Ralph Compton the Law and the Lawless (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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“Was it you who followed me?”

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

Cestus Calloway sauntered into the Alpine Bank and Trust Company as if he owned it. Which was remarkable, the people in the bank would later tell a journalist for the True Fissure, since he was there to rob it.

Calloway wore his usual wide-brimmed, low-crowned hat, tilted up on the back of his head so that his brown curls spilled from under it. One lady would tell the newspaperman that it gave Calloway the look of the Greek Adonis. His handsome face was split in a wide smile and his blue eyes danced with amusement as he drew both of his Merwin Hulbert Army revolvers and held them out for all to see. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he boomed in that grand way he had, “we’re here to make a withdrawal.”

By “we,” Cestus meant the seven members of his wild bunch. Five of them strode in after him, spreading out as they came so that they blocked the windows and the doors. It was plain they had rehearsed what to do. As one bank customer would say to the reporter, “They moved like clockwork.”

The True Fissure would able to identify the five by the descriptions witnesses gave. They were Mad Dog Hanks, Bert Varrow, Ira Toomis, a man who was only ever known as Cockeye, and the Attica Kid.

The bank’s patrons and the pair of tellers all froze. Mrs. Mabel Periwinkle blurted, “My word!” and then blushed as if embarrassed.

Behind the rail at his desk, the bank’s president, Arthur Hunnecut, was the first to get over his surprise. Rising, he moved to the rail. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

Calloway chuckled and ambled over, saying, “You’re a mite slow between the ears, Art.”

“I don’t believe I’ve made your acquaintance, sir,” Hunnecut said stuffily. “And I’ll thank you to stop waving pistols around in my bank.”

Gesturing at the customers, Calloway laughed and said, “Do you hear him, folks? I bet if we look in his earhole we’ll find a turtle in there.”

Mrs. Periwinkle snorted and turned red again.

“Let me gun him,” Mad Dog Hanks growled. He’d acquired his handle because he looked exactly like a mad mongrel about to take a bite out of someone. It didn’t help his appearance any that he had large tufts of hair growing out of his ears.

Calloway glanced at him sharply. “What’s the rule?”

Mad Dog scowled and said, “Well, damn.”

“No swearing in my establishment,” Arthur Hunnecut snapped. “Not with ladies present.”

Calloway hooked the gate with the barrel of a six-shooter and opened it. “You’re a marvel, Art, and that’s no lie. Step out here while me and my boys clean your bank out.”

“I’ll be damned if I will,” Hunnecut said.

The Attica Kid came over, his spurs jingling, and just like that, his Colt Lightning was in his hand. The youngest of the outlaws, he always wore black, including a black vest. His eyes, as one person would describe them, were “cold green gems.” Cocking the Lightning, he said, “You’ll be dead if you don’t.”

“I’d listen to him, were I you,” Calloway said.

Arthur Hunnecut blanched.

Over by the wall, Mad Dog Hanks grumbled, “Oh, sure. Me, I have to behave. But you let the Kid do whatever he wants.”

Calloway shot him another sharp glance.

“Step out here, moneyman,” the Attica Kid said, “or your missus will be wailin’ over your grave.”

Hunnecut stepped out.

“That’s better,” Calloway said, and clapped the banker on the back with a revolver. “Now let’s get to it.” He nodded at Bert Varrow and Ira Toomis, and the pair went to the tellers and held out burlap sacks.

“Tell your people, Art, to empty the drawers and the safe,” Calloway commanded, “and be quick about it.”

Arthur Hunnecut looked into the muzzle of the Attica Kid’s Lightning and became whiter still. “You heard him.”

Showing his teeth in a dazzling smile, Calloway moved to the middle of the room. “I’m truly sorry for inconveniencin’ you folks. This won’t take but a few minutes.”

“Are you fixing to rob us too?” a man in a suit and bowler asked.

“Rob you good folks?” Calloway said as if the notion horrified him. “May the Good Lord strike me dead if I ever took from the likes of you.”

“What do you know of the Lord?” Hunnecut said archly.

“I know he’s not fond of money changers,” Calloway said. To the man in the bowler he said, “You must be new in these parts or you’d know I only rob those who deserve it.”

“What did I do to deserve this?” Hunnecut said.

“Do you mean besides the high interest you charge those who borrow from you? And besides those you’ve driven from their homes when they couldn’t pay their mortgage?”

“Now, see here,” Hunnecut said. “That’s a normal part of doing business. A bank isn’t a charity, after all.”

Calloway winked and smiled. “I am.”

At the front window Cockeye stirred and called out, “There’s a tin star comin’ up the street toward McGivern and Larner.”

“Who?” Hunnecut said.

“Pards of ours,” Calloway replied, moving toward the window. “Watchin’ our horses while we conduct our business.”

“Is that what you call it?”

The Attica Kid pressed the muzzle of his Lightning against the banker’s bulbous nose. “I’m tired of your sass. Give me cause and I’ll splatter your brains.”

“If he don’t, I will,” Mad Dog Hanks said.

Cestus Calloway looked out the front window, careful to hold his revolvers behind his back. “It’s that new deputy they got. Mitchell, I think his name is. He’s supposed to be out of town with the...