Ralph Compton Down on Gila River

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

A fifty-year-old, stove-up puncher with the rheumatisms and shortsighted eyes has no right to pick a fight with a bunch of young bronco Apaches.

Sam Sawyer was aware of that rule, but since the Indians had done the pickin’ he figured he was in the right.

Not that it mattered.

The Mescaleros already had his pony, saddle, and rifle, and now they were after his scalp. All things considered, Sam figured he was in a difficult situation. He still had his Colt but couldn’t hit anything with it unless at spitting distance, and the Apaches weren’t about to get that close.

Already their rifle bullets hit nearer. Accompanied by a spiteful whine, they chipped rock from the top of the boulder that concealed him or rattled through the juniper on the higher ground just above his head.

He was, Sam decided, truly between a rock and a hard place.

But desperate times require desperate measures. By nature Sam Sawyer was a talking man and he figured he might be able to silver-tongue his way out of this fix.

Where bullets had failed, words could succeed.

Hey, you Injuns down there, Sam yelled. Jes’ leave my pony an’ saddle and we’ll forget this shootin’ scrape ever happened. How does that set with you, huh?

The only reply was a flurry of shots that forced Sam to hit the ground, his heart thudding like a trip-hammer in his chest.

He learned a great truth that day: when Apaches wanted to lift a man’s scalp, they weren’t much on polite conversation.

Slowly, Sam lifted his head and peered over the boulder. He saw the three Indians moving around farther down the talus slope, just a fleeting moment of a glimpse, and then they were gone again.

Sam thumbed off a shot, taking a pot to keep the Indians honest. He saw a pad leap off a prickly pear cactus, but then his bullet chattered harmlessly into the underbrush.

Answering shots whined off the rock, and one of them drove splinters into Sam’s left cheek, drawing blood and a startled curse. He dived for the ground again, still cussing.

An optimistic man, Sam spat out dirt and dried leaves and tried to look on the bright side. But try as he might, there was no bright side—nary a happy ending in sight.

Dang, he said, talking aloud, the habit of men who ride lonely trails, I reckon you’re done fer this time, Sam’l.

* * *

Sam Sawyer was holed up in the rugged breaks at the foot of New Mexico’s Haystack Mountain in the high desert country. Spreading away from him lay a brush valley that pointed like an arrowhead toward what had been his destination, the Silver City boomtown.

He’d figured that he might prosper there, perhaps in the restaurant business, since a ranch cook had once told him, Sam, I reckon you can fry an egg and burn a steak with the best of them.

But hard fate had intervened and his prospects were blighted.

Sam had been riding south from the Spur Lake Basin country when the Apaches jumped him, scared his horse, and left him afoot.

Now pinned to the break like a butterfly to a board, he could only wait and wonder when the Indians would make their move.

There was an almost impassible thicket of brush and cactus to his left, and to his right another pile of rock that had tumbled down the mountain during some ancient earth-shake. Behind him rose a sheer slope, so he was confident that no attack would come from that direction.

Sam took time to build a cigarette and shook his head. The Apaches were taking their own sweet time, content to make a man die a hundred deaths before the real thing happened. The day was blistering, the sun a white-hot coin in the cloudless sky. Ravens quarreled in the junipers, raining a shower of twigs, cones, and needles. Close to Sam, a swallowtail butterfly circled close to a purple bull thistle, then fluttered away in tattered flight.

A probing arrow thudded into the slope behind Sam, then a second.

Angry now, he cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted, Hey, you buzzards! You’re gonna put somebody’s eye out!

There was no answering shout, nor further arrows.

Sam peered over the rim of the boulder again. Nothing moved and there was no sound.

Maybe the Apaches were gone. The arrows might have been a last act of defiance, calculated to make the white man wet his pants.

If that was the case, they’d almost succeeded.

A minute dragged past slowly, heavy with heat.

Still nothing moved and only insects made their small sounds in the grass.

Emboldened, Sam stood. And drew an instant fusillade.

A bullet jerked off his hat and another tugged at his left sleeve. He dived for the ground again and yelped as one of his rheumatic knees slammed again a buried rock.

Dang, that was going to hurt later. If there was a later.

His knee paining him, Sam’s anger again flared.

He jumped up and fanned his Colt dry. Then he holed up behind the boulder again.

A derisive laugh rose from the flat in front of him, his wild shots tickling some Apache’s sense of humor.

Sam took shells from his cartridge belt and fumbled six into the chambers of his revolver.

His canteen hung from his saddle horn, wherever that was now, and thirst had begun its slow torment. His mouth was as dry as mummy dust, and his red-rimmed eyes felt gritty in the sun glare.

He rubbed his aching knee, angry that the Apaches were not giving up, angry with himself for leaving the security of the Rafter-T, and hazarding what was left of his future on a wild adventure to Silver City.

He was too old for wild adventures, and the Mescaleros were busy making that obvious.

But fate can be as flighty as a sixteen-year-old girl at her first cotillion.

And now it intervened on Sam Sawyer’s behalf.

Bronco Apache warriors, especially Chiricahua, were the most notional people on this green earth. And they proved that now.

When Sam looked over the boulder rim, all three Apaches had mounted their ponies in full view of him—a comment on what they thought of his marksmanship—and one of them, wearing the yellow headband of a former army scout, led his saddled mustang.

Sam didn’t need to think about it—the fact was obvious that they were giving up the fight and moving on.

He was mightily puzzled over the why of the thing.

But, rack his brain as he might, he came up with no answer. Though he thought up a few maybes.

Maybe they figured the mustang, saddle, and rifle were booty enough and it was not worth getting killed or wounded just to murder a gray-haired white man. Maybe they were homesick for their ranchería and their wives and young’uns. Maybe they’d gotten a sudden attack of the croup.

Maybe a lot of things.

But they were leaving and that was enough to bring a smile to Sam Sawyer’s craggy, weather-beaten face.

So puffed up was he in this reversal to his fortune that he stepped clear of the boulder and yelled, Hey, you! Leave that dang mustang hoss right where it’s at.

The Apache in the yellow headband drew rein and stared at Sam for a long time, his black eyes glittering. Then he bent over on his pony’s back and slapped his rear with the flats of his hands.

Now Sam knew he’d been insulted, both as a man and a warrior, but he did nothing. He wasn’t a good enough shot to hit the Mescalero’s backside, and a miss would only make the Apaches mad and stir things up again.

So he just stood and watched the Apaches leave. He could still hear them laughing at him long after he could no longer see them.

* * *

Thus it was that Sam Sawyer, in low spirits, came down from the breaks and onto the flat. He had no horse, no water, and no food—and it was a long, long way to Silver City.

Sam walked for an hour and amused himself by kicking a rock, keeping it in front of him, retrieving it from under cactus or brush, then toeing it forward again. His shadow grew longer and his feet had started to ache when he stumbled on a narrow stream that branched off from Sacaton Creek.

The water was warm and brackish, but Sam drank deep, then fetched his back against a cottonwood, built a cigarette, and considered his situation. In truth, he had little to consider. By his recollection, Silver City lay about forty miles to the south, tucked into a rocky cradle of rugged mountains, ravines, and mesas. Even for a walking man it was a fur piece, and, like every cowboy ever born, Sam Sawyer was not a walking man.

His store-bought boots had cost him four dollars and seventy-five cents three years before and were much scuffed and down-at-heel, and easy enough on the feet. But they’d been made tight and narrow on a horseman’s last, and hiking in them had never entered the boot maker’s thinking.

Now, as Sam’s feet swelled, the boots pinched, scraped, and crushed his toes into tangled knots and he couldn’t pull them off because he feared he wouldn’t get them back on again.

Thus, as he smoked his cigarette and pondered his plight, Sam Sawyer was not in the best frame of mind. He carried a horse chestnut in one pocket to ward off the rheumatisms and in the other a dried rattlesnake heart for consumption. But they brought him little comfort.

He again cussed himself for leaving the Rafter-T. Like many a puncher before him with arthritic knees and a spine jarred too often by half-broke ponies, he’d been offered, and accepted, the job of assistant cook.

Looking back—dang, was it just three weeks ago?—Sam decided that a man should never turn his back on a job that offered plenty of grub, a comfortable bunk, and free whiskey every Friday night, plus a handsome salary of thirty a month.

He glanced at the sky where the sun was beginning its drift to the west and he took on a philosophical turn of mind. What was it his ma always said? Oh yeah, she’d say, Samuel, it’s no use crying over spilt milk. Well, Ma was right. He’d chosen his way and now he’d have to stick to it without regret.

He’d made up his mind, but Sam figured that up until now Ma’s advice sure hadn’t helped much.

Chapter 2

Hannah Stewart walked back to her cabin, a basket of brown eggs hanging from one arm, but stopped a few feet short of the door as a distant movement across the brush flats caught her attention.

The flats shimmered in the late summer sun, and dust drew a fine veil over the distance. She laid the basket at her feet and shaded her eyes against the glare. Her gaze reached far and finally rested on the moving speck that grew in size as it slowly came nearer.

Beyond the flat rose the purple peaks of the Mogollon Mountains that stretched westward to the Arizona border, a ragged rampart against the blue haze of the sky.

Hannah glanced away, rested her eyes, and once again returned her gaze to the approaching . . . figure.

Yes, it was a man, no doubt about that. An Apache?

The woman dismissed the thought. The man didn’t move like an Indian. Rather, he had a hesitant, high-stepping gait, like somebody walking barefoot on nettles.

Hannah felt a tug on her skirt.

Is it Pa? her daughter asked, her brown eyes wide and as round as copper coins.

A pang of something akin to sadness stabbed at Hannah Stewart’s heart. No, Lori, she said, it’s not Pa. She took the child’s hand. We’re going inside, she said.

Let me carry the eggs, Lori said.

I think they’re too heavy for you, honey.

No, they’re not. I’m a big girl now. I’m four.

Three.

Nearly four.

Hannah smiled. All right, carry the basket, but be careful.

She opened the door wide for the child, and then glanced back at the man on the trail.

A white man. Big hat, knee-high boots, a gun on his hip.

A cowboy, then. Or an outlaw.

Hannah helped Lori put the eggs on the table. Then she took the shotgun from above the fireplace. She crossed the floor to a cupboard, opened the drawer, and took two bright red shells from a box.

She loaded the Greener and turned to Lori. Shh, she said, forefinger to her lips. Be a little mouse until I come back.

The girl looked at her mother in alarm and Hannah smiled.

It’s only a cowboy searching for his lost horse, she said. I’ll go talk to him, is all.

Be careful, Mommy, Lori said, her voice trembling a little.

I will, Hannah said. Now, remember, be a quiet little mouse.

She stepped outside—just as Sam Sawyer reached the well. Hannah saw the man’s eyes move over her, from her face to her breasts to the swell of her hips under her plain gray work dress.

She found nothing offensive in the man’s gaze. He’d looked at her without heat, as a man will look at any attractive woman.

Sam touched the brim of his battered black hat. Howdy, ma’am, he said. I wonder if I can trouble you for a drink of water.

Hannah nodded. Yes, please help yourself.

She watched as the man dropped the bucket into the well, heard the splash and then saw him raise it again.

There’s a dipper on a nail beside you, she said.

Obliged, ma’am, Sam said.

He drank deep, drank again, and when Hannah figured the worst of his thirst had been quenched, she said, Have you come far?

Yes, ma’am, from the mountains back there. Apaches made off with my hoss and nearly my hair.

He drank again, then said, Afore that, I was working fer the Rafter-T, up in the Spur Lake Basin country.

Anticipating the woman’s next question, he said, Name’s Sam Sawyer, an’ I’m headed fer Silver City. He smiled, showing his teeth. I figured I might prosper there in the restaurant profession.

My name is Hannah Stewart, the woman said. This is my place.

She was not yet sure she could trust this man and didn’t mention Lori. But she had dropped the shotgun barrels so the muzzles pointed at the ground.

Sam’s eyes swept over the cabin, the outbuildings, and then lingered on the barn. Live here by yourself, ma’am? Sam asked.

Hannah hesitated a moment. Yes. My husband rode away three months ago and I haven’t seen him since. I expect he’ll be back at any time now.

She saw Sam