He talked and talked in a low near-mumble. He knew that in the sun, and with water an unreliable necessity, he should keep his mouth shut and save his breath, but he was lonely. And so he walked and talked, or rode and talked. It helped pass the time. He also told himself it would help him plan what he was going to do once he caught up to Clewt Duggins and his gang.
He told himself that, but really it was just another way of avoiding thinking about what he faced. Since the war he’d worked hard to live forcefully, to make things happen in life, to bend as much of what surrounded him at any given time to his own will. Sometimes he was shocked to find it actually worked. He’d wanted the job as lawman in a town somewhere warm and dry, and he had secured that job. He had wanted to remain a single man, to enjoy the small, slight benefits of being one. And that too, at least for a time, had worked.
Henry had run his town with a gentle hand, firm but kind. And that also had worked. For a time. At least until the rich ore was struck and the cattle drives became more frequent. And then everything changed. Everything. The only good and constant thing in his life was sweet Maria, then the boy, named Henry after himself, but with a middle family name from his mother’s people—Joaquin—and lastly, his own family name of Atwood.
Henry mused on his boy, on the strong, fine man he would one day become, on the fact that he might never see him reach his next birthday, seven months away yet. But he hoped someday the boy would understand just why it was his father had had to do this, to go on this trek for revenge. And so it was while in the midst of gnawing that oft-chewed bone that Henry felt a sting like a bee punch into his shoulder.
It didn’t occur to him until he was flat on the hardpan earth, staring up at the dancing hooves of his horses, that maybe he’d been shot. Because he was quite sure there was no bee on earth that could knock him from a saddle.
Henry groped along the wounded shoulder until he felt wetness, pulled away the fingers and saw the tips had reddened. He scrunched his eyes shut tight, shook his head, and bellowed a wordless cry, pure anger like steam venting up from his parched throat. His voice cracked and trembled and pinched out and the horses danced more than ever, then trotted off out of sight.
Mustn’t let them get away. He worked to raise his head, managed to get his left elbow underneath him, propping up his torso. The right shoulder stung and throbbed something fierce now. His hat had tumbled off somewhere. He’d worry about that later.
Henry squinted ahead, but what direction was that? Where was the sun? He looked up briefly, trying to locate it in the high, bright blue above, and the world spun as if he were riding a giant roulette wheel. That left elbow gave out and his head slammed against rock. It didn’t rob him of consciousness, but he felt as though it might any second.
Presently he heard what sounded like far-off hoofbeats drawing closer. His mount and packhorse coming back?
“Hey, hey, what’d I tell you? That ain’t him!”
“Naw, gotta be. I am a sure shot, I tell you.”
“Ain’t nobody debating your shooting abilities, Mort. But you shot the wrong man.”
More hoofbeats drew closer; then Henry heard the voices resume.
“Oh, I have shot the wrong man.”
“That’s what I told you.”
Henry tried to speak, but no words came. He licked his lips, ridged and chapped, tried again. “You . . . you help me up.”
He heard boots slam down to earth, heard spurs chink, one man, then a second. Sweet shade and relief from the sun in his eyes. He forced them open just as a fresh slice of pain lanced from the new wound. Why would anyone shoot him? Unless somehow it was Clewt. Maybe he had heard of his intentions to track him? No, that would be impossible, only his wife knew the full story. Impossible, but . . . His wife! Panic pinched his throat, lodged there like a tiny fist. His eyes shot wide.
Leaning over him were two cowboys, youngish men with concerned looks. No, it was more than that, it was fear pulling at their faces. “Mister, I am so sorry.” One of them said, “I . . . I shot you.” He leaned back out of Henry’s sightline, said, “Oh Lord, no. This can’t be.”
“Help me up.” Henry struggled to get his left elbow underneath himself again, but dizziness came at him again like a sudden gust in a sandstorm, knocked him down once more.
“Look, Mort. He’s going to make it. He’s talking and everything. Hey, mister . . .”
Something slapped at Henry’s face. He fluttered his eyes open again.
“Mister.” It was the other cowboy, tapping his fingers on Henry’s face.
“Who are you, mister?”
The young man’s voice sounded shaky, nervous to Henry.
The other man returned, his spurs clinking fast, like tiny bells on a sleigh. The man dropped once again to his knees beside Henry, and soon he felt cool water drizzling on his mouth, his cheeks, around his face, along his neck.
“What are you doing on this range?”
“I . . . am bound northward. On the trail of . . . bad men.”
“Oh Lordy, it’s even worse than I thought,” said the one named Mort in a low voice. “I have shot a lawman.”
Henry knew, even through the veil of pain, that these men had no idea who he was, but at least they believed him to be a lawman. In a way he was. Retired, but still, he believed in the darkest corner of his heart that he was serving the law by riding to eliminate Clewt Duggins from the world.
Chapter 20
Ty slammed the two boxes of shells on the table. “Uncle Hob.” He fixed the old man with a hard look. “They’re here.”
“Hang fire, that’s all we need. I ain’t half ready. Still got dirty plates on the table.”
“I don’t think they’re coming for a social call.”
“If they got burning us out in mind, I’ve laid in a few buckets of water, have ’em settin’ about the rooms. Beyond that, I can’t do much. Hope you know that, boy.”
“I do. If they torch the house, get the heck out and head for the root cellar. Don’t let them see you. I’ll find you. Whatever you do, don’t get out in the open—you can’t outrun them. I’ll do my best to head them off, take as many out as I can before they get here. By my count there are five headed this way. That means, with the Mexican dead, Clewt Duggins and one other aren’t with them. Unless he is and left someone else in his place, watching over Sue Ellen.”
The men looked at each other.
“You reckon he’s up to something he didn’t want his men to know about? Something with your girl?”
“She’s not my girl,” said Ty.
But Hob heard the worry in the man’s voice.
“Get on out there, Ty. Take out as many as you can, leave the rest to me. You ride and after you’ve done what you can, you keep riding. Go get her. You’ll never have a better chance, if’n he ain’t guarded, as you say.”
Ty shook his head. “No, Hob. I can’t do that to you. I won’t run out on you.”
“You don’t think not helping Sue Ellen right off wasn’t running out on her? You got an obligation to that woman, boy. You best do what you can while you can. Me, don’t worry about Hob. I got enough firepower here to start a war.” He racked in a shell. “And that’s just what I aim to do. Now git gone, boy. Clewt ain’t about to wait on you, nor any man. Grab it while you can.”
Ty paused a moment, and then his eyes widened. “No, Hob. That’s not what I was getting at. I won’t leave you here to deal with those jackals yourself!”
In two strides, Ty was back at the front door. He knew time was wasting, but he didn’t have a clear idea of just what he should do. He didn’t want to abandon Hob, but if there was any man capable of handling himself in a rough situation, it was Hob. Ty walked back across the room, stuck out a big meaty hand. “See you soon, Uncle Hob.”
The old man leaned his sawed-off against the warm stove and grasped Ty’s big
hand in his own, covering it like bread on a sandwich. “This here’s the perfect opportunity, don’t you see? Don’t waste this chance. Clewt’ll never be more wide open. Makes it more of a fair fight. But keep in mind he don’t fight fair. You do what you need to to make sure that girl don’t get hurt. ’Cause you mark my words, he’ll do whatever it takes to make sure he gets whatever it is he’s after. His type always does. I’ll be here taking care of things when you get back.” Though his voice was firm, his eyelids quaked with emotion. He nodded. “Now git, Ty, afore I shoot you myself.”
He shoved Ty’s hand away and snatched up the shotgun, half turning from Ty and dragging his old flannel shirtsleeve under his running nose.
Ty paused at the door. “Recall the waterfall, Uncle Hob? I reckon it’s as good a place as any to meet up. It’s closer to the Double Cross than it is to here, and our camp is likely still there. So if I can’t make it back here by tomorrow morning, that means I’m likely in trouble. I’ll head there and hole up if I can.”
Hob nodded, still didn’t look at Ty. “I’ll be there. Count on it.”
Ty headed back across the ranch yard, hoping a rendezvous wouldn’t be necessary. Within minutes he had saddled Stub. The horse was less rested than he would have liked, but Ty wanted the sure-footed horse under him for this tricky bit of riding. The Morgan was nearly tireless, and that was the mount he needed for the coming fight.
Trails cut by years of herding young stock west, then northward, curved around the nexus of the Rocking T’s home base, laid out in widening arcs and spiderwebbing off to the various holding grounds and pastures used by Ty and his seasonal help.
He reasoned that they wouldn’t split up until just before cresting the last ridge overlooking his place. Then they’d probably range right and left. He doubted any of them would take the direct route down the middle, on the lane that led to his buildings. If one did, well, he’d just have to figure out a way to deal with him later.
First things first. He had no time to devise much more of a plan than to ambush them somehow before they did the same. He might not be able to get them all, but he’d do what he could before he headed to the Double Cross. He urged Stub into a lope, and crouched low in the saddle. The powerful horse seemed to know what was coming and dug in hard, sending scree spinning down the craggy slope dotted with sparse pines. If he could just make it to the top, there was a rocky knob that wouldn’t be seen by the invaders until they were close by.
If they continued to ride where he expected they would, they could easily pass just under the rock. And after two more twists in the rough trail, he spied the natural hoodoo, jutting high over the immediate surrounding landscape, There was a spot at its base that provided an ideal overlook onto the trail. He hoped he had enough time to get settled there, hunkered low and poised with his rifle aimed.
Just below the last curve up to the spot he’d just been thinking of, Ty slowed Stub, found a spot where the horse would be relatively concealed from view from below. He slipped from the saddle, paused, heard nothing . . . yet. He cinched the reins around the base of a wind-stripped, petrified old tree trunk, still firmly rooted into the rock from which it had grown. He stuffed extra shells into his pockets, left the rest in his saddlebag, and low-walked up the rocky grade.
Halfway up, his right boot slipped on loose rock chips, sending a short rain of gravel down the sheer forty-foot rock face atop which he would soon be perched. He reached the top with the spot looking much as he recalled it when he’d first ventured up there three, maybe four seasons before. He couldn’t recall. He’d long been intrigued by the strange rock formation surmounting the rocky knob and finally one day, after moving young stock from one small range to another, he decided to take a quirly break. But when he’d looked up as he built the smoke, he found himself sitting on his horse at the very base of the knob.
Since he had had no pressing work requirements for a few hours—one of the many advantages of being his own boss—Ty had decided to skip the quirly and make the climb. It had been a slippery slope at times, but well worth it once he gained the top.
As he gazed, he had taken in much of the surrounding landscape that he’d not seen from anywhere near that spot. A series of three ripple ridges to the northeast obscured the Double Cross buildings from sight, but that hadn’t stopped him sitting there long after he’d gotten his wind back, staring off in the distance toward just where he knew those buildings sat, tended by the woman he should have married. The thought dug at him from the inside out, like a boring worm with a heck of a set of teeth.
In the few years that had passed since then, Ty visited the site occasionally, as the views were unmatched. And yet, as he was counting on, anyone sitting where he was would not be seen by riders following the narrowing trails that wound through the rocky cleft. With his rifle and two pistols at the ready, he vowed with a renewed determination to deal with as many of these men as he could right away, then head straight to the Double Cross.
Ty held no illusions about how he’d have to treat these men. They needed killing, if only because they had already killed and now were hell-bent on killing him and Hob. Despite that, the idea of shooting a fellow, no matter the vermin he might have become, didn’t sit well with Ty. He’d never ambushed a lone man before. But five of them, now that was an even taller order.
Ty wished for an alternate way out of the situation. Some way to scare them badly enough that they bolted from the valley for good. But he knew that was the basest form of wishful thinking.
And then he heard it, the faint, irregular sound of hooves striking rock, stepping steadily, ridden by men who sounded as if they had more confidence than they ought to. Ty eased back the hammer on the rifle. A set of fresh shells sat in a small pile beside his propped left elbow. The sound grew louder, the murmur of voices increasing, one of them sharper, reedier than the others. These men still felt they had the upper hand. But he knew they would soon split up—unless they already had, and then his one and only chance to incapacitate as many as he could was past.
The voices drifted up to him, and the closer they drew, the more distinct the sounds they made became. From the hoofbeats and the voices, Ty could tell there were but three of them. That meant the others were lagging behind, or more likely had already split off. He hadn’t seen them wind around him on the western trail, so they must have taken the eastern edge, and would come up on Hob from that direction, probably separating further once they got close to the buildings. Then Hob would have his hands full. But Ty knew never to underestimate the old war dog.
Ty was still too high up to hear what they were saying, but it sounded in tone at least to be nothing more than dull conversation, as if they were on a slow ride to town to pick up supplies and not headed to a nearby ranch to kill its occupants. Maybe he had it all wrong. Maybe they were sent by Clewt to make a truce of some sort.
And then, just as he saw the tip of a horse’s muzzle, it stopped, and he heard one of the voices, the reedy one, say, “Hold up—my horse just perked. I bet you a whole shiny dollar there’s another horse nearby.”
As if on cue, Ty heard Stub offer up a short whinny. Curse that horse, he thought, gritting his teeth and holding still. One of their horses whickered, but was cut short, had to be by one of the men pinching his fingers into the mount’s nostrils. An old but effective trick.
He didn’t dare poke his head over the edge. The men had fallen silent, but he heard the gritty grinding sound of boots placed cautiously, the flutter of men’s whispers, short and clipped commands as one told the others where to head.
If they were worth their salt at all, they would have looked up at the sheer stony walls to see if there was a spot a man with ambushing on his mind might await their arrival. The thought that they might get away from him, all because of his blasted nosy horse, forced Ty to push himself, belly down, along the rock slope paralleling the trail below.
The overhangin
g rock shelf drooped lower, grew tighter to angle forward into. Ty lifted off his hat and set it farther back into the shelf. As he inched his head out toward the edge ever so slowly, he kept his eyes trained downward toward the trail.
Just after he heard someone whisper-bark the word, “There!” he felt a buzzing breeze close to his forehead. Too close. An eyeblink later, something spanged and zoomed off the rock face behind. Ty had already whipped his head backward, gritting his teeth and not breathing. It wouldn’t do to be killed, and especially not this early in the game when Hob and Sue Ellen depended on him.
He let his breath leak out slowly. They knew he was up here, but they didn’t know if he was alone, didn’t even know if it was him, he’d bet. He scooted backward, wishing they would at least make some sort of noise. Now that they knew someone was up here, they’d have the advantage of being able to come up on him from at least two directions. They’d probably try to keep him pinned down by firing from below, keep him occupied while one of them moved in on him from the back side of the knob.
He laid the rifle down to his left, within easy reach. He wouldn’t be able to lean out enough to use it, so he pulled out his Colt Navy. If they did send a man up behind him, it would take a few minutes for him to make it up here. And unless the man was light-footed as a goat, Ty would hear him long before. That left him just enough time to see if he could do some damage from above.
He had to draw their fire somehow. Preferably without sticking his head out there again. Next best thing, he thought as he looked around and his gaze fell on his hat. He snatched it up and, holding one edge of the brim in his right hand, he nudged it close to the edge, all the while angling himself farther downslope from the edge. When he’d reached his spot, he nudged the hat outward over dead air.
Ralph Compton Double-Cross Ranch Page 13