Ralph Compton Ride the Hard Trail Read online

  A Captive Audience

  Seth Montfort looked at his men, and then up at the sky, and then down at Lin. “You try to be reasonable with some people…,” he said to no one in particular. Suddenly he punched Lin in the cheek, nearly snapping Lin’s head around. “Get this through your thick skull. She is mine. Her land is mine. Not you or anyone else can stop that from happening. Not even her.”

  “You have no right,” Lin said.

  “Why? Because I have not slipped a ring on her finger? Because we have not said our vows? I do not need to. She still has my brand on her.” Montfort smiled and nodded. “Yes. That is how it is. I have branded her as I would a cow. To insert yourself as you have done is the same as trying to rustle my cattle.”

  “Etta June is no cow.”

  “For all your grit, you are thick of wit,” Montfort said. “Gentlemen,” he said, addressing his punchers and leather slappers. “This jackass refuses to listen. An example must be made. Pistol-whip him, if you please.”

  “Which one of us should do it?” Stone asked.

  “All of you.”

  Ralph Compton

  Ride the Hard Trail

  A Ralph Compton Novel

  by David Robbins

  A SIGNET BOOK

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

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

  New York, New York 10014, USA

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

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, June 2008

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Copyright © The Estate of Ralph Compton, 2008

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 978-1-440-63444-4

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Printed in the United States of America

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  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.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

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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

  Table of Contents

  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

  Blood on the Gallows

  Chapter 1

  They were night and day.

  The older brother had neatly combed hair the color of straw. He was wide of shoulder and narrow of waist, and rode with his back straight and his blue eyes alert. His clothes were those of a cowman: a high-crowned hat and cowhide vest, both brown, a green homespun shirt and denims.

  The younger brother had a shock of hair as black as a raven. He was thin and sinewy and rode slouched in the saddle, half dozing. His hat was black with a deep crease and a wide brim. His shirt was blue. He also wore denims.

  The dust that caked their clothes and mounts testified to the many miles they had ridden. The blond brother rode a palomino, or buttermilk, as they were sometimes called. The black-haired brother rode a zebra dun.

  The trail they were following across the prairie was marked with hoofprints and wheel ruts. Presently it brought them to the top of a hogback sprinkled with sage.

  Drawing rein, the older brother pushed his hat back on his head and bobbed his square jaw at a cluster of buildings a quarter of a mile off, nestled at th
e foot of the Big Horn Mountains. “Yonder is a settlement. We will stop there for a spell, Chancy.”

  The younger brother looked up and frowned. “A gob of spit in the middle of nothing. We came all this way, and for what, Lin?”

  Lin Bryce sighed. The crow’s-feet around his eyes crinkled as he tiredly rubbed them. “You know as well as I do why. And you would do well not to remind me.”

  Chancy’s frown deepened. “I hate it when you take that tone. You are not Pa.”

  “If he were still alive, we would not be here,” Lin said wistfully. “We would still be on the ranch. Ma would be her old self, and it would all be as it was when we were young.”

  “You live too much in the past, Big Brother,” Chancy said. “It is now that counts.”

  “You never think of him? Of how things used to be?”

  Chancy yawned. “Why live yesterday all over again? What is done is done. He died and Ma died and we lost everything and are drifting God knows where.”

  “We need not have drifted,” Lin said harshly.

  “Don’t start. I am not in the mood. I will be damned if I will listen to another of your lectures.” Chancy gigged the zebra dun.

  Lin clucked to his buttermilk and followed. He studied the buildings as they drew near. Most were so shabby, they looked fit to blow away with the next Chinook. The exceptions were a general store and a saloon. Horse and pig droppings littered the short street.

  Lin brought the buttermilk to a stop at the hitch rail in front of the general store. Chancy had already dismounted and gone in. As Lin alighted, an elderly man in an apron appeared holding a yellow dog by the scruff of its neck.

  “When will you listen, you ornery mongrel?” Setting the dog down, he gave it a hard shake. “Stay out of my store! I won’t have you underfoot, and I don’t want your fleas.” With that, he kicked the dog in the backside. Yelping, the animal ran off. Chuckling to himself, the man smoothed his apron.

  “Are you as friendly to strangers?” Lin asked.

  The man started. “I didn’t see you there, mister. And no, as a general rule I don’t kick people.”

  “Where might I be?” Lin asked.

  “Wyoming.”

  Lin waited, and when no more information was forthcoming, he remarked, “You are downright comical.”

  “Be specific. I can educate you, but I can’t make you think, and you don’t want to go through life with a puny thinker.”

  Chuckling, Lin strode around the hitch rail. “I take it back. You are not comical. You are a philosopher.”

  The man smiled and offered his bony hand. “Abe Tucker. What might your handle be?”

  Lin hesitated. He noticed the color of the man’s suspenders. “Gray,” he lied. “My name is Lin Gray.”

  “Well, Mr. Gray,” Abe said, encompassing the hamlet with a sweep of his bony arm, “this here is Mason. It is named after an old trapper who lived in these parts nigh on forty years. We have a population of fifteen if you count that dog.”

  Lin gazed to the southeast, out over the rolling grassland he and his brother had crossed, and then to the west at the emerald foothills and the timbered slopes of the towering mountains beyond. Nowhere else was there sign of human habitation. “You must not aim to die rich.”

  Abe Tucker laughed. “If money was all I cared about, I’d have opened my store in Sheridan. Last I heard, they have pretty near two hundred souls. That is too many for me. I can only abide people in small doses.”

  “We passed through Sheridan on our way here,” Lin mentioned. “I counted three saloons and two churches.”

  “If parsons served liquor at their services, Sheridan would have five churches and no saloons.” Abe arched an eyebrow at the doorway. “You said ‘we.’ Is that young gent who walked in a minute ago with you?”

  “My brother.”

  “He is not very polite. He bumped into me and did not have the courtesy to say he was sorry.” Abe paused. “I almost gave him a piece of my mind, but something in his eyes stopped me.”

  “He is peaceful enough.” Lin told his second lie of the day. “But he is not much on manners.”

  “The young usually aren’t. They reckon they know better than their betters, and strut around like roosters.” Abe smiled. “I did the same when I was his age. But we all grow up eventually.”

  “Some of us,” Lin said. He went in.

  The store was dark and cool, a welcome relief from the sun. For a small settlement the store was well stocked, the merchandise neatly arranged. Salt, sugar, molasses, eggs, butter—all could be had. Canned goods lined a shelf on one wall. Tools, knives and firearms were on display.

  Chancy was at the counter next to a pair of kegs. One was marked APPLE CIDER. He was filling a glass from a spigot. “This gob of spit is not entirely hopeless.”

  Lin stepped to the cracker barrel. “You would do better to eat. We did not have breakfast.”

  Abe Tucker moved behind the counter. “Anything that you boys want that you don’t see, just ask.”

  “How about a filly in a tight red dress?” Chancy responded.

  “I am not in the painted-cat business, son. The nearest women to be had for money are in Sheridan.”

  “I figured as much,” Chancy said. “And I am not your son, nor will I ever be,” he coldly added.

  “No offense meant.”

  Lin held a cracker to his lips but did not take a bite. “Don’t start,” he told his brother. “You would think you had learned your lesson by now.”

  “I am just saying, is all,” Chancy said. “People should not call you their son when you are not.”

  Abe glanced at Lin. “A mite touchy, this brother of yours.”

  “You have no idea,” Lin said. But he did, and he worried that Chancy’s touchiness would cause them to continue their flight. He changed the subject. “Tell me, Mr. Tucker: Are there many ranches hereabouts?”

  “If four are a lot, then yes,” the storekeeper said. “Looking to hire on, are you?”

  “I am a tolerable hand,” Lin said.

  “When you leave Mason, head southwest. In about a mile you will come on Laurel Creek. Follow it west six or seven miles and you will be on the Bar M. That is the biggest outfit in these parts. But the owner, Seth Montfort, is particular about who he hires. It is not enough to know cows these days.”

  “No?”

  “Of late he has been hiring gents who are fond of tie-downs,” Abe Tucker revealed.

  Chancy’s interest perked. “You don’t say? What does this Montfort need with leather slappers?”

  Abe stared at the pearl-handled Colt high on Chancy’s right hip, then at Lin, who did not wear a six-gun. “You would have to ask him. I took you for one, what with that fancy smoke wagon of yours.”

  Grinning, Chancy patted his Colt. “Cost me a hundred dollars, but it was worth every cent.”

  “Throwing lead always leads to trouble, young man. You would do well to imitate your brother.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do.” Chancy bristled. “I will live as I damn well please.”

  Lin moved between them, saying, “Simmer down. He was only suggesting, and he is right.”

  “Here you go again.”

  “No,” Lin said. “I have talked until I am hoarse, and you refuse to listen. So wear it if you want, and I pray to God it doesn’t get you killed.” He faced the owner. “You mentioned four ranches.”

  Abe nodded. “The other three are small outfits. To the northwest is Aven Magill. He lives alone and likes it that way, so there is no sense asking him for work. Besides, he is a grump, and you would not want to work for him if he did hire you.” Abe paused. “To the west are two ranches. The farthest out is Cody Dixon and his family. A bit closer is Etta June Cather’s spread.”

  “A woman?”

  “Her husband got kicked in the head breaking a raw one about a year ago. Etta June has a boy and a girl, but they are only ten and eight. Too young to be of much help. She runs the ranch herself and do
es a fine job, but she works herself to death.”

  A rustling sound caused them to glance down the aisle. A woman was standing there. She was tall and full bodied. Her plain dress and Zouave jacket, which had seen a lot of wear, hinted at frugal means. Sandy hair spilled from under a floppy hat. “I thank you for the compliment, Mr. Tucker,” she said, her hazel eyes twinkling.

  “Dang it, Etta June,” Abe said. “You ought not to sneak up on people like that.”

  She smiled and came to the counter, paying no attention whatsoever to Lin and Chancy. “I need a few things on account, if that is all right.”

  “Your credit is always good with me,” Abe said kindly.

  Chancy held out his half-full glass. “Care for some cider, pretty thing? I do not mind sharing.”

  “Since when is it proper to address a lady so familiarly? I am not a tart.” Etta June Cather reached into a pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “Here is my list, Mr. Tucker.” She went to hand it to him, but Chancy snatched it from her.

  “See here,” Abe said. “What do you think you are doing?”

  Chancy wagged the paper. “I will not be treated as a no-account. She will say she is sorry, or she does not get it back.”

  “Why, you upstart,” Abe said.

  Lin held out his hand, palm up. “Give it to me.”

  “You heard her,” Chancy snapped. “I was only being sociable. Where was the harm?”

  “Give it,” Lin repeated.

  “Sometimes you go too far. If you weren’t my brother, I would have bedded you down—permanent—a long time ago.”

  Lin wiggled his fingers.

  Scowling, Chancy slapped the paper into Lin’s hand. “Here. Take it. But I will not put up with much more of this. I can manage on my own if I have to.”

  Wheeling, he stalked toward the door, his spurs jingling. As he went out, he slammed the door after him.

  “Temperamental, that youngster,” Abe Tucker commented.

  Lin leaned back against the counter and folded his arms across his broad chest. “He is seventeen. There are ten years between us, and sometimes it seems like fifty.”

  Etta June said, “I am sorry if I upset him, but he had no call to do that.”