 Recorded books presents The Two Late Trail, a Ralph Compton westerned by Matthew P. Mayo, narrated by me, George Goudel, from Ralph Compton. 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 as 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, 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 is 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 ONE The bull-eyed Texas longhorn snorted. Her muscled red shoulders, bunching and quivering, in counterpoint to his skittering eyes and heaving, lavoured ribcage. Flex of white foam dripped from her trembling mouth. But it was the beast's foot and a half-long mismatched horns that Mitchell Newland kept an eye on. She jerked her head and offered him a jaunty wag. If I wanted to cause you grief, I'd have dosed you with a lead pill long ago. Maybe I should have it that, but your mama was all broody ethyl, and Pa would never have forgiven me if I laid low one of her bloodline. Somehow that got through to her, and the belligerent beast eased her post-legged stance and swung her head back toward the cloud of scrub brush behind her. Past her shoulder, Mitch caught a glimpse of what he had expected to see. A tiny red-and-white mottled face with drooped ears peering around the spiny branches. Good mama! The young rancher eased his black-guilding champ, three then four cautious steps backward, but then the horse balked. Let's give her space. She's doing what we want her to, after all, with a coyote to come along and ten times lessing her calf. If champ understood or cared about what Mitch was saying, he didn't let on, and he didn't budge another step. Mitch dug harder with his heels. The horse offered a low snort, then gave in, and they eased back, side-stepping until they were at a distance safe enough should the ordinary young mother change her mind. "'My word,' said Mitch, rubbing his sweat-stained fawn hat back and forth on his head. "'It was a few minutes there. I thought maybe we were going to have to duke it out. And you,' he patted the horse's neck, "'you big lummox, all but let me down back there. What's gotten into the critters on the twin ends spread this morning.'" Mitch half-smiled and gave a look around, as if someone on the scrub and sand plain might catch him nattering away. Conversing with himself was a habit he'd had most of his twenty-three years, and one his pop, taking Newland, had encouraged. "'You go right ahead, talkin' to you and yours. You meet better people that way, son,' he'd say with a wink. "'Don't know about that, pop,' said Mitch, resuming his one-sided conversation. "'But I can tell ya, the only other person who doesn't think it's odd is Evie. She is, as you said long ago, a keeper. And I'm pretty certain she feels that way about me, too. Only trouble is, I can't in good conscience ask her to marry up with me if this ranch limps along. We need rain, money, and more of both in that order. But on the saddle for two out of three, Mitch looked up at the morning's wide blue sky and side, his gaze fixed on the worn, flat trail before him, dust kicked up by a gust, carrying off whatever useful dirt the twin end had left. Nope, pop hadn't left much. Despite that, Mitch felt something deep inside for the play." Sample complete. Ready to continue?