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    Ralph Compton the Man From Nowhere
    Ralph Compton the Man From Nowhere
    Ralph Compton the Man From Nowhere
    Ebook328 pages3 hours

    Ralph Compton the Man From Nowhere

    By Ralph Compton and Joseph A. West

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    About this ebook

    One man proves his worth in this Ralph Compton western...

    When the Apache surrounded the settlement of Alma, New Mexico, the "respectable" townsfolk began hanging those who weren't. Town drunk Eddie Oates was lucky to be banished from the town, left for the Apaches to kill.

    Oates never thought he was a survivor. But now, he's discovered a reason to go on—and he's about to unleash a raging fury upon those who would prey on the helpless, the hopeless, and those who others think aren't worth fighting for...

    More Than Six Million Ralph Compton Books In Print!
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPenguin Publishing Group
    Release dateJul 7, 2009
    ISBN9781101057742
    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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    • 4/5
      This is a rousing good story and reminds me of Louis L'Amour's style. When the novel opens, we find our hero, the town drunk, being led to the gallows along with three postitutes and a slow witted kid. The reason? The town is surrounded by Apaches and is running out of food so the towns people hang or exile anyone considered to be useless. Our five former citizens are exiled and forced out of town to meet their fate at the hands of the Apaches. How they prove themselves and survive makes for a fast moving and exciting tale. My first Compton and I will be looking for more.

    Book preview

    Ralph Compton the Man From Nowhere - Ralph Compton

    Chapter 1

    At ten o’clock sharp on a fine spring evening, the Honorable Company of Concerned Citizens, City of Alma, New Mexico Territory, hanged the Hart brothers: Billy, Bobby and young Jimmy.

    Next morning, at dawn, they came for Eddie Oates, the town drunk.

    Let it be noted that at first the four Concerned Citizens present tried to wake the sleeping Oates almost gently. But when the little man continued to snore and slobber in his sleep, the boots went in.

    Even after he woke, red-eyed and puking, kicks slammed into Oates’ ribs, none driven harder and by more rage than those of Cornelius Baxter, Alma’s only banker and richest citizen.

    To even the most casual observer, the reason for Baxter ’s anger would not have been hard to find.

    His expensive patent leather ankle boots, hand sewn by Rigby and Sons of New York, Boston and Denver, were splashed with the green bile that had erupted from Oates’ mouth.

    God alone knows how it would have ended had not John L. Battles, proprietor of the Silver Nugget saloon, stuck out a pudgy hand and pushed Baxter away.

    Let it be, he said. We didn’t come here to kill the man.

    It took the banker a while.

    The others present saw the boiling fury in Baxter bubble away gradually, then settle to a low simmer. He lifted pale blue eyes to Battles, for the saloon keeper was a tall man, and said, quiet and even, John, don’t ever lay a hand on me again or I’ll kill you.

    After twenty years on the frontier, Battles was not a man to take a step back from anyone. He said, Anytime you want to heel yourself, Baxter, we can have at it.

    Baxter’s face was crimson, the mouth under his mustache a thin, hard line, white and pinched at the corners.

    Tall, stringy Jeddah Piper, the town undertaker, saw the danger and decided to act. Here, this won’t do, he said. The Apaches have us under the gun and we’re all on edge. Gentlemen, let’s not start fighting among ourselves.

    The fourth citizen present, Clem Hamilton, who owned a dry goods store, tossed in his two cents’ worth. Jed’s right, he said. Are we going to fight over a drunken nothing like Eddie Oates when we got Mescaleros all around us?

    Piper saw hesitation in the faces of Baxter and Battles and said quickly, Get him to his feet. We’ll take him outside, where he can join the rest of them.

    Wait, Baxter said. He began to wipe his shoes on Oates’ shirt and pants. The little son of a bitch can’t smell any worse.

    John L. Battles laughed, and with that, the bad blood that had lain between him and the banker was forgotten.

    Chapter 2

    Eddie Oates blinked like an owl against the morning light.

    His sides hurt from the kicking he’d taken and there was the taste of blood in his mouth. He needed a drink but doubted there was one to be had.

    When the Concerned Citizens had found him, he’d been asleep in the alley where he had fallen into unconsciousness shortly after the hanging of the Hart brothers. Now, suspended between Baxter and Battles like a crucifixion victim, his bare toes dragging behind him in the dirt, he was manhandled into the street and tossed in the zinc horse trough outside the Silver Nugget.

    Oates sank, then rose, sputtering, gasping like a just-landed trout. Somebody rammed his head under the surface again. He was down there, swallowing water for what seemed a long time, then was suddenly released. He floundered, kicking, into a sitting position and heard laughter.

    First bath you’ve had in years, huh, Eddie boy? a man yelled.

    Other voices rose, harsh, amused and merciless.

    Why don’t we just drown the little shit?

    Swim for it, Eddie!

    Don’t piss in the trough, Eddie. My horse got to drink that stuff!

    More laughter followed; then came the voice of John L. Battles. That’s enough, boys. Get him out of there and take him over to the gallows with the others.

    Rough hands dragged Oates from the trough. The cool water had not sobered him, or so he believed. For the past seventeen years, since he was twelve years old, he’d never been sober, so he had no clear remembrance of what it felt like.

    Not being numb all the time, he recalled that. And the world he’d known as a boy didn’t spin around him so fast that he couldn’t catch up and find a place for himself. That too he remembered—or thought he did. Maybe he’d just dreamed that had been the way of it all those years ago.

    Prodded by kicks to his butt, Oates was surrounded by a dozen grinning men and pushed, stumbling, toward the gallows.

    The Hart brothers still hung there. Three long, lanky bodies swayed in the morning breeze, stinking of the vile stuff that had erupted from them and trickled down their legs as they kicked while being strangled in the rough embrace of the hemp.

    Oates’ brown eyes lifted to the dead robbers; he vaguely remembered them.

    He was not allowed to drink among men, but now and again he’d been welcomed into the saloons to perform tricks for whiskey—usually Good Doggy, when he got down on all fours to bark and play fetch.

    He’d been retrieving a whore’s garter in the Silver Nugget when he’d overheard that the Hart brothers had been caught after a stage robbery in the course of which the guard was wounded and a traveling preacher killed.

    All agreed that the shooting of the Holy Joe had been accidental, but the guard promptly died of gangrene poisoning and the Honorable Company of Concerned Citizens sentenced the brothers to death by hanging.

    That sentence had been set for a week hence to allow the Hart womenfolk time to get in from the family ranch to attend the hanging and collect their dead.

    But then Victorio, aided by ancient old Nana and Geronimo, had led a mixed band of Chiricahuas and Mescaleros out of the Mogollon Mountains and everything had changed.

    With the town now under Apache siege, the brothers had been hanged ahead of time. Everyone agreed the three men were no great loss.

    The guard, a feisty old former buffalo hunter by the name of Gray, had blown off most of Bobby’s lower jaw with his Big .50, and had shattered Billy’s right arm, and young Jimmy had taken a ball in the brisket.

    Even John L. Battles, normally a softhearted man, had opined that the Hart boys were done as fighting men, so there was no point in keeping them alive any longer.

    As he watched the bodies sway and heard the hemp creak, Oates had a sudden moment of clarity. He’d been puzzled before, but now he knew why he was being hanged. He was not a fighting man either.

    Get over there, you.

    A hand pushed Oates in the small of the back, and he crashed heavily into the gallows. Around him men laughed as he bounced off the pine boards and staggered, but a helping hand reached out from somewhere and steadied him.

    What are they going to do with us, Mr. Oates?

    Oates blinked at the owner of the hand, then slowly recognized the frightened, freckled face of young Sam Tatum. He remembered that he liked Sam. He was the only person in Alma, or any other town, who had ever called him Mister.

    I don’t know, Sammy. Oates’ voice sounded like the hinges of a rusty gate. I don’t know anything.

    Will we get hung, Mr. Oates?

    Oates turned away. He didn’t want to think or look at Sam anymore. God, he needed a drink.

    His mind screamed as the whiskey hunger raked him, giving him no peace.

    He wanted to cry out, Hang me, you bastards. Get it over with, but let me have a drink first, but he could not form the words. Besides, who would listen?

    Later, the citizens of Alma who’d crowded around the gallows that morning would recall that Eddie Oates had been in truth a pathetic sight.

    Standing there, dripping water, rubbing his mouth all the time. Poor thing.

    Like a little drowned rat, wasn’t he?

    He smelled bad too. How does a man get to smell like that?

    Well, who cares? He’s probably dead by this time anyhow.

    But that was then; this was now.

    Cornelius Baxter stepped among the crowd and threw up his hands, demanding silence. Deciding that his portly five foot seven was less than impressive at ground level, the banker stepped up onto the gallows platform and stood in front of the purple-faced bodies.

    Again he raised his arms and slowly the hubbub died away to a ragged silence.

    Fellow citizens of the fair city of Alma, Baxter began. Up went a cheer, which the banker acknowledged with a smile and a slight inclination of his head. Then he continued. As you are all aware, I am talking to you at the time of our greatest peril.

    Baxter waved a hand, encompassing the whole town. As you can see, we have alert sentinels posted at each end of our city, and stalwart riflemen on our roofs. I have tasked them with one duty—keep keen watch for Victorio and his bloodthirsty fiends.

    The banker stopped, as though expecting another cheer. But there was none. People looked uneasily over their shoulders and then at one another, the very name Victorio enough to cause a ripple of fear to go through the crowd.

    The trails in and out of town were cut by the Apaches days ago, Baxter said. He paused and then added ominously, There will be no more supply wagons for some time to come, and already our food supplies are running perilously low.

    Against a background of worried murmurs, the banker said, But who better to tell us where we stand than our very own Will Jackson.

    All eyes turned to a small, round-bellied man who, even at this early hour, was wearing a spotless white apron. Jackson owned the only general store in town and was a founding member of the citizens’ committee.

    Without any preamble, the little man began to tick points off on his fingers. Flour, one week’s supply; bacon, five days’; salt pork, ditto; coffee, one week; sugar, ditto. He paused, thinking, then continued. "Cheese, eggs, butter, red meat and beans . . . as long as they last, which won’t be long. Ditto salt, pepper and other spices. I’ve already run out of canned milk, canned meat, peaches and most other canned goods.

    Now, as to prices, I’m afraid that from today I’ll have to increase—

    Yes, yes, Will, we understand, Baxter interrupted quickly. He addressed the crowd again. Given the Apache menace and our shortages of food, last night the Honorable Company of Concerned Citizens, myself presiding, decided that we can no longer tolerate parasites within our community. In short, there will be no more useless mouths in Alma.

    Baxter indicated the hanged men. This was a start, but there are others. He took a slip of paper from the pocket of his frock coat, then said, Pike, Sanderson, you others, bring them forward. Then, to the expectant crowd he said, The loafers, shirkers and slackers who would take the very bread from our children’s mouths.

    To yells of approval, three women and Sam Tatum were pushed beside Oates.

    There they are, Baxter said. All wear the Mark of Cain and flaunt that vile brand as bold as brass. Look into their faces, citizens. I assure you, you will find not the slightest trace of remorse for the wasted, sinful, lustful lives they have led.

    One of the women, a hard-faced blonde Oates knew as Stella, spat in Baxter’s direction. You should know, Horny Corny! she snapped. You’ve been working your spurs on this here sinner for months.

    Laughter rose from the men in the crowd, but the few women present looked as if someone were holding a dead fish under their noses. For his part, Baxter shuffled his feet and looked sheepish, like a small boy caught with his hand in the candy jar.

    A mean-eyed man with a belted Colt around his waist stepped closer. You shut your trap, Stella, he growled.

    The woman was defiant, her hands on her hips. An’ if I don’t, Pike?

    Then I’ll shut it for you.

    Miss Stella, better do as he says, Sam Tatum said. The boy was trembling. I don’t think Mr. Pike is a very nice person.

    The man nodded. You got that right, kid.

    Her eyes blazing, Stella opened her mouth to speak again, but a voice from the crowd stopped her. A huge silver miner wearing a plug hat and plaid shirt yelled, Hey, Baxter, you aiming to hang these folks?

    The people crowded around the gallows fell silent, waiting for Baxter’s answer.

    Oates looked on with dead eyes, beyond caring. He wanted, craved, hungered for whiskey—raw, red whiskey beading in the bottle. Lots of it. He had no other thoughts. No fears. No hopes. No interest.

    Baxter was speaking again. In reply to the gentleman’s question, the low persons who have been brought before us here will not be hung. He paused for effect, then said, Let all present bear witness to the decisions of the Honorable Company of Concerned Citizens of Alma. For the more respectable element here gathered who may not know these people, each of the accused will be brought before you as his or her name is read.

    Baxter consulted his paper.

    Edward Oates, laborer—

    Drunk, you mean! a man yelled.

    The banker waited until the laughter had stilled, then continued. Edward Oates, laborer, vagrant and dance hall lounger. Sentence: banishment.

    Oates was pushed back to the gallows platform. Then Sam and the women were dragged out one by one.

    "Samuel Tatum, orphan and simple boy—banishment.

    "Stella Spinner, known as High Timber, fancy woman—banishment.

    "Lorraine Sullivan, fancy woman—banishment.

    Nellie Carney, known as Cottontail, fancy woman—banishment.

    Baxter stepped to the edge of the gallows platform. Behind him the bodies of the three Hart brothers stirred in a rising wind. To the northeast, above the cone-shaped peak of Round Mountain, dark clouds were gathering, threatening rain.

    Sentence to be carried out immediately, he said.

    Chapter 3

    Mr. Baxter, if you will, just a moment.

    The banker hesitated on the steps, then recognized the man who had just spoken. Oh, it’s you, Reverend Claghorn, he said with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

    If I could just say a word?

    Baxter hesitated, then nodded. All right, say what you have to say.

    Claghorn was a thin, bent man with a gray beard that fell in sparse strands to the waistband of his pants. He mounted the steps and spread his arms to the crowd.

    My dear friends, the poor souls you see before you, a drunk, three scarlet women and a simple boy, will soon be gone from our midst. They have neither reaped nor sown, and thus we who have done so can no longer give them bread.

    You tell ’em, preacher, a man yelled. He turned to the others around him. We’re gonna miss them scarlet women though—eh, boys?

    Then why don’t you take them home an’ feed ’em, Lou? a miner asked loudly.

    Because my old lady won’t let me, Lou answered, a response that brought ribald laughter from men and disapproving looks from the women present.

    Please, please, good people, Claghorn called out, before we cast them out, even as Adam and Eve were cast from the Garden of Eden, let us bow our heads in prayer and ask that these unfortunates may travel their lonely road in peace.

    Perhaps fearing that his invitation might be turned down, Claghorn immediately clutched his Bible to his chest and stared up at the threatening sky.

    "Oh Lord, protect your five wayward children from the perils of the trail, outlaws, savage Apaches and wild animals. And may they not starve but find grub in the wilderness, even as you fed manna to the Israelites as they wandered in the desert.

    And Lord, most of all, we ask that the nigger cavalry from Fort Bayard will arrive soon and free our fair city from the Apache yoke.

    There was a scattering of Amens and, emboldened, Claghorn began to sing in a weak, quavering tenor.

    There is a land that is fairer than day,

    And by faith we can see it afar;

    For the Father waits over the way

    To prepare us a dwelling place there.

    In the sweet by and by,

    We shall meet on that beautiful shore;

    In the sweet by and by,

    We shall meet on that beautiful shore.

    Baxter cut the hymn short. Yes, thank you, Reverend, he said, clapping his hands. Now, you Company members, get them damned parasites out of our town.

    Eddie Oates had watched all this with eyes of glass, a disinterested man attending a boring play. He made no protest when he was pushed away from the gallows with the others, as limp and unresisting as a rag doll.

    The three women had stuffed what few possessions they could find into carpetbags and had obviously dressed hurriedly before they were bundled out of their tiny cribs in the Silver Nugget.

    Lorraine Sullivan, a dark-haired woman, the wear and tear of eleven years of frontier prostitution showing on her, wore only her shift and a ragged plaid mackinaw.

    Like Oates, Sam Tatum carried nothing.

    As they were prodded at rifle point in the direction of the town limits, Stella Spinner lashed out with her bag at the bearded man who was pushing her roughly between the shoulder blades. Her face, free of paint, was pale and tired, but her mouth twisted in fury as she rounded on the people crowded close to her.

    You sons of bitches, she screamed, you’re killing us. You know we’ll die out there.

    Shut up, Stella, the bearded man said. Take your medicine quiet, like the rest.

    We have as much right to live as any of you, and maybe more, Stella yelled. We won’t last a day with the Apaches surrounding the town.

    A respectable young matron dressed in rustling, rust-colored silk pushed forward. We won’t waste food on whores, she snapped, her mouth as hard and mean as the clasp of a steel purse. Now . . . just . . . leave.

    Stella’s eyes flared. Bitch! She jumped on the woman and they tumbled to the ground in a flurry of white petticoats and popping buttons.

    Get her off me! the woman cried as she tried to fight off Stella’s raking nails.

    A couple of grinning men dragged Stella to her feet and one, a miner, pushed her bag into her hands. You go quiet now, girl, he said. There ain’t nothing left for you in Alma.

    John Turley, Lorraine yelled, how do you expect us to go quiet? We could all be dead within hours.

    Yeah, you could, the miner named Turley said, grinning. Maybe you should have thought about that afore you took up the whorin’ business, Lorraine.

    Turley, Lorraine said, the other girls always told me you were a dickless son of a bitch. Now I know it for sure.

    As scornful laughter rained down on him, Turley’s face turned ugly. Lorraine, I hope fifty Apache bucks take turns on you afore they gut you like a sow. He motioned with the muzzle of his rifle. Now git goin’.

    The young matron had been helped to her feet, and the women around her, angry now, yelled, Whores! and threw rocks and clumps of horse dung. Lorraine and Stella were hit several times. A cut opened up on Lorraine’s forehead, trickling

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