Ralph Compton Tucker's Reckoning (9781101607770) Read online

  His blue-gray eyes seemed to brighten as if lit from within. Then his eyelids fluttered and closed. The sighing sound came again, then leaked out with his breath, and the man was finally dead.

  The bloody hand remained gripped on to Tucker’s own thin wrist. He pried loose the work-thick fingers, lowered the hand to the grass. “I didn’t . . . I wasn’t thieving from you,” he whispered. “I would not do that. I . . .”

  What was the use? The man was dead and he had a woman in his life with the name of Emma. How do I find such a person? Is there a town along here somewhere? A river town, he thought. That would make sense. And there was bound to be a ranch close by. Maybe it was this man’s place.

  But no matter what, he couldn’t bring himself to feeling again in the man’s coat for something to identify him by. It seemed too big a violation now. He’d just have to do his best, knowing there was no way on earth he was going to be able to hoist the man up onto Gracie—neither of them had the strength for such an undertaking.

  Tucker stood, his hands on his waist and his breath hissing out of him. Just have to leave him, take a chance that something might get him. He looked down at him again. There wasn’t even anything he could do to cover him up. He had no blanket of his own, and the man’s coat was on him tight. Then he remembered that the big man’s hat had pinwheeled away. He looked around and to his surprise located it not far off. He fitted it tight to the man’s head and tugged it down low and snug, covering the man’s face.

  Other than not wanting to lift her head from what she obviously considered a sweet meal, Gracie proved no trouble for him to catch. He was amazed each morning to find he still had her. Something about the sad old brown-eyed horse, her faithfulness to him even through these lean times, warmed and shamed him, for he knew she deserved better. He was on a fast slide downhill and she seemed content to be along for the ride, a last, bittersweet link with his old life.

  He led her around the man and she gave the body a suspicious sidelong stare. They hadn’t walked but a few yards when his boot stubbed something in the grass. There lay the dead man’s pistol, a Colt Navy. Tucker looked back to the dead man. Still dead. He hefted the pistol. He could tuck it into the man’s holster, but he didn’t warm to the idea of disrupting the body all over again.

  Then it occurred to him that he might be able to use it to identify the man. He dropped the reins and turned the pistol over in his hands. Gracie resumed grazing.

  The ebony handles shone from long use. He could pick out no other discerning marks, but as he tipped it up, he noted, etched into the butt, deeply gouged letters.

  “P.F.,” he said.

  Gracie kept eating.

  “Bound to help.” The pistol slid too easily into his waistband. Finally he pulled it free and kept a grip on it, lest it slip down his pant leg.

  It took him three tries to remount. He straddled Gracie’s bony spine, his eyes half-shut, dizziness and pinprick blackness crowding his vision. Finally he kneed her forward, and she resumed her walk. He didn’t have the heart to urge her to move faster. He knew better than anyone how much effort it took to keep on moving forward, from nothing, toward nothing.

  His saddle was long gone. Even the blanket he’d managed to hang on to since he’d sold the saddle had also disappeared a month or more back, maybe in that harsh little Mormon-infested town, though he couldn’t be sure.

  As they walked, the way became recognizable as a trail. Tucker followed it, and his thoughts soon turned over and over the man’s last words: “Tell Emma . . . heart . . .”

  “I wonder what that means,” he said out loud, and sighed. “Guess we better find this Emma and break the sad news, Gracie. Maybe she’ll have a charitable side and feed us.” After suitable grieving, of course. It had been his experience that most people got a leg up and over their heartsickness sooner than later.

  Only you have never crawled out of yours, have you, Samuel Tucker? You’ve been weak as water for a long time now, boy. But the good news is that your weak ways are almost at an end. You can’t hold out much longer this way. The very center of your sagging self will give way, Tucker, and that, as someone once said, will be that.

  He frowned at the thought. The bitterness of self-doubt parched his tongue and left a dry, sandy feeling in his mouth. He kept his eyes closed as Gracie walked right on past another lane that angled sharply to the right.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tucker had approached the point where turning around seemed more and more like the thing to do, maybe go back and try to find where the man had come from. The road might have offered a fork earlier that he had failed to notice. “Well, Gracie, looks like we’re sunk.”

  And then Gracie took a few more steps and Tucker saw thin gray clouds angling straight up and down on the near horizon. Another few steps revealed the tops of neat rows of false-fronted buildings making up a business district. The clouds were smoke plumes from chimneys.

  “Fancy that, we know where we’re headed after all.” He licked his lips, unaware that he was doing so, his thoughts fixed on the splendors of hoisting a filled bottle of whiskey. Then he remembered he had no money, and nothing else to sell, and that’s when his stomach gurgled and growled like a baby grizz stuffed in a sack. His thoughts shifted from the wonders of whiskey to a full, hot meal of beef roast, with boiled potatoes swimming in butter, thick gravy over it all, maybe some stewed tomatoes and biscuits. Now, that was worth thinking over. But how could that even happen? His hand went to his belly, to rub down the groaning going on in there, and touched the handle of the Colt.

  If he turned it in to the law, as he knew he should, he would get nothing for his trouble, but if he were to sell it to the proprietor of a mercantile, or better yet a gunsmith, he might well make a few dollars. He’d tell the lawman about the dead man, naturally, but he could also afford to eat and drink, fill up on whatever the town could offer him. Though in truth, as long as the town had whiskey, the rest of it could wait.

  As they stepped their way down off the half-treed hill, Tucker saw the main road leading into town off through the trees to his left where it curved down from the west, crossed the river at a wide, shallow spot, then paralleled the river for a time before snaking into town and becoming a main street. Of what town, Tucker had no idea.

  He didn’t even know what state he was in. He only knew it was cold, and drawing closer to winter all the time. The far-off peaks were already dusted with snow, and early snows in mountain towns were no joke. Better to end it sooner than later. If he turned south, he’d meet up once again with warmth, but that would only prolong the end.

  KLINKHORN, the sign at the end of the main street read. Odd name, but somehow appropriate. The river valley town looked like a few he’d ridden through, half-built on golden dreams spun by miners, but unlike some of those mining camps, this one appeared to be surviving, even thriving.

  Wagons lined the wide street. He saw the sway of dresses and the nodding of bonnets as women went about their shopping, and children chased one another. A matronly lady set to spanking a youngster when he failed to wait for a team of draft animals dragging a work wagon. Tucker spied a saloon sign, a hotel, and beyond, at the far end of the street and set off by itself, a livery. It stood well away from the rest of the buildings, he knew, so the flies wouldn’t cause a fuss among townsfolk in hot weather.

  Here and there behind the main street sat houses, some grander than others, white-painted-lumber affairs with window shutters and filigree on the roof gables. Others were more modest structures, sitting squat and small; most were tidy.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Their breath, man’s and horse’s, plumed slow and steady in the cooling air. It would be dark in a few hours, he figured. Maybe sooner this far north. As if in agreement with him, the dim honey glow of a lamp bloomed behind a gauzy curtain in what looked to be a milliner’s window.

  It d
idn’t take long for the sorry sight of them to draw the unvarnished stares of everyone he passed. He couldn’t guess which they were more alarmed at seeing, him or his skinny horse. Despite his usual lack of care that had settled on him like a comfortable old coat, Tucker found himself looking down to avoid eye contact, and offering an apologetic smile when he did catch someone’s wary gaze.

  Even children stopped. One barefoot lad in short pants, thin and with tousled hair and a daring, rangy look in his eyes, darted into the street just behind Tucker. He shouted, “Scarecrow horse!” and lashed Gracie with a green whip of a branch, once, twice on the rump. The pain sent her into a churning spin, showing more gumption than she had done in weeks.

  “Hey, now!” Tucker shouted, half at the boy, half to settle Gracie.

  A man grabbed the lad from behind and dragged him backward, enduring the wily youth’s kicks and thrashing arms. “Sorry, mister,” said the man, forcing a smile. “He’s a waif.”

  As if that is an excuse, thought Tucker as he slid from the horse’s back and steadied her over to a hitch rail before G. Taggart’s Mercantile and Emporium. Still under the stopped motion of what felt like the entire town’s stare, he rubbed Gracie’s flank where already the whip marks rose into weals, each a foot long. Again, he felt terrible guilt, swallowed it down. A healthy horse would have had more flesh, could have withstood such a minor lashing. But the episode had taken more wind out of Gracie’s already flagging spirit. She stood at the rail, head bowed, sides heaving, her tongue tip extended from her mouth, trembling and flecked with foam.

  “Mister, you ought to take some care of that animal. Or put it out of its misery.”

  Tucker looked up at the sidewalk. Whichever of the several men standing there had said it, he wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter. They were right and they all knew it. Even Tucker. He stroked Gracie’s forehead, then stepped up onto the sidewalk. Already the cluster of gawkers had dispersed, hurried their steps as if allowing him to get too close might taint them.

  He stepped to the windowed entry door of the mercantile and caught sight of himself in the glass. The gaunt creature he saw startled him. He dragged a hand down his face, smoothing his beard, ran it through his hair, squared his shoulders, and set a hand on the pistol’s butt. Then he opened the door.

  He settled the door in place behind him, a small brass bell above it tinkling his arrival, heavy footsteps somewhere in the back responding. He saw a nearly full barrel of soda crackers by the counter. He stuffed one into his mouth, barely began chewing it, the sweet sensation of solid food flooding his mouth with saliva. He stuffed another, then another in.

  “Them are for paying customers.”

  He looked up to see a broad older man in a wide white apron and sleeve garters, a gleaming dome of a bald head, two narrowed eyes staring at him through wire-rimmed spectacles.

  It took Tucker longer than he would have liked to work through enough of the dry cracker dust in his mouth to respond. He tried, coughed crumbs, covered his mouth, then tried again. “Who says I’m not?”

  The merchant crossed his arms as if hugging himself. “Not what?”

  “A paying customer.”

  The man nodded, his eyes squinting at the stranger. “Fair enough. Prove it, then.”

  Tucker stepped to the counter, pulled the pistol free from his waistband. Already the man behind the counter had his pink hands half-raised and had backed up, his head knocking into shelving holding canned goods and small sacks of beans.

  Tucker tweezered the Colt with two fingers, tried to smile and make his voice as reassuring as he could. “No, no, you got me all wrong. I am not here to hold you up.” He laid the pistol on the counter. “I only want to sell this sidearm.” With a finger, he pushed it toward the merchant, who held his hands chest high. Tucker backed up a step, let his hands hang by his sides.

  The big man looked at the gun, then at Tucker, then back to the gun, wearing the same mix of scowl and concern. “Well, yes, uh, I do on occasion . . . buy such things.” He looked again at Tucker over the tops of his spectacles. “If the piece is in good working order.”

  “That one appears to be.” Tucker tried to sound hopeful.

  The big man turned the gun over in his hands a couple of times, went through motions of removing the cylinder, sighting along the barrel, hefting it at arm’s length. “Not many folks carry one of these nowadays. They leave them at home in favor of the newer, lighter models.” He turned it over, inspecting the handgrips, then paused, looked at Tucker again over his spectacles. “How’d you come by this piece anyway?”

  “That would be a long story, sir. Right now I would like to sell it and be on my way. My horse is plumb wore out and I’d like to treat her to a good feed and a rubdown at the livery. Me, I aim to find a hot meal.”

  “Mm-hmm. And how much were you looking to get for this old gun?”

  “I’ll be honest, sir. I don’t have much idea of what it might be worth. I’ll take all I can get, I reckon.” Tucker hoped that sounded friendly. He didn’t like the way the man kept looking at the handgrips. What if he knew whose gun it was? Tucker’s guts tightened and he knew this was a mistake. He should have gone straight to the law with the gun. What had he been thinking, trying to turn this gun into cash?

  He was about to snatch the gun from the man’s hands when the merchant said, “Very well, I can give you five dollars, but not a penny more. At that I’m not even sure I can recoup the expense. As I said, these pieces are not highly sought anymore.”

  Tucker sighed inside and nodded. “That’s fine, sir. Fine. I’ll take it and be glad of it.”

  The man set the pistol on a back counter and pulled coins from his vest pocket, spreading them on his big palm and sorting them with a finger.

  Tucker looked around at the shelves laden with goods, everything from teapots to spools of hemp rope, leather goods, bolts of cloth, foodstuffs on shelves groaning with the weight of canned goods, bottles, and boxes all sporting colorful labels. It had been a long time since he’d been in such a full store. “You wouldn’t consider throwing in a bottle of medicinal whiskey to sweeten the deal, would you . . . sir?”

  The man paused, gave him that same long stare. “Even if I sold such a thing, the answer would be no. Our deal has been struck, sir. Besides . . . ” He looked Tucker up and down. “You would be well advised to take your medicaments in a less habitual manner. But if you cannot, you will find spirits at any one of Klinkhorn’s three saloons.” He slapped down five coins on the counter and said, “Good day, sir.”

  Tucker slid the coins into his palm, held them tight there—his pockets all bore holes—and on his way to the door, he grabbed a cracker, stuffed it into his mouth. Just before he opened the door, he smiled at the glaring man, leaned back and grabbed a handful of crackers, then left.

  Gracie stood waiting for him, looking somewhat recovered from her earlier excitement. He walked around her quickly and saw no more marks. He led her down the street to the livery, sharing the crackers with her as they walked. She appeared to like the taste, her soft lips taking them in faster than he could chew his own. “I’m sorry, old girl. The boy just didn’t recognize what a fine lady you are. But tonight, at least, you’ll be in tall cotton. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? In fact, Gracie, don’t even think about tomorrow.”

  Dark was coming in quick. Lights blossomed from inside several businesses as they passed. Tucker caught a snatch of fiddle music and clapping as a stab of mingled laughter spilled out of a saloon as someone entered. The sounds dulled again with the closing of the door. He licked his lips, aware and not caring what the sight of a saloon did to him.

  * * *

  Back up the street, Glendon Taggart flipped over the OPEN sign in his door and shut it behind him. He stepped down into the street and worked up to a stiff-legged run diagonally across the street toward the lit win
dow of the town marshal’s office, a Colt Navy in his hand. The few folks on the street gave him a curious stare. None could recall ever having seen Taggart move faster than a casual walk inside his store, much less run anywhere. And with a gun in his hand, to boot. Their gaze followed the big man’s huffing progress all the way to Marshal Hart’s office.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  He chose the Ringing Belle because something about the front windows reminded him of home, of his former life long ago back in Texas. Maybe it was the red-painted posts, or the blue curlicues on the hand-lettered sign. That it brought to mind old times, good times before everything in his life went sour, that was enough. He stepped through the door, greeted by the bright glow of too many oil lamps. No matter how much spiffing a saloon did before it opened for the evening, there never was any way of covering up the forever scent of old tobacco smoke, spilled beer, and the high-heaven sweat stink of unwashed, hardworking men. And every bit of it familiar and welcoming to Samuel Tucker.

  The place was nearly empty. In a back corner, an old man sat facing the room. He wore a nest of wild gray hair, the sunken cheeks and lips of the toothless on his stubbled face, a set of fringed buckskins that looked older than Methuselah’s goat, and on the table before him a slouch hat with an assortment of eagle feathers bristling from one side of the band. He looked as though he missed nothing, taking in the entire scene before him. A nearly full bottle of dark amber liquid sat before him. A squat clear glass half-filled waited by his knuckles.

  The back half of the floor was set up with baize games tables, but no one sat at them. The only other person in the place was the bartender, who had the look of a mixed-breed man, but with curious features that made him look half Chinese, half Indian.

  “What would you like?” The bartender stood erect behind the bar, no emotion on his face as he stared at Tucker.

  He had to ask twice, because Tucker had seen the beef-and-cheese sandwiches stacked on a platter on the bar top. And beside them, a jar of pickled eggs.