Ralph Compton Double-Cross Ranch

by Matthew P. Mayo

  “His name was not something I’m likely to forget anytime soon. He robbed me of everything but the Lazy D. And now that my boys and my stock ain’t here to share in it, I got nothing but a hard, black heart to sit here and stew over.”

  “The man, did he have a name?”

  “Yeah, it’s Duggins. Clewt Duggins.” She turned her wet-eyed gaze on Henry. “And I aim to track him down and kill him five times over.” She held out a work-hardened hand, didn’t notice she’d dropped a handkerchief from it, and counted off on her fingers: “Once for my Jay, once for my Billy, once for my Tully, once for my sweet horses.”

  “That’s only four.”

  “Huh? Oh yeah.” She looked at Henry again. “And lastly for me, for my poor, broken black heart. I reckon it won’t make any of it better, but I tell you what, it’ll make me feel just fine when I stick something dull and rusted into him and twist and twist until he knots up inside. And all the while I will smile and stare right into his evil eyes. I will.” She nodded, standing again with a sigh. “I surely will.”

  Henry decided right then and there he had to get out of this woman’s house as soon as he was able to stand. And by his reckoning, that should be very, very soon.

  The haggard woman crossed the room then paused by a door, her hand on the knob. “And you, Henry Lawdog, are going to help me do it. ’Cause I know that you are tracking him, too.”

  Before he could reply, she left the room. He heard the dull scratch and click of a key turning in a lock, her heavy footsteps receding down a hall, then down a flight of stairs, treads squeaking all the way.

  Chapter 23

  Hob closed his eyes a brief moment, held his old head to the outside wall of the kitchen. He was hunkered low, his gimpy pin stretched out before him. He nodded and smiled. That was the noise he’d thought he heard. A horse, coming hell-bent, straight in. But it wasn’t Stub the Morgan. No, it was someone angry and not giving a lick for his own safety. Or spooked. But it was a man on horseback, the horse sounded heavy that way. Good. Had to be one of the rascals.

  He dragged himself on his belly along to the front of the house, toward where he guessed the rider was headed, and eased his head up into the corner of the one window he’d left unshuttered. Soon, he figured, he’d not just hear the rascal, but see him. And that’s when he’d open the ball. As he waited, taking shallow breaths, he thought briefly of Ty—he hoped the boy hadn’t been waylaid by any of these vultures.

  Hob didn’t have any more time to wonder. Just as the rider he’d heard thundered into view—a bowler-hatted man crouched low on an Appaloosa—hoofbeats sounded from the back of the house as well. Good, then he at least knew of two attackers. They were flanking him, guessing, no doubt, that there was someone else other than Ty, living at the ranch. Hob figured Ty’s surmise had been right—the man who’d escaped the night before must have told the others there was a second man at the ranch.

  From his crouched vantage point on the kitchen floor, Hob examined the situation, watching with one eye the fool circling the courtyard on his Appaloosa with gun drawn and a daring, devil-may-care look in his eye. Hob wanted nothing more than to send that bowler-topped jackanape straight to his eternal sleep.

  The one Hob envisioned for all of the attackers was a particularly roasty place with tall, licking flames, a howling demon lurking in the shadows, and an eternity of pain that never abated and sores that never healed. The thought made his finger twitch and a grim grin pull at his mouth corners. But he daren’t. . . . Not yet, anyway. He’d let them make the first hostile move; that’s what Ty would want. Hob would rather blast the weasel right out of his saddle.

  The man on the Appaloosa turned and faced the house. “Curse you, mister! We know you’re in there. I done for the other one of you. He’ll be a burr under our saddle blanket no longer. And now it’s your turn!”

  “Aw, heck.” Hob chewed the inside of his mouth, and finally said it again. “Aww, heck. . . .” Then thumbed back the hammer on the rifle—he’d save the shotgun for close-in work. The throaty clicking sound seemed to echo and fill the house and drift on out the window opening. As if invited to do so, the man on horseback leveled his gaze at the house, directly at the spot where Hob hid. The man sneered wider and clawed for a second sidearm, but Hob feathered the trigger on his rifle and did what seconds before he’d merely dreamt of.

  The bowler man’s shot caromed off the roof of the house even as he jerked to his right. The horse whipped in the opposite direction, spooking into a violent run.

  The rider howled something that to Hob sounded like, “Saints preserve us!” as the man fought to regain control of his mount. It thundered off toward the gap between the barn and the corral. He hadn’t quite regained his upright posture on the saddle when they came up fast to the barn. His wounded right side slammed into the hard plank corner of the barn, pinwheeling him backward out of the saddle. The bowler hat spun into the air as if tossed in a stiff gale, and the rider arced wide over the horse’s rump, clawing at the cantle to regain his seat.

  But it was too late—he slipped from atop the bucking beast, down its left side, his boot still caught in the stirrup as they bounded around the corner of the barn and thundered out of sight, the man’s shouts becoming fainter.

  Hob wanted to cackle in glee, but since he’d heard at least one other rapscallion lurking nearby, he settled for a low, “Heh heh heh. . . .” and gave it a full grin. “One down, old man,” he whispered to himself and eased away from the window, keeping his back to the thick log wall to wait out the next attack.

  They can’t all be this easy, he thought, rechecking and recocking his weapons. And he didn’t have to wait long. Hoofbeats thundered closer, one, two horses. And from different directions. One rounded the south end of the house, headed toward the loafing shed. He guessed that was the second man. The other one was approaching from straight on, as Bowler had done.

  Much as Hob wanted to cut loose at them, perched on the porch or at least peering through the window, he knew he had to use caution. He was older than he’d ever been—every day piled on another shovelful of dirt in that direction. And he was also gaining distance daily on his old gun-fighting days.

  And then he heard a clunking, thumping sound coming from the back wall, but rising, as if someone were . . . climbing the wall? Hmm. He thought he’d dragged away everything that could be used to scamper on up there. And then he remembered the rain barrel. It’d been mostly full and too heavy to move without dumping. That was not even a consideration in these dry times.

  Yep, someone was cat-footing along, down at the far end of the house, above the bedrooms. Hob dragged himself on down there, hoping his commotion didn’t attract too much attention from outside. The sounds from above stopped. He couldn’t be sure where the man was. He was too far from the chimney—all the way on the other end of the roof—to drop something down there. What could he be up to?

  Hob looked up at the ceiling, trying to gauge just where the man had stopped. Hard to tell, but if he had a half guess, he’d let fly with a couple of hot rounds, make the man dance. Or drop.

  But there was no more movement. And then it occurred to him—this was nothing more than a distraction! He spun on the floor, levering himself into a sitting position as he did so.

  At the same time the front door rattled hard in its frame, giving Hob a flash of a second to roll onto one knobby-boned left shoulder—he heard something crack, felt a popping deep in his old upper wing—and come up onto his good knee just inside the second bedroom’s doorway. He was still half-in, half-out, his rifle snout poking like a long, accusing finger down the hall at the front door, when the thing burst inward. It banged off the wall behind, spasming, the frame hanging loose in a jag of long, splintered planking.

  A howling war whoop accompanied a tall drink of water as he ducked low, fanning his six-gun for all he was worth. His shots crashed into the log walls besid
e and behind Hob, plowed furrows in the plank floor, and missed him altogether.

  Hob cut loose with a few choice sounds of his own, none of which he was ashamed to use in such company, and gave as good as he got, thumbing the rifle’s hammer hard and fast.

  He heard no moans of pain, saw no blood on the floor, but he knew the skinny invader was somewhere in the kitchen. Silence overcame the crashing, roaring sounds of dueling guns that had held sway over the space seldom accustomed to much more noise than Hob’s constant yammering. The air in the cabin hung heavy with smoke, as if a downy blanket had been shaken and the contents left to slowly fall.

  Hob let the silence reign a moment more, then, tiring of inactivity, said, “I ain’t dead, you idiot. Not even close! Come on if you’re comin’, and let’s get to it.”

  Another silence. Hob gritted his teeth, his cheek muscles bunching. If there was one thing he hated, it was waiting. For anything. If he was to die in a gun battle, then by gum, he wanted to get on with it. If he was to win, then he wanted that to happen right quick, too.

  “Hey, old man . . . I believe I’m shot. I don’t rightly know how, but I believe your aim was true.”

  “Truer than yours, at least. But I ain’t buyin’ what you’re sellin’, stick man! Get on outta my house if you’re really dying. I don’t want blood all over my kitchen. Take me forever and a day to scrub it off the floor!”

  A voice, close behind him, said, “I wouldn’t worry too much about that, old man.”

  Hob jerked around and through the dissipating haze of smoke he saw a man hanging half in the end window. It was hard to tell just what sort of man he was, but Hob could make out dark features and with a face full of rangy hair.

  “Your scrubbing days are over,” said the intruder.

  So there had been two. And here he was, pinned between a skinny liar skulking slowlike down the hall from his kitchen, and this mangy beast poking in from the window. Must have kicked it in when all the shooting was going on. It was normally fairly dark in this end of the house, and as the daylight waned outside, light came in around the man, through the busted-in window. Hob hoped the man was having as much of a hard time seeing him as he was seeing the villain.

  “You have me at a disadvantage, stranger. Seems like you are trying to get in. Why don’t you use the front door, like your compadre? Least he had the sense to knock.”

  While Hob spoke, grabbing any words that came to mind, he shifted his hands slightly, trying to angle the rifle not into a position of play but away from his body enough that he could snake out his pistol. He managed to wrap his fingers around the handle as the man said, “Not so fast, old man. I need to know one thing before I kill you.”

  From behind, Hob heard the skinny man’s slow steps coming down the short hallway. He wouldn’t have much time to make his play.

  “Oh, and what might I help you with? A cup of sugar? I’m afraid I am all out of such delights.” He ripped free the pistol, already hammered back, and drove a bullet in the man’s general direction, all the while shouting, “But how about a couple of lead pills for your ills?”

  The shots had the effect he’d hoped for—the man in the window, caught unaware, shimmied back out the hole, and the lurker in the hallway hotfooted it back to the kitchen.

  Hob worked to control his breathing, all the while stuffing in fresh rounds to replace those he’d fired. He wouldn’t have much time before they reconnoitered and came at him again, in some new fiendish way. Just enough time, though, for him to kick farther back into the shadow. He hated to hole up like this, but with his bum leg and being outnumbered, he’d take what cover he could get.

  Chapter 24

  By the time Ty made it back within sight of the Double Cross, he could tell the long day’s grueling rides had taken a toll on his horse. He needed to rest up for a long while. They both did.

  “Not much longer, fella,” said Ty, rubbing Stub’s neck. “I don’t know how all this is going to play out down there, but I can tell you that I’ll do my best to make it final. One way or another, you won’t have to ride back at a hard pace. Now let’s go see what trouble we can stir up.” He nudged the horse into a trot downhill, making certain to stick close to the tree line. It wouldn’t do at this stage in the game to get picked off by an unaccounted-for sentry, or by Clewt himself. He hoped there weren’t any of Clewt’s men left behind, but he couldn’t be sure just how many had trekked to his own place. He only knew of three for certain, five possible, so there could well be someone left behind.

  It took Ty half an hour to circle wide around the place to the south, sticking to the scattered trailing tree line of ponderosas, risking exposure as little as possible. In some spots it was impossible to do so, as he intended to come in on the ranch house from the southeast.

  He reached the last of the woods closest to the house and slid from the saddle, making sure, deliberate moves, nothing hurried that might attract the attention of scanning eyes. Stub immediately adopted a hipshot pose of rest. Ty had watered him at the creek to the south of the trees, and now he stripped off the horse’s gear, everything but a halter—that would make it simpler to catch Stub later. The horse, though free, didn’t rove. He stayed put, uninterested in what Ty was up to.

  “Once you figure out that you’re free to do as you wish, my friend, I hope you’ll take it into your head to head back to the Rocking T. If Hob’s still firing, he’ll take care of you. If not, then at least you’ll be on my range. I can’t risk leaving you saddled, as tired as you are feeling right now.” He realized he was whispering not so much to the horse, but to keep himself from second-guessing his hasty plan.

  “You wander off and get snagged on a branch, and the worst happens to me, might be you’ll end up like I suspect that Mexican’s horse did. I’d sure hate to see you starve to death, fetched up and withering, chewed by coyotes and buzzards. Best you’re free to roam. If you’re nearby here, I’ll be back to this spot.”

  He faced the house, visible through the trees. “I hope we meet again soon, my friend.” He ran a big hand under the horse’s jaw. Stub nodded, as if in agreement with the sentiment.

  “Wish me luck, boy.” He slid his rifle from the saddle boot and headed to the edge of the sparse tree line. Still half concealed behind the largest tree close by the rear southeast corner of the Double Cross ranch house, Ty chewed his bottom lip, regarding the quiet place through squinted eyes. He put all thoughts of Uncle Hob and his own place out of his mind. He had to focus on saving Sue Ellen. Even if she no longer cared for him, she didn’t deserve to be with these men one moment more. He only regretted he hadn’t done something sooner to help her.

  He shrugged off the useless thought. “I’m here now,” he said, and advanced from the woods. “Time to pay a visit to Clewt Duggins, see what that snake really wants.”

  Ty wished he was making his move later in the day, when the sun had at least begun its descent. Unfortunately he didn’t have a choice in the matter. Clewt had forced his hand, had forced the entire issue by arriving at the Double Cross and carving a path of murder through the heart of it. Ty only hoped the killing hadn’t continued.

  He cat-footed low from a jutting boulder to a thicket of bramble to the beginnings of the immaculate and unused outbuildings arranged as any rancher might in laying out a picture-perfect ranch. He had to hand it to Alton: The man might not have been much of a rancher, but he had high-brow taste and a coin purse to match.

  One last outbuilding separated Ty from the main house when he heard muffled shouts from somewhere on the far side of the place. He believed that was the ell that contained the kitchen, judging from the arrangement of the chimneys and the fact that the day before he’d seen Sue Ellen come out of the ell carrying the galvanized pail.

  But the sound hadn’t come from the house, it had come from somewhere behind the house, or so it sounded. And it sounded like a combination of voices, maybe ev
en a man’s and a woman’s. Sue Ellen? Ty’s heart pounded harder; he looked left and right, saw no one fore or aft, then bolted and broke from under cover of the shed. He passed the last little outbuilding without pausing, and made the last dash to the near corner of the house.

  He pressed his face close to the white-painted clapboards, rifle cocked and upright, folded tight but ready for action with one quick, clean move. A little closer, and then he peered in the window he’d nudged up to. Through glass panes that gave the effect of looking through water, a film of gauzy, lacy curtain obscured the details of what appeared to be a finely appointed room within.

  He saw the shapes of thin, fancy chairs surrounding a long, polished table, the wood of which glowed a rich honey color in the afternoon light slanting in from the front of the house as the day aged and mellowed. He saw no one in there, but ducked low and continued on toward the far end of the house, crouching low to avoid detection, stopping before each window for a peek inside. The result each time was the same.

  He did all this as quickly as he could, knowing that the muffled shouts he’d heard but moments before no doubt signified something sinister occurring. One more set of windows lay ahead when he heard another round of shouts, louder this time, from ahead. As he’d suspected, it arose from a place beyond the house, but it didn’t sound like it came from outside, rather indoors somehow. Maybe there was another of Alton’s infernal sheds off the far end of the ell.

  As soon as he heard it, Ty broke into a run, rifle held facing forward, stock gripped tight to his gut. He didn’t bother ducking under the last two windows, but headed straight for the end of the building. It was all he could do to jerk to a stop at the end of the building. Prudent as it was, he paused but a sliver of a moment before spotting the source of the sounds—sounds that increased in tenor and urgency. He dashed straight to a door built into a tidy log-and-sod facade. It led back into what looked like a large rising mound—a root cellar, had to be.