Ralph Compton the Ghost of Apache Creek (9781101545560) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Historical Note

  Teaser chapter

  RIDERS OF JUDGMENT

  USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR

  THE TRAILSMAN

  NOWHERE TO RUN

  Here the moonlight seemed brighter, though the land in front of her lay angled in deep shadow.

  Then she saw it—a single pinpoint of light in the distance. A campfire maybe.

  But how distant? It could have been one mile or ten. She had no way of knowing.

  Jess heard a stealthy rustle in the grass behind her, and fear gave wings to her feet. She hiked up her skirts again and ran down the rise, heedless of the tree branches that slapped and swatted at her.

  Then she was on flat grassland and right ahead of her was a town.

  Sobbing her relief, Jess ran. She passed a darkened church and went on into the middle of the street.

  She stopped in a patch of shadow cast by one of the false-fronted buildings, looking around her. The light she’d seen from the rise was straight ahead of her, throwing a pale yellow rectangle onto the street.

  She prepared to run again, but the coyotes, heads down, growling, had cut her off and were now standing directly in her path.

  Jess backed away, out of the shadow and into the moonlight.

  The coyotes stalked closer, readying their attack.

  She screamed for help—then she screamed again.

  Her shrieks echoed through the silent town and came back at her. Mocking her.

  SIGNET

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

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, November 2011

  Copyright © The Estate of Ralph Compton, 2011

  ISBN : 978-1-101-54556-0

  Excerpt from Slaughter Canyon copyright © The Estate of Ralph Compton, 2012

  Excerpt from Riders of Judgment copyright © The Estate of Ralph Compton, 2001

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  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.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

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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

  Chapter 1

  Dry lightning shimmered silver on the warped timbers of the town, imparting a fleeting beauty. A hard wind broke in waves over the Mogollon Rim to the south, crested, and then rampaged north toward the peaks and mesas of the White Mountains, picking up ragged veils of sand as it went.
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br />   The wind venomously hurled the sand against the ghost town of Requiem as though trying to wake the place from its deep slumber. Stinging grit cartwheeled along Main Street and rattled against the cracked glass of store windows, threatening to break them further. Rusty-hinged doors squealed and slammed in the tempest, and the wind shrieked like a virgin saint forced to take partners for the Devil’s barn dance.

  A tall man walked through this maelstrom of wind, sand, and darkness, his head bent, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings. His boots thudded on the boardwalk, the chime of his spurs faint in the storm’s roar. He stepped along slowly, shoulders hunched, long hair tumbling down his ragged back.

  The man could have been a sleepwalker, lost in a nightmare, or a wandering drifter seeking shelter from the storm. But Marshal Sam Pace was neither of those things. He was aware. Alert. Ready. And he was listening. The dead were talking.... He heard their thin whispers in the wind.

  He stopped and lifted his head, his eyes bright.

  “Is that you?” he said, raising his voice to a shout. “John Andres, is that you calling to me?”

  He listened into the night, hard-driven sand hissing over him.

  Pace opened the twisted door of Big John’s Bakery and Pie Shop and stepped inside; the storm, frustrated for the moment, let him go.

  “John?” Pace said. “Why did you call out to me?”

  The bakery was angled in deep shadow. Its shelves were empty, gray with cobwebs, and the place smelled of pack rats and dry rot.

  “Where the hell are you, John?” Pace said. “Martha, are you there?”

  Something rustled in a corner. The wind pounded at the store window, demanding entry. The door grated on its hinges.

  But the pie shop was a tomb, dark, empty, without human life.

  Sudden realization spiked in Pace, startling him.

  There was no one here. Not a soul.

  Big John, big laughing John Andres, who had won a medal at Gettysburg and another at Cold Harbor, was dead of the cholera these past three years. He’d buried Martha himself, a plump, rosy-cheeked woman who’d baked the best apple pie in the county and made biscuits so light they almost floated. John and Martha had moldered long in the ground and nothing about them would look human any longer.

  Still, he tried again. “John? Martha? Are you there?”

  A hollow silence mocked him. Outside, the wind raved and ranted, impatient for his return.

  Pace stumbled to the door and once again stepped into uproar.

  But wait. He was in no rush to walk again. It was time for thought.

  He sheltered in a store doorway, feeling crafty, because he knew there was much mischief afoot. Chin in hand, he pondered the wind. Aha, now he knew. It came from the northwest.

  “Do you know what that means, Sam?” he said aloud.

  He answered his own question, the habit of a man who has spent too much time alone.

  “Sure do, Sam. It means you’ll only be insane until the wind shifts.”

  Pace nodded and smiled. He was happy that he’d gotten to the truth of the thing.

  Earlier in the day, the wind had blown from the south, and he’d been perfectly sane. But within the last hour it had shifted. When it blew from the south again, he’d be his old rational self.

  William Shakespeare said he would, and ol’ Will knew about such things, him being a famous playwright an’ all.

  “I am but mad north-north west. When the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw.”

  For some reason, Pace had always remembered that quote since he’d heard an actor say it at a theater in Deadwood, and it tickled him. He said it aloud. Then once again.

  But another thought silenced him.

  “Sam,” he said aloud, his face puzzled, “when the wind was from the south, how come you were still crazy as a loon?”

  Pace shook his shaggy head.

  “Sam doesn’t know,” he said. He thought about it. “I reckon ol’ Will Shakespeare has some explaining to do. That’s what I think.”

  The marshal stumbled into the street, and again got pummeled by wind and hammered by stinging sand.

  “Will Shakespeare!” he yelled, throwing his arms wide, his head back. “You know nothing! You don’t know shit!” He laughed, an empty noise without humor. “Damn you, when the wind was from the south I was still stark, raving mad and I didn’t know a hawk from a handsaw!”

  Pace looked beyond the edge of town, his eyes cunning again as they searched the darkness.

  Now he had a plan, a good plan.

  The graveyard was out there, hidden in the gloom.

  “Sam,” he said, “the best thing you can do now is to talk to Jane and the baby. You can tell them about the south wind and how Shakespeare doesn’t know nothin’.”

  Pace nodded. Yes, he’d do that. Jane would understand his madness and give him comfort.

  The cemetery had been laid out just two hundred yards beyond the town limits. Because of flooding considerations, it lay atop a shallow rise at the base of a bare rock ridge shaped like the bow of a steamship.

  Once the place had been a sun-dappled, grassy spot, but now it was overrun with brush and cactus, and the site of the mass grave left a rectangular scar that would last for years.

  Pace had walked to the cemetery every day for the past three years and knew the way, his feet feeling out the path in inky, sand-torn darkness. The mass grave had no marker, but Pace found it easily, a tall wild oak guiding him to the spot. He knew the place well, and why not? He’d buried eighty-three people here, him and big John Andres, among them Pace’s own wife and child, taken by the cholera. At the end, the last bodies he’d rolled into the pit had been those of John and his wife, Martha.

  Before then, the town had been known as Apache Creek, but when folks started dying, the mayor issued a decree that from henceforth it would bear the name Requiem.

  No one had disagreed with him—at least, none of those who were still alive.

  Pace’s hat had blown away in the storm, but he clasped his hands in front of him, bowed his head, and waited as always for Jane to talk first. The wind roughed up the oak and Pace heard the tick-tick-tick of blown sand hitting the tree’s leaves and trunk. He stood stock-still for an hour, waiting with a madman’s rigid patience for Jane to talk to him. But she didn’t whisper to him, to tell him to be faithful and brave. Not this night.

  And all the while, Pace turned slowly into a pillar of sand.

  His matted hair and long beard were stiff and yellow, the rags he wore gritty, the color of earth. His eyes were rimmed with red, and dirt gathered at the corners of his mouth.

  Filthy, smelly, overgrown with hair—this night, Sam Pace looked more animal than human. His untrimmed nails curved like talons. Those and his fiery gaze gave him the appearance of a dangerous scavenger come to raid the graves of the dead.

  Only one thing about Marshal Sam Pace was clean—the oiled blue Colt shoved into the pocket of his ragged pants.

  The habits of a lifetime die hard, and Pace had lived long with the Colt and knew its ways. He lavished care on the big revolver, but none on himself. Such was the manner of the gunfighting lawman, a reverence for the tool of his trade that not even madness could alter.

  Finally Pace stirred. He talked to Jane for a while, and asked her to kiss the baby for him.

  “On her cheeks,” he said. “I always loved to kiss her chubby little cheeks.”

  Then he turned and walked back toward town.

  Suddenly he stopped in his tracks. He knew why Jane said nothing to him—she was afraid to make a sound.

  It was the same reason the people who’d fled the cholera had not yet returned to Requiem.

  Outlaws! Damn them!

  Pace stood in the middle of the street, his Colt in his hand. He couldn’t see the bad men, not yet, but they were here all right, lurking in the shadows, ready to rob the bank and hoorah the town.

  Marshal Sam Pace’s town.

  His face took o
n a determined look as he raised his gun to waist level, his thumb on the hammer. He’d show them. Teach them that Sam Pace was no bargain.

  “I’m ready for you skunks,” he yelled. “Come the hell out and take your medicine like men.”

  There! Slinking into the alley by the Oxford Hat Shoppe. The outlaw was crouched, ready to take aim at him.

  Pace thumbed off a shot and then ran for the alley. He was just in time to see the man, a fleeting shadow crawling on his hands and knees, disappear around a corner.

  There was a splash of blood in the sand, then a scarlet trail leading toward the rear into the alley. Well, that fatherless son of a bitch wouldn’t be back for another dose of Marshal Sam Pace anytime soon.

  Pace angled across the street to the bank, wind and sand tearing at him. His face set and hard, his eyes reached into the darkness.

  He saw movement—another damned outlaw crawling like a dog on all fours!—and fired. He was rewarded by the man’s yelp of pain and he fired again. This time the outlaw dropped and sprawled on the boardwalk.

  “Got you,” Pace said. “That’ll teach you that you can’t rob banks and scare folks in my town.”

  He thumbed back the hammer of his Colt and walked toward the dead man. He stepped onto the boardwalk, then stumbled as his boot crashed through a rotted timber. Pace fell to his left and his head struck something hard. Lightning flashed inside his skull, followed by blackness. He heard the fading sound of the roaring night . . . then nothing at all.

  Chapter 2

  “Who the hell are you?”

  Pace opened his eyes, squinting against the glare of the harsh morning sun. Inches from his face were the front legs of a horse, a steeldust with two white socks.

  “I’ll ask you again,” the man’s voice said. “There won’t be a third time.” A pause, then: “Who the hell are you?”

  Pace struggled to his feet and held on to a post for support. His head throbbed and the sunlight spiked viciously at his eyes. He tried to speak, but his voice was a dry croak.

  Five men sat their horses, studying him. The man who had spoken—big, blond, and flashily handsome—was smiling. But it was a smile of contempt, not humor.