Demon's Pass

Table of Contents

 

 

“It's my wagon.”

The worker stopped, then turned toward him. “What?”

“This wagon,” Parker replied. “It belongs to me. And the purchase contract says that it will be fit for travel. The way you are packing the wheel hubs, it ain't fit.”

“Get out of here, kid. Go bother someone else.” The worker turned back to the wheel.

“No, sir, I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to make sure you do that right,” Parker insisted.

The worker had just scooped out a paddleful of grease. This time though, instead of putting it around the wheel hub, he turned quickly and wiped it across Parker's shirt.

“Hey!” Parker shouted in surprise and anger.

The big man laughed. “Now get out of here, kid, and let a man do his work.
Your
wagon,” he said, laughing again. “That's a good one.”

Parker walked over to a drum of coal oil, wet a cloth, and used it to clean the grease from the front of his shirt. That accomplished, he picked up a bullwhip and returned to the wagon. . . .

SIGNET
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First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
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First Printing, August 2000

Copyright © The Estate of Ralph Compton, 2000

All rights reserved

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

 

 

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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.

 

BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION, PENGUIN PUTNAM INC., 375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014.

 

eISBN : 978-1-101-17755-6

THE IMMORTAL COWBOY

The saga of the “American Cowboy” was 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—which include Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska, Colorado, Wyoming, New Mexico, and Arizona—there's something within me that remembers. 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, allowing 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 a dark and bloody period in American history. Its heroes, Crockett, Bowie, Hickock, 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.

Chapter 1

 

The boy's name was Parker Stanley, and he had heard all the jokes about having a name that was backward. “Putting the horse before the cart, and so forth.” Now, as he sat leaning against the broken wagon wheel, he tried to hang on to his name . . . to hang on to anything that would tell him that he was still alive.

He wasn't sure how long he had been watching the approaching rider. Heat waves shimmering up from the sun-baked earth gave the rider a surrealistic appearance, bending the light in such a way that sometimes the rider was visible and sometimes he wasn't. Parker wasn't that sure there really was a rider. If so, was he human? Or, was he an Angel of the Lord, coming to take him to join his mother and father?

Parker looked around at the burned wagon, and at the scalped bodies of his mother and father. A few of the arrows the Indians had shot at them were still protruding from their bodies.

There was very little left of the wagon's contents. The Indians had taken all the clothes, household goods, food, and water. They had taken his older sister, too. Elizabeth hadn't cried, not one whimper, and Parker remember how proud he was of her bravery.

The Indians hadn't found the little leather pouch, though. It contained all the money from the sale of the farm in Illinois, and was to have been the start of their new life. Parker saw his father hide the pouch, just before the attack began.

How long had it been since the attack? No matter how hard he tried to think, Parker couldn't come up with the answer. Was it an hour ago? This morning? Yesterday? He had been sitting right here, at this wheel, for as long as he could remember.

The rider reached the wagon, swung down from his horse, then walked toward Parker, carrying a canteen. Parker watched him, almost without interest. When he felt the cool water at his lips, though, he began to drink thirstily, gulping it down in such large quantities that he nearly choked.

“Whoa, now,” the rider said gently, pulling the canteen back. “Take it easy, boy. You mustn't drink it too fast. It'll make you sick.”

The rider wet his handkerchief, then began rubbing it lightly on the boy's head.

“You took a pretty good bump on the head,” he said. “They must've thought you were dead. You're lucky you still have your scalp. They generally prize blond hair like yours.”

The water revived Parker's awareness, and with it, the realization that both his parents had been brutally killed. He managed to hold back the sobs, but not the tears.

“Your folks?” the rider asked softly.

Parker nodded.

“Cheyenne, I expect. I'm real sorry about this, son,” the rider said.

“There was a white man with them,” Parker said.

“What? A white man? Are you sure?”

Parker thought of the big redheaded man who had cursed when they found no money in the wagon.

“Yes,” Parker said. “I'm sure. He was a big man with red hair and red beard. I'll never forget him.”

“There's nothing worse than a white man who has gone bad and thrown his lot in with the Indians.” The rider looked over at the bodies of the boy's parents. “You stay here, I'll bury them for you.”

“I want to help,” Parker said, stirring himself to rise.

The rider smiled at him. “Good for you, lad,” he said. “In the years to come it'll be a comfort to you to know that you did what you could for them.” He looked toward the wagon and saw part of a shovel, the top half of the handle having been burned away. “You can use that, I've got a small spade on my saddle.”

They worked quietly and efficiently for the next half hour, digging only one grave, but making it large enough for both his mother and father. They lowered Parker's parents into the hole, then shoveled the dirt back over them.

“You want me to say a few words over them?”

The boy nodded.

The rider walked back to his horse and opened a saddlebag. Parker watched as he took out a small leather-bound book and returned to the graveside. With his own survival now taken care of, and with the business of burying his parents out of the way, Parker was able to examine his benefactor closely. He saw a tall, powerfully built man, clean-shaven, with dark hair. Parker wasn't old enough to shave yet, but he knew the trouble it took to shave every morning, and he thought the rider must be a particularly vain man to go to such trouble on a daily basis, especially when on the range like this.

“What are their names?” the man asked, interrupting Parker's musing.

“What?”

“If I'm going to say a few words, I need to know their names.”

“My ma's name is Emma. My pa's is Amon. Amon Stanley.”

The rider cleared his throat, then began to read:

“ ‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.

“ ‘Oh God, whose mercies cannot be numbered: Accept these prayers on behalf of thy servants Amon and Emma Stanley, and grant them an entrance into the land of light and joy, in the fellowship of thy saints; through Jesus Christ thy Son our Lord, who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever. Amen.”

“Amen,” Parker echoed quietly.

The rider closed his book and looked down at the mound of dirt for a long moment, then he looked over at the boy and smiled, and stuck out his hand.

“I'm Clay Springer,” he said. “How are you called?”

“Parker. Parker Stanley. Parker is my first name.”

“Parker Stanley . . . that's a fine name for a man,” Clay said. “Well, climb up on back of my horse, Parker. We can ride double.”