Ralph Compton the Law and the Lawless Read online

  Chapter 17

  Every frontier town feared fire. Nearly every building was made of wood, and with perennially dry conditions in the summer over much of the West, towns were tinderboxes waiting for the first hiss of uncontrolled flame to ignite an inferno.

  A frantic cry of “Fire!” always brought citizens out in droves to fight it. Some towns were fortunate enough to have fire brigades. Many did not.

  The town council of Alpine had the presence of mind to form one made up of a dozen men, townsfolk who had no experience whatsoever fighting fires. The council also invested in a double-tank fire wagon with a steam-driven pump, drawn by a four-horse team. It was regularly taken to the river and pumped out and refilled to keep the equipment functioning properly.

  So far Alpine hadn’t needed to put their fire wagon to real use.

  Boyd knew their luck had run out before he reached the burning house. The smoke told him that much.

  Dale at his side, Boyd sprinted around a final corner and beheld the house, already three-fourths engulfed. It sat on a narrow side street at the edge of town. That worked to their advantage if they could keep the flames from spreading. But the house was one of half a dozen spaced close together.

  The people who lived on the street had scrambled to fight the blaze. Buckets were being filled in a water trough and passed down a line to the first man, who threw the water on the fire. It was akin to using a thimble to put out a forest fire, and wasn’t doing anything to retard the flames.

  Boyd began bellowing orders: for Dale to go urge the firemen to hurry, for more people to lend a hand. He shouted for more buckets and set up another bucket line between the trough and the house, and yet a third between the house and a backyard pump.

  The heat was blistering. People couldn’t stand to get too close. In no time the flames were a tongue of fire, licking at the sky.

  Boyd kept the buckets moving, but it was a losing proposition. He dreaded that any moment the wind might cause the fire to leap the street and ignite other homes. Not only was that a threat, but burning bits were flying through the air like thousands of fireflies, and all it would take was for one to land at just the right spot, and they’d have a second fire to deal with.

  What with the crackle and roar of the conflagration, and the shouts and cries of those trying to put it out, it was no wonder Boyd didn’t realize the fire wagon had arrived until it was practically on top of him. He heard the bell, glanced up, and there it was.

  Harvey Dale was up on the seat with the driver. Leaping down, he shouted needlessly, “We’re here!”

  Alpine’s volunteer firemen practiced twice a month. They had the procedure down: how to turn the steam engine over, how to unroll the hose, how to attach it to the tank. The biggest and sturdiest held the nozzle while others held on to the hose to steady it.

  At a command from the fire brigade captain, a powerful stream was unleashed.

  Cheers went up from many of the onlookers, but Boyd didn’t join in. The water wasn’t having much effect. For a harrowing couple of minutes it appeared that the fire wagon was too little, too late.

  The captain had the bucket lines concentrate on the adjacent houses to keep them from going up while the hose team pressed nearer to the main blaze. Bit by bit the water began to tell. Bit by bit the flames shrank. Once the fire was reduced enough, the captain commanded the bucket lines to join in the assault. The combined attack prevailed.

  Even so, it was slow going. Boyd didn’t realize how slow until the last of the flames were being put out and people were applauding, and someone near him remarked that it had taken over two hours.

  Boyd was exhausted. His shoulders ached from all the buckets he’d handled, and he was soaked with sweat and stank of smoke. When the brigade captain came over and thanked him for his help, he swallowed and nodded.

  “We were damn lucky,” the captain said.

  “Were we ever!” Boyd agreed. His throat was sore and raspy, another result of the smoke.

  “It was a close thing,” the captain said. “We used up nearly all the water in the tanks.”

  Some of the firemen were carefully moving about the debris, searching for hot spots.

  “What I’d like to know,” the captain went on, “is how it started.”

  Harvey Dale was nearby, and Boyd told him to find the owner. No sooner did the old scout turn than a woman stepped forward. She had a small child in her arms and two others at her side. Tears moistened her eyes, her hair was a mess, and soot splotched her face and neck.

  “That’s our house,” the woman said, and let out a sob. “We lost everything.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Boyd said.

  She stared aghast at the blackened ruins. “My husband is at work. He has the middle shift at the Livingston. Wait until he sees this.” She coughed, and composed herself. “Where are my manners? I’m Mrs. Shaw. These are my little ones.”

  The captain was all business. “How did this fire start, Mrs. Shaw? Was a lamp knocked over?”

  “As God is my witness, I have no idea,” Mrs. Shaw said. “Except that it wasn’t a lamp. We took precautions, Woodrow and me. We know how children can be, so all the lamps were up high where they couldn’t reach.”

  “It had to be something,” the captain said, almost accusingly. “Were you starting a fire in the stove and it somehow got out of hand?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No, I tell you,” Mrs. Shaw said angrily. “Do you think I wouldn’t say if I knew how it started?”

  A girl of ten or so was clinging to her dress. Looking up at her, the girl tugged and said something too softly for Boyd to hear.

  “What was that, Elizabeth?” Mrs. Shaw said.

  The girl tugged harder and motioned for her mother to bend down. When Mrs. Shaw did, the girl said something in her ear.

  Startled, Mrs. Shaw said, “What men, Beth?”

  “Men?” the captain said gruffly. “What are you talking about, child? Is this some fancy of yours?”

  The girl pressed her face into her mother’s dress.

  “Answer me,” the captain said.

  Boyd looked at him and shook his head. Squatting, he lightly touched the girl’s shoulder. “Beth, I’m Marshal Cooper. You can talk to me. Are you sayin’ you saw who started the fire?”

  Her face still pressed against her mother’s dress, Beth nodded.

  “Would you tell me about it?” Boyd said.

  Beth didn’t respond.

  “If there are men going around startin’ fires, we’d very much like to know,” Boyd said. “You can help us.”

  Her left eye peeked out of a fold.

  “Please,” Boyd said.

  Beth slowly faced him.

  The captain went to speak, but Boyd gestured him to silence. Smiling, he said, “Please, Beth. You see my badge? It’s my job to stop people from doin’ bad things. I need to find whoever did this and make sure they don’t do it to anyone else.”

  “Tell him, Beth,” Mrs. Shaw said. “He’s the law. You can always trust the law.”

  “I wish Pa was here,” Beth said softly.

  “But he’s not. So do as the marshal wants,” Mrs. Shaw said.

  “Honestly,” the captain said, sounding irritated.

  “You’re not helpin’,” Boyd warned him.

  “Tell the marshal,” Mrs. Shaw said.

  Beth clasped her fingers in front of her and said something that Boyd didn’t catch.

  “You’ll have to speak up,” Mrs. Shaw said. “They can’t hear you when you mumble, child.”

  Beth coughed, then said softly, “There were five.”

  “Five men?” Boyd said, and a ripple of ice ran down his spine.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where did you see them?”

  “Out t
he window,” Beth said. “When two of them ran up with torches.”

  “What’s that you say?” Mrs. Shaw interrupted. “Torches?”

  “Who would deliberately set a house on fire?” the captain snapped. “This is preposterous.”

  Boyd gently squeezed the girl’s shoulder. “Talk to me, Beth. Tell me more. What were you doin’ when you saw them?”

  “Helping Ma get ready for supper,” Beth said quietly. “She told me to get wood for the stove from the wood box.”

  “It’s near the back window,” Mrs. Shaw said.

  Beth nodded. “I looked out and saw them.”

  “The five men?” Boyd said.

  Beth nodded again. “The others were on horses, but two were running toward our house and they had torches.”

  The captain turned to Mrs. Shaw. “Are you and your husband at odds with anyone? Who would do such a thing to you?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Hush up, both of you,” Boyd said curtly. “Let the girl finish.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Go on, Beth. Tell me about the two men.”

  “They ran up to our house and threw the torches.”

  “Dear Lord,” Mrs. Shaw exclaimed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It happened so fast, Ma,” Beth said, and broke into tears. Pressing her face to the dress again, she sobbed uncontrollably.

  Boyd glanced up in annoyance at the mother.

  “Sorry,” Mrs. Shaw said. “It’s a shock, is all. We don’t have any enemies, Woodrow and me. He’s a miner. I’m a mother. We’re peaceable people. Who would want to do this to us?”

  “Exactly my point,” the captain said. “The child is making the story up. She must have started the fire herself.”

  “I don’t see how,” Mrs. Shaw said. “There are no lamps near the wood box, and we keep our matches in a drawer that’s out of her reach.”

  “I tell you, she must have.”

  “No!” Beth cried into the dress. “It wasn’t me. It was those men!”

  Boyd had had enough. “Not one more word out of either of you,” he said to the mother and the captain. “And this time you’d damn well better listen.”

  “You heard the marshal,” Harvey Dale said, and put his hand on his six-shooter.

  “How dare you threaten me!” the fire brigade captain replied.

  “I’ll do more than threaten,” the old scout said.

  “Please,” Mrs. Shaw said. “No violence.”

  “Then let the marshal do his job, lady,” Dale said to her. “The girl can’t talk with you two buttin’ in all the time.”

  Boyd made a mental note to thank Dale later; the mother and the captain finally shut up. To the girl he said, “Beth? Would you tell me more? Did you get a good look at them out the window?”

  “Some of a look,” the girl said.

  “What do you remember about them? Can you describe them for me?”

  Taking her face from the dress, the girl wiped at her eyes and nose with a sleeve. “Sorry,” she said.

  “Go on,” Boyd urged. “The two men.”

  “They ran up to the back of house. One had a round hat and dressed real nice. Like Pa would in his Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes.”

  “Round hat?” Boyd said. “Do you mean a bowler or a derby?”

  “I don’t know how to tell,” Beth said. “But it was round.”

  “What else?” Boyd prompted.

  “The other one scared me.”

  “What did he do? Did he see you?”

  “No, but I saw him,” Beth said. “He was looking up at the roof and he threw his torch.” She shuddered. “I saw his face.”

  “What about it?”

  “It scared me. It’s why I didn’t yell for Ma or anything. I was too scared.” Beth stopped and sniffled.

  Boyd wished she would come right out with the rest of it. Getting her to talk was like pulling teeth. “What about his face scared you so much?”

  “Was it scarred?” Mrs. Shaw asked. “Like your uncle Dillon’s from that time he got hit on the cheek with a shovel?”

  The girl shook her head. “It was the man’s eyes.”

  “What about them?” Boyd asked, knowing what she would say, and dreading it to his marrow. Not that there could be any doubt.

  “They were spooky,” Beth said. “One eye looked one way and the other eye looked another.”

  “Cockeye,” Dale said. “And the other one must have been Bert Varrow. But why would they set some miner’s house on fire . . .” He stopped and stared toward the middle of town, and the jail. “Oh hell.”

  Boyd exploded into motion, running as if a life depended on it—because it did.

  Chapter 18

  “What’s all the ruckus about?” Mad Dog Hanks growled. “I’m tryin’ to get some sleep over here.”

  Deputy Hugo Mitchell peered out the front window of the jail at the people hurrying past. Craning his neck, he glimpsed a column of smoke to the west. He had to squint to see it because it was directly in line with the sun. “Looks to be a fire,” he replied.

  “You’d better go help,” Mad Dog said.

  Mitch turned. “I’m not goin’ anywhere. The marshal said I’m to stay put and guard you, and that’s exactly what I aim to do.”

  “Some gents never learn.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You were already shot once,” Mad Dog taunted, and laughed.

  Mitch returned to the desk. No sooner did he sit than the door burst open and in rushed Arthur Hunnecut, the president of the Alpine Bank and Trust Company, in a state of great agitation.

  “Where’s Marshal Cooper?” the banker demanded.

  “He went off to make his rounds with Deputy Dale,” Mitch said. “Can I help you?”

  “There’s a fire,” Hunnecut said, gesturing at the window.

  “I know,” Mitch said.

  “Then why are you just sitting there? Go help fight it. Don’t you realize it’s on my side of Main Street?”

  “Your side?” Mitch said in confusion.

  “My bank’s side, rather,” Hunnecut said. “If it spreads out of control, my bank could burn to the ground.”

  “So could a lot of homes and other businesses,” Mitch said.

  “Was that supposed to be funny?”

  “Land sakes, no,” Mitch said. The banker’s attitude flustered him. He wasn’t used to dealing with important people. “I was only sayin’ that your bank ain’t the only place we could lose. There are others to think of.”

  “Now I know you’re jesting. What else can possibly be as important as my bank?”

  Mitch had no answer to that one.

  “Do more than flap your gums,” Hunnecut said. “Get out of that chair and go lend a hand.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why in hell not?” Hunnecut asked angrily.

  Before Mitch could respond, loud clanging broke out in the street. “Do you hear that? It must be the fire wagon.”

  Wheeling, Hunnecut stuck his head out the door. “It is. Why am I wasting my time with you when I should be talking to the fire crew? They must protect my bank at all costs.” With that he ran out, slamming the door behind him.

  “The salt of the earth,” Mad Dog said, and laughed.

  “What do you know about salt?” Mitch said. “You rob and kill for a livin’.”

  “I know a . . . What’s that word?” Mad Dog’s brow puckered.

  “Which?”

  “I recollect now,” Mad Dog said, snapping his fingers. “I know a hypocrite when I hear one, and that banker is at the top of the heap.”

  “He’s not a very likable man,” Mitch agreed. Absently running his hand along the edge of the desk, he wondered if he was doing the right thing. Maybe the banker was right. Maybe
he should go help fight the fire.

  Just then the fire wagon went past, the bell clanging and the team straining. The driver flicked a whip to hurry them.

  “I hope this whole town burns down,” Mad Dog said.

  “What a mean thing to say,” Mitch said. “Think of all the women and children. Think of the old folks.”

  “They can all fry to a crisp, for all I care,” Mad Dog said scornfully, “and you can fry with them, boy. The only person I care about is me.”

  “There’s a shock.” Mitch leaned back and propped his feet up. It eased the discomfort in his side somewhat. “Outlaws sure ain’t saints.”

  “I don’t recollect any of us ever claimin’ to be,” Mad Dog said. “I live my life my way. I take what I want and do what I want and no one can tell me different.”

  “You’re ten years old. Is that it?”

  “What do you know?” Mad Dog snapped. “Look at you. I bet you think you’re doin’ good by wearin’ that tin. Bet you think you’re helpin’ folks and makin’ the world a better place.”

  “I do what little I can,” Mitch said defensively. Unknown to the outlaw, Mad Dog had struck a nerve. Ever since he was little, Mitch had always tried to do what was right. Part of that came from his folks, especially his ma. She had impressed on him that there were two kinds of people in the world, good people and bad people. The good ones were looked up to and respected, while the bad ones were looked down on and shunned. Even more important, the good ones went to heaven and the bad ones burned in hell.

  “I reckoned as much,” Mad Dog was saying. “But what has bein’ good ever got you, boy? Are you rich? Do you have a big house with servants to wait on you hand and foot?”

  “No, but neither do you.”

  Mad Dog ignored that. “You risk your life, and for what? Hardly more money than a cowpoke makes, I suspect.”

  “I get by.”

  “That’s all you do,” Mad Dog said. “That’s all bein’ good has ever done for anyone.”

  Mitch was growing annoyed. “Don’t you ever have anything nice to say about folks?”

  “Nice?” Mad Dog said, and guffawed so hard he sat on his bunk and doubled over.

  Mitch decided that was enough. Opening a drawer, he took out an old copy of the True Fissure, the town newspaper. He’d already read it twice, but it was something to do. And he could always use the practice. He’d only gone as far as the third grade in school and had to wrestle with a lot of words. Coop told him once that if he hankered to be a marshal someday, he should get better at it.