Ralph Compton the Evil Men Do (5 page)

Two days went by. Two days of long hours in the saddle and baked beans for supper. The steep slopes and heavy timber made for slow going.

Midway through the next morning, they descended a ridge and came on a stream. Tyree called a halt to let their horses rest.

Fred liked that the boy was considerate toward his animal. It showed Tyree wasn't as heartless as he pretended to be.

Dismounting, Fred put a hand on the small of his back. He was sore from all the riding. Once this trip was over, if he never sat a horse again, it would be fine by him. He led his bay to a spot where the bank leveled off. He was about to step down but drew up short.

There were footprints in the soft earth at the water's edge.

“Look at these,” Fred said.

Tyree came over and squatted. He traced the outline of a print with a finger, and scowled. “Injuns.”

“You're sure?” Fred wasn't much of a tracker. And these prints didn't show much detail.

“Do you see a heel mark?” Tyree said. “No, you don't. The soles are flat, and that means redskins.”

Putting his hand on his Colt, Fred scanned the shadowed forest.

“Relax,” Tyree said. “These were made a day or so ago or better. The Injuns are long gone by now.”

“You hope,” Fred said.

“You're one of those pessimists, aren't you?” Tyree said.

“No.”

“Like hell you're not. A fella told me about them once. He said that pessimists always look at the bad side of things. They always expect the worst. I kind of like that word, so it stuck in my head.”

“I like to think of myself as practical.”

“You're somethin',” Tyree said, and grinned.

Tom McCarthy had knelt to cup a hand in the stream. He hadn't spoken since the other night, but now he laughed and said, “So it's Indians now? That figures. Life is out to get me.”

“How?” Fred absently asked.

“The way my luck is going, these Indians will turn out to be hostiles,” McCarthy said. “A tomahawk is as good as a rope, after all.”

“It could be a huntin' party of tame ones,” Tyree said.

“You know better,” McCarthy said. “We keep going, we're bound to run into them. Mark my words, boy.”

Fred worried that McCarthy was right. The whole rest of the day he was a bundle of nerves.

A small valley offered haven for the night. They camped in a grove of oaks. Tyree got a fire going and put on the inevitable beans.

Fred stripped their horses and picketed them. He looked forward to a quiet meal and a good night's sleep. Dusk was falling, the shadows lengthening, and as he turned to go to the fire he spotted an orange glow at the other end of the valley. “Look yonder,” he exclaimed in alarm.

Tyree was busy spooning beans. “At what?”

“Another fire.”

The boy came over. “I'll be damned,” he said. “You have good eyes. They're in some pines, it appears.”

“Who?” Fred said.

They looked at each other.

“We have to find out,” Tyree said. “One of us had to go have a look-see. Since I have to stay with McCarthy, you're elected.”

The last thing Fred wanted was to go sneaking around in the dark. “I can stay with him.”

“He's my prisoner, not yours. Go slow and you should be fine. It could be white men for all we know.”

“Sure,” Fred said, but he didn't believe it and neither, he suspected, did the boy.

Tyree moved to their fire and began stamping it out. “If we can see theirs, maybe they can see ours.”

Taking his Winchester from the saddle scabbard, Fred licked his dry lips and headed out.

“Don't get killed,” Tyree said.

Fred could have done without the warning. At the edge of the oaks he hunkered and went on doubled over. The grass wasn't high enough to hide him, but in the growing darkness he'd be hard to see. Rather than go straight across, he made for the woods bordering the valley floor. Once in the trees, he wasn't quite so tense.

Stars were out, but they did little to relieve the mantle of black. Fred kept bumping into things. A bush here, a tree there, a boulder now and again. He took to groping with a hand to feel his way.

It took forever to reach the other end of the valley.

Fred lost sight of the fire. Whoever they were, they were well hid. It was pure luck he'd spotted it the first time.

An open space of twenty feet or so separated the stand of pines from the forest proper. Fred hesitated, then sucked in a breath and darted across. He was enormously pleased when nothing happened.

The scent of the pines in his nostrils, Fred crept forward, a human snail. The slightest sound might give him away. He heard muffled voices. A little farther, and it was obvious they weren't speaking English.

Flattening, Fred crawled. When he came to a log he removed his hat and rose high enough to peer over. Apprehension flooded through him.

The fire was small. A rabbit was on a spit, being roasted. In a circle around it were seven young warriors, their faces painted for war. Most wore buckskins and a few had feathers in their hair. Beyond the fire were their mounts.

It was their faces that filled Fred with fear. Their faces had paint on them. He was looking at an Arapaho war party.

Fred had never been this close to hostiles. If they spotted him, he was as good as dead. But they were at least sixty feet away and intent on whatever they were talking about.

He noted how young they were. Not much older than Tyree. Yet here they were, hunting for whites to kill.

Fred looked for guns. They had knives and tomahawks and bows and one had a lance. Not a single firearm, which was small comfort. From what Fred had heard, a skilled warrior could unleash four or five arrows as quick as thought and hit what he aimed at.

He debated what to do. He had his Winchester and his Colt, more than enough bullets to drop them where they were, provided he didn't miss a single shot. Which was about as likely as him walking on water.

Fred started to lower his head, and froze.

One of their horses was staring right at the log.

Fred's mouth went dry. The animal must have seen him. He dreaded it would whinny and give him away.

A warrior with stripes on his face reached behind him and held up something for the others to admire.

It was a fresh scalp, the flesh the hair was attached to still pink.

Fred remembered the scream from a few nights ago, and shivered. He yearned to get out of there, but the horse hadn't stopped staring. He held himself still, refusing to even blink. The young warriors were passing the
scalp around and fingering it as a trapper might a prime pelt.

Without warning a warrior rose and came toward the trees. He was armed with a bow. Exceptionally long whangs hung from his buckskins and swayed with every stride. Like the others', his hair had been parted in the middle and hung in long braids on either side of his head, down past his shoulders.

Fred braced for the worst. He figured the warrior had seen him and was coming to investigate. But no. The man came to a stop about ten feet away and hitched his long shirt up.

Fred didn't look. That sort of thing should be done in private.

The horse had lost interest and was nipping at grass.

Fred got out of there. Jamming his hat on, he crawled until he was clear of the pines, then rose and started up the valley. He wasn't worried about being seen. The night was so dark he could barely make out his hand at arm's length.

A twig crunched under Fred's foot, and he stopped. Indians had keen ears. But a minute went by and then another, and there was no outcry.

Figuring he must have been born under a lucky star, Fred continued on.

He looked back often, but the warriors weren't following.

He made so much noise that Tyree was on his feet with a revolver cocked when he got to their camp.

“Well?” the boy asked. “Friendly or not.”

“Not,” Fred said. “Unless you call liftin' scalps the height of brotherhood.”

“No redskin will ever lift mine,” Tyree said. “I'll blow my brains out first.”

“Let's hope it doesn't come to that. I'm fond of what few brains I have, and don't care to be parted from them.”

McCarthy didn't show any interest whatsoever. He had made a teepee of his hands and was resting his chin on them.

“How many?” Tyree wanted to know.

Fred told him.

“That's all?” Tyree grinned. “Between your pistol and my pair, we can fill them full of lead before they can so much as blink.”

“I doubt that very much,” Fred said. “I can't shoot that fast and I doubt you can either.”

“What would you do?”

“Sneak off while we can.”

“Turn tail?” Tyree shook his head. “I've never shown yellow my whole life. We'll cat-foot on over there and blow them to Hades.”

“Count me out.” Fred wouldn't push his luck a second time. “We should go up the mountain and lie low until they move on.

“I can't do it by my lonesome,” Tyree said. “Not one against seven, I can't.”

“Then quit your foolish talk of wipin' them out and come with me. Or have you forgot that horse you shot?”

“Why do you keep bringin' that—” Tyree began, and stopped. “Hell in a basket. Where did he get to?”

Tom McCarthy was gone.

“Weren't you watchin' him?” Fred said.

“He was right there a minute ago.” Tyree commenced to rove in a circle. “He can't have gotten far.”

“Maybe he's answerin' nature's call,” Fred said.

“With those hostiles nearby?”

Fred failed to see how the Arapahos would keep a man from his bodily functions, but he kept quiet about it and moved in the other direction. “He has to be here somewhere.”

“Unless he skedaddled.”

“Without his horse?” Fred said. No one in their right mind would risk being stranded afoot in the wilds.
Unless they were well armed and could live off the land, it was the same as a death sentence.

“McCarthy!” Tyree whispered. “Where in hell are you?”

“Tom?” Fred whispered. “Say something.”

The silence mocked them.

Fred didn't know what made him turn and gaze off toward the other end of the valley. Maybe it was a hunch. Maybe it was instinct. He glimpsed a short figure moving into the grass, and bleated, “No.”

“What?” Tyree said.

“He's headin' for the Injuns,” Fred said, and ran in pursuit. What McCarthy hoped to accomplish was a mystery. With his wrists bound and no weapons, McCarthy couldn't defend himself. He'd be taken alive and tortured, and whatever was left of him left for the vultures.

“He won't get far,” Tyree said, jogging at Fred's side.

McCarthy showed no sign of stopping and was almost out of sight. He didn't respond when Fred whispered his name.

Fred increased his pace.

“Faster or we'll lose him,” Tyree urged.

Fred was doing the best he could. All that sitting at a desk had turned what few muscles he had to mush. His legs weren't half as strong as they used to be, and his stamina was laughable. But he kept running.

Tom McCarthy disappeared. One moment his silhouette was vaguely visible, and the next he wasn't there.

Fred stopped in case it was some kind of trick.

Tyree stopped too and looked at him. “What are you stoppin' for? Is somethin' the matter?”

Fred pointed at the empty air where McCarthy had been, and squatted. “He's gone to ground. Maybe he aims to jump us.”

Hunkering beside him, Tyree said, “If this don't beat all. Him comin' out here, where those Injuns are likely to spot him. If he's not careful, he won't have to worry about bein' hanged.”

Insight washed over Fred like a rain shower of cold water. “That's it! It must be. You've hit the nail on the head.”

“I have?”

“You saw how McCarthy has been. He's given up on life. He doesn't care what happens to him. But hangin' is an awful, horrible way to die, so he's chosen another he thinks is better.”

“You're sayin' he wants those hostiles to kill him?” Tyree said in amazement. “The damn jackass. They might carve on him before they do him in, and that's worse than just havin' his neck stretched.”

“That's not the worst of it,” Fred said. “If he goes waltzin' into their camp, they'll know there must be other white men around and come lookin' for us.”

“Oh, hell,” Tyree said.

Marshal Fred Hitch and Tyree Johnson flew to overtake Tom McCarthy before he reached the pines. They had covered almost the entire distance before Tyree pointed and exclaimed between puffs of breath, “There!”

Fred tried to fun faster, but his body refused. He kept forgetting he was fifty years old.

Tyree pulled ahead. The boy had some extra steam in his engine and poured it on in a desperate attempt to stop their prisoner.

As for Tom McCarthy, he was moving woodenly, his gaze on the pines. He must have heard them coming up behind him, but he didn't turn.

Fred was worried about the Arapahos hearing. Much closer, and they would. He was under no illusions about the result. Two against seven was no better than one against seven when he was one of the two.

Tyree was really flying. His saber was smacking his back and that bowie flapped about his neck, but neither slowed him. He launched himself into the air, his arms spread wide, and slammed into McCarthy low in the back. Both of them went down in a jumble. Fortunately McCarthy didn't cry out. Before either could gain their feet, Fred was there. He grabbed one of McCarthy's arms while clamping a hand over his mouth, and together Tyree and he hauled McCarthy up and spirited him away.

McCarthy didn't resist. He didn't try to shout or make any noise whatsoever. He was limp and dazed and had lost all spirit.

“You damn fool,” Tyree hissed in his ear. “You almost got us killed.”

Fred watched the pines, but no warriors appeared. He had never been so relieved in his life.

“We're not stickin' around,” Tyree said after they had gone more than half the way. “We'll walk our horses until we're far enough to be safe.”

As tired as Fred was, he didn't object.

“As for you,” Tyree said, giving McCarthy a shake, “I'm going to tie your legs too from here on out. You're not walkin' off on me again.” He looked at Fred. “This is what I get for going easy on him on your account.”

“Mine?”

“Usually I truss them up so they can't hardly twitch, but I didn't with him because you were along and I figured you'd raise a fuss, you bein' so nice and all.”

“That was considerate of you,” Fred said.

“It was stupid. I've never been considerate of anyone before. Why should I start with you?”

“It's never wrong to try to do right by people,” Fred said.

“It is if it gets you killed.”

Fred had no rebuttal to that. He concentrated on his breathing. His lungs were straining from his exertions.

“This is the last time I let a law dog accompany me.” Tyree wouldn't let it drop. “I should have told that mayor of yours to go to hell. Him and his bossy ways. If you make it back to that two-bit town, punch him in the mouth for me.”

“That would be a first,” Fred said. “I've never hit anybody.”

“How can that be? What kind of lawman are you?”

“The kind who likes to resolves spats peacefully,” Fred said. “The kind who doesn't like violence.”

“Damn, you're peculiar. It's a good thing you tote tin
in a town like Sweetwater. In Cheyenne or Denver you wouldn't last six months.”

Fred considered that an exaggeration but held his peace.

Tyree had more to say. “If there's one thing I've learned, it's that you have to be hard to get ahead in life. You go too easy and others will eat you alive.”

“That's not true,” Fred spoke up. “Look at me. I've been the law in Sweetwater for a long time and never had to draw my pistol. People aren't as vicious as you make them out to be.”

“Some are. You've just been lucky you ain't met any yet except that mayor of yours.”

“Horace Crittendon isn't vicious,” Fred scoffed.

“Oh? He sent you along, didn't he? Probably hopin' somethin' would happen to you and you wouldn't make it back. If that's not vicious, I don't know what is.”

Since Fred had harbored the same suspicion, he couldn't very well disagree.

“There are different kinds of vicious. Some use their fists or a gun. Some, like your mayor, use their wits and words. You ought to know that, a man with as many gray hairs as you have.”

“How did you become so wise?” Fred asked, partly in jest.

Tyree took him seriously. “When you're on your own, you learn fast. You have to, or folks take advantage of you. That orphanage taught me it's everybody for himself, and everyone else be damned.”

Fred was appalled. The boy's outlook on life was terrible. “A man should stand on his own two feet, yes, but he doesn't have to be ugly about it.”

“Ugly?” Tyree said, and gave a little laugh.

“You know what I mean. He doesn't have to be mean-tempered all the time. He doesn't have to cuss. He can show some respect for others, and offer a helpin' hand when one is needed.”

“Is that your, what do they call it, philosophy on life?”

“I suppose it is,” Fred said. He'd never really thought about it before.

“Sad,” Tyree said.

On that note they fell silent until they were at their camp. Tyree was true to his word and bound McCarthy's ankles. McCarthy just lay there and let him. Fred had to help get McCarthy belly-down over his saddle. Then they were under way, Tyree leading McCarthy's mount as well as his own.

Fred had never been so tired. He couldn't stop yawning and wished he was under his blankets. He thought about what the boy had said about him being too nice for his own good, and he refused to accept that. If everybody went through life with Tyree's attitude, the world would be an awful place. It would be dog-eat-dog, with the weakest always suffering. No one with a sense of right and wrong could abide that.

Pretty soon he had to forget about the problem of being too nice and focus on climbing. Here in the timber it was black as pitch. He was forever stumbling. His horse moved quieter than he did. Once he ran into a low limb that gouged his cheek. Later he tripped and fell to a knee, hitting it on a rock. He had to clamp his jaw to keep from crying out.

Tyree did better. He made a lot less noise. Twice he told Fred to pick up the pace, that he didn't want to be at it all night.

They reached the crest of a ridge and started down the other side.

Fred's legs were ready to give out. He moved as woodenly as McCarthy had done. His attention perked when he heard a grunt that he was sure was a bear. Either Tyree didn't hear it or he didn't care, because he continued on. Fred envisioned a grizzly rushing out at them, which lent his legs new energy.

At long last they came to a shelf and Tyree stopped. “Here will do. There's grass for the animals.”

“Thank the Lord,” Fred said.

“We'll leave the saddles on in case we have to get away quick.”

That was fine by Fred. He helped the boy with McCarthy, then untied his bedroll and turned in. He half expected to lie there awhile, too overwrought to sleep, but he was out practically the moment he closed his eyes. He slept so soundly that he was slow to rouse when someone began shaking him.

“Wake up, consarn you. The sun is up and the day is wastin'.”

Blinking in the sunlight, Fred rose sluggishly and went through the motions of putting his bedroll on the bay. “I could use some coffee.” A pot or two, at least.

“Not this close to that valley,” Tyree said. “The wind is blowin' their way, and the smell would bring them lickety-split.”

“You think of everything, don't you?”

“I try.”

Fred was amazed by the youth's confidence. At that age, he hadn't had half as much. He was almost twenty before he mustered enough to fulfill his dream of helping people by becoming a law officer.

They got under way.

Fred was stiff and sore in places he couldn't recollect ever being sore before. He was hungry and thirsty, but Tyree refused to eat until they had put more distance between them and the war party.

A couple of hours of hard travel brought them within sight of a broad vista of lowland that swept to the south for as far as the eye could see.

“Finally the prairie,” Tyree said. “Ranchin' country. We can make good time from here on out.”

Fred was all for that. “I'd like to stop and eat once we're in the open.”

“In the middle of the day?”

“I'm not as young as you,” Fred said. “My body isn't as durable. I go without food, I can't function.”

“Old people sure are a nuisance. Can't it wait until
suppertime? Eat some jerky if you have to. I have plenty.”

McCarthy, who hadn't uttered a peep since they caught him, stared fixedly at the grassland. “Cheyenne,” he said.

“Is a ways off yet,” Tyree said. “We're not halfway there.”

“Cheyenne,” McCarthy said again.

“What about it? They'll throw you behind bars and put you on trial and that will be that.”

“Cheyenne.”

Tyree shifted in his saddle. “What's the matter with him, law dog? Why's he keep sayin' that?”

“His mind is going,” Fred suspected.

“I never had one like him before,” Tyree said. “Usually they're mad at bein' caught and stay mad until I turn 'em over. Now and then a weak sister will cry, and I always laugh at that.”

“You would cry too if you were in their boots.”

“Not in a million years. I'd blow out my own wick if I was that worthless.”

“Everyone feels miserable now and then.”

“So what? They don't have to blubber about it. You and your excuses. There's no end to them.”

Fred figured his companion was indulging in more posturing. “You don't have to act tough all the time.”

“Says the gent who's never hit anyone or shot anyone.”

By noon the last of the timber was behind them. To Fred's delight, Tyree only went a short distance onto the plain and announced they'd rest their horses for half an hour or so. Gratefully climbing down, he stepped over to McCarthy. “Give me a hand. He must be in pain from bein' on his belly so long.”

“Serves him right for his stunt last night.”

“Please,” Fred said. “I'm askin' you.”

Tyree sighed. “You try a person's patience, do you know that? But if it will keep you from pesterin' me . . .”

McCarthy was a limp sack. He stirred as they set him on his back, and gazed to the south. “Cheyenne,” he said.

Stepping back, Tyree shook his head. “I'm stuck with a do-good and a crazy man. Days like this, I wonder why I do this.”

“Why do you?” Fred asked.

Tyree looked as if he were sucking on a lemon. “None of your business. And don't bring it up again.”

“We've been saddle pals for days now. I should think you'd be friendlier,” Fred remarked.

“You thought wrong.”

Tyree moved off to be by himself, leaving Fred to guard their prisoner. All the riding they'd been doing, Fred didn't care to sit. He walked in a circle, flexing his legs and wishing he were anywhere but there.

“Cheyenne,” McCarthy said.

“I heard you the first four times,” Fred said.

“It's not every day a man knows when and where he will meet his Maker,” McCarthy said quietly.

Fred glanced down. Some measure of sanity had returned to McCarthy's eyes. “You're back among us.”

“I never left.”

“You could have fooled me.”

McCarthy actually grinned. “The shock caught up to me.”

“After all this time?”

“Before it was like a nightmare. It didn't seem real. Now it does, and the shock was almost more than I can bear. I don't want to die, Marshal. I would have been happy to live out my days in Sweetwater.”

“Can't blame you there,” Fred said. “I'm fond of the town myself.” Fond of the people. Fond of the slow pace of life. Fond of just about everything.

“I've always liked you, Fred. It's a shame you have to be a party to this. I'd hate for any harm to come to you on my account.”

“And I've always liked you. If you want, I'll be a character witness at your trial,” Fred offered.

McCarthy stared out across the prairie. He coughed lightly a few times and said, “That kid is wrong. About
life and about you. You're a decent human being. Don't pay him no mind from here on out.”

“I want to help him. He can amount to something if he lives long enough.”

“You want to help everybody.” McCarthy turned his head toward the mountains and his smile faded. “Just when I was almost my old self again.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I won't die in Cheyenne. Maybe it will be sooner.”

McCarthy bobbed his chin.

Fred turned, and his blood stopped pumping.

High up on the last mountain, silhouetted against the blue sky, were seven riders in buckskins—the Arapaho war party.