Hard Ride to Wichita

“Compton writes in the style of popular Western novelists like Louis L'Amour and Zane Grey . . . thrilling stories of Western legend.”

—
The Huntsville Times
(AL)

“Compton may very well turn out to be the greatest Western writer of them all. . . . Very seldom in literature have the legends of the Old West been so vividly painted.”

—
The Tombstone Epitaph

“If you like Louis L'Amour, you'll love Ralph Compton.”

—
Quanah Tribune-Chief
(TX)

“Perhaps you did pick some good folks as a family.”

“I sure did.”

And as quickly as Scotty's relaxed demeanor had come, it was gone. “The matter still stands that this here woman knew more than she should have and now so does the boy.”

Kyle gritted his teeth and said, “If that's anyone's fault, it's yours! Everything was fine before now.”

“Maybe it was my fault to put you on the spot,” Scotty admitted. “But we're in something of a bind here. It's got to be set straight. You want to do it or should I?”

Shaking his head, Kyle said, “You're mistaken. Nothing needs to be set straight.”

Luke's pulse sped up and he suddenly regained control of his legs. When he tried to get his mother moving with a gentle tug on her arm, he found she was now the one frozen in fear. He tugged a bit harder, which was enough to snap her out of the spell that had come over her.

“This ain't the first time you've put us all at risk,” Scotty said. “But I can tell you it'll be the last.”

“Don't do this!” Kyle yelled.

“Too late,” the stranger said. “It's already done.”

When Scotty drew a pistol from his holster, it was in a motion so fast that Luke barely saw it. The thunder that followed would follow him for the rest of his life.

HARD RIDE TO WICHITA

A Ralph Compton Novel by Marcus Galloway

Published by the Penguin Group

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First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

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Copyright © The Estate of Ralph Compton, 2013

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eBook ISBN 978-1-101-63016-7

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

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.

T
his 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.

T
rue, 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.

I
n 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?

I
t 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.

I
t 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

Maconville, Kansas
1855

Luke Croft wasn't born to be a gunman. But, then again, such a plan seemed unlikely for any of God's creatures. It was something acquired after years of hard choices, bad company, and a few exceptionally bad mistakes. During the spring of 1855, the company Luke kept was set on an irrevocable course that would steer him into the arms of that very unlikely plan.

One of seventeen children seated in a schoolhouse near the edge of town, he enjoyed school and fancied his teacher, although neither of those things was apparent on his tight little features. His eyes, pinched at the corners and severe, would have been better suited on the face of someone decades older than Luke's seven years. At the moment, those eyes were doing their best not to turn in the direction of the boy to his left.

There weren't many children in school that were close to Luke's age and even fewer with last names lingering so close to the beginning of the alphabet. For those reasons alone, Luke was always forced to sit next to the Connover boy. Luke didn't know the nine-year-old's real first name. Everyone, teacher included, called him Red on account of the bright orange-red crop of hair sprouting in tufts from his scalp. Red never stopped fidgeting. He was loud and brash when the children were given time to play and often spoke out of turn during lessons. Not only did those things make Luke nervous, but they annoyed him to no end. As much as he wished he could be stuck with someone else, Luke would have settled for some peace and quiet.

All things considered, Luke wasn't a squirrelly kid. When he wasn't annoyed, he was good-natured and well mannered. He enjoyed reading, and since this was the time of day when his favorite subject was being taught by the prettiest lady in town, Luke was very happy indeed.

“Today we're going to do something a little different,” Mrs. DeLoach said. She was a tall, slender woman with long brown hair that formed soft, curly waves flowing over her shoulders. Her skin had a slight olive complexion, and after all the bright days that had been coming along lately, it was even darker and accented with a dusting of freckles. She smiled widely, clasping slender hands in front of her. “We're going to write our own stories.”

Some of the class let out exhausted moans. Red grumbled and dug a fingernail even deeper into the crack at the edge of his desk. Luke, on the other hand, couldn't have been happier.

“Won't that be nice?” Mrs. DeLoach asked.

“Yes,” Luke said before he could stop himself. Almost immediately, he felt his cheeks flush. While he was never one who strived to be in the other kids' good graces, Luke wasn't ignorant in the workings of the schoolhouse pecking order. Although saying the wrong thing at the wrong time could affect his already shaky standing therein, nobody seemed to have taken notice of him this time.

“Well,” the teacher continued, “like it or not, we'll be working on our stories when we get back from lunch. It's a beautiful day outside, so get some food and fresh air and I'll see you back here after the bell rings. Are there any questions?”

All of the children, young and old alike, knew better than to break the silence that descended on that spacious single room.

Nodding resolutely, Mrs. DeLoach said, “Excellent. Have a good lunch.”

With that, all of the seats were vacated and a stampede of excited feet knocked a path to the door.

•   •   •

Luke's house, like most everything else in Maconville, was a short walk from the school. He went there, ate a few quick bites of lunch, and returned to the long building beside the church so he could plan what to write for his assignment. With hands stuffed into the pockets of his battered short pants and light blue eyes focused squarely on the ground directly in front of him, he thought about all the possibilities for his story. Books had been a passion of his since before he could read them. His mother owned several and had collected a few with wonderful pictures, which were read together after supper dishes were cleaned and put away. Those were some of the first plots to jump into Luke's young mind, but he knew better than to pass them off as his own. There were plenty of other stories to be told and he didn't need to take anyone else's.

Most of the other children had returned from their homes by now and were playing in the yard behind the schoolhouse, where swings hung from a wooden frame and ropes dangled from the branches of an old oak that bore the initials of countless young lovers in its sides. Gnarled roots rose from the ground every so often, like weathered old snakes slithering in and out of a dusty sea. Luke's mind wandered in that direction for a few steps when he heard some familiar voices drifting in from nearby.

“I got you!”

“No! I got
you
!”

“You're it!”

“No, I'm not!”

The screams filled the air along with so many others, threatening to intrude on Luke's train of thought. He would not be distracted, however, and furrowed his brow in concentration as he pondered a tale involving a giant serpent burrowing through the ground.

“You're still it!”

More footsteps.

“
Now
you're it!” That voice was followed by a string of laughter and clumsy footsteps that drew closer.

A few steps pounded so close to Luke that they shook the ground upon which he stood. When he looked up, Luke was just in time to see the wheezing, sweaty face of Red Connover. The other boy had a stocky build and his hair was an even bigger mess than usual as his face twisted into a surprised grimace. Their collision might not have been enough to shake the weakest of foundations, but the little boys felt it all the way down to the soles of their shoes.

Luke didn't have Red's bulk, but he'd inherited his father's wide shoulders and was just a bit taller than other boys his age. When Red slammed into him, he staggered back a few steps and gulped at the unexpected collision. Red teetered on one foot, flapped his arms like a wounded bird, and fell onto his backside. As soon as he realized he was on the ground, Red snapped his head up to glare at what had tripped him up.

Walking over to him, Luke offered Red a hand. “Sorry. I—”

Red slapped away the boy's hand and scrambled to his feet. “Why don't you watch where you're goin'?”

“You ran into me and fell down,” Luke explained. “I didn't do anything.”

Red looked back and forth. Whatever he saw convinced him to pull back his arm, ball up his fist, and take a swing at the boy in front of him. Since Luke hadn't taken his eyes off him the entire time, he saw every movement that led to Red's fist sailing in his direction. Acting on nothing but instinct, Luke hunkered down to let the punch sail over his head. While he wasn't quick to anger, Luke didn't like being attacked for no good reason. Since Red was still off-balance, Luke took advantage of his low position by sending a quick poke into the boy's stomach.

The punch didn't have much behind it, but what it lacked in brute strength, it made up for in surprise since it landed fairly well. Red's eyes widened at his having been thumped at all, and he straightened up. Both of his fists were clenched tight but remained at his sides. Before he or Luke could move another muscle, they each felt a hand firmly take hold of them by the back of their collars.

“That is quite enough!” Mrs. DeLoach said. “You know I don't allow fighting.”

“We weren't fighting,” Red whined.

She was already moving them toward the schoolhouse, and both boys had to scurry to keep from being dragged. “Is that true, Luke?”

Luke's stomach was tied into a knot and his mind raced. The only thing he could think of that would land him in more hot water than being singled out this way was being caught in a lie afterward. More afraid of answering to his ma, Luke found himself unable to say much of anything at all.

“That's what I thought,” his teacher said. “You two will have plenty of time to think about what you've done after . . .”

She continued speaking sternly to them both, but Luke stopped listening after a while. He was going to spend the rest of the day at the back of the class and would have to stay after all the other students left while Mrs. DeLoach went to have words with his and Red's families. The rest of the details simply didn't matter.

•   •   •

“You fight pretty good.”

Once again, Luke was lost in his own world. The rest of the day had been taxing for the little boy's racing mind, and he was now doing his best to get through the part he'd been dreading. Red, on the other hand, seemed more at ease now than he ever did when class was being taught.

“What did you say?” Luke asked.

“I said you fight pretty good.”

“I didn't think we were fighting.”

Red thought it over for a moment. His round face was slightly burned by the sun and his thick mane of hair looked as if it had been dragged through a sandbar before being stuck onto his head. His clothes were a rumpled mess, much like the pieces worn by Luke or any of the other farmers' children attending Maconville's school. Although the kids with shopkeepers for parents were slightly better kept, the difference wasn't large enough to create another social class within the group of children.

After contemplating for a bit, Red shrugged. “I suppose it wasn't really a fight, but you did pretty good.”

“Um . . . thanks.”

The schoolhouse was empty, so their words echoed within the building as if it were a cathedral. Mrs. DeLoach had given explicit instructions for both of them to sit at the front of the room on either side of her desk until she returned from breaking the news to their parents. Any troublesome spark in the boys had been snuffed after all of the day's excitement because neither one of them was much inclined to disobey her command.

“Sorry I knocked you over,” Red said.

“You didn't knock me over.”

“I could have if I'd wanted to.”

Luke reluctantly nodded.

Satisfied with that small concession, Red stood up and marched in front of the teacher's desk. Luke watched him as if he were witnessing a bank robbery and glanced nervously toward the front door.

“We should be friends,” Red told him.

“A-all right.”

Red stuck out the same hand he'd previously used to try to crack Luke in the face and kept it there until Luke shook it. Half a crooked smile appeared on Red's face and he nodded while his eyes took the younger boy's stock. After that, he walked right back around Mrs. DeLoach's desk, sat down, and rested his chin upon folded arms.

Luke watched him for several minutes, wondering what changes the new arrangement might bring. As far as he could tell, being officially friends with the older boy had bought him nothing more than a temporary cease-fire. That was enough for him. He had a story to write that needed to be handed in by the end of the week.

•   •   •

A few months later, the arrangement still held up. Not only did Luke and Red get along, but they shared many common interests. Both liked talking about men in their families that had served in the army or fought Indians. Both liked running through town until the sun went down and then meeting up to explore a creek bed or drafty barn early the next morning. Luke never thought he'd enjoy fishing until Red invited him to come along with his father and brother one Sunday afternoon that summer. Even though he'd never put a single worm on a hook until that day, Luke wasn't made to feel foolish by Red or any of his kin. They walked him through step-by-step until Luke pulled a hissing old turtle from the water that made Red fall back onto his rump in panicky surprise.

While Red never made a secret about his lack of enthusiasm where book learning was concerned, he showed a true passion for the stories in Luke's books about adventures in faraway lands or battles between heroes and villains. Their conversations would often drift toward wild speculations about monsters or warriors of their own devising as the boys walked along and dragged crooked sticks against picket fences. Mostly, Luke was the one spinning those yarns and Red would contribute his own colorful embellishments to the imagined wars.

As the year wore on, the boys rarely left each other's sight. Every so often, one would cross the other and a scuffle would break out, but it was short-lived and no punches were thrown in earnest. Winter winds eventually tore across the Kansas plains, rattling shutters against windows and pushing frozen air through the smallest cracks between the planks of every house's walls. Soon a chorus of rowdy voices and wild gunshots pointed at the sky would mark the beginning of a new year.

Luke and Red's friendship had sunk its roots, and the punches that had gotten the whole thing rolling were as forgotten as the first leaf that had fallen that October.