Ralph Compton Brimstone Trail (9781101612637)

by Compton, Ralph; Galloway, Marcus

  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.

  Manuela staggered a few steps before turning back around. “You come with me, Padre.”

  “Just go!”

  “Come with! Is too dangerous.”

  Before Paul could respond to that, Manuela was proven correct in her assessment. 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! What the hell you doing down there? Where’s Wes?”

  Paul slammed the door shut and backed away. His fingers were still clenched around the pot’s handle as if it were a weapon that could answer any threat in front of him. “I don’t know what this is about,” he said, “but there’s no need for any further violence.”

  Clomping down the stairs, the short man raised his pistol to sight along the top of its barrel. “I beg to differ, mister.”

  When a gunshot blasted through the air, Paul reflexively jumped. He hadn’t been hit. He hadn’t even been missed. The bullet that had been fired came from another gun entirely and hit the chest of the second man who’d been making his way downstairs behind the shorter fellow. That man winced while clutching the crimson stain now spreading across his shirt, crumpled forward, and fell toward the shorter gunman who’d descended before him.

  The shorter gunman was looking up at something that Paul couldn’t quite see. When pivoting to aim in that direction, the gunman was knocked off his balance by his wounded partner. “Get . . . offa me, Steve!” he grunted as he was forced to wrap his arm around the wounded man before both of them were sent down the stairs. Steve’s head lolled forward and his shoulders trembled with a final gasping breath. Upon seeing this, Paul reflexively crossed himself and whispered a quick prayer for the man’s departing soul.

  The third man to walk down the stairs was Dave Sprole. In his right hand was the .44 revolver, and in his left was a smaller .38. Before Paul could finish his prayer with a quick amen, Dave straightened his right arm, squeezed his trigger, and blew a hole clean through the shorter gunman’s shoulder. The gunman swore as he was knocked to one side. The impact of the bullet pushed him away from Steve’s limp body, where he bounced off the banister and tripped down the rest of the stairs.

  “Oh,” Dave said as he caught sight of Paul. “What brings you here, preacher?”

  “I—”

  Paul was interrupted by the metallic clack of a pistol hammer slapping against the back of a spent bullet casing. Dave calmly traded pistols so the .38 was in his right hand before pointing the gun’s barrel at the shorter gunman’s head. He pulled the trigger, adding another soul to those in need of a final prayer.

  After that, the hotel was quiet.

  Smoke hung in the air. Without a breeze to stir it, the gritty haze drifted downward like bits of mud on rain-streaked glass.

  Paul held his breath, and the dead had none to spare.

  Dave Sprole looked on, waiting patiently until he was certain it was all right for him to holster the .38. “What are you doing here, preacher?” he asked while emptying the spent casings from the cylinder of his .44 so he could replace them with fresh rounds taken from the loops in his belt.

  “Actually I came to see you.”

  Sprole’s eyes narrowed as he walked down the stairs. His feet moved around sprawling dead limbs and blood as if he were simply avoiding a puddle in the street. “You’ve seen me and plenty more. Seems like you’re taking it fairly well.”

  “This isn’t the first time I’ve seen bloodshed,” Paul said. “I’m needed in the most desperate of situations.”

  “Most men would’ve run away faster than that woman you shoved out of here.”

  “You saw that?”

  “I saw enough to put the pieces together. Ain’t like she was being very quiet.” Finished reloading the pistol, Sprole snapped it shut and dropped it into the leather holster at his side. “Anyone else in here we need to worry about?”

  “I don’t know. I just was told about Manuela. Are there other guests upstairs?”

  “Not a one. That’s why I was so happy with this arrangement.” Sprole looked around and scowled. “Guess that’s the end of my peace and quiet. About time I should move along.” With that, he tipped his hat and turned to walk back upstairs.

  Paul charged forward to rush up the stairs and slap a hand onto the bounty hunter’s shoulder. Sprole stopped and turned as if his glare alone were enough to burn Paul’s hand down to a smoking nub.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Paul asked.

  “Up to my room. What concern is it of yours?”

  “Men have died here! You can’t just go back up to your room like nothing happened.”

  “If it’s the law you want, I’m sure the law will be around shortly. If you want me to look all pretty for the sheriff when he gets here, I’ll need to go up to my room to freshen up.”

  When Sprole tried to leave, it was under the assumption that he would be able to pull out of Paul’s grasp with little or no effort. Not only did the grip on his shoulder remain, but it became strong enough to pull him back a step or two. They were near the top of the staircase, which didn’t leave much room to maneuver. Even so, Paul stepped up to the bounty hunter to stand toe-to-toe with him.

  “Tell me what happened here,” Paul said.

  “Let go of me, preacher. I won’t tell you again.”

  Paul let go. “Tell me what happened.”

  “The sheriff will be here any minute and I’ll surely have to tell him the story. I ain’t gonna spell it all out twice, so if you want to hear it, just be sure to stay close.”

  “No. You’ll tell me now.”

  Sprole studied the man in front of him. “You got a whole lot of sand for a preacher. Maybe that’s because you got this little pit of a town eating from your hand every Sunday morning, but none of that holds a drip of water with me. You want to step up to me, you’d best be ready to back your play. And before you say you’ve got the Lord on your side, you should ask yourself if the Lord will come down and stop me from doing this.”

  In a flicker of motion, Sprole drew the .44 from its holster and jammed the barrel against Paul’s stomach. It dug in before angling upward to make certain it would do the most damage possible.

  Sprole grinned. “Still feeling brave?”

  “Tell me what happened here,” Paul repeated.

  Now Sprole appeared mildly confused. Although Paul didn’t look down at the gun in the bounty hunter’s hand, he could feel its barrel move away from his belly before he heard the brush of iron against leather. Sprole moved back half a step and slapped an open hand against Paul’s chest. When Paul’s backside hit the banister and he started to lose his balance, Sprole grabbed his shirt and pulled him back just enough to keep him from toppling to the ground floor. Leaving Paul there, Sprole climbed the rest of the stairs and walked down a narrow hallway.

  “I was washing up when these men attacked me,” Sprole said.

  Paul climbed the stairs as well, noticing immediately that the doors to two different rooms were ajar and one had been knocked completely off its hinges. Gun smoke hung in the air even thicker up there, possibly because of the more confined quarters.

  Sprole went to the room with the dislodged door and stepped inside.

  Following him, Paul asked, “Why did those men come after you?”

  “What do you care, preacher? Don’t you have a sermon to write?”

  Paul stood in the broken doorway, feeling every hair on the back of his neck stand on end as if to warn
him of another attack. Watching as Sprole rummaged through a small chest of drawers for some clothes, which he then stuffed into a saddlebag, he asked, “Did this have something to do with Jack Terrigan?”

  “You really do have a one-track mind.”

  “Well, did it?”

  Sprole looked up from his saddlebag, sighed, and walked over to the single chair in the room. Once he took the duster from the back of the chair and draped it over one arm, a Spencer rifle could be seen propped against the wall behind that chair. Hefting the saddlebags over his shoulder, he took the rifle and walked toward the door. “I don’t answer to no man, and I sure don’t answer to you,” he said. “That means I don’t have to tell you anything.”

  “What about the law? Aren’t you going to wait for the sheriff to get here?”

  “I said I thought the law would be coming here shortly and I’d explain what happened. I never said I’d sit around waiting for him to arrive. If he don’t want to stop what he’s doing so he can look in on a shooting, that ain’t my concern.”

  “He may not be here, but I am,” Paul said as he planted his feet and crossed his arms over his chest. “You don’t strike me as the sort who would leave through a window, and unless you want to move me, I’m not about to budge.”

  “Don’t think I won’t,” Sprole growled.

  “You can try.”

  Sprole eased the saddlebags off his shoulder, freeing his hands so he could hold the Spencer in a proper grip with one hand close to the trigger. For a moment, it seemed as if he was going to bring the weapon up to his shoulder, but then he set the rifle down so it rested against the footboard of the bed. “What’s this burr under your saddle where Terrigan is concerned? Oh, that’s right. You said you knew him.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What is he . . . your brother?”

  Paul’s smile was tired in more ways than one when he replied, “For someone of my calling, every man is my brother.”

  “Spare me the sermon. It’s been too long a day.”

  “I know Mr. Terrigan well enough to be concerned for his well-being. Until now, I have heard only a few passing rumors about him. Rumors I thought might be false or at least grossly overstated. But they are proving to be much more than that. If Terrigan truly is close enough to draw so much fire, that means he’s close enough for me to look into his eyes and have a word with him.”

  “What do you intend on saying?” Sprole asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  “I suppose not. I was just curious, is all.”

  “Are you going after him right now?” Paul asked.

  After taking a quick look at the state of the room, which included a broken mirror, a disheveled bed, a dresser that had been knocked askew, and a few bullet holes in the walls, Sprole replied, “Yes, I am.”

  “Then I want to come with you.”

  “Forget it. Now step out of my way.”

  Chapter 5

  The small livery stable behind the hotel was just big enough to contain three horses and some gear. Sprole was leading his horse out of the stable by the reins when Sheriff Noss’s voice bellowed through the air.

  “And just where do you think you’re goin’?” he asked.

  “I’ve been in town for several days,” Sprole replied. “And it’s only now that anyone is so concerned with my welfare.”

  “It ain’t your welfare I’m concerned about. It’s the shots that were fired in that hotel.”

  “Well, go have a look for yourself, Sheriff. You can count the holes in the walls as many times as you want.”

  “Sure that’s all I’ll find in there is holes?” the lawman asked. “I hear some men may have caught some lead as well.”

  Several paces behind the sheriff, Manuela and the woman from the front desk strained to get a look at whom the sheriff was talking to. Sheriff Noss turned to Carol and asked, “That the man who did the shooting?”

  She nodded.

  “All right, Dave,” Noss said as he made a show of placing his hand flat on the grip of his holstered pistol. “You know what that means.”

  “I was one of the men inside the hotel,” Sprole replied. “That don’t make me the instigator of what happened!”

  “And what did happen? Perhaps you’d like to come to my office and inform me of the details?”

  When someone else came around from the other side of the livery, Noss took a defensive posture and drew his pistol. “Whoever you are, you’d best throw down any weapon you’re carrying!”

  The figure stepping into view was also leading a horse by the reins. “It’s just me, Sheriff. Paul Lester.”

  “Jesus, Father! Pardon the language, but what are you doin’ here? There’s been trouble, so you’d best get out of here.”

  “That is him!” Manuela said as she extended a shaky hand toward Paul. “He is the one!”

  “That man right there?” Noss asked.

  “Yes, yes! He saved me from the man that was going to shoot me,” Manuela gasped. Unable to contain herself, she pushed past the lawman and ran all the way over to where Paul stood with his horse’s reins in hand. She wrapped her arms around him and said, “Gracias, Padre. Thank you so much. You are more than just a padre. You are my angel!”

  While Paul was flummoxed by the woman’s overwhelming display of affection, Sprole was more than a little amused. The same could not be said about the sheriff, however.

  “That’ll be enough of that,” Noss said while trying to pull Manuela away from her angel. “There’s work to be done here and one big mess to clean up.”

  Tipping his hat to both of them, Sprole said, “Then I’ll just leave you to it, Sheriff.”

  “The hell you will! You’re not going anywhere! Pardon me again, Father.”

  “Quite all right,” Paul said.

  Once Manuela was pried away from Paul, she immediately latched on to Sprole. “This man was another one. The ones that try to hurt me also try to hurt him and he shot them first. He is a good man, Sheriff! Very good man.”

  The woman who worked behind the hotel’s front desk was much quieter, which was how she managed to get closer without being noticed right away. “She’s right,” Carol said. “Those gunmen came in asking for Mr. Sprole and then they got rough. I barely got out before they got to me. I’m just so sorry I didn’t think to make certain Manuela wasn’t out as well.”

  “Is all right, Miss Carol,” Manuela said in an accent that seemed to grow thicker the more worked up she got. “Father Paul was here to take care of me. He fought hard.”

  Suddenly Paul’s eyes widened. “Oh! I almost forgot in all the excitement. The man who was holding this woman at gunpoint . . . I knocked him out, but I didn’t kill him. He could be up and around by now!”

  “Don’t worry about that one,” a young man shouted as he hurried around from the hotel’s front porch. “We got to him right when he was startin’ to wake up.”

  “Ah, good,” Sprole said. “Then I can be off.”

  “Also found two dead men on the stairs,” the young fellow continued.

  “My deputies found some dead men,” Sheriff Noss said. “That means I need to have a word with you. Now, are you going to draw this out some more or will you just come along peacefully?”

  “That depends,” Sprole replied. “Will I be answering your questions from behind bars?”

  The lawman took one look at Manuela and got a fearsomely protective glare from her in return. When he looked over to Carol, the woman who worked the hotel’s registration desk told him, “I ran away one too many times today as it is. I won’t stand by and let you put an innocent man behind bars.”

  “Aw, for Chr . . .” Noss cut himself short and looked at Paul. “I’ll watch my tongue, Father. If I ask nicely, will you come along with me?�
��

  “Of course,” Paul said.

  “And could you convince your friend to do the same?”

  When Paul looked over to him, Sprole rolled his eyes and let out a breath that seemed to deflate his entire body. “Why not?” the bounty hunter said. “It’s not as if there’s a gang of killers on the loose.”

  * * *

  It was several hours later before Paul and Sprole got to have their talk with Sheriff Noss. They passed that time sitting in the sheriff’s office, playing cards with one of the deputies and watching the rest of the town bustle past the front windows. Finally Noss came along to stomp into the office and plop into his chair behind his desk so he could start shuffling some papers that had been stacked on top of his ink blotter.

  Since Sprole was in the middle of a poker hand with the deputy and Paul had more patience than all of the men in that room combined, Noss was the one to break the silence. “So,” he said, “what’s this I hear about a gang of killers? I’m talkin’ to you, Sprole.”

  “You made us wait this long for an audience,” the bounty hunter snapped. “How about you wait until this hand is over? I got money on this game.”

  “Don’t make me get out of this chair,” the sheriff warned.

  Although the thinly veiled threat rolled like water off Sprole’s back, it had an immediate effect on the deputy. The younger lawman threw his cards down and stood up from the empty barrel they’d been using as a card table.

  “Don’t make a reach for none of that money,” Sprole said while pointing toward a small collection of pennies piled on the middle of the barrel’s top. “You walk away from a game, you give up the pot. Everyone knows that.”

  “And if you’re stupid enough to gamble in a sheriff’s office,” Noss said, “you’re lucky to only lose the money in your pockets. If you didn’t know that before, you do now. Take that money, Kyle, and clear them cards away so I can have these men’s undivided attention.”