Ralph Compton Brimstone Trail (9781101612637)

by Compton, Ralph; Galloway, Marcus

  “Not exactly,” Noss replied.

  “How’d you get a hold of him? What did I miss?”

  The bounty hunter continued asking questions as Noss looked at one of the figures standing outside the Wayfaire. Because of the grim expression on Paul’s face, Noss almost didn’t recognize him. “Father!” he shouted when he saw Paul turn his back to him. “You’d best stay close to us. It’s—”

  But Paul was already gone, vanished like so many of the others who’d found something better to do once Terrigan had dismissed them.

  “Come on, Dave,” Noss said to the bounty hunter. “No sense in pushing our luck.”

  “Go on,” Sprole said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Terrigan didn’t put up any fight whatsoever as he was shackled and taken into Noss’s custody. He even told the lawman where to find his horse so he could be helped into the saddle and taken back to Raynor Proper.

  Sprole went inside the Wayfaire, ready to wade through a hailstorm of lead to get the answers he was after. Instead, he was met by a bunch of steely-eyed glares and a single, frantic woman with blond hair carrying Paul’s wide-brimmed hat.

  “Where did you get that?” Sprole asked.

  “H-he left it here,” Becky said. “Along with these.” After Sprole took the hat from her, she extended her other hand, which was wrapped around the barrel of Paul’s old Colt. His preacher tabs hung from that same fist.

  “Where did he go?”

  “I don’t know. I thought Jack was going to kill him when I left the two of them alone, but instead he walked straight outside and surrendered. I checked in my room, and these things were all that was left.”

  Sprole had plenty of questions to ask the preacher, but it seemed Paul didn’t want to be found. Even if that wasn’t the case, judging by the fierce expressions worn by the men inside the cathouse, it wasn’t wise for the bounty hunter to stay there any longer than what was absolutely necessary.

  All that was left was to get back to his horse and help Sheriff Noss deal with his prisoners.

  Chapter 22

  Whitley, Kansas Five months later

  It was a town very similar to Pueblito Verde in many respects. Quiet, small, and surrounded by miles of open terrain, Whitley differed in one important aspect. The folks who lived there didn’t have a preacher to lead Sunday services. Two men rode into town, both unable to look away from the little church that stood empty beside a blacksmith’s shop. They rode down the street that cut straight through the middle of town, reining their horses to a stop at a small stable near a square lot marked by a sign that read DOUBLE T CORRAL.

  There was hardly anyone in the streets apart from a few dogs being chased by a small boy and some old folks chatting on the porch of a nearby house. A rustling sound drifted from within the stable, accompanied by the labored breathing of a worker who used a pitchfork to clear a path between the stalls within the drafty structure.

  Both men who’d ridden this far dismounted and approached the stable. The wind that blew had acquired the chill of an approaching autumn, which caught in the coats of both men to flap their heavy wool garments against the holsters strapped around their waists.

  The rustling within the stable came to a stop and the worker stepped outside with pitchfork in hand. He regarded the other two through eyes reddened from swirling dust and nodded to each of them in turn. “Hello, Sheriff. Mr. Sprole.”

  Both men tipped their hats to him.

  “Good to see you, preacher,” Sprole said.

  “Only it ain’t sheriff no more,” Noss said as he opened his coat to reveal the shiny new badge pinned to his shirt. “It’s marshal.”

  Paul squinted at him and smiled. “U.S. Marshal, no less. I suppose catching the bloodiest gang in the Arizona Territory brought some much-deserved attention your way. Good to hear.”

  “Brought it both of our ways, actually,” Sprole added. He also peeled back his jacket to show a badge matching Noss’s.

  “From bounty hunter to U.S. Marshal?” Paul mused. “I wouldn’t have expected that.”

  Sprole shrugged and allowed his jacket to fall back in place. “Isn’t much of a difference, really. They got us hunting down fugitives and bringing ’em in kicking and screaming. Only difference is less pay.”

  “I was thinking I might see you again,” Paul said as he stuck the pitchfork into the ground. “One of you seemed more likely to show up than the other, to be honest. How did you find me?”

  “It’s my job to find men on the run,” Sprole replied. “Remember?”

  “Yeah. I remember.”

  “There’s some questions that need to be answered,” Noss said. “And both of us wanted to hear the answers.”

  “You took your prisoner alive from East Raynor,” Paul said. “Didn’t he give you your answers?”

  “He told us plenty, but we still want to hear it from you.”

  Paul let his eyes drift to the ground at his feet. When he didn’t say anything, something landed heavily in the dirt and skidded several feet before knocking against the pitchfork. He stooped down to collect the old Colt. “Never thought I’d see this again. Never wanted to see it again.”

  “What did you say to Terrigan back at East Raynor?” Noss asked. “I thought it would be close to impossible to take him alive or dead, and yet he marched out and couldn’t hand himself over fast enough.”

  “What did he tell you once you took him back?”

  “He said we made a mistake.”

  “If you were truly after Jack Terrigan,” Paul explained, “you did make a mistake.” He sighed, drew himself up, and looked the lawman in the eye. “That man isn’t Jack Terrigan. I am.”

  Sprole shook his head. “No matter how many times he told us that, I never believed him.”

  “Believe it,” Paul said. “That man’s name is Eddie Pullman. He rode with me and the rest of us back in the last days when I led that gang. We robbed and killed and drank and robbed and killed some more. Then . . . when I decided to stop . . . I parted ways with the others and hid for the better part of three years. In that time, I decided to change my ways and help others do the same. I thought I could make good on some of the wrongs I did. But the sad fact is there’s no way to make up for that much wrong.”

  “What made you decide to give up the outlaw way of life?” Sprole asked. “What could turn you into a preacher?”

  The face that glared up at Sprole at that moment was carved from cold granite. The eyes burning within that cruel visage sent a shiver down the bounty hunter’s spine, making him understand much better what Eddie Pullman might have faced in East Raynor that was powerful enough to send him running into the hands of the law.

  “I never was a preacher,” Terrigan snarled. “My father was a preacher. It’s his collar, his Bible, his words I passed on as my own. And as for what happened to make me choose another path, that’s between me and the Almighty. If there’s any explaining to do, I’ll only do it once when my days on this earth are through.”

  “You may believe that,” Noss said. “But the folks back in Pueblito Verde miss the man who stood in front of them every Sunday. They miss the man who guided them through their rough times.”

  Jack Terrigan took hold of the pitchfork and yanked it from the ground. “They can get along on their own now. Just like me.”

  Noss reached into a pocket. “They’re not alone and neither are you.” He removed something from his pocket and tossed it through the air.

  When Terrigan saw the little Bible encased in its familiar, dusty cover sailing toward him, he grabbed it with speed that would have been more than enough to beat any would-be gunslinger’s draw. Holding the Bible in his hand melted the fire in his eyes. “I went through hell to come to a place where I could put my cruelty behind me. I couldn’t bear to see someone else star
t it all over again by using my name. Eddie always was eager to be at the head of the gang. Once he convinced enough folks he was Jack Terrigan, he got what he wanted. That . . . couldn’t be allowed to stand. Sorry I lied to you men, but I had to do what I had to do.”

  “We understand,” Noss told him. “But now we have our own job to do.”

  Terrigan nodded. Clutching his Bible, he lowered his head. “I’ll go with you. If I’m to hang for what I did before, that’s how it should be. It was wrong for me to run away.”

  “Pick up that gun,” Noss said.

  But Terrigan didn’t move. “I won’t. Not now and not ever. The only reason I carried any weapons when I rode with you two was to make sure I got to have my talk with Eddie.”

  “You’re not going to hang, preacher,” Sprole said.

  When Terrigan looked up at him, the former bounty hunter didn’t flinch.

  “It’s true,” Noss said. “After what I saw on the ride to East Raynor and what I already knew about the man who preached in Pueblito Verde, there’s no way I’d allow you to swing like a common criminal. I didn’t know you back when you rode at the head of that gang, but you’re no wild-dog killer anymore. If anyone deserves another chance, it’s you.”

  Propping one hand against his saddle horn, Sprole leaned forward and grinned as if he was truly savoring each moment. “But we can’t exactly let you go free. Not after all you’ve done and all you’ve got to offer.”

  “All I can offer is the sweat from my brow,” Terrigan said. “It’s all I have left.”

  “You ain’t about to get off that easy,” Sprole chuckled. “You were Jack Terrigan. East Raynor ain’t the only place where that name carries some weight. Put that to work as something other than a stable boy.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Noss straightened in his saddle, looking nothing at all like the wilted creature who’d been too distracted by grief to bother walking the streets of Pueblito Verde. “I’m through sulking,” he said. “And so are you. You want to truly help make amends for being an outlaw? Then help us track down the mad-dog killers who haven’t found a better path.”

  “I know plenty about tracking wanted men,” Sprole said, “but you must know right where to look for a whole lot of them that would take me years to find. Seeing as how you frightened poor Eddie Pullman into federal custody, I imagine you could make our job a whole lot easier when we track down other men worse than him. It’s the least you could do to clean up the mess you made.”

  “And,” Noss added, “it’s a way for us to keep an eye on you. Don’t give me that look, Paul. It beats being tossed into jail, don’t it?”

  “Or into a noose,” Sprole said.

  “So it’s Paul again?” Terrigan asked.

  Noss nodded. “A couple of upstanding U.S. Marshals couldn’t exactly ride with the likes of Jack Terrigan. Especially after those same marshals turned in Jack Terrigan after putting down the rest of his gang. Rumor has it that Terrigan knew some real bloodthirsty cusses who’ve been seen in the Dakota Territories. They’re the ones we’re after nowadays.”

  Paul nodded and slipped the weathered Bible into the pocket of his jacket. “I know where you can look for those men. If we can’t find them in the Badlands, I can think of some folks we can ask about their whereabouts.”

  The man who’d quietly ridden into Whitley three months ago took his pitchfork into the stable, squared everything away, and left with nothing more than the horse and saddle he’d brought to town in the first place. Nobody in town had gotten to know him very well, and they didn’t know why he left with two strangers on that chilly afternoon.

  They also didn’t know what to make of the old Colt lying in the dirt outside the stable. Carved into the gun’s handle were the initials JT, surrounded by dozens of deep, neatly arranged notches.

  Read on for an excerpt from the rip-roarin’

  Ralph Compton classic

  The Killing Season

  Available from Signet.

  Newton, Texas March 5, 1873

  Astride a grulla and leading a packhorse, Nathan stone rode in a little more than an hour before sundown. His hound, Cotton Blossom, trotted alongside. The procession passed several saloons, and that alone was enough to draw attention. Few men just off a long trail would pass up the first saloon, and it was enough of a curiosity to tempt some of the patrons away from the bar to have a look. Seemingly unaware of the spectators, Nathan reined up before the mercantile. Dismounting, he looped the reins of the grulla and the lead rope of the packhorse around the hitch rail. He then paused, as though allowing the men from the saloons an opportunity to size him up before he entered the store. While he didn’t wish to be recognized, he dared not seem fearful.

  Just a few weeks past his twenty-sixth birthday, his dark hair was well laced with gray. A dusty gray Stetson was tilted over his cold blue eyes. His polished black boots with pointed toes and undershot heels would have been the envy of any cowboy, but the buscadero belt with its pair of tied-down Colts said this hombre didn’t earn his bacon and beans wrassling cows. His trousers were black with pinstripes, while his shirt was almost the gray of his Stetson. There was but little to liken him to a man of the range except the red bandanna around his neck and the unmistakable effect of sun and wind on his hands and face. A long sheepskin coat tied behind the cantle of his saddle suggested he might have come from the high country. Stone entered the mercantile, and without command, the dog remained with the horses.

  Nathan Stone preferred larger towns where he was less likely to be recognized, stopping only in the villages to replenish his supplies or to buy needed grain for his horses. When he left the mercantile, he purposely carried only a sack of grain under his left arm, for it was a situation he had come to expect. Men from the saloons had congregated across the dusty street, and one of them stepped forward. His right thumb was hooked under the butt of his Colt. He wasn’t drunk, but he’d had enough to respond to the taunts of his comrades. He spoke.

  “Ain’t you Nathan Stone, the killer?”

  “I am Nathan Stone,” Nathan said coldly.

  “Well, I’m Vern Tilton, an’ I think I can take you. Draw.”

  “Tilton,” said Nathan, just as he had tried in vain to reason with other foolish challengers. “I have no argument with you and I have no reason to draw. Now back off.”

  “By God, Vern,” one of the onlookers shouted, “he’s scairt of you.”

  “Damn you,” Tilton bawled, “you ain’t a-gonna cheat me out of provin’ I’m faster’n you. Pull your iron.”

  He emphasized his angry words by jerking out his Colt. He was clumsy, painfully slow, and Nathan waited until the last possible second. He finally drew his right-hand Colt as Tilton was raising his weapon to fire. Tilton’s Colt roared, blasting lead into the ground, as Nathan’s slug ripped into his right shoulder. Tilton stumbled back and would have fallen, if one of his companions hadn’t caught him.

  “Take him,” Nathan said quietly, “and get the hell out of here. I could have killed him. I had every right, and next time, I will.”

  They backed away but they didn’t leave, for though it was nothing more than a village, there was a sheriff, and he arrived on the run. Taking just one look at the bleeding, swearing Tilton, he turned on Nathan.

  “I’m Howard Esty, sheriff of this county. Now you shuck them guns.”

  “No,” said Nathan. “I only defended myself, and any man that disputes me is lying.”

  “Speak up, damn it,” Esty said, turning his attention to the townsmen who had begun edging away. “Who started this?”

  “Vern pulled iron first,” one of his companions said grudgingly.

  “Then take him to the doc and git him patched up,” said Esty. “And you,” he said, pointing to the injured Vern, “be thankin’ your lucky stars
you’re still alive.”

  They drifted away, some of them casting sour looks at Nathan and Esty. The sheriff was showing his years, gray hair poking through a hole in the crown of his Stetson. He was lean, his hands, face, and neck as leathery and weather-beaten as an old saddle. When Vern and his disgruntled friends were well beyond hearing, he spoke.

  “There’ll be no charges, an’ I’m thankin’ you for not saltin’ Vern down for keeps. You’d of been within your rights. I’d not want you takin’ this personal, but I’d be obliged if you’d finish your business at the store and ride on.”

  “I aim to,” Nathan said.

  He loaded the sack of grain on the packhorse, and returning to the store, brought out the rest of his purchases. He tied the neck of the sack, divided its weight behind his saddle, mounted, and rode out. Sheriff Esty watched him until he was out of sight, sighing with relief. Nathan rode warily, for he didn’t know where the bunch had gone who had prodded Vern Tilton into drawing. It was a town he wished to leave behind, and Cotton Blossom felt the same, for he had forged on ahead. Nathan rode a good ten miles before finding a decent place to make camp for the night. There was water from a seep that had pooled at the foot of a ridge, concealed by a heavy growth of willows. First Nathan unsaddled his grulla and unloaded the packhorse, allowing the weary animals to roll. He then quickly gathered wood, knowing it would be dark before he could boil coffee and broil his bacon, but he needed the food and hot coffee. Whatever the reason, a fire after dark—in Comanche country—could be the death of a man. Nathan chose a low place in the ground, kept the blaze small, and doused it when the coffee was hot and his rashers of bacon ready. He shared the bacon with Cotton Blossom and drank the coffee from the pot. There was little else to do except turn in for the night, so Nathan rolled in his blankets, his head on his saddle, a Colt near to his hand. He could count on Cotton Blossom alerting him to any approaching danger, but weary as he was, sleep wouldn’t come. His mind drifted back to the afternoon shooting, to Vern Tilton, and he recalled something Wild Bill Hickok had once told him.