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    Ralph Compton the Last Manhunt
    Ralph Compton the Last Manhunt
    Ralph Compton the Last Manhunt
    Ebook264 pages3 hours

    Ralph Compton the Last Manhunt

    By Ralph Compton and Joseph A. West

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    About this ebook

    There's a thin line between the law and the lawless in this Ralph Compton western...

    Newspaper reporter Lester T. Booker traveled to Santa Fe to interview legendary gunfighter and dime novel hero Ransom March. But the quick-drawing “Prince of the Plains” Booker meets turns out to be little more than an old ex-lawman of questionable moral fiber who doled out death to unsuspecting—and sometimes unarmed—outlaws.
     
    One outlaw who escaped Rance’s brand of justice is the man known as The Gravedigger, who earned his moniker for burying his victims alive. Now, the unrepentant murderer has resurfaced, compelling Rance to come out of retirement and put his old enemy six feet under once and for all.
     
    For Booker, it’s the story of a lifetime—and an education in learning just how the west was really won…

    More Than Six Million Ralph Compton Books In Print!
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPenguin Publishing Group
    Release dateMar 1, 2011
    ISBN9781101477472
    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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      Book preview

      Ralph Compton the Last Manhunt - Ralph Compton

      Chapter 1

      They say Mr. March killed fifty men.

      They say a lot of things. The rancher turned to the car window and stared into the burned-out remains of the day. He only killed as many as he needed to kill.

      Lester T. Booker eased his celluloid collar away from his neck, sweaty from heat and irritated by grit and soot from the locomotive’s chimney.

      Have you seen him shoot? he said.

      At what? Men or targets?

      Both.

      I never saw him kill a man. Never saw him shoot either.

      Pity. I’m told he’s a crack shot.

      Who told you that?

      Well . . . my editor.

      Where? Back in New York?

      Yes, but he’s read all the dime novels.

      Your editor knows nothing.

      The rancher turned from the window. In the gloom, his eyes were ice blue. My ten-year-old son can outshoot Ransom March any day of the week, he said.

      I find that hard to believe.

      Your first time out west?

      Yes.

      Then you don’t know any better. The rancher’s smile was genuine but wintry. Young feller, out here when you call a man a liar to his face or behind his back, you should be ready to back your play.

      I didn’t mean to imply—

      Like I said, you don’t know any better.

      Booker’s prominent Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. He picked his words. So, Mr. March can’t shoot?

      He can shoot.

      But you just said he couldn’t. Oh, I see. You mean he’s not a crack shot?

      No.

      But how—

      A gun suddenly appeared in the rancher’s hand and the muzzle pushed into Booker’s belly. That’s how. This close, a man doesn’t need to be a crack shot.

      Booker shrank back in his seat. He . . . he killed all those men—

      Yeah, just like this, when he was close enough to spit on them. Ransom March ain’t what you’d call a retiring man. The rancher shoved his Colt back in his waistband. So, you’re writing a story about March for the newspaper?

      "Yes, for the New York Chronicle."

      Rance know you’re coming?

      We exchanged letters and he agreed to be interviewed about the old days if I came to Santa Fe.

      I hope for your sake he hasn’t changed his mind.

      Why do you say that?

      Because he don’t suffer fools gladly, Archibald.

      Booker stiffened and his mouth pruned in prim disapproval. Sir, I am not a fool and my name isn’t Archibald.

      No? I fer sure took ye for an Archibald. All right, then you’re not a fool, but you’re a pilgrim and March don’t take kindly to them either.

      He’s retired, and this is 1890 and the Wild West is gone. Surely he’s over his prejudices by now.

      Maybe, but he’s still a handful.

      In what way?

      You’ll find out, Archibald. You’ll find out.

      When the rancher turned to the darkened window again, he grinned.

      Chapter 2

      Booker stood on the dark, windswept platform, a guttering oil lamp above his head casting shifting light on the top of his plug hat and the shoulders of his broadcloth coat.

      You waiting for somebody, young feller? the stationmaster asked. He held a lantern that pooled around his feet like spilled orange paint.

      Yes. Mr. Ransom March. He said he’d meet me here.

      He’ll be here, unless he pulled a cork. If he did, you’ll see him tomorrow or next week.

      I’ll wait.

      Suit yourself.

      The railroad man walked away, then stopped and turned. Coffee, what’s left of it, in the waiting room if you’d care for some.

      Thank you, yes.

      He’p yourself.

      The coffee was strong, black, and bitter, and it took the edge off Booker’s tiredness. It had been a long trip from New York.

      He stepped to the window and looked out at the deserted platform.

      White moths fluttered around the oil lamps until they were blown away like snowflakes in the gusting wind. Coyotes yipped, hunting close, and from somewhere in town, a saloon piano tinkled notes, fragile as glass, into the darkness.

      Booker closed his eyes and in a croaky whisper sang along with the tune that was then all the rage in New York.

      After the ball is over, after the break of morn,

      After the dancers’ leaving, after the stars are gone,

      Many a heart is aching, if you could read them all,

      Many the hopes that have vanished after the ball.

      I’ve heard that sung prettier, but you’ll do.

      Booker turned and saw a short, stocky man grinning at him.

      I’m not much of a singer, I’m afraid, he said.

      Already figured that out for my own self.

      Did Mr. March send you?

      No, he came in person.

      Is he outside?

      No, he’s right here.

      You’re Ransom March?

      As ever was. Booker’s disappointment showed, because March said, Who did you expect? Wild Bill Hickok maybe?

      Booker was too discouraged to make up a polite lie. Yes, something like that.

      March shook his head. Bill was a pain in the ass, especially later when his nerves were shot and the French pox done for his eyes.

      You knew him?

      Got drunk with him a few times. March looked the younger man over from the toes of his elastic-sided boots to the top of his hat. You must be Mr. Booker.

      "Lester T. Booker of the New York Chronicle, at your service."

      March held out his hand. Pleased to meet you.

      Booker took the proffered hand and felt steel in the man’s grip. He was relieved when March let go and he could flex his crumpled fingers.

      Funny thing, when I first walked in an’ saw you, I took you fer an Archibald, March said.

      What does an Archibald look like? Booker asked, his face stiff.

      Like you. Tall, skinny, no shoulders and chest, and no chin to speak of. March smiled. That’s what an Archibald looks like.

      The name is Lester.

      And Lester it is. March’s blue eyes trapped humor like points of light. Do you tell jokes, Lester?

      No.

      Pity. I could have called you Lester the Jester.

      I prefer just plain Lester.

      All right, plain Lester, I have a buckboard outside. We can head for my place. I’ll take your bag.

      I can manage it, Booker said.

      Swallowing the dry ashes of his disappointment, he picked up his valise and told himself that nothing about this assignment boded well.

      He’d expected a very different Ransom March.

      In his mind’s eye he’d pictured a frontier cavalier in beaded buckskins, a prince of pistoleros standing more than six feet tall in handmade boots, his trusty ivoryhandled Colts always at the ready to defend the poor, the weak, and fair, but vulnerable, American womanhood.

      Booker had imagined a gallant who, when he cut a dash, made every female heart flutter as they breathlessly beheld his flowing hair and heroic mustache.

      A paladin adored by women, envied and admired by men. That was the Ransom March Booker had expected.

      Instead, in front of him in the gloom, walked a short, slightly bowlegged, thickset man, wearing a wool vest faded by sun into a pale orange color, frayed pants tucked into mule-eared boots, a shapeless, battered hat jammed far down on his gray head.

      Booker’s fantasy March had borne the handsome, noble countenance of, say, Hickok or the gallant Custer, but the harsh reality was that the old gunfighter bore resemblance to neither.

      Ransom March was a plain, brown-faced man, badly in need of a shave, his huge handlebar mustache fringing a thin, tight mouth. His eyes were faded, used up, as though the sights they’d seen in his fifty-three years of hard living had worn them away.

      He looked older than he was, slightly bent, his arms corded with thick blue veins, his hands mottled, the fingernails like scaly horns.

      In the eyes of twenty-three-year-old Booker, March looked exactly like what he was: a tired old man with all his glory days behind him.

      The young reporter stared hard at March’s back. For this he’d traveled all the way from New York . . . to interview the burned-out husk of a man.

      Chapter 3

      Toss your bag in the back, then climb up, Lester.

      Booker did as March told him, gingerly pushing away a shotgun lying on the buckboard’s seat.

      It won’t go off by itself, March said, grinning, placing the gun between his thighs.

      He slapped the reins and then swung the team away from the station, rolling under a sky that flashed heat lightning from horizon to horizon.

      It had cost Booker’s paper a considerable sum to have him ride the cushions from New York to Santa Fe, and he decided he was duty-bound to try.

      Is that the shotgun you carried during all your Western adventures? he asked.

      March shook his head. Nah, this here is a five-shot, Winchester model of 1887. It came too late for me.

      The man held the reins in his left hand and built a cigarette with his right. He took time to light it before he spoke again.

      Had me a ten-gauge Greener, but I traded her a couple of years ago fer a bushel of green apples and three jugs of whiskey. March nodded, as though to himself. Good gun, the Greener. Cut the barrels down to twenty inches and she handles just fine.

      Did you kill any outlaws with it?

      Now, what kind of damn fool question is that?

      They say you killed fifty men.

      With the Greener?

      No, in general.

      March looked at the sky. His nose had been broken and it lay flat against his face and it whistled softly when he breathed. I don’t know how many men I’ve killed. I’ve never counted them.

      Can I say you killed fifty?

      Say whatever the hell you want.

      There was El Paso Pete Pinder. Remember him? Booker had his pencil poised, notebook open on his knee.

      What about him?

      He was the fastest outlaw with a gun south of the Red.

      March smiled. Was he, now?

      That’s what the dime novels say.

      What else do they say?

      They say Pinder called you for a son of a bitch, then drew down on you outside the Ysleta Mission church in El Paso. They say you outdrew him and scattered his brains all over the mission door. Booker thought for a moment, then said, That was back in the spring of’eighty-two.

      My, my, is that right? March said. Good ol’ Pete Pinder. He was a heller and no mistake. Had a fine mother, though, a churchgoing woman who never touched chawin’ tobacco or strong drink.

      Thunder rumbled in the distance and the air stood still. The only sounds were the hoofbeats of the team and the creak of the wagon.

      We’re headed north by the way, March said. Then we’ll swing due west toward Black Mesa. My place is near there.

      He turned and looked at Booker. Got me a hired man, a man by the name of Lafe Stringfellow. He helps around the place in exchange for his grub and a place to sleep. If he takes a pot at us with his Sharps, pay him no mind. March smiled. He’s of a nervous disposition and prone to shoot folks by mistake. March looked at Booker. But he’s a steady enough hand when he’s sober and at one time he was an army scout and a wagon train guide an’ he fit Apaches. Later on, he and ol’ Geronimo were almost like kin. March nodded. Yup, good man is ol’ Lafe.

      Getting shot at, by mistake or not, didn’t set well with Booker. But he shoved it to the back of his mind. Pete Pinder was a named man, and March had outdrawn and killed him. He needed the outlaw as a peg for his story and now he pushed it.

      Was El Paso Pete Pinder as fast as you thought he’d be?

      I don’t know.

      You mean you don’t remember?

      I mean I don’t know.

      Booker was irritated. The old man wasn’t making this easy for him.

      March said, I got the drop on him.

      So you were faster. Booker squinted against the darkness and his pencil scribbled.

      No, I mean, I got the drop on him.

      The old gunfighter fell silent again, his nose whistling. Then he said, Somebody told me he’d seen Pete walk into Katy Moore’s cathouse off Pioneer Plaza. I snuck round the back where the cribs were, just in time to see him climb off a whore by the name of High Timber. That gal was more’n six foot long, when she lay on her back, an’ she done that a lot. Hell, I don’t ever recall seeing her upright.

      Booker, growing desperate, said, And that’s when you called Pinder out, huh?

      I told you I got the drop on him, March said. You ain’t paying attention, Lester.

      Sorry. Tell me what happened next, at the Ysleta Mission, I mean. Did Pinder run there? Maybe seeking sanctuary?

      Hell, boy, there wasn’t no mission. Pete was in the cathouse, standing on one leg, pulling on his pants, and the window was open. So I shoved my Colt atween the curtains and cut loose. Shot him in the back of the neck and broke his spine. The bullet came out Pete’s throat, right through the Adam’s apple. March thought for a moment, then said, Well, High Timber was still in the sack, one of them tall brass bed things. Well, dang me if the bullet doesn’t tear through ol’ Pete, hit the bedstead, and go right into the back of High Timber’s skull. He shook his head. So your dime novels got the story all wrong. There wasn’t no church, and the only brains that got scattered that night belonged to a six-foot-tall whore.

      You . . . you shot Pete Pinder in the back? Booker said. He was horrified, his eyes round in the gloom.

      I told you, I had the drop on him. What else do you do when you got the drop on a man?

      Didn’t . . . weren’t you charged with murder?

      "Hell no, but I’d played hob. I recollect that. Katy Moore demanded five hundred dollars compensation, said she set store by her dead whore, and the city had to pay. Then Pete’s ma came to take her son’s body home, only he’d been dead and buried for two weeks by then and nobody would dig him up. Besides, they’d plumb forgot where they planted him.

      She went home by herself and has been grieving from that day to this, so I’m told. Unless she’s dead by now.

      But you shot a man in the back.

      I surely did. You don’t take chances with fast men like Pete Pinder. You kill them any way you can.

      You were a lawman then?

      Yeah. Deputy United States marshal at the time. Ol’ Pete had a wanted dodger on him, offered a fivethousand reward, dead or alive. I never did get the money. Damned government said I’d killed him in the line of duty and never paid a cent.

      Booker was stunned into silence. This . . . back-shooting savage was not the man he’d traveled nearly two thousand miles to interview.

      He’d made a big mistake, and he saw no way of rectifying it.

      Unless . . .

      I prefer the dime novel version of the Pinder fight, he said. You mind if I rewrite that? Maybe add the bit about his grieving ma visiting her son’s grave and you letting her cry on your shoulder.

      I never saw the woman. But I told you, Lester, write whatever the hell you like. I don’t care.

      March drove in silence for a few minutes, then said, See that white boulder up ahead? It marks the cutoff to Black Mesa. Be home soon, and I could sure use a cup of coffee.

      You killed an innocent woman, Booker said, his voice hollow in the motionless darkness. Doesn’t that trouble you?

      Why should it?

      I mean, because she was an innocent bystander.

      "Hell, High Timber wasn’t innocent. In her day, she’d cut a few drovers and one time she emptied a .22 pepperbox into a whore by the name of Big Molly Kilcoyn. Now, Molly dressed out at around four hundred pounds, so she came to no harm from them little bullets. But then High Timber got her knife and did some cuttin’, swore she was going to carve Molly’s nose off. Nearly

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