Ralph Compton the Burning Range

Chapter 1

When a gambler is trying to outrun a losing streak he sometimes forgets the rules. That night Chauncey Drake misplaced two of them: He was playing poker under a blood moon, always unlucky for him, and he’d stubbed his toe on a dead man.

In more prosperous times, he’d have sat out the unlucky night in his hotel room with a bottle and a couple of whores who were a credit to their profession.

But these were not thriving days for Chauncey Drake.

And he suspected that harder times were coming down.

The game, Peter J. Grapples said, is poker.

The eyes peering over the top of the banker’s glasses nudged Drake gently. A man doesn’t push a known and named gunfighter too much.

I’m studying on it, Drake said, staring at his cards.

It’s not difficult, Mr. Drake, Grapples said. I raised you ten.

Man’s got the right to take his time, Ed Winslow said.

But not all night, Grapples said.

Winslow nodded. No, not all night. Truer words were never spoken.

Drake studied his cards. Aces and eights, a dead man’s hand.

Nothing about the damned night boded well.

Grapples wasn’t pushing him hard, and Drake understood why.

But what the banker didn’t know was that Drake’s blue Colt currently reposed in Sy Goldberg’s Pawn and Mercantile on Second Street, tagged, bagged, and pigeonholed.

In return for the revolver, Drake had received, from Sy’s own hand, as befitted a regular customer, a ticket and ten dollars.

The ten dollars now sat in front of him, and there was not another thin dime in his poke.

Ed Winslow’s eyes moved to the saloon window. Blackest night I’ve seen in a spell, he said. He cocked his head, listening into the darkness. Coyotes are hunting close.

There’s blood on the moon, Grapples said.

Unlucky for some, Winslow said.

Maybe for you, Mr. Drake, Grapples said, smiling. Or me.

The banker’s smile faded and he sighed. The game is poker, he said for a second time.

Drake made up his mind.

He pushed his ten into the pot. I call. He spread his cards. Got me a dead man.

Too little and way too late, Grapples said. He tossed his hand onto the table. Three ladies.

Unlucky for some, Winslow said.

Grapples gathered up the deck. Shall I deal?

Drake shook his head. I’m done.

He rose to his feet, a slim man of medium height, dressed in patched and faded gambler’s finery.

Another time, perhaps, Grapples said.

Drake nodded. Yes, another time.

He walked to the door and stepped outside.

The blood moon was rising, but for the moment it had spiked itself on a pine at the edge of town. The night gathered close and along First Street, kerosene lamps glowed red in the darkness and smoked like the cinders of fallen stars.

Drake found a ragged cigar stub in the pocket of his frockcoat, then took a seat in one of the rockers scattered along the saloon porch.

Across the street, outside the marshal’s office, the dead man was propped up in a pine coffin, illuminated by the railroad lantern on the boardwalk in front of him.

The man’s face was as blue as marble, his eye sockets pooled in shadow, and he showed his teeth in a death grimace.

The reason for the grotesque display was that when Marshal Dub Halloran killed a man in the line of duty, justice had to be seen, by the whole town, to be done.

The dead man was a small-time thief and all-around nuisance by the name of Bates or Baxter—nobody knew for sure.

He’d stolen a side of bacon from a farmer’s smoke-house, and Halloran had tracked the man to a box canyon north of the farm. Bates or Baxter had promptly surrendered, but, for convenience’ sake, the marshal had gunned him where he stood and dragged the body back to town behind his horse.

Nobody much cared. Sy Goldberg pretty much summed up the town’s attitude when he declared that the man’s death was a case of good riddance to bad rubbish.

Drake didn’t have much sympathy for Bates or Baxter either.

On his way to the saloon he’d tripped over the man’s coffin, and everybody knew how unlucky that was.

Drake took a last draw on his cigar and ground it out under his shoe.

He was busted. Broke. Destitute. Penniless. And it hurt.

He’d sold his horse a while back, then his watch, then his diamond stickpin, then his emerald ring. Sy Goldberg had his Colt and the shoulder holster that went with it.

Farther down the street he saw the lights of the Bon-Ton Hotel. He couldn’t go back there until the manager left for the night. The man had been pressing Drake for money and had threatened to padlock his room if the eighty dollars he owed was not paid instanter or even sooner.

A six-month losing streak had exacted its toll, and that night Drake knew he had scraped the bottom of his last barrel.

He rose to his feet and stepped to the edge of the boardwalk.

A cowboy walked past, leading his horse, neither looking to his left nor right. He was followed by one of the respectable matrons of the town. Drake touched his hat to the woman, but she lifted her nose and ignored him.

Despite his gloom, Drake smiled. Could people sense poverty? Or did they not care to look at a man who was wrapped up in his own gloomy shadow?

Round as a coin, the moon had broken free of the pines and was riding high in the sky, spawning crouching shadows all over town. Out in the darkness coyotes yipped, their fur rippled by a rising wind.

Drake was seized by the urge to flee, to steal a horse and outrun the tiger. But flee to where? To yet another hick town in the middle of nowhere, where no one would be glad at his coming or sad at his leaving?

From the frying pan into the fire.

Evening, Chauncey. Still prospering, I see, huh?

Drake turned. Savannah Swan stood on the boardwalk, a smile on her scarlet lips.

That obvious?

I’d say. You’ve mended them britches you’re wearing so many times they look like Grandma’s patchwork quilt.

Drake said nothing, and Savannah said, Still trying to buck a losing deck?

That sums it up.

Let me buy you a drink.

I’ll pass.

That sounded harsh and Drake sweetened it with a smile. How’s business?

The woman shrugged. Tuesday night. It’s slow. All the married ones are home with their skinny wives and the drovers don’t get paid till Friday.

Things are tough all over, Drake said.

Savannah ignored that and said, Why don’t you talk to Loretta?

Drake shook his head. Loretta ain’t exactly a whore with a heart of gold. She stung me on my ring.

She likes you, Chauncey. And I know she’s holding. Got a big roll.

Smooth that out for me.

Like I said, she’s holding. Ask her for a grubstake.

I’ve got no, what they call, collateral. Loretta has my ring and Sy Goldberg has my gun.

So? You ain’t going anyplace, are you?

Loretta is holding, you say?

Big roll.

I’ll study on it.

Savannah smiled. Don’t study on it too long. She’s leaving town tomorrow to visit a sick aunt—be gone for a week.

She’s home right now?

Washing her hair. She’s had no gentlemen callers and isn’t expecting any.

Maybe I’ll go talk to her.

Savannah smiled, looking over Drake’s shabby clothes and down-at-heel shoes. Maybe you should.

She gathered her shawl around her naked shoulders. I’ve got to get down to the Alamo. There will be no customers, but Hank Bowman expects me to be there on the chance that somebody gets horny.

The woman glanced at the sky and shivered as she walked away. Blood on the moon, Chauncey, she said over her shoulder.

Yeah, I noticed that, Drake said.

Chapter 2

Loretta Sinclair lived in a gingerbread house on the edge of town. The place had two stories, a covered porch, and a small garden that grew a fine crop of bunchgrass and cactus.

As whores go, Loretta was more successful than most and she charged top dollar. Her great height, six foot four in her spike-heeled boots, added to her attraction and had earned her the nickname High Timber.

Hell, when she stood next to me, the top of my head only reached her bush. Drake had heard one overawed customer say.

Loretta and her high timber had many admirers, and her sprawling house with a carriage and matched pair out back in the barn testified to her popularity and prosperity.

Drake stopped, straightened his celluloid collar, and smoothed his mustache. He removed his plug hat, licked his fingers, and patted down his hair. He was wishful for lavender water but had none.

He settled the hat back on his head and looked at the moon. It was still red against the sky, like a drop of blood on black velvet.

The wind gusted, flapping the legs of his pants, and it smelled of shadowed places and dead things.

It seemed that every oil lamp in Loretta’s house was lit and elongated rectangles of yellow light spilled onto the sand of the yard.

Suddenly Drake became aware of the hopelessness of his mission and deep inside, little bits of him began to curl up and die.

Loretta Sinclair was a whore with a heart of iron, a cold-eyed businesswoman with no good reason to grubstake a bum.

Drake swallowed hard, put one foot in front of the other, and slowly walked toward the door.

He would have to rely on his charm. And, as soon as that thought crossed his mind, he knew with an awful certainty that his empty words would fall on the deaf ears of a woman who had heard it all before.

Drake knuckled the oak-and-glass door and waited.

The groaning wind tugged at him, trying to drag him away from there.

He knocked again.

Nothing.

Amazed at his own boldness, or desperation, Drake turned the polished brass doorknob and stuck his head inside.

Miz Loretta, are you home? he called out.

He was answered by an echoing silence, as though the house was holding its breath. Waiting.

It’s me! Chauncey Drake, as ever was!

In the quiet his voice boomed, hollow as a drum.

Drake waited a few moments, then tried again, louder this time into the hush. Miss Loretta!

No answer.

Savannah Swan had said Loretta was home. Then where the hell was she?

Drake stepped inside and removed his hat.

There was a gilded, oval mirror on the wall to his left. He parted his hair in the middle with his fingers and smoothed it into place on each side of his head.

That accomplished, he didn’t much like what he saw: a tired brown-eyed young man with an untrimmed mustache and the aggrieved look of a scolded puppy.

Miss Loretta!

Drake walked farther into the house. A parlor opened up to his left, and across the hall was a dining room. A carpeted stairway to the second floor rose in front of him.

Miss Loretta! It’s me, Chauncey Drake!

The answering silence mocked him. Somewhere a clock ticked and at the back of the house a screen door slammed open and shut in the wind.

Maybe Loretta was outside, feeding the horses.

Drake walked past the stairway and along a narrow passage leading to the rear of the house. A door to his right was ajar and he glimpsed what appeared to be a bedroom dresser.

Miss Loretta, are you in there?

He looked inside. And froze in shock right where he stood.

Loretta Sinclair, naked, legs spread wide, was sprawled across the bed, her long damp hair forming an auburn halo around her head.

It was the seductive pose she might have adopted to welcome a client, or an ardent lover.

But the woman’s whoring days were over. Her days for doing anything were over. The knife handle protruding from between her scarlet-splashed breasts gave proof of that.

On the wall, above the bed’s headboard, two words were scrawled in blood.

GET OUT!

Drake, dazed, stepped to the bed, but stumbled over an overturned stool. He landed on top of Loretta’s slippery body, then, horrified, lurched back to his feet.

A moment later a woman screamed.

Chapter 3

The scream was a primal shriek of fear, loud and grating.

Savannah Swan stood in the doorway. Her terrified eyes took in Drake’s blood-soaked clothes and bloody hands; then she turned and ran, waving her hands over her head.

Murder! Murder!

Wait! Drake yelled. Savannah, come back!

He pounded after the woman, tripped on a rug and fell, then scrambled to his feet again.

By the time he got outside, Savannah was already running down the middle of First Street, holding her skirt above her knees.

Murder! Murder!

Panicked, his eyes wild, Drake was driven by an instinct to escape.

He ran back into the house, then dashed to the barn.

Loretta kept her horses there.

The two Morgans were dozing in their stalls and paid Drake no mind when he ran inside. Only silver moonlight blading through the barn door lit up the interior.

Frantic now, Drake searched around. He found a bridle and other tack on a wall, but no sign of a saddle.

But the bridle was all he needed.

He had the bit in the mouth of one of the Morgans when a man’s voice stopped him.

Stay right where you’re at, Chauncey. Or I’ll drop you, by God.

Drake turned and saw the long, lanky silhouette of Marshal Dub Halloran framed in the doorway. Moonlight gleamed on the blue barrel of his Remington.

I didn’t kill her, Dub, Drake said.

As though he hadn’t heard, Halloran took a single step toward him. Come out here, Chauncey. And keep your hand well away from your gun.

I don’t have a gun, Dub.

Git out here, damn you, and don’t back talk me!

The bridle still in his left hand, Drake stepped forward and stopped when the moonlight fell on him.

Another man stomped into the barn, a shotgun in his hands.

It’s Loretta all right, Marshal, he said. Stabbed through the heart with a bowie. Drake felt the man’s eyes on him. Was it him?

Yeah, he was trying to make a run for it. Halloran turned his head very slightly toward the other man. Keep the Greener on him, Bill. He’s mighty sudden.

I got faith in this here scattergun, mister, the man called Bill said to Drake. Make a fancy move an’ I’ll cut you off at the knees.

Damn it, I didn’t kill her, Drake said.

The barn was closing in on him and he felt trapped, struggling hard to breathe.

Damn it, she was already dead when I found her.

Drake knew he was talking into the wind. Nobody was listening to him.

Drop that bridle, then ease out your gun with two fingers of your left hand, Chauncey, Halloran said. Do it real slow, now. I ain’t taking any chances with you.

The marshal jammed the muzzle of the Remington into Drake’s belly. No first chances, no second chances.

My gun’s in Sy Goldberg’s pawn, Drake said. Search me if you want.

Halloran said, Bill, see if he’s heeled. The lawman’s long, hangdog face looked like melting candle wax. He took a step back. Chauncey, I see anything quick, I’ll gun you.

He’s light, Dub, Bill said after his search. He ain’t carrying.

Halloran nodded toward the barn door. Now, we’re walking to the jail, real peaceful, like we was visiting kinfolk. He showed teeth under his mustache. You know me, Chauncey. I ain’t superstitious. Try to cut and run, and I’ll shoot you right between the shoulder blades.

Dub, you’re one miserable son of a bitch, Drake said.

Ain’t I, though, the marshal said. Live longer that way.

Chapter 4

Chauncey Drake woke in the gloom of his cell, aware of a small, warm weight on his chest.

He opened his eyes to the unblinking amber gaze of a tiny calico cat.

How did you get in here? Drake said.

The cat stared at him.

Drake said, Through the window, huh? If a hole in the wall with iron bars in it can be called a window.

He stroked the calico’s soft fur and was rewarded with a purr.

Well, cat, you find me very low, Drake said. They’re going to hang me, you know. He shook his head. Now that you have the facts, what’s your considered opinion on that?

The cat had none.

I understand how you feel, Drake said. I must say that the Honorable Peace Commission of the City of Green Meadow, Oklahoma, and Indian Territories, did give me a fair trial.

The calico blinked, stretched, then curled up on Drake’s chest again, still staring at him.

I was accused of raping and murdering a—please forgive me for using the word—whore. Don’t that beat anything you ever saw or heard tell of?

Drake rubbed the cat’s small, pointed ears. I didn’t do it, of course. Somebody else did. Being a jail cat an’ all, I know you’ve probably heard that before, but it’s the gospel.

The calico yawned, showing pointed fangs in a pink mouth.

The real killer wrote ‘Get out’ on the wall in blood, Drake said. Now why would he do that? Of course, my lawyer used it to try and get my neck out of the noose, said only a crazy person would write that on the wall. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘my client is a nut, and you can’t hang a nut.’ But the honorable commissioners didn’t see it that way. ‘The sight of the gallows will soon restore the accused to his senses,’ said Sy Goldberg, who has my gun in his pawn. ‘The rope is the sovereign remedy for all cases of insanity, derangement, craziness, and loss of reason.’ Well, that was yesterday, and now they’re going to hang me in two days.

Drake looked into the cat’s glowing eyes. Don’t seem hardly fair, do it? I mean, hanging a man for nothing.

Who the hell are you talking to, Chauncey?

Drake turned his head and saw Dub Halloran standing at