North to the Salt Fork

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Jack couldn't miss the pair of hard-eyed hombres loafing around his horse. Both wore bull-hide chaps, vests and six-guns. One looked no older than Luke; the other, maybe near his own age, had a bad scar from a knife cut across his left cheek.

“Can I help you?” Jack asked, wondering what the interest was in the gray horse.

“This is my horse,” the older one said as the other blocked his way. “How in the hell did you get him anyway?”

“You got proof he's yours?”

“Mister, I don't need proof he's mine. I raised him from a colt.”

“I'm sorry, but a widow woman gave him to me in Austin.”

“That's right. Some damn rebel stole him from me.”

“The law says possession is nine-tenths of the law. You show me some convincing proof, we'll talk.”

“I'll show you—” The man jerked his six-gun out, but Jack's smoked lead first. . . .

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Copyright © The Estate of Ralph Compton, 2010

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eISBN : 978-1-101-19793-6

Lucille Thornton had never before seen the tall man with the black patch over his left eye. She had noticed him right away as he shed his hat like a gentleman when he arrived at the Saturday-night dance and potluck supper at the Lost Dog Schoolhouse.

She nudged her best friend, Sister Farley. “Who's he, Sister?” she asked over the stomping footsteps and the bounce of lively music.

Sister frowned. “I don't know who he is.”

“Let's be sure our newcomer has some food anyway.” Pulling at Sister's arm, Lucille guided her friend up from the wall bench and crossed the room.

They watched as he spoke civilly to several men and women, then cut through the crowd toward a large tub of lemonade, kept cool by several large chunks of ice floating in the middle.

Lucille spoke up first. “Sir, welcome to Lost Dog Creek and the schoolhouse association's dance.”

He turned. He was dressed in a gray officer's uniform, faded from many washings. “Well, ladies,” he said in a big, booming voice as he gave a short bow, “allow me to introduce myself. They call me Captain Jack Starr, and I'm very pleased to have found your fine festivities this evening.” He pointed toward the couples, young and old, dancing to the toe-tapping music. “Fine-looking neighbors you have.”

“Yes, they are, sir—ah, Captain Jack Starr. My name is Lucille Thornton, and this is my friend Sister Farley.” She'd have sworn Sister blushed at her introduction. “Let us fix you with a plate of food and some dessert, and introduce you to some of the other folks that are here tonight.”

“Why, that would be plumb generous of you-all to do that for a road-dusted stranger.”

Lucille smiled. He was certainly not a meek person—no one would ever have any trouble hearing him unless they'd gone stone deaf in the war during a cannon onslaught. But there was something about this man that she found inviting. He had an openness that made her feel as if he was, perhaps, the most honest man she'd met.

“I take it you two live around here?” he asked.

“Yes,” Lucille said. “Sister and I both lost our husbands in the war. We each run small ranches of our own. Here's a plate—start filling it.”

“I'm sorry to learn that.” He took the plate and looked impressed at the spread of food set out. “Lots here to be thankful for. However, I fear many good men died for what looks like nothing now.”

Lucille nodded and urged him to fill his dish. “Don't be bashful. There's plenty here and most folks have already eaten.”

He paused and studied the crowd again as if a little awed by the sight of them. “Your people look like you two ladies look: ready to start a new life and rebuild this part of Texas.”

“Yes, we're doing that already,” Lucille answered.

Sister agreed with a sharp nod.

Lucille, carrying her dress hem, walked beside him as he sampled this and that. Something about the man drew her in and she found that she didn't want to leave his side. She had no notion of doing anything desperate, but Starr was the first man who'd impressed her since she'd learned her husband, Felton Thornton, had been killed in action. Of course, for all she knew, Starr may have been a horse thief, but the big man—with his deep voice, his single sparkling blue eye, his mysterious patch and slightly curled, overgrown brown hair—held her attention.

“Mrs. . . .”

“ ‘Lucille' and ‘Sister' are good enough. We aren't fancy folks, Captain.”

He laughed aloud and shook his head. “Well, you two look mighty fancy to me.”

Sister had brought him a tin can to use as a glass, with a large shard of ice bobbing in the lemonade. “We can sit over there.”

He nodded, spotting an open bench in the corner. But as the three began to move toward the seats, a scuffle broke out on the dance floor. They turned, seeing two young men standing chest to chest and eye to eye. As one of the men lifted his fist to throw a punch, the other swung his arm around the man's neck and threw his own weight down in an attempt to drop his opponent to the floor. Captain Starr sighed and made a face of impatient disapproval.

“Oh no,” Sister said. “They're at it again. That's the Bledsoe boy and Alan's grandson, Thad.”

“Won't the law stop them?” Jack asked.

Lucille shook her head. “We have no law up here.”

Jack handed Lucille his plate and strode over to the boys. In a flash he had both of them by the shirt collars, one in each hand and, their boots hardly touching the floor, he rushed them toward the double doors.

“Open them wide,” he said to some bystanders, and when Jack reached the top of the stairs, he hurled both of them out into the night. “Now, stay outside until you learn better manners.”