Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1 - Land of the Six-Shooter
Chapter 2 - A Knuckle Affair
Chapter 3 - Of Doves and Drummers
Chapter 4 - A Strangulation Jig
Chapter 5 - Longhorn Country
Chapter 6 - A Cobbler Interlude
Chapter 7 - Big Blue
Chapter 8 - As Right As Right Can Be
Chapter 9 - Feathers and Frying Pans
Chapter 10 - Why-ome-ing or Bust
Chapter 11 - Coyotes
Chapter 12 - First Blood
Chapter 13 - Chips
Chapter 14 - Red Men
Chapter 15 - Tail Wags Dog
Chapter 16 - Cutters
Chapter 17 - Tears of a Dove
Chapter 18 - Hot Lead
Chapter 19 - Big Sieves and Little Sieves
Chapter 20 - Showdown
DIRTY LAUNDRY
With a flourish and a smug smile, Lacker turned his cards over. “Read them and cringe, friend. Four aces.” He extended his hands to rake in the pot.
“Not so fast,” Owen said. “There is one hand that beats four of a kind.”
“There are two hands.” The drummer knew his poker. “A straight flush and a royal flush. But since I have all the aces, you can’t possibly have a royal flush. That leaves a straight flush, and the odds against that—”
“Are pretty high, I know.” Owen smiled. “But there is a third hand that beats four of a kind.”
“There’s no such thing.”
“Sure there is. I have it right here.” Owen drew his Colt and placed it on the table. “The next time you need your laundry done, you should do it yourself.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I ran into Mrs. Harker. The lady you’re boardin’ with. She told me she did all the laundry you gave her, then went to your room to ask if there was more.”
“So?” Lacker angrily snapped. “What does that have to do with you stealing this pot from me?”
“Your door was open. She saw you practicin’ with that rig you have up your right sleeve.”
Lacker heaved up out of his chair. In his left hand gleamed a nickel-plated derringer, which he trained on Owen. . . .
SIGNET
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THE IMMORTAL COWBOY
This is respectfully dedicated to the “American Cow boy.” 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
1
Land of the Six-Shooter
The stage was two hours late. It came to a stop in a cloud of dust and woke up the old man dozing in a rocking chair. The bearded driver and the tall shotgun messenger jumped down. The driver stepped to the stagecoach door and opened it. “Whiskey Flats,” he announced.
Like the head of a small bird poking from a birdhouse, the head of a passenger poked out. Coughing and swiping at the dust, he regarded the driver with annoyance. “I say, was it really necessary to drive the team so hard? I had to hold on for dear life.”
The driver raised his seamed face and regarded the passenger as he might a new kind of bug. Spitting a wad of tobacco into the street, he asked, “Any bones broken, mister?”
“None that I am aware of, no. But I will be frightfully sore for a week or more.” The passenger scrunched his thin face in distaste. “This whole experience has been a test of my fortitude.”
“You don’t say.”
“I certainly do. The irony is that I paid to be bounced around in a box for days on end. Had I known what I was letting myself in for, I would have rethought the entire idea.”
“I could tell you have a delicate backside”—the driver smirked—“from all the squawkin’ you did when we hit a few bumps.”
At that the shotgun messenger snickered.
“A few?” T
he passenger bristled. “If I did not know better, I would swear you hit every rut in the road on purpose.”
“Now why would I do that, pilgrim?” the driver said, and winked at the shotgun messenger. Both laughed and went into the stage office.
The passenger blinked. “I have half a mind to file a formal complaint.” He pushed the door wide and stiffly climbed down. Placing one hand at the small of his back, he stretched, then grimaced. “I daresay I am black and blue.” He walked to the rear of the stagecoach and stared at the boot, then at the office doorway. “What about my trunk?” he called out.
“Are you helpless, sonny?”
Only then did the passenger notice the old man in the rocking chair. “I beg your pardon?”
“If your fingers ain’t broke, you can get your own bag. Folks hereabouts don’t cotton much to waitin’ on others hand and foot.” The old man grinned, showing a gap where most of his upper front teeth had been. He wore a broad-brimmed hat well past its prime and faded clothes as dusty as the street. “Besides, Bud never has much liked swivel dudes.”
“How is that, my good fellow?” the passenger asked. “I am afraid I don’t quite follow you. It’s the vernacular.”
“The who?”
“Vernacular. Surely you have heard the word before? It is part of the King’s English, I assure you.”
“Is it now?” The old man tittered. “In case you haven’t heard, sonny, we don’t have kings in this country. We talk how we want.”
The passenger flicked dust from a tailored sleeve. He was dressed in the height of sartorial splendor, in a navy coat, striped pants, and a double-breasted tartan vest. Perched on his neatly cropped head was a derby tilted at a rakish angle. “Exactly my point,” he said. “ ‘Vernacular’ refers to how people speak.”
“You sure do it funny,” the old man said.
“Me?” The passenger became a trifle indignant. “I will have you know, sir, I am a graduate of Eton. I speak English impeccably. It is you and most every other American I have met who mangle the language atrociously.”
“Keep talkin’ like that, sonny, and you might find it’s not the only thing we mangle.” The old man looked the newcomer up and down. “Land sakes, but you sure are the prettiest fella I ever set eyes on.” He sniffed a few times. “And damn me if you don’t smell like the girl over to the Nose Paint Saloon.”
The passenger drew himself up to his full height and squared his bony shoulders. “I will thank you to address me with respect. I am here on official business at the behest of the Bristol-London Consortium.”
“Never heard of it.”
“The BLC,” the dapper man said. “An association of British businessmen who have purchased extensive landholdings in Wyoming.”
“Wyoming, huh? Now that I’ve heard of. Fine puncher country.” The old man nodded his approval.
“Permit me to introduce myself.” The passenger stepped onto the boardwalk and offered his hand. “Alfred Pitney, solicitor, among other things.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Solicitor,” the old man said, shaking. “My handle is Floyd Carter but everyone calls me Toothless.” He stopped shaking and bent to examine the Britisher’s hand. “Land sakes, but you have awful pink fingers. And not a callus anywhere.” He arched a salt-and-pepper eyebrow. “What is it you do for a livin’, anyhow? Fold towels?”
“I have already told you. I am a solicitor.” When there was no hint of comprehension on the oldster’s face, Pitney said, “An attorney.”
“Ah. A law wrangler. That explains a lot. But I won’t hold it against you like some will.”
“What is wrong with being a solicitor?” Pitney asked in confusion. “It is a perfectly respectable profession.”
“Maybe where you hail from,” Toothless said. “But in our neck of the woods your kind are only a notch or two above rustlers.” He gave an exaggerated yawn. “Now if you will excuse me, young fella, at my age I need all the shut-eye I can get. I have a nap to finish.”
“One moment, if you please, Mr., ah, Toothless,” Alfred Pitney said. “Perhaps you can be of assistance. I am looking for a ranch.”
“Then you came to the right place. Texas has plenty. Are you lookin’ to buy one? You might want to learn a little about cows first.”
“No. You don’t understand. I need to find the Bar 40 ranch, owned by a Mr. James Bartholomew. Have you perchance heard of it?”
Toothless snorted. “Hellfire, sonny, who hasn’t? It’s about the saltiest outfit this side of the Rio Grande. Bart is as straight as a wagon tongue, and all his hands are loyal to the brand.”
“There you go again with the vernacular,” Pitney complained. “Be that as it may, there was supposed to be someone here from the Bar 40 to meet me but obviously they are late. Do you suppose I could hire a horse? Or hire someone to ride out there for me if a steed is not available?”
“Another thing we’re not shy of is horses. The only thing we have more of is lizards and you can’t ride them.”
Pitney tilted his head to one side. “Who would want to ride a lizard?” He snickered, then asked, “Would I have time for a repast or a drink, do you think, before my messenger and someone from the Bar 40 arrive?”
“You could drink a lake dry,” Toothless said. “It’ll take three days for a rider to get there and three days back.”
“My word. I was under the impression the ranch was close to town.”
“By Texas standards it is.”
For the first time since he had stepped from the stage, Alfred Pitney gazed up and down the street. Whiskey Flats consisted of not quite a score of buildings, most of them plank affairs with false fronts. At several hitch rails weary horses dozed in the midday heat. A pig rooted in the dirt, watched by a scruffy dog lazing in the shade of an overhang. “My word. This isn’t a town. It’s a flyspeck.”
“That pretty much sums Whiskey Flats up. Yes, sir,” Toothless agreed. “But give us ten or twenty years and we’ll be bustin’ at the seams.”
Pitney shook his head in mild dismay. “This won’t do. This won’t do at all. However am I to discharge my responsibilities?”
Before the old man could answer, harsh yells intruded from across the street. The next moment the door to the Nose Paint Saloon was flung violently open. As if hurled from within, out flew a man in seedy homespun who tottered on his heels for five or six feet and then fell.
“Sam Webber!” Toothless blurted.
“Who?”
“A harmless cuss who does odd jobs around town and spends all his earnin’s on coffin varnish. Who would pick on a puny nobody like him?”
Out of the saloon strode a stocky man whose hawkish features bore the stamp of innate cruelty. He wore a black, flat-crowned hat, a gray shirt and pants, and boots with large spurs. They jangled noisily as he walked up to Sam Webber, his thumbs hooked in a black leather belt adorned with silver studs. In a holster on the man’s right hip was nestled a Remington revolver with black grips.
“Uh-oh,” Toothless breathed. “Poor Sam is in for it now. That there is Luke Deal, and he’s bad medicine.”
“You say the name as if he is someone important.”
“Deal is the curliest lobo on the border. He’s always on the peck. All you have to do is sneeze in his direction and he will pistol-whip you for the fun of it. Oh my, oh my. Sam, what did you do?”
Luke Deal walked up to Webber, who had sat up, and without warning, without so much as a word or a gesture, viciously kicked him in the chest. Webber cried out and writhed in agony. “What was that?” Deal asked, putting a hand to his ear. “I didn’t quite hear you.”
Pitney glanced at Toothless. “Shouldn’t we intervene on your friend’s behalf?”
“And be shot full of holes? Mister, there are some things you don’t do, and one is stick your head in a bear trap.”
“That statement is patently absurd.” Smoothing his coat, Alfred Pitney marched into the street, declaring, “I say, my good fellow, that will be quite enou
gh.”
Astonishment rendered Luke Deal as still as a tree.
“Where I hail from, civilized men do not behave like animals. I daresay you should apologize for your atrocious behavior.” Pitney reached down and slid his hands under Sam Webber, boosting him to his feet. “There, there. Do you need a physician? That was beastly, wasn’t it?”
Webber was as stupefied as his attacker.
“What did you just say to me?” Luke Deal found his voice. Inner fires flared in his slate gray eyes.
“You are hard of hearing, I take it?” Alfred Pitney said, brushing dust from Sam Webber’s back. “It is a good thing I was on hand to keep you from doing something you would always regret.”
Luke Deal intently studied the Englishman as if he could not quite believe the apparition was real. Then a smile curled his slit of a mouth. But not a warm, friendly smile. It was the smile of a cat about to devour a canary, or an Apache about to slit a prospector’s throat. A smile that would chill the blood of anyone who knew him. “What do you reckon we have here, boys?”
Unnoticed, two others had filed out of the saloon. One was short, almost as wide as he was tall, a slab of muscle with a thick neck and bulging shoulders. He wore a brown hat with a high crown and boots with heels twice as high as most other boots. His spurs looked more like spikes. The other man was middle-aged, with a face that would give women and small children nightmares; his chin was splotched with gristly stubble, his cheeks were badly pockmarked, his brows were thick and beetling, his lips were perpetually upturned in a sneer. Both men wore revolvers, and from the top of the second man’s left boot jutted the hilt of a knife.
“We have us a walkin’, talkin’ mail-order catalog,” declared the short one.
Luke Deal nodded. “I haven’t seen one this fancy, Grutt, since the time we were in Dallas.”
The pockmarked man licked his thick lips. “Just when we was hankerin’ for some fun, too. We need to do him slow to draw it out.”
By the Horns Page 1