Ralph Compton the Dangerous Land

Book 0: A Ralph Compton Western

by Ralph Compton, Marcus Galloway

Genres: Action & Adventure; Historical Fiction; Westerns

Synopsis

Time is running out

Frontier life is hard enough without having kids to worry about - especially for a widower like Paul Meakes. Still, he's settled where he is and resolved to stay in the small Colorado town his son and daughter call home.

So when his daughter is hit by a seemingly poisoned arrow during an Indian raid, Paul is determined to track down the Comanche villains who hurt his little girl - and bring them to justice with the help of Indian hunter Hank Adley, a hired gun who's got business of his own with the tribe.

But when the trail leads from a close call with Indian warriors to a deadly intrigue, Paul discovers that the dangers of the West are far greater and more varied than he ever imagined. And to save his family, he has no choice but to take a stand against them all....

Release date: September 2, 2014

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 304

Sample

Chapter 1

Colorado,1886

In his life, Paul Meakes had been plenty of things. When he was inclined to boast, he would mention his time spent as half a lawman working as a deputy for a marshal in Kansas. Those had been an exciting couple of months but hadn’t amounted to much apart from riding on a few posses without ever being offered steady employment. He’d had a few lucky strikes as a miner while panning in the rivers of Wyoming and California, but plenty of men had stories like those. During his younger days, he’d been a trapper on the Nebraska plains skinning buffalo and dragging their hides from one trading post to another in search of the best price.

Paul didn’t have much use for boasting anymore. Some years ago, he’d worked a few cattle ranches and picked up odd jobs in mining camps on his way into the southeastern portion of Colorado. Once there, he’d met a lovely little woman named Joanna and opened a little general store that stocked bits and pieces the locals weren’t likely to find anywhere else. He kept one of the best-stocked selections of books in the county and was known throughout his town for the oddities displayed in his front window. Residents of Keystone Pass knew where to go for blankets, oats, shoes, or tools. When they wanted something to read, a newspaper from any of a number of bigger towns, or fashions left behind by merchants on their way to New York or San Francisco, they went to Meakes Mercantile.

Before long, Paul’s little store had acquired something of a reputation throughout Colorado. Those in favor of his place regarded it as a haven for fine goods and intellectual delights. Those who weren’t feeling so generous called the shop a dumping ground for yellow-back novels and wares from every snake oil salesman who’d dared showed his face east of the Rockies. Either way, Paul made a decent living. He was a far cry from being rich, but he managed to keep his head above water when it came time to feeding his little family.

Joanna was a beautiful woman. Short and a bit stout in stature, she had stolen Paul’s heart the instant he saw her smile. When he worked up the nerve to ask her to a dance, hold her in his arms, smell her soft blond curls, marriage was a foregone conclusion. She was a caring wife and patient mother.

Was.

Paul thought of her often, so his brief respite while arranging the books for sale in his store was nothing new. Neither was the pinch at the corner of his eyes or the grief that stabbed at his heart when he thought of her in terms of was or used to be. She’d passed fourteen months ago. Fourteen months during which he’d felt the passage of every single moment. The whole town missed her. Joanna was the sort of woman who took it upon herself to remember folks by name and ask about their young ones whenever they passed in the street. Paul, on the other hand, was more likely to nod to familiar faces in a friendly way without being overly enthusiastic about it. Without Joanna at his side, he was only left with silent nods from partial strangers.

For the most part, that suited Paul just fine. He’d spent most of his life roaming from one spot to another, one job to another, surrounded by a fair number of other people or none at all. When he was alone, he enjoyed the silence. When he was part of a community, he knew it was only a matter of time before he’d break away to become part of another. More than likely, folks remembered him fondly but not very often. Since he remembered them the same way, Paul was content to let things remain that way.

Whenever his spirits needed lifting, he only had to look at the faces of his two children. Abigail and David were both the spitting images of their mother, even though he’d been told the nine-year-old boy bore a mighty large resemblance to his father. If he wanted to be reminded of himself, Paul would look into a mirror, so he chose to only see them for what they were and as fond reminders of his sweet Joanna.

Standing with a pile of books cradled in his arms, Paul hadn’t realized he’d been lost in his thoughts until it was pointed out to him by the young woman looking through a small stack of dresses that had arrived all the way from New Mexico earlier that week. She was in her early teens and a bit tall for her age. Long, light brown hair was braided and draped over one shoulder to display a yellow ribbon tied at the end. Rolling her eyes, she rooted through the clothing with exaggerated vigor and let out a pronounced sigh.

“What’s wrong now, Daddy?” she asked.

Paul shrugged and got back to stocking the bookshelf. “Why does anything have to be wrong?”

“You’re staring at me.”

“Because you’re beautiful.”

Abigail started to roll her eyes again but blinked and showed her father a smile instead. It was a halfhearted gesture, but it served its purpose well enough. “Thank you for saying so.”

After placing the last book upon its shelf, Paul walked over to the table displaying the store’s most recently acquired articles of clothing and rubbed his daughter’s shoulder. She was almost as tall as him even though she tended to stoop a bit to hide her height. “I’m not just saying so. It’s the truth.”

“You’re the only one who thinks so.”

“I doubt that very much.”

“Yes, well . . . thank you all the same.”

Walking to the back of the store where a few crates had been opened, Paul said, “I imagine you could corral any boy you wanted.”

Another sigh from the girl was followed by a series of stomping steps that led to the front of the store. “I don’t want to talk about this with you.”

“What about Michael Willis? Weren’t you and Becky talking about him just the other day?”

Even from her new spot behind the cash register, Abigail managed to shoot a terse glare all the way back to where Paul was retrieving some more books. “You were spying on me and Becky?”

“You and Becky are almost always together and you talk quite a lot.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

Paul gathered another armful of books and carried them to the shelf at the front of the store. Although he wouldn’t have dropped one volume in the middle of a hurricane, he fretted with them as a way to avoid his daughter’s critical eye. “I have ears,” he said. “They’re not filled with wax. I hear things.” He also saw things, but he decided not to embarrass her with those details.

“Becky’s meeting me at Johansen’s Bakery. Can I have some money?” she asked while already poking a key to open the cash register.

“Take fifty cents. Not a penny more.”

“Fine.”

Sliding each book into place and taking his time in the process, Paul waited until he heard his daughter walking to the front door before saying, “If you’re still hungry, there’s going to be a picnic after Sunday services.”

“That’s not for two days,” she pointed out. “We’re not eating until then?”

“Of course we are. It’s just that . . . most everyone will be there. The Willis family, for certain.”

Abigail lingered at the door with her hand on the knob. She closed her eyes and pressed her lips into a tight line in an expression of anxiety dating all the way back to when she’d been a baby worried about standing upright. “Michael doesn’t care if I’m there or not.”

“Do you know that for a fact?”

“Yes.” When she finally looked over to her father to see his stern expression, Abigail sighed. “No.”

“Then you should go to that picnic and ask him to dance.”

“He should be the one to do the asking.”

“Maybe he’s shy,” Paul said. “Boys get shy too, you know. And it’s not such a terrible thing to ask one to dance. Many of them even like it that way.”

“Sure they do,” she scoffed. “That’s less work for them.”

Paul laughed and fell into an easier rhythm of placing the books in their proper order. After taking a moment to lift one to his nose so he could smell the musty pages, he said, “You’re right about that, but it never hurts to meet someone halfway. If things go right, it won’t hardly matter who took that first step.”

“I guess I could go to the picnic . . . if Becky’s going too.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“You know what would make me feel better about going?” she asked.

“What’s that?”

“If I had a new dress to wear.”

“I couldn’t agree more. Martha just sent over a few nice ones the other day,” Paul told her. “They’re hanging next to those waistcoats.”

“I was thinking more about the fancy silk ones on the front display.”

“I bet you were. Those will fetch a mighty good price, but not if they’ve already been worn. They’ll be damn near worthless once you spill jam or soup on them.”

“I won’t spill on it, Daddy!” she insisted while coyly trying to shift her arms to hide the faded stain on the dress she now wore.

“You spill on just about everything, sweetie. It’s part of your charm.”

Judging by the way she stormed out of the store, Abigail did not share that sentiment or find it half as endearing as her father did.

Chapter 2

Supper was a simple affair prepared hastily by Abigail and cleared away by her younger brother. David was a slender boy with fair hair, dark circles under his eyes, and long legs. When he was done washing the last of the dishes, David went out to the porch and approached his father, who stood enjoying the night.

“I’m done with my chores, Pa,” David said. “Did you bring me anything from the store?”

“Some new books came in today,” he said while puffing on a chipped pipe. Even though he didn’t look over at David, he had no trouble picturing the boy’s wide, expectant eyes.

“I know them books came in!” David squealed. “You said you’d bring me one!”

“Did I?”

The nine-year-old let out an all-too-familiar sound that was part groan and part whine. Before it could shift too far into the latter category, Paul said, “Of course I brought you one! You think I’d forget about my boy?”

“No, sir!” David beamed.

Paul lowered himself onto a chair that had been left in the elements for so long that it had practically grown roots into the porch. It sagged beneath his weight and creaked with every shift of his body but showed no hint of breaking. It protested loudly when Paul reached around to pick up the thin volume he’d set down where it could remain out of sight until now. When he held it out to the boy, he showed an expression that bore an uncanny resemblance to the one David had worn earlier.

Unfortunately David’s expression didn’t last very long. “Oh,” he said. “Did you bring any others?”

“No,” Paul replied. “I thought you’d like that one. It’s a ghost story.”

“Ghosts are scary.”

“But it’s just a story.”

“I’ll have nightmares,” David said in a voice that was growing into more of a whine.

“All right, then. I saw another one you might like.”

“Really? Is it about trains?”

“No. It’s about an adventure in the jungles of Peru! That’s where the conquistadores landed, you know.”

“Jungles are scary.”

Paul drew a deep breath. “You’ve never been to a jungle.”

“I know. They’re still scary.”

“It’s just a story. Maybe if you read it, you’ll enjoy it and then you won’t be so scared about it anymore. That’s how men become brave.”

David nodded even though he’d obviously stopped listening. Wincing slightly when Paul rubbed his arm, he said, “I just like stories about trains. And horses. They’re not so scary.”

“I’ll look around for something along them lines when I go back to the store tomorrow,” Paul said, even though he knew well enough that he’d already set aside a story about a young Arabian thief who tames a wild stallion. “It’s just that . . . you’re getting close to ten years old, son. There’s no reason to be so squirrelly.”

At least when David nodded this time, he seemed to be listening to what Paul was telling him. “All right, Pa.”

“Will you help in the store tomorrow?”

“Last time I got hurt.”

“It was just a sliver in your hand,” Paul growled. “Are you still crying about that?”

“N-no.”

“You’ll help me in the store tomorrow and you’ll come with me to pick up some new inventory on Monday.”

“But I got school on Monday!” David said.

“Not when your father needs an extra set of hands to load the wagon. You and your sister are coming along and that’s that.”

“Will I get paid for it?”

Paul scowled at the boy and took hold of the front of David’s shirt to give him a gentle shake. “What am I gonna do with you? I’ll pay you fifty cents but not a penny more. Deal?”

Extending his hand so quickly that he almost threw out an elbow, David replied excitedly, “Deal!”

Father and son shook hands and enjoyed a nice couple of moments before David asked, “What else can I do and get paid for it?”

“Go to bed.”

“You’ll pay me to go to bed?”

“No,” Paul said in a strained voice. “Just . . . go to bed. It’s getting late.”

David started walking into the house, stopped, and then turned around to approach his father again. He kissed Paul’s forehead and then went inside.

Once he was certain he was alone on the porch, Paul started flipping through the book he’d tried to give to David. Since it wasn’t going to be put to any use at his house, he’d take it back to the store in the morning. He could think of a few boys who would get a thrill out of the adventurous yarns. In fact, he was hard-pressed to think of a boy other than his own who wouldn’t like it. Or perhaps he just didn’t know children very well.

“I’m trying, Joanna,” he said quietly into the night sky. “I’m trying, but it surely ain’t easy. I wonder if you would have an easier time with these two. Aw, who the hell am I kidding? Of course you would.”

With that, Paul set the book down and crossed his arms over his full belly. He thought about inventory and numbers that had yet to be written into the ledger in his office. He thought about when the next traveling salesmen were due to roll through town and how much of a discount he could wheedle from them for a bulk purchase. As the steady current flowed through his head and a cool breeze touched his face, Paul started drifting to sleep.

Eventually his thoughts drifted toward the future. He’d heard tell of a vein of gold that had barely been touched in a mine that was being sold for next to nothing. If he found a buyer for his store, he could cash in and possibly become rich after a few months of hard work. There were always ranchers looking for partners down in Texas or back in his old Kansas stomping grounds. Running a spread instead of working on one could set him up for life.

So many different trails to ride after leaving Keystone Pass.

So many destinies to chase.

Tomorrow.

Chapter 3

Despite the biblical origins of his name, Paul had never been much of a churchgoing man. His mother and father had dragged him to Sunday worship for most of his childhood, presumably as a way to cleanse his young soul or enrich his growing mind. He couldn’t much speak to the success of the former, but the latter didn’t seem to take very well. If not for Joanna, he probably would have avoided hearing another sermon for the rest of his days. She’d been a truly joyful Christian. In Paul’s experience those were a rare breed whose faith came from genuine inspiration instead of habit or fear of retribution in the hereafter. If she was lenient in some matters, taking the children to church wasn’t one of them, and it seemed only proper for Paul to continue doing so after she’d passed on. The children, however, weren’t as eager to uphold the practice.

They sat on either side of him in one of the pews at the back of the town’s small church. As Paul attempted to sing along with a few of the hymns, David and Abigail shifted fretfully and occasionally swatted at each other. Since they didn’t carry their squabble any further than that, Paul let them be.

After Pastor Harlowe was done talking, he smiled at everyone in front of him, let a few other folks pass on some news about birthdays or sicknesses and such, and then concluded the services. Paul and the kids filed out with the rest of the congregation, shook a few hands, and pretended to have been a little more enlightened than when they’d walked in.

“Do we really have to go to this picnic?” David asked.

Paul looked down at his son as if he’d sprouted antlers. “Why wouldn’t you want to go to a picnic?”

“There might be bees.”

“You know what I can guarantee there’ll be?”

“What?” David asked hesitantly.

“Pork ribs, corn on the cob, and pie!”

The boy’s face lit up. “Peach pie?”

“Maybe.”

“Probably just the same old cherry pie that Claudia Spencer always makes,” Abigail groaned.

“You hear that, Dave?” Paul asked with genuine excitement. “Claudia Spencer’s cherry pie!”

Nodding as if he’d just decided his fate as well as that of his family, David declared, “All right. We’re going to that picnic.” Stretching his arms out to his father, he said, “Carry me.”

Paul winced a bit and pushed the boy along to clear a path for the stragglers leaving the church. “You’re too big for that, son. You’re almost as tall as I am.”

That was about a foot and a half from being true, but the point had been made. David shrank as if the wind had been taken from his sails and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his itchy black suit. Before he could slink too far away, David was swept off his feet and carried toward the little field behind the church. Even though Paul had only managed to lift him about seven inches off the ground, the boy reacted as if he were flying.

“Be quiet, Dave,” Abigail scolded. “People will hear.”

“Don’t be so cross,” Paul said as he carried his son a few more steps and set him down. “You love picnics.”

“Not when he’s squealing like a stuck pig.”

“You’re a stuck—”

“Enough of that,” Paul said before the siblings came to blows. “Let’s get something to eat and play some games.”

“Games?” David asked. “Where?”

“Over there by those other boys,” Paul said as he pointed his son toward a growing flock of children near a duck pond. “Why don’t you go and join them?” When David looked away tentatively, Paul gave him a little push. “Go on, now.” After the boy had made significant progress toward the group, Paul shifted his focus to his left.

“Don’t say it, Daddy,” Abigail warned.

“I see a certain young man over there as well.”

“I told you not to say it.”

“Michael doesn’t look happy being with so many younger boys, and his mood’s probably not going to be any better once David gets over there.”

She smiled, albeit hesitantly.

Even though he’d been the girl’s father for all of her fourteen years, Paul still seemed uncomfortable when he tugged on her collar and pulled her sleeves to straighten a couple of wrinkles in the fabric. “I know this isn’t the fancy silk dress you had your eye on, but it sure does become you.”

Abigail looked down at the new, bright green cotton dress. Taking hold of her skirts, she gave them a halfhearted twirl and grumbled, “That other one would have been too fancy for a church picnic anyway.”

“See? Always a bright side. Just like your mother.”

Hearing mention of Joanna brought a much brighter smile to her face. It was a beautiful sight for her father, even if there was a hint of sadness behind the expression. “And I haven’t spilled on it.”

Tapping the tip of her nose, Paul chided, “Not yet anyway.”

That triggered the all-too-familiar eye roll. Abigail suddenly couldn’t move fast enough as she spun away from him and made her way toward the older boy who had captured her attention since last spring. She almost made it to Michael Willis’s side before allowing herself to be sidetracked by her best friend, Becky.

“You’re doing well with them,” came a familiar voice from over Paul’s shoulder.

After putting on what he thought was a pleasant expression, Paul turned around to face Pastor Harlowe. The pastor was a few years younger than him, but his thinning head of hair tacked on a bit more age than he’d earned. When he’d first arrived in town a few years ago, Harlowe looked more like a rancher than a preacher. Trim and muscular, he’d turned plenty of heads from the available ladies in town. Although still unmarried, Harlowe had been invited to enough home-cooked suppers to lose a bit of his muscle and add a few layers of padding beneath his starched black clothing. His friendly demeanor, on the other hand, was still as engaging as it had been during his first service in Keystone Pass.

“Thanks for the compliment,” Paul said, “but I know I’m lacking as a father.”

Harlowe dismissed that with the back of one hand. “Nonsense. They’re fine children and have been through a lot. You’ve been there for them and they’re better for it. That’s plain enough to see.”

“Well . . . thank you.”

“You’ve been through a lot as well. How are you holding up?”

“Joanna’s been gone a while now,” Paul said.

“That doesn’t mean it’s easy. We all heal at our own pace.”

“Yeah.” Paul removed his hat and wiped away a few beads of sweat. The summer heat was waning, but he couldn’t help feeling as if it were all focused on him at that moment. “That was a nice service today. Real nice.”

“Did you enjoy my sermon? I worked hard on it.”

“It was good.”

“Which part did you like best? The passages on Abraham or my question about Genesis?”

“The Abraham passages. Definitely.”

Harlowe placed a hand on Paul’s shoulder and kept it there. “Neither was in my sermon today. I was just testing you.”

“And I failed.” With a shrug, Paul added, “Sorry about that.”

“There’s no failing where I’m concerned. At least, not with something as fluid as words,” Harlowe said. “I knew you weren’t listening. You’re always distracted when you come to services. I’m just happy to see you in the Lord’s house. I hope you take some comfort from just being there.”

“I . . . I do.”

Grinning like a kid not much older than Paul’s own, the pastor said, “I’m glad. And I know you’re telling the truth because I already saw what you look like when you’re lying.”

“Lying to a preacher,” Paul sighed as he put his hat back on. “That won’t look good when I’m up there being judged.”

“I forgive you, Paul. There. Clean slate.”

“That easy, huh?”

“Sometimes. Now, why don’t you help yourself to something to eat? That is, unless you’d like to talk some more?”

Paul smiled at the other man with genuine, if somewhat tired, warmth. “I am mighty hungry. Also, someone’s got to keep an eye on my youngest. Sometimes them other boys play a little rough.”

“Don’t forget about your other child,” Harlowe said while nodding toward the other side of the duck pond. “She might need some watching as well.”

While Paul was happy to see Abigail walking next to Michael Willis, he wasn’t pleased with the fact that they were making their way around the pond to a cluster of trees where they could easily slip out of sight. “’Scuse me, Pastor.”

“Tend to your flock and I’ll tend to mine,” Harlowe replied.

Paul stormed across the little field surrounding the church. With snowcapped mountains behind the perfect angles of the structure’s roof and steeple, it was a sight that could inspire any man. Watching a beloved daughter wander away with a young man who had the motives of any other young man was enough to inspire a father in a much different way. He was about to unleash some of that inspiration when Paul caught the scent of some fried chicken.

Mrs. Willis stood behind the plate of poultry, stacking napkins into little piles. “Hello, Paul,” she said. “Beautiful sermon today, wasn’t it?”

“It sure was.”

“Go on and take some chicken before it’s gone.”

Paul might have wanted his daughter to enjoy some companionship, but he’d gladly wring the neck of any boy who sought to take things too far. Before making that intention clear to Mrs. Willis’s son, he took a napkin and a nice plump chicken breast from the table. “Thanks kindly, ma’am.”

Mrs. Willis gave him a friendly nod and shifted her eyes to the next parishioners to find her offering.

Abigail and Michael had stopped their wandering just a few paces away from the trees, so Paul held his ground. After taking a bite of chicken, he glanced over to where David was playing. As fidgety as he’d been the night before, or any other night for that matter, David was holding his own with the other boys. In fact, he was quick to throw himself into a lighthearted scrap that quickly grew into a mess of flailing arms and laughing children. It did Paul no end of good to watch that. Having another couple bites of chicken improved his mood even further.

Turning back toward the other side of the pond, Paul felt his heart skip a beat. Michael and Abigail were nowhere to be found. Before he could get himself worked up even more, Paul caught a glimpse of Abigail’s skirts flapping in the breeze. She was standing behind some trees. With a long, squinting stare, Paul saw Michael was less than an inch away from her.

“Hey!” Paul barked. “You two!”

Neither his daughter nor the Willis boy responded.

“Abigail Meakes!”

She snapped to attention and hopped fully into view. When she saw her father staring directly at her, the girl flushed and averted her eyes.

“Get over here and get something to eat,” Paul said. “Both of you.”

After a few seconds, Michael stepped out from wherever he’d thought of hiding in those trees. He looked sheepishly across the pond and hurried over to his mother’s table. Since neither of their clothes were too rumpled, Paul guessed they hadn’t been up to much while out of his sight.

Abigail’s fists were clenched and every step she took was heavier than the last. By the time she made it to where Paul waited for her, she was fit to be tied. “I can’t believe you did that,” she hissed.

“What?” Paul asked with poorly feigned innocence. “I know you like chicken just as much as I do.”

“I like turkey, Daddy. You should know that.”

“Well, when you were a little girl, you wouldn’t eat much of anything other than chicken or mashed potatoes. Surely you haven’t grown out of that.”

“I’ve grown out of a lot of things, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Paul let her sneer at him for a few more seconds before he pulled h