Ralph Compton Death Along the Cimarron (11 page)

“Damn it, Leonard! Scare the bejesus out of a man!” the doctor cursed in a whisper. “Sitting here in the dark like some lunatic!” He collected himself and took a deep breath, looking at the darkened face of Leonard Whirley, the saloon owner, sitting slumped atop a whiskey crate. Atop Whirley's head, a ruffled-up toupee sat crooked and slanted too far to one side. “Fix your hair, Leonard. It looks like a rat's got his head stuck in your ear.”

The saloon owner reached up, adjusted the toupee, and smoothed it down. “Sorry, Doc. Had I expected company, I would've been better groomed.”

The doctor shot a glance out to the billiard table, seeing the bartender carry a fresh bottle of rye from behind the bar and hold it out to Sherman Fentress's grasping hands. Then he said, looking back at Whirley, “Sheriff Matheson is still alive and kicking. I reckon you know why I'm here?”

Whirley nodded and moved his right foot to one side. The doctor stooped down, pulled out the shotgun, blew dust from it, and broke it open, taking pains to keep his actions quiet. “There's a couple extra loads down there if you want them,” said Whirley.

“Why not?” said the doctor, reaching back under the pallet and bringing out two shotgun loads. He dropped them into his pocket.

Watching the old doctor check the loaded shotgun, the despondent saloon owner said, “Believe it or not, I was just thinking about pulling that out myself. There's only five of them, one already wounded all to hell. I figured I could walk out and blast that bloody buzzard off my pool table, then go to the street and take my chances with the rest of them.”

“Only five, huh?” The doctor stared at him for a second, then said, “Five is no small number when there's guns pointed at you.”

“I said I was just thinking about it, Doc,” said Whirley. “I never said for sure that I was going to do it.”

“That's what I figured,” the doctor said. “While you've been
thinking
about it,” he said, clicking the shotgun shut, having seen that both barrels were loaded, “our sheriff is getting ready to do it.” He looked the saloon owner up and down. “Of course, I don't suspect he'd be opposed to some help, if you'd like to join him.”

Whirley swallowed a dry lump in his throat. “Who was I kidding, Doc? I ain't going to do nothing but sit here thinking how bad I want to. I ain't no hero.... I never was.” His hand went nervously to his hair-piece. “I can always think things out, how to go about doing something like that. I can picture it in my mind clear as day. But I ain't got the sand to kill a person.” His shoulders drooped even more. “I reckon all I can do is roll onto my back and show my belly like a beat dog.”

“Don't be hard on yourself, Whirley,” the doctor relented in a low tone. “I can't shoot a person either.” He ran a hand along the glistening black gun barrel. “Oh, I say it's because I'm in the healing arts. Truth is, I'm as big a coward as you. I just plain ain't got the guts.”

 

At the Crown Hotel, Cherokee Earl stepped into his trousers and pulled them up, turning back to face the bed where Ellen Waddell had just sat up and pulled a blanket around herself, clasping it under her arms, holding it closed in front. “What did you expect?” she said flatly, keeping her eyes from looking directly at him. “I've been dragged here against my will ... by a total stranger. I've seen my husband left for dead.”

“Well, I reckon I just expected a little more fire and thunder, darling,” said Earl mockingly as he leaned forward, took her by the chin, and tilted her face up, forcing her to look into his eyes. “I might've thought that
just maybe
you'd be a little obliging, seeing as how I didn't leave you dead in the dirt. You know I could have had my way with you back there on that three-cow spread, then left ... no witness, no nothing.”

“Then why didn't you?” Ellen said, carefully weighing how much snap to put into her words. “What kind of an animal did you think I was? Did you really think that I would just throw in with you after what you did to my husband?

Earl found himself stuck for words, looking into her eyes, not fully understanding what he was looking at There was something puzzling about this woman. She hadn't fought him, hadn't resisted him. She in fact had done everything demanded of her. Yet he felt now as he'd felt before they'd arrived. He felt as if he hadn't touched her. Her eyes seemed to look straight through him. They made him think that, whatever he might say, she had already heard. “Don't play with me, woman!” he hissed, holding her chin roughly between his finger and thumb and leaning close to her face. She didn't so much as flinch or brace herself. She sat limp, spineless, he thought, but still untouchable. “Do you hear me?”

“I hear you,” she said calmly, not trying to avert her eyes now but rather staring into his so steadily that he himself had to look away for a second.

“See ... I believe there's more than meets the eye with you, little lady. I think maybe ole Dave Waddell didn't know the whole story on you when he hitched you to his wagon.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” said Ellen, her eyes still steady, still cool and fixed.

“Yeah, I bet you don't,” said Earl. “I get the feeling that you were an old hand at this sort of thing long before you crawled under Dave Waddell's blanket.”

“Then you are badly mistaken, sir,” said Ellen. “Mr. Waddell is the only man I have ever known.”

“Until now, you mean,” said Earl, a trace of a triumphant smile coming to his face.

“No ... including now,” she said distantly. “This doesn't count. This is just something that happened that never should have. It is best forgotten.”

Earl stood frozen for a moment. Then he said with an almost hurt sound to his voice, “Well, I ain't going to forget. And I still ain't had my fill of you.”

“Very well,” Ellen said softly. She started to unwrap the blanket from around herself in submission.

“Wait, damn it, not now.” Earl stopped her, tucking the blanket back up under her arms. “That ain't what I meant.” He ran his fingers back through his hair in frustration and chuckled. “See? See what I mean about you? You're as cold, spiteful, and deliberate as any whore I ever laid hands on. You don't fool me any longer.”

“You think I'm a sporting woman?” Ellen asked flatly.

“I think you have been at some time or other,” Earl offered.

“And if I was?” said Ellen. “Would that make any difference?”

Earl shrugged. “I wouldn't waste any more time on you if I was convinced you were. I have no respect for a sporting woman. I never did. I want a woman who is
my
woman—
mine alone.”
He thumbed his bare chest.

“So you kidnap me? You force me to go to bed with you?” said Ellen. “That's the kind of woman you want? A slave?”

Earl looked confused. “Don't put words in my mouth. If I thought you was ever that kind of woman, I reckon I'd just turn you over to the rest of the boys, then ride on.”

Ellen looked away now and took a breath, running a hand across her damp forehead. Then she sat quietly until Earl said, “So? Are you? I mean, was you ever?”

“No, of course not,” said Ellen. “I was a school-teacher, a professional woman, before I met my husband.”

Earl reached out and suddenly grasped a handful of her red hair, forcing her eyes back to his. “You're lying, ain't you?”

“If you think I'm lying, do what you just said.” She stared back at him unflinchingly. “I'm powerless to stop you, whatever you've got in mind.”

“Awww, damn it!” Earl turned loose her hair roughly, shoving her head sideways. “It doesn't have to be this way, woman! All you got to do is get used to being with me instead of Dave. Why is that so hard to do?”

Ellen stared at him. “Not hard at all if I were a bitch dog, or if I were the kind of woman you accused me of being. But you just said if I were that kind of woman, you would have no more use for me.” She paused and shook her head. “I think you need to do some thinking about—”

Her words were cut short by a knock on the door and the sound of Dirty Joe's voice in the hallway.

“Yeah, Dirty, what is it?” said Earl. Before Joe Turley answered, Earl said to Ellen, “We'll finish this some other time.”

Ellen didn't even bother to answer.

“Boss,” said Turley from outside the door. “You said to come wake you up, tell you when we've done all we set out to do here.”

A silence passed; then just as Dirty Joe started to knock again, Cherokee Earl growled in a sleepy voice, “All right, damn it to hell! I heard you! Hold your horses.”

Dirty Joe looked back and forth quickly in the hallway as if to find some horses and do as he was told. But as the door opened a bit, Dirty Joe snatched his hat from his head and stood rapidly smoothing down his hair as Cherokee Earl stood, before him wearing only his trousers, his belt and fly both hanging open. “You sure are getting a case of the
propers,
ain't you, Dirty?” Earl opened his eyes wider and added, “Did you bring me any flowers?”

Dirty Joe looked embarrassed and wrung his hat brim between his hands, saying quickly in his own defense, “Boss, I just thought it might be the lady opening the door is all.... I didn't figure it would look right, me standing here with my hat on. That's all I meant by it, honest.”

“I believe you, Dirty Joe,” said Earl in a tired voice, stepping back and flagging him into the room. “If I'd thought otherwise, I'd have cracked your skull.”

Inside the room, Joe started to speak, then fell silent when his eyes fixed on Ellen Waddell. She sat on the edge of the bed, shivering in spite of the heat, a blanket wrapped around her. She stared at the wall as if it were a thousand yards away. Her red hair lay damp and curled against her forehead and her bare shoulders.

“Well, Dirty,” said Earl, seeing what affect a half-naked woman was having on this dumbstruck cattle rustler, “are you going to tell me what's gone on out there, or did you just stop by for tea?”

“Well, uh—” Dirty Joe stammered. “We, uh, looted all the, uh, cash from the, uh, bank—”

“Hold it, Dirty,” said Earl, cutting him off. He reached out with both hands, took Dirty Joe by the shoulders, and turned him away from the woman. “Now try again.”

Dirty Joe wiped a trembling hand across his brow and took a deep breath. “Sorry, Boss. What I meant was, the bank money came to a little over three thousand dollars.” He settled himself and went on. “We got Sherman Fentress patched up and liquored up, and it looks like he might be all right. Jorge set fire to the telegraph office, so ain't nobody going to be telling on us ... not for a while, anyway.” His eyes drifted back around toward the woman as he spoke. “We, uh ...”

“Joe, damn it!” said Earl, a threat rising in his voice. “Look at me when you talk!”

“Yes, Boss!” Joe snapped his eyes back to Earl. “We swapped out what fresh horses we could find, loaded a few bottles of rye for the trail ... and I reckon we're ready to cut out of here most any time now.” He felt his eyes draw toward the woman, but this time he caught himself and pulled them back to Earl. “When you're ready, that is.”

“Good work, Dirty,” said Earl. He started to say something else, but a shotgun blast coming from the street below caused both men to duck instinctively. “What the ... ?” They both hurried to the window and looked down.

“Over there, Boss!” shouted Dirty Joe Turley, pointing down at the dirt street out front of the New Royal Saloon. In the open door of the saloon, Sherman Fentress lay flat on his back, his bandaged wounds ripped to shreds by the blast of the 10-gauge shotgun. His bloody right hand grasped the bottom edge of one of the batwing doors as if it were the only thing keeping him from sliding downward to hell.

“That damned old sheriff!” Earl growled. On the street below, Sheriff Matheson came limping toward the hotel, dragging one foot behind him and using a born pole as a walking stick. The double-barreled shotgun was propped against his good hip, a curl of smoke still rising from its tip. “I reckon I'll have to kill that old bastard again—this time it better take!”

“Boss, let me go down and—”

“Huh-uh,” said Cherokee Earl, turning and snatching his holster from a peg on the wall beside the bed. “I'll take care of this myself,
personally.”
He quickly buttoned his fly, buckled his belt, and slung his gun belt around his waist. As he buckled the gun belt, his eyes went to Ellen Waddell. “Get dressed!” he commanded, snatching up his boots and throwing them under his arm. But as she rose slowly from the edge of the bed, he glanced impatiently toward the window, then said to Dirty Joe Turley, “Stay here and make sure she gets dressed.... Make sure she doesn't try to sneak away. Don't take your eyes off her for a minute.” Earl slung his shirt over his shoulder. He grabbed his hat.

Joe's eyes widened. “But what if she does try to make a run for it? What do I do about it?”

Cherokee Earl had already made it to the door and swung it open. Stopping for only a second, he said to Dirty Joe as he gazed coldly at Ellen, “What the hell do you think I would want you to do, Dirty Joe? I'd want you to
kill
her!”

No sooner had Cherokee Earl left the room than Dirty Joe Turley turned red-faced to Ellen Waddell and said, “Ma'am, you heard him. Now get yourself dressed, with no funny stuff.”

“Funny stuff?” said Ellen quietly. She seemed to consider his words for a moment. “All right, excuse me.” Picking up her dress from the bottom bedpost, she walked halfway across the room toward the door to an adjoining room.