Ralph Compton Double-Cross Ranch

by Matthew P. Mayo

  He stood back, not feeling too worried about trailing the woman and Farraday. Not yet. After all, he would be toting guns and would be on horseback and they would be afoot, and unarmed. He fished a small dark cigar out of his shirt pocket and popped it between his lips, dragged a match head along a strip of canvas, and set the brilliant flame to the end. He pulled the smoke in deep, held it there but a moment, then blew it back out in two long, roiling jets from his nostrils. That always made him smile.

  Now that he thought on it, the one pack animal didn’t seem enough somehow. What if Alton had spent even less cash on his land and home than Clewt originally had guessed he had? What if there was—dare Clewt dream it?—even more treasure than he had thought he might end up with.

  The thought of finding the treasure had excited him, but the thought of finding even more than he had long dreamt of made him worried. He nibbled his bottom lip for a few more moments, then headed back into the barn for a third animal and packing outfit. It would definitely not do to show up poorly equipped and have to leave some of the treasure behind. I can’t live with that, thought Clewt. No way, no how.

  Chapter 30

  It was the rasping, gravel-on-steel caw of the squabbling buzzards that dragged Hob from his stupor. He pushed himself upward, leaned on his one good, begrimed hand planted firmly on the ground, and swung his head slowly side to side, like a thin, dazed old bear, trying to piece together what had happened. It didn’t take long, as the crazy Irishman lay close by, sprawled on his back, not looking too good. Hob didn’t investigate closely, but it appeared from a few feet away that the man was dead. His face looked as if it had been stomped by a rogue stallion.

  That’s right, Hob thought as he stared at the Irishman. He shot at me, and his revolver must have kicked back and slammed him a good one in the face. Now it all came back to him, the horrible fight, the bum mashing his left hand. He cradled it to his chest, wincing at the sight of it more than the pain—the fingers had swelled fatter than they’d ever been in his life. There was a slight pain in his shoulder.

  Hob looked down at himself, at a ragged, bloody knothole in his shirt, at the top of his left shoulder. The Irishman had only succeeded in grazing him. It was tender as all get out, but the wound had puckered and tightened and stopped bleeding. Good. One less thing to worry about. He’d have to get to his feet—ha! The one good foot, anyway, and see what he could do about finding a horse, then going to help Ty.

  But for the moment, it was all Hob could do to rest up. He was too old for this crazy fighting business. How long had he been doing this sort of thing? Doing battle with rogue, wild dog-men? Why was it perfectly acceptable to shoot a hydrophobic dog, but not a man who was acting the same way toward his fellows?

  Hob let out a low sigh that sounded like more of a moan. He was a scarred mess of a man, and as he lay there, propped on his one good hand, he wondered about his long, strange life. None of that mattered now, for he’d been stomped and shot—okay, grazed, but it still hurt like the dickens—by that foul Irishman, and would likely end up a worse cripple than what he was already. Or more to the point, he still might end up dead. Neither of the thoughts made much sense to him, but how much worse could his life get? He guessed the next few hours would reveal the answer to that.

  He swung his gaze toward the house, expecting, even as he turned, to see a leveled smoldering ruin. What he saw was still a sad sight, but much better than he had a right to expect. Smoke spiraled upward from a dozen spots along the largely still-intact structure, but it appeared that the fire had burned out.

  Even when it had been at its hottest while he’d been inside, then outside skirting this end of the house, the fire hadn’t seemed all that menacing. Poorly lit—and he was glad of it. The Irishman had been too hasty, hadn’t really stoked it in any one spot. And for that, Hob was mighty pleased. They would have a mighty amount of work to do to make it livable again, but he and Ty could manage it, he was sure of it.

  And that’s when another scrim of burlap seemed to have been pulled away from his eyes, from his mind. He thought of Ty clearly then, knew he had to get to him, had to help him save the girl, help him fight that Clewt Duggins. An evil character if there ever was one. He and his men had always been on dodgers at the top of the pile, fresh posters every month, it seemed, for terrible crimes for which they never were caught, at least not while Hob was a lawman.

  It wasn’t until he heaved himself upright, then kept going and fell over onto his less wounded right side that he saw the reason for this unexpected insult. The Irishman had shot all to pieces his best wooden leg!

  Chapter 31

  The main street of Ripley Flats was, it seemed to Henry, anything but flat. Or straight. The thing started out on a rise, then curved like a drunk snake’s backbone to the left, even as it led a steady trickle of riders and wagons—and two cavorting dogs—downhill and straight to the first of three saloons. Henry had never been one for frequenting houses of drink, as he called them, but even he had to admit that the thought of a cold glass of beer and maybe a few slices of bread, some thick slabs of cold pork stuffed between, would hit the spot.

  But he had no idea if Crazy Horse Ranch Woman was thirsty. He also had to admit that as they had drawn closer to their destination in the past week, he had begun to finally feel better, less fevered and stronger with each passing day. It was mostly due to her doting care delivered with a confusingly indifferent attitude. He had also begun to feel less and less inclined to follow through with the actual deed of hunting down a notorious killer and more and more like he wanted to go back home to Dane Creek and hug his wife and son.

  If he had to guess—and he’d spent a lot of the trip doing that since Crazy Horse Ranch Woman wasn’t much of a talker—he’d say that his shifting attitude had to do with her. He’d observed her for a couple of weeks now, had talked with her, albeit haltingly, throughout their journey, and he didn’t want to end up like her. She was so bitter and resentful and intent on delivering harm to another that she was driven beyond all reason, beyond anything healthy, at the pure expense of her own life.

  Henry wanted to live because he didn’t want his wife and son to be confused, angry survivors like Crazy Horse Ranch Woman.

  “What’s wrong with you, Mr. Henry?” She had halted her horse a few paces before him, had turned in the saddle to regard him with that same cold look. He’d finally decided just a few days back why that look was so chilling. It was the same uncaring look he’d seen on the faces of the dead over the years. Too many of them to count, from the war on up through various peacekeeper jobs. And they all were final and cold and sad, so sad.

  “Nothing. Nothing at all. I was just thinking about how nice it would be to sleep in a bed once again. To eat a hot meal with proper utensils and a plate. Maybe have a cup of coffee from a proper mug.” He looked at her and smiled. “Come on,” he said, urging his horse down into the town proper. “I’ll treat you to a piece of pie and a cup of coffee.”

  But she hadn’t moved. Just watched him, her eyebrows knitted tight. “You’re backing out on me, huh?”

  “What? Why do you say that?”

  She ignored what he said. “And here I thought you wanted your own revenge as much as I did.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe I just want to live to see my family. Is that so bad?”

  A fringe-top surrey carrying a dandified man in a spotless gray beaver bowler and matching jacket, accompanied by a short, plump woman tightly packed into a pink satin dress slowed at Henry’s raised voice. The man clucked to the single horse pulling them and cut wide around them, off down the dusty lane at a quick clop clop. They both looked back with dismay on their fresh faces.

  Henry looked from them to Crazy Horse Ranch Woman and saw, for the very first time since they’d met, that tears had pooled in her eyes and threatened to spill over and glisten on down her cheeks. It was the first time he’d seen her as a weak, sad, defe
ated woman who would be old far before her time. His comment had done this, and he felt terrible about being so thoughtless. But as quickly as that weakened state flashed itself on her features, it was gone again.

  She reined Lilly around. “You go have your pie and coffee. I have to see a man about a ranch.” With that, she was gone, the back of her dirt-lined duster wrinkling and bunching as her tired horse picked its way down the sloping main street into town.

  He sighed and nudged his horses into a quick step behind her, any thoughts he had of pie and coffee pinched out.

  She slowed, reading signs and assessing the various folks staring back at her from the sidewalks and in the offices and other places of business lining the surprisingly bustling street. From up on high, at the head of the lane, he had seen beyond the main street of Ripley Flats to a small sprawl of squarely laid-out streets, as if built on a grid. Henry guessed there were several hundred people as full-time town dwellers. Someone there might well know who Alton Winstead was and where he could be found.

  And when she stopped her horse, that’s just what Crazy Horse Ranch Woman asked the town marshal who’d been sitting on his porch, assessing the back of his eyelids.

  “Hey, hey, what’s that now?” He let the front feet of his chair come down hard on the porch floor. He dragged a knob-knuckled hand down his face, rustled his big walrus mustaches and shook his head like a wet dog. “What’s that you say?”

  “Alton Winstead,” she repeated. “I’d like to know where his ranch is at.”

  The man stood, his stovepipe boots looking as if they were two sizes too large for his bowed legs, his vest two sizes too small, straining as it was on a perfectly round paunch that looked out of place on his otherwise thin frame. “Why?”

  “My business,” said Crazy Horse Ranch Woman.

  Henry sighed inside and pasted on a smile. He touched his hat brim. “How do, Marshal? I am Henry Atwood, from Dane Creek. We are, as the lady says, looking for Mr. Winstead. He is an old friend and we would like to surprise him with a visit. It’s been a long time on the trail, as you can imagine, and—”

  The marshal cut him off. “Friend, huh? Well, why didn’t you say so? Now you mention it, I expect the reason he ain’t been seen in town of late is because he’s been entertaining all these friends of his. Must be a big celebration out thataway.”

  The woman leaned forward, her saddle creaking. “What makes you say that, Marshal?”

  Henry watched her—she was almost friendly. He decided she’d do anything to get what she wanted.

  “Oh,” said the old lawman. “A few days back a whole pile of men come riding in, claimed to be his friends, too.”

  “Claimed, you say, Marshal?” said Henry. “Did they leave room for doubt?”

  The marshal’s woolly eyebrows pulled together. “Why, you a lawyer?”

  “Me? No, sir.”

  “Oh good, ’cause talk like that’s unusual hereabouts.”

  “Those men, Marshal,” said the woman. “What did they look like?”

  “Look like? Heck, I don’t know. They was a run-down lot, more interested in liquor than checkers, I can tell you that much, all but the ramrod of the outfit. Now he was a curious sort. Hard-looking character, all pocky-lookin’, but you could tell he could impress the ladies. Had that curly hair, dark eyes, and mustache. Smoked black cee-gars that stunk to high heaven, and the smoke come boiling out of his nose like he was a locomotive or something. And I’ll tell you another thing.” He raised a finger, pointing not quite at them. “He looked to be the only one who bathed regular.” He laid a finger aside his nose and nodded. “A man can tell these things.”

  “Well, thank you, Marshal. They’re his friends, all right.”

  “Oh? Yours, too, I reckon?”

  “Not hardly,” she said.

  “Well, any friend of Alton Winstead is a friend of Ripley Flats. He’s a fine gent.” He leaned forward. “Not much of a rancher, mind you.” He winked a big wispy eyebrow. “But a good and generous gent.”

  Can’t be too good, thought Henry, if he used to run with Clewt Duggins.

  “Generous how? With money? Time?” said Crazy Horse Ranch Woman.

  “Well . . .” The old lawman pushed his hat back on his forehead. “Now that you mention it, he ain’t been into town in a few days. Not like him.” He tapped his stubbled chin and cradled an elbow in one old knobby hand. “We often have a cup of coffee of an afternoon, talk of this and that. Maybe a game of checkers.”

  Even Henry had begun to grow tired of the old man’s meandering, nonanswering demeanor. “Excuse me, Marshal. Which way to his spread?”

  “Oh, take the middle road northward out of town. You can’t miss it. Go about sixteen, no, eighteen miles out. Well, maybe not that far out, maybe only a dozen or more. Anyways, there’re only two places out thataway. Second one’s the Double Cross. That’d be Alton’s. He’s a great one for a joke—I reckon that’s the story behind that ranch name. But the first ranch you’ll come to, at about mile ten or so, now that’ll be Ty Farraday’s spread. A decent enough young man, but he’s saddled with that ornery old one-legged coot, Hob. I don’t know how he does it. I’d rather live with my wife than that crazy old man.”

  He tipped his hat again and raised a confiding hand to the side of his mouth. “And that’s saying something.” He winked. “Tell Alton I said hello. And he owes me a game of checkers.”

  Henry nodded and reined his horse down the street, trying to catch up with Crazy Horse Ranch Woman, who’d beelined toward the north road as soon as the marshal had confirmed the direction of the Double Cross Ranch.

  Chapter 32

  “Ty, I’ve never come to the falls this way.”

  “Me neither.” He checked their back trail, wiped the sweat from his eyes, smelled the sickly stale stink of snake blood and flesh still stuck to him. He’d love to shuck these snake-bloody clothes and scrub himself clean. But that luxury would have to wait.

  “Whew, Mr. Farraday. You are exuding a rank odor, I don’t mind telling you.”

  Ty looked at her, eyebrows raised. “Let’s go.”

  “Look, Ty. I’m sorry. I was trying to make a joke. I really do appreciate what you did back there. Killing those snakes. You saved my life. I mean it, Ty.”

  But he kept walking forward, showing her nothing but his back. He wanted to turn around and stick a long finger in her face and shout at her for everything he hadn’t been able to say for all those years.

  They walked on in silence for another few minutes, the occasional snapped twig and their hurried, labored breathing the only sounds.

  “It’ll be fall soon,” said Sue Ellen. “I hope it’s not a long, snowy winter.”

  She was making conversation, he knew. Trying to fill the uncomfortable spans of silence. He didn’t care if she felt uncomfortable in his presence. She’d earned it. Then he heard something and held up a hand. She walked right into him. He gripped her shoulders and said, close to her face. “Shhh. Quiet now.”

  He scanned their back trail again, certain he’d heard the snort of a horse, far off, but still, such sounds only carried so far. He couldn’t be sure it had come from back behind them. Maybe from the south? He looked that way, felt something on his cheek. It was Sue Ellen’s breath. He looked down at her, their eyes only inches apart. Her upper arms were still gripped in his big hands, and she looked so innocent, so pretty to him then. As she always had.

  “Ty,” she whispered.

  Her breath tickled his whiskered chin. Then he thought of the reason they were in this mess. Alton. Alton Winstead. Even dead the man had the power to ruin Ty’s life. “No, no, no, no.” He pushed her away, set his jaw and shook his head. “No. Not again.” He turned, said in a low growl, “Let’s go. We’re almost there.”

  After a few seconds, he heard Sue Ellen’s lighter footsteps following along. And the soo
ner he could make all this happen—assuming he could make it all happen—the sooner he could get shed of her, of the killers in their midst, and get back to life as a small rancher, a rawhider—the very name he’d long wanted to outgrow. He’d wanted to shed it like a snake sheds its old skin. But now, after seeing all this misery associated with Winstead’s property, the only thing Ty figured he wanted was to be a small rancher, good at what he did and happy to be what he was. It wasn’t much, but the Rocking T was his and Hob’s. And he didn’t have to share it with any woman. Ever.

  “Shouldn’t we have gone back to your place? We don’t stand a chance fighting Clewt from the waterfall. We don’t even have a weapon other than your pocket knife and these clubs you made from branches. There’s nothing at the waterfall, Ty!”

  “The treasure’s there.” He said it, but he didn’t slow his pace, or turn around He kept right on hiking. “Besides, it’s a whole lot closer to the Double Cross than to my place. And if we’re lucky, Hob’ll be along. But if we don’t get a move on, we won’t be there in time to do what I need to.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Can’t say just yet.”

  “Can’t,” she said, panting at the increased pace his long legs had kicked up. “Or won’t?”

  Ahead of her, a grim smile spread across Ty’s face. One way or another, everything would change today. And he, for one, would be glad of it.

  Chapter 33

  It took Hob a while to make his way to the house. He had an old, professionally carved spare leg in the barn somewhere, stuck in a dusty corner, no doubt, but he’d be darned if he was going to rummage for it. So he opted for the padded crutch that Ty had made for him.

  He used it only when he’d taken his rough-carved wooden leg off for the night, and sometimes early in the day when he didn’t have the gumption to pull and twist and buckle on the leg first thing. The crutch was a bit singed at the bottom, and the padding on top was charred and crispy, but he quenched it in the water trough and it worked well enough.