BERKLEY
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Copyright © 2021 by The Estate of Ralph Compton
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BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN: 9780593102299
First Edition: January 2021
Cover art by Dennis Lyall
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
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
The woman grabbed the sleeve of the passing conductor.
“My daughter is choking,” she said in a panicked tone. “Is there a doctor on board?”
“I’ll see, ma’am,” the conductor promised.
He ran through the car, asking for a doctor, and then into the next car before a man stood up and said, “I’m a doctor.”
“Come with me, please,” the conductor said. “Quickly.”
“Wait! Let me get my bag.” The man reached up to the rack above his seat and pulled down his black bag. “All right.”
The conductor led the young man into the next car where people were standing in the aisle, watching something.
“There,” the conductor said, pointing.
The doctor waded through the onlookers to a seat where a woman was sitting with a young girl who was perhaps three or four years old. She seemed to be having trouble breathing and was turning blue.
“Get these people back!” the doctor yelled. “Ma’am, let me sit.”
The mother, her eyes frightened and tearful, moved from her seat to the one opposite. The doctor sat in her seat and leaned over the little girl, whose eyes were also terrified.
“Easy, sweetheart,” he said, “You’re going to be fine. Open your mouth for me.”
She did as he asked. He peered in, put two fingers into her mouth.
“C-can you help her?” her mother asked. “She—she can’t breathe!”
He took a long metal instrument from his bag, held the girl’s mouth open, and reached in with it. The girl started to cry.
“Take it easy,” he said. “It’ll be over soon.”
“What is that?” the mother asked. “What are you doing?”
“These are forceps,” he told her, “they’re used to do . . . this.”
He gripped what was in the girl’s throat with the tips of the forceps and then drew it out. Suddenly, the girl took a deep breath and then started crying loudly.
“Omigod!” the mother said. She leaned forward, grabbed the little girl, and pulled her into her arms. “Thank you! Thank you! You saved her.”
The doctor leaned forward and stroked the little girl’s hair.
“She’ll be fine. Take her to the dining car and get her some hot tea with honey.”
“Yes, sir,” the mother said. “I will. What was that in her throat?”
The doctor held it between his thumb and forefinger and showed it to her.
“A bullet?” the mother said. “Where could she have gotten that?”
“Probably from the floor,” the doctor said. “We’re heading west, ma’am. These things are going to be everywhere. You’ll have to watch her carefully.”
“Oh God!” the mother said, hugging the girl tightly.
The doctor grabbed his bag and stood up. When he found himself facing the older conductor he dropped the bullet into his hand.
“You ought to clean these floors from time to time,” he said.
“Let me see that,” a man across the aisle said. The conductor opened his hand and showed him. “That looks like it’s from a Winchester rifle.”
“Whatever it’s from,” the doctor said, “it shouldn’t have been on the floor.”
“Do you know how many people with guns ride this train?” the conductor asked.
“Do you know how many children will be riding the train as more people move west?” the doctor asked.
Before the conductor could answer, the doctor moved on to return to his ow
n car.
* * *
* * *
Just a short time later the doctor entered the dining car to have his lunch and saw the mother and little girl seated at a table.
“Oh, Doctor,” the mother said, as he walked past, “please, join us.”
“No, that’s all right—”
“Please,” she said. “Franny wants to say thank you for what you did.”
He looked around. Even though there were empty tables available, he decided to take the woman up on her offer.
“All right, thank you,” he said, sitting across from them.
“I don’t even know your name,” she said.
“It’s Gabriel,” he said. “Dr. Gabriel Kincaid.”
“My name is Abby—Abigail Cottrell. This is my daughter, Franny.” She stroked her daughter’s hair. “Franny, tell the doctor what we practiced.”
She looked at him shyly and said, “Thank you for saving my life.”
“You’re welcome, sweetie,” he said. “Drink your tea.”
She leaned in and took a sip from her cup.
A black waiter came over to the table.
“Suh?”
“A bowl of beef stew, please,” Dr. Kincaid said. He looked at Abby. “Would you like anything?”
“I, uh, no. I don’t have—We can’t aff—”
“When is the last time the two of you ate?” he asked.
“Um, sometime yesterday,” she said. “I, uh, used the last of my funds to buy the tickets for this train.”
“That might explain why Franny put a bullet in her mouth,” he said. “She’s hungry. I’ll bet you are, too.”
“Yes, well . . .”
“Please bring the lady a bowl of beef stew,” the doctor said to the waiter, “and bring Franny a bowl of soup.”
“What kind, sir?” the waiter said. “We have chicken, and beef barley.”
Gabriel looked at Abby.
“Chicken,” she said.
“Bring her chicken,” he told the waiter.
As the waiter walked away he said to Abby, “It’ll still be a while before she can eat something solid. Her throat’s pretty sore.”
“Thank you,” Abby said. “I’m afraid this trek from Philadelphia was more expensive than I had realized.”
“Philadelphia,” Dr. Kincaid said. “I’m coming from New York, myself.”
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To a town in Kansas,” he said. “I understand they’re going to be needing a doctor, as their longtime physician is about to retire.”
“That’s wonderful!” she said. “They’re going to be lucky to have you.”
“I hope you’re right,” he said. “Where are you headed?”
“We’re actually going to Kansas,” she said. “I’m a schoolteacher.”
“What part of Kansas?” he asked.
“A small town called Craddock,” she said, “located somewhere between Hays City and Dodge City.”
“Well, it sounds like we might be neighbors,” Kincaid said. “I’m actually going to Hays.”
“If I understand correctly,” she said, “the children of Hays will be going to my school. Craddock and Hays are both in Ellis County.”
“Well then, we will be neighbors,” he said.
“Will you be my doctor?” Franny asked.
“It looks like I will, Franny.”
That made her smile.
When their food came, Franny ate slowly, until the hot soup performed some magic on her throat. Still, there were bits of chicken that she chewed slowly.
“If the chicken is too hard to swallow, honey,” Kincaid said, “then just have the broth.”
“I’m hungry,” she complained. “I want the chicken.”
“Then you’re a brave little girl,” Kincaid said.
For the rest of the meal Kincaid allowed Abby to do most of the talking. She discussed what she was hoping to do in the school, and how she hoped Ellis County would be a good place for Franny to grow up.
“The area’s not as wild as it once was,” he told her. “I think it’ll be a fine place for her.”
“How much do you know about it?” she asked.
“Not as much as I’m going to learn when I get there,” he said.
“Do you know the doctor who’s retiring?” she asked.
“Never met him. He posted an ad in Eastern newspapers, which I answered, as did a dozen other doctors.”
“And he chose you?”
“He did.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“Well,” he said, “I’m coming all this way, but I’ll still be on probation for a while. He’ll be showing me the ropes, and we’ll see if the people of Ellis County accept me.”
“If they ask me, they will,” Abby assured him.
“I may take you up on that, Abby. May I call you Abby?”
“Of course,” she said.
“And you can call me Gabriel—or Gabe.”
“Dr. Gabe,” Franny said, with a smile.
“Right you are,” he said. “Dr. Gabe.”
* * *
* * *
When the train pulled into Hays City, Dr. Kincaid stepped off carrying two bags. He looked up and down the station as other passengers disembarked. Farther along he saw Abby Cottrell and Franny step down. The little girl saw him, and waved. He was about to walk over to them when he heard his name.
“Dr. Kincaid?”
He turned and saw a middle-aged woman standing before him, staring curiously.
“Yes, I’m Dr. Kincaid.”
“Dr. Edwin sent me to meet you,” she said. “My name is Maggie Ward.”
“Are you his nurse?”
She smiled, which made her a few years younger, and softer.
“I’m not a nurse,” she said. “I’m more of a housekeeper, but I do lots of things for him. He wants me to bring you to his house.”
“All right,” Kincaid said. “I just need to say goodbye to someone. Can you wait?”
“Sure.”
He put his bags down, walked over to where Abby and Franny were standing.
“Do you have a way of getting to Craddock?” he asked.
“Someone is picking us up,” she said.
“Would you like me to wait with you?”
“No, we’ll be fine.”
“Do you need some money?”
“You’ve done more than enough for us, Gabe,” Abby said. “And I can see you have someone waiting for you.”
He looked over at Maggie Ward and said, “Yes, I do.”
“Then you better go,” she said. “We’ll see you again.”
He looked down at Franny, put his hand on her head, and said, “See you soon, honey.”
“’Bye, Doc Gabe.”
Doc Gabe walked over to Maggie Ward, picked up his bags, and followed her.
CHAPTER TWO
Doc!” Maggie Ward shouted as they entered the house. “You here, Doc?”
No answer.
“He might be with a patient,” she said.
Kincaid put his bags down.
“Does he see patients here?” he asked.
“Sometimes,” she said. “He has an office in town, but once in a while somebody comes here. He might also have been called out somewhere. Why don’t you have a seat, make yourself comfortable? I’ll go out back and see if his buggy’s here.”
“All right,” Kincaid said.
As Maggie left, he looked at the large room, furnished with an aged, overstuffed sofa, two matching armchairs, a slightly pitted wooden coffee table. From the outside the house had years on it, but everything about it inside looked solid.
There was no staircase, so it was obvious the house was all on one f
loor. He decided to have a quick look in the other rooms. He knew that Dr. Samuel Edwin was an elderly man, on the verge of retirement. He just hoped he wouldn’t find him lying somewhere in the house.
He checked the kitchen and the two bedrooms in the house. One was a mess, obviously the one the doctor used. The other was very neat.
Kincaid was sitting on the sofa when Maggie came back in the front door with a cantankerous old man he assumed was Dr. Edwin.
“Don’t tell me I can’t go out and tend to a patient on my own, woman!” Dr. Edwin said, sharply.
“All you had to do was wait until I got back,” she said.
That was when Kincaid noticed that the old sawbones was limping.
“What happened?” he asked.
“He twisted his knee getting in and out of the buggy,” she said.
“I’m fine, damn it!”
Dr. Samuel Edwin was a small, wizened-looking man. He was pale and white-haired, barely five and a half feet tall. His face was etched with lines he had earned over the course of his life, and Kincaid doubted that many of them were the result of a smile.
“No, you’re not fine,” Maggie scolded. “Let Dr. Kincaid have a look.”
“This is the feller?” Dr. Edwin asked, looking at Kincaid. “You the one answerin’ my ad for somebody to replace me?”
“I’m the one, Doctor. Can I have a look at that leg?”
Dr. Edwin eyed Dr. Kincaid for a few moments, then said, “Oh, all right. That’s the only way this woman will leave me alone. Let’s go in the back.”
“In the back” turned out to be a small room Kincaid had missed.
“This is where I see patients when they come to my door,” Dr. Edwin said, limping into the room.
“Let me help you up onto that table,” Kincaid offered.
“I don’t need no help!” Edwin snapped. “I can get up onto a table by myself.”
“Just like you can get in and out of the buggy by yourself,” Maggie said, bringing up the rear.
“Goddamn it, woman!” Edwin snapped. “Make yourself useful and go make some coffee.”
Maggie looked at Kincaid, who said, “We’ll be all right, Miss Ward.”
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