Six out of aurora, p.1
Six Out of Aurora, page 1
ENCOUNTER WITH A BANDIT
The man was fast and small, rushing between trees and over rocks, tearing uphill. But Castor was fast too, and he was gaining on him.
The arms of a scraggly oak ripped at Castor’s clothes as he ran. Where was this outlaw taking him? Was Castor running into a trap? Even if he was, he couldn’t do anything else. He ran as fast as he could. And for every tree branch that caught at him, one caught at the outlaw too. They raced to the top of a hill, Castor gaining with each step.
It wasn’t a trap. At least, not one of the man’s design. At the top of the hill, the ground broke away. Castor couldn’t see how far down it was, but the outlaw’s arms spun like a whirligig to stop his motion. Too far down for comfort.
At the sound of Castor’s footsteps, he swirled around, wild-eyed. He had a knife in his hand, blade long and wicked-looking
“You best lower that knife,” Castor ordered.
The man didn’t answer; he just looked back at the drop, then back to Castor.
“We’re taking you to Aurora.”
“No one’s taking me nowhere,” the man spit—and lunged at Castor with his knife.
BERKLEY
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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.
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Ebook ISBN: 9780593333761
First Edition: April 2021
Cover art by Chris McGrath
Cover design by Steve Meditz
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
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
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
Castor was mending fences when the outlaw came over the ridge.
He’d been avoiding this task since he got back to Aurora. It made him think of too many things. There was plenty else to do on the land closer to the house, and it wasn’t as though his father had used this part of the farm. Not since Castor was almost too young to remember.
The sun had been blazing down from the middle of the sky when he’d made his way out to the western edge of the property; now it was almost time for the sun to make its escape for the day. Soon it would take cover beyond the ridge, and turn the sky almost bloody red. Castor paused in his work, cracked his neck, and wished he could join the sun in running away. He’d done that once, though, and it hadn’t worked out.
When the man scrambled into view, Castor’s first thought was that he was running so hard it looked like the devil himself was chasing him. Even from far off, it was obvious he was scared. He kept looking behind him, tripping over the rocky ground, and only barely catching himself from crashing down. Something was chasing him. Or someone.
Castor vaulted over his newly mended fence and started toward the man. In the distance, he could hear shouts and hoofbeats. He didn’t go for his revolver, but he was glad to have the Colt at his belt.
The man came running down the hill, torn jacket flapping behind him, hat lost halfway down. At the bottom of the slope, a ravine cut through the ground, a drop some twenty feet with a trickle of water running through rocks. Going around was easy enough, but the man didn’t change direction. He came barreling toward the ravine and didn’t stop.
The fool was going to jump it.
He leapt, caterwauling, arms flapping like he thought he’d grow wings. And he nearly made it—he landed, hard, against the other side, and maybe if the rain hadn’t come the night before, his handholds wouldn’t have immediately started to crumble.
Before he could tumble into the ravine, Castor made it to him.
He clasped his hand around the man’s wrist and hauled him up. The man’s legs flailed about before he could swing them over the side of the ravine, and then he rolled to safety, his chest heaving, eyes shiny as they stared up at the sky. He was young, Castor realized. Younger than him by a good two or three years maybe.
“Who’re you running from?” Castor asked.
The man started to climb to his feet, but he looked shaky, so Castor hauled him up again. Another shout came from a distance, and the man’s eyes went wide. He shoved Castor away and staggered back a step or two.
“I have to—,” he started, and reached for something beneath his jacket.
Castor’s hand was nearly to his revolver when the shot rang out.
The man crumpled to the ground.
Castor crouched down immediately. There was no cover to be had, not out here, not unless he counted the fence posts behind him. He scanned the ridge and found the shooter immediately. He didn’t relax; no, there was no relaxing when a man like that was in shooting range, rifle at the ready. But he did straighten, meeting the man’s eyes across the distance. He hesitated before replacing the rifle in its holster attached to his horse’s pommel. Only then did Castor let himself look away.
As Finley Buller closed the distance between them, his horse picking her way down the hill, Castor walked to the dead man. The shot had gone right through his heart. Castor flipped the jacket open, to see where the man’s hand had been headed. There was a revolver there, ill cared for and old, shoved through the man’s belt. No holster.
“I’ll accept your thanks, Mr. Castor,” Buller said.
Castor looked across the ravine, then behind Buller. Bill Herbert was with him, taking the rocky hill at speed even though the chase was over.
“What’s all this about?” Castor asked, instead of offering his gratitude.
Bill answered that for him, even though he hadn’t heard the question. “What a shot, Buller. Cryin’ shame outlaws don’t cross my father more often. We’d get in some good target practice.”
So this man had crossed Old Man Herbert. That was worse for a man’s health than jumping into ravines. It was no wonder he’d been so desperate to get away.
“What did he do?” Castor asked once Buller and Bill had made it to his side of the ravine.
“Thought he was clever enough to pull one over on my father. Ain’t that crime enough?” Bill Herbert laughed and swiped a hand through his dirty blond hair. “And you were fit to help him. Buller here should thank you. Those there rocks were about to get his man without your aid.”
Buller didn’t laugh along with him, just swung down from his horse. He was taller than Castor by a head, and Castor wasn’t a short man himself. “The man was a thief.”
Castor wondered what the m an had stolen, but didn’t ask. Why had he been headed over this ridge? There was nothing out here but open space and the Castor ranch, no place to hide, nowhere to go.
With Bill’s help, Buller got the body lashed to the back of his horse.
“Be seeing you, Eugene,” Bill Herbert said with a jaunty salute.
Castor jerked his head in a nod, then flicked his eyes toward Buller. The man didn’t look like he expected the thanks he’d asked for, which was good, because Castor had no plans to give them to him. Buller climbed back up on his horse, and the two of them rode back the way they’d come.
Castor watched them go, then looked back to the patch of ground where the man had died. The grass was bloody.
“Rocks would have been more painful,” he said aloud, then glanced down into the ravine, as though the rocks would answer him.
They didn’t.
He took a step back, and something crunched under his boot. He picked up his foot. There was something on the grass, half hidden. Castor bent down, dug his fingers into the bloody grass, and plucked it out. A ring. Silver band, pearl setting. He wondered whether the thief was going for his gun or for this. Was he trying for a bribe to hide him? The ring didn’t seem worth that much.
But stolen from Old Man Herbert . . .
Castor let out a curse. This meant he had to go to town.
CHAPTER TWO
Aurora had been more clapboard than anything when he left California. The town was bigger now, made of stronger wood, and there were more people on the dirt roads than he’d seen in nigh on three weeks. It had been that long since he’d been to town. He’d been looking to stay away for longer.
The marshal and his jail were at the end of the longest, widest street in town. Castor climbed the steps slowly. He’d hurried through the streets, avoiding any looks his way, head down, brim of his hat tilted to shield his green eyes from any nosy townsfolk. But now that he was here, he was in less of a hurry.
The door squeaked when he pushed it open, and the man sitting in a chair in the corner looked up as soon as he did. His bristly white mustache twitched as his lips curved in a smile.
“Eugene Castor, as I live and breathe. I thought it would be at least another week before I saw your face round here.”
Arthur Adams rose to his feet and crossed the room to clap his strong hands down on Castor’s shoulders. A part of Castor wanted to relax into the friendly grip, and another part of him felt like he couldn’t stand up under the weight of those hands. He ducked his head and tried to smile, and with a last squeeze, Marshal Adams let his arms drop back to his sides, one thumb hooking onto his belt.
“It’s not every day Finley Buller takes aim at a man trespassing on my land,” Castor said.
The last trace of the smile left Adams’ face when he said it. Adams nodded. “I heard that was where they caught up with him. I sent my deputy and a couple other men out too. I was hoping my people would find him before Buller, bring him back alive. Wasn’t to be, though.”
“Bill says he stole something from his old man.” It wasn’t quite a question. If Bill’s story hadn’t been true, no way would Adams have been as easy about a shooting in his town. He didn’t like Buller as it was. But there hadn’t seemed to be anything of value on the body—except, maybe, the ring he’d found in the dirt. Castor couldn’t imagine anyone risking crossing Old Man Herbert for that.
“More than just something,” Adams said. “And more than just him.”
He said it in a leading way, like he was trying to pique Castor’s curiosity the way he’d done when Castor was a boy, when he’d visit Adams and learn all about the books he collected. Castor’d had enough of that.
“Not my business,” Castor replied, then dug into his pocket. “This fell out of the man’s jacket when Buller shot him.” He handed the ring over.
Adams turned it over in his hand, once, twice. “Thank you for bringing it to me.”
Castor nodded and ducked his head low again. Adams had a way of making a bigger deal out of things than what needed to be made, of looking him in the eye and making him feel seen.
He stayed alone for a reason. Being seen wasn’t it.
“I should be getting back,” he said.
“How’s the old place shaping up?”
It had been in poor condition when he got back to Aurora. It hadn’t been in great shape when he left either, but that was nothing compared to the wreck he found when he came home. His father had been gone six months by then; it had certainly taken much longer for the place to go to seed the way it had when he’d found it. He wondered what had happened to his father to let his pride and joy get so worn down. There were a number of people he could have asked about that, the town marshal right in front of him being first on that list, but he didn’t. Even though he wondered, he didn’t want to know.
“It’s coming along,” he said to Adams. That was true. Adams hmmed under his breath, as though there was more to say than that. There wasn’t. “I’m more than capable of taking care of that farm, no matter what the folks around here think of me.”
The mustache danced a little again as Adams smiled. “Son, it matters little and less what they think about you around here. What matters is what you think about yourself.”
Castor scoffed. He didn’t want to call Adams a fool—he had too much respect for the man to do that—but he couldn’t stop himself from thinking it. Adams looked like he knew, and didn’t care. Castor hated that look he got on his face sometimes.
Before either of them could say another word, the door burst open and Bill Herbert entered the room like a storm, boots pounding against the floor, mouth moving a mile a minute before he even clocked where in the room the marshal was. “Now, see here, Adams. Your waiting around ain’t doing anything to instill any confidence in my father. What are you going to do about those men?”
Adams looked over at Bill, white eyebrows springing up over his dark eyes. “Your father should come speak to me himself if he has a problem with how I’m doing things, Mr. Herbert.”
“My word’s just as good as my father’s, Marshal. And know this: if you’re not going to do something, I will. Buller and I’ll have a posse out right quick and you can best believe we’ll catch those men.”
“It’s already too late to catch a trail today,” Castor said before he even realized he was going to speak. He was facing the small window of the marshal’s office and he could see plain as the faded day that it was true. No one would be able to track anyone worth tracking, not at dusk and after.
But Bill Herbert never did like to hear he was wrong, much less from the likes of someone he thought was beneath him. “Maybe too late for you, but we ain’t all failures here, Eugene.”
Anger rippled through Castor and he took a step toward Bill, who sneered and took a step of his own.
“Now, boys,” Adams started to say, like they were still twelve and fighting over a pull of whiskey neither of them should have been drinking. But before he could say another word, the deputy opened the door.
“They’re back, Marshal,” he said, then ducked back out at Adams’ nod.
“Bill, I understand your father’s anger. Yours too. And I’m not doing nothing.”
Three men filed inside. Finley Buller was first, his shoulders taking up most of the doorway, his scowl filling the room. Next was Esparza, the landowner whose ranch was just north of Castor’s. The man’s face was dusty, like he’d been riding hard. His eyes flickered from Adams to Bill Herbert, then landed on Castor. Esparza gave him a curious look, but briefly, and then seemed to dismiss him. The last one in was one of Adams’ deputies, favoring his left leg like he’d been hurt.
The room had felt crowded from the moment Bill Herbert brought his storm of anger inside with him, but now Castor felt like he was sealed up tight in the smallest mine shaft. The walls felt like they were closing in on him, even if those walls were made up of people. They pressed too close.
“I’ll be going, Marshal. Good luck,” he said, addressing Adams alone, since he couldn’t care less about the Herberts’ luck. He had to press between the deputy and Esparza to leave; as he did, Esparza looked over at him again, lips pressed together in a thin line. Then he looked back at the marshal.
