Ralph Compton Death Along the Cimarron (15 page)

“Dave Waddell started out buying stolen cattle from us a year ago,” Billy Boy said quickly. “Nowadays most of the cattle we rustle goes through him. He's gotten chicken-rich off of us. Earl took a liking to his wife the first time he ever laid eyes on her. Can't say as I blame him.” Billy shrugged with his good shoulder. “She's a looker, that one.”

“I see,” said Danielle. “So Cherokee Earl and Dave Waddell were business partners?”

“Well, yes, you might as well say,” said Billy. “Only for some reason, Waddell never seemed to be able to admit it to himself. Used to really tighten Earl's jaw ... Waddell thinking he was so much better than the likes of us. I'd say that had something to do with Earl wanting to take his wife, wouldn't you?”

“I have no idea,” said Danielle.

“Well, I think it must've.” Billy noted that the bleeding from his shoulder wound had grown worse. He loosened his bandanna from around his neck and tried to tie it around his shoulder, failing miserably.

“Here, give it to me,” said Danielle, stepping over and taking the bandanna. As she tied it around his shoulder, up under his arm, she continued. “But as far as you know, Waddell never stole any cattle himself, just provided a place and bought the ones the rest of you rustled?”

“That was the way of it,” said Billy Boy. He looked closely at Danielle as she tended his wound. “Any chance of you letting me go, after me telling you and all? That, I mean, and promising never to do anything wrong again in my life?”

“No, there's not a way in the world I'll let you go,” said Danielle, “so save your breath. We'll turn you over to the law first chance we get. I'll tell them you was helpful with information. That's all I'll do for you.”

“I was afraid of that,” said Billy Boy, raising a small hideaway derringer he'd snuck from inside his shirt as she took care of his wound. “You've shot me for the last time, woman!” he shouted.

From below, Stick and the other two only heard the sound of Danielle's Colt, the big pistol drowning out the sound of Billy Boy's derringer. “Danielle?” said Stick. “Are you all right up there?”

A silence passed, and Stick took on a concerned look. “Danielle. Answer me.... Are you all right?”

“I'm shot, stick,” Danielle replied in a strained voice. “I'm all right ... but this little sidewinder shot me.”

“I'm coming!” Stick shouted.

“No, Stick!” Danielle shouted. “Stay there!”

“Why?” said Stick. “You're shot—you need help!”

She wasn't going to risk saying any more about what Billy Boy had just told her. Instead, she just said, “Stick, stay down there. I'm all right.”

But Stick wouldn't hear of it. He reached down, snatched Frisco's pistol from his holster, and said to Dave Waddell, “Keep an eye on this one! I'm going up to get her!”

“Sure thing,” said Dave Waddell, pointing his pistol at Frisco Bonham. Recognizing Waddell's voice, Frisco turned a surprised look at him as Stick hurried away up the steep, rocky hillside.

“Well, well,” Frisco whispered. “Look who we've got here.”

“Hello, Frisco,” said Waddell, keeping his voice low. “Where's my wife, you rotten bastard?”

“Your wife? How in the hell would I know where your wife is, Waddell?” Frisco said.

The two stared at one another for a second. Then the picture of what was going on began to form inside Frisco's head. “You mean to tell me Earl has taken off with your little redheaded wife?” He shook his head. “I always figured he would someday, but damn, you mean right after me and Billy split up with him and the others on the way to your spread? Is that when?”

Waddell sat tight-lipped. His knuckles turned white around his pistol butt. “If you've got nothing for me, than I've got only one thing for you!” he hissed.

“Hold on, Waddell,” said Frisco, seeing the serious intent in the man's red-rimmed eyes. He flashed a quick glance at Stick climbing hand over hand, getting closer to the top. “I can't tell you where he'd take her, but I might be able to take you there.” He looked up again, then back at Waddell.

“You're not taking me anywhere,” said Waddell.

“Oh? Well, then, that's a shame ... because you see, I know Cherokee Earl a lot better than you do.” He lifted an eyebrow as if asking whether Dave was interested in hearing more. When Dave made no response, Frisco continued. “I believe you can get your wife back if you show up and ask real polite. She might be a little worse for the wear, but we can't always have everything our way, can we?”

Dave Waddell fought the urge to put a bullet through his forehead. Frisco seemed to be able to read it in his eyes. “I know you're all stoked up right now,” he said, “but give it time to sink in. See where your best chance lies. As soon as I get these wounds patched up and we can see our way clear, you be ready to help me make a move. Then we'll go get your wife back. Fair enough?”

Dave considered it for a moment. Frisco saw the color begin to come back into his face as his knuckles slacked off around the pistol butt. “I'll think about it,” Dave finally said.

Frisco took a short breath of relief. His eyes gestured upward to where Stick was still climbing the hillside. “You don't want to spend too long thinking about it, Dave,” Frisco cautioned. “Seems to me like you made your decision last year which side of the law you stood on. Nobody twisted your arm, getting you to buy our stolen cattle. I don't suppose you happened to mention all that to the old man and woman, did you?”

Dave Waddell's expression answered for him.

“That's what I thought,” said Frisco. “It must've slipped your mind.”

“I told them no more than I had to.” He looked more troubled as he spoke.

“It's a hell of a spot you're in, ain't it?” A trace of a sinister smile came to Frisco's lips. “The devil's knocking at your door, Dave. You've got to figure out real quick whether or not you're going to answer.” Again he nodded upward toward Stick's back. “You quit those kind of folks the day you crossed over to us. You ever want to see your woman again, you better prepare yourself to do whatever it takes. I can promise you those two will never make it to where Cherokee Earl's trail will take them.”

“I told you I'd think about it,” said Dave Waddell. His hand slackened around the pistol.

With a hand pressed against the bullet wound low in her left side, it took much effort for Danielle to make it over to the edge of the cliff. When she did, she looked down at Stick, who was no more than a few feet below her. “Stick, I told you not to come up here! I'm all right!”

“Hunh?” Stick looked baffled, staring up at her as he reached to pull himself over the edge. Looking down to the trail below, Danielle saw the rifle barrel reach up above the top of a rock. She couldn't see who was behind it, but whether it was Dave Waddell or Frisco Bonham made no difference. The intent was the same. As she saw the rifle barrel, she also saw Stick falter and almost lose his footing. As he rocked back, she was torn between going for her pistol to give him some covering fire or grabbing his hand to keep him from falling.

“Hurry, Stick!” she shouted, hoping to get him up over the edge in time. She threw her right hand down to him, ignoring the pain in her side. But Stick had no understanding of what was going on below him. He only knew he had lost his balance. He grasped wildly for her hand.

But the rifle shot caused him to stiffen just at the second their fingertips touched. Danielle saw the stunned look come upon his weathered face at the same time the bullet exited his chest. She made an extra lunge forward, but his hand had already fallen farther away from hers. She could only watch as his face registered a look of regret. “I'm ... sorry,” he gasped. Then he fell backward and tumbled down until he came to a halt in a swirling cloud of dust and rock on the trail below.

Another shot exploded. This one kicked up flecks of rock only inches from Danielle. There was nothing she could do for Stick. She ducked down only slightly, long enough to draw her Colt. Then she came up quickly, her eyes scanning for a target. But all she saw was a brief glimpse of the two men and a rise of dust from the horses' hooves. She heard the long neigh of her chestnut mare and saw the animal rear above the rocks and come down running while the sounds of the horse string and the two riders disappeared in the other direction.

Danielle held her pistol at arm's length with both hands, taking careful aim, preparing for the moment when Frisco Bonham and Dave Waddell would ride into view farther down the trail, where the rocky cover parted for a few yards. But when they did streak along that short stretch of open trail, she lowered her pistol, knowing the shot was too far out of range. Her eyes went down to Stick. Although badly wounded and injured from the fall, he was trying to raise his pistol from his holster. “Lay still, Stick!” Danielle shouted. “I'm coming!”

Even with pain gripping her side, Danielle hurried down the steep hillside. Reaching Stick on the dirt trail, she sank onto her knees and turned him over, resting his head in her lap. “Stick, lay still! You're going to be all right!”

Stick coughed and struggled with his words. “Save that talk ... for some tinhorn. I'm done here.”

Danielle knew he was right, it just took her a second to accept it. “Oh, Stick,” she said with deep regret. “I told you to stay put. Why wouldn't you listen to me?” Her voice was shaken by grief. She hugged his head against her, seeing the scrapes, cuts, and bruises he'd acquired from the fall. On her leg she felt warm blood oozing from the wound in his back. The exit wound in his chest looked fierce and hopeless.

“I—I tried, Danielle,” Stick gasped. His glazed eyes stared up into hers. “It's hard ... for a man—”

His words stopped short, but she knew what he meant. “To take orders from a woman,” she whispered, finishing his words for him.

He offered a faint smile. “Don't hate us ... for how we are.”

“I don't, Stick,” she said, trying hard to keep tears from spilling from her eyes.

“You ... get out of here,” Stick said in a faltering voice. “Go find Tuck Carlyle.... Promise me?”

“I will, Stick, I promise,” said Danielle. “As soon as I settle up with these rats, I'll go find him.”

“No,” said Stick, taking all his waning strength to shake his head. He gripped her forearm with his bloody hand. “Go now! Forget ... these people. This ... ain't felt right ... from the start.”

“Stick, you know I can't let this go,” Danielle said, unable to keep the tears back any longer at the sight of this good old man dying in her arms. “Don't ask me to promise something like that.”

Stick patted her arm. “I know, I know.” A short silence passed. Then he said, “You and Tuck ... remember me kindly.”

“Of course, Stick. How else could we possibly remember you?” She wept openly now.

“Quit that,” Stick said. He offered a weak smile. “I've had the best... of lives. Look at me ... leaving a beautiful woman crying over me.” He swallowed, a knot in his throat. “If I'd ... been a younger man ...” His words trailed; then he added, “Well, I reckon you ... know how I feel about you.” His eyes closed softly, with no promise of ever opening again. Danielle felt him turn limp in her lap.

“I know, Stick,” she whispered. “I know.” She lowered her cheek to his for a second and sat quietly cradling him in her arms. At length Danielle felt the chestnut mare press her warm muzzle against her neck. She turned her face up to the animal. “Good girl, Sundown,” she said, raising one gloved hand and stroking the mare's face. “You did fine, just fine.”

She lifted Stick's head from her lap and stood, gazing down the thin path where the dust of the fleeing riders had begun to settle. She thought about Stick's words:
This ... ain't felt right ... from the start,
he'd said. He was right, and she knew it. From the beginning, the day she'd met the three drunken rustlers in the street at Haley Springs, no one had taken her seriously. Even after putting a bullet through Billy Boy Harper's foot, they hadn't learned any respect for her.

She was a woman doing a man's job. Nothing more, she thought, than some novelty act in a traveling show. Through her grief at Stick's death and the dark anger she felt for his killers, Danielle also felt a weariness that ran so deep it made her ache inside. Some things never changed. She should have realized that coming into this mess. She began to chastise herself. Who did she think she was, that just because she could ride and shoot and handle herself like a man ... ?
Stop it,
she told herself, forcing the train of thought from her mind. What was done was done, and she couldn't go back and change the past. All she could do was try to influence the future.

With the pain in her side throbbing and sharp, she took down her lariat from her saddle, looped it around Stick's feet, and walked the mare slowly, dragging Stick's body to a wider spot along the trail. With the help of the mare and the rope, she spent the next hour raising rocks from the ground until she'd uncovered a spot the proper size for a shallow grave. Then she rolled Stick over into the grave and as carefully as she could rolled the rocks back over him. “It ain't the best, Stick,” she said quietly, standing bowed slightly at the waist, her hand pressing a bandanna to her side, “but it's the best I can do.” With her hat between her hands, she stood with her head slightly bowed and said, “Lord, I'm too hurt to know what to say over this good man right now. I never knew him that long, but he sure fit what I would call an angel ... if I was you. Amen.” She stepped back and wiped an eye and put her hat on.