Ralph Compton Outlaw Town

by Ralph Compton

  OUTLAW TOWN

  Chancy tensed to go for his six-gun. He would draw and shoot and throw himself to one side at the same time. With luck, Reid would miss but he wouldn’t.

  But Reid made no attempt to go for his own six-shooter. Glaring, he stalked up and made as if to jab Chancy in the chest. But he glanced at the batwings and lowered his arm. “You’re damn lucky, boy.”

  “Stop calling me that.”

  “We’re men, the both of us,” Ollie said. He had taken a step to the left and his hand was close to his holster.

  “Stay out of this, idiot,” Reid said.

  “I’ll do no such thing,” Ollie replied. “He’s my pard.”

  “He can’t do better than a jackass like you?” Reid said.

  For Chancy it was the last straw. And since Reid wasn’t going for his hardware, he didn’t go for his. Instead he punched him on the jaw.

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library,

  an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  This book is an original publication of New American Library.

  First Printing, January 2016

  Copyright © The Estate of Ralph Compton, 2016

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Signet and the Signet colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  For more information about Penguin Random House, visit penguin.com.

  eBook ISBN 978-1-101-99021-6

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  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

  Title Page

  Copyright

  The Immortal Cowboy

  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

  Excerpt from Phantom Hill

  About the Author

  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

  “Where the blazes are we?”

  Chancy Gantry gazed out over the sprawling expanse of brown country they were passing through. “That’s a good question.” He tilted his head skyward and squinted at the blazing sun from under his hat brim, but only for a moment. The glare hurt his eyes. “All I can tell you is we’re heading north.”

  “That’s not where, pard,” Oliver Teal said with a grin. “That’s a direction.”

  Chancy grinned. Ollie and he had been partners for going on six years. They were both from San Antonio, but that was about the only thing they had in common. He was tall and lanky; Ollie was short and broad. He had straight black hair and brown eyes; Ollie had reddish hair with a lot of little curls, and wide, frank green eyes. His chin sort of came to a point; Ollie didn’t have much of a chin at all.

  Their taste in clothes was different too. Chancy went in for plain work clothes and a hat with a single crease. Ollie liked to wear a brown rawhide vest even in the hottest weather, while his hat had a crease in the center and two more to either side.

  They didn’t tote the same revolvers either. Chancy was fond of a Remington. Ollie favored a long-barreled Colt.

  There was one other difference between them. One that wasn’t obvious. One they never talked about. Ollie Teal, since birth, had been what folks politely called “slow in the head.”

  “We’re somewhere in Indian Territory,” Chancy clarified.

  “The Injuns can have it,” Ollie said. “It’s a heap of nothingness.”

 
“From what I hear, they don’t want it either,” Chancy said. “The government made them come here.”

  “That’s the government,” Ollie said. “Always telling folks what they should do even when the folks don’t want to do it.”

  Chancy changed the subject before his friend started on his usual rant. Ollie’s pa had been conscripted during the War Between the States, and Ollie, a youngster at the time, never forgave the government for taking his pa away even though Ollie had been one of the lucky few in that his pa made it home in one piece. “Ten days or so and we should be in Kansas.”

  “Addy told me this morning that he heard the trail boss say it was more like fourteen or fifteen days.”

  Chancy couldn’t wait to reach the railhead. Back in Texas the notion of taking a herd north had been exciting. A trek of over seven hundred miles, with all sorts of dangers along the way. He’d imagined tangling with Comanches, or having to stop a stampede, or running into owl-hoots. All sorts of things could have gone wrong. But nothing did. The drive had been as uneventful as a Sunday stroll in a San Antonio park.

  It was Chancy’s first trail drive, and if he had to pick one word to describe it, that word would be dull.

  Lucas Stout was the reason. Stout had a reputation as one of the best trail bosses around. He had a knack for finding water and grass, and got the cattle to market with few losses. Not only that, but he had a knack for overseeing men too. No one ever gave Lucas Stout trouble. Not twice, they didn’t. Small wonder that hardly anything ever went wrong on any of his drives.

  “What’s that?” Ollie suddenly said.

  Chancy looked up.

  In the distance riders had appeared, their silhouettes distorted by the heat haze. They were hard to make out until they came closer. There were seven, all told, and they spread out as they came.

  “Why, speak of the Devil,” Ollie said.

  “What?” Chancy said. It galled him a trifle that his friend had the eyes of a hawk and could make out things a lot farther off than he could.

  “Injuns, by gosh.”

  Chancy sat straighter and placed his hand on his Remington. “Are you sure, pard?”

  “Well, they’ve got long hair and some of them have bows, and their faces are kind of dark.” Ollie paused. “I never did savvy why we call them redskins, though. They’re not really red. But then we’re not really white, are we? We’re sort of pink.”

  “One of us should ride back and let Stout know,” Chancy suggested. They were riding point, well ahead of the fifteen hundred longhorns.

  “What if they’re hostile?”

  Chancy scowled. He’d never fought Indians. For that matter, he’d never fought anyone. Of the fourteen cowboys on the drive, not counting the cook, only two were any shucks with a six-shooter. Jelly Varnes shot two men once in a saloon fracas. And then there was Ben Rigenaw. Gossip had it he’d killed at least three and wounded a few more. Maybe he had and maybe he hadn’t, but the matched pair of Remingtons he wore wasn’t for show.

  “I reckon you’re right,” Chancy said, drawing rein. “We hold our ground and see what they want.”

  Ollie followed suit. “Three of those redskins have bows. One has a lance. He’ll be the one to watch out for.”

  “Since when are you an expert on Indians?”

  “I know a lance is a lot bigger than an arrow,” Ollie said. “If that redskin raises his arm to throw, we should plug him.”

  “Listen to you,” Chancy said. “Wild Bill Hickok.”

  “So what if I’ve never shot anybody?” Ollie said. “I’m not about to let them stick me.”

  Chancy studied the Indians as they drew near. Truth was, he couldn’t tell one tribe from another. But he could tell old from young, and with one exception, the seven were long in the tooth. Over half had gray hair, and were scrawny to boot. Four wore leggings, the others a mix of white clothes that had seen better days. “They don’t look very fierce.”

  “Neither does a dog until it bites you.”

  Sometimes, Chancy reflected, his pard said the silliest things. “Keep your six-gun holstered. We don’t want to provoke them.”

  “Could be they’re already riled,” Ollie said. “Three of them have arrows nocked.”

  It could be caution on the part of the redskins, Chancy reflected, or it could portend trouble.

  “They lift those bows, we better shoot.”

  Chancy prayed it wouldn’t come to that. He plastered a smile on his face to show he was friendly, but none of the Indians returned it.

  The warriors drew rein about ten feet out. The youngest, in the middle, wore a black hat with a round crown and cradled a Sharps rifle in the crook of an elbow.

  Chancy held his left hand up, palm out, and said, “How do you do, gents? We’re friendly if you are.”

  “What makes you think they speak our lingo?” Ollie said. “They probably only know their own. Or that finger-talk Injuns do.”

  “Doesn’t hurt to try,” Chancy said.

  The warrior in the middle gestured sharply. “We want cows.”

  “How’s that again?” Ollie said.

  “We want cows,” the warrior repeated.

  “I don’t blame you,” Ollie said. “They beat pigs. Pigs don’t give milk and taste too salty. I’ve always liked cow meat more than pig meat. Chicken meat too, for that matter. Snake meat I can do without. I won’t eat any critter that crawls.”

  The warrior cocked his head as if confused, then said, “One cow for each.” And he pointed at every single warrior in turn.

  “I don’t happen to have any cows on me at the moment,” Ollie said.

  “No cows,” the warrior said, “you not go by.”

  “Well, that’s rude,” Ollie said. “You and your geezer friends should move out of the way before our outfit gets here. Some of them won’t be as nice to you as we are.”

  “Cows,” the warrior said, and thumbed back the hammer on his Sharps. “Or you be sorry.”

  Chapter 2

  “I think he means it,” Ollie said.

  Chancy couldn’t believe it would come to bloodshed. Neither he nor his pard were red haters. A lot of people hated Indians because they’d lost love ones to arrows and tomahawks. Others hated just because red wasn’t white, which never made any sense to him. He was about to suggest they should go easy when hooves drummed behind them. Glancing over his shoulder, he smiled in relief. “Thank the Lord.”

  “What?” Ollie said. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the warrior with the Sharps.

  “Lucas Stout and two more,” Chancy said.

  Ollie grunted in satisfaction. “Mr. Stout won’t take no guff. He’s got more grit than any hombre I ever met.”

  Their trail boss was as big as his reputation. Six feet four, with broad shoulders and a beard he kept cropped close. The way he carried himself, even his hat and his clothes, gave the impression he’d been born a trail boss straight out of the womb. He always had a no-nonsense look, and anyone could tell that here was a man it wasn’t smart to trifle with.

  The two punchers with him were Addison and Mays.

  Addy had been born in New York, but no one held that against him since his family had moved to Texas when he was three, so he’d been raised mostly Texan. He was nearly as tall as Stout but all bone and sinew. He’d also been on more trail drives than anyone except the trail boss and Ben Rigenaw.

  Mays was the youngest in the outfit. Only seventeen, he’d nonetheless been at the cowboy trade for more than two years and could hold his own when it came to riding and roping. He was like a young pup, always eager to please. He was also, although no one would come right out and admit it, the handsomest. He didn’t have much experience with females, though, and some of the hands were plotting to throw him into the lion’s den, as it were, when they reached Wichita, and the sporting houses.

&nbs
p; Lucas Stout reined up in a swirl of dust and Stout regarded the Indians with no more emotion than if they were a passel of townsmen come calling.

  “Glad to see you, boss,” Ollie said. “These here Injuns are demanding cattle or they won’t let us pass.”

  “Why, the nerve,” young Mays said.

  “They get hungry, boy, the same as everybody else,” Addy said.

  “So what?” Mays said. “And don’t call me boy, you old goat.”

  Chancy smothered a chuckle. The two always playfully prodded each other. That Mays liked to call Addy “old” tickled him. Addy was only twenty-five.

  The warrior with the Sharps was staring at Lucas Stout as if he sensed that Stout was the head man and the one to deal with. “You give us cows?”

  “Now that it’s five to seven, he’s asking instead of telling,” Ollie said.

  “Hush,” Lucas Stout said.

  Ollie didn’t hide his surprise, but he hushed.

  “How many?” Stout said to the Indian.

  The warrior gestured at his companions. “One for each.”

  “No,” Stout said. “How many of you altogether? Women and kids too.”

  The warrior said something in his own tongue to one of the older men and he answered. Taking his left hand off the Sharps, the warrior held up five fingers four times, plus two more.

  “You can have three cows,” Lucas Stout said.

  “Seven.”

  “Three and that’s all,” Stout said firmly. “It’s enough to feed all of you, and that’s the best I’ll do.”

  “You’re giving them cows?” Mays said in amazement.

  “You can hush too,” Stout said.

  “Six,” the warrior said.

  “Three.”

  “Five.”

  “Three. And if you say four, you don’t get any.”

  The warrior looked at the older Indians and held up three fingers and several of them smiled. Facing Stout, he nodded. “Three. Not skinny cows, like some give. Cows with meat.”

  “I said they’ll feed you and they will,” Stout said. He turned to Addison. “Ride back and pick the three. Not the leaders. Three of those as like to straggle.”

  “Will do, boss,” Addy said. Reining around, he tapped his spurs and galloped off.