Ralph Compton Never Bet Against the Bullet

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

Asa Newcombe tried not to look down. A spill down the rocky precipice meant death. With any luck, it would be fast, quick, but he doubted it. A body tumbling to the bottom of the five-hundred-foot ravine would bounce and tumble and leave the poor wight broken and bleeding—and not dead. Not right away.

Until sundown. A man falling down there’d be like a snake and not die until sundown. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes. His sure-footed mule plodded along and ignored its rider.

His traveling companion called back to him, You ain’t gettin’ cold feet, are you? There’s no way to back out now. We’re committed.

Asa forced himself to open his eyes. It was impossible not to glance over the brink and wonder which of the jagged, rocky outcroppings his body would hit as it bounced down to the rapidly flowing river at the bottom of the canyon. He decided all of them would be painted with his blood. He blinked and concentrated on the man ahead of him on the three-foot-wide trail. That was the safest way to travel, even if the short, scruffy stranger he had set out with from the Mosquito Pass railroad depot wasn’t anything worth looking at. In spite of the cold, stiff wind blowing around the mountainside, sweat beaded on Asa’s forehead.

We ought to be committed, Asa muttered. It’s a day longer getting to Meridian, but the other trail . . . His voice died out as the other man drew rein. His mule came to a halt and protested loudly. The animal wanted the trip to be over as much as he did. What’s wrong?

Got a small problem ahead. The trail’s blocked.

But you said we can’t back up!

Cain’t. No way to turn around. Not enough space. And mules like these here we’re astride don’t know how to put theyselves into reverse. Even a horse don’t back up so good. Reminds me of the time that—

What’s wrong with the trail? A thousand terrible reasons for the man’s halt flashed through Asa’s head. Rocks tumbling from the top of the towering Colorado peak to block the trail. The trail itself, carved into seemingly inert stone, giving way and tumbling half a thousand feet to dam up the river below. Or a body. Another traveler had died on the trail. There was nowhere to give a Christian burial amid the solid rock. The mountains were immutable and unforgiving.

If another poor soul had perished, Asa considered so many things other than burial on the spot. Tossing the corpse over the side was easiest, but he liked that least. Another alternative was to drape the body over his mule and lead the burdened animal back to Meridian, where a decent burial ceremony could be performed. Should a family be notified? How could he find out about the man’s people? There wasn’t even a marshal in Meridian now. The mayor was the only authority, and . . .

The lead mule began to snort and kick. Asa leaned over as much as he dared and saw that a body spooked the otherwise staid mule.

Can we edge past?

Edge past? Mister, you got a death wish for certain sure. Ain’t no way to get past a mountain lion.

A mountain lion?

The one what’s settin’ smack-dab in the middle of the trail, sunnin’ hisself and not lookin’ like he’s got a care in the world. As fat and sassy as he is, he won’t think of us as food. Not that he would, anyway. I heard tell they don’t like to eat people since we don’t taste good. All bitter, like our meat’s drenched in kerosene, though how a cat would know that’s how we taste without tryin’ out a sample first is—

A mountain lion! Asa’s ire rose. He had let his imagination run wild. His fear of heights had driven out his common sense. I thought it was a dead man’s body blocking our way.

Ain’t never said a thing like that. The man scratched himself, pushed back his hat and showed a receding hairline and a pate glistening with sweat. That display made Asa feel a tad better. The rumpled old man’s emotions played hob with him, too. The way he tugged at his tangled gray-shot beard and his nostrils flared betrayed more than a touch of fear. His mouth ran like a frightened deer because he feared the cougar, and he might even have shared Asa’s dread of the narrow path so high above a mountain valley.

Asa read people well, and he had ignored all the signs because of his own fearfulness. If only the medicine in his saddlebags wasn’t so important, if a life didn’t hang in the balance, he never would have dared this risky path back home.

Whoa, wait. The cat’s movin’. He’s got his front legs all straight in front and he’s stretchin’. He opened that mouth of his. You want to see his teeth? Dangest, sharpest teeth I ever did see. What a yawn!

In spite of himself, Asa leaned far out to peer around the old man ahead of him. The trail curved back inward sharply. He saw the trail some distance farther along but caught only the barest hint of movement. Tawny fur, sleek and powerful and dangerous. The quick sight of the mountain lion vanished as the animal moved away from the brink. Asa imagined it stretched out so its powerful body blocked the trail farther along.

Reckon I can shoot it. The grizzled old man drew a Colt from his belt. Asa saw the well-used, well-maintained pistol and how the man’s easy familiarity with it suggested expert marksmanship.

Don’t be a fool. If you wound it, we’re goners. It’ll fight. One misstep and your mule plunges over the side and takes you with it. Asa’s brain fog lifted. His usual sharp mind took on the problem. We can’t stay, we can’t back up and the cat is in our way forward.

That ’bout sez it all, mister. I got to admit that you’re right about shootin’ it. I ain’t much of a shot. What if I missed? And gunshots in these hills have been known to cause an avalanche. The man pushed his broad-brimmed gray hat back further as he looked above them to check for a possible rockslide.

Asa dismissed that danger. Too many others were more imminent. Something about the man claiming to be a poor shot began to fester. The man lied just because he could. Asa read his expression. The stranger considered himself something of a gunslick, and yet he had claimed to be inept. That was the kind of trick a man used to lead an opponent astray. Asa wasn’t any danger, but the man’s reaction was to deceive. He shrugged it off. Some men couldn’t help themselves when it came to spinning a yarn. It came as easy as breathing.

Risking life and limb, Asa climbed down from his mule. The animal snorted in resignation and began shifting its weight. As it leaned outward, it almost knocked him from the narrow ledge. He twisted about and got in front. From there he got a better look at the mountain lion sunning itself. Shadows crept slowly toward the cat. When it no longer basked in the warmth, it would move. But Asa grew increasingly edgy about reaching home. He needed to get home to Rebecca to help her and the girls. Looking for a way around the cougar, he sneaked a quick peek over the verge. Shakiness hit him, and he knew he would plunge to his death. Even if there was a ledge or another way around the big cat, he wasn’t capable of taking it.

The river below gurgled and rushed along. If he fell, his body would be washed away into oblivion. Asa wobbled. Arms around his mule’s neck steadied him until the balky animal let out a liquid snort and pulled free. Pebbles tumbled over the edge of the narrow path and rattled for several seconds. Asa vowed not to follow.

He edged past his travel companion—he had never asked for the man’s name in his haste to return to Meridian. The man was a prospector from the look of his clothing. Canvas pants, plaid shirt, floppy hat, battered boots and the Colt tucked into his belt. Anyone spotting the two travelers would have been curious at the contrast. Asa was tall and thin as a rail, and he sported a shock of hair so red, it looked as if it was on fire. His blue eyes missed nothing. Hands with long, nimble fingers betrayed how physical work and Asa Newcombe were strangers. No calluses on those hands, which compounded drugs and mixed concoctions. He wiped his sweaty palms on a frock coat both stylish and inexpensive. His green brocade vest and starched white shirt beneath were soaked with his sweat. A few more swipes of his hands along strong thighs steadied him.

No six-shooter hung at his side or weighed him down as he moved with a sure, quick action that threatened his life. He picked up a small stone and threw it at the mountain lion.

What’re you doin’, you danged fool? Wake it up, and it’s sure to come for us! The man tried to turn his mule, but there wasn’t room. Asa pushed against the mule’s rump and held it in place.

The stone clattered along the trail on the far side of the cat. It stirred but didn’t awaken. Asa threw another, larger rock. This careened off the hillside before tumbling away to the river below. The mountain lion came fully, instantly awake. It pushed up to a crouch and snarled.

Before Asa’s companion could cry out, the apothecary clamped his hand over the man’s mouth.

Hush. Watch.

Asa released his hold when the man sagged. He didn’t miss how a hand rested once more on the Colt’s butt thrust into the tight belt.

The mountain lion took a tentative step in the direction of the rock Asa had thrown. It snarled, shook its head and then began stalking along the trail. With a tawny, liquid rush, the cat slipped over the side and disappeared.

It’s still there, below us somewhere. You went and woke it up.

Ride, Asa ordered. If it comes back—and I don’t think it will since there’s nothing here for it—we ought to be long gone.

Mister, you’re crazy as a loon. Waiting it out was the smart thing.

Asa edged along the rocky wall, positioned himself and carefully mounted. The mule had tried bucking him off more than once when he stepped up before. Self-preservation told the mule not to make a misstep that would send it over the edge. That might dislodge its unwanted rider, but it also meant catastrophe. As the mule settled down and began its sure-footed plodding again, Asa patted its neck.

I’ll get you an apple when we reach town. A whole bushel basket!

The mule turned a large brown eye back accusingly.

I promise. I always keep my promises.

The mule snorted and picked up the pace, much to Asa’s regret. He clung to the reins and alternately clamped his eyes shut and opened them in stark fear. At least, the man on the mule ahead of him held his tongue the rest of the way into Meridian.

Some days Lady Luck smiled. On others, she smirked. Asa Newcombe only wanted to accept the good. And today he got it. A couple hours before sundown, he rode into Meridian with friends and neighbors waving and calling to him.

CHAPTER TWO

Take this to Mr. Thompson right away. Asa Newcombe sealed the envelope and handed it to the towheaded boy. Tell him to take half today dissolved in a quart of water and then the rest tomorrow."

What is it? Wilson Dutton held up the envelope and thumped it with his thumb. Asa almost snatched it from the twelve-year-old’s hands. Not only had he risked his life taking the crazy dangerous trail through Mosquito Pass, but he had paid a small fortune getting the chemicals for the mixture sent by rail from Denver. For once, deadlines had been met, and Big Bud Thompson had a good chance of surviving after his fall.

It’s medicine that will reduce his fever and keep him alive . . . if he ever gets it.

Usual pay? The boy didn’t budge.

A dollar if you get it to him within the hour, Asa said. "Or are you looking to apprentice to the undertaker? Mr. Thompson needs it now."

A dollar, Wilson said, rolling the words over and over like a fine wine caressing his tongue. You bet, Mr. Newcombe! He took two steps for the door, then spun around. I almost forget. My pa wants to talk to you about the railroad spur.

Asa sighed. The boy’s pa was the mayor, and he was always spinning deals that profited himself more than the people of Meridian, but this time was different. Everyone in the North Park area profited from having the railroad use Meridian as a depot.

Get a move on. I have another prescription to deliver. Asa shook an amber bottle and got the last of the powder dissolved in the alcohol.

I can deliver it, too. For another dollar.

Scat! Asa chased the boy out of the apothecary store and on his way. He stopped at the door to watch, to be sure the delivery was headed to the right place. When Wilson took off running in the correct direction, Asa closed the door behind him and locked it. Most merchants never bothered with locks. Meridian was a peaceable place, but he worried that some of the powerful drugs he kept on his shelves might disappear. Laudanum was the least of the drugs that someone so inclined could take.

He pulled down his bowler to shield his eyes from the sun and walked briskly across the street to the hotel. The owner’s wife was laid up and needed medicine. Meridian’s doctor had died more than a year ago. No one had stepped up to fill the void. The town shared a veterinarian with three other towns and only saw the man a few times a month. That left Asa with the responsibility to tend to the citizens—and the animals—the best he could.

Hello, Joel, he greeted the room clerk. I have Miz Selwin’s medicine.

The young man smiled weakly. She’s not doing so good, Mr. Newcombe. Anything to buck her up’ll be good.

See that she gets a spoonful of this twice a day and don’t let her get up and walk around. She’ll be dizzy and might fall down.

We wouldn’t want that. Not with Mr. Selwin, uh, not with him . . . The clerk’s words trailed off.

Asa knew what troubled the youngster. His employer got knee-walking drunk too many times a week for the hotel to thrive or for his wife to heal up. He’d have to talk to the mayor about that and see what remedy might be possible.

You might put the medicine into a glass of milk to help it go down easier. It’s bitter.

All medicine tastes lousy, Joel said. He held up the amber glass bottle and tried to look through it. You know that Mayor Dutton’s looking for you?

His son, Wilson, told me. Now that I’m sure Miz Selwin will get her medicine, I’ll get on over to town hall.

That fellow from the railroad company’s in town. That’s what the gossip says. Joel shook the bottle, smiled weakly and headed for the back room, where the Selwins had living quarters. Until the woman got sick, they had enjoyed a fancy suite upstairs on the third floor. Climbing the steps had taken an increasing toll on her until they were forced to move a bed into a first-floor storage room.

Asa stepped out into the late-afternoon sun and took a deep breath to settle his nerves. He took on too much. Rebecca told him that all the time, and he was coming around to agreeing. The trip to the Mosquito Pass watering depot had forced him to leave Meridian and abandon people who needed his services. He took another breath and set off with long strides toward the town hall. Worst of all, he had left Rebecca for four days. In her delicate condition, those four days seemed more like a week. Their daughters, Theresa and Ruth, helped their ma the best they could, but they were only eight and five. He expected a great deal from them, but they were children and able to do only so much.

He marched up the gravel path in front of the town hall and went through the lobby. He touched the brim of his bowler toward the woman at the desk who acted as Mayor Dutton’s secretary. Why the mayor of a town with a population of fewer than five hundred needed such help had come up at meetings. Somehow, Oliver Dutton sounded sincere saying the matter was being examined—and yet nothing ever happened. Asa held down his suspicions about the mayor and his secretary having more than a working relationship. It was none of his business, but that didn’t stop him from thinking the gossip held a grain of truth.

Go right on in, Mr. Newcombe, the woman called.

But Asa had already opened the door to the mayor’s office. The scent of the polish for the cherrywood desk and side cabinet almost gagged him. Oliver Dutton wasn’t one to leave the windows open for ventilation even on a fine summer day like this.

The mayor sat behind his desk, rocked back in a fancy chair, his fingers intertwined across his protruding belly. A shock of blond hair showed that his son had come by his coloration honestly. Asa wondered if that was the only honesty ever to come from the mayor. If Dutton had a way of doing something crooked, he’d prefer that to straightforward fidelity, even if it required more work. It had to be the risk that excited the politician.

Asa caught the other man seated at the side of the desk from the corner of his eye. He had seen Sidney Eastman several times, poking around town and making a nuisance of himself. The last time, three men had accompanied him, one dragging a surveyor’s theodolite around while Eastman scribbled notes in a bound volume and exchanged whispers with the other two. It had seemed very official and very secretive.

Mr. Newcombe, welcome back. I’m glad you were able to get the medicine for Thompson. My son says he looked worlds better after knocking back that powder you sent him.

He drank it in a glass of whiskey’s my bet, Asa said. That alone would perk him up. He silently heaved a sigh of relief. The mayor’s son had done his job delivering the medicine much faster than he would have thought. He reached into his vest pocket for a silver cartwheel to give to the boy’s father to pass along, then stopped. He didn’t trust Dutton not to keep the money due his son.

There was someone else, too. The hotel owner’s wife? Sidney Eastman spoke in a measured tone, words clipped and every syllable precise. He sat in the chair ramrod straight. Asa wondered if the man had been in the army. Something about him screamed, Officer!

Her, yes, Asa said. He almost mentioned the special potion he had fetched back for his own wife, then stopped short. That was a private matter. What’s so important that you had to see me? I haven’t been back for an hour, and I’d like to see my wife.

Ah, yes, Mrs. Newcombe, Eastman said. She’s with child. A boy this time? The steel-colored eyes fixed on Asa in a way that made him suspicious. He knew far too much about the citizens of Meridian to be just casual interest.

We have hopes in that direction, Asa said cautiously. The girls would make a baby brother’s life miserable until he got older.

Let him learn who runs the world early in life. Dutton chuckled at that, shook his head, then pulled himself up to his desk and opened a file box stuffed with papers. He took out a few and spun them around so Asa saw they were maps of the surrounding mountains. That’s what I—we—want to discuss, Asa. You’re the town’s most prominent citizen. With your backing for this project, well, no one would oppose us if you agreed that it is a fine idea.

Asa studied the maps for a moment.

That’s the trail I took getting back to town. It’s a treacherous path. He held up the page. The trail had been marked as if railroad tracks ran the distance from the Mosquito Pass depot all the way into Meridian.

The Colorado and Wyoming Railroad is considering a narrow gauge line to our fair town.

A spur line, it’s called, Eastman piped up. We have surveyed the entire route, and Meridian is a perfect location.

Asa caught his breath. For almost a year rumors had ricocheted around town about how Meridian was destined to become a ghost town. With the railroad going through Mosquito Pass, they had been bypassed and cut off from more profitable towns.

What’s here that merits a spur? He studied Eastman’s reaction, but Dutton spoke up.

Well, this isn’t public knowledge. Not yet. But the C and W wants our coal deposits exploited. Meridian can supply needed fuel for their locomotives.

Yes, you see, Mr. Newcombe, the lighter the load on our engines getting up to the Mosquito Pass summit, the better. We won’t need the most powerful engines—or even to gang two together for the steep incline. The Front Range is not a forgiving mistress, no, sir. The Rockies make us fight for every inch we climb. Once at the Mosquito Pass depot, refueling with Meridian coal gives us quite an edge.

And quite a profit, Dutton cut in. He rubbed his hands together. To get the coal from our mine overland is impossible.

That trail is a killer, Asa agreed. And the other road, while safer, takes a day longer.

Wagons loaded with coal would take far longer still. A week. That’s not an expense the C and W can tolerate. But a spur line from the mine to Mosquito Pass can deliver coal in a single day. Eastman leaned forward and looked sincere. Asa heard the ring of