Ralph Compton Dalton's Justice Read online

  BERKLEY

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2021 by The Estate of Ralph Compton

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN: 9780593102473

  First Edition: February 2021

  Cover art by Dennis Lyall

  Cover design by Steve Meditz

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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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 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

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  The Immortal Cowboy

  Prologue

  Part One: The Calling

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Part Two: Saturday Night Dance

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Part Three: Counting Down

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Part Four: Redeeming Grace

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  For Marshal Ben Dalton, the dream is always the same.

  It is a bright, warm day, cloudless, with the sweet scent of lantana and honeysuckle wafting in a gentle breeze. Wearing overalls and a floppy hat pulled low on his brow, he is in his father’s wagon, delivering a load of cooking wood to the café. As his mule, LuLu, lazily pulls him through town, he passes the Aberdene churchyard where a noonday social is under way. There is energetic singing, laughter, and wooden tables laden with dishes of food and jars of sweet tea provided by the women of the church. Children play games of tag, giggling as they chase after one another. A happy old dog barks and joins in their fun.

  But all he really sees is her. She stands out in the crowd, wearing a flowing white dress that seems to glow, her long blond hair, all waves and curls, falling over her shoulders, her eyes as blue as the sky. In the dream, she always smiles and waves as he passes.

  And then he is wakened, sometimes by the gray dawn that peeks through a window, sometimes by a rooster’s crow or the bellow of his milk cow, signaling to him it is time to fetch his bucket and head to the barn.

  Or, occasionally, it comes in the dark of night with the urgent calling of his name.

  * * *

  * * *

  Marshal . . . Marshal Dalton . . . you up and got your pants on? We got us a problem . . . needs tending right away.” It was the high-pitched voice of his young deputy, Rolly Blair, whom he had assigned late-night watch duty so he might sleep in his own bed for a change instead of on one of the jail cell cots.

  Blair was already through the front door of the small farmhouse by the time his boss was stepping into his britches.

  “You fix us some coffee while I get myself dressed,” Dalton grumbled, pointing toward the glowing embers that remained in the fireplace. “This better be important.”

  He doubted it was. In the two years since Blair had begun working for him, the marshal had grown to expect that not all of his deputy’s “emergencies” were as urgent as his tone of voice might suggest. Ben Dalton passed it off as youthful energy and enthusiasm that he couldn’t help but admire. He had a vague recollection of once being that way himself.

  Aberdene was a quiet little town where lawbreaking and threats to the well-being of the townspeople were rare. Such had been the case in the years since Dalton returned home from the North-South war and began wearing his badge. Oh, there were always drunken Saturday night fights at the Clear Water Saloon to break up; there was that Christmas Eve night when lightning struck the feedstore and set the roof afire, and the brief disappearance of a couple of young schoolboys who frightened the wits out of their parents by choosing to spend a day skinny-dipping at Loving Creek instead of sitting in class, reading and doing arithmetic. But Dalton could count on one hand the times a rancher’s horse or farmer’s cow had been stolen, a life had been threatened, or a business had been broken into. Aside from the time he had single-handedly aborted the robbery of the bank by three young and woefully inept Confederate deserters, his career enforcing law and order had been considerably short on excitement or high drama.

  All of which suited him just fine. He had secretly resigned himself to the fact that he and a stagnant daily routine were for now and evermore on a first-name basis.

  Truth be known, Ben Dalton really wasn’t much of a town marshal. Still, he was generally liked by most. Folks always nodded and smiled when he took his slow walks along Aberdene’s main street, making his presence known two or three times a day. He had never been the subject of scandal or whispered gossip, even when Maizy Benton named her first child after him.

 
What had happened was her labor pains had come during one of the worst winter storms in the county’s history. Neither the doctor nor the midwife could get into town, so her husband had managed to trudge the half mile to the marshal’s office, seeking help. Then, in his frostbitten and anxious state, the soon-to-be father fainted dead away. Dalton dragged him to a cot in one of the cells, covered him with blankets, then braved the ice storm and arrived to the painful screams of Mrs. Benton. It was left to the marshal to help deliver a healthy seven-pound boy. “He’ll be called Ben,” the exhausted and thankful mother had whispered to him as she clutched her newborn to her breast.

  * * *

  * * *

  Dalton was sipping at the coffee the deputy had handed him before he finally asked for details of the current emergency.

  “Ol’ lady Akins, she finally got fed up with her no-good husband coming home in the middle of the night, knock-kneed drunk. She met him on the front porch with her shotgun.”

  “Kill him?”

  “Naw, she only used birdshot. Ruined his shirt and caused some bleeding to his shoulder. Might near put one of his eyes out. After it was over, she hitched up the buckboard and took him into town to Doc Baker’s office, where he was tended to.”

  “So, what is it you figure we’re supposed to do, arrest her and lock her up with those drunk cowboys we got sobering up?”

  “Well, I don’t know. You’re the marshal.”

  “You talk to her husband?”

  “He says he don’t want to press charges and that he’s done promised his wife that he’ll never take another drink. They were bawling and hugging on one another when I left to come out here.”

  “So, maybe this is one of those sad stories with a happy ending we shouldn’t be interfering with,” Dalton said. “In fact, maybe I’ll just sit and have me some more coffee, then go milk my cow. Want to stay for breakfast?”

  The deputy shrugged, his excitement deflated. “Might as well,” he said.

  * * *

  * * *

  For several days thereafter, the story of Midge Akins shooting her husband, Buck, was the talk of Aberdene. The ladies of the church collectively agreed that Midge, a fine Christian woman, had been driven plumb to distraction and had finally done what she had to. They were organizing an around-the-clock prayer chain for her and putting together a petition urging Marshal Dalton not to charge her with any crime.

  At the saloon, Buck Akins, sober and well on the mend, was too embarrassed to even show his face. The patrons enjoyed a good laugh when the story was told, then retold, often with a little something extra added. Even the marshal had to smile when he overheard someone suggest that the day would come when the incident would be recalled as “the Shootout at Akins Farm,” and jokingly wondered if one of those big-city writers who produce dime novels might find the tale of interest.

  His smile, however, would later vanish when a strange telegram was delivered to his office.

  The face in his dream was calling out for help.

  PART ONE

  THE CALLING

  CHAPTER 1

  The marshal had tended to his farm chores well before sunup and arrived at his office early. He sent his deputy home to rest, then walked down to the café, where he ordered two oatmeal breakfasts for the young ranch hands who were still in jail, impatiently waiting for their boss to come bail them out. Dalton greeted a couple of early-rising farmers who were waiting for the rebuilt feedstore to open, let Ima the waitress refill his coffee cup, then made his way back to feed the prisoners.

  While they ate noisily, he sat, put his scuffed boots atop his desk, and gazed out at the dusty street, which would soon awaken with activity. The café would fill, wagons would arrive to haul away feed and groceries, riders would visit the livery to have their horses shod, and the teacher would appear on the schoolhouse steps, ringing her bell to signal that class was about to begin.

  Another day in Aberdene. And, barring an Indian raid, a midtown gunfight, or a calamitous act of God—events that had never occurred in the town’s brief history—Dalton would sit alone at his desk, twirling his worn-out hat on one finger, watching as his little part of the world passed slowly by.

  If he could get rid of the jailed drunks early enough, he just might lock up and ride back out to the farm, pick up Poncho, the bluetick hound he’d raised from a pup, and go down to the creek and see if the catfish were biting. Poncho could amuse himself chasing squirrels until he realized it was a hopeless undertaking and decided to nap at Dalton’s side.

  On the off chance something did need attention while he was away, everyone in town knew where to find Deputy Blair. Odds were there would be no need. Never was.

  By the time an ill-tempered foreman from the Two Aces ranch arrived, cussed out his hungover employees, and counted out bail money, Marshal Dalton had decided yes, it was a fine day for a brief fishing trip, as good a way as any to kill the remainder of a fine morning.

  He was posting a notice to contact his deputy in the event of an emergency when he saw old Billy Sexton limping toward him, waving a yellow piece of paper. “Got yourself a telegram, Marshal,” he called out, shielding his eyes from the sun with his free hand. “It just come in and I wanted to get it to you right away. Figured it might be important.”

  The marshal took a seat on the bench in front of his office and pushed back his hat before reading.

  DESPERATELY NEED HELP . . . URGENT . . . JOHN IN JAIL . . . PLEASE COME . . . ONLY ONE I CAN TRUST.

  The name at the end of the message caused him to struggle momentarily for breath. The shaking of his hand caused the paper he held to make a rattling noise. At the bottom of the message the sender’s name was also typed in capital letters: MANDY STEVENS RAWLINGS.

  Sexton was taken aback by Dalton’s reaction. In his years working for Western Union, he had delivered countless messages bearing troubling news, most alerting the receiver that a friend or loved one was desperately ill or had passed, yet he hadn’t expected someone like Ben Dalton to be so visibly shaken. Only as he viewed the look on the marshal’s unshaven face did he finally remember a long-ago friendship between him and the sender. It was back in the days before the war, Sexton recalled. Ben was still a young man in those days and the sender of the message was the prettiest girl in town.

  “You all right, Marshal?”

  Dalton slowly folded the telegram and put it in his shirt pocket. “I’ll be needing to send a reply,” he said.

  “Right now? You don’t want to think on it a bit?” Sexton said as he took a small notebook and the stub of a pencil from his pocket.

  “Just make it read, ‘On my way.’”

  The tone of his voice made it clear he needed no time to give the matter a second thought.

  * * *

  * * *

  Dalton couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so energized, so suddenly focused on a purpose, however nebulous it might be. His mind raced as he made a mental checklist of things he would need to do before being on his way.

  Walking quickly over to J. R. Wheatley’s livery, he sought out the young man who did chores in exchange for small pay and a place to sleep in back of the barn. Junior Atwood was one of Aberdene’s lost souls, without family or history. He had simply ridden into town one day, hungry and sad-eyed, and looking for work. He’d never left. He was mentally slow but always smiling and excessively thorough at whatever task Wheatley assigned him. He had a well-earned reputation as someone who could be trusted and counted on, so long as his task wasn’t too challenging.

  In time, Junior and the marshal had become good friends, even fishing together now and then.

  He was mucking out a stall when Dalton found him. “Need your help,” Ben said. “I’m gonna be gone for a bit and want you to bunk out at the farm for a while. Continue your daywork here for J. R., but of a morning and evening see to the livestock and be sure and f
eed my dog regular. I’ll pay proper wages for your caretaking. You’ll find there’s ample food on the kitchen shelves and my bed’s a sight more comfortable than the hay you’ve been sleeping on. Be aware, though, that one side of it belongs to Poncho. He’ll be glad for your company and easy to get along with as long as you scratch behind his ears now and then.”

  Junior was smiling and shaking his head. “I’ll do it, Mr. Marshal. I surely will. How long you figure to be gone?”

  “Can’t rightly say. Go on out this evening and make yourself at home. I’ll leave your pay hidden in the Dutch oven over the fireplace. Before you come to the livery in the mornings, be sure to milk the cow, feed the chickens, and gather the eggs. Poncho, he’ll eat whatever it is you’re fixing for yourself. If it’s still light when you get home, pick the ripe tomatoes and okra out of the garden. You’re welcome to them. That’s about all I can think of that’ll be needing done in my absence.”

  That matter tended, Dalton rode to Rolly Blair’s cabin on the edge of town. He was pleased to see the thin white column of smoke rising from the chimney, indicating that the deputy was home and hadn’t detoured by to see his lady friend.

  Blair had just exited the outhouse and was buttoning his britches, whistling happily, when he saw Dalton arrive.

  “What brings you this way so early in the day?”

  Without speaking, Dalton dismounted, took the telegram from his pocket, and handed it to him.

  “I’m leaving shortly,” he said, “and wanted to let you know that as of this moment you are hereby and officially appointed acting marshal.”

  Blair was speechless for a moment. “For how long?” he finally replied.

  “I’ve got no idea.”