by E. L. Ripley
DANGER IN THE WOODS
“Shall we try again?” Silva asked, taking the pan, not bothering to hide the eagerness on his face. Panning wouldn’t make him rich, but it was a novel diversion for a while.
Birds erupted from the trees, and the crack of a rifle shot was what had made them do it.
The bullet struck the pan, sending it spinning in the air, sand and water flying.
Silva was faster to act than Carpenter was, pulling him down to the stream and behind a boulder. Silva held his pistol above the water but didn’t lean out to look. The shot had come from upriver, in the trees on the south side. The shooter had to be some distance off, or he wouldn’t have missed.
The pan struck the water and Silva rose, firing rapidly as Carpenter made a run for it, splashing through the shallows and onto the bank. He snatched up what he could of their belongings on his way to shelter behind a thick tree.
Another shot came from the rifle, but Silva scrambled out of the river unscathed.
They plunged into the trees, making as fast as possible for better cover.
There was nothing as obvious as crashing footsteps to give away their pursuers, but all the birds had gone quiet, and a new sound rose up over the rushing of the river. They stumbled to a halt, gasping for breath and looking up in wonder.
The howling was such a powerful chorus that Carpenter wouldn’t have thought there could have possibly been so many wolves in the world.
BERKLEY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
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Copyright © 2020 by The Estate of Ralph Compton
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
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Ebook ISBN: 9780593102374
First Edition: May 2020
Cover art by Chris McGrath
Cover design by Steve Meditz
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
The Immortal Cowboy
Prologue
Part OneChapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Part TwoChapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Part ThreeChapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Epilogue
About the Authors
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 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
PROLOGUE
May 1, 1862
Woodsmoke and worse were so thick in the air that it was almost enough to cover the pervasive odor of black powder that liked to find its way into everything. The bugs had fallen silent, and the distant harmonica as well. Sleep was everywhere, or it had been before that shot cracked the night wide open and left two hundred soldiers scrambling not for their rifles but for some notion of what was happening.
The same notion Bill was grabbing for with both hands like a drunken man about to step off a cliff.
Echoes of the shot were still making their rounds around the valley, trying to fill the space that the cicadas had left behind, and up went the bugle call, startling Bill from whatever hole his brain had tried to crawl into, and Byron cried out, arching his back and spitting blood on the ground at his feet.
There went another bugle somewhere, and shouting, with plenty of healthy swearing.
Men rushed past and raised voices filled the air as fully and suddenly as smoke would flood the battlefield upon the first salvo. Bill fell to his knees in the mud, seizing the other man and staring at the wound in his breast as though staring and assessing were the same thing, as though anything he had to offer might have done a lick of good. He was no physician, and he didn’t need to be one to know that nothing could be done.
All the same, he tore the bandanna from his neck and wadded it up, pressing it to the wound, but the blood came like water from a geyser, only hotter.
And it was still coming, even though the light was already gone from Byron’s eyes. The flood was canceled, but the rains hadn’t yet gotten the telegram.
It didn’t seem fair, but what was? A rabbit could come out of his den just to find his foot in a snare. Those eyes wouldn’t be dead; they would be wide and wild, darting every way while the rest of the animal was as still as a stone. The mind racing, and the body going nowhere. Bill had seen it more than once: boys and grown men like statues in the middle of a battle, heedless of what was coming—and it was always coming. He knew what it was
to be stuck in a moment; he’d just never expected it to happen to him. It had never seemed worth thinking about, so he hadn’t bothered. Even if he had, it never would have crossed his mind that he might get caught in one and never leave.
PART ONE
THE WOLVES AT HIS HEELS
CHAPTER ONE
It wasn’t quite twenty years ago that someone had stolen Carpenter’s saddle in broad daylight on a crowded street in Charlotte. That was only a memory. It had been nearly that many years since the war—so the war should’ve just been a memory too, but it was never that simple.
Lumps of hard resin marred the varnish, and the edges of the chessboard had all the signs of a dull saw and a shaky hand. The kindest word for this work was shoddy, and the piece was altogether out of place in an otherwise respectable lodge. The very chair Carpenter sat in was a work of art, some of the finest wickerwork he’d ever seen, and there were carvings on the hearth that wouldn’t have been out of place in a church. The chessboard, though—it was a disaster.
Well, even bad work was good for something: you could always learn from it.
“Do you play?”
Carpenter looked up, setting his thoughts aside and finding his voice, which took a moment.
“Your pardon?” he said.
This man had already been here when Carpenter had walked up earlier in the day, gingerly leading Oceana by the reins. He’d been out on the porch in his shirtsleeves with his legs crossed and a book in his hand, but he hadn’t been reading it.
He was well dressed in gray, and the cloth had a nice tartan pattern, but Carpenter couldn’t tell the difference between a suit from overseas and one that was just meant to look that way. In any case, the fellow held a respectful distance, and that thick bear rug must’ve muffled his footsteps as he approached. Not that footsteps would’ve made any difference; Carpenter’s senses weren’t what they’d been, but they weren’t gone entirely. He’d just been trying so hard to let his mind go anywhere but here, and for a moment, he’d succeeded.
The man indicated the board with his eyes, and Carpenter looked at the knight in his hand.
“Not well,” he replied, putting it back. “Just admiring the craftsmanship.”
“And how is it?”
It took an effort, but Carpenter found something like a smile. “It’s got the right number of squares.”
The man let out a little snort of laughter, but it wasn’t much. A blind man would’ve been able to tell this fellow wasn’t having much of a day himself.
“These, though,” Carpenter added after a moment, shaking a finger at the pieces. “Someone worked hard on them.” They’d all been whittled by hand. Not well, but they were all recognizable. The artisan had even taken the time to paint the eyes of all the knights red.
“It’s a better job than I could do,” remarked the man in gray.
“I’m the same.” Carpenter leaned back in his armchair. “No talent for detail.”
“Could I interest you in a game?”
Nothing could have interested him less, but playing couldn’t be worse than just sitting there alone.
“Why not?” Carpenter gestured at the other chair.
The other man nodded politely and seated himself, adjusting the chain of his pocket watch and the gun at his hip, which was about the most foolish thing Carpenter had ever seen. It was polished so brightly that it would blind anyone in the sun, with enough inlaid gold and engravings for a dozen picture frames. He hoped he was imagining that sheen in the grips, and that they were just ivory and not real mother-of-pearl. There was more gaudiness in that gun than in entire shops of jewelry in Richmond.
But Richmond was a long way away. This was California.
Carpenter halfheartedly shoved a pawn forward two spaces. The man in gray moved one as well. Seven moves went by without a single word spoken, and that was merciful. He’d been afraid this man had been lonely, the type who needed to talk to pass the time. Maybe he wasn’t as bad as his gun and his exaggerated grooming made him look. Who was he trying to impress here anyway?
There were only four other guests at the lodge: two businessmen traveling together, their driver, and a younger fellow dressed like a cowhand, who kept to himself.
And the dog, of course. It was a good-sized staghound curled up on the rug by the window, where the sun was warmest. Not a woman in sight, but this chess player wanted to be as pretty as he’d be going to a dance.
A brand-new wagon waited outside, and an older stagecoach. The stagecoach belonged to those two others, so this fellow was the one with the wagon. He didn’t just look educated; he sounded like it too, something in the way he made sure to say each piece of each word just the right way.
Carpenter moved his rook. He didn’t care if the stranger had been educated in a school or in a barrel; it was none of his business. He was just glad to have something to do, though he wouldn’t admit it.
The other fellow turned toward the dog, who had lifted her head to look at the door, which opened.
It was Dr. Ambrose, still a bit stooped, still fidgeting with his left hand. He didn’t say anything; he just caught Carpenter’s eye.
“Excuse me,” Carpenter told the man in gray, who nodded.
Maybe it didn’t look good to walk away from a game of chess that he was losing to a man at least twenty years his junior, but that didn’t matter. It was warm and sunny outside, but cold in his belly as he trailed the doctor onto the porch, down the stairs, past the towering pines, and over to the stable. He’d left his hat in the lodge, and he squinted at the sun, which got lower every minute. He knew what that felt like.
Any other afternoon, the doctor’s bright red nose and unruly mustache might’ve made him difficult to take seriously. As it was, Carpenter couldn’t have smiled even if he had tripped and fallen headfirst into a gold mine.
They stopped outside the doors, but well within the smell of the stable.
Ambrose wasn’t about to tell him anything he didn’t already know, or hadn’t seen in his eyes, but the doctor went on and opened his mouth anyway.
“It’s like you thought,” he said, looking Carpenter in the eye. “The colic. Bad.”
Inside, out of the sun, Oceana lay on her side, flank rising and falling with all the power of a dying sparrow. Strange noises came from her nostrils, and her eyes were shut. Her legs trembled.
Carpenter stared down at her, and Ambrose stood at his side for a minute or two.
“I seen that bird gun in your things,” the doctor said hesitantly. “Would you like a rifle, Mr. Carpenter?”
It was the last thing he wanted, but he nodded anyway. The doctor went to his own horse, and Carpenter stood there. Just the standing was difficult enough; doing anything more seemed unreasonable. His breaths were as deep and slow as hers were shallow and fast, but they were just as desperate.
Something cool touched his hand, and he took the rifle from the doctor without even looking at him.
Quietly, Ambrose led the other horses out into the sunlight. It was best if they weren’t startled by what was coming. Carpenter wondered if it was the same for them as it was for people, if seeing one of their own die would stay with them. He hoped not; horses didn’t get to drink whiskey, after all.
The hay was fresh, the feed in the bags was not, and something had died recently in this stable. The odors crowded in, and this must have been what it felt like to wear a corset on a hot day, only Carpenter didn’t faint, because someone touched his arm.
It was the man in gray, and there was no longer any sunlight coming in through the crack in the barn door. Carpenter blinked and then wiped his eyes, looking around hurriedly. Oceana still lay at his feet, still breathing, though now the breaths were almost too shallow to see.
The sun was nearly down. Just like that, the time had gone. Vanished, like his saddle twenty years ago in Charlotte.
Dr. Ambrose was probably still standing out there with the other horses, waiting. Carpenter took a breath, and when he swallowed, it was like a strong man had rammed a handful of gravel down his throat.
He still had the doctor’s rifle, but the man in gray put his hand out, offering to take it.
“No,” Carpenter said, straightening. “No, I’ll do it.”
The stranger nodded, and then he took a step back and covered his ears.
CHAPTER TWO
There wouldn’t be another horse.
The couple who owned the lodge was sympathetic, but they couldn’t sell their mare. It went without saying that the owners of the stage and the wagon couldn’t very well part with their teams. There wasn’t a horse to spare, nor was there anywhere to get one less than sixty miles away.
The last town Carpenter had passed through hadn’t even had a name, much less the guarantee of a mount for sale, if he could even make it that far on foot. He didn’t like to think of himself as an old man just yet, but he wasn’t a young one, either, and he’d never felt it like he felt it now.
There might have been a chance of going aboard that stage, but they were headed the wrong way. Might as well go on to Antelope Valley; no sense going back. It would be a little farther, and a little harder, going uphill and all. Horse or no horse, it would be a tough trail. The difference was that with no horse, it would also be a long one.
Back in the lodge, the owner handed him a glass of something clear and strong, but Carpenter just sat in his chair. It would’ve been nice to just drink it, get his boots off, and let it all go until morning. Only if he was going to make it that far on foot, being sick from whiskey, or whatever this swill was, wouldn’t help.
The staghound got up from her place in front of the fire and padded over, pushing her face at his thigh. Carpenter straightened and scratched the dog behind her ears, and she made agreeable chuffing noises, leaving the leg of his trousers covered in her dark hairs.