Ralph Compton - Bluff City

The Rockies in the autumn were magnificent. A blaze of vivid colors put to shame efforts by artists to capture Nature’s beauty on canvas. The leaves of the maples and oaks and others changed from green to vibrant hues of red, orange and yellow. But it was the aspens for which the mountains were noted. People made a holiday of traveling to the high country to admire the leafy spectacle.

Clay’s regret, as he rode south, was that it was night and not day, so he, too, could enjoy the scenery.

Once away from the lights of Bluff City, a legion of stars filled the firmament. So many stars that it took the breath away. As Clay marveled at the celestial display, a shooting star streaked across the heavens.

“Some Indian tribes say that brings good luck,” Clay told the claybank. “Others say it’s a bad omen. Me, I never did believe in four-leaf clovers or get spooked by black cats.”

A buckboard appeared, coming the other way. Clay automatically placed his hand on his pearl-handled Colt and angled to the side of the rutted dirt road. The driver wore homespun and waved in greeting.

“Howdy, friend. Nice night.”

“That it is,” Clay replied as the buckboard rattled by. “That it is,” he said again, even though the man could not hear him.

Most people preferred the comforts and safety of Bluff City to a settler’s life. But here and there Clay glimpsed cabins, their windows aglow. He wondered about the settlers inside those cabins, about their families and whether they were happy.

Clay encountered no one else after the man in the buckboard. Country folk generally turned in a lot earlier than their city cousins. They had too. They were up with the crowing of the cock and toiled until the setting of the sun.

At the junction Clay drew rein. He was early, on purpose. He rose in the stirrups and looked and listened, then reined to the right, off the road and into the trees. He stayed there a spell, acquainting himself with the rhythms of the night, with the rustle of the wind and the cries of the wild creatures.

Every nerve tingling, Clay rode on, paralleling the road. When he spied the stone bridge, he stopped. It had been built so that wagons bound for the mining camps would not bust their wheels and axles on the boulders that littered the bed of Pine Creek.

Clay reckoned he had half an hour yet. He stayed in the saddle. He occupied himself with thoughts of Melanie, and how she would feel if and when she discovered the truth.

It was about ten minutes to ten when pebbles clattered, and a rider came up out of the creek bed onto the far side of the bridge. Clay did not need daylight to tell that the rider was an uncommonly large man. “Skagg?” he called.

“Who else would it be?” was the surly retort. “Come out in the open where I can see you. I’m not no owl.”

Clay gigged the claybank to the near end of the bridge. The creek was as black as a well. Had it not been for the gurgle of the water he would have thought it was dry. “What are you waiting for? Cross on over.”

“On this side, not that side,” Skagg said.

To Clay it made no difference. He crossed the stone bridge and reined up yet again only a few feet from the giant.

“What the hell?” Skagg exclaimed. “Where did you get those clothes? You don’t look anything like yourself.”

“I am more me now than I have been since you met me.” Clay waved a hand. “Forget about my clothes. Were you able to do as I wanted?”

“Why else would I have sent for you?” Skagg gruffly responded. “I let it be known all over town that I was interested in joining the Stark gang. I didn’t think it would work, but just like you figured, someone got in touch with me.” Skagg held out a huge hand. “Our deal was fifty dollars in advance and fifty more when I found out what you wanted to know.”

Clay fished for his poke. “It’s money well spent if you can tell me where to find Jesse Stark.”

“I can do better than that.” Skagg’s other hand rose from his side holding a revolver.

Chapter 16

Where others might have grabbed for their six-shooter in panic, Clay Adams calmly stared at the leveled revolver and asked, “What is this, Skagg? We had a deal.”

“I did agree to help you for the hundred dollars, yes,” the big man rumbled. “But then I got to thinking about how you used me and it made me good and mad.”

“How did I use you?” Clay asked.

“By pretending to like me. By pretending to be my friend. But the whole time all you really wanted was someone to find the Stark gang for you. Probably so you can write a story for that newspaper you work for.”

“It’s not like that,” Clay said.

“All those nights we played cards at the Rusty Spittoon. All the drinks you bought me. You were playing me for a damn fool.” Skagg grinned a sly grin. “But I’ve been put wise to you.”

“Someone fed you the notion that I was using you?” Clay studied him. “Did you find out where Stark is holed up?”

“No. But I’ve met one of his men. I had been to every watering hole in Bluff City, and I was about ready to give up, hundred or no hundred. Then last night a gent named Gorman came up to me and offered to buy me a drink. He said as how he heard I was asking around about Stark, and was it true I wanted to join Stark’s outfit. He said Stark is always on the lookout for the right kind of men. Men who can squeeze the trigger without batting an eye.”

“You didn’t tell Gorman about me, I hope.”

“Hell no,” Skagg said. “Not after he told me that if I joined up with Stark, I’d get an equal share of the loot. That promises to be more money than I’ve seen in all my born days.”

“So you decided to break your deal with me and join up with Stark for real,” Clay said.

“That’s about the gist of it,” Skagg said. “Except I can’t leave you alive to tell folks I’ve joined up with Stark.” Skagg’s tone softened slightly. “You can see how it is, can’t you, Clay? A man has to do what’s best for his poke.”

“What now?”

Skagg Izzard kneed his mount closer. “There is only one way to keep you from talking. I’m sorry it has to be like this but I’m not partial to the notion of gurgling at the end of a rope.” As an afterthought he added, “I asked a friend to help me.”

“A friend?”

“That would be me,” said the man called Rat as he came riding out of the shadows with a revolver in his hand. “Any last words, mister, before we send you to hell?”

“Amateurs,” Clay said in mild disgust.

“Who?” Skagg asked.

“You and your friend. When you have to kill someone, kill them. Don’t talk them to death. And you make damn sure you disarm them before you do anything else.”

Skagg wagged his revolver. “We have you covered. Your pistol is still in your holster. What do you think you can do?”

“This,” Clay Adams said, and his Colt was in his hand, spouting lead. He fanned it four times with lightning rapidity, putting three slugs into Skagg Izzard in the time it took the big man to blink, and then sending the fourth slug into Rat’s scrawny chest before Rat could squeeze the trigger. Rat toppled backward and his horse spooked and bolted past the claybank. Clay let it go. He had his Colt trained on Skagg, who, incredibly, still sat his saddle, wheezing loudly, his arms limp, his revolver dangling.

Clay gigged the claybank alongside the bigger man’s mount. “I wish you hadn’t done that.”

“That makes two of us,” Skagg Izzard gasped. “You’ve done shot me to pieces.”

“Where can I find Jesse Stark?”

Skagg’s mouth curled in the suggestion of a grin. “Gorman never told me.” Sounding like a bellows on its last gasp, he sucked air into lungs. “He was to meet me later tonight and take me to meet Stark.” Scarlet froth dribbled over his lips and his big frame twitched. “That was mighty slick, that draw of yours.”