Ralph Compton the Evil Men Do by Ralph Compton Page B

hear you,” Tyree said.
    Aces twirled his Colt into his holster and turned his back to Tyree with no more concern than if Tyree were a kitten.
    â€œThose Arapahos,” Fred said again.
    â€œYou and your darn Injuns,” Aces said. Moving to his saddle, he shucked the rifle, a Winchester.
    Fred was familiar with the model. It was a Browning 1886, with the finest wood stock money could buy, and a target sight attached. Like the cowboy’s Colt, it cost more than the regular model.
    Aces bent over his saddle, rummaged in a saddlebag, and took out a box of .45-90 cartridges. One by one, he fed seven in, then jacked the lever to feed a cartridge into the chamber. “Where are these varmints of yours?”
    Fred pointed to the north.
    Aces ambled toward the top of the hollow.
    â€œWhat does he think he’s doing?” Tyree said. He seemed to have forgotten the indignity of being dumped from his saddle and outdrawn.
    Shrugging, Fred went with the cowboy. After a short hesitation, so did Tyree. McCarthy had stayed on his horse, but he was curious too, and clambering down, he joined them.
    Aces Connor stood in plain view of the approaching warriors. By now they weren’t more than a couple of hundred yards out. At the sight of him, they stopped. One brandished a lance over his head and yelled in the Arapaho tongue.
    â€œThey’ll charge us any moment,” Fred said.
    â€œNot if Sassy can help it,” Aces said, and patted his Winchester.
    â€œYou gave your rifle a name?”
    â€œIf it was good enough for Davy Crockett to do, it’s good enough for me.” Aces raised the target sight, adjusted it, and pressed the Winchester to his shoulder.
    â€œKill them,” Tyree said gleefully. “Shoot every one of the savages.”
    â€œWhat would I want to do that for?” Aces said. “Now hush, infant. If I’m off by a whisker, I’ll splatter his brains.”
    Out on the prairie, the warrior with the lance appeared to be working the others into a frenzy. He pumped his lance and was shouting and pointing.
    Aces Connor took a deep breath and held himself still. His trigger finger slowly curled.
    The Winchester Browning boomed like thunder.
    Fred saw an incredible thing. The warrior who was working the others up had an eagle feather in his hair, and at the shot, the feather flipped into the air, then fluttered to earth. It awed him as much as it did the Arapahos. They looked at the feather and then at Aces as he worked the lever and prepared to shoot again.
    â€œDamnation!” Tyree exclaimed.
    Aces raised his cheek from the rifle and shouted something, but not in English. He took aim once more and said, to himself apparently, “I hope they don’t push it.”
    To Fred’s astonishment, the warriors reined around, jabbed their heels, and departed at a gallop, several twisting their heads as if they feared being shot in the back.
    â€œDrop some of them!” Tyree urged.
    â€œNo.”
    The Arapahos didn’t slow until they were a quarter of a mile away. Soon only the dust they raised was visible.
    â€œI’ll be switched,” Fred said. “You drove them off as slick as anything.”
    Aces had lowered his Winchester. “No one wants to die.” Turning, he started back down.
    â€œWhat did you say to them?” Fred wanted to know.
    â€œRun or die.”
    â€œIn their own tongue?” Fred marveled. “Where in creation did you pick up Arapaho?”
    â€œMr. Horrell used to give the tame ones some cows now and then,” Aces said. “Mostly to help them get through the winter. He’s a fine Christian gent, and always doing good by folks.”
    â€œThat doesn’t explain you speakin’ their tongue.”
    â€œI only knew a handful of words,” Aces said. “Some of the warriors like to gamble, and we’d throw dice or play cards.”
    â€œThat was some shootin’,” Tyree said.