Bullet for a Bad Man

Sidewinders

It was as hot and dry as a desert, but the ground was rock, not sand.

In the middle of the vast bleakness squatted a structure that the rider mistook for a mirage. It was as brown as the ground and had an unreal aspect, shimmering there in the heat haze as if it had no more substance than the lake he had seen earlier.

The rider shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. His backside was chafed and sore and he yearned to stop and rest, but the compulsion that had driven him to keep on the go was as strong as ever. The sun had burned him so brown that were it not for the color of his hair and eyes, he might be mistaken for an Indian.

Drawing rein, the rider wiped a sleeve across his sweaty brow. He licked his dry, cracked lips and reached for his canteen but stopped himself. ‘‘No,’’ he croaked out loud. ‘‘I mustn’t.’’

He had taken to talking to himself a lot. He never felt so alone; it helped to hear his own voice. There had been just him and his horse for so many days that the rest of the people in the world might as well be as dead as his past.

The rider touched his spurs to the buttermilk and the weary palomino plodded on, head low.

‘‘I am sorry to put you through this,’’ Boone Scott said.

The building did not dissolve into thin air as Boone approached. Made of planks, it looked like something built by a drunk with a broken hammer and not enough nails. An overhang provided shade for three horses and a mule. None of the animals showed the least interest as the palomino came near. It was too hot to move.

The water trough just out of their reach caught Boone’s eye. He eagerly brought the buttermilk over and scowled when he saw that the trough was dry. Tiredly climbing down, he worked the pump lever and was elated when water trickled out. He worked the lever harder and faster and the trickle became as thick as his finger. Cupping some, he gratefully sipped.

‘‘That will be two bits, boy.’’

Boone turned.

The speaker was a butterball with a face as round as a plate. He had no hair to speak of save for fringe above his ears. His clothes were in as shabby a shape as the building. But there was nothing shabby about the double-barreled shotgun he held. The twin muzzles were pointed at the ground, but his thick thumb rested on one of the hammers.

‘‘Cat got your tongue, boy?’’

‘‘Don’t call me that.’’

The man shrugged. ‘‘I am easy to get along with. It is why I have lasted as long as I have. But that will still be fifty cents.’’

‘‘You charge people to drink?’’

‘‘It is my water. I found the spring and I built this place and I will by God do what I want with it.’’

Boone fished in a pocket and flipped the man the money. He tugged on the reins to bring the buttermilk to the trough.

‘‘That will be another two bits for your animal.’’

Boone looked at him.

‘‘Think what you will of me,’’ the butterball said defensively. ‘‘I have to live, the same as everyone else. And not a lot of paying customers come by, as you can imagine.’’

‘‘Customers?’’

The man indicated a sign near the door. The letters were faded but Boone could make them out. PORTER’S SALOON AND STORE, the sign read.

Boone gazed out over the bleak landscape and then at the man with the shotgun.

‘‘I know what you are thinking. I must be crazy, living out here. But this suits me better than a town. I do not like people all that much. I am Ira Porter, by the way.’’

The buttermilk dipped its head into the trough.

‘‘Fifty cents, remember?’’ Porter’s shotgun started to rise. ‘‘The money in advance or your animal can go dry.’’

Boone’s right hand flicked.

‘‘Jesus!’’ Porter froze, his shotgun not nearly high enough. ‘‘Don’t shoot me! Please!’’

‘‘Take your thumb off that hammer.’’

‘‘I will do better than that.’’ Porter slowly lowered the shotgun to his side so the stock was on the ground and he was gripping it by the barrel. ‘‘There. I can do you no harm.’’

Boone twirled his ivory-handled Colt into his holster. ‘‘You will get your money, but my horse will drink first.’’

‘‘Whatever you want. I am not about to buck a man who can draw as fast as you can.’’

Boone resumed pumping, but he did not take his eyes off the butterball. ‘‘How long have you lived in this godforsaken spot?’’

‘‘Going on twenty years. I was one of the first in these parts.’’

‘‘The Apaches don’t mind?’’

‘‘They could have killed me a hundred times over. Six of them showed up shortly after I built the place. I had left the door open and was pouring myself a drink, and suddenly there they were, in the doorway. I about wet myself.’’

‘‘Yet they didn’t kill you.’’

‘‘I suspect they had been watching awhile, and they were curious. I held out the bottle and one of them came over and took it. Then I did the smartest thing I ever did in my whole life.’’ Porter smiled at the memory. ‘‘I had a rifle lying on the counter and I got that Apache to understand it was his if he wanted it. Hell, he could have taken it anyway. I gave him the rifle and I gave him ammunition, and from that day until now, they have let me be. Every now and then a few of them show up and I always give them things so they go away happy.’’

‘‘You have grit, I will give you that.’’

Porter was pleased by the compliment. ‘‘That will get you a drink on the house if you want one.’’

‘‘After you.’’ Boone took a step, then stopped and eyed the baked landscape. ‘‘Is it safe? My horse, I mean?’’

‘‘The Apaches have not stolen one from here in all the years I have been here,’’ Porter assured him. ‘‘But once you move on, don’t leave your animal alone for a second.’’ He too surveyed the parched terrain. ‘‘I don’t claim to understand them. They do not think like we do.’’

Boone followed him in. The place smelled of sweat and booze and smoke. It was not much of a saloon and it was not much of a store either. A long, wide plank atop three upturned barrels served as the bar. To one side were shelves with merchandise, but the pickings were slim: a few blankets, a few canned goods, a few odds and ends. Tables and chairs took up most of the floor space.

At one of the tables sat three men sharing a bottle and playing cards. They looked up, their expressions less than friendly.

‘‘Well, look at this,’’ declared a block of wood with a jaw that would pass for an anvil. ‘‘Porter has gone and found a pup.’’

Porter stopped and frowned. ‘‘I wouldn’t, were I you, Wagner. He is lightning. As good as Skelman.’’

All three men regarded Boone with interest. On Wagner’s right was a swarthy rodent who had some Mexican in him. He wore a sombrero. On Wagner’s left was an ox of a man with a corncob nose and ears that could pass for wings.

‘‘You don’t say,’’ the ox rumbled.

The rodent had a laugh that was more akin to a bark. ‘‘No one is as quick as Skelman, senor.’’

‘‘I saw it with my own eyes, Galeno,’’ Porter said. ‘‘And I have seen Skelman too, so I should know.’’

The ox rumbled again, ‘‘You don’t say.’’

Porter pointed at him and turned to Boone. ‘‘I didn’t catch your name, but this big fellow here is Drub Radler.’’

‘‘Should that mean something?’’ Boone asked.

Drub and Galeno and Wagner swapped glances and Wagner came out of his chair saying, ‘‘Was that an insult, boy?’’

‘‘Don’t call me that.’’

Wagner smirked. Galeno sneered. Drub put his big hands flat on the table and said, ‘‘Maybe you better not, Wagner.’’

‘‘Hell.’’ Wagner came around the table. He wore a Bisley revolver on one hip and a bowie knife on the other. ‘‘The day I can’t handle them this young is the day I turn over a new leaf.’’

Porter wrung his hands. ‘‘I don’t want any trouble in here.’’

‘‘Go polish a glass.’’ Wagner planted his boots as if he was digging them into the floor. ‘‘What do they call you, boy?’’

Boone did not speak.

‘‘I asked you a question.’’ When Wagner still did not get an answer, color spread from his collar to his hairline. ‘‘Maybe you don’t know who we are.’’ He gestured at his companions. ‘‘We ride for Old Man Radler. Drub, there, is his youngest son.’’

Drub smiled at Boone.

‘‘Old Man Radler is the top dog hereabouts,’’ Wagner boasted. ‘‘He does as he damn well pleases and plants anyone who crosses him. So you will tread light around us, boy.’’

‘‘I told you not to call me that.’’

‘‘Do I look like I give a damn?’’

‘‘You look stupid enough not to.’’

The muscles on Wagner’s anvil jaw twitched. ‘‘I have just explained how things are. We ride for Old Man Radler.’’

‘‘There is that name again,’’ Boone said. ‘‘It means nothing to me.’’ He took a step to the left so Porter was well clear. ‘‘Call me a boy one more time. I dare you.’’

Galeno cackled and smacked the table. ‘‘Did you hear, hombre? He throws it in your face.’’

Drub said, ‘‘We should leave him be.’’

But Wagner was a volcano about to explode. His fingers clenched and unclenched and he showed his teeth in a growl. ‘‘For that I will do you myself.’’ His right hand swooped for the Bisley.

Boone drew, cocking the Colt as he cleared leather. But he did not shoot. His trigger finger curled but did not tighten.

‘‘Mother of God!’’ Galeno blurted.

Drub Radler laughed. ‘‘Porter was right. He is Skelman all over again.’’

Wagner was frozen in shock. The Bisley had barely begun to rise. Splaying his fingers so Boone could see he was not touching the revolver, he held his arms out from his sides. ‘‘Hell in a basket.’’

‘‘Are there going to be any more ‘boys’ out of you?’’ Boone asked.

‘‘Not this side of the grave, no,’’ Wagner answered, a note of respect in his voice. ‘‘Who are you, if you don’t mind my asking?’’

‘‘I am no one.’’

Keen interest animated Wagner as he looked Boone up and down. ‘‘You have enough dust on you to cover this floor. That means a lot of hard riding. And there is only one reason to be riding hard in this heat.’’ He paused. ‘‘You are on the dodge.’’

Boone holstered his Colt.

‘‘That’s it, isn’t it?’’ Wagner pressed him. ‘‘You are riding the owl-hoot trail. I would not have thought it, as young as you are. But it is plain now. What did you do? Rob a bank?’’

‘‘Enough of that,’’ Porter said. ‘‘You know better than to pry.’’

‘‘If he does not want to tell me, he does not have to.’’

Boone walked to the plank counter and stood so he could watch the three men and the entrance, both. He leaned his left elbow on the counter. His right hand stayed close to his Colt.

Porter ambled around behind the bar. ‘‘What will it be, Lightning?’’

‘‘That isn’t my handle.’’

‘‘It will do until you give me another. I have seen you draw twice now, and as God is my witness, Lightning fits you as good as anything. Besides, you seem to not want folks to know who you really are.’’

‘‘You can call me Lighting, then, although it is damned silly.’’ Boone patted his stomach. ‘‘Any chance of getting a bite to eat? I am not fussy. Fried lizard will do.’’

Porter chuckled. ‘‘I can do better than lizard. I have a side of beef. How about an inch-thick steak with the trimmings?’’

‘‘You are a miracle,’’ Boone said.

‘‘I just like to eat, so I keep my larder filled. Give me ten minutes to fire up the stove.’’ Porter waddled out the back.

Boone went to swipe at the dust on his shirt, but a shadow fell across him. He spun, his hand a blur, then saw that the source of the shadow was holding his big hands in plain sight to show he intended no harm. ‘‘What do you want?’’

‘‘Just to talk,’’ Drub Radler said. He imitated Boone and leaned on the counter. The planks creaked and sagged. ‘‘You and me are about the same age, I reckon.’’

‘‘What age would that be?’’

‘‘I just turned twenty last week,’’ Drub said. ‘‘I have an older brother by the name of Vance. He is twenty-four.’’

‘‘I have an older brother too.’’

Drub brightened. ‘‘That is more we have in common. Do you like horses? I like horses. I like them a lot.’’

‘‘I have a horse I am powerful fond of.’’

‘‘There you go.’’ Drub offered his hand. ‘‘Can we be friends? I do not have many and I would very much like to be yours.’’

Boone stared at the big paw and then at the bear it belonged to, and warily shook. ‘‘Pleased to meet you. You can call me’’—Boone barely hesitated—‘‘Lightning.’’

‘‘Gosh. That is a good one. I wish my pa had not called me Drub. It sounds too much like dumb.’’

‘‘What is it you do for a living?’’

‘‘Mostly,’’ Drub Radler said, ‘‘we rustle and kill people.’’