Ralph Compton Ghost Hollow Ranch, page 1
ATTACK!
Lucas aimed as carefully as he could. The bear was too close to Charlie. He didn’t have a shot. He let out a frustrated growl and then shot in the air. “Come and get me!”
The bear turned toward him, snarling. He’d gotten his wish. It was getting ready to charge.
He made sure the butt of the rifle was secure against his shoulder, levered the action, and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
Charlie’d brought a buggy rifle! Lucas should have brought his Colt.
Lucas tossed the gun away. He had only moments to figure out what to do, or they’d be planting his body in a hole in the ground.
Hole in the ground.
Lucas spun around and started to run.
A man couldn’t outrun a bear, not even one that might have taken a couple hits. But Lucas didn’t need to outrun the bear for long. Just a few more feet, he prayed. He made it to that hole in the ground before the bear made it to him.
Lucas dropped to the ground beside the sinkhole, and for a beat, he couldn’t bring himself to move. The blackness was complete down there. Up here, there was the moon and the light of the stars above, but underground, there was nothing besides blackness and death and . . .
Lucas shoved his feet inside the hole, lay down on his back, and slid inside the gaping maw of the earth.
BERKLEY
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Copyright © 2021 by The Estate of Ralph Compton
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Ebook ISBN: 9780593334003
First Edition: October 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.
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CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
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
About the Author
For Bonnie Pulliam
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
You looking for work?”
Lucas studied his cards and didn’t reply. The man across from him already knew the answer. What else would a stranger be doing in this town? Looking for work or passing through, and if he couldn’t find the former, Lucas would certainly be doing the latter.
“You come from San Francisco? Saw that saddle you got. Mighty fine, mighty fine.”
Lucas lifted his eyes to the man. “Won it playing poker.” That was a lie, but it did the work he wanted it to. The man stopped his questions.
They’d been playing for around about an hour. Five men had started the game; the first one had just folded. That left Lucas and three other men with a pile of coins between them. This opponent of his—Coplin was his name, little though Lucas wanted to know it—liked to talk. Lucas was fairly sure the man who folded had done so just to get away from the talking. Lucas might have too, except he wanted those bits of metal on the table. Especially if he couldn’t find work here.
He was heading north, back up from a job just outside of Los Angeles. This town wasn’t the sort of place he usually liked to stop in—small, full of neighbors who knew one another’s business, and ranchers who might expect to have the same hands for years. Lucas wasn’t interested in being anyone’s ranch hand for years, nor in becoming a neighbor who knew anyone else’s business. He preferred the big jobs, the temporary ones, spending a month here or there and then moving on.
But it didn’t hurt to stop for a night or two, and the money he’d earned down south had run out quicker than he’d have liked. Los Angeles hadn’t been good for him, not good for him at all. Near Santa Cruz he decided San Francisco and the like hadn’t been good for him either, and turned east. That was how he’d ended up here.
The town was called Lacuna, and it seemed like it was barely a speck on the map. It was in a small valley, sheltered by hills and pines. That was probably where it got its name. There didn’t seem to be more than four or five streets to the town itself. Most of the buildings were made from wood that was already weathered, though this town couldn’t have been more than forty years old. The folk seemed friendly enough, though Lucas tried not to be particularly friendly himself. Not anymore.
He was closer to forty than thirty these days, and while his age showed in the gray in his hair, he cared more about the way it showed itself in the aches and pains he sometimes got after a hard day’s work or a restless night’s sleep. Too old to be a drifter, he sometimes thought, but he’d spent his youth tied to one place until the very earth there had upended him.
Coplin opened his mouth. Lucas should have known the silence was too good to last. “Anyone ever ask you how you got that scar on your face?”
Coplin was probably fifty, a short man, ruddy and rude. Not the sort Lucas would have preferred to associate with but the type he often did.
“They do,” he said.
“And do you say you won it in a poker game too?” Coplin replied, grinning like a fool at his own cleverness.
“I tell them I got it taking down a bear,” Lucas said, and let them all wonder if it was true.
They played on for a while. Most at the table were a friendly sort, and all of them were unskilled at gambling. Lucas knew he was going to win big before the first hand was over, and almost felt bad about it.
The man at the end folded with a grunt. “You sure those cards ain’t cursed as old Frank’s land?”
The dealer, a man named Eamon who was acting as the host of this card den, huffed a laugh, but Lucas didn’t think he found the reference particularly funny. “I’ll have no talk of curses at this table, hoss.”
“Certain people lose, you’ll have plenty of cursing,” the next man said, knocking on the table to check.
“Oh, ho, is that how it is? You think I’m gonna lose?” Coplin asked. His squat face split in a grin. His teeth were crooked, but he seemed to have them all. “Think maybe then I’ll raise.”
“You might not want to do that, son,” the older man at his shoulder said quietly.
Lucas knew what Coplin was going to say before he said it. “Mind your business,
The pity he felt at taking this man’s money began to harden. No one at home that he wanted to see—was that how it was? He imagined being able to go home, having someone there waiting for him, and choosing instead to be in the back room of a general store, drinking bad whiskey and playing at cards with ugly strangers. If he had the choice, there was nowhere he’d rather be than home. This man was so dull, he couldn’t cut hot butter. And Lucas didn’t want him to forget it.
Another round, and the last player besides Lucas and Coplin folded. Coplin’s knee was jiggling and his eyes were bright. Whatever cards he had, he thought they were good ones. He’d thrown out his last pennies already, but clearly the man didn’t think that was enough. Coplin dug inside a pocket and pulled out a flat wooden token.
“This’ll get the bearer a drink at Ada Mae’s saloon down the way. Valued at at least five cents.” Coplin tossed it into the pot. Lucas didn’t know how true that was, but Eamon had grunted something that sounded like agreement, and he seemed as trustworthy a sort as anyone.
Lucas nodded slowly, then flipped his own nickel into the pot.
“Well,” Coplin said after a long moment studying his cards and that pile of coin with his bright eyes. “Sorry to say, sir, but I’ll be drinking with that token.” He spread his cards down on the table. “I got myself a full. Eights over threes.”
“You drink at that saloon a lot?” Lucas asked. Before Coplin could answer, Lucas continued. “You’ll have to tell me what their best drink is when I spend my token.”
The hand he put down on the table was four of a kind—all queens. Not much could beat that. The color drained from Coplin’s face as the closest spectators started to hoot and clap Lucas on the back. He wished he could shy away from the attention, but then the color started to rise again on Coplin’s face, and he knew he’d have a fight on his hands.
Coplin rose up with a growl, his chair slamming against the ground at the same time as his fists slammed against the table. “When I’m done with you—”
Lucas rose to his feet too. This man wanted a fight? Lucas could give him a fight. It might be a close one—Coplin was halfway to drunk and shorter than him, but he was burly. Looked like he could throw a punch and might be able to take one too. Lucas could feel the pounding of his heart. He flexed his fingers, curled them loosely into fists. He didn’t often brawl, but tonight he was inclined to give the man exactly what he wanted.
Coplin was moving toward him. He shoved his friend away as he went, and the older man stumbled back a couple of steps. Lucas stepped out from beside the table to meet him. When they stood toe to toe, Lucas was nearly a whole head taller than Coplin. When the smaller man looked up at him and sneered, Lucas could smell his breath—sour from alcohol and tobacco and who knew what else.
“You think you can come in here and cheat and get away with it? I’m of a mind to give you another scar to match the one on your face. You get that for cheating too?”
Lucas felt his face flush and imagined it made the scar stand out even more across his face. He hadn’t gotten it cheating anything except death, and he often wished he hadn’t. He leaned in toward Coplin. “I’d think mighty hard about my next words if I were you.”
Coplin’s eyes weren’t lit with anything close to intelligence. “I ain’t got anything else to say,” Coplin growled. And then the sound of shattering glass.
Lucas stepped back and the broken bottle whizzed past his face. Coplin had snatched up the whiskey bottle and broken it, sending the liquid all over the floor and, as he thrust the broken edge of the bottle through the air, in a stream across Lucas’ shirt. He dodged another swing of the bottle and lamented that he’d smell like cheap whiskey for the rest of the night.
He let Coplin swipe a third time, then balled up his fist and swung.
His fist connected with Coplin’s nose. He dropped the bottle he was holding and clutched at his face, howling. He stomped back and forth for a moment, smashing the glass he’d already broken into smaller and smaller shards.
One or two of the men sitting at the edges of the room laughed. Lucas supposed it was funny, but he didn’t feel like laughing.
Eamon roared, “Get out of here, Sam! Yeah, you! Take him home!”
The older man grabbed Sam Coplin’s arm and ushered him toward the door.
“And you owe me for that bottle of whiskey!” Eamon called.
At that Coplin stopped and turned around. He dropped his hands. His nose was bloody and already swelling up like he’d been stung by a nest of hornets. “I ain’t paying for nothing,” he said. “That there stranger stole all my money. He can pay for your whiskey.”
The daggers in Coplin’s eyes were as sharp as the broken bottle, and Lucas reckoned that was as sharp as Sam Coplin ever got. He leaned forward and plucked some silver from the pile in the middle of the table. It was covered in that whiskey now, but even wet, money still spent.
“Here you go,” Lucas said. “Drinks are on me.”
CHAPTER TWO
After Coplin stormed out, the buzz of conversation picked up again. Low, even after Coplin was long gone. They weren’t just talking about Coplin clearly. Lucas thought about taking his winnings and walking out, but who knew if Coplin and the man who left with him were waiting to continue the fight outside? Lucas didn’t want a fight. At least, not anymore.
He took his seat at the now empty poker table and finished his drink as the rest of the men took their leave. Maybe he shouldn’t stay here. Such a small town, would he be able to find a job on a crew if it might include Coplin? The whiskey dripped down onto the floor, and Lucas moved his boot as a slow stream of the stuff wound its way toward him.
A man cleared his throat, and Lucas looked up to see Eamon, the host of the game, staring down at him, rag in hand. “Boss lets me use this back room provided he don’t see no evidence of our gambling,” he explained.
Lucas stood. “Let me help you clean up.”
The host cleaned away the whiskey while Lucas swept up the glass. Some of it slipped between the floorboards as he swept, and he wondered whether or not there was a cellar below being sprinkled with tiny shards of bottle glass. He didn’t ask.
Eamon presented another rag and Lucas dumped his winnings on top of it, then folded the top over, making a little bag. “Thanks for this.” He wiped his hands on his pants, then walked toward the hat he’d left atop his saddlebags in the corner. “I appreciate the game. And the whiskey.”
Eamon chuckled. “Can’t say I didn’t appreciate the entertainment. That fool’s been a troublemaker since the day he was born, and hear him tell, he didn’t deserve a single spoon of it. Tomorrow I’m sure he’ll be telling all about your cheating, but for tonight it was nice to see him humbled.”
“Glad to oblige,” Lucas said.
“If you’re looking to stick around, there might be need of a ranch hand out at Ghost Hollow Ranch,” the man said. “Strike out northeast from town and look for the road with the two big stones on either side. That’ll take you up to their ranch. Tell them Eamon Hardy sent you if they ask.”
Lucas raised his eyebrows. “If they ask?”
Eamon looked back at the table he was polishing. “Like I said, there might be a need for a ranch hand. They tend not to keep staff for very long out there.”
“Something wrong with the folk out there?” he asked.
The man shook his head. “Nothing wrong with them. Good people. Bad land. The place was damaged in the quake a few years back, but Widow MacGill insisted on building it right back up.”
He was still looking down and didn’t see the way Lucas’ hand tightened into a fist at the mention of the quake. Lucas took a breath, relaxed again. More than one person had told him he was too touchy about the quake. Most of them hadn’t been in the middle of it.
Eamon went on without noticing the change in Lucas at all. “Stubborn woman but a good one. If you need work, they’ll need the help. I think there’s a saying about horses and mouths that might apply.”
