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  RUNNING TARGET

  There was danger in the air. McBride felt it. He was exposed out there in the flat, and the hidden rifleman had come close twice. But if he’d tried to cut and run, his back would have been to the bushwhacker, giving the man time for a clean shot.

  He was still bucking the odds, he knew, but he had a weapon in his hands and his face was to the enemy…if the man was on the ridge.

  Fate is only a name for the result of a man’s own efforts, and now it rewarded McBride for his cold, scared walk across open ground into the gun of a waiting marksman.

  He was ten yards from the base of the ridge, his eyes scanning the rocks, when he stepped into a shallow hole scraped away by some animal. The depression wasn’t deep, but it was unexpected. McBride’s ankle turned and he stumbled awkwardly to his left. At the same instant a rifle shot snapped from the ridge….

  Ralph Compton

  Shadow of the Gun

  A Ralph Compton Novel

  by Joseph A. West

  A SIGNET BOOK

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © The Estate of Ralph Compton, 2008

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 1-4362-0936-6

  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.

  * * *

  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, allowing 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

  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 1

  Sergeant John McBride, formerly of the New York Police Department’s Bureau of Detectives, was a long way from home. To be exact, he was in grass and scrub country a few miles south of New Mexico’s Zuni Plateau. A two-hour ride to the west lay the Arizona border, to the east the vast bulk of Santa Rita Mesa.

  Ahead of him…danger.

  But the man who now rode beside McBride had assured him that Deer Creek Tom Rivers, his Chiricahua Apache wife and his three half-breed sons would meekly pack up and leave the range without a fight.

  “That nester riffraff won’t draw on the man who killed Hack Burns,” Cliff Brennan had told McBride when he hired him for the job. “Easiest five hundred you’ll ever make, gunfighter. Just run them filthy squatters off my grass and the money is yours. In gold coin, mind you.”

  Brennan was a hard, uncompromising man who had hanged both rustlers and Apaches with a ruthless disregard for the law. He rode a big American stud that dwarfed McBride’s mouse-colored mustang, and from his lofty perch he kept his eyes fixed on the trail ahead. The rancher clutched the Winchester across his saddle horn until his knuckles grew white and he fingered the trigger almost nervously. But the man’s weather-scarred face looked like it had been chipped from granite and the belligerent jut of his chin suggested a man whose constitution requires that he kill or be killed.

  Watching Brennan’s intent, tight-lipped face from under the brim of his plug hat, McBride decided that the big rancher was lying about Rivers and his clan. He did not expect the squatters to saddle up and spinelessly ride away. What he did expect was gunplay and the violent deaths of men.

  McBride felt a tightness rise in him. Brennan had contacted him in Albuquerque as a named man
looking for investigative work. Impressed by his reputation as an up-and-coming gunfighter, notoriety McBride knew he did not deserve, the rancher had told him he needed a range detective to evict nesters from his property.

  “The law will be on your side, McBride,” the man had said. “Just show your gun and tell the trash to go.” A smile had touched his lips. “They’ll go, all right.”

  McBride had needed the money and took Brennan’s offer. Now he wasn’t so sure he’d made the right decision.

  Back along their trail, he’d talked to men who knew Rivers, or of him, and the consensus of opinion was that the old man had sand and there was no backup in him.

  Now McBride realized that Cliff Brennan’s grim face confirmed that estimation. The rancher knew, or at least feared, that Rivers and his sons would reach for the gun.

  All McBride could do now was to go through with the job and hope to talk his way out of a revolver fight. His plan was thin, mighty thin, but there was no going back from it. He needed the five hundred real bad and he had it to do.

  McBride glanced up at the faded blue of the sky, weighing what his chances would be if there was to be a fight. He was a fair hand with the .38 Smith & Wesson in the shoulder holster under his left arm, hit-and-miss with the Winchester in the saddle scabbard. If worse came to worst, as it invariably did in the West, it would be four against two. And if the Rivers boys had as much sand as their old man, the outcome of today’s work could be an uncertain thing.

  His mouth dry, McBride scanned the sun-scorched land ahead of him and tried not to build houses on a bridge he hadn’t yet crossed. There would be time enough for that when he reached the Riverses’ place and the war talk began.

  He and Brennan let their horses drink at a narrow creek, its waters shallow and still, then rode into greener country made difficult to cross by stands of prickly pear, stabbing chaparral and steep tumbles of volcanic rock. Here and there clumps of dust-covered mesquite stood like motionless ghosts, barring their way. The sun was right overhead and the air smelled of hot sand, horse and man sweat and the fleeting suggestion of distant pines. Only the surrounding mountains looked cool, their peaks a darker blue than the blue of the sky.

  Brennan nodded once toward some cottonwoods growing around a pond that was little more than a shallow rock tank. “Yonder are a few of my cattle,” he said.

  McBride glanced at a dozen or so white-faced cows grazing in dappled tree shade but took no joy in what he saw. Somehow seeing Herefords out there in the wilderness served only to make the land appear more hostile and a man to feel even more alone.

  For thirty minutes he and Brennan rode in silence, the only sound the creak of saddle leather and the dusty plod of hooves.

  Finally the rancher pointed to a craggy height ahead of him. “That’s Eagle Peak and to the northwest of that Tejana Mesa. We’re getting close.”

  The day was stifling, with sultry air crowding thick and close, the alkali stretches around them burning white in the merciless sun.

  McBride drew rein and reached for his canteen. He took a pull, swirled it around his mouth and spat out a mix of dust and water, then drank again. He hung the canteen back on the saddle horn and said to Brennan, “How come none of your hands are with us?”

  Brennan had also drunk. He wiped drops of water off his mustache with the back of his hand and answered, “I got three men working for me. But one is so stove up with the rheumatisms, all he can do is cook. The other two are younger, but they’re not gunfighters. Sure, they’ll ride for the brand, but I decided to leave them behind. All them two boys would do is get in the damned way.”

  “And you, Brennan—how are you with the iron?”

  The eyes the rancher turned to McBride were suddenly cold. “I’m fifty-one years old, and I killed my first man down in the Nations when I was fourteen. I’ve killed another three since, and every man jack of them took my bullets in the front.”

  McBride nodded. “All of them named men?”

  Brennan shook his head. “Hell no, not a one of them. Two were rustlers and the last was a bullheaded city marshal down Texas way who wouldn’t allow me to drive my herd through his town. ‘Too much crap to pick up afterward,’ he said. Well, when I told my trail boss to go ahead and push those cows along Main Street, the lawman drawed down on me.” A wry smile flirted with the rancher’s lips. “It was the worst an’ last mistake he ever made.”

  McBride nodded. “I guess you’ll do.”

  “Maybe, but I gunned that lawman twenty years ago. I’ve slowed down considerable since then and I’ve been thinking that maybe I don’t have the stomach for gunfighting no more.”

  “Then you’d better put some fire in your belly,” McBride said. “This might not be as easy as you think.”

  “I know that. That’s why I’m paying you gun wages.” Brennan’s eyes were suddenly shrewd, thoughtful. “Ever since I met you, McBride, I’ve been trying to figure you out. There’s something about you that don’t fit the gunfighter mold. You don’t have”—the rancher thought for a moment—“style. And I have a feeling you’ve worn a tin star yourself in some hick town along your back trail.”

  McBride grinned. “You know, Brennan, you’re right. I did wear a star in a hick town once.”

  The rancher was pleased. “Knew that! Dang me, but I had you pegged right off, huh?”

  “You sure did. But one thing that hick town taught me was that a police officer must always present a fine appearance to the public.” McBride climbed awkwardly out of the saddle, the mustang so small the stirrup was only six inches off the ground. “As for style,” he said, still smiling, his hands on the small of his back as he arched against the stiffness, “maybe I can change your mind.”

  As Brennan watched in fascinated amusement, McBride took a new gray coat from his blanket roll, dusted it off and placed it carefully over the saddle. He found a high celluloid collar in his saddlebags and a red and black striped tie. He studded the collar in place and knotted the tie at his throat. Then he shrugged into the coat, wiped his boots free of dust on the back of his pants and settled the frayed brown derby squarer on his head. A forefinger and thumb smoothing of his dragoon mustache and he was done.

  “See, Brennan?” he said. “Style.”

  “You could call it that,” the rancher said, interested but unimpressed.

  “Now let’s go talk to Mr. Rivers,” McBride said.

  Born and raised in the teeming slums of New York’s Hell’s Kitchen, McBride was no hand with horses, and mounting was always an uncertain undertaking for him. But for once the mustang stood still, its ugly head hanging, and he managed an ungainly mount.

  Brennan raised an eyebrow. “You must have paid all of five dollars for that hoss.”

  “If I remember correctly, it was five plus another twenty.”

  “Then you were robbed,” Brennan said.

  They rode across a stretch of brush flat; then the ground rose gradually toward a rise where a scattering of juniper and piñon grew among high rocks. When they crested the hill, Brennan drew rein and McBride saw the land drop away from them toward a narrow creek. Here the air breathed cool and thick. It was like drinking water from a deep well.

  “See the cabin?” Brennan said. “There, among the cottonwoods.”

  McBride’s gaze reached out into the distance and he saw a tumbledown log cabin standing near the creek, shaded by the tree canopy. Smoke, straight as a string, rose from a crooked wattle chimney before dying into a smear of gray against the sky. A rickety pole corral stood near the cabin, a few horses inside, and a covered wagon, its tongue raised, was parked nearby. The whole tumbledown spread looked like it was held together with baling wire and spit, and McBride decided that the Rivers clan appeared to be a lazy, shiftless bunch.

  Cliff Brennan was talking to him. Formal and distant. “Gunfighter, before we ride down there, let me tell you something: Deer Creek Tom Rivers is hell on wheels with a gun, but his eldest son, Mordecai, is a devil. He’s half Apache
, half English and all son of a bitch. He’s lightning fast on the draw and shoot and he’s killed more than his share.”

  McBride nodded, the tightness in him again. “How will I know this Mordecai?”

  Brennan’s voice was flat, taut. “You’ll know him when you see him. Anyhow, he’s the one who will do all the talking, if there’s talking to be done.”

  “Let’s go find out,” McBride said, heeling his horse forward off the crest of the rise. He’d seen uncertainty, maybe fear, in Brennan’s face and it troubled him. The man had talked big enough on the trail, but now that they were about to choose partners for a revolver fandango, his guts seemed to be turning to water.

  “Hello, the cabin!” McBride yelled when they were still a ways off. He called out, not to alert Tom Rivers, but to draw scant comfort from the confident tone of his own voice.

  The cabin door swung open and three young men stepped into the yard, watching him and Brennan come.

  McBride calculated distance and drew rein when he was twenty feet from the Rivers boys. At that range he could score with the .38 self-cocker if he were pushed to it. He opened his mouth to speak, but the oldest of the three men roughly headed him off.

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “Ah,” McBride said, smiling. “You must be Mordecai.”

  “And what’s it to you?”

  Mordecai wore a belted Colt as did his brothers. His high-cheekboned face was very dark, blackened by sun, but his eyes were pale green, and he had the slitted, cold stare of a snake. His lank black hair fell over his shoulders and McBride noticed that the walnut handle of his gun had been notched several times, one of the notches raw and fresh. The man looked small, thin and dangerous and he’d be almighty sudden.