The Last Manhunt 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

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Teaser chapter

  RUNNING FROM THE REAPER

  March rode toward the foothills, his rifle across the saddle horn, his eyes scanning the forested terrain ahead of him.

  A minute later the skin on his back crawled, instinct warning him what was coming.

  Knowing he wasn’t going to make it in time, he swung the buckskin around and started to bring up the Winchester.

  He caught a fleeting glimpse of what was behind him before his world collapsed into darkness.

  The Gravedigger . . . rifle to his shoulder . . . a puff of smoke . . . a noise like thunder . . .

  March felt a club hit him just above the left ear. The Winchester spun from his hands, and the suddenly vertical hardpan rushed to meet him.

  Damn, the lunatic can shoot.

  That final thought before he plummeted into the abyss . . .

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

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

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  First Printing, March 2011

  Copyright © The Estate of Ralph Compton, 2011

  All rights reserved

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  eISBN : 978-1-101-47747-2

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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, 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

  “They say Mr. March killed fifty men.”

  “They say a lot of things.” The rancher turned to the car window and stared into the burned-out remains of the day. “He only killed as many as he needed to kill.”

  Lester T. Booker eased his celluloid collar away from his neck, sweaty from heat and irritated by grit and soot from the locomotive’s chimney.

  “Have you seen him shoot?” he said.

  “At what? Men or targets?”

  “Both.”

  “I never saw him kill a man. Never saw him shoot either.”

  “Pity. I’m told he’s a crack shot.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Well . . . my editor.”

  “Where? Back in New York?”

  “Yes, but he’s read all the dime novels.”

  “Your editor knows nothing.”

  The rancher turned from the window. In the gloom, his eyes were ice blue. “My ten-year-old son can
outshoot Ransom March any day of the week,” he said.

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Your first time out west?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you don’t know any better.” The rancher’s smile was genuine but wintry. “Young feller, out here when you call a man a liar to his face or behind his back, you should be ready to back your play.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “Like I said, you don’t know any better.”

  Booker’s prominent Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. He picked his words. “So, Mr. March can’t shoot?”

  “He can shoot.”

  “But you just said he couldn’t. Oh, I see. You mean he’s not a crack shot?”

  “No.”

  “But how—”

  A gun suddenly appeared in the rancher’s hand and the muzzle pushed into Booker’s belly. “That’s how. This close, a man doesn’t need to be a crack shot.”

  Booker shrank back in his seat. “He . . . he killed all those men—”

  “Yeah, just like this, when he was close enough to spit on them. Ransom March ain’t what you’d call a retiring man.” The rancher shoved his Colt back in his waistband. “So, you’re writing a story about March for the newspaper?”

  “Yes, for the New York Chronicle.”

  “Rance know you’re coming?”

  “We exchanged letters and he agreed to be interviewed about the old days if I came to Santa Fe.”

  “I hope for your sake he hasn’t changed his mind.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because he don’t suffer fools gladly, Archibald.”

  Booker stiffened and his mouth pruned in prim disapproval. “Sir, I am not a fool and my name isn’t Archibald.”

  “No? I fer sure took ye for an Archibald. All right, then you’re not a fool, but you’re a pilgrim and March don’t take kindly to them either.”

  “He’s retired, and this is 1890 and the Wild West is gone. Surely he’s over his prejudices by now.”

  “Maybe, but he’s still a handful.”

  “In what way?”

  “You’ll find out, Archibald. You’ll find out.”

  When the rancher turned to the darkened window again, he grinned.

  Chapter 2

  Booker stood on the dark, windswept platform, a guttering oil lamp above his head casting shifting light on the top of his plug hat and the shoulders of his broadcloth coat.

  “You waiting for somebody, young feller?” the stationmaster asked. He held a lantern that pooled around his feet like spilled orange paint.

  “Yes. Mr. Ransom March. He said he’d meet me here.”

  “He’ll be here, unless he pulled a cork. If he did, you’ll see him tomorrow or next week.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  The railroad man walked away, then stopped and turned. “Coffee, what’s left of it, in the waiting room if you’d care for some.”

  “Thank you, yes.”

  “He’p yourself.”

  The coffee was strong, black, and bitter, and it took the edge off Booker’s tiredness. It had been a long trip from New York.

  He stepped to the window and looked out at the deserted platform.

  White moths fluttered around the oil lamps until they were blown away like snowflakes in the gusting wind. Coyotes yipped, hunting close, and from somewhere in town, a saloon piano tinkled notes, fragile as glass, into the darkness.

  Booker closed his eyes and in a croaky whisper sang along with the tune that was then all the rage in New York.

  After the ball is over, after the break of morn,

  After the dancers’ leaving, after the stars are gone,

  Many a heart is aching, if you could read them all,

  Many the hopes that have vanished after the ball.

  “I’ve heard that sung prettier, but you’ll do.”

  Booker turned and saw a short, stocky man grinning at him.

  “I’m not much of a singer, I’m afraid,” he said.

  “Already figured that out for my own self.”

  “Did Mr. March send you?”

  “No, he came in person.”

  “Is he outside?”

  “No, he’s right here.”

  “You’re Ransom March?”

  “As ever was.” Booker’s disappointment showed, because March said, “Who did you expect? Wild Bill Hickok maybe?”

  Booker was too discouraged to make up a polite lie. “Yes, something like that.”

  March shook his head. “Bill was a pain in the ass, especially later when his nerves were shot and the French pox done for his eyes.”

  “You knew him?”

  “Got drunk with him a few times.” March looked the younger man over from the toes of his elastic-sided boots to the top of his hat. “You must be Mr. Booker.”

  “Lester T. Booker of the New York Chronicle, at your service.”

  March held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  Booker took the proffered hand and felt steel in the man’s grip. He was relieved when March let go and he could flex his crumpled fingers.

  “Funny thing, when I first walked in an’ saw you, I took you fer an Archibald,” March said.

  “What does an Archibald look like?” Booker asked, his face stiff.

  “Like you. Tall, skinny, no shoulders and chest, and no chin to speak of.” March smiled. “That’s what an Archibald looks like.”

  “The name is Lester.”

  “And Lester it is.” March’s blue eyes trapped humor like points of light. “Do you tell jokes, Lester?”

  “No.”

  “Pity. I could have called you Lester the Jester.”

  “I prefer just plain Lester.”

  “All right, plain Lester, I have a buckboard outside. We can head for my place. I’ll take your bag.”

  “I can manage it,” Booker said.

  Swallowing the dry ashes of his disappointment, he picked up his valise and told himself that nothing about this assignment boded well.

  He’d expected a very different Ransom March.

  In his mind’s eye he’d pictured a frontier cavalier in beaded buckskins, a prince of pistoleros standing more than six feet tall in handmade boots, his trusty ivoryhandled Colts always at the ready to defend the poor, the weak, and fair, but vulnerable, American womanhood.

  Booker had imagined a gallant who, when he cut a dash, made every female heart flutter as they breathlessly beheld his flowing hair and heroic mustache.

  A paladin adored by women, envied and admired by men. That was the Ransom March Booker had expected.

  Instead, in front of him in the gloom, walked a short, slightly bowlegged, thickset man, wearing a wool vest faded by sun into a pale orange color, frayed pants tucked into mule-eared boots, a shapeless, battered hat jammed far down on his gray head.

  Booker’s fantasy March had borne the handsome, noble countenance of, say, Hickok or the gallant Custer, but the harsh reality was that the old gunfighter bore resemblance to neither.

  Ransom March was a plain, brown-faced man, badly in need of a shave, his huge handlebar mustache fringing a thin, tight mouth. His eyes were faded, used up, as though the sights they’d seen in his fifty-three years of hard living had worn them away.

  He looked older than he was, slightly bent, his arms corded with thick blue veins, his hands mottled, the fingernails like scaly horns.

  In the eyes of twenty-three-year-old Booker, March looked exactly like what he was: a tired old man with all his glory days behind him.

  The young reporter stared hard at March’s back. For this he’d traveled all the way from New York . . . to interview the burned-out husk of a man.

  Chapter 3

  “Toss your bag in the back, then climb up, Lester.”

  Booker did as March told him, gingerly pushing away a shotgun lying on the buckboard’s seat.

  “It won’t go off by itself,” Mar
ch said, grinning, placing the gun between his thighs.

  He slapped the reins and then swung the team away from the station, rolling under a sky that flashed heat lightning from horizon to horizon.

  It had cost Booker’s paper a considerable sum to have him ride the cushions from New York to Santa Fe, and he decided he was duty-bound to try.

  “Is that the shotgun you carried during all your Western adventures?” he asked.

  March shook his head. “Nah, this here is a five-shot, Winchester model of 1887. It came too late for me.”

  The man held the reins in his left hand and built a cigarette with his right. He took time to light it before he spoke again.

  “Had me a ten-gauge Greener, but I traded her a couple of years ago fer a bushel of green apples and three jugs of whiskey.” March nodded, as though to himself. “Good gun, the Greener. Cut the barrels down to twenty inches and she handles just fine.”

  “Did you kill any outlaws with it?”

  “Now, what kind of damn fool question is that?”

  “They say you killed fifty men.”

  “With the Greener?”

  “No, in general.”

  March looked at the sky. His nose had been broken and it lay flat against his face and it whistled softly when he breathed. “I don’t know how many men I’ve killed. I’ve never counted them.”

  “Can I say you killed fifty?”

  “Say whatever the hell you want.”

  “There was El Paso Pete Pinder. Remember him?” Booker had his pencil poised, notebook open on his knee.

  “What about him?”

  “He was the fastest outlaw with a gun south of the Red.”

  March smiled. “Was he, now?”

  “That’s what the dime novels say.”

  “What else do they say?”

  “They say Pinder called you for a son of a bitch, then drew down on you outside the Ysleta Mission church in El Paso. They say you outdrew him and scattered his brains all over the mission door.” Booker thought for a moment, then said, “That was back in the spring of’eighty-two.”