Ralph Compton Brimstone Trail (9781101612637)

by Compton, Ralph; Galloway, Marcus

  In darkness smelling of horseflesh and rotten wood, Paul put the gun in his hand to feel its weight within his grasp.

  The pistol wasn’t loaded. His thumb brushed against the cylinder, clicking it from one chamber to the next, while his eyes closed to count them off. The hammer cocked back and was eased back down again. These were motions that Paul had done countless times throughout his life, but were out of character now.

  A man of God wasn’t supposed to arm himself.

  A preacher wasn’t supposed to ride on posses.

  A man of faith wasn’t supposed to be so familiar with what went on inside a killer’s head.

  Perhaps these were just the way things were supposed to be. Paul had to grin when he considered that. Even a quick glance into history was enough to prove he wasn’t the first man of faith to take up a weapon. He surely wasn’t the only one with questions in his head or doubt in his heart. In fact, thinking he was alone in those regards seemed downright arrogant. Unfortunately, none of the others who’d traveled that road before were there at the moment to ease his troubled thoughts.

  The only thing that gave him any peace at all was the knowledge that, although he might not be going about things in a regular way, the path he rode was a righteous one. If he could have faith in that, then it didn’t really matter who rode that path with him.

  Paul didn’t exactly sleep the sleep of the just, but he did manage to drift off after keeping his eyes closed long enough.

  Chapter 19

  When Paul awoke, he was alone in the stable. At least, it sure seemed that way when the only other living things he could see were horses and a few rats making a nest in another stall. After peeking over the gate of his stall, he opened it and walked down the middle of the barn to take a closer look at his surroundings. Noss and Sprole were both gone, as were their horses. In Noss’s stall, Wes remained. Paul approached him to find the outlaw still dozing in a twitching, fretful slumber.

  “Wake up,” Paul said while plucking the bandanna from Wes’s mouth.

  The outlaw awoke with a start, trying to stretch his arms and legs, which only served to reacquaint him with his bindings. “Wha . . . ?” he grunted as he collected himself.

  “Where did the others go?”

  “How should I know? I ain’t nothing but another saddlebag to you three!”

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice you were here alone,” Paul said.

  “Even if I did notice, that don’t mean I know where they got off to.”

  Paul cocked his head and placed his hands on his hips in a stance that he usually used on kids who’d either misbehaved in Sunday school or tried to sneak a sip of wine during a church supper when their parents hadn’t been looking. Surprisingly enough, it worked even quicker now than when he’d attempted the same stern glare on young ones. Of course, this time one hand had brushed aside his coat to show the holstered Colt.

  “All right!” Wes whined. “The sheriff got up just after sunup, I think. Him and that other one had a few words and then headed out. But like I said before, I don’t know where they went.”

  “Did they say anything to you before they went?”

  “Just that I should behave. I’m sick of bein’ treated like a dog, you know.”

  “Yeah,” Paul said. “I know.”

  “After what you did before . . . letting me go and all . . . how about you let me go again? I heard you just wanted me to flush out one of the others. It worked to bring Price into the open. I bet it’d work even better now.”

  “You promise you’ll set your life straight?” Paul asked.

  Wes’s eyes became wide as saucers and he nodded fiercely. “I do! This whole experience has soured me on ever wanting to break the law again!”

  Paul left the stall and closed the gate behind him. “Lying is a sin. And lying to a preacher is even worse.”

  “Well, I ain’t . . . aw, just go,” Wes grunted.

  When Paul stepped out of the barn, he was greeted by an old man with suspenders keeping a pair of tattered brown trousers hitched up to his chest. What caught Paul’s attention even more than the dented stove-top hat the old man wore was the scattergun clutched in the old man’s hands.

  “Where the hell you think you’re goin’?” the old man asked in a grating voice reminiscent of a hoe being dragged across rusted steel.

  Reflexively raising his hands, Paul said, “I was just checking after my friends. Have you seen—”

  “Where’d you get that gun?” the old man demanded as he brought the scattergun to his shoulder. “How’d you get out of all them ropes?”

  “Oh, I see. You have me mistaken for the other fellow in there. My name is Paul Lester.”

  “I don’t care what yer name is. Dressin’ up like a preacher ain’t gonna change my opinion of you for the better.”

  “I am a preacher. My congregation is in Pueblito Verde.”

  “I ain’t never seen a preacher wearin’ a gun.”

  Sometimes even Paul was amazed at how swiftly a man could be shown when he’d overstepped his bounds. The first time he wore the Colt around his waist instead of tucked away in a saddlebag, he was forced to pay the price. Keeping his hands raised, he asked, “Didn’t the men who left here tell you who I was?”

  “That sheriff told me plenty,” the old man replied. “And he paid me to keep watch to make certain that outlaw fella didn’t get away.”

  “He didn’t tell you he had a third man riding with him?”

  “Yes, but . . . aw, stand still for a second.” The old man was still muttering to himself when he waddled over to Paul and squinted at him with cloudy blue eyes. The barrel of the shotgun bumped against Paul’s stomach and was pulled away once the old man got a chance to study his face. “That is you. Didn’t recognize you when you weren’t sprawled out in a pile of hay. There’s a hotel or two in town, you know. Any one of them beds should beat the stuffin’ out of sleeping here. Well . . . most of them beds anyhow. What about that prisoner?”

  “He’s awake, but not going anywhere. Is there anyone guarding the back door?”

  “A wild horse with a burr under its saddle couldn’t get that back door open, so no one man could do the job. He’d have to come through me if he’s goin anywhere.”

  Paul looked up at the barn to pick out a few more details than he’d been able to see the night before. Any windows he spotted were boarded up, and the little square opening to the loft was sealed by a door without so much as a strand of rope to help anyone up to it even if they could break the lock and open the door without making a sound.

  “If you’re lookin’ for them others that were sleeping with the horses,” the old man said, “they rode into town just after sunup.”

  Removing the dented watch from his pocket, Paul saw it was just past eight o’clock in the morning. “Can you direct me to the Wayfaire?”

  The old man cocked his head, raised his eyebrows, and took half a step back as if he was about to put his scattergun to use after all. “What’s a preacher want at a cathouse?”

  Rather than explain his entire situation to the old-timer, Paul clasped his hands in front of him and declared, “I intend to preach to those most in need of the Good Word.”

  “Lookin’ to show the light to a few soiled doves?”

  “I do what I can, wherever I can.”

  “What about the six-shooter?”

  Straightening his coat so it fell around the holster, Paul said, “The good Lord gave us the means to protect ourselves in a harsh world.”

  “Amen to that. I suppose that fella was right about you.”

  Although the old man had lowered the scattergun and relaxed somewhat, Paul had to ask, “Which fella? The one with his arm in a sling?”

  “No. The other one.”

  “What di
d he say?”

  “Told me you were a strange bird, but a good man.”

  Compared to some of the other things that had come out of Sprole’s mouth in the time he’d known him, being called strange was downright complimentary.

  “Besides,” the old man added with a sly grin, “there ain’t no law sayin’ a preacher can’t enjoy the company of a good woman. Or a bad one, for that matter. The Wayfaire is over in East Raynor.”

  There was still some sleep in Paul’s eyes, so it took him a moment to get his bearings enough to point to the east. “So . . . that direction. Do you have a street name to help me narrow down the search?”

  “You shouldn’t be able to miss it, but you may want to saddle up your horse.”

  “I don’t mind a morning walk,” Paul said. “Helps get the blood flowing.”

  Once again, the old man looked at Paul as if he’d sprouted a tail. “You’ve got over a mile to walk. Might be quicker to ride a horse.”

  Paul looked past the barn to see the bulk of the town spread in front of him. From what he could tell, the tents on the periphery became houses and the trail leading into Raynor became a proper street in a fraction of that distance. “Town doesn’t look that big,” he said. “It’s over a mile to the east side?”

  “Not if you want to go to the east side of Raynor. The Wayfaire is in East Raynor. It’s the settlement outside town where you’ll find some of the rowdiest saloons and cheapest whiskey in these parts. I thought you would have known as much.”

  Now Paul could see why the old man had been so quick to accept the fact that a preacher was heeled to go out for his morning constitutional. “Of course,” he said, “it has been a while since I’ve been to town and I did just wake up.”

  “Say no more,” the old man said as he used his elbow to give Paul a nudge. “The last preacher we had in town had similar troubles. He was pickled most of the time, if you catch my meaning.”

  “I do indeed. Thanks for the help. How much longer will you be able to watch our friend in there?”

  “The sheriff paid me to keep watch until he gets back. Told me that one’s tied up tighter than a corset. As long as that’s still the case, everything should be well in hand.”

  Paul went back into the barn and checked on Wes. The prisoner was back to pretending to be asleep, so Paul set about saddling up his horse. “Too bad you drifted off again,” Paul said in a conversational tone. “I was thinking about taking you up on that offer to flush out some of those other—”

  “I’m up!” Wes said.

  “Good. Get to your feet.”

  After no small amount of struggling, Wes groaned, “I can barely move!”

  “Just get up and be quick about it. If you can’t leave now, then forget about going at all.”

  Paul listened to the prisoner struggle some more while saddling his horse. When he was leading the horse from its stall, Paul looked in to find Wes flopping around like a fish that had been dragged from the middle of a lake. The prisoner craned his neck to get a look at him.

  “I’m telling you, I can’t move!” Wes said.

  “Then it seems the sheriff knows how to tie a solid knot. Sorry about that, but I didn’t think it prudent to get close enough to check on the ropes firsthand. Worked out better to see if you could get loose if you really needed to.”

  Wes glared at him. “I thought lying was a sin.”

  “It is. And what were you planning to do to me once I got within your reach or set you loose again? Was it less of a sin?”

  “You got real cold blood for a preacher, you know that?”

  “And you got real high expectations for a thief. Consider this a lesson. If you want to be treated like you’re worthy of trust, then you should be more trustworthy.”

  “What is that supposed to mean? Hey!” Wes barked as Paul tipped his hat and led his horse toward the barn’s front door. “Come back here! What was that nonsense supposed to mean?”

  One of the benefits of being a preacher was that Paul was allowed to talk in parables and riddles. Most of the time, it was to make a point or inspire someone to think a little harder. This time, he truly was too lazy to check all the knots and strands of rope keeping Wes in place before saddling his horse. Certain that the prisoner wasn’t getting loose any time soon, Paul climbed into his saddle and gave his reins a flick.

  “East Raynor’s that way, right?” he asked the old man.

  “Last I checked, that was still east.”

  “Good day to you.”

  “And to you, my pickled friend.”

  Paul didn’t bother correcting the old man’s assumption that he was drunk. There were more important concerns waiting for him less than a mile away.

  * * *

  Raynor was a quiet little town that had done fairly well for itself thanks to a few modest silver and turquoise mines in the surrounding area. Like with most towns found in the desert territories, its rooftops were baked by an unrelenting sun and its streets were worn smooth by the constant flow of gritty sand swept along by arid winds. Folks spent their days huddled beneath awnings for shade or hurrying across the streets so as not to dwell in the harsh elements. Most of the eyes he saw were narrowed and focused, yet friendly enough when they saw Paul’s garb and the smile on his face as he tipped his hat to them. He figured he should enjoy such responses while they lasted. From what little he’d been told about where he was going, those neighborly waves would soon be in short supply.

  Not wanting to dawdle, Paul rode straight through town until the street opened to a wide stretch of barren terrain. Just as the old man had promised, another smaller settlement lay in the distance about a mile away. Paul probably could have walked, but it would have taken a lot more time and the heat was already approaching unbearable. Snapping his reins, he rode out of the larger town and into what quickly felt like a whole other world.

  Where Raynor had been peaceful and quiet, East Raynor set every one of the hairs on Paul’s arms on end. No gunshots rang out and there were no fistfights in the streets, but he couldn’t help thinking those sorts of things could take place at any moment. The faces peering at him from the shade of doorways were suspicious and guarded. Saloons, gambling houses, and worse flanked him on both sides.

  Women called down to him from balconies of garishly painted brothels.

  Filthy men slept in gutters.

  And everywhere Paul looked, he found guns. Hardly a soul ventured outside without a pistol strapped around a waist or a rifle slung over a shoulder. Paul did his best to match the careful expressions being pointed his way, but nearly went for his Colt out of pure reflex when someone rode up alongside him.

  Most of Sprole’s face was hidden by the hat drawn down low over his brow and the turn of his collar, but his voice was unmistakable when he whispered, “Trying to draw more attention, Padre?”

  “You know why I’m here and I don’t appreciate being left behind.”

  “We wanted to get the lay of the land. Now follow me and don’t make a production out of it. This place is filled with them who’d like nothing more than to get on Terrigan’s good side.”

  When Sprole steered his horse around the back of a little building marked by a sign with Chinese lettering, Paul followed him. The main street made him feel as if every poorly constructed building was getting ready to fall on top of him. Behind the Chinese place, there was so much open land that he almost felt as if he were falling through open air.

  Sprole climbed down from his horse and tied his reins to a post beside the building’s rear door. “You already nearly ruined our chances of getting the drop on Terrigan once, and now you mosey down Billings Street like a one-man parade! I’m beginning to think you truly are working against us.”

  “If I had been brought along as we agreed, I would have been in on whatever it is you and Sheriff
Noss have planned.”

  The bounty hunter’s face took on a brutal edge and he approached Paul’s horse as if he meant to drag him from the saddle by whatever part of him he could grab. “There ain’t much of a plan yet, but if it gets around that any of us have anything at all to do with the law, you might as well put a bullet through our heads using that rusty gun of yours. Just because you dragged that pistol from your saddlebag, you think you can hold your own in a sty like this?”

  “I’ve seen worse.”

  “Sure you have. Why don’t you just ride on back to civilization before you get yourself or one of us hurt?”

  Paul buttoned his coat, fixed his collar, and straightened up as if he were about to walk to the front of his own church. “I’d say it would be unwise for us to remain back here like this. Seems to me that this place doesn’t allow much privacy.”

  “You’d be amazed at how many hidey-holes there are around here,” Sprole said. Drawing a breath, he calmed his nerves enough to say, “We weren’t going to leave you behind in that stable. We thought we just had to walk down the street a ways to get where we were going. Turned out we had to leave one town behind for a smaller one. Noss said you could use some sleep.”

  “Have you found . . .” Reminding himself about the lack of privacy that had already been mentioned, Paul stopped short of saying any names. “Have you found our friend?”

  “He’s here all right,” Sprole said through a grin that had sprouted beneath the stubble covering his face. “And we caught some bit of luck. That gang is on the lookout for three strangers who aim to bring him in. Noss and I came here separately, but you’ve drawn some attention. I just don’t think they’re expecting someone in your line of work.”

  “That should act in our favor,” Paul said.

  Sprole’s eyes shifted back and forth, responding to every rustle or scrape he heard. “Yeah, but that don’t change the fact that plenty of folks saw me drag you back here. I’ve already found someone who’s willing to talk about Terrigan, but he’s skittish. Fact is, there may be someone watching over us right now.”