Ralph Compton Brother's Keeper (A Ralph Compton Western) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

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 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.

Chapter 1

Thalis Christie knew he was in trouble moments after he opened his eyes. Dawn was about to break, and he lay there debating whether to get up or wait a few minutes.

That was when something brushed against his leg.

Thal nearly jumped out of his skin. There shouldn’t be anything under the tarpaulin and blanket that covered him—except him. It didn’t help matters that before he’d turned in, he’d stripped off every stitch of clothing.

Thal was on his side, with just his head poking out of his bed. Goose bumps erupted as the thing that had crawled in with him slithered onto his shin. Snake, his mind screamed, and it was all he could do not to scramble out. He didn’t move for two reasons. The first was that he would rather die than let the other Crescent H punchers see him naked. The second reason mattered more. The snake might be a rattler. If he moved his leg, the thing might bite.

No one else was up yet except the cook, Old Pete, who was over at the chuck wagon fixing breakfast. A few of the hands were snoring. His pard, Ned Leslie, was closest to him and snoring the loudest.

“Ned!” Thal whispered.

Ned went on sounding like a bear in hibernation.

Thal tensed as the snake inched up his leg. It was the creepiest feeling. Worse than that time a black widow spider had crawled up his arm in the woodshed. At least he could see the spider.

His mouth was so dry Thal had to try twice to say a little louder, “Ned, consarn you. Wake up.”

Another puncher muttered and rolled over, smacking his lips.

Thal swiveled his eyes from side to side, seeking anyone else who might be awake.

The snake reached his knee.

Thal blamed himself for his predicament. He shouldn’t have used the tarp, as hot as it was. But thunderheads had been noisily rumbling in the distance when he turned in, and he hadn’t cared to be soaked. It never did rain, though. The storm had passed them by.

Because of the heat, Thal had left a gap for air to circulate. That was how the snake had gotten in with him.

Of all the ways for a man to meet his Maker, Thal reflected, being bit in his bed was downright dumb. He’d be the laughingstock of the hereafter.

He saw the tarp bulge slightly as the serpent inched up his thigh, and he broke out in a cold sweat.

To the east the sky had brightened and the stars were fading. Others would wake up soon. The first puncher who did, Thal would ask for help. He didn’t know what anyone could do, but there had to be something.

Luck was with him, for just then Ned Leslie slowly rose onto his elbows and sleepily gazed around. Ned’s hat was off, and his usually slick black hair stuck out at all angles. He yawned and gave his head a slight shake, then saw Thal staring at him. “Mornin’, ugly.”

“I need help,” Thal whispered.

“What’s that, pard?” Ned said, scratching himself. “Didn’t your ma ever teach you not to mumble? You’ll have to speak up.”

“I need help,” Thal whispered a little louder.

“You sure do,” Ned said, his green eyes twinkling. “That filly over to the Mossy Horn Saloon wouldn’t warm to you nohow the last time we were there. And Lordy, how you tried.”

Thal smothered a few choice cusswords. Ned had been needling him about his attempt at romance for weeks now. “Snake,” he whispered.

“Shake?” Ned said, and sat up. “You got cottonmouth or somethin’? I don’t see how you could, seein’ as how we haven’t had a lick of liquor for days.” He ran a hand over his hair to smooth it down. “Maybe more whiskey would have helped you with that filly. Get a gal drunk enough and she’ll do just about anything.”

“Snake,” Thal said.

Ned didn’t seem to hear him. “The problem with that is, by the time the gal is drunk, you are too. Some of those doves hold red-eye like it’s water. The last time a gal and me got drunk together, I woke up in an outhouse with no idea how I got there or what happened to her. So gettin’ drunk ain’t no guarantee you’ll get lucky.”

“Ned, snake, damn you.”

“What’s that, Thalis?” Ned jammed his hat on. “You’re actin’ awful peculiar. Quit whisperin’. My ears haven’t quite woke up yet, although the rest of me has.”

Thal took a gamble. He said out loud, “There’s a snake in my beddin’, you lunkhead.”

“You don’t say?” Ned said calmly.

Thal could have hit him. The reptile had reached his hip and was posed along his unmentionables. He shuddered to think of the thing’s fangs sinking into his private parts.

“That’s what you get for bundlin’ in all that canvas in the summer,” Ned was saying. “Snakes like hot spots, and the inside of your beddin’ must be an oven.”

“Ned,” Thal said, “I’m unshucked.”

Ned started to laugh, and caught himself. “You’re buck naked?” he said, and then did laugh. “Well, ain’t this a pickle?”

“It could be a rattler.”

“Has it rattled yet?”

“Not that I’ve heard.”

“That’s good,” Ned said. “They usually only bite when they’re riled, and they usually rattle before they bite. So long as it doesn’t, you should be all right.”

“Ned, for the love of heaven.”

“Oh, all right.” Ned cast his blanket off. He had gone to sleep with his shirt and pants on. He’d taken off his boots, though, and now he commenced to pull one on.

Much too slowly, for Thal’s liking. “Any chance you could hurry it up? Bein’ snakebit ain’t nothin’ to sneeze at.”

“Maybe it’s not the heat,” Ned said, tugging harder. “Maybe it’s how you smell.”

“What?”

“You and your baths,” Ned said. “Always goin’ on about how you...