Ralph Compton Death Along the Cimarron (3 page)

Danielle patted Stick's thin shoulder and said, “You take your time out here, enjoy the view.” Seeing that he might need a minute or two to himself, she stepped inside and left Stick standing on the dusty front porch in a hot passing breeze.

Cherokee Earl Muir stood with a boot planted on the bottom rail of the corral, a half-empty bottle of whiskey hanging from his hand, a short black cigar stuck between his teeth. In the corral, Jorge stuck to the saddle of the bucking dapple gray as if the horse were a part of him. Along the fence, whiskey-fueled voices laughed and cursed and cheered beneath sporadic pistol shots exploding into the air. “That one-eyed Mexican can stick a horse 'bout as good as any man I ever saw,” Cherokee Earl commented.

“Damn his hide,” Dave Waddell growled, handing Cherokee Earl the twenty-dollar gold piece. With each rise and fall of the dapple gray, Jorge's black eyepatch flapped up and down, revealing both the clouded white eye and the deep scar running through it.

“What's wrong, Dave? Is that pretty little wife of yours going to throw a fit over you losing money to your bad ole pal Earl?” Earl chuckled to himself, then added, “I bet she's a real squalling wildcat when she's flared up.... Most redheads are, they say.”

Waddell felt his face redden over the comment about his wife, but he acted as if he didn't hear it and nodded toward Jorge. “How do I get the show-off sumbitch off there? Shoot him?”

“You could do that,” said Earl, inspecting the gold piece before shoving it down into his vest pocket. “Of course if you missed, there'd be one wild Mexican up your shirt.” He grinned. “Then even I couldn't help you.”

“Well, hell, Earl, I figured you could tell I was only joking,” said Waddell, shying back at the thought of what he knew Jorge was capable of doing if Cherokee Earl ever sicced him on a person.

“I bet you were,” said Earl, looking away from Waddell with a slight smile, dismissing the matter. The dapple gray wound down and circled the corral in a show of grudging submission. Jorge slipped down from the saddle at a trot, quickly mounted the corral fence, and grasped the first bottle of rye held out to him. He spread a broad grin, smoothed his eyepatch back into place, and tipped the bottle toward Cherokee Earl before taking a long swig.

Earl nodded his approval to Jorge, then said to Dave Waddell as he looked all around the rocky land, “This is a handy piece of ground you've got here, Dave. I could use a place like this.”

“It's not for sale,” said Waddell. “I'll tell you that before you go any farther.”

“I never said I wanted to buy it,” Earl chuckled under his breath. “I'd just like to have access to it from time to time ... rent a piece of it, so to speak.” He took the cigar from his teeth and blew a stream of smoke onto a hot passing breeze. “You could be my landlord. How does that strike you?”

“Sounds like more trouble than it'd be worth, if you don't mind my saying so,” Waddell offered, making sure he didn't say something to Cherokee Earl Muir that he might regret. Earl was known for his hair-trigger temper. The slightest comment could rub him the wrong way and send him into a blind killing rage. Waddell had seen it happen more than once over the course of their dealings.

Cherokee Earl studied the wet end of his cigar for a quiet second, then said, “You mean, for instance, if I didn't pay my rent, and you had to come throw me off the place? Or if me and the boys got too rowdy of a night whilst you tried to sleep ... something like that?”

“Well, no ...” Waddell scratched his forehead up under his hat brim. “I just meant, the way you often get the law on your tail ... maybe have to shoot it out with a posse or something. Being your landlord could get risky, Earl. I can't say it sounds like something I want to get involved in.”

“Good then, it's all settled,” said Earl as if they had just reached an understanding. “Me and the boys will hole up in that little rock canyon down along the high trail. Hell, you'll hardly ever know we're there unless we need to run down here, maybe borrow some grub or whiskey or something.”

“Whoa, now wait a minute, Earl,” said Waddell. “I never agreed to anything here.”

Cherokee Earl shrugged. “You didn't disagree either when you had a chance.”

“But I—” Waddell tried to protest, but Earl cut him off.

“Don't worry, Dave,” said Earl. “You're going to make out good on this. Instead of my boys pushing leftover cattle here after offering them to half the ranchers we deal with, you'll get first pickin's. We'll bring them here, crossbrand them, fatten them up on the high grazes for a few weeks, then drive them to the railhead brokers in Kansas just like they was ours all along.”

“I don't know, Earl. It sounds shaky to me.” Waddell began to sweat. “I'm glad to buy a few stolen head from you now and then. I mix them in with my own, keep them till the next spring; nobody has ever questioned it. But what you're talking about is more like going into the rustling business with you as my partner!”

“Partners? Well, if you insist.” Earl grinned. “I suppose we could do it that way. But it won't be a fifty-fifty split, not unless you're going down south with us, take your chances getting shot or hung like the rest of us. It wouldn't be fair to the boys.”

“Hold it, Earl, please!” said Waddell. He held up a hand as if to stop something advancing on him. “I'm not going to go out rustling cattle, not for anybody! Now I might not mind you boys holing up temporarily in the high canyon while—”

“Then forget about riding out with us, Dave,” said Earl, cutting him off. “You just keep things quiet around here so me and the boys don't have to worry about getting woke up some night to the sound of a rope slapping over a tree limb. You'll get thirty percent of our take, rain or shine.” He grinned and drew on his cigar. “It ain't that you think your wife might not approve, is it?”

“Ellen doesn't tell me what to do,” Waddell said, dismissing such a notion with a snap in his voice. The picture in his mind of a hangman's noose slung over a tree limb had turned him a little queasy. But the thought of what Earl had just said about his cut began to sink in.

“Thirty percent, huh?” said Dave.

“Yep, thirty percent,” Earl repeated. “And I promise the boys will be on their best behavior should they be around your missus whilst you're away on business somewhere.”

“That isn't even an issue,” said Waddell. “Believe me, my wife would tell me right away if someone ever acted in an untoward manner.”

“Oh?” said Earl. “Well, I always admired a man who rules his own roost.” He looked Dave Waddell up and down with a grin.

Dave Waddell felt uncomfortable talking about his personal life with the likes of Cherokee Earl Muir. He couldn't imagine what had taken the conversation in this direction in the first place, but he was glad when the topic changed.

“Then thirty percent it is?” Earl asked.

“Ordinarily, how much do you make on one of your trips south?” Dave Waddell asked.

Earl saw that Waddell was getting more interested. “Oh, anywhere from a few hundred on slow trip to, say, eight, nine, even ten thousand dollars for a good, fat haul along the border.”

“Ten thousand dollars?” Dave Waddell looked amazed. “My God! Every steer standing on all fours in Texas ain't worth ten thousand dollars!”

Cherokee Earl cut in quickly, seeing he had overbid his hand. “We're not talking about rustling cattle, Dave. Me and the boys do other stuff besides just handle cattle. But no matter what we do, we still need a place to lay low for a while.... You still get the same thirty percent cut.”

“What kind of other stuff?” Waddell gave him a dubious look.

“It don't matter what other stuff,” said Earl. “As a partner you still get taken care of ... for doing nothing but keeping us a hiding place ready here.”

“Keep a hiding place ready?” Waddell saw this venture getting more and more involved, more and more dangerous as they talked about it. “I don't know nothing about that kind of thing. I think I better pass on it—”

“Come on, Dave, damn it,” said Earl. “You're making it a bigger thing than it is. Just give it a chance. If it ain't working out in a few weeks, just say so, and we'll split up ... no hard feelings.” He offered Dave Waddell his gloved hand. “What do you say? Partners? I mean, unless you later decide otherwise?”

“Well ...” Waddell hesitated for a moment longer, then gave in, seeing the cold steel look in Cherokee Earl's eyes. “All right, what the heck. We only live once, I reckon ... Might as well make life a little interesting, eh?”

“That's what I always say.” Earl grinned and shook his hand firmly. “Live fast, die hard ... spit
in the devil's eye, eh? Partner?”

Dave Waddell turned pale at Earl's words. “I don't know about that ... I mean the
die hard
part. That ain't exactly what I—”

Earl slapped him on his broad back, cutting him off. “Just a figure of speech, Dave. Come on. Learn not to take everything I say so serious. Let's drink on it.”

Earl hooked his arm around Waddell's neck and pulled him in close, almost in a headlock. Waddell grabbed the whiskey bottle as Earl shoved it hard against his chest.

“Riders coming,” called a voice among the men gathered farther down the corral fence. “Looks like something's wrong, Boss. Somebody's riding upside down.”

“What the—” Cherokee Earl turned from Dave Waddell and gazed out across the scorched, rocky land at the wavering figures advancing through a veil of heat. “Sherman, Jorge! Get out there and hurry them in here! Damned if that don't look like Ronald's horse.”

Jorge Sentores and Sherman Fentress gave one another a look, both knowing beyond any doubt that it was Ronald Muir's horse coming toward them with a body facedown across the saddle.

“This is not so good,” Jorge whispered. He made a quick sign of the cross on his chest as he jerked his broad sombrero down onto his forehead.

The other two men, Avery McRoy and Dirty Joe Turley, stared at Jorge and Sherman. “Go on out there—do like he said,” whispered McRoy in a guarded tone. “If that idiot Ronald has gone and got himself shot dead, there's going to be hell to pay, sure enough.”

“Why you say, ‘If he has got himself shot dead'?” asked Jorge under his breath as the pair stepped up into their saddles. “Perhaps he fell from his horse or died of a snakebite.”

“Yeah, right,” said Sherman. “He might've got run over whilst saving an old woman from a runaway freight wagon, but I like the odds on him getting shot dead a lot better. Either way, Earl's going to be wild-eyed loco for a month. You know how brothers are.” Together Sherman and Jorge heeled their horses off toward the approaching riders. “I'm starting to wish I was anywhere but here,” Sherman grumbled.

They rode out and met Frisco and Billy Boy two hundred yards from the ranch. One look at the body of Ronald Muir lying across the saddle caused Jorge to cross himself again. Sherman winced and said, “Damn, it's just like we figured.” He looked at Frisco and Billy Boy. “How'd it happen? Over a poker game? A whore? What?”

“Just wait until we get to Earl,” said Frisco. “I don't want to have to tell this story but once.” He shook his head and let out a tense breath. “What kind of a mood is Earl in anyway?”

“Well, not bad,” said Frisco, “but I expect that'll change right quick once he gets a look at ole Ronald deader than a chunk of rail iron, don't you think?”

“Yeah, I expect it will,” said Frisco, lowering his head as they rode on.

When the riders entered the front yard, all four stepped down from their saddles and eased Ronald Muir's lifeless body to the dirt. Dave Waddell and the rest of the men gathered in a close group, circling Cherokee Earl, who had fallen to his knees over his brother.

“Who did this?” Earl demanded in a hoarse rasp. His gloves grew tight across his clenched fists.

“It was some old man,” Frisco Bonham offered in a lowered, sympathetic tone.

“Some old man?” Earl whispered, keeping his voice even and in check.

“Yeah, Boss.” Frisco went on with a slight shrug. “Who knows why these things happen? It just seems like sometimes it's the Lord's will, and all we can do is stand and wonder—”

“The Lord's will?”
Earl stood up, dusting his trouser legs. His eyes had taken on dark circles of grief and rage. “Don't
Lord's will
me! I want to know what happened and what you two did about it.” He pointed a long, daggerlike finger into Frisco Bonham's chest.

Frisco and Billy Boy Harper fell back a step, Billy limping on his wounded foot. His boot was missing, and a bloody bandanna was wrapped around his toes. “It's—it's just like I told you, Boss!” Frisco said quickly. “Some old man shot him dead in the street! An old bar swamper at the saloon!”

“An old bar swamper? Killed Ronald?” Earl asked, his rage building with each word. “My brother, slicker than a snake with a pistol ... got smoked down by some old drunken bum?”

“Sorry, Boss, but yes, that's who did it,” Frisco said gently.

“All right.” Earl nodded his head as if forcing himself to accept the bitter news. “An old swamper killed him ... Then you two killed the swamper? Was that it?”

Frisco and Billy Boy gave one another a worried look. “We couldn't kill him, Boss,” said Billy Boy. “God knows I would have loved to! Look at my foot.”

Earl looked him up and down. “This swamper shot you too?”