Ralph Compton Double-Cross Ranch

by Matthew P. Mayo

  Henry followed her, working his left arm slowly up and down, side to side, occasionally reaching down to brush his fingertips across the butt of his holstered Smith & Wesson revolver.

  Chapter 26

  He knew the attack was coming; he just didn’t know when. But Hob couldn’t think of a better spot for an old gimp like himself to hole up and wait for it. He had shadows, guns, and a big knife to keep him company. And solid log walls around him. The cursed raiders could only come at him from inside the house or through that window hole—and that rascal wasn’t likely to try that again anytime soon. The only thing he wished he had was a few quick pulls on the medicinal jug. His leg stump was paining him something awful. All this crawling around on the floor. You’d think he was an alligator and not a man the way he’d been forced to carry on all day.

  Just when he thought that, all things considered, he could be worse off, a peculiar tangy smell tickled his old hair-filled nostrils. He tipped his head back, sniffed, narrowed his eyes and sniffed once more. Then he opened them wide in the near-dark. “Blast it!” he said through gritted teeth. They had set fire to the place.

  Both he and Ty had been sure they wouldn’t do that. Wouldn’t dare risk attracting attention, since a house or barn ablaze would be seen for miles around and be sure to set folks acoming, partly, he knew, to help, partly to gawk. He couldn’t blame them; he’d done it too. Something oddly entertaining about other folks’ misfortune.

  Maybe they were only going to smoke him out. Think, man. Have to think of a plan. . . . Then he smiled, because he knew what to do. He only hoped there weren’t any slimy critters down where he planned on going. Talk about behaving like a crawling thing—this day had better end well, because he aimed to give ol’ Ty Farraday one big heaping helping of Uncle Hob’s wrath. . . .

  And with that, he set to work feeling along the floor under the bed for the loose boards they’d left unnailed when they built the place. It had been a good hidey-hole for valuables should marauders come about. That had been the plan, anyway. But they’d never had much in the way of valuables, and things with Sue Ellen hadn’t worked out for the boy, so the hide had been forgotten.

  As he groped in the dark, Hob tried to recall just what he’d find under there. The smoke grew thicker, seeping in from somewhere. Maybe crawling under the house wasn’t such a keen idea, given that they’d probably started the fire around the outside of the house, at the base.

  Then he heard shouts outside. Could Ty have ridden back? Not likely. He hoped not. This was his one chance to save Sue Ellen—if she was still alive for the saving. No, the voices were muffled but just outside. One was shouting, sounded hysterical. They were men’s voices, at least two, maybe three. The crazy-sounding voice kept rolling right over the others. The smoke increased enough so that Hob yanked his kerchief from his back pocket and hastily tied it up over his face, the hanging point tucked into his high-buttoned work shirt.

  He would have to come up with a plan and fast. Much more of this and he’d just plain ol’ expire right there, sitting pretty on the floor with an arsenal in his lap and a dumb look on his face. Nah, can’t let that happen, he thought. He heard the first crackles and snaps of flame finding purchase in dry wood. Blast them, this had been a good home, more cabin than either of the two bachelors deserved, and it had served them well.

  He’d have to force his way out, no time to rummage under the floorboards and hope to find a channel large enough to burrow his way to one end or the other under the house, then dig under the logs. Foolish plan, anyway. . . .

  The crack of gunfire paused him a moment. Who’d be shooting at whom out there? Surely it wasn’t Ty? Townies? Nah, no reason for that. No one ever came out this way. Maybe the heathens were fighting among themselves. He clung to that notion as he ducked low and, keeping his shotgun poised before him like the prow of a ship, he cut his way through the fog, inching along the hallway, sure he’d come face-to-face with that gangly bandit. But he didn’t. He made it to the front door, hanging in long, cracked-board tatters, and peered first into his smoke-filled kitchen, saw no one, then peered outside through a gap in the broken boards. He saw no one, but heard ragged breaths from one man, to the north, alongside the house.

  Hob bent low, scooted to the far side of the doorframe, and jerked the rifle stock to his cheek. Here came the tall man, stumbling along, droop-headed and weak-kneed, only he wasn’t holding a gun, but clutching his own gut. Even though the thickening smoke filled Hob’s nose and mouth as if he were being dunked in it, he saw the front of the man’s shirt was a spreading mass of blood; runnels seeped from between the man’s long fingers. Gut shot and dying.

  Hob considered giving the man one in the eye, in part for the trouble he’d helped to cause and in part because it would be a kinder way to go than to bleed out for hours beside a burning building. He opted to leave him be, and decided that though it was too bad for the tall man, it was at least one less rascal he’d have to deal with. By his count there was but one man left—that rogue who’d tried to slink in through the window. And Hob believed he’d dealt him a rough blow earlier. But time would tell. And quick, if he knew his raiders. . . .

  Must have been the dark-skinned window man who did for his compadre—not a friend Hob wanted any part of. But he’d be glad to dispatch him as any decent man might a rogue dog. Then he froze, squinting toward the still slowly stumbling tall man. What was that he was hearing? Yes, he was sure of it now—two more voices. He’d been all but sure that there was only one left. Must have been another that rode in after. No matter, he still had two men to face down.

  The tall man headed toward Hob but didn’t appear to see him, given the filmy look of his eyes, the twitching lids, and gaping mouth. Then he dropped to one knee, colliding with the slowly smoking log wall of the cabin. The force of it pitched him onto his right side. He coughed and groaned. His hands fell away from holding his gut, but he didn’t make much effort to grab at himself again. Even though the man was a no-good killer, Hob felt a twinge of sympathy for him. No man should have to endure that sort of pain.

  The shouts came to him again, drifting from the back of the house, louder now, as if to be heard over the increasing roar of the flames. Hob pulled back inside the doorframe and made the quick decision to try the back door off the kitchen. If he couldn’t snipe them from there, at least he could keep low and hide behind the back gate. Maybe with all the smoke they wouldn’t notice him. Fat chance, but the only one available to him. That or risk a run straight out the front. If they caught sight of him, he’d be out in the open with no protection, no cover at all. No, he’d take his chances with the back. And shoot first, if he could get a clear angle on them.

  His eyes ran a steady stream of tears now due to the stinging smoke. He heard the licking of flames, grown louder out back. So that’s where they’d started the fire. The smoke was thicker there too. You’d never know that the day had come off as a cool one, for all the heat the fire had thrown. He didn’t think the house, as solid as she was, would stand for too long once the blaze got a good toehold. She was a wood structure, dry as she could be. Beside the back door, he placed a palm against the log wall, and it was warm to the touch.

  Hob sighed and readjusted his kerchief. It was a shame, for this house had been well built. If they lived through it, he knew they’d build another. Maybe even bigger and better. In the meantime, he had to worry about surviving this attack. He stretched his wooden stumpy leg straight out in front of him, angled down the steps. He could barely see his own hands before him. They looked wavery and distant, as if he were seeing them through water.

  More shouts came to his ears, and he instinctively pulled lower, shotgun jutting toward the end of the house. All he saw was thickening smoke, now more black than gray, underpinned by a hedge of dancing flame straight down the length of the house. Whoever had set it didn’t do anything by half measures.

  “You don’t get out
ta my way—”

  “Boss said not to fire it!”

  A couple of seconds passed. Then another gunshot sliced through the smoke and flame. Hob pulled his head down again, afraid he’d been seen. He looked down at himself, but could barely see his own chest or shirt or boot. He felt okay, no new holes that he was aware of. What was going on? Man was shooting his own kind. “Won’t leave me any work at all,” said Hob, in a low grumble.

  He made it down the last couple of steps, kept low along the ground, his gimpy leg preventing him from crouching even lower, and edged as close as he could to the house.

  Hob nearly made it to the south end of the house when he heard a voice from behind shout, “I see you, old man! Don’t think I’m so blind as all that now!”

  The man had barely shouted the words when he sent a shot plowing into the log to the right of Hob’s cheek. Splinters burst outward, stabbing him. He instinctively flinched, dropped even lower, and rolled around the corner. At least from there, provided no one was crouched in wait at the far end of the house, he could maybe get a drop on the shouting man who’d been killing his fellows.

  From behind, the voice called out again—“Old man! Give it up, why don’tcha?”—and rang a bell. Hob knew who it was—the Irishman who’d ridden into the dooryard earlier, bold as brass. Hob thought for certain he’d killed the man! He’d shot him, then watched as his horse had slammed the man’s flopping form right into the corner of the barn. And then the man had snagged in the stirrup and been dragged, screaming, off around the barn.

  He’d advance, and if he was alone could come in around either end. If there were two of them, Hob was a dead man—he’d be pinned between them. Best he could hope for in that case would be for them to shoot each other if he ducked low enough. Ha! The thought of it, despite his grim situation, brought a smile to his sooty face.

  “Old man!”

  The voice was closer, probably by the kitchen door now. Hob tried to listen for him, but the sound of the flames had increased. He pulled air in to shout, but smoke filled his windpipe, doubling him over in a coughing spasm. He tried again, got a leg up over the smoke. “How’s your horse, Irishman?”

  “Dead—I shot him before he dragged me to death!”

  Hob squinted toward the corner, expecting to see a dark form emerge from the smoke. So far, nothing appeared. “You appear to be on a shooting spree!”

  “And I ain’t done yet, old man!”

  Closer than ever. Hob dropped to his good knee, left the bum leg sticking out to the side as a support. As long as no one crept up behind him from the other direction, he’d have a clear view of the Irishman when he came around the corner. And he wouldn’t expect Hob to be so bold as to pose right there in front of him, waiting in plain, though somewhat smoky, sight.

  But the cursed Irishman did not show himself. Hob hunkered lower, squeezing his eyes shut tight quickly, then opening them. It made little difference. The smoke was just smoke, no man came lurching or barreling out of it. “Blast him, anyway.”

  Hob kept staring at the corner of the house, where he had last heard the man calling from, and inched back toward the relative safety of the burning building. Each second that passed convinced Hob more that the man had circled back around the house and would come at him from the front.

  He figured his only options were to meet the man head-on—which put him at the same risk he’d just run, leaving him open from behind should the Irishman double back on him—or he could try a mad, peg-legged dash for the wood yard and chopping block, some thirty feet off the end of the house. It was where he and Ty would go to work up a sweat or an appetite, or both. Or just to get away from the other.

  There was never any shortage of firewood that needed crosscut sawing or splitting, stacking, drying, hauling, restacking in the house. And for once Hob was thankful that the various stacks that usually represented countless hours of work were all large enough for him to use as a barricade.

  One last glance back at the front corner of the house, less obscured by smoke than the rear, and he bolted for the woodpiles, bum leg arcing wide as he used it as a pivot. He hoped that he’d beat the Irishman to the punch—he also hoped that the wooden leg wouldn’t slip out from under him. Always a danger, since he couldn’t be sure it was well placed with each lurching step he took. Since he had no feeling in it, he never knew if it was on solid footing or canted enough to topple him to the ground.

  Still two man-lengths from the nearest woodpile, he heard a gunshot and felt himself going down hard. Hob pitched face-forward in the dirt as if he he’d been punched by a mammoth hand from behind. His shotgun flew from his grasp. The smoke-filled air whooshed out of him, and his chin bounced off the hard ground and left him gasping for a breath. He wondered if he’d been shot, though he didn’t feel any of the familiar searing pains that accompanied a bullet wound.

  Maybe this is how it feels when you get the final shot, the one that finally does you in? He gritted his teeth, tried to suck in air, had no success. Then he felt something kick him hard in his ribs. And it hurt worse than whatever had knocked him down.

  “Now that I have your attention, old man, you’ll see I am in no mood to play more of these games.”

  Hob looked up into the hazy air and saw a man standing over him. Or rather leaning over him. He was obviously in pain, and he was obviously the Irishman. Minus the silly bowler hat. His left arm swung at a painful angle, and even through the smoke Hob saw the staining where his own bullet had pierced the foul killer’s shoulder. The Irishman was also holding a revolver in an unsteady grip, though at the range of three feet, Hob knew the wounded man didn’t need much of a grip, or aim, to do the deed.

  He wanted to say, “What are you waiting for?” Wanted to shout and spit at the man, swing a mighty blow at the leering, battered, puffy apple-doll face, wanted to break his already snapped, bleeding nose, wanted to . . .

  “You listening to me, old man? Said I’m going to kill you now, but nice and slow.”

  The Irishman spoke loudly, wanting to be heard, forcing the words through his puffed, split lips. He was trying to smile, but Hob was only partly paying attention. The shaking gun bothered him not a little, but he was snaking his right hand down to his waistband, where his skinning knife lay sheathed.

  He had no way to make a grab for his own revolver, holstered as it was on his left side, nearest the Irishman, and where the rifle landed was anyone’s guess. But maybe he could slip the knife free while looking up at the Irishman as if he were trying to raise himself up with his left hand. That and the drifting smoke might shield his actions enough that he could tug the knife free.

  “Now, hold on, fella. I . . .”

  The Irishman’s boot lashed out once more, the toe catching Hob’s rib cage in the same spot. He felt something crack, lost his wind again. He clawed at the kicking man’s boot, felt the dusty leather beneath his fingers, but couldn’t gain purchase as the boot pulled from his grasp. All the while he scrabbled for the knife with his right hand, then felt the reassuring bronze-and-wood hilt and handle as his fingers curled around it.

  The Irishman stomped down hard on Hob’s left hand, ground down with his heel, and howled with laughter.

  Hob felt as if he’d been holding a handful of nitroglycerin and razor blades, and his snapped fingers clawed in the dirt. As the pain intensified, he slipped the knife free and, using his pinned hand as leverage he swung his right arm, knife handle clutched in a jabbing grip, in a wide, fast arc angled low over his head.

  Too late, the cackling Irishman saw the dark steel blade driving at him, clutched in the sinewy arm of a desperate man. The Irishman jerked, instinct hindering his futile move. Hob yanked his smashed left hand backward, tripping the man. At the same time, his blade drove deep into the meat of his attacker’s leg. He pushed against the knife’s hilt, ramming and twisting the blade, carving a ragged cave in the jerking limb.


  Hob guessed that rolling away from the Irishman might make it easier for him to be shot, even in the Irishman’s weakened state, so as he clung to the knife, working to keep it lodged in the muscle of the man’s calf, Hob rolled, pushing with his good leg, toward the screaming, falling man.

  • • •

  Too confounded by his sudden agony, the Irishman forgot for the moment that after he had freed himself from that nasty dragging horse, he had limped back to the ranch house wanting nothing more than to kill the very man who was now savaging him. Despite his pain, it didn’t take him but a few moments of dazed struggle to realize he still possessed his revolver. Where was the old man? The pain from his leg, washing upward like a pummeling reverse waterfall, soaked his body from the wound in glowing, smoking pain.

  He came out of this bitter fog enough to swing the pistol weakly at the old man just rising up onto his one good knee. The old man was saying something. Paddy saw his lips moving, but couldn’t make out a word. The old man’s eyes were blazing, angry. He had to shoot him, had to get away from him, kick him to the ground like a sick kitten. The old man was responsible for everything that had gone wrong to him today. This should have been an easy job, should have been so simple to just kill that Farraday man and this old dog. But they were tough, tougher than anyone they’d come up against in a long time.

  Reminded him of that woman on the horse ranch somewhere south of here, far south, that ranch in the middle of nowhere. She had been tough, too. Tough like an old boot. She’d taken so much from them, and still she lived. Why he’d let her live he’d never know. Maybe it was just to spite Clewt.

  Yes, that was it. Clewt was really the one to blame, wasn’t he? None of this had to happen. All he’d had to do was work Winstead a little harder. The man had been a soft man a decade ago. Now he was a fat and rich soft man. He would have buckled if Clewt hadn’t lost his temper. How did he get to be the boss, anyway? Wasn’t Paddy an Irishman, after all? And from a long line of connivers from Connemara? He’d been on the trail with Clewt longer than any of them.