Ralph Compton Death Along the Cimarron by RALPH COMPTON Page A

reckon you can use your imagination what to do with it then. One bullet can mean a lot to a man, depending how he uses it.” He turned his horse and heeled it away, unconcerned about Dave Waddell going for the pistol. If Earl heard the sound of the pistol cock behind him, he knew he was fast enough to turn and kill Dave Waddell without batting an eye.
    At the corral, Earl took the reins to Ellen’s horse from Dirty Joe Turley and said to the men, “Let’s ride, boys.” Then, as his men heeled their horses up and rode off in a rise of dust, Earl turned to Ellen, who sat staring across the yard at her sobbing husband in the dirt. “That’s it. Take one good long look at him. Did you see? I threw him a gun ... gave him a chance to claim you or let you ride off with me. He was too scared to make a move. He’d rather wallow in the dirt to save his own hide. That ought to show you clear enough which one of us can protect a woman when it comes down to it.”
    Ellen summoned her courage and said with an air of defiance, “I didn’t marry to have a man protect me.”
    Earl started at her for a second, grinned, and said, “Then maybe you should have.”
    Dave Waddell lost track of how long he’d lain sobbing in the dirt, his head still pounding where Cherokee Earl had knocked him cold. The sun had moved lower in the western sky by the time he collected his senses enough to drag himself to his feet and stagger to the front porch. On his way, he managed to stoop down and pick up the Navy Whitney. After collapsing onto a porch chair, he wiped his blurry eyes and checked the pistol, seeing that only one round of ammunition remained in the cylinder. For a moment he was lost, but then the whole terrible, hopeless scene came back to him. He gazed out and along the trail leading up over a rocky rise to the north.
    â€œGod, what have I done?” he whispered aloud to himself. Then he hung his head and stared long and hard at the pistol in his trembling hands. He had no idea how long he sat there, cocking and uncocking the Whitney. But evening shadows had grown tall and thin across the dusty, rocky land when he finally left the gun cocked and raised it slowly until he felt the hard steel tip of the barrel against the side of his throbbing head. He took a deep, tortured breath and held it, struggling to keep his hand from shaking uncontrollably. He pressed back on the trigger slowly.
    When the sound of a pistol shot exploded, he flung the cocked pistol away in horror. His first thought was that he’d done it, he’d actually shot himself through the head. Yet, if that was the case, how was he still here, alive and able to wonder about it? He sat frozen, stunned, his mouth hanging open. On the front of the house, he saw the bullet hole, right where he had heard it thump into the plank siding. He rose woodenly halfway from his chair, leaning toward the fallen pistol as he looked out at the two riders coming across the front yard. “Stand real still, Mr. Waddell,” said Danielle Strange. “That shot wasn’t meant to kill you. It was meant to keep you from killing yourself.”
    â€œI—I understand,” Dave managed to say, his mind becoming clearer. He’d seen Danielle Strange in town enough times to recognize her. He’d never seen the old man before, but there was no doubt the two were on Cherokee Earl’s trail. He had to think up something to keep anyone from knowing he’d been a part of Earl’s stolen-cattle operation. “Thank God you’ve come along!” He straightened up and wiped his shirtsleeve across his face.
    Danielle and Stick swung down from their saddles, keeping an eye on Dave and taking a quick, steely look around the place. Danielle nodded at the Navy Whitney lying on the porch, cocked and ready to fire. “What’s going on here, mister?” she asked, stepping up onto the porch, then reaching down and