Ralph Compton the Evil Men Do (10 page)

Tyree's last comments bothered Aces. They bothered him considerably. But he put them from his mind for the time being to concentrate on catching Tom McCarthy.

At daybreak the three of them were in the saddle. They left the bodies, although Marshal Hitch once again objected. They did bundle all the rifles in a blanket and tie it to the lawman's bay. They also collected all the six-guns and put them in saddlebags. Leaving bodies to rot was one thing. Wasting good guns was another. Aces went through the pockets of the deceased and came up with fifty-four dollars in bills and coins. Aces and Tyree split the money.

They headed north at a trot. Tyree was eager to overtake McCarthy quickly, but that wasn't going to happen.

The hulking Caleb and his friends had left their mounts in a dry wash about two hundred yards out. McCarthy had found them and helped himself to two of the horses. The others were still there, ground-hitched.

“Why'd he take two animals?” Tyree wondered. “Is he usin' the second as a packhorse?”

“He'll ride the first into the ground to get as far ahead of us as he can,” Aces reckoned, “then switch to the second animal.”

“He probably rode all night,” Marshal Hitch said. “He could be to Sutter's Stump soon.”

“Hell in a basket,” Tyree said.

“We'll take the extra horses with us,” Aces said. “Use them when our own get tired.”

They rode hard. Tyree's sorrel played out first and he switched to a pinto. Hitch's bay lasted another hour and a half, and then he had to switch to a chestnut.

The palomino had more stamina. It was tired but gamely held to the pace Aces set.

Night was falling when they came within sight of Sutter's. Lamplight bathed the windows with a rosy glow. Half a dozen animals were at the long hitch rail out front.

Aces dismounted, looped the reins off, and started toward the batwings but drew up short.

A crudely fashioned casket, made of oak, had been propped against the front of the building. The top was off, and in the casket, his arms folded across the chest, were the mortal remains of the former owner.

“Bascomb, by heaven,” Fred exclaimed.

“Why haven't they planted him?” Tyree wondered.

“The novelty of it.”

“The what?”

Fred stepped to the casket. “It's not every day we get to see a dead person. They put him out here to give themselves somethin' to talk about.”

“That's silly,” Tyree said.

“No, son. It's human nature. In some towns, if a famous person dies, the undertaker props the coffin outside his establishment and charges folks for the privilege of gawkin' at the dear departed.”

“I'd never pay to see somebody dead,” Tyree said. “Hell, I wouldn't pay to see somebody alive even if they were famous. What's famous anyhow but folks talkin' about a person a lot?”

“Some folks like that. They think that being famous is all that matters in life.”

“Seems senseless to me. All that fame ends up in the same place,” Tyree said, and nodded at the coffin.

“Are you two done?” Aces asked.

“Would you want to be famous?” Tyree said.

“No.”

“Wild Bill Hickok was, and folks still talk about him. So maybe I was wrong and being famous is good for you.”

“A hundred years from now no one will remember who he was,” Aces said. “And he's long past carin' already.”

“How do you know?” Fred said. “If there's a hereafter, he might hear what folks say and take some comfort in that.”

Aces stared at him.

“What?” Fred said.

Aces pushed on the batwings. Two men were at a corner table, drinking. A stocky man with curly russet hair was tending bar. No one appeared to be in the store section.

“Well, look who it is,” the russet-haired man said when they reached the bar. “You've got some nerve.”

“I beg your pardon?” Marshal Hitch said.

“You heard me,” the bartender said. “You killed Mr. Bascomb and now you must have killed Caleb and those who went with him or the three of you wouldn't be standin' there.”

“We defended ourselves,” Fred said. “A man has that right.”

Aces was more interested in finding McCarthy. “Our prisoner got away. Have you seen him?”

“I sure ain't,” the barkeep said.

“And you wouldn't tell us if you had,” Aces said.

“I didn't say that.”

“You didn't have to,” Aces said. “Your face said it for you.”

“Where is he?” Tyree demanded. “Is he still here or did he fan the breeze?”

“Go to hell, kid.”

“After you,” Tyree said, and drawing a Colt, he leaned across the bar and struck the bartender across the jaw with the barrel.

Crying out in pain, the man stepped back.

“I'll do that again if you don't tell us,” Tyree said.

Clutching his chin, the bartender became as red as a beet. “You damn kid. You had no call to do that.”

“Where's McCarthy?”

The two men at the corner table began to rise, but Aces swung toward them, his hand poised over his ivory-handled Colt. “Stay where you are, gents. This is none of your affair.”

Fred tapped his badge at them. “And the law is involved. So behave.”

“Where's McCarthy?” Tyree asked the barkeep a second time.

The bartender hissed like a kicked snake. “I have half a mind to come around there and stomp you into the floor.”

“If you can stomp with lead in you, you're welcome to try.” Tyree smiled, pointed his Colt, and cocked it. “The days when someone can take a fist or boot to me are over. I'll shoot you like I did your dumb-as-a-stump friend.”

“
You
shot Caleb?”

“Let's say I helped. Now, where's Tom McCarthy? Is he here or not? And keep in mind that if you lie to us, we'll come back, and the next time I'll march in shootin'. Do yourself a favor and don't be as dumb as Caleb.”

“Do you a favor is more like it,” the bartender said. “But yes, he was here. Rode in hours ago with an extra horse. Had himself a couple of drinks, filled a canteen, and lit out again. I expect by now he's clear to Montana.”

“Not likely,” Fred said. “We'll catch him soon.” He beckoned to Aces and Tyree and turned to go.

“Hold on,” Aces said. Something in the bartender's manner rang false.

“What's the matter?” Tyree asked.

“We don't take his word for it. You check the back rooms. Marshal Hitch can check the shacks and the outhouse.”

“Why me?” Fred said.

“You stay and watch these three, then,” Aces said, and marched on out. The temperature had dropped and the cool of night was a welcome relief from the blistering heat.

The three shacks were as crudely built as the coffin. Only the first and the third showed light. The middle one was dark.

Aces debated marching on in and decided not to. The doves might be with customers in a state of undress. Not that he'd mind seeing a naked lady. He had only ever been with a dove once, more out of curiosity than anything. Some men claimed they couldn't go without. He wasn't one of them.

Careful not to stand in front of the door, Aces knocked. A voice hollered that she would be right there. When the door opened he was ready to draw.

“Well, who are you and what do you want?” the dove demanded, looking him up and down. She had to weigh three hundred pounds and had more canyons in her face than Arizona. “Did Frank send you? I told him I was layin' off tonight on account of Bascomb bein' blown to hell and back.”

“I'm lookin' for someone,” Aces said. “Short fella with extra pounds, goes by the handle of McCarthy?”

“What do you have against extra pounds?”

“His pounds have nothin' to do with it.” Aces set her straight. “He's a lawbreaker. Murdered his missus and skipped bail.”

“Killed his wife, you say?” The dove was horrified.

“Strangled her with his own hands. And knifed her lover besides.” Aces tried to see past her, but she blocked his view.

“If she was sneaking around behind his back, she had it comin'.”

“No one has strangulation comin'. Now, is he in here or not?”

“Not. But you can look anyway. I'm Tilly, by the way. Maybe I'll change my mind and let you have a poke. You're easy on the eyes.”

“No, thanks,” Aces said. “Findin' McCarthy is more important.”

“Nothin' is more important than pokes.”

Aces got out of there. She was wasting his time. He went past the second shack with its dark window to the third. Again he knocked. This time the door was opened by a broomstick of a gal in a red dress that had been painted on. She had red rouge on her cheeks and cherry red lips and a red barrette in her red hair.

“Well, lookee here,” she said, and smiled.

“Who might you be?” Aces asked.

“Folks call me Red.”

“What was I thinkin'?”

“Sorry?”

Aces told her about McCarthy and asked if she had seen him, and Red answered that she hadn't, that she'd been in her shack since some “low-down stinkin' son of a bitch shot Mr. Bascomb.”

“Mr. Bascomb was fixin' to shoot that son of a bitch in the back.”

“Good for him,” Red said. “When you've got to kill somebody, you can't be fussy 'bout whether it's their front or their backside.”

“I'll try to remember that.” Aces thanked her and left. He was almost to the back door to the saloon when he remembered Bascomb telling Marshal Hitch that there were three doves. There had been no sign of the third in the saloon. Which made him wonder about that dark shack. Pivoting on a bootheel, he stalked back and pounded on the door. It could be she was in there asleep.

He forgot to stand to one side as he had done at the other shacks. Which was why he nearly lost an eye when a gun boomed and a slug tore through the door and buzzed past his head. Throwing himself against the wall, he slicked his Colt. “McCarthy? Is that you?”

There was no answer.

“I'll take you alive if you'll throw out that six-shooter and come out with your hands where I can see them,” Aces offered.

“Go to hell!” Tom McCarthy hollered.

“Well, now,” Aces said.

“I have a dove in here,” McCarthy yelled. “And I'm holdin' a pistol to her pretty head.”

“He is, mister, he is!” a woman squealed. “Help me.”

Aces heard a slap and McCarthy snarled at her to shut up. “Give up while you can, Tom. I won't ask again.”

“You have it backward. You and the others light a shuck or I blow out her wick, so help me.”

“She's nothin' to me,” Aces said.

“Her death will be on your conscience.”

“That's funny, comin' from you.”

“Quit bandying words,” McCarthy yelled. “I'll count to ten and if you're still out there, she goes to meet her Maker.” He didn't wait but started right in. “One!”

Aces swore. McCarthy had him over a barrel. He wouldn't let an innocent woman die if he could help it. “All right!” he shouted. “I'm backin' off.” And he did, retreating to the rear door of the saloon. He thought he glimpsed a face in the darkened shack window but couldn't be sure. As he was about to reach for the latch, the door opened.

“What's going on out here? What's all the shoutin'?” Tyree asked.

Aces told him about McCarthy. “That barkeep was lyin'. Either McCarthy paid him or promised to pay him or the barkeep hates us for shootin' his boss.”

“Some people will hate for any old reason, won't they?” Tyree said.

Slipping inside, Aces closed the door nearly all the way.

“What's your plan?”

“We wait for him to make a break. If he's got the woman, we hold off until he lets her go.”

“He might take her with him,” Tyree said. “What then?”

“Let's cross that . . . ,” Aces began, and stopped.

The shack door had opened. A terrified young woman was pushed out and stood quaking. McCarthy had hold of her hair and was crouched so only his head showed above her shoulder.

“There they are,” Aces said.

“We should rush him,” Tyree proposed. “One of us is bound to drop him before he drops us.”

“Listen to you,” Aces said. “You shoot a couple of men and you think you're Hickok. And you're forgettin' the woman. She might take a slug.”

“She's nothin' to me.” Tyree echoed Aces's very words.

“I tried that bluff and it didn't work.”

“Who says I'm bluffin'?”

Aces tore his eye from the crack. “You're startin' to worry me. Learnin' to shoot is only part of being gun wise. You have to learn when not to.”

“It's the money I'm worried about. I need that two thousand.”

“That gal's life counts for more.”

“If you say so.”

Frowning, Aces looked out. McCarthy now had an arm around the woman's waist and was propelling her toward Tilly's shack. Aces didn't have a clear shot, so he didn't try.

Keeping the woman between him and the saloon, McCarthy pounded on Tilly's door.

“Is that you, mister?” Tilly called out. “Did you come back for that poke?” She opened her door, smiling, then swore and tried to slam it shut.

McCarthy thrust the revolver at her and said
something Aces didn't hear. They argued in low tones until suddenly McCarthy pressed the muzzle to the pretty woman's head.

“All right, all right,” Tilly said. “I'll do it.”

“What's happenin'?” Tyree said.

Aces would like to know himself. He began to ease the door open but stopped.

Tilly had come out of the shack and was heading toward them.

Aces moved back, pushing against Tyree. “Out of the way,” he said. “Let her in.”

“Let who?” Tyree said.

The door opened and Tilly filled the doorway. She blinked in surprise, then glanced back at her shack and came in and closed the door behind her. “You want to be careful he doesn't see you or he'll kill Matilda.”

“Did you know he was with her?”

“I did,” Tilly admitted. “He told us he'd blow her brains out if we told you where he was.” She frowned. “Sorry I had to lie to you. Matilda is a sweet gal. I can't let any harm come to her if I can help it.” She took a step. “Now out of the way. I have things to do.”

“Such as?” Aces said.

“I'm to gather up some food and water and take them to him. The two horses he rode in on are out back a ways from the shacks. He aims to hightail it as soon as he has the grub.”

“And we'll be right on his heels,” Tyree said.

“Like hell you will, boy,” Tilly said. “He's takin' Matilda with him. Says he'll kill her if there's any sign of someone after him.”

“We're not lettin' him get away,” Tyree said.

“Matilda is not to be harmed,” Tilly repeated. “I'll do
whatever I have to in order to keep that from happening”

“Fetch what you have to,” Aces said.

Tilly lumbered toward them and they parted to let her by. She smelled of perfume and sweat, and her arms jiggled as she moved. It was a tight squeeze, as huge as she was.

When she was out of earshot, Tyree said, “Let's go out and end this. I don't care about the dove.”

“We owe it to her not to get her killed,” Aces said.

“We don't even know her,” Tyree objected. “You don't owe anybody when you don't know them.”

“You worry me, boy.”

“I thought you'd stopped callin' me that.”

Aces racked his brain. If McCarthy reached those horses, he stood a good chance of getting away. They couldn't track at night, not without torches, and it was tedious and slow. By morning McCarthy would be in the mountains, and from there he could go anywhere. West to Utah or Oregon country or east to the States. McCarthy might even go north into Canada. The border was thousands of miles long and easy to cross undetected.

“Step aside and I'll handle this,” Tyree said.

“You'll do no such thing.”

“Damn it, Aces,” Tyree said. “I don't savvy you. One minute you're teachin' me to shoot and treatin' me like I matter, and the next you're treatin' me like a kid who doesn't know any better.”

Aces was honest with him. “You don't. I see now that teachin' you to shoot isn't enough. You have to learn that there's a right and a wrong way of doing things, and we should always do the right.”

“Right is what we think it is,” Tyree said.

Aces sighed. “When you've lived a little longer you'll see that's not so. Was it right for those three to murder your ma and pa? Was it right for them to treat you so poorly at that orphanage?”

“This is different.”

“No, it's not.” Aces put a hand on Tyree's shoulder. “I'm askin' you, friend to friend, to do as I say in this.”

Tyree fidgeted and nodded. “All right. For you I will. But it better work out. I need the money. I found a man in Cheyenne who says he knows who killed my folks. He'll tell me for five hundred dollars.”

This was the first Aces had heard of it. He whistled and said, “That's a lot of money.”

“Worth every penny if he knows.”

Aces was tempted to point out that the man might be taking advantage of Tyree. The boy was so eager to track down the killers, he'd fall for anything. “I'd like to meet this fella.”

“You're welcome to come along when I go see him,” Tyree said.

Aces hadn't intended to become involved in the boy's hunt. Once they reached Cheyenne, he'd figured to part company and go about finding a rancher who was in need of punchers.

“I don't mind admittin' I could use your help,” Tyree said. “You know a lot more than I do about things. I've had to learn as I go, and folks don't always take me as serious as they'd take you.”

“I'll think about it,” Aces said.

They had to wait a good ten minutes before Tilly reappeared carrying a burlap sack that bulged with whatever she'd picked. She was hurrying, which for her was a brisk waddle, and puffing like a steam engine. “Out of my way. It took longer than I thought and I have to get this to him.”

Aces planted himself in her path. “I'm going with you.”

“Like hell you are. You're forgettin' Matilda.”

Aces told her what he had in mind.

“That's mighty clever,” Tyree said, and laughed. “It should work, as wide as this female is.”

“Don't call me wide,” Tilly snapped. To Aces she said uncertainly, “I don't know. It could go wrong.”

“We have to try,” Aces said. “He might kill her anyway.”

“I've been worried about that, to tell the truth,” Tilly confessed. “His word don't mean much.” She nodded and hefted the burlap sack. “Let's try it, and pray it works.”

Aces let her go by. She stopped at the door and waited while he took off his hat and gave it to Tyree. Drawing his Colt, Aces cocked it, then pressed against Tilly's broad back and bent at the knees. “Go slow and act natural.”

“Oh Lordy,” Tilly said. She opened the door and stepped out.

Aces went with her, pressed close. The perfume smell was so strong it about gagged him. She was one of those who didn't bathe regularly and used perfume to mask the fact.

From her shack came a bellow. “Took you long enough. Did they try to stop you?”

“I got you things you can use,” Tilly answered. “Jerky and bread and the like. Or did you just want me to grab any old thing, like pickles?”

“Don't sass me, woman. I don't like being sassed. My wife used to sass me and I'd slap her silly.”

“Imagine that,” Tilly said under her breath. “You pig.” She slowly advanced, the sack held out where McCarthy could see it. “Matilda, how are you doing, girl? Has he hurt you?”

Aces heard a timid voice say that no, he hadn't.

“Did I give you permission to talk? Get over here, you tub of lard. You're slowing me down. I should have been gone by now.”

“I can only move so fast,” Tilly said.

“A snail could move faster, damn you,” McCarthy said.

“I'm scared is why,” Tilly said. “For all I know, you'll gun Matilda and me out of pure spite.”

“All I want is the damn food,” McCarthy said. “I wouldn't waste ammunition on a couple of whores.”

“You have a mean mouth on you, but here I come.”

Tilly went a little faster and Aces crouched lower. Everything depended on McCarthy not catching sight of him.

“Where are that kid and his friends?” McCarthy asked. “The gun hand and that lawman?”

“In the saloon.”

“I'm surprised they let you bring me the grub.”

“The kid didn't want to,” Tilly said. “He wanted to march on out and have it out with you. But he was overruled.”

“That stinking nuisance,” McCarthy growled. “I was doing fine until he showed up. Everyone had forgotten about me.”

“Is it true you strangled your missus?”

“Damn right I did. She cheated on me. And you know what? I enjoyed it. I'd do it again if I had it to live over.”

“And you wonder why I'm scared of you.”

“Quit jabbering and give me the damn sack. I don't have all night. Then you are to go in your shack and stay there until I'm gone.”

“Yes, sir,” Tilly said. “Whatever you say.”

They were almost there.

Aces tensed to make his play. He must move fast. With any luck, McCarthy would be taken completely by surprise and not get off a shot.

“Hold it right there.”

Tilly abruptly stopped. “What's the matter?”

“Set the sack down and take a few steps back,” McCarthy commanded.

“Whatever for?”

“How do I know it's food?” McCarthy said. “It could be a beaver trap set to take my fingers off when I reach in.”

“That's ridiculous,” Tilly said.

“I saw traps hanging on the wall in there,” McCarthy said. “And it would be something that tricky kid would do. Set the damn sack down and step back.”

“It's not no beaver trap,” Tilly insisted, “but I'll do whatever you want.”

Aces took a quick step back so she wouldn't trip over him. He wasn't expecting her to take more than one, or to move as fast as she did. Her leg bumped his and she let out a squawk and began waving her arms to keep her balance.

“What the hell?” McCarthy said.

Teetering on her heels, Tilly glanced over her shoulder, her eyes widening with alarm. “Oh no,” she said.

Aces knew she was going over. He tried to throw himself aside but only partly succeeded. Tilly crashed on top of him. The impact jarred his arm so hard he lost his hold on the Colt and it flew out of reach. He levered his arms to scramble to it but couldn't move. Tilly had him pinned from the waist down.

The next moment McCarthy stood over him, still with an arm around Matilda, smirking and pointing a revolver. “Well, look who it is. Nice try, gun hand. Any last words?”

Aces glared.

“Don't!” Tilly cried, struggling madly to sit up. She was like an upended turtle and couldn't twist far enough to get her hands under her.

“First him and then you, cow,” McCarthy gloated. “And then this mouse.”

“No!” Matilda screamed.

Shots blasted from the saloon. McCarthy glanced up, startled. He let go of Matilda and backed toward the shack, shooting as he went. Matilda said, “Oh!” and clutched herself.

“Matilda!” Tilly wailed.

Aces was struggling to slide out from under her. He heard Tyree shout something, and the boy and McCarthy traded more shots. Matilda was on her knees, her hand to her chest, her fingers wet with blood.

“No, no, no,” Tilly cried.

Pushing against the ground, Aces strained every sinew. “You have to get off me, woman.”

“I'm tryin', damn it. I can't help it I'm not delicate.”

McCarthy disappeared around the shack. Flame stabbed the dark with a last shot, and boots drummed.

Tyree charged up, firing as he came. “You're not getting' away!” he bawled, and recklessly pounded after him.

Aces was practically beside himself. With a powerful wrench, he managed to extricate his legs. Crabbing to his Colt, he grabbed it and stood. Or tried to. His left leg spiked with pain and buckled. He had to thrust his arm down to keep his balance. Again he rose and this time his leg supported him, but his knee throbbed. Limping, he hobbled in pursuit.

Off in the night a six-shooter cracked and another replied.

“Tyree!” Aces hollered. He shouldn't have, since McCarthy might send lead his way, but the kid would get himself killed if he didn't use his head. Grimacing, he hobbled faster.

The night went quiet save for loud sobs from Tilly.

Aces stopped reluctantly. He had no idea where Tyree and McCarthy had gotten to. He flexed his leg, making sure nothing was broken.

Off a ways hooves drummed and rapidly receded. A last shot banged and someone cursed.

Aces waited. When a darkling figure materialized, he said, “You don't listen worth a damn.”

“He got away,” Tyree said.

“Didn't you hear me? You shouldn't have run off after him. You're lucky you're not dead.”

“I saved your bacon and you do this?” Tyree said, and stalked past.

Aces didn't press it. The boy had saved him, and that was something. He followed him around the shack to where Tilly cradled Matilda and rocked back and forth, tears streaming her cheeks.

“He shot her!” Tilly sobbed.

Aces thought she meant Tyree. Then he saw a blood-rimmed bullet hole between Matilda's bony shoulder
blades and realized she had been shot in the back, not the front. Tom McCarthy had been behind her; he'd done it.

“You have to go after him,” Tilly said, sniffling. “You have to see he pays.”

“Don't you worry, lady,” Tyree said. “Tomorrow this ends, one way or the other.”