Ralph Compton Double-Cross Ranch

by Matthew P. Mayo

  They all knew that Rufus was keen on Mrs. Winstead. He’d all but tripped over himself when they’d first arrived to make sure she had water from the well, firewood brought into the kitchen, the porch swept. Despite his best efforts at impressing her, Rufus couldn’t raise a smile from the woman.

  Clewt couldn’t blame her—Rufus was a simp, good for one thing, nervous at any time but in a gunfight. The man was a decent shot at close range and he had no qualms about striding forward into the thick of a blue-smoke gun battle. Only an idiot would behave as he had in all these skirmishes since he’d found the man down in Mexico. But Clewt couldn’t fault him when it came time to pull triggers.

  And somehow Rufus had managed to escape with no more serious harm to his person than split buttons, holes blazed in his rough-cloth jacket sleeves, and one pucker in the thigh of his trousers—right where his leg, by all rights, should have been. A couple of the mostly Mexican men in the gang swore that Rufus was either blessed or cursed. Either way, they had decided to leave him be, just in case.

  As for Clewt, he didn’t much care one way or the other which way Rufus’s luck ran, for that was all it had to be—and as Clewt always knew, luck ran out eventually, just like women and booze.

  “Well that woman, my merry men, will know of the whereabouts of her husband’s secret stores of wealth. For not only is she a handsome thing, she’s also a woman of high taste and low tolerance, I’d wager. And that combination adds up to one thing—no tolerance for secrets from her man.” Clewt narrowed his eyes and leaned close to Rufus, but said in a stage whisper, “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you, kid?”

  He looked around at the other men, pulling nervous laughs from them all, though Clewt bet not but one or two of them had any idea what he was leading up to. “Why,” he said, “she’d cinch the hem of her nightgown tight, and that, as the wise man said, would be that.”

  Rufus’s brows sparred tight above his eyes like wooly worms in a fisticuff match. He didn’t follow a thing Clewt had said.

  “Think on it, kid. It’ll come to you. In the meantime, let’s us deal with ol’ waste of space here.”

  They all looked down at the dead man in their midst.

  “Barn Cat and Paco, you take him two arroyos over, in that direction, cover him over with rocks. Mind you do it now, you hear? I don’t much care for the man, but we don’t want all manner of critter rummaging at his corpse, bringing an arm or a foot up to the front door of the ranch like a stray dog with a bone. And while we’re on the subject.” Clewt pulled his serious face. “I will not”—he punctuated his words with a pointing finger—“have anyone letting on that this man is anything but as we told Mrs. Winstead earlier, on a buying trip for cattle. Is that understood?”

  Again, they all nodded, murmured their assent.

  “That clear, Rufus?”

  “Yeah, sure, boss. I hear ya.”

  “Good. Now drag him outta here before the buzzards circle.” Barn Cat and Paco bent to heft the man and position him into a more comfortable pose for dragging. But Clewt stopped them. “Hold on a minute, boys,” he said when they’d flipped Winstead belly up. Clewt bent and pulled the gold pocket watch from the dead man’s paunch vest pocket, hefted it in his palm as if weighing it, then tugged the chain free from its fixture on a button. He stood, smiling. “Okay, now you can get his stinking hide out of here.” He was smiling as he landed a last kick at the man. His boot toe barely grazed Winstead’s shoulder.

  As they dragged the body of his old nemesis away, Clewt had looked down at the dead man’s watch now in his own hand, and wondered why killing Alton Winstead hadn’t felt as good as he’d imagined it would for all those years. The one thing he’d dreamed of doing had come and gone way too soon. He straightened and looked in the direction of the Double Cross ranch house. Too far to see from that knoll, he nonetheless envisioned Winstead’s freshly minted widow in her kitchen, perhaps, and vowed he’d make up for the loss of his full righteous revenge with something . . . a little more satisfying.

  Chapter 11

  The silence in the room threatened to topple Ty’s just-waking mind. He knew why Hob was angry, couldn’t blame him. Ty should have explained it all last night, but he fell asleep before he could. Hob took first watch and a goodly part of the second, much to Ty’s annoyance. He hated it when others shouldered his load.

  And now, even after a couple of hours of sleep, Hob wasn’t talking, either. Not like the old dog to keep his peace. He was more inclined to blurt out whatever it was that rested topmost on his mind than to sit and fester. Of course, by the time Ty had sipped a half cup of Hob’s syrup-thick, scalding coffee, he knew just what the old man was peeved about.

  He set down the hot mug. “Uncle Hob, I—”

  And then it came. . . . That knobby old spoon whipped right out of the porridge pot, flecking hot oats across the room. “You don’t get the right to talk first. That’s my right, by gum!” He whanged the spoon handle on the edge of the pot. “And another thing, what’s the story with you? Used to be you’d come on home and tell me what you’d been up to. Case you hadn’t noticed, I don’t get around much no more!”

  Ty sighed. “Hob, the pity gambit doesn’t suit you much. You might want to try just getting to the point. Or letting me talk so I can tell you what it is you want to know.”

  “Oh, and what’s that, mister smart?”

  “That is . . . that you want to know why we were being shot at last night, right?”

  The sputtering man at the stove grumbled something and turned back to stirring the pot. But Ty could tell that he was eager to hear what Ty had to offer. “I’ll give you a tightened version of what happened to me yesterday.”

  “Oh, don’t bother. It’s just old me, you know, the one who got shot at.” Hob ladled a dripping big spoonful of overcooked oats into a bowl.

  “Okay,” said Ty, doing his best to hide a smirk. “If you feel that way about it.”

  “What? What?” Back came the spoon. “Don’t you dare let up on what you was about to cut loose with!”

  “Okay, okay. But put down that spoon and pass those biscuits, will you? A man could starve to death in here.”

  “Ain’t happened yet.”

  Ty bit into a biscuit, chewed, then said, “You remember I said yesterday morning I was headed out to look for strays over in the hills north of here, right?”

  “Yep. Them little rascals can’t keep clear of there.”

  “Right. So I cut their trail, a handful of them, about midday. But they all had headed over onto Winstead’s land. Not surprising, but what I found not long after was.”

  “Well, you gonna keep me guessing, or am I going to get some sort of story?”

  “Keep quiet a minute, will you? I’m thinking. So anyway, I head up the leading edge of that arroyo, you remember the one? Few years back it was filled with choke weed, where that calf broke its leg? Well, it’s not that way anymore.”

  “What’s in it?”

  Ty sipped his coffee. “A body.”

  “What?”

  “Yep, and not just any body—it was Alton Winstead.”

  “What?”

  “Yep, dead. And you might want to think about broadening your vocabulary.”

  “What?”

  “Anyway, I found Winstead dead. He’d been savaged by someone up close; looked as though they had plugged him in the back with a small-caliber pistol. His head looked to have been battered a bit, too. It was not good, Hob. The only reason I found him was the yipping of coyotes looking to get a turn at snacking on him.”

  “Well, can’t say that I wished the man that sort of ill will. But he was big enough to feed a passel of coyotes. So, what’d you do then?” Hob finished ladling the breakfast goop into a second bowl and slid it across the table to his own spot, then poured each of them more coffee before sitting down.

 
“I chased off the coyotes first thing. Then I glassed Winstead’s place.”

  “What’d you see?” said Hob, spoon paused halfway to his mouth.

  “Strangers, a small gang of them.”

  “And Sue Ellen? She okay?”

  Ty knew the old man still held a soft spot in his heart for her, even though outwardly he spoke of her little and when he did it wasn’t in the kindest light, mostly because he was so fond of Ty.

  “She looked okay. But I was about to find out firsthand.”

  “What?”

  “There you go again.” Ty spooned in a few mouthfuls of oats. “Yep, they saw me up on the ridge, must have been a reflection off my spyglass. Sent two riders up to inspect me, then retrieve me.”

  “They didn’t hurt you, did they?” Hob bristled, his bottom lip outthrust as if hearing an insult.

  “No, relax. I wanted to go down there. Turns out it was a good thing I did. And when I left I could have sworn they were convinced I knew nothing about Winstead’s body. I was that far away from it when the two riders came on up. But—”

  “But nothin’. They know you saw him. Or they’re taking no chances and killing anyone who might have gotten close. But what would make strangers come here and kill Winstead? I know he was a pompous windbag with a lot of money—”

  “I think you just answered your own question.”

  “What?”

  Ty sighed. “Winstead. He’s loaded with cash, right?”

  “Was.”

  “And he and I never got along, right?”

  “Right, but for good reason.”

  “Good or no, the fact remains that when the law comes snooping, they’ll find a dead Winstead, shot in the back, and me as the leading suspect.”

  “How you figure that?” Hob’s eyebrows rose and he struggled to gain his feet, ready to take on all lawmen for the sake of his nephew.

  “Because everybody knows Winstead and I had more than one beef with each other. That was common knowledge in these parts. And for lots of reasons.”

  Hob nodded. “Yeah, any of which lesser men would kill others about. I hear ya.” He rasped a bony hand across his salt-and-pepper-stubbled face. “Don’t mean I have to like it.”

  “Thanks, Hob. Good to know we’re on the same side.” Ty stood and stretched. “I have to get back out there and take care of that Mexican fellow before he gets ripe. It’s feeling like it’s going to be a hot one today.”

  “What are you going to do with him?” said Hob, eyeing Ty.

  “Might be I’ll bring him to town. Tell the marshal what happened.”

  “Not a good idea, boy.”

  “No? Why not?”

  “That old windbag was tight buddies with Winstead. You bring a body in, even one of a stranger who was trying to drill you full of holes, and you know what’s going to happen?”

  “Tell me,” said Ty, already knowing the answer. He dropped his hat on his head.

  “Nothin’. Unless you count a noose around your own neck, rope paid for by the taxpayers of Ripley Flats. You’ll be swingin’ for something, sure as I’m a world-class cook.”

  The old man stared at the young man, a resigned look on his lined face. Still he said, “You sure this is what you think you need to do?”

  Ty was quiet for a time, then said, “What would you do?”

  Hob sighed. “Same thing.”

  Ty smiled and swung the door open wide. “Well,” he said as he crossed the porch, “then that leaves me just two options. Bury him here. Or something else.”

  “What?”

  “There you go again, Uncle Hob. Saying that word. You might want to get that thing looked at.”

  “What? What are you going to do with the dead man? Ty, you come back here when I shout at you! When I shout at a man, I want him facing me! Ty!”

  Ty didn’t turn around, just offered Hob an easy wave. He knew Uncle Hob wasn’t going to trail after him. But he had given him an idea of what to do with the Mexican. And it didn’t involve burying him on Ty’s property.

  Chapter 12

  “What is it you’re doing, Rufus?”

  The horse-faced Southern boy swung his big head up from his bent-over position, rummaging through the large wooden locker of tack, saddles, and other horse gear that had been locked in what had appeared to be an office lean-to built onto the custom horse barn.

  “Oh, oh, boss, I . . . I didn’t mean . . .”

  Clewt’s face softened. “Take it easy, Rufus. What you are up to is quite apparent to me. What you hope to gain is also quite apparent. And I can’t blame you. While the rest of these idiots are off guzzling their dwindling supplies of liquor, you are rummaging about this plentiful place, seeking to feather your nest, no?”

  The big Southern man squinched his eyes a moment; then as if a switch had been tripped, he smiled, enlightenment dawning on his long face. “Yeah, that’s about it, yeah, boss. So . . . you’re not sore about me um, you know, breaking into this locker and taking a peek at the saddles and whatnots?”

  Clewt stepped up beside Rufus, eyes fixed on the goods within. “Not if you don’t mind sharing your find with me, eh, Rufus? My old saddle’s about wore out and from the looks of things, this haul would cover both our horses in fine shape. And leave enough for us to bridle up, and then some, eh? Oh, look at these.”

  Clewt reached for a shining, supple set of saddlebags, black leather with braiding along the entire outer edge, tastefully set with silver conchos. He held them up, admiring them, turning them this way, then the other, and finally pulling them close to his nose and sniffing them. “These have never ridden on a horse. Winstead must have spent a fortune on all this gear. And never used it. I wonder if he ever intended to.”

  Clewt looked at Rufus, but the big man’s droopy eyes were fixed on the fine brand-new saddlebags. “I . . . dunno, boss.” There was a hint of disappointment lingering on his horsy features.

  One side of Clewt’s mouth rose. “You like these, don’t you, Rufus?”

  The big man’s eyes brightened. “I do, indeed. They’re pretty as a peach pie.”

  “Yes, they are.” Clewt regarded the sleek black bags a moment, then laid them against Rufus’s chest. “Take them. You’ve earned them. You discovered the cache, after all. It’s only right.”

  The big man’s hands closed over them. “You mean it, boss?”

  Clewt straightened, surveyed the rest of what the cupboard had to offer. “Of course I mean it. I never say a thing I don’t mean.” He turned a tight smile on the happy Rufus. In a low voice he said, “Which is why I tell you that everything worth anything in life comes at a price. Do you follow along with what I’m telling you?”

  The big man’s eyebrows drew together again. That must be a familiar pose for those bushy things, thought Clewt.

  “I . . . I think so, boss.”

  But Clewt knew that the big drawn-faced man didn’t really understand. Yet. But by the time he did, Clewt knew that Rufus would wish he had never left the warm, peachy bosom of the old Deep South. By then, of course, it would be too late. Far too late.

  Chapter 13

  By the time Ty saddled Stub and led him out of the barn, trailing a lead line attached to a pack pony, Hob had finished tidying the kitchen and had plopped down on the porch for a few draws on his morning pipe. The scattergun leaned within reach against the railing, and the cat No Ears lay sprawled in his lap, eyes mere slits and a contented purr rising from deep within his throat as Hob’s knobby right hand none too gingerly working the cat’s scarred head.

  “You gonna do what I think you ought not to do?” Hob gestured at the horses with his smoking pipe.

  Ty nodded. “I reckon.”

  “I figured.” Hob resumed puffing on his old briar piece.

  The younger man led the horses to the loafing shed. Since he’d wra
pped the dead man in canvas last night after they ate supper, then bent the man double at the waist, all he had to do was drag him on out and heft him aboard the pack pony and lash him on.

  Despite the fact that he’d chosen this animal for its calm demeanor, the sturdy pony still fidgeted and eye-rolled at the smell and feel of the dead man being lashed to its back.

  “Whoa, now. Whoa, girl,” clucked Ty in a low, calm tone. It eventually did the trick.

  “Tell ’em I said howdy.”

  “I will,” said Ty, climbing aboard the Morgan.

  “And, boy?” said Hob, rising to his feet, displacing the annoyed tomcat.

  Here we go, thought Ty. Can’t let me get on with things without a few words of wisdom. Not like he really minded, though, as Hob was more of a father to him than a business partner.

  “Likely those boys, bad as they seem to be, will want a piece or two of your flesh. Likely they won’t give up so easy as they did last night. Likely”—he shook the pipe at Ty—“they will do their best to lay you low. You ready for that?”

  “I’ll do my best to avoid it, but, yeah, if it comes to that, I am ready to give as good as I get. But I don’t think it will come to that. Not just yet.”

  “Then why are you bound and determined to force their hand? From what I saw last night, those boys are on the prod for some reason that’s beyond my ability to figure out, and you are their target of choice.”

  “I know, Hob. But I have to figure out what’s going on up there. Sue Ellen’s alive, and looked to be unhurt, maybe a little overworked, but seemed okay. But after last night, I’m not inclined to let it go. No matter what she said. It’s been gnawing away at me since I left there, and no matter the amount of water we have under the bridge, I can’t stand by—”

  “I get ya. But you don’t come back by dark, I’m ridin’ out, and there ain’t a thing you can say or do to change that, you rawboned pup!” The pipe hit every word Hob said like a hammer hitting a nail head.

  Ty grinned and touched his hat brim. “I’m counting on it, Uncle Hob. But I’ll be here.”