Fatal Justice Read online

  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

  LONG TIME COMING

  “Some men would like nothing better than to hear you beg and scream and cry. But me, I favor an eye for an eye. A man punches me, I punch him. A man knifes me, I knife him,” Sharkey said. He extended his hand to Lonnie, who gave him the Remington pocket pistol. “A man shoots me, I shoot him.”“

  Ash stabbed his hand for his revolver. He had it halfway out when the pocket pistol boomed and his right leg exploded with pain. He fell to his knee and tried to draw. Another boom, and his shoulder felt as if he’d been kicked by a mule. He was dimly aware that Lonnie was laughing, and of the acrid odor of gun smoke. Then Sharkey stepped up to him and pressed the muzzle to his sternum.

  “Time to die, you son of a bitch.”

  Ash had started to jerk aside when it felt as if a red-hot poker were being thrust through his chest and his world faded to black. . . .

  SIGNET

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

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  First Printing, December 2009

  Copyright © The Estate of Ralph Compton, 2009

  eISBN : 978-1-101-15188-4

  All rights reserved

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  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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  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

  Marshal Asher Thrall had his feet propped on his desk and was about to take a sip of coffee when the door burst open. In rushed a boy not much older than ten who excitedly gasped his message.

  “Marshal! Marshal! You’ve got to come quick!”

  Ash took the sip, set down the cup and folded his hands in his lap. “Calm down, son. Get your breath back.”

  Over at the other desk Deputy George Blocker looked at the boy in annoyance. He was writing a report on an arrest he had made and the tip of his tongue poked from the corner of his mouth as it always did when he had to spell. “What the hell set your britches on fire, boy?”

  “Be polite,” Ash said.

  Blocker started to swear and caught himself. “I will never understand why you always have to be so nice to folks.”

  Ash tapped the badge pinned to his shirt. “This is why.”

  “There’s nothing that says a lawman has to act like a parson,” Blocker said huffily. “Hell, we deal mostly with the dregs. We should treat them the same way they treat us.”

  “We deal with honest citizens too.”

  “There’s no such critter, Ash. Everyone does things they shouldn’t. It’s just that most don’t get caught.”

  Ash chuckled. “I wish I may be shot if I ever become as cynical as you.”

  The boy couldn’t stand still. A ragamuffin with no shoes and a dirt-smeared face, he was fidgeting fit to bust his britches. “Didn’t you hear me, Marshal? You’ve got to come right away. She says it’s important.”

  “Who says?”

  “Abigail.”

  Deputy Blocker grunted. “Abby Mason? The whore?”

  “The what?” the boy said.

  Ash shot Blocker a glance that shut him up before he could reply. “Do y
ou mean Abby over on Fremont Street?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s where we live, my folks and my sister and me. Abigail lives a few doors down.” The boy’s teeth flashed white in his dirty face. “She’s the nicest lady. She always gives us hard candy.”

  “Why did she send you, son?”

  The boy lost his smile. “Oh. She’s in trouble. She says there’s a bad man at her place. A real bad man. She says you’ve got to come quick and arrest him or he might hurt her.”

  Deputy Blocker threw in, “Want to bet it’s some drunk who tore her bedsheets with his spurs?”

  Ash swung his long legs to the floor. “She give you a name, son?”

  The boy scrunched up his face. “Yes, she did. But I’ve plumb forgot, I ran here so fast.”

  “Think,” Ash prompted. “Think of when she was telling you to come here. What did she say?”

  “I was playing out front of her place. She came down the stairs and took me by the arm. She acted all nervous. Then she said to fetch you.” The boy bit his lower lip. “What was that name, darn it?” Suddenly he smacked the desk. “Now I recollect. It was Shar-something.”

  “Shar-something?” Ash repeated.

  “Sharkey! The name was Sharkey.”

  Ash slowly rose until he towered over the desk and the ragamuffin. “Ben Sharkey? Was that it?”

  “She didn’t say the first name. All she said was for you to come quick. She gave me two bits, it was so important.” The boy opened his left hand. “See?”

  “All right. I want you to go home. Don’t go anywhere near Abby’s. Go straight home and stay there. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ash went to the gun rack on the opposite wall and took down a scattergun. He opened a drawer under the rack and carried a box of shells to his desk. Breaking the scattergun open, he commenced loading it.

  Deputy Blocker put down the pencil. “Well, now. So there’s something to this? Every time you take out that howitzer it means you expect trouble.”

  “You heard the boy. It’s Ben Sharkey.”

  “The name means nothing to me.”

  Ash slid a shell into the second barrel. “It would if you’d ever been up Kansas way or other parts north. He’s as mean as they come, George. Killer, rustler, robber—you name it.”

  “What’s he doing in Texas?”

  “We’ll ask him.” Ash snapped the shotgun shut. “Bring a rifle. We have to hurry. It’ll be dark soon and I need to send a telegram first.”

  “A telegram?” Blocker was making a habit of repeating everything Ash said. “Who to?”

  “You’ll find out.”

  The sunset was spectacular. Vivid streaks of red and orange mixed with splashes of pink. Most of Mobeetie’s good citizens hardly noticed. Main Street was busy. Dust rose from under the wheels of a clattering buckboard. A dog lifted its leg at a hitch rail. A young woman holding a pink parasol fluttered gaily past storefronts.

  The telegraph office was near the bank. Ash strode in and set the scattergun on the counter with a thump, causing the owl-eyed man behind it to give a start.

  “Be careful with that thing, Marshal. Is it loaded? It might go off.”

  “I need a telegram sent, Sam. I need it sent right now.”

  Sam Baxter said stiffly, “That’s what I’m here for.” He produced a form and a pencil. “Where am I sending it, and to whom?”

  “To the Texas Rangers in Austin.”

  Ash and Deputy Blocker left the telegraph office. By now only the crown of the sun remained. They walked down Main to Fremont and stopped at the corner.

  “How do you want to handle this?” Blocker asked. “Bust in the door and catch him by surprise?”

  “Maybe have Abigail take a bullet?” Ash shook his head. “Our job is to safeguard lives, not get bystanders killed.”

  “You sure do take this job serious,” Blocker remarked. “Don’t get me wrong. Everyone thinks you’re about the best lawman this town ever had, but sometimes you get too caught up in doing what’s right.”

  “We took an oath,” Ash reminded him.

  “Sure, we pledged to uphold the law the best we can. You take it one step more. You act as if you have to be perfect.”

  Ash scanned Fremont to the far end. Most of the buildings were frame houses. A few had ROOMS FOR RENT signs out. Times were hard and folks did what they could in order to make ends meet. Holding the scattergun low against his leg, he tugged his hat brim down, pulled his jacket over his badge, and headed up the street on the side across from Abby Mason’s apartment.

  Deputy Blocker was at his elbow. He had put his hand over his own badge. “Trying to hide that we’re lawmen?”

  “The tin won’t make a difference to Sharkey. Not where I’m concerned,” Ash answered.

  “I don’t savvy.”

  “He knows me.”

  Blocker didn’t hide his surprise. “Why didn’t you say so sooner?” He paused. “Say, that’s right. You were in Kansas for a spell. You wore a badge up there too. Is that where you know this curly wolf from?”

  Ash nodded.

  “In what way do you know him? Did you arrest him? Did you play cards with the man? What?”

  “I shot him.”

  Blocker stopped in his tracks. “The hell, you say. Care to spill the particulars? Or do I walk into this with blinders on?”

  “All you need to know is that Ben Sharkey is as bad a killer as John Wesley Hardin. He hasn’t killed as many, but it’s not for a lack of trying. When I ran into him up in Salina he hadn’t gone completely bad yet, but he tried to stab a fellow lawman and I took him into custody. I had to shoot him to do it.”

  “You shot him and you arrested him and he just happens to show up in another town where you are marshal?”

  “It’s been four years. The judge went easy on him and let him off. The last I heard, he’d drifted up to Wyoming and was plaguing the people there.” Ash peered under his hat brim at the window to Abby’s apartment. The curtains, backlit by a lamp, were drawn tight. At the side of the house were stairs. A horse was tied to the rail.

  “That must be his,” Deputy Blocker said.

  Ash kept going to the end of the block. Halting, he scratched his chin. “All right. This is how we’ll do it. You take this side and I’ll take the other. Go from door to door and warn everyone to stay inside until we say it’s safe to come out. Do it quietly.”

  “That’s an awful lot of bother to go to,” Blocker criticized. “I still think we should sneak up and kick in the door.”

  “We do it the safest way for everyone.” Ash set to work. Most of the houses had small yards and picket fences. A few had dogs. One mongrel barked furiously until the owner hushed it. Ash was worried that Sharkey would hear and look out, but the curtains that covered Abby’s window stayed shut.

  Only one person raised a fuss. Crotchety Mrs. Brubaker shook her cane at Ash and said, “Stay indoors until you say different? I should say not. If I want to come outside, I will.”

  “It’s for your own good, ma’am. There might be shooting, and you wouldn’t want to be hit by a stray bullet, would you?”

  “Marshal, when you’ve lived as long as I have, you learn a thing or two. Such as when your time comes, there’s not a blessed thing you can do about it. We can’t hide from the Almighty.”

  Ash tried another tack. “I would breathe easier knowing you were safe.”

  “You want to protect me from myself, I take it. But since when is the law our nursemaid? Each of us has the right to live or die when as we see fit. Mollycoddle folks and you turn them timid.”

  “I’m asking nice.”

  “Yes. Yes, you are. That’s the only reason I don’t shoo you off my property.” Mrs. Brubaker hobbled inside and shut the door. From within came, “I voted for you in the last election, you know.”

  Ash sighed and went down the walk to the gate. A few more homes and he was done. He waited for Blocker at the corner.

  Darkness had fallen and mo
re windows were lit. It was the supper hour. The aroma of cooked food was heavy in the air.

  Ash’s stomach rumbled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

  Deputy Blocker rejoined him. “All done,” he announced, sounding annoyed. “Now can we get this over with?”

  The dun tied to the stairs pricked its ears at their approach. Its nostrils flared and for a few anxious moments Ash thought it would whinny. He patted its neck and said softly, “There, there.”

  “You have a way with horses just like you do with people,” Deputy Blocker praised.

  The stairs were oak planks. Ash put each foot down slowly and applied his weight by degrees rather than all at once. The landing was small, barely five feet square. He trained the scattergun on the door and placed his thumb on the hammers. Holding his ear to the door, he listened.

  “Hear anything?” Blocker asked.

  Ash glared at him. Gingerly he grasped the latch and lifted. The bolt hadn’t been thrown and the door swung in on silent hinges. He eased inside.

  A short hall led to the parlor. He took a step and heard a slight jingle. Not from his boots; he wasn’t wearing spurs. He wanted to kick himself for not having Blocker take his off.

  The deputy wore a sheepish look.

  Ash motioned for him to stay put. Wedging the scattergun to his shoulder, he glided to the end of the hall. The parlor was empty. Perfume tingled his nose and he almost sneezed.

  A trail of clothes led to the bedroom; a dress, a man’s bandana, a lady’s chemise, a man’s shirt, a lady’s stockings and garters, and finally a pair of scuffed brown boots.

  The bedroom door was closed. Ash pushed his hat back and carefully pressed his ear to the wood. He heard giggling and then Abby Mason’s squeak of a voice.

  “You must be joshing.”

  Another voice, a raspy growl, stirred Ash’s memory.