Ralph Compton Counterfeit Lawman

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 ONE

Isaac Scott jerked around at the unexpected noise. He might have been imagining it. Hearing anything over the clackety-clack of the railroad wheels as they raced along the open stretch of track between Houston and San Antonio was unlikely. Rolling over onto his side, he braced his feet against a crate, gripped the edge of the door and pulled with all his might. The heavy boxcar door slid open a few inches.

The gust of hot, humid summer Texas air made him flinch and look away. It had been crazy thinking a horse matched the speed of the train, though that was what the sound reminded him of more than anything else. Ike rubbed his ears in a vain attempt to erase the constant ringing. Riding the rails was dangerous, but he had no other choice if he wanted to stay alive to see another sunrise. Too often down on his luck and a nasty galoot named Penrose itching to collect money that wasn’t there made running like a scared rabbit his best option.

There had been choices. The steamer heading around Cape Horn for San Francisco had beckoned to him, in spite of his never having stepped onto a boat larger than a dugout before. Being a sailor was hard and dangerous, but he’d chosen that rather than face the furious Clement Penrose.

But, as if the man read his mind, Penrose had gotten between him and the harbor. Two bullet-riddled bodies proved that. Seeing the dead sailors tossed into the harbor caused Ike shakes that only now died down, almost a dozen hours later. Both men had looked enough like him to be mistaken in the dark. Penrose hadn’t cared. He wanted blood—Ike’s blood. If he made a mistake or two along the way trying to collect the money he’d loaned out, it didn’t matter.

Ike had hightailed it in the only other way sure to get him out of Houston fast. The rail yard overflowed with engines and empty cars waiting for cargo from the docks.

Less than ten minutes after sneaking into the yard, he found the South Texas Central train building steam as it prepared to roll out. With more luck than skill, he had opened the freight car door far enough to slide into the dank, smelly interior just as the whistle blew and the locomotive spewed a huge column of black smoke. The train jerked and started moving, ponderously at first, then gathering speed faster than Ike could run. He had shimmied up and inside and lay there panting.

Penrose would never find him, not unless he was dumb enough to ever return to Houston. A lot of things could be said about Isaac Scott, but being that stupid wasn’t among them. Texas was big and wide, and any other town was better than Houston.

Safer, if not better.

He’d heard good things about San Antonio, which seemed to be the straining locomotive’s destination, if the crates in the freight car were properly marked.

But the sound that teased the fringes of his hearing returned. A horse? He looked outside once more. The empty land extended as far south as he could see. He even imagined he saw the beaches at Corpus Christi, but that was unlikely. More likely it was a mirage or some other trick of vision. The Gulf of Mexico lay behind him, not southerly. Still . . .

Maybe it’s the surf I’m hearing? he wondered out loud.

He pulled himself to his feet and braced against the rolling motion of the boxcar. He swiveled about, listening attentively. He finally homed in on the direction. The sounds came from the roof. Ike started to poke his head outside the freight car to see who—or what—was foolish enough to conduct a square dance on the roof of a rapidly moving train.

He let out a yelp when strong hands grabbed his arm and yanked him back into the car. He spun around, crashed into a wood box and flopped into the narrow space between it and the door. Shaken, he rubbed his eyes to clear them.

He’ll see you for certain, came a gravelly voice more like an animal’s growl than a human’s warning.

The light snaking past the open sliding door in a pale wedge showed a man as down on his luck as Ike himself. Maybe his luck was a mite worse, because his clothing hung in filthy tatters, revealing bruised and cut skin. The boots were scuffed and nicked, his jeans must have been caught in a stampede attended by every single steer on the King Ranch and two holes in his hat let through the sun’s rays in a peculiar way. Ike blinked. It looked as if the light passed clean through the man’s head, but it was only a trick of perspective. The hat was pushed back a ways on his head far enough for Ike to figure out his companion’s hair was as scarce as coins jingling in his pocket. The only thing that Ike envied, just a little, was the full mustache that billowed out thick and proud like long horns on a bull. He touched his own mustache and realized how far he had to go to cultivate it before matching the stranger’s. His was hardly more than a knobby, finger-thick hairy patch at its widest.

Who’s that? Ike levered himself up and perched on the edge of the crate. He and the man between him and the door were about the same height, though Ike fancied himself taller, if only to find yet another reason to feel superior. One thing he didn’t have that the other man did was a six-shooter hanging at his hip. Like the rest of his clothing, the gun belt had seen better days. The holster had once been a fancy tooled cradle for the six-gun, probably done down in Mexico from the look of the elaborate designs, but its stitching was fraying. If the man moved too fast, his gun likely would tumble out of his holster as the leather fell apart.

But he had a six-shooter, and Ike didn’t. A man had to respect that difference. Ike also lacked the steely glint in his eye that defied argument. What he said was Gospel—if the six-shooter didn’t proclaim that, the intimidating stare did.

The railroad bulls, you idiot. They musta seen you sneak aboard. Otherwise, they’d have stayed back in Houston. The man looked up suddenly, hand going to his six-shooter in a quick, smooth move, as distinct footsteps crossed from the rear of the freight car roof to the front.

Both Ike and the man stared up, their heads turning slowly to follow the clop-clop-clop. When the steps halted, the two men exchanged looks. Ike knew what thoughts ran through his traveling companion’s head. He thought the same thing. He still had to ask.

Somebody’s riding up there? Ike hardly believed that. The way the train was hurtling along, the wind would sweep any fool off as slick as spitting out a watermelon seed.

The man only nodded. He kept his hand on the pistol butt but made no move to draw.

Ike considered his situation. He was a greenhorn when it came to stealing rides on a train. His unwitting fellow nonpaying passenger had the look of a man used to such illegal travel. Never one to ignore someone with more experience, Ike asked, What do we do if he checks the car and finds us?

Circle back on what you said. If he searches this car, we don’t let him find us. There’s no way he’s alone. They travel in packs, like wolves. Only, I’d prefer facing down an actual wolf pack. They’re not as vicious, even when they’re famished.

You have considerable dealings with railroad, uh, bulls?

The man studied him now, then laughed curtly. Ike bristled at the sound. He was being dismissed out of hand. His ire rose when the man pushed him aside and hopped onto a crate so he stared past Ike at the landscape rolling by quickly. Whether he did this to keep himself occupied or to watch for the railroad detective wasn’t a question Ike felt easy asking. In fact, there wasn’t much of anything he felt easy about with this gent. Everything about him screamed, KILLER.

Ike vowed to keep his own counsel. He had no quarrel with the gunman. They just happened to be illicitly occupying the same boxcar and nothing more. If anything, their interests rode the same horse in wanting to avoid the railroad detectives. That was likely all they shared.

Of all the rail-yard dicks, the ones working for this particular line are the worst. They’d as soon cut your throat as give you the time of day. More so, I reckon, the man said playing with his bushy mustache as he talked. They’re hired because they enjoy killing anyone getting in their way—or their boss’.

That’s a mighty bold statement, Ike said skeptically. You know this for a fact or are you just blowing smoke?

You insinuating that I was the one that brought them down on our necks? The man’s choler grew. He faced Ike, and again his hand went to rest on the butt of his six-shooter.

No, no, sir, nothing like that. I had to leave town in a hurry, and this iron horse was the first out of the gate, so to speak. I wasn’t even sure where the train headed, and it didn’t matter as long as it was . . . away.

Same with me, the man said, but Ike heard the deception in his words. For whatever reason, this train and maybe even this freight car had been chosen for the journey to San Antonio from a rail yard filled with other trains. Ike had no desire to find out the other man’s reasons. He had troubles of his own.

His head snapped around to look overhead once more. There had been one set of footsteps before. Now it sounded like a stampede.

How many do you think there are? Ike asked. He pointed above. His companion didn’t follow the motion. The hard stare fixing Ike to the spot further convinced him the man dodged the railroad detectives, too, but for a different motive than his.

Penrose bragged about the police he’d bought off in Houston. The railroad bulls were nothing more than police officers who were too crooked to be tolerated on the police force. Thinking of that possibility scared Ike more than he had been.

More ’n we can win against if we tangle with ’em. The man gave Ike a quick once-over, came to the conclusion he was harmless then turned his back to take another quick look out the open door. We’re almost at the rail yard.

San Antonio? Already? This surprised Ike. It felt as if he had just hopped onto the train, yet the fear he’d experienced for every mile during the past half hour stretched into forever.

Don’t think on jumpin’ out, not here. You’d be seen for sure, the man said.

You’ve done this before? Stealing a ride in a boxcar?

Stealin’? The man laughed. It sounded ugly. You sound like them. What’re we stealin’?

The price of a ticket, Ike said, not sure how to respond. The railroad makes money off passengers. We caught a ride, and they’re not collecting a dime from us.

They’ve got money to burn. What’s it worth ridin’ in this here car? They should pay us. We’re not takin’ up space in their fancy passenger cars. The man grumbled some, muttered under his breath, and then said, The bulls aren’t goin’ anywhere. They must have figgered out we’re in here.

Ike surged forward, intent on jumping. He didn’t care what his unwanted associate said. Getting off the train reduced the chance of being caught, especially if the railroad detectives stayed with this boxcar all the way into the San Antonio depot. They’d have to be damned fools to jump down from the top of the freight car to chase after him.

A strong hand grabbed his upper arm. As he struggled to pull free, those fingers turned into iron bands. There wasn’t any way to escape without the man releasing him of his own accord.

Do as you’re told. The words carried the snap of an order. The man was used to being obeyed. Ike had never been in the army, but this man’s cutting words sounded for the world like the steel of an officer mustering his troops before a suicidal attack.

What do you intend to do? Ike watched as the scenery outside passed by slower and slower.

I need to find a man in the roundhouse, he said. He’s got . . . something I want. The man’s hand pressed into his coat, as if assuring himself something still rode in an inner pocket. The rest of what I need, the man grated out. That’ll give me all of it.

Ike wondered at the hesitation in naming what he expected to get from a railroad employee. This gent wasn’t the kind to show reluctance about anything, much less something that seemed unimportant. That made Ike realize the man he shared the car with was on some kind of a mission—and it wasn’t a mission he wanted any part of.

The train shuddered as wheels screeched and locked to bring the powerful locomotive to a halt. Ike got his feet under him and exploded outward. He shoved past the armed tramp and sailed through the air. He hit hard in a pile of cinders. One burned its way into his elbow. Another cut his chin. Rather than take the time to brush off the clinkers pressed into his clothing, he dug his toes into the ground and launched himself again.

Shouts from the top of the freight car added speed to his retreat. Those cries for him to halt were drowned out by gunfire. Bullets kicked up tiny dust devils all around as the railroad detectives opened fire on him.

He slipped and fell again. This saved his life. If he’d remained upright, one slug would have caught him smack-dab in the middle of his back. Ike rolled over and saw three bulls atop the boxcar. One shot at him; the other two inexplicably tried to stop their partner from taking an accurate shot.

Strong hands jerked him to his feet and half dragged him along. The other refugee from the freight car pulled him erect.

Run like your life depends on it, ’cuz it does!

Ike didn’t need to be told.

Thanks, he said and tried to vault over the couplings between two cars on another train parked on a siding.

Again his unwanted partner grabbed him and shoved him in a different direction.

More bulls on the other side, came the curt answer to Ike’s unspoken question.

He had no idea how the man knew, but a quick look under the flatcar showed two men running along. If he had run where he’d intended, he would have been caught.

Killed.

He glanced over his shoulder. The three detectives on the boxcar scampered down rungs at the end of the car, still arguing among themselves. The one who had tried to kill him was in the lead. Ike knew better than to stop, lift his hands in surrender and expect anything but a bullet in the gut.

In. Get in!

The man grabbed the seat of his britches and heaved, sending Ike skidding along the floor of an empty freight car coupled to another train. He slammed into the far side and lay dazed and moaning.

Open it. Look out. Hurry it up!

Ike shook off the impact and did as he was ordered. As he heaved open the sliding door, his partner closed the door where they’d entered. Gunshots sounded, but no bullets penetrated the heavy wood. Muscles protesting, Ike slid back the door and chanced a quick glance. He ducked back.

Ike yelped as he was pushed out. He hit the ground hard.

Keep up or I’ll leave you behind, the man growled. He grabbed the back of Ike’s coat and heaved.

"Why would they kill us? Sneaking a ride’s not that bad, not enough for an army of them to come after us." Ike saw the sour look on the man’s face. That was more of an answer than anything he said would be. They might not like it that Ike caught a free ride, but the man they wanted to kill for whatever reason was the one hauling him along.

There’s the roundhouse, the man said. He’ll hide us. Me.

The man’s sudden change from them being a team to saving himself convinced Ike it was time to part ways. He feinted left and started right, heading away from the roundhouse, where engines were spun around on a turntable. Through open doors, Ike saw a small locomotive being swung about, a man driving a team of mules to accomplish the task.

The mule skinner looked up when the man who had been with Ike waved frantically. Ike cringed as gunfire rang out. The man stiffened and reached out for the mule skinner, silently imploring him to help. Then, that haven was stolen from him as the railroad bulls continued firing until their own employee flopped to the ground. The roundhouse worker kicked once when a mule stepped on him, but that was his last twitch. He had been murdered by the cinder dicks.

Seeing this, Ike’s temporary partner flopped around and wiggled like a snake to find refuge behind stacks of steel rails waiting to be shipped out.

Help me, the man moaned, reaching out to Ike the way he had tried with the mule skinner. From a spot behind a mountain of coal, Ike saw that the man had been hit at least three times in the back. His shabby coat changed color, from dull brown to bright red, as he bled out. I need you to . . . His words faded, but life still burned in the man’s intense eyes.

Ike felt the man impose his will by force of character alone.

Ike hesitated. The bulls would kill him, too, if he tried to rescue a man who had willingly discarded him as an ally seconds before. A deep shudder shook him as he exhaled forcefully, trying to come to a decision. The stench of burning metal and soot made him gasp when he sucked in a new breath. Somehow, this biting acid burning in his lungs dictated what he should do. As the railroad dicks searched the mule skinner they’d just shot down, Ike bent low and made his way cautiously toward his injured acquaintance.

He cursed himself for getting involved. He didn’t owe this fellow train hopper anything. If anything, it was just the reverse. There wouldn’t be gunfire and a man lying dead if he weren’t here.

Ike skidded to a halt, circled a limp body with his arms and heaved. Finding that the man weighed too much to pick up, he began dragging the dead weight along behind the pile of rails until he reached a spot where a twist rolled the body under a car and between the tracks. Ike wasted no time flopping down to hide himself.

You ought to—

Ike clamped his hand over the man’s mouth to silence him. He pointed. Not ten feet away, the railroad bulls paced back and forth, arguing where their quarry had run.

We plugged one of ’em, Kinch, declared a detective pacing closer to where Ike peered out fearfully.

The son of a bitch that got away’s who we have to stop. You sure he ran this way?

I saw him, Kinch. Really, I did. I’m sure I hit him, so he can’t get too far.

It’s on your head if you’re wrong. The boss doesn’t take failure easy.

"I can’t forget what he did to Thomas.