His boots gouged the dusty earth, carving a trail from the kitchen to the root cellar door. There they ended. The door wasn’t closed tight, but hung ajar a few inches. A bunched burlap feed sack wedged it open enough for Ty to pull up short and listen in.
There came a fresh round of muffled sounds, sobs from a woman. He wrenched the door open wide and peered into the gloom before him, the sunlight providing the only light.
There sat Sue Ellen, the top and bottom of her mouth separated by a tightly wrapped length of dirty rag. She squinted at him and he realized she could only see the outline of someone, could not tell it was him. She could barely keep still in the chair, kept thrashing and bucking. The closer he drew to her, striding down the dozen or so feet of low, packed-earth tunnel to get to her, the more she thrashed and howled.
“Sue Ellen, it’s okay! Stop—it’s me! It’s Ty!”
But she didn’t seem to hear him. She gave a final heave and shout and the chair pitched sideways. As she slammed to the dirt floor, he saw them—half a dozen wide-girthed diamondbacks, each as thick around the middle as his wrist.
Her screaming, and her wriggling feet and hands had annoyed the serpents, stirring them into a defensive, writhing frenzy of buzzing rattle, flicking tongue, and dripping fang.
For once Ty wished he had Uncle Hob’s sawed-off scattergun instead of the rifle. The Winchester would have to do. “Pull back,” he growled at Sue Ellen, knowing, even as he said it, that she was tied to the chair, hands and feet, and couldn’t do much more than stop thrashing and pull her hands and feet in as tight as she could. Every second he delayed, the snakes drew closer to her.
Ty leaned the rifle against the close wall with his right hand as he clawed free his Colt Navy with his left. In the same motion he slicked back the hammer and stepped into the midst of the pulsing mass of angry snakes. He stepped once more, positioning himself in the few inches available between Sue Ellen’s upended form and the oncoming snakes. Ty cranked off round after round with his left hand and shucked his Bowie knife with his right, beginning with the venomous demons closest to Sue Ellen’s trembling legs. He hacked with precision with the gleaming well-stropped blade, severing snake heads, the jaws of which continued to snap and pop in reflexive anger.
Ty held his ground firmly, not daring to step right or left, knowing that he might well tread on an undamaged snake, poised to strike at the nearest thing—and he didn’t want that to be his legs.
The sound of gunfire in the dank hole of a room deafened them both, as he knew it would, but there was no alternative. The poor woman would have been bitten too many times to prevent anything but a nasty, drawn-out death. He’d seen in others the excruciating spasms of pain that would leave her puffed and agonized.
When he ran out of bullets, he kept Sue Ellen, by feel against his own legs, well behind him, and using the butt of his Colt and continuing to wield the knife, he did his best to ensure each of the vile snakes was well and truly dead. Or fast approaching its final moment.
The thunderous echoes rendered him all but deaf. It was long moments before he heard anything but the staccato hammering of gunfire that seemed to have seeped into his very brain. He turned, bent low over Sue Ellen, and waved an arm to help clear the smoke. She was there before him, her eyes wide with fear. He couldn’t hear himself but as he worked to untie the filthy rag from around her face, he hoped she hadn’t been bitten. If she had, he had to get her out of there fast—and hope Stub could be found, and then had the stamina to carry them to safety.
“It’s okay, honey.” He said that last word before he could stop himself. He didn’t care. She probably couldn’t hear him anyway. As he freed the rag from around her mouth, he cupped her face in his big hands and she stared up at him. Then her eyes widened and she screamed something. She was frantic again with a new wave of fear. In the second that followed Ty wondered if he’d missed a snake. He bent low to her, trying to soothe her, shouting, “It’s okay now! It’s okay!”
But then he saw she wasn’t looking into his eyes anymore. She was looking beyond him, over his shoulder.
As Ty turned his head to see what it was she was looking at, through the clearing haze of smoke, he caught a quick glimpse of blue and red—where had he seen that pattern? As a hard, sharp pain flowered up the side of his head, he felt himself spinning, or maybe it was the world that was spinning and he was the only thing in it standing still.
And then he felt himself dropping, hitting hard on something, the floor? None of this made any sense. A blackness crept in fast, pulling at him, and joined the pulsing roar left behind by the gunfire. The second-to-last thought he had was of Sue Ellen—what had happened to her?
The last thought that came to him was of where he had seen those colors—blue and red—on a fancy shirt worn by Clewt Duggins. Oh no, what have I done to Uncle Hob? Sue Ellen? All lost, all because of me. . . .
Chapter 25
“I tell you I am going and you can’t do a thing to stop me. Now you untie me this minute!” Henry’s chest rose and fell with the effort of the shouting, and he knew even as he raged that the crazy ranch woman was right. There was no way he was going to be able to fend for himself on the trail, let alone when and if he met up with Clewt Duggins. But that didn’t stop him from being angry.
He sank back to the pillow, sweat popping out on his forehead.
“I told you.”
“And I told you I need to get out of here. I can’t stay, blast it! Every day I spend here is a day more that he gets away.”
She said nothing, so he continued. He could not help himself, he was that riled. “Furthermore, ma’am, I believe you are keeping me here, lashed like this . . .” He raised a tethered hand and let it flop to the bedspread. The action prodded a lance of pain to shoot up his arm. He grimaced and continued. “I believe you have something in mind. What it is, I truly don’t know. But it can’t be a good thing. No, no.” He shook his head, his face heating up and feeling the glow of high, righteous dudgeon overtake him. “I fear for myself, I do.”
She placed the empty lunch tray aside on the chest of drawers and cocked a hip, set her work-hardened hand on it. In the few days that Henry had been there, he had come to recognize that as her way of slipping into rumination, as if she were disappearing into her own mind for a time. And she did it this time, too. She was silent for a few long moments, staring at a spot somewhere on the tall, carved mahogany headboard above him. He knew better than to try to shake her from the reverie—it never worked.
Finally, her gaze seemed to clear and she looked at him. “I have a solution that will solve both our problems.” She looked right into his eyes and for the first time in the short time he had known her, she smiled.
“I don’t think I am going to like what you have to propose.”
“And I don’t think you have much of a say in the matter. You’ve a strange flair for the dramatic, mister. It’s odd.”
Henry closed his eyes and concentrated on what she’d said. He suspected she would want to go along with him, but that was not even a consideration, nosiree. “Never mind my flair or whatever you called it, what I want to know is what you have in mind.”
“All in good time, Mr. Henry Lawdog. All in good time. I am not the fiend you think I am. In fact, I have only been trying to help you by doctoring your wound. I felt a responsibility, being as it was my cowboys who shot you and all.” She backed toward the door.
“And I appreciate it. But look, I have a long, hard trail ahead of me and if you are thinking of fogging it, or worse, joining me, it will only slow me down.”
“You don’t understand, do you?” She paused with her hand on the doorknob. “What you want is of little matter to me. What I want—what I need—is plain old revenge. That’s it, that’s all.” She exited and slammed the door and Henry waited to hear her slow, measured steps retreat down the hall, then down the stairs.
He struggled and stretched until his arm flexed and bulged with the effort. The length of hemp rope had been worked by him for many hours, and it finally gave out with a snap. The force slammed his fist straight into his forehead, dazing him even as he fought to suppress a giggle. How funny that would be—coldcocking himself just when he had the chance to get out of this crazy woman’s house.
It was the work of but a few moments to free his other hand. She’d left each arm’s rope long enough that he could somewhat feed himself, but had little possibility to do anything else. He appreciated that she was concerned for his health, but now that he knew the whole truth, he wanted out. And he could think of no better time than that very night.
From listening, he knew her routine was habit and didn’t vary much. He also knew that he was on the second floor and that his clothes and gear were still in the room. It took him long minutes to climb out of bed and stand for the first time in days. He felt weak, but determined. She’d been feeding him well, and other than having to empty his bladder—it had been hours—he was ready to fight her every step of the way down the stairs and out the front door to the barn. It was plain wrong to think she could keep him here.
As they had nearly every hour since he’d been shot, waking and sleeping, Henry’s thoughts alternated between visions of Maria and his boy, Henry, and exacting revenge on Clewt Duggins.
But as he’d spent long hours incapacitated, healing in the dark upstairs bedroom, it had eventually occurred to him that maybe his motives for chasing down Clewt Duggins and running him aground weren’t as pure as those of the crazy rancher woman. Her entire life had been gutted because of Duggins. Lord only knew what the snake and his boys had done to her after they’d killed her husband, sons, and ranch hands, and stolen whatever they could—including her beloved horses.
What had Henry lost? His reputation before the people of his town? The life of his deputy? The lives of a number of innocents in his town? Surely his suffering was secondary to those loved ones left behind to live with the pain of such loss. Just as this woman had been.
These thoughts dogged him as he tugged on his clothes, reacquainting himself with his various garments. He found that they had been laundered and folded, and the shirt he’d been wearing when he was shot had been cleaned of most of the brown bloodstains left behind. The hole had been neatly sewn together with tiny, intricate stitches. He thought of how she would have no men to tend to any longer.
He knew that many wives and mothers defined themselves by what they could do for their families. The thought made him sigh. He bent to retrieve his boots at the bottom of the stack and found his revolver, holstered with the belt coiled around it, at the bottom of the stack. It appeared to have been tended by her, with the leather oiled, as had his boots.
He regarded himself, felt much better now that he was once again upright and dressed in his own gear, and almost tiptoed to the door. Then a thought of the woman downstairs stopped him. She would hear his boots, no doubt, probably already had heard him clunking about up here. What of it? He was no mouse. He was a man who had been tended by a kindly widow and who now needed to move on. Simple as that. He pulled in a deep breath and strode to the door, lifted his fawn hat off the hook, and plunked it on his head.
He didn’t normally wear a hat indoors, but he felt he needed to, somehow, to help him prepare for the coming confrontation he was sure to have with the woman.
One last look around the spartan room. There was the bed with the rumpled blankets and sheets, and the pillows, where his head had lain for too many days. And beyond, the window, half-curtained and letting in late-afternoon light. Perfect for setting off. With any luck she would be in one of her reveries.
He could leave what money he could spare on the table, tip his hat to her, and perhaps check in on her, should he be lucky enough to find himself alive and riding back southward to Dane Creek to see his wife and boy. Yes, he thought. That is what I will do. I will check in on her when I can—a promise that came too easy at a time such as this.
Still holding his wounded but healing wing bent against his chest, he stuck the hand up to the wrist in the top of his vest. It was a decent spot for it, as each step jostled and sent needles of pain from the wound downward into his arm and chest.
The door was not locked, and it occurred to him that this was the case only after he closed it behind him. Had she merely forgotten to lock it? Not likely. The galley-style upstairs hallway was not what he expected. It bore a short railing that overlooked a great room downstairs, dominated by a large fireplace. Immediately he knew that the place was a top ranch—or had been.
Few folks of his acquaintance could afford to have such a home built. And she had told him that’s what her husband had done for her. Built her a fine home because she was willing to live there with him, in the middle of nowhere at all, in order to raise and breed horses. And that’s what they had done, raise sons and horses. They also became known for the quality of their stock far and wide.
Henry made no effort to conceal the slow clunk clunk clunk of his boots as he descended the wide wooden staircase. The wood glowed with a rich, polished look, the banister rail felt slick beneath his hand, as if it had just been shined. Indeed, the entire home seemed to have been freshly cleaned. The wooden floors gleamed, the cobbled inlaid stone floor by the double-doored front entry looked swept and mopped. The furniture, heavy, fancy pieces made of thick wood and leather, all glowed.
He cleared his throat. “Ma’am?” No sounds came to him. “Ma’am?” he said louder. Still nothing.
He rummaged in his pocket, but found that his coin purse was light. He could have sworn he had at least twenty dollars left in there. Maybe he’d lost it? Surely she wouldn’t have taken it. He checked his other pockets, but turned up nothing. Finally he just shrugged and headed for the door. He wasn’t about to roam the vast house and search for her. Know when to get out, Henry.
Soon he found himself standing in the middle of a long covered porch pulling in fresh evening air. How long since he’d truly appreciated the wonders of breathing in pure, clean air? Before him he saw a long, winding walk that branched off in a few directions, but the one he was most interested in was toward one of several barns.
He knew which he was headed for because his horse was saddled and his pack animal stood beside it, loaded with his meager load of gear. Both animals looked healthy and ready for the trail, standing bored and hipshot, flicking ears and swishing tails.
She must have heard him slowly getting ready upstairs. Then his wary smile slipped—only trouble was that must mean she was also somewhere close by, ready to ride, too. But he reasoned that there was little he could do about it and ambled toward his waiting horses. As he approached, they turned to watch him, showing no alarm. They looked to have been very well tended, their coats shining, his saddle and gear all spiffed and tied up properly. And his rifle jutted from its boot.
“How are you two doing, eh? Look to have been well cared for. Might be I should get shot more often. Then you could rest up, enjoy the good life.” He ran a hand along their necks, patting and talking in a quiet voice.
“Their shoes are done, too.”
Henry turned to see Crazy Horse Ranch Woman, as he’d come to think of her, standing in the barn doorway. She held reins in her gloved hands.
“But what about your house? Your ranch?”
“No matter,” she said, mounting up. “I expect I’ll not return here. And if I do, I’ll find what I find. Squatters or the remains of a fire, or looters. I don’t know and I don’t care anymore. Me and Lilly are all that’s left.”
Henry didn’t quite know what to say, just stood there with one hand on his saddle, his brows furrowed.
“You are too much in your own head, Mr. Henry Lawdog.” She said this as one might state a bald fact such as, “The sky is dark and rain will come by evening.”
He shook his head and tried t
o ignore her. A thought occurred to him as he raised a stiff left leg and managed to jam his boot into the stirrup on the first go. He bounced on his right leg once, twice, held tight to the saddle horn with his right hand, then raised himself upward and astride the horse. Relief flooded him, not quite as powerful as the fresh, throbbing pain that pulsed anew from his shoulder wound. When it subsided he said, “Their graves, would you like to visit them, before we leave?”
“Already have, Mr. Henry Lawdog. And I’ll thank you for not working to come up with more excuses to keep me here and you gone from here as though we weren’t going to be traveling together. This is the way it has to be and you know it. You need me, and I need you.”
“I need you?” said Henry, adjusting the reins and trying not to draw attention to the obvious—his sore, wounded arm.
“Yes, you do, but not for that bullet wound.”
“Oh? Then what for, may I ask?”
“There you go with that theatrical speechifying again. It’s because I happen to know where we can find Clewt Duggins and his gang.”
Henry’s pulse jumped “Where is he?”
“I’m not so easy or daft as that.”
For once, Henry had nothing to say. He looked at her lined, wind-burned face, the graying hair wisping about her eyes, the worn gear that fit her as only gear worn for long hours in the saddle can, the way she sat her fine horse, the packed saddlebags, the stained, patched duster. He knew there was no way he could make it without her and no way he could deny her the one thing she needed—deserved—left in this life. Her revenge.
“Fine then. Lead on.”
She nodded and nudged Lilly into a walk before him. Henry sat his horse a moment, then said, “Just a minute, you said you needed me. What exactly for?”
She didn’t even turn around, just said over her shoulder, “Strength in numbers. You’re a former lawman, aren’t you? I expect you know how to use that iron of yours. If not, maybe you’d better stay here.” And for the first time that he could recall, she laughed. But kept riding north.
Ralph Compton Double-Cross Ranch Page 17