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
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Epilogue
Teaser chapter
A FINE LINE
Clayton walked a few yards away from the barn and looked down the shadowed street. Somewhere out there was a man who would try to kill him. Not tonight, but maybe the day after or the day after that.
He lit a cigarette. He knew that if he stepped out of line, Nook Kelly would gun him. But where was that line?
Only the marshal knew, and he wasn’t telling, at least not yet.
Kelly told Hinton he was bored, wanted to see what would happen. But when it did happen . . . what then?
Clayton might have to kill a man Kelly didn’t want dead. The little gun exhibition he’d given tonight wasn’t really directed at Hinton. It was a warning to Clayton: Cross me and I’ll kill you.
The rancher’s cigarette had gone out. He lit it again, the match flame reflecting orange on the lean planes of his face. Clayton had no crystal ball. He couldn’t predict the future. But one thing he did know—he could never match Nook Kelly’s skill with a gun. Not in this lifetime or in any other.
He ground out the cigarette butt under the sole of his boot and shook his head. All he could do now was take things as they came. There was no use building barriers on a bridge he hadn’t even crossed yet.
Yet, as Clayton lay again on his uncomfortable bed of straw and sacking, a man was already plotting his death.
He didn’t know it then. But he would know it soon.
SIGNET
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First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
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First Printing, August 2011
Copyright © The Estate of Ralph Compton, 2011
All rights reserved
ISBN : 978-1-101-51741-3
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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 1
It was midnight when the man from Abilene came to the ferry.
He could have been there earlier, but had
taken his time along the trail, in no hurry to kill the man he hunted.
A steel triangle hung from a rope, suspended from the low branch of a cottonwood that stood by the riverbank. Tied to the triangle was a length of scrap iron.
The man—tall, lanky, the weight of forty hard years hanging heavy on him—groaned as he swung stiffly out of the saddle. He led his pony to the river and let it drink.
A bloodstained moon had impaled itself on a pine on the opposite bank, and the night was still, the silence as fragile as glass.
Only the misted river talked, an ebb and flow of whispers as it washed back and forth over a sand and shingle bank.
The night was cool, the stars frosted.
Once the buckskin had drunk its fill, the man led it back to the triangle.
He grabbed the chunk of iron and clattered and clanged the triangle awake, its racketing clamor ringing through the splintering night.
The man smiled and twenty years fled from his weathered face. He dropped the iron, mightily pleased by his act of acoustic vandalism.
A couple of echoing minutes passed, and a couple more.
He heard a splash from the far bank; then a man’s voice, cranky, rusted with age, reached out through the darkness to him.
“Hell, did you have to wake the whole damned county?”
The man from Abilene grinned and made no answer.
But the ferryman, invisible in the darkness, wouldn’t let it go.
“Alarming good Christian folks like that. ’Tain’t right and ’tain’t proper.”
The man, still grinning, took hold of the iron again and banged it lightly against the triangle, once, twice, three times.
“And that ain’t funny,” the ferryman yelled.
The ferry, a large raft with a pole rail on two sides, emerged from the mist like a creature rising from a primordial swamp. Its algae-covered logs ground over shingle and shuddered to a stop.
“Howdy,” the man from Abilene said, raising a hand in greeting.
The ferryman dropped the rope he’d been hauling. Even in the darkness he looked sour.
“You the ranny making all the noise?” he said.
“Sorry I had to wake you,” the man said.
“Hell, you could’ve camped out tonight and rang the bell in the morning when folks are awake.”
The man nodded. “Maybe so, but I’m mighty tired of my own cooking and spreading my blankets on rocks and scorpions.”
The ferryman was old and he’d lived that long by being careful around tall night riders with eyes that saw clean through a man to what lay within, good or bad.
Like this one.
“You won’t find no vittles or soft bed around here,” he said.
“There’s a town just three miles west of the river,” the tall man said. “Or so I was told.”
The ferryman nodded. “You was told right. But Bighorn Point is a quiet place. God-fearing people living there, and everything closes at eleven, even on Friday nights.”
He gave the tall man a sideways look. “There ain’t no whores in Bighorn Point.”
The man from Abilene smiled and flicked the triangle with the nail of his middle finger. As the steel tinged he said, “Right now all I want is food and a bed. I guess I’ll just have to wake up some o’ them God-fearing folks.”
The old man shook his head. “Well, just don’t let Marshal Kelly catch you doing that. He’ll call it disturbin’ the peace an’ throw you in the hoosegow quicker’n scat.”
Suddenly the tall man was wary. “Would that be Nook Kelly, out of the Sabine River country down Texas way?”
“It be. You know him?”
The tall man shook his head. “Heard of him, is all.”
“Nook Kelly has killed fifty men.”
“So they say.”
“Do you believe it?”
“I’d need to hear it from Kelly himself. People believe what they want to believe.”
The man showed the ferryman an empty face, but inwardly he was worried. Having a named gunslinger like Kelly as the law in Bighorn Point was a complication he didn’t need.
Ferrymen were spawned by the same demon as trail cooks, and curiosity was one of the many traits they shared.
Interest glowed in the old man’s eyes, like a cat studying a rat. “Here, you ain’t thinking of robbing the Bighorn Point Mercantile Bank, are ye?”
The tall man smiled. “Now, why would I do a fool thing like that?”
The ferryman looked sly. “Mister, you’re a hard case. Seen that right off. You’re dressed like a cattleman, but you’ve seen better days. Except for the new John B. on your head, your duds are so worn I wouldn’t give you two bits for the lot, including the boots.”
The old man grinned. “Maybe that’s why you planned on doing a fool thing like trying to rob the Mercantile.”
Getting no answer, he said, “But Nook Kelly would kill you. You know that now.”
The tall man said, “Talking yourself out of a fare, ain’t you?”
“No. You’ll cross the Rubicon because you’re headed to Bighorn Point for another reason.”
The oldster’s historical reference didn’t surprise the man from Abilene. Back in the day, this old coot could have been anything.
“You’re right,” he said. “I’m going to Bighorn Point to kill a man.”
“Anybody I know?”
“Maybe. But I don’t know the man myself. Hell, I don’t even know his name.”
“You mean you aim to kill a man, but you don’t know who he is?”
“That’s how she shakes out, I reckon.”
“Mister, he must have done something powerful bad.”
The tall man nodded. “Bad enough.”
“How you plan on finding him?”
The tall man smiled. “He’ll look like he needs killing.”
Chapter 2
Bighorn Point was a cow town like any other. Its single street was lined on both sides with false-fronted clapboard buildings that held the place together like bookends.
A rising wind kicked up veils of dust from the street, and hanging signs outside the stores screeched on rusty chains.
Oil reflector lamps marched in lockstep along the boardwalks, but those, like every other light in town, were dowsed.
The man from Abilene walked the buckskin to the end of the street, where a church blocked his way, its tall and lonesome steeple like an upraised hand, defying him to ride farther.
The church was too big and ostentatious for the town, a high-maintenance pile as out of place as a rich Boston belle at a prairie hootenanny.
It was a powerful symbol of the church militant, proclaiming to all and sundry, “This is a God-fearing town and we aim to keep it that way.”
The tall man lit a cigarette, then slowly walked his horse back the way he’d come.
He saw only one saloon, the Windy Hall, squeezed meekly between a hardware store and a ladies’ dress and hat shop.
The place was as quiet as the dark end of a tomb.
Again the man drew rein. The end of the cigarette in his mouth glowed like a firefly in the gloom.
Across the street to his left was a fair-sized hotel, but that too was locked and shuttered, its guests apparently enjoying the sleep of the just.
“Try the livery stable, or pass on through.”
The male voice came from behind him, and the man from Abilene stiffened. He was irritated that he’d allowed someone to walk up on him like that.
Without turning, he said, “You must be the only person in town who’s still awake.”
“I don’t sleep much. Get to my age and bad memories crowd in on a man, keep him from his rest.”
There had been humor in the voice and a hint of it lingered in the blue eyes that looked up at the man on the horse.
“We don’t get many night riders through Bighorn Point.”
“Figured that out my own self.”
“Name’s Nook Kelly. I’m the town marshal.”
&n
bsp; “Figured that as well.”
“You heard of me?”
“Yeah. Some good, some bad.”
Kelly accepted that and said, “You’re not an outlaw. You look too steady at a man.”
“I’m a rancher. From up Abilene way.”
“You got a name?”
“The one my ma and pa gave me.”
“You care to share it?”
“Name’s Micajah.”
“It’s a mouthful, but only half a handle.”
“Clayton.”
“Does anybody call you Micajah without getting shot?”
“My friends call me Cage.”
“Well, I ain’t your friend, so I’ll call you Mr. Clayton.”
“Suit yourself.”
Kelly was short, reed thin, two .450-caliber British Bulldog revolvers hanging from shoulder holsters on each side of his narrow chest.
He could have been any age, though if you studied the lines on his face closely, forty would have been as good a guess as any.
The ferryman had said that Kelly had killed fifty men. That was an exaggeration. He’d killed thirteen in fair fights, seven more in concert with other lawmen.
He was exactly what he seemed to Cage Clayton, A cool, professional killer who had mastered his craft, the way of the revolver, and the understanding of the manner and habit of violent men.
“Why are you in Bighorn Point, Mr. Clayton?”
The man from Abilene hesitated. His showdown with Nook Kelly had come earlier than he’d planned.
But the marshal had a right to know. Besides, he’d spread the word—if he didn’t cut loose with his guns right away.
“I’m here to kill a man.”
A career gunman is trained not to show his emotions, and Kelly was no exception. He absorbed Clayton’s words like a sponge, his face unchanging.
But he was ready. Men like Kelly always were.
“Is it me?”
“I don’t know,” Clayton said. “But I reckon you’re a tad too young.”
“What’s the name of the man you plan to kill?”
The Stranger from Abilene Page 1
