Trail's End

by E. L. Ripley

  BERKLEY

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  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: 9780593102411

  First Edition: January 2021

  Cover art by Chris McGrath

  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.

  pid_prh_5.6.1_c0_r0

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part One: Light as a Feather

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Part Two: Dead or Alive

  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

  Part Three: Unfinished Business

  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

  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

  The sun was out, the breeze was just a whisper, and the blue sky was big enough to get lost in.

  Tom Calvert had spent more than six months in a wagon, trapped with his thoughts, most of which had to do with his mistakes. Enough was enough; he was tired of worrying about the past. He couldn’t let go of what he’d done, and he certainly wouldn’t pretend he hadn’t done it. He couldn’t forget, not with his bad leg to remind him—but he didn’t want to forget. He just wanted to stop wasting time on it.

  He’d never given a thought to the Idaho Territory, but he wouldn’t have expected it to be quite so nice to look at. He’d likely have said the same for Wyoming, and he’d been dead wrong about that. Even laid up with a fever, he’d been able to see country there that put all the rest to shame.

  Friendly Field was what this place was called, but Pretty Field might have suited it better. Bright, clean whitewashing stood out against the green grass and the dark earth. There were vast fields of crops, all impeccably neat.

  He nudged his mare forward, drawing up alongside the kid.

  Less than a year had passed since they met, but Asher no longer looked or acted anything like the grubby little shrimp of a boy Tom had found on a riverboat on the Missouri. He was still small and looked even smaller in his habitually oversized clothes. Tom had tried more than once to convince him to see a barber, but the boy insisted on hacking off his own hair as though he knew what he was doing. The result was that he looked like an absolute madman, which was perhaps for the best. Past his short stature and insubstantial build, the boy had good looks, so one could hope that his ridiculous hair would keep the girls away, because even after all this time and Tom’s best efforts, Asher still didn’t know what to do with them.

  There was only one thing Asher was even worse at than girls, and that was riding. His mare jostled, and Tom reached out and caught his arm to keep him from falling. Maybe they should’ve kept the wagon a little longer.

  The boy didn’t even say anything, and Tom didn’t blame him. He let go and straightened up, following Asher’s gaze.

  There were houses down there, but they weren’t laid out like they would have been in a real town. They were in a sort of circle, with several generous barns and such and a church. All of it was surrounded by potato fields. Mountains towered in the distance under the blue sky, and the forests ringing it all already had their leaves back. It was fair enough to say that it was pretty everywhere in spring, but the colors here were different. Brighter somehow.

  Or perhaps it only seemed that way because Tom’s fever was finally gone.

  No word came to mind to describe the look on the boy’s face. Asher had been searching for Friendly Field since well before he met Tom, but until not long ago they hadn’t been entirely convinced the place was real. So few people had heard of it, yet it was well-known in Des Crozet, twenty miles away, where their potatoes were traded.

  What was that look on the kid’s face? Disappointment? He had to have known that even if Friendly Field was real, there couldn’t be much to it. Otherwise it would have been on the maps.

  Asher looked downright grim. Maybe he’d hoped there’d be someone here to play cards with, but they both knew better than that. These people were of the Religious Society of Friends. That was where the strange name for the place had come from.

  Quakers. Tom didn’t know the first thing about them, but he had a feeling they didn’t gamble much. The boy was likely thinking the same thing.

  No poker here. Just potatoes.

  Tom snorted and pulled his hat down a bit, squinting in the sunlight. The kid’s disappointment might not last; after all, they were here without an invitatio
n and without a plan. For all either of them knew, they’d be back on the trail by midafternoon. And going where? There was no telling; Tom hadn’t thought that far ahead.

  “It isn’t what you thought it would be,” he said after a moment, leaning over to rub his mare’s head.

  Asher glanced over at him.

  “It is very nice to look at,” he said in that polite way he had. It wasn’t haughtiness; it was just the way the boy had been raised.

  Tom had a feeling he was right. Asher had hoped for something a little more robust than a few houses, a church, and a whole lot of potatoes.

  “You make your bed and you sleep in it,” Tom told him frankly. “We spent too long trying to find this place not to give it a chance.”

  Asher’s brows rose, and he gave Tom a look.

  “I was not thinking of leaving, Mr. Calvert.”

  “Well, here’s hoping they’re friendly.” Tom snorted. “Hell, they’d better be.”

  They couldn’t just admire the view all day; there were plenty of people to see as they cantered down the hill. And plenty more in the fields, their white shirts standing out clearly against the freshly worked earth. It wasn’t clear what they were doing. Not tilling, but Tom was no farmer.

  The Quakers noticed the strangers approaching. A life on the move had made Tom comfortable with being looked at this way. Everyone who played cards for a living knew him, but other folks? No.

  “Hello there,” a man called out, waving as he strode out to meet them. It was by no means warm, but he was in shirtsleeves and he’d clearly been working.

  Tom drew up and opened his mouth, but the man went on.

  “Peace be with thee,” he said.

  “And also with you,” Asher replied, the hint of a smile on his face.

  Tom raised an eyebrow. He’d expected to have to do the talking.

  “Are you known here?” the man asked personably enough. So the “thee” had been just for the greeting? That suited Tom.

  “No.” Tom swung down from his mare and pulled his walking stick from the loop on the saddle. He limped forward and put his hand out. The man shook readily.

  At least a dozen people were watching.

  Asher dismounted as well.

  “We’ve come a long way,” Tom said, and it wasn’t lost on him how peculiar he must come off. A well-dressed man with a bad limp who still hadn’t stated his business.

  But these folks looked more curious than worried.

  “Alas,” the man replied, giving him a sympathetic look, “we have only just planted.”

  Tom smiled at him.

  “We aren’t here for potatoes.”

  * * *

  * * *

  A business?”

  The man behind the desk looked as though Tom had just shot him. He glanced uncertainly at Sebastian, the man who had welcomed Tom and Asher to town—if “town” was the word. “Village,” maybe.

  Sebastian had brought him here, straight to this house, which appeared no different from any of the others, at least from the outside. It was equal parts rough and fine; though many rich touches were missing, it was still beautiful to look at. And spacious.

  Tom had sat in his share of offices that belonged to men who were, at the end of the day, in charge. This man was the one who ran the place. Thaddeus Mayfair was his name. Tom was past thirty, and this man was probably twice that, and more than twice Tom’s size. He was soft and genial, and he’d welcomed them into his office—or study, as he called it—with a good deal more enthusiasm than Tom would’ve had in his place.

  “A business,” Thaddeus repeated, frowning. He licked his lips and glanced at Sebastian, then shot Tom and Asher a smile. “I think we had best have Saul and Jeremiah here, Sebastian, if they can be found.”

  Tom and Asher had come to Friendly Field to stay, not to visit, but they had no claim, and they were not farmers. Thus, Tom had assumed that, to justify settling and making something like a living, they would have to . . . well, do something. As for what, that had seemed obvious until a few days ago, when the man giving Tom a haircut mentioned offhand that these people were Quakers.

  It seemed safe to assume there probably wasn’t much need for a saloon in Friendly Field. Unfortunately, that was probably the only business Tom would’ve been confident about starting up and running with a convincing impression of knowing what he was doing.

  Thaddeus cleared his throat and moved his chair a little closer to the desk, folding his hands as Sebastian left the room. He was about to say something, but his eyes moved to his right, and there was a child peering through the window.

  The little girl froze, and Thaddeus made a ridiculous face. She ran off.

  He looked back at Tom and Asher.

  “I don’t know precisely how to put this,” Thaddeus admitted, scratching his chin. “I do not know that I have ever fielded this query, but we are not a—or, rather, what I should say is that here we are a family. Commerce and business . . .” He moved his hands a bit vaguely. “These things exist, but perhaps not in the way that you’re accustomed to, my friends.” He hesitated, frowning. “I have to say, on the rare occasion when strangers come to our door, it is because they are seeking the light within, not profit.”

  “‘Profit’ wouldn’t be the right word for what we’re after, sir,” Tom told him frankly. “Just a living, really.”

  “Please, please do not take these words to sound unwelcoming, Mr. Smith.” There hadn’t even been a touch of suspicion when Tom had introduced himself with that name. “But could you not find a living anywhere? Why make your way to our humble fields?”

  Tom rubbed his eyes. “Well, sir, there’s a story there.” He expected the older man to cringe, as Tom certainly would have had someone said that to him—but Thaddeus only looked intrigued.

  “I am keen to hear it,” he said, “but we had best wait for my good friends to arrive. I have a notion this is something we should all hear, if that suits you.”

  “Of course. Tell me, Mr. Mayfair, what are they like—the people who choose to join your community?” Tom asked. It was up to him to do the talking; the boy hadn’t opened his mouth since stepping into this house, except to introduce himself. And even that, he’d done a bit stiffly. Of course he was anxious; this was all new.

  “Not like you,” Thaddeus replied with a smile. “And call me Thaddeus, please. We’ve known each other ten minutes now, and that should be enough to make us friends. No, only a few have come to us as you have. Families from other communities similar to ours and a few wayfarers, but not like you. You appear to have more means than ones such as those. I expect those folk come here lacking an alternative, but you—the two of you have come quite deliberately.”

  “I expect the boy must have heard good things about you,” Tom said, glancing at Asher, “because Friendly Field sure stuck in his head.”

  “Is that true, young man?”

  Asher smiled back at him. “Yes, sir. Very good things.”

  “Heavens, I wonder from whom. Well, we do have rather long-standing relationships with our vendors. Several of them are almost like family themselves. I never thought they might be out there telling people of us. And what about you, Tom?”

  “I’ll admit that I was curious to see what a place called Friendly Field would look like. Would it be as friendly as its name?”

  “Well?” Thaddeus smiled.

  “Seems nice enough to me.”

  There were muffled voices and the creaking of floorboards. They all looked as the door opened to admit Sebastian with two other men. They were both leaner than Thaddeus, but close to him in age. One wore spectacles and had a piece of cloth wrapped around his forearm as a bandage. Both were eating corn bread from cloth napkins held in their hands.

  Thaddeus looked affronted.

  “Did Mary’s mother make that?” he asked st
ernly, suddenly looking very serious.

  “Of course,” the bespectacled man replied, eying Tom and Asher with interest. He glanced at Sebastian, then swallowed and ducked his head in a sort of greeting. “Good day,” he said. “Peace be with thee.” The bearded man beside him was still chewing. “Welcome.”

  “Thank you,” Tom replied politely.

  Sebastian shut the door.

  “Shame on you, Jeremiah White. And you as well, Saul Matthews. It is rude to eat in front of guests that way.” Thaddeus gave them a scowl. “One might also call it rude not to bring me any,” he added, looking hurt.

  “Oh, just finish up here and go get some yourself,” Saul told him. He had a head of white hair, but he looked vigorous enough.

  “I intend to,” Thaddeus told him huffily. “Tom and Asher, this is Saul and Jeremiah. Our community has no need of what you might call a—a mayor or anything to that effect. Yet that might be the simplest way for you to think of the three of us. When it comes to doing things around here, we try to listen to everyone, and then the three of us quarrel about it and pray. Through the grace of God, we generally come to an agreement in time. So you understand why it’s for the best that they be here.”

  “Seems reasonable,” Tom replied.

  “These two young men,” Thaddeus said to the others, indicating Tom and Asher, “have come to us intending to start a business in Friendly Field. Have I understood you on that matter?”

  “More or less,” Tom told him, shrugging. “It might be more precise to say we’re looking to make a life, and I just figured that starting a business was how I’d do it.”

  Saul and Jeremiah wore identical expressions of puzzlement.

  “Do you come from our brothers in Northley?” Jeremiah asked, wrapping up the crumbs of his corn bread.

  “No.” Tom smiled. “We’re heathens, I’m afraid.”

  Saul snorted. “Are you in a business relating to potatoes?”

  “I play cards. I’m a gambler.”