by John Shirley
BERKLEY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
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Copyright © 2020 by The Estate of Ralph Compton
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Ebook ISBN: 9780593102336
First Edition: November 2020
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.
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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
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
Abilene, Kansas, 1871
It was a hot, dusty day, but Seth Coe was in a good mood. The long trail drive was over, and he had been paid. Seth, Franklin, and Jake were standing by the corral gate, at the big holding on the north side of Abilene, Kansas, in the bright summer sunshine.
“How’s it come I got only a hundred dollars for all my work on this drive, Seth, and you got a hundred eighty?” Jake asked, counting his money.
“I’ll tell you why,” said Seth, smiling as he turned away from the cattle pen that sunny afternoon. “Besides being a drover, I was remuda wrangler, seeing as how Henry Graham died two weeks into the drive, and that means I got me an extra forty dollars—and I saved your bacon by pulling you out of that flash flood, so Cullin give me another forty as a bonus.”
“A bonus for saving me?” Jake demanded, scowling. “Why, saving a man’s life should be done out of pure decency.”
Franklin snorted. “Jake, Seth almost died himself pulling your chestnuts from that gully washer!”
The cattle jostled and mooed and snorted on the other side of the raw-timber fence, stirring up a cloud of dust as the three cowboys walked away toward downtown, pleased to be leaving the beasts they’d driven north for more than two months.
Franklin Trotter, Seth’s longtime pal, was a year older than Seth. He was six feet three and wide shouldered and heavy bellied. He had long brown hair, thick swooping mustaches, and a broad, affable face, his small blue eyes always glinting with mischief. Like the others he was still wearing his chaps, his red calico shirt, a bandanna tied around his neck, rough tan trousers, and a gun on his hip. “Here’s what should concern you, Jake,” said Franklin. “Seth was paid a forty-dollar bonus for risking his neck saving yours. That means Cullin figures your life’s only worth forty dollars!”
“Also means my life, too, is only worth forty dollars,” said Seth. “Jumping in that flood was a fool thing to do.” He grinned. “I think I should’ve gotten eighty.”
“Why, if you profited by me,” said Jake, a middling man with a weak chin half hidden by a slapdash beard, “I should have half that money, shouldn’t I?”
“You should thank your stars anyone bothered to go in after you, Jake Hersted,” said Franklin. “Now, who’s for going to the Prancing Lady with me for a drink?”
“Suits me,” said Jake.
“I’ll have a beer and something to eat if it’s truly edible,” said Seth. “Then I’m for a bath.”
They picked up their pace as they headed toward the saloon, their boots clomping the wooden sidewalk, and fingering his money poke, Franklin said, “I think I’ll play me some Spanish monte.”
“Odds are bad with Spanish monte, my pa told me,” said Seth. “A little better in draw poker if you’re careful.”
“Then why don’t you play poker?” Franklin asked. “Been at the railhead with you three times. You never played a hand.”
“Because I don’t see why I should risk my money, whatever the odds,” replied Seth. He was at least a head shorter than his friend Franklin and stocky; he had scrappily cut black hair—he cut it himself to save money—and big brown eyes he’d inherited from his half-Mexican mother; his stub nose he’d gotten from his Irish father. There was said to be some Lipan Apache in there, too. “I’ve gone to a power of trouble to save up money. Now this is my fifth trail drive, and on my oath, my last! I’ve saved three hundred and forty dollars on the last four drives, and I aim to save a hundred and sixty from this one. That’s five hundred dollars!”
“You are the savingest cowpoke I ever met,” said Jake. “Never buying new clothes, always patching up the old ones.”
“That’s why they call him Patches,” said Franklin.
Seth frowned at that. He despised the nickname. “They’re going to call you Busted Nose if you don’t quit saying that, Franklin.”
Franklin grinned. “Why, you’re so short, you couldn’t reach my nose!”
Jake laughed at that. They came to the Prancing Lady and paused at the door, seeing Marshal Hickok, resplendent in a cream-colored suit, French cuffs, and a broad-brimmed yellow hat, standing on the wooden sidewalk across the dusty street, glaring at them. He had shoulder-length honey blond hair and drooping blond mustaches. Hickok glared at everyone he didn’t know. It was a clear enough message. Whatever it is you’re a-thinkin’ on pullin
’ in my town, don’t.
“I don’t care for the idea of staying in this dust bowl of a town long, Franklin,” murmured Seth. “I saw Hickok there shoot a man in Hays City for getting on his nerves—seems like he’ll shoot you if you look at him cross-eyed.”
“He had a good reason for that gunning in Hays,” said Franklin. “Why, he never shot a man who didn’t need shooting.”
“Still and all—he makes me nervous, and I’ve done nothing wrong. Well, come on, I’ll have a glass of beer with you fellas and watch you lose your money. Then I’m for a bath at the Drover’s Inn, might even spring for a haircut.”
The trio of cowboys went into the Prancing Lady Saloon—which was already half full, though it was not yet three in the afternoon—and made straight for the bar. Seth ordered a beer, and the other two ordered whiskey. A gangly saloon girl, who looked more like a saloon matron to Seth’s eye, leaned back against the bar, eyeing the three cowboys. She had a horsey face much coated with white makeup and daubed with rouge, and sausage-curled peroxide-bleached hair. Her smile seemed genuine, though, if a little sad. “What can we get for you gents today?” she asked.
“What’s your name, miss?” Seth asked.
“Caroline.”
“Caroline, my name’s Seth. Say, does this saloon have luncheon?”
“You could call it that, Seth,” she said.
“Between you, me, and the gatepost—is it worth eating?”
“Well—anyhow, it won’t kill you.”
“That’s good enough for me. Do you suppose I could hope for a sandwich with any meat but beef and some cheese?”
“I’ll see to it, Seth. How about you boys?”
“I’ll have two such sandwiches,” declared Franklin, whose appetite was legendary, “and another whiskey.”
“Another whiskey for me, too,” said Jake, eyeing the faro table.
Seth and Franklin ate passable sandwiches, and Seth turned to contemplate the saloon. There were five tables, four of them ringed by cowboys Seth knew well, including Rudy Rodriguez, Gus Rossner, and ’Baccy Smith from the Cullin Ranch drive, who were playing poker with a tall, gaunt man in a lavender-colored bowler hat. A potbellied stove stood in a back corner, unused now, and in the other was a Mulatto dealer presiding over a semicircular green felt table, chattering at the three drovers who stood gaping at the cards. In between, against a wall, was a tobacco-stained upright piano, highly unlikely to be in tune.
Franklin nudged Seth with his elbow and whispered, “Tell you what, Seth—there’s two seats at that poker table yonder. I’ll wager tomorrow’s breakfast, all you can eat, that the card wisdom your pa taught you won’t be worth a hill of beans at that table, and you’ll fold your tent before I do.”
“You’ll wager what?”
“Whichever one of us quits first buys breakfast tomorrow.”
Seth frowned. He didn’t like to risk his money; he was saving in the cause of a long-term plan, which was something else his pa had taught him. But he didn’t like to spurn Franklin’s wagers—they were an old tradition between the two—and he said, “I’m not promising to go broke on that table, but if I’m careful, I can sure outlast a tyro like you. You’re on!”
Ten minutes later Seth was seated across from the gambler in the lavender hat and laying his first bet on the table. . . .
* * *
* * *
Rusk Ruskett had been a bounty hunter for five years, and he’d never learned to like it. He mulled this sad fact over as he rode his roan stallion on the wide dirt trail to Abilene under a brooding afternoon sun. Every single time he went out after a man, he swore it was his last. But by jingo, he made enough in bounties, four or five times a year, that the rest of the year he could sit on his porch, drinking hard cider, smoking a pipe, and listening to his Sioux wife sing Injun songs as she worked. Bounty hunting seemed worth it, in the long stretches between hunts. He could go fishing when he wanted to; he could hunt game; he could make merry with his Nawaji. Otherwise he’d be slaving away on some other feller’s ranch all for a verminous bunk and a puny poke of dollars.
But this whole business of a man all alone hunting outlaws was dangerous and grueling. Rusk had been wounded twice on the job, once by knife and once by gun. The long, hot days in the saddle, the dealings with lawmen who didn’t approve of him, the endless interviews with those who might have seen the outlaw he was chasing, and the tedium of it all—it just didn’t seem worth it sometimes.
Now he was tracking a man who wasn’t even “wanted dead or alive.” That meant to get his bounty he had to drag this Hannibal Fisher owlhoot back to Judge Isaac Parker alive. Most tiresome, that was. Much easier to just shoot them and sling them over his pack mule. But it was in most places a legal hazard to shoot his quarry even in self-defense—because often enough it was out in the Big Lonesome somewhere, without witnesses. How was he to prove it was self-defense?
Hannibal Fisher was likely a dangerous man. The gambler in the lavender hat was wanted for stabbing a businessman to death in Kansas City over some bunco scheme gone foul. He had shot a faro dealer in Tuscaloosa, too, but that was ruled a legal killing. As Fisher had not yet been proven to be the murderer in the stabbing case, it was not a question of dead or alive. He must be tried. Rusk was therefore not permitted to shoot the man from cover and get it over with.
Rusk scratched in his thick black beard and shook his shaggy head. A most chancy hunt, this was.
Rusk’s stallion trotted him around a curve, and he saw the rooftops of Abilene some distance ahead. He patted the shirt pocket holding the lavender, the plant itself. Searching for Fisher, Rusk had discovered that few knew what the color lavender was, so he brought the flower.
“He always wears a bowler hat this color,” he would say, brandishing the blossom. “Last seen here in Abilene. Got a face like an undertaker. You seen him?”
* * *
* * *
The itinerant gambler sitting across the poker table had a long, gaunt, clean-shaven face that made Seth think of an undertaker. The expression on the man’s face could have belonged to an undertaker, too, somber but rather blank.
But there was something in the gambler’s gray eyes that made Seth think of the points of well-sharpened knives. The man was angry because Seth had won five hundred eighty dollars from him. The gambler had held what he supposed were winning hands—three queens one time, two pair, jacks and kings, another. But Seth had been lucky and shown a full house against the queens and triple deuces against the two pair. Seth guessed the gambler must’ve been having a string of good luck before this game, as he’d had a goodly poke to bet from; but maybe bad luck before coming to Abilene, for the man’s pin-striped dark blue suit, which must’ve been fine once, judging from the fabric and the tailoring, was frayed about the cuffs; one shoulder seam was coming loose, and his lavender bowler was badly scuffed. Now this gambler was even poorer than he’d been before, Seth reckoned.
It was Franklin’s turn to deal, and he shuffled the deck and dealt the cards. The gambler discarded two, Franklin discarded one, Seth tossed two cards into the deadwood, Jake folded, and so did the half-drunk red-bearded farmhand. Seth had started with a king and queen of spades and a four of spades. His two new cards were a deuce and jack of spades. He had a king-high flush.
Franklin bet ten dollars; the gambler made it twenty; Franklin called the raise, and slow-playing his flush, Seth just called. The gambler, his face stony, raised the pot fifty dollars. Franklin swore under his breath and folded. He’d probably been hoping to fill a straight, Seth figured. Seth raised, risking eighty dollars—since he had won more than that already.
The gambler stared at him for a long moment, then said, “Make it one hundred forty.” And he threw the rest of the cash he had on the table into the pot.
Seth knew he risked losing the hand if he called. The gambler could beat him with an ac
e-high flush, a full house, or four of a kind. But he figured if he lost this hand, he’d still be ahead. Unlike most cowboys, he had no trouble quitting while he was ahead.
“I expect I’d better call you,” he said, and showed his king-high flush.
A blaze of red showed on the gambler’s face, and his lips compressed to a bloodless line as he folded his cards.
Franklin whistled softly as Seth scooped in the pot.
“Well, I am done losing money to you, Seth,” said Franklin, shaking his head ruefully. “I’m going to quit while I’ve still got a nickel or two left to buy that breakfast.”
“Catch you round the mountain,” said Seth, stacking his winnings as Franklin stood up.
The gambler turned in his chair, bent down, and took off his boot. He reached into it and pulled out ten folded twenty-dollar bills.
“My turn to deal,” he growled, tossing the money on the table.
“You got another two hundred in the other boot?” Franklin asked innocently. He sat down again. “Think I’ll keep an eye on this game.”
Shuffling the deck, the gambler glared at him. “You mean something by that?”
“Just what I said.”
The gambler dealt the cards. He examined his cards and discarded three, casually fanning them at the edge of the discard pile—which seemed dodgy to Seth.
Not liking the looks of his own cards, Seth discarded three as well, keeping only a ten of diamonds and a jack of clubs. Jake discarded two. The farmhand rubbed his chin, muttered inaudibly, then tossed three. They received their replacement cards, and Seth found he had an ace-high straight. He decided he needed a bet but not so big it’d induce the others to fold. He tossed twenty into the pot.
“That all you going to bet, Seth,” Jake asked, “after getting your pay, that big bonus, and clutching the rest of the money you saved like a—”
