Bullet for a Bad Man

Border Ruffians

There were exactly ten of them.

Ten riders who swept out of the night toward Porter’s, ten tough men on ten tired mounts. Their slickers and hats and boots were caked with dust. In the pale starlight they appeared to be gray. An onlooker could be forgiven for thinking they were the Confederacy, risen anew. But there were no onlookers. Not in this wild land, at this time of night.

They thundered up on Porter’s and climbed down. One of the ten stayed with the horses. One of them always stayed with the horses. It was a rule set down by their leader, and they never broke his rules. Never, ever.

It was their leader who barreled inside ahead of the rest, their leader who nodded at Drub and Wagner and Galeno. Their leader who stopped cold at the sight of the stranger at the table, their leader who said something out of the corner of his mouth that resulted in the rest spreading out as they entered so that they ringed the table and those sitting at it.

‘‘What the hell is this, boy?’’

‘‘It is good to see you again, Pa,’’ Drub Radler said.

‘‘I asked you a question.’’

Drub smiled and gestured. ‘‘This here is my new friend. We call him Lightning.’’

A dust-covered scarecrow next to the leader snorted. He was tall and razor thin and wore a black slicker. Under it were a black shirt and black pants and black boots. Even his belt was black leather. A belt with two holsters that sheathed black-handled Colts. The grips were mother-of-pearl, about the rarest type on the frontier, or anywhere else. Those grips told anyone who was gun savvy that the two Colts were custom models, made to fit the man. And a man who went to that much trouble was more than likely to be more than uncommonly good with them.

The leader scowled. ‘‘You know I don’t like you making friends without my say-so. I have half a mind to throw him out.’’

Galeno quickly said, quite politely, ‘‘I wouldn’t, were I you, Senor Radler.’’

‘‘No?’’

‘‘No, senor,’’ Galeno said. ‘‘Not this one.’’ He said those three words with great feeling. Then he looked at the rider with the mother-of-pearl Colts and he said very deliberately, ‘‘Not even you should think of doing it, amigo.’’

That shook them. You could see that it shook them. They glanced at one another and shifted uneasily.

‘‘Is that a fact?’’ the man with the mother-of-pearl Colts said, and he sounded skeptical.

It was Wagner who answered. ‘‘It is more of a fact than any fact you ever knew, Skelman.’’

The leader studied the boy called Lightning. He might be sixty, he might be fifty; he never said, and no one had the gall to ask. Gray hair poked from under his hat, and his chin was speckled with salt and pepper. But the gray was deceiving. He was not in any way old. His body was well muscled and as durable as rawhide, and when he moved, his movements were those of a man ten to twenty years younger. ‘‘I am called Old Man Radler. I reckon you’ve heard of me.’’

‘‘No,’’ Boone Scott said.

The rider on the other side of Old Man Radler cracked a grin. He was undeniably handsome, with a shock of black hair and blue eyes the ladies swooned over. ‘‘I reckon you’re not as famous as you think you are, Pa.’’

‘‘Shut the hell up, Vance,’’ Old Man Radler snapped, and scratched his salt-and-pepper chin.

Porter came over, wiping his hands on his dirty apron. ‘‘What can I get you gents?’’

Old Man Radler rounded on him. ‘‘What the hell is this?’’ He did not explain the ‘‘this.’’ He did not have to.

‘‘It is a free country,’’ Porter said.

‘‘Don’t give me sass. I don’t like it when someone gives me sass.’’

Vance Radler grinned. ‘‘He sure don’t.’’

‘‘And I don’t like being threatened.’’ Porter held his ground. ‘‘Kill me, and where will you stop on your trips to and from the border? Kill me, and where will you get your whiskey and ammunition and whatever else you need without having to look over your shoulder?’’

‘‘I would not push it,’’ Old Man Radler said. ‘‘You are immune, but you are only immune so far.’’

Porter nodded at Boone. ‘‘He rode in and wanted a drink, the same as everyone else. I did take my shotgun to him, but he draws faster than I can cock it.’’

That shook them anew. All of them studied him, the man called Skelman with intense interest.

‘‘Tonight of all nights,’’ Old Man Radler said, and turned back to his youngest. ‘‘What exactly do you aim to do with this new friend of yours?’’

‘‘I was thinking he could join us,’’ Drub said eagerly but uncertainly. ‘‘I haven’t had a friend since I was ten and my dog died. Remember my dog, Pa? Remember how he would lick me and play with me?’’

One of the other riders laughed in scorn. ‘‘God, what a simpleton.’’

To an onlooker it might have been surprising that Old Man Radler did not tell the man to shut up. Or that Vance Radler did not speak in his brother’s defense. But the biggest surprise was when Boone Scott stood. They all saw the ivory-handled Colt then, and a tense air gripped them.

‘‘Say you are sorry.’’

The man who made the comment was astounded. He was of middle height and compact of build, and he favored a Smith & Wesson worn butt forward on his right hip. ‘‘What?’’

‘‘You heard me. Apologize to Drub.’’

‘‘Like hell.’’

Drub tugged at Boone’s sleeve. ‘‘He doesn’t have to, Lighting. I am used to talk like that. Barnes does it all the time, but he is not the only one.’’

‘‘We are pards now, aren’t we?’’ Boone said.

Beaming, Drub declared, ‘‘Yes, we are. Real and true pards.’’

‘‘Then he will say he is sorry.’’

Barnes looked at Old Man Radler. ‘‘Are you just going to stand there and let this pup get away with this?’’

Old Man Radler glanced at Skelman, who was still studying Boone. ‘‘Are we?’’

‘‘I want to see him do it,’’ Skelman replied.

Vance Radler laughed. ‘‘We sure do stand up for each other, don’t we?’’

‘‘I won’t tell you again to watch that mouth of yours,’’ Old Man Radler warned.

Barnes shifted his weight from one foot to the next and seemed to come to a decision. ‘‘You better sheathe your claws, boy. I have killed more than my share.’’

Boone waited.

‘‘As for saying I am sorry, not now, and not ever. Everyone knows Drub was born simpleminded.’’

Boone waited.

‘‘In case no one told you, we are the Radler gang, and we don’t back down to anyone.’’

‘‘I was not talking to the rest of your gang,’’ Boone said. ‘‘I was talking to you. Either say it or turn tail.’’

‘‘Why, you miserable snot,’’ Barnes snarled, and his hand swept toward his Smith & Wesson.

The nickel plating on Boone’s ivory-handled Colt flashed in the lamplight and thunder boomed.

Barnes staggered back with a new hole between his wide eyes. The Smith & Wesson had barely started to rise from its holster when the shot rang out. His legs buckled and he fell to his knees and slowly keeled onto his side.

‘‘Jesus!’’ a rider breathed.

Boone twirled the Colt into his holster and turned to Drub. ‘‘From here on out, no one insults you when I am around. Pards stick up for each other.’’

‘‘Pards stick,’’ Drub repeated, and grinned like a kid just given a handful of candy. Facing his father, he said, ‘‘Did you see, Pa? Didn’t I tell you he is my friend?’’

‘‘Son of a bitch,’’ Old Man Radler said.

Vance was agog at the development. ‘‘I saw it but I don’t believe it. Barnes was no slouch.’’

All eyes swung to the man called Skelman, who stepped up to the table. ‘‘Lightning, is it?’’ No scorn or ridicule laced his tone. It almost held respect.

Boone shrugged. ‘‘It will do as good as any other.’’

‘‘I am top leather slapper in this outfit. It is not brag, it is fact.’’

‘‘He is a crack shot,’’ Wagner interjected. ‘‘The best I ever did see and I have been about everywhere.’’

Skelman shifted toward Porter. ‘‘Fetch half a dozen empties.’’

‘‘Hold on,’’ Porter said. ‘‘Where do you intend to do it? Outside is better. I don’t want holes in my walls.’’

‘‘They already have holes, and it is dark out.’’ Skelman paused. ‘‘Do I have to tell you twice?’’

‘‘No, sir.’’ Porter hastened toward the bar.

Drub was gnawing on his lower lip, but he stopped to say, ‘‘You’re not fixing to shoot my new friend, are you, Skelman?’’

‘‘No, Drub.’’

Drub said to Boone in a half whisper that everyone heard, ‘‘I like him, Lightning. He never talks mean to me like the rest do. But he is scary.’’

‘‘Scary how?’’ Boone asked.

‘‘He can kill anything. Men, women, even babies. I saw him kill a whole litter of kittens once.’’

Boone turned to Skelman. ‘‘Babies?’’

‘‘We came on some wagons that were hit by Apaches. The baby had an arrow in its belly, but it was still alive. I put it out of its misery.’’

‘‘And the kittens?’’

‘‘I hate cats.’’

‘‘He shoots real good,’’ Drub said. ‘‘Pa says he is the best who ever lived.’’

Porter returned with an armload of bottles. ‘‘Where do you want these?’’ he asked unhappily.

‘‘Put them on a table over by the far wall,’’ Skelman directed. ‘‘Line them up in a row.’’

Scowling, Porter swung toward the others. ‘‘Any of you want to help move a table? My hands are full.’’

No one responded.

‘‘A free drink for those who lend a hand.’’

Six men sprang and grabbed the table. Two others tried to take hold but were shouldered aside.

Vance Radler hooked his thumbs in his gun belt and swaggered up to Boone. ‘‘That business about the insults. It does not apply to me. I am his brother and I will insult him as I please.’’

‘‘He insults me more than anyone,’’ Drub said.

‘‘It goes for you the same as everyone else.’’ Boone motioned at the crumpled ruin that had been Barnes. ‘‘When you feel the urge, think of him. It might help.’’

‘‘Damn you. Drub is my brother.’’

‘‘Then you should be nice to him.’’

‘‘Nice?’’ Vance blurted, and cackled. ‘‘What the hell are you? A Good Samaritan?’’

‘‘I am this,’’ Boone said, and patted his Colt.

Now it was Skelman who laughed. Several of the others glanced sharply around, as if they had never heard him laugh before. ‘‘Damn, Lightning. You remind me of me when I was your age.’’

Vance could not let it drop. ‘‘I do not like being told what I can say. I do not like it one little bit.’’

‘‘Feel free to object,’’ Skelman said, and laughed some more.

Old Man Radler had been unusually quiet, but now he stepped forward. ‘‘Better rein in that temper of yours, Vance. We have a job to do soon and I cannot afford to lose anyone else.’’

‘‘Hell.’’

Old Man Radler thoughtfully regarded Boone. ‘‘I like to take a while to judge whether a man is dependable or not, but you have cost me a man and you claim to be Drub’s friend so—’’

‘‘There is no claim about it,’’ Boone broke in.

‘‘All right. But he goes where I go, and if you want to go where he goes, then you have to join us. And by join I mean you do what I say, when I say, and kill who I say when I want you to kill. And you need to make up your mind here and now. What will it be?’’

Just then Porter hollered, ‘‘The bottles are all set up. Just don’t blow holes in my table, damn it.’’

Skelman crooked a finger at Boone and they moved to the middle of the room. Setting himself, Skelman swept his slicker back. ‘‘When I give the word. You take the three on the right and I will take the three on the left.’’

‘‘There is no need to do this.’’

‘‘There is for me if not for you. Don’t hold back. Give it your all.’’ Skelman’s voice cracked like a bullwhip. ‘‘Now.’’

No one saw their hands move. Blurred motion was all.

Skelman drew both of his revolvers simultaneously, each hand equally swift, and his were out and up even as Boone’s Colt rose. Six shots thundered and six bottles shattered.

‘‘Wheeeooo!’’ Wagner cried.

‘‘I never saw the like!’’ another man exclaimed.

‘‘They tied!’’ a third said.

‘‘No, Skelman was a shade faster.’’

‘‘You’re loco.’’

Old Man Radler strode over and said brusquely, ‘‘Enough of this tomfoolery.’’ He focused on Boone.

‘‘It is time to decide. What will it be? Are you with us or not?’’

‘‘Count me in,’’ Boone Scott said.