Ralph Compton Brimstone Trail (9781101612637)

by Compton, Ralph; Galloway, Marcus

  Paul leaned forward and said, “Tell me if the man I’m looking for is that stranger right over there.”

  After checking to see which table Paul was nodding toward, the barkeep shuddered. “I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “But what?” Paul asked while studying the stranger. He didn’t have to be too careful about it because the man sitting at that table was the one who hadn’t done more than cast half a glance in his direction since Paul had arrived. The stranger was dressed in a rumpled brown shirt and had a dark red bandanna tied around his neck. A filthy duster lay over the second chair at his table, which also had a battered hat hanging from its back. By the looks of him, he hadn’t slept with a proper roof over his head in weeks.

  Even though the stranger still didn’t seem concerned about much of anything, Harrold was quick to put his back to him after glancing toward that table. “I’d rather you didn’t approach that one.”

  “Why? He seems like a quiet sort.”

  “Yeah. The worst ones usually do.”

  “Now my interest is truly piqued,” Paul mused. “Could that be Jack Terrigan himself?”

  “No, and if you knew what was good for you, you’d stop tossing that name around like it didn’t mean anything.”

  “I didn’t think it meant anything anymore. It’s been years since I’ve heard much about him.”

  “Word’s been going around for some time,” Harrold explained. “Most of it’s been rumors, but it seemed there was something to them once the bounty was dusted off and put back on Terrigan’s head.” Seeing the scowl forming on Paul’s face, Harrold quickly added, “Go ask the sheriff yourself if you don’t believe me. Anyway, rumors and stories been coming and going just like they do for any other known gunslinger. Then the law started getting real serious about finding him. Sheriff Noss made it clear he was to be told the moment any news came along about Terrigan’s whereabouts.”

  “I’m guessing he made it clearer to some than to others?”

  “If you’re talking about that whiny Gar Kilner, then yeah. Gar was here when Sheriff Noss said his piece, and he was sure to put the fear into Gar along with a few others who are known to stand about and poke their noses into other people’s affairs. Gar took it to heart just like he does with just about everything.” Harrold let out a breath that seemed to make his entire body smaller. “Gar’s a good enough sort, but he tries my patience sometimes. Always bending my ear about some useless thing or other.”

  As much as he could sympathize with the barkeep, Paul just took a sip of beer and let the moment pass. He’d always known there was quite a bit of overlap between the duties of a preacher and someone like Harrold. On some occasions, Harrold might have had an easier time of it because of the fact that he was allowed to soften the blow to his parishioners with liquor.

  “Anyways,” Harrold continued, “it’s a wonder you hadn’t heard anything about it until now.”

  “The sheriff doesn’t exactly share this sort of business with me. I swear sometimes it seems folks are trying to protect me from the outside world. Like they don’t think I’m truly part of it.”

  The last portion of that statement had been a slip of the tongue on Paul’s part. Harrold reacted with a shrug and said, “When people come to church, they’re probably trying to put their own troubles behind them. Looking for enlightenment and spiritual . . . something or other. Know what I mean?”

  “Yes. I do.” Paul’s beer glass was empty, so he moved it to Harrold’s side of the bar. “I’d like a refill, please. And I insist you allow me to pay for it this time.”

  “Your money’s no good here, Father,” he said while walking down to the tap to fill his glass. “Just keep in mind what I was talking about before.”

  When Harrold returned with the freshly poured beer, Paul took a drink and set his glass down. “This conversation isn’t over,” he said in a quieter tone. “I’d like to know about Jack Terrigan.”

  Harrold grimaced as if he truly thought he’d diverted the preacher’s attention enough to put the matter to rest. “All I know is what I already told you. He’s supposed to be somewhere in the territory and is kicking up all kinds of dust along the way.”

  “He’s in the territory? You didn’t mention that before.”

  “Because it shouldn’t be any of your business. All due respect, you’re a preacher. Not someone who should be mixed up with the likes of these men.”

  “What type of men?” Paul asked. “Killers? Desperate, lost souls? Sounds like those are just the sort of men who need to hear from someone like me.”

  “Is that what this is about? You think you can have a chat with a man like . . .” Harrold paused before speaking the outlaw’s name and shot a quick glance over to the stranger’s table. “With a man like that and he’ll just see the light? If that’s what you’re after, then I can save you a whole mess of trouble and tell you to forget it.”

  “My duty is to this town and the good people living in it,” Paul said earnestly. “If there’s something I can do in regards to a danger posed to Pueblito Verde or even this territory, it’s my duty to see it gets done. If there’s a chance I can talk sense into this Terrigan fellow, then that’s something I should do. At the very least, I’d like to see if there’s something I may be able to do to put an end to any danger that he may pose.”

  “You any good with a gun?” Harrold scoffed. “Because that’s about all someone like that dog would understand.”

  “That is exactly why I feel I should help if I can. Every life means something and I won’t stand by while one is wasted in sin or ended in a hail of gunfire. If that’s not a duty worthy of a man of faith, then I don’t know what is.”

  Harrold lowered his eyes as if he was catching up on the prayers he’d missed the previous Sunday. “You’re a good man, Father. I knew that before, which is why I meant to spare you from getting involved with something like this.”

  “Well, I’m involving myself and you’ve done a fine job of trying to steer me in another direction. If I’m too stubborn to heed your advice, then whatever happens afterward is my fault. That,” he added with a friendly grin, “is something I’ve learned throughout my years of being the one who’s usually handing out the unheeded advice.”

  “Unless you’ve preached the gospel in places a whole lot more interesting than this one, I doubt you’ve had many dealings with killers and bounty hunters.”

  Taking another look at the man sitting alone at his table, Paul asked, “Which is he?”

  “From what I can gather . . . both.”

  “Has he started any trouble since he’s been here?”

  “Not as such,” Harrold replied.

  “Then I doubt he’ll start any with a man of the cloth.” With that, Paul slid the silver dollar he’d placed on the bar earlier back toward Harrold and carried his beer across the room.

  Along the way, a few locals tipped their hats or grunted short greetings before getting back to their card games or whatever else occupied their time between drinks. Paul approached the stranger’s table and put on his warmest Sunday smile as he placed a hand on the duster draped across the back of the only other chair at the stranger’s table.

  After a few increasingly uncomfortable moments, Paul asked, “Is this seat taken?”

  “Yeah,” the stranger replied. “By my hat and coat.”

  “Mind if I join you?”

  The stranger looked up at him with cold blue eyes set deeply within a face covered in scars that crossed it like a crudely drawn map of intersecting railroad tracks. His lips barely parted when he asked, “What the hell would you wanna do that for . . . Father?”

  Paul’s smile was the same one he showed to the eldest Hovey sister when she brought him one of he
r mixed berry pies. “I see my reputation precedes me.”

  “This is a small place.”

  “I can pull up another chair if that would be better.”

  When the stranger fixed a stare fully on him, Paul felt as if he were standing across from him in a dark alley. The other man’s voice was a grating rasp that curled his mouth into a wicked sneer when he said, “It would be better if you turned around and let me be so I could enjoy my drink in peace. I don’t need no goddamn sermon and I don’t need to hear about ways to make my life any better from the likes of you.”

  This wasn’t the first time someone had tried to intimidate Paul Lester. Yet another advantage of being a preacher was that most folks didn’t think they had to try very hard to get him to quake in his boots. “I’d like to ask you a few questions and I figured you might like to do so in a private conversation rather than in front of everyone here. If you can’t do so in a civil tone . . .”

  “Then what?” the stranger growled as he pushed his chair away from the table and got to his feet. “What will you do if I don’t improve my tone?”

  “Then I’ll have to insist we talk outside.”

  A hush fell over the room.

  Manny stopped playing his piano and turned around while reaching for the shotgun hidden near his feet.

  Harrold placed both hands on his bar and declared, “There’ll be no trouble in here!”

  Amid all this tension, the stranger’s face took on an amused expression. “I’m not looking for any trouble,” he said. “Especially from a man with as much backbone and faith as this one’s got. That’s a mighty dangerous mix.”

  Paul nodded once. “It most definitely is.” Without another word, he took another long pull from his beer, walked over to set the glass on the bar, and headed for the door. He didn’t have to check behind him to know the stranger was following.

  Chapter 3

  Paul waited outside the Red Coyote, across the street, where he could watch the front door as well as the rest of the building. He traded pleasantries with a few locals who passed by on their way to one of the shops farther down the street or the stable on the other side of town. After a minute or two, the stranger stepped from the saloon while pulling his duster on. He stood near the door, stretched his back, and then put his hat on as if he meant to draw the process out for as long as humanly possible. Once it was clear he was on his own schedule and nobody else’s, he crossed the street to stand beside Paul.

  “So you’re the town preacher?” he asked.

  Paul did a good job keeping his voice level and patient. “That’s right.”

  “No preacher I ever known would come into a saloon asking about the likes of Jack Terrigan.”

  “You heard that as well?”

  “It’s a small place.”

  Indeed it was, but Paul was certain the other man’s ears were sharper than most of the ones inside the Red Coyote’s walls. Considering what he’d been told about the stranger, that wasn’t much of a surprise.

  “Then you must also know I’ve heard a thing or two myself,” Paul said. “For example, the way you earn your money.”

  “And how’s that?”

  “You’re a bounty hunter. Or . . . that’s the rumor.”

  The stranger was quiet for a couple of heartbeats before saying, “That rumor happens to be true.”

  “Then why make me repeat it? If you think you’re making me squirm just by standing there with two guns around your waist, then you’re sorely mistaken.”

  “I wear these guns most everywhere I go. They’re a part of me, and if they was enough to frighten you, then that says more about you than it does of me. As for the rest, I ain’t the sort who makes someone jump through hoops. I have found I can learn a lot about a man just by watching how he talks about my line of work. Plenty of thoughts can cross his head when he says the words bounty hunter. Thoughts that can let me know if his tone will stay civilized farther down the stretch.”

  “I can understand that,” Paul replied earnestly. “I’ve found much the same thing on people’s faces when they talk about my line of work as well. My name is Paul Lester, by the way.”

  The stranger looked down at the hand Paul offered and shook it. “Should I call you Father?”

  “Only if you forget my first name. I never caught yours, by the way”

  That brought a grin to the stranger’s face that was heartfelt, if unappealing. “Dave Sprole. Pleased to meet you. So, which line of work will this conversation lean toward?” he asked. “Yours or mine?”

  “To be honest, I’d say it dips a toe into both.”

  “Just a toe? If you’re looking to take on the likes of Jack Terrigan, you’d best be willing to commit more than that to it.”

  Clasping his hands behind his back, Paul started walking slowly down the street. When he was sure Sprole was following him, he asked, “Is it true that Terrigan is in this territory?”

  “Could be.”

  “Surely a man in your line of work either knows or he doesn’t.”

  “And for a man in your line of work, you’re mighty anxious to get to an absolute answer in no time at all.”

  “Just because my faith does not rely on concrete answers,” Paul replied, “doesn’t mean that I do not search for them. In fact, because of the nature of my calling, you’ll find I’m even more tenacious when I’m going after something that’s within my reach.”

  “Jack Terrigan ain’t even within my reach,” the bounty hunter said. “What makes you think he’s anywhere close to yours?”

  “If he’s on God’s green earth, he’s more within my reach than the questions I’ve devoted my life to answering.” Paul came to a stop and turned on his heel so he was facing Sprole squarely. “I didn’t approach you for a philosophical debate, although I’m certain you have some keen insights I’d like to hear. I want to know about Jack Terrigan.”

  “And here’s the question that’s got me stumped: Why do you give a damn about Terrigan?”

  “Because I know him.”

  Sprole’s eyes glinted like those of a wolf that had just spotted a fat, limping deer. “Do you, now?”

  “I do and I want to find him so I can have a word with him.”

  “Perhaps he’s the one you’d like to debate philosophy with?”

  “That,” Paul said without a flinch, “is not your concern.”

  “See, now, there’s where you’re wrong,” Sprole said as he started walking again. This time, Paul was the one who had to rush a few steps to catch up. “Say what you want about my line of work, but if you know anything at all you must know that once I have a wanted man in my sights, every little thing he does or says, everyone he sees, and every place he goes is very much my concern. It’s how I earn my daily bread while others take handouts after filling a bunch of simpletons’ heads with nonsense about spirits and a bright, musical hereafter.”

  Paul had been baited enough times in similar ways to know when he was being set up. Weathering the attacks on his faith that had the subtlety of a fist wrapped around a brick, he said “You’re trying to get me to lose my temper.”

  “Is that the worst you’ve ever heard on the matter? Folks around here really must be a good bunch of sheep. Sorry,” he chuckled. “Lambs. Isn’t that the proper term?”

  “Folks around here aren’t what we were talking about. I was talking about an outlaw who is close enough to send ripples through this very small pond. That must be why you’re here, and since I found you sitting comfortably in a saloon instead of preparing to ride out again, my guess is that you’re not quite sure where to go next.”

  “Well, then,” Sprole said through a grin that was still reminiscent of a wolf, “that would make two of us, wouldn’t it?”

  “I always know where to go next,” Paul replied in a way
that jabbed at the bounty hunter in much the same way Sprole had been jabbing at him earlier. “That is the advantage to someone in my line of work.”

  Sprole walked until the solid wall of a livery stable was to his back. Pivoting in a way that caused his duster to flap open and reveal the guns at his sides, he snarled, “What did you think would happen here, preacher? You’d stroll up to me, ask kindly, and I’d tell you everything I’ve worked so hard to learn about a killer who would put me down in a heartbeat? Even if I did decide to answer your questions out of pure kindness, I could lose a whole pile of money after you take your answers and spill them to the wrong person. Even if you do keep your mouth shut, what would you do next? Go running out to find him?”

  “I doubt I could—”

  Sprole cut him short with a swiftly raised hand. “Whether you’re just a well-intentioned preacher or the smartest tracker in the country, it don’t much matter. What does matter is that, whatever you did with the answers you got, Terrigan would catch wind of it. Knowing him the way I do after chasing him for as long as I have, I’d say only two things could come next. One,” he said while ticking the options off on his fingers, “he guns you down and either kills you or makes you wish he had. Or two, he catches wind that someone knows where he’s hiding and bolts like a jackrabbit. Either way, that just ain’t acceptable.” He then tipped his hat, showed Paul an empty smile, and stormed off.

  But Paul wasn’t about to let him go so easily. “If you have everything figured out, how come you don’t have him in custody?”

  “Having a plan don’t mean it’s been seen through all the way. Wheels are in motion, and I won’t be thrown off course.”

  “I’m not interested in the price on his head. I just want to have a word with Terrigan.”

  “Best watch your mouth, preacher. You’re spooking your congregation.”

  Although Paul’s first instinct was to dismiss the bounty hunter’s words, a quick glance toward the street proved they had some merit. Sure enough, two gray-haired ladies who organized the town’s sewing circle were standing in front of a tailor’s shop with bolts of fabric under their arms and horrified expressions on their faces. The elder of the two tried to regain her composure and speak to Paul, but was hurried along by the younger woman. A few men were scattered here and there along the street or boardwalk, most of whom stood quietly to watch what unfolded before their eyes. A few even had their hands resting on holstered guns.