Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
PAYBACK TIME
“Guns have their uses.” Billy strapped on his gun belt and twirled the Colt from its holster. He spun it forward several times and spun it backward several times, then shifted on the balls of his feet, cocked the hammer, and shot Hiram Bradshaw through the right knee.
The burly farmer toppled, clutching his leg, his teeth clenched against the pain.
Red mist spurted from between his fingers.
For a few seconds Maude was too shocked to speak or move. Then she let out with a screech and vaulted from the wagon with an agility and speed her years belied. “Hiram!” Dashing past Billy, she dropped to her knees. “Dear God, no!”
Billy saw the husband look at the Sharps and he quickly took it and placed it on the seat, well out of their reach. “Now, then. Suppose we get this over with.”
Tears glistened on Maude’s cheeks and her lips were quivering. Groaning, she gripped one of Hiram’s hands in both of hers. “How could you do this after we were so kind to you?”
“Your husband was right, lady. You can’t trust anyone in No Man’s Land.”
Billy took a few steps to the left so he had a clear shot at the husband. “Fork over your money and I’ll make this easy.”
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
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First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
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First Printing, February 2004
Copyright © The Estate of Ralph Compton, 2004
eISBN : 978-1-101-17745-7
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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, Ne braska, 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, allowing 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. always another mountain to climb and another river
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
Chapter One
Out of the heat haze to the south came a rider. He drew rein when he saw the town. Pushing his low-crowned hat back on his mop of brown hair, he studied the dozen or so buildings and sheds, then clucked to his buttermilk.
Svenson the blacksmith was the first to see the rider. He was hammering a horseshoe on his anvil and only paused long enough to notice that the rider was young, and judging by the dust that caked his clothes, had ridden a long way.
Old Man Taylor was in his rocking chair in front of the stable, as always, whittling. He stopped slicing his knife when the clomp of hooves fell on his ears, and peered at the newcomer. He, too, observed that the rider was barely old enough to use a razor, and from where he sat, he plainly saw a pearl-handled Colt worn high on the rider’s right hip.
Dub Wheeton was sweeping the boardwalk in front of his saloon. When the rider came to his hitch rail and dismounted, he greeted him with a friendly smile. “Howdy, stranger. You look like a man who could stand to wet his throat.”
A lopsided grin split the young rider’s tanned face. He had high cheekbones sprinkled with freckles and blue eyes that sparkled like a high mountain lake. Placing his hands on his saddle horn, he looked up and down the street. “I’d heard tell there was a town in these parts. What do you call this two-bit pile of planks?”
“Nowhere,” Dub said.
“How’s that again?”
“The town is called Nowhere.” Dub gave the boardwalk a last sweep, then leaned on his broom. “We ain’t got around to putting up a sign yet. There’s no rush, since no one will claim us.”
The rider cocked his head. “Do you always talk in riddles or is it just me?”
“Sorry.” Dub pointed to the south. “That way is Texas.” Dub pointed north. “That way is No Man’s Land.”
He let out with a long sigh. “And here we are, smack in the middle.”
“So you called your town Nowhere?” The rider snorted. “Are all the folks hereabouts naturally loco?”
“No, you don’t understand. We thought we were in Texas. But when they sent a surveyor out, he claimed we’re twenty miles too far. And since No Man’s Land ain’t got a government yet, we’re stuck in the middle of nowhere.”
“Now I get it,” the rider said. “You sure are in a pickle.” Chuckling, he dismounted and looped his reins around the rail.
“They call me Dub,” Dub said. “I ain’t got a fancy place like you’d find up to Denver or down Dallas way, but my beer and my whiskey are as good as any.”
“What say we put it to the test?” the rider proposed. Spurs jangling, he stepped to the open door. “Braden is my handle. Billy Braden.”
“Right pleased to meet you, Billy.”
Dub made for the bar. He saw Billy wait for his eyes to adjust, his right hand close to his Colt. “You’re the only one here. My regular customers don’t usually show up until about sunset.”
“Got a lot of them, do you?”
“More than you’d think. We’ve got us twenty-three people in town. Then there are the punchers from the Bar J. And I get some from the outfit that rides for Chick Storm over to the Coldwater River country. But they only make it in about once a month.”
“A right lively place,” Billy said.
“Are you a puncher?”
Billy laughed as if that were the funniest notion ever. “You’ve got to be joshin’. Bust my rump day in and day out for thirty dollars and found? Life is too short to spend every wakin’ hour breathin’ cow piss.”
“All work has its drawbacks,” Dub remarked. “Take my job, for instance. You’d think that being around all this booze is a dream come true. But I can’t guzzle my own stock, not if I want to make enough money to live on.”
“Speakin’ of drinks,” Billy said, “some coffin varnish would do me right fine.” He rested his left elbow on the bar. “Too bad you don’t have a dove or two. Gents like me can always go for female company.”
“I thought about importing a gal from St. Louis once,” Dub mentioned. “But her upkeep wouldn’t hardly make it worth the expense.”
“Yes sir, I sure could go for a dove,” Billy said, as if he hadn’t heard.
At that moment into the saloon came Marshal Paul Lunsford. The dented tin star pinned to his vest was almost the same shade of grey as his hair. He ambled over, nodded at Dub, and said amiably to Billy, “I saw you ride in and figured I’d make your acquaintance.” He offered his left hand to shake, and introduced himself. His right arm was bent at an odd angle against his side and his right hand was missing the thumb and two fingers.
Billy nodded at the arm. “What happened?”
“War wound,” Marshal Lunsford said. “Gettys burg.”
“Before my time.” Billy glanced at the lawman’s waist. “You don’t go around heeled? What sort of lawman are you, anyhow?”
“The kind who believes in getting along with everyone. There’s never been a difficulty that can’t be talked out, I always say.” Marshal Lunsford placed a coin on the bar. “Besides, it isn’t as if Nowhere is overrun with outlaws and gun sharks.”
“Lucky for you.”
They both grinned. Billy’s grin lasted longer, and then his expression became thoughtful.
“So tell me,” Marshal Lunsford prompted. “What’s the latest news from the outside world? A drummer passed through a while back and told us there’s talk of turning Oklahoma Territory, Indian Territory and No Man’s Land into a state.”
“There are already more states than we know what to do with,” Billy said. “Who needs another?”
“We do,” Marshal Lunsford said. “Cut off like we are, the only laws that apply are the laws we make up ourselves.”
“You don’t say?” Billy accepted a glass from Dub and downed the whiskey in two gulps. “Not bad,” he said. “Not bad at all. It’s nice to know not every barkeep waters his liquor.”
“So you haven’t heard anything about statehood?” Marshal Lunsford pressed.
“I should hope to God I haven’t,” Billy declared. “No offense, but the fewer laws there are, the more I like it.” Billy slid his glass toward Dub for a refill. “It’s gotten so bad that in some places, a man can’t spit without being arrested.”
“Spit all you want in Nowhere.”
“Will do,” Billy said, and promptly did, right there on the floor. Then he cackled and slapped his thigh.
Dub rose onto the tips of his toes to see the wet spot. “If you’re going to do it in here, kindly use the spittoon.”
Billy stared from him to the lawman and back again. “I’m beginnin’ to like this town of yours.”
“We’re glad that you do,” Marshal Lunsford said. “Next time you visit, bring your friends. We can always use the business.”
Billy downed his second glass in just one gulp, paid for it, and announced, “I reckon I’ll take me a little stroll. I’ve got a long ride ahead and I need to stretch my legs.” Touching his hat brim, he sauntered out into the harsh glare of the afternoon sun and stood for a minute balancing on the edge of the boardwalk before he turned left and sauntered down the street with his thumbs hooked in his gun belt.
Old Man Taylor glanced up from his carving, and grunted. “As I live and breathe. A peacock on the loose.”
Billy’s eyebrows nearly met over his nose. “Old timer, either you’ve got a powerful hankerin’ for an early grave or you need spectacles.”
“Or it could be I have a sense of humor and you don’t,” Old Man Taylor said. “What’s a young, full-of-life gosling like you doing in a withered husk of a shell like Nowhere?”
“Is that any way to talk about the place you live?”
“Sometimes we live where we have to and not where we want to. I stumbled on Nowhere when I was bound for Beaver City and saw that it’s perfect for the walking dead.” Taylor shaved off a sliver of wood. “Here I’ll stay and here I’ll die, and I hope when they plant me, they do as I’ve asked and give me a tombstone that reads, ‘Here lies Thomas Taylor. He took the wrong turn straight into hell.’ ”
Billy’s cheeks bloomed in a smile. “You’re a cantankerous old cuss, aren’t you?”
“And damned proud of it,” Old Man Taylor bragged. “Someone has to set these misguided souls straight or they’ll go through life thinking it’s a bed of roses.”
“Ever any excitement in these parts?”
“You mean, besides watching the weeds grow? Well, Saturdays are lively. That’s when the punchers come in, and they like to raise a little hell. The most they ever do is get drunk and shoot into the air, but we did have us a real honest-to-goodness shooting affray about a year ago, if that counts.”
Billy’s interest was piqued. “Who was involved? Some nobodies, I bet.”
Old Man Taylor cut into the wood. “I don’t know how as I’d call Lin Cooley a nobody, you young quail. He’s foreman for Chick Storm of the Circle C and not a gent to trifle with. He’s also a top-notch gun hand.”
“If he’s so good, how come I never heard of him?”
“Because he’s not one of those blowhards like Wild Bill and Buffalo Bill. He minds his own business and expects folks to do the same.”
Billy waited a few moments, then said, “Well? Are you going to tell me about it or do I have to beat you with a rock?”
“Curious killdeer, aren’t you?”
“Quit callin’ me birds. I don’t know as how I like it.”
“Oh my. I wouldn’t want to rile a hawk on the peck like you.” Taylor snickered, then related, “Like I was saying, it was about a year ago. The Circle C boys came down for a night of drinking and cards. There was a gambler passing through. I can’t rightly recollect his name but he made the greenhorn mistake of trying to cheat those cowboys out of their hard-earned wages.”
“And?” Billy go
aded when Old Man Taylor stopped and didn’t say anything.
“I ought to charge you for all this gum-flapping.”
“Did you see it?”
“Hell, yes. Soon as I’m done here every day, I mosey on over to Dub’s and stay there until I can barely stand. That night was no different. I was there when Randy Quin accused the gambler of cheating and the gambler stood up and pulled his coat back and told Randy he’d better apologize.”
“I thought you said it was some other jasper. Cooley?”
“Try to keep up, little sparrow. Cooley and Randy are partners. So when the gambler called the play, Cooley stepped in. He told the gambler he had two choices. Make good the money he cheated them out of or push up mesquite. The gambler made the wrong choice.”
“Who drew first?”
“What difference does it make? The gambler’s dead and Cooley isn’t. That’s all that counts.”
“I’d like to know. I keep track of who’s fast and who ain’t.”
Old Man Taylor set his knife and the block of wood in his lap. “You sure are peculiar. But just so you can sleep nights, it was the gambler who went for his six-gun first. I saw it with my own eyes. Cooley, on the other hand, I never saw draw.”
“But you said Cooley shot him.”
“When was the last time you cleaned the wax out of your ears? I didn’t see Cooley draw. I never said he didn’t. He drew so damn fast, no one saw it. His hand just sort of filled with his revolver, and just like that the gambler was as dead as you please, with a stupid look on his face.”
“That fast?” Billy echoed, and smiled. “Lin Cooley, huh? Now’s there’s a gent I’d like to meet some day.”
“Whatever for? Are you fond of sticking your head in bear traps and kicking the backsides of mules?”
“Old-timer, you are just about the—” Billy stopped, his mouth half open, his gaze fixed on a figure up the street.
Old Man Taylor looked, and laughed. “Her name is Sally Palmer and her pa owns the general store. And don’t be getting any ideas in that peacock head of yours. She’s already spoken for.”
Ralph Compton Nowhere, TX Page 1