Shotgun Charlie by Ralph Compton

later.
    Right now he had to do something about Haskell. And with no more thought than that, Charlie ducked, spun, and whipped his left arm upward, knocking the gun away. No thunderous explosion cracked the night, no more sounds rose from the two men than grunts and the slamming of Charlie’s big ham fist as it drove in the near dark at Haskell’s leering face. Or where he hoped Haskell’s face was.
    Somehow he connected with it, felt the satisfying snap of jaw coming together hard with jaw, heard a muffled shriek as Grady Haskell’s head whipped from him. In the dark Charlie thought he might have seen the dull glint of a blade angling away. But it didn’t matter, for he was already backing away from Haskell, saw the shadowed form of the man crouched in the darkness several feet from him.
    Charlie had no weapon other than his own sheath knife, and he rested one shaking hand atop the hilt. With his other he groped in the dark by his feet for his gear, felt it with his boot, and snatched at it, caught it up by the rough rope loops he’d made.
    He heard his own breath rasping in and out, heard the same coming from Haskell. The man was still crouched low but didn’t appear to be making any movements that might be him lifting his revolver, not that Charlie was waiting around to be shot.
    As soon as his fingers closed around the handles of his gear, he stepped backward fast, keeping the black hunched form in sight, until it blended with the dark.
    When it seemed there was nothing more than darkness there, and when he was about to turn and hotfoot it southward, a groan rose from Haskell, now a good twenty yards back. Then he heard the man cough, pull a breath, and spit, sending something no doubt bloody and phlegmy to the ground. It was a grim sound that twinged Charlie a moment, knowing he’d caused it. Then he recalled the gun, the hint of a knife, and wished he had doubled his efforts and pummeled the man into hard submission.
    The most unexpected and curious sound of all came next—long, slow laughter, loud enough to heckle Charlie on down the trail. It worked, and Charlie swore he heard it for far longer than he expected he should, chasing his ears, driving him southward into the night.

Chapter 15
    â€œWhere’s Charlie at?” It was Dutch, and he was inquiring as to Charlie Chilton’s whereabouts for good reason. Until they’d happened upon the big galoot of a boy, ol’ Dutchy had been the outfit’s cook, being the newest member to that point. The task had galled him to no end, and for two years he had professed his hatred of the culinary arts loudly and to whoever might listen. Come breakfast or suppertime he groused long and hard about the various indignities and infirmities he was sure would plague him any minute all because he was forced to engage in what he referred to as “woman’s work.”
    So when Dutchy awoke, earlier than the others, as was still his habit, to find no sign of Charlie, at first he was not concerned. Then as he wandered back from watering the roots of a nearby pine, he grew curious. And when half a minute’s worth of searching revealed neither hide nor hair of Chilton, he became panicked, and then enraged. For he knew what this meant—sure as snow was white, he would be stuck once again with the womanly work.
    He’d begun voicing his concern about Big Charlie’s lack of whereabouts, louder with each passing second. The rest of the boys awoke, grumbling and running their tongues over fuzzy teeth.
    Pap was the only one to remain silent. Well, Pap and that new fella, Grady Haskell, the bossy one with the big ideas about getting rich and all.
    Pap roamed the camp walked far and wide, checked the horses, which was something that Dutchy had failed to do, and came back. Standing alone and unusually silent, Pap toed a sooty rock protruding from the fire ring.
    â€œDutchy, I expect you best get the water on for coffee.