Ralph Compton Brimstone Trail (9781101612637)

by Compton, Ralph; Galloway, Marcus

  “If they have questions,” Paul said while shifting his focus back to Sprole, “they can ask them to my face. Right now I am asking you if you’ll help me gain a moment of an outlaw’s time.”

  “Which brings me back to what I asked you.”

  “You want to know why? Because it’s my job, that’s why.”

  Sprole grinned. When he placed a hand on Paul’s shoulder, it was a surprisingly easy gesture. “Your job is to preach, so that’s what you should do. Stay inside where it’s safe . . . and preach.”

  Paul took hold of the bounty hunter’s arm, gripped it tight, and removed Sprole’s hand from his shoulder. “Did you hear what I said?” Paul asked. “I know Jack Terrigan.”

  “I heard, and if I were you, I’d keep it to myself. Plenty of men in my spot wouldn’t just let you walk away after hearing something like that.”

  “If that’s a threat, I’m not frightened.”

  “It’s not a threat, but perhaps you should be a little frightened. Not by me,” Sprole said, “but by the world around you. See, that’s the problem with preachers or other wide-eyed folks like you. There isn’t a healthy bit of fear in you that tells you to steer clear of men like Terrigan. Or me.”

  “Don’t presume to know what’s in my heart,” Paul warned.

  “All right, but I sure don’t have to presume to know what’s in your head. You’ve shown most of the cards you’re holding. The ones that matter anyway. What would you say to Terrigan once you found him? Is it important enough to risk your life to get there?”

  Paul closed his eyes, drew a breath, and was interrupted before he could reply.

  “Let me guess,” Sprole said. “It’s your business. Well, you seem like a good man. Believe it or not, I’ve heard a few nice things about you in the short time I’ve been in town. That’s why I’ll let you go about your business while I go about mine.”

  When Sprole started walking again, Paul was tempted to let him go. It wasn’t an urge to concede the argument or give up on what he’d started. It was too late for any of that. For a moment, he had to weigh whether or not there was any chance of getting what he was after. Wasn’t it a foolish thing to keep fighting when a battle had already been lost?

  Suddenly Paul felt shame in his heart.

  Many folks saw him and others who’d been called as fools for holding on to their beliefs when a cruel, unforgiving world seemed to take pleasure in dimming the light that was at the foundation of faith. Whether any preacher was right or wrong wasn’t the point as far as Paul was concerned. What people thought didn’t matter. It didn’t even matter if a thing could be proven or if it made sense. Paul Lester had chosen his path because, at the center of his very core, he believed it was the right thing to do.

  Without another word or thought, Paul walked behind Sprole.

  For several paces, the bounty hunter moved along silently. Perhaps he didn’t know Paul was still with him, but he eventually turned to check over his shoulder to find the preacher smiling behind him. Sprole kept walking.

  At the next corner, Sprole turned. The town’s little church was at the end of that street and when he made another turn, Sprole looked behind him again.

  Paul was still there.

  “What are you doing, preacher?” Sprole asked.

  “Following you.”

  “Is this supposed to convince me to change my mind?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. It seems to me you’re good at your job, and if I continue to follow you, we’ll both be led to the man we’re after.”

  “You think you can keep on my tail that long?”

  “Perhaps,” Paul replied. “I believe I can hold on long enough to get where I need to go.”

  “I’m just headed back to my room at the hotel. If you think you’re following me in there, you’re sorely mistaken.”

  Paul remained silent. When Sprole put his back to him and walked faster, Paul kept him within his line of sight.

  Sure enough, the bounty hunter went to his hotel. Sprole stepped inside the squat building that had once been the home of a miner who’d found just enough silver to pay for a wagon to take him to California. Paul stood outside, waiting for a few moments before circling around the corner of the building and waiting. Having lived in that hotel while the church was under construction, he was familiar with every inch of the place. For that reason, he knew exactly which window was at the base of the stairway to the second floor and which was at the end of the hall at the top of those steps. After a few more seconds, he shifted his gaze upward to the latter of those windows and was just in time to see the frilly curtains pulled aside so Sprole could peek out.

  Paul smiled and gave him a friendly wave.

  The man behind those curtains scowled and pulled the flimsy material back in place.

  After that, Paul turned on his heel and marched down the street to the sheriff’s office.

  * * *

  Sheriff Noss was a wide-shouldered man with arms that were thick with muscles forged from swinging an axe. Riding south from the Pacific Northwest put his logging days behind him, but he still kept the axe to remind folks what he was capable of. Even if the axe saw less use than the shotguns in his gun cabinet and the .45 strapped to his hip, Noss kept it nearby. It was hanging over the door that Paul pushed open to come inside and plead his case. After taking the time to place his signature on the paper he’d been studying during most of Paul’s tale, the lawman gave him one simple word.

  “No.”

  “Weren’t you listening, Sheriff?” Paul asked. “I think Jack Terrigan is in this territory and I want to help you find him.”

  “How could you help?”

  “I have resources. I have friends. I used to give last rites to condemned men at a jail in Tucson and got to know prisoners as well as turnkeys. Any of them could know enough to help narrow the search.”

  “As soon as Terrigan comes to Pueblito Verde,” Noss said through a thin layer of stubble on his rounded face, “he’ll be my problem. Until then, he’s out of my jurisdiction.”

  “What about the reward that’s been posted?” Paul asked, making a desperate plea to the other man’s greed.

  “If someone brings Terrigan in, I’ll see he gets his money.”

  “Wouldn’t it serve everyone’s best interests if Terrigan was found before he came to Pueblito Verde? Maybe he can be captured without bloodshed. If there’s violence, innocent people may get hurt. Good folks could be caught in a cross fire.”

  Noss set his pencil down and furrowed his brow. “You’re really grasping at straws here. What’s got you so riled up?”

  “For one thing, I feel it’s my duty to watch out for my flock when I can.”

  “Keep the peace, you mean?”

  Paul brightened considerably. “Yes! Exactly.”

  “Keeping the peace is my job,” Noss said. “I’ll do mine and you do yours. Sound good?”

  Paul might not have shied away from a difficult task, but he knew when it was the wrong time to take one on. Then again, he might also have been just plain tired, because he left the sheriff to the rest of his paperwork and stepped outside. “I have heard the word,” he said to himself since there was nobody else around, “so I suppose I shall hold it fast so it may bear its fruit . . . with patience.”

  Even though he’d paraphrased from the Good Book itself, those words didn’t go down easily.

  Chapter 4

  Three days passed and Paul remained mostly in his church, reflecting on unpleasant memories and doing his best to put together a sermon for Sunday’s service. When Sunday came along, the turnout was a bit smaller than normal. Immediately, Paul’s thoughts drifted toward the appalled expressions on the faces he’d seen while having words with Sprole in the street. It was very possible that the women from the sewing circle had spre
ad some rumors of their own or perhaps the men who had been watching quietly weren’t happy with what they’d seen.

  On the other hand, it was just as likely that the people not in the pews were still in their beds stricken by a bout of illness or an unwillingness to interrupt their sleep. Paul went back and forth between not being concerned with the absences and feeling bad for the fact that he wasn’t concerned. Finally he realized how silly that was and wound up right back where he’d started.

  He hadn’t heard anything from Sheriff Noss, which wasn’t unusual since the lawman hadn’t come to Sunday services for quite some time. Dave Sprole had fallen into a predictable routine. At least, in following the bounty hunter, Paul had become reacquainted with the breakfasts served at the hotel down the street from his church. Paul was on his way there this Sunday, planning how he wanted his eggs prepared, when he noticed a trio of horses tied to the post outside the hotel. He took note of the sheen on the animals’ coats, which told him they’d been working hard not too long before finding themselves tethered to their current spot. Before he could reach for the handle of the hotel’s front door, Paul was nearly knocked onto his backside when that door was pushed open by someone running outside.

  The woman was in her late forties and had smooth, pale skin. Her green eyes were wide and focused on the street behind him, which explained why she didn’t put a name to the face directly in front of her.

  “Carol, what’s wrong?” Paul asked.

  It took a moment, but Carol finally recognized him. “Father, you have to get away from here! There’s men inside. Men with guns!”

  “Have you been hurt?” he asked while grabbing hold of Carol’s arms to steady her.

  “No, but there’s going to be shooting. There’s going to be trouble, I just—”

  The rest of her words were swallowed up by gunshots exploding within the hotel. Bullets spat from those barrels shattered glass and preceded a stampede of heavy footsteps that Paul could hear thanks to a few open windows. “Who are they?” he asked. “What do they want?”

  “I don’t know! They just came in asking about the man staying in Room Six and drew their guns while cussing up a storm. After that, I just ran!”

  Realizing he was still gripping her arms tight enough to keep her from going anywhere, Paul angled her toward the street and let her go. “Fetch the sheriff!”

  “Come with me,” she pleaded. “I think those men mean to kill someone.”

  As if to emphasize her fears, more gunshots blasted through the hotel, followed by a scream that most definitely did not come from a man.

  “Who else is inside?” Paul asked.

  “Oh Lord,” Carol moaned. “Manuela was in the kitchen last time I saw her.”

  “Can she get out on her own?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t even know where she went after cooking for the last guest to come down for breakfast. I didn’t mean to leave her. I just wanted to get out before . . . I’m so sorry.”

  Paul grabbed her again to give Carol a little shake as he said, “Pull yourself together. Go to the sheriff and bring him here. Try to remember as much as you can about what the men looked like or said when they came in so you can tell him whatever he needs to know.”

  She nodded. When Paul turned toward the hotel and took a step toward the door, she grabbed his sleeve and asked, “What are you doing? Come with me!”

  More shots were fired, which only caused him to solemnly shake his head. “I can’t leave Manuela inside. You did the right thing to get away. Go for help and I’ll fetch her. Just go!”

  His last words, combined with an insistent shove, convinced her to run from the hotel. Paul didn’t know for certain if she was following the directions he’d given since all of his attention was focused on the task at hand.

  The hotel’s lobby was only slightly more cluttered than normal. A few newspapers had been spilled onto the floor, and the ledger was askew on top of the front desk. What struck Paul most was the sharp, distinct scent of burned gunpowder hanging in the air. Rough, muffled voices drifted down from the second floor. Paul’s first guess was that the men doing the talking were in one of the rooms closest to the top of the stairs. His hand drifted toward the spot at his side where a holster might be found if he’d been wearing one. As it was, Paul’s fingers glanced only against the rumpled fabric of trousers that were badly in need of being stitched. He set his jaw into a firm line and used the lightest steps he could manage to make his way into the dining room.

  Three of the four little round tables there were clean, and the fourth still bore a dish with the remains of someone’s morning meal. A dirty napkin was balled up next to a glass with a few sips of milk left inside. Having stopped to search for any sign of the woman who’d cooked that meal, Paul darted his eyes to and fro while his ears strained to pick up any sound other than the argument going on above him.

  Finally he heard it.

  A trembling whimper came from the next room and was quickly stifled.

  Paul hurried through the dining room and pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen to find no one in the narrow aisle flanked by shelves of ingredients, racks of crockery, and a stove connected to the ceiling by a wide black pipe. In the back corner, there was a narrow door to what had to be a pantry. Paul had taken two steps in that direction when someone backed out from the cramped room.

  “You stay put, you hear?” the short man hissed. He wore a jacket, hat, and trousers that were all filthy with dust and sweat. His eyes were focused on something inside the pantry. A .38-caliber pistol was clutched in a tight grip.

  The same trembling voice came once more from within the small storage space, sounding like a bit of steam forced through the stove’s pipe.

  “Answer me and be quiet about it,” the gunman said. “Besides that other woman who ran out of here, who else is left?”

  Paul recognized Manuela’s voice, but she wasn’t forming any words. Instead, she cried and fought to catch her breath.

  Freezing in his spot, Paul felt every one of his muscles tense. As far as he could tell, the only reason he hadn’t been spotted was that the gunman hadn’t looked away from the pantry. Surely the other man could see some things from the corner of his eye, but he might not pay them any mind unless something moved. Since Paul knew he couldn’t stay put for long before being discovered, he decided to make his inevitable movement count for something.

  Paul lunged for the stove, stretching a hand out to one of the pots resting there. Almost immediately, the gunman turned to aim in his direction. The pot was heavy, so Paul used both hands to lift it up and angle it toward the gunman’s head. Unfortunately, all the other man had to do to avoid the blow was lean back. There was no avoiding the contents of the pot, however, as the warm, lumpy oatmeal sailed through the air to splatter onto the gunman, the doorway, and several things inside the pantry.

  “What the hell?” the gunman snarled as tepid water and some soggy oats ran down his face.

  Although he was hoping for something much hotter within the pot, Paul swung again while shouting, “Get out of here, Manuela!”

  The terrified cook was huddled in a corner of the pantry, peeking through her fingers while covering her face with her hands. She climbed to her feet and spoke in a quick, excited chatter. Even if Paul’s Spanish was up to snuff, he wouldn’t have been able to understand her above the pounding of his own heartbeat thrumming through his ears.

  Lowering his shoulder, the gunman charged toward Paul with enough force to send him staggering back against the stove. Paul was thankful for the lack of heat from the stove as he brushed against the warm iron and pushed off to one side as the other man fired a shot at him. The gun exploded within the confines of the kitchen, its barrel throwing sparks into the air as a bullet glanced off the side of the stove.

  Paul’s thoughts raced inside his head, maki
ng him dizzier with every passing moment. If he’d been thinking clearer, he would have at least found something better with which to defend himself. It was too late for rationality now, however. All that was left was for him to try and make it out of that kitchen with his life.

  The gunman was confused by Paul’s appearance, but that didn’t keep him from firing again. He took quick aim and fired a shot that punched a hole in the wall less than two inches from Paul’s left shoulder. Before the gunman could take a moment to steady his aim, Paul swung his pot again with the intent of knocking the pistol away. Instead, the pot wound up encasing the man’s hand like a large clunky glove with a long handle. Since the gunman couldn’t get his hand free from the pot and wasn’t about to relinquish his weapon, Paul tugged the pot up and toward the kitchen’s back wall. With the gunman’s hand still inside the pot, it as well as a good portion of his arm went along for the ride. The gun went off once more like a muffled dynamite blast, causing the man holding it to scream and twist away.

  Paul was surprised at the amount of blood on the man’s hand when it emerged from the pot. Then again, considering that the bullet had blasted through at such an odd angle, it must have ricocheted quite a bit before finding its way out. The man gripped his gun hand and clutched it tight against his chest while choking back another pained cry. Paul took that opportunity to hit him in the face with the pot and put an end to the scuffle right then and there.

  As soon as the gunman collapsed, Paul went inside the pantry. He kept the pot in one hand and extended the other toward Manuela. “Come along with me now,” he said. “It’s all right.”

  She was terrified. There was still commotion going on above them, and when heavy steps thumped toward the general direction of the staircase, Manuela all but leaped to her feet and grabbed his hand so Paul could pull her out. While following Paul through the kitchen, Manuela rattled off an endless stream of panicked Spanish. He could pick out a word or two here and there, but the rest was just a frantic, breathless jumble.