Ralph Compton The Cheyenne Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “Fine. I’d enjoy your company,” Jeff said.

  “Honey, count out five thousand of that, will you?” Chip asked.

  Carlene counted out five thousand dollars and handed the bills to Chip.

  “Be careful,” she said. “Don’t get robbed.”

  “I see he’s armed,” Jeff said. “Like you were expecting trouble out here.”

  “A precaution,” Chip said. “I don’t trust Hamilton. I’m armed and all my hands are packin’ iron and carrying rifles on their horses.”

  “I hope you won’t have trouble with Hamilton,” Jeff said. “From what I hear, he’s hard as nails.”

  “And maybe just one step ahead of the law,” Chip said.

  He stuffed the money inside two front pockets and hugged Carlene.

  “Hurry back,” she whispered to him.

  Both men walked outside and unhitched their horses.

  Carlene waved to them from the doorway as the two men rode away.

  Then she realized that she still had a handful of bills and retreated to put the money in a safe place.

  She counted the bills again before placing them in a strongbox they kept in their bedroom. She locked the box and put the key under her mattress.

  Her hands shook from nervousness.

  She walked back into the front room and opened the gun cabinet. She took out a loaded double-barrel shotgun and a box of shells.

  Then she sat down in a chair she pulled over to the window.

  “Just you try anything, Mr. Hamilton,” she said to no one. “Just you try.”

  And she waited for her husband’s return, her face a mask of eternal patience.

  Chapter 55

  Reese and Red Beaver crossed a small creek. It was still dark, just before dawn, when they splashed through the gentle waters of the meandering creek. The stars were still out, and so was the sliver of moon that glistened in its waters. Reese looked back and saw Lonnie on point, the herd just behind him. He waited on the other side of the creek for Lonnie to catch up.

  “What’s holding you up, Reese?” Lonnie asked when he reined his horse to a halt on the opposite bank. “Something wrong?”

  There was a joyous smile on Reese’s face.

  “Nothing wrong, Lonnie. I just wanted you to be the first to know.”

  “Know what?”

  “Red Beaver and I just stepped onto the Flying U Ranch.”

  “What? We’re there?” Lonnie’s face contorted in incredulity.

  “Yep. See them wagon tracks behind me?” Reese said. He pointed to a dim trail through the withered grass.

  “Yeah, I see tracks.”

  “I’ve been here before, and we’re on Chip’s ranch land as sure as I’m sittin’ in this saddle.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Lonnie said. “That’s good news.”

  “So, bring the herd across and just follow them wagon tracks. I’ll ride on ahead and tell Chip that we’re here.”

  “I’m on my way,” Lonnie said. He turned his horse and rode back toward the head of the advancing herd.

  “Well, Red Beaver,” Reese said. “You got us here. Ready to ride back to your people?”

  “Yes. I am ready. I will go.”

  “You take care,” Reese said.

  Red Beaver turned his pony around and recrossed the creek. His pony’s hooves splashed through the water until he was on the opposite bank. Then Red Beaver turned his pony and waved farewell to Reese. Something he had learned on the trail.

  Reese watched him ride off and disappear beyond the cow herd.

  He felt a sadness flood through his heart. Over the miles, he had come to like and respect the Blackfoot brave. He had learned much from him on the drive. Red Beaver did not need a compass. He followed the stars at night, the sun during the day.

  “There goes a man,” Reese said. “There goes the West.”

  “Huh?” Lonnie uttered, seemingly dumbfounded. “I thought you didn’t hanker to redskins, Reese.”

  “They had it all, Lonnie. And we took it away from them. The Indians. We thought they were dumb, and they were not. We thought they were weak, but they were not. We just had better and bigger horses, and we had repeating rifles and pistols. We took all this away from them.”

  “You’ve changed some, Reese.”

  “I hope so,” Reese said. “We can’t really know what’s in a man’s mind until we see through his eyes.”

  “Well, the Injuns would be better off if they’d foller the white man’s ways. Learn how to till the earth and farm and raise livestock. They’re a footloose and rootless bunch.”

  “Oh, they have roots, Lonnie. Deeper than ours maybe. It’s just that they don’t believe in land ownership. They believe the land was given to them by their Great Spirit and no man can own it, sell it, or give it away.”

  “Humph. Dumb notion, you ask me.”

  “Yeah, well, Red Beaver spoke a lot to me and I learned a lot from him. Never mind. He’s gone now. But he won’t be forgotten. Not by me anyway.”

  Lonnie was silent.

  Reese followed the dim wagon tracks, and after a time, he saw the ranch house come into view. The sky was turning pale in the east and some of the stars had winked out. But there was moon glow glistening on the roof and the barn and bunkhouse. He also saw lean cattle grazing on sparse dried grass and some were nibbling hay stored in slatted bins at intervals.

  As he neared Chip’s house, he saw men riding and one of them broke off and rode toward him.

  He recognized the man as soon as he got near.

  “Howdy, Archie,” Reese said.

  It was Archie Lassiter, whom he knew to be Chip’s ranch foreman.

  “Howdy, Mr. Balleen. You here already? The herd with you?”

  “Herd’s right behind me, Archie. Where’s Chip?”

  “He’s in the barn. I’ll get some of the boys to ride out and help your men.”

  “Just follow the old wagon tracks and you’ll find them.”

  “And I know just where to put them cattle,” Archie said.

  He turned his horse and rode back to the corrals at a gallop. He yelled at his hands to follow him.

  Reese noticed that Archie was wearing his pistol and there was a rifle jutting from its scabbard on Archie’s horse.

  Both of the other men were carrying rifles too, and as they rode past, he saw that they were wearing sidearms too.

  He rode to the barn where Chip was tossing hay into a wagon with a pitchfork. With him was another man, Rudy Cameron, who was in the loft, pushing hay from the loft down to where Chip was forking the hay.

  “Howdy, Chip,” Reese said as he rode up. The horses hitched to the hay wagon nickered and his horse responded with a matching neigh.

  “Reese,” Chip said. “You’re here already. I’m mighty glad to see you.”

  Chip was sweating. He leaned on his pitchfork as he stuck the tines into the ground and wiped his forehead.

  The sky paled as the dawn spread its cream over the eastern horizon. More of the stars winked out as if snuffed by an unseen hand.

  “Climb down, Reese,” Chip said as he looked upward toward the opening to the loft. “I got business to take care of. And we got enough hay to take out to them puny cattle in the west pasture.”

  Rudy started to back away from the opening, then stopped. He stared off into the distance.

  “Chip, it looks like we got company,” Rudy said. “I can hardly make ’em out. But looks like three or four riders headin’ our way.”

  Chip and Reese turned and looked in the direction of Rudy’s gaze.

  In the hazy morning light, both men could see riders coming toward them. They seemed to be riding slow and with deliberateness.

  “This ain’t good,” Chip said.

  “What do you mean? Do
you know those men, Chip?” Reese strained to make out the faces of the riders. Too far away.

  “I think I know one of ’em. I’m pretty sure that’s his horse. God knows, I’ve seen it often enough.”

  “A friend of yours?” Reese asked.

  “If I ain’t mistaken, one of those men is Ned Hamilton. And he’s no friend of mine. In fact, he’s been tryin’ to buy, or steal, the Flying U. And those men ridin’ with him look like hard cases to me. Even from this distance.”

  “I see you and your men are all wearing pistols. And there’re two rifles leaning against the barn.”

  “Yep,” Chip said. “I’ve been half expectin’ Hamilton to come here and put my lamp out.”

  Rudy joined them a moment later.

  “Chip, this don’t look good,” Rudy said. “Look, they’re fanning out, like they was ridin’ into battle.”

  It was true.

  Reese saw four riders separate and ride toward them. Each was fifty yards apart when they finally settled on a course toward the ranch house.

  Chip walked over and picked up one of the rifles. Rudy did the same a few seconds later.

  “Reese, you’d better go inside the barn. I’m pretty sure there’s goin’ to be some shootin’ right soon.”

  “I’ll get my rifle and give you a hand,” Reese said.

  He pulled his rifle from its scabbard.

  Chip and Rudy took up positions behind the hay wagon and at either end.

  Reese stood just behind Chip.

  And still, the riders came on. Slow, deliberate.

  As they drew closer, Chip was sure. One of the men was Ned Hamilton.

  “That bastard,” Chip muttered.

  He had the deed to his property in his strongbox. He was free and clear. He now owned the Flying U, lock, stock, and barrel.

  Alsworthy had not liked it when he laid out five thousand dollars on his desk. But the banker had no choice. He had marked the note “Paid In Full,” signed it, stamped it, and taken the money.

  The four riders came closer.

  As Rudy, Chip, and Reese watched, the riders all pulled their rifles from their sheaths.

  Chip levered a rifle cartridge into the firing chamber. Rudy and Reese did the same.

  “Do you think they see us?” Rudy asked. There was a slight tremor in his voice.

  “Hard to tell,” Chip said.

  “They don’t see us,” Reese said. “But they’re lookin’ for us.”

  The riders craned their necks, looking in all directions.

  “When they get close enough, Rudy, you pick out that man on the far right of you. Drop him if you can.”

  “What about me, Chip?” Reese asked. “Which one do you want me to take out?”

  “I’m going to shoot Hamilton,” Chip said. “He’s the one just to the left of the man on the right. You can take either man on the left. Whichever is easier.”

  “Maybe I’ll empty both men’s saddles,” Reese said.

  “We’ll all be wading through a storm of bullets before this is over,” Chip said.

  He sighted down his rifle. The barrel hugged one of the wagon posts.

  Chip lowered himself so that Reese could take a stance above him.

  Reese laid his rifle barrel against the post and sighted down the barrel. He estimated the four men to be less than a thousand yards from them.

  And they were still coming. Slow and deliberate.

  As Reese looked at them, as if on command, each of the riders cocked his rifle.

  “Uh-oh,” Chip said, in a low voice.

  “What in hell do they expect to shoot?” Reese said out loud.

  “Probably my house,” Chip said. “And Carlene’s in there.”

  “Want me to check on her, Chip?” Reese asked.

  “No, Reese. You’ll get shot down before you could get there.”

  “Here they come,” Rudy said. “Less’n five hunnert yards.”

  “Hold steady. See what they’re goin’ to do and let ’em get closer,” Chip ordered.

  True to Chip’s prediction, when Hamilton and his men were within a hundred and fifty yards of the house, they each brought their rifles to their shoulders, aimed them, and fired at the house.

  Four puffs of smoke spewed from the muzzles of their rifles. Sparks flew from the barrels.

  Glass shattered the front windows of Chip’s home.

  Carlene screamed from somewhere inside.

  “Oh God,” Chip exclaimed.

  His hand was shaking as he tried to line up his front and read sights on Hamilton.

  The four riders kept firing their rifles into the house.

  Then Hamilton pointed an arm toward the hay wagon.

  Chip could hear him yell something to the other men. All four rifles swung toward the hay wagon and barn.

  “Let ’em have it,” Chip said when the riders were a hundred yards away.

  Even as he spoke, the four men began to fire at what they saw next to the wagon.

  Bullets flew into the hay and caromed off the wagon posts. They whistled past the ears of Reese, Rudy, and Chip.

  Chip fired first, his sights steady on Hamilton.

  Rudy shot at the man on the right.

  Reese aimed at the man on the far left and squeezed the trigger.

  Hamilton jerked in the saddle as Chip’s bullet smacked into his chest.

  Chip fired again. He aimed for Hamilton’s head.

  The four outlaws were less than a hundred yards and were guiding their horses in a zigzag pattern as they approached the barn.

  Rudy’s target grabbed at his chest as a red stain spread over his linsey-woolsey shirt. He held on for a few minutes, then slumped over onto his saddle horn.

  Rudy fired at the man again and saw the top of his head fly off like a sailing pie plate. The man fell from the saddle as his horse jumped sideways.

  Chip kept firing at Hamilton and saw him jerk spasmodically as each bullet struck him. Blood spurted from three or four wounds. He dropped his rifle as he held on to his saddle horn with both hands.

  Reese shot the next-to-last man on his left. He saw the man’s hand grasp at his throat and the bullet tore through the larynx and ripped out half of his neck.

  The man toppled from his horse. His foot caught in one stirrup, and the horse dragged him forward, kicking its rear hooves in protest.

  There was the acrid smell of smoke in the air.

  The man Rudy had shot finally fell out of his saddle and landed on the ground with a heavy thump.

  Hamilton reeled in his saddle, still amazingly alive, but bleeding profusely.

  Chip kept firing his rifle at Hamilton, consumed with a hatred for the man that nearly blinded him.

  Then, from inside the house, there was a shotgun blast. Then another.

  Two loads of buckshot peppered Hamilton’s body and he was thrown backward, his body sliding over the cantle and his horse’s rump. Blood spurted from dozens of holes and he hit the ground a dead man.

  “That was Carlene,” Chip said proudly.

  “She let him have it,” Reese said as the last man fell from his horse and skidded to a stop.

  The man caught in the stirrup rolled over and his foot came free. He was dead as his body slid to a stop.

  A quiet descended over the small battlefield.

  Wisps of smoke curdled in the still air of morning. The sun rose and the men on the ground became riddled with sunlight, bathed in their shadows on one side.

  Chip stepped away from the wagon and headed for the body of Hamilton.

  Reese followed him, his rifle at the ready just in case any of the outlaws moved.

  They did not come back to life. Any of them.

  Chip stood over Hamilton’s corpse.

  “Well, he wante
d my land,” Chip said. “Now he’s got a piece of it.”

  Carlene emerged from the house. She carried the double-barreled shotgun.

  Chip turned to catch her as she rushed into his arms.

  He hugged her tight.

  “Good shooting, Carlene,” Chip told her.

  “Ooh, that man,” she said. “That awful man.”

  Then Chip turned to Reese.

  “Thanks, Reese,” he said.

  “My pleasure,” Reese said.

  Chip gave Carlene a last squeeze and turned to Reese.

  “Come on in the house, Reese. I’ll give you coffee and the money I owe you for your cattle.”

  “We’ll wait until we get a final tally,” Reese said. “We lost a few head on the trail. We come through some winter and deep river water.”

  “I’ll take a little bit of that winter,” Chip said.

  And the three of them walked toward the house as Rudy stripped the dead men of their gun belts like some battlefield vandal.

  One of the horses whickered and flicked its tail.

  Then it headed for the wagon full of hay as the sun rose above the eastern horizon like a flaming beacon declaring peace over all the earth.

  Read on for an excerpt from

  another Ralph Compton Western

  DOUBLE-CROSS RANCH

  by Spur Award–winning author Matthew P. Mayo.

  Available from Signet in paperback and e-book.

  It was the yips, snarls, and growls of the coyotes that first drew Ty’s attention to the little draw. Otherwise he’d have ridden right by, never seeing the bloating corpse of Alton Winstead, his closest neighbor and a man he held in no great regard.

  Such was the deceiving terrain of the foothill country of the western slope of the Sierra Nevada, laid out like a rumpled blanket. Ty Farraday, mounted atop Stub, his sure-footed Morgan gelding, rode close and caught sight of the three cur coyotes that looked up from their recent discovery. The three yippers sported thickening fur, though in mange-riddled clumps, clinging sign of a hard summer and sure sign of a harder winter to come.

  It appeared to Ty they weren’t quite sure what to make of what they’d found, circling and snapping at each other as they were. No doubt they were lured by the stink of decomposition, something about the stench of death triggering the ever-present impulse to feed that he’d never seen a wild creature without. Only man and anything man had domesticated could afford to pass up the opportunity of a meal.