Ralph Compton the Sagebrush Trail Read online

  The First Wave

  There was the sound of metal on metal as weapons were readied. Then, from a cloud of dust, the Comanches were there, arrows flying.

  “Fire!” Ethan shouted.

  The first volley of shots took Comanches from their horses, but that didn’t stop the others from coming. Ethan and his men worked the levers on their rifles as quickly as they could. As the attacking Indians got closer, some of the men, who were more comfortable with them, pulled their pistols and brought them into play.

  And just when Ethan thought the Comanches would keep coming and overrun them, they turned and headed back the way they had come. Some were injured and on foot, others lying face up or face down, dead.

  It was over.

  “That was the first wave!” Granger called out. “Get reloaded.”

  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: 9780593334041

  First Edition: November 2021

  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.

  pid_prh_5.8.0_c0_r0

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  The Immortal Cowboy

  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

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  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

  When Ethan Miller bought his ranch it was called the Bar W. The first thing he did was change the name to Paradise. It had long been his ambition to have a large ranch. That’s why he had been saving his pay from the army for many years. When he finally left the service, just after the war, he was able to buy the Bar W and rename it.

  The ranch was located about ten miles outside of Bozeman, Montana. Ethan sat on his porch with a cup of coffee, watching the horses in the corral move about. This was just part of the herd he had amassed, which he was preparing to sell. He hoped that the proceeds from the sale would be what he had always imagined they would be.

  He also watched his men as they did their work, preparing the horses to be driven to market. He just wasn’t yet sure where they were going to drive them to.

  Moses, his houseman, came out of the house with a pot of coffee.

  “More coffee, suh?”

  “Yes, Moze,” Ethan said, “and how many times have I told you to stop calling me sir? We’re not in the army anymore.”

  “Yes, Cap’n,” the Black man said.

  Moze stood there a moment, also staring at the corral.

  “This looks jus’ like you described all those times on the field, sir.”

  “Yes, Moze,” Ethan said, “it does, doesn’t it . . .”

  Virginia

  April 9, 1865

  Captain Ethan Miller was serving in the Cavalry Corps of the army of the Potomac under General Philip Sheridan. He was sitting in his command tent, studying the map on the table before him, waiting to hear if they were going to go into battle in the morning.

  Private Moses Jefferson came into the tent carrying a steaming plate of food and a cup of coffee.

  “Supper, suh.”

  “Thanks, Moze,” Ethan said. “Put it there.” There was some space on the table that was not taken up by the map.

  “Also,” Moze said, “Lieutenant Ashforth wants ta see ya, suh.”

  Ethan sat back in his chair, grabbed his plate and fork and said, “Send ’im in, Moze.”

  “Yessuh.”

  Moze left and, moments later, a tall, slender man, fifteen years younger than Ethan, entered.

  “I’ll say it again, Captain,” he said. “That nigger don’t belong in this man’s army. He’s a goddamned slave.”

  “He was a slave, Lieutenant,” Ethan said. “Then he became a free man and joined our side.”

  “To fight slavery,” Ashforth said, shaking his head.

  “Isn’t that what we’re all fightin’?” Ethan asked. He put some stew into his mouth.

  “No,” Ashforth said, “it ain’t as simple as that, and you know it.” r />
  “Then what are you fightin’ for, Lieutenant?” Ethan asked, pointing at the man with his fork.

  “I’m fightin’ for there to be one president,” Lieutenant Ashforth said. “The one true president, Abraham Lincoln.”

  “What did you want, Lieutenant?” Ethan asked, putting the plate down.

  “I think it’s time to deploy the men, sir,” Ashforth said.

  “Not yet,” Ethan said. “We’re still waitin’ to hear from Appomattox.”

  Ashforth snorted.

  “You really think Lee’s gonna surrender?”

  “I’m hopin’ he will,” Ethan said. “Then I don’t have to send these men into battle again.”

  “That’s what they’re here for,” Ashforth said. “That’s what we’re here for. You may not like this war, but—”

  “And you do?” Ethan asked, cutting the man off. “You like war, Lieutenant?”

  “I’m not afraid of it,” the younger man said. “If you want me to give the order, I will.”

  “Stand down, Lieutenant,” Ethan said. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready to give any orders.”

  Ashforth started to leave the tent, then stopped.

  “You know, the men don’t like you havin’ that slave here.”

  “I told you, he’s not a slave,” Ethan said. “He’s a soldier.”

  “Well, you treat him like a slave,” Ashforth said. “He cooks for you, washes your uniform, shines your buttons—”

  “I don’t ask him to do any of those things,” Ethan said. “He volunteers.”

  “Then maybe he likes bein’ a slave,” Ashforth said. “Maybe he should go back.”

  “He’s bein’ paid, Lieutenant,” Ethan said, “just like the rest of us. Slaves were never paid. Go have your supper.” Ethan picked his plate up again.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ashforth left the tent. Ethan took another bite of the stew, then set it down. He’d had enough of this war. If Lee didn’t surrender, and he had to send his men into battle again in the morning . . .

  He looked up as the tent flap was flipped again and another man walked in. He had sergeant’s stripes on his arm. The only reason for that was that he would not accept a battlefield commission to lieutenant. He didn’t want to be an officer.

  “What’d he want?” Sergeant William Granger asked. At fifty he was only a year or two older than Ethan.

  “War,” Ethan said, “what else?”

  “Too bad you have to have him as your second,” Granger said.

  “I wanted you as my second, but you won’t take the promotion.”

  Granger made a face.

  “I hate officers,” he said. “I don’t wanna be one.”

  “How are the men, Grange?” Ethan asked.

  “Antsy,” Granger said. “They want it to be over.”

  “So do I,” Ethan said.

  “Montana’s callin’ you?” Granger asked.

  “You know it,” Ethan said. “You’re comin’ with me, right?”

  He’d asked the man half a dozen times already.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Granger said, “I’ll go with you, but I don’t wanna be no foreman. I just wanna be a ranch hand.”

  “I need a foreman, Grange.”

  “You’re gonna take some of the other men with you, right?” Granger asked.

  “If they’ll come,” Ethan said.

  “Make Taggart your foreman,” Granger said. “He’ll go with you, and he’s a good man.”

  Corporal George Taggart was a good man, but he wasn’t Granger.

  “We’ll see,” Ethan said.

  Granger pointed to the plate.

  “Eat that,” he said. “Who knows when we’ll get hot food, again.”

  “You don’t think Lee’s gonna surrender, do you?” Ethan asked.

  “No, I don’t,” Granger said, and left the tent.

  Ethan picked up the plate and continued eating.

  * * *

  * * *

  Moze came in later to collect the plate and hand Ethan a fresh cup of coffee.

  “Thanks, Moze.”

  “Yessuh.”

  Before Moze could leave, Ethan said, “Tell me, Moze, what do you want to do after the war?”

  “What can I do?” the Black man asked, with a shrug. Moze was supposed to be in his forties, but Ethan had the feeling he lied about his age to get into the Union Army. He suspected the man was in his sixties. “I been a slave my whole life.”

  “You’re a free man now,” Ethan said. “You can do whatever you want.”

  “Oh,” Moze said, “I think we both knows that ain’t true, Cap’n.”

  “Well then, how about you come along with me to my ranch in Montana?” Ethan said. “You can work for me. I’ll pay you real well.”

  Moze smiled widely.

  “I thought you’d never ask, Cap’n,” he said. “I’ll keep your house for you real good.”

  “We’ll see what you’re gonna do when we get there,” Ethan said. “That’s all.”

  “Yes, suh.”

  Moze started to leave, poking his head out, but then drew back in.

  “They’s a dispatch rider here with a message from headquarters, Cap’n.”

  Ethan stood.

  “I guess that’s what we’ve been waitin’ for, Moze,” he said. “Send ’im in.”

  Moze waved and stepped aside to let a man wearing corporal stripes to enter the tent.

  “Captain Miller?” he asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Dispatch, sir,” the breathless corporal said, holding it out.

  “Thank you, Corporal.”

  “You, uh, mind if I stay while you read it, sir?” the soldier asked.

  “Why not?” Ethan asked. “You stayin’, Moze?”

  “Yessuh!” Moze looked outside. “And they’s plenny others out here waitin’, too.”

  “Well then,” Ethan said, “let’s not keep any of them waitin’ any longer.”

  He opened the dispatch, read it, then looked at Moze and the corporal.

  “Let’s step outside,” he said.

  “Yessir,” the corporal replied.

  He and Moze left the tent, and Ethan followed. Outside, standing in a semicircle, was a crowd of men, among them Lieutenant Ashforth.

  “Men,” Captain Ethan Miller said, “at one o’clock this afternoon, in the Appomattox Court House, General Robert E. Lee surrendered to General Ulysses S. Grant. It took a while for this word to reach us, but for all intents and purposes . . . the war is over! Or, as General Grant announced, the Rebels are our countrymen again.”

  The men began shouting and tossing their hats in the air, with the sole exception of Lieutenant Anthony Ashforth, who was scowling. Later he would be heard to say, “No Johnny Reb will ever be my countryman.”

  Ashforth, leading a band of men loyal to him, would go on fighting his war for a long time . . .

  CHAPTER TWO

  Bozeman, Montana

  1867

  In addition to Taggart and Granger, twelve of the men who served under Captain Ethan Miller came to Paradise with him. George Taggart agreed to be foreman. Moze came and accepted the job of taking care of Ethan and the house. It may have been similar to what he did as a slave, but he was being paid. His cousin Abraham, a freed slave, came later to cook for the men.

  Bill Granger, who had been friends with Ethan before they went into the army, agreed to work for him, but reinforced that he wanted to be only a hand, not a foreman.

  “Supper be ready in ten minutes,” Moze announced. “Is Mr. Granger comin’ tonight?”

  “Yeah, he’ll be here.”

  Most of the time Ethan ate in his house alone. He enjoyed the serenity. He was used to eating with the sound o
f artillery in the distance. However, in the mornings he went to the mess hall and had breakfast with the men. He felt it was important to keep in contact with them, and let them know he was no longer “Captain” Miller, even though he was their superior.

  While Moze cooked supper for him every night, Abraham cooked for the men. When they went on a drive, Moze rode in the chuck wagon with his cousin, and they shared the duties.

  Everything Ethan had wanted for Paradise had pretty much come to fruition. The only problem he still had was income. The horses he had now—half of them wild, half animals that he had bred—were supposed to bring in a good chunk of money. They represented security and could set him up for the life he wanted. If it happened, he would be amazed that it had taken only two years.

  He was getting ready to go inside for supper when he saw Granger approaching the house.

  “Hungry?” Ethan asked.

  “Starvin’,” Granger said.

  “Moze says supper’s on the table,” Ethan said, standing and tossing away the stub of his cigar.

  “Let’s go!” Granger said.

  In the beginning Granger had felt uncomfortable eating in the house with Ethan. Not because they were friends, but because it made him stand out from the other men. That was why he told Ethan that he would eat with him “occasionally” and not every night. He felt it was more important that he eat with the other hands.

  Taggart, as foreman, also made sure to eat with the men. On rare occasions, Ethan would invite him to his table, but it was usually so they could discuss business.

  Over a supper of fried chicken, vegetables, and biscuits, Ethan asked, “How’s everythin’ goin’?”

  “Most of the horses are ready to go,” Granger said. “There are still some wild ones up in the Big Sky Meadow that we have to round up, but we can get that done tomorrow.”

  “That’s good.”

  “What about the buyer?” Granger asked.

  “I’m goin’ to Bozeman tomorrow,” Ethan said. “There should be a telegram waitin’ for me.”

  “You think you’re gonna get your price?”