Ralph Compton The Wolves of Seven Pines (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 Riders series, and the Trail Drive series, among others.

E. L. Ripley has a background of military service and social work. He wrote his first novel when he was fifteen and has been writing ever since. His novels have been praised as "A fast-paced and engaging intrigue, with characters the reader will be attached to and root for despite their flaws and faults" (Marko Kloos, author of Chains of Command) and "A wild, page-turning ride" (Mike Shepherd, author of Kris Longknife: Unrelenting).

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Chapter One

It wasn't quite twenty years ago that someone had stolen Carpenter's saddle in broad daylight on a crowded street in Charlotte. That was only a memory. It had been nearly that many years since the war-so the war should've just been a memory too, but it was never that simple.

Lumps of hard resin marred the varnish, and the edges of the chessboard had all the signs of a dull saw and a shaky hand. The kindest word for this work was shoddy, and the piece was altogether out of place in an otherwise respectable lodge. The very chair Carpenter sat in was a work of art, some of the finest wickerwork he'd ever seen, and there were carvings on the hearth that wouldn't have been out of place in a church. The chessboard, though-it was a disaster.

Well, even bad work was good for something: you could always learn from it.

"Do you play?"

Carpenter looked up, setting his thoughts aside and finding his voice, which took a moment.

"Your pardon?" he said.

This man had already been here when Carpenter had walked up earlier in the day, gingerly leading Oceana by the reins. He'd been out on the porch in his shirtsleeves with his legs crossed and a book in his hand, but he hadn't been reading it.

He was well dressed in gray, and the cloth had a nice tartan pattern, but Carpenter couldn't tell the difference between a suit from overseas and one that was just meant to look that way. In any case, the fellow held a respectful distance, and that thick bear rug must've muffled his footsteps as he approached. Not that footsteps would've made any difference; Carpenter's senses weren't what they'd been, but they weren't gone entirely. He'd just been trying so hard to let his mind go anywhere but here, and for a moment, he'd succeeded.

The man indicated the board with his eyes, and Carpenter looked at the knight in his hand.

"Not well," he replied, putting it back. "Just admiring the craftsmanship."

"And how is it?"

It took an effort, but Carpenter found something like a smile. "It's got the right number of squares."

The man let out a little snort of laughter, but it wasn't much. A blind man would've been able to tell this fellow wasn't having much of a day himself.

"These, though," Carpenter added after a moment, shaking a finger at the pieces. "Someone worked hard on them." They'd all been whittled by hand. Not well, but they were all recognizable. The artisan had even taken the time to paint the eyes of all the knights red.

"It's a better job than I could do," remarked the man in gray.

"I'm the same." Carpenter leaned back in his armchair. "No talent for detail."

"Could I interest you in a game?"

Nothing could have interested him less, but playing couldn't be worse than just sitting there alone.

"Why not?" Carpenter gestured at the other chair.

The other man nodded politely and seated himself, adjusting the chain of his pocket watch and the gun at his hip, which was about the most foolish thing Carpenter had ever seen. It was polished so brightly that it would blind anyone in the sun, with enough inlaid gold and engravings for a dozen picture frames. He hoped he was imagining that sheen in the grips, and that they were just ivory and not real mother-of-pearl. There was more gaudiness in that gun than in entire shops of jewelry in Richmond.

But Richmond was a long way away. This was California.

Carpenter halfheartedly shoved a pawn forward two spaces. The man in gray moved one as well. Seven moves went by without a single word spoken, and that was merciful. He'd been afraid this man had been lonely, the type who needed to talk to pass the time. Maybe he wasn't as bad as his gun and his exaggerated grooming made him look. Who was he trying to impress here anyway?

There were only four other guests at the lodge: two businessmen traveling together, their driver, and a younger fellow dressed like a cowhand, who kept to himself.

And the dog, of course. It was a good-sized staghound curled up on the rug by the window, where the sun was warmest. Not a woman in sight, but this chess player wanted to be as pretty as he'd be going to a dance.

A brand-new wagon waited outside, and an older stagecoach. The stagecoach belonged to those two others, so this fellow was the one with the wagon. He didn't just look educated; he sounded like it too, something in the way he made sure to say each piece of each word just the right way.

Carpenter moved his rook. He didn't care if the stranger had been educated in a school or in a barrel; it was none of his business. He was just glad to have something to do, though he wouldn't admit it.

The other fellow turned toward the dog, who had lifted her head to look at the door, which opened.

It was Dr. Ambrose, still a bit stooped, still fidgeting with his left hand. He didn't say anything; he just caught Carpenter's eye.

"Excuse me," Carpenter told the man in gray, who nodded.

Maybe it didn't look good to walk away from a game of chess that he was losing to a man at least twenty years his junior, but that didn't matter. It was warm and sunny outside, but cold in his belly as he trailed the doctor onto the porch, down the stairs, past the towering pines, and over to the stable. He'd left his hat in the lodge, and he squinted at the sun, which got lower every minute. He knew what that felt like.

Any other afternoon, the doctor's bright red nose and unruly mustache might've made him difficult to take seriously. As it was, Carpenter couldn't have smiled even if he had tripped and fallen headfirst into a gold mine.

They stopped outside the doors, but well within the smell of the stable.

Ambrose wasn't about to tell him anything he didn't already know, or hadn't seen in his eyes, but the doctor went on and opened his mouth anyway.

"It's like you thought," he said, looking Carpenter in the eye. "The colic. Bad."

Inside, out of the sun, Oceana lay on her side, flank rising and falling with all the power of a dying sparrow. Strange noises came from her nostrils, and her eyes were shut. Her legs trembled.

Carpenter stared down at her, and Ambrose stood at his side for a minute or two.

"I seen that bird gun in your things," the doctor said hesitantly. "Would you like a rifle, Mr. Carpenter?"

It was the last thing he wanted, but he nodded anyway. The doctor went to his own horse, and Carpenter stood there. Just the standing was difficult enough; doing anything more seemed unreasonable. His breaths were as deep and slow as hers were shallow and fast, but they were just as desperate.

Something cool touched his hand, and he took the rifle from the doctor without even looking at him.

Quietly, Ambrose led the other horses out into the sunlight. It was best if they weren't startled by what was coming. Carpenter wondered if it was the same for them as it was for people, if seeing one of their own die would stay with them. He hoped not; horses didn't get to drink whiskey, after all.

The hay was fresh, the feed in the bags was not, and something had died recently in this stable. The odors crowded in, and this must have been what it felt like to wear a corset on a hot day, only Carpenter didn't faint, because someone touched his arm.

It was the man in gray, and there was no longer...