Ralph Compton Death Along the Cimarron (21 page)

Out front of his office he stopped for a moment and watched the scruffy young man on the boardwalk sweep road dust off into the street. Sheriff Wright needed help bad. This man had shown up in town two weeks earlier, down and out and looking like the only thing that could save him would be the next drink of whiskey he poured between his lips. He'd drifted into Cimarron looking for work, and Wright had taken a chance on him. So far the man had stayed sober enough to sweep up and do some minor roof repairs on the jail building. But that was a long way from being trusted as a deputy, Sheriff Wright reminded himself, watching the broom swish back and forth.

“What the hell?” Wright murmured to himself. “I'm desperate.” He called out as he walked up onto the boardwalk and opened his office door. “Carlyle, come in here for a minute.... We need to talk.”

Tuck Carlyle followed the sheriff through the open door, a gnawing feeling already welling up in his stomach. His first thought was that he'd done something wrong. Why else would the sheriff want to talk to him? Inside the office, before the sheriff got a chance to speak, Carlyle said, “Sheriff, I would have had the sweeping done a lot sooner, except the hitchrail out front had gotten wobbly... I tightened it up some.”

“Close the door, Carlyle,” said the sheriff. “This ain't got nothing to do with the sweeping. You've done a fine job ever since you been here.”

“Then—then what's wrong?” Tuck asked.

“Wrong?” The sheriff frowned beneath his bushy eyebrows. “Hell, there's nothing wrong. In fact, I want to see how you feel about taking on a better job here, maybe becoming a temporary deputy. If it works out, maybe even doing it full-time. You interested?”

“You know I was a drunk for a long time, Sheriff. Do you think it might be too soon yet to go trusting me with that kind of responsibility?”

“If I thought it was too soon, I wouldn't have asked you,” said the sheriff, a patient smile forming behind his drooping gray mustache. “Now back to my question.... Are you interested?”

“Well, yes,” Tuck said hesitantly. “I suppose I am. ”

“You suppose you are,” said the sheriff, repeating his words. “You'll have to do better than that, Carlyle.”

Tuck raised his head, squared his shoulders, and looked the sheriff in the eyes. “I
know
I'm interested, Sheriff. Thanks for having this kind of faith in me. I realize you don't know me, Sheriff, so you don't know how far I've sunk since my wife's death. But the fact is, I wasn't always a down-and-out drunkard. At one time I had my own spread. Before that I was a trail boss, drove cattle for some of the biggest ranches in the country.”

“No man was born a drunk, Carlyle, so I figured you must've been something else along the way. I might not know you real well, but I've watched you enough to see that you've just gotten pretty far down, and now you're trying to get back up. When a man does that,” the sheriff said, stepping around behind his battered oak desk, opening a drawer, and taking out a tin badge, “I believe it's only right that the rest of us give him a chance. Someday you might again own your own spread. Who knows, I might come to you looking for work. Meanwhile, welcome to being my deputy.”

“I don't know what to say, Sheriff,” said Tuck, taking the badge and looking at it for a second before pinning it on his shirt.

“Just say, ‘I do.' ” The sheriff grinned. He held up his thick right hand and said, “Do you solemnly swear to uphold the laws of this town to the best of your ability, so help you God?”

“I do,” said Tuck Carlyle, quickly raising his right hand as Sheriff Wright spoke.

“There, it's done,” said Wright. “You are now officially an officer of the law. Conduct yourself accordingly.”

“I do ... I mean—I will,” said Tuck. He lowered his right hand.

Sheriff Wright reached down and opened a larger, deeper desk drawer. “I don't suppose you own a gun, do you?”

“No, Sheriff,” said Tuck. “My firearms got away from me soon as I started living on rye whiskey.” He looked ashamed.

“That's what I figured.” Sheriff Wright pulled a rolled-up gun belt from the drawer. The bone handle of a .45 caliber Colt stood above the well-worn holster. “It ain't loaded, but there's bullets in the drawer. I reckon you can still handle one of these without shooting your toes off, can't you?” He handed the shooting rig over to Tuck.

“I'm sure I can,” said Tuck. He slipped the pistol from the holster, held it sideways, checked it, then hefted it in his hand. He spun it once and caught it in place, his thumb cocking then uncocking the hammer sleekly.

Watching him, the sheriff nodded with satisfaction. “Yeah, I can see you're familiar with the workings of a pistol. Are you any good, drawing and firing if you had to?”

“Yes, I'm a fair hand with a gun, Sheriff,” said Tuck. “But to be honest, I'm going to go practice somewhere before I try to show you anything.” He offered a smile. “As rusty as I am from all the drinking, I don't want to make you change your mind and take the gun back.”

“There's little chance of that,” said the sheriff. “I need a deputy real bad, Carlyle. Take the rest of the day off, go somewhere, and practice as much as you need to.”

“What about all the dust out there on the boardwalk?” said Tuck. “Shouldn't I finish sweeping first?”

“The dust was there when I come to this town.... It'll be there when I leave,” said Wright. “Tell the livery man to fix you up with a horse and go do some practice shooting. You might be needing it before long.”

“Much obliged, Sheriff.” Tuck reached down and picked up a wooden box full of bullets. Instead of putting the gun belt on right then, he stuffed the rig up under his arm and headed for the livery barn. “I appreciate all you've done for me.... I won't let you down.”

Sheriff Wright nodded in silence until Tuck Carlyle closed the door. Then the sheriff let out a long breath and said to himself, “I hope you won't, young man.... Things might get awfully dangerous around here.”

At the livery barn, Tuck Carlyle told the livery man, Old John, what the sheriff had said. Old John eyed the badge on Tuck's chest, then walked out to the corral behind the barn. When he returned, he handed Tuck the reins to a big raw-boned roan. “He's uglier than mud,” said Old John. “But he's the best on the place far as I'm concerned.”

Tuck looked the big dapple roan up and down. The horse looked strong and full of energy.

“Take that saddle,” said the old man, pointing to a battered saddle lying atop a pile of firewood.

“Much obliged, John,” Tuck Carlyle said.

“Don't mention it.” Old John watched him pitch a saddle blanket atop the dapple roan, then toss the saddle gently on the horse's back and shake it into place. Grinning across empty gums, the old livery man said, “A deputy, huh?”

“Like I said, it's only temporary,” said Tuck. “But I'm hoping it'll turn full-time for me. I need the work.” As he spoke, he adjusted the worn gun belt on his waist, getting used to it.

Old John nodded, noting the tied-down Colt. “Ain't been long since you came here wanting to muck stalls for a place to sleep.... Now look at you, wearing a badge and a bone-handled pistol.” He stepped forward and rubbed the roan's muzzle while Tuck drew the cinch and dropped the stirrups. “I'm pleased things have worked out well for you.”

Tuck nodded. “Thanks, John. You letting me sleep here meant a lot to me. I won't forget you for it.”

“Aw, go on.” Old John waved his words away. “Get on your horse and get out of here. If you like that big roan, I'll give you a good deal on buying him. I picked him up from a trail crew on their way back from Montana a month back. He knows his way around, I reckon.”

“Montana and back? I'd say he does,” Tuck said, rubbing the horse's jaw as he led it outside. “I just might be talking to you about buying him then, if my credit's good.”

“As good as any,” said Old John, stopping at the door rather than stepping out into the sunlight. “Ride him out first. Then let me know. We'll talk price later.” He watched Tuck step up into the saddle, collect the horse, heel the animal toward the street, and ride away. “Good luck, Deputy,” Old John said under his breath.

Tuck rode the roan three miles out across a stretch of land dotted with pinon pine, juniper, and spruce. He wouldn't have had to go this far to practice his shooting. But it had been a long time since he'd been clearheaded sober, and it felt good to just be in a saddle again and have some time to think about things. Losing his wife had been like suffering through a long illness. Grief had stricken him like some dark, terrible fever that had only recently broken, allowing some of his strength to slowly return. All the whiskey he'd drunk hadn't helped cure him. It had only served as a painkiller. The longer he stayed sober, the more he realized he had to give up the whiskey and simply learn to live with his pain.

He stepped down and hitched the roan to a piñon. He stepped off thirty-odd yards to a sun-bleached oak log and set a row of fist-sized rocks up along its surface. Back at his starting point, he held his right hand up flat in front of himself and eyed it closely. The shakes he'd been going through ever since he'd quit drinking had ceased almost entirely. Good. He raised the pistol stiffly from the holster, looked it over again, then held it out at arm's length, cocked it, and took careful aim. His first shot missed his rock target by three inches. Not good, yet not as bad as he had expected.

He holstered the pistol, shook out his right arm, and took a few deep breaths. Then he raised the pistol again, drawing it slowly, this time cocking it on the upswing. He had to relax ... let his knowledge of shooting come back to him. You've got
all
day if that's what it takes, he told himself with resolve. The next shot left a skinned streak across the dried log less than an inch from his target.
Better,
he thought, cocking the pistol again and taking aim,
but still
...

Three hundred yards away, topping a low rise, Cherokee Earl Muir rode up to where Avery McRoy sat staring out at the lone gunman taking target practice. “Is that who's doing all the shooting?” asked Earl.

“Yeah,” said McRoy. “Best I can make out, he's shooting at a log.”

“At a log,” Earl said flatly. “Wonder what that log ever did to him. Must be a kid stole his pa's pistol, out here hankering to learn how to kill somebody.” He stared off with McRoy for a moment, then said, “I did the same thing when I was a youngster.”

McRoy nodded. “Me too, sort of.”

“Hell, that's no kid,” said Earl, staring harder.

“I never said it was,” said McRoy. “He's right alongside the trail. What do you want to do? Ride out wide around him?”

“Hell, no ... we got nothing to hide.” Earl jerked his horse around to face Dirty Joe as he rode up leading Ellen's horse beside him.

“Take that lead rope off her horse, Dirty,” Earl demanded. He looked at Ellen. “I'm counting on you behaving yourself,” he said coldly to her. “Make a run for it, the last thing you'll see is a bullet pop out of your belly. Do you understand me real clearly?”

“She won't try nothing stupid,” Dirty Joe butted in.

“Oh? You do all her speaking for her now, Dirty?” Earl asked with sarcasm.

“No, Boss,” Joe said quickly. “I just meant that I'll keep a close eye on her, is all.”

“You've been doing that well enough, Dirty,” said Earl. He dismissed Dirty Joe and looked Ellen up and down. “Fix your hair up some. Keep that horse close to Dirty till we get on down the trail to town.”

“Uh, Boss?” said Dirty Joe, stepping his horse forward and untying the lead rope from the bridle of Ellen's horse.

“Yeah, what is it, Dirty?” Earl replied.

“I gave it some thought, and I just as soon you not call me Dirty anymore. My name's Joe.... I figure that'll be good enough from now on.” He offered a faint half smile. “If it's all the same to you, that is.” He coiled the loose lead rope and hooked it over his saddle horn.

Avery McRoy winced and looked away for a second, shaking his head slowly. Cherokee Earl sat staring in silence for a moment, then looked back and forth between Joe and the woman and said with a slight shrug, “What the hell do I care, Dir—I mean, Joe.” He said to McRoy, “Do you have any objections to just calling him Joe?”

Avery McRoy looked down as he spoke. “I don't care.... Whatever suits him, I reckon.” When he raised his eyes, he gave Joe a cautioning look. But Joe ignored it.

“There you are now, Joseph,” said Earl with a sharp snap of emphasis. “Everything the way you like it?”

“I appreciate it, Boss,” Joe said quietly, appearing a bit embarrassed. He shot McRoy a defusing glance and rode forward, Ellen Waddell keeping her horse close by his side.

When Joe and Ellen were a few feet ahead of them, Earl and Avery McRoy rode forward side by side. In a lowered voice, Earl asked McRoy, “How long has this been going on?”

“What's that, Boss?” McRoy asked in response, trying to sound unknowing of anything out of the ordinary.

“Don't play dumb with me,” Earl hissed.

“Boss, I can't say one way or the other,” said McRoy, begging off of the conversation. “I just came to do my job. You know that's how I am.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Earl, staring ahead at Joe Turley and Ellen Waddell. There was a silence as they wound down toward the main trail into Cimarron. Finally Earl said in a secretive tone, “How close are you and Dirty Joe?”