Ralph Compton Never Bet Against the Bullet (The Sundown Riders Series) - 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 the USA Today bestselling author of the Trail of the Gunfighter series, the Border Empire series, the Sundown Rider series, and the Trail Drive series, among others.

Jackson Lowry is the western pen name for Robert E. Vardeman, author of numerous novels. Vardeman received the 2017 Western Fictioneers Lifetime Achievement Award. His western titles include Sonora Noose, Great West Detective Agency, and the western trilogy, Punished. He was born in Texas and has lived in the wilds of New Mexico most of his life.

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Chapter One

Asa Newcombe tried not to look down. A spill down the rocky precipice meant death. With any luck, it would be fast, quick, but he doubted it. A body tumbling to the bottom of the five-hundred-foot ravine would bounce and tumble and leave the poor wight broken and bleeding-and not dead. Not right away.

"Until sundown. A man falling down there'd be like a snake and not die until sundown." He swallowed hard and closed his eyes. His sure-footed mule plodded along and ignored its rider.

His traveling companion called back to him, "You ain't gettin' cold feet, are you? There's no way to back out now. We're committed."

Asa forced himself to open his eyes. It was impossible not to glance over the brink and wonder which of the jagged, rocky outcroppings his body would hit as it bounced down to the rapidly flowing river at the bottom of the canyon. He decided all of them would be painted with his blood. He blinked and concentrated on the man ahead of him on the three-foot-wide trail. That was the safest way to travel, even if the short, scruffy stranger he had set out with from the Mosquito Pass railroad depot wasn't anything worth looking at. In spite of the cold, stiff wind blowing around the mountainside, sweat beaded on Asa's forehead.

"We ought to be committed," Asa muttered. "It's a day longer getting to Meridian, but the other trail . . ." His voice died out as the other man drew rein. His mule came to a halt and protested loudly. The animal wanted the trip to be over as much as he did. "What's wrong?"

"Got a small problem ahead. The trail's blocked."

"But you said we can't back up!"

"Cain't. No way to turn around. Not enough space. And mules like these here we're astride don't know how to put theyselves into reverse. Even a horse don't back up so good. Reminds me of the time that-"

"What's wrong with the trail?" A thousand terrible reasons for the man's halt flashed through Asa's head. Rocks tumbling from the top of the towering Colorado peak to block the trail. The trail itself, carved into seemingly inert stone, giving way and tumbling half a thousand feet to dam up the river below. Or a body. Another traveler had died on the trail. There was nowhere to give a Christian burial amid the solid rock. The mountains were immutable and unforgiving.

If another poor soul had perished, Asa considered so many things other than burial on the spot. Tossing the corpse over the side was easiest, but he liked that least. Another alternative was to drape the body over his mule and lead the burdened animal back to Meridian, where a decent burial ceremony could be performed. Should a family be notified? How could he find out about the man's people? There wasn't even a marshal in Meridian now. The mayor was the only "authority," and . . .

The lead mule began to snort and kick. Asa leaned over as much as he dared and saw that a body spooked the otherwise staid mule.

"Can we edge past?"

"Edge past? Mister, you got a death wish for certain sure. Ain't no way to get past a mountain lion."

"A mountain lion?"

"The one what's settin' smack-dab in the middle of the trail, sunnin' hisself and not lookin' like he's got a care in the world. As fat and sassy as he is, he won't think of us as food. Not that he would, anyway. I heard tell they don't like to eat people since we don't taste good. All bitter, like our meat's drenched in kerosene, though how a cat would know that's how we taste without tryin' out a sample first is-"

"A mountain lion!" Asa's ire rose. He had let his imagination run wild. His fear of heights had driven out his common sense. "I thought it was a dead man's body blocking our way."

"Ain't never said a thing like that." The man scratched himself, pushed back his hat and showed a receding hairline and a pate glistening with sweat. That display made Asa feel a tad better. The rumpled old man's emotions played hob with him, too. The way he tugged at his tangled gray-shot beard and his nostrils flared betrayed more than a touch of fear. His mouth ran like a frightened deer because he feared the cougar, and he might even have shared Asa's dread of the narrow path so high above a mountain valley.

Asa read people well, and he had ignored all the signs because of his own fearfulness. If only the medicine in his saddlebags wasn't so important, if a life didn't hang in the balance, he never would have dared this risky path back home.

"Whoa, wait. The cat's movin'. He's got his front legs all straight in front and he's stretchin'. He opened that mouth of his. You want to see his teeth? Dangest, sharpest teeth I ever did see. What a yawn!"

In spite of himself, Asa leaned far out to peer around the old man ahead of him. The trail curved back inward sharply. He saw the trail some distance farther along but caught only the barest hint of movement. Tawny fur, sleek and powerful and dangerous. The quick sight of the mountain lion vanished as the animal moved away from the brink. Asa imagined it stretched out so its powerful body blocked the trail farther along.

"Reckon I can shoot it." The grizzled old man drew a Colt from his belt. Asa saw the well-used, well-maintained pistol and how the man's easy familiarity with it suggested expert marksmanship.

"Don't be a fool. If you wound it, we're goners. It'll fight. One misstep and your mule plunges over the side and takes you with it." Asa's brain fog lifted. His usual sharp mind took on the problem. "We can't stay, we can't back up and the cat is in our way forward."

"That 'bout sez it all, mister. I got to admit that you're right about shootin' it. I ain't much of a shot. What if I missed? And gunshots in these hills have been known to cause an avalanche." The man pushed his broad-brimmed gray hat back further as he looked above them to check for a possible rockslide.

Asa dismissed that danger. Too many others were more imminent. Something about the man claiming to be a poor shot began to fester. The man lied just because he could. Asa read his expression. The stranger considered himself something of a gunslick, and yet he had claimed to be inept. That was the kind of trick a man used to lead an opponent astray. Asa wasn't any danger, but the man's reaction was to deceive. He shrugged it off. Some men couldn't help themselves when it came to spinning a yarn. It came as easy as breathing.

Risking life and limb, Asa climbed down from his mule. The animal snorted in resignation and began shifting its weight. As it leaned outward, it almost knocked him from the narrow ledge. He twisted about and got in front. From there he got a better look at the mountain lion sunning itself. Shadows crept slowly toward the cat. When it no longer basked in the warmth, it would move. But Asa grew increasingly edgy about reaching home. He needed to get home to Rebecca to help her and the girls. Looking for a way around the cougar, he sneaked a quick peek over the verge. Shakiness hit him, and he knew he would plunge to his death. Even if there was a ledge or another way around the big cat, he wasn't capable of taking it.

The river below gurgled and rushed along. If he fell, his body would be washed away into oblivion. Asa wobbled. Arms around his mule's neck steadied him until the balky animal let out a liquid snort and pulled free. Pebbles tumbled over the edge of the narrow path and rattled for several seconds. Asa vowed not to follow.

He edged past his travel companion-he had never asked for the man's name in his haste to return to Meridian. The man was a prospector from the look of his clothing. Canvas pants, plaid shirt, floppy hat, battered boots and the Colt tucked into his...