Ralph Compton the Evil Men Do Page 3

  Fred was shocked. “You thought that poorly of me?”

  “Hitch, everybody does.”

  “I never,” Fred said. Here he thought he’d been doing a fairly fine job. So what if he didn’t actually do much? There wasn’t much to do.

  “I won’t let you take me,” McCarthy vowed.

  Fred glanced at the boy to ask what they should do—but the boy wasn’t there. He’d crept off while they were talking. “Tyree?” he whispered.

  “What’s that?” McCarthy said.

  Fred inched an eye past the sacks. The place was too dark to see much. There were only a couple of small windows and they were high up. “Tom, I wish you would reconsider.”

  A revolver thundered.

  Fred drew back, thinking that McCarthy was shooting at him. But no, more shots banged, and he realized the kid and McCarthy were in a gun duel. He heard McCarthy cry out and the stamp of pounding boots. Then a rectangle of light spilled across the floor.

  “He’s hightailin’ it,” the kid shouted.

  Fred moved around the sacks in time to see Tyree Johnson bolt out the rear door. “Damn him anyhow,” Fred said, and went after him. The harsh flare of the sun made him squint. He looked right and left but didn’t see either of them. Relieved, he was about to turn and go back through the store to the front when the kid popped out of an alley and beckoned.

  “What are you waitin’ for? This’ll be easier if it’s both of us.”

  Fred’s idea of “easy” didn’t include being shot at, but he dashed into the alley, puffing worse than before.

  “You are awful out of shape,” Tyree remarked, running smoothly.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Fred said. He wouldn’t admit it, but this was the most exercise he’d had in a coon’s age. “Where did he get to?”

  “The main street.”

  “He could be anywhere by now.” Fred sought to discourage pursuit. “We might as well go back to my office.”

  “You do what you want, old man,” Tyree said, running faster, “but I’m no quitter.”

  “Well, hell.” Fred wished he didn’t have to follow him. He’d never counted on something like this happening. Not in Sweetwater.

  Main Street was deserted. A few faces peeked from windows, but most people had the sense not to show themselves when lead flew.

  The boy was looking to the right. “I bet he’s makin’ for the stable. Does he keep a horse there?”

  “Not that I know of,” Fred said.

  “He’ll steal one, then,” Tyree said. “But he’ll want to saddle it first, and that will slow him some.” Tucking low, he ran on. “Let’s go.”

  Fred was tired of the boy giving him orders. He was the law. He was the grown man. He should be telling the kid, not the other way around.

  The stable doors were wide-open, and nothing moved inside. The stable man, Chester, was nowhere to be seen.

  Fred hoped McCarthy hadn’t harmed Chester. Once a week he and Chester played checkers. And on occasion they’d claim a table at the saloon and pass a bottle back and forth. Chester was the closest thing to a best friend he had.

  Zigzagging, Tyree Johnson reached the stable and put his back to the wall. He was careful, that boy, and knew all the tricks.

  Fred tried zigzagging, but his knees didn’t like it. When he reached the wall, he sagged against it and wheezed.

  “Are you going to die on me?” Tyree asked.

  “Ha,” Fred said. He didn’t think the boy was the least bit funny.

  “Try to keep up.” Instead of going in, Tyree ran to the corner and on around the side.

  “I should have been a store clerk,” Fred grumbled. He’d considered that in his younger days. But the notion of toting tin held more appeal. He used to daydream about epic shooting affrays with hordes of outlaws. But that was then, and this was now. The young often held foolish notions. The old knew better.

  Fred hastened after him. He remembered the corral out back. It would be easy for McCarthy to go into the tack room and help himself to a saddle blanket, saddle, and bridle.

  Tyree sprinted to the far end. He looked out, glanced over his shoulder at Fred, and grinned.

  Struggling to breathe, Fred came to a halt and placed his hands on his knees.

  “If you weren’t carryin’ so big a belly, you’d get around a lot better,” Tyree whispered.

  “Go to hell,” Fred said.

  “Shhh.” Tyree looked out again. “He’s tightenin’ the cinch. We caught him just in time.”

  “You’re not going to shoot him, are you?”

  “Only if he makes me. He’s worth more alive than dead.” Tyree cocked both Colts. “Quietlike, now, and we can take him by surprise.”

  Fred was tired of that “we” business. But he stepped out when the kid did, and they quickly climbed the rails. McCarthy had his back to them and didn’t see them. Taking deep breaths, Fred pointed his Smith & Wesson.

  Tom McCarthy was just letting down the stirrup on a chestnut. Turning, he reached for the reins. Tucked under his belt was a revolver. There was a red stain on his shirt, high on his right shoulder. The boy had winged him.

  “Hold it right there,” Tyree bellowed.

  Fred was going to add his own command, but he wasn’t given the chance.

  Unlimbering his six-shooter, McCarthy barely had it out when Tyree Johnson fired.

  And hit the horse.

  The chestnut whinnied and reared, tearing the reins out of McCarthy’s hand. It sent McCarthy stumbling, but he recovered and sprinted into the stable just as Tyree fired both Colts.

  “You missed him,” Fred said. He’d assumed that anyone who went around with as much armament as the kid wore would know how to shoot.

  “I’m not Wild Bill Hickok,” Tyree said.

  “Good thing,” Fred said. “He’s dead.”

  “You stay here. I’ll make sure he doesn’t escape.” Tyree ran into the stable.

  Annoyed at the turn of events, Fred jogged after him.

  The poor chestnut was whinnying and running in circles and tossing its head back and forth. As near as Fred could tell from some scarlet drops, the slug had nicked it on the chest.

  There was a commotion in the stable, and a shot.

  Just what Fred needed. A gun war in the middle of town. A lot of folks were bound to be upset. It wouldn’t surprise him one bit if some of them complained to the mayor, who never had liked him. He could see the mayor using it as an excuse to claim it was time for a change in lawmen.

  Fred couldn’t have that. He needed to stop this before it went any further.

  The center aisle was littered with straw, and a pitchfork had been propped against a stall. Only two of the stalls were occupied, the horses wide-eyed with fright.

  McCarthy wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

  Tyree, though, was at the double doors, peering out the front. He looked back at Fred and gestured as if to say, “Where is he?”

  Fred shook his head. How would he know? He went to call out but changed his mind. If McCarthy hadn’t gone out the front, it must mean he was hiding in one of the stalls and the kid had run right past him. Ducking, Fred slipped into the first. He realized he was holding his breath and let it out.

  Up at the front, Tyree shouted, “McCarthy! Quit bein’ pigheaded. Give yourself up and you won’t be hurt.”

  “Drop dead, boy.”

  Fred stiffened. McCarthy’s shout came from a stall on the other side. Taking off his hat, he risked a peek and held his breath again when he spied McCarthy two stalls up, staring toward the front.

  Fred debated what to do. If he was quick like the kid, he could rush McCarthy and maybe hit him over the head before McCarthy turned. But he wasn’t quick. He was slow as could be. If he tried rushing him, McCarthy could put two or three slugs into him before he
reached the stall.

  Fred pointed his Smith & Wesson. It would be child’s play to shoot McCarthy in the back. His finger tightened, but he couldn’t bring himself to squeeze all the way. Back-shooting just wasn’t in him. For that matter, shooting anyone wasn’t in him. He drew back, bowed his head, and closed his eyes. What good was a lawman who couldn’t shoot anybody? The answer was obvious. The lawman wasn’t any good at all.

  Fred had never felt so worthless. He almost decided to get out of there while he still could and let the kid handle things alone. But no. That wouldn’t be right either. He was the one wearing a badge.

  Opening his eyes, he stared at the Smith & Wesson. He wasn’t a gun hand. He hardly ever practiced. That old saw about not being able to hit the broad side of a barn—that was him. He holstered it.

  Fred knew what he had to do. His mouth went dry and he broke out in a sweat. It was plumb loco. But he couldn’t see any other way. Jamming his hat back on, he took a deep breath and stepped into the aisle and over to the other stall.

  McCarthy didn’t hear him until he was almost on top of him. Wheeling on his heels, McCarthy pointed his Colt at Fred’s head. “No, you don’t! I will by God shoot you dead.”

  Chapter 4

  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. Folk
s 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?”