Ralph Compton Double-Cross Ranch

by Matthew P. Mayo

  As if on cue, Ty heard the rush of running boots grinding on gravel out front. From the sound, someone was running out of sight, between the south end of the horse barn and the loafing shed, pretty much the path Ty had taken a few minutes before. He cursed himself for building them as he had done, with a blind spot big enough to block out a freighter wagon towed by oxen and piled high with goods, kids, and barking dogs.

  The running sound resumed; then whoever it was slammed into boards, as if reaching their cover and not caring who or what heard them, confident that they were not able to be seen easily, given the waning daylight and the hiding place they’d found.

  Good one, too, mused Ty. The bum could draw a sight on the house without much being seen.

  “Hey . . . gringo!”

  Ty’s eyes sharpened, strained toward the dark mass of the loafing shed. He wasn’t about to answer, and he knew Hob had no intention of doing so. Tipping off a viper to your whereabouts was no way to get the drop on him. He looked toward Hob at the far end of the house, saw the old man’s outline, facing him, crouched low on his knees with a long gun held crosswise, cocked and ready to deliver its goods.

  Ty nodded, set his own weapon down, and quickly tugged off his boots. Then he gestured toward Hob, then to the floor—stay put—and he jerked his thumb at his own chest, then pointed across from himself, toward the back door off the kitchen. He arced the finger around in a semicircle, indicating his intentions. Hob nodded and readjusted his grip on his weapon.

  With sagged, well-worn stovepipe boot tops gripped in one hand and a Colt Navy in the other, ready to thumb it back at a moment’s notice, Ty got down on his hands and knees. He wasn’t about to crabwalk across this room, risking potential exposure through the window, with a weapon on full cock. Not yet anyway. First thing he had to do was get to that back door. The worn floorboards, full of poking knots and protruding nail heads, poked unmercifully into his kneecaps, but Ty made it to the door without drawing fire.

  Moment of truth, he had to hurry, not sure if the man in the shadows who’d shouted, would oblige Ty by waiting much longer where he was—the ideal spot for Farraday to catwalk around the end of the house and get the drop on him.

  Ty was sure it was one of, and likely both of, the two stumblebums who had escorted him down out of the hills to the Double Cross today. Had to be—who else? But the question was, why did they want to ambush him? Not much of a head-scratcher, Ty, he told himself. They had to know that he’d found Winstead’s body. And anybody who didn’t suspect those packrats of the deed was not the thinking sort.

  He didn’t bother looking back toward Hob before cracking the door. He knew the old man would eagle-eye both directions as much as humanly possible. Ty poked his boots out the door, waited. Nothing. He glanced out the crack, nothing. He’d not heard a sound from behind the house, and the gate back there around Hob’s little garden was a squawker, and it was the only way back in behind the house. Unless somebody was hiding out in the entry to the root cellar, gouged into the slope behind the house, there was little chance he’d be seen snaking out the door. In for a penny, he told himself, and slipped out the door.

  The bottom step of the three-step rise let out its squeak when he put his weight on it. Curse that thing! He ground his teeth, but took his weight off it slow enough that it barely made the sound again. Knowing the walkway was stone-cobbled around the house toward the loafing shed where the raider was waiting, and thus prone to giving him away were he wearing his boots, Ty stuck to his stocking feet. Still crouching, he made his way quick and low to the end of the house. As he scooted, he cautiously thumbed back the hammer all the way on the Colt.

  He peered around the corner and saw the small, low roofline of the shed beyond. Nothing moved. The man would no doubt be eyeing the front of the house and hopefully not expecting a backdoor attack. Ty pulled in a quick, deep breath, let it out slowly, and bolted as fast as his socked feet would carry him along the rocky path.

  His feet barely made a swish of a sound as he scooted low to the shed. He waited there at the far corner. The night was far too quiet—always the way when it would have been useful for the calves to bawl or some critter to kick up a fuss. What to do? He’d never make it the last ten feet to get the drop on the man without a distraction. The night air smelled of dust and leather.

  He caught a whiff of his own smells—the strong tang of horse, and his own sweat, rank and sour from a day’s hard labor in and out of the saddle. Only thing he really wanted to smell was a big bowl of Hob’s divine beef stew, bubbling so dark it looked black in the pot, aswim with carrots, potatoes, and onions, and topped with dumplings, piping hot and gummy to the bite. Time enough, Ty, he told himself. Or else it means you’ve judged this little situation all wrong and then you’ll be in such a spot you’ll be beyond caring about food and peace and quiet, and women, and cattle, and crabby old uncles.

  He wished Hob could read his mind, set up some sort of commotion. That’s it—Ty almost smiled as he reached in the dark by his feet, his long, work-hardened fingers scrabbling in the dirt for a rock. They closed around one, egg-sized. It would have to do. He lobbed it underhand out toward the middle of the yard, where it thunked, rolled. And didn’t, to Ty’s ears, sound much like a noise a man might make. As he’d just told himself, it would have to do.

  It was dark enough that the ambusher wouldn’t be able to see it was nothing more than a tossed object. Ahead, beyond the corner of the shed, Ty heard the man shift position, heard a boot, maybe, lift, then plant again. Good, might mean the man was looking toward the yard. Now or never, Ty Farraday.

  Cat-footing once more, he made the corner, aware of the touchy hammer peeled back on the Colt, lined it up with the intruder’s body, a dark, irregular shape at the other corner of the shed, not but ten feet from him.

  Ty kept his crouch, and in a low, even voice said, “Do not turn around, mister.”

  The man tensed but held the pose, faced away from Ty.

  “Raise those arms, drop that rifle. Now!” Careful to keep his voice low, lest the man’s companion lurked nearby, Ty kept the Colt’s dealing end poised squarely on the man’s bulk.

  The intruder sighed and slowly raised his arms.

  Going to happen now if it happens at all. . . . And Ty wasn’t disappointed. The rascal dove to one side, while at the same time pulling the rifle back in tight to his body, and working the trigger. Ty squeezed the Colt’s trigger, saw the gout of bursting light match that of the culprit’s rifle, and was already on the move, tucking and rolling down onto his left shoulder. He felt something pop deep in his shoulder, bone, muscle—he didn’t know and didn’t care. Ty was acting on pure animal instinct now, a defensive, protective feral beast with a raw urge to kill or be killed. He’d been hunted before, he’d been the hunter, and he’d been successful every time. But that knowledge gave him no satisfaction now, merely an edge of cautious confidence.

  He knew that back in the house Hob would be working himself into a lather, probably crossing the kitchen floor himself and following Ty’s path. He had to wrap this up before the old man got in the midst of things.

  From his temporary cover on the opposite side of the open shed doorway, Ty peeked between the vertical boards and saw a shadow that didn’t seem familiar. He knew to trust his gut at such times. He also knew the man was quick, nimble, and ready to kill. So am I, thought Ty. “I’ll give you one more chance, mister.”

  The shadow shifted as the man spun silently in the dark to level on Ty’s rough position.

  “Oh, gringo, now you die.” The man’s voice was low, a raspy purr, and Ty knew for certain it was the shorter of the two men from earlier. The swarthy, stocky Mexican-looking rider.

  That moving shadow, the position of the man’s voice, was all Ty needed, all he’d hoped to draw out. He sent a shot a flash of a second before the stranger fired, and was grimly rewarded with a clipped shriek, followi
ng by a sound like a sack of meal hitting a stockroom floor. As he waited out the next few seconds, he heard a wet, gagging sound.

  Good, thought Ty. Good that I struck bloody gold, but bad for that fool. He waited a few moments more as the man’s labored breathing became even more of a struggled, wet noise. It sounded as if the man were drowning from the inside out.

  “Boy?”

  It was Hob’s voice, a higher-pitched whisper than he was used to hearing from the man. Ty wanted to wait out the man. One guessed shot was rarely enough to kill a man. And a wounded man, especially one who knows he’s dying, may have no trouble in delivering a wild shot or two. Ty had no idea if this man had a pistol or two or ten, in addition to his rifle.

  He’d have to risk a quick shout or the old man would keep on coming, sick with worry. “Hob—stay back!”

  “You okay?”

  Less worry, good. “Yep. Stay back.”

  To the wounded man in the shed, Ty said, “Mister, you are in a bad way. Give it up and we’ll do our level best for you.”

  Two, three heartbeats passed; then Ty heard a wet cough. So the man was still alive, though Ty could no longer hear his breathing. And if that was a laugh, then he was likely as hard a case as he’d seemed earlier. “Why did you come here?”

  Again, a few seconds passed before Ty heard a similar wet sound as before. Then he realized the man was trying to speak. Could be he caught him in the neck, though he’d sworn he shot the brute in the breadbasket.

  There was a shuffling then from inside the shed, a slight dragging sound. The man was probably repositioning himself. Ty heard the throaty clicks of a hammer ratcheting back. Here we go again, he thought, tightening back against the relative safety of the wood planking that separated him from whatever this man had planned.

  But in the next moment, it all became decided. Another shot split the dead air.

  Seconds passed as the rifle shot echoed quickly and dwindled away, fracturing into silence with each passing second.

  “Boy?”

  “Okay, Hob. Stay there.”

  “What’s going on, Ty?” The old man was annoyed.

  Ty waited a moment. “Man just did our job for us.”

  “Well don’t that beat all. Hard against it, I’d say.”

  “I’d say.” Ty ventured into the dark shed, crept low, his Colt thumbed and straight out in front of him. But in the dim light he saw nearly nothing. Silence all around. He kept the Colt aimed where he thought he should, plucked a lucifer from his jacket breast pocket, and picked it with a thumb nail. The matchstick bloomed alight and Ty tensed even more, but instantly he knew his guess was dead-on.

  There lay the Mexican on his back in the chaff-covered dirt of the loafing shed. One arm lay over his chest as if he were snoozing, the other stretched alongside his body. The rifle lay just beyond. His right leg lay bent under his left.

  As Ty suspected, the man’s throat was a ravaged mess, more a ragged wound where his Adam’s apple had been. That must have been where Ty’s bullet found its mark. But the killing wound had been from the rifle’s snout poked in the man’s mouth, for above his right eye was now a raw, pulpy mess.

  The burning match stung his thumb and he shook it out but held it, working the hot tip between his callused fingertips out of reflex, an almost natural reaction to anything that might cause a fire in what, at times, was dry country.

  A sound behind him spun Ty, ducking low and pitching to one side. His actions fully on instinct once again, his Colt thrust at the doorway behind.

  “Easy, boy. Easy. It’s just me. Just ol’ Hob.” Uncle Hob’s uncharacteristically soothing voice floated in before he ventured a step into the open doorway himself, his gun still gripped in his gnarled hands.

  Ty let out a long, stuttering breath and stood. Hob clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I seen him by your match light. Rum thing, that.”

  Ty nodded. “Yep. But he wasn’t alone.”

  Hob bent low. “What? Now you tell me?” He whispered. “I been paradin’ around out here like a big-city dandy and now you tell me that?”

  “Relax,” said Ty, his turn to be the soother. “I’m pretty sure his partner stayed up in the hills, keeping watch, or some such thing.”

  “Oh,” said Hob, straightening.

  Ty thumbed another match alight, bent low and checked the Mexican. “Dead as he’ll ever get.”

  Hob nodded knowingly. He’d seen enough dead men to not doubt that. “Grab his weapons,” he said, turning to go. “And we’ll deal with him in the morning.”

  Ty smiled, shaking his head. Ever the general, he thought. Nonetheless, he retrieved the rifle and found a long knife and a battered, much-used and empty small-caliber pistol tucked into the Mexican’s waistband.

  Hob made his way back behind the house to the kitchen. Ty held back, looking toward the north, thinking. Then he laid the Mexican’s weapons down and stood in the middle of the packed-dirt dooryard, between the house and barn. He looked again to the now-dark hills to the north. There was no danger of him being seen, since he was near no lights himself.

  Ty cupped his big hands around his mouth and bellowed loud and slow, sending a message to the hills: “Your partner is dead! You hear me? The Mexican is dead! You tell that to Clewt Duggins!”

  He let his arms drop to his sides, suddenly more tired than he could remember being in a long, long time. Far off, in the hills, from the direction toward where he just shouted, Ty heard the hammering of hooves. Someone was hell-bent homeward, delivering a message.

  Ty sighed and made his way back toward the porch and the kitchen, where Uncle Hob had just lit an oil lamp. Soon, he hoped, they’d tuck into bowls of stew. He felt almost guilty thinking of food when he’d just shot a man. But he couldn’t deny it, he was tired and hungry . . . and angry.

  “Almost forgot to tell you,” Ty glanced toward Hob, fussing and slamming pots and pans on the warming stovetop. Once Ty was inside, he crossed to the back door of the kitchen and paused there. “Saw a one-legged man today. And he wasn’t you.”

  For once, Uncle Hob was speechless. His old gray eyes pierced like daggers, the wiry brows above them beetling as if they were angry insect legs, bristling. Finally he grabbed a word. “What? What’s that you said?”

  But Ty had already ducked out the back door, now relatively assured there wasn’t someone waiting in the gloom to peel off a shot at him. He was almost smiling as he groped for his boots. Tomorrow would bring plenty more strange goings-on, but he doubted anything more would happen tonight. They’d spell each other and take what rest they could get. He was in no mood to rehash the day’s events for Hob, even though the old man deserved to hear why he’d been shot at.

  Chapter 9

  Sue Ellen jerked awake, pulled in a sharp breath, and looked around the dimly lit room. It was as if someone had tugged a string attached directly to her core. Her heart thudded hard in her chest as she took in her surroundings. It slowly became familiar, recognizable as her own drawing room, just off the dining room. Through the open door between the two she could just make out one half of a chair draped with limp rawhide wraps. And then the evening before came back to her. She sat up, feeling her dress, her face. How had she gotten in here, laid out on the divan?

  She swung her feet to the floor and smoothed her dress in her lap with shaking hands, unsure of what to do next. At least she was no longer tied.

  “Relax, my dear.”

  Sue Ellen turned to see Clewt Duggins, looking freshly washed and wearing clean clothes. He looked fitter and sprightlier than he had a right to. And he was smiling.

  “You were exhausted, my dear. No other way to put it. I’m afraid my chatter in the past has had that effect on some folks. Sadly, I will now have to add you to that list.” He sighed theatrically and disappeared back into the kitchen. Moments later he returned with a steaming cup of coffee an
d carried it to her.

  She reluctantly accepted it, sipped. The strong brew helped clear her head. “How long was I asleep?”

  Duggins lifted a pocket watch from his vest pocket, clicked it open. “It’s nearly ten o’clock. You have slept the night away and then some.” He smiled, clicked shut the watch and returned it to the pocket.

  A chilling blade of warning stabbed up Sue Ellen’s middle, tightened her throat. “Where did you get that watch?” She recognized it, but wished she didn’t.

  “I think you know the answer to that.” Duggins’s voice was flat, cold, and reptilian, just like it had been when he spoke with Ty the day before. “I also think you know he won’t be needing it.” He turned away, then stopped. “And make sure you eat something today. I won’t have any wilting flowers working for me.” He headed for the kitchen.

  Sue Ellen was halfway to her feet when she let fly with the cup. As if slowed in a dream, she watched the delicate china vessel turn, end for end, through the air, the hot black liquid gouting outward in a slow arc. At the same time, Clewt turned his head and with finger-snap speed the cup drove straight into his scarred, pockmarked cheek. It split into a number of pieces, exploding on contact with his face.

  The coffee spattered him, and Sue Ellen saw in his already hard-set eyes sparks, his surprise turning into a delicious anger.

  Sue Ellen felt sudden satisfaction. She would no longer submit to this foul beast and his men. She would fight or die, as she was now sure her Alton had. There was no one else on God’s green earth who cared for her. Seeing Ty’s emotionless reaction to her desperate plight had proven to her that she was alone. If she wanted salvation, she would have to provide it.

  Although she could not claim she had ever truly been in love with him, she had loved Alton. And now that she knew without doubt that he was dead by their hands, and for reasons she didn’t understand—perhaps never would—at least the veil of hope she had drawn over herself, the veil that had kept her a simpering, quivering wreck these past few days, was now gone. In its place stood a woman who gritted her teeth and offered a grim smile to her captor, come what may.