Ralph Compton - Bluff City

Clay shook his head. He lay with his arms bound behind his back and his legs bent so his hands were inches from his ankles.

“Thank you for trying to save me,” Melanie said. “It took great courage.”

“I didn’t do much good.”

“It’s the attempt that counts,” Melanie flattered him. “I’ve never had a man risk his life on my account before. It’s touching. Wait until my uncle hears. He would never forgive himself if anything happened to me.”

Shifting so he faced the fire, Clay remarked, “Most any man would do the same. Don’t make me out to be more than I am.”

His rebuff, spoken harshly, caused Melanie to draw back as if he had hit her. “I’m sorry. You’re in pain, and here I am chattering away. I’ll leave you be so you can recover in peace.” She moved to the log.

Jesse Stark hunkered beside it. “Ready to start asking me questions?”

“I’ve changed my mind. I know all about you that is worth knowing. You are a despicable coward, and I, for one, will celebrate the day you are hung.”

“There you go again with the insults,” Stark said. “What about your readers? What about making me famous?”

“You’re no Jesse James and you’re no Billy the Kid and, if I have my way, you never will be.”

“Damn all women,” Stark said. “If it wasn’t for making babies you would be next to worthless.”

Over the next half hour the camp quieted. Some of the outlaws rested. Some played cards or dice. Jesse Stark, Bantarro and Gorman moved off by themselves and huddled, swapping whispers.

Melanie stayed on the log, her features downcast. Every so often she glanced at Clay Adams, whose eyes were closed.

“I reckon he’s sleeping,” Sam Cavendish commented as he sat down on the other end of the log. “Although how he can is beyond me.” He smiled at her. “I’m sorry you are involved, missy.”

“Stark is to blame, not you.”

“I hope to God the bank doesn’t pay him,” Cavendish said. “I’d rather be dead than lose the mine.”

“No one wants to die,” Melanie said.

“I was poor and starving most of my life, and I don’t hanker to be that way again. I’m too old to start over.” Cavendish sighed. “I might have to take Harve Barker up on his offer. He’s been after me to sell for months but I’ve always told him to go jump off a cliff.”

“Word is, he has been buying a lot of property,” Melanie mentioned.

“I don’t doubt it. That there is one ambitious gent. He had the gall to offer a pittance, then got all huffy when I turned him down.”

One of the outlaws who had been left behind to watch the trail burst into the clearing. He made straight for Jesse Stark, who whooped and slapped his leg with his hat.

“Teckler must be on his way down the mountain,” Cavendish guessed. “And here I sit, unable to lift a finger to protect my interests.”

The mine owner lapsed into morose silence. Melanie rested her forearms on her knees and her forehead on her forearms. The outlaws left her alone. She stayed on the log as long as she could, until her frayed nerves demanded that she get up and walk about. She had only taken a few steps, however, when a guttural growl brought her up short.

“Where do you think you’re off to, missy?”

“I just want to stretch my legs,” Melanie answered.

“You sit back down and you stay down until I say different,” Jesse Stark said. “It’s for your own good. Some of my men haven’t been with a woman in a month or more, and you sashaying around showing your wares is the last thing they need.”

“I never!” Melanie heatedly declared.

“Save your breath. No woman ever owns up to it except doves. You ask me, saloon gals are more honest than you Bible-thumping types, and whores are more honest than both of you.”

“Must you always be so vulgar?”

“Must you always be such a pain in the ass?” Stark mimicked her tone. “I’m only saying how things are. You’re the one walking around with her nose in the clouds.”

“Can it be that you have as low an opinion of me as I do of you?” Melanie marveled.

“Probably lower,” Stark said. “I don’t think much of them that acts like they are better than everyone else.”

“You have just described yourself.”

“I don’t think I’m better. I think I’m meaner. Hell, I know I’m meaner. I’ve left a string of bodies to prove it.”

Melanie shook her head in disbelief. “How can you be so proud of being so violent? What kind of man are you?”

“The kind who takes what he wants, when he wants. The kind who doesn’t live by rules others make. The kind who won’t be stepped on or pushed around.”

“You almost make it sound commendable.”

Jesse Stark gazed at a distant snowcapped peak. “I’m just being me. I can’t help how I am, and I have no desire to change. Until the day I die I will be true to my nature. If that’s wrong, so be it.”

“What about all the people you’ve killed? What about all the money you’ve stolen? Doesn’t any of that matter?”

“I don’t lose any sleep over it. I do what I have to, and if somebody is hurt, it’s their tough luck.”

Sam Cavendish interjected, “That’s as convenient an excuse as I have ever heard.”

“Go to hell.”

The outlaws went on playing cards and dice and sleeping. Melanie reclaimed her spot on the log and placed her cheek on her forearm. Gradually, her eyelids drooped. She was aware she was falling asleep and she did not want to, but it would not be denied. When she opened her eyes again the sun was on the west rim of the world and the shadows were three times as long as they had been.

“Another six hours and we should have the ransom,” Jesse Stark was saying to Gorman and Bantarro.

Stifling a yawn, Melanie lowered her cheek. Belatedly, she noticed that Clay Adams had rolled over and now had his back to the fire and was facing her, and that his eyes were open. She started to say that she was happy to see him alert and unhurt, but he gave a barely perceptible shake of his head and closed his eyes.

As sunset approached, the outlaws put on a fresh pot of coffee to brew. Several went off to hunt and returned with a doe. Gorman skinned it and skewered a haunch on a spit. Like starved wolves, the outlaws gathered around to watch the juicy meat cook and lick their lips.

Melanie refused a piece. “I’m not hungry,” she lied. The truth was, she could not stop her stomach from rumbling.

Night fell abruptly. From out of the dark came a hideous chorus of bestial cries: the throaty howls of wolves, the high yips of coyotes, the short barks of a fox and the shriek of a mountain lion. Once, from not too far off, came the rumbling roar of a prowling bear.

Melanie nearly jumped out of her skin when fingers brushed her ankle. She looked down and discovered Clay had inched closer. None of the outlaws were paying attention. Most were hungrily tearing at the venison.

“I’m getting you out of here,” Clay whispered.

“Are you crazy?” Melanie retorted. “How far will we get with you tied up and without your gun?”

“Tell Cavendish,” Clay directed, and closed his eyes.

With a nervous glance at Stark, who was greedily devouring a slab of meat, she sidled along the log until she was close enough to the mine owner to whisper, “Clay and I are going for a stroll. Care to join us?”

“Need you ask, girl?” the feisty silver king whispered.

Fully two-thirds of the outlaws stretched out on the ground to rest after gorging themselves. Jesse Stark was one of them. He lay on his back with his hands folded on his chest and his hat brim pulled low over his eyes.

Bantarro was pouring a cup of coffee and had his back to the log.