Ralph Compton the Evil Men Do (13 page)

“One thing I'd like to know,” Marshal Hitch said as they threaded their way along the new capital's busy streets, “is why you call yourself Johnson when your last name is Larn.”

“I thought I told you before,” Tyree said. “Whoever shot my ma and pa might know their last name was Larn. And if they heard I'm a Larn and I'm askin' about them . . .” He shrugged.

They were near the railroad tracks, in a part of the city where the rougher element congregated. Tyree had learned shortly after he arrived that the saloon most hard cases favored, the one where those who lived on the shady side of the law showed up most nights to drink and swap tall tales, was called the Raging Bull. It was owned by a mousy little man by the name of Kierney. Gossip had it that in his younger days Kierney had been a thief who liked to slip into the homes of rich folks when they weren't there and help himself to their valuables. Apparently he'd been caught and sent to prison, and when he got out, used some money he'd stashed to open the Raging Bull and become respectable.

Tyree had never met anyone he disliked more. Kierney reminded him of a rat. The little man even had a ratlike face that was always twitching, and beady eyes that never held a hint of friendliness.

On this particular evening, the Raging Bull was outrageously crowded. The bar was lined shoulder to shoulder, all the tables were taken, and most of the floor space besides.

And talk about loud. The babble of voices, clinking chips and glasses, and gruff mirth assaulted Tyree's ears. “Didn't count on this,” he had to say into one of Ace's since he wouldn't be heard otherwise.

Fred touched his shirt where his badge had been. “Good thing I took this off. I'd stand out like a sort thumb.”

That he would. The flinty faces and cold stares, the abundance of revolvers and knives, warned anyone who came in that this saloon was the haunt of Cheyenne's wild and woolly crowd.

Tyree began rising onto his toes to see better. “Moses has to be here somewhere. He nearly always is.”

“Moses?” Aces said. “Is that his real handle?”

“He's never said.”

“You don't know if that's his real name yet you were set to give him five hundred dollars.”

“What does his name have to do with it?”

“You are too young by half,” Aces said.

Tyree didn't see why he kept carping about the five hundred. He'd hand over a thousand if it got him the information he needed. He'd been hunting the killers for years now. He'd like for it to finally be over so he could do something with his life. Exactly what, he wasn't sure. But it was a good thing, in a sense, that his parents were dead and not holding their breath waiting for him to avenge them. He was taking forever.

Tyree couldn't help it. As young as he was, a lot of people didn't take him seriously. He'd explain about his parents and ask for information and be treated as if he was a wet-nosed kid who didn't know any better than to go around imposing on folks.

A woman in a shiny green dress appeared as if out of nowhere and attached herself to Aces. Her face was made up with powder and rouge, and she had short blond curls
that bounced when she moved her head. “Lookee what I found,” she declared merrily. “Where have you been all my life, handsome?'

“Never heard that one before,” Aces said.

“Now, now. Be nice. My name is Clementine. Why don't you buy me a drink and we'll become better acquainted?”

“Some other time,” Aces said. “I'm here on business.”

“Aren't they all?” Clementine said. “I just overheard a couple of gents talking about a stage somebody else robbed. And before that, I heard how Puck Tovey had his wick snuffed up to Sutter's Stump.”

“They call that business?” Fred said.

“Honey, anything that has to do with the wrong side of the law is business to this bunch,” Clementine said, and laughed.

“What's this about Puck Tovey?” Aces said.

“He was well-known in these parts. Came up from Texas, I think. Shot a man not long ago.” Clementine pursed her ruby lips. “Him and another fella by the name of Bascomb were sent to their reward by some shootist from who knows where.”

Tyree was taken aback when Aces hooked his thumbs in his gun belt and said, “At the moment he's standin' in front of you.”

“What's that, handsome?” Clementine said. She was regarding one of her painted fingernails.

“Puck Tovey braced me and came down with a terrible case of slow.”

“Wait a minute,” Clementine said, looking up and stiffening. “Are you saying that
you're
the one who shot him?”

“And Ira Bascomb too,” Aces said.

“Good heavens. And damn me if I don't believe you. Who are you anyhow? Anybody I'd have heard of?”

“Aces Connor,” Aces said.

“Why, I believe I have heard your name. Didn't you shoot a drummer or a rustler some time ago?”

“Both,” Aces said.

Clementine looked around at all the celebrants, then stepped up close to Aces. “Listen, you might want to keep it to yourself about Bascomb. He was well thought of by a lot of these curly wolves.”

“Don't you worry, gal,” Aces said, and playfully swatted her fanny. “Tell everybody I shot the both of them.”

“You
want
everyone to know it was you?”

“It would help things, yes.”

“It will get you buried in Boot Hill, you damn idiot. I'm trying to warn you to tread easy. You don't realize what you're in for.”

“Ah, but I do,” Aces said. Turning her around, he nodded toward the bar. “Start there and work your way around the room. Point me out to everybody, and when you come back, I'll buy you that drink and give you a couple of dollars besides.”

“You're loco,” Clementine said, but she giggled and sashayed off.

“I agree,” Fred said. “You're askin' for trouble. Why draw a target on your chest?”

“For my new pard,” Aces said, and clapped Tyree on the back.

“What?” Tyree was trying to make sense of it all. Until this moment, Aces had impressed him as having more sense than most. But this was reckless.

“Fear can loosen lips,” Aces said.

Tyree still didn't understand, but evidently Marshal Hitch did.

“So that's why,” Fred said. “I admire your grit and your cleverness, but there has to be a better way.”

“If you have one let me hear it,” Aces said.

“I don't, I'm sorry to say. Your bluster will have to do.” Fred turned to Tyree. “I hope you appreciate what he's doing for you. Not many men would put themselves in a bullet's path for someone else, pard or no pard.”

“I don't want him hurt on my account,” Tyree said.

“Too late to stop it now,” Fred said, and nodded toward the bar where Clementine was huddled with
several drinkers. She looked in Aces's direction and pointed, and the drinkers excitedly began spreading the news themselves.

“You're too calm by half,” Fred said to Aces.

“If it happens, it happens,” Aces said. “But they'll be more curious than anything. They'll want to study me awhile. Gives us time to do what we came for and be gone.”

“You hope.”

Tyree saw Clementine go over to a table. As she bent, he noticed the face of a man at another table past her. His pulse quickened and he placed his hands on his Colts. “I knew he'd be here.”

Aces said, “Is it Moses? Point him out.”

Few in the Raging Bull had gray hair and a lot of wrinkles. Those on the wrong side of the law seldom lived to a ripe old age. Being an outlaw or a gunman just about ensured an early grave.

The man called Moses was an exception. He looked to be older than Methuselah, his face so cragged and seamed there wasn't a smooth spot anywhere. A bristly mustache and scraggily beard added to the impression of great age. His store-bought clothes had been patched and sewn so many times they nearly had as many wrinkles and creases as he did. His face was smudged from being unwashed; his fingernails were black from never being cleaned. When he opened his mouth he revealed yellow teeth, with more than a few missing.

Tyree worked his way around the table. On reaching the older man's elbow, he leaned down and said, “Remember me?”

Moses glanced up. His eyes were bloodshot and a wad of tobacco bulged his left cheek. “Well, look who it is. Got my money?”

“Not yet but—”

“Then we have nothin' to gab about. Come see me when you do.” Moses held a hand over his cards, peeked at them, and added five dollars to the pot. “Are you still here, boy?”

Tyree turned to go. He didn't want to make an issue of it with so many people around.

“No,” Aces said, and put a hand on his chest. “Stay put. He's going to talk to you whether he wants to or not.”

Moses fixed his attention on Aces. “Who the hell are you to tell me what I will and won't do?”

As luck would have it, just then a townsman in a bowler rushed up to another of the players. The man in the bowler was so excited he didn't pay any mind to anyone else. “You won't believe what I just heard,” he exclaimed. “Remember last week when we were told that Bascomb up to Sutter's Stump and a gun shark by the name of Tovey were bucked out in gore?”

“I do,” the man at the table said.

“Well, word is being spread that the gun hand who did the bucking is here in the saloon.”

The game came to a stop.

“Where is he?” the man at the table asked.

“Someone pointed him out to me a minute ago,” the man in the bowler said. He straightened and looked around the room. “He's got a brown hat and looks to be a cowboy.”

“Does his hat look like mine?” Aces asked.

The townsman in the bowler gazed across the table. “As a matter of fact it—” He stopped and his eyes seemed to bulge. “Lord in heaven, mister. I didn't mean nothing.”

“Rafer?” the townsman at the table said.

Rafer had gone pale. Nervously licking his lips, he nodded at Aces. “That would be him right there.”

Tyree would never forget their reaction. To a man, they betrayed a spark of awe or outright fear. To a man, they stared at Aces's ivory-handled Colt in a sort of wonderment that it had been the instrument of two deaths.

To Tyree, the effect was magical. He'd like to have that effect on folks. He'd like to be regarded with the same awe.

Aces was focused on Moses. “Suppose you cash in your chips.”

“Suppose I don't want to?” Moses replied testily.

“I wasn't askin',” Aces said.

Moses glowered, his wrinkles folding in on themselves. “I don't know what gives you the right.”

Aces placed his hand on his Colt. “I've shot five men in the past year or more. Is that enough right for you or would you like more?”

Moses was no coward, Tyree had to say that for him. Where most would have been intimidated, he growled, “There's law in this town. You can't go around doing as you damn well please.”

“Any of that law in here?”

A hush had come over the nearest tables and those around them. Everyone was hanging on the exchange between Aces and Moses.

“I have half a mind to call your bluff,” the latter said. “You cause trouble and the marshal will have you behind bars before you can blink.”

“It won't be quite that quick,” Aces said. “The trouble will be long over.” He took half a step to one side so no one was between him and Moses. “My pard wants words with you. He'll have them, here and now, or you answer to me.”

“Go to hell,” Moses said, but he smacked his cards down and scooped up his pile of chips. Muttering, he stood. “You heard him, fellers. Deal me out, but I'll be back as soon as him and me finish up.”

Tyree suddenly understood why Aces encouraged the dove to let everyone know Aces had curled up Tovey and Bascomb permanent. It was to impress Moses into doing what they wanted.

Tyree made up his mind then and there that he would like to be just like Aces Connor when he was older. A man could do worse.

The hush was spreading. Fully half the saloon had gone silent; half the heads were fixed on Aces.

Tyree decided to take their talk outside. Too many ears were listening. As he turned toward the batwings, it amazed him how quickly everyone got out of his way. All because he was with Aces. He smothered a laugh of delight. Here he was, a boy by most standards, and he was being treated as if he were one of the terrors of the territory. It was heady stuff.

Moses came after him, with Aces right behind, while Marshal Hitch brought up the rear, smiling at everybody and saying, “How do you do? How do you do? Pleased to meet you.”

Tyree wanted to kick him. The lawman would spoil things, he was being so nice. Hard cases didn't act that way.

“That's a lovely dress you're wearin', ma'am,” Fred said to a dove.

Shouldering a batwing, Tyree held it open and motioned for Moses to go ahead of him. Moses did, but no sooner did he step outside than he turned and shoved Tyree at Aces. Tyree would have fallen if Aces hadn't grabbed him, and before either could hope to prevent it, Moses whirled and bolted.

Tyree was out of the saloon like a shot, and collided with a man walking past, nearly knocking him down.

“Watch where you're going, boy,” the man declared, and went around.

Aces and Fred burst through the batwings and stood on either side, looking right and left.

“Where?” Aces said.

Tyree had no idea. Moses had disappeared into the flow of people and horses in the street. On an ordinary day it would be easy to spot him. But today, with every artery jammed with residents and visitors, it was like looking for a needle in a constantly moving haystack.

“He can't have gotten far,” Fred said.

Tyree had an inspiration. Hopping off the boardwalk, he crouched low to the ground. This let him see under the horses and wagons and buckboards. A river of legs moved in each direction, some at a brisk pace, others more slowly. But only one pair of legs was moving like a bat out of hell.

“This way,” Tyree said, and took off in pursuit.

“Wait for us, son,” Fred called out.

Tyree wasn't about to. If Moses got away, he might never find him again, and lose the best chance he had of finding his parents' murderers. He weaved and dodged and twisted like a madman, drawing irate glares from
those he brushed against or caused to draw up short. He darted into the path of a horse and bounded aside before it hit him, earning a curse from its rider.

Tyree was fortunate in that he was thin and agile. He could slip through the throng like quicksilver. But most of the adults were taller than he was, and to see over them he had to keep jumping into the air. He'd spotted Moses's hat, which was almost as old and worn as Moses, and tried to keep it in sight.

The chase went on for several blocks. Tyree was almost to an intersection when he jumped up yet again, and the hat was gone. He came to the junction and turned both ways. There weren't quite as many people—and no sign of Moses.

In a sudden panic Tyree turned left. He'd gone about twenty steps when something—instinct, a hunch, a feeling—caused him to whirl and run the other way. Darting over to the boardwalk to a post supporting an overhang, he quickly clambered up.

Eureka,
Tyree congratulated himself. Moses was entering a building across the way. The old man was in such a hurry he didn't look back.

Sliding down, Tyree made a beeline for the building. He figured it must be where Moses was staying, but no. It appeared to be a warehouse. Twin doors had been left partly open, and within were crates and boxes and bins, plunged in dark shadow.

His hands on his Colts, Tyree slipped inside and stood with his back to a door to let his eyes adjust. After the hubbub of the streets, the warehouse seemed unnaturally still. There were two windows, but they were small and high on the side walls. Dust motes hung in the air, and a spiderweb was suspended from a rafter.

Tyree edged forward. He saw no sign of a back door, which meant he had the old geezer trapped.

Whoever owned the warehouse, and any workers, must be out and about, like everyone else.

Tyree placed each foot quietly. He probed the gloom between the piles and stacks, seeking telltale movement. Moses was too wily to give himself away. Finding him would take some doing.

Tyree thought of his ma and pa, and grew angry. All he wanted was to find their killers. In a decent world, Moses would help him out of the goodness of his heart. But the world wasn't a decent place. It was a maze of shadows and danger, just like the warehouse. And filled with vultures like Moses who didn't give a damn about anyone except themselves.

Tyree stopped and scowled. He was letting himself be distracted. That could prove fatal. Moses was old, but he wasn't a sheep. Moses was a crusty wolf, perfectly capable of killing someone should he have to.

Tyree debated calling out to him and asking him to come out of hiding. But no. The old man wouldn't come willingly.

Tyree was so intent on the spaces between the stuff stored there that he didn't realize the mistake he was making until a slight scraping sound came from above. He hadn't paid any attention to the tops of the piles and stacks. At the sound, he jerked his head up.

A heavy form slammed into him like a falling tree and he was smashed to the ground. Bony fingers wrapped around his throat and a seamed face split with malice filled his vision.

Tyree tried to rise, but Moses was straddling his chest and had his arms pinned. “Damn you!” Tyree bucked, but Moses stayed on top of him. Worse, he lost all the air in his lungs and couldn't get more because his windpipe was being choked off.

Tyree thrashed and kicked. His chest hurt and his throat throbbed with pain. He gasped for breath, but there wasn't any to be had. His vision swam and the warehouse darkened. He was being strangled to death and there wasn't a thing he could do.

Fear filled Tyree, the most potent fear he'd ever felt, fear that numbed his limbs and his brain. He didn't want to die. Not so young. Not with so much left undone. He exerted all his strength in one last attempt to heave Moses off, and failed.

Suddenly there was a hard voice and a flash of something metallic. Moses was knocked back and lost his hold. With an oath, Moses clawed for his six-gun, and the metal flashed again, sprawling him flat.

Tyree could breathe again. Wheezing and sputtering, he sucked in precious air. His throat hurt so bad he clutched it in agony. When a hand touched his shoulder he swatted at it, only to have his forearm gripped.

“It's all right, son. It's just me,” Fred said. “Lie still and take deep breaths.”

Tyree did as he advised. Gradually most of the hurt went away and his breathing returned to normal. With Fred helping him, he slowly sat up. “I'm obliged,” he rasped. His throat felt raw, as if sand had been poured down it.

“You were lucky you weren't killed.”

Tyree realized he had lost his hat and looked around for it.

“You shouldn't have run off like that,” Fred said.

“Had to,” Tyree said. His hat had been crumpled. Making a fist, he fixed that. “Damn that son of a bitch anyhow.”

“He got his,” the lawman said.

Tyree turned.

Moses was flat on his back, unconscious. A cheek had been opened and was bleeding badly, and he had a hen's egg on his temple.

Aces was standing over him, the ivory-handled Colt in his hand. “He almost had you.” Aces had relieved Moses of his own revolver and now he tossed it into the shadows.

“That he did,” Tyree admitted.

“He will find that was a mistake,” Aces said. “Fred,
fetch some water from that trough out front, if you don't mind.”

“Be right back.”

Rising unsteadily, Tyree took several more deep breaths. He wasn't quite himself yet. “You saved my life.”

Aces looked at him and grinned. “That's what pards do.” His grin faded. “You should have used your pistols.”

“He can't tell me what I need to know if he's dead.”

“Shoot to wound, then,” Aces said.

“I couldn't risk hittin' his vitals. I'm not as good a shot as you are yet.”

On the ground, Moses groaned.

“What will you do to him?” Tyree asked.

“Whatever it takes.”

Fred Hitch returned, his hat in hand, half-filled with water. Without saying a word, he upended it over Moses's face and stepped back.

Coughing and blinking, Moses sat up and gazed wildly about. He saw Tyree and glared, then saw Aces and his glare changed to a look of fright. “You!” he exclaimed. “It was you who struck me.”

“I'll do it again if you try to get up.”

Moses glanced toward the double doors. It was plain he wanted to bolt.

“You shouldn't have tried to kill him,” Aces said.

“Go to hell,” Moses blustered.

“My pard wants some answers.”

“Go to hell twice and take him with you.”

“Don't say I didn't ask nicely,” Aces said, and slammed his Colt against the older man's face.

Crying out, Moses fell back. His other cheek was split and more blood flowed. Pressing both hands to his face, he cursed and shook.

“I can do this all day,” Aces said.

Moses heaped a string of invective on him, ending with “It'll be a cold day in hell before I tell that brat anything. We had an agreement, him and me. He pays
me five hundred dollars and I tell him what he wants to know.”

“And you'll lie and take his money and skip town and he'll never see you again,” Aces said.

“I gave my word,” Moses said.

“Which isn't worth cow shit.”

Fred Hitch squatted. “You'd be wise to cooperate, Mr. Moses. My friend here can be downright mean when he wants to be.”

“Go to hell with them.”

The marshal sighed. “There's just no talkin' sense to some people. They think they are different from everybody.”

“I'm the same as anyone else,” Moses said angrily.

“Are you?” Fred said. “You must not feel pain or you wouldn't make my friend mad. You must not mind spittin' up blood and busted teeth or havin' your ribs staved in or your fingers broke one by one.”

Moses blanched. “You wouldn't do that. You wouldn't go that far.”

“Oh no, I wouldn't,” Fred said, and motioned at Aces. “But he would. You're lucky we're not out on the prairie somewhere. He'd probably shoot you in each knee and each elbow until you talked.”

Tyree doubted Aces would do any such thing. He realized the marshal was trying to scare Moses into cooperating.

“Look, I was tryin' to help the kid—” Moses began.

“For five hundred dollars,” Aces said.

“Maybe I asked for a little much,” Moses said. “But it's worth it to him, and more. He said so.”

Fred said, “Did Tyree tell you why he wants the information?”

“His folks were killed,” Moses said.

“When he was an infant,” Fred said. “That scar on his chin? They tried to kill him too.”

Moses squirmed. “That has nothin' to do with me.”

“How is it you know who he's after?” Aces asked.

“I get around. I hear things.”

“Not good enough,” Aces said.

Moses touched his left cheek and looked at the blood on his fingertips. “I know somebody. He was part of it.”

“Still not good enough.”

“You're not gettin' any more. Not for free. Not after you pistol-whipped me.” Moses wiped the blood on his shirt. “You don't think that five hundred is fair. How much would be? Two hundred?”

Aces shook his head.

“One hundred? That's not hardly enough, but I'll take it so we can get this over with.”

“If it's fairness you want,” Aces said, “tell him for free.”

“No, you don't,” Moses said. “I'm not lettin' you hornswoggle me. You give me something for my trouble or I don't tell you a thing.”

“I'll give you your life.”

Moses swallowed.

“That's worth more than five hundred, don't you think?” Aces pointed his Colt at Moses's face.

“You just hold on, mister,” Moses said.

“I'm tired of your gab, old man. My pard will ask you questions and you'll answer him or I'll gun you where you sit.”

“He won't learn a thing if I'm dead.”

“True. We'll keep askin' around and sooner or later we'll run across someone else who knows about the murders. Or are you dumb enough to think you're the only one who does?”

Moses didn't answer.

“So, what will it be? I am plumb out of patience.”

A crafty gleam came into Moses's dark eyes and he turned to Tyree. “You'd let him do this? Let him spoil your chance at catchin' the killers?”

“He's my pard,” Tyree said with pride. “He can do what he wants.”

“So long, old man,” Aces said, and thumbed back the hammer.

Tyree wondered if Aces would really go through with it, but he didn't get to find out.

Bleating in fear, Moses thrust both hands up as if to ward off the slug. “All right! You win. I'll tell the kid what he wants to know.”

“That wasn't so hard, was it?” Aces smiled and stepped back. “Tyree, it's your turn. Have at him.”