Seven Roads to Revenge Read online

  AN UNEXPECTED TURN

  A rustling in the nearby bushes was quickly followed by two shadowy figures stepping into the glow of the campfire. Both were pointing pistols. “You boys just keep sitting and tell us what it is you’re doing here,” one said as he pulled back the hammer of his Colt.

  “Just minding our own business,” Novak said.

  “Our boss don’t seem to think so. He says you’re here snooping around, trespassing on his property. Folks get themselves killed for that kind of behavior.” Both men took another step forward. “Tell us what’s your purpose.”

  His partner began laughing. “Don’t matter to me,” he said. “Let’s just shoot them and be done with it.” It was obvious he had been drinking while waiting to confront the intruders. He aimed his gun at Wisenhunt. . . .

  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: 9780593333945

  First Edition: July 2021

  Cover art by Hiram Richardson

  Cover design by Steve Meditz

  Book design by George Towne, adapted for ebook by Kelly Brennan

  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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  CONTENTS

  Cover

  An Unexpected Turn

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Part Two

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Part Three

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Part Four

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  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

  PROLOGUE

  The old man, frail and beaten down, sat at the end of the bar, his head slumped and watery eyes closed except for those moments when he would glance toward the doorway of the saloon. He was looking for someone willing to offer him a free drink in exchange for one of his tales. He was a good storyteller but worthless at much of anything else. The passing years had stolen away all his vigor and the whiskey had robbed him of interest in anything but his next drink.

  Regardless of the weather or time of year, he was always dressed in the same faded pair of overalls and a flannel shirt frayed at the collar and sleeves and missing a few buttons. His beard and hair were snow white, always unkempt.

  On his bony hip he wore a Colt pistol that threatened no one since it hadn’t worked in years. He had no kinfolk anyone knew of, and his age was a mystery.

  If he was still sober enough by closing time, he would make his way to his little shack down by the creek. If not, he slept in the alley behind the Wolf Creek Café, waking in hopes owner Irma Jean would offer him a cup of leftover coffee and maybe a piece of buttered toast before he bathed himself in the watering trough out front. He always made it a point to be at his regular spot as soon as the saloon opened, ready to get to work, telling his stories to anyone with an interest and the price of a drink.

  In his stories, he was decades younger, wild as the prairie wind, quick on the draw, feared by all men and a pleasure to the women. Or, at least that’s how he told them. That, he would tell listeners, was what being a member of Quantrill’s Raiders was like back in the day.

  In a surprisingly high-pitched voice, he would sing the praises of leader William Clarke Quantrill, re-creating conversations he recalled having with the rebel leader about his fierce determination to aid the Confederate troops as they battled Union soldiers. “They called us ‘bushwackers,’ ” the old man would say, “and you can bet your sweet bottom they hated to see us coming over the hill, guns blazing. What we were was patriots, through and through, pure and simple.”

  He would relive battles in little-known places like Pea Ridge and Wilson Creek along the Missouri-Kansas border where he and his fellow Raiders fought the abolitionists tooth and nail. And whipped ’em good. Back in those days, he would explain, there was a whole lot of antislavery sentiment in that part of the country. “But nobody ever had cause to question where Quantrill stood on that matter,” he would tell his audience. “Me neither. Who was gonna do the fieldwork and tend the cooking and cleaning if everyone was allowed to just up and strike out on their own, belonging to no one and all of a sudden free as a bird? Think on that for a minute.”

  His descriptions of the guerrilla raids and ambushes carried out as the Civil War was winding down were as colorful as a dime novel. H
e bragged that the James brothers, Jesse and Frank, had ridden with them before they got famous leading their own gang of outlaws.

  “We done all we could to help the Confederates, and were proud to serve,” he said. “We got shed of a whole lot of Union soldiers, a bunch of them Kansas Jayhawkers, and a good part of the Missouri Militia.”

  There was, however, one infamous adventure that he rarely spoke of—unless so drunk the remorse that still haunted him was properly drowned by the whiskey. It was the reason he and other Rangers had ultimately abandoned Quantrill and fled the Midwest to hide out in Texas.

  It was easy to tell that the old man wasn’t proud of what happened that morning in Lawrence, Kansas, back in August of 1863.

  He would always start the story this way: “God’s truth is we had some folks riding with us who were just pure mean. No, worse than mean. They were evil, like the devil himself was whispering in their ear. And, Lord help us, we all got ourselves caught up in it that day, Quantrill and everybody riding with him . . .”

  It was later written up in all the newspapers, referred to as “The Lawrence Massacre.” Reports estimated that by the time Quantrill had persuaded other pro-slavery groups to join in the raid, over four hundred men were armed and waiting for his signal to attack that morning. And in a matter of four hours, most businesses had been robbed and burned, and an estimated one hundred and fifty civilian men and boys had been killed. The old man was ashamed to tell what happened to many of the women. And it all happened simply because the town and its people refused to embrace the notion that slavery should remain the law of the land.

  That long-ago morning in Lawrence, Quantrill had gone too far with his insane attempt to bolster the South’s cause. Leaders of the Confederacy and its military quickly condemned the murderous raid. Shamed and afraid for their own lives, many of the Raiders laid down their guns and quietly stole away. The old man had been among them, adopting a false name and settling in Wolf Creek.

  He’d heard that Quantrill later made several efforts to recapture his lost glory, assembling a small group of men who were neither disciplined nor well trained. As they’d headed toward Kentucky early in 1864, they were tracked by a pro-Union posse and finally cornered in a barn where they had stopped for the night. During a shootout, a bullet ripped into Quantrill’s spine, leaving him paralyzed. He died a week or so later, leaving his bloody exploits to the history books.

  The old man waited until another filled glass was placed in front of him before he continued. His words were beginning to slur, and, growing tired, he slowly rubbed a shaking hand across his forehead.

  “A bunch of us wasn’t no more’n kids, seventeen, eighteen years old, back then,” he said. “Too dumb to know better and just looking for excitement. We thought we were doing right, but my guess is that most, like myself, regret some of what we done and would just as soon forget it.

  “But there were some, the evil-to-the-bone ones, who loved every minute of it and missed it when the shooting and killing was over. Given their druthers, they’d just as soon the war had never ended. Killing was in their blood.” Men like brothers Dean and Charlie Boy Ashton.

  “The craziest ones I recall had earned their pay breaking horses before joining up with Quantrill. A story passed along to me was that Dean, the older of the two, was trying to get a bridle on this mustang one day and the horse plumb bit off two of his fingers.

  “First thing he did was wrap a kerchief around his bleeding hand, then he pulled his pistol and shot the horse dead. After that, he went on to ride and break three other horses before the dinner bell rang.

  “His brother was just about as ornery. I was told that anything that wasn’t nailed down, he’d steal. And when a man once accused him of cheating in a card game up in Springfield—rightfully so, the story goes—he might near beat him to death. That done, he calmly walked out of the saloon with a big smile on his ugly face.”

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Texas

  Spring 1866

  Rays of warm Hill Country sun streamed through the grape arbors as the congregation made its way down the front steps of the Wolf Creek Family Church. Among the small group was Carl Novak, proud daddy of the young girl who had just sung her first solo at the close of Reverend Benedict’s Sunday-morning service.

  “I swear, that young lady has the voice of an angel,” schoolteacher Dottie Rumley said as she approached Novak and his wife, her arms spread wide in celebration. “She truly does.” As several others stepped forward to agree, Lucy, the center of attention, stood close by her mother, embarrassed and anxious to be freed to spend a few minutes playing with the other children before it was time to head home.

  Novak, six-two, broad-shouldered, and dark-eyed, hugged his wife a bit tighter than usual and a faint smile crossed his face. A man who spoke sparingly, he rarely left his farm except to come to town for supplies or bring his family to church. He had been home from the war for a year, yet there were a few in Wolf Creek who still cast disapproving looks whenever he passed.

  In their minds, he had fought for the wrong side.

  When fighting first broke out between the North and the Southern states determined to secede from the Union, Novak spent long days wrestling with the issue that had so divided the country. Members of the Confederate army, many of them his neighbors, were determined to keep the practice of owning slaves alive and well. Up north, meanwhile, men were prepared to shed blood to see that the nation remained whole, the slave practice abolished, and freedom awarded to one and all.

  Carl Novak was a hardworking farmer, not a politican; a self-proclaimed simple man who thought about little else but keeping his young family safe and bringing in a decent crop every season. For him, it was a plain and reliable formula for happiness handed down to him by his father. Then war broke out, raising troubling questions and causing him sleepless nights as he came to a realization that he had to take a stand.

  Frieda, whom he’d married shortly after they graduated from Wolf Creek School, recognized Novak’s struggle. She knew that his best friend as a youngster had been Billy Wayne Jefferson, son of a slave family that was property of the biggest landowner in Gillespie County. Carl and Billy Wayne hunted squirrels and fished for carp and catfish together, ate dinners at each other’s kitchen tables, and gave little thought that they were of different color and social standing. Carl never questioned why Billy Wayne wasn’t allowed to attend school with him or join his family at Sunday services. Billy Wayne, meanwhile, ignored others’ cruel catcalls when they saw him riding behind Carl astride Sister, the Novak family mule. Their lives had been so simple back then, their feeling for one another genuine, their innocent focus on enjoying the moments they were together.

  That began to change as Billy Wayne grew older and stronger, capable of joining his father in the owner’s fields. Little time was left for carefree days with his friend. Carl missed that.

  Now, years later, as he and Frieda sat on their porch, enjoying the gentle night sounds that settled over their small plot of land, they talked of those days past. Carl had lost track of his boyhood friend. The last time he’d seen Billy Wayne was when he attended the funeral of his father several years earlier. When Carl’s mother passed a few years later, Jefferson was not among the mourners. He had vanished, along with the rest of his family.

  Over the years, as he’d become more aware of the hardships his friend had endured, Carl saw the injustice society had forced on him, feeling guilty that he had not been more aware back when they were children.

  In time, Frieda had come to better understand her husband’s silent feelings than he did. When she sensed he was considering joining the war, it was she who first suggested he soldier for the Union. “It’s what’s right to do,” she said as she leaned down to scratch behind the ears of Echo, the black-haired sheepdog sleeping at her feet. “It won’t be long before things get settled and you ca
n come back home.”

  It was all Carl Novak needed to hear. The decision made, he began preparations. The cotton had been picked and the soil turned, the smokehouse was filled with pork and venison, and Frieda had put up jars of vegetables from the garden. There was pay for six bales of cotton, next year’s seed money, and the small savings his mother had given him before she died, carefully hidden away under the floor of their bedroom.

  The following morning he had ridden over to the Williamson place, Echo following close behind, to explain his sudden plan and strike a deal with the oldest son, Lyndon, to keep watch over his wife and daughter in his absence. Though a bit slow, Lyndon was a strong, hard worker and the most trustworthy man Carl knew. Pleased with the responsibility offered him, Lyndon promised he would keep Frieda and Lucy safe, the livestock tended, and the cow milked every morning. The fifty cents a day that he was offered was agreed to with a firm handshake.

  * * *

  * * *

  Years later, Carl remembered their conversation as if it had occurred yesterday.

  “When is it you plan on leaving?”

  “Sunup tomorrow. I’m thinking I better say my goodbyes and get going before I change my mind. Frieda said tell you she’ll settle up with you at the end of every week if that suits you.”

  “Sounds fair to me,” Lyndon had replied, placing a hand on Carl’s shoulder. “My pa won’t understand you going off to fight with them folks that call themselves abolitionists, but I’ll wish you a safe return.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The mixed aroma of biscuits and blackberry muffins wafted from the farmhouse as Carl stood in the doorway of the barn that day. He inhaled a peace and quiet that was almost palpable, miles removed from what he would soon be headed to. Questions rumbled through his mind. Was he doing the right thing? Would his family, the thing he cherished more than anything else in the world, be safe in his absence? Could he really leave behind the role of contented farmer, husband, and father and become a fighter?