Ralph Compton Blood on the Prairie

PROLOGUE

Fifteen Years Earlier

Sure they were due to come by this way?" Tom Preston asked, grimacing miserably against the biting cold, his breath freezing the second it hit the frigid air.

Sherman Knowles sat with both hands on the horn of his saddle, characteristically unmoved, watching the road for sign of the coach. I have it on good authority. Believe me, I wouldn’t have us out here freezing our keisters off if I didn’t trust my sources.

You’re the man in the know, Tom said, shivering.

The snow fell thick and fast around them. Sherman looked at Tom. Not really. In case you forgot, this kinda job ain’t exactly my forte.

Jesus . . . , Tom said, shaking his head.

What is it?

Nothing.

What? Sherman demanded.

This ain’t your forte? Let me tell you something. Don’t be a snob when there’s good money on the line. I know this may seem like low work for you. I get it. But this is my livin’. This is how I get by. I’ve seen hard times all over, and let me tell you, a man’s gotta make some coin somehow.

I’m no snob, Sherman thought, but he didn’t bother to correct Preston. Their partnership was temporary. He did not care for Preston and he knew that the man had no love for him, either. Their partnership was born out of necessity and that was about as far as it went.

They didn’t have to like each other—just get along well enough to complete the job.

I don’t look down my nose at this line of work, Sherman told him. I was merely pointing out I don’t ordinarily hold up coaches at gunpoint and rob the passengers. I make my living tracking people down, and shooting them when the situation calls for it. Sometimes when it don’t, either.

I have no doubt about that, Tom said. It’s just we’ve been sat here a long time. The cold is getting to me. The snow is getting to me. Gotta admit, I am beginning to doubt this coach is ever going to show. Likewise, I am beginning to doubt the person who gave you the information.

I told you—they’re good for their word, Sherman said firmly. We just gotta hold our nerve, that’s all.

If you say so. But how long do we wait, huh?

Sherman did not have an answer.

I don’t know, Tom said, shaking his head. He removed his gloves and blew into his hands. The law sure is makin’ this line of work harder and harder every damn year. Ain’t like the old days.

Sherman watched what Tom was doing, thinking to himself, If you just kept your damned gloves on, your hands might not get so cold.

They were positioned up on a rise, the bare skeletons of trees at their backs, the road below winding its way like a river through the frozen landscape. It was dark already, the blanketed snow on the ground pearlescent in the moonlight. Sherman watched as Tom rolled a cigarette with trembling hands and lit it. He smoked to stave off the cold and to take the edge off his boredom. That was the difference between them; Sherman did not get bored. He was observant. He was a watcher and a listener. Silence was not his enemy, as it was for so many. It did not drive him mad—to the contrary, it brought him solace.

Preston had located Sherman in a small town called Lyman, catching up with him late one evening in the town’s only saloon. At first, Sherman had assumed Tom was there to settle a rivalry that had existed between the two men for the better part of a decade, but he’d relaxed once Tom explained his presence. Over whiskey, Tom had spoken animatedly of a senator and his wife traveling up through Wyoming the following month. It seemed to be a big deal. They got one escort with them. Can you believe that? They reckon it’ll make ’em less . . . What’s the word?

Conspicuous?

Tom slapped his knee. "That’s it! Less conspicuous."

Why should I care about a politician and his wife? Sherman said dismissively, reaching for the bottle to refill his glass.

Tom’s hand fell to Sherman’s wrist, stopping him. He leaned in, voice lowered. Because they’re traveling with a case of gold ingots. He let go but Sherman remained how he was, one hand still planted on the whiskey bottle, eyes fixed on Tom’s.

Sherman said, Go on.

Worth a fortune, Tom continued. Each ingot is worth at least a thousand dollars.

Sherman now took the whiskey unhindered and filled his glass. How do you figure?

A kilo a bar. Thirty dollars an ounce. It’s just over a thousand dollars for the kilo.

Sherman laughed a little. He sipped his whiskey. And how many ingots in the case? One?

Tom looked around. The saloon was busy and noisy, but there wasn’t anyone standing nearby to overhear their conversation. Twenty.

Sherman nearly spat out his whiskey. What?

Tom sneered at him. Got your interest now, gunslinger?

Mayhap you do.

Tom grinned. Thought I might.

Damn. Sherman set his glass down. He looked off to the side, mental cogs grinding away. Ten grand apiece . . .

Compared with whatever you make running down outlaws, Tom said dismissively.

Outlaws like you, you mean?

Tom shrugged.

At numerous points over the years, Sherman had wondered if Tom Preston’s name would come up, but to his surprise, it never had. Of course, the bounties Sherman hunted were not the folks the law wanted you to collect. They were the undesirables the underworld wanted to be rid of.

Sherman eyed him suspiciously. Why me?

Huh?

I said, why me?

I don’t follow.

You could’ve buddied up with anybody for this job, and yet you sought me out, Sherman said. Probably rode all the way out here just to ask in person. Why?

Because you’re the best damned gunslinger around and I need an experienced hand who is also a crack shot, that’s why.

Right.

And, well, you’re the trustworthy kind. You stick to your word. That’s well-known and accepted in our circles, Tom said. I need someone I can really trust if I’m to pull this off.

Sherman drank. He set his glass back down slowly. That can’t be all, though, can it?

You’re a shrewd dude, aren’t you, Sherman Knowles? Tom said, laughing with his signature high-pitched cackle. Okay. I’ll give it up. I need you to reach out to one of your contacts.

I don’t know what contact you mean, but whatever you’re thinking, you’re mistaken, Sherman told him.

Only, I don’t think I am, Tom said.

Really?

Tom nodded. We both know you got a friend in high office, lets you in on all kinds of things. I heard you let this individual off in exchange for helping you out from time to time. Am I right?

Even if I do have a contact like that—and I don’t, so don’t get excited—what exactly do you want me to ask them?

The route the senator is gonna take. Dates and times. That’s it.

I don’t know . . . , Sherman said, running his hand over his beard as he thought about the proposition. This fella may not like giving out that kind of information.

Tom said, We can cross that bridge when we come to it. So, what d’you say? You’re either in or you’re out. Gonna rob a coach with me or not? Tom offered Sherman his hand.

Sherman thought about his funds—or lack thereof. He weighed up how hard it had been to find what work he had against the immediate but risky proposition of a quick ten thousand dollars that would see him through for quite a while. It was a healthy sum for such little work. And he had decided that he would quit anyway. This could be his final job.

If I agreed to this, I’d want a promise out of you.

Tom eyed him warily. What promise?

That we ain’t gonna be spilling any blood that don’t need spilling.

Say no more. It’s a deal, Tom said, and the two men shook on it.

*   *   *

The snowflakes settled in Sherman’s beard and he thought back to the month before, in the warm saloon, drinking whiskey. Times were strange indeed. Your fortunes could change like the wind. You’re not from these parts, are you? Sherman asked, his mind back on the present.

No.

Didn’t think so.

That obvious, huh?

Sherman said, You don’t sit right with the cold. People from around here, they’re used to it.

Tom Preston glowered at the country before him. I hate working in the winter. But no choice.

Sherman shrugged. It’s a hard time of year for folk, but I’ve always enjoyed the winter. For one thing, it sure makes you appreciate a fire.

Well, I can tell you, I’d appreciate a fire right about now. . . .

Sherman chuckled at that. He looked away down the road as it swung in and out of view behind inclines, running out on the flat. There down below he could just make out the front lamps of a coach led by four dark brown horses. In front of the coach by about twenty yards, a lone rider led on horseback. He looked through a set of old field glasses he produced from his saddlebag. Looks like the show is about to begin, Sherman said, handing the field glasses to Tom.

Just the driver and one dude on horseback riding in front of them, he said, looking through the glasses. Two people in the back. Must be the senator and his wife.

He handed the field glasses back.

How do you reckon we do this, then? Sherman asked, tucking the glasses away, then fixing a length of navy blue material around the bottom portion of his face.

Tom did the same, leaving just the bridge of his nose and eyes visible above the top of the face covering. I don’t know. What do you reckon? You’re the hired gun, after all.

I think we should ride up alongside. One of us takes the driver. The other takes the lookout. Nice and relaxed.

Tom considered this. Sound plan. By the time they realize we’re there, it’ll be over with anyway. I got me a lasso I can throw over the dude in front.

Any good with it? Sherman asked.

The lasso? Sure am, Tom said, producing the coil of thin rope. Probably the best there is.

Okay, let’s do it.

*   *   *

They eased their horses down the hill, the beasts skidding in the snow a little as they picked up momentum on the downward slope. They traversed its steep angle without incident and were presently heading for the road. The coach lay ahead. Both men knew it would be best to approach from either side, pincer the driver and the escort. They would not expect an attack to come from the rear.

Sherman elected to take the driver, so he headed over the road to the other side. He snapped the reins and dug his heels into the sides of his horse, the noble beast surging ahead, closing the distance to the coach. He glanced to the right and noted that Tom had followed suit. Through the falling snow, he could just make out the lasso coiled around Tom’s forearm as he spurred his own horse forward. He sure hoped the bandit was as good with it as he claimed to be. Whether they trusted each other, or even liked each other, was a moot point. Each man would have to play his part and do what he’d promised to do in order to pull the job off without a hitch.

Sherman rode past the windows of the coach, ignoring the man and woman within as they gasped at the sight of him charging past. He drew the pistol from his right-hand holster, sped up until he was keeping pace with the coach and aimed the weapon at the driver.

The man looked at Sherman, startled, eyes wide.

Stop the coach! he yelled at the driver.

Up ahead, the escort spun about in his saddle to look back, only to be met with Tom Preston’s rope. It landed over his shoulders in one fluid movement, as if the lasso were an extension of him. The escort tried to shrug himself free, but it was too late. Tom pulled tight, the rope snagging around the man. He fell hard from his horse and hit the snow with an Oomph! and was then dragged away to the side by Tom and deposited on the verge. The escort’s horse cantered away, snorting hot exhalation into the frigid air.

I said, stop! Sherman shouted.

The driver made to pull his own sidearm, but Sherman let off a round directly over the man’s hat. The driver ducked.

That was a warning shot. Don’t make me have to do it for real!

Evidently realizing that he would not be able to lose Sherman, the coach driver pulled back hard on the reins and brought the horses to a standstill. Sherman was sure to order him down from his bench, and as the man did so, Sherman climbed down from his horse and bound the driver’s wrists behind his back.

Don’t do this. It’s not worth the trouble, believe me, the driver said.

Keep your opinion to yourself, Sherman warned him. The less you say, the better it’ll be for ya.

Meanwhile, Tom hauled the escort to his feet and forced him to stand at the side of the road. He liberated the man’s guns from their holsters.

I don’t rightly want to, Tom was explaining, but if you leave me no choice, I’ll plug you full of lead, and believe me, I will not lose a night’s sleep over it. Plenty of men killed by my hand and there’s likely to be plenty more. Do as you’re told and us two won’t have a problem. Understood?

Yes.

Good man, Tom said, binding the escort’s wrists before removing the lasso. He shoved the man toward the driver. Just stand there and keep quiet.

Sherman and Tom sized up the carriage and its occupants.

You’re a pretty good aim with that lasso, Sherman said.

Tom drew close, coiling the lasso back up as he spoke. Did you doubt my abilities, gunslinger?

Not at all. Now, let’s get this gold.

Amen.

The senator held his wife in his arms and they trembled inside the relative safety of their coach. Sherman was wary of either being in possession of a firearm, no matter how small and novel it may have been. So he remained outside at first and proceeded to rap on the door to the coach carriage with his knuckles.

Hello in there.

Go away, you scoundrels! the senator’s wife screeched in a high-pitched, whiny voice.

Sherman smiled. If either of you has got a gun of some kind, I suggest you lay it on the floor of the carriage. Pull something on us, you’re liable to get yourself shot and killed. Do you understand?

We will not be giving anything to the likes of you! the senator’s wife shouted back.

To hell with this, Tom said, yanking the door open and pulling the wife out first, casting her down on the snow with little regard. Then he hauled the senator himself out into the cold. The senator stumbled but did not fall, and immediately set about helping his wife up off the ground. She brushed herself off, mortified that she’d been treated that way. Keep ’em there. I’ll check the carriage.

As you like, Sherman said.

Tom returned five or so minutes later from the confines of the carriage, dragging a wooden chest. He could barely move it. Here, gimme a hand, he groaned, dragging it across the boards of the carriage.

Sure, Sherman said. When he felt the weight of the chest, he looked at Tom. Feels heavier than I expected.

I thought so, too.

You villains! You blaggards! the senator’s wife screamed at the sight of them hauling the chest from the coach carriage. Dick, you’ve gotta stop them boys!

Tom dropped the chest. Can it, woman.

Is that how you talk to a lady? the senator’s wife demanded. She looked Tom up and down. You’re nothing but a lowlife.

No different from a politician, then, Tom said.

Sherman whispered, Don’t answer her. We’re not here to converse with the marks. Let’s concentrate on moving this thing along.

Sure.

But the politician’s wife was undeterred. We did not come out here to be robbed by the likes of you!

Both Sherman and Tom were grunting with effort, trying to move the chest. Tom shook his head. Everyone’s gotta get by, lady. One man’s nest egg is another man’s windfall.

Man? she spat. "Man? Not much of a man, are you? Hardly a prime example . . ."

The senator tried to shush her. Please, Margaret. Calm yourself.

Don’t respond. Let’s just get this done, Sherman said.

But Tom was not listening to reason. Not much of a man? he asked.

That’s what I said.

Not much of a man . . . , Tom repeated, shaking his head.

That’s right! A pathetic, small-brained weasel.

Weasel? Tom asked. Weasel?

Tom strode forward. He pulled his gun, aimed it at the woman’s face and pulled the trigger. The shot echoed out around them. "How’s that, huh? How’s that!" he screamed into the ruin of her face.

Sherman dropped the chest, the promise of the gold within immediately forgotten. What he’d dreaded about this job had come true. The senator dropped to his knees, bawling after his wife. The contents of her skull were strewn across the white snow, and the blood kept coming and coming, forming an icy red reservoir beneath them.

What’re you doing? Sherman demanded, his hand on Tom’s wrist, forcing his gun down. Are you crazy?

She had it comin’, Tom said.

Sherman was furious. I can’t believe you. When word gets back that you killed the wife of a senator, you’ll never get out from under the price on your head.

The senator looked up at them, eyes red. What kind of monsters are you? he asked in a distraught pitch. His despair soon turned to anger. I’ll see you both hanged! he growled, visibly enraged by the injustice of his wife’s abrupt death.

Wordlessly, Tom pushed Sherman’s hand away, aimed his gun at the senator and, as he had the man’s wife, blew the senator away. The crack of the gunshot rang out like a lightning strike. The senator flew backward, blood spurting from the top of his head, and fell against his wife’s dead body.

Damn it, I said no! Sherman knocked the gun clean out of Tom Preston’s hand, then punched him square on the jaw. The pistol landed in the snow somewhere nearby. Tom fell to the ground, temporarily immobilized. The driver and the escort took the moment to try sneaking off, but Sherman was already on them. He pivoted, aiming his pistol in their direction, and demanded that they stay where they were. Nobody else needs to die tonight.

The gaze of the escort shifted to focus on something behind Sherman. He turned back around, frowning.

Grrraaahhh! Tom lunged at Sherman, rugby-tackling him and using the full strength of his legs to push him back. He held Sherman’s gun hand up as he pushed him, his grip hard and biting, preventing Sherman from using it.

We agreed no bloodshed! Sherman boomed. He beat at Tom with his left fist, but the bandit continued to force him back, the hits barely registering. His fists thudded against Tom’s wiry frame.

Both men snarled and grunted like wild animals as they struggled against each other, Sherman’s feet finally losing purchase in the snow. He felt himself slipping as Tom delivered the final almighty shove. Sherman fell back, the snow cushioning his fall. For a brief second, he could not move. But then he pushed himself up to a sitting position and raised his gun.

Immediately, Tom stepped up and kicked the pistol clear out of his hand.

Grimacing from the pain, Sherman clutched at his hand. Tom stalked off, retrieved his own gun and aimed it at Sherman’s chest. Stay down. Or so help me, I will punch a hole clean through ya.

We made a deal.

Tom looked at him blankly for a moment. I’m changing the terms, he said.

As Sherman looked on, Tom stalked back over to the driver and the escort. Both men turned on their heels to run in blind panic. Tom stopped, took aim and fired one shot apiece into their backs, right between the shoulder blades. They were flung forward onto the road and struck the hard surface with a wet sound like meat being slapped onto a butcher’s block that made Sherman flinch.

He got up.

Tom turned on him. Don’t you even think about retrieving that pistol. Or the other one on your hip. You might be a gunslinger but even you can’t outdraw a man already got his own weapon trained on you. Now, why don’t you do us both a favor, take that pistol out with the tips of your fingers and toss it aside? Nice and slow.

Sherman did as he had been instructed. As much as he thought he might manage to shoot Tom Preston before he let off a decent shot, he could not be certain. And the uncertainty was what made him do