BERKLEY
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Copyright © 2021 by The Estate of Ralph Compton
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BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN: 9780593102435
First Edition: February 2021
Cover art by Dennis Lyall
Cover design by Steve Meditz
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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For my father
THE IMMORTAL COWBOY
This is respectfully dedicated to the “American Cowboy.” His was the saga sparked by the turmoil that followed the Civil War, and the passing of more than a century has by no means diminished the flame.
True, the old days and the old ways are but treasured memories, and the old trails have grown dim with the ravages of time, but the spirit of the cowboy lives on.
In my travels—to Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska, Colorado, Wyoming, New Mexico, and Arizona—I always find something that reminds me of the Old West. While I am walking these plains and mountains for the first time, there is this feeling that a part of me is eternal, that I have known these old trails before. I believe it is the undying spirit of the frontier calling me, through the mind’s eye, to step back into time. What is the appeal of the Old West of the American frontier?
It has been epitomized by some as the dark and bloody period in American history. Its heroes—Crockett, Bowie, Hickok, Earp—have been reviled and criticized. Yet the Old West lives on, larger than life.
It has become a symbol of freedom, when there was always another mountain to climb and another river to cross; when a dispute between two men was settled not with expensive lawyers, but with fists, knives, or guns. Barbaric? Maybe. But some things never change. When the cowboy rode into the pages of American history, he left behind a legacy that lives within the hearts of us all.
—Ralph Compton
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
The Immortal Cowboy
Part One: The Cabin and the Curse
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Part Two: Old Venom
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Part Three: The Valley of Elan
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Part Four: Everybody Dies
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
PART ONE
THE CABIN AND THE CURSE
CHAPTER ONE
By the time Sheriff Elliot Reuben returned to the jailhouse, the people of Twin Oaks were gathered to watch. They’d come to get a look at the badmen. The ones all the papers had been writing about. Ashford Sinclair, the notorious leader of the Venom Snakes Gang, and Henry Odell, who led the Red Trail. Both gangs had been marauding for years. They’d left a long line of dead bank clerks and railway men and bounty hunters behind them. Lately, though, the gangs had mainly been killing one another. That was how the sheriff finally caught them.
Some of the papers said the Venom Snakes had started it. They said the Red Trail had robbed the Wortham Lumber payroll stagecoach and killed a heap of guards to do it. After that, the gang split up into small groups who’d all fled in different directions, trying to confuse anyone inclined to give chase. Only one of those groups had the money. That group was the one the Venom Snakes went looking for.
The Venom Snakes, the papers said, killed the men and took the money. The papers described how they laughed as they rode off and how the Red Trail was now out for revenge.
Other papers put the Red Trail in the wrong. They told a story about a young gunslinger who asked to join the Venom Snakes. He swore loyalty to Ashford Sinclair and was able to prove his worth with his pistol in short order. Then the boy came up with a hot tip about a local bank that was loaded with cash and only had one guard working overnight. The Venom Snakes did surveillance on the bank, and sure enough, the boy’s tip seemed true. They made a plan to raid the bank the following night. What they didn’t know was the boy had been sent from the Red Trail. Even worse, he was Henry Odell’s very own nephew. The bank that the Venom Snakes were creeping up on didn’t have one guard. It had fifteen Pinkerton detectives, and all of them were armed with shotguns.
The Venom Snakes managed to rob the bank anyway. They’d shot their way out and killed the little spy who’d set them up, but several of their own men had been killed in the fight. Now they were looking for revenge and wanted blood.
Maybe all of the stories were true, and maybe none of anything the papers ever said was true, but one thing was certain. Both gangs hated one another, and they killed one another whenever the chance arrived.
Ashford Sinclair was brought past the crowd of onlookers first. The deputy leading Sinclair’s horse slowed down to let the people get a good look. Sinclair’s hands were tied behind his back, but he sat up straight in his saddle and glared at the people he passed with piercing black eyes. His dark goatee was drawn to a point, and his long black hair was swept back by the wind. The white fabric of his shirt was stained red with blood. When the townsfolk shouted at him and called him a killer and a no-account bank robber, he spit and snarled and tried to leap off his horse like he meant to tear them apart with his teeth if that was all he had.
The deputy leading Sinclair had a black leather gun belt slung over his shoulder like a trophy. The guns holstered on the belt were famous in their own right. Every newspaper article dedicated long paragraphs to Sinclair’s snake guns. They were forged from black metal and engraved with snakes in bright silver that ran down the length of their barrels. The engravings wound back across both cylinders toward the handles made of white pearl, on which sat the coiled, rattling tail of a snake.
The leader of the Red Trail was brought past next. Henry Odell was dressed in a dark blue coat with fur trim around the collar. Unlike Sinclair, Odell’s hands weren’t tied behind his back. Odell’s left hand was tied to his left knee, because his right hand was held up in front of him in a balled-up knot of blackened fingers. Blood dripped from those fingers onto his lap and spilled all over his legs and his saddle. When the people in the crowd called him trash and a low-down cur, he just stared at his ruined hand and said nothing.
Both Sinclair and Odell were paraded in fr
ont of the jailhouse and dragged down from their horses and taken inside. Once all the deputies had gone, Sheriff Reuben turned around to face the crowd.
“Good people, as your duly elected sheriff, I feel obliged to tell you that you’ve just seen the capture of the two most dangerous men in our great state. Now, go on home and get some rest because the judge will be here in a few days, and I want us to show him what kind of town we are. I want to see lots of food, beer, and even some music and prizes. Billy, does your daughter still belong to that dance troupe?”
“Yes, she does, Sheriff.”
“Well, tell them we’re having us a celebration, and we’d like them to come perform for us.” The sheriff looked out at the crowd and said, “Cecil, how many barrels of beer can you rustle up on short notice?”
“I can get a few, Sheriff. I’ll even sell it half price.”
“That’s what I want to hear,” Sheriff Reuben said. “I want the rest of you men to start building a stage for dancing girls to dance on, and I want you ladies to decorate it up real nice. Make sure you put a good, strong rafter over the back of it. I’m thinking we’ll hang Sinclair and Odell on that same stage right after the girls get done dancing.” His eyes lit up, and he said, “Or maybe as the big finale for their last dance. While they’re high kicking and whipping their skirts around, we’ll have us a big old drumroll, and I’ll drop those two degenerates and let them swing. Can you imagine that? Them swinging and kicking while the girls are swinging and kicking. Won’t that be something special? All right, folks. Go on home and get some rest. We’ve all got work to do.”
He waved to them, and they cheered and applauded as he closed the door to the jailhouse, and then they all went home.
* * *
* * *
The judge came from one of the big cities somewhere out east. It took the Honorable Judge James Gilstrap a week to arrive. When the stagecoach stopped to let him out, he stepped down and put on a top hat. Nobody in town had ever seen someone do that before. All of the women commented how refined the judge looked with his silver hair and trimmed beard. The men admired his gold pocket watch and white gloves. There was an expectation that the judge would eat at the saloon that evening and drink whatever was offered to him and tell them all stories of life back in the big cities. Instead, the judge asked where he was staying and went to his room. An hour later, he sent word down that he wanted his food and drink brought up to him and not to be disturbed for any reason.
On the morning of the trial, with the courtroom packed full of townsfolk, Judge Gilstrap picked up his gavel and smacked it against the wooden stand. The people fell silent under his glare. “I’m not altogether sure what you folks are used to out here in the middle of nowhere, but I run a civilized court. I’ll tolerate no outbursts, and I will find anyone who disrupts my proceedings in contempt of court. Is that understood?”
Sheriff Reuben stood up. “Your Honor, they’re all just a little bit excited. We’ve never had a judge such as yourself come out here for this kind of hearing. It’s kind of a big event.”
“Well, as long as they can remain quiet, we shouldn’t have any problems,” the judge said. “Now, before you bring the prisoners in, I want to make sure I understand a few things.”
“Yes, sir,” Sheriff Reuben said.
“You had information that these two gangs, the Venom Snakes and the Red Trail, were set to meet up to settle their differences once and for all?”
“That’s correct, sir.”
“And you knew where and when they were going to fight?”
“Yes, we did.”
“And you rounded up a posse to arrest the members of these gangs?”
“So to speak, Your Honor,” Sheriff Reuben said.
“Am I correct in understanding that you proceeded to the specified place the fighting was supposed to take place, but not at the appointed time it was supposed to happen?”
“That’s right.”
“Is it correct to say you waited?”
“Yes, I did.”
“May I inquire as to why?”
“Well,” Sheriff Reuben said. He smiled slightly and looked over his shoulder at the people standing behind him. “I mean, we only have but a few jail cells here, Your Honor. I figured the more of one another they killed, the less we’d have to pay the hangman.”
The people behind him laughed. Judge Gilstrap did not.
“Do you know the penalty for a lawman who fails to take action in order to prevent the death of another human being, Sheriff?” the judge asked.
Sheriff Reuben screwed up his face in confusion. “I’m sorry, but we didn’t fail to take action, Your Honor. We took action. We captured both gang leaders and didn’t have to fire a single bullet.”
“Yes, you did. But you captured no one else.”
“Well, everybody else we found was dead by the time we got there.”
Gilstrap tapped his fingers against the desk and rubbed the stubble on his lip with his other hand. “And both your prisoners are injured. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir. By one another.”
“They shot each other?”
“Yes, sir. I saw that happen. They were the last two standing and ran at each other on horseback, firing their guns. Both were galloping at full speed over a field of dead bodies, their guns blazing at each other. I mean, it’s the kind of thing you think they make up in the papers, except I saw it with my own two eyes, sir.”
“What is the nature of their injuries?”
“Well, Mr. Sinclair, he’s shot right here,” Reuben said, and pointed at the left side of his stomach. He turned slightly and pointed at his back and said, “The bullet went right through and came out about here.”
“Is he going to survive?”
“Who cares?” someone in the crowd called out.
Judge Gilstrap smacked his gavel again and pointed in the direction the voice had come from. “One more word from any of you and I’ll fine you for being in contempt. You understand me?”
“Our doctor says so,” Reuben said. “He said the bullet didn’t hit anything important, and he cleaned up the wound so it wouldn’t get infected and kill him before you got here.”
“All right. What about the other one?”
“Mr. Odell was shot in the hand.” Reuben pointed at the knuckles of his right hand and shook his head. “It’s a nasty wound. Smashed his fingers all to blazes.”
“Did the doctor treat him as well?”
“He did,” Reuben said.
“Is Mr. Odell going to lose the hand?”
“Well, the doctor said he could save it with the right treatment, but I told him not to bother because Mr. Odell would not be needing use of his hands much longer. Isn’t that right, Judge?” Reuben asked.
“Just bring the prisoners in,” the judge said.
The deputies slammed open the side door and the crowd went silent. Ashford Sinclair was brought in first. He was shackled by heavy irons at his wrists and ankles, and chains dragged across the floor as he shuffled toward his seat. He sneered at the crowd and they shouted at him and cursed at him and told him they were going to watch him hang.
There were two people in the crowd who stayed silent. A woman and a teenage boy who stood off to the side. The woman kept her head down and refused to look at Sinclair. The boy stood with his hands balled into fists at his sides, red in the face. He glared at the crowd. He looked ready to fight them all by himself, but his mother kept her hands on both of his shoulders and did not let him move. Sinclair’s eyes fell on those two as he was shoved down into his seat, and he immediately looked away.
Henry Odell was brought in next. Odell’s right hand was swaddled in so many bandages, it was the size of a bowling ball, but he was still draped in chains. He winced at the weight of the irons pulling on his injured hand. His eyes stayed down as they brought h
im past the crowd until he heard a teenage girl’s voice cry out. Odell’s head shot up and he turned just as a blond-haired girl came barreling through the rest of the people. She dove for him. She sobbed as she wrapped her arms around his neck and begged the men not to take him.
Odell tried to slip away and cried out, “No, Jesse, get back.” It was too late.
One of the deputies shoved Odell out of the way and raised his fist toward the girl. It was a criminal offense to interfere with the custody of a prisoner. He was within his rights to shoot her and he would have if there hadn’t been so many people behind her. He cocked his hand back to punch her and when he threw his fist in a wide arc that would have smashed her pretty little face in, it was meant to show all those folks what happened when you interfered with the law.
Except the punch never landed. The boy standing near Ashford Sinclair broke away from his mother and ran forward in time to intercept the deputy’s arm. He shoved the deputy backward and stood in front of the girl to block her with his own body.
The deputy did pull out his gun then.
He raised it and was about to cock the hammer back when Judge Gilstrap slammed his gavel and said, “Holster that weapon right now or I’ll hang you myself, you imbecile. That’s enough. I’ll have order in this court, by God, even if that means I have to close it and no one gets to see a thing.”
The deputy did as he was told and forced Odell into his seat.
Henry Odell looked over his shoulder at the young man who’d risen in defense of his daughter and nodded with silent thanks. The young man nodded back.
Odell leaned close to Sinclair and said, “That boy can’t be yours, Ashford. He has too much manners and guts. Maybe he’s one of mine. I run into your wife somewhere along the way a few years back?”
Sinclair turned red in the face. He snarled and would have lunged for Odell, but the deputies rushed forward and held him in his chair. Sinclair turned and saw his son, William, standing next to the girl and he shouted, “Get your hands off that Odell trash and get back there next to your mother. What’s wrong with you?”
Ralph Compton Face of a Snake Page 1