The Dangerous Land Read online

  THE DANGEROUS LAND

  Paul raised his gun and did his best to keep his hand from shaking. “What do you want?”

  “Step aside,” the warrior said.

  Since he didn’t have much of a plan going in, Paul cleared a path for the Comanche while putting himself between the muscular figure and the dining room. As the warrior made his way toward the front door, he knocked whatever he could to the floor and pushed over any shelves that were still standing. He was almost close enough to open the door and walk outside when another door behind Paul was flung open.

  “That’s him!” Dorothy said as she emerged from the kitchen. “That’s the one who did it.”

  “Stay back,” Paul told her.

  “Don’t let him go,” she said frantically. Her face was wet with tears and a tickle of blood ran from a cut on one temple. “He was the first one to ride into town. He’s the one responsible!”

  “Responsible for what?” Paul asked through mounting frustration.

  “He . . . he’s the one who shot Abigail.”

  Paul turned to look at her again. This time, he noticed the bloodstains covering her apron. He didn’t need to think any more after that.

  He didn’t care that the warrior had the look of a bloodthirsty wolf.

  He didn’t care that it had been over a decade since he’d fired the Schofield at anything that didn’t slither or crawl on four legs.

  When he saw that blood and thought about his daughter lying wounded somewhere, Paul simply bared his teeth and charged.

  SIGNET

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014

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  A Penguin Random House Company

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

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  Copyright © The Estate of Ralph Compton and Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 2014

  Excerpt from Train to Durango copyright © Ralph Compton, 1998

  Penguin 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 to continue to publish books for every reader.

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  ISBN 978-0-698-16021-7

  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.

  Version_1

  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

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Excerpt from TRAIN TO DURANGO

  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

  Colorado,1886

  In his life, Paul Meakes had been plenty of things. When he was inclined to boast, he would mention his time spent as half a lawman working as a deputy for a marshal in Kansas. Those had been an exciting couple of months but hadn’t amounted to much apart from riding on a few posses without ever being offered steady employment. He’d had a few lucky strikes as a miner while panning in the rivers of Wyoming and California, but plenty of men had stories like those. During his younger days, he’d been a trapper on the Nebraska plains skinning buffalo and dragging their hides from one trading post to another in search of the best price.

  Paul didn’t have much use for boasting anymore. Some years ago, he’d worked a few cattle ranches and picked up odd jobs in mining camps on his way into the southeastern portion of Colorado. Once there, he’d met a lovely little woman named Joanna and opened a little general store that stocked bits and pieces the locals weren’t likely to find anywhere else. He kept one of the best-stocked selections of books in the county and was known throughout his town for the oddities displayed in his front window. Residents of Keystone Pass knew where to go for blankets, oats, shoes, or tools. When they wanted something to read, a newspaper from any of a number of bigger towns, or fashions left behind by merchants on their way to New York or San Francisco, they went to Meakes Mercantile.

  Before long, Paul’s little store had acquired something of a reputation throughout Colorado. Those in favor of his place regarded it as a haven for fine goods and intellectual delights. Those who weren’t feeling so generous called the shop a dumping ground for yellow-back novels and wares from every snake oil salesman who’d dared showed his face east of the Rockies. Either way, Paul made a decent living. He was a far cry from being rich, but he managed to keep his head above water when it came time to feeding his little family.

  Joanna was a beautiful woman. Short and a bit stout in stature, she had stolen Paul’s heart the instant he saw her smile. When he worked up the nerve to ask her to a dance
, hold her in his arms, smell her soft blond curls, marriage was a foregone conclusion. She was a caring wife and patient mother.

  Was.

  Paul thought of her often, so his brief respite while arranging the books for sale in his store was nothing new. Neither was the pinch at the corner of his eyes or the grief that stabbed at his heart when he thought of her in terms of was or used to be. She’d passed fourteen months ago. Fourteen months during which he’d felt the passage of every single moment. The whole town missed her. Joanna was the sort of woman who took it upon herself to remember folks by name and ask about their young ones whenever they passed in the street. Paul, on the other hand, was more likely to nod to familiar faces in a friendly way without being overly enthusiastic about it. Without Joanna at his side, he was only left with silent nods from partial strangers.

  For the most part, that suited Paul just fine. He’d spent most of his life roaming from one spot to another, one job to another, surrounded by a fair number of other people or none at all. When he was alone, he enjoyed the silence. When he was part of a community, he knew it was only a matter of time before he’d break away to become part of another. More than likely, folks remembered him fondly but not very often. Since he remembered them the same way, Paul was content to let things remain that way.

  Whenever his spirits needed lifting, he only had to look at the faces of his two children. Abigail and David were both the spitting images of their mother, even though he’d been told the nine-year-old boy bore a mighty large resemblance to his father. If he wanted to be reminded of himself, Paul would look into a mirror, so he chose to only see them for what they were and as fond reminders of his sweet Joanna.

  Standing with a pile of books cradled in his arms, Paul hadn’t realized he’d been lost in his thoughts until it was pointed out to him by the young woman looking through a small stack of dresses that had arrived all the way from New Mexico earlier that week. She was in her early teens and a bit tall for her age. Long, light brown hair was braided and draped over one shoulder to display a yellow ribbon tied at the end. Rolling her eyes, she rooted through the clothing with exaggerated vigor and let out a pronounced sigh.

  “What’s wrong now, Daddy?” she asked.

  Paul shrugged and got back to stocking the bookshelf. “Why does anything have to be wrong?”

  “You’re staring at me.”

  “Because you’re beautiful.”

  Abigail started to roll her eyes again but blinked and showed her father a smile instead. It was a halfhearted gesture, but it served its purpose well enough. “Thank you for saying so.”

  After placing the last book upon its shelf, Paul walked over to the table displaying the store’s most recently acquired articles of clothing and rubbed his daughter’s shoulder. She was almost as tall as him even though she tended to stoop a bit to hide her height. “I’m not just saying so. It’s the truth.”

  “You’re the only one who thinks so.”

  “I doubt that very much.”

  “Yes, well . . . thank you all the same.”

  Walking to the back of the store where a few crates had been opened, Paul said, “I imagine you could corral any boy you wanted.”

  Another sigh from the girl was followed by a series of stomping steps that led to the front of the store. “I don’t want to talk about this with you.”

  “What about Michael Willis? Weren’t you and Becky talking about him just the other day?”

  Even from her new spot behind the cash register, Abigail managed to shoot a terse glare all the way back to where Paul was retrieving some more books. “You were spying on me and Becky?”

  “You and Becky are almost always together and you talk quite a lot.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  Paul gathered another armful of books and carried them to the shelf at the front of the store. Although he wouldn’t have dropped one volume in the middle of a hurricane, he fretted with them as a way to avoid his daughter’s critical eye. “I have ears,” he said. “They’re not filled with wax. I hear things.” He also saw things, but he decided not to embarrass her with those details.

  “Becky’s meeting me at Johansen’s Bakery. Can I have some money?” she asked while already poking a key to open the cash register.

  “Take fifty cents. Not a penny more.”

  “Fine.”

  Sliding each book into place and taking his time in the process, Paul waited until he heard his daughter walking to the front door before saying, “If you’re still hungry, there’s going to be a picnic after Sunday services.”

  “That’s not for two days,” she pointed out. “We’re not eating until then?”

  “Of course we are. It’s just that . . . most everyone will be there. The Willis family, for certain.”

  Abigail lingered at the door with her hand on the knob. She closed her eyes and pressed her lips into a tight line in an expression of anxiety dating all the way back to when she’d been a baby worried about standing upright. “Michael doesn’t care if I’m there or not.”

  “Do you know that for a fact?”

  “Yes.” When she finally looked over to her father to see his stern expression, Abigail sighed. “No.”

  “Then you should go to that picnic and ask him to dance.”

  “He should be the one to do the asking.”

  “Maybe he’s shy,” Paul said. “Boys get shy too, you know. And it’s not such a terrible thing to ask one to dance. Many of them even like it that way.”

  “Sure they do,” she scoffed. “That’s less work for them.”

  Paul laughed and fell into an easier rhythm of placing the books in their proper order. After taking a moment to lift one to his nose so he could smell the musty pages, he said, “You’re right about that, but it never hurts to meet someone halfway. If things go right, it won’t hardly matter who took that first step.”

  “I guess I could go to the picnic . . . if Becky’s going too.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  “You know what would make me feel better about going?” she asked.

  “What’s that?”

  “If I had a new dress to wear.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. Martha just sent over a few nice ones the other day,” Paul told her. “They’re hanging next to those waistcoats.”

  “I was thinking more about the fancy silk ones on the front display.”

  “I bet you were. Those will fetch a mighty good price, but not if they’ve already been worn. They’ll be damn near worthless once you spill jam or soup on them.”

  “I won’t spill on it, Daddy!” she insisted while coyly trying to shift her arms to hide the faded stain on the dress she now wore.

  “You spill on just about everything, sweetie. It’s part of your charm.”

  Judging by the way she stormed out of the store, Abigail did not share that sentiment or find it half as endearing as her father did.

  Chapter 2

  Supper was a simple affair prepared hastily by Abigail and cleared away by her younger brother. David was a slender boy with fair hair, dark circles under his eyes, and long legs. When he was done washing the last of the dishes, David went out to the porch and approached his father, who stood enjoying the night.

  “I’m done with my chores, Pa,” David said. “Did you bring me anything from the store?”

  “Some new books came in today,” he said while puffing on a chipped pipe. Even though he didn’t look over at David, he had no trouble picturing the boy’s wide, expectant eyes.

  “I know them books came in!” David squealed. “You said you’d bring me one!”

  “Did I?”

  The nine-year-old let out an all-too-familiar sound that was part groan and part whine. Before it could shift too far into the latter category, Paul said, “Of course I brought you one! You think
I’d forget about my boy?”

  “No, sir!” David beamed.

  Paul lowered himself onto a chair that had been left in the elements for so long that it had practically grown roots into the porch. It sagged beneath his weight and creaked with every shift of his body but showed no hint of breaking. It protested loudly when Paul reached around to pick up the thin volume he’d set down where it could remain out of sight until now. When he held it out to the boy, he showed an expression that bore an uncanny resemblance to the one David had worn earlier.

  Unfortunately David’s expression didn’t last very long. “Oh,” he said. “Did you bring any others?”

  “No,” Paul replied. “I thought you’d like that one. It’s a ghost story.”

  “Ghosts are scary.”

  “But it’s just a story.”

  “I’ll have nightmares,” David said in a voice that was growing into more of a whine.

  “All right, then. I saw another one you might like.”

  “Really? Is it about trains?”

  “No. It’s about an adventure in the jungles of Peru! That’s where the conquistadores landed, you know.”

  “Jungles are scary.”

  Paul drew a deep breath. “You’ve never been to a jungle.”

  “I know. They’re still scary.”

  “It’s just a story. Maybe if you read it, you’ll enjoy it and then you won’t be so scared about it anymore. That’s how men become brave.”

  David nodded even though he’d obviously stopped listening. Wincing slightly when Paul rubbed his arm, he said, “I just like stories about trains. And horses. They’re not so scary.”

  “I’ll look around for something along them lines when I go back to the store tomorrow,” Paul said, even though he knew well enough that he’d already set aside a story about a young Arabian thief who tames a wild stallion. “It’s just that . . . you’re getting close to ten years old, son. There’s no reason to be so squirrelly.”

  At least when David nodded this time, he seemed to be listening to what Paul was telling him. “All right, Pa.”