Free Shotgun Charlie by Ralph Compton Page A

hard snores of Simp, Mex, Ace, and Dutchy—he had no idea where Grady was, nor did he much care—Charlie doubted his leaving would be noticed. He made only slight rustlings as he gathered his meager bits of gear, which consisted of a few extra pieces of clothing, his old, much-repaired saddlebags containing holey socks, a tin cup, a few odds and ends of cooking implements with which he had been able to cobble together a campfire meal, and scraps of leather and twine he always found useful to have on hand for repairs. He dithered for a long time beside Nub, the broad, tall workhorse Charlie had ridden since Pap and the boys came along.
    Should he ride out on Nub? Pap had said several times to him that the horse was his. But was it really? Did that mean he’d given the horse to Charlie as a gift? One friend to another? A few hours before he most surely would have said yes. But now . . . now he was mostly unsure. If he’d ever been Pap’s friend, he wasn’t any longer. In fact, the more he mulled on it there in the dark, the more he realized that Pap had been serious—Charlie wasn’t wanted. He was probably unwanted the entire time he’d been with them. And for it, he blamed Grady Haskell. That man’s appearance had changed everything.
    As if he’d been bidden to appear by Charlie’s very thoughts, Grady’s voice, rough as broadcloth dragged over rusted iron, frogged in a hoarse whisper out of the dark behind him.
    â€œYou got yourself what the learned folks call a conundrum, eh, Charlie boy?” Then he laughed, long and low and slow, a snaky sound, half whisper and half branch rustled through brush.
    â€œWho’s that?” said Charlie in a hushed tone as he spun, narrowing his eyes into the dark. There was the man, not five, six feet behind him, arms crossed as if he were hugging himself.
    â€œYou know, Charlie,” said Haskell, “I get me the impression you’re sneaking off somewhere, and in the night too.”
    There was enough moon glow cracking through the branches high above that Charlie saw steam from the man’s mouth rise into the cool air. He hadn’t noticed it was a cool evening. Too preoccupied with thoughts of other things, other concerns.
    â€œWhat are you worming around here for, Haskell?”
    â€œWell, now . . .” Haskell’s eyebrows rose and he rocked back on his heels. “Sounds to me like Charlie boy has a hankering for an argument. What you doing out here in the night, boy? You got something hid away that belongs to someone else? You been . . . pilfering, Charlie boy?”
    That last bit tugged a big old smile out on the foul man’s face. Charlie ground his back teeth together, his jaw muscles bunching. “I ain’t never stole a thing. . . .” But Charlie stopped. It wasn’t true. That pretty little doily . . . He looked again at Haskell. The man was smiling, nodding. Could he know about that? How?
    â€œOh, Charlie boy, you are a thief. I can see it in your eyes. Always knew it, from the moment I laid eyes on you. I told myself, ‘Grady, he’s one of us.’ Oh, you might act the big, tough man who is too good to associate with the likes of the rest of us thieves, but no, sir, Charlie boy, make no mistake, you are a thief like the rest.”
    Charlie shook his head. “Ain’t true,” he said. But he couldn’t meet the man’s gaze. Even in the near dark, he felt that accusing glare. Somehow Grady Haskell had to know all about him swiping that little doily.
    â€œYou about to steal a horse, now, wasn’t you?”
    Charlie’s big, stubbled lantern jaw thrust outward. “No, I wasn’t neither. In fact, I was saying my good-byes.”
    â€œGood-byes? Why, Charlie boy, now that my eyes have adjusted to the dark, I see that you are indeed lugging a bundle in one of those big grabbers you call a hand.