Ralph Compton Reunion in Hell (The Gunfighter 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 Riders series, and the Trail Drive series, among others. 

Carlton Stowers is an award-winning journalist and the author of more than two dozen books, including Comanche Trail, which was named a finalist for both the Western Fictioneers and the Texas Institute of Letters best first novel awards. He lives in Cedar Hill, Texas.

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Chapter one

Clay Breckenridge stood on his front porch, drinking coffee as he looked out on the fog that had swept across the bottoms overnight. The morning plowing he had planned would have to wait until he and his team of mules would be better able to see their way. He reached down and stroked the hindquarters of his dog, Sarge. "Appears we're gonna be getting a late start," he said.

It wasn't that he felt any great urgency. The East Texas farm, which his family had staked claim to when he and his brother were just youngsters, was small. The plowing for spring planting amounted to only twenty acres of grain and corn to feed his livestock and a garden spot for raising vegetables. The rest was open grassland interrupted by a large stand of pecan trees that were home to wild turkeys and squirrels. Along the southern boundary was a shallow spring-fed creek that provided ample watering for his mules, a small herd of cattle, a few goats, and his horse.

A quiet and picturesque spot, it had been Clay's home all of his life, except for the time he left to fight for the Confederate Army. After the war ended, he immediately returned to help his aging father with the farm. And when Ed Breckenridge followed his wife in death, the elder son dutifully assumed responsibility for maintaining the farm.

Sarge was still wagging his tail when he lifted his ears to acknowledge a distant sound that was, at first, too faint for his master to hear. Only as it got closer could Clay determine that it was likely an approaching horse, moving slowly and with strained effort.

Though there had been no problems with renegade bands of Comanches recently, Clay hurried into the cabin to get his rifle. "Might be somebody's just lost his way," he said, "or a horse that broke loose and can't figure where he's at."

Sarge responded with a low growl.

Minutes later Breckenridge detected a dark shadow just beyond the yard. Moving in the direction of the barn, it appeared to float through the bank of fog. Clay grabbed his rifle and a lantern and hurried toward it, Sarge trotting at his side.

Inside the barn stood a horse that Clay immediately recognized. It was nibbling at a bundle of hay while favoring a badly swollen front leg. Tied atop its saddle was a body.

For several seconds Clay stood motionless, staring at the dead man, bloated and discolored, a pattern of dried blood indicating that he had been shot in the back.

Breckenridge finally set his rifle and lantern aside and slowly began to loosen the ropes that held the rider in place. After he pulled the rigid corpse from the saddle, the weary horse shook his mane and limped away.

Looking down at the body that he had placed on a bed of hay, Clay suddenly felt his legs give way and his breathing turn to rapid bursts. He covered the dead man with a saddle blanket, then sat beside him and gently stroked his matted hair. Sarge nuzzled his master and softly whined.

This was not the way Clay had hoped his younger brother would return home.

Chapter two

It was nearing midday when Clay arrived in Aberdene and pulled his wagon to a stop in front of the marshal's office. Behind him, Cal Breckenridge's body lay beneath a blanket. Sarge had ridden along, standing sentry on the journey into town.

Dodge Rankin, a short, portly man with a salt-and-pepper beard and a warm smile for any and all who did not violate the law, had served as marshal for over a decade. Tamping his pipe against the hitching rail, he acknowledged the arrival of his visitor. "Your timing's perfect," he said. "I just got back from Ralph Giddens' place, where some of his cattle got rustled during the night. Indians from up in the Territory, be my guess. Been some time since I've seen you."

The somber look from Clay made it obvious to the marshal that small talk was not in order. Stepping from the board sidewalk, he approached the wagon bed and lifted the blanket to view the swollen face of the young man, who was barely recognizable.

"This who I'm thinking it is?" Rankin said.

Clay nodded.

"Best come into my office, where we can talk. I'll send someone to fetch Doc Franklin so he can begin tending to the necessary matters."

Inside, Clay was recounting the morning's events when the doctor arrived, short of breath, his round face flushed. Darwin Franklin was Aberdene's only doctor, undertaker, and veterinarian. On any given day, he might deliver a baby, treat a cow whose milk had mysteriously turned sour, or help a grieving resident select a coffin.

"I'm sorry for you misery, Mr. Breckenridge," the doctor said. "Rest assured I'll fix him up properly. Have you given any thought to funeral plans?"

"No," Clay replied. "No funeral." In truth, he could not think of anyone who might attend. Too, his brother had never cared for preaching and hymn singing. "Once you've tended him and seen to a sturdy coffin, I'll be putting him to rest back on the farm, alongside our folks." Then, as an afterthought: "Soon as possible I'd appreciate you coming out to check on his horse that arrived lame and in some degree of pain. I'd prefer to avoid putting him down if at all possible."

"I can be there early tomorrow morning," Dr. Franklin said. "Meanwhile, it might be of use for you to start putting some warm rags on the horse's leg to reduce the swelling."

Rankin watched the doctor leave before returning the conversation to the death of Cal Breckenridge. "I can't recall seeing young Cal since you boys were getting ready to go off and fight against the Union," he said. "You seen or heard from him much lately?"

Clay shook his head.

"Got any thoughts on who might be responsible for this?"

Though Clay didn't immediately answer, the marshal was already certain that the list of suspects might well be lengthy. A close friend of the boys' father from the time his children were young, Rankin knew many of the troubles Cal had caused his old friend. Ed Breckenridge had occasionally shared his worries with the marshal when they were fishing together and drinking persimmon beer. The father could never understand what caused the anger and rebellion that so darkened the soul of one son while the other was kindhearted and loving.

There was a troubling meanness in Cal. He picked fights, drunk or sober, and had no friends aside from his older brother. He wasn't above stealing now and then, rarely pulled his weight at chore time, and showed little respect for his elders.

When he joined the Confederate Army along with Clay, Ed allowed himself hope that the discipline of military service might provide the maturity his son so badly needed. Instead, his heart was broken when he learned that Cal had deserted.

Thereafter, Ed Breckenridge never again spoke his younger son's name.

"Bein' as we don't know from which direction his horse might have come or how far he traveled," the marshal said, "it's likely to be difficult determining responsibility for your brother's killing. But you've got my God-honest word I'll be asking questions. And if you think of anyone I might need to speak to, just let me know."

Clay stared at the floor as the marshal spoke. "Somebody will pay for what's been done," he said, his voice barely a whisper yet filled with a resolve Marshal Rankin had never before heard from the man seated across from him.

A grave had been dug in the grove near the creek by the time the hearse...