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    Ralph Compton Nowhere, TX
    Ralph Compton Nowhere, TX
    Ralph Compton Nowhere, TX
    Ebook265 pages4 hours

    Ralph Compton Nowhere, TX

    By Ralph Compton and David Robbins

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    About this ebook

    Welcome to Nowhere in this Ralph Compton western...

    It’s a small town that sits on the border of Texas and the Oklahoma territory. It’s a haven for cutthroats and thieves on the run and looking to raise some hell. It’s a hideaway where outlaws believe the law has no jurisdiction—and justice has no voice.
     
    But the citizens who’ve suffered under the boot heels of these desperadoes have had enough. Their unwanted guests have overstayed their welcome. Now it’s time to put Nowhere,Texas on the map…
     
    More Than Six Million Ralph Compton Books In Print!
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPenguin Publishing Group
    Release dateFeb 3, 2004
    ISBN9781101177457
    Ralph Compton Nowhere, TX
    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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      Ralph Compton Nowhere, TX - Ralph Compton

      Chapter One

      Out of the heat haze to the south came a rider. He drew rein when he saw the town. Pushing his low-crowned hat back on his mop of brown hair, he studied the dozen or so buildings and sheds, then clucked to his buttermilk.

      Svenson the blacksmith was the first to see the rider. He was hammering a horseshoe on his anvil and only paused long enough to notice that the rider was young, and judging by the dust that caked his clothes, had ridden a long way.

      Old Man Taylor was in his rocking chair in front of the stable, as always, whittling. He stopped slicing his knife when the clomp of hooves fell on his ears, and peered at the newcomer. He, too, observed that the rider was barely old enough to use a razor, and from where he sat, he plainly saw a pearl-handled Colt worn high on the rider’s right hip.

      Dub Wheeton was sweeping the boardwalk in front of his saloon. When the rider came to his hitch rail and dismounted, he greeted him with a friendly smile. Howdy, stranger. You look like a man who could stand to wet his throat.

      A lopsided grin split the young rider’s tanned face. He had high cheekbones sprinkled with freckles and blue eyes that sparkled like a high mountain lake. Placing his hands on his saddle horn, he looked up and down the street. I’d heard tell there was a town in these parts. What do you call this two-bit pile of planks?

      Nowhere, Dub said.

      How’s that again?

      The town is called Nowhere. Dub gave the boardwalk a last sweep, then leaned on his broom. We ain’t got around to putting up a sign yet. There’s no rush, since no one will claim us.

      The rider cocked his head. Do you always talk in riddles or is it just me?

      Sorry. Dub pointed to the south. That way is Texas. Dub pointed north. That way is No Man’s Land. He let out with a long sigh. And here we are, smack in the middle.

      So you called your town Nowhere? The rider snorted. Are all the folks hereabouts naturally loco?

      "No, you don’t understand. We thought we were in Texas. But when they sent a surveyor out, he claimed we’re twenty miles too far. And since No Man’s Land ain’t got a government yet, we’re stuck in the middle of nowhere."

      Now I get it, the rider said. You sure are in a pickle. Chuckling, he dismounted and looped his reins around the rail.

      They call me Dub, Dub said. I ain’t got a fancy place like you’d find up to Denver or down Dallas way, but my beer and my whiskey are as good as any.

      What say we put it to the test? the rider proposed. Spurs jangling, he stepped to the open door. Braden is my handle. Billy Braden.

      Right pleased to meet you, Billy.

      Dub made for the bar. He saw Billy wait for his eyes to adjust, his right hand close to his Colt. You’re the only one here. My regular customers don’t usually show up until about sunset.

      Got a lot of them, do you?

      More than you’d think. We’ve got us twenty-three people in town. Then there are the punchers from the Bar J. And I get some from the outfit that rides for Chick Storm over to the Coldwater River country. But they only make it in about once a month.

      A right lively place, Billy said.

      Are you a puncher?

      Billy laughed as if that were the funniest notion ever. You’ve got to be joshin’. Bust my rump day in and day out for thirty dollars and found? Life is too short to spend every wakin’ hour breathin’ cow piss.

      All work has its drawbacks, Dub remarked. Take my job, for instance. You’d think that being around all this booze is a dream come true. But I can’t guzzle my own stock, not if I want to make enough money to live on.

      Speakin’ of drinks, Billy said, some coffin varnish would do me right fine. He rested his left elbow on the bar. Too bad you don’t have a dove or two. Gents like me can always go for female company.

      I thought about importing a gal from St. Louis once, Dub mentioned. But her upkeep wouldn’t hardly make it worth the expense.

      Yes sir, I sure could go for a dove, Billy said, as if he hadn’t heard.

      At that moment into the saloon came Marshal Paul Lunsford. The dented tin star pinned to his vest was almost the same shade of grey as his hair. He ambled over, nodded at Dub, and said amiably to Billy, I saw you ride in and figured I’d make your acquaintance. He offered his left hand to shake, and introduced himself. His right arm was bent at an odd angle against his side and his right hand was missing the thumb and two fingers.

      Billy nodded at the arm. What happened?

      War wound, Marshal Lunsford said. Gettys burg.

      Before my time. Billy glanced at the lawman’s waist. You don’t go around heeled? What sort of lawman are you, anyhow?

      The kind who believes in getting along with everyone. There’s never been a difficulty that can’t be talked out, I always say. Marshal Lunsford placed a coin on the bar. Besides, it isn’t as if Nowhere is overrun with outlaws and gun sharks.

      Lucky for you.

      They both grinned. Billy’s grin lasted longer, and then his expression became thoughtful.

      So tell me, Marshal Lunsford prompted. What’s the latest news from the outside world? A drummer passed through a while back and told us there’s talk of turning Oklahoma Territory, Indian Territory and No Man’s Land into a state.

      There are already more states than we know what to do with, Billy said. Who needs another?

      We do, Marshal Lunsford said. Cut off like we are, the only laws that apply are the laws we make up ourselves.

      You don’t say? Billy accepted a glass from Dub and downed the whiskey in two gulps. Not bad, he said. Not bad at all. It’s nice to know not every barkeep waters his liquor.

      So you haven’t heard anything about statehood? Marshal Lunsford pressed.

      I should hope to God I haven’t, Billy declared. No offense, but the fewer laws there are, the more I like it. Billy slid his glass toward Dub for a refill. It’s gotten so bad that in some places, a man can’t spit without being arrested.

      Spit all you want in Nowhere.

      Will do, Billy said, and promptly did, right there on the floor. Then he cackled and slapped his thigh.

      Dub rose onto the tips of his toes to see the wet spot. If you’re going to do it in here, kindly use the spittoon.

      Billy stared from him to the lawman and back again. I’m beginnin’ to like this town of yours.

      We’re glad that you do, Marshal Lunsford said. Next time you visit, bring your friends. We can always use the business.

      Billy downed his second glass in just one gulp, paid for it, and announced, I reckon I’ll take me a little stroll. I’ve got a long ride ahead and I need to stretch my legs. Touching his hat brim, he sauntered out into the harsh glare of the afternoon sun and stood for a minute balancing on the edge of the boardwalk before he turned left and sauntered down the street with his thumbs hooked in his gun belt.

      Old Man Taylor glanced up from his carving, and grunted. As I live and breathe. A peacock on the loose.

      Billy’s eyebrows nearly met over his nose. Old timer, either you’ve got a powerful hankerin’ for an early grave or you need spectacles.

      Or it could be I have a sense of humor and you don’t, Old Man Taylor said. What’s a young, full-of-life gosling like you doing in a withered husk of a shell like Nowhere?

      Is that any way to talk about the place you live?

      Sometimes we live where we have to and not where we want to. I stumbled on Nowhere when I was bound for Beaver City and saw that it’s perfect for the walking dead. Taylor shaved off a sliver of wood. Here I’ll stay and here I’ll die, and I hope when they plant me, they do as I’ve asked and give me a tombstone that reads, ‘Here lies Thomas Taylor. He took the wrong turn straight into hell.’

      Billy’s cheeks bloomed in a smile. You’re a cantankerous old cuss, aren’t you?

      And damned proud of it, Old Man Taylor bragged. Someone has to set these misguided souls straight or they’ll go through life thinking it’s a bed of roses.

      Ever any excitement in these parts?

      You mean, besides watching the weeds grow? Well, Saturdays are lively. That’s when the punchers come in, and they like to raise a little hell. The most they ever do is get drunk and shoot into the air, but we did have us a real honest-to-goodness shooting affray about a year ago, if that counts.

      Billy’s interest was piqued. Who was involved? Some nobodies, I bet.

      Old Man Taylor cut into the wood. I don’t know how as I’d call Lin Cooley a nobody, you young quail. He’s foreman for Chick Storm of the Circle C and not a gent to trifle with. He’s also a top-notch gun hand.

      If he’s so good, how come I never heard of him?

      Because he’s not one of those blowhards like Wild Bill and Buffalo Bill. He minds his own business and expects folks to do the same.

      Billy waited a few moments, then said, Well? Are you going to tell me about it or do I have to beat you with a rock?

      Curious killdeer, aren’t you?

      Quit callin’ me birds. I don’t know as how I like it.

      Oh my. I wouldn’t want to rile a hawk on the peck like you. Taylor snickered, then related, Like I was saying, it was about a year ago. The Circle C boys came down for a night of drinking and cards. There was a gambler passing through. I can’t rightly recollect his name but he made the greenhorn mistake of trying to cheat those cowboys out of their hard-earned wages.

      And? Billy goaded when Old Man Taylor stopped and didn’t say anything.

      I ought to charge you for all this gum-flapping.

      Did you see it?

      Hell, yes. Soon as I’m done here every day, I mosey on over to Dub’s and stay there until I can barely stand. That night was no different. I was there when Randy Quin accused the gambler of cheating and the gambler stood up and pulled his coat back and told Randy he’d better apologize.

      I thought you said it was some other jasper. Cooley?

      Try to keep up, little sparrow. Cooley and Randy are partners. So when the gambler called the play, Cooley stepped in. He told the gambler he had two choices. Make good the money he cheated them out of or push up mesquite. The gambler made the wrong choice.

      Who drew first?

      What difference does it make? The gambler’s dead and Cooley isn’t. That’s all that counts.

      I’d like to know. I keep track of who’s fast and who ain’t.

      Old Man Taylor set his knife and the block of wood in his lap. You sure are peculiar. But just so you can sleep nights, it was the gambler who went for his six-gun first. I saw it with my own eyes. Cooley, on the other hand, I never saw draw.

      But you said Cooley shot him.

      "When was the last time you cleaned the wax out of your ears? I didn’t see Cooley draw. I never said he didn’t. He drew so damn fast, no one saw it. His hand just sort of filled with his revolver, and just like that the gambler was as dead as you please, with a stupid look on his face."

      That fast? Billy echoed, and smiled. Lin Cooley, huh? Now’s there’s a gent I’d like to meet some day.

      Whatever for? Are you fond of sticking your head in bear traps and kicking the backsides of mules?

      Old-timer, you are just about the— Billy stopped, his mouth half open, his gaze fixed on a figure up the street.

      Old Man Taylor looked, and laughed. Her name is Sally Palmer and her pa owns the general store. And don’t be getting any ideas in that peacock head of yours. She’s already spoken for.

      Says who?

      Says Randy Quin. He’s been sparking her for the better part of a year now, and everyone sort of takes it for granted he’ll step into her loop before too long.

      The girl in front of the store was shaking a blanket out. She had lustrous hair that gleamed like spun gold and a flowered dress that swirled when she moved.

      She’s beautiful! Billy breathed.

      Randy Quin thinks so. I might if I were forty years younger. But the only things that get me excited nowadays are waking up in the mornings and making it through the day without my gout acting up.

      And you called me peculiar? Billy saw the Palmer girl go back inside the store.

      Damn.

      Whippoorwill, take my advice. Light a shuck and forget her or they’ll be planting you next to that gambler in our pitiful excuse for a cemetery. Old Man Taylor picked up his knife and wood. Now go pester someone else. I can’t carve and jaw at the same time.

      What are you carving, anyhow? Billy asked.

      Nothing. I just like to cut up wood.

      Crazy coot. Billy crossed the street and jingled along the boardwalk until he came to the general store. He stared in the front window a few moments, then suddenly wheeled and walked to his buttermilk and was about to climb on when Marshal Lunsford stepped from the saloon.

      Leaving so soon? I thought you said you liked it here.

      Except for that old fart over to the stable, it’s right friendly, Billy said, forking leather. And don’t you worry. I’ll be back. I’ll do like you want and bring some of my friends along. I have me a hunch they’ll like it here as much as I do.

      We’ll look forward to seeing you again, Marshal Lunsford said.

      Billy Braden laughed and rode off.

      Chapter Two

      What do you think? Randy Quin asked while examining himself in the mirror above the washbasin in the Circle C bunkhouse. Should I wear the red bandanna or the blue bandanna?

      Wear them both, was Lin Cooley’s reply. That’s the third time you’ve asked. Better yet, strangle yourself with either and put yourself out of our misery.

      Two bunks down, Charley Lone tittered with glee. That’s tellin’ the peckerwood, Lin! Land sakes, you’d think he didn’t know how to dress himself, the way he carries on so.

      I just want to look my best when I see Sally, Randy defended himself. If either of you had a girl you’d know how important it is.

      Why, you whippersnapper, Charley growled. I’ve had more girls in my time than you have fingers and toes. He scratched his salt-and-pepper beard. There was this schoolmarm once who took a fancy to me down near San Antonio. Have I ever told that story?

      Lin Cooley groaned. Ninety-seven times.

      Ignoring him, Charley said, She was a right pretty gal. Big-boned, with a nose a buffalo would love, but she baked the best pies this side of creation. And once she got me alone, why, she about curled my toes. Big as chile peppers, those lips of hers, and a heap hotter.

      Enough! Randy said. I am not going to stand here and listen to another of your vulgar stories.

      What’s vulgar about a man and a woman lockin’ lips? Don’t tell me you and your sweetheart haven’t. I know better.

      Sally is a lady, I’ll have you know.

      She still has lips and a tongue, don’t she? Charley shuffled toward the washbasin. Now get your lovesick hide out of here so I can wash up. I’ve been polite and went last. But as much time as you’re takin’, it’ll be Christmas before I get to head for Nowhere.

      Lin Cooley, who was lounging against the wall, straightened and nudged Quin. He’s right. You’re as lovely as you’re ever going to get.

      Men aren’t lovely, they’re handsome, Randy corrected him. And you should side with me, not this old cuss. I’m your pard.

      The contrast they presented in the mirror was striking: Cooley with his broad shoulders and blond hair and grey eyes; Quin with hair the color of a raven and a lean build and brown eyes.

      Shoo, the both of you, Charley said. Be sure to tell the boys to save me some bellyin’ space at the bar. Tonight’s the night I drink Old Man Taylor under the table.

      You’ve tried that more than once, as I recollect, Randy said, and it’s you we have to keep pickin’ up off the floor.

      You have no respect for your elders, boy. And unless you want to eat burnt beans for the next month or three, I’d scat, were I you.

      Never argue with the cook, Lin Cooley advised.

      Got that right, Charley grumbled. Us bean masters are the Almighty in britches, in case you ain’t heard.

      Cooley and Randy left the bunkhouse and strode toward the stable, but stopped when a big man came from the main house and intercepted them.

      Off to Nowhere like all the rest of the boys? Chick Storm asked. He was taller than both of them by a head and had a chest as broad as a steer’s.

      They got a head start on us, boss, Randy said, but only because half of them don’t wash but once a year.

      Chick Storm winked at Lin, then said to Randy, Word is, son, you’ve been using more soap than all the rest combined. Why, Charley was saying the other day how he never saw anyone so godly.

      Cooley laughed, and Randy blushed red.

      I’ve got a reason for wantin’ to be clean.

      When I was your age I had the exact same reason, Chick Storm said. So don’t let their teasing get to you. I stuck with it, and look at where I am now. I didn’t get this prosperous on my own. Behind every man who makes something of himself is a woman prodding him to do it.

      Randy poked the ground with the toe of a boot. I hope you won’t mind my being nosey. But do ever you regret marryin’ Mrs. Storm?

      Chick placed a hand on the young cowpuncher’s shoulder. Not once in seventeen years. Regrets are for those who are always looking back, not for those who look ahead.

      Randy grinned. Thanks, Mr. Storm.

      Before I forget, their employer said, Mrs. Storm wants to know if you boys would mind picking up some things for her at Palmer’s. He pulled a folded sheet of paper from a pocket. Small things you can fit in your saddlebags. Here’s her list. He also pulled out a twenty-dollar gold piece. This should be enough to cover the cost. If not, have George Palmer charge the extra to the Circle C’s account.

      Will do, Lin Cooley said. He pocketed the list and the money as Randy walked on ahead.

      Watch over our young friend, Chick Storm said. He’s as love-blind as a buck in rut, and we both know what that can do to a man.

      Cooley frowned, then nodded.

      My apologies, Chick said quickly. That was thoughtless. I didn’t mean to bring her up. There’s no one I think more highly of than you, and you know that.

      Again Cooley nodded, and went to catch up with his partner. They saddled up and headed out.

      Chick Storm was on the ranch house porch. He smiled and waved.

      Nice people, those Storms, Randy said. Salt of the earth and then some. I’ve never been so proud to ride for a brand as I am to ride for the Circle C.

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