Ralph Compton: Do or Die Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  DEADLY MISTAKE

  Tony glanced past Charley and stiffened. Suddenly bending at the waist, he whispered, “Let me do the talking. Whatever happens, it is not to involve you.”

  Before Charley could ask what Tony meant, three men walked up to their table—burly, broad-shouldered men wearing suits and polished shoes, one with a diamond stickpin in his tie.

  “Well, well, well.” Stickpin’s voice was like two rocks grating together. “All evening I’ve been trying to figure out how in hell I lost my roll. Then who should I see across the room at the most expensive restaurant in Denver? The water boy I always buy water from.” He leaned on the edge of the table and glared at Tony. “You made the worst mistake of your life picking my pocket. I’ve beat people to a pulp for a lot less.” His smile was ripe with menace. “So where do you want it? Here or outside?”

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, August 2003

  Copyright © The Estate of Ralph Compton, 2003

  All rights reserved

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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, allowing 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

  Prologue

  Wind River Reservation

  Wyoming Territory

  Five riders came out of the night to the ridge above the old man’s lodge and reined in. They wore dark hats and dark slickers and were next to invisible. Their leader rose in the stirrups to study the valley they had traveled so far to reach, and when he gestured, they descended in single file until they emerged from the pines. Then they spread out and moved toward a gurgling stream.

  On the far side stood the lodge. It was old, like its owner. Mat-ta-vish had lived more winters than most Shoshones and liked the old ways better than the white ways many of his people had adopted. He refused to wear white clothes. He refused to own white cooking utensils. Under no circumstances would he allow a white blanket to soil his lodge or his person.

  Some of the younger Shoshones thought Mat-ta-vish was stubborn and silly. They pointed out that white-made pots and pans were easy to clean and lasted a long time. White-made knives were of fine steel and held a sharp edge even after hard use. And it was a lot easier to buy or trade for a white blanket or white clothes than to make them. But to Mat-ta-vish, the fact they were white meant all the difference. He wanted nothing to do with the despoilers of the world he had once known. He wanted nothing to do with those who treated his people like cattle, to be herded up and penned in as the whites saw fit.

  This particular night Mat-ta-vish had turned in early, as was his habit. Although grey of hair, his senses were keen, and when his dog growled, Mat-ta-vish threw off his heavy buffalo blanket and sat up. “What did you hear?” he quietly asked. He had not named the dog. He never named an animal he might need to eat.

  The mongrel stood and stared at the hide that covered the lodge opening. The hackles on its neck rose, and it bared its teeth.

  “Is it a mountain lion? Or another bear?” Mat-ta-vish talked to his dog all the time. The dog was the only companion he had. His devoted wife had died ten winters ago, and his sons and daughters rarely came to visit.

  Rising, Mat-ta-vish took down his ash bow and quiver of arrows. His oldest son, Gro-wot, had once tried giving him a rifle even though Gro-wot knew how he felt about whites, but Mat-ta-vish had refused to accept it. “Let us go see.”

  A brisk wind stirred nearby cottonwoods. Other than the rustle of leaves, Mat-ta-vish heard nothing to account for his dog’s unease. He made a circuit of his lodge, an arrow nocked to the sinew string of his bow, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. “Dogs that bark at the wind do not live
as long as dogs that do not,” he remarked.

  As if to prove him wrong, the mongrel suddenly snarled and streaked off into the cottonwoods.

  Mat-ta-vish walked halfway to the cottonwoods and stopped. It would not be wise to venture into the trees if a grizzly were on the prowl. While the giant bears were far fewer than they had been in the days of his youth, it was not uncommon for one to pass through his valley. Usually they left him alone, although during the last Blood Moon he had lost a fine mare. Gro-wot said he had brought it on himself by living apart from the rest of the Shoshones, and maybe that was true.

  The mongrel began barking. It had spotted whatever was out there.

  As Mat-ta-vish raised his bow, he heard the underbrush crackle with the passage of something large. Hooves thudded, and a darkling shape swept toward him. He sighted down the arrow, but before he could let it fly, another rider came at him from the right.

  Mat-ta-vish turned. The second rider was closer and posed the more immediate threat. He loosed his shaft. Mat-ta-vish was a skilled bowman, and the arrow should have caught the rider in the chest. But the man swung onto the side of his horse and clung there like a Sioux warrior. It was no Sioux, though. Mat-ta-vish glimpsed a hat and a long coat such as whites wore. He snatched another arrow from his quiver and was nocking it to the string when he realized a third night rider was bearing down on him from behind. The next moment he was struck a heavy blow to the back and flung to the earth with bone-jarring impact. He lost his grip on the bow.

  Dazed, Mat-ta-vish started to push to his feet. There was a swish, and pain lanced his head. The trees and the stars swapped places. His cheek smacked the earth. He made it to his knees just as a pair of thick arms encircled him from behind like bands of metal.

  “I’ve got the old redskin!” his captor bellowed in his ear in the white man’s tongue.

  Mat-ta-vish struggled, but whoever held him was as big and strong as a bull buffalo. He tried to reach the bone-handled knife at his hip, but a second white materialized from nowhere and yanked it from its sheath.

  “You won’t be needin’ that pigsticker, Injun.”

  Long ago Mat-ta-vish had learned that when dealing with belligerent whites, it was best not to feed their craving for violence. He wondered if these were drunken cowboys out to amuse themselves at his expense and decided they weren’t since he did not smell liquor on their breath.

  Just then a four-legged form shot out of the vegetation to his rescue. The dog snarled, its fangs white in the starlight, and bounded toward the bull holding Mat-ta-vish. “No!” he shouted in Shoshone, but the dog did not heed.

  Another rider burst from the cottonwoods. He was swinging something over his head. Mat-ta-vish recognized it was a rope a few heartbeats before the loop darted at the charging mongrel like a striking snake. Dog and rope met in midair, and the dog yelped as the noose constricted around its neck and it was brought up short with a snap.

  Whooping merrily, the rider spurred his horse toward the stream, dragging the mongrel after him. The dog tried to regain its footing, but the horse was moving too fast. It yipped when it struck a boulder, and Mat-ta-vish was sure he heard the crack of breaking bone.

  Two more whites appeared. In the lead was one who sat tall in the saddle and did not rein up until his bay practically trod on Mat-ta-vish. He had white hair, this man, sticking out from under his hat and growing on his chin, but he was not old. If Mat-ta-vish had to guess, he would say the tall rider had not seen more than thirty winters.

  “Do you know who we are?”

  Mat-ta-vish did not respond even when the bull who was holding him shook him as a badger might shake a mouse.

  “It won’t do no good to play dumb. Word is, you savvy the white tongue just fine. So I’ll ask one more time. If you don’t answer, we’ll whittle on you some until you do.”

  The white who had taken Mat-ta-vish’s knife held it under Mat-ta-vish’s nose. “Just say the word, Alvord. There’s nothin’ I’d like more than to carve up this red scum.” This one was as lean as a sapling and spoke with a peculiar twang.

  “Do you know who we are?” Alvord repeated.

  “Yes,” Mat-ta-vish admitted. He had long dreaded they might pay him a visit. Word of his herd had been bound to reach their ears eventually.

  “Say it.”

  “You are the Hoodoos. My people have suffered much at your hands. The bluecoats have told us to be on the watch for you. They will put you in the room made of bars at the fort if they catch you here.”

  The man who had ridden up with Alvord now laughed. He was young, his face baby-smooth, and had to have been the runt of the litter when he was born. His slicker was swept back to reveal a pair of revolvers with shiny grips. “That’ll be the day. Those bluebellies couldn’t catch their hind ends without help.”

  Alvord leaned on his saddle horn. “Where are they, old-timer?”

  Mat-ta-vish would rather have his tongue cut out.

  “We’ll find them on our own. Your valley isn’t that big. But we want to light a shuck before any of your kin show up, so do us both a favor and tell us where your horses are.” Alvord waited, and when no reply came, he nodded at the man who had taken Mat-ta-vish’s knife. “Go ahead, Noonan.”

  “My pleasure, pard.”

  The knife flashed, and Mat-ta-vish winced as his right cheek was opened like a ripe melon. But he did not cry out.

  “I can’t hear you, old man,” Noonan drawled.

  Again the blade glinted. Again Mat-ta-vish felt a damp sensation on his face. Blood trickled into his mouth.

  Noonan shifted the knife down low. “I can keep this up all night.”

  Mat-ta-vish stood straighter. Long ago he had been a warrior of renown. Many coup were counted to his credit, and his advice had been sought on matters of import in council. While his sinews were not what they once were, he was still a warrior. He still had his pride.

  “You’re dumb as a shovel,” Noonan said and set to work.

  The pain was excruciating. Mat-ta-vish doubled over. The bull holding him let go, and he pitched to his knees.

  “Damn it, Noonan! I don’t want this heathen’s blood all over my new pants!”

  “New? Hell, Ben, you bought them over two months ago and ain’t washed them once since. A little blood will lend the dirt some color.”

  “That’s the most foolish notion I’ve ever heard.” Ben had a great moon face split by bushy eyebrows and a hooked nose the size of an eagle’s beak.

  “No more foolish than those onions you’re always eatin’.”

  Mat-ta-vish barely heard. Waves of agony washed over him, and he gritted his teeth to keep from crying out. It hurt worse than the time a Piegan lance had pierced his leg. Worse, even, than the time he was thrown by his pinto during a buffalo surround and nearly trampled to death before a friend had pulled him to safety.

  A saddle creaked. A callused hand gripped Mat-ta-vish by the jaw and tilted his head back. “Had enough?” Alvord asked. “This doesn’t need to take forever. We can get it over with pronto. All you have to do is tell us where they are.” He waited, and when Mat-ta-vish stayed silent, he went on. “It’s not like you can trick us. We know all about the horses you raise. The best of their kind in the territory. It would be a shame for all that prime horseflesh to go to waste.”

  Even through the haze of torment, Mat-ta-vish wondered how the Hoodoos had heard. Through his nephew, possibly. The boy was scouting for the army. Mat-ta-vish had given him one of his best horses, and although his nephew had promised not to tell anyone where it came from, the young were never as tight-lipped as they should be.

  Alvord sighed and straightened. “Some folks are too damn stubborn for their own good.”

  Hooves hammered, and from the direction of the stream trotted the white man who had roped the dog and dragged it off. He was still dragging it, only now it was limp and still. “Yeehaw! I haven’t had this grand a time in a month of Sundays!”

  “Yell a little louder
, why don’t you, Curly?” Alvord was angry. “That way we can have the whole Shoshone nation down on our heads.”

  Curly did not let the comment spoil his mood. “We’re miles from the nearest village, so they aren’t likely to hear. You’re just jealous ’cause I’m the only one in this outfit who knows how to have fun.”

  “Killin’ dogs ain’t hardly my notion of a frolic,” Noonan interjected. “Give me a filly and a bottle of rotgut any day.”

  The young runt who wore revolvers with shiny grips cursed and kneed his mount closer. “We’re wastin’ time with all this jawin’. Kill the damned treaty Injun so we can get this over with.”

  “Simmer down, Kid,” Alvord said. “I always know what I’m doin’, don’t I?”

  “You’ve never once led us astray, and that’s a fact,” the Kid agreed. “But we’ve already been gone a week and a half. We’ll have to lay low in one of our hidey-holes at least that long to be sure the army has lost our trail. Then it’s another two weeks to get the herd to our buyer.”

  “Since when have you counted days like they were poker chips?”

  Curly chuckled. “I know why the Kid is actin’ like a wolverine with a burr up its ass. He’s pinin’ for that gal he met at the Lucky Star. What was her name again?”

  The Kid’s hands were a blur. He leveled both Colts at his curly-topped companion and warned, “I’ll thank you not to bring her up ever again, Curly Means, or so help me God, I’ll put windows in your skull.”

  The whites froze. All eyes were on the young one. No one noticed Mat-ta-vish as, on hands and knees, he crept toward the cottonwoods. They had forgotten about him for the moment. A heated argument broke out, smothering the slight noise he made. As soon as the undergrowth closed around him, Mat-ta-vish rose into a crouch and hobbled as fast as his legs would carry him. He was weak from loss of blood, and every step was torture. But he refused to stay and be butchered. He would die on his own terms.