Ralph Compton The Convict Trail by Ralph Compton Page A

up, Kane saw three riders, not one as he’d first supposed.
    â€œStop right where you’re at,” he said. “I can drill ya clean through from here.”
    The rain hissed around him as the riders drew rein. He made a quick study of the three men. They were wearing yellow oilskin slickers and looked alike as peas in a pod. All wore black plug hats, broadcloth pants tucked into English riding boots, and in the V formed by the lapels of their slickers, Kane saw rounded, celluloid collars and tightly knotted ties.
    All sported sweeping mustaches and thick burn-sides, but they didn’t seem to be Western men, although the Winchesters across their saddle horns looked frontier enough. They sat their saddles, patient men, watching Kane with shadowed eyes, as if the steel-bladed rain that hammered on their hats and shoulders did not exist.
    â€œBehind you, Marshal. On your left.”
    Sam’s voice carried across the distance. Kane did not turn, knowing the old man would be standing outside the cabin with his rifle.
    â€œWhat can I do for you fellers?” the marshal asked. “I can offer you coffee, not much else.”
    â€œWe’re traveling,” the only rider who had spoken so far said. “We’ll pass on the coffee.”
    His accent was hard to place and Kane wrestled with it.
    The man tilted his head, his chin jutting in the direction of the wagon. “Who are they?”
    â€œConvicts.” Kane pulled back his sopping vest and showed the star. “I’m Deputy Marshal Logan Kane. These men are on their way to a hanging at Fort Smith.”
    â€œThe American people hate to see that,” the rider said. “White men caged like animals.”
    â€œThey’d hate it a sight worse if them white men ever got loose.”
    Stringfellow and the others were crowded close to the wagon’s iron bars, intent on the three riders as though they thought their saviors had arrived.
    Never a man to stand in one place for too long, especially in a downpour, Kane was all through with it. “Mister, state your business or ride on.”
    â€œState my business?”
    â€œDid I just hear an echo?”
    The rider eased himself in the saddle. His gaze slid off Kane, moved to Sam and lingered for a moment. Then he sighed and said, “My name is Carmine Provanzano. These are my brothers, Vito and Teodoro. We’re from New Orleans.”
    â€œFur piece off your home range, ain’t you?” Kane said.
    â€œLike I told you, we’re traveling.”
    â€œWell, it’s been right nice talking with you,” Kane said. “But I’ve got prisoners to feed.”
    He moved to lift the coffeepot, but Provanzano’s voice stopped him. “Marshal, my brothers and I are part of a large and successful business family. Mostly our commercial interests are centered on the New Orleans docks, but in recent years we’ve branched into the banking and hospitality industries, among others.”
    Kane badly wanted his coffee and the scant warmth of Sam’s smoky fire, and now he was irritated. “Mister, what’s all that to me, huh?”
    One of the other men spoke. “We’re hunting a man. We think you might have seen him.”
    Despite himself, Kane was interested. “What man might that be?”
    Carmine waved a dismissive hand at his brother. “Later, Vito. I’ll tell him when the moment arrives. First a little background on our . . . ah . . . problem, Marshal. After hearing me out, you may be more inclined to help.” He leaned forward in the saddle. “Have you ever heard the word ‘Omerta’?”
    â€œCan’t say as I have.”
    â€œIt’s the code my family lives by. It is a strict rule of honor that is never taken lightly. But one of our family recently broke that code.”
    â€œAnd now you’re lookin’ to get even, huh?”
    â€œNo, that man is dead, but not at our