Ralph Compton - Bluff City

Clay needed to find out one thing. “How long ago did Stark and the others ride off?”

“Shortly after we left the canyon,” Tinsdale revealed. “Now answer me. Who are you?”

“Crooked Nose Baine,” Clay absently responded. He was thinking that Stark had a six-hour lead. Catching him would take some doing.

“Never heard of you,” Tinsdale said. “Why is Jesse Stark afraid of you? Does he know you from somewhere?”

The man who had been about to pour coffee cleared his throat. “I’ve heard of you, mister. But your nose isn’t like folks say it should be.”

“It got better,” Clay said.

“What I want to know,” Tinsdale said, “is what you intend to do with us. You’re not the law. You have no right to arrest us.”

“I wouldn’t try. But that leaves me with a problem,” Clay said. “What do I do with you?”

“We go our way and you go your way,” Tinsdale proposed.

“But your way will lead to innocent people dying if I let you go,” Clay said.

“You don’t have the right to judge us, either,” Tinsdale said. “Only the Almighty can do that.”

“Keep religion out of it,” Clay said. “This is between you and me. I would like to have us go our separate ways. I truly would. But you are part of a loose end I have to wrap up, and the wrapping can only be done with lead.”

The third outlaw thrust out his hand. “Hold on there, mister! You wouldn’t shoot a man in cold blood, would you?”

“Why not? The Stark gang has, plenty of times. There is no difference that I can see except that if you three are fed to the vultures I can sleep a little easier at night.”

“You can’t gun us if we don’t draw our pistols, and we won’t draw our pistols,” the first outlaw said.

Tinsdale brightened. “That’s right. So long as we stand here and do nothing, there’s nothing you can do.”

The coffee drinker looked at his friends. “Weren’t you two listening? This here is Crooked Nose Baine. He’s dabbled in gore over in Kansas, and he’s not shy about pulling the trigger.” He switched his attention to Clay. “I want out, mister. I have had enough of being on the run; enough of sleeping on the ground and riding until I’m so saddle sore I can’t sit straight. I have wanted out for some time but I haven’t had the sand to tell Stark. He doesn’t take kindly to quitters. The last one who wanted out got out with a slug in his stomach.”

Clay said nothing.

“Let me go and I promise to reform. I will stop riding the high lines forever. I’ll have nothing to do with six-guns.” The man began prying at his belt buckle. “I don’t even want to wear this one anymore. Do whatever you want with it.” His gun belt fell to the ground and he took a step away from it.

Tinsdale’s jaw was working as if he were chomping on a wad of tobacco. “You miserable polecat. You are yellow, Floyd. You have always been yellow. That’s the real reason. You don’t aim to reform any more than I do.”

The outlaw with the big belly added his two bits. “He’s right, Floyd. You are a weak sister. Take up seamstress work. The owlhoot trail doesn’t agree with you.”

Clay shifted so Floyd would not accidentally take a stray slug from his Colt. “That settles that. Whenever you want to kick the cat, gents, have at it.”

“Just like that?” Tinsdale smirked.

“Just like that,” Clay said.

It was the one with the big belly who clawed for his revolver first. The belly did not slow his hand any. He was fast. He grinned as he cleared leather and the grin stayed etched on his face as Clay’s Colt boomed and a slug tore through his torso from sternum to spine. A twist of Clay’s wrist, and he fired again. This time into Tinsdale. The shot rocked Tinsdale on his boot heels, and down he went. The third outlaw nearly had his revolver out. Clay fired again, and once more.

Three bodies ringed the fire. Only Tinsdale still moved, his limbs twitching and quaking.

Clay pointed the Colt at Floyd.

“No! Please, mister! God’s honest truth, I’ll give this life up for good if you will let me live.”

“You might be lying,” Clay said, and thumbed back the hammer.

“Please!” Floyd threw himself on his knees and clasped his hands. Tears streaming down his cheeks, he said, “I’m begging you! I don’t want to die.”

“How long have you ridden with Jesse Stark?”

“About six months. I came up out of Texas. I had to leave there in a hurry because the law was after me for—” Floyd stopped.

“For what?”

“Rustling. I stole a few head, changed a few brands. The Texas Rangers were after me and—” Again Floyd stopped, this time because Clay had held up his other hand.

“Texas, you say? When I was in Kansas I remember hearing about a Floyd Dunsten from the Staked Plain country. A back-shooter who would kill anyone for money.” Clay paused. “What would your last name be?”

Floyd hesitated. He hesitated too long, and finally blurted, “Smith! My last name is Smith.”

Clay squeezed the trigger.

Chapter 25

It was Kansas all over again.

Word spread like a prairie wildfire.

Shooting affrays were always of interest. Keen interest, since most men wore guns or used guns to hunt or had shot guns at some point in their lives. Most would admit they were only fair with a firearm, if that. Most could hit the broad side of a barn, but that was about it. Exceptional shootists were rare. Men of talent, men of skill, men who could coolly and calmly gun down others in the bat of an eye.

Their ability brought them fame. Their names and deeds were gossiped about at every whiskey mill on the frontier. Men in their cups loved to tell tales, and what better tales than the gloriously violent deeds of those preeminent with six-shooters. The respective abilities of various gun sharks were heatedly debated, and if the debaters were mad enough, and drunk enough, the debaters themselves sometimes resorted to their hardware.

In Kansas the name of Crooked Nose Baine had become well known. Crooked Nose was ranked with the best: Masterson, Mysterious Dave, Basset and Curry. People regarded him with fear or awe or both. They would gawk and point him out on the street. Then he died, and talk about Crooked Nose Baine came largely to an end.

But now it was happening anew. From mining camp to mining camp, and from the camps to the towns and cities lower down, came word of a gun hand who had shot four badmen dead in front of a score of witnesses. Close on the heels of that account came another. The same leather slapper had decimated the Stark gang. From countless mouths to countless ears the story was told and retold.

That in itself was not remarkable. What was unique, the element that made the tale spread so rapidly, was the claim that the demon with a six-gun who had done those marvelous feats was Crooked Nose Baine, back from the dead.

Or so the whispers went.

Baine. The name was spoken in tones of reverence.

But not everyone believed. It could not be Crooked Nose Baine, many said, because Crooked Nose Baine was dead. Even more to the point, it could not be Crooked Nose Baine because, the witnesses all agreed, the gun shark’s nose was not crooked.

But if not Baine, then who was it?

Clay Adams heard about the mystery surrounding his other guise as he, Melanie and Mr. Train made their way to Bluff City. Clay had changed to his suit and derby, and did not go openly armed. At the third mining camp they came to, they stopped to eat at a tent restaurant. Some men at the next table were talking about the Stark gang, and the man called Baine. Clay listened without saying anything. When the men left, he grinned and remarked, “If Jesse Stark heard that he would be jealous. He’s the one who hankers after fame.”