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    Ralph Compton the Ellsworth Trail
    Ralph Compton the Ellsworth Trail
    Ralph Compton the Ellsworth Trail
    Ebook204 pages3 hours

    Ralph Compton the Ellsworth Trail

    By Ralph Compton and Jory Sherman

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    About this ebook

    Bad blood runs deep in this Ralph Compton western...

    Jock Kane would do anything for his buddy Chad Becker—except drive the rancher’s longhorns to the Ellsworth railhead in Kansas. Having lost his fortune and his faith on the last trail, and his beloved wife, Twyla, to a killer, Jock’s not looking for adventure. What gets him off his tail is finding out who’s vying with Chad for the Kansas sale. It’s none other than Twyla’s cold-blooded killer himself—Jock’s own brother, Abel, now in cahoots with a Yankee carpetbagger. Now there’s no hailstorm violent enough, no Apache savage enough, and no trail-drive turncoat dirty enough to stop Jock from redefining justice and revenge…
     
    More Than Six Million Ralph Compton Books In Print!
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPenguin Publishing Group
    Release dateDec 6, 2005
    ISBN9781101177495
    Ralph Compton the Ellsworth Trail
    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 Ellsworth Trail - Ralph Compton

      Chapter 1

      The smoke from his cigarette scratched at his eyes, burning them like shaven onions would. His tear ducts welled up and spilled over, washing away some of the grit, the fine dust that rose off the land like tiny insects that lived with the Texas wind and died on his flesh, on his lips, in his mouth, under the faded blue bandanna around his neck, and in the fluted scallops of his ears. The cigarette dangled from his dry and cracked lips like some limp brown cocoon, the once-white paper as scorched and dusty as the land he rode upon, a dangling appendage burning like a fuse attached to a stick of dynamite.

      The anger had not lessened in him since he rode out of Del Rio and followed the meandering course of the Nueces River south toward Corpus Christi. His rage was fueled by memories of what he had lost, what he was leaving behind, and by the poignant ache inside him for the land, all of it, all that was now gone, and all that lay ahead. Each mile he put behind him reminded him of the land that had once been, the land that had once been his. For it was the same land, most of the way. It did not change that much, not in that dimension of mind where memory’s universe resides, not in the depths of his heart.

      But the land did change after he forded the Nueces and rode into high grass and the smell of sweet clover and lespedeza, and the musty aroma of alfalfa, the wildflowers gone or smothered by green blades of X8 grass planted long ago by his far-seeing friend with the green thumb.

      He saw the horseman long before the lone rider saw him. He knew somehow that the man was waiting for someone because he did not move from his spot on a knoll, but sat his standing horse like a sentinel, some guardian of an invisible gate to a kingdom beyond sight, beyond the comprehension of a man who had ridden a trail through desolation and emptiness of both sky and land.

      The man had turned away to swat at a fly or some other winged creature, but when he turned his head, he looked directly toward the ford where a man would come from the west if a man were to come to these vast grasslands.

      The man stood up in his stirrups and pushed his hat back as if to give his eyes more scope. Beyond him, longhorns grazed in bunches, their sweeping horns glinting like slashing sabers in the sun. The cattle smell mingled with the other scents and tugged at the rider’s heart, pulling on memories like wet leather thongs tied there, drying and tautening until they would twang if plucked.

      Ho there, the sentinel called. You yonder.

      The man waited as the rider from Del Rio approached, the cigarette stuck to his lips gone to ash and dead in the wind because he had not puffed on it for those moments when his horse was picking its way across the river, his legs quivering in the current until the hide rippled over the bones.

      Are you Jock Kane? the guardian asked.

      I am.

      Mr. Becker told me to look for you. He said you’d be coming. The man glanced at the black armband on Kane’s left sleeve, then averted his gaze as if he had violated some privacy.

      Jock spat the stub of the cigarette from his mouth and licked the stuck paper on his lips until it loosened. He wiped his lower lip and reached into his left-hand shirt pocket for the makings. He pulled out the sack of tobacco, cranked one leg up and draped it over the saddle horn. He fished a packet of cigarette papers from the same pocket, slid one free of the sheaf, then stuffed the packet back into his pocket. He curled the single sheet of thin paper around his left index finger and loosened the string on the pouch, which opened into a small pucker. He poured the tobacco evenly into the paper, shook it slightly to even it all up, then, between thumb and index finger, rolled what he had into a tightly packed cigarette. He licked the top edge to seal it and stuck the quirly into his mouth. He pulled the string to close the pouch and stuck that back in his pocket.

      The cowhand searched his pockets for a match to light Jock’s cigarette. When he looked up, Jock was striking a lucifer on his trousers leg. The match burst into flame and Jock touched it to the end of his cigarette. The paper fumed and the spark ignited the tobacco as he pulled air through it.

      And where is Chad? Jock asked, blowing out a plume of blue smoke from one corner of his mouth.

      I’ll take you to him. He ain’t at home.

      Jock looked at the cattle, turning his head so that the smoke didn’t burn his eyes. There were cattle grazing in herds that stretched to every horizon. He couldn’t see the brands from that distance, but he would bet good money, if he had any, that they all bore the X8 brand. It was well past spring roundup, so what was Chad doing out in the field counting head?

      Do it, then, Jock said. You got a name?

      Yes, sir. I’m Jesse. Jesse Boyd.

      How old are you, son?

      I’m seventeen.

      Jock snorted. Boyd’s pale face was mottled with freckles that stretched from cheek to cheek over the bridge of his nose. His blue eyes had no clouds of age in them—innocent eyes that could still light up with wonder at the sight of a calf birthing, or a morning glory opening its petals to the sun.

      Almost, Boyd said. In a couple of months.

      Lead on out, Boyd. The cigarette in Jock’s mouth bobbed up and down when he spoke, like a flagless semaphore staff. Boyd’s eyes fixated on it so that he stared like someone hypnotized by a snake.

      Yes, sir. Follow me.

      Boyd turned his horse and rode down off the knoll, his small, thin body bobbing in the saddle so that he looked as if he were made of straw—a skinny scarecrow of a boy in man’s clothing.

      More and more cattle appeared before them as they rode. Jock got the distinct impression that the herd was thickening in size like something growing before his very eyes. The grass shortened, and disgruntled longhorns stood disconsolate on overgrazed earth, looking forlorn and mean, with their brown eyes glaring at him as he passed, as if inflicting silent blame on him for something he’d done, or hadn’t done. These cattle, he thought, are going to kill something, anyone on two legs stupid enough to get close to those deadly horns.

      Jock’s uneasiness increased as the young man led them through milling longhorns and he saw riders circling them, so far off that he could not see their faces. They were just dark figures that looked like centaurs, each half horse, half man, with no definition that might have separated them. Men controlling a huge herd of cattle, getting ready for something, something that Jock dreaded knowing about, even in the hollow recesses of his heart where so much had been torn out, smashed, thrown away like dead meat.

      Mr. Becker’s just up ahead, Boyd said, looking back at Jock. That’s him about to throw his loop.

      Jock saw Chad chasing after a steer, swinging a manila rope over his head as he closed the gap between his horse and the moving target. He might have sprung from some olden tableau, painted during the early days of Texas when the longhorns were as wild as lions on an African veldt, rulers of a kingdom where they were the dominant animal, un-challenged except for a few Apaches with a taste for beef.

      Becker threw his loop and it encircled the neck of the steer, falling gracefully over its head despite the longhorns that made such a feat remarkable. Chad’s horse skidded to a stiff-legged stop and began to back up, taking the slack out of the rope. When the steer hit the end of its tether, it gyrated and flew to the ground as the horse backed down to a sitting position on its haunches—a rock holding a thrashing fish on the end of a line.

      Boyd and Kane rode up as hands rushed to pin down the steer, while another waddled bowlegged up to it with a hot branding iron.

      I see you haven’t lost your touch, Chad, Jock said. You rope pretty good for an old man.

      Chad looked over at Jock as he urged his mount toward the downed steer, pulling in the slack so that he could retrieve his lariat once the hands were finished burning the X8 into the steer’s hide. Jock smelled the acrid fumes of hair and flesh, heard the soft hiss of the iron as it blazed its owner’s mark on the cow’s hip.

      Look who’s calling who old, Chad said, his grin widening to show his teeth. Sur prised you ain’t got a gray beard, Jocko.

      The two men had not seen much of each other since right after the war, but they had kept in touch by mail. They had both come home after serving in the Second Texas Regiment, built their ranches and started herds, then split up, with Jock going to Del Rio, where he was from, and Chad returning to Corpus Christi, where he had been raised. They had formed strong bonds with each other during the fighting in the War Between the States.

      That’s why I shave, Chad. The hairs have started coming up gray for some reason.

      The hands finished with the branded steer and turned it loose. The steer ran bawling into the sea of longhorns that seemed packed together as though they were in a loading chute with enormous dimensions. Chad coiled his rope and tied its garland to his saddle with a leather thong. The men around them all stared at Jock Kane, sizing him up. He looked at them but made no effort toward friendliness. He just returned their stares, one by one, and then looked back at Chad.

      Come on, Jock. Follow me, Chad said. We’ve got some talking to do.

      Jock nodded. He saw resentment gather on some of the men’s faces, like moss growing at the base of a tree deep in a forest. He understood that. He was the outsider, the stranger. They didn’t know him and he didn’t know them. They had their suspicions and he had his.

      The bunched cattle parted, reluctantly, to let the two riders through. When they were some distance away from the men and had a clear spot near some mesquite trees, Chad stopped, turned his horse. Jock’s cigarette tip glowed as he drew smoke into his lungs.

      That was the last one we had to brand, Jock.

      You’ve built yourself quite a herd, Chad. I’m just wondering if you brought me out here to brag or if you had something else in mind.

      Jock, I’m damned sorry about Twyla. I see you’re still wearing crepe.

      It’s not crepe. It’s cloth.

      You know what I mean. I wanted to come to the funeral, but I had my hands full.

      That’s all right. I buried her, and I’ll wear this black band on my arm until I get the bastard who murdered her.

      You know who it is?

      I do.

      Vengeance is mine, sayeth—

      Jock broke in. I’ve heard it all, Chad, and wrestled with it. When the Lord doesn’t step in, then a man has to do the job. Vengeance will be mine. And Twyla’s.

      All right, Jock.

      I still don’t know why I rode all the way from Del Rio. You said it was urgent. I don’t see any urgent hereabouts.

      Jock, I’ve got fifteen thousand head of longhorns ready to drive up to Ellsworth. I want you to be my trail boss.

      Jock took the stub of the cigarette out of his mouth and drew in a deep breath. He stared hard at Chad, eye to eye, a flexing scowl on his face as if he were ready to lash out with both fists and knock Chad from his horse.

      You’re crazy, Chad.

      No. I’ve given it a lot of thought. You’re the only one I’d trust to get these cattle to the railhead in Ellsworth.

      The answer is no. I learned my lesson.

      When you fall off a horse, you get back up and ride it.

      Not this horse.

      Come to the house for supper. I don’t give up that easy.

      Neither do I, Chad. Good luck with your herd. I’ll ride on back home in the morning.

      A look passed between the two men. They knew each other. They had been through hell together in a half dozen bloody battles.

      Is it Twyla’s killer, Jock? You think he’ll go back to Del Rio?

      No, I don’t think he’ll go back there.

      Why not? Why are you so sure, Jocko?

      Didn’t you hear, Chad? Didn’t you hear who raped and murdered my Twyla?

      Chad shook his head. No, I reckon not. News travels slow down this way.

      Jock pulled out the makings and built himself another cigarette. He lit it and blew smoke into the long silence. There was no expression on his face. It was like an empty sky, devoid of all life, just something that might have been painted with an undercoating, waiting for the painter to put life to it.

      It was my brother, Chad. Abel killed Twyla.

      Chad’s face froze into a rigid mask as if the breath had been sucked out of him and all that remained was a lifeless shell.

      Chapter 2

      Chad opened his mouth to speak, but his first utterance was a long, soulful gasp as if he were expiring on the spot. Blood drained from his face and, for a moment, Jock thought the man was going to have some kind of a fit, or worse, suffer a stroke. The shock, he decided, was genuine.

      Chad?

      Another long moment passed before Chad found his voice. The first sentence, however, came out as a gravelly croak, as if he were being throttled by an invisible hand.

      Did I hear you right, Jock? Abel killed Twyla? No, that can’t be.

      Twyla. The sound of her name made Jock wince inside as if he had been stung by a hornet unexpectedly. Twyla, so frail, so delicate, so fragile, like bone china or a tiny humming-bird. Twyla, with her elfin face, her long, raven black hair, her oversized blue eyes set like sapphires in almond-shaped depressions in her alabaster flesh. At times she looked almost transparent, when the sun was just right and she was wearing a pale dress, her skin so thin it seemed translucent, seemed he could see pure crystal bones just underneath. She was like something fashioned out of glass by a sculptor with loving hands. At times she seemed like a tiny fawn that never grew to size, a shy creature of the woods, dappled by sunlight in a grove of green-leafed trees.

      "Twyla had rheumatic fever when she was a child. It did something

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