Ralph Compton Brimstone Trail (9781101612637)

by Compton, Ralph; Galloway, Marcus

  “You’ve learned quite a bit in a short amount of time.”

  “That’s how I earn my daily bread,” Sprole replied with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Wouldn’t do any of us any good to ruin that. I got a thing or two to tell you, but it’ll have to be while I’m tending to other business.”

  “What business is that?”

  Cracking his knuckles, the bounty hunter stepped up close to him and spoke in a low, snarling whisper. “Anybody asks, you don’t know who I am and you never laid eyes on me until I dragged you back here to rob you. I’m gonna make this look good and it shouldn’t hurt too much. You ready?”

  Paul was about to ask what he was talking about, but the picture took focus on its own. Tensing his stomach, he nodded.

  Sprole grabbed him roughly by the shoulder, balled his fist, and drove it into Paul’s midsection. The blow thumped against Paul’s stomach, but barely enough to make a bruise. “The Wayfaire is just down the street at the only intersection in this camp.”

  After being allowed to catch his breath, Paul straightened up so he could be grabbed by both upper arms and slammed against the wall. His back made a lot of noise on impact, but Sprole’s knuckles hit the wooden slats harder than anything else.

  “Terrigan is holding court in that cathouse,” Sprole continued. In a louder voice, he snarled, “I know that ain’t all! Hand it over!”

  Paul let his head hang forward as the bounty hunter made a show of riffling through his pockets.

  Sprole dropped his voice to a raspy growl again and said, “Near as we’ve been able to tell, Terrigan’s only got two other members of his gang with him, and one of ’em is Price. He’s recruiting, though.” He sent a quick jab into Paul’s gut.

  That one took a good amount of wind from Paul’s sails. “I wasn’t ready for that one,” he wheezed.

  “What’ll you do about it, preacher?”

  Paul’s hands balled into fists. He was very aware of the weight of the old Colt hanging at his side, especially since he couldn’t tell if Sprole’s threatening tone was still just for show. When he lowered his hands and relaxed his fingers, the bounty hunter grinned.

  “That’s what I thought,” Sprole said. Then he grabbed Paul by both shoulders and pulled him forward while bringing his knee swiftly upward.

  If that had connected, it would have doubled Paul over and dropped him to the dirt. Since it barely tapped against him, Paul went through those same motions while grunting in pain.

  Sprole leaned down as if to snarl one last insult into his ear. “Men around here look up to Terrigan like he’s some kind of hero. To these murderous dogs, that’s just what he is. Any one of them . . . maybe all of them . . . could step up on Terrigan’s behalf just to prove themselves to him. You’d do well to remember that and find somewhere safe to go so me and Noss can do our work.”

  Paul’s back bumped against the wall behind him and he slid down to sit while wrapping both arms around his midsection. When Sprole hunkered down to leer at him, Paul said, “I can still help. I came to speak with Terrigan, and that’s what I’ll do.”

  “That don’t help us none.”

  “It does if it keeps him busy while you tend to the rest.”

  “And what if Terrigan won’t have any of what you got to say to him?” Sprole asked.

  “Then he’s all yours.”

  Sprole’s eyes narrowed. He stood up and stuffed a hand into his pocket as if he’d claimed a reward. “This fool’s errand of yours might just end with you getting killed. Ever think about that?”

  “And you must have thought I’d do something once you told me where to find Terrigan. Wouldn’t it have been easier if you’d just knocked me over the head so I wouldn’t be underfoot any longer?”

  “You may be a pain in my backside, but you seem to be a good man,” Sprole said through a contradictory sneer that was necessary to maintain his charade. “I told you about the Wayfaire because I knew you’d just go snooping around asking for it anyway, which would only draw more attention.”

  “Is that the only reason?”

  “I also know why you wanted to come along on this ride in the first place. Ain’t like you ever let any of us forget. The least you deserve after coming this far is to get your chance to have your talk with Terrigan.” After a moment or two, Sprole shrugged. “And yeah. Maybe I did think it could do us some good if you kept Terrigan distracted long enough for me and Noss to round up them others.”

  Paul had to fight to keep from smiling. “Does he know about that?”

  “He ain’t happy about it as such, but he knows.”

  “After all the grief you two have given me throughout the last several days, it’s a miracle we can still work together in any capacity.”

  “You ever, just once, think all the grief me and Noss have been givin’ to you was to keep you alive?”

  Lifting his chin just enough to look the bounty hunter in the eye, Paul said, “If Terrigan or any of these men kills me, then you can tack my death onto the list of charges when you two bring them in.”

  “That anxious to be a martyr for your cause, huh?”

  “Not at all,” Paul replied. “Just planning for any possibility. Promise me one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If I don’t come back from this, you’ll remember what I tried to do.”

  The grin on Sprole’s face somehow managed to be both warm and ugly. “Trust me,” he said as he backed away. “I won’t soon forget what happened on this venture. Just keep your head down when hell breaks loose.”

  Paul remained still after the bounty hunter strode off. When he looked up, the blaring sun was hardly kept at bay by the wide brim of his hat. Picking himself up and dusting himself off, Paul took another look around to find no fewer than five faces peering out from various windows or from shadowed doorways. Like with rats in a cellar, there were surely plenty more that couldn’t be seen lurking about. He was no actor, but Paul did his best to maintain the performance that had been done for the spectators’ benefit and limped away.

  Chapter 20

  From what Paul could gather, East Raynor was something between a town and a camp. Not quite big enough to be considered one and just a bit too large to be the other. It consisted of two real streets and several smaller paths branching out from them like crooked veins from the two main arteries. At the heart of the rowdy settlement was the Wayfaire: three floors of shouting, drinking, singing, and gambling. The largest front window was so completely broken that Paul couldn’t see a single shard of glass in a frame covered by a thick tarp nailed in place to keep some of the elements at bay. Judging by the tattered edge of that stained canvas, it too had been knocked out of place more than once.

  Paul opened the door and walked inside. Almost immediately, he was surprised that his senses could be assaulted any further than they had been on his way through town. Rowdy laughter, roaring profanities, and wild notes from a tinny piano filled the inside of the main room like a storm. Adding to the assault were odors ranging from overly sweet perfume all the way to bitter vomit riding on waves of tobacco smoke. It was nearly impossible for Paul to decide whether breathing through his mouth or nose was worse. He quickly decided neither would be any better than the other.

  Normally Paul’s collar and dark clothes drew some attention. Some folks smiled and tried to make him feel at home, while others turned away as if the man wearing those things could somehow see into their soul and report what he found to the highest of all authorities. The men and women inside the Wayfaire were unusual in that they looked upon him the way some might look at a puppy that had wandered in from the street. He saw smiles that were amused at best, predatory at worst.

  The bar was a long structure at least twenty feet from one end to the other. Its top was made from old doors that had been sanded down a
nd nailed into place. Some still bore the bullet holes and boot prints that could very well have knocked them from their hinges in the first place. When Paul stepped up and placed both hands on its stained surface, a tall fellow with a barrel chest behind the bar took notice.

  “What’ll it be, Reverend?” the bartender asked. His thick brow gave him a primitive appearance that didn’t quite match his sharp eyes. The hands he used to clear away a mess of newspapers and beer mugs were at least twice as thick as Paul’s and covered with enough calluses to stand up to an open flame. “I heard you’ve had a bad day.”

  “You heard that, did you?”

  “Yep. Unless there’s more than one preacher in East Raynor, you’d be the one that was dragged behind Chan’s opium den and robbed.”

  “News travels fast around here. I just walked up the street from there.”

  “East Raynor ain’t a large place, Reverend,” the barkeep said. “And we don’t get many holy sorts around here. Tell you what . . . first drink’s on me. Care for some wine?”

  “How about a whiskey?”

  The barkeep grinned and nodded. “Whiskey it is.” Swapping out the mug he’d grabbed for a smaller glass, he took a bottle from the shelf behind him and poured out two fingers of liquor. “So . . . you really did got robbed?”

  “I did.”

  “That’s a hard bit of news, even for this place. Heard about it from one of my runners who was bringing in a keg from Raynor Proper. That’s what we call the town to the west of us.”

  “I guessed as much.”

  Leveling his gaze at one of the dregs who had drifted to within arm’s reach of Paul’s back, the barkeep raised his voice a bit when he said, “Yeah, I didn’t much like hearing that my runner didn’t lift a finger to help a man when he was getting robbed of everything he owns, but at least you’re in one piece. Barely, that is.”

  Although Paul wanted to dispute those words just so he wouldn’t be made to look so frail, he quickly saw the reason they’d been spoken. He’d only spotted a pair of shabbily dressed men closing in on him, but another pair had come in from his blind side. Now that they’d heard his pockets had already been picked clean, they drifted away in search of a carcass with a bit more meat on its bones.

  “I wasn’t carrying that much anyway,” Paul said. “I honestly don’t know what that thief was expecting to find.”

  “Doesn’t take much to entice the scum around here into spilling another man’s blood. What brings you into these parts anyway? Wrong turn is my best guess.”

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  “Ah. Then you’ve come to the right place.” With that, the barkeep snapped his fingers loudly enough for the crisp sound to slice through the other noise and catch the ear of a short woman dressed in a frilly green dress with matching ribbons in her curly, shoulder-length blond hair. “We’re known far and wide for providing company for anyone who walks through our doors. And not just any company, mind you. Only the best at the Wayfaire!”

  That last sentence elicited a smattering of drunken cheers from men who seemed barely able to remain in their chairs while wildly waving their glasses over their heads.

  The blond woman smelled of rosewater and she placed a gentle hand on Paul’s back. When she got a closer look at the clothes he wore, she smiled at him as if he were a long-lost friend. “You poor thing,” she said. “I heard what happened and I’m so glad to see you weren’t shot up too badly.”

  When Paul looked across the bar with a confused look on his face, the man standing behind it shrugged amicably and said, “News travels fast, but it ain’t always accurate.” To the blonde, he said, “I think our reverend friend here was just knocked around a bit. Not shot.”

  “Still,” she cooed, “that must have been terrible.”

  Not wanting to undo the stage Sprole had set for him, Paul replied, “It was. I’m quite all right, though.”

  Leaning over the bar, the burly bartender said, “Take yer sympathy when you get it, Reverend. I shouldn’t have to tell you it’s in short supply around here.”

  “When I said I was looking for someone, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

  “It’s all right,” the blonde said. “No need to be shy.”

  Judging by the shift in the barkeep’s demeanor, he’d picked up on the businesslike tone in Paul’s voice and responded in kind. “Who might you be looking for?”

  “Jack Terrigan.”

  Even though the music, shouting, and other general commotion were still almost loud enough to cover a gunshot, the bartender reacted as if the name of the Devil himself had been shouted from the highest rooftop in town and was echoing through every room. “Becky, bring him to the back room.”

  She patted his shoulder and said, “Follow me, sweetie.”

  As Paul was led down the length of the bar to one of several narrow doors, he was greeted by lewd smiles, a few raised glasses, and several unsavory suggestions as to how he should spend his time with the woman holding on to his arm. The bartender had disappeared in the last few seconds, and the room Paul was taken to was empty apart from a narrow cot and a milking stool in one corner.

  “Before you get too far down this road,” he said sternly as the blond woman stepped in and closed the door behind them, “I’m not here for this.”

  A tall, narrow panel in the wall behind the stool slid away so the bartender could step through. His appearance was sudden enough to make Paul’s hand twitch toward the Colt that remained tucked beneath his coat.

  “Look here, Reverend,” the bartender said. “You ain’t got any business in East Raynor. I would have thought you’d learned as much after getting robbed, but since you’re still here I’ll tell you again. No godly man has any business here. As for the man you were asking about, you’d better pray that he didn’t hear you mention his name. He’s been on a drunken tear since he’s gotten to town, and men have died for doing nothing more than looking at him cross-eyed. If some preacher starts drawing attention to himself, it’s hard to say what he might do.”

  “You think I’m in danger just for mentioning his name?”

  “No,” the other man snapped. “I think any man who claims to be looking for Jack Terrigan ain’t got long to live. Jack’s a wild dog on good days, and the last few days ain’t been good at all!”

  “Does he think someone is looking for him?” Paul asked.

  “He knows it!”

  “How?”

  All of the friendliness that had been on the barkeep’s face outside that little room was gone when he said, “Forget it and forget him. Forget you came to this place. Put it behind you. It’s too far gone for you to save, so get out. We don’t want you here!” The barkeep turned around and left the same way he’d come in. Under different circumstances, watching him squeeze his bulky frame through that opening might have been funny. Now nobody felt much like laughing.

  Once the bigger man was gone, only Paul and the blond woman remained. He turned to her and she shrugged. “This is a room where we usually bring men who pay for our company,” she explained. “That panel is there so . . .”

  “It’s there by the stool because that’s where a man would put his clothes,” Paul said. “Someone opens it and picks his pockets while he’s . . . otherwise occupied.”

  Her eyes widened and she gasped, “You know about that?”

  “It’s an old trick. Do you know about Jack Terrigan?”

  “Only what I’ve seen since he got to town,” she said as a chill seemed to work its way beneath her skin. “Kyle was right in what he said. Jack Terrigan is a cold-blooded killer. He shot three men on account of them trying to say he wasn’t who he said he was. Cut up another two with a broken bottle over a game of cards. One fellow came in from Raynor Proper, claiming to be on some sort of committee or something like that. He said he wa
nted to have a word with Terrigan to try and put an end to the wickedness taking place here.” Her eyes reddened and she swiped at them with the back of one hand. “One of Terrigan’s men stabbed him so many times I thought the blood would never stop running. It was one of the worst things I ever seen.”

  Slowly, Paul nodded. “That’s why your friend the bartender wants me to leave so badly?”

  “Yes, sir, Reverend.”

  “Please don’t call me that. I’m not a reverend.”

  “But . . . ,” she protested while pointing meekly at Paul’s collar.

  “There are lots of titles for men of faith, but the proper one depends on things like . . .” Seeing he was losing her, Paul simply told her his name.

  “Shouldn’t I call you Father or something like that?”

  Back in Pueblito Verde, and in a few places outside it, plenty of folks called him that. Hearing her call him by that title in his current surroundings, however, didn’t even seem close to right. Rather than tell her as much, he said, “Paul is fine. What’s your name?”

  “Becky.”

  “I’m looking for Jack Terrigan, Becky, and it’s not just to bark scripture at him. I’ve come a long way to get here, so I’d be much obliged if you could tell me where I should go next in order to find him.”

  “Why do you want to talk with Jack Terrigan? He’s not the sort who listens to reason. He’s an animal.”

  Paul could hear something in her voice that led him to believe she knew more about the matter than just what had been spread by town gossips. “Has he . . . paid for your company?”

  “No,” she replied while sitting on the edge of the cot and folding her hands on her lap. “But one of his men has taken a shine to me. Theo’s his name.”

  “Theo Price?”

  She nodded. “He just got back to town and hasn’t come to pay me a visit yet, but I’m sure he’ll get around to it sooner or later.”

  “Then you shouldn’t be here when he does.” Paul took a seat beside her and removed his hat. “Terrigan is right in thinking some men are looking for him. And if these men don’t find him, the next bunch will. He’s a wild dog and sooner rather than later, he’ll be put down.”