Ralph Compton the Evil Men Do (A Ralph Compton Western) - Softcover

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Ralph Compton stood six-foot-eight without his boots. He worked as a musician, a radio announcer, a songwriter, and a newspaper columnist. His first novel, 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.

David Robbins has been a writer for more than twenty-five years, publishing under a variety of pseudonyms. He is the author of Badlanders and has written more than a dozen successful titles in the Ralph Compton series.

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THE SHOT NOT TAKEN . . .

SIGNET

THE IMMORTAL COWBOY

This is respectfully dedicated to the “American Cowboy.” His was the saga sparked by the turmoil that followed the Civil War, and the passing of more than a century has by no means diminished the flame.

True, the old days and the old ways are but treasured memories, and the old trails have grown dim with the ravages of time, but the spirit of the cowboy lives on.

In my travels—to Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska, Colorado, Wyoming, New Mexico, and Arizona—I always find something that reminds me of the Old West. While I am walking these plains and mountains for the first time, there is this feeling that a part of me is eternal, that I have known these old trails before. I believe it is the undying spirit of the frontier calling me, through the mind’s eye, to step back into time. What is the appeal of the Old West of the American frontier?

It has been epitomized by some as the dark and bloody period in American history. Its heroes—Crockett, Bowie, Hickok, Earp—have been reviled and criticized. Yet the Old West lives on, larger than life.

It has become a symbol of freedom, when there was always another mountain to climb and another river to cross; when a dispute between two men was settled not with expensive lawyers, but with fists, knives, or guns. Barbaric? Maybe. But some things never change. When the cowboy rode into the pages of American history, he left behind a legacy that lives within the hearts of us all.

—Ralph Compton

Chapter 1

The homestead wasn’t much. A cabin, a barn, and acres of corn.

Twilight had turned the sky slate gray when the three men drew rein on a low rise to the west. The tallest leaned on his saddle horn, his green eyes narrowing. “What do we have here?” His wide-brimmed brown hat and vest were caked with the dust of many miles. On his right hip in a triple-loop holster was a Remington with walnut grips.

“Nothin’ much,” said the rider on his right. Short and stocky, he hadn’t washed his hat and store-bought duds in a year of Sundays. Grime darkened his stubble. He pulled at his left ear where the lobe had been before he lost it to a Ute arrow and frowned. “Just another sodbuster.”

The last rider always wore black clothes to match his dark skin. It made him hard to see at night, which came in handy when people were trying to put lead into him. “Sodbusters got food,” he said. “Sodbusters got watches and rings.”

“That they do, Lute,” the tall rider agreed, and gigged his roan. “What say we go invite ourselves to supper?”

“Ah, hell, Dunn,” the short man said. “We’ve got grub.”

“You turnin’ soft on us, Tucker?” Dunn asked, giving him a sharp glance.

“You know better,” Tucker said. “I was just hopin’ to go a ways before we got the law after us again.”

“We do this right, they won’t be.”

A yellow dog barked as they approached and the cabin door opened, framing the farmer. Skinny as a rail, he wore a loose-fitting homespun shirt and bib overalls. “Who’s there?” he hollered. In his hands was a shotgun, and he wagged it menacingly.

“Look at him,” Dunn said, and laughed a cold laugh.

“Sheep come in all sizes, don’t they?” Lute said.

“Don’t let on,” Dunn warned. “You be friendly until I say it’s time not to be. The same with you, Tucker.”

“When do I ever cause you grief?” Tucker replied.

“You know better,” Dunn said. “You ever did, you’d have a window in your skull before you could blink.”

“You never threaten Lute like that,” Tucker said.

“Lute and me been together a good long spell,” Dunn said. “We’re like peas in a pod, him and me. There’s nothin’ we like more than snuffin’ wicks and helpin’ ourselves to what other folks have.”

“I know that,” Tucker said.

The farmer stepped out and raised his shotgun to his shoulder. “Who are you and what do you want?” he called out.

“Friendly cuss,” Dunn said so only Lute and Tucker heard. Then, raising his voice, he yelled, “We’re plumb friendly, mister. Just passin’ through. We’d be grateful for some food and coffee if you have any to spare.”

“That’s close enough,” the farmer said, putting his cheek to the shotgun. “A man can’t be too careful these days.”

Drawing rein, Dunn smiled and held his hands up, palms out. “Didn’t you hear we’re friendly?”

“You seem to be,” the farmer said.

Dunn gazed about them. “Nice place you have here. Didn’t expect to find a farm this far from anywhere.”

The farmer lowered the shotgun but only partway. “I’m James. James Larn. Out of Springfield.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Dunn said. “These are my pards, Lute and Tuck. Tuck is short for Tucker and Lute for Luthor.”

“Gents,” James Larn said.

“How about that food?” Dunn said, and patted his stomach. “Would you happen to have any to spare? We’re low on supplies and haven’t hardly ate in two days.”

“We can pay you,” Tucker quickly said. “Not much, mind. But I have a dollar and it’s yours.”

James Larn let the shotgun’s muzzle dip toward the ground. “Shucks, we’d feed you for free, but I won’t say no if you want to give us that dollar.”

“We?” Dunn said.

“My wife and my boy are inside,” Larn said, switching the shotgun from his hand to the crook of his elbow. “Fayette is my missus. The boy ain’t but a few months old and we can’t make up our minds what to name him.”

“Can’t wait to meet them,” Dunn said. Swinging down, he let the reins dangle and stretched.

“Been on the trail awhile, have you?” Larn asked.

“Feels like forever,” Tucker said. He dismounted and scratched at his stubble. “What is that I smell?”

“Soup,” Larn said. “Potato soup, to be exact. With carrots and peas. We ate the last of our meat a couple of days ago. I’ve been meanin’ to go huntin’ but haven’t had the time.”

“Soup is great,” Tucker said. “A bowl would do me right fine.”

“I usually have three or four,” Larn said.

“As thin as you are?”

“I could eat five meals a day and not gain a pound,” Larn boasted. “It’s just how I am.”

Lute alighted and wrapped his reins around his saddle horn. Turning, he took a step, but the farmer held out his hand.

“You’ll have to eat out here, I’m afraid,” James Larn said.

Dunn was swatting dust from his shirt and stopped. “Why’s that? He’s as hungry as we are.”

“Likely so,” Larn said, “but he’s not the same color.”

“Well, now,” Dunn said. “You’re one of those who doesn’t cotton to blacks, I take it?”

“It’s not me so much,” Larn said. “My wife is a mite finicky about who she lets inside.”

“So she’s one of those?” Tucker said.

“Don’t think poorly of her,” Larn...