Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
NOT HORSING AROUND
Jack couldn’t miss the pair of hard-eyed hombres loafing around his horse. Both wore bull-hide chaps, vests and six-guns. One looked no older than Luke; the other, maybe near his own age, had a bad scar from a knife cut across his left cheek.
“Can I help you?” Jack asked, wondering what the interest was in the gray horse.
“This is my horse,” the older one said as the other blocked his way. “How in the hell did you get him anyway?”
“You got proof he’s yours?”
“Mister, I don’t need proof he’s mine. I raised him from a colt.”
“I’m sorry, but a widow woman gave him to me in Austin.”
“That’s right. Some damn rebel stole him from me.”
“The law says possession is nine-tenths of the law. You show me some convincing proof, we’ll talk.”
“I’ll show you—” The man jerked his six-gun out, but Jack’s smoked lead first. . . .
SIGNET
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Copyright © The Estate of Ralph Compton, 2010
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THE IMMORTAL COWBOY
This is respectfully dedicated to the “American Cow boy.” 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, allowing 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 1
Lucille Thornton had never before seen the tall man with the black patch over his left eye. She had noticed him right away as he shed his hat like a gentleman when he arrived at the Saturday-night dance and potluck supper at the Lost Dog Schoolhouse.
She nudged her best friend, Sister Farley. “Who’s he, Sister?” she asked over the stomping footsteps and the bounce of lively music.
Sister frowned. “I don’t know who he is.”
“Let’s be sure our newcomer has some food anyway.” Pulling at Sister’s arm, Lucille guided her friend up from the wall bench and crossed the room.
They watched as he spoke civilly to several men and women, then cut through the crowd toward a large tub of lemonade, kept cool by several large chunks of ice floating in the middle.
Lucille spoke up first. “Sir, welcome to Lost Dog Creek and the schoolhouse association’s dance.”
He turned. He was dressed in a gray officer’s uniform, faded from many washings. “Well, ladies,” he said in a big, booming voice as he gave a short bow, “allow me to introduce myself. They call me Captain Jack Starr, and I’m very pleased to have found your fine festivities this evening.” He pointed toward the couples, young and old, dancing to the toe-tapping music. “Fine-looking neighbors you have.”
“Yes, they are, sir—ah, Captain Jack Starr. My name is Lucille Thornton, and this is my friend Sister Farley.” She’d have sworn Sister blushed at her introduction. “Let us fix you with a plate of food and some dessert, and introduce you to some of the other folks that are here tonight.”
“Why, that would be plumb generous of you-all to do that for a road-dusted stranger.”
Lucille smiled. He was certainly not a meek person—no one would ever have any trouble hearing him unless they’d gone stone deaf in the war during a cannon onslaught. But there was something about this man that she found inviting. He had an openness that made her feel as if he was, perhaps, the most honest man she’d met.
“I take it you two live around here?” he asked.
“Yes,” Lucille said. “Sister and I both lost our husbands in the war. We each run small ranches of our own. Here’s a plate—start filling it.”
“I’m sorry to learn that.” He took the plate and looked impressed at the spread of food set out. “Lots here to be thankful for. However, I fear many good men died for what looks like nothing now.”
Lucille nodded and urged him to fill his dish. “Don’t be bashful. There’s plenty here and most folks have already eaten.”
He paused and studied the crowd again as if a little awed by the sight of them. “Your people look like you two ladies look: ready to start a new life and rebuild this part of Texas.”
“Yes, we’re doing that already,” Lucille answered.
Sister agreed with a sharp nod.
Lucille, carrying her dress hem, walked beside him as he sampled this and that. Something about the man drew her in and she found that she didn’t want to leave his side. She had no notion of doing anything desperate, but Starr was the first man who’d impressed her since she’d learned her husband, Felton Thornton, had been killed in action. Of course, for all she knew, Starr may have been a horse thief, but the big man—with his deep voice, his single sparkling blue eye, his mysterious patch and slightly curled, overgrown brown hair—held her attention.
“Mrs. . . .”
“ ‘Lucille’ and ‘Sister’ are good enough. We aren’t fancy folks, Captain.”
He laughed aloud and shook his head. “Well, you two look mighty fancy to me.”
Sister had brought him a tin can to use as a glass, with a large shard of ice bobbing in the lemonade. “We can sit over there.”
He nodded, spotting an open bench in the corner. But as the three began to move toward the seats, a scuffle broke out on the dance floor. They turned, seeing two young men standing chest to chest and eye to eye. As one of the men lifted his fist to throw a punch, the other swung his arm around the man’s neck and threw his own weight down in an attempt to drop his opponent to the floor. Captain Starr sighed and made a face of impatient disapproval.
“Oh no,” Sister said. “They’re at it again. That’s the Bledsoe boy and Alan’s grandson, Thad.”
“Won’t the law stop them?” Jack asked.
Lucille shook her head. “We have no law up here.”
Jack handed Lucille his plate and strode over to the boys. In a flash he had both of them by the shirt collars, one in each hand and, their boots hardly touching the floor, he rushed them toward the double doors.
“Open them wide,” he said to some bystanders, and when Jack reached the top of the stairs, he hurled both of them out into the night. “Now, stay outside until you learn better manners.”
He returned, dusting himself off. Several folks offered their thanks, but he dismissed the act as nothing.
“I must apologize for those rude boys,” Lucille said.
“Aw, boys’ll be boys,” he said with a wink, taking his plate back from her. Lucille steered the threesome to the far corner.
“They’re old enough to be past that point,” Lucille said; then she turned to the crowd. “Now, everyone please let Captain Starr eat. He can talk later.”
Several people repeated his name aloud and most shook their heads—they’d never heard of or met him before. Lucille felt pleased he’d lowered the boom on those two scamps, but she wanted to be protective of the stranger’s privacy. He’d tell them his story later.
At last seated between the two women on the bench against the wall, he dug into the food as if he were a starved wolf. No telling when he’d eaten last. But to Lucille’s surprise, when the musicians started a polka, he handed Sister his half-eaten supper and took both of Lucille’s hands. “I haven’t done this in years, so I might mash your toes. Let’s polka.”
Lucille couldn’t manage a single word before he whirled her away as if in a cloud of dust.
She had to admit that he could dance and it was all she could do to keep up. If he hadn’t danced the polka in a long time, he sure had not forgotten how. Being whirled around in tight circles by a strong man was an exhilarating experience for her. She’d forgotten all the worrisome things that only a minute before had been weighing her down. Her breath came in gulps, and when the fiddles finally quit he gave her a short bow that made her want to hug him. She straightened her skirt and told herself to mind her manners; at that moment, it seemed that everyone in the county was looking at the two of them.
Later he danced a waltz with Sister, spoke briefly to Eric Wheeler of the Bar 9, then returned to their section of the bench.
“Are you here on business?” Sister asked in one of those rare moments when both women were present. He shook his head wearily. “I’m a man without a place. I came home from the war, found my family had been murdered by Comanches and I’ve not tried to sink roots ever since.”
“Your wife was murdered?” Lucille asked.
He shook his head. “No wife. My parents, sister and little brother.”
She nodded. No wife. A man in his mid-thirties who’d never been married was liable to keep right on with his bachelorhood and freedom. Some men were cut out to be husbands; others weren’t. Why should she worry about that? She’d only just met him. Knew nothing of his past. Still the notion he’d never been married stung her.
From there on, dancing with him wasn’t quite as exciting, but she liked it. Barriers had begun to grow in her thoughts. There was more to lose here. She shouldn’t expose any more of herself, only to lose in the end.
“Where will you go from here?” she finally asked as they danced a slow tune.
“Do I need to leave already?”
Her face burned red. “No, no, I mean what will you do next? Obviously you are a man on the move.”
“Why, I was hoping you’d invite me to dinner tomorrow.”
She avoided his gaze as they slowly stepped to the music. “You’re very welcome to come. . . . I have two children.” There. If her having big kids bothered him, she’d at least know.
“Good. I’d like to meet them.”
“Luke and Tally. They’re nearly grown now. Need I say more?” She expected him to look disappointed.
“You must be proud of them.” She glanced up and to her relief, his smile was big. The music stopped and he guided her back to their corner.
“I am, but the boy thinks he’s twenty-five instead of sixteen. And Tally, well, she’s ready to run off.”
He laughed. “I’d love to meet them. How do I get there?”
“Oh, ride south along the creek to the crossing. There’s a small rock waterfall below it. Turn west and my place is four miles from there. The D-T brand is on the gate.”
“Midday?”
“That will be fine. Don’t expect too much.”
His brow furrowed, and he looked her square in the eye. “Taking a meal with your bunch will be my honor.”
She blushed. How was it that this man could make a woman of her age blush as if she were some silly schoolgirl? Why, she hadn’t done that in years.
“May I ask why your children aren’t here?”
“Luke has a broken leg and Tally offered to take care of him. They told me to go ahead and enjoy myself for a change.”
“Nice of them. How did he break it?”
“Oh, riding some bronc he brought home.”
He laughed. “I did the same thing when I was sixteen.”
With a frown she asked, “Is that a disease among boys?”
“It just might be.”
She felt him squeeze her shoulder, but remarkably she didn’t consciously notice it for a long moment. When her mind caught
up to the fact that his hand lingered there, she blushed again and looked away.
His presence had become so natural.
Oh, Lucille Thornton, what are you going to do? she thought.
Chapter 2
The next morning, Captain Jack Starr took a bath in Dog Creek. After his skin had dried he heated some water over his small campfire and carefully shaved, using a straight-edge razor, then redressed. It was the best he could do to clean up for the meal he so looked forward to having with Lucille and the kids. Brushing his teeth with a rag dipped in salt water, he admired the hill country’s live oak and cedar, a nice land of freestone streams with lots of forage for cattle.
Some doves in the treetops cooed at him and noisy meadowlarks darted in and out of the tall bunchgrass. He liked this hill country of Texas. As he studied the terrain around him, his thoughts turned to Lucille Thornton. Straight-backed and attractive, the woman had spurred something in his brain. No need for him to get too excited—she had her obligations to two children. He looked up at the sound of a horse approaching.
Out of habit he shifted the six-gun holster on his hip. Peering through the brush he could see a single rider approaching. As the man rode in closer, his cow pony dropped his head toward the dust and snorted. Jack’s visitor sat in the saddle all dressed for church—Sunday suit and necktie, even a narrow-brimmed derby. His chin whiskers were no doubt trimmed for such an occasion.
The stranger pulled rein within twenty feet of where Starr stood. He didn’t seem surprised to find Starr there by the creek.
“I saw you at the dance last night, Mister,” the stranger said. “May I inquire about your business in our community?”
Jack frowned at the unfriendly nature of the question. “You the law here?”
“No, but I am considered an elder leader in this community.”
Jack wiped his palm on the seat of his pants and stepped forward to offer his hand. “My name’s Jack Starr.”
The man checked his horse, obviously not ready to shake with him—yet. “Mine is Hiram Sawyer. Now that you’ve had your dances and free meal, I suggest you just keep on riding.”
North to the Salt Fork Page 1
