At least Sue Ellen was alive, if haggard looking. But even at this distance and even though she looked to have been worked hard, he had to admit Sue Ellen was still a fetching woman. He was a fool for her, always had been, always would be. Even on his wildest day of imagining Ty couldn’t conjure a time when he’d not been attracted to the woman he’d known all those long years ago.
He finished drizzling the fine-chopped tobacco into the trough of creased paper and smoothed the thin smoke, dragging it through his lips twice to seal it. He always took his time in such matters, found that most anything in life that was rushed more often than not turned out poorly. Just a fact. He reckoned he’d learned that from his mother, bless her Irish heart. And also from good ol’ Uncle Hob. Certainly wasn’t from the old man, a rascal more concerned with his next bottle of tanglefoot than in finishing a task well, on time, and happily.
Other than to slip off the rawhide thong looped over the hammer of his Colt Navy, Ty kept still, his hands resting on the saddle horn as puffs of dust from the riders bloomed ever closer. Soon he made out the horses’ coats—a chestnut and some sort of roan. Stub had marked their progress and now nickered, tossing his head slightly at their approach.
“Okay, boy. We’ll know something soon enough.”
And within a minute more, the two thundered upslope and into sight, no weapons drawn. They reached the top of the rise at which Ty sat atop Stub. The first horse’s rider sat tall in the saddle but only because he was a tall man, his obvious height accentuated by a black felt hat with a crown that ranged skyward. The man’s rounded shoulders gave him a look of defeat that warred with a flinty look of deviltry in his reddened eyes. He also sported a long, beaklike nose, red around the nostrils with quivering drips hanging from them.
The roan’s rider, a shorter, wider man, looked solidly built. Bandoliers layered a sweat-stained peasant shirt that, from the looks of it, had ranged a far piece from its days as a white garment.
A tall-crowned wide-brimmed woven hat with a large curling brim adorned the man’s head, which itself was a dark-skinned affair, all snagged teeth and shocks of thick, raw hair jutting as badly as his teeth. His efforts at working up a mustache looked to have been doomed for some time, as the entire affair was little more than a haphazard series of spidery hairs that, if possible, detracted further from the man’s scant looks.
But it was the eyes under thick black, beetling brows that caused Ty’s jaw muscles to bunch. They were the dark, dead eyes of a man who cared little for his own life, and so would gladly take the lives of others—and Ty wagered with himself that the man probably had, numerous times—as easily as a scythe lays low stalks of grain.
The two men paused, assessing him and he them, each in turn. Then they split and flanked him. Ty tightened on the Morgan’s reins and walked the horse backward briskly. “Whoa, now, gents. Hold up.” And the two riders did just that.
“You and me, we’re not getting off to a cordial start. Usually such meetings go something like, ‘Hi there, I’m so-and-so and you’re riding on my home range. Who be you?’ That sort of chatter. But when you two ride up bold as brass and think to outflank me, why, a man will become suspicious, don’t you think?”
This appeared to confuse the strangers. The tall one finally spoke. “You ought to come with us.” He dragged a sleeve across his drippy nose, jerked his head back downslope, toward the Double Cross, his tall hat wagging as if it might topple from its lofty perch.
“Was that a question or an order?” said Ty, careful to keep one hand on the bunched and taut reins, one resting on his leg, poised for snatching his Colt from its holster.
“Come on. Don’t want to keep the boss waiting.”
Ty wondered who that might be, and what he came up with was that these men and the others were strangers to him and carried more than a whiff of wrongness about them. But not knowing this as a certainty, Ty merely nodded at them and waited.
They regarded him, looked at each other; then the smaller, swarthy-faced man made a low growling noise deep in his throat and gave what Ty was sure was the man’s orneriest glare.
Ty pulled in a long, slow draft of air through his nostrils, keeping his hand close by the Colt. “I got to tell you, fellas, I don’t scare easy.” The entire time he spoke he eyed them, kept their hands in view, making sure any sudden movement was met with one of greater speed and force. He would brook no foolishness from these two ill-born wastrels.
“Come on, then,” sighed the tall, slump-shouldered man. He jerked his head downslope once again and the smaller man growled once more, giving his glare a last squinty effort, then nudged his horse into a slow walk beside Ty. It was obvious they intended to keep him just ahead of them. But since he was pretty sure these two and whoever else lurked at the Winstead home place were probably responsible for Alton’s death, a back-shooting and bludgeoning, to boot—no accident there—then he was not about to let them behind him.
He held Stub to a halting slow walk, and had to admit to enjoying seeing the muscles of the smaller man’s homely face and stalky neck tense and his veins throb. It’s a wonder the runty short-fuse of a man had any teeth left. Under such hard treatment, Ty suspected they’d have long since powdered. Still he kept a lid on his grin, no need to push the little man over the edge. Just up to it would do nicely.
They proceeded on down the last slope, then onto the long flat that led to the ranch. The roughs flanking ahead of him gave up their flagging attempts to drop back and heeled their mounts into a jog, though they were still careful to glance at Ty every few seconds. He kept up with them, though he hung back a few paces.
As they neared the ranch entrance, he glanced up at its ironwork archway. It depicted a doubled cross that looked, Ty supposed, somewhat like a fanciful letter “W.” To his knowledge, Winstead had never bothered to make official the mark as a brand, at least not with the local cattlemen’s association. More and more as time wore on it became apparent to Ty and everyone else locally that Alton Winstead was anything but a rancher. And if he intended to be, as he kept on telling everyone he was, then he had sure taken his time about it. And now it looked as though he’d never get there. But maybe Sue Ellen would.
They passed under the arch and Ty nudged Stub into a quick gallop that caught the two strange men by surprise as he passed between them and beyond, making a beeline directly for the house, where a handful of men clustered. As he approached he saw three on the long porch of the place, loafing, and another man lazily easing forward and back in Winstead’s ornately carved rocking chair.
The two riders caught up to him, doing their best to flank him like skulking wolves, just as he reined up a half dozen yards from the porch. Stub fidgeted, dancing in place, eyes beginning to whiten and roll. The horse was a good judge of situations and men and he sensed all that and more of what Ty also felt.
“Whoa, boy,” murmured Ty in a low command. He cut his gaze to Sue Ellen. She stood halfway between the porch and the water trough. A galvanized pail, still glistening wet inside, hung from a work-reddened hand. She looked at him with wide eyes filled with warning—that much was plain. He forced himself to keep his own eyes level, no flinching or twitching. That one in the rocking chair had the look of boss hoss about him. Any sign of recognition or weakness would tip him off about something that Ty wasn’t even aware of yet.
He had to admit that Sue Ellen looked worse up close than she had from a distance through the spyglass. Worn and flushed, those green eyes wore dark rings and sweat caused long strings of hair to cling to her face. He kept his face stern, looked down at her, touched his hat brim. “Mrs. Winstead,” he said, his voice grave, his face revealing nothing, yet his eye jounced, betraying him in some small way, of that he was sure.
Half a dozen hard cases, a couple with a Mexican-bandit look to them, made a show of leaning about the place. They bore the same general appearance as the two who had escorted him. To a ma
n they looked dirty and showed signs that they drank too much, and their hard glances and gritted teeth revealed them to be as designing as starving wolves in a chicken coop. They looked to Ty to be bad men.
Those on the long, low, shade-giving overhang were tough characters sporting various scars, ratty, much-patched articles of clothing, and worn boots and hats. What they did each carry that gave Ty pause even for his own safety, though more for Sue Ellen’s, was weaponry. All manner of killing devices bristled visibly on their persons. They did not look much like ranch hands. But then again, what business was it of his? Alton Winstead was an odd piece of work, so it stood to reason he’d be chummy with odd characters, maybe even hire them.
A russet-haired, bloodshot-eyed man in a bowler anchored an edge of the broad steps and flashed a one-sided grin as Ty’s eyes raked over him. He took in a pepperbox revolver wedged in the man’s waistband, a chip-handled machete stuck in the other side of the same waist sash, and two mismatched cross-draw pistols snugged oddly above the man’s belly, just under his chest.
Two more men stood on either end of the porch, and looked as if they could well be brothers close in age. Nut-brown skin shone with sweat and the oil of poor living, a rough diet, and lack of good sweat-labor—a trait they all seemed to share. Their personal arsenals consisted of Bowie knives and six-guns, and they each cradled a longer gun, one a sawed-off, the other a rifle. They did not share the bowler-wearing, Irish-looking fellow’s penchant for grinning.
The man seated in the rocker still worked that piece of furniture ever so slowly, all the while eyeing Ty as keenly as Ty had his men. Ty’s gaze rested on this man for a moment.
Each man wondered why the other was really there. Ty eyeballed the slowly rocking man. Already he knew not to trust the look of what had to be his gang of men. But this one, he looked at once to be the best and worst of the lot. He had a dark look about him, maybe Italian, maybe Mexican, though none of that mattered. From what Ty could see, the man was all cold and ornery behind those bright, inquisitive eyes. What was this one’s story? Why was he here?
One of the man’s legs was outstretched, the boot canted at an odd angle. Ty noted that the sole on that boot, somewhat facing him, bore the marks of hard use, particularly along the outer edge. As if it had been held for a time on a spinning grindstone.
The man’s face was hard, homely, and it was full, just shy of thin, so he ate regularly, and didn’t have that scurvy, hungry look his fellows wore. The others looked as if they were the human counterparts of those coyotes up back in the hills who’d been nipping and snapping at the corpse of Alton Winstead.
“What brings you to the Double Cross, sir?”
The question took Ty by surprise. It was precisely the thing he was set to ask this arrogant man. No, arrogant wasn’t quite the word for him, much closer to bold and self-confident. He looked like a cat that had just filled its belly on a bawling new calf and lazily watched as its kits snarled and fought over the carcass.
Ty sucked in a quick breath through his front teeth, straightened in the saddle. He wanted to play this calm and cool. If these gents caught on that he had seen the body of Winstead—and that he knew they’d done him in—then he might as well let them drill him in the back, too. And that wouldn’t help Sue Ellen. He didn’t dare glance her way again.
“I was about to ask you that same thing, fella.” Ty softened this with a head nod. “You chums with Winstead?”
The man laughed softly, a dry, papery sound. “And I could ask you that same thing . . . fella.” He closed his eyes lazily, almost as if he were in the midst of an enjoyable drinking jag. “As it happens, yes, I am an old acquaintance of Alton Winstead. My name is Clewt Duggins.”
Ty noticed that a few of the men started at the man’s mention of his name, as if they didn’t want him to say who he was. Curious.
“Winstead kindly invited me and my crew here”—he waved a finger left and right—“to mind the ranch while he’s away.”
Ty regarded him a moment. “Away, huh?” That was a plausible response, considering he knew that Winstead often took trips of a week or more, sometimes taking Sue Ellen, sometimes not.
The man nodded, looked almost as if he wasn’t about to reply, then said, “He’s gone on an extended business trip, buying cattle, primarily. He hired us to set up the spread, so to speak. Get it ready for the first herd to arrive.” He leaned forward, rested his palms on his knees, as if warming to his topic. But he focused his eyes on Sue Ellen Winstead, who had yet to move. She stared from Ty to the man, back to Ty.
“Mr. Winstead,” continued the man in the rocker, “he has a whole lot of good ideas where this ranch is concerned. Lots of planning, I’ve been told, has taken place since he arrived in these parts. Would you agree, Mr., ah . . . ?”
“You say Winstead has gone to buy cattle.”
The man’s smile faded as he shifted his gaze back to Ty. “Yes, that’s what I said.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Ty, not altering his gaze.
The men loafing on the porch all tensed as if pulled from behind by a common wire. The man in the rocking chair lost his smug smile, but patted the air to either side of him, calming his men. They resumed their former positions, though all remained tight and tense. A few moments passed. Then the man in the rocking chair stood, his extended leg remained rigid, and he swung awkwardly forward, pivoting on it over to a porch upright. He squinted his eyes and poked his head forward, as if really paying attention to Ty Farraday for the first time since they began talking.
“You come right to a thing, don’t you . . . Ah, what’s your name again?”
“I reckon I do, yep. No sense playing games. And no, not ‘again,’ because I haven’t said my name yet. But it’s Farraday. I own a neighboring rancho, the Rocking T.”
“Ah, yes, yes. Alton—that is”—the man smiled—“Mr. Winstead—he spoke of your place, said you were quite a rancher, good stockman, had lots of good things to say about you.”
Ty narrowed his eyes. “You’re a liar, Duggins.”
It was as if he’d drawn down on the lot of them. Each of the men—and he suspected there were a couple more he hadn’t yet seen—squared off on him, readying for a blazing minute of fast gun action. In such a circumstance as this, he decided mentioning that he’d found Winstead’s body being gnawed on by coyotes was not in his best interest. These men sported all the outward markings of killers. No need to offer himself up as the next notch on their grips.
“Seems like your men are a mite touchy.”
The man smiled, and with a black cheroot smoldering between two yellow-stained fingers, he patted the air again, as if feeling the back of a beef. “Easy, boys, easy. I’m sure what Mr. Farraday meant was that I am mistaken. Perhaps I heard Mr. Winstead incorrectly.”
“Nope,” said Ty. “I called you a liar.” It was a calculated choice of words—and the truth.
“What makes you say such a thing, Mr. Farraday?” said the man.
“Because it’s the truth. Me and Winstead, we got along about as well as two rabid marmots in a sack. If you knew Winstead, he’d surely have mentioned that. Maybe even warned you about me.”
“Warned? Hmm, that sounds as though you have the potential to be . . . dangerous, Mr. Farraday. Could that be a thinly veiled threat you are offering me?”
“Nothing could be further from the truth,” said Ty. Then he leaned forward, the saddle leather creaking. “Unless there’s some reason I should be threatening you. Is there, Mr. Duggins?”
Duggins had puffed his cheroot down to the nub, then dropped it and mashed it into the plank floor at his feet with one scuffed boot toe. He let thick streams of gauzy black-gray smoke leak from his nostrils. They carried over, clouding at Sue Ellen’s face, before breaking up and away. When he spoke smoke continued to drift from his mouth. “I can only tell you what I was told, Mr. Farraday.” He r
aised his empty hands, let them fall by his side, two weathered, leathery claws curved close by the butt ends of his six-guns.
Ty regarded him a moment, aware that he could be drawn down on any second and no one here would care. Except Sue Ellen. Maybe. He looked at her. “Mrs. Winstead, how are you faring? You look . . . tired. Do you need anything?”
A rare tremor of fear passed over her face. She parted her lips to speak but Clewt Duggins cut her off.
“The ranch is well in hand, Mr. Farraday. Well in hand, I assure you. We have been entrusted by Mr. Winstead with the care of his most precious gem.” Duggins smiled, indicated his joke to come. “And also his wife.”
Ty didn’t take his eyes from Sue Ellen’s face while the man spoke. He knew something was wrong, very wrong. She was not a fearful woman, and though life with Alton Winstead had to have made her many things, Ty was sure that fearful of the man she’d chosen for a husband wasn’t one of them. To Winstead’s credit, it had seemed he’d fairly doted on Sue Ellen, a fact that had long galled Ty. Though he knew, too, that it could easily have been the other way, Winstead could have been an abuser in much the way he was a blowhard.
So why was she so fearful now? Did they intend to kill her next? Had he ridden in on the moments before her death? Something told him no, something told him they needed her, for whatever reason. He hated to think about that. He was on the verge of doing something rash, something foolish, and she must have sensed it, because Sue Ellen spoke up.
“Mr. Farraday, I can assure you that what these men say is the truth and you are interrupting the progress on the corrals and fences we must have built before Alton and the others arrive with the new herd.”
Ty listened and nodded slowly, not believing a word of it. She’d said the words, yes, but her voice trembled ever so slightly. And her hands, reddened from scrubbing something, knotted and unknotted the soiled apron-front of her dress. This nervousness was not a trait of the Sue Ellen he knew, but he knew for certain that she needed his help.
Ralph Compton Double-Cross Ranch Page 2