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    Ralph Compton By the Horns
    Ralph Compton By the Horns
    Ralph Compton By the Horns
    Ebook287 pages4 hours

    Ralph Compton By the Horns

    By Ralph Compton and David Robbins

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    A cattle drive turns bloody in this western in the USA Today bestselling Ralph Compton series...

    Luke Deal and his gang are murderers many times over. And Owen, the foreman of the Bar 40 ranch, has interrupted their depravities one time too many.
     
    Now a business representative for some British cattle ranchers is buying one of the Bar 40’s best longhorns, and driving it from Texas to Wyoming. Owen and three of the Bar 40’s toughest cowhands are escorting the English tenderfoot on this snake-infested, rustler ambush-laden, hell-for-leather trip. For the greenhorn, it will be the adventure of a lifetime. For the cowboys, it’s what they do. But for Luke Deal’s pack of rabid human wolves, it will be the chance to settle a very old score...
     
    More Than Six Million Ralph Compton Books In Print!
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPenguin Publishing Group
    Release dateApr 4, 2006
    ISBN9781101177426
    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 By the Horns - Ralph Compton

      1

      Land of the Six-Shooter

      The stage was two hours late. It came to a stop in a cloud of dust and woke up the old man dozing in a rocking chair. The bearded driver and the tall shotgun messenger jumped down. The driver stepped to the stagecoach door and opened it. Whiskey Flats, he announced.

      Like the head of a small bird poking from a birdhouse, the head of a passenger poked out. Coughing and swiping at the dust, he regarded the driver with annoyance. I say, was it really necessary to drive the team so hard? I had to hold on for dear life.

      The driver raised his seamed face and regarded the passenger as he might a new kind of bug. Spitting a wad of tobacco into the street, he asked, Any bones broken, mister?

      None that I am aware of, no. But I will be frightfully sore for a week or more. The passenger scrunched his thin face in distaste. This whole experience has been a test of my fortitude.

      You don’t say.

      I certainly do. The irony is that I paid to be bounced around in a box for days on end. Had I known what I was letting myself in for, I would have rethought the entire idea.

      I could tell you have a delicate backside—the driver smirked—from all the squawkin’ you did when we hit a few bumps.

      At that the shotgun messenger snickered.

      A few? The passenger bristled. If I did not know better, I would swear you hit every rut in the road on purpose.

      Now why would I do that, pilgrim? the driver said, and winked at the shotgun messenger. Both laughed and went into the stage office.

      The passenger blinked. I have half a mind to file a formal complaint. He pushed the door wide and stiffly climbed down. Placing one hand at the small of his back, he stretched, then grimaced. I daresay I am black and blue. He walked to the rear of the stagecoach and stared at the boot, then at the office doorway. What about my trunk? he called out.

      Are you helpless, sonny?

      Only then did the passenger notice the old man in the rocking chair. I beg your pardon?

      If your fingers ain’t broke, you can get your own bag. Folks hereabouts don’t cotton much to waitin’ on others hand and foot. The old man grinned, showing a gap where most of his upper front teeth had been. He wore a broad-brimmed hat well past its prime and faded clothes as dusty as the street. Besides, Bud never has much liked swivel dudes.

      How is that, my good fellow? the passenger asked. I am afraid I don’t quite follow you. It’s the vernacular.

      The who?

      Vernacular. Surely you have heard the word before? It is part of the King’s English, I assure you.

      Is it now? The old man tittered. In case you haven’t heard, sonny, we don’t have kings in this country. We talk how we want.

      The passenger flicked dust from a tailored sleeve. He was dressed in the height of sartorial splendor, in a navy coat, striped pants, and a double-breasted tartan vest. Perched on his neatly cropped head was a derby tilted at a rakish angle. Exactly my point, he said. ‘Vernacular’ refers to how people speak.

      You sure do it funny, the old man said.

      Me? The passenger became a trifle indignant. I will have you know, sir, I am a graduate of Eton. I speak English impeccably. It is you and most every other American I have met who mangle the language atrociously.

      Keep talkin’ like that, sonny, and you might find it’s not the only thing we mangle. The old man looked the newcomer up and down. Land sakes, but you sure are the prettiest fella I ever set eyes on. He sniffed a few times. And damn me if you don’t smell like the girl over to the Nose Paint Saloon.

      The passenger drew himself up to his full height and squared his bony shoulders. I will thank you to address me with respect. I am here on official business at the behest of the Bristol-London Consortium.

      Never heard of it.

      The BLC, the dapper man said. An association of British businessmen who have purchased extensive landholdings in Wyoming.

      Wyoming, huh? Now that I’ve heard of. Fine puncher country. The old man nodded his approval.

      Permit me to introduce myself. The passenger stepped onto the boardwalk and offered his hand. Alfred Pitney, solicitor, among other things.

      Pleased to meet you, Mr. Solicitor, the old man said, shaking. My handle is Floyd Carter but everyone calls me Toothless. He stopped shaking and bent to examine the Britisher’s hand. Land sakes, but you have awful pink fingers. And not a callus anywhere. He arched a salt-and-pepper eyebrow. What is it you do for a livin’, anyhow? Fold towels?

      I have already told you. I am a solicitor. When there was no hint of comprehension on the oldster’s face, Pitney said, An attorney.

      Ah. A law wrangler. That explains a lot. But I won’t hold it against you like some will.

      What is wrong with being a solicitor? Pitney asked in confusion. It is a perfectly respectable profession.

      Maybe where you hail from, Toothless said. But in our neck of the woods your kind are only a notch or two above rustlers. He gave an exaggerated yawn. Now if you will excuse me, young fella, at my age I need all the shut-eye I can get. I have a nap to finish.

      One moment, if you please, Mr., ah, Toothless, Alfred Pitney said. Perhaps you can be of assistance. I am looking for a ranch.

      Then you came to the right place. Texas has plenty. Are you lookin’ to buy one? You might want to learn a little about cows first.

      No. You don’t understand. I need to find the Bar 40 ranch, owned by a Mr. James Bartholomew. Have you perchance heard of it?

      Toothless snorted. Hellfire, sonny, who hasn’t? It’s about the saltiest outfit this side of the Rio Grande. Bart is as straight as a wagon tongue, and all his hands are loyal to the brand.

      There you go again with the vernacular, Pitney complained. Be that as it may, there was supposed to be someone here from the Bar 40 to meet me but obviously they are late. Do you suppose I could hire a horse? Or hire someone to ride out there for me if a steed is not available?

      Another thing we’re not shy of is horses. The only thing we have more of is lizards and you can’t ride them.

      Pitney tilted his head to one side. Who would want to ride a lizard? He snickered, then asked, Would I have time for a repast or a drink, do you think, before my messenger and someone from the Bar 40 arrive?

      You could drink a lake dry, Toothless said. It’ll take three days for a rider to get there and three days back.

      My word. I was under the impression the ranch was close to town.

      By Texas standards it is.

      For the first time since he had stepped from the stage, Alfred Pitney gazed up and down the street. Whiskey Flats consisted of not quite a score of buildings, most of them plank affairs with false fronts. At several hitch rails weary horses dozed in the midday heat. A pig rooted in the dirt, watched by a scruffy dog lazing in the shade of an overhang. My word. This isn’t a town. It’s a flyspeck.

      That pretty much sums Whiskey Flats up. Yes, sir, Toothless agreed. But give us ten or twenty years and we’ll be bustin’ at the seams.

      Pitney shook his head in mild dismay. This won’t do. This won’t do at all. However am I to discharge my responsibilities?

      Before the old man could answer, harsh yells intruded from across the street. The next moment the door to the Nose Paint Saloon was flung violently open. As if hurled from within, out flew a man in seedy homespun who tottered on his heels for five or six feet and then fell.

      Sam Webber! Toothless blurted.

      Who?

      A harmless cuss who does odd jobs around town and spends all his earnin’s on coffin varnish. Who would pick on a puny nobody like him?

      Out of the saloon strode a stocky man whose hawkish features bore the stamp of innate cruelty. He wore a black, flat-crowned hat, a gray shirt and pants, and boots with large spurs. They jangled noisily as he walked up to Sam Webber, his thumbs hooked in a black leather belt adorned with silver studs. In a holster on the man’s right hip was nestled a Remington revolver with black grips.

      Uh-oh, Toothless breathed. Poor Sam is in for it now. That there is Luke Deal, and he’s bad medicine.

      You say the name as if he is someone important.

      Deal is the curliest lobo on the border. He’s always on the peck. All you have to do is sneeze in his direction and he will pistol-whip you for the fun of it. Oh my, oh my. Sam, what did you do?

      Luke Deal walked up to Webber, who had sat up, and without warning, without so much as a word or a gesture, viciously kicked him in the chest. Webber cried out and writhed in agony. What was that? Deal asked, putting a hand to his ear. I didn’t quite hear you.

      Pitney glanced at Toothless. Shouldn’t we intervene on your friend’s behalf?

      And be shot full of holes? Mister, there are some things you don’t do, and one is stick your head in a bear trap.

      That statement is patently absurd. Smoothing his coat, Alfred Pitney marched into the street, declaring, I say, my good fellow, that will be quite enough.

      Astonishment rendered Luke Deal as still as a tree.

      Where I hail from, civilized men do not behave like animals. I daresay you should apologize for your atrocious behavior. Pitney reached down and slid his hands under Sam Webber, boosting him to his feet. There, there. Do you need a physician? That was beastly, wasn’t it?

      Webber was as stupefied as his attacker.

      What did you just say to me? Luke Deal found his voice. Inner fires flared in his slate gray eyes.

      You are hard of hearing, I take it? Alfred Pitney said, brushing dust from Sam Webber’s back. It is a good thing I was on hand to keep you from doing something you would always regret.

      Luke Deal intently studied the Englishman as if he could not quite believe the apparition was real. Then a smile curled his slit of a mouth. But not a warm, friendly smile. It was the smile of a cat about to devour a canary, or an Apache about to slit a prospector’s throat. A smile that would chill the blood of anyone who knew him. What do you reckon we have here, boys?

      Unnoticed, two others had filed out of the saloon. One was short, almost as wide as he was tall, a slab of muscle with a thick neck and bulging shoulders. He wore a brown hat with a high crown and boots with heels twice as high as most other boots. His spurs looked more like spikes. The other man was middle-aged, with a face that would give women and small children nightmares; his chin was splotched with gristly stubble, his cheeks were badly pockmarked, his brows were thick and beetling, his lips were perpetually upturned in a sneer. Both men wore revolvers, and from the top of the second man’s left boot jutted the hilt of a knife.

      We have us a walkin’, talkin’ mail-order catalog, declared the short one.

      Luke Deal nodded. I haven’t seen one this fancy, Grutt, since the time we were in Dallas.

      The pockmarked man licked his thick lips. Just when we was hankerin’ for some fun, too. We need to do him slow to draw it out.

      We sure don’t want to end it too soon, Bronk, Luke Deal agreed, and abruptly spoke sharply to Sam Webber. Light a shuck, you miserable wretch, before we change our minds and include you, too.

      Yes, sir, Mr. Deal, sir, Sam Webber bleated, and with an apologetic glance at Alfred Pitney, he scampered off.

      Deal sauntered up to the Englishman. Now then. Where to begin?

      I am not looking for trouble, Pitney informed them. I am here on business for the BLC, and I must admonish you gentlemen that they will not take kindly to having their representative interfered with.

      Luke Deal snorted. Did you hear this greener, boys?

      He throws out fancy words like they were money, Grutt said. A walkin’ dictionary is what he is.

      What I want to know, Bronk said, his hand resting on the butt of his revolver, is why he’s wearin’ his bandanna so strange? Bronk’s own bandanna was red and in dire need of a washing.

      Pitney touched a hand to his throat. This is called a cravat, gentlemen. In civilized society they are quite common.

      There you go again, Luke Deal said. Callin’ us gentlemen. If you were a horse you would be weedy. He sniffed several times. What in hell? Maybe we were wrong, boys. This ain’t no greenhorn. It’s a wood pussy.

      Bronk and Grutt laughed. Laughter as cold and as hard as they were.

      Dang me if he doesn’t make me want to put windows in his skull, Bronk declared.

      No, Luke Deal said severely. No spoilin’ it, you hear? I won’t take it kindly if you do, and you wouldn’t want that.

      I sure wouldn’t, Bronk said, with the barest trace of unease. I would never do anything you didn’t want me to, Luke.

      Pitney looked from one to the other. What is it you want of me, specifically? To make me dance, as I hear you cowboys sometimes do when indulging in hijinks?

      Now there’s a notion, Deal said. But we should come up with somethin’ special for a fancy hombre like you. He paused, then suddenly poked Pitney in the chest. Call us cowboys again and you’ll make me mad. You wouldn’t catch us nursemaidin’ a bunch of smelly cows for no measly forty dollars a month.

      A new voice spoke, a voice as quiet as the whisper of the breeze, yet a voice of tempered steel. Then it’s mutual. The cows wouldn’t want you there, neither. They have their standards.

      Luke Deal spun, his hand hovering over his six-shooter. His companions likewise turned and visibly tensed, as if they had beheld a dangerous animal.

      The creature that confronted them was a tall, broad-shouldered man in typical Western garb. His hat, his shirt, his chaps, his boots were as ordinary as mesquite, but there was nothing ordinary about his face. He was uncommonly appealing, with eyes bluer than the sky and a jaw like an anvil. It was those eyes that marked him as above the ordinary. They mirrored a quality of character of a high order. That, and something else. His hair was as black as ink.

      Owen! Luke Deal exclaimed, and his whole body seemed to quiver like that of a hound straining at a leash.

      This isn’t none of your business, said Bronk, with more than a little rancor.

      But it is, Owen responded in that quiet way of his. I’m here to fetch that gent for the Bar 40. That makes his welfare my concern.

      Grutt was coiled like a spring. What if we don’t want to hand him over?

      Then we have it to do, Owen said, and lowered his right hand so it brushed the holster in which his Colt was sheathed.

      Took the words right out of my mouth, cowpoke, Grutt declared. I’ve been waitin’ for an excuse to throw down on you since who flung the chunk. He bared his teeth as if they were fangs.

      No, Luke Deal said.

      Grutt did not take his hateful gaze off Owen. What do you mean, no? This is our chance, Luke. You hate him as much as we do! Him and his airs. Just because he’s Bartholomew’s foreman doesn’t give him the right to stick his nose where it shouldn’t be stuck.

      No, Luke Deal said again, more harshly.

      But why? He’s been a thorn in our side once too often. Remember that time he stopped us from beatin’ on that drummer? And when he wouldn’t let us burn that drunk Injun?

      It’s still no.

      Grutt appealed to Bronk. You’re with me, right? Just the other day you were sayin’ as how it’s do-good jackasses like him who spoil it for those of us who ride the high lines. You want him dead as much as me.

      I wouldn’t lose any sleep over buckin’ him out in gore, Bronk said, but we do what Luke wants. That’s how it is. That’s how it has always been.

      Clenching his fists, Grutt hissed in anger. You’ll regret it. Both of you. See if you don’t.

      Luke Deal smiled at Owen. You have more luck than an Irishman. One of these days, though, your string will play out, and then what will you do?

      Cross that bridge when I get to it, I reckon, the handsome cowboy answered.

      Deal nudged Bronk and Grutt and the three went back into the saloon, Grutt bringing up the rear and glowering at Owen as if daring him to do or say anything that would justify his quenching his thirst to spill Owen’s blood.

      Only after the door closed behind them did Owen walk to the middle of the street. Up close his blue eyes were even more piercing. Are you all right, sir?

      Although his chest stung where Deal had poked him, Alfred Pitney replied, Never better. Those bounders liked to hear themselves talk. I daresay they are perfectly harmless.

      As harmless as rabid wolves, Owen said in his quiet way. Between them they have planted upwards of ten men. Not countin’ Indians and such.

      By ‘planted’ you mean killed? Pitney asked, and when the cowboy nodded, he said, My word. How can that be? Why haven’t they been arrested? Why aren’t they behind bars?

      They cover their tracks real well, Owen said. He had shifted so he could keep one eye on the saloon. Without proof there is not much the law can do.

      Yet you know for an indisputable fact they have murdered others in cold blood?

      We can talk about them later, Owen said. Right now we should talk to Harry Anderson about puttin’ you up for the night. That is, I take it you aim to get a good night’s sleep and head for the ranch at daybreak?

      I have been told it will take three days to get there.

      Owen smiled. God willin’ and the creek don’t rise. I have a buckboard and a team over to the livery. It will only be the two of us, but don’t fret. This time of year the Comanches stay pretty much to the north, and there have been no reports of bandidos lately.

      Alfred Pitney was more interested in something else. How did you know it was me?

      Sir?

      How did you know I was the one you were to meet? I never sent your employer a description.

      Your letter said you would arrive today, and you were the only one who got off the stage, Owen said. That, and bein’ from England, you can’t help but talk peculiar.

      Me? Pitney said, and chuckled. My dear man, were you to visit Bristol, they would think the same of you.

      I suppose they would. Owen looked about them. Where is your baggage?

      Pitney explained about his trunk still in the rear boot of the Concord. Most is clothes. I also have several tins of fine British tea I can’t do without. I can’t buy the brand your side of the pond.

      Owen made for the stage. I’m not much of a tea swiller, myself. Give me coffee thick enough to float a horseshoe and I’m happy.

      Do you have a last name? Pitney inquired.

      Not one I use much. Owen nodded at the old man in the rocking chair. How’s the gout today, Toothless?

      It comes and it goes. Toothless smacked his lips. Say, you wouldn’t happen to care to treat a friend to a bottle, would you? I’m not fussy. The cheap stuff kills the pain as good as anything else.

      I might maybe consider half a bottle, Owen said. Provided you get a note from the doc sayin’ I can.

      Toothless’s bottom jaw drooped. That was plumb cruel. It’s my body. I can poison it howsoever I like.

      Alfred Pitney surveyed the street from end to end. All he saw was the pig, the dog, and several chickens pecking at the ground in front of the general store. Where are all the people?

      It’s siesta. This close to the border, folks tend to do like the Mexicans do and take it easy durin’ the hottest part of the day. Owen squinted from under his hat brim at the blazing orb in the sky. The saloon is nice and cool. We can pay it a visit after we get you situated.

      But the saloon is where those killers went, Pitney noted. Is it wise for us to go there?

      They’re not likely to gun us in broad daylight.

      If you say so. But Pitney was not nearly so sure.

      Owen produced a large new trunk from out of the boot. Is this yours? Pitney eagerly reached for it, but the cowhand, with remarkable ease, hefted the heavy trunk to his broad shoulder. Follow me, sir.

      Studying the individual buildings, Pitney commented, How is it I don’t see a marshal’s office anywhere? They had one in Cheyenne.

      Whiskey Flats doesn’t have a tin star.

      Then how do you keep uncouth louts like Luke Deal and his fellow cads in line?

      The same way we do the rest of the badmen. There’s only one thing polecats like them understand. Owen patted the butt of his Colt.

      There are moments, Alfred Pitney said, when I dearly miss Bristol.

      2

      A Knuckle Affair

      Harry Anderson turned out to be the owner of the general store. A mousy man with big ears, he had a ready smile and a warm nature. He

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