Ralph Compton the Evil Men Do (6 page)

They rode and they rode, at a trot for a while and then slower to give their animals a breather, and then at a trot again. Racing for their lives across an undulating sea of grass while behind them seven specks stayed glued on their dust.

Marshal Fred Hitch had a hunch the warriors were matching their pace, never falling behind, never gaining. Eventually his bay and the other horses would succumb to exhaustion and the war party would close in.

Tyree did a lot of swearing. Every time he looked back, he cursed. He was setting their pace and now he slowed yet again and patted his lathered mount. “You're doing fine, fella.”

On his belly over his saddle, Tom McCarthy flopped and jounced, yet not once did he complain. He looked back now and then too, and each time he laughed.

Now, as Fred slowed the bay to a plodding walk, he asked, “What do you find so funny?”

“Life,” McCarthy said.

“Loco bastard,” Tyree muttered.

“Don't you see it? Either of you?” McCarthy glanced at the war party and laughed some more. “There I was, petrified at the notion of being hanged, and all that worry was for nothing. My end won't be a strangulation jig at the end of a hemp noose. It will be an arrow through my
neck or a lance through my chest or a tomahawk will cut deep, and then I'll have my hair lifted.”

“You call that an improvement over hangin'?” Tyree said.

“You're missing the point, youngster.”

“Don't call me that.”

“My point is that all my fretting was pointless. I might as well have spared myself the misery.”

“We'll have plenty of that if those redskins catch up to us.”

“Maybe not,” Fred said. He had been doing a lot of thinking as they rode and he had come to a decision. He might not be a scrapper like the kid, but he refused to have his wick snuffed without putting up a fight.

“Are you going to ask those redskins, pretty please, to spare us?” Tyree joked. “Good luck with that.”

“No,” Fred said, “I propose we make a stand.”

“Where'd this sudden gumption come from?”

“Hear me out,” Fred said. “We find a spot we can defend. All three of us, not just you and me. That'll even the odds some.”

“You want me to cut my prisoner loose and give him a gun?”

“The more guns, the better. We're none of us marksmen. You proved that when you shot that horse.”

“Aren't you ever going to forget that?” Tyree regarded McCarthy, while gnawing on his bottom lip. “I don't know. He might turn his gun on me and make a break. It's what I would do if I was in his boots.”

“What if he gives his word not to?”

“When you were little were you kicked by a mule?” Tyree said. “Only you would take the word of a murderer who would do anything to keep from being hanged.”

“Think about it.” Fred reined his bay alongside McCarthy's animal. “You will, won't you? Promise not to shoot either of us?”

“Do you know what you're asking? If I help you, and
we beat those Indians off, you'll still take me on to Cheyenne to meet my end, won't you?”

“That's the deal.”

“How about if I help you and if we live, you let me go?”

“That's not up to me.”

“No,” Tyree said. “It's not. And you're worth two thousand dollars to me, McCarthy. So forget your pipe dream. I'm not cuttin' you free and damn sure not givin' you a smoke wagon.”

Fred hoped the kid would change his mind. For now, they had more hard riding to do. Overhead, the summer sun climbed. He sweated so much his shirt was plastered to his skin and he continually mopped his brow with his sleeve.

With each mile the mountains shrank in size until finally they were no longer visible. Here and there a bluff reared, and dry washes were common. Antelope fled at their approach, and once a gray wolf bolted out of a gully and loped off in a blur of hair and tail.

When Fred spied several large animals in the distance, he called out a warning. “There are some buffalo yonder.”

Tyree barely gave them a look. He was more concerned with what was behind them.

“We shouldn't get too close,” Fred cautioned. He remembered an incident from years ago when a party of surveyors strayed too near a herd. A bull took exception and gored one of the surveyors. Opened the man from crotch to sternum, and broke half his ribs besides.

“They're half a mile off yet,” Tyree said.

Fred shucked his Winchester from its scabbard anyway. It had been so long since he used it he couldn't recall if it was loaded and worked the lever to see if a cartridge fed into the chamber. It was and it did.

The next time they slowed, Tom McCarthy raised his head and shoulders to say, “I've given it a lot of thought. It wouldn't be right to let you two tangle with those
hostiles by yourselves. I'll help, and I give you my word I won't back-shoot either of you and run off the first chance I get.”

“You call that a promise?” Tyree said.

“What more do you want?”

“I don't want anything. That includes your help. I don't trust you, mister, any further than I can toss one of those buffs.” Tyree rose in the stirrups and cocked his head. “Well, look at that. No humps but plenty of horns. I stand corrected.”

Wondering what he was on about, Fred rose in the stirrups too. He didn't see any humps either, and realized what that meant. “Cattle, by heaven. We must be near a ranch.”

“Don't get excited,” Tyree said. “This is open range. The nearest ranch house might be days away.”

“You don't know that,” Fred said. “Look for smoke from a chimney. Or horse tracks that could lead us to the ranch house.”

“You're clutchin' at straws.”

Fred would grasp at anything that might save them. “If there are cattle, there must be water.” Their horses could use a drink. They'd last longer refreshed.

“I could drink a gallon,” Tyree said. “I'm hot enough to bake alive.”

So was Fred, but he was more concerned about their mounts. The horses were plodding along with their heads hung low. McCarthy's wheezed every now and again.

Fred prayed the Arapahos' animals were in the same shape.

“I could use a thick steak too,” Tyree mentioned.

The cattle were growing fat on the lush grass. Come the next roundup, most would be shipped East, where beef was at a premium. The U.S. population had been growing like a swarm of locusts since the Civil War, and all those people needed something to eat. Fortunes were being made in the cattle industry.

Fred had never hankered after great wealth himself.
It seemed pointless to devote himself to something he couldn't take with him beyond the grave. A fancy home, a carriage to cart him around, what was the point? Some would call his lack of ambition a character flaw. He called it sensible.

“I'm hurting,” McCarthy said.

Fred looked at him. “What?”

“I said I'm hurting. My gut feels as if I've been stomped on. I can't take much more of this.”

“I don't blame you.” Fred doubted he'd have lasted half as long.

Tyree overheard, and said, “A little pain won't kill you. Quit your bellyachin'.” He chuckled at that.

“All I ask is that you untie my legs so I can sit the saddle.”

“No.”

“We'd make better time,” Fred argued for McCarthy's sake. “And if his hands are still tied, what can he do?”

“Ride off and leave us,” Tyree said, “and I'm not takin' the chance.”

Fred had always prided himself on being a reasonable man, but the kid was so pigheaded it tried his patience. He reckoned it was about time he stood up for himself. Reining over, he snatched the reins from Tyree's hands and brought the bay and the sorrel to a stop.

“What the hell?” Tyree said, drawing sharp rein. “What did you do that for?”

“I've put up with a lot from you, but no longer,” Fred said. Alighting, he gripped McCarthy by the shoulders and pulled, thinking to slowly slide him off. He'd forgotten how heavy McCarthy was. Fred tried to brace him, but McCarthy slipped from his grasp and thudded to earth, his shoulders bearing the brunt.

“You trying to break my neck?”

“Sorry.” Fred helped McCarthy to sit up, then held his hand out to Tyree. “Let me borrow that bowie.”

“Who do you think you are? I just told you I don't want him cut free and you want to do it anyway?”

“You see this?” Fred said, tapping his badge. “Like it or not, I'm the law. He might be your prisoner, but he's mine as well, and I have a say in how we treat him. I'm cuttin' his legs loose so he can ride.”

“Not with my bowie you're not.”

“You're being petty.”

“You bet your britches I am,” Tyree declared. “You've picked a piss-poor time to show some grit.”

Fred snapped his fingers. “The bowie. I mean it.” He was bluffing. He wouldn't do anything if the kid refused.

Tyree looked fit to bust a blood vessel. “I knew you comin' along was a bad idea.” With an oath, he slid the cord over his head and tossed the bowie at Fred's feet. “You want it, there it is.”

“I'm obliged.”

“Go to hell.”

Sliding the big knife from its leather sheath, Fred cut the rope around McCarthy's ankles. He could have untied him, but the knots wouldn't come undone easily and they didn't have time to spare. Gripping McCarthy's arm, he hauled him to his feet. “There you go.”

“I'll need a boost up.”

“Sure.”

Tyree made a sound of disgust. “Hug him, why don't you? Are you this friendly to every murderer you meet?”

“He's the first,” Fred said. Gripping McCarthy's arm, he steadied him as McCarthy hooked a boot in the stirrup. With a grunt and a push, Fred hoisted him onto the saddle.

“You're a good man, Marshal Hitch,” McCarthy said.

“He's a jackass,” Tyree said.

“Enough of your guff.” Fred went over and held the bowie up for him to take. “I'll take full responsibility for what he does from here on out.”

“You will?” McCarthy said.

“You deserve fair treatment and I aim to see that you get it,” Fred replied. It felt good to assert himself. He should have done it sooner.

Tyree wasn't interested in them anymore. He was gazing at their pursuers. “They've seen that we've stopped.”

Judging by the dust they were raising, the warriors were coming on fast. They must want to end the chase.

Quickly forking leather, Fred assumed the lead. “We won't stop again until dark.” Once night fell, they should be able to slip off undetected.

“Should we call you General Hitch now?” Tyree said.

“Grow up,” Fred said.

For over an hour they pushed hard. Fred flattered himself that they were increasing their lead, but it could be a trick of his eyes. They weren't as sharp as they once were.

The countryside became more open. They encountered more cattle but saw no sign of any cowhands. That wasn't unusual. Some ranches encompassed hundreds of square miles. A whole week could go by without a puncher drifting through.

McCarthy's mount was wheezing again, and every so often it would stagger but right itself. It did so now, and he firmed his hold on the reins and said, “Whoa there.”

“Just what we need,” Tyree said.

“Do you ever look at the bright side of things?” Fred asked.

“When there is one.”

Fred checked on the Arapahos. They were closer. No doubt about it. He could see their buckskins as plain as anything. “We need to pick a spot to make our stand.”

“There you go again, General,” Tyree said.

Fred ignored him. “A gully, a ravine, anything will do.” A bluff would be ideal to defend if they could climb to the top, only there weren't any in sight.

“Do you hear that?” McCarthy asked suddenly.

“Tyree complainin' all the time?” Fred said.

“No. Listen.” McCarthy drew rein.

Fred followed suit. All he heard was the horse wheezing. “What is it I'm supposed to be listenin' to?”

“You don't hear anything . . . unusual?”

“I do,” Tyree said.

Presently Fred heard it too, a fluttering sound he couldn't identify. It reminded him of air being forced from a blacksmith's bellows, only quietlike. He gigged the bay and had only gone a dozen feet when he came on a hollow that he'd never have suspected was there.

And in the middle of the hollow was the last thing he would have expected to find.

It was a man.

Sound asleep.

The sleeper had used his saddle for a pillow and was curled on his side, his blanket pulled as high as his ear. The fluttering sound came from underneath, and was him snoring. A shock of black hair was all that poked out. His hat and a coiled rope were next to him, and a rifle butt stuck from the saddle scabbard. Near him on the other side, a palomino was tied to a picket pin.

“Don't this beat all?” Tyree said. “It's not even nighttime.”

“We have to wake him,” Fred said.

“We don't have the time to waste. Let's go around and leave him to his dreams.” Tyree raised his reins.

“We leave him there, the Arapahos will find him. And you know what they'll do.”

Tyree nodded. “It will delay them so we can get away.”

“You could do that?” Fred was appalled. “Let someone be killed and scalped to save your own skin?”

“He's nothin' to me.”

“You are worse off than I thought,” Fred said. To do that to a fellow human being was incomprehensible. “I'm wakin' him up and warnin' him.” Clucking to the bay, he rode into the hollow.

McCarthy came with him, but Tyree sat there
muttering. Glancing back at the Arapahos, he said, “You'd better make this quick.”

Fred intended to. Dismounting, he stepped up, bent, and nudged the man's shoulder. “Mister?”

The man went on snorting.

“Mister?” Fred said again, and shook him harder. “You need to wake up. You're in danger.”

The snorting stopped and a deep voice said, “What?”

“Mister, consarn it all. Hostiles are after us.” Fred shook him harder yet. “Wake up or you're liable to lose your hair.”

The edge of the blanket inched down and a blue eye peered out. “Go away. Can't you see I'm sleepin'?”

“Don't your ears work? Didn't you hear me?” Fred touched his badge. “I'm Marshal Hitch out of Sweetwater. We're takin' a prisoner to Cheyenne and an Arapaho war party is after us. They'll find you here if you don't get your ass up and light a shuck with the rest of us.”

Another blue eye appeared. “Is that all?” he said with a slight drawl.

“There are seven of them and they mean business.” Fred tried to impress his peril upon him.

“I can mean business too.” The man rolled onto his back and the blanket fell away. He was bronzed from the sun, and had a square jaw that made Fred think of an anvil. Yawning, he ran a hand through his black mane and squinted at the sky. “Well, hell. I've slept half the day away.”

“If you don't get on your damn feet,” Tyree said impatiently, “you'll be sleepin' forever.”

The man squinted at him. “You shouldn't ought to mouth off like that, boy. Not to me, you shouldn't.”

“I'm plumb scared,” Tyree said.

“Who are you?” Fred asked. “What are you doing here?”

“I'm Aces Connor,” the man said. “And in case you ain't heard, they call this ‘sleepin'.'”

“By golly, I've seen you before,” Tom McCarthy broke
in. “You're a cowpoke. You ride for the Circle H. You were with Miles Horrell when he paid my store a visit. I remember you helping to load the grain.”

“Used to be I rode for the Circle H,” Aces Connor said. “Not anymore. I'm ridin' the grub lines these days, lookin' for work.”

Fred was annoyed that the cowboy still hadn't gotten up. “Those Arapahos will be here soon.”

“Well, hell,” Aces said again. He slowly sat up and rubbed his square jaw. Picking up his hat, he smoothed his hair and jammed the hat on. “Folks sure can be a nuisance.”

“Do you mean them or us?” Tyree said.

“If the boot fits, boy,” Aces said. He flipped the blanket off and stood, revealing that he had slept with his boots on. His clothes showed a lot of wear but were clean. Strapped around his waist was a gun belt with a nickel-plated, ivory-handled Colt in the holster. The likeness of a rattlesnake had been carved into each grip, and the revolver was engraved with curlicues.

Tyree whistled in appreciation. “That there is some pistol.”

Fred thought so too. In his experience it was rare for a cowboy to wear a revolver like that. Most went for the plain variety. Ivory handles and nickel plating added a lot to the cost, and few cowpokes indulged in such extravagance. They'd rather spend their hard-earned money on the best saddle they could find, or the best-quality hat.

This particular cowboy favored a brown hat with a round crown and a narrow brim. He hadn't put it on as most did, on top of his head, but jammed it onto the back of his so that it was tilted with the front brim slanted up. Somehow it stuck there as he stood and stretched and did more yawning.

“Take your sweet time, why don't you?” Tyree said.

Aces Connor looked him up and down and smiled. “What are you supposed to be, boy? A walkin' arsenal?”

“Stop callin' me boy, you damn cow nurse. I hunt men for the bounty on their heads.”

“Well, good for you.”

Fred was growing increasingly impatient. “Those Arapahos I was tellin' you about? They'll be here any minute.”

“First things first,” Aces said. Still smiling, he walked over to Tyree's mount, looked up at him, and before Tyree could guess his intent, he seized Tyree by the front of his shirt and threw him bodily to the dirt. “That'll learn you to watch your mouth.”

For all of ten seconds Tyree was too stunned to do more than lie there. Then, swearing, he came up off the ground, clawing for both Colts.

Aces Connor was quicker. His hand flicked, and the ivory-handled Colt was leveled at Tyree's belly.

Tyree froze. “Whoa . . .”

“Don't you ever try me, boy,” Aces said. “You get this one time because we're not acquainted, but if you ever try to pull on me again, I'll gun you where you stand. You hear me?”

Tyree couldn't take his wide eyes off that ivory-handled Colt.

“Answer me.”

“I hear you,” Tyree said.

Aces twirled his Colt into his holster and turned his back to Tyree with no more concern than if Tyree were a kitten.

“Those Arapahos,” Fred said again.

“You and your darn Injuns,” Aces said. Moving to his saddle, he shucked the rifle, a Winchester.

Fred was familiar with the model. It was a Browning 1886, with the finest wood stock money could buy, and a target sight attached. Like the cowboy's Colt, it cost more than the regular model.

Aces bent over his saddle, rummaged in a saddlebag, and took out a box of .45-90 cartridges. One by one, he fed seven in, then jacked the lever to feed a cartridge into the chamber. “Where are these varmints of yours?”

Fred pointed to the north.

Aces ambled toward the top of the hollow.

“What does he think he's doing?” Tyree said. He seemed to have forgotten the indignity of being dumped from his saddle and outdrawn.

Shrugging, Fred went with the cowboy. After a short hesitation, so did Tyree. McCarthy had stayed on his horse, but he was curious too, and clambering down, he joined them.

Aces Connor stood in plain view of the approaching warriors. By now they weren't more than a couple of hundred yards out. At the sight of him, they stopped. One brandished a lance over his head and yelled in the Arapaho tongue.

“They'll charge us any moment,” Fred said.

“Not if Sassy can help it,” Aces said, and patted his Winchester.

“You gave your rifle a name?”

“If it was good enough for Davy Crockett to do, it's good enough for me.” Aces raised the target sight, adjusted it, and pressed the Winchester to his shoulder.

“Kill them,” Tyree said gleefully. “Shoot every one of the savages.”

“What would I want to do that for?” Aces said. “Now hush, infant. If I'm off by a whisker, I'll splatter his brains.”

Out on the prairie, the warrior with the lance appeared to be working the others into a frenzy. He pumped his lance and was shouting and pointing.

Aces Connor took a deep breath and held himself still. His trigger finger slowly curled.

The Winchester Browning boomed like thunder.

Fred saw an incredible thing. The warrior who was working the others up had an eagle feather in his hair, and at the shot, the feather flipped into the air, then fluttered to earth. It awed him as much as it did the Arapahos. They looked at the feather and then at Aces as he worked the lever and prepared to shoot again.

“Damnation!” Tyree exclaimed.

Aces raised his cheek from the rifle and shouted something, but not in English. He took aim once more and said, to himself apparently, “I hope they don't push it.”

To Fred's astonishment, the warriors reined around, jabbed their heels, and departed at a gallop, several twisting their heads as if they feared being shot in the back.

“Drop some of them!” Tyree urged.

“No.”

The Arapahos didn't slow until they were a quarter of a mile away. Soon only the dust they raised was visible.

“I'll be switched,” Fred said. “You drove them off as slick as anything.”

Aces had lowered his Winchester. “No one wants to die.” Turning, he started back down.

“What did you say to them?” Fred wanted to know.

“Run or die.”

“In their own tongue?” Fred marveled. “Where in creation did you pick up Arapaho?”

“Mr. Horrell used to give the tame ones some cows now and then,” Aces said. “Mostly to help them get through the winter. He's a fine Christian gent, and always doing good by folks.”

“That doesn't explain you speakin' their tongue.”

“I only knew a handful of words,” Aces said. “Some of the warriors like to gamble, and we'd throw dice or play cards.”

“That was some shootin',” Tyree said. “If it had been me, I'd have gunned every last one of the red vermin.”

“They're people, boy, like you and me.”

“The hell you say.”

On reaching his saddle, Aces shoved the Winchester into the scabbard and squatted to roll up his blankets. “Where are you gents headed, if you don't mind my askin'?”

“Cheyenne,” Fred said.

“Hmm,” Aces said, and went on rolling.

Intensely curious, Fred asked, only partly in jest, “Are
you sure you're a cowboy and not a gun hand? I never saw anyone draw as fast as you, and you're no slouch with that Winchester.”

“Everyone was somethin' else before he became what he is,” Aces replied.

“Huh?” Tyree said.

“I've been nursemaidin' cows going on ten years now,” Aces informed them. “I was with Mr. Horrell for the last five, but he had to fire me a couple of months ago and I've been lookin' for work since.”

“Why did he have to, if you don't mind
my
askin'?” Fred said.

“I shot somebody,” Aces said, “and Mr. Horrell has a rule about not havin' shootists on his payroll.”

“Who did you shoot?”

Aces looked at him. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“It's the badge,” Fred said.

“Sure it is.” Aces picked up his saddle blanket in both hands and shook it. “I was in a card game over to Casper and the tinhorn who was dealin' slipped a card from the bottom of the deck. I told him to reshuffle and deal again, but he went for a hideout and I shot him dead.”

“So you shot in self-defense,” Fred said. “It doesn't seem fair that your boss fired you over that one killin'.”

“There were three.”

“You shot the other cardplayers?”

“No. About six months before that I'd shot a rustler. Caught him in the act of using a runnin' iron to change the Circle H brand and told him to throw up his hands. He did, but he had his six-shooter in one and I had to perforate his brainpan.”

“What about the third?”

Aces was moving to his palomino. “A year or so before that I shot a drummer who'd stopped at the ranch to sell ladies' corsets to Horrell's missus. While all the hands were stuffin' their faces with chuck at the cookhouse, the drummer snuck into the bunkhouse and was helpin' himself to our plunder. I told him to throw up his hands and
he drew a belly gun. I shot him in the arm, thinkin' to spare him, but the arm became infected and he died anyway.”

“You don't have much luck with people throwin' up their hands,” Fred observed wryly.

“I surely don't.” Aces draped the saddle blanket over the palomino and smoothed it. “As soon as I'm saddled we can head for Cheyenne like you want.”

“We?” Fred said.

“I'm going with you.”