Ralph Compton: Bluff City

The cursing ended with a declaration. “If it’s the last thing I ever do,” Jesse Stark vowed, “I will see that son of a bitch six feet under.”

For all his swearing, Jesse did not forget to glance back now and then to see if anyone was after him. He had gone half a mile when he stiffened. “Dust!” he declared, and in a panic tried to make the sorrel go faster when it was already at its limit.

After a bit Stark stopped whipping the reins and using his spurs. He shifted in the saddle and stared hard at the dust, and as was his habit when he was alone, he talked to himself. “That’s mighty peculiar. There’s not nearly as much dust as there should be.”

The minutes stretched into an hour.

Stark would gallop for a while, then walk the horse so it could rest, then gallop again. At the end of the hour the dust was still there.

“Whoever it is, I can’t shake them.”

A gully offered a solution. Riding into it, Stark dismounted and palmed his Remington. “I would rather have a rifle but mine is back in town,” he bitterly said to the horse.

Stark climbed to the top of the gully and flattened. “I don’t savvy why there isn’t more dust.”

The dust drew nearer, and Jesse swore again. Not in anger but in surprise. “It’s just one rider!” he exclaimed. Grinning in vicious anticipation, he cocked the Remington. “Whoever it is, he must have a hankering to die. I reckon I will oblige him.”

The rider came nearer, and Stark’s eyes widened. “Can it be?” In his amazement he forgot himself and rose to his knees. When the horse was close enough that there could be no doubt, he stood and hollered, “Whoa, there!”

The claybank stopped not twenty feet away. It was lathered with sweat and breathing heavily. The rider half hung over the pommel, his arms and legs as limp as wet rags. His buckskin shirt was stained scarlet.

Jesse Stark voiced a nervous laugh. He cautiously advanced, his Remington trained on the rider. When the man did not rise up and blaze away, Stark exclaimed, “It is really him, and he is really hurt!” Stark laughed as he poked the limp figure with the Remington. “Baine, can you hear me?”

Crooked Nose Baine did not answer.

Stark gripped a wrist and tugged, but the body did not slide off. He found out why. Baine’s belt had snagged on the saddle horn. That was the only thing keeping him in the saddle.

“Well, I’ll be,” Stark said. Unhooking the belt, he tugged anew, and grinned when Baine thudded to earth.

“Why, Neville. You are bleeding like a stuck pig,” Stark addressed the still figure. He nudged it with his boot, then hooked his heel under an arm and rolled the body onto its back. Baine’s hat came off.

“Damn,” Stark said. “It’s too bad you’re dead. I would surely have loved to buck you out in gore.”

Shoving the Remington into his holster, Stark knelt. “Might as well go through your pockets. Never can tell but you might have something worthwhile.” But he soon discovered the buckskin shirt had only one pocket, the pants none, and when he stuck his hand in the shirt pocket, his palm flat against Baine’s chest, the pocket was empty. He was about to take his hand out when he gave a start.

Stark’s mouth fell in astonishment. Careful of the blood, he pressed his ear to Baine’s chest and listened. Sadistic glee lit his face. Straightening, he let out a whoop. He pressed the Remington to Baine’s temple and held it there for all of ten seconds.

“What am I doing?”

Stark lowered the Remington and let down the hammer. “I want him to suffer first.” He rose and turned toward the gully, but promptly stopped. “Wait. I don’t have any water.”

The claybank moved slightly. Stark glanced at it, and whooped again. A bound brought him to the saddle. Eagerly, he helped himself to Baine’s canteen and shook it so the water sloshed. It was half full.

Stark hunkered, opened the canteen and proceeded to trickle water onto Baine’s eyes and cheeks. At first it had no effect. Then Baine’s eyelids fluttered, and he stirred and groaned but went limp again.

“Don’t you die on me, you son of a bitch.”

Stark pried Baine’s mouth open. He touched the canteen to Baine’s lips, allowing water to dribble out.

Baine sputtered and coughed and groaned louder.

Bending down, Stark eagerly asked, “Can you hear me?”

“Who?” Crooked Nose Baine croaked. He did not open his eyes. His breathing was labored.

“Take a gander and find out,” Stark said, tossing the canteen aside. “I want you to see what is coming.”

Baine’s eyelids fluttered anew and this time stayed open. “Stark? Is that you or am I delirious?”

“It’s me, all right. The one you always treat like dirt. The one whose friends you turned into maggot bait back there in that two-bit town.”

A feeble spark of vitality brought a hint of recognition. “How? Where? The last I remember, I was shot.”

“More than once, it appears. As for the how, let’s just say the Almighty must have taken pity on me. The where is easy. West of Whistler’s Flat a ways.”

“How did I get here? I don’t remember much.”

“That’s a pity,” Stark said. He examined the buckskin shirt. “The slug went clear through. You’ve got a hole in you about as big as an apple. I wouldn’t give a plugged nickel for your chances.”

Baine’s eyes had closed again.

“None of that,” Stark said. “I need you to lend an ear.” He stuck two fingers into a bullet hole and squeezed.

A gasp escaped Crooked Nose Baine and he opened his eyes. “What are you doing? That hurts like hell.”

“It is supposed to.” Stark removed his fingers. They dripped blood and gore, and he wiped them on Baine’s shirt. “Stay awake or I’ll do it again.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Then let me educate you. It’s as sweet as sugar, and it’s mine to take, and before I am through you will beg me to put you out of your agony.”

With visible effort Baine said, “You want to have revenge? Is that what this is all about?”

“Mister, I have yearned for this ever since Abilene. You remember Abilene, don’t you? A dance hall girl called me a lousy dancer because I tromped on her foot and broke a toe. I was drunk, and I slapped her some, and you came up and laid the barrel of your pistol across my head. Remember now?”

“She was a friend of mine,” Baine said weakly. “You about beat her into the floor.”

“That didn’t give you call to pistol-whip me,” Stark said, emotion darkening his features. “The high-and-mighty Neville Baine.” He snickered and poked Baine, hard. “Since that night I have nursed a hate for you. Some might call that pointless, but I have always been a good hater. I found out all I could about you, in case I ran into you again. Can you guess what I found out?”

“Let me die in peace.”

“I want you to hear this. I want you to know I know.” Balling his fist, Stark mashed his knuckles into the wound, causing Crooked Nose Baine to grit his teeth and arch his back. When Stark stopped, Baine sank back, beads of sweat sprinkling his brow. “Do I have your attention? Good. Because the truth is, Baine, you are a fraud. Oh, you’re hell on wheels with a six-shooter. No denying that. But you’re not the badman everyone makes you out to be. You’re not snake-mean, like they say. Fact is, you’re a kitten.”

“And you’re loco.”

“Am I? Then explain something. Explain why it is that in all the shooting affrays you were in, every single one, it was always the other hombre who went for his shooting iron first. That gunfight in Salina? Those three leather slappers you sent to hell were beating on some farm boy. That time in Wichita? Those mule skinners were forcing themselves on a woman. In Abilene when you pistol-whipped me, it was a woman again.”