Bullet for a Bad Man

Liquor into Smoke

Sounds slammed the ear like physical blows: the laughter, the swearing, the piano over in the corner, the bellows of customers trying to get the attention of the bartenders, the loud voices of those too drunk to talk quietly.

The Acey-Deucey was alive with vice. Greed lit many a face. Low-cut dresses revealed many a bosom. Cold eyes glinted with the perpetual threat of violence.

Into this liquor-seeped storm of lust and noise walked Boone Scott. He made for the far end of the bar. Some of the cardplayers and some of those standing about noticed his face—and when they did, they gave a start.

Boone was oblivious. When a winsome young woman in a green dress caught his arm and pressed her warm body against his, he fixed her with a glare that caught her breath in her throat. ‘‘Go away.’’

The woman went.

Boone reached the bar and shouldered two men aside. It angered them and one opened his mouth to say something but apparently thought better of it. Boone thumped the top of the bar. ‘‘Barkeep!’’

The nearest bartender approached. ‘‘What will it be, mister?’’ he asked with the smile of a man who was just doing his job.

‘‘Who owns this place?’’

‘‘Pardon?’’

‘‘You heard me. Who owns the Acey-Deucey?’’

‘‘If you want a drink I will pour you one.’’

‘‘I want an answer.’’ Boone placed his right hand on his ivory-handled Colt.

The bartender’s eyes grew round with sudden concern. ‘‘There is no call for threats.’’

‘‘There is if you don’t answer me. A man named Condit owned this saloon a while back, didn’t he?’’

‘‘No.’’

‘‘Don’t lie to me. I met him.’’

‘‘Condit ran the Acey-Deucey but he was not the owner. He ran it for someone else.’’

‘‘The name of this someone would be?’’

‘‘I am not supposed to say. The boss told us we are never to tell who—’’ The bartender stopped. ‘‘Wait a second. Haven’t I seen you somewhere?’’

‘‘His name,’’ Boone said.

‘‘Something about you is familiar. Who are you?’’

‘‘I am asking the questions. And I will not ask this one again.’’ Boone leaned toward him and his voice cracked like a bullwhip. ‘‘Who owns this saloon, damn you?’’

The bartender stiffened. His gaze dropped to Boone’s Colt, and then fixed on Boone’s face, and all the color drained from his own. ‘‘Oh God. I remember you now.’’

‘‘Do you?’’

‘‘You’re him. The one who went berserk. The one who killed Condit and all those others. I am right, aren’t I?’’

‘‘You are right. And you will be as dead as Condit if you do not loosen your tongue. I will count to five.’’ Boone paused. ‘‘One.’’

‘‘Epp Scott owns the Acey-Deucey. He owns a part interest in some of the other saloons and businesses too.’’

‘‘My own brother.’’

‘‘Your what? Listen, all I do is serve drinks. I am not told much and I do not pry.’’

‘‘I am obliged.’’ Boone turned.

‘‘Wait. That’s it? You aren’t fixing to cause trouble? That is all you wanted?’’

‘‘Does Ranson have a fire brigade?’’

‘‘A what? No. We aren’t Tucson. Folks don’t give much thought to fire.’’ The bartender blinked. ‘‘Hold on. That’s a damned peculiar thing to ask. What are you up to?’’

‘‘I would make myself scarce were I you.’’ Boone threaded through the throng to the narrow hallway. He went past several closed doors and came to a door that was ajar.

The bed had seen recent use; the blanket was thrown back and rumpled. A plump woman sat on the edge, doing her dress up. She was so intent on the buttons that she did not realize he was there. She kept trying to get a tiny button through a tiny hole, but it would not stay.

‘‘Ma’am?’’

Jumping, the dove glanced up. ‘‘Damn it, mister. Don’t you know better than to sneak up on someone like that?’’

‘‘You need to leave.’’

The dove tried the tiny button one more time and gave up in frustration. ‘‘I would like to shoot whoever made this dress. I bought it off the rack and have regretted it ever since. It is not made for a full-bodied woman like me.’’ She wriggled a fleshy thigh and showed slightly yellow teeth. ‘‘How about it? I am easy to ride, if I do say so my own self.’’

Boone walked to the small table and picked up the lamp. The kerosene in the globe swished when he shook it. ‘‘Off you go.’’

‘‘What are you on about?’’ The woman heaved up off the bed. ‘‘This is my room. Why should I go anywhere?’’

Drawing back his arm, Boone said, ‘‘It will be awful hot in here in a few minutes.’’

‘‘Dear Lord!’’ The dove backpedaled. ‘‘Don’t do that! It will set the place on fire.’’

‘‘That it will.’’ Boone threw the lamp with all his might. The globe smashed to bits and kerosene splattered the wall. Instantly, flames erupted. Small flames at first, they grew rapidly.

Shrieking, the dove lumbered from the room. She began bawling at the top of her powerful lungs. ‘‘Maniac! Maniac! There is a maniac on the loose!’’

Boone walked down the hall until he came to another open door. The room was empty. He never hesitated. The lamp suffered the same fate as the other. When he came back out, smoke was spewing from the first room. Shouts and pounding feet filled the front of the saloon.

Boone moved toward the rear. A bloodstain marked the spot where Jarrott had died. Boone stopped and opened the door to Lucy’s room. It too was empty, but the lamp was lit. He smashed it on the floor.

Panic had gripped the Acey-Deucey. There were frantic shouts and screams and cries of ‘‘Water! Fetch water!’’

Boone went out the back door. He left it open so the breeze would fan the spreading flames, and strolled around to the front.

A crowd was gathering. People raced from every direction as yells spread up and down the street.

No one paid attention to Boone. He leaned against a post in front of a restaurant to watch.

The Acey-Deucey was emptying just as fast as those inside could move their legs. Many coughed and streamed tears. Through the front window men could be seen dashing water on the flames or trying to smother the flames with blankets. The dry wood had caught like tinder, and before long the saloon was abandoned to its fiery fate.

The crowd quieted as it became apparent there was nothing anyone could do. Many were dumbfounded by the catastrophe. Then one among them woke up to the greater danger the fire posed and began bellowing that something must be done to save the rest of Ranson.

A stampede started. Some fled in blind flight. Others sought to stem the spread. Finally one man assumed command by virtue of his ability to shout louder than the rest. He reminded them that Ranson had been built over a spring, that the spring could save them if they formed a bucket brigade and surrounded the saloon.

Men rushed to the general store and anywhere else that might have buckets. They filled the buckets and lines were formed. A lot of the water was wasted, sloshing over the sides as the men hurried to take positions.

The idea was a good one, but it had flaws. More men formed a line in front of the saloon than along either side, and fewer yet ran all the way around to the back. They did not think to space themselves and there were gaps here and there.

Then there was their fear.

A fire can be frightening. A large fire, with ten-foot flames roaring out of control, can chill the blood and stop the heart. By the time the hastily organized firefighters assembled, the saloon was nearly engulfed. Flames had climbed up the walls and shot from holes in the roof. A cacophony of sound exploded from the belly of the blazing beast. Wood snapped, crackled and popped. Glass shattered and tinkled. Bottles burst. Some of the shotgun shells behind the bar went off, and the people outside jumped and ducked.

The man in command bellowed for the fire brigade to close in and use their buckets. But by now the flames were so big and the heat so intense that few could get close enough. The fire changed the water that was thrown into steam. Hardly any of the flames were extinguished.

A new fear set in. When the wall facing the restaurant buckled and writhing flames poured out, the men on that side ran.

Boone reclaimed his palomino and walked over to join onlookers farther away.

The restaurant’s owner pleaded to have his establishment saved, but few were willing to rally to its defense. Those who did had no chance of stopping the spread. They dashed water and produced a lot of sizzle and flash, but that was all.

From the restaurant the inferno spread to another saloon. Shock spread as the full gravity of the disaster became apparent.

Barring a miracle, Ranson was doomed.

There was nothing for the crowd to do but to watch in helpless dismay as structure after structure was consumed. Some ran to save personal effects. Some ran for their mounts or wagons and fled into the night.

Varied emotions seized the watchers. Excitement in a few, sadness in many, fascination in nearly all. The conflagration was spectacular.

Frontier towns suffered fires much too often. Some burned to the ground and were rebuilt. Several had burned down two or three times, only to rise, phoenixlike, from the ashes. Whether the same would happen to Ranson was anyone’s guess.

Boone did not share in the general bedlam. The only time he showed any emotion was when a woman wailed that she had lost everything she owned.

Men railed and cursed and wondered how the fire started. Someone said that he had heard a drunk knocked over a lamp. Another said that, no, he had been in the Acey-Deucey when it broke out, and the fire had been deliberately set. When others asked who was to blame, he replied that he had not seen the culprit, himself.

The news spread. There was talk of a lynching, if only they could find the guilty party. When a man near Boone hollered that hanging was too good for the son of a bitch and they should feed him to the fire, Boone grinned and shouted his agreement. His grin was fleeting, though. By the time a tenth building was afire, he had seen enough.

Forking leather, Boone departed. The cool breeze was a welcome relief after the blistering heat. He looked back only once from half a mile away. Flames, scores of feet high, leaped from the tops of buildings. All of Ranson was awash in light as bright as day. People scurried about like ants.

‘‘Serves them right,’’ Boone said to the palomino. He rode on. He was in no hurry. He had a long ride ahead of him come morning, and he wanted the palomino to be well rested.

Boone had not seen any sign of Old Man Radler or Skelman or any of the other rustlers. He assumed they were back in Ranson, watching the fire. It was where he would be if he did not have to do what he had to do.

At length Boone came within sight of their camp. He was puzzled when he did not see a campfire or any sign of life. Bringing the palomino to a trot, he covered the last hundred yards and drew rein next to smoking embers.

Everyone and everything was gone. The rustlers, their mounts, the stolen horses, all had vanished.

Bewildered, Boone swung down. ‘‘Sassy?’’ he called, and did not receive an answer. Worry knifed through him and he roved frantically about. ‘‘Sassy? Where are you?’’

A muffled sound stopped Boone in his tracks. He drew his Colt and advanced in the direction the sound came from. It was repeated, along with a series of thumps. But he could not, for the life of him, guess what was making them. Not until he nearly stumbled over a sprawled form at his feet.

Boone jumped back, then sprang forward again when he recognized the gagged face that reared up off the ground to gurgle and grunt at him.

‘‘Drub!’’

Boone knelt and pried at the gag. The knots in the bandana were tight and it took some doing to loosen them.

Drub kept on gurgling and grunting with great urgency.

Finally Boone got the gag off. ‘‘There you go. Tell me quick. Where is Sassy?’’

Drub spat and coughed and sat up, offering his bound wrists. ‘‘Cut me loose, pard. My ankles too.’’

‘‘Tell me what happened.’’

‘‘It was my pa. My own pa turned on me. I never thought he would do that. He can be mean, but this time he went too far.’’

Boone gripped him by the shoulders. ‘‘Damn it, Drub. Answer me. Where’s Sassy?’’

‘‘They took her.’’

‘‘They what?’’

Drub nodded, and a great dry sob escaped him. ‘‘They took her with them and it is all my fault.’’

‘‘Took her where?’’

‘‘Please don’t be mad.’’

Nearly losing his temper, Boone shook him. ‘‘Where, Drub? Where did they take her?’’

Drub bowed his head. ‘‘To your brother.’’