Ralph Compton Guns of the Greenhorn Read online

  Skin’s Vow

  The man got out the first half of a word, and Gunnar moved the rifle an inch to the left and squeezed off a shot. The bullet whizzed so close to Varney’s big knot head, Gunnar swore he saw a sweaty black curl waggle in the breeze.

  Skin yelped and leaned back, eyeing Gunnar hard and rubbing his leg, as if he’d just realized his ankle was a sore mess. The look he leveled on Gunnar was enough to make a tough man widen his eyes.

  “I won’t forget this, Gunnar Tibbs. Wherever you go, I will find you. And I won’t let you go, no matter how much moaning and crying you do.”

  Gunnar swallowed, then offered back his own level stare. “Lucky for you I ain’t planning on going nowhere, so you won’t have to track me far. And I’m not prone to belittling myself before another fellow, so it’ll be a sore disappointment to you, I reckon, to find out I’ll not be whining. But I will be waiting. Do come on back. Anytime if you’re still able.”

  The unspoken message he’d sent was plain—if you’re still among the living.

  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: 9780593333785

  First Edition: July 2021

  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.

  pid_prh_5.7.1_c0_r0

  To my favorite outlaws: Rose Mary and Dave.

  —MPM

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  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

  CHAPTER ONE

  Far as I’m concerned, you’ll never serve enough time.” Tin Falls prison warden James MacNichol looked up from his desk and into the black eyes of the large, rawboned, pock-faced man in wrist and ankle manacles standing before him. “You could serve two lifetimes and then some, and it still wouldn’t be long enough for the likes of you, Skin Varney.”

  The big homely inmate did his best to look grateful, subservient, whipped, cowed, humbled, and honored to be in the boss man’s presence. If he had to, he figured he could work up a trembling lip, maybe a tear or two.

  Anything to get him out of Tin Falls Prison, the deepest hole in hell. He didn’t need this simpering fool to tell him he’d served his time. But he nodded, kept his mouth pulled in a frown, and stared at his worn-to-a-nub boots. “Yes, sir, warden sir.”

  They loved that bowing-and-scraping stuff. And he’d dole out as much of it as he needed to, anything to get out of this rat nest.

  The warden sighed, then stood. “Alas, the decision isn’t mine. And I am, after all, a slave to the law.” He leaned forward, fingers tented on the desktop. In a low voice he said, “And so should you be, Mr. Varney. Or you’ll find yourself back here faster than you can say ‘Skip to My Lou.’ And then, by Jove, we’ll see justice. Do you understand me, mister?”

  Warden MacNichol strove for a menacing effect that was diminished by the fact that he had to look up at the prisoner before him.

  “Sir, yes, sir,” said the manacled man, returning the warden’s hard stare until the warden broke away and thrust his hands in his trouser pockets.

  “Escort him out, away from me. Now.”

  Minutes later, the warden heard the door in the front gate squawk wide on dry steel hinges and then boot steps on gravel, all punctuated with a chuckling that rose to full-throated laughter as the former prisoner walked slowly away from Tin Falls Prison.

  The warden ground his molars tighter and his cheeks pulsed redder as he wondered, not for the first or last time, why he’d had to let a thieving, raping killer walk free.

  Skin Varney’s deep, rasping laugh echoed in the warden’s head long after the man had slipped from sight.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The knocking was loud, loud enough to jerk from sleep Fletcher J. Ralston—the young, single dandy of Upper Creston Street, 442C Chandler’s Row, Providence, Rhode Island. He groaned, then sat upright in bed, his eyes wide and head fuzzy. Who in their right mind would rouse anyone on a Sunday morning, the workingman’s day of rest?

  He swung his feet to the floor and groped with his toes for his house slippers. At least he’d had good sense enough the night before to remove his garments and pull on his nightshirt.

  He groaned once more as he passed the wingback chair cradling the unsightly wrinkled mess that was his soft wool trousers and coat. He’d indulged in rare extra rounds of tipple with fellow junior clerks of Rhodes and Son, the banking firm, at the club during their weekly Saturday night of celebration at conquering yet another week of still-novel work.

  The knocking persisted. “I’m coming, I’m coming. . . .” He fumbled with the dead bolt and opened the door as wide as the short safety chain allowed. “Yes?”

  On his doorstep, Fletcher spied a short, thin youth whose unfortunate bristly red hair poked out from beneath a blue-and-red kepi, a symbol of the Coast City Telegram Co.

  “Telegram, sir,” said the youth. From his unhidden grin, it appeared the young man enjoyed rousting the innocent at such an hour on a Sunday morning. Well, the smug grin would cost him and be reflected in his tip.

  “One moment.” Fletcher closed the door and slid a nickel from the china dish he kept on a table beside the door for such moments. He opened the door once more, fully this time, and held out a hand. The youngster proffered the telegram and kept his own pink palm out, upturned, waiting.

  Fletcher relinquished the nickel and turned his attention to the folded yellow note. The delivery boy’s grunt of complaint at the meager tip was clipped short by the clunking shut of the heavy door.

  Fletcher walked halfway to his demure kitchen to heat water for coffee before looking at the telegram.

  TO MASTER FLETCHER J RALSTON OF PROVIDENCE RHODE ISLAND STOP YOUR AUNT MILLICENT JESSUP IS DYING STOP WISHES TO SEE YOU STOP YOUR PRES
ENCE IS REQUESTED IN THE TOWN OF PROMISE WYOMING TERRITORY FORTHWITH TO DISCUSS TERMS OF SIGNIFICANT INHERITANCE STOP

  * * *

  • • •

  Fletcher froze, read the telegram through a second time, then slowly walked to the kitchen and read it a third time, out loud. Despite his excitement, he gave voice to his skepticism. “Who is Millicent Jessup? Why is she referred to here as my ‘aunt’? And above all else, what does this mean?” He wagged the telegram at the small cold room.

  Fletcher had long believed himself alone in the world, bereft of blood relations—at least any who cared to acknowledge his existence. And now here was this shocking pronouncement.

  He’d grown accepting of, if not comfortable with, the notion that he’d likely been the result of an unfortunate extramarital dalliance, an illegitimate annoyance to someone of wealth and societal standing. Instead of spending his youth gnashing his teeth and weeping in self-pity over the notion, he had instead gotten on with the matter of living.

  His formative years had been spent at Swinton’s School for Boys, then later at Bilkerson College, both within the confines of his fair city. All the while Fletcher had counted himself fortunate—especially on witnessing poverty in the streets of Providence—that a conscience had accompanied the wealth and, presumably, guilt that had provided him with a fine education. On top of that, since college, he had received a modest sum from an unknown benefactor that had helped with his living expenses.

  Not being the sort to indulge in numerous casual acquaintances with his fellows, save for his rather tame Saturday night revels, Fletcher found himself ill inclined to discuss the matter with anyone else. He knew few others well enough to trust them with information of such a personal nature.

  Then Fletcher’s thoughts turned to his supervisor, Mr. Heep, at his place of employ, Rhodes and Son, the banking firm where he’d been working these two months. This new position had come as a welcome improvement in his situation, both in pay and in challenge. But Fletcher had proven up to the task. Mr. Heep was a wise man—he’d hired Fletcher, after all. He might be inclined to advise his young mentee.

  Due in large part to his increase in earnings, Fletcher had recently managed to leave Widow Silverton’s boardinghouse behind to take up residence in his very own apartments in this modest yet respectable neighborhood. And now he was expected to leave it for the great raw frontier peopled with fiendish savages and beasts too vicious for words? It was unthinkable.

  And yet the phrase “significant inheritance” was not tossed about with frequency. No, this demanded investigation. Fletcher drank a full pot of strong black coffee and paced his rooms. Then he shaved his face smooth, scented his dark hair with pomade, and dressed himself in his Sunday finery—a black derby, a storm gray waistcoat, a striped vest, a white shirt, a blue silk cravat, a stickpin, striped gray trousers, and black leather brogans with gray spats.

  He then stalked the promenade of the waterfront park and pondered this most annoying, perplexing, and alluring telegram. Before the day was out, he had reread the thing dozens of times, searching for further clues that were not forthcoming.

  And the more he thought on the matter, the more Fletcher realized that if anyone he knew would be able to advise him in his next steps, it would indeed be his supervisor, Mr. Heep. On the morrow, Fletcher would present the matter to him with all the grace and humility he possessed.

  First thing the next morning, Fletcher arrived at the firm early and showed the mysterious telegram to his supervisor. Mr. Heep read it through twice, his pince-nez twitching at the tip of his long shining nose as if he were about to sneeze.

  He looked up, tucked his spectacles into their pocket, and handed the telegram back to Fletcher. Then he smiled. “You have a promising career here, young Mr. Ralston. Therefore I will hold your position open for, shall we say, six weeks? Without pay, of course.”

  “Of course,” repeated Fletcher, though he hardly heard what he was agreeing to. This was not the response he had expected.

  “Late summer into autumn is rather a slow season for us, after all, and I speak for the company when I say we would hate to be the reason you passed up so promising and potentially exciting an opportunity.”

  Fletcher stood with the telegram in his hand and his mouth open. He had hoped the man might somehow talk him out of it, convince him that it was little more than a hollow ruse, yet here Mr. Heep was telling Fletcher to go west. Oh, dear, he thought. Oh, dear, oh, dear . . .

  “But see to it that, should you still be inclined, you return in time. Or you will find yourself bereft of gainful employment at these premises and lacking in recommendation from Messrs. Rhodes and Heep. Is that understood?”

  Fletcher cleared his throat and nodded. “It is as clear as polished glass, sir. I won’t let you down.”

  “See to it. Oh, and, Mr. Ralston?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “As you endeavor to solve this intriguing mystery, do try to enjoy yourself traipsing across the brute plains and dodging the gunfire of rapscallions and rogues.” Heep smiled. “Every young man should have an adventure before he settles into a life of . . .” He looked about himself and a wistful look made his smile fade. “Before he settles in life, Mr. Ralston.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll return as soon as possible, sir.”

  Heep sighed and offered a thin smile. “Very well, Mr. Ralston. Safe travels to you.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Skin Varney refused to drag his feet on up the dust track. Sure, he was tired enough that nobody feeling the way he did would do much different, but he’d know that he was being lazy. That was enough to keep him lifting one foot, setting it down, lifting the other, and on and on. And he’d been walking hard for hours.

  He had to get north—that much he knew. So: Keep the rising sun to your right, the setter to your left, and you’ll make out. That’s what the old buck who’d shared his cell at Tin Falls Prison, Chilton Sinclair, had said.

  Skin didn’t need the advice. He knew how to tell directions, thanks, but Chilton was due to die in a couple of months, and so Skin, feeling generous, had kept his mouth shut and let the old man dole out his worn tidbits of stringy counsel.

  Chilton Sinclair was an interesting old dog, to be sure. He had been chucked in that place for doing a whole lot worse than Skin ever got caught for. Sinclair never told him much about it, at least not in a direct way. Skin was told what had happened by another inmate by the name of Frijole before Sinclair even got to the prison.

  Frijole wasn’t even Mexican as far as Skin knew. In dim light, the man could take on the appearance of such, but it wasn’t obvious. Whoever had named him was an idiot. Skin didn’t tell that to Frijole, though, ’cause the man owned a hard temper.

  Anyhow, he told Skin that Sinclair had gutted a drummer who’d bedded his wife, even though Sinclair himself was a drunkard accountant who’d left the woman and their young daughter to keep his own misfortune from landing on their heads. The story was as full of holes as an old mothy blanket, but Skin took a liking to Chilton just the same.

  He was old, at least sixty, but looked about twenty years more than that, and he had a face like a stomped apple. Skin reckoned that was because Sinclair had spent most of those years squirming around in a bottle. Prison parched the old man out drier than a sun-puckered plank. Many nights, Skin would lie there in his bunk and listen to the man rave and howl and heave his dry guts even drier for hours.

  After he’d passed through all that, turned out, Sinclair was a chatty old stick. When they weren’t busting rocks for no reason out in the sun all day, they’d hole up in the cramped, dark stone cell and talk. Or rather, Sinclair would talk and Skin would grunt now and again to let him know he was still awake and listening.

  He’d once told Skin about how to change certain numbers in a ledger sheet to look like other numbers. “Pennies add up, my friend,” he’d said, then chuckled.