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    Ralph Compton the Tenderfoot Trail
    Ralph Compton the Tenderfoot Trail
    Ralph Compton the Tenderfoot Trail
    Ebook255 pages3 hours

    Ralph Compton the Tenderfoot Trail

    By Ralph Compton and Joseph A. West

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    About this ebook

    In this Ralph Compton western, even the most rugged trailsman has to watch his steps...

    It’s called the Whoop-Up Trail. It’s a two hundred mile stretch of rough terrain between Montana and Canada, littered with spiky brushwood, crawling with clawed and fanged critters of all shapes and sizes, and traversed by hostile Indians and vicious outlaws.
     
    But for Luke Garrett—framed for a murder he didn’t commit, saddled with five mail-order brides, driving what’s left of his cattle herd, and pursued by vigilantes—it’s the only chance for survival… 
     
    More Than Six Million Ralph Compton Books In Print!
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPenguin Publishing Group
    Release dateJul 5, 2006
    ISBN9781101177525
    Author

    Ralph Compton

    Ralph Compton stood six-foot-eight without his boots. His first novel in the Trail Drive series, The Goodnight Trail, was a finalist for the Western Writers of America Medicine Pipe Bearer Award for best debut novel. He was also the author of the Sundown Rider series and the Border Empire series. A native of St. Clair County, Alabama, Compton worked as a musician, a radio announcer, a songwriter, and a newspaper columnist before turning to writing westerns. He died in Nashville, Tennessee in 1998.

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      Ralph Compton the Tenderfoot Trail - Ralph Compton

      Chapter 1

      The barber snipped away the last errant curl that hung over the collar of Luke Garrett’s shirt, switched to smaller scissors, then carefully trimmed the young rancher’s sweeping dragoon mustache. That done, the man stepped back to admire his handiwork, nodded to himself and reached for a bottle of pomade on the counter. He vigorously rubbed the lavender-scented oil into Garrett’s unruly auburn mane, then combed the hair straight back from his forehead.

      A little wax on the mustache, maybe? the barber asked, his hands clasped together at the front of his chest as he gave a solicitous little bow.

      Garrett shook his head. Let it be. I reckon I smell like a sheepherder’s socks already.

      This entire operation had been watched, to his evident satisfaction, by Simon Carter, chief of the Fort Benton Honorable Vigilante Committee.

      Stand up, boy, Carter told Garrett. Let’s take a look at ye.

      The young man swung out of the chair and rose to his feet. Garrett was twenty-five years old that summer and stood a couple of inches above six feet. He was thin in the waist and hips, but wide across the shoulders, where it mattered most. Hard muscle bulged under the sleeves of his washed-out denim shirt and his hands were big and scarred from twenty years of working cattle. Garrett wore fringed shotgun chaps and wide canvas suspenders over his shirt, and his ten-dollar boots were handmade but much scuffed and down-at-heel. His eyes were hazel, but showed more ice green than brown when anger was on him, as it was on him now.

      Satisfied, Carter? Garrett asked, his voice sharp-edged as a slow-burning fury rode him.

      Carter tipped his chair against the shop wall, looked the younger man up and down, then beamed. You look crackerjack, boy! I swear, it’s going to be a real honor to hang you.

      Garrett rubbed his shaved cheeks and briefly glanced at himself in the mirror, where his eyes caught and held Carter’s. Seems like a lot of trouble to go to for a hanging, he said.

      The vigilante nodded his agreement. There are some might say that, but Simon Carter will send no man to hell without a shave, a haircut and a full belly. You’ll get beefsteak and eggs this afternoon, boy, an’ a mess o’ buttermilk biscuits if’n such is to your liking.

      Carter looked his prisoner up and down again, eased his chair away from the wall, and his beaming smile grew wider. Crackerjack! he said.

      The vigilante nodded his satisfaction and asked the barber: Don’t he look crackerjack, Sam?

      Crackerjack, Sam said without noticeable enthusiasm. An’ that’s why he’s gonna cost you a dollar, Carter.

      Tender your bill to the committee, Carter said. In triplicate, as usual.

      The man called Sam swore under his breath. And as usual I won’t see a red cent.

      It’s your civic duty to curry the condemned, Sam. Carter smiled. There are some might see it that way.

      Civic duty my ass, Sam snapped. A pat on the back don’t cure saddle galls or an empty wallet either.

      Garrett reached into the pocket of his shirt, found a dollar and spun it to the barber. Take that. It’s the only one they missed.

      Sam caught the coin expertly and brandished it in Carter’s direction. See that? A real gentleman, he is.

      The vigilante was no longer smiling. You held out on me, boy, he said. That dollar should have gone toward your keep.

      So what are you going to do about it, Carter? Garrett asked. Hang me?

      Carter rose to his feet, a long, lank string bean of a man in a shabby black suit and cracked patent leather shoes. His dirty, collarless shirt showed what he’d eaten for his last ten meals and a battered silk top hat was tilted on his bald head. By profession, Carter was the town’s undertaker and it showed. He looked and walk-hopped like a seedy, molting crow.

      Now you get buffler steak for your last meal, boy, he said, his face flushed. And maybe you won’t get any of them biscuits I was talkin’ about neither.

      For a few moments Carter’s black eyes locked with Garrett’s. But gradually the man relaxed and his smile returned. Nah, beefsteak it is. Damn it all, I like you, boy. I’m going to hang you, but I like you.

      Garrett did not reply as he measured the distance between him and the vigilante, figuring his chances. He tensed, knowing that if he was going to make a play, it had to be now.

      But Carter read something reckless in the younger man’s eyes and the shotgun in his hands came up fast, the muzzles pointing right at Garrett’s belly. Don’t even think about trying it, boy, he said, his voice soft, without threat. I’d cut you in half with this here Greener afore you took a single step.

      Buckshot always means a buryin’, that’s for sure, the barber observed. An’ nobody knows that more’n you, Carter. In your time you’ve gunned your share.

      The vigilante nodded and smiled, as though Sam had fairly stated the case.

      Garrett glanced at the shotgun, rock steady in Carter’s hands. Dirty and unkempt the man might be, but the weapon was clean, a film of oil glistening the length of the barrels. The man’s fingers were white-knuckled on the triggers and Garrett knew that if he even developed a sudden eye twitch Carter would cut loose.

      Forcing himself to relax, the young rancher unclenched his fists and managed a slight smile. When I got right down to it, I plumb lost my confidence. He nodded toward the Greener. Came on me all of a sudden.

      Wise decision, Carter said, without humor. Now get your hat. Time you was heading back to the jail afore you get any more of them bright ideas and step into a passel of trouble.

      After Garrett collected his battered Stetson from the hook on the wall, the barber whisked a brush across his shoulders. I’d say you’re welcome to come back, son. But on account of how by sundown you won’t be around no more, I’ll just—Sam stuck out his hand—say so long and good luck.

      Garrett shook the barber’s proffered hand and stepped outside, Carter alert and ready behind him.

      The young man settled his hat on his head and briefly looked around, his nose lifted to air so thick a man might feel he could cut out chunks of it with a knife.

      It was still an hour from noon, yet the sun was already blazing hot in a sky the color of washed-out denim, ripening the stench of manure from thousands of mules, horses and oxen and from piles of stinking buffalo hides. In winter the streets of Fort Benton became seas of vile-smelling mud, impassable even for freight wagons, but now, that hot summer of 1876, dust was the problem. Despite the recent rain, the ground had dried quickly, and choking yellow clouds hung in the air, kicked up by wagon wheels and draft animals. The dust sifted into every nook and cranny of the town, lying thick and indiscriminate like powdered mustard on furniture from parlor pianos to saloon faro wheels. It found its way inside the wool shirts of men and the silk dresses of women, mingling with sweat, trickling slow and gritty down muscular backs and between soft breasts.

      A mile-long levee protected the town’s scattered shacks, stables and warehouses from the annual flood of the Missouri and down by the loading docks were tied the elegant steamboats that had plied the river this far but could travel no farther.

      Gold miners headed for Bannack, Virginia City or Last Chance Gulf had to complete their journeys overland.

      The town was the very center of a vast transportation hub. All the major trails in Montana, including those leading into Canada, intersected at Benton, and that was the reason why the town prospered in freight and shipping operations.

      The headquarters of the rich merchant princes who helped Benton thrive were clustered around Front Street, outfits like Garrison and Wyatt, Car-roll and Steel, E. G. Maclay and Company and the Diamond R Transportation Company. Between them these firms employed three thousand men, four thousand horses and twenty thousand oxen and mules to haul goods in and out of the town.

      The loud and profane men who jostled their wagons past Garrett on the street were for the most part professional bullwhackers and mule skinners, although Benton also had its share of wolfers, miners, gamblers, whores and whiskey traders.

      Here and there, usually seen lounging outside the town’s dozen roaring saloons, were men of a different stamp. Lean, blue-eyed men wearing belted Colts, they looked at nothing directly but saw everything. Such men were few in Benton, but their presence was always noted, their movements closely observed.

      Luke Garrett felt the muzzles of Carter’s Greener dig into his back. Get moving, boy, he said. You’ve seen enough. And walk real relaxed and easy. The vigilante’s voice dropped to a conversational tone and the younger man could hear his smile. Two things you should learn about me, son—I got faith in shotguns and I don’t never trust a dead wolf until he’s been skun.

      Without turning, Garrett nodded. I’ve learned something about you already, Carter.

      An’ what’s that?

      You don’t ever need to worry about biting off more than you can chew. Your mouth is a whole lot bigger than you think.

      Behind him, Garrett heard the vigilante cackle. Dang it all, Luke, but I like you. Whooee, but you’ve got sand, boy.

      The two men walked past the gallows built near the jail, a simple platform of pine boards six feet high surmounted by a T-shaped gibbet with iron hooks screwed into the underside of each end of the crossbar. Red, white and blue bunting had already been draped over the front of the platform in anticipation of Garrett’s hanging.

      Carter saw the younger man’s head turn to look and he said, Haven’t had a double hanging in near a twelvemonth. Always draws a big crowd. But don’t you worry none. A nice-looking young feller like you will bring plenty out to watch.

      Thanks, Garrett said. That cheers me considerably.

      Bad thing about a hanging is you never quite know how it’s going to go, Carter said as they reached the jail. I’ve seen two-gun hard cases who claimed to be all horns and rattles go weak at the knees an’ cry like babies when the time came for them to take their dose of rope medicine. He shook his head. No, sir, a hanging is one dang thing you just can’t practice for.

      He motioned to Garrett with the shotgun. Now you step over there to the side of the door and don’t move a muscle.

      The vigilante pushed the muzzle of the Greener into Garrett’s belly and removed a large iron key from his pocket. He turned the key in the lock and the bolt clanked back. Without moving the shotgun muzzle an inch from its spot just above the buckle of Garrett’s chaps, he swung the door wide and nodded toward the opening. Now get inside—and don’t be trying no fancy moves.

      Garrett stepped into the jail and the door slammed behind him. Carter’s face appeared at the small barred window cut in the heavy oak. I’ll bring your supper around four. That’ll give you a quiet hour to eat afore we hang you.

      The young rancher turned. Thanks, Carter. You’re all heart.

      Garrett’s sarcasm was lost on the man. Me, I always try to be a bit nicer to prisoners than is called for, he said. But I don’t take no guff either.

      Before Garrett could answer, the vigilante swung on his heel and walked away, his choppy, crow-hopping steps kicking up little puffs of dust around his patent leather shoes.

      Garrett watched the man go, then sat on the edge of the bunk. The narrow bed with its filthy straw mattress represented the extent of the jail’s furnishings. The jail itself was a single room about twenty feet long by half as much wide, built low and sturdy of heavy pine logs. To discourage escape attempts, the floor was concrete. The roof was a shallow, inverted V of pine beams and rough wood shingles topped by a layer of sod. A tiny window barred with iron was cut high in the wall opposite the bunk, through which angled a ray of sunlight where flickering dust motes danced.

      Rising to his feet, Garrett crossed the cell, walking from gloom into light and back to gloom again. He reached up and tried the bars on the window. But they refused to budge, the iron set in cement by a man who knew his business.

      Discouraged, Garrett stepped back to the bunk and flopped down on his back. Carter had left him with his makings and he reached into his shirt pocket, found tobacco and papers and built a smoke. He thumbed one of his remaining matches into flame, lit the cigarette, and through a curling cloud of blue smoke stared moodily at the shadowed roof, trying to grapple with the reason why his life had changed so completely and rapidly—and for the worse.

      In less than twenty-four hours he’d gone from being a prosperous, good-looking young rancher with a herd to sell to a condemned criminal who’d soon be dancing at the end of a hemp rope.

      And now, as he studied hard on it, he remembered that the coffee thirst of an Arbuckle-drinking old man had been the start of it all. . . .

      Chapter 2

      In the early summer, when the corn lilies were in full bloom, Luke Garrett and his hired hand, bearded, sturdy old Zebulon Ready, moved the young rancher’s small herd off their pasture in the Judith Basin country and hazed them north toward Fort Benton, at the southern end of the Whoop-Up Trail.

      For six days Garrett and Ready drove the fifty shorthorn Durhams and small remuda of six ponies across good grass that in places grew belly-high to a steer. By the time they made camp a couple of miles outside of town, the cattle were fat and sleek, a fact that did not go unnoticed by Ready.

      Luke, I’d say this herd is worth ten dollars a head in anybody’s money, he said. I reckon we can push those redcoat Mounties at Fort Whoop-Up to go fifteen, maybe more.

      Maybe so, Garrett agreed. He reached for the coffeepot and filled his cup, his eyes restlessly scanning the darkness around him where the herd was bedded down. They were quiet right now, but anything could set them to running. Garrett saw lightning flash to the west and heard the distant grumble of thunder.

      How little will Deke Waters take for the bull? the old man asked. Could be we’ll have enough money to buy the Angus and have enough left over to put in that artesian well you’re always talking about.

      Garrett smiled. Trouble is, there’s no little to it, Zeb. Deke wants five hundred and he won’t back off on the price a cent.

      Mean ol’ cuss, that Deke Waters, Ready said, his bearded lips moving around the stem of his pipe.

      He’s just a toothless old dog that chews real careful, Garrett said.

      Five hundred is a heap of money, Luke.

      Garrett nodded. I reckon it is, but then, that Red Angus of Deke’s is a heap of bull.

      The bull was the reason Garrett had rounded up his herd early and pushed it north. He’d been told by a passing rancher down from Fort Benton that the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in Alberta were right then paying ten dollars a head in silver for Indian agency beef.

      Prodding him too was the parting remark Deke Waters had made. I’ll hold the Angus for you, Luke, but not for too long, the old rancher had told him. I’m short of ready cash my ownself and my old lady is agitating for a shade porch around the house. So you see how it is with me.

      When a man calls your bluff, it’s time to look at your hole card again, and this Garrett knew. In his case, the card was his fifty young shorthorns and the five hundred dollars in Mountie silver they’d bring at Fort Whoop-Up.

      His mind made up, he and Ready had gathered the herd the next day.

      Ready, a long and lanky seventy-year-old with far-seeing blue eyes, stretched out a buckskinned arm and grabbed the coffeepot. He filled Garrett’s cup and said, Drink up, Luke. After this, we have a handful of coffee for breakfast and then it’s all gone.

      The young rancher set the cup between his legs and began to build a smoke. I’ll ride into Benton tomorrow and buy some, he said. And we need salt pork and flour.

      Ready nodded. And a sack of sugar and maybe some raisins. And when it comes to the coffee, buy only Arbuckle, Luke. Accept no substitute.

      Garrett smiled. I’ll bear that in mind.

      Ready was lean and long muscled, all the tallow burned out of him by a lifetime of hard trails. He’d been a Texas Ranger, Indian fighter and later, as a top hand, had helped Oliver Loving and Charlie Goodnight blaze their cattle trail from central Texas to Fort Sumner in the New Mexico Territory.

      That association had ended a few years later when Goodnight’s new foreman, a sour man called Wilson, told him, Ready, I’m a man of few words. If I say come, you come. Zeb nodded and answered, Wilson, I’m a man of few words my ownself. If I shake my head, I ain’t comin’.

      Ready figured it was high time to pull his freight and for a while he’d prospered in the restaurant business before giving it up to work for Garrett. It was a decision neither man had found cause to regret.

      Zeb was a talkative, friendly man and he had a relaxed, even-tempered way about him. In the past, a few hard cases, mistaking his casual manner for weakness, had thought him an easy mark. Five of them lay buried in Boot Hills from Texas to Montana, men who learned too late that Ready could also do a sight of talking with his gun.

      He was good with the Colt, better with the Henry, and there was no backup in him. As he’d told Garrett many times, Luke, when your talking is all done, and you go to the gun, coolness and a steady nerve will always beat a fast draw. Take your time and you’ll only need to pull the trigger once.

      Garrett had never been in a gunfight, but he’d listened and learned and stored away what Ready had told him. He didn’t know it then, but the old man’s advice would very soon save his life—and land him in more trouble than any young rancher could be reasonably expected to handle.

      Now Garrett looked across the fire at Ready as the man talked again. Thunder to the west, Luke. I reckon I’ll saddle up and do some singing to the herd.

      I’ll do it, the younger man answered. You can spell me in a couple of hours.

      As Garrett rose to his feet, Ready asked, Luke, you heard anything about this here trail to Fort Whoop-Up?

      Garrett shook his head. Not much, except it’s two hundred miles of difficult country where everything that grows has spines and everything that walks has fangs. Add outlaws of every stamp, whiskey traders and downright hostile Crows, Blackfoot and Sioux, and the Whoop-Up Trail shapes up to be no place for a pilgrim. The younger man smiled. Or us either, come to that.

      Ready stretched, his face untroubled. "That doesn’t do much to inspire confidence

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