Ralph Compton Texas Hills (A Ralph Compton Western) - Softcover

Robbins, David; Compton, Ralph

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0451473205 ISBN 13: 9780451473202

Publisher: Berkley, 2015

Synopsis

A family man takes a deadly drive in this Ralph Compton western...

Owen Burnett’s needs are small. All he’s ever wanted is his wife’s affection, his children’s health, and a little plot of land which he can farm. Still, he’s no fool. So when his neighbor Gareth Kurst makes him a business proposition, one that could leave him richer than he’s ever dreamed, he can’t refuse giving the risky scheme a try.

Rounding up cattle up in the Texas Hill Country is nothing to take on lightly. Between the Comanches roaming the countryside and the horns of the beasts he’s hunting down, Owen knows every second he spends out in the wild puts his life in plenty of danger. But the greatest threat to his person is one he never expected—his ruthless and conniving business partner, who has no plans of ever sharing his hard-earned cash...

More Than Six Million Ralph Compton Books in Print!

About this title

About the Author:

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.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

 

“Ma!” Mandy whispered. “Look!” And she pointed.

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

A beanpole with hair the color of ripe corn ambled into the Crooked Wheel Saloon in Kerrville early on Saturday night. His high-crowned hat, his clothes, and his jangling spurs told everyone what he did for a living. Cowhands were as common as horses in some parts of Texas.

Smiling, the stranger jangled to the bar, paid for a drink, and brought it over to the table where Owen Burnett, Gareth Kurst, and Jasper Weaver were playing poker. Once every month or so, the three settlers came down out of the hill country to indulge in a few drinks and a sociable game of cards.

Owen Burnett came up with the idea. He’d thought it would be nice to get better acquainted. They were neighbors, after all. So what if they lived ten miles apart, or more? In the West, “neighbors” didn’t mean the same thing it did back east.

Owen was from Kentucky. He wasn’t all that big, but he was solid. He had short, sandy hair, a rugged complexion, and pale blue eyes. When the cowboy came to their table and asked if he could sit in, Owen smiled and gestured at an empty chair. “Help yourself, mister.”

Jasper Weaver grinned like a cat about to pounce on a sparrow. “If you won’t mind us taking your money,” he remarked. Which was a funny thing for Jasper to say given that he was the poorest card player west of the Mississippi River. Everyone thereabouts knew it. So did he, but Jasper never let it discourage him from playing. He was lean and gangly, with a face like a ferret’s and a neck like a buzzard’s. His brown hair stuck out from under his hat like so many porcupine quills.

Gareth Kurst grunted and eyed the cowboy with suspicion. He and most of his sons had the same features: black hair, blunt jaws, and eyes like shiny pieces of coal. “Why’d you pick our table, boy?”

About to set his drink down, the cowboy scowled. “First off, I’m not no infant. I’m eighteen, I’ll have you know. And second, you three looked friendly, although I might have been wrong about that.”

“We’re friendly,” Owen said.

“Speak for yourself,” Gareth said. “I never trust anybody until they prove they deserve it.”

“It’s not as if I’m out to rob you,” the cowboy said.

“You couldn’t if you tried,” Gareth said. “I give a holler, and three of my brood will be on you like hawks on a prairie dog.” He nodded at three of his sons over at the bar.

“What’s all this talk of robbing?” Jasper said. “We’re here to play cards.”

“Me, too,” the cowboy said. He took a sip and sighed with contentment. “They call me Shoe, by the way.”

“Peculiar handle,” Jasper said.

“Not really,” Shoe said. “I got hit by a horseshoe back when I was a sprout, and everyone took to calling me Horseshoe. Later that became just Shoe.”

“I should reckon you’d want to use your real name,” Jasper said.

“My folks named me Abimelech Ezekiel Moses. All three are from the Bible.”

“Maybe not, then,” Jasper said.

“Are we here to jabber or play?” Gareth Kurst said.

“You’re awful cantankerous tonight,” Owen said. He was in the process of shuffling the deck. “We’ll deal you in, Shoe. Jacks or better to open. The limit is ten cents.”

“That much, huh?” Shoe said.

“Ain’t none of us rich,” Jasper said.

Taking another swallow, Shoe offhandedly said, “You could be if you wanted to bad enough. Most anyone can these days.”

Jasper chuckled. “How does that work, exactly? We wish for money and it falls into our laps?”

Gareth uttered a rare laugh.

Pushing his hat back on his head, Shoe said, “Any of you gents know where to find longhorns?”

Owen nodded. “The hill country is crawling with them.” It was a rare day when he didn’t spot some off in the brush as he went about turning his homestead into what he hoped would become a prosperous farm.

“There you go,” Shoe said.

“You’re talking nonsense,” Gareth said.

Shoe looked at each of them. “You haven’t heard, then? How valuable they’ve become?”

“Longhorns?” Jasper said, and cackled.

Owen couldn’t help joining in. The notion was plumb ridiculous. Longhorns had been around since the days when Texas belonged to Spain. Left on their own in the wild, they’d bred like rabbits. To a lot of people, they were a nuisance more than anything. They were good to eat but not much else.

“We don’t like being ribbed,” Gareth said.

“Ribbed, hell,” Shoe said indignantly. “You’re behind the times. Cattle drives will be the next big thing. Everybody thinks so.”

Owen thought he knew what Shoe meant. “You mean those gents who took some longhorns up to Missouri to sell?”

“And now can’t anymore because the folks in Missouri are worried about diseases the longhorns might carry,” Jasper said.

“That’s a lot of trouble to go to for nothing,” Gareth said.

Jasper bobbed his chin. “Rounding up a bunch of contrary longhorns can’t be easy. And for what? Four dollars a head, if that?”

Shoe sat back. “Shows how much you know. How about if you sold them for ten times that much?”

“Forty dollars a head?” Jasper said in astonishment.

“That’s right,” Shoe said. “And not in Missouri, either. You’d take them to Kansas. The people back east are so beef-hungry, they’ll pay anything to have steak on their table.”

“You’re making this up,” Gareth said.

“As God is my witness,” Shoe said. “I left the ranch where I’ve been working to sign up with an outfit planning a drive.” He chuckled. “I can’t believe you haven’t heard about it. Last year a fella named Wheeler took the first herd up to Abilene. They say he made over ninety thousand dollars.”

Jasper’s jaw fell, Gareth’s coal eyes glittered, and Owen set down the deck he was about to deal. “You’re not joshing us?”

“As God is my witness,” Shoe said again.

“If that’s true,” Gareth said, “why aren’t you out rounding up a herd of your own?”

“By my lonesome?” Shoe said. “Might be I could collect a couple of dozen head, sure, but where would I keep them until I start the drive? I don’t own any land. The smart thing for me is to join a drive going north and learn how it’s done.” He grinned. “Besides, the pay is better.”

“Ninety thousand dollars,” Jasper said, and whistled. “Think of what a man could do with a fortune like that.”

“I’m thinking,” Gareth said.

“Sounds like too much risk for my taste,” Owen said. “Longhorns aren’t kittens.”

“It’s not too much risk for me,” Gareth said.

“I bet my missus would like me to,” Jasper said.

“You can’t be serious.” Owen couldn’t begin to imagine the work involved. And then there was all the time they’d be away from their families. The cowboy drained his glass and grinned. “Looks as if I’ve started something here.”

“You sure as blazes have,” Gareth said.

Chapter 2

Harland Kurst took after his ma more than his pa. Tell him that, and he’d wallop you. Harland’s pa was tall and muscular, his ma as broad as a barn door. Harland was tall and bulky. Truth was, he liked being big. He liked throwing his weight around and squashing anyone who made him mad.

Harland was the oldest of the five Kurst boys. On this particular night, he and the second oldest, Thaxter, had gone into town with their pa and their brothers but parted company to go to a different saloon. Harland told his pa he hankered to see a dove, but he really just wanted the freedom to do as he pleased.

His pa had a habit of reining Harland in when Harland didn’t want to be reined in.

Once Harland had enough whiskey in him, he liked to pick fights. Because he was so big, he nearly always got the upper hand. And he made sure to have Thaxter close by to back his play in case the person Harland picked on resorted to a six-gun. Thaxter was quick on the shoot. So much so, folks fought shy of him.

The Kurst Terrors, people called them behind their backs. Which tickled Harland to no end.

So now, while their pa was off playing cards at the Crooked Wheel, Harland leaned on the bar at the Brass Spittoon. The Spittoon wasn’t much as saloons went: a bar, tables, and a roulette wheel. The doves were dumpy and not all that friendly. Not to Harland, anyway. He liked it there anyhow.

“I see how you’re looking around, big brother,” Thaxter said after taking a swallow of bug juice. “You’re in one of your moods.”

“I’m always in a mood,” Harland said.

“Who will it be tonight? That gambler yonder? Him with that frilly shirt and those big buttons on his vest?”

For reasons Harland had never understood, Thaxter was always critical of others’ clothes. Harland didn’t give a damn what people wore. Thaxter, though, took it as an affront if he saw clothes he didn’t like. “Gamblers usually have hideouts up their sleeves.”

“So?” Thaxter patted the Colt he wore high on his hip.

“We don’t want you shooting anybody. The marshal won’t take kindly to that.”

“So?” Thaxter said again.

Harland chuckled. He wouldn’t put it past his brother to gun the lawdog, should it come to that. But then they’d be on the run. “I don’t aim to spend the rest of my days dodging tin stars.”

“Wouldn’t bother me any.”

Just then the owner of the saloon, Rufus Calloway, came down the bar, wearing his apron. “You boys need a refill?”

“When we do, you’ll know it,” Harland said.

Rufus was well into his middle years and had a balding pate and bulging belly. “I don’t like the sound of that. No trouble tonight, Harland, you hear me?”

“Or what? You’ll hit me with your towel?”

Thaxter laughed.

“I mean it, boys,” Rufus said. “I can’t have you causing trouble all the time. It scares the customers off.”

“Oh, hell,” Harland said. “It’s not as if I ever really hurt anybody.”

“My brother does as he pleases,” Thaxter said.

“Your pa won’t like it if you do,” Rufus told them.

Bending toward him, Harland growled, “Anyone tells him, they better light out for the hills.”

Rufus swallowed and made a show of running his towel over the counter. “Just behave, is all I ask.”

“Behaving ain’t fun,” Harland said.

“Go bother somebody else,” Thaxter said.

Rufus went.

“I swear,” Thaxter said in derision. “He’s got as much backbone as a bowl of butter.”

Harland thought that was funny. He tilted his glass to his lips, then narrowed his dark eyes as someone new came strolling in. “Well, lookee there. What is it the parson is always saying? Ask and you’ll get what you want.”

The newcomer was about their age and wore city clothes: a bowler, a suit, polished boots, but no spurs. He had a ruddy complexion and red hair, and smiled at everybody.

“It’s Mr. Perfect,” Thaxter said.

“He sure thinks he is,” Harland said. Nudging Thaxter, he drained his glass, set it down, and moved toward where the man in the bowler was joshing with several men at a card table. Coming up behind him, Harland said, “As I live and breathe. If it isn’t Timothy Pattimore.”

Pattimore turned, his smile becoming a frown. “Hell in a basket. Leave me alone, you two.”

“Is that any way to talk to a good friend?” Harland said, and wrapped his arm around the smaller man’s shoulders.

“We are anything but,” Pattimore said. “Get it over with. Knock my hat off. Call me a dandy. Have your brother make me dance with his six-shooter. I won’t raise a hand against you. I learned my lesson the last two times.”

“Well, listen to you,” Harland said. “You’re no fun.”

An older man at the table said, “Leave him be, you Kursts. You’re always stirring up trouble.”

“Who asked you, you old goat?” Thaxter said.

Another player chimed in with, “You hill folk. Always riding in here like you own the place. This town has grown up. Your sort of antics aren’t welcome anymore.”

“I should pistol-whip you,” Thaxter said.

Harland saw that others were giving them looks of disapproval. He was used to that. The weak always resented the strong.

“There’s something you should know, though,” Timothy Pattimore said. “The marshal is right across the street, having a smoke. You start a ruckus and he’ll be in here before you can blink.”

“Have a look,” Harland said to his brother.

Thaxter stepped to the batwings and peered out. “There’s someone over by the general store smoking, all right. I can see the glow. Can’t tell who it is because of the dark.”

“It’s the marshal,” Pattimore insisted.

“I believe you,” Harland said. “You’re too much of a chicken to lie to us.” His mood suddenly evaporated. Removing his arm, he said, “To hell with all of you. This place has gone to the dogs.”

“We’re civilized now,” Pattimore said. “We have law and order. You Kursts should get used to it.”

“Your law only goes as far as the town limits,” Harland reminded him. Beyond lay hundreds of square miles of mostly uninhabited hill country, of wilderness as wild as anywhere. He strode toward the batwings. “Come on,” he said to Thaxter. “The air in here has gotten too righteous for my liking.” He pushed on out into the cool of the night and heard someone make a remark that simmered his blood.

“Those Kurst boys. Mark my words. They’re going to come to a bad end. Every last one of them.”

Chapter 3

Owen Burnett didn’t give much more thought to the cowboy and his news about the cattle drives. Sure, the notion held some appeal. So did prospecting for gold. But as anyone with any common sense was aware, few gold hounds ever struck it rich.

Owen didn’t deem it worth mentioning to his wife when he got home. He had land to clear, ground to till, daily chores to do. A farm didn’t run itself.

Owen liked being a farmer. He’d liked it in Kentucky, where they were ...

About this edition

• Publisher: Berkley
• Publication date: 2015
• ISBN 10: 0451473205
• ISBN 13: 9780451473202
• Binding: Mass Market Paperback
• Number of pages: 304