colt, but in his haste Galeno missed.

Boone didn’t.

The rest tried but they were rustlers, not gun sharks. Of the two who cleared leather, only one got off a shot.

In the silence that followed, Boone’s ears rang. He immediately reloaded, but his hours of practice had paid off. None were breathing.

Boone sat and poured himself a cup of coffee. The tantalizing aroma of food made his stomach growl. He was famished. He had not had a meal in days. A cast-iron pot was the source of the aroma. In it was leftover rabbit stew. Boone stirred the stew a few times with a large wooden spoon that was in the pot; then he dug in. He ate as any half-starved man would, wolfing the morsels. It was too salty for his taste, but he didn’t care. He felt guilty eating when he should be lighting a shuck to go to Sassy, but a full belly would give him the stamina he needed to carry out his vengeance.

Boone bit into a thick chunk of rabbit meat and juice dribbled down his chin. He wiped it off with his sleeve and sat back. In doing so he bumped Wagner’s body. ‘‘Sorry,’’ he said, and chuckled.

‘‘It is not so damn funny to me,’’ said a voice out of the dark, and a gun hammer clicked.

Boone turned to stone.

Vance Radler advanced on the fire, a Winchester wedged to his shoulder. ‘‘I wanted you to know it was me who killed you,’’ he said, and stroked the trigger.

At the head of the table sat Eppley Scott, puffing contentedly on a cigar. At the other end sat Old Man Radler. Skelman was to Epp’s right, Sassy Drecker to his left. He addressed her with mock sincerity, saying, ‘‘It is a shame you let that food go to waste.’’

‘‘Go to hell.’’

‘‘I am beginning to see what my brother likes about you. You are well named.’’

‘‘And you are a murdering bastard. I know about your ma and pa. I know you hired an assassin to do in Boone.’’

‘‘That boy is harder to kill than a bedbug.’’ Epp puffed and blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. ‘‘He must care for you an awful lot to have told you so much.’’

‘‘He will come after me.’’

‘‘I am counting on it,’’ Epp informed her. ‘‘Blin Hanks and nine gunnies are outside my house right this moment, waiting for him to show.’’

‘‘ Your house? If it belongs to anyone it belongs to Boone. You do not deserve it.’’

‘‘What the hell does deserve have to do with anything? In this world we take what we want when we want, and keep it however we can.’’

‘‘You have an answer for everything.’’

‘‘That I do,’’ Epp crowed. ‘‘It is why I am sitting in this chair, comfortable as can be, while your lover is off in the wilds somewhere, riding to your rescue and his death.’’

‘‘I hate you.’’

‘‘You don’t even know me.’’

Old Man Radler drained his glass of whiskey and set it down on his plate with a loud chink . ‘‘Enough of this silliness. We have business to discuss.’’

‘‘I suppose we should get to it,’’ Epp agreed.

‘‘You owe us money and it is time you paid. First for the horses I sent my oldest to fetch. Then for this girl that Hanks said you wanted so bad. Five hundred dollars was the amount he mentioned.’’

‘‘I must have a talk with him. He is too generous with my money.’’ Epp tapped ash from his cigar into an ashtray. ‘‘Two hundred is the most you will get for her.’’

‘‘I brought her to you for five hundred and I expect five hundred.’’

‘‘Expect as much as you want. But you only get two hundred.’’

Old Man Radler drummed his fingers on the table. ‘‘I should have expected this from you. Our deal is off. I will take her with me when I go.’’

‘‘But she is already here,’’ Epp said. ‘‘It is an easy two hundred, if you ask me.’’

‘‘I knew her pa. I have known her since she came to my knees. Handing her over to you is harder than you think. It is five hundred or you do not get her.’’

‘‘Oh?’’

Old Man Radler nodded toward Skelman. ‘‘Any objections, take them up with my right-hand man, here.’’

‘‘You would like that, wouldn’t you?’’ Epp faced the scarecrow in the black slicker. ‘‘I have heard of you. They say you are hell on wheels. As fast as Holliday or Ringo or any of that crowd.’’

Skelman did not say anything.

‘‘You deserve better than to rustle for a living. What do you earn? A thousand on a good month? How would you like a thousand each and every month without fail? And for a lot less work?’’

‘‘What are you up to?’’ Old Man Radler demanded.

‘‘I am talking to Mr. Skelman, not to you.’’ Epp calmly blew another smoke ring. ‘‘Think about it. No more riding day and night in the worst of weather. No more dodging the bullets of vaqueros and lawmen. You would have a roof over your head at night and three meals a day.’’

Old Man Radler laughed, but it was a nervous laugh. ‘‘You are wasting your time. Skelman and me are partners. He always gets as much as I do. I treat him right and he appreciates that.’’

‘‘There is cold and hot and hungry right, and there is soft and easy and a bed at night right,’’ Epp said.

‘‘You talk like a fool.’’

‘‘Do I?’’ Epp gestured at Skelman. ‘‘Tell me. Your partner here. Does he ever let you give the orders? Does he ever let you lead? Or is it him in charge, and only him, and you have to do as he says?’’

‘‘Damn you,’’ Old Man Radler said.

‘‘I am only looking at both sides of the coin so Mr. Skelman can decide on his own. Where is the harm? If you and him are true partners, what I say will wash off his back like water off a duck.’’

‘‘You are glib with words.’’

‘‘We are all good at something,’’ Epp said. ‘‘But tell me. How many men has Mr. Skelman had to kill for you? Does he get extra for that? Or do you take his pistol skills for granted?’’

‘‘Rot in hell.’’

Epp shifted toward Skelman again. ‘‘I will pay you extra for every set of toes you curl.’’

‘‘He is not interested,’’ Old Man Radler said.

‘‘A thousand a month and, say, three hundred each kill is more than generous.’’

‘‘Do you know what I think?’’ Old Man Radler snapped. ‘‘I think you are trying to get out of paying us for the horses and the girl, but it won’t work. We will have our money and we will have it now or you will find out the hard way that Skelman is no bluff.’’