Ralph Compton the Law and the Lawless Page 11

  “You haven’t said who he is.”

  “Oh.” The freighter moved to the broken wheel. He had already placed a jack under the axle, and the wheel hung aslant. “It’s the one they call Mad Dog. I think his last name is Hanks.”

  Toomis smothered an oath. “Did you happen to hear how they got him?”

  “You won’t believe it,” the freighter said, and laughed. “He rode right into town and into a saloon in broad daylight. Can you imagine? After he’d helped rob the bank not long ago.”

  “He never was much on brains,” Toomis said, and caught himself. “Now that I heard anyhow.”

  “You ask me, any hombre who rides the owl-hoot trail is short of common sense.”

  “Outlaws don’t always set out to be outlaws,” Toomis said. “Sometimes it just happens.”

  The freighter shrugged. “It was still mighty dumb of Mad Dog Hanks. I hear he rode past the marshal’s office on his way in. Now, I ask you. Is that dumb or is that dumb?”

  “Stupid is as stupid does,” Toomis replied.

  The freighter chuckled. “How about that rope so I can tie the gate? How much do you want for it?”

  “Tell you what,” Toomis said, “you can have it for free.” He hardly ever used the thing, and he was feeling generous. The freighter had unwittingly done him a favor.

  “Why, that’s awful kind of you.”

  “That’s me,” Toomis said, “kind through and through.” He handed the rope down. “What else did you hear about that dumb outlaw? Are they fixin’ to hang him any time soon?”

  “They’re a law-abiding town. They sent for the circuit judge. It’ll probably take him a week or better to get there. I hope I’m in the neighborhood when they have the trial. Or, better yet, I’d like to be there for the hangin’.”

  “Maybe they’ll send him to prison instead.”

  “Mad Dog Hanks?” The freighter shook his head. “In case you ain’t heard, he’s half loco. They say he put up quite a fight when they arrested him. He bit people and clawed them like he’s a real dog.”

  “No,” Toomis said.

  “I swear that’s what they told me at the freight office. But what can you expect from somebody who calls himself Mad Dog?”

  “It takes all kinds.”

  “Amen to that, brother.” The freighter set the rope on the ground. “Well, I’d better get back to work. I want to be on my way before dark.”

  “Have a safe trip,” Toomis said with a grin, amused by the act he was putting on. Clucking to his mount, he rode on. He’d been thinking of stopping in Alpine for a drink himself, but not now. Cestus Calloway needed to be told about Mad Dog, and something had to be done.

  Toomis didn’t like Mad Dog much, but Mad Dog was one of them and they couldn’t stand by and let him be strung up.

  Alpine didn’t know it yet, but there would be hell to pay.

  • • •

  The Attica Kid practiced his draw every day. He’d go off by himself and spend half an hour or more doing nothing but drawing and cocking the Lightning. Over and over, again and again and again, until it was as much a part of him as breathing. When he could, he’d set up targets and shoot.

  There was a clearing near the cave, and he’d go there, jam sticks in the ground, step back about ten steps, and go at it.

  On this particular morning, the Kid was about to commence when he heard a footfall. Whirling, he had the Lightning out and pointed in less than the blink of an eye.

  “Hold on there,” Cestus Calloway said, smiling as he ambled out of the trees. “It’s only me.” He regarded the sticks. “You practice more than anybody I ever knew.”

  “A man doesn’t practice, he loses his edge.” The Kid twirled the Lightning into his holster. “I’ll be damned if I’ll lose mine.” To demonstrate, he turned to the sticks. “Pick one.”

  “The second from the left,” Cestus said.

  The Kid’s hand flashed. He drew and shot and split the stick, then twirled the Colt back into his holster. “How was that?”

  “I’ve met some fast gents in my time, but you beat them all,” Cestus complimented him.

  The Attica Kid studied him. “Is this a social call or did you just come to watch me shoot?”

  “I figured it was a good time for us to talk.” Cestus stared toward the cave. “Away from the others. They know better than to come near you when you’re practicin’.”

  “So do you,” the Kid said. “You must have somethin’ important on your mind.”

  Squatting, Cestus plucked a blade of grass and stuck the stem between his teeth. “It’s about this revenge business.”

  “I thought that was settled. We kill the law dog and his deputies and everybody else on the posse.”

  “I want to talk about how to go about it.”

  The Kid cocked his head, puzzled. “I thought that was settled. You’re havin’ Toomis and Mad Dog find out what we need so we can do them in without bein’ caught.”

  “It would help if we could make the marshal look like an accident,” Cestus said. “So it’s less likely other tin stars will come after us.”

  “Have one of the others run him over with a wagon. The rest of the posse, we can do any old way.”

  “I wish it were that simple.”

  “I’ll brace Sherm Bonner. He’s the dangerous one. With him out of the way, the farmer and the blacksmith and the rest will be easy.”

  “I want to hit all of them at once. The marshal, the cowpokes, the farmer, the blacksmith, all of them at the same time.”

  “Why complicate things?” the Kid said. “We kill them one at a time and don’t rush it so there aren’t any mistakes.”

  “That could take months, with them on their guard,” Cestus said. “If we do it in one fell swoop, as folks like to say, it will be over faster.”

  “They’re scattered all over the place,” the Kid said. “Or are you fixin’ to send out invites to a social to bring them all together?”

  Cestus grinned. “Even if I thought you were serious, which you’re not, they’d be suspicious. No, we let them go about their days doin’ what they usually do, and hit them when they least expect.”

  “Do we draw straws to see who kills who?”

  “That would be one way. But what if Cockeye or Bert draws the straw to kill Sherm Bonner? They wouldn’t stand a prayer. You, on the other hand, would.”

  “I can see where this is goin’.”

  “We match who is bein’ killed with who would be best to kill him,” Cestus said. “You should do Bonner. You’re the only one of us who can beat him on the draw.”

  “Damn right I can,” the Kid said.

  “And while you’re at it, you might as well blow out his pard’s wick. That Lefty, I think his name is.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “I’d pick Cockeye to do for the blacksmith and Toomis to take care of the farmer. Neither should be hard. They’re not gun hands.” Cestus scratched his chin. “That leaves the young deputy for Bert and the old one who works at the stable for Mad Dog.”

  “And the marshal for you.”

  Cestus nodded. “It’s only fittin’, don’t you reckon? I put this gang together. The marshal organized the posse. I’m in charge of things with us, more or less, and the marshal is in charge on his end. So it’s only proper I be the one who runs him down with a wagon or however I decide to do it.”

  “You could be wastin’ your time,” the Attica Kid said. “Folks might still suspect it was us.”

  “Suspectin’ and provin’ are two different things,” Cestus replied. “Once the law dog and his posse are dead, we’ll light a shuck for Cheyenne or maybe Salt Lake and lie low for a while.”

  “If that’s how you want to do it,” the Kid said, “it’s fine by me.”

  “I knew I could count on you.” C
estus rose and was turning when a commotion broke out not far off. Hooves pounded and voices were raised, and someone came crashing through the brush at a gallop.

  The Attica Kid instinctively placed his hand on his Lightning. “Maybe the marshal has found us.”

  “It’s Toomis,” Cestus said, peering into the trees. “He’s back from the Circle T.”

  “He acts like his britches are on fire.”

  Cestus grinned, then had to take a couple of steps back as Ira Toomis trotted into the clearing and hauled on his reins. His horse was lathered with sweat. “What’s gotten into you?” Cestus demanded. “That animal looks like you rode it to death to get there.”

  “I nearly did,” Toomis said. “I rode all night.” He was caked with the dust of many miles.

  “You missed Cockeye’s coffee that much?” the Kid joked. Everyone knew that Cockeye couldn’t make a decent pot of coffee if his life depended on it.

  Leaning on his saddle horn, Toomis said wearily, “We have a problem.”

  “Not another one,” Cestus said.

  “It can’t be worse than Larner and McGivern bein’ shot,” the Attica Kid remarked.

  “It comes close,” Toomis said.

  “Quit keepin’ us in suspense, damn you,” Cestus said. “Out with it.”

  “Mad Dog is in the Alpine jail. He got himself arrested and there’s talk of the gallows.”

  Cestus swore. “How in hell did he manage that? I told him not to draw attention to himself.”

  “Since when does Mad Dog ever listen?” Toomis rejoined. “As to how, they jumped him in a saloon. He rode into town in broad daylight, if you can believe it.”

  “With him I do,” Cestus said, and sighed. “When it rains, it pours.”

  “Ain’t that the truth?” Toomis said.

  “This changes everything.”

  “We have to get him out, Cestus.”

  “I don’t see why,” the Kid disagreed. “He was dumb enough to be caught. Let him rot. I never have liked him. All he does is gripe.”

  “He’s one of us,” Cestus said.

  “A burr is still a burr.”

  “If we let him rot, folks will see us as weak. As not able to take care of our own.”

  “Hell,” the Attica Kid said.

  “We can’t just ride in and take him out of the jail,” Toomis said. “A lot of them know what we look like.”

  “I know,” Cestus said.

  “They’re bound to have someone standin’ guard every minute of the day and night, and maybe extra guards besides.”

  “I know that too.”

  The Attica Kid frowned. “Then do you mind tellin’ us how we’ll pull Mad Dog’s fat out of the fire without gettin’ burned?”

  “Funny you should mention that,” Cestus Calloway said, and laughed a strange laugh.

  Chapter 15

  The next week was so peaceful there were moments when Marshal Boyd Cooper was tempted to pinch himself to see if he was awake.

  So much had happened in so short a time: the bank robbery, Larner and McGivern being shot, the assassin trying to kill Deputy Mitchell, arresting Mad Dog.

  That seven whole days then went by without an incident of any kind was a wonderment.

  Mitch came back to work. The town council agreed to employ Harvey Dale full-time for a while, which let Boyd set a work schedule of three eight-hour shifts so someone was always at the jail watching over Mad Dog Hanks.

  Boyd took advantage of the quiet to sneak off and see Cecelia Wilson several times. He was clever about it and no one caught on. Mitch and Dale had to know, of course, so they could get word to him in an emergency, but the council and the rest of Alpine’s good citizens had no notion their marshal was courting.

  There were some who would say it was ridiculous at his age. There were some who would smirk and make some comment about old dogs and old love. He’d tell them to go to hell.

  The plain truth was, Boyd was smitten. The more he saw of Cecelia, the more he grew to care for her. She had a beauty about her, inside and out, and a sort of dignity that he found appealing.

  They’d sit in the parlor and talk and laugh, or go for strolls about the farm and talk and laugh, or stand under the stars and not talk or laugh but be closer for the lack.

  It got so that Boyd thought about her every moment he was away from her. He dreamed about her when he slept. And some were naughty dreams.

  Now and then his conscience would prick him over the fact that he wasn’t doing much about the Calloway Gang. But there wasn’t much he could do, short of organizing another posse and going out day after day to scour the countryside. He saw no point to that. The outlaws could be anywhere.

  He couldn’t send Dale out either, because he needed Harve to work a shift at the jail each day. He consoled himself with the idea that once the circuit judge arrived and the trial was over, he’d set out to corral the outlaws in earnest.

  In the meantime, why not enjoy the peace and quiet?

  The eighth day started out like the others. Boyd had the six-a.m.-until-two-p.m. shift at the jail. He’d arranged for Ethel over to the restaurant to bring breakfast for the prisoner, and she always showed up promptly at seven, bearing a tray. With his hand on his revolver, he’d order Mad Dog Hanks to stay on his bunk while the food was slid inside the cell.

  Mad Dog had lived up to his name. The man complained about everything. He insulted everybody. He hated the world and everyone in it. And Lord, could he cuss! Boyd told him to watch his mouth when Ethel fed him, but Mad Dog paid him no mind and called her things that turned her ears red.

  That eighth morning, Mad Dog glared at her as the food was slid in. “Look at you, bitch, in that red shawl you like to wear. It’s the same color your blood would be when I slit your throat someday.”

  Ethel blanched and took a step back.

  “Stop that, you hear?” Boyd said. “She cooks you good meals. Show some gratitude.”

  “I’ll show her somethin’,” Mad Dog said, and cupped himself.

  “How despicable,” Ethel said. “He keeps this up, I don’t know as I can go on doing this, Marshal.”

  “I can pay you a bit more,” Boyd offered, “for the inconvenience.”

  “It’s not the money.” Ethel sniffed. “It’s this animal.”

  Mad Dog chuckled as she went out. “Did you hear her? That’s what I am to everybody. Nothin’ but an animal.”

  “You bring it on yourself, the way you act,” Boyd said as he returned to his desk.

  Coming to the bars, Mad Dog gripped them. “I like it that they think of me that way.”

  “What good does it do you?”

  “I’m Mad Dog Hanks. The rabid cur. Folks fear me. They tell their kids scary stories about me. I give them nightmares when they hear I’m around. They bolt their doors and latch their windows.”

  “That’s the first time I’ve heard you brag on yourself,” Boyd mentioned. “And it’s loco besides.”

  “To want folks to be afraid of me?”

  “It serves no purpose.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, law dog. Fear is a kind of respect. I go into a saloon and men find out who I am, they step aside. I ride down a street and folks know it’s me, they scurry for cover.”

  “And you like that?”

  “Who wouldn’t?”

  “Anyone with common sense. Most folks would rather be treated with real respect. Not that kind.”

  “Real, hell. You think the people in this town respect you all that much? They respect the badge because they’ve been brought up to do whatever someone wearin’ a badge tells them to do. But you? The man wearin’ it? They don’t respect you a smidgen as much as they respect me.”

  “You’re confusin’ respect with fear.”

  “Same thing.”

 
Boyd saw no point in continuing their argument and instead said, “Have you changed your mind about my offer?”

  “Hell. Not that again.”

  “Calloway has to have a hideout somewhere, and you must know where it is.”

  “He might have ten hideouts for all you know.”

  “Then give me all ten.”

  “Drop dead,” Mad Dog said, and turned to his tray.

  Boyd was glad when his shift was over. There was only so much of Mad Dog Hanks he could take. After a while, the man’s griping and foul mouth got to him, and he wanted to march into the cell and beat him with a club.

  Mitch had the second shift, from two until ten. He was healing nicely and not in pain anymore. Today he smiled and announced, “The docs say my bandage can come off tomorrow.”

  “Good for you,” Boyd said.

  “Don’t get too happy, boy,” Mad Dog said from over at his bunk. “The next time we won’t miss.”

  Mitch swallowed and licked his lips.

  “There won’t be a next time,” Boyd said to Hanks. “Not for you anyhow. You’ll be joinin’ Larner and McGivern in hell.”

  “I hope they have a card game goin’,” Mad Dog said. “And just remember. There’s still five of us out there to finish the job.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Mitch,” Boyd said. “He’s tryin’ to spook you. The outlaws have lain low since we took him into custody. They won’t do anything so long as we have him.”

  “I bet you’re right,” Mitch said without much conviction.

  Mad Dog laughed. “If you think Cestus and the Attica Kid are afraid of you, you have another think comin’. I may not like the Kid much, but he doesn’t know what fear is.”

  “Boasting again,” Boyd said, rising so Mitch could sit down.

  “You’ll find out,” Mad Dog said. “You and that pup of a deputy, both. Your days are numbered.”

  “It’s all right, Marshal,” Mitch said. “When you’re gone, I plug my ears with cotton so I don’t have to listen to him.”

  About to go, Boyd turned back. “You do what, now?”

  Mitch opened a bottom draw and took out two clumps of cotton. “I use these. I can hardly hear him with them in.”