Blood and Gold

  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

  BLOOD AND GOLD

  I swung out of the saddle and kneeled beside the man’s body. Kennedy had been shot three times, once by me, and twice more by a person—or persons—unknown. One shot had merely grazed his neck, but the second, deadlier bullet had crashed smack into the middle of his forehead.

  Clem Kennedy was an ill-natured man who had made his share of enemies. But why kill him all the way out here, in the middle of nowhere in a pounding rainstorm?

  Unless . . .

  Had his killer heard the gunshots from back at the cave and believed Kennedy had already robbed me of the money I was carrying? That was a real possibility. And since the bushwhacker hadn’t found the saddlebags on Kennedy’s horse, he must know I still had them.

  I held my Winchester in both hands at the high port as I prepared to walk back to my paint, the hairs at the back of my neck rising.

  Was the killer still here? And was I already in his sights?

  I had no time to answer that question . . . because I’d not taken three steps when the sky fell on me.

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand,

  London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road,

  Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue,

  Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

  Penguin Books (NZ), cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads,

  Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, August 2004

  Copyright © The Estate of Ralph Compton, 2004

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  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.

  BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION, PENGUIN GROUP (USA) INC., 375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-17741-9

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  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, 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

  I had thirty thousand dollars in paper money and gold coin in my saddlebags and now the rain had settled the dust on my back trail that had been nagging at me for the past two days.

  Maybe the dust meant nothing.

  It could have been kicked up by a puncher like me, heading back to Texas broke and hungover, vowing never to come up the trail again and wishing mightily he’d steered well clear of the bright lights and easy sin of Dodge.

  But dust could mean something else.

  It could mean I was dancing with the devil and they were playing his tune.

  Me, I was eighteen years old that summer of 1880 and still kind of green, even though I’d been up the trail three times. I had twice tangled with Comanche and once, the spring before, had shot it out with three rustlers south of the Washita.

  After the smoke cleared, big Bob Collins, the trail boss, had slapped me on the back and said I’d done good, though I doubted that I’d hit anybody, being no great shakes with the long gun, though I’m a fair to middling hand with the Colt.

  But that was then, and this was now.

  Since I’d crossed the Cimarron and ridden into the Indian territory, I’d tried not to pay any mind to the dust. I’d been a-singing to my pony, mostly sappy love songs that I’d heard in Dodge and a dozen other cow towns. The paint didn’t like my singing none, shaking his head, his bit jangling, every time I murdered a high note.

  But having such a disapproving audience didn’t bother me, on account I knew I’d soon be seeing my best gal again. Sally Coleman, with her blond hair and blue eyes, lived on her pa’s ranch about a hundred miles south of the Red. A gal as pretty as Sally had her choice of men, but it was in my mind that I’d marry her someday and raise up a passel of kids with her.

  Hanging on my saddle horn, covered up by my slicker, was a straw bonnet, all tied around with blue ribbons, that I’d bought for Sally in Dodge. That bonnet cost me a week’s wages, but I reckoned just to see her wear it would be worth the money, and then some.

  Before the rain started, I could tell that the dust behind me was a ways off and not getting any closer.

  But now there was nothing to see and I was fast becoming uneasy.

  It was no secret in Dodge that I’d ridden out of town with thirty thousand dollars. That was money enough to tempt a man, especially the shifty border trash, gamblers, dance hall loungers, goldbrick artists and the like, who migrated north with the herds every spring to Dodge and Caldwell and Wichita, eager to separate a drover from his hard-earned wages.

  And there were others, much more dangerous, dry, hard-eyed men who wore their guns like they were born to them, lean riders who haunted moon-shadowed trails and never looked at a thing directly, but saw everything. When such men went to the gun, they were almighty sudden and certain and I wanted no part of them.

  Was it men like those who rode behind me?

  When you’re eighteen, you figure you can’t be killed. I’d seen plenty of dying on the Western Trail: punchers trampled in stampedes, drowned in river crossings, snakebit, dragged by runaway ponies. But death always chose some other poor feller and seemed content to tiptoe around me.

  But now I couldn’t shake the feeling that danger was dogging my trail and maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t as immortal as I thought. Being eighteen doesn’t make a man bulletproof, and, looking back, I realize them’s words of wisdom.

  The rain had started that morning just after sunup, driven by a gusting south wind that hammered cold drops against my slicker and drummed on my hat.

  I was riding through the Gypsum Hills country west of the Red Bed Plains, a series of rolling hills, buttes and red mesas some 150 to two hundred feet high, all cut through by narrow gullies. The hills are capped by fifteen- to twenty-foot layers of gypsum that sparkle in the sun—the reason the Indians called them the Glass Hills.

  Here and there grew stands of red cedar, blackjack and post oak, some of them lightning-blasted and dead, and under my horse’s feet primroses, black-eyed Susans and tiny violets peeped out from among the grama grass.

  I kept turning my head, checking behind me, and saw nothing but the rain-lashed landscape, iron gray clouds so low I reckoned I could reach up and grab a handful and I figured it would be like clutching at wood smoke.

  I rode
on, heading due south. A hundred or so miles to my west lay the majestic Black Mesa and directly in front of me, but still a long ways off, rose the weathered crags of the Wichita and Arbuckle mountains.

  There was no letup in the rain, a steady, hissing downpour that ran off my hat brim like a waterfall and beat steadily on the shoulders of my slicker.

  It was getting close to noon and I was becoming needful of coffee and a smoke. I’d tried to roll a cigarette earlier, but the rain had battered tobacco and paper from my fingers, scattering brown shreds over the front of my slicker. I’d given vent to a few choice cuss words, I can tell you, even though I knew if Sally heard me she’d be real annoyed. That little gal was dead set against cussing and she’d made that plain to me a time or two.

  Reining in the paint, I glanced around, looking for a likely spot to hole up for an hour. If the riders behind me were honest men, they’d likely be sheltering from the downpour, and outlaws don’t much care for getting wet either, come to that.

  It seemed to me, I could stop and brew up some coffee and then be on my way again, and nobody the wiser.

  Like I said, that was how it seemed to me. But as things turned out, I was about to lead my ducks to the wrong pond.

  About a hundred yards ahead of where I sat my horse, the gypsum crowning one of the hills slanted sharply downward to about thirty feet above the level. A narrow creek ran along the bottom of the hill under the gypsum shelf and the slope had been undercut, eroded away by wind and floodwaters, forming a natural, shallow cave about ten feet deep, twice that much high and maybe forty or fifty feet long.

  A few stunted juniper grew higher up the hillside, where there might be fallen branches, at least enough to boil up some coffee.

  I kneed the paint forward and rode up to the cave. Now I was closer, it was pretty much as I’ve described and I saw traces of previous fires, built small, the way Indians do. A goodly supply of dry wood, mostly pine and hickory branches, was scattered around and I was glad I didn’t have to depend on the wet, slow-burning juniper.

  I swung out of the saddle, eased the girth on the paint and led him to a patch of good grass close enough to the overhang that he’d be out of the worst of the rain.

  The saddlebags I took with me back to the cave. When a man you regard as a friend as well as a boss gives that much money into your trust, you take care of it real well. That was what I thought anyway, and I believe I had the right of it.

  I started a fire, and when it was burning good, I went to the creek and filled the coffeepot. Then I fetched Sally’s bonnet and my sack of supplies back to the cave and laid them in a dry spot. That done, I threw a handful of coffee into the pot and set the pot on the coals to boil.

  I shrugged out of my wet slicker and laid it on the ground, then adjusted the cartridge belt and holster around my hips. The faded blue shirt I wore was damp at the collar, and from the knees down, my brown canvas pants were soaked.

  I was an inch above middle height that year, skinny as the shadow of a barbed wire fence, but most of the beef I did have was in my arms and shoulders, so that when I had a mind to push or pull something, it usually moved.

  My hair was auburn, tinting red in places, and my eyes were gray. Bob Collins told me one time that when I was riled, my eyes shaded to the coldest gray he’d ever seen in all his born days.

  Well, I didn’t get riled often. If folks let me be, then I did the same for them. I was a peace-loving man with nothing to prove, and now I turned eighteen and was almost man grown, I didn’t see much sense in fighting and feuding just for the hell of it.

  Of course, as I stood there waiting for the coffee to boil, I’d no way of knowing that I’d soon be getting into plenty of both. And looking back, I think maybe that’s just as well. A man needs a few quiet moments when he can be at peace with himself and the world. I reckon a wise man is never less alone than when he’s alone.

  I stepped to the mouth of the cave, looking out at the lashing rain, enjoying the solitude of that wild, beautiful country and the smell of boiling coffee and wood smoke and the sweet, fresh tang of wet grass and sage.

  As was my habit recently, my fingers absently strayed to my top lip, where I hoped to grow a man’s mustache. But to my disappointment, all I felt was downy fuzz, the same fuzz I’d been feeling every day since I’d left Texas close to four months before.

  Back in Dodge, I’d envied Sheriff Bat Masterson his fine mustache and the way it set female hearts to fluttering when he tipped his hat and cut a dash. Me, I’d hoped to ride back to pretty Sally with a fine mustache of my own and cut a few dashes my ownself. But the way my whiskers were progressing, or rather how they weren’t progressing, made that possibility more and more unlikely.

  I sighed kind of deep and sad, dropped my hand and went back to the fire. I kneeled and picked up the coffeepot, ready to fill my cup. Then I froze real still when I heard a voice behind me.

  “Rise up easy, Dusty Hannah, and when you turn, make sure the only damn thing in your hand is the coffeepot.”

  I recognized that voice, and I did what it told me.

  “Howdy, Clem,” I said, turning mighty careful, slow as molasses. “Thought you’d be across the Red by this time. That’s what I thought.”

  Clem Kennedy shrugged his narrow shoulders. “You thought wrong, Dusty. You know how it is. Man stays in Dodge until his wages is gone. Trouble is, good whiskey and bad women don’t come cheap.”

  “I don’t know how it is, Clem,” I said. “I still have my wages, at least most of them, in my pocket.”

  The man with Kennedy sneered and spoke up for the first time. “Well, well, well, Clem, ain’t he the reg’lar little do-gooder? Why, I reckon if’n he was a dog, somebody would’ve stolen him when he were just a pup.”

  “Let it go, Luke.” Kennedy smiled. “This boy knows why we’re here, so we’ll get right to it.” The smile slipped, then vanished into a tight-lipped grimace. “We want the money, Dusty.”

  I was conscious of the coffeepot in my right hand. If it came to gunplay, I’d have to drop it before I went for my Colt, and that would cost me time, more time than these two would allow.

  I knew Clem Kennedy, a thin, sour man with hard blue eyes, a ragged, tobacco-stained mustache hanging under his nose like a dead rat. He’d come up the trail with us, and before we’d even reached the Red, he’d complained to Simon Prather, the owner of the herd, that he was a top hand and shouldn’t be riding drag.

  “Let the kid eat dust, Mr. Prather,” Kennedy had whined. “He’s still got plenty to learn.”

  Now Simon and Ma Prather had taken me in when I was a homeless youngster just fourteen years old, and I knew he considered me a top hand. But rather than be accused of favoritism, he’d asked me, head down, digging into the dirt with the toe of his boot the way he did when he was embarrassed, if I’d keep the peace and ride the drag.

  Of course, I’d agreed, knowing what kind of fix Simon was in for experienced riders. And that was how come I’d eaten dust all the way from Doan’s Crossing to Dodge, though Simon later paid me top hand wages.

  The man called Luke I didn’t know. But he looked hard and mean and the walnut handle of the Colt at his waist was plenty worn from hard use.

  Slowly, I kneeled and set the coffeepot down, surprised that it had not occurred to either man that I’d done it to save time on the draw.

  Were they that confident?

  The way they looked at me, their eyes filled with amusement not unmixed with contempt, I reckoned they were. To these two, I was just a half-grown boy without a mustache and mighty green, and they didn’t think I counted for much.

  Kennedy had killed a man in El Paso and a drover in Wichita, and he was real slick with the Colt. Luke would be just as good and, on account of how he looked like a man who hard wintered, I figured maybe even a shade better.

  I swallowed the lump in my throat and said, “Clem, the money belongs to Mr. Prather. He told me to give it to Ma.”

  Kennedy snorted. “Old lady Prather ain’t my ma. Besides, we need that thirty thousand more than she does.” The man’s hand was very close to his gun, his slicker brushed back. “Now do you hand it over or do we just take it?”