Ralph Compton Thirteen Bullets

By Sean Danker and Ralph Compton

In this raucous new book in Ralph Compton’s Gunfighter series, the only thing Dan Karr can’t shoot down is his suspicion about the man who’s paying him.
 
George Kingsley has more money than sense, and when he’s in trouble he turns to the infamous gunslinger Dan Karr for protection. Dan reluctantly accepts, and he kills every would-be assassin without hesitation or remorse. He’s superstitious, not sentimental, but Kingsley has kids, and Dan doesn’t want to see any child grow up without a father.
 
As the killers keep coming and the bodies stack up, it becomes clear that something is very wrong. Luck favors the prepared, and Dan starts to realize just how little he knows about the family he’s risking his neck for. He’s always been good at dodging black cats and broken mirrors, but he’s spent enough time around gamblers to know that a hot streak can’t last forever. Sooner or later, every man’s luck runs out...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
• Release date: May 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9780593334188

Book preview

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

PART ONE

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THE THIRTEENTH CLIENT

CHAPTER ONE

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The pitiful door was so short that Dan almost had to duck to get through, pulling it shut behind him. The whole place was like that, built of poor wood that almost seemed to rot away in front of his very eyes. It creaked like an old sailing ship.

The hotel was still better off than the man Dan had left in that room, who would likely die soon from the bullet in his leg. Dan stood for a moment in the hallway, gazing at the door, then at the floor, as whoever played the piano downstairs missed a note.

There was no point in staying. He was reasonably good at a number of things, but healing the sick wasn’t one of them. He’d sat through more than a few Bible lessons as a boy, but they hadn’t taught him to do miracles.

His boots dragged on the threadbare rug as he went dejectedly to the stairs and started down, only to pause again with his eye on the boy down below. The kid had been about to climb up, but now he just stood there, his eyes on Dan, the awful piano banging on their eardrums. At least the smell of stale beer on the first floor wasn’t as bad as the odor of a festering wound on the second.

Dan set his jaw and went on down. That broke the kid out of his trance, and he bumped past Dan as he ran up the stairs. Was it bad luck to leave a man that way, dying in his bed? It almost had to be.

The air outside wasn’t fresh, but it was cold, and that was an improvement. Croshank was the soggiest, sorriest excuse for a camp that Dan had ever seen. This evening he was miserable enough that things like that didn’t bother him so much. The dark was coming on so fast that it was hard not to wonder what the hurry was, and imminent rain was thick on the breeze.

Dan stepped down off the porch, his boots squelching in the mud.

Lots of people lingered outdoors, even with a storm coming, more than there’d been an hour ago, and they were unusually interested in the joint that Dan had just walked out of. The only explanation was that there was something interesting to see. Men, women, and even some children peered at him, and that could only mean that he’d been recognized. Of all the times to have people staring. His suit was rumpled, his waistcoat was missing a button, and he’d misplaced his watch.

He trudged to Petunia with all those eyes on him, and she snorted and gave him a look. He rubbed the gray mare’s neck and didn’t look back at the tumbledown hotel behind him, but the piano in there wouldn’t let him forget about it. Worse, it drowned out the fiddle being played in the hotel across the street, if street was even the word. It was more like a swamp, and if a big rain fell, it was liable to become a river.

The mare was nakedly irate, and Dan felt the same way. They both wanted out of this place, but just the thought of climbing into the saddle and riding into that storm—it made his body feel so heavy that the prospect wasn’t even on the table. Petunia wanted to leave, but she had to rest. It had been a long, hard ride to get here ahead of Tom Calvert.

Dan’s hat was in his other hand; he’d forgotten to put it back on. Now the first raindrop struck his head.

He beckoned to the boy in the stable, which was by far the sturdiest building in sight. The boy hurried over, trying to hide his apprehension.

Put her up, Dan grunted, handing over the reins. If he just kept his eyes ahead, he could almost pretend that there was nothing behind him.

Dan began the slog across the way to the other hotel; neither one of them had a sign to let anyone know what they were called.

Thunder rumbled, but it was another sound that caught Dan’s attention. He stopped short, skin hot, fingertips tingling.

It came again, and he looked to his right. Coat matted and fangs out, the cat cowered between the legs of the trough outside the stable, staring at him. It was dark down there, and that made it difficult to say—but no, the fur wasn’t black, Dan was fairly certain; it just looked that way in the gloom.

The bedraggled creature hissed at him.

Don’t you do that again, he warned.

If the crowd hadn’t been staring before, they would now that he stood in the open without even his hat on, talking to a cat.

The cat hissed again and Dan hurried the rest of the way, stepping up and kicking a little of the mud off his boots as the gawkers moved aside. He pushed his way through the doors with a little more strength than necessary so they banged noisily against the walls. His nerves weren’t frayed; they’d just given up.

He went straight to the fire and dropped like a dead man into the armchair there, and it wailed and sagged so badly that it very nearly became a bed. He slouched, his eyes on the flames. At least the chimney worked; the only smoke in the room was from tobacco. He wanted to smoke, but didn’t have it in him to roll a cigarette. He’d quit chewing, but maybe it was time to start again.

The rain began suddenly, pounding the hotel like a drummer with a grudge. The man behind the bar ambled over.

Mr. Karr? he said.

It wasn’t the first time that a stranger had known his name, but it hadn’t happened so many times that Dan was accustomed to it. It was because he hadn’t worn his hat—that was the problem. He wasn’t the only tall man on Earth, but folks had a way of remembering his red hair.

Do you need some supper? the barman asked.

I need a drink.

I have dark beer. And firewater.

This camp wasn’t even a mile from the railroad, and there was no whiskey?

Whiskey is in some demand, the barman said apologetically.

Dan took a deep breath and peered around at the filthy taproom. There was no faulting the folks who lived around here for taking all the good drink for themselves. He’d have done the same.

Not the beer, Dan grunted.

The barman brought him a glass of something, and one sniff made his nose hurt and his eyes water.

The man still hovered beside the chair. Dan looked up at him.

My girl is occupied. I have another, but she has trouble with the bottle, the man said, twisting his hand towel between his hands. I’m told she’s done poorly today, and I do not think she will work tonight. I apologize.

I don’t need company, Dan replied, rubbing his eyes.

The barman still didn’t leave.

Of any kind, Dan added, but the man didn’t take the hint.

Is it true you killed Tom Calvert, the barman asked, finally giving in to his curiosity, and that is why you cannot bodyguard for gamblers no more?

Dan’s first impulse was to deny it, but the statement wasn’t exactly false—it just wasn’t true yet. The residents were unaware that Tom Calvert was still alive or that he was here in their camp. But he would die from that bullet in his leg, and Dan had been the one to put it there.

What a thing: Tom Calvert the gambler had gotten here without anyone recognizing him, but people recognized Dan.

I’ll have another, Dan said, holding up his empty glass.

The barman looked taken aback. Dan glanced over his shoulder.

And tell them to quit staring, he added.

Yes, sir. I will have a room prepared.

The storm didn’t let up as the barman brought him a second drink, then mercifully let him be. Dan took a sip and balanced the glass on the arm of the chair, then leaned forward with a grimace, reaching into his jacket to get the revolver that was stowed in the small of his back. It was the heavy Army pistol that he’d taken from Tom’s room. It was hurting his back in this chair. He pushed it down between the cushion and the arm and settled back with his drink.

The firewater acted quickly. A gentle haze drifted over his mind, and while it couldn’t kill the melancholy, it did soften it. The fire crackled almost musically, but the noise of the downpour made everything else pointless; there was no hope of hearing music, talking, or whatever went on in the rooms upstairs. That was about as pleasant as Dan could hope for, or it would’ve been if the place wasn’t so leaky. Icy water dripped on his knee, and he grudgingly moved his leg out of the way.

Tom was across the street, dying, and Dan was here, sinking deeper into this chair. The glass was empty again. He couldn’t coax or lull his mind to sleep, but maybe he could drown it. Drink was a thick woolen blanket providing comfort and hiding away all the things he couldn’t be bothered with—yet even that heavy blanket and the sound of the storm couldn’t block out the footsteps coming for him.

Dan didn’t care enough to even tense up, so it was just as well that the soaking man who stepped in front of him looked about as threatening as a newborn puppy. His sodden striped suit was as fine as any that Tom Calvert had ever worn, and his watch chain caught the firelight beautifully. Dan tried to gauge his age; he himself would be thirty-one in December, and this man had to be a little older. He’d gotten a little scratch on his face, which wasn’t bleeding so much, although the rain might’ve washed the blood away. His clothes were in total disarray.

He looked scared. All he needed was a hat to twist between his hands, but he didn’t have a hat at all—just his damp hair, starting to thin a bit. He pushed it out of his eyes.

Mr. Karr, he said with only a bit of tremble in his voice. It was as though he expected the Almighty Himself to kick in the door and put a bullet in him.

Dan tiredly turned his head to look over his shoulder. The taproom was almost placid, likely due to the storm. There was no danger. What the hell was this man so bent out of shape over?

Mr. Karr, the man repeated.

What? Dan replied. The firewater hadn’t extinguished his irritability, but it had taken a bite out of it.

I would like to hire you. Immediately. My name is George Kingsley. He said it as though he expected people to give a damn—and maybe that was fair. People had looked at Dan Karr with interest, and now the people in the taproom looked at Kingsley in a similar way. He was known to them.

Dan went to rub his face but paused, alarmed at the way his hand swam in front of his eyes and by the detail that he appeared to have nine fingers. He blinked a few times and glanced at the empty glass.

I ain’t for hire, he said about to wave his hand to shoo the man away, but he thought better of it. It wouldn’t be prudent to do too much moving, and seeing his arm multiply might make him ill.

Kingsley looked uncomprehending.

I have heard your name said and seen it printed, he said. I was to believe that your vocation is to protect those in need of protection for a price. And I will pay, he said earnestly.

"I ain’t for hire now," Dan clarified.

Are you presently engaged? Kingsley pressed, confusion on his face.

It was Dan’s turn to look lost. He spread his hands. "Do I look like a man who is engaged? What do I need with a wife?"

Kingsley blinked. My meaning is—are you employed? If so, I will outbid your employer. Handsomely. His hands were clenched.

No, I ain’t employed. I just ain’t hiring.

"Well, why not?" the other man growled, losing his composure for a moment.

This wasn’t the first man to try to hire Dan since he’d shot Tom, but it was the first time one of them had had the spine to ask that question to his face. He gazed past Kingsley at the fire and threw what little strength he had into something like a shrug.

I’ve had twelve jobs bodyguarding. I take another and it’ll go bad, he grumbled.

Kingsley squinted at him, his face screwed up in bafflement. "What? Is that—is that superstition?" His nerves had vanished, replaced by disbelief and a hint of disdain.

What if it is? Dan replied defensively.

That is ridiculous nonsense, Kingsley stated flatly. I will pay you real money to assist me. Money you can see and touch, he went on, lowering his voice and patting his pocket.

Dan stared up at him, unimpressed.

I ain’t convinced you are in a position to talk down to me, he said. You wouldn’t be begging for help if your luck hadn’t run out. Maybe it ain’t so ridiculous.

Kingsley twitched, letting out a low noise of frustration.

Very well, Mr. Karr. I have foolishly discounted superstition and luck and now I require your aid. I apologize for my rude words. I meant no offense.

I don’t want to aid you. Even if I did, I can’t. I just told you why, Dan snapped.

Kingsley closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then consider this: I will give you a monetary gift, and in return, you will do me the small favor of accompanying me on an errand. These can be favors between acquaintances with no talk of employment. Will that satisfy your superstition?

Dan frowned. He’d never thought about anything like that.

I’m drunk, he announced.

Yes, Mr. Karr, that is not lost on me, but I do not need you to live up to your reputation just at the moment. Only to bring it with you. I believe that will be a sufficient deterrent.

Sufficient what? Dan sighed, then shook his head. No. I won’t do it. It don’t feel honest.

Mr. Karr! Kingsley burst out, then controlled himself, speaking through gritted teeth. If there were anyone else I could petition, he said, indicating the other patrons with his eyes, I would do so. If you will not help me for the sake of money, then help me for the sake of decency. My family is threatened.

Dan paused in the act of reaching for his glass. It was empty anyhow.

You got kids? he asked.

Kingsley swallowed. I have a daughter, he said, gazing at his muddy shoes. Two—two daughters. And a son.

The man clearly had money, and with money had to come pride—but he was here and all but getting down on his knees. Why did he want Dan? Because everyone else around here probably knew him and knew what was going on. Kingsley probably thought anyone else would have too much sense to go along with whatever foolishness he had in mind.

Or maybe there just weren’t any men handy who were known for doing bodyguard work. That wasn’t out of the question; Dan was surprised Croshank had anyone in it important enough to protect. He didn’t know Kingsley, and he certainly didn’t like him. It was a dirty tactic to bring the kids into it.

Someone wanted Kingsley dead, and Kingsley didn’t have the look of a man who’d done something wrong, so that meant he’d done something stupid. Dan wasn’t known for his compassion; he wouldn’t have been any good at his job if he was.

Kingsley’s kids had a fool for a father, but better a fool than none at all.

CHAPTER TWO

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Dan put his hand out.

Kingsley took it so fast that if he just had some notion of what to do with that speed, he wouldn’t need a bodyguard. He shook Dan’s hand vigorously.

Thank you, Mr. Karr. Then I am to understand you will do me this favor? I will return it in kind, I assure you, he said.

Dan scowled.

I wanted you to help me up, he said, pulling his hand free. Never mind. I’ll do it myself. He put his hands on the chair arms and levered himself up with a groan, only wavering a little. At least he wasn’t seeing double.

Kingsley stepped back nervously as Dan yawned, then stretched his arms—then caught himself as a moment of light-headedness struck. He shook his head and patted down his pockets.

Well, what do you need done, then, at this hour? You want me to watch your door while you sleep? Dan asked.

No, no, I must return to my house and collect important papers there. Then I must meet my family before the train departs. He checked his watch. We have very little time. I only require you to accompany me.

So he had a train to catch; no wonder he was in such a hurry. But this late? That seemed unusual, but Dan wouldn’t have worried about it even sober. Why should he care when the trains ran? He did wonder why this well-dressed man didn’t keep his papers with him. If they were so important, why’d he let them out of his sight? But Dan wasn’t paid to ask questions, and tonight he wouldn’t be paid at all. This wasn’t a job; it couldn’t be a job because it would be his thirteenth, and that would just be asking for trouble. Besides, Dan didn’t drink when he was working; therefore he wasn’t working.

This was just something to do to keep his mind off the dying man across the street.

He followed Kingsley toward the door, then doubled back to the armchair, stifling another yawn as he fished the Army pistol out from between the cushions. He couldn’t very well leave it. He pressed it into the startled Kingsley’s hands and brushed past him, leaving the relative warmth for the cold damp outside.

Water poured from the porch’s leaky roof, and Dan shivered just from looking at it.

Is your horse in the stable? he asked as Kingsley appeared beside him, fidgeting with the gun in his hands as though he didn’t know what to do with it.

Dan could feel the eyes on his back, and he could see the ones in that larger tent off to the right. People knew that something was happening. There couldn’t be many men like Kingsley in this camp, or it wouldn’t be so run-down. He had to be important.

Yes, but I think it would be more prudent to go on foot, Kingsley replied.

Dan made his eyes focus and leaned on a post to steady himself as he considered the frigid downpour. Any colder and it would’ve been a blizzard. Wyoming Territory had never been to Dan’s liking, and this weather wouldn’t change his mind.

Lead the way, he said bitterly.

There was something especially irksome about braving this downpour without compensation, but it was still better than taking on a thirteenth client. Maybe he should’ve stopped before the twelfth. Or maybe the twelfth had been the thirteenth, and he’d just lost count somewhere along the way—that would have explained a great deal.

Mr. Karr? Kingsley said uncertainly.

I told you to lead, Dan snapped, giving the other man a shove.

They went out into the rain, and Kingsley drew his coat around himself, putting his head down and hurrying forward in the dark. He carried no lamp, so he had to know the way well.

They passed the sodden tents, lines of yellow spilling out over the mud from the lights inside, leaking through tears and loose flaps.

A dreadful little lean-to hidden in the muddy dark between two buildings looked all but ready to fall in on itself. A woman’s loud, wretched weeping was clearly audible inside. Dan turned to look as he slogged past, but Kingsley kept his eyes ahead and pressed on. Dan pulled the brim of