Ralph Compton the Evil Men Do (3 page)

Fred Hitch had never had a gun pointed at him before. Not this close. His whole body went numb. His mouth refused to work. He stared into the muzzle that would end his life and was paralyzed with fear.

“What do you think you're doing?” McCarthy said.

It broke the spell. Fred smiled and held out his hand. “I'll take that smoke wagon, if you don't mind.”

McCarthy was incredulous. He glanced down at Fred's Smith & Wesson in its holster. “You damn fool.”

“This has gone far enough. One of you might be hurt. Plus, there are the folks in town to think of. I'll have your gun, Hiram. Or, rather, Tom.”

“Like hell you will,” McCarthy said.

“What choices do you have?”

“How do you mean?”

The muzzle of McCarthy's Colt dipped, and Fred breathed a little easier. No, he wasn't a gun hand, but he could talk as good as anybody. People were always saying how he liked to talk and talk. He figured to use that instead of his revolver. “Let's say you get away. Where do you go? What do you do?”

“I go somewhere else and start over.”

“Word will get out. The kid will go back to Cheyenne and tell whoever he's workin' for that you flew the coop. The marshal there will send out circulars. There'll be a
lot of new interest in you. And who knows? Two thousand dollars is a lot of money. It could be the kid won't be the only one on your trail.”

McCarthy scowled.

“You'd have to go clear to Alaska. Or, worse yet, maybe take a ship to some foreign country. Is that what you want?”

“No,” McCarthy said grudgingly.

“Or let's say you fight it out with Tyree. The only way you'll stop that kid is to kill him, and then you'll have three murders on your hands. Could be more bounty will be added. You could find yourself worth more than Jesse James ever was.”

“I doubt that,” McCarthy said skeptically.

“The kid wants to take you alive. But from what I saw in the corral, he's a piss-poor shot. Maybe he'll only wound you. Or cripple you. All it takes is a piece of lead in the wrong spot and you'll have to use crutches for the rest of your days.”

“Damn you,” McCarthy said.

“I'm not done.” Fred firmed his resolve. “I'm taking you into custody myself. You can shoot me, but add a lawman to your string and every tin star from here to Texas will be out to bury you. Wherever you go, you'll have to lie low. Changin' your name again might help for a while, but you won't be able to move about nearly as freely as you did here. Think about that a minute.”

McCarthy lowered his revolver to his side and sighed. “All of this because I lost my head.”

“We all do now and again,” Fred said, although now that he thought about it, he couldn't recollect ever losing his so badly he'd strangle somebody.

“I loved her,” McCarthy said. “I truly did. When I saw her with the friend I trusted most in this world, it was like a red-hot spike was driven through my head. I don't really remember much. When I came to my senses, I was standing there with the knife and the deed was done.”

“How is it you talk so nice?” Fred asked.

“What?”

“I've always liked how you talk. You must be from back East somewhere. You never slur your words or mangle them like we do out West.”

McCarthy looked bewildered. “I have the biggest decision of my life to make, and you bring that up?” A slight smile tugged at his mouth. “Fred Hitch, you're worthless, do you know that?”

“I try my best,” Fred said.

Tom McCarthy stared at his six-shooter, then slowly held it out. “Here. Before I change my mind.”

Fred took it and stepped back. “Kid!” he yelled. “It's over. There'll be no more shootin'.”

“I'm right here,” Tyree Johnson said, and glided out of the next stall. “I snuck up while you two were jawin'.” He trained his Colts on McCarthy. “I'm plumb surprised he let you persuade him.”

“Most folks aren't really bad at heart,” Fred said. “Give them half a chance and they'll come around.”

“Shows how much you know. There are bad men with hearts as hard as rock. They'll send you to hell as quick as look at you, and that's no lie. One day you'll trust the wrong person and he'll blow out your wick.” To McCarthy he said, “On your feet. We'll hold you in the jail until I'm ready to head for Cheyenne.”

Squatting there in despair, McCarthy looked up at the rafters and his throat bobbed. “I suppose I have it coming.”

“I won't tell you twice,” Tyree said.

Moving as slow as poured molasses, McCarthy stood and headed down the aisle, his posture that of a broken man.

“Poor fella,” Fred said, keeping a few yards between them in case McCarthy changed his mind about giving up.

“I heard that crack about me bein' a bad shot,” Tyree said.

“Well, you are. You shoot at a man and hit a horse, that's as poor as can be. Which reminds me,” Fred said.
“I have to get word to the animal doc so he can tend to that horse. We're lucky to have one in a town this small. He does undertakin' on the side and makes fine coffins.”

“For the animals too?”

“You can cut out the sass.” Fred motioned at the boy's belt. “Are you any better with those derringers? Or are they just for decoration?”

“Ha,” Tyree mimicked him from earlier.

“What about that bowie and your saber, of all things? You any good with them or do you hack away and hope you cut somethin'?”

“You can't miss with a bowie,” Tyree said.

“You can if you don't know where the vitals are,” Fred said. “Even I know that. Seems to me that for someone who hunts violent men for the bounty money, you're not much of a hunter.”

“Keep insultin' me, you old goat.”

Fred chuckled, and just like that, the tension drained out of him and he was his normal self again. For about half a block. Then people began coming out of their homes and businesses. Some of the men had rifles and shotguns. A lot of the women looked fearful. “It's all right, folks,” he shouted to put them at ease. “Everything is under control.”

“Oh, is it?” said a jowly man in a bowler who carried himself as if he were important.

“Mayor Crittendon,” Fred said.

“What is going on here?” the mayor demanded. “Why is that ridiculous-looking child holding guns on Hiram?”

“I'll show you ridiculous,” Tyree said.

“We should talk about it in my office,” Fred suggested. Folks were pointing and murmuring and he didn't like being the center of attention.

“We'll discuss it here and now,” Mayor Crittendon said. “Hiram is one of our leading citizens and I won't stand for him being mistreated.”

“You should pick your citizens better,” Tyree said.
“Your Hiram is a murderer twice over, and one of those he killed was a woman.”

“The devil you say,” Mayor Crittendon exclaimed, and grabbed McCarthy by the arm. “What is this nonsense? Tell me it's not true.”

McCarthy bleakly nodded. “I'm afraid so, Horace.”

“My word,” the mayor said, and jerked back as if he were touching a snake. “And you contributed to my campaign.”

“Go away,” Tyree said. “We have to get him to the jail.”

Mayor Crittendon sniffed. “Who are you to be telling me what to do? I'm the mayor of Sweetwater. What are you? You're certainly not a lawman, as young as you are. Why, you're barely out of diapers, yet you're a walking armory.”

“Diapers, is it?” Tyree growled, and raised a Colt as if to bash the mayor on his bowler.

“Don't you dare,” Fred said, moving between them. “I'll have to arrest you for assault.”

Glaring at Crittendon, Tyree pushed McCarthy and they walked on, the people in the street parting to make way.

“Who
is
that boy?” Mayor Crittendon said.

Fred told him. About the bounty money, about the chase and the capture, finishing with “That reminds me. Can you find Sam and let him know one of the horses got shot?”

“How did that happen?”

“It stepped in the way of a bullet,” Fred fibbed.

“Tell Sam yourself. I'm not your errand boy. I have important duties to attend to.”

Fred should have known better. Their mayor never did anything he could get others to do for him. As for those “important duties,” they generally consisted in the mayor indulging in frequent glasses of rum at the saloon with his constituents.

“Have you considered what will happen if word of this gets out?”

“I thought you had duties to do,” Fred said.

“Answer the question.”

Fred had been too busy trying not to be shot to consider much of anything. “Which word are you talkin' about? That we arrested a murderer?”

“Honestly, Hitch,” Mayor Crittendon said in mild disgust. “Obviously it hasn't occurred to you that Sweetwater will become the laughingstock of the territory.”

“What's to laugh at?” Fred asked in confusion.

“Do you mean
besides
the fact that we've had a notorious killer living among us and we had no idea?”

“How were we to know?” Fred said. “He didn't use his real name.”

“Which you never caught on to. A good lawman would have. A good lawman would have sensed that something about Hiram was amiss and done some digging into his background.”

Fred stopped and rounded on Crittendon. “Now, you just hold on. You're not layin' this on me. Hiram—I mean McCarthy—acted as decent as could be. He even had you fooled.”

“Not really,” Crittendon said. “I've long had my suspicions about him.”

Fred almost bashed the mayor's bowler himself. “That's a lie. You and him were friends. He's been to your house many a time.”

“I couldn't let him suspect that I suspected.”

Fred bit off some cusswords. He'd forgotten how oily Crittendon could be, or most any politician, for that matter. They were forever scheming, forever manipulating. Their knack for talking out both ends of their mouths was a wonderment. “Claim what you want, but everyone knows better.”

“We're getting off track,” Critttendon said. “The issue isn't me. The issue is how to keep Sweetwater from being sullied by scandal.”

“A good sullying might be good for us.”

“Be serious. It's your civic duty to do all in your power to prevent that from happening.”

“And how do you suggest I do that, exactly?” Fred demanded. “Not let anyone leave town from now until kingdom come?”

“Spare me your attempts at humor,” Mayor Crittendon said. “I propose that we hold a town meeting and advise everyone to keep quiet about it. They're not to mention it in letters, or talk about it when strangers are in town.”

“Make a mountain out of a molehill, why don't you?” Fred said.

“In my judgment you fail to appreciate the stigma this could bring down on our heads,” Crittendon criticized. “In fact, your handling of this whole affair has been less than exemplary. You allowed that child to accost Hiram in his place of business. You let a revolver fight spill into our streets.”

Fred was trying to remember what
accost
meant. He couldn't recollect ever hearing it before. “No one was hurt.”

“You're forgetting the poor horse.” Mayor Crittendon smoothed his jacket and ran a finger along his pencil-thin mustache. “No, Marshal Hitch. You have performed poorly all around. It wouldn't surprise me if the good people of Sweetwater regard you in a whole new light after this. There might even be talk of replacing you with someone more competent.”

It took a lot to rile Fred, but he was riled now. Clenching a fist, he started to raise it so he could shake it in the mayor's face but caught himself in time. “Are you threatenin' me?”

“Perish the notion,” Crittendon said. “I'm only offering my opinion on how events might develop.”

“Two can play at that,” Fred said.

The mayor smirked. “What can you possibly do?”

“I lose this badge,” Fred said, tapping it, “I'll ride clear
to Cheyenne and tell the
Cheyenne Leader
everything that happened. Care to bet they won't be interested? Care to bet the story isn't in their next edition?”

“You'd go to the newspaper?” Crittendon said in horror.

“I will if you don't leave it be. Let me handle this. That kid will likely leave in the mornin' and it will all be over.”

Mayor Crittendon's face twitched a few times, as if he were about to have a fit. Instead he said, “Very well, Marshal Hitch. We'll do it your way. And may I say that I have underestimated you? I took you for a pushover, with no more spine than a bowl of pudding. But you've surprised me. You have more mettle than I'd imagined.” Crittendon touched his bowler and walked off after the townsfolk, who had followed Tyree and McCarthy.

“Well, now,” Fred said, and grinned. “Ain't I somethin'?”

Everyone had left: the mayor, the townsfolk, even the kid. Except for Tom McCarthy, seated forlornly on the bunk in his cell, Marshal Hitch had his office to himself.

“Finally,” Fred muttered as he bent to open the bottom desk drawer. He moved some papers, took out his silver flask, and opened it. A glance at the window showed no one was looking in. He raised the flask to his lips, swallowed happily, and sat back. The pleasant sensation that spread through his body made him smile. Propping his boots on the desk, he held the flask in his lap where no one could see it.

Fred was aware that there were whispers about his drinking. He liked his Monongahela, no doubt about that. He wasn't supposed to treat himself while he was working, but after the ordeal he'd just been through, he deserved a few nips.

McCarthy didn't notice. His face was in his hands, and his shoulders were slumped in misery.

Fred didn't blame him. The man was in for sheer hell. And all because he lost his head.

Taking another swallow, Fred coughed. One thing he could pride himself on was that he rarely lost his. He'd been that way since he was little. Other kids teased him and tried to make him mad, and it seldom worked. He had an easygoing nature, his mother used to say.
Too
easygoing, she'd often complained. He never let anything get to him. Not deep down the way most folks did.

Fred drank and sighed with contentment.

Chester, over at the stable, once asked him why he drank so much if it wasn't to dull whatever problems plagued him. The answer was simple. Fred
liked
to. For him liquor wasn't a crutch. It was an enjoyable pastime. Some people liked to read. Some knit. Some played checkers. He drank.

“How about letting me have a nip?”

Fred almost jumped.

“Just a couple of swallows,” McCarthy said. “I could really use it.”

Fred could see that. The man looked as forlorn as a human being could look. “Why not?” Rising, he went over and extended the flask between the bars. “So long as you don't tell your friend the mayor.”

“Crittendon is a jackass.”

“For that you can have an extra swallow,” Fred said with a grin.

McCarthy took a tentative sip and grimaced. After a couple more, he passed the flask back. “I'm grateful.”

“I'm sorry, Tom,” Fred said. “I've always liked you.”

“Same here. You're about the nicest lawman I ever ran across. You don't put on airs. You don't boss people around.”

“My mother used to say that I was too nice for my own good,” Fred revealed. “The mayor thinks the same. He called me a weak Nancy once when I refused to arrest a couple of cowpokes who broke a mirror at the saloon. I made them pay for the mirror and told them to go sober up, but that wasn't enough for him.”

“You should have been a parson.”

“To do that you have to be good at rememberin' things so you can quote the Bible in your sermons. I can barely recollect what I ate the day before.”

McCarthy gave a slight smile. “You're all right, Hitch.
Don't let that jackass get to you. Go on being as you are. There aren't enough nice people in this world.”

“I've always thought that,” Fred agreed.

“If I had your disposition,” McCarthy continued, “I wouldn't be standing here. I wouldn't have lost my temper when I caught my wife and my friend in our bed. I wouldn't have done what I did.”

“Sometimes we can't help what we do. It just comes over us.”

“What a damn decent thing to say,” McCarthy said. “But there's no excusing what I did. It was wrong. Had I to do it over again . . .” He shrugged.

Fred tried to lighten his mood by saying, “I bet you never expected some boy to come after you.”

“Not in a million years,” McCarthy said. “If anything, I figured it would be a U.S. Marshal or a deputy from Cheyenne. I murdered two people, after all. It surprised me considerably that no one ever showed up until now.”

“I wonder how the boy found you.”

McCarthy gripped the bars and placed his forehead on them. “I believe I know. I made the mistake of writing a letter to my sister. Confided where I was and the name I was using, and told her I'd be happy as could be if she paid me a visit someday. The boy must have found out from her.”

“Would she betray you like that?”

McCarthy grew thoughtful. “She was good friends with my wife. I thought we were closer, but it could be I was mistaken.”

“Well . . . ,” Fred began, and got no further. Boots clomped outside and the front door was flung open. He moved his arm behind his leg to hide the flask as he turned.

A man who worked at the general store was in the doorway, breathless from running. “Tully the bartender sent me,” he said. “You have to come quick.”

“What's going on?”

“It's that kid with all the hardware. He's threatening to shoot somebody.”

“Go back and tell Sully I'll be right there.”

The man nodded and ran off.

Going to his desk, Fred replaced the flask in the drawer. He hurried out and over to the saloon and heard the kid before he reached the batwings.

“. . . by golly have one. And don't you call me no kid again, you peckerwood. I'm as much a man as you.”

Fred pushed on in.

Tyree Johnson had both hands on the bar and was glaring at the bartender. “Give me a damn bottle.”

“I will not,” Tully said. He wore an apron and had skin that was the color of old parchment. “You're too young. I'm not supposed to serve young'uns.”

“You'll serve me.”

Fred advanced, saying, “What's going on here?”

“I want a drink and this cantankerous buzzard won't give me one,” Tyree growled.

“The town council says I'm not to serve no kids,” Sully said. “You know that, Fred.”

“He's right,” Fred said to Tyree.

“I'm not no kid,” Tyree practically yelled. “And after the day I've had, I should be allowed. One measly drink is all I want.”

Fred thought of his flask. “Give him one.”

“You sure?” Tully said. “The mayor won't like it.”

All the more reason, Fred almost said. “Give him one on my say-so. But only one and no more.”

“I'm obliged, Marshal,” Tyree said.

“How long have you been drinkin', boy?” Fred asked. He'd started sneaking drinks from the family cupboard when he was eight or nine.

“I hardly ever do,” Tyree said. “I just wanted one today, is all.” Leaning an elbow on the bar, he said, “How's my bounty money doing?”

“He's in misery.”

“He should be, killin' his wife and his friend like he done. It would serve him right if they stretch his neck.”

“You have a lot of bark on you for someone your age,” Fred observed.

Tyree touched his scar and said, seemingly to himself, “I have cause to be.”

Curious, Fred said, “How did you get that, if you don't' mind my askin'?”

“I don't rightly know.”

“How can you not? That's one big scar.”

“I don't need to be reminded, thank you very much,” Tyree said resentfully. Tully placed a glass in front of him and he grabbed it, spilling a little as he raised it to his mouth.

“You're sure tetchy,” Fred said.

“You would be too, were you me.” Tyree moved toward a table, ignoring the stares of the other customers.

Fred went with him.

Hooking a chair with the toe of his boot, Tyree pulled it out and sat. “Why are you followin' me?”

“Thought we might talk some.”

“You thought wrong.”

Fred pulled out another chair anyway. “What else do you have to do? You're not leavin' until mornin', right?”

“About noon,” Tyree said. “I aim to sleep in. Haven't had a wink in two days. Rode hard to get here so I can get back to Cheyenne that much sooner.”

“What's your rush?”

Tyree didn't answer.

“You're a strange one, son,” Fred said. He chose
son
instead of
boy
in order not to anger him.

“Don't ever call me that.”

“See? Tetchy,” Fred said.

“I'm no one's son. I lost my folks when I was in the cradle. Been on my own ever since.”

“That explains a lot,” Fred said, and changed the subject by asking, “Doesn't that saber poke you in the back when you sit in a chair?”

“It's in a scabbard.”

“Why tote it around? What with those pistols and those derringers and that bowie, you hardly need it.”

“It was my grandpa's,” Tyree said, “or so I was told. The bowie was my pa's. The guns are just mine.”

Fred began to see the kid in a new light; Tyree had a sentimental streak. “I have a watch that was my pa's.”

“Good for you.”

“You can quit bein' prickly,” Fred said. “I'm the only friend you've got here.”

“Is that what you are?” Tyree said. “It makes you the only friend I've got anywhere. Not that I need one.”

Fred forgot himself and said, “A boy your age should have lots of friends.”

“There you go with that boy business again.”

“Sorry,” Fred said. “Habit.”

“I don't have time for friends,” Tyree said. “I work every day. Sundays too. When most folks are in church, I'm huntin' wanted men down.”

“Everybody needs a day off.”

“Not me,” Tyree said. “Not so long as they're out there, somewhere. I'll find them, sooner or later.”

“Who?”

Instead of answering, Tyree nodded at the batwings. “Ain't that your mayor moseyin' on in?”

Fred shifted. Sure enough, Crittendon had entered and was coming toward them. The last thing he needed was another argument with His Majesty. “What can I do for you, Horace?”

Without being asked, Crittendon pulled out the last chair. “I've been looking for you. Stopped at the jail and tried to talk to Hiram. . . . Sorry, McCarthy . . . but he clammed up on me.”

“And here you are,” Fred said.

Crittendon smiled at Tyree. “How's our bounty man?”

“I'd tell you to go to hell, but you called me a man,” Tyree said. “Most are too dumb to do that.” He gave Fred a pointed stare.

“Anyone who does what you do, that's what he is, a man,” Mayor Crittendon said.

“You hear that?” Tyree said to Fred.

“He's a politician. He always says what he thinks people want to hear,” Fred enlightened him.

“No need for insults,” the mayor said. He removed his bowler, placed it on the table, and ran his fingers through his stringy hair. “Now, then. I've been giving it some thought and I've come up with an idea.”

“Givin' what some thought?” Fred asked.

“What were we discussing earlier? How Sweetwater will be a laughingstock when people hear about McCarthy pulling the wool over our eyes all this time.”

“I doubt anyone will care,” Fred said.

“
I
care,” Crittendon said. “So does the council. We got together at my house and talked it over. That's when I had my inspiration.”

“I can't wait to hear it.”

Crittendon turned to Tyree. “If you don't mind my asking, when do you plan to leave with your prisoner?”

“Like I told your law dog, about noon or so. My horse can use the rest, and I'm tuckered out too.”

“That's fine,” Crittendon said. “It gives our marshal plenty of time to get ready.”

Fred didn't like the sound of that. “For what?”

Mayor Crittendon bared his teeth like a cat about to devour a canary. “To go with him, of course.”

Both Fred and Tyree said, “What?” at the same moment.

“We want you to go along, Marshal Hitch, to make sure McCarthy gets to Cheyenne to stand trial,” Mayor Crittendon said. “It will show everyone we take our law here in Sweetwater seriously, and that if someone hoodwinks us, we do all in our power to see that justice is served.”

To Fred it was preposterous. “Cheyenne is over three hundred miles.”

“It's not the distance; it's the message we'll send to
lawbreakers,” Crittendon said. “It's sure to be mentioned in the newspaper, and you're fond of newspapers, as I recall.”

“Consarn you, Horace,” Fred said.

“Refuse, and we'll remove you from office for dereliction of duty.” Crittendon smiled and held out his hand. “And if that's the case, you might as well give me your badge here and now.”

Fred was appalled. A journey to Cheyenne was no picnic. The country was rugged, and there were hostiles and outlaws and who knew what else? Without thinking he said, “I haven't been out of Sweetwater in years.”

“Then the trip will do you good,” Crittendon said, and laughed. “What do you say?”

What could Fred say except “Son of a bitch”?