Ralph Compton - Bluff City

“I am glad you find it so amusing,” Melanie said coldly.

“Is something the matter?” Clay asked. “You have been acting strangely ever since I caught up with the two of you.”

“Have I indeed?” Melanie retorted.

Mr. Train coughed. “I will leave if you want me to.”

“No need,” Melanie told him, and rounded on Clay. “Since you asked I will tell you. You enjoy being talked about. Don’t deny it. I can see it on your face. You like the notoriety. As much as Stark does.”

“That’s plumb ridiculous,” Clay said.

“Is it? Time will tell. But I am starting to wonder just how much difference there is between you and Jesse Stark. Maybe there is not as much as I thought. Maybe I have credited you with traits you do not possess.”

“Talk about making a mountain out of a molehill,” Clay said. “How can you sit there and compare me to Stark? I’m not a killer.”

Melanie laughed.

“Not the way he is,” Clay insisted.

“Perhaps not,” Melanie conceded. “But you are a hypocrite, whether you admit it or not.”

“I have always been honest with you.”

“But are you being honest with yourself?” Melanie asked him. “You told me that you were tired of your old life, that you wanted a fresh start and that Crooked Nose Baine was a thing of the past. Then what do you do? You strap on your fancy Colt and go out and gun people down. It is Kansas all over again.”

“I don’t intend to go on doing it. There is one man and one man only I must tangle with, and then I am through chucking lead forever.”

“So you say. But I have to wonder if you can stop.”

Now it was Clay who laughed. “I could stop right this instant if I was of a mind to.”

“Prove it. Give me your Colt. Then give me your word that you will never strap it or any other gun on for as long as you live.”

“No man can make a promise like that,” Clay said.

“You could if you were sincere.”

“Not while Stark is out there. Or has everything I’ve said gone in one ear and out the other?”

“Is that the real reason or an excuse?” Melanie asked. “Fate gave you the perfect opportunity and you refused to take it. Maybe you really don’t want to.”

“We are talking in circles,” Clay said. “It boils down to one thing and one thing only. Jesse Stark must be stopped.”

“You don’t wear a badge. Leave it to those who do,” Melanie said. “Give up being Baine and get on with being Clay Adams.”

“It is hopeless,” Clay said.

“I resent that. You make me sound as dense as quartz. All I am saying is that if you are sincere about your new life, give up everything that has to do with the old.”

Clay gazed out the open front flap of her tent. “It is not as easy as all that.”

“Ah. Now the truth begins to come out,” Melanie said. “Why isn’t it easy? I will tell you. Because you do like being Baine and you do like squeezing the trigger.”

“Can we talk about something else? Please?”

“Very well. But I will say that I am terribly disappointed. I took you at your word that Baine was dead and buried, but now I find he rises from the grave whenever the whim moves you.”

“I have explained it more than once,” Clay replied. “I don’t see what I can say that I have not already said.”

Abruptly rising, Melanie said, “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I will be back in a few minutes.”

Clay watched her walk off. “If I live to be a hundred I will never savvy females.”

“It is more than that, my friend,” Mr. Train said. “I should know. I was in a similar situation once and I made the wrong decision.”

“With a woman?”

“Her name was Francesca. We met in New Orleans. We fell in love and there was talk of marriage.” Mr. Train frowned. “Then one day she asked me what I would do for a living after we were man and wife. I told her that I would go on doing as I had been doing. She was displeased. She had taken it for granted that I would stop hunting men. She did not think it suitable.”

“That is similar,” Clay said. “What happened?”

“We had a few arguments. I like what I do, and I did not want to change. One day she gave me an ultimatum. Either I agreed to stop being a manhunter after we walked down the aisle, or she and I were through.”

When Train did not go on, Clay prompted, “What did you do?”

“I am here, aren’t I? But I will tell you something, strictly between us. It was the worst decision of my life. If I had it to do over again, I would do it differently.”

“You would give up being a manhunter?”

“Yes. The question you must ask—the question I did not ask of myself until it was too late and Francesca was gone—is this.” Mr. Train paused. “Which is more important? Doing what we want or the one person in the world who wants us most?”

“Then you regret your decision?”

“Every single day. Francesca was the best thing to ever happen to me, and I was too blind to see it. I would give anything to be her husband now, but she married someone else.”

Over the next several days Clay was quieter than usual. He was clearly deep in thought. Once Melanie asked what he was pondering and he replied, “Nothing much.”

One evening, shortly after the sun went down, they came to a ridge overlooking the lights of Bluff City and drew rein. Smiling, Melanie said wearily, “We are back at last.”

“Will you be leaving in the morning?” Clay asked Train.

“It depends on Harve Barker. He owes me money. Then there is the little matter of those outlaws calling me by my name.”

“They must have heard of you somewhere,” Melanie said.

“Maybe that is it,” Mr. Train said, but he sounded less than convinced.

“I will go with you if you want,” Clay offered.

“I would rather Baine went with me,” Mr. Train said with a slight grin. “He is handier with a pistol.”

“It will take us an hour to reach Bluff City. Another hour to unsaddle, get cleaned up and change,” Clay detailed. “How about if we meet at the Emporium at ten?”

“Ten o’clock it is.”

No sooner did they gig their mounts than Melanie brought the mare up next to the claybank. “You are really going to do it? Strap on your Colt and go marching into the Emporium?”

“It would be suicide to march in without it,” Clay replied.

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you,” Melanie said. “And don’t try to fool me into believing you are doing this for Mr. Train’s benefit. You are doing it because you like being Neville Baine.”

Clay stared at her and did not speak until they had gone over fifty yards. “Think what you will,” he finally said.

“I will and I am,” was Melanie’s angry rejoinder. “You have misled me and I resent it. I resent it most strongly.”

“That makes us even since I resent being judged,” Clay said.

After that neither said a word until they came to the outskirts of Bluff City. Melanie bid the two men good night and left them, her back as stiff as a board.

“I’m only a few blocks from my apartment,” Clay said, and reined around to part company.

“I am sorry if I have caused trouble between Miss Stanley and you,” Mr. Train said.

“It’s not you,” Clay said, and let it go at that. Clucking to the claybank, he passed a buckboard and, in due course, came to the picket fence. The house was quiet and dark, which was not unusual since the couple he rented from, the Crisps, almost always turned in early.

Clay climbed down to unfasten the gate. The latch rasped as he worked it. He pushed with his foot and a hinge protested with a loud squeak. Leading the claybank, he walked toward the shed.

A gunshot spiked the night and Clay’s derby was whipped from his head. Instinctively, he ducked, and a second slug blistered the space his head has just occupied. Both shots came from the corner of the house.