Ralph Compton Double-Cross Ranch

by Matthew P. Mayo

  He reached forward and she felt the edge of the blade, cool against her cheek. Their eyes met once again, briefly; then he turned his wrist and the blade slit through the length of torn curtain binding her, gagging her. She spat out the spit-sodden, balled-up rag in her mouth, worked her tongue behind and around her teeth, stretched her neck and her mouth.

  “What happens if I don’t give in to your demands? If I don’t answer your questions?”

  “Why, then, my dear,” he said, “you will be given, as they say in the old-time pirate tales, a long walk off a short plank.” He leaned forward. “You will be . . . no longer necessary. In fact the only reason you’re still here is because I have found you rather amusing. But my appetite for humor has just about been fulfilled. I expect I’ll need to do something completely different now, if only to support myself in my dotage.”

  He winked at her, but she had already turned her face away.

  “What is that? A smirk? What are you doing?” Clewt turned on her, pointed an accusing finger in her face.

  “I . . . I don’t know what you mean.” She shook her head, a look that was a mix of exhaustion and defeat on her drawn features. “I just can’t help you. . . .”

  For what felt to her like the hundredth time, the foul killer bent low before her, his tobacco-and-boozy breath gouting into her face. She saw the oily skin of his pocked face, the dried blood from the cut her thrown cup had given him, and it felt good to her. He looked uncomfortable, unhappy, and angry. And she couldn’t care less.

  Up until a few moments before, she’d had no idea where Alton could have hidden away a treasure of such vast proportions as Clewt had so elaborately described. The more he spoke of the treasure, of the fact that Alton had been a conniving, sneaking man capable of running out on his friends, the more holes she found in Clewt’s claims. She refused to believe all of it, at least until she could prove or disprove it for herself. First, though, she had to convince Clewt she had no idea where Alton could have hid such a treasure.

  “How could I possibly know such a thing—especially if I didn’t have a clue that he was the sort of man you say he was?” She had tried this argument on him a number of times, but Clewt refused to believe her.

  “You are a liar,” he had told her time and time again. And this last time he stood in the middle of the kitchen, running his long, nicotine-stained fingers, with their curving yellowed nails like the claws of some half man, half animal, through his oily pepper-dust hair.

  Finally he sighed long and low. “I will ask you once more to tell me where the rest of his hidden gold is. Once you tell me, I will retrieve it, and if everything is to my satisfaction, I will ride on out of here, slick as you please, and other than a few . . . ah, alterations me and my boys made, why, you’d never know we were here at all. You follow me?”

  And that’s when it hit her, just like that. Sue Ellen was pretty sure she knew where Alton would hide a treasure if he had one to hide. It was so obvious and so simple she was surprised she hadn’t thought of it before then. It also occurred to her that she might be dealing with Clewt in the wrong way. If he became convinced that she really didn’t know where Alton had hidden the fortune, then he would see her as having no use to him, and that would mean only one thing to such a man. He would no doubt kill her.

  She fought down the urge to turn her head away, to gasp for fresher air. His breath was so rancid. This close she couldn’t help but see the blackening of his teeth. At least he wouldn’t be long for this world. And neither will you, Sue Ellen, she told herself. If you don’t figure out a way to convince him you might know where his precious treasure is.

  “If I did know, what makes you think I’d tell you?” Sue Ellen hoped this different approach would work. But she wasn’t so sure. He kept staring at her.

  Finally he straightened. “Nothing I have tried has worked. I am beginning to think that you aren’t lying at all to me. I am beginning to think that you really don’t know a blasted thing about the gold, or for that matter, about your husband. What on earth did you two discuss for all those years of your marriage?”

  He stood and rubbed his forehead viciously, then stopped as if he’d come to an important decision. “Aha, yes, yes, that’s it. But I don’t believe you, my dear. You are still lying, only now you’re lying to save your pretty neck. Which means that you probably don’t know where anything other than your own collection of pretty dresses is. Am I correct, my dear?”

  Could this be a trap? Could he be trying to trip her up and get her to admit to something? It seemed unlikely. But then again, anticipating such a large fortune could make a person do strange things.

  He walked quickly behind her and grasped the high-back dining room chair. When he tilted it back she let out a shriek, but he kept yanking, dragging her backward out of the house.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Oh, I think you’ll recognize it once we get there.”

  The mysterious location turned out to be the root cellar, built into a rise off the kitchen end of the house. He fumbled with the sliding wooden dead bolt, flung the bar out of his way, then dragged her deep into the dank space—the dead smell of musty earth, spiderwebs dragging over her face, the grit from the unknown scuffing underfoot. She’d not been in the root cellar for a very long time.

  “No,” she said, eager to move on through this mess. “I . . . I don’t want to be here. Don’t want to know what all this means, what sort of foolishness you have cooked up in your own sick mind, but I can assure you, Mr. Duggins, there is nothing I can offer you that you would find of use. I gather you are angling for information about this supposed fortune my husband has buried about the place, like a secret pirate treasure.”

  For a brief moment, Clewt froze, his eyes reflecting a rare instance of terror, before realizing that she was lying. She and she alone had to know of its location. He’d not come all this way to be hoodwinked by a woman!

  He let go of the chair, which sat at an awkward angle on the rough, uneven dirt floor. It had broken since he dragged it, clunking down the back stairs of the house toward the root cellar. He came around in front of Sue Ellen, bent at the waist, and snatched up a burlap sack that held something weighty in the bottom. She saw it in the swinging light of the oil lantern, which still squeaked on its nail from when he’d clunked it into place moments before. The something in the sack moved when he tugged and swung it.

  “What’s that?” she said to him, though she hated the guess her mind had formed.

  He shook the sack and rattling and hissing sounds filled the small dark dirt room.

  Sue Ellen shrieked and tried to back away, succeeded only in recoiling a few inches. “No! No, not snakes, oh no, no, no. . . .”

  “Well, my dear, for all that fear and terror you are now exhibiting, I’m afraid there’s little you can do about it. . . .” He leaned in close, giving the bag another shake. “The only thing you can do at this point to save your hide from a long, slow, drawn-out, painful-beyond-all-belief death, all alone, a death in which when you get bitten—and you will be bitten many times—is tell me where, oh, where is my money? That’s it, that’s all I want to know.”

  Sue Ellen, a taut, rigid body strapped to a broken chair, quivered uncontrollably. “I . . . I . . .”

  “I? I?” Clewt laughed long and loud, swung the top-tied sack close to her face, held it there.

  “Give me time! Give me time, I tell you!”

  “No, no, I don’t think so, Mrs. Winstead. Time has all but run out.”

  “Oh, please, please. I . . . I . . .”

  “There you go again, with the ‘I . . . I’ business. Seems to me at this point you’d just give me what I wanted to know. As if anything you have to hide could be worth your life.”

  “What . . . what exactly do you want to know?” she said, and knew as soon as she said it that it sounded exactly like what it was, a d
esperate bid to buy herself time. This would not end well. She could see no way out of this.

  But then the miraculous seemed like it might happen. Clewt’s face became serious again, and he bent low over her again. “One more time, Mrs. Winstead, I’ll tell you what I want: I want to know where your husband buried all the treasure. The loot he didn’t spend buying this place. You don’t understand what it’s like to go without anything, mostly without food, for days and weeks and months. You have no idea how it is to live without finery.”

  He drove his sweaty face close in to hers again. “Can you tell me what I want to know? Can you guarantee me all these things that you have?” His smile widened but the madness lingered in his eyes. He coughed once, twice, then shook his head when she didn’t respond soon enough.

  He stood upright, all business again, and began untying the rawhide thongs wrapping the sack’s top. From within, a dry, slapping, rattling sound arose.

  Chapter 22

  The first feeling he had was of a mouth packed tight with spoke shavings. Or river sand. When he had finally decided he was alive, that maybe he was just a little under the weather, Henry tried to force an eye open. It was a more difficult task than he imagined it would be. He tried again. Nothing. One more time, and he heard a voice.

  “You’re awake.”

  It sounded as if it reached him underwater. A man’s voice? A woman’s? Hard to tell. Husky, low. Somehow he got his tongue, thick though it felt, so that it rubbed against the backs of his teeth. The action made him want to swallow, but it hurt to do so.

  “Take it easy. You need water.”

  He tried to speak, but could not, then felt a coolness on his lips and was able to force his thick tongue between them, felt the cool liquid on his tongue, and let some of it drizzle down his throat. It was long minutes before he was able to open his mouth further. Then one eye popped open and revealed a fuzzy, dimly lit world. He worked to get the second open, tried to reach up with a hand, but it hurt like the devil.

  What had happened to him? Last he remembered he’d been . . . on the trail, yes, on his way northward in search of the very devil who laid low so many good people. Yes, now it was coming back to him, and the more Henry remembered, the more he tensed, felt a knotting sense of urgency deep in his bowels.

  “Easy, no need getting worked up just now. There’s nothing you can do about anything. I should know.”

  He saw her then, for the first time, as she straightened and turned away from him. She looked to be a tall woman, thin, with long dark hair. Hard to tell in the room. The room itself, now that he noticed, was darkened, but there was light coming in through gauzy curtains.

  “Where . . .” he said, then coughed. The cough hurt, like gravel scraping up through his throat.

  She turned back to him. “You’re at my home. At my horse ranch. Only ain’t much of a ranch anymore. Used to be called the Lazy D. For my husband’s family, the Dundersons. Only thing is, there ain’t no more Dundersons in the line. Leastwise not that I know of. And there ain’t no more horses at the Lazy D, neither. Except for my one, Lilly. She was out to pasture when they rode ’em off.”

  All this information made little sense to Henry. He tried to take it all in, but she seemed to have forgotten him. He tried to speak again. “What happened to me?” His voice came out as a whisper, raw-feeling, but she heard, and looked at him. He saw her face for the first time as she bent close.

  “Why, you’ve been shot. By my men. My last two hands.”

  A few moments passed while Henry worked to make sense of all this. In his mind, a bucketful of mixed pictures, smells, and sounds all jumbled together like a stew. It felt as if none of it would ever get sorted. Then he remembered a man’s face bent low over him, just a flash of a memory, but it was enough to help. It was the man who’d shot him. But there were two, and they’d said something about shooting a lawman. Then he remembered no more. Until now.

  “I’m . . . they thought I was a . . .”

  “I know,” she said, almost smiling. “Those two fools are long gone by now. Afraid you’d wake up and have them hung. I led them to believe that might be the case. Truth is I didn’t want them around no more. They only stayed out of a guilty feeling. But with the killin’, there weren’t nothin’ they could have done. They been frettin’ like old hens since, riding out, keeping an eye. Useless effort, though. Even the posse was a short-lived thing and of no use. Ain’t their fault—we’re out in the midst of nothing. Too far from a town of any consequence. Took ’em days to learn of it all. Besides, them outlaws they’ve been scouting for ain’t likely to come back this way. I got nothing left to give.”

  “But I’m not a—”

  “Not a lawdog anymore, right?”

  He looked at her. “How did you know?” Coughed again. She drizzled more water into his mouth. She smelled like some sort of soap, her hair was loose, brushed against his arm. He was so confused. Why had he left home? He’d been a fool; that much was certain. Then he remembered Clewt Duggins again and the final pieces of the hazy puzzle fit into place.

  “You spoke in your sleep. Tossed something fretful. I had to tie you down for fear of you opening up that wound.”

  “My shoulder,” he said, trying to raise his arm.

  “You see? Men can’t take a woman’s word for it, have to find out for themselves. Crazy, that’s what it is.” She untied a loosely wrapped kerchief from his wrist. “You best take it easy, though. No thrashing or I’ll tie you down again. I didn’t dig out that bullet and sew you up only to have you pop open all my work. I have better things to do than tend to you.”

  “I appreciate it. Why did they shoot me?”

  “My two hired fools thought they’d finally found one of them bad men. But it was only you. Not really their fault, though. They said you was crazy looking. Talking to yourself and waving your arms, shoutin’ at nothin’. Made ’em nervous.” She laughed then, a short, cackling burst.

  She crossed the room, past his line of sight, but he saw more light, felt a bit of the sun’s warmth on his face. She’d slid open a curtain.

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Oh, not long, a few days. I took the liberty of doping you up a little since you were thrashing so hard. That bullet was in there pretty good. I expect you’ll have problems with that arm working right, but then again who knows? My Jay, now he took a handful of lead in his day and seemed to work his way through it. No offense, but you don’t much remind me of my Jay.”

  “Who is he?”

  “My husband, of course.” She acted as though he’d said something most foolish.

  “Where is he? I’d like to thank him as well. All this trouble over me. I should get going.”

  “Going? You ain’t goin’ anywhere, lawman. You’re barely healed. So get used to that. Besides, Jay’s dead.”

  “Dead? Your husband? But I thought . . .”

  “Thought what? That I’m a woman and I’m here alone? Is that what you were thinking Mr. High-and-mighty Lawdog?”

  Henry needed to think. He didn’t much understand this situation. He felt as though he needed some sort of touchstone, something he could call his own, even a memory. He called Clewt to mind, gritted his teeth again. If it weren’t for his own stubbornness, or his foolishness back in Dane Creek at having goaded Duggins into his foul play . . .

  “Take ’er easy, lawman. I didn’t mean nothing by it. Truth be told I’ve been alone for a month now, maybe longer. I don’t recall what day it really is.” She sat down with a sigh on the edge of the bed, and stared off toward the window once again, seeming to have forgotten him.

  Henry’s thirst had come on in a big way, and he longed for a proper drink. But he didn’t dare interrupt this woman. Somehow she seemed on the very edge of screaming or crying or turning on him. He didn’t dare risk it. He’d seen such behavior before, as a town marshal, and knew i
t was as unpredictable as playing with a snake, though the outcome was usually more easily predicted. Then she spoke.

  “They were killed by him, lawman.”

  “I’m Henry. Who was killed?”

  “They were killed by him, Henry Lawdog.”

  “My Jay and my Billy and my Little Tully too.” Her face collapsed then, as he guessed it would. Just worked inward into a mass of sad wrinkles, making her look much older than her thirty-five or so years. Henry wanted to say something more, was half afraid of what it might do to her, but something told him she wanted to, needed to, talk.

  “Who did it, ma’am? Who killed them?”

  She looked at him, eyes glistening, snot running from her nose. She made no motion to wipe it. “They was my boys. My husband and my sons, but I called them all my boys. We ran the Lazy D as a family. Raised some of the finest quarter horses you are likely to ever find, I’ll warrant.”

  “Isn’t there anyone else here to help you now?”

  “What would I need help with? Hmm? Ain’t a horse on the place but my dear Lilly. And your horses.”

  “My horses? They ran off.”

  “Of course,” she said, dragging a shirt cuff halfheartedly across her top lip. “But my boys brought ’em back. And your gear is stacked in the corner over yonder. All but your tack. That’s in the barn.” She looked at him. “But I am taking right good care of them horses. Only the best, or at least the best of what’s left. When that killer and his gang rode in I knew all was lost. Soon as they crested the southern rise. I remember it well. It was late afternoon, and the sun lights that hill real nice along that time of day. I always make a point to look out there, see if any of them stock are standing skylined there. It’s a sight to behold when that happens, I tell you what.” She smiled, but it faded as quickly as a moth that flits too close to a campfire flame.

  Henry’s heart quickened. “This killer, did he give you a name?”

  She nodded, not looking at him, just staring at what he guessed was the southern wall, as if she could see the very hill through the planking.