Ralph Compton: Bullet for a Bad Man

‘‘Well what?’’

‘‘I reckon I will be going now.’’ Boone went to stand, but she grabbed his wrist.

‘‘Hold on. What is wrong? Now that we are here, why not do it? I promise you a good time.’’ Lucy bent close and pecked him on the neck. ‘‘A very good time.’’

‘‘No.’’

‘‘Give me a reason.’’

‘‘You are pretty and all, and you are as nice as nice can be, and I am flattered that you brought me back here.’’ Boone gestured at the ratty blanket and the whiskey bottle. ‘‘But this is not how I want it to be.’’

‘‘Want what to be?’’

‘‘My first time.’’

Lucy recoiled as if he had slapped her. Conflicting emotions twisted her face: anger, amazement, sorrow, puzzlement. ‘‘So I was right.’’

Boone nodded.

‘‘But why not? I mean, we all have to go through it. Why not go through it with me? I will please you. I will make it special.’’

‘‘I would rather not, but thank you.’’

Anger won out over the other emotions and Lucy snapped, ‘‘Why the hell not? What is wrong with me? Or are you a Bible lover, and you think you are too good for me?’’

‘‘I am not too good for anyone,’’ Boone said. ‘‘And I have not read much of the Bible so I can’t hardly thump it.’’ He stood and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘‘Please don’t look like that. I would if I could but I can’t. It is not in me.’’

‘‘You are male, aren’t you? That is usually enough.’’

‘‘I am sorry.’’ Boone turned to go, pausing when he heard a slight sound in the hall.

‘‘Hold on, handsome,’’ Lucy said. ‘‘I am not giving up that easy.’’ She stood and came around in front of him.

At that exact instant the door burst open. Framed in the doorway was Sam Jarrott, his Smith & Wesson level at his waist. He fired from no more than six feet away. The slug intended for Boone Scott struck Lucy in the back. It shattered her spine, tore through her insides and glanced off her hipbone.

‘‘Oh!’’ Lucy said.

Sam Jarrott swore and extended the Smith & Wesson, taking deliberate aim.

Boone’s Colt leaped from its holster. He was not conscious of drawing. One instant his hand was empty; the next the Colt stabbed flame and lead and Sam Jarrott staggered back against the hallway, shock writ on his features. ‘‘Not like this,’’ he said, looking down at himself. ‘‘Not a wet-nosed kid.’’

Boone’s blood was roaring through his veins so loudly that he barely heard himself ask, ‘‘Why?’’

Jarrott looked at him and tried to raise the Smith & Wesson but couldn’t.

‘‘He was right about you.’’

‘‘Who?’’

‘‘Damn him and damn you.’’ Jarrott gripped the Smith & Wesson with both hands. It shook as he thumbed back the hammer with an audible click . ‘‘I can still get it done.’’ The muzzle rose.

Boone fired, not once but three times, fanning the Colt as he had practiced doing day after day for the past two years. Practiced until he could hit five cans placed on the top rail of the corral five times out of five. Practiced until he could not only hit them, but hit them close to dead center.

Jarrott grunted and rose onto the tips of his toes. Then he let out a long breath while slowly sinking to the floor. Spittle dribbled over his lower lip and down his chin even as a bright red ribbon trickled down the front of his shirt. ‘‘Hell,’’ he gurgled, and died.

‘‘Boone?’’ Lucy said softly.

Boone turned, and swayed. A low cry escaped him at the sight of her curled on her side on the floor with wet scarlet spreading from under her. ‘‘God!’’ He dropped to his knees and held her head in his lap.

‘‘Boone?’’

‘‘I am here,’’ Boone said softly.

Lucy’s eyes were open and staring right at him, but she said, ‘‘I can’t see you. Why is everything so dark? Is the lamp lit?’’

Boone opened his mouth and closed it again.

‘‘How bad am I? Am I dying?’’ Lucy’s right hand groped for his and he grasped it and held it to his chest. ‘‘Why won’t you say something? Please. I need to hear you.’’

‘‘I am here,’’ Boone said again.

‘‘That was Sam Jarrott, wasn’t it? Why did he shoot me?’’

Boone glanced at the heap in the hall and his eyes became flinty. ‘‘I reckon he was after me and you got in the way.’’

Lucy shivered as if she were cold. ‘‘I am growing numb. I can’t feel my legs.’’

Boone had to force his next words from a constricted throat. ‘‘Maybe you shouldn’t talk.’’

A fit of coughing made Lucy groan. ‘‘Oh God. I don’t want to die. Stay with me, please.’’

Boone had a coughing spell of his own. ‘‘I am not going anywhere,’’ he assured her.

‘‘What a stupid thing to happen. I never did anything to Sam Jarrott. Where did he get to?’’

‘‘He is dead.’’

‘‘I didn’t hear you.’’

‘‘He is dead,’’ Boone said louder.

Voices at the saloon end of the hall preceded the patter of running feet that slowed as they neared the body.

‘‘Look here!’’ a man declared. ‘‘It is Sam Jarrott! And watch you don’t step in all the blood.’’

‘‘Someone has bucked him out in gore!’’ another man cried.

‘‘Find Condit! He will want to know!’’

‘‘I am surprised he hasn’t shown up,’’ said the first man. ‘‘He had to hear the shots. Everyone else did.’’

Boone felt a slight pull on his hand and looked down. Lucy was strangely peaceful save for a red line from the corner of her mouth to her neck. ‘‘I am still here with you.’’

Lucy swallowed. ‘‘Thank you.’’ In a bubbly whisper she said, ‘‘I am not long for this world. I can feel myself slipping away.’’

‘‘God, no.’’

‘‘I am sorry we did not get to know each other better. I like you, like you a lot.’’ Lucy stopped and coughed. ‘‘Pay no mind to what I said about you being a virgin. I wish I still was. I wish I was a girl again and living with my folks in Ohio. I wish we never came west. I wish we never drank that bad water and they never died. Most of all, I wish I never met Charley Condit.’’

Boone held his tongue. It had dawned on him that talking was all she could do. He did not suggest she stop.

‘‘It was Charley got me started in this work. Him and his sweet talk. He got me to trust him. Treated me like I was his own girl. Then he took me, and I had no choice but to do what he wanted.’’

‘‘Took you?’’ Boone said, and did not recognize his own voice.

‘‘You know,’’ Lucy said. ‘‘Plied me with wine and had his way.’’ She suffered the most violent attack yet, and when it subsided, she lay spent and exhausted and gasping for breath. ‘‘Life ain’t fair.’’

‘‘No, it’s not. I never realized how not fair it is.’’

Heads poked past the jamb and excited babble filled the hall.

‘‘Look! It’s Lucy!’’

‘‘She’s been shot!’’

‘‘So what? She is just a whore.’’

Boone glanced at the man who had spoken. ‘‘I will be getting up in a bit and coming out. If you are still there, you are dead.’’

‘‘What did I do?’’ the man bleated. He did not wait for an answer but turned and ran.

Lucy plucked at Boone’s shirt. ‘‘I heard that. You are not to kill anyone on my account.’’

Boone stroked her forehead, then bent and kissed her on the cheek. ‘‘I wish I had taken you up on your offer.’’

‘‘You sure are sweet, Boone Scott.’’ Suddenly Lucy arched her back. Her mouth opened wide but no sounds came out. Instead, her entire body deflated. She went completely limp as her eyes slowly closed, never to reopen.