Ralph Compton Ride the Hammer Down

Chapter one

Marshal John Beck knew he had gone insane.

If he had doubted it before, it was confirmed now by the impossible sight he saw just outside the opening of his cave. The same cave he had been forced to call home.

Beck knew he must be hallucinating. There was no other reason what he was seeing could possibly be real.

A lone man atop a horse. All the way out here in the desert.

It was impossible. Why was he out here?

Beck had forgotten how long he had been living in this cave. Long enough to grow an uneven bristly beard. Long enough for his normally short hair to grow well past his ears.

He had not seen his reflection in as long as he could remember, but he imagined Dulce would hit him with her wooden spoon if she saw him now. She would be angry to see how far he had fallen. In his appearance. In other ways, too.

And as he watched the mirage of a rider and horse roam the arid landscape of the Arizona desert, John Beck began to wonder about the exact moment he had gone insane. When had his mind broken its tether to reality and sailed away from him?

Had it been when Beck had decided to drown the demons that haunted him at the bottom of a whiskey bottle instead of enforcing the law?

Or had it been that cursed moment when the Brickhouse Gang had ridden into Mother Lode? Or had it been just after that, when Bram Hogan and his men finally found him in Dulce's Saloon and sought to make an example of the reluctant lawman?

Beck knew he had never been much of a sheriff but had won the office based on his skills as a marksman with the Sharps .50-caliber rifle he had brought with him when he had first come to Mother Lode.

He also knew that he had won the office because no one else in Mother Lode, Arizona, had wanted the thankless job of town marshal. Hell, Beck had only taken the position because it came with free room and board at Dulce's and all the beer he could drink. That was a mighty tempting offer for a man who had come westward to escape the complexities of his own mind.

But being the law in a sleepy desert town like Mother Lode had proven to be far more challenging than he had been led to believe. The drunks were meaner and the teamsters more cantankerous than he had expected. He had only survived because of his ability to know how to throw a punch and take one, too. The skills he had acquired in his previous life in Chicago-how to read a man, his movements, and the shift of his eyes-had helped him figure out what a man would do before he did it.

The townsfolk of Mother Lode did not like to see a paying customer buffaloed without a good reason, but they hated lawlessness even more and liked the way John Beck carried out his duties.

Mother Lode had proven a challenge, but not enough of a challenge to keep his past where it belonged. He had thought he had left his old life behind in Chicago, but some memories were too stubborn to die. It only took about a year for the old ghosts to track him down and start howling in his mind.

The ghosts gave him an excuse to take Dulce up on that offer of free beer that came with the job. Maybe he had wanted someone to come along and take his badge away, as well as the burden of being a lawman along with it.

But he had never considered anything like the Brickhouse Gang coming to a place like Mother Lode. And he had never dreamed that he would find himself banished to this cave.

As he continued to watch the horse and rider that had to be a mirage, John Beck remembered that he had still been sane when Bram Hogan and his brothers dragged him from Dulce's and into the street. He remembered he had not been able to put up much resistance on account of being fairly drunk at the time.

And he had still been sane when they dumped him in the horse trough and laughed at him. Sane enough to remember Bram Hogan laughing as he told his brothers to "strip this law dog down to his long johns, boys. We wouldn't want the fine marshal here to catch his death of cold."

Beck remembered the names of the men who had done Bram's bidding. The flea-bitten drover called Lem. The sharp-featured Mexican bandit named Laredo. The miniature version of Bram Hogan they called Steve. And the hawk-nosed craggy-faced giant of a man they called Pearson.

Beck could no sooner forget their names than he could forget his own. He remembered it must have been about ninety degrees that morning as they set to pulling off his clothes and dividing them up among themselves.

He remembered still being sane when the brave men of the Brickhouse Gang set to beating him, too. A seemingly endless torrent of kicks to the ribs and back, punches to the face that quickly shut his eyes, and perhaps a whip or two across the back. The pain blurred into one gory memory and had been dulled just a bit by the beer that had still been in his system.

The pain had come later, and with a vengeance, in the days of hell that had followed.

He remembered being tied by the neck like a dog to the porch post of Dulce's Saloon while the gang argued about which one of them would get his clothes and who would get his fine Sharps rifle.

Beck remembered Dulce and some of the other townsfolk crying at the sight of their lawman beaten and laid low. He remembered wondering if they might be crying for themselves, too, for Beck was the only thing that had stood between them and the ravages of the worst gang in the Arizona Territory.

Beck knew he was not the only man in town who could fight them. Mother Lode had no shortage of miners who were rough enough to oust them and shop owners who could band together to do the job. There were more than a handful of men who worked the few ranches spread about on the outskirts of town who could make quick work of this ragged bunch.

But even in his sorry state, tied to the porch post of a windswept saloon, Beck knew no one would lift a finger to stop these men or even help themselves. The risk was too great and the reward too thin. These people would endure the Brickhouse Gang just as they endured the heat of the unforgiving sun and the thirst and the bitter winters of the Arizona Territory.

These people did not fight. They survived, and if they did not think they could survive the Brickhouse Gang, they would simply pack their things and leave.

So, while John Beck appreciated the tears they shed for their fallen sheriff, he knew none of them would raise a hand in his defense.

And he was not disappointed.

Even from the dark seclusion of the cave he now called home, as he decided if his eyes were playing tricks on him, John Beck could still remember watching through swollen eyes while Bram Hogan made a show of recusing himself from the discussion about which of his men would get the Sharps.

"Always preferred to be an up-close kind of man myself," he proudly declared to the outlaws who followed him. "Pistols and knives are more to my liking. Always thought long guns were akin to women's guns. A coward's gun. Thought so in the war when I watched sharpshooting Rebs take down my friends. And I still hold that opinion today."

Beck remembered the outlaw leader turning his attention to him as he struggled to remain conscious out of fear he might wake up dead. Bram grabbed a handful of Beck's hair and said, "You agree with me, don't you, Marshal?"

Bram even pulled and pushed Beck's head so it looked like he nodded, to the laughter of his gang.

Beck remembered he had still been sane, even through all of that torment.

It was only when the argument among the outlaws had lasted too long and grown too loud for Bram's liking that the leader pulled his pistol and fired once into the air to quiet the yelling.

"Enough!" Beck remembered Bram shouting at them. "Since none of you bastards can decide on your own, I guess I'll have to do your thinking for you, just like I've always done."

Beck remembered crying out when Bram grabbed his hair harder than before and jerked his head back so the lawman had no choice but to look up at his tormentor. He remembered the feeling of the blood from his broken nose running back down his throat but refusing to give Bram the satisfaction of hearing him gag.

He remembered Bram's spittle hitting him in the face as he said, "Today's your lucky day, lawman. Since none of these fools can decide, it looks like I'm gonna have to do it for them. Now, since I firmly believe that the Sharps is a fine coward's rifle, I've decided to put it to a better use here today. You see, while we were fixing to ride in here today, we had ourselves another argument about whether or not we should kill you."

Hogan pulled Beck's head back by the hair and aimed his head at Bram's younger brother, Steve. He was a younger version of Bram who looked like a cheap imitation of his brother. He was shorter and stockier but wore a perpetual scowl in an effort to harden naturally soft features.

Bram said, "Steve here wanted to kill you outright. Put a bullet behind your ear and be done with it. That's my little brother for you, Beck. Straight and to the point."

Bram slowly twisted Beck's hair until he looked at the other three Brickhouse Gang members, who were clustered together. He pointed at Laredo. "Our Mexican friend here wanted to kill you as bad as Steve, but he wanted to do it slowly like the Apache like to do. Make you last for a couple of days as an example to any of the good townspeople who might think about giving us any sass or kicking us out."

Abraham pulled Beck's head closer to him and whispered in his ear. "Gotta say, I kind of liked that notion myself, though I give pause when considering using the ways of those heathens in the hills."

Bram Hogan then pointed to Pearson. "The big fella over there wanted to beat you to death, but I discounted that one out of hand. I thought it sounded too close to what Laredo had talked about, cursed him as a cheater and a scoundrel." Hogan laughed. "Even docked the big man a full day's rations for when we go back out on the trail." The outlaw looked up at the giant. "And don't think I'll forget about that when the time comes, Pearson. I'm a fair man when it comes to punishment and insist on discipline among my men. Discipline is the hallmark of success. Learned that in the army."

Beck remembered losing consciousness as Abraham continued to talk, only to have his head shaken violently by the outlaw until he woke up again. "Pay attention when I'm talking at you, boy. You're missing the best part of my wisdom."

He pointed to the last man in the gang. "Lanky Lem over there might not be too much to look at. He sure as hell ain't bright, God help him, but he had the best idea of the bunch. He wanted us to do something creative with you. Something we ain't never done before in any of the other towns we've visited. He was thunderstruck to come up with an idea, of course, but I figured the dimwit was onto something."

Abraham pulled Beck's head back slowly and grinned down at him. Beck remembered the outlaw's scarred face and gray-streaked beard and teeth that were whiter than they had any right to be. He remembered wondering how a man like Hogan could have such white teeth as the outlaw told him, "And, as God is my witness, I hadn't thought about how we could do that until this very moment. Fell two trees with the same ax just like my daddy used to do back in Kentucky."

And Beck felt his stomach turn to jelly when Abraham's grin faded and he brought his face to within an inch of Beck's. "We're going to ride you out of town on a rail, boy. Turn you out in the desert and let the coyotes and the scorpions and the snakes and the spiders have all they want of you. And we won't ride you out on just any old rail, mind you. We're going to ride you out of town on the same bone of contention between my boys here on account of how I can't afford what the army calls 'dissension in the ranks.' Learned that in the army, too."

He thudded Beck on the back with a couple of heavy slaps. "I think it's a brilliant idea even if I do say so myself. We're going to tie you up to that long gun of yours and kick you out into the wilderness."

Abraham threw his head back and laughed. The men of the Brickhouse Gang joined in with him. Beck could not swear to it, but he had thought some of the townspeople did, too. Dulce may have cried out in horror, but he had not been sure.

Abraham was still laughing when he said, "Yes, sir. I think it's a fitting way to treat a law dog such as yourself. Using the same damned thing that made your name to be part of your disgraceful demise."

The outlaw must have read something in Beck's swollen eyes, for he said, "Don't take it so hard, Beck. The boys and me are doing you a favor. When you woke up this morning, all hungover and feeling bad, you were just another drunken town marshal in the middle of nowhere. After this, you'll be famous. Your ghost will get the blame for every bit of misfortune that befalls this town from here on in. These yokels will think it's the Black Beck curse and blame you for avenging your death."

Abraham laughed again, this time alone. "I kind of like the sound of that." He looked at his men. "Better than anything you idiots came up with." He looked down at the lawman again. "No need to thank me, Beck. Taking your town from you will be thanks enough."