The Bloody Trail 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

  Read on for an excerpt from Ralph Compton’s West of the Law, coming in October ...

  THE BLOODY TRAIL

  Until now, Jeremiah had forgotten about the old Navy model Colt at his side. The pistol was used mostly for target practice. Other than that, there was the occasional wild animal or wounded horse that needed to be put out of its misery. At the moment, Jeremiah wondered if he even had the strength to pull the gun from its stiff leather holster.

  ‘‘What the hell you think you’re doing?’’ the shorter of the three men asked.

  Jeremiah stepped back, but didn’t take his eyes from the trio. His mind raced for a response to the man’s question, but his mouth had already refused to do much more than suck in a few shallow breaths.

  All three of the other men let their hands drift to the holsters strapped at their waists.

  When he saw that, Jeremiah felt his heart slam against the inside of his ribs and his arm twitch toward the grip of his Colt in what he quickly realized was the worst possible move for him to make.

  SIGNET

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

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  First Printing, August 2007

  Copyright © The Estate of Ralph Compton, 2007

  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

  Martha’s Ferry, Wyoming

  1878

  When Jeremiah Correy stepped up to the bank of the Sweetwater River, it was his first step onto a trail of blood that led straight into a storm of lead. But, like any other deer caught in a hunter’s sights, Jeremiah didn’t know about the approaching storm, so he smiled and enjoyed his last bit of clear sky.

  The pier in Martha’s Ferry wasn’t much to look at, but it served its function well enough. Warped wooden planks were stacked two and three high in places after holes were patched up or breaks were repaired along the four feet it extended into the Sweetwater River. As water lapped against these planks, it thumped against the empty barrels underneath the pier that kept sections of it from going under. As Jeremiah stepped onto the pier, he felt the boards creak and bend under his boots.

  Jeremiah stood just over six feet tall. His lean frame was solid, with a slight hint of a paunch around his midsection. The black hair under his hat had been freshly cut, but the stubble on his face was growing out. Thick, callused hands hung at his sides and friendly eyes glanced down at the pier before looking around at the few other people that were nearby.

  None of the faces were familiar to Jeremiah and only one of them acknowledged him with an open-mouthed scowl.

  ‘‘You mind steppin’ aside?’’ the scowling man asked.

  Jeremiah grinned and took half a step to the side, which brought him within an inch of slipping into the river. ‘‘Both of us probably shouldn’t be on this,’’ he said with a chuckle. ‘‘It feels like it’s gonna give us a bath any second.’’

  The other man wasn’t amused. ‘‘Pier’s been here more’n twelve years. It ain’t goin’ nowhere.’’

  Although Jeremiah thought of ways to pass off his comment as a joke, he gave up on winning the other man over. Instead, he simply nodded and walked back onto dry land. From there, Jeremiah could see where a few posts had been sunk into the ground, but could also find plenty of cracks in that weathered lumber.

  ‘‘You waitin’ for the three o’clock?’’

  Jumping at the sound of the other voice, Jeremiah straightened up and turned to look over his shoulder. ‘‘Yes, I am. Is the boat still meant to arrive at three?’’

  ‘‘That’s why it’s called the three o’clock,’’ replied a squat man with enough thick layers of muscle under his skin to make him look like a tree trunk. ‘‘Wait over there with the rest.’’

  ‘‘Oh. Sure. Sorry about the . . .’’

  But the squat man was already moving along. He carried a barrel on one shoulder and had a few lengths of rope looped around his arm. Walking along that short length of rickety planks, he and the scowling man transferred enough crates, barrels and sacks to fill up the entire right side of the pier as well as a good portion of the nearby bank. Now that Jeremiah was no longer in their way, those two men continued moving past one another like ants building an impossibly tall pile of dirt.

  Jeremiah stood with his arms crossed while rocking on his heels. There was space on the bench behind him, but he was the only one who seemed unwilling to settle down. The others around him were content to remain in the spots they’d chosen and tend to their own affairs.

  One pretty woman in her twenties fussed with a young boy’s shirt collar while he told her why there were so many birds in the trees.

  A preacher in his fifties sat perched upon the bench and stared quietly out at the water.

  A man wearing
a dented beaver hat leaned back with his legs stretched out in front of him. Only now did Jeremiah realize that this man was watching him from beneath the dark shadow created by the brim of his hat.

  ‘‘You a rancher?’’ the man in the beaver hat asked.

  Jeremiah looked around to make sure there was nobody else around him. Smiling affably now that he knew he was the target of that question, Jeremiah replied, ‘‘That’s right. Do I know you?’’

  The man in the beaver hat remained stretched out as if he were taking in the sunset from his front porch. His arms were crossed over his chest, holding a worn jacket closed around him. A few beads of sweat rolled down his face, but that was to be expected on a warm spring day. In response to Jeremiah’s question, the man only shook his head.

  ‘‘Then I guess I must have seen you around town,’’ Jeremiah said while hooking his thumb back toward the trail that led into the little town of Martha’s Ferry.

  The man in the beaver hat shook his head once again. ‘‘Nope. You just look like you’re about to jump out of your skin since you can’t take charge of what’s going on. You’re not wearing a badge and you’re not long enough in the tooth to be a land or cattle baron, so that leaves rancher.’’

  ‘‘That leaves a lot of things, I’d suspect,’’ Jeremiah said.

  ‘‘Perhaps, but you dress like you used to be a cowboy. That narrows the field down a bit more.’’

  Jeremiah looked down at the clothes he was wearing. There weren’t any holes in his pants, his boots were well maintained and his shirt was clean. He even wore the pocket watch his wife had given him with a new chain crossing his belly.

  The man in the beaver hat chuckled to himself and shifted his eyes back toward the river. ‘‘No offense meant, mister. I was only saying.’’

  ‘‘Saying what?’’

  ‘‘That you looked like a rancher.’’

  Shrugging, Jeremiah stepped forward and extended his hand. ‘‘The name’s Jeremiah Correy. What’s yours?’’

  The man in the beaver hat glanced up at Jeremiah and then down at the hand that was being stretched out toward him. For a moment, it seemed as if he were about to take hold of that hand and pull it clean off. Instead, he shook it in a quick, firm grasp. ‘‘Emmett Blaylock,’’ was all he said.

  ‘‘Waiting for the boat, Emmett?’’

  ‘‘I’d say all of us are.’’

  Looking at the others sitting on the bench, Jeremiah nodded. When he realized that none of them were so much as looking in his direction, he said, ‘‘I suppose so. Did you book passage or are you waiting for cargo?’’

  ‘‘Why would you want to know?’’ Emmett asked in a tone that wasn’t exactly menacing, but held the possibility that it might head that way.

  ‘‘Just making conversation. Since I’m not allowed to oversee those workers, I’ve got to find some way to pass the time.’’

  When Emmett laughed, it cracked the seriousness that had settled into his features. It was an easy laugh that seemed all the more genuine since it didn’t thunder outward for everyone to hear. ‘‘I’m hoping to get a ride downriver.’’

  ‘‘Hoping?’’

  ‘‘Yeah. I was supposed to meet up with this raft a few days east of here, but got held up. I just hope they still have room for me.’’

  ‘‘And I just hope this is bigger than a raft,’’ Jeremiah said. ‘‘The supplies I ordered should take up a lot of room.’’

  Folding his hands behind his head, Emmett looked back toward the water and said, ‘‘That means there should be room for me after they unload.’’

  Jeremiah felt uncomfortable standing still and it showed. The more he fidgeted, the more Emmett seemed like a statue in comparison. In fact, Emmett had picked a point along the river and was staring at it now that he’d gotten comfortable on the bench. Jeremiah, on the other hand, was already tired of looking at the water and had gone back to watching the men pile crates upon the pier.

  ‘‘I’m pulling together an expedition,’’ Jeremiah said proudly.

  Emmett didn’t take his eyes from the river. ‘‘That so?’’

  ‘‘Yes, sir. I’m packing up and headed into Oregon.’’

  ‘‘That’s passing for an expedition, huh? I was thinking you might be bound for Canada or California at the least.’’

  ‘‘Why’s that?’’ Jeremiah asked.

  Emmett shrugged. ‘‘Sounds more worthy of being called an expedition.’’

  ‘‘Look, Ma!’’ shouted the little boy who’d been enduring his mother’s fussing. ‘‘The boat’s coming!’’

  Jeremiah took his eyes away from the workers and looked in the direction the boy was pointing. It was also the direction that Emmett had been staring the entire time.

  Less than a hundred yards away, a boat rounded a bend along a particularly narrow stretch of the Sweetwater River. It was about twice as long as it was wide and resembled a large raft with a shack toward the back of it. An engine chugged loudly to turn a short, wide paddle wheel while sending gouts of smoke into the air. The boat moved at a slow, steady pace down the middle of the river as several men scurried on the deck.

  The boy on the shore was jumping around excitedly. ‘‘Are we going on that, Ma?’’ he asked. ‘‘Are we?’’

  ‘‘Yes, sweetie,’’ the young woman said. ‘‘We are.’’ Only now did she look around to acknowledge any of the others sitting around her. ‘‘We’re heading to see my parents, and he’s so excited.’’

  The preacher put on an unconvincing smile, which Emmett mimicked perfectly. Since she didn’t look at the others for more than a second, the young woman looked back to her precious child and smoothed out his hair.

  ‘‘This is gonna be a hell of a long trip,’’ Emmett muttered.

  Jeremiah looked at the woman and caught her shooting Emmett a scolding glare. ‘‘Here, now,’’ Jeremiah said to the closest worker as he put the bench behind him and walked to the pier. ‘‘Let me give you a hand so we can be done faster.’’

  ‘‘Go on back and take a seat,’’ the squat worker told him. ‘‘Looks like we’re gonna have all the help we need.’’

  Stopping with his heels in the mud and his toes on the pier, Jeremiah squinted at the approaching boat. Sure enough, there were three other men standing on the deck. All of the workers on the boat wore blue scarves tied around their necks.

  As the boat drew closer to the pier, the three men standing on the deck locked eyes with Jeremiah. They weren’t wearing scarves.

  Glancing around to be certain he was the one in those men’s sights, Jeremiah saw that nobody else around him seemed to be concerned. On the contrary, the folks at the bench were getting excited at the prospect of boarding the craft and the workers were anxiously preparing to receive the vessel.

  Since he didn’t have much experience with boats, Jeremiah had to assume that things were moving along normally. By the time the side of the boat bumped against the pier, the workers were already tossing ropes. Two of the boat’s crew caught the ropes and pulled the boat even tighter against the pier so they could start tying it off. Now that the boat was docked, Jeremiah realized the craft wasn’t nearly as big as he’d been picturing it in his head. In fact, it barely seemed big enough to carry the things he’d ordered. After fishing the list of items he’d been expecting from his pocket, he got ready to check them off as they were unloaded.

  ‘‘Where the hell is he?’’ asked a voice from the boat.

  Jeremiah looked up from the crumpled piece of paper and immediately spotted two of the three men who’d been staring at him from the deck.

  The man who’d spoken was short and had a muscular frame. Behind him stood another fellow whose face was twisted into a nasty snarl. Upon a second glance, Jeremiah saw that gnarled expression came from the fact that the man’s right eye socket was covered by a thick mass of leathery, scarred flesh.

  The shorter man was talking to one of the fellows wearing a blue scarf. They conversed for a few seconds before the worker waved his hand toward the shore where Jeremiah was standing.

  Once the shorter man and the one-eyed fellow jumped off the boat, the workers got busy loading and unloading cargo.

  Suddenly, all of the mystery of watching the boat’s arrival faded away. Jeremiah was left standing in the sights of those two men with his back to an open stretch of land.