“He looks dead,” Bill said.
“Shut up!” Palmer snapped.
“Where’s the money?” Dick asked. “He had a bag in his hands.”
“He didn’t have it,” Palmer said. “He couldn’t hold on to it once he got shot.”
“Yer a liar!” Bill shouted. “Where’d you put it?” He looked at his brother. “They had time to stash it.”
“Yeah, they did,” Dick said, slowly, “but I don’t think they woulda done that.”
“I’m gonna look around,” Bill said, not as trusting as his big brother.
“Go ahead,” Palmer said, kneeling down next to Stan. “Can you hear me, Stan?”
“I hear everybody,” Stan said. “I ain’t dead yet.” He opened his eyes, looked up at Dick. “You boys talked, didn’tcha?”
“What?” Dick said.
“Probably Billy, not you, Dick,” Stan said.
“He didn’t mean nothin’, Stan,” Dick said. “We’re sorry you got shot.”
“Tommy’s right,” Stan said. “You both left me there to die.”
“Stan—”
Stan’s bloody hand came up, holding his gun. He pointed it at Dick Evans and fired.
BERKLEY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
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Copyright © 2021 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.
BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN: 9780593333860
First Edition: June 2021
Cover art by Dennis Lyall
Cover design by Steve Meditz
Book design by George Towne, adapted for ebook by Kelly Brennan
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
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
The Immortal Cowboy
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter 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
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
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
CHAPTER ONE
Tom Palmer studied the front of the bank from across the street. He’d been recruited for this job by his old friend Stan Hargrove, but he didn’t like the rest of the men Stan had working with him. He wished he could talk Stan out of the job, but the older man was intent on hitting this bank in the town of Blackstone, New Mexico.
The town was growing, Stan had told him, and the bank was going to have the payrolls of several new businesses that were opening up, as well as those of a couple of big ranches in the area. “If there was ever a time to hit this bank, Tommy, it’s now!” Stan said with enthusiasm.
Stan Hargrove was almost sixty, and he had spent the better part of his life as a small-time crook. He seemed to think that taking this bank was going to make him a big-time operator. So Tom had agreed to hold the horses while the old man went into the bank with Dick and Bill Evans.
But Palmer could see how the Evans brothers—who fancied themselves the James boys—snickered at Stan behind his back. It was only the year before, in Northfield, Minnesota, that things had gone wrong for the James/Younger Gang. The Evans boys seemed to have forgotten that.
Palmer had been involved in many heists throughout the Southwest, whether they be banks or trains or stagecoaches, but up to this point, he had never killed anybody. He didn’t want anyone killed during this job, either, especially not Stan Hargrove.
The Evans boys came walking toward the bank from one side, and Stan from the other. Palmer was to remain where he was and keep watch. He was also standing by the horses, which were across the street from the bank rather than right out front. A bunch of horses in front of a bank, that was a dead giveaway.
Stan went into the bank first, as planned. He was followed by the Evans boys, also according to plan. But when the shooting started, that was definitely not according to plan.
Palmer started to run across to the bank, but the doors opened and the two Evans boys came running out. They headed for the horses, trying to brush past Palmer, who reached out and grabbed Dick’s arm.
“Where’s Stan?”
“I dunno!” Dick Evans pulled his arm free and started running again.
Palmer headed for the bank agai
n, saw Stan stagger through the door, holding one hand to his belly, which was blossoming red.
“Come on, Stan!” Palmer shouted, grabbing his friend’s arm.
Some men with badges came out of the bank next with guns in their hands. Palmer half-dragged, half-carried Stan to the horses. The Evans boys had already mounted up and started riding away. That attracted the attention of the lawmen, who started shooting at them. This gave Palmer a chance to hoist Stan up onto his horse and to mount his own. Instead of lighting out in the same direction as the brothers, Palmer decided to go the opposite way, hoping it would take the lawmen valuable moments to realize what he was doing.
It was the precious time Palmer and Hargrove needed to get out of town. . . .
* * *
* * *
The original plan, if the men got separated, was to meet a few miles out of town, in a clearing they had scouted days before. Palmer had no way of knowing if the Evans boys would be there, or if they had any money from the bank job, but he headed for the meeting place, just the same.
He managed to get to the clearing and keep Stan mounted until they got there. He leaped from his horse in time to catch the older man as he finally fell off. He lowered his friend to the ground easily, got him onto his back.
“Let me see,” he said, trying to move Stan’s hands from his midsection.
“It’s bad, Tommy,” Stan said. “Real bad.”
“What happened, Stan?”
“It was those Evans boys,” Stan said. “They spent the night drinking at a whorehouse.”
“And they opened their big mouths?” Palmer said. “I warned you about them, Stan. I told you—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Stan said, “can we save the I-told-ya-sos for another time? Maybe at my grave?”
“Stan—”
“I just wanna live long enough to hear what them boys got to say,” Stan went on.
“If they have the nerve to show up here,” Palmer said.
“They will,” Stan said.
“How do you know?”
“They don’t know if I got away with the money or not,” Stan said. “I had it in my hands, Tommy. I had it! But then them lawmen started shootin’.”
Palmer went to his horse for his canteen, held Stan’s head while the man drank, then removed his bandanna and poured some water on it.
“Let me clean your wound and get a look, Stan.”
“Ahhhh, go ahead,” Stan finally said. He dropped his hand away from his belly, and blood just seemed to spurt out. As he had said, it was bad. Palmer couldn’t clean it, so he simply tried to stanch the flow of blood with the bandanna.
“Owww, watch it!” Stan snapped, his face etched with pain.
“Sorry, Stan.”
At that point they both heard horses approaching.
“A posse?” Stan asked. “Or Dick and Bill?”
Palmer stood up to have a look. If it was a posse, he didn’t intend to leave Stan alone, but he doubted the town could have put one together that fast. Then he saw there were only two riders.
“It’s the Evans boys,” he said. He remained standing and waited.
The two riders reined in their horses and dismounted. Before they could speak, Palmer hit Dick Evans in the mouth with his fist, knocking the older brother on his ass.
“What the hell—” Bill snapped, his hand moving toward his gun.
“Easy, Billy,” Dick said, getting to his feet. “Tommy’s just a little pissed about Stan gettin’ shot.”
“You left him there!” Palmer shouted. “The two of you lit out and left him behind. I had to get him and drag him to his horse.”
“Then he’s lucky he had you,” Dick said, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. “How is he?”
“Not good,” Palmer said.
They all looked down at the supine man, whose eyes were now closed, his face ashen.
“He looks dead,” Bill said.
“Shut up!” Palmer snapped.
“Where’s the money?” Dick asked. “He had a bag in his hands.”
“He didn’t have it,” Palmer said. “He couldn’t hold on to it once he got shot.”
“Yer a liar!” Bill shouted. “Where’d you put it?” He looked at his brother. “They had time to stash it.”
“Yeah, they did,” Dick said, slowly, “but I don’t think they woulda done that.”
“I’m gonna look around,” Bill said, not as trusting as his big brother.
“Go ahead,” Palmer said, kneeling down next to Stan. “Can you hear me, Stan?”
“I hear everybody,” Stan said. “I ain’t dead yet.” He opened his eyes, looked up at Dick. “You boys talked, didn’tcha?”
“What?” Dick said.
“Probably Billy, not you, Dick,” Stan said. “Bragged to some whore, didn’t he?”
“He didn’t mean nothin’, Stan,” Dick said. “We’re sorry you got shot.”
“Tommy’s right,” Stan said. “You both left me there to die.”
“Stan—”
Stan’s bloody hand came up, holding his gun. He pointed it at Dick Evans and fired.
“Wha—” Billy said, startled. He turned from searching Stan’s saddlebag, reached for his gun. Palmer had no choice but to draw his own gun and fire. The bullet struck Billy just below the chin, snapping his head back. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Palmer turned to look at Dick Evans, who was on his back, staring at the sky. It was just at that moment Palmer saw the light go out in his eyes. Both Evans brothers were dead. Tom Palmer couldn’t really blame Stan Hargrove for what he had done. Things had gone horribly wrong, and they hadn’t had to.
“Stan, let’s get you—” he said, looking over at his friend, but it was clear at that moment that Palmer was the only one left alive.
* * *
* * *
The previous night the four of them had sat together in the Straight Flush Saloon, going over last-minute plans for the bank job.
“And don’t anybody get drunk and talk to no whores” was the last thing Stan said.
“Ya think we’re stupid or somethin’, old man?” Bill demanded.
“I think you are, yeah,” Stan said. “Dick, you gotta control your brother.”
“Old-timer,” Bill said angrily, “you gotta control yer mouth!”
Well, as it turned out, Stan’s mouth had been right on the money.
Palmer wasn’t going to leave that clearing without giving his friend a decent burial. And he did the decent thing and buried the brothers, too—although they had to share the same shallow, unmarked grave.
Once he was done, he went through the brothers’ saddlebags for whatever supplies he could salvage—and, truth be told, to make sure that neither one of them was holding out and had the money. He got some coffee, a pot, some beef jerky, a bag of makings, but not a dime between them. He didn’t have the heart to take anything from his friend, so he simply tossed Stan’s saddlebags into the grave with him. He unsaddled all three horses and set them free and dug a fourth hole for the saddles. If a posse came this way, he didn’t want them to find anything helpful.
The job going bad and losing Stan had convinced Palmer that it was time for a change in his life. And for that to happen, he had to have a clean slate. While digging, he made up his mind to ride north. He knew there were plenty of wanted posters on him floating around the Southwest. First chance he got, he’d have to shave off his beard to change his appearance. He hated to do it, because he’d had the facial hair for ten years, but it was time to go clean-shaven. He didn’t think there were any posters on him looking clean-shaven.
He stood over his friend’s grave and felt bad that he couldn’t put a marker on it. He also felt bad that, not being a religious man, he had no idea what final words to say. So he just said, “So long, S
tan.”
After he’d done everything he could to cover his trail, he mounted his pony and rode north.
CHAPTER TWO
It was the smoke that drew Palmer to the site of the burned wagon. The flames had long since died down, but the smoke was still drifting straight up, as if from a chimney.
He topped a rise and looked across the Great Plains of South Dakota Territory. He spotted the wreckage of not one wagon, but two. He looked around, didn’t see anyone in any direction. Since he’d been forced to leave his last town in a hurry, his pockets were mostly empty, as was his canteen. He wasn’t normally the kind of person to pick through the bones of the dead, but in this instance he didn’t seem to have any other choice. The wagons were there, nobody else was around, and he was in need.
He urged his tired pony on and rode toward the smoking remains. As he approached, a scent other than that of burning wood came to his nostrils—torched flesh. He wasn’t looking forward to what he was going to find, but he kept riding.
As he got closer, the pony began to shy away from the combined smells, and Palmer had to urge him on. Finally, he took pity on the horse and stopped far enough away from the scene for the animal to relax. He dismounted and walked to the burned remnants of two Conestoga wagons.
Palmer’s talents lay in bank, stage, and train robberies. He wasn’t a tracker and didn’t read sign, but he could see that the tracks in the dirt around the wagons were from unshod horses—likely Indian ponies. He knew that several Sioux tribes called this area home and probably didn’t like having wagons carrying whites crossing their land. And he knew that the Sioux, even if they had waited and gone picking through the rubble, would have left some things behind that were of no value to them, but were valuable to Palmer.
He saw the bodies and winced. There were a man, a woman, and three children. He knew there could have been more kids, for the Indians would probably have carried away any who had survived the attack. They liked taking young boys to raise as slaves and young girls as wives. These children appeared to be two teenage girls and a small boy who had taken an arrow in the back—which may have simply been accidental. The adults seemed to have been in their late thirties, which was roughly his age, and each had several arrows piercing their bodies. Palmer was pleased to see that none of the dead had been scalped. Scalping was actually a practice instituted by whites so they could collect bounties on the Indians they killed. There were savages on both sides, red and white.
The Wrong Side of the Law Page 1