Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Historical Note
Street Brawling
Driven with all McBride’s strength, the brass butt plate of the Yellow Boy crashed into the side of Jake’s head and the man dropped like a felled ox.
Ed cursed and went for his gun.
McBride swung on him and rammed the muzzle of the rifle into the man’s belly. Ed bent double, retching, and McBride grasped the rifle in both hands and chopped upward, driving the top of the receiver into Ed’s mouth. The gunman convulsively triggered a shot into the timber of the boardwalk, then straightened for a moment before staggering into the fence. The slender pine rails splintered under his weight and Ed fell on his back into the mud, his ruined mouth a startled, bloody O of smashed teeth and pulped lips.
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First Printing, August 2008
Copyright © The Estate of Ralph Compton, 2008
eISBN : 978-1-436-26593-5
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THE IMMORTAL COWBOY
This is respectfully dedicated to the ‘‘American Cowboy.’’ His was the saga sparked by the turmoil that followed the Civil War, and the passing of more than a century has by no means diminished the flame.
True, the old days and the old ways are but treasured memories, and the old trails have grown dim with the ravages of time, but the spirit of the cowboy lives on.
In my travels—to Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska, Colorado, Wyoming, New Mexico, and Arizona—I always find something that reminds me of the Old West. While I am walking these plains and mountains for the first time, there is this feeling that a part of me is eternal, that I have known these old trails before. I believe it is the undying spirit of the frontier calling, allowing me, through the mind’s eye, to step back into time. What is the appeal of the Old West of the American frontier?
It has been epitomized by some as the dark and bloody period in American history. Its heroes—Crockett, Bowie, Hickok, Earp—have been reviled and criticized. Yet the Old West lives on, larger than life.
It has become a symbol of freedom, when there was always another mountain to climb and another river to cross; when a dispute between two men was settled not with expensive lawyers, but with fists, knives, or guns. Barbaric? Maybe. But some things never change. When the cowboy rode into the pages of American history, he left behind a legacy that lives within the hearts of us all.
—Ralph Compton
Chapter 1
Big John McBride felt mighty small, dwarfed by the towering landscape around him.
A mile to his north reared the pine-covered peaks of the Capitan Mountains, their slopes streaked with winter snow that had hardened into ice and lingered into spring. Ahead of him, almost hidden behind a curtain of rain, Tucson Mountain was a hulking dark shape against ramparts of clouds the color of old pewter.
It seemed to McBride that the entire country had stood itself on end, soaring into the sky like petrified organ music. The stunning majesty of God’s creation has the ability to humble a man, and right about then John McBride could have written the book on humility.
He was hopelessly lost in a wilderness that offered him nothing. He had missed his last six meals and was gloomily looking forward to soon adding to that number by one. He rode a mouse-colored, eight-hundred-pound mustang with a choppy gait that chafed even his tough hide, and the teeming rain had found its way inside his canvas slicker, adding to his misery.
Hours earlier, around noon, he guessed, he’d seen a bull elk walk out of the aspen line of a mountain slope, then stand close to an outcrop of sandstone rock, its nose raised as it tested the wind.
McBride had considered shooting the elk for meat. But he’d soon dismissed the idea. He was no great shakes with a rifle, and the elk had been at least a hundred yards away and uphill at that. As is common among men who ride lonely trails, he’d spoken his thoughts aloud.
‘‘And if you do kill that beast, what are you going to do with it then, John?’’ he’d asked himself.
City born and city bred, he’d had no answer. He’d never skinned an animal in his life and he was sure if he tried he’d make a real mess of it. Even if, by some miracle, he’d succeeded in hacking out a steak, he’d need a fire to cook it. And making a fire in the rain was
way beyond his ability. In fact, he’d ruefully told himself, making a fire in dry weather was usually way beyond his ability.
Dismally, he’d watched the elk walk back into the aspen, its tail flicking a derisive farewell.
Still hungry, McBride drew rein on the mustang and pondered his options, which were few. Around him the land lay quiet but for the hiss of the rain. Left to itself, nature loves silence. The trees, the flowers, the grass grow in silence and the sun, moon and stars make their revolutions in a deep hush. Only man visits the quiet places to kick up a din, but that day John McBride was not one of them.
He had ridden closer to Tucson Mountain; he rubbed rain from his eyes with the back of his hand and studied its slope. A faint switchback trail climbed gradually through a piñon and juniper forest, then disappeared among pure stands of ponderosa. But where did it lead?
McBride hoped for a town, but he was willing to bet that after the trail climbed the peak and dropped to the other side he’d see only more tall mountains and deep, impassible canyons.
His mind made up, he kicked his pony into motion and skirted the mountain, riding northeast through a narrow, grassy valley studded with mesquite and thick stands of prickly pear.
The sky was turning darker and the light was fleeing as McBride splashed across a fast-running creek and then rode into rugged hill country, cut through by ridges of bald sandstone rock. Rain drummed on his plug hat, driven by a rising wind, and the bleak landscape around him promised little. Very soon he would have to make a cold camp somewhere out of the wind and rain—if such a place could be found.
McBride rode up on a wide draw running with six inches of water. Come summer the draw would dry up and fill with dust, but now it was just another river to cross. He urged the mustang down a sandy bank that he guessed had been broken down years ago by buffalo or more recently by cattle, and then climbed the opposite side. The mustang had faltered as it splashed through the water, and now its ugly hammer head hung low, its steps slow and plodding. The little horse was all used up, just as its rider was, and McBride knew the time had come to stop and let the animal rest.
He climbed out of the saddle, ungainly and awkward, a man unused to riding, and gathered up the reins. He looked around him but nowhere could he see a place to shelter. The rain was heavier now, relentlessly hammering at him, and the angry sky began to flash with lightning. Ahead of McBride the land rose gradually for a mile or so, then climbed abruptly toward a ridge backboned with upthrust slabs of rock, a few stunted junipers and piñons growing here and there among them.
McBride blinked against the rain and studied the ridge. There could be shelter for both man and horse among the massive shelves of rock, he decided. Shelter but no food, his grumbling stomach reminded him, its patience worn thin.
Thunder was banging in the distance as McBride led the mustang toward the ridge. It was almost fully dark and, like a demented artist, lightning painted the landscape with wild splashes of electric blue. The air smelled of wet grass and ozone and McBride was increasingly aware of the storm’s danger. He was a tall man on rising ground. The highest thing around. He quickened his pace and the mustang, sensing the man’s urgency, willingly followed.
The slope of the ridge rose gradually, but it was slippery with mud, and the few scattered clumps of bunchgrass did nothing to make the going easier. McBride slid and skidded his way toward the rocky crest, his elastic-sided boots gouging long smears in the yellow mud. The mustang, mountain bred and surefooted, made the climb effortlessly, the growing number of lightning flashes flaring in its black eyes.
McBride reached the first of the rock slabs and sharp disappointment stabbed at him. From what he could see, there was not a place to shelter. The tumbled shelves of sandstone crowded close together and near to the ground. He led the mustang through a gap in the rocks, passed a stunted, twisted cedar that grabbed at him as though seeking companionship, then gained the crest of the ridge.
The big man rubbed rain from his eyes, scarcely able to believe what he was seeing. About a half mile from the bottom of the grade lay a town, its windows rectangles of dim orange light behind the steel mesh of the driving rain.
McBride smiled. A town meant food and shelter and he was badly in need of both.
He started down the slope, sliding on his rump most of the way, then climbed into the saddle when he reached the flat. A wide creek lined with cottonwoods and a few willows made a sharp bend ahead of him and then curved around the back of the town’s outlying buildings. Farther to his left an arched bridge of rough-cut timber crossed the creek, leading to a rutted, well-used wagon road.
McBride swung the mustang toward the bridge, a route that took him near the bend of the creek. The little horse shied away from the thick stand of cottonwoods lining the bank and tossed its head, the bit jangling. It was now almost fully dark, but as lightning flashed, accompanied by a bellow of thunder, McBride saw exceptionally tall men standing among the trees. He drew rein, his eyes battling the gloom as he scanned the cottonwoods.
Suddenly he was uneasy. Something was wrong. Even the rugged western lands didn’t breed men who stood that high. McBride’s years as a sergeant in the New York Police Department’s bureau of detectives had given him an instinct for danger and he felt it now, reaching out to him.
And so did the mustang. The little horse was up on its toes, its head raised as it battled the bit, arcs of white showing in its eyes. It danced back from the trees, disliking what the wind was telling it, and McBride, a poor horseman, fought to stay in the saddle.
Thunder roared and lightning flared all the way to the top of the clouds, a shimmering, searing white light that fell on the men among the trees. They stirred, moving only slightly, seemingly unconcerned by the perils of the storm.
Another trait of the good detective is curiosity, and McBride reluctantly gave in to his. He urged the mustang toward the cottonwoods, but the horse refused to move; then it swung around and trotted in the direction of the ridge. Irritated, rain pelting around him, McBride yanked on the reins and the horse stood long enough for him to clamber out of the saddle. As soon as his feet touched the ground, the mustang tossed its head and cantered into the darkness.
Annoyed beyond measure, McBride looked around for a rock, couldn’t find one and had to content himself with shaking a fist at his disappearing mount. A horse, he decided, was a lot more trouble than it was worth—unless it was hitched to a New York hansom cab and a man could sit back and ride on the cushions.
He would find the mustang later. Right now he felt compelled to investigate the giants among the cottonwoods. He slipped a hand under his slicker and felt his .38 Smith & Wesson, secure in the leather of its shoulder holster. The revolver would not stop a giant, but the feel of walnut and blued steel brought him a measure of comfort.
McBride walked through the flame-streaked darkness toward the trees. Thunder rolled across the sky, rumbling like a monstrous boulder bowling along a marble hallway. The violent night seemed restless, on edge, waiting for things to happen, dreadful things like the deaths of men and the coming of a wind that would sing songs through the teeth of their grinning skulls.
John McBride was no braver than any other man, and as he drew near to the cottonwoods, he felt a tightness in his throat and the familiar spike of fear deep in his belly.
Here there be giants. . . .
He remembered that. He’d seen it written in an old map one time. But the land of the giants had been in a distant, unexplored place. Cathay maybe. This was the New Mexico Territory, where no Brobdingnagians dwelled. Or so he’d thought—until now.
As he reached the first of the trees, the smell hit McBride like a fist, the syrupy, sickly sweet stench of something dead and rotting. From somewhere deeper in the cottonwoods, louder than the dragon hiss of the rain, he heard a steady creak . . . creak . . . creak, regular as the ticking of a railroad clock.
Blinded by darkness, McBride stopped where he was. He fought down the urge to draw his g
un. The giants ahead of him might be smelly and make strange noises, but they could be friendly. Swallowing hard, he walked through a tangle of brush into the trees.
A flash of lightning told McBride all he needed to know.
He had not seen giants. He had seen hanged men, strung up high, on a lofty limb of a cottonwood.
The necks of the three men were bent at impossible angles, pushed to the side by heavy, coiled knots. Death had not come easily or quickly to them. They had died slowly and in pain, strangling in the pitiless embrace of hemp loops. The eyes of the men bulged, black tongues stuck out of their open mouths and the fear and outrage they’d felt at the manner of their dying was still twisted on faces that looked carved from white, blue-veined marble.
Ralph Compton Blood on the Gallows Page 1