Ralph Compton Phantom Hill Read online

  PHANTOM HILL

  “Senor, you are being foolish. It was not our plan to come and kill you. But now, because of what you have done to our friends, we must. You have no chance, so why not step out onto the porch so we can be done with this?”

  Jennings’s reply to Ignacio Garza was a shot that splintered bark from the corner of the smokehouse.

  “We will now make your death a slow and painful one,” Garza shouted.

  When the two Mexicans suddenly abandoned their cover and began running toward the cabin, shouting and rapidly firing their pistols, Jennings was caught by surprise. The attackers made sure they were separated by a considerable distance, forcing him to aim at one at a time.

  He fired at one and the man dropped. Then he felt a searing pain in his shoulder and fell backward onto the floor, his rifle skidding away. Before he could get back to his feet, Garza was standing in the doorway, breathing heavily, his eyes aflame, his gun pointed at Jennings.

  “It pleases me that my previous shot did not go into your heart,” Ignacio said. “Now it will be my pleasure to see that one does.”

  As he took aim the front wall of the cabin reverberated with a loud boom and the doorway filled with smoke. There was a look of disbelief on Garza’s face as he tried to brace himself against the doorframe. He fell forward, his pistol still in his hand. The back of his head had been blown away.

  When the smoke began to clear, Jennings was able to make out a familiar form standing over the dead man. Ira Dalton, wide-eyed and shaking, was holding a shotgun.

  Jennings tried to stand but fell back to the floor, unconscious.

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library,

  an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  This book is an original publication of New American Library.

  Copyright © The Estate of Ralph Compton, 2016

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  ISBN 978-1-101-99023-0

  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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  Contents

  Phantom Hill

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Preface

  Part One

  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

  Part Two

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Part Three

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  About the Author

  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

  Preface

  I’m of the notion it was hiding out in a cave down by the Concho River for so long that made Ira Dalton a bit feeble of mind. The only person he spoke to during the entire time was his grandpa, who would occasionally visit in the middle of the night to sneak him flour and beans.

  Later on, long after he came out of hiding, there would be days when Ira seemed to have most of his wits about him. But there were times he would be reminded of hiding away from these who had come looking for able-bodied young men to join the Confederate army and he’d talk to nobody, except his dog, which he’d buried after it was bit by a snake and died.

  My guess is Ira was privately cursing himself for what he later judged cowardly behavior, choosing to hide and continue living rather than fight in a war that got just about every friend he’d known killed by Union soldiers. He’d managed to survive and eventually grow to manhood, but I can’t help thinking that deep down his was a life of constant regret.

  Still, I liked him. And he seemed to take to me. But even with our friendship being what it was, he rarely spoke of the demons that caused him such torment.

  He did tell me it was just days after his sixteenth birthday when word came that the Confederate government had decreed it mandatory for all men in Texas to join up. Some who had no taste for fighting quickly fled south of the border into Mexico to avoid the recruiters. At the urging of his grandparents, who had raised him after his mama and daddy were killed in an Indian raid, Ira literally went underground.

  As a youngster he’d roamed the black land wilderness surrounding the tiny cotton-farming hamlet of Runnels and was aware of every bend of the river, every peak and valley, even the secluded shelters of the deer and coyotes who roamed the region. High atop a limestone cliff on the river’s edge, just over a mile’s walk from the Dalton farmhouse, he’d discovered the cave whose entrance was hidden by the tangled growth of mesquites and sagebrush. It was there he’d played countless childhood games and later it became his full-time hiding place.


  By day he wouldn’t venture outside. Only when nightfall arrived would he fish the river for perch and carp and set traps for the rabbits and squirrels he would cook on a small fire in the deepest corner of his hideaway. He bathed in the river by moonlight. He was alone with nothing but his thoughts and the constant concern he would be found, recording the passage of each day with a mark on the wall of the cave.

  Ira Dalton became a prisoner of his own fear.

  Small wonder he didn’t go crazy as an outhouse rat. I don’t intend that observation in a mean-spirited way, you understand. As I’ve said, I liked him from the first day I met him in a livery stable in Phantom Hill where he was cleaning stalls and tending horses in exchange for room and board. He’d left his hiding place and gone there as soon as his grandpa alerted him that the Confederates had surrendered and the war was over. The only thing he owned was a mule named Bell that he’d left home on. His dog, whose name I can’t recall, followed along.

  By then he was twenty going on twenty-one, tall and skinny as a rail. The thing that struck me the first time I met him was that he had the saddest eyes I’d ever seen.

  I’ll tell you more about him later. But for now what I want you to know before you go reading any further is this: Ira Dalton was no coward. Not by a long shot. If not for him, I’d not be around to tell this story.

  He saved my life.

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Coy Jennings was limping almost as badly as his horse when, in the distance, he saw chimney smoke lazily climbing into the clear morning sky. From a small rise he could see a couple of clapboard buildings, a few small houses, and a lengthy row of tents. The wind carried the sounds of people as they hurried about, dogs barking, a rooster crowing, and a steady clanging of a blacksmith’s hammer.

  Phantom Hill didn’t look like much of a town.

  “I reckon if we don’t fall flat on our faces,” he said to the hobbling bay, “we’re gonna make it.”

  The trip took far longer than Jennings had planned. What he had figured would be a two-day ride turned into more than a week after his horse had startled a rattlesnake, which then had bitten him just above the hoof on his back leg. Coy hadn’t even bothered to kill the snake, instead dismounting immediately and cutting away a length of rein to tie above the small marks left by the rattler’s fangs. He’d quickly tethered his mount to a mesquite tree, taken out his knife, and begun cutting small X’s above the wound. Kneeling in front of the animal, he’d sucked the bloody poison from the leg. Once that was done, he’d made a small fire and boiled water to bathe the cuts. He’d then made a mushy plaster of tobacco and placed it on the leg, wrapping it tightly with a strip of cloth ripped from his shirt.

  But it still swelled, and soon became feverish. Through the remainder of the day and into the night, Jennings had tended the bay, a gentle animal that his pa had given him when he was still in his teens. He’d ridden him to the schoolhouse and town dances, then during his days as a Confederate soldier. He was the only horse Jennings had ever owned and he refused to consider the idea that it might become his responsibility to put the animal down and relieve him of his misery.

  The only time he’d left the horse’s side was to walk to a nearby spring for water and to whisper a prayer. Lord, you know I’m not one for asking favors. Likely as not, I’m not deserving of any. Last time I recall reaching out to you was when that Union soldier shot me in the leg and you saw to it I didn’t die. What I’m asking this time is if you could see your way clear to do the same for my horse. Rodeo’s his name and he’s lived a good and honorable life. More than me, that’s for sure. I’d thank you kindly for anything you can do to help him get better.

  • • •

  On the third morning he awoke long before sunup to find Rodeo standing, chewing on mesquite beans. Though he wasn’t putting weight on the affected leg, the swelling had gone down. The horse’s eyes were clear as he looked down at his owner.

  “Appears you’re feeling better,” Coy said, climbing to his feet to stroke Rodeo’s flank. He filled his hat with water from his canteen and held it for the horse to drink. “Let’s rest for another day or so, then see if you can walk the rest of the way. Maybe we’ll find someone who can provide you proper doctoring.”

  The going was difficult, Rodeo slowly trailing his owner, who carried his saddle over his shoulder. Neither could travel more than a mile before stopping to rest. It was well past noon before they reached Phantom Hill and located the livery.

  The blacksmith, shirtless with tobacco juice caked in his graying beard, eyed them as they approached. “Can’t rightfully figure out which of you two looks worse,” he said before bursting into a thundering laugh. “Name’s Giles Weatherby. Welcome to Phantom Hill, Texas, such as it is. I call it the Gateway to No Place.”

  Jennings said, “Y’all got a doctor in this town?”

  “You ailing?”

  “My horse is.”

  Weatherby glanced at the Colt holstered on the visitor’s hip. “You wouldn’t be some outlaw come to stir up trouble, would you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Didn’t really think so. If you’ve got fifty cents you can board him inside. There’s hay and oats and a watering trough. Looks like you could do with some time out of the sun yourself. Get settled while I go see if I can fetch Doc Matthews. He tends man, beast, and babies . . . when he’s sober enough.”

  He was chuckling to himself as he turned to hurry down the only street in the dusty little settlement.

  In the cool darkness of the stable, Jennings filled a bucket with oats as Rodeo drank from the trough. Every muscle in his body ached as he let the saddle slip from his shoulder onto a bale of hay. Pushing his hat high on his head, he sat against the wall as the horse ate and was asleep and snoring loudly when the doctor arrived half an hour later.

  “Much louder and the rafters of this fine establishment would be falling in,” Doc Matthews said. One hand was on Jennings’s shoulder, shaking him awake. In the other he held a small leather bag.

  Coy rubbed his eyes and shook his head. “My apologies. You a doctor?”

  “Son, I’m the doctor. Only one for miles around. It’s my understanding that you’ve got a horse needing some manner of attention.”

  He was already peeling away the bloodstained wrap as Jennings explained about the snakebite and what he’d done in an attempt to halt the spread of the venom. “I’d say you’ve done a good job,” the doctor said. “Aside from a bit of infection in a couple of the places where you took a knife to him, I’d say he’s doing as well as could be expected. ’Bout all I can do is clean the leg, do a little sewing up, and put some salve on the wounds. Then we give him time to rest and see how things look.”

  “He going to be okay?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s my professional judgment.” The doctor rose and looked at Jennings. “You, on the other hand, are another matter. Seems to me if you don’t get yourself a hot bath, some food, and a considerable amount of rest, you’re not gonna be worth shooting.” He sniffed. “Wouldn’t hurt to have those clothes you’re wearing laundered either.”

  Standing nearby, the blacksmith broke into another of his booming laughs.

  “Tell you what,” the doctor said. “You go get cleaned up and something to eat, and I’ll take care of what needs to be done here. I ’spect Mr. Weatherby or his stableboy can give me a hand, if needed.

  “Oh, and I’ll be requiring a dollar in payment before you go.”

  For the first time in days, Coy Jennings smiled as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin.

  After a pat to Rodeo’s muzzle, he took the short walk past a small general store and a saloon that appeared to have been so hastily built that it still had stitched-together tent canvases serving as a roof toward Miss Mindy’s Fine Eatery and Bathhouse. A small hand-painted sign near the entrance displayed a sparse menu
that included venison stew, cold-water corn bread, and collard greens.

  A small dog lying in the doorway lifted its head only slightly, apparently too tired or disinterested to bother to growl or bark. Jennings stepped over him and entered a room where there were four empty tables.

  “Lemme guess, mister. You’ll first be needing something to eat, then considerable time in a tub to wash all that trail grime away.” The small woman stood less than five feet, with red hair that was a tangle of curls. She wore overalls and a flannel shirt and was smoking a cigar. “I’m Mindy. The stew’s still hot on the stove and has plenty of potatoes and beans mixed into it. I’ve got corn bread, but all the greens are gone. Does that tempt your appetite?”

  “Ma’am, just about anything that don’t bite back does,” Jennings said.

  “Then take yourself a seat next to the window and enjoy the view—what there is of it—and I’ll be off to the kitchen.”

  She soon returned with his food and a tin cup filled with coffee, pulled up a chair across the table from him, and took a seat without asking for an invitation. “Not that I’m the nosy sort,” she said, “but it isn’t often we get strangers visiting. What brings you to this godforsaken part of Texas?”

  “Looking for work,” Jennings replied as he dipped a slice of corn bread into the sweet-smelling stew. “I heard there was a ranch hereabouts that’s hiring.”

  “That, I suppose, would be Lester Sinclair’s spread,” she said, “being as it’s the only ranch we’ve got. Just about everybody else—them not employed by Sinclair—tries to farm.”

  “And what can you tell me about Mr. Sinclair?”

  “Not much aside from the fact that he’s not one of my favorite people. Truth is, I also work for him. He’s the actual owner of this place despite the fact that it bears my name. The saloon down the street is his as well.”

  With that she rose and wiped her hands on her apron. “This ain’t a hotel, mind you, but I do have a couple of rooms out back if you’re needing a place.”