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    Ralph Compton West of Pecos
    Ralph Compton West of Pecos
    Ralph Compton West of Pecos
    Ebook304 pages4 hours

    Ralph Compton West of Pecos

    By Ralph Compton and David Robbins

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    About this ebook

    Two men on opposite sides of the Civil War make their new home on an even more dangerous battleground in this Ralph Compton western...

    After the surrender of the Confederacy—and the death of his wife—Jed Adams stikes out for the west to find a new home and to build a new life for himself and his sons. 
     
    Tom Waldron fought to keep the Union intact—and now believes the unsettled land of the West can be cultivated into good fortune for his family.
     
    The former soldiers—and enemies—have decided to call the fertile valley of the Guadalupe Mountains their home, on an adjoining piece of land where Jed and Tom each plan to build a cattle ranch. But the only thing they have in common is their battle scars…and the chance that the valley might just be home to another Civil War.
      
    More Than Six Million Ralph Compton Books In Print!
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPenguin Publishing Group
    Release dateFeb 1, 2005
    ISBN9781101177532
    Ralph Compton West of Pecos
    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 West of Pecos - Ralph Compton

      1

      Are we going to die? young Sally Waldron asked.

      Don’t talk nonsense, child, Constance Waldron said. But she had to admit there had been times during their long journey when she thought they might. They had come so far—so very, very far. Day after day, week after week, of lumbering along in their prairie schooner. Of blistering heat and choking dust and the god-awful flies. She dearly wished they had never left their home in Ohio, dearly wished her husband had never heard of Texas.

      Tom Waldron was perched on the edge of the seat, his brown eyes fixed straight ahead, his face almost grim. He did not seem to feel it when she put a hand on his arm and gently squeezed.

      Are you all right? Constance was worried. He had been like this ever since they crossed the Pecos River.

      I’m fine, Tom said absently.

      Are you sure?

      Tom Waldron turned his gaze from the hazy horizon and looked at his wife. Despite the sheen of sweat on her brow and the stray wisps of sandy hair that had come loose from the bun at the back of her head and the splotches of dirt on her dress, she was as lovely to him as the day he married her. She had made the dress herself, just as she made all their clothes. Of course I’m sure. What kind of silly question is that?

      Constance’s green eyes flared with fire and she retorted, Is it silly of a woman to worry about her husband? Her tone warned Tom he had overstepped himself. She was a feisty woman, his wife, and never afraid to speak her mind.

      Of course not. I have a lot to think about, is all. It was no excuse and he knew it, and he knew that she knew he knew it, but she had the tact not to dwell on it as some wives were wont to do.

      You still think we’ll find our slice of paradise?

      As God is my witness, Tom vowed. But even he could not say where. All he had to go on was a yearning, a sense that somewhere out there was a place they were meant to be. A place where they would set down roots and live out the rest of their days. I’ll know it when I see it.

      Constance smiled. He had been saying the same thing ever since that night almost a year ago when he shocked her by suggesting they sell their small farm and head west into the vast unknown.

      We’re close, Tom said. I can feel us getting closer every day. He resumed staring straight ahead, a big man with broad shoulders and a blue cap on his head, his brown hair a lot longer than it had been when they started.

      Constance wished she could feel what he felt. All she felt was tired and worn. More tired and more worn than anytime in her life. Their daily grind was to blame. Every morning they were up at the crack of dawn, and she and the girls prepared breakfast while Tom hitched the team. Then off they went, hour after hour of eating dust and being baked alive by the burning sun. At midday they rested, but only for a short while, long enough for her to slap the dust from her dress and serve something that would tide them over until supper. The afternoon was spent in more monotonous plodding westward. At twilight, Tom would search for a suitable spot to stop for the night. Sometimes there was water; more often there was not, which was why they had to severely ration the water in the barrel on the side of their wagon, to the point where they couldn’t do more than dab at the dirt and the grime. Constance hated it, hated it more than anything, but she endured it for her husband’s sake, and for her family’s.

      Tom Waldron felt his wife put her hand on his knee and was spiked by a twinge of conscience. He would never admit as much, but for all his confident talk, he was worried, deeply worried, that he had dragged his loved ones off across the frontier for nothing. He was sure he’d have found a spot he liked by now. A place so special, it would justify uprooting them.

      Tom was aware his wife had not approved. She had liked their little farm. Liked her flower garden and the chickens and the few cows they owned, and thought that a hundred acres was plenty enough, thank you very much.

      Tom disagreed. He envisioned something better, something greater. He had read of land beyond the Mississippi River, there for the taking. The government offered acreage to anyone who settled, but it was a paltry amount. He had bigger plans. He had some money socked away, enough to make his dream come true.

      Tom wasn’t one of those who pined after a million dollars, or a mansion with servants to wait on him hand and foot. His dream was not that grand. All he wanted was a ranch. A sizable ranch of his very own, with enough cattle, so that he and his would never want for the necessities and maybe more than a few luxuries.

      His friends thought he was crazy. Fred Dimple down to the feed store told him to his face that he was a damned fool. He was a farmer, not a rancher, and he was taking his family west to get them killed at the hands of marauding hostiles or to have them starve, sacrifices on the altar of his ignorance. Fred always had a way with words, but Tom refused to listen. He had a dream, and he would follow his dream wherever it led him, and at whatever cost.

      What’s that? Constance asked, pointing.

      Tom blinked, and saw a figure ahead on the baked plain. At first he did not quite know what to make of it. The figure was short and squat and seemed to be some sort of deformed buffalo, but Tom remembered hearing that few buffalo came this far south. Besides, he soon realized the figure had two legs, not four, and that it wasn’t as wide as he thought it was. The heat haze was playing tricks on him.

      It’s a man! Sally exclaimed. She was ten and the spitting image of her mother, with the same sandy hair and the same green eyes.

      And he’s on foot, said Heather, their other daughter. At sixteen, she had Tom’s brown hair and brown eyes and a cute cherub face with a button nose. But what’s that he’s carrying?

      A saddle, Tom said. His horse must have gone lame or died on him.

      What’s he doing way out here? Sally wondered.

      Tom was tempted to veer wide and avoid him, but the stranger had heard them and stopped and turned. Love thy neighbor, the Good Book said, so Tom kept straight on and soon they were close enough to see him clearly.

      Not much over five feet tall, and dressed all in black, the man wore a flat-crowned black hat and black boots with silver spurs. His black saddle was decorated with silver, too, and had a large silver horn, or apple, as Tom believed it was called. But it was not the strange preference for black or the flashy silver that caught Tom’s eye; it was the pearl-handled revolver in a holster high on the man’s right hip. There was something about it, something about the way it was worn, that told Tom the man was not a run-of-the-mill Texan.

      The man had set the heavy saddle down and was waiting for them, his face invisible in the shadow of his hat’s wide brim. He did not smile or raise a hand in greeting.

      Is he a cowboy? Sally asked.

      I don’t think so, Constance said, and glanced meaningfully at Tom. Maybe we shouldn’t stop.

      It wouldn’t be polite. Tom hauled on the reins. He smiled and looked down into the most piercing gray eyes he had ever seen, eyes so intense, they startled him. Howdy there, stranger.

      The man’s intent gaze flicked from Tom to his wife to the two girls, who were peeking out behind them. A rattler got my claybank, he said.

      What’s a claybank? Sally asked Tom, but it was the man with the pearl-handled pistol who answered her.

      A horse, girl. Mine was a fine animal. He could go all day and all night. I didn’t like havin’ to blow his brains out.

      There’s no reason to talk about that, Constance said stiffly.

      The small man in black stared at her a moment, then said, My apologies, ma’am. I tend to forget how it is with young ones around.

      Tom introduced himself and his family. You’re lucky we came along when we did. I’d wager there isn’t a town within a hundred miles of here.

      Vinegar Flats is only ten miles yonder, the man in black said, with a nod to the west. I’ll make it by the day after tomorrow, I reckon.

      Sooner if you go with us, Tom offered, and was conscious of his wife stiffening beside him. Throw your saddle in the back and climb on. He paused. I didn’t catch your name?

      The man’s gray eyes were fixed on Constance. I’m obliged. It’s neighborly of you. I hope I’m not imposin’.

      Constance avoided looking at him. Nonsense, she said. We’re happy to extend a helping hand, Mr.—?

      Folks hereabouts call me Vantine, ma’am.

      Is that your first or your last name? Constance asked.

      It’s just how I’m called, Vantine said, tilting his head. The late-afternoon sun lit a hard face with high cheekbones and thin lips framed by curly hair the color of ripe corn. You don’t sound happy, ma’am.

      Constance smoothed her dress but she still would not look at him. There was something about those eyes. My husband has invited you. Mr. Vantine. It would be rude not to accept.

      It’s just Vantine, ma’am. And I’ve been called a heap of things but never rude to females. Vantine carried his saddle around to the rear of the prairie schooner and swung it up and in. Then he sauntered to the front, his spurs jangling, and lithely climbed onto the seat.

      I meant you could ride in the back, Tom said. He was uneasy having the man so close to his wife.

      I like it here better, Vantine said. I can see who’s comin’.

      Who are you expecting way out here in the middle of nowhere? Constance scoffed. We haven’t seen a soul in weeks.

      You’ve been lucky, ma’am, Vantine said. Co manches, Kiowas, outlaws, renegades—this country is plumb crawlin’ with curly wolves who would as soon buck you out in gore as look at you. He nodded at the team. You’ve been lucky, too, those horses have made it this far. Most folks would use oxen or mules.

      I picked them on purpose, Tom said, a trifle defensively. I’ll need all the horses I can get my hands on when I start my ranch. He flicked the reins and shouted, Get along, there!

      The schooner creaked into motion. One of the front axles was in dire need of grease and squeaked like a mouse.

      Homesteaders, the man in black remarked.

      You make it sound like a disease, Mr. Vantine, Constance said. Do you have something against us?

      Again, it’s just Vantine, ma’am. He stared at her from under his hat until she looked away; then he said, I have nothin’ against settlers. It’s just that you’re being damned foolish.

      Sally gasped and Heather laughed and Constance said sharply, I’ll thank you not to use that kind of language in the presence of a lady and her children. I don’t let my husband do it. I certainly will not let a complete stranger.

      Tom saw Vantine flush red. With anger, he assumed, and he quickly asked, Why do you think we’re fools? Is it wrong of me to want a better life for my family?

      Vantine sighed. It’s not wrong at all. But a lot of folks come out here thinkin’ it’s the Promised Land and all they get for their trouble are shallow graves.

      You’re trying to scare us, Constance said.

      Yes, ma’am, I am, Vantine admitted. If you had any sense, you would talk this husband of yours into turnin’ around and headin’ back to wherever you came from. You’ll live longer.

      Constance did not like this little man with his scornful attitude, and she was not one to be belittled. Who are you to criticize? What have you ever done that entitles you to think we’re idiots?

      I’m alive, Vantine said, and in these parts, that’s sayin’ a lot. He contemplated his scuffed boots, then said slowly, It’s nothin’ personal, ma’am. But you don’t belong here. In case you haven’t heard, there’s no law west of the Pecos.

      Tom construed that as a slight. I can take care of my own, thank you very much. I fought in the war.

      Vantine glanced at the blue cap. This isn’t Gettysburg or Bull Run. When an hombre’s out to make coyote bait of you, he won’t come marchin’ into your gun sights. He’ll kill you any way he can.

      Enough talk about killing, Constance said sternly. She was sorry they had let Vantine ride with them.

      For a while, no one said a word. Then Tom cleared his throat and asked, What was the name of that town you mentioned?

      Vinegar Flats. But callin’ it a town is a mite much. There’s a saloon and store, and that’s all.

      A store in the middle of nowhere? Tom was amazed. How does the man who owns it make ends meet?

      For some reason Vantine’s mouth quirked upward. The owner isn’t out to get rich. Maybe two or three times a month travelers like yourselves stop by. I’ve been there before, and it’s a right fine establishment.

      Are you a cowboy? Sally piped up from inside the wagon. A man in Kansas told us there are a lot of cowboys in Texas.

      Vantine chuckled. Missy, you couldn’t pay me enough to nursemaid a bunch of smelly cows. It would bore me to drink.

      Heather asked, Then what do you do?

      Enough, Constance said, smoothing her dress. It’s not polite to pry into someone’s personal affairs, girls. No matter how often she reminded them, they couldn’t seem to mind their manners.

      That’s all right, ma’am, Vantine said. Fact is, you could say I’m a hunter, of sorts.

      Tom looked at him. What is there to hunt out here? I haven’t seen any sign of wildlife in days.

      It’s not game I hunt, Mr. Waldron, Vantine said. It’s men.

      2

      The rim of the world was devouring the sun and they still had six miles to go. Tom Waldron was tempted to push on until they reached Vinegar Flats but the team was flagging and badly needed rest, and he could not afford to lose one of his horses. In that respect he sympathized with the flint-faced man in black.

      We can make it by midnight, can’t we? Maybe sooner? Constance objected when Tom announced they would stop. She refrained from glancing at the man to her left, for fear he would see the reason in her eyes. She had never been very good at hiding her feelings.

      Look at the team, Tom said. Do you really want to push them until they keel over?

      Constance bit her lower lip and did not answer. Yes, the horses were lathered with sweat, and yes, they were hanging their heads with fatigue as was usually the case along about this time of the day, but she still did not like the idea of spending the night on the prairie with the man wearing the pearl-handled revolver.

      Tomorrow we can stock up on supplies and refill the water barrel and find out about the country ahead. Tom always liked to have things worked out in advance, which made his decision to sell the farm and strike off into the heart of the unknown as puzzling to him as it was to everyone else. He had never been impulsive by nature, yet there he was, dragging his family off across the wilds of Texas as the result of a yearning he could not define or describe beyond calling it an urge. We’ll make camp right here, he announced. He didn’t see where it made much of a difference; the arid prairie was flat for leagues around.

      I know a better spot, Vantine said and pointed north. It’s only a couple of hundred yards, and you’ll be safer.

      Safer from what, Mr. Vantine? Constance asked. It occurred to her that the man might be up to something, that perhaps her family was in danger. The rattlesnake that bit your claybank?

      You sure are a caution, ma’am.

      Am I? Constance had noticed he didn’t answer her question. She looked at Tom to try to warn him by her expression not to do anything hasty but he was already turning the prairie schooner. Now if she said something, Vantine might take offense.

      Soon they came to a dry wash. Its high sides promised shelter from the wind, but Tom did not see how he could get their heavy wagon down to the bottom until Vantine pointed out a forty-foot gap where the bank had crumbled long ago, forming a natural ramp. He brought the team to a halt and clambered down to unhitch them.

      Constance went to slide after him, then saw that Vantine had jumped down on the other side and was holding his hands up, waiting to help her. Against her better judgment, she let him, marveling at the corded muscles on his arms and shoulders. He was short but he was immensely powerful. Thank you.

      Vantine touched a finger to his hat brim and walked toward the team.

      Isn’t he something? Heather whispered as she alighted. A tall, winsome girl, she was just coming into the bloom of womanhood. So handsome and mysterious.

      That is quite enough, Constance said, aghast at her offspring’s lack of modesty. We know nothing about the man. He could be fixing to murder us in our sleep and then rob us, for all you know.

      Sally was about to hop down, and she tittered. He would never do that. He’s a nice man. I can tell.

      Constance had a sharp retort on the tip of her tongue but she reminded herself that ten-year-old girls could hardly be blamed for being poor judges of character. Never take anything for granted, child, she warned. Suppose you two help me with supper so we can take your minds off the mystery man.

      Tom was grateful when Vantine, without being asked, came forward to help. He smiled at Constance as she led the girls around to the rear of the wagon.

      The moment they were out of earshot, Vantine said, I lied about the rattler.

      About to unhitch a horse, Tom wasn’t quite sure he understood. Why would you do a thing like that?

      Did you kill in the war, Mr. Waldron?

      Tom turned and placed his hands on his hips. That’s not something I care to talk about, if you don’t mind.

      I just hoped, you mentionin’ Gettysburg, and all.

      What difference does it make whether I did or I didn’t? Tom didn’t see the point, and it was a touchy subject with him.

      It would help if you’re not the yellow sort when the Comanches hit us tonight, Vantine said.

      A tingle of apprehension ran down Tom’s spine clear to his toes. Comanches? His secret fear since striking Texas had been of running into a roving war party and having his family wiped out—or worse.

      They shot my horse out from under me with an arrow two days ago, Vantine casually mentioned while continuing to unfasten the traces. They’d have overrun me but they didn’t have a gun. I held them off with my rifle until they pretended to give up and made a show of ridin’ off. Then I stripped my saddle and started walkin’. They’ve been doggin’ my tracks ever since, bidin’ their time.

      Why didn’t you tell me this sooner? Tom asked, horrified by the implications. You’ve put my whole family in peril, damn it!

      I could have let you go your merry way, Vantine said. The Comanches wouldn’t mind. They lost interest in me the moment you showed up.

      You’re just saying that, Tom said angrily.

      Vantine stopped working and stared. Put yourself in their moccasins. If you had a choice between a gent who had already killed three of your war party or a wagon filled with three females and a white man who doesn’t have the sense to wear a revolver or have a rifle by his side at all times, which would you pick?

      The barb stung, but it was not nearly as upsetting as the thought that unseen eyes might be on them at that very instant. Tom cupped a hand to his mouth to call out to Constance and warn her.

      Don’t, Vantine said.

      I beg your pardon?

      Give a holler, and the Comanches might hit us now, before you can get to your wagon and that Sharps I saw in the bed. Let them think we don’t know they’re out there and they’ll wait until we’re bedded down for the night before they try to part us from our hair.

      I’ve never fought Indians, Tom said, his mouth abruptly dry. There aren’t any hostiles back in Ohio. Nor had they seen a single red man the whole trek. He had begun to think all those tales of savage hordes roaming the wilds were so many lies.

      They’re tricky devils, Vantine said. They usually like an edge before they attack, so we’ll give them one.

      We will?

      We want to lure them in and finish it or the next family that comes along might not be as lucky as you.

      Tom thought to ask, How many are we up against?

      There are five left, Vantine said while continuing to work. Sometimes when you kill one, the rest will break off and take the body back to their village. Not this time.

      You took on eight Comanches alone and you’re still alive? To Tom it seemed an incredible feat but the small man in black did not regard it as anything extraordinary.

      Like I said, I had a rifle and they didn’t. They’d love to get their hands on it, and my pistol, both. A Comanche rates a gun almost as high as slittin’ a white throat.

      Tom resumed unhitching the team, then was jolted by a thought. I still say you should have told me sooner. I could have pushed on to Vinegar Flats and we would be safe. You’ve needlessly put my family at risk. He was mad, and it took every iota of self-control he had not to sock the shorter man on the jaw.

      Do you really reckon the Comanches would let you get there? Vantine shook his head. And in your wagon on the open prairie, your family wouldn’t stand a prayer. The Comanches would drop your lead horses with arrows. All you could do is wait around for them to do whatever they had in mind.

      Tom imagined his wife and daughters huddled in the wagon bed with barbed shafts raining down, and shuddered. They would be skewered like meat on a spit. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.

      Vantine shrugged. A gent doesn’t always think straight when people he cares about are in danger.

      Something in the way the man in black said it gave Tom food for musing. He had the impression Vantine was speaking from experience, and he was tempted to pry but he had the decency not to. It gave him something to ponder, though.

      We’d best hurry and hobble these horses so we can let your family know what they’re in for.

      I’d rather not tell them just yet, Tom said. They would be scared enough as it was, and he saw no point in having them endure hours of uncertainty and fear.

      What if I’m wrong and the Comanches don’t wait until we’ve bedded down? Vantine brought up. Or what if they decide they would rather help themselves than kill us outright?

      Help themselves how? Tom asked, and felt his cheeks grow warm as the obvious seared him like a red-hot fireplace poker.

      "Takin’ your wife and those cute girls captive. They’re fond of white women. Which is strange, since they say white women make terrible wives. But unless you like the notion of your loved ones spendin’ the rest of their days in a

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