Ralph Compton - Bluff City

“I’m obliged.”

“I bet you are,” Charlie replied. “But don’t thank us just yet. I said you get to live. I didn’t say you get to walk out of here.”

Too late, Clay saw the Samaritan’s arm arc toward him. He tried to duck but his temple exploded in agony. A great emptiness gripped him, and then there was nothing, absolutely nothing at all.

The sun on his face restored Clay’s senses. But he did not open his eyes right way. He had to cope with waves of nausea that churned his stomach and brought bitter bile to his throat. Only after he had swallowed the bile and the nausea had dwindled did he cautiously raise his head and look about.

Clay was on his back in a stone-strewn gorge. In the distance rose the murmur of voices. Judging by the sun, it was nine or ten in the morning. He rose on his elbows, but did so too quickly and paid for his mistake with pounding waves of pain. Sinking back, he waited for the torment to become bearable.

A jay flew over him, squawking noisily. He would gladly have shot it to shut it up. The thought caused him to slide his hand under his jacket. He exhaled in relief when he discovered his six-shooter was where it should be. He could not understand how they had missed finding it until he rose on his elbows and felt the pain in the back of his head and across his shoulders, and saw that his left shoe had been pulled nearly off. They had dragged him by the feet.

Clay gingerly felt the back of his head and discovered a hen’s egg. He let a suitable interval go by and then slowly sat up. The contents of his stomach tried to climb out his throat but he swallowed, then grimaced. His derby lay in the dirt beside him. Someone had stomped on it. Picking it up, he went to put it on his head but was content to hold it.

Standing took a lot out of him. He had to try several times before his legs would bear his weight. Swaying, he started toward the mouth of the gorge, but had to stop when the sky and the ground changed places. He braced himself, thinking he would pass out, but he didn’t.

His legs were wooden. They would not bend as they should. He shambled stiffly until movement restored some of his vitality, and after that he moved a little easier and a little faster. Even so, the gorge mouth seemed impossibly far away. He was breathing heavily when he reached it and stopped to catch his breath.

Clay nearly groaned aloud when he saw how far off the mining camp was. They had dragged him a long way over rough terrain. He was lucky all he had was the hen’s egg and the soreness.

Girding himself, he set out. There were not a lot of trees but the ground was littered with boulders and a misstep might cost him a broken leg. He pressed on. He was careful, but he slipped every now and then. He always recovered his balance before gravity could bring him crashing down, but several times it was a close thing.

Clay occupied his mind with thoughts of the Samaritan and the men in the tent. He would never forget their faces. They believed they had him cowed; believed they had put the fear of dying into him. Little did they know. They had taken his poke but they had made mistakes. Mistakes a man like Jesse Stark would never make. Mistakes that would prove costly.

The sun was wonderfully warm. Clay broke out in a sweat, and sweating helped restore him even more. Still, he could not shake the pain or the throbbing or the queasiness that roiled in the pit of his stomach. It came and went, came and went, like surf crashing on a shore.

Then the tents were close, too close, and he got his bearings and skirted them. The Samaritan and Charlie and the others must not see him until he was ready for them to see him.

Clay spied the hummock and his pace quickened. He climbed to the top and wound through the boulders to the clear space, and stopped short. The horses were there, and the saddles and gear and packs, but not Mr. Train, and not the person who had come to mean more to him than anyone had meant in more years than he cared to recollect.

“Melanie?” Clay called, wincing, and received no reply. He turned and took several steps but again stopped short. “What am I doing?” he asked out loud. He was in no condition to go charging into the mining camp after them.

The fire had gone out. Clay rekindled it, and once the flames were high enough, put on a fresh pot of coffee to boil. He placed several strips of bacon in a frying pan and soon the bacon was sizzling and giving off an aroma that made his mouth water and his stomach rumble. He was so hungry that he speared a strip with a fork and bit off a piece without waiting for it to cool. It was so hot he nearly spit it out again, but he steeled himself and chewed.

Between the bacon and the coffee, Clay almost felt like a whole man again. He was almost done eating when footsteps pattered and he rose just as Melanie swept into his arms.

“Here you are! Thank God! Where have you been? We were so worried!” Melanie pulled back and inspected him and said, “You look pale. And what is that gash on your temple?”

“I was hit over the head,” Clay said, overcome with embarrassment.

“Who did it?” Mr. Train had come out of the boulders. “She was scared Stark had gotten hold of you.”

“Speaking of which,” Clay said, “did you find anything out?”

“I might know where their lair is,” Mr. Train revealed. “We can be there by nightfall if we leave right away.”

“There is something I must do first.”

“What would that be?” Melanie asked. “You still haven’t explained who hit you, or why, or where you have been.”

Instead of answering, Clay moved to the packs and selected his. With it under his arm, he moved off into the boulders, saying, “I will be back in a minute.” When he was out of sight, he placed the pack down and began stripping. He folded the jacket, shirt and pants and placed his derby on top of them and his shoes beside them. He no longer had a use for the shoulder holster, so he draped it over the derby. Then he opened the pack and took out the other him: his buckskin shirt, his buckskin pants, his knee-high moccasins, his black hat and his gun belt.

Ten minutes later Clay rejoined them, dressed as he had been that fateful day he rode into Whistler’s Flat, the pack over his shoulder.

“What’s this?” Mr. Train asked.

Melanie put a hand to her mouth. “Oh no.”

Clay set the pack down. He drew his pearl-handled Colt. He twirled it forward and back and flipped it into the air and caught it by the pearl handles and twirled it into his holster in one smooth motion.

“Interesting,” Mr. Train said.

“Must you resort to this?” Melanie asked, placing a hand on Clay’s arm. “Whatever happened to you, must it be this again?”

“I was robbed,” Clay said. “I was robbed and beaten because they took me for a sheep.”

“So what now? You teach them they had a wolf by the tail?”

“Something like that.” Clay went to go but she held on to his arm.

“Someone might suspect the truth. What if Stark finds out? I thought you didn’t want that.”

“The other me is of no use up here,” Clay said.

“And this you is?”

Clay gently pried her fingers off. “No man could let them get away with what they did and still look himself in the mirror.”

“I’m going with you,” Melanie informed him.

“No, you are not. It won’t be something you should see. Keep her here, Train. However you have to.”

“I can’t,” Mr. Train said.

“Why not?”

“Because I am going too.” The manhunter smiled. “If you think I will miss this, you’re loco. I knew there was something about you. I’ll stay out of your way and I will watch her for you, but I am coming.”

“You’re as pigheaded as she is.” Clay strode off down the hummock and across to the tents and in among them until he came to the saloon tent. Although it was not yet noon the tent was half full. Men lounged at the plank bar or played poker.