A NEW START
He would have to make his own way. Maybe there was some cattle ranch up the way that needed an able-bodied hand. Or a newly established town that could use help with building a schoolhouse or a church.
Even in his drunken state, he was already doubting the wisdom of his hasty decision. He knew the army pay he’d managed to save wasn’t going to last long. And while hiding out in Mexico for a time was possible, making it his home wasn’t an option worthy of consideration.
Once again, he’d made himself a fine mess. He’d done it often enough as Cal Breckenridge, and now was about to do the same as Will Darby.
He rode on until dark, swaying in the saddle. His empty tequila bottle had been tossed into the Rio Grande some miles back.
Making camp on the sandy bank of the river, he managed to remove the saddle from his horse and tether him to a scrub mesquite. Without even bothering to remove his boots, Will stretched out on the saddle blanket and was immediately lost in a drunken sleep, his restless dreams mixed with bloody war battles and boyhood memories of happy times spent with his brother, Clay. They were still young, chasing fireflies near the house, laughing as they ran.
Then the dreams turned into a real nightmare. Someone was kicking at him and cursing. When he opened his eyes, he saw the huge form of a man dressed in buckskins pointing a pistol at his face. Two others stood nearby, toothless grins on their tobacco-stained faces.
“Get to your feet,” the man with the pistol said, “and show us where your money is. I’d advise you do it quick.”
BERKLEY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
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Copyright © 2020 by The Estate of Ralph Compton
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Ebook ISBN: 9780593100707
First Edition: April 2020
Cover art by Dennis Lyall
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.
pid_prh_5.5.0_c0_r0
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
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
The Immortal Cowboy
Prologue
Part One: Clay’s StoryChapter One
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Part Two: Will Darby’s StoryChapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Part Three: RevengeChapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Part Four: Hell’s Half AcreChapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
PROLOGUE
May 1865
A MONTH HAD passed since Confederate general Robert E. Lee surrendered, officially bringing an end to the bloody war between North and South. As word of the Union Army’s victory spread, the disappointment that initially swept through the ranks of the Confederacy was gradually turning to thoughts of going home, families, and peacetime.
The war and its cruelties were over; young men on both sides could lay down their arms and cease being soldiers.
In some cases, however, military units remained on active duty despite the surrender and declarations of a truce. An example could be found deep in South Texas, where three hundred Confederate troops remained camped near the banks of the Rio Grande. Their responsibility, as it had been in wartime, was to protect the transportation of cotton to the seaport of Los Brazos de Santiago, near Brownsville.
Just to the north, most of the sixty-five hundred Union troops had been withdrawn, but Colonel Theodore Barrett remained in charge of five hundred soldiers who were also assigned to observe activities at the port.
For the ambitious Colonel Barrett, it was a tortuous, frustrating assignment. At age thirty, he had been an officer for three years but had yet to see combat. The attack on the Confederate encampment would be his last chance to achieve battlefield glory that might pave the way to a postwar promotion and a place in military history.
His planning left much to be desired. An attack that originated on the coastline and moved inland was initially successful, as a few prisoners and some supplies were captured. But by the end of the day, a hundred Con
federate cavalrymen had driven the Union soldiers back.
Both sides summoned reinforcements in preparation for another day of battle.
In the Confederates’ camp, disgruntled soldiers sat in their tents, some drinking coffee, some from bottles of tequila purchased from Mexican soldiers across the river in Matamoros. Among them were brothers from Aberdene, a small community in East Texas. They had joined when a recruiter had visited the family farm.
The two young men, quickly assigned to the Texas Cavalry Battalion, were as different as family members could be.
Clay, the elder by two years, was a man of quiet inner strength and self-reliance. As a soldier, he followed orders without hesitation or question.
Cal, on the other hand, was headstrong, often reckless, and outspoken. He was among the soldiers drinking tequila.
“I’m of a mind to saddle my horse and take leave of this godforsaken place,” he said. “We’re told the war’s over, that we’ve done lost and surrendered. Yet here we are in another battle. My question is, why? And what for?”
He took another drink. “What is likely to happen tomorrow when we resume our shooting is that I’ll be killing some of those Yankee no-goods—or one of them will manage to aim well enough to see me shot dead. It’s my observation that neither option carries much logic. The . . . war . . . is . . . over!”
Clay sat cross-legged, drawing circles in the dirt as his brother spoke. He knew what Cal had in mind and that trying to convince him otherwise was futile. Before daylight, his brother would be miles away from what remained of the fighting.
By dawn, as preparations were underway for the second day of battle, the younger Breckenridge had saddled his horse, crossed the Rio Grande into Mexico, and was traveling east. As he’d written in the note he’d left for his brother, he had no particular destination in mind.
He wrote:
All I’m of a mind to do now is to put me a good amount of distance from soldiering. I’ve took all the orders I can stand. I hope you will stay safe and return home soon. Pa will welcome you and the help you can be to him on the farm. Give him my love though I doubt he’ll much care.
Your brother,
Cal
P.S. I’d have wrote this better if I’d had more time and wasn’t so drunk.
* * *
* * *
NOTHING THE UNION soldiers attempted during the second day worked. An attack from the right flank failed. So did a frontal assault. The Confederates had borrowed artillery from the French and Mexican armies in Matamoros and prepared to make their stand on the edge of a place called Palmito Ranch.
By late in the afternoon, Colonel Barrett’s troops were caught in a trap laid by the Confederate cavalry near the Rio Grande. Barrett ordered his forces to retreat after setting up a skirmish line of men to slow the approach of the mounted Confederates.
For those ordered to form a line and aim their rifles on the fast-approaching enemy, it was a suicide mission. And one quickly abandoned. As the Confederate horsemen came closer, the Union soldiers left their assigned position and ran before a single shot was fired.
As Clay Breckenridge approached, however, his attention was drawn to a single Union soldier who stood his ground. Their eyes met for an instant, and Clay thought he saw a faint look of resignation on the enemy soldier’s face as he lifted his rifle and prepared to shoot. It was as if he had accepted the fact of his own death even before Breckenridge aimed his pistol.
The shot struck the Union soldier high in the chest. His rifle dropped to his side as he slumped to his knees, then pitched forward into the sand. Death came quickly.
It was not the first life Breckenridge had taken during battle, but it was the last—and the one that would remain with him. It would define his entire war experience, with all of its dark questions, haunting regrets, and troubling memories.
Referring to the two days of fighting as the Battle of Palmito Ranch, the Galveston News reported that it was probably the final confrontation of the Civil War. The reason for the post-surrender Union attack remained a mystery. Several soldiers on both sides had been wounded, but there was only one casualty reported.
“One Union soldier, Private John Jefferson Williams of the 34th Indiana Infantry, was killed,” the story read. “He is likely to be the last battle fatality of the Civil War.”
The article made no mention that it was Clay Breckenridge who had fired the shot that killed Private Williams, which suited him fine. It was not a moment in history he was proud to have been a part of.
PART ONE
CLAY’S STORY
CHAPTER ONE
CLAY BRECKENRIDGE STOOD on his front porch, drinking coffee as he looked out on the fog that had swept across the bottoms overnight. The morning plowing he had planned would have to wait until he and his team of mules would be better able to see their way. He reached down and stroked the hindquarters of his dog, Sarge. “Appears we’re gonna be getting a late start,” he said.
It wasn’t that he felt any great urgency. The East Texas farm, which his family had staked claim to when he and his brother were just youngsters, was small. The plowing for spring planting amounted to only twenty acres of grain and corn to feed his livestock and a garden spot for raising vegetables. The rest was open grassland interrupted by a large stand of pecan trees that were home to wild turkeys and squirrels. Along the southern boundary was a shallow spring-fed creek that provided ample watering for his mules, a small herd of cattle, a few goats, and his horse.
A quiet and picturesque spot, it had been Clay’s home all of his life, except for the time he left to fight for the Confederate Army. After the war ended, he immediately returned to help his aging father with the farm. And when Ed Breckenridge followed his wife in death, the elder son dutifully assumed responsibility for maintaining the farm.
Sarge was still wagging his tail when he lifted his ears to acknowledge a distant sound that was, at first, too faint for his master to hear. Only as it got closer could Clay determine that it was likely an approaching horse, moving slowly and with strained effort.
Though there had been no problems with renegade bands of Comanches recently, Clay hurried into the cabin to get his rifle. “Might be somebody’s just lost his way,” he said, “or a horse that broke loose and can’t figure where he’s at.”
Sarge responded with a low growl.
Minutes later Breckenridge detected a dark shadow just beyond the yard. Moving in the direction of the barn, it appeared to float through the bank of fog. Clay grabbed his rifle and a lantern and hurried toward it, Sarge trotting at his side.
Inside the barn stood a horse that Clay immediately recognized. It was nibbling at a bundle of hay while favoring a badly swollen front leg. Tied atop its saddle was a body.
For several seconds Clay stood motionless, staring at the dead man, bloated and discolored, a pattern of dried blood indicating that he had been shot in the back.
Breckenridge finally set his rifle and lantern aside and slowly began to loosen the ropes that held the rider in place. After he pulled the rigid corpse from the saddle, the weary horse shook his mane and limped away.
Looking down at the body that he had placed on a bed of hay, Clay suddenly felt his legs give way and his breathing turn to rapid bursts. He covered the dead man with a saddle blanket, then sat beside him and gently stroked his matted hair. Sarge nuzzled his master and softly whined.
This was not the way Clay had hoped his younger brother would return home.
CHAPTER TWO
IT WAS NEARING midday when Clay arrived in Aberdene and pulled his wagon to a stop in front of the marshal’s office. Behind him, Cal Breckenridge’s body lay beneath a blanket. Sarge had ridden along, standing sentry on the journey into town.
Dodge Rankin, a short, portly man with a salt-and-pepper beard and a warm smile for any and all who did not violate the law, had served as marsh
al for over a decade. Tamping his pipe against the hitching rail, he acknowledged the arrival of his visitor. “Your timing’s perfect,” he said. “I just got back from Ralph Giddens’ place, where some of his cattle got rustled during the night. Indians from up in the Territory, be my guess. Been some time since I’ve seen you.”
The somber look from Clay made it obvious to the marshal that small talk was not in order. Stepping from the board sidewalk, he approached the wagon bed and lifted the blanket to view the swollen face of the young man, who was barely recognizable.
“This who I’m thinking it is?” Rankin said.
Clay nodded.
“Best come into my office, where we can talk. I’ll send someone to fetch Doc Franklin so he can begin tending to the necessary matters.”
Inside, Clay was recounting the morning’s events when the doctor arrived, short of breath, his round face flushed. Darwin Franklin was Aberdene’s only doctor, undertaker, and veterinarian. On any given day, he might deliver a baby, treat a cow whose milk had mysteriously turned sour, or help a grieving resident select a coffin.
“I’m sorry for you misery, Mr. Breckenridge,” the doctor said. “Rest assured I’ll fix him up properly. Have you given any thought to funeral plans?”
“No,” Clay replied. “No funeral.” In truth, he could not think of anyone who might attend. Too, his brother had never cared for preaching and hymn singing. “Once you’ve tended him and seen to a sturdy coffin, I’ll be putting him to rest back on the farm, alongside our folks.” Then, as an afterthought: “Soon as possible I’d appreciate you coming out to check on his horse that arrived lame and in some degree of pain. I’d prefer to avoid putting him down if at all possible.”