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    Ralph Compton Bluff City
    Ralph Compton Bluff City
    Ralph Compton Bluff City
    Ebook292 pages4 hours

    Ralph Compton Bluff City

    By Ralph Compton and David Robbins

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    About this ebook

    In this Ralph Compton western, a man discovers that Bluff City is the place to find one’s fortune—or one’s grave...

    Bluff City is a prosperous silver-mining town-and a place of opportunity for those willing to exploit its hard-working citizens. Harve Barker is the wealthiest man in the territory, offering irresistible vices to anyone willing and able to afford them. Outlaw Jesse Stark has grown fond of the town's surrounding mining camps, leading a gang of desperadoes on a violent spree of robberies-and staying one step ahead of the law at all times.

    Between the megalomaniacal entrepreneur and the brutal bandit stands the enigmatic Clay Adams. And he has a score to settle with both of them.

    More Than Six Million Ralph Compton Books In Print!
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPenguin Publishing Group
    Release dateJun 5, 2007
    ISBN9781101219843
    Author

    Ralph Compton

    Ralph Compton stood six-foot-eight without his boots. His first novel in the Trail Drive series, The Goodnight Trail, was a finalist for the Western Writers of America Medicine Pipe Bearer Award for best debut novel. He was also the author of the Sundown Rider series and the Border Empire series. A native of St. Clair County, Alabama, Compton worked as a musician, a radio announcer, a songwriter, and a newspaper columnist before turning to writing westerns. He died in Nashville, Tennessee in 1998.

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    • 2/5
      Every now and again I revert to my younger days when I read one western after another. I've been listening to this one (Audible download) and it's holding my interest. Not an especially original plot, you know, bad guy reforms - falls in love - faces up to other bad guy - gets girl, but it's fun anyway. Ho Hum

    Book preview

    Ralph Compton Bluff City - Ralph Compton

    Chapter 1

    The rider and his claybank were covered with dust. They came down the middle of Fremont Street, the man slouched in his saddle, the wide brim of his black hat pulled low. He appeared to be in his early twenties. His sun-bronzed face was fringed by a shoulder-length mane of raven hair. He wore buckskins, and knee-high moccasins instead of boots. He did not wear spurs.

    Those who saw him noticed a pearl-handled Colt in a black leather holster on his right hip.

    Only a few noticed something else. Only those near the rider when he raised his head to scan the street. They saw that he had piercing eyes the color of a mountain lake, and that he would be judged attractive by those of the female persuasion were it not for his disfigurement. At some point in the past his nose had been broken. Normally that was not a calamity. But in the rider’s case his nose had not mended as it should. Instead of being straight and smooth, it bent sharply in the middle. At first glance it appeared he had a horizontal V in the center of his face. Below it grew a thick, bushy mustache.

    The rider seemed self-conscious of his deformity, for no sooner did he scan the street than he quickly lowered his head and pulled on his hat brim.

    The owner of the feed and grain was sweeping the boardwalk in front of his store when the rider came to a stop at the hitch rail. Welcome to Whistler’s Flat, mister.

    Strange handle for a town, the rider commented as he stiffly dismounted. He did not look directly at the store owner.

    In case you haven’t noticed, the townsman said good-naturedly, flat is one thing Kansas has plenty of. As for the whistling, old Eb Wilcox, who founded the town, had a gap in his upper front teeth.

    So? the rider said with little interest.

    So every time Eb breathed with his mouth open, he whistled. The store owner grinned. The name doesn’t seem so strange once you know the story. He paused. "I didn’t catch your name."

    Probably because I didn’t give it. The rider removed his hat and swatted at his buckskins, raising swirls of dust.

    Appears to me you and your clothes could use a cleaning, the store owner said. The barber has a tub out back. For two bits he’ll have your clothes washed and wrung out while you bathe.

    There’s something I need more. The rider replaced his hat and walked past the feed and grain to the saloon. Hooking his right hand in his belt so it was close to his pearl-handled Colt, he shouldered inside. The murky interior gave him pause. He waited for his eyes to adjust, then strolled to the bar.

    The Cocklebur was nearly deserted. It was early afternoon and, other than the bartender and the rider with the bent nose, five men were seated at a corner table playing poker.

    What’s your poison, mister? the bartender asked. He resembled a wad of bread dough poured into an apron.

    Bug juice.

    You particular about the brand?

    So long as it burns going down and kicks like a mule, I’ll be happy. The rider turned so his elbows rested on the bar. Coincidentally, he no longer had his back to the batwings or the corner table, where one of the five players was dealing cards.

    You’re an easy gent to please, the bartender complimented him. I wish all my customers were as agreeable.

    The rider was given a glass but he chugged straight from the bottle, using his left hand although his revolver was on his right side. He took three long swigs that ended with him smacking his lips and smiling. This red-eye of yours would grow hair on a rock.

    The five poker players were examining their cards. They were a quiet bunch. They had not said a word since the rider came in.

    Lowering his voice, the man with the bent nose asked, Are they locals?

    Never saw them before today, the bartender revealed. Waltzed in here about an hour ago, set right down, and commenced to playing. They’re not very friendly. But hell, why should they be when they don’t know me from Adam?

    The rider took another long swallow while peering intently at the corner table from under his hat brim. This town of yours have a law-dog?

    We’ve got a marshal, but he’s taking a prisoner over to the county seat, the bartender said. Why? Do you need a tin star?

    Just curious, is all, the rider said. Gripping the bottle by the neck with his left hand, he walked to a table at the opposite corner from the cardplayers and straddled a chair with his back to the wall. No sooner did he sit down than one of the players stood and came over to his table.

    I thought I recognized you.

    The rider did not look up. I recognized you, too.

    Without being invited, the cardplayer pulled out a chair. He wasn’t much more than an inch over five feet tall. Bushy eyebrows and glittering dark eyes lent him a sinister aspect. It’s been a while, Crooked Nose.

    Don’t call me that, the rider said.

    Why the hell not? It’s what everyone else calls you. The newspapers. The law. Crooked Nose Neville Baine. The scourge of the cow towns. Isn’t that what they wrote about you after that shooting affray over to Salina?

    Baine set down the bottle. As he did, his other hand drifted under the table. I won’t tell you again.

    I don’t see why you’re so prickly, the cardplayer complained. You have a bent nose. Me, I lost a toe once. I accidentally cut it off when I was chopping firewood. But you don’t hear me gripe. At least we still have our fingers and hair, which is more than Beanpole Charlie could say after the Blackfeet were done with him.

    What I don’t savvy is why you are being so friendly, Stark. I have never been your favorite person and you have never been mine.

    Jesse Stark’s laugh was more like a growl. Same old Baine. You always speak your piece and don’t care who you offend. But I reckon you can afford to be uppity, as many hombres as you have bucked out in gore.

    Go away, Baine said.

    What is gnawing at you? I pay you a compliment and you bristle like a cactus. You should be friendlier. In case you have forgotten, we are a lot alike, you and me.

    You must be drunk.

    I haven’t had a sip, believe it or not, Stark replied. I have to stay sober. Me and the boys have something special planned. He glanced at the bartender, who was arranging bottles, then leaned across the table. As for being alike, we both have a string of killings to our credit. Granted, your tally is higher, but it won’t always be. I have plans. Big plans. Before I’m done, I’ll be as famous as that other Jesse, Jesse James. Maybe more so.

    You misjudge me.

    Are you denying you have a string of shootings as long as my arm? Stark snorted.

    I am not denying anything, Baine said. But you are the one wanted by every lawman in Kansas and Missouri. Texas, too, I hear tell. I’m not wanted anywhere that I know of.

    You make it sound as if that makes you better than me, Jesse Stark said. But when folks talk about gun-sharks, they mention you in the same breath as Ben Thompson, Jim Courtright and John Ringo.

    What’s that brown coming out your ears? Baine said.

    Stark sat back and drummed his fingers on the table. I was thinking of asking you to join us, but not now. Your trouble is that you always look down your nose at the rest of us. One day someone is going to shoot that ugly nose right off.

    Anyone who wants to try is welcome to.

    There you go again. You are one smug bastard. Stark spread his hands on the table. But I didn’t walk over here to sling affronts. Fact is, I want to be sociable and give you a friendly warning.

    How is that again?

    Just then a townsman in a bowler entered. Jesse Stark tensed and eyed the man suspiciously. When the townsman went to the bar and asked for a drink, Stark visibly relaxed. A friendly warning, he repeated. No one here has recognized you yet, other than me. Once they do, it wouldn’t surprise me if they ask you to skedaddle, same as they did to you in Topeka. His grin was as cold as an icicle. Out of the goodness of my heart I will spare you the inconvenience.

    Is there a point to this?

    I told you. The boys and me have something planned. Once we light the fuse, hell will seem like a church picnic compared to Whistler’s Flat. The people will be as riled as hornets. You might not want the attention.

    Crooked Nose Baine did not say anything.

    Well? Don’t I rate a thanks? Warning you is right neighborly of me, don’t you think?

    The bank, Baine guessed.

    Not hard to figure, was it? And a little fun, after.

    How soon before you light the fuse? Crooked Nose Baine asked.

    Stark took a badly scratched and battered pocket watch from a pocket and consulted the timepiece. It is a little before two. We aim to start the festivities at six, just as the bank is fixing to close. We hear tell their marshal is out of town, but some of the good citizens are bound to come down with a dose of brave. They won’t catch us, though. Not that close to dark. And if me and my men ride hell bent for leather all night, they never will. He chuckled. I have it worked out in detail.

    Crooked Nose Baine said, All right. You have done your good deed for the year. Now scat. I do my drinking alone.

    Stark pushed his chair back and rose. I don’t know why I bothered. I should have known better.

    You must be hankering to bed down with the sawdust.

    The flinty edge in Baine’s tone caused Jesse Stark to back up a step and to anxiously say, Now just you hold on. I did you a favor. You can’t blow out my wick here in the saloon.

    You mentioned Salina, Baine reminded him. I put windows in the noggins of three polecats in a saloon there.

    Without another word Jesse Stark returned to his friends. The other four leaned over the table to hear what he had to say, then all five glared at Baine. But only until Baine raised his head and returned their glares. Then they became interested in their cards again.

    For the next half hour Crooked Nose Baine nursed his bottle. A great sadness seemed to be upon him. Several more locals came in to wet their throats, but he did not notice them. They noticed him, however, especially after he stood and came around the table, kicking over a chair in his path. Crossing to the bar, he smacked down the empty bottle and growled, Give me another, barkeep.

    Maybe you have had enough, sonny, the bartender suggested with a friendly smile.

    You are not my pa, Baine said. I will decide when I am saturated. He pounded the bar. Another bottle, and be quick about it. The bartender hurriedly complied, and Baine paid and crossed to the batwings. Pushing on out, he stopped in the shade of the overhang and tilted the bottle to his lips.

    An elderly woman walking by tilted her nose in the air and sniffed.

    Crooked Nose Baine finished chugging and grinned after her. He turned toward the window and his grin evaporated. He stared at his reflection; at the hideous mockery of a nose that once had been straight and smooth. Upending the bottle, he swallowed while continuing to stare. A low sound escaped him. Suddenly he stepped back and raised his arm as if to throw the bottle at the window. But then his arm dropped, his shoulders drooped and he walked from under the overhang into the hot glare of the sun.

    Baine walked to the hitch rail in front of the feed and grain. He corked the whiskey bottle, opened a saddlebag and slid the bottle inside, neck up. He reached for the saddle horn to fork leather.

    Squealing with glee, a small boy and girl came skipping down the street. The boy had a hoop and was pushing it with a forked stick. He passed the hoop to the girl, who also held a stick, and she laughed and kept the hoop rolling.

    Baine watched them, the corners of his mouth curling upward. A puppy came from behind a rain barrel and playfully barked at the hoop. Farther down, the old woman who had sniffed at him saw the children and smiled.

    A young man and woman strolled out of the millinery, hand in hand, the young woman wearing a new bonnet.

    From the butcher shop stepped a middle-aged matron in a calico dress, with wrapped meat under one arm and a pink parasol under the other. She promptly opened the parasol and strode off in stiff-backed dignity.

    Damn, Baine said. Instead of mounting, he hooked his thumbs in his gun belt and crossed the street to the general store. A tiny bell tinkled as he opened the door. The interior was cool compared to outside and filled with tantalizing scents. Baine idly surveyed the many items for sale. A display of spruce gum caught his interest. So did an assortment of wine bottles. He was regarding a stack of canned goods when someone lightly coughed.

    May I be of service, sir?

    The proprietor was a bantam rooster whose clothes and apron were immaculate. His smile was genuine enough.

    Carry any Saratoga Chips? Baine asked.

    Sure do. Follow me.

    The section devoted to food rivaled general stores in much larger towns. There were the usual staples: butter, cheese, eggs, coffee, tea and molasses. In the rear were vegetables and fruits. Baine was tempted by the beer and salted fish but did not give in to the craving.

    Here you are. The man held out the Saratoga Chips. Just got in a shipment last week. Is there anything else I can do for you?

    Baine shook his head.

    Passing through, are you?

    I thought I was.

    If you plan to stay the night, I can recommend a boardinghouse where the sheets are clean and the food is hot, the man offered.

    I am only staying until six, Crooked Nose Baine said.

    Chapter 2

    At ten minutes to six, Jesse Stark and his four partners in greed and mayhem ambled from the Cocklebur and strolled along Fremont Street. They joked and laughed, giving the impression they did not have a care in the world.

    Whistler’s Flat was about to roll up the boardwalk. The bank, the general store, the feed and grain, the millinery, the butcher; they all shut their doors at six. The owners and employees were busy getting ready to close.

    It was also the hour when most of the town’s womenfolk were busy making supper, and their children were helping or doing other chores.

    Fremont Street was practically deserted.

    The puppy came from behind the rain barrel and yipped at the five men filing by.

    Shut up, you mangy cur, Jesse Stark said, and delivered a well-placed kick that sent the pup yelping.

    That’ll learn him, chortled the scruffiest of the outlaw fraternity. Were it me, I’d have blown his brains all over creation.

    And have everyone in town fit to ride us out on a rail? Stark said. "The idea is to not attract attention."

    Another of the five stopped at a hitch rail they were passing. Five horses were tied to the rail. He unwrapped the reins. Then, folding his arms, he leaned against the rail and shammed an interest in the cloudless sky.

    Only three of the remaining outlaws entered the bank. The fourth stopped in front of the large front window and fiddled with a spur.

    Jesse Stark held the door for the other two. He scanned the street a final time before following them in. Only the teller and the bank president were present.

    The teller was tallying the money in his drawer and asked without looking up, What can I do for you?

    Stark unbuttoned his shirt and pulled out a folded flour sack. You can start by filling this. Then we’ll move to the safe.

    The clerk glanced up in alarm. I beg your pardon?

    Are you hard of hearing? Stark’s Remington cleared the counter. The click of the hammer was ominously loud. The bank is being robbed.

    His Adam’s apple bobbing, the teller blinked ten times in five seconds. Robbed, you say? My word. You can’t mean it.

    Does this hogleg look like I’m joshing? Start filling the sack, you goose-necked simpleton.

    Instead of complying, the teller turned and bleated, Mr. Randolph, sir. This gentleman says we are being robbed.

    What’s that? The white-haired bank president rose from his desk and came over. He had large jowls that quivered as he walked. It must be a jest. No one would rob us. We don’t have enough money to make it worthwhile.

    Jesse Stark pointed the Remington at him. Let me be the judge of that, you old goat. Now fill this, or else! He wagged both his revolver and the flour sack to emphasize his demand.

    What do I do, Mr. Randolph? the teller asked.

    Perhaps we should do as he wants, Horace, the bank president said. These three strike me as rough characters.

    Quit jawing and fill! Stark was growing red with anger. I swear, the bank in Ellsworth wasn’t half the bother this one is.

    We are a small bank, Randolph said.

    So you don’t know how to be robbed? Stark barked. It’s easy. You give us the money. Then you lie on the floor and don’t let out a peep.

    All I am saying, Randolph said, is that since we have never been robbed, we are not familiar with the etiquette involved.

    If it ain’t chickens, it’s feathers, Jesse Stark said, and shot the bank president in the head. The clerk squealed and turned to run, and Jesse shot him, too, square between the shoulder blades. Goddamn stupid people! You tell them to fill a damn sack and they prattle on about eti—whatever it was. He stormed around the counter and into the teller’s cage, bellowing, One of you check the safe. The other keep an eye out. Folks will have heard the shots.

    The man who ran to the safe yanked on the metal handle. It’s locked! Damn it, Jess. That itchy trigger finger of yours will leave us as broke as when we came in.

    Hurriedly stuffing coins and banknotes into the sack, Stark responded, Not quite. I’ve got pretty near sixty dollars here.

    Sixty? That’s twelve dollars apiece! Hell, I lose that much at cards in an hour. You said we would each get a hundred.

    Over at the door the other outlaw warned, The butcher has come out of his shop and is looking this way. The same with the runt who runs the general store.

    Stark opened another drawer, but all it contained were a ledger and pencils. Swearing viciously, he wheeled and kicked the bank president in the ribs. Eti—whatever be damned!

    Mills is bringing the horses, the man at the door reported. No one is trying to stop him.

    They better not, Jesse Stark said.

    Maybe we should tree the town, suggested the man over by the safe. With the marshal gone, it will be as easy as licking butter off a knife.

    These yokels might not scare, Stark noted, and there’s a heap more of them than there is of us.

    It’s worth a try, the other argued. We can take what we want. Make this worth our while.

    Breathing dirt isn’t much to my liking, Stark said. He vaulted over the counter. Come on. We’re lighting a shuck.

    They burst from the bank ready to sling lead, but the town was as quiet as when they entered. See? said the man in favor of treeing. They’re mice hiding in their holes. Whatever we want is ours.

    Your yearnings always did outstrip your common sense, Warner, Stark criticized. To the man bringing their mounts he bellowed, Hurry it up, Mills! Those are horses, not turtles!

    Down the street the butcher cupped a hand to his mouth and yelled, What’s all the ruckus? Who are you men and what are you doing?

    Minding our own business! Jesse Stark shouted. You should do the same. He moved to the middle of the street. He still had his Remington out, and he brandished it at a farmer who stepped from the feed and grain. The farmer scurried back in.

    The butcher, his apron spattered with blood from the day’s work, was advancing on them, a meat cleaver clenched in his right fist.

    Will you look at this, Warner marveled. What does that idiot think he’s doing?

    Stark pivoted and took deliberate aim. That’s close enough, meat-cutter! We’re leaving and we don’t want any trouble.

    The butcher did not stop. What have you done to Jack Randolph and Horace Stubbs?

    They’re lying on the bank floor with their hands and feet tied, Jesse lied. But keep coming and that can change.

    Reluctantly, the butcher halted. Jack! Horace! If you’re alive and can hear me, give a holler!

    I gagged them, too, Stark said.

    The butcher resumed his advance. I reckon I will just see for myself. You better not have harmed them.

    I did the same to them as I am about to do to you, Jesse Stark said, and shot him in the chest.

    The butcher was a big man. Years of handling heavy slabs of beef and wielding a big butcher knife had sculpted his arms and shoulders with muscle. The slug staggered him but he did not fall. Raising the cleaver, he charged the nearest outlaw, who happened to be the one bringing the horses.

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