Ralph Compton Double-Cross Ranch

by Matthew P. Mayo

  “I’m Cuthbert Atwood, though I go by Henry. I’m marshal of this”—he waved a hand wearily at the dusty little burg, let it drop to his side—“this place.”

  “I know. And I am here to help. My superiors received word from you—in the form of a petition to the state, I believe—that you needed more law and order down this way. After hearing about the crimes hereabouts, and seeing that you are but one man against a sea of border trash, we naturally . . .”

  “Decided to finally pay attention to my little town, huh? Finally just decided to ride on down here and see what all the fuss was about?” Atwood knew he should be grateful that his constant efforts at getting attention from a higher municipal power than themselves had finally fruited, but dang if he wasn’t steamed.

  “What’s this all really about, Mulholland? Don’t get me wrong—I’m happy to have the help, but I’d rather have a dozen men handy with weaponry of any sort than a man with a bunch of books and papers in a saddlebag. No offense, but we need guns, not gavels, sir.”

  Henry turned back to the body in the street, bent to lift the man by the shoulders. “Now, if you want to be useful to me, you’ll grab hold of this dead fool by the boots and help me lug him over to Chauncy’s. He’ll welcome the chance to build another coffin. It’s been nearly a week since we’ve had a shooting and I expect he’s running low on whiskey money.”

  The portly man in the black suit, coal black stovepipe boots, black silk string tie, white shirt, and matching black boss-o’-the-plains hat bent at once and scooped up the dead man by the heels. “Of course, of course.” They crossed the nearly empty street in silence before Mulholland spoke again. “None taken, by the way.”

  “How’s that?” said Henry Atwood.

  “Offense. You didn’t offend me, sir. In fact, I quite agree with you. There’s a time for gavels, as you so succinctly put my line of work, and there’s a time for guns.”

  “My line?” Atwood smiled grimly. “And which do you think we have here, Judge?”

  “As it happens, I saw what happened back there in the street. This drunk had been terrorizing that woman, wherever she’s gone to now, and you braced him. What you didn’t see, Marshal, but I did, was that before he spun on you, and no doubt emboldened and dumbed down by the drink in his belly, he actually smiled the world’s most confident smile. He looked to me as if he knew he was going to shoot you dead, Marshal.”

  “So you’re saying my shooting him was justified, at least in your eyes, is that it?” Atwood offered a half smile as he stepped up on the boardwalk’s creaking, sun-popped boards.

  “Well, yes, that’s exactly it.”

  “Well that’s good to know, judge. Seeing as how you are a judge and all.”

  “Now, see here, Marshal. I came here in good faith and—”

  “I know, I know, Mulholland. Don’t get your knickers bunched. I only meant a little fun is all. And maybe I’m a little bit rankled that you had the nerve to tell me what I did was justified, seeing as how I’ve been forced to be the judge, jury, and executioner of far too many people for far too long here in this fine upstanding town of Dane Creek.”

  “Point taken, Marshal. I do hope you’ll forgive my brash enthusiasm.”

  “You got it. Now, let’s get this poor sap taken care of. Then what say I stand you a beer at Nell’s? Then you can tell me all about these guns you hinted at earlier.”

  Within five minutes they were seated at a small, sticky-topped round table in a back corner of the quietest drinking house in Dane Creek. Nell herself, a busy and busty older woman, resembled a rain barrel more than she did a bar matron—save for the knot of high-piled hair, wisps straying from it in all directions like attendant birds, showing more silver than Nell’s former chestnut tones. Somewhere just below her hair resided two rosy-apple cheeks and just below those a smile that never failed to show itself.

  She and her husband, a miner of no great claim, large or small, which had never mattered to either of them, had all but settled the town nearly two decades before. Others had found the gold and silver that Nell’s husband, Gareth, a Dane from the old country, and the man from whom the town drew its name, had known should be there, somewhere in or around the dried-up old creek beds veining the region.

  He’d never had a knack for finding it, but Nell had found a knack for distilling her own popskull and brewing her own beer, staples for any burgeoning mine camp. And so she stayed on, long after her beloved Gareth died on the trail but a few miles from town. His old donkey, also named Nell, was found staring down at his two-day-old corpse, braying in misery, and baring her teeth and kicking up a minor dust storm anytime a buzzard dared descend on the toothsome treat that had been Gareth.

  “Gents, I can bring you beer or whiskey, or beer and whiskey. What’ll it be?”

  “Hmm,” said Henry, rubbing a callused hand in great thoughtful gestures all over his thinly bearded face. “I’m feeling partial to a . . . glass of beer. Yes, that’s what I’ll have. And you, judge?” He nodded at Nell as he said the man’s title. It had the effect he’d intended on Nell.

  She leaned close to the newcomer and as the marshal knew she would, laid a pudgy, work-reddened hand on his sleeve. “Is that true, sir? You are a”—she leaned even closer and whispered the word—“judge?”

  Mulholland smiled back, patted her hand, and said, “Not completely.”

  Henry’s own smile slipped and Nell backed up a step.

  Mulholland continued. “I am a judge”—he leaned toward her this time—“with a mighty thirst for a cool glass of beer!”

  Nell’s rippling laugh filled the nearly empty room, and she waddled back to the bar, waving a limp old tea towel at them and shaking her head as if she’d just been called the prettiest girl at the dance.

  “You’ve made our Nell a happy little gossip, Judge,” said Atwood.

  “She’s a peach. I’m glad to have been introduced. Now”—Mulholland steepled his fingers just below his serious gaze—“I have, as you say, brought guns. Or rather, they will be here soon. A contingent of men from Fort Nickersby, some two dozen in all, with more promised me should the need arise. They will arrive by no later than tomorrow at midday.”

  Nell brought the beers and set them down before each man, said nothing, but fluttered her lashes at Mulholland and backed away, barely stifling a schoolgirl giggle before she made it back to the bar.

  “You’ve made a friend there, judge,” said Atwood, quaffing the frothy top of his beer. “Now, I know I should be surprised by this news of men soon to arrive in my town. But I suspect it’s not caused by the spate of killings we’ve undergone here in recent months, is it? On second thought, it wouldn’t have anything to do with the recent discovery of a rich vein of copper, now would it?”

  Judge Mulholland paused in sipping his beer, froth bubbling on the bristles of his mustache. He stared at the marshal over his glass. “You are an astute man, Marshal. And, yes, sadly it is not in direct response to your pleas for help in taming the criminal element. That will be handled as well, but in a rather, shall we say, roundabout fashion. In an effort to get to the meat of the matter, the powers that be in Washington have, shall we say, discovered a need for copper that far exceeds their current needs for gold. I am not privy to the finer points of that assessment, but have been instructed to see to it that anyone holding claim to a promising copper strike be offered more than fair value for their ore. In return, they will be given protection—protection, and please don’t take this the wrong way—that you are at present unable to offer.”

  Marshal Atwood eyed the judge coolly a moment, then tipped his hat back and smiled. “That, mister, is the best news I’ve had all day.”

  “I’m so relieved to hear you say that. I didn’t want to step on your toes.”

  “No, no worries there. My feet are tough. Besides, I’ll be moving on and you can have this town, lock, stock, an
d barrel.”

  “But, Marshal, I . . . I believe there’s been some misunderstanding. We still need you here, I’m sure of it. I have so many questions.”

  “Nothing the rest of the townsfolk can’t answer.” He sipped his beer, still smiling. “I have a family, judge. A young wife and a little boy. I never thought I’d be that lucky, especially in my line of work. This town has dealt us all a hard set of circumstances and there’s no way I’m going to keep pounding my head against the same old wall like I have done for far too many years now to count. I’d only get depressed if I did tally them up. Now drink up, we’re late on that second round.”

  Henry Atwood let his almost cheerful tone unspool in conversation, but all the while he was thinking of the brute carnage Clewt Duggins had unleashed on his town, and of the fact that he’d been unable to do anything to stop it. Worse than that, he’d made the biggest mistake of his career, thinking that he could prevent yet another night of drunken violence in Dane Creek by trying to keep the peace. It had worked in the past, but he’d never come up against anyone like Clewt Duggins and his boys. Never.

  And if Cuthbert Henry Atwood had any say in the matter, the final thing he would do in defense of keeping the peace would be to hunt down Duggins and put an end to it. Otherwise he would never be able to live with himself as an ex-lawman. Never.

  Chapter 4

  “Don’t tell me those two idiots aren’t back yet?” Clewt said, a tin cup of tepid coffee paused halfway to his mouth. It was nearing dinnertime, and he’d walked over to the bunkhouse from the main house at the Double Cross, musing on the name of the ranch that Winstead had chosen.

  The unspoken but implied meaning of the name meant only one thing to him—it meant that Winstead was fully aware of what he’d done to Clewt Duggins and his boys. He was aware of it and had named the ranch after what he’d done to them, after the very way he’d managed to use them, promise them the moon and the stars, then leave them holding their hands up in the air at gunpoint of the law while Winstead rode off howling with laughter with that wagon full of priceless loot. At least that’s what Clewt imagined Winstead had looked like when he’d left them to swing for his plan.

  A plan, Clewt admitted, he and the boys had gone along with. But that was exactly why they deserved most of the treasure. Not ten years of hard labor. And that was exactly why they were here, at Winstead’s ranch, after tracking that foul leech all this way, from Mexico all the way up here to the mountains of California.

  And now here he was, this close to having it all, finally, and his hired fools were, it seemed, about to blow it for them all. Perfect.

  “They’re doin’ just what you said to, boss.”

  “Oh?” said Clewt. “And just what’s that, Paddy?” Clewt leaned in the doorway, eyeing the men seated around the table. It was Paddy’s turn to ladle up the god-awful-smelling concoction he’d been burning all afternoon in the big tin pot on the cookstove. His reply was almost a challenge to Clewt, not a surprising development since Paddy had been that way from the start, though even he was wearing thin on Clewt’s nerves. He’d use him up, then slice him up. Just as planned. But just not yet. Didn’t mean he couldn’t have a little fun with him in the meantime.

  Paddy dumped another ladleful of bean goop into a bowl, the recipient wrinkling his nose at it, and said, “Just that you told them to fog that rawhider’s trail back to his place.”

  “Yep, as it happens, I recall telling them that. What’s your point?”

  Paddy sighed, as if he were exasperated with having to explain things to the boss.

  Clearly, thought Clewt, the Irishman is testy, which means he hasn’t had anything to drink in the last hour.

  “No point, boss. Just that it might be a further piece than they expected.”

  “Good, Paddy. Good. I expect we can wait a while longer. But I wanna know when they get back. I wanna talk to them. You hear?”

  All the men murmured in the affirmative, unsure which of them he had said that to.

  All except Paddy, who continued around the gable, doling out beans to men who were hungry, but from the looks of their reactions, Clewt decided they were not that hungry. A couple of them skipped the food altogether and began rolling after-meal quirlies.

  “Tell you what, boys. I sure am glad I have Winstead’s woman in the house cooking me up a fine meal. I surely am glad.”

  “You trust her, boss? I mean, you did kill her husband and all.”

  It looked to Clewt that Paddy regretted saying that as soon as it fell out of his mouth. Clewt couldn’t let this stand, not in front of the other men. He shucked his stag-handled Bowie and tossed it up in the air. It arced up, end over end, and the smooth gray-black handle landed thump in his palm, glistening blade out, slick as you please. All the men sat still, half-built smokes paused in their mitts, others protruding from pooched lips. They knew what the knife could do, and they knew that Clewt wasn’t afraid to do it—to anyone or anything that got in his way. Even Paddy.

  “You wanna keep flapping your gums about that, you go right ahead, Paddy. I’ll show you just what that sort of palaver will earn you, you hear?”

  For once, the bucket-mouthed man serving up his burnt beans just nodded, unsure if the boss was about to gut him right there and then. But Clewt did see the sneer on his segundo’s face.

  Clewt slipped the knife back in its sheath on his belt. “Fine, then.” He sipped his coffee, letting a few seconds pass. Then to the room he said, “I will be sure to bring you all back something edible, maybe a fine pie.”

  With that parting shot, he turned and clomped down off the short porch of the cook shack. He heard Paddy say, none too carefully, “I’ve about had enough of him. I’ll tell you that.”

  In the nearing dark, as he strolled back to Winstead’s fancy ranch house, he sipped the last of his coffee, and smiled to himself. You and me both, Paddy. Not going to have to wait too much longer, though. And time enough tomorrow to worry about those two idiots he sent to trail that nosy man, Ty Farraday, back to his paltry spread.

  Clewt even let out a low, dry chuckle as he mounted the steps. Now, he thought, let’s just see if this widow—who doesn’t know she’s a widow—can cook. And maybe do a few other things, while I’m at it.

  Chapter 5

  Sue Ellen Winstead watched as the tall, stiff-legged, scar-faced man strolled slowly around the long, cherrywood table, using the knurled tops of the high-back chairs to guide him as he stepped. In the low light of the room, he almost looked regal, his back as rigid and upright as the chairs that Alton had prized, along with everything else Winstead had filled the house with. All these . . . things it seemed that Winstead had felt he had to have.

  Duggins smiled. It was a funny thing, wasn’t it? Work so hard to acquire all these things and now Winstead was as dead as dead could be. Duggins snorted back a laugh.

  And yet Clewt Duggins didn’t know that for all Winstead’s talk the house he had built had still been fairly modest, at least by the standards to which he constantly measured success and wealth. And the furnishings, while nice, were hardly museum pieces. They were far lovelier and often more impractical than their counterparts in most local ranch homes.

  And that’s what Sue Ellen found curious, especially early on in their marriage. But what had really puzzled her, about which her frequent questioning of Alton yielded no result, was that he had no intentions, it had become apparent, of buying cattle. Then why buy all the land? She’d asked him that a number of times, but gotten no useful answers.

  “It’s pretty,” was all he would say. Pretty.

  And so, after a few years, Sue Ellen grew to understand that her husband wanted only to be a man of leisure, to live a quiet life, though to be regarded locally as a wealthy man. But as time passed, it became increasingly apparent that he was not one. She’d never asked him where his money came from, only asked where it was going an
d why couldn’t they run cattle on their perfectly useful land to make more money. Ranching, she had argued, was a perfectly respectable business, one that would ensure the money wouldn’t just run out one day. But he remained unmoved.

  And now here was this man and nowhere to be found was her Alton. All here and all gone within the same day. She was no fool. Alton and these men had known one another, but from how far back? And what did they want? “What did you do with my husband?”

  “Do?” The tall man turned on her as if shocked by the question. “Do, Mrs. Winstead? We haven’t done a thing with him. As to his whereabouts, I can’t speak for the man. Except to say that anyone willing to leave a spouse so, if you will allow me, so very handsome as yourself, why he deserves to be . . . shot.” With that last word his mouth corners drooped into a frown, and firelight danced sharp flames in the centers of his dark eyes.

  Clewt Duggins resumed his strolling about the table, stopped to sip from the aperitif glass, smacked his lips, and ran the tip of his tongue round them in appreciation. “You’re sure you won’t care for a sip of . . . your own liqueur, my dear?”

  Sue Ellen stood and walked to the fireplace, put her hands out to warm them. “If all this is leading up to something, I wish you’d get to it.”

  “Mrs. Winstead,” said Duggins, pooching out his lips in a mock frown. “You wound me. And please, sit back down in that chair. I do insist.” His last words were hard and convincing.

  Sue Ellen returned to the seat, feeling that coil of fear in her gut again. This man was all show but only an eggshell-thin crust. Inside he was as savage as a hydrophobic wolf.

  As if to prove her right, Clewt Duggins, despite his stiff-legged amble, lunged to her side and snatched the woman by her shoulders. Sue Ellen struggled and bucked, feeling for certain this time that one of these coyotes would finally have their way with her. A cold clot of revulsion lurched in her belly and she thrashed against his tightening grip.