by Tony Healey
The name on his lips
“I saw the man,” Ethan said, the surety of his deep voice cutting through everything.
Denton faced him, his expression cocksure. “You did, huh?”
“In fact, I fought with him that night. He was as big as a giant,” Ethan said. He stepped away from the bar. “Makes you wonder where a man like that might find employment.”
The two women at the table tensed, drinks halfway to their mouths.
“A circus, maybe,” Denton said easily, sipping more of his whiskey. “Alongside trick riders and lion tamers.”
Ethan smiled, but it was devoid of humor or mirth. “You could be right.”
Denton drank the last of the whiskey from the glass and signaled McBride to refill it.
“Or could be he works for you,” Ethan said.
Denton drummed his fingers on the counter. “That what you reckon?” he said, eyes narrowing to slits. “Grand theories you got there, new kid.” McBride refilled the glass in Denton’s hand, but he did not move to drink from it. “What did you say your name was, again?”
“Ethan.”
“Yeah, I got that part, friend,” Denton said. He stepped away from the bar and took several steps toward Ethan. “You never told me your last name.”
“Harper,” Ethan said without hesitation. He felt a kind of relief at being able to say it out loud. To let Denton see him for who he really was.
Jack Denton’s eyes went wide. “Harper?”
“That’s right. Ethan Harper.”
Denton faltered, all his bluster and ego falling away. “Harper . . . ,” he said quietly, the name dying on his lips.
BERKLEY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
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Copyright © 2021 by The Estate of Ralph Compton
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Ebook ISBN: 9780593333884
First Edition: June 2021
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.
pid_prh_5.7.0_c0_r0
For Lesley and our Little Women:
Leah, Freya, Olivia & Lola
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
The Immortal Cowboy
Prologue
Part One: Dirt to Dirt
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Part Two: Best Served Cold
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Part Three: Blood for Blood
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
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
Glendon Hart leaned back in his chair and wiped his mouth with a napkin. His wife, Celia, had outdone herself that evening, cooking the best rabbit stew he’d ever eaten.
“I am fit to burst,” he said, patting his paunch. When they were first married, he had been lean and wiry. But since buying the land, building the house and settling down, Glendon and Celia had become comfortable. They’d had two children, barely a year apart, and aside from the daily chores and stresses associated with running a farm, Glendon saw fit to enjoy the fruits of his labors now that he’d earned them. “I don’t think I could eat another thing if I tried.”
Celia collected his plate. “Glad you enjoyed it,” she said, kissing him on the forehead as she headed for the kitchen. “I’m guessin’ by that last statement you won’t want a slice of pie, then. . . .”
That afternoon, when Glendon had finished work and stood washing his face and hands, he’d watched Celia fill the pastry base with apples and sugar. With a swift but delicate grace, she’d laid the lid on the pie and crimped the edges with her fingers so fast, he couldn’t work out how she got it to look so good. If he ever tried something like that, it would have ended up a mess for sure. But he could smell that pie now, fresh out of the oven, and wondered if he might be able to conjure up room for a sliver.
“Well, I never say never, as you know all too well,” Glendon called through.
“Thought as much,” Celia replied.
He stood, patting his stomach again. Had any man on God’s green earth ever eaten so well? He doubted it. “Want some help?”
Celia appeared in the doorway. “In here?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“In the kitchen?”
He smiled. “Yes.”
“No I do not. Last thing I need is you coming in here, breaking crockery and putting things where they have no right in being, Glendon Hart.”
He sauntered toward her. “Well, wife of mine, if you do say so . . .”
They kissed, and as she parted from him, Celia gave him a gentle pat on the behind. “If you wanna do something, go check on those children of ours. I just know they’re into something.”
“How do you know that?”
“A mother’s intuitio
n. They’re up there getting into trouble.”
Glendon headed for the stairs. “What if they ain’t?”
“Then they’re thinking about it,” Celia said. “Anyway, they need to get ready for bed.”
He threw a sarcastic salute her way. “Yes, ma’am, I’m on the case.” Outside, the sky had darkened with just a glow of sunset on the horizon, and the first glimmer of stars peeking through the black-blue firmament. Upstairs, Glendon found Maria sitting on her bed with her dolly, undressing it and talking to it in a soothing tone. She was five and precocious. Glendon wondered if there existed a child who was not precocious and reckoned there wasn’t. “What’re you doing, honey?”
“Giving Annabelle a bath.”
“Oh, really?” Glendon asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Did she get herself into mischief today?”
“She’s always getting into mischief.”
He smiled. “So what did she do today?”
“Annabelle was mussing down at the river,” Maria said, sounding far older than her years. Maria had been talking since the age of two and hadn’t stopped. It had taken Matthew a lot longer to talk in whole sentences.
Glendon guessed it was true that girls developed a lot quicker than boys. Maria was certainly smart as they came. He touched his daughter’s hair. “Mussing on the river, huh?”
“In all the mud. Daddy, look at her.”
“I can see that,” Glendon said. “Don’t be too long bathing her, though, honey, I think it’s nearing bedtime. Your mama’s sent me up here to give you your marching orders.”
“Okay, Daddy. I won’t be long.”
Glendon turned to Matthew, who was sitting on the floor, practicing with his cup and ball toys. Holding one in each hand, he sent the balls up and attempted to land them back in the cups with a single jerk of his hands. “You’re getting better,” Glendon said, leaning against the doorframe. “Steadiest hands I’ve ever seen, son.”
Matthew shrugged as he practiced with the cup and ball toys again. He was six, with a thick head of black hair. He took after Celia’s side of the family. Looked like her, too. Maria resembled Glendon. She had the Hart look to her. But Matthew was his mother’s son, and Glendon didn’t mind that one bit. He happened to think the world of his wife, and if looking at his children made him think of Celia, that was no bad thing as far as he could see. No bad thing at all.
“I want to have the fastest hands in the West,” Matthew said.
“Why’s that?” Glendon asked, trying to refrain from smiling too much.
“So I can go learn to shoot with both hands, become a gunslinger, very best there is,” Matthew said matter-of-factly as if fame and fortune were destined to come his way the moment he was old enough to own a set of six-shooters. “I might be the next Ashford Sinclair.”
“I’m pretty sure he’s in prison, Matthew.”
His son shrugged. “Sherman Knowles, then.”
“I see,” Glendon said, smiling. “So that’s why you’re using the cup and ball.”
“Yeah, so I can get as good with my left as I am with my right,” Matthew said. “The best gunslingers shoot with both hands.”
“Maybe when you get a little older, I’ll take you out, practice shooting cans with the rifle.”
“Really?”
“Teach you how to clean and load it, too. There’s a lot more to owning a gun than simply shooting it.”
“Okay, Pa.”
“Sounds like we got us a plan,” Glendon said. “So how’re you gettin’ on with your books?”
“I quit reading ’em,” Matthew said, flipping the balls up once again and catching them both on the first try.
“Why?”
Matthew shrugged as he tossed again. “It’s boring.”
“Well, that ain’t the attitude to have, Matthew. Books are important. I didn’t learn my words until later in life. Your mother taught me. I want you to know ’em before you finish school. I want you to know more than I did at your age.”
“But it’s too hard,” Matthew said.
“Just because something’s hard, don’t mean you should give up on trying at it. Look at you and that cup and ball. It’s all practice, son. That’s all it is. With enough practice you can do whatever the hell you want.”
Matthew considered this for a moment. “Okay, Pa. I’ll try.”
“That’s good,” Glendon said. “Now come on, you have to get ready for bed soon.”
“I know. Just ten more minutes,” Matthew said. “Please?”
Glendon nodded. “Okay, then. Ten more minutes.”
He went downstairs and found a slice of apple pie waiting for him. Celia was already eating hers, taking little bites with a fork, her small mouth working in its tidy way. In all the harshness of the land in which they lived, in all the grit and mud, his wife was a smooth gemstone.
It was Glendon’s turn to kiss her on the top of the head. “Hey there.”
“Are they set for bed?” Celia asked as he resumed his seat.
“I gave ’em their marching orders.”
Celia cocked an eyebrow. “I’ll take that as a no, then.”
“I gave ’em ten more minutes,” Glendon conceded. He picked up his fork and assessed the pie wedge. “Now, this looks good.”
“You say that every time.”
“Because it always looks good.”
“Heard you talking to Matthew up there.”
Glendon chuckled. “Damn kid reckons himself the next Sherman Knowles. Thinks he’s gonna be ridin’ around, shootin’ holes in people for a living. Get his name in all the papers.”
“I despair with that boy,” Celia said. “Hopefully just another phase.”
“Yeah, hopefully,” Glendon said. He used the fork to cut into the pie, lifted a piece to his mouth but stopped dead in his tracks, listening. A sound rose from outside. At first, because it was only faint, he couldn’t decide what it was. But seconds later, it drew closer and he knew. Horses approaching the house.
“What is it?” Celia asked. “Something wrong with the pie?”
He set his fork down. “Visitors,” he said, rising, the chair legs squealing on the hard stone floor.
“At this hour?” Celia asked, getting up also.
Glendon opened the front door and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The last light of dusk had evaporated now, leaving only the pale of night. A pile of black cloud passed in front of the moon, obscuring the light and preventing him from making out who was approaching the house. Then it passed, and in the moon’s cool glow, he saw two riders on horseback.
“Who goes there?” he called.
Celia appeared at his back, whispering, “Who is it?”
“Don’t know,” he whispered back.
He squinted in the din, trying to make out their faces. Then, as the riders got closer, he saw the masks obscuring their features. The kind of masks bandits wore. Glendon ushered Celia back and slammed the door shut. “Get upstairs,” he growled. “Now!”
“Oh, my God, Glendon, who are they?”
“Just do as I say!”
Celia ran for the stairs.
The sound of the hooves stopped. Glendon heard the heavy crunch of boots on the dry dirt outside the house. Glendon made for his rifle up on the wall. Unloaded because he worried one of the children would have an accident with it. He lifted the rifle down, then grabbed a handful of ammunition. He fumbled, trying to load it, his hands jittering. The floorboards upstairs creaked as Celia roused their son and daughter from their room, speaking to them in hushed tones he could not discern.
No more footsteps from outside.
A moment of silence when all he could hear was his own frantic breathing and his shaking hands struggling to load the rifle.
The front door flew open in an explosion of split timber.
Glendon looked up. The rifle wasn’t loaded but he raised it anyway. A giant of a man entered the house. Three masked women followed him, pistols drawn, hammers cocked. The thin material of their masks sucked in and out as they breathed.
There were no words—only their eyes, cold and dispassionate.
Glendon backed away, still struggling to push ammunition into the rifle. He’d never been much use with a gun. Never had much call for it. “I don’t know what you want, but you don’t have to do this,” he said, fighting hard to keep the quaver out of his voice. “You’re trespassing on private property.”
One of the women aimed, her arm outstretched. Glendon barely had time to react. The woman fired, the bullet tearing into Glendon’s left shoulder, knocking him to the floor. His rifle clattered away across the hard stone. Glendon groaned, throbbing agony coursing through his body from the gunshot. He tried to get up, but the giant man who’d broken through the door was already on him, his boot on Glendon’s chest, pinning him.
One of the masked women said, “I’ll get the others,” and slowly climbed the stairs, her boots thudding on each step, spurs jingling.
“No . . . ,” Glendon cried, knowing there was no way out up there. The floorboards on the landing creaked under the woman’s weight. He heard Celia’s terrified scream. In a small part of his brain, Glendon thought that his wife could barricade the children in one of the rooms to buy precious seconds. They could jump from a window. If they were lucky, they would land unhurt and make a run for it. Find their way to town and rouse the sheriff and his deputy.
The giant pushed down harder with his boot, and Glendon grimaced in pain. Moments ago, there had been pie. His children had been playing in their room, hurting nobody. Now his story was about to end, right there on the floor he had laid, in the house that he had built, on the land he’d bought with his own hard work and determination.
It wasn’t right. It wasn’t the way it was meant to end.
Another of the women followed her comrade up the stairs, smiling under her mask. Enjoying every second of it. Glendon groaned in anguish. The woman who’d shot him came to stand next to the man mountain pinning him to the ground. She looked down at him, cocked the hammer back on her gun again and aimed it at his face.
