“Compton writes in the style of popular Western novelists like Louis L’Amour and Zane Grey . . . thrilling stories of Western legend.”—The Huntsville Times (AL)
“Compton may very well turn out to be the greatest Western writer of them all. . . . Very seldom in literature have the legends of the Old West been so vividly painted.”—The Tombstone Epitaph
A DIFFERENCE OF OPINIONS
As soon as the gunman collapsed, Paul went inside the pantry. “Come along with me now,” he said. “It’s all right.”
Manuela was terrified. The commotion on the second floor was drawing closer to the top of the staircase, so Paul kept Manuela in front of him and the stairs to his back. He grabbed her by both shoulders, kicked open the door, and shoved her outside. “Go to the sheriff,” he said.
“Come with! Is too dangerous.”
Before Paul could respond to that, two armed men raced to the top of the staircase. One of them was a short fellow wearing a brown vest over a white shirt and chaps over filthy jeans. In fact, dirt covered everything he wore as well as the teeth he bared when he shouted, “Hey! Where’s Wes?”
Paul slammed the door shut and backed away. “I don’t know what this is about,” he said, “but there’s no need for any further violence.”
The short man raised his pistol to sight along the top of its barrel. “I beg to differ, mister.”
Ralph Compton
BRIMSTONE TRAIL
A Ralph Compton Novel
by Marcus Galloway
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
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First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Copyright © The Estate of Ralph Compton, 2013
Excerpt from The Killing Season copyright © Ralph Compton, 1996
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
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.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Contents
Praise
Title Page
Copyright Page
THE IMMORTAL COWBOY
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Excerpt from THE KILLING SEASON
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
Chapter 1
Arizona Territory
The town of Pueblito Verde was full of sinners.
So was every other town. The farther west a man traveled, the more sinners he encountered. When Paul Lester rode into town just over three years ago, he decided not to go any farther so as not to lose the faith that had caused him to wrap the white collar around his neck, stand in front of a room of bored and beaming faces, and try to shed some light onto troubled lives.
Paul had seen more than his share of sin before finding his calling and had seen plenty more since his arrival in Pueblito Verde. Of course, what he saw in a town that small lay mostly on the tamer side of transgression. What lurked behind the preponderance of the guilty faces in his congregation ranged from small acts of thievery to weaknesses of the flesh. While burdensome to the ones committing those acts and heartbreaking to the folks caught in the cross fire, they weren’t the sorts of things that had caused Paul to start his westward journey in the first place. They were common acts of poor judgment committed by otherwise good people. And that, more than anything else, was why he stayed in Pueblito Verde.
Paul’s faith gave him strength during a terrible ride through the desert as well as the dangers he’d faced when he’d first struck out from Louisiana. When he
’d first arrived in Pueblito Verde, he had a dusty hat in hand, a hunting rifle in the boot of his saddle, an old Colt strapped to his side, and a Bible in his pocket. The little town didn’t even have a proper church at the time, so Paul had suggested they build one. It had taken several months, in which time he’d become a genuine member of a community composed mostly of retired ranchers, shopkeeps, and tin panners, but he’d finally convinced them to erect a little building devoted to devotion. It was one of the proudest moments in Paul’s life.
Even though the structure itself was smaller than a modest stable, it loomed like a monument thanks to the miles upon miles of empty desert behind it. As it was built on the western edge of town, Paul liked to think of it as the farthest he meant to go in that direction before planting any roots. Its steeple rose only slightly taller than the roof of a house with two floors, and its little bell tower was empty. Getting a bell to hang there was one battle Paul wasn’t about to relinquish any time soon.
Folks in town mostly kept to themselves. That is, until Paul started organizing suppers, dances, and any other get-togethers he could justify. When he ran out of ideas, he drew from memories of similar events thrown by the church in the bayou town where he’d been raised. Although church was poorly attended at first, Pueblito Verde eventually came around to Paul’s train of thought. Either that or they’d simply given in to his constant begging for people to join him in whatever merriment he’d devised. To date, the most popular gathering was Easter Sunday, when all the women put on their fanciest clothes, the children’s faces were scrubbed, and everyone was stuffed full of ham by the time the sun went down. Men fired their guns in the air to celebrate most anything. That was something Paul had discouraged at first, but in the spirit of picking his battles, he relented and allowed a pleasant day to end on a rowdy note.
Folks generally took kindly to Paul’s ministry. Rather than press too hard to enforce every single rule as decreed in the Good Book, he stuck to the broad strokes and filled in where he could. He’d learned long ago that dealing in generalities was the trick to preaching in the untamed West. With folks battling against hostile natives and even harsher elements, they generally didn’t want to hear about another set of rules imposed upon them. When a man’s life was already close to unbearable, threatening his next life didn’t hold much water. Paul did his best to put as many souls as he could on the proper road, and the ones who were open to learning the finer details would come to him for more. One of those was a man by the name of Gar Kilner.
Gar was a big man with a penchant for speaking endlessly just to hear himself talk. Before Paul had come to town, he’d taken a stab at preaching the gospel, but his knowledge was limited to only the most basic of tenets. Only the most ignorant among Pueblito Verde’s population bought any of what Gar was selling, and even that lasted only until that person was set straight by one of his neighbors. Gar had been resistant to accept Paul at first, but changed his tune in a turnabout that surprised even Paul himself. Once he’d admitted to knowing less than the new arrival in the white collar, Gar had become something of a permanent addition to Pueblito Verde’s little church. He sat up front for every service, shouted loudest at every celebration, volunteered for every task, and oftentimes stopped by for no discernible reason whatsoever. This night’s visit, from what Paul could tell at first glance, was one of the latter.
Midnight was swiftly approaching, and Paul stood outside the front doors of his church, hands clasped behind his back while gazing upward. Tattered clouds slowly roamed the starry sky, sometimes obscuring the moon’s glow. Other times, the great pale orb could be seen in all its glory as if peeking through tears in flimsy curtains.
Carrying most of his weight across his midsection, Gar shifted to something of a waddle as he picked up speed to get to the church. His smile was earnest if not appealing. Raised eyebrows hinted at a desperation that drove him to this spot so often after he’d given in to the fact that he was nobody’s shepherd. “Evening, Father!” he called out.
“Good evening, Gar,” Paul said while shifting his hands so they were clasped in front of him. “Having trouble sleeping?”
“Afraid so,” the big man said as he ambled up to Paul and took a spot beside him.
For the next few moments, both men stood in silence. Paul let his eyes wander from star to star while Gar picked out as many points of interest among the pebbles at his feet.
Finally, once the tranquility of the night was overpowered by the awkwardness of Gar’s presence, Paul asked, “Is something troubling you?”
“Yeah,” Gar chuckled. “You were always real good at telling what a man’s thinking.”
“I just pay attention, Gar.”
“I’d like to confess something.”
Paul drew a long breath, careful not to make it too obvious he was doing so to quell the impatience brewing inside him. Although he’d never asked his congregation to formally confess their sins, he made it known to them that he would be there if any of them wanted to unload some of their burdens. Every so often, someone would come in seeking advice along with the occasional request for absolution, but Gar Kilner felt it necessary to share every impure thought he’d had no matter when he’d had it.
Reminding himself of why he wore the starched collar in the first place, Paul turned to face Gar. It was always easier to be patient with someone after seeing the need in their eyes. “The last time you came along at such a late hour,” Paul reminded him, “it was because of a dream you had involving one of the Hovey sisters. If this is along those lines, you don’t need to confess. Your thoughts are your own. In fact, I believe the Lord gave us our thoughts as a way to savor the delights around us without actually partaking in them.”
Gar’s face twisted a bit as he tried to digest that. “You mean it’s all right for me to think bad things?”
“Your dream about Miss Hovey wasn’t bad. Inappropriate perhaps but not wicked.”
“Plenty of folks might disagree with you on that one, Father.”
“I realize that. It’s really more of a practical matter. Men and women alike have had impure thoughts since before the Good Book was written, I’m sure. Trouble only comes when those thoughts consume a person or if he acts on them. Do you understand?”
“I did act on them,” Gar said as he bowed his head. “Only, it didn’t hurt nobody.”
“How do you mean?”
“Where Miss Hovey was concerned . . . I watched her hang her laundry until the wind kicked up her skirts just right. Is that wrong?”
“You shouldn’t spy on ladies, Gar. I’ve told you that numerous times. Any man can enjoy what he sees. By doing that, we are all simply enjoying the world God gave us.”
“Does that include saloon girls?”
“They are God’s creatures too,” Paul said. “They have the same thoughts as anyone—”
“No, no,” Gar interrupted, which was something he often did. “Watching saloon girls is what I meant. They’re wicked women. Whores. Still, I . . .”
Placing a hand on Gar’s shoulder, Paul said, “They are women. Someone’s daughter. Someone’s mother. Someone’s sister. There is no shame in admiring them. There is no shame in dreaming about them. There is only shame in shaming them. Do you feel you are disgracing any of these women by thinking about them?”
“Eh . . . sometimes.”
“Then stop it.”
Gar looked as if he’d just been ordered to clear the clouds from the sky with a wave of his hand. “That’s it?”
“What more would you like?”
“Ain’t there something I need to do to atone for what I did?”
“From what I’ve heard, you haven’t actually done anything. The girls I’ve seen onstage at saloons are usually dancing or singing.”
“You go to saloons?” Gar gasped.
Paul shrugged. “Only for a dri
nk or to unwind after a hard day’s work. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“But bad things can happen at saloons. Them dancing girls . . . some of them are bad too.”
“Bad things can happen anywhere,” Paul said. “If we all focused only on a bit of restraint, think how much better this world would be. As for the dancing girls, there’s no shame in admiring their craft.”
“Some of what they do ain’t exactly a craft,” Gar said, sneering.
“True, but that speaks more of the sort of saloons you’re visiting, now, doesn’t it?” Before Gar hung his head any lower, Paul added, “We are men and it is within a man’s nature to admire a woman. That is the way God intended it to be. You know well enough when you overstep those bounds, and I believe you are a good enough man to keep from going too far in that direction. As for the rest, try not to stare at the Hovey sisters or any other woman when it’s inappropriate. Do I really need to tell you these things?”
“I suppose not. I just thought there was something I should do to make up for it.”
“The best way to make up for a sin is to learn from it and not commit it again. If you’re looking for something more than that . . .”
Gar’s face brightened as if from the very prospect of being prescribed some sort of punishment meant to wipe his slate clean.
“You’re to steer clear of the Hovey sisters on windy days and stop going to those saloons.”
“Are you serious?”
Paul had spoken his words with a hint of humor in his tone, but the look on Gar’s face when he heard them sapped every bit of lightheartedness from him. As always, Gar was in the market for salvation by the shortest road possible. His reaction to actually mending his ways as opposed to trying to erase them from the Almighty’s sight was a sharp, stinging slap across Paul’s face.
“Yes,” Paul said in a carefully measured tone. “I am serious. You know what’s right and what’s wrong. Just do one instead of the other, and I swear if you ask me which one I mean, I’ll put you through a penance more rigorous than you’d ever care for.”
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