He managed also to lure a lone long-eared mule over to the fence. Tulip, he called her. She was a decent sort, worked hard and rarely complained. But trying to saddle her had always been like trying to throw a saddle on a tiger. That took another thirty minutes. He also lashed on a pair of cloth panniers. Before mounting up, he washed his stomped-on hand, cursing the dead Irishman the entire time.
Then, knowing what dangers lay ahead, Hob went around to the dead men in the yard, and to the spot he had lain, and retrieved as many working firearms and bullets as he could find, plus his knife, still wedged under the Irishman where he’d fallen. He detoured into the still-smoking house and found an onion and half a loaf of bread he’d had in a cupboard for dinner, then filled two water canteens from the barn, then stuffed all this into the panniers.
The mule danced and kicked and made an awful racket, almost equaling the sounds that came from Hob himself. It didn’t help the mule’s demeanor that the panniers bounced in counterpoint to her rousing dance, slapping her on the rump with their heavy load of guns and ammunition. Hob managed to lash her tight, fore and aft, to the corral fence. Then he heaved himself up the rails, one at a time, an arm and a leg incapacitated, the others sore and in need of soothing remedies. But all that would have to wait for downtime. If that was something they would ever have again.
“Dad-blast it, Tulip! I ain’t in no condition to deal with your shenanigans! Now settle down!” He landed a slap on her rump that only served to rile her further. It was all Hob could do to stay in the saddle.
He’d hurried as much as he could, knowing that each minute spent dallying was a minute that Ty was without help, and the girl Sue Ellen was that much closer to whatever foul plans Duggins had in mind.
Once he’d mounted up and secured the old beast as best he could, Hob took off for the Double Cross—he had to head there first. He knew Ty had said they’d meet up at the waterfall, but that didn’t make any sense. That would only take him out of the way, slow him down. The ranch was where Ty would be if he’d had any trouble at all. And considering it had been a long while since Ty left the Rocking T, Hob had a gut hunch that the boy had run into trouble.
As he rode as hard as he could make the old mule step and clomp, wincing in pain with every jostling step on the rough ground, Hob did his best not to think about what could have happened to Ty.
The boy was everything to him, though he’d not admit it to a living soul. Ty Farraday was the only thing that still connected him to Annette, sweet Annette, Ty’s mother and the only woman Hob had ever loved. And he’d never told her so. Oh, he suspected she knew, but the boy had been her only focus in life. She’d never given any indication that there might be room in her life for anything or anyone else.
But the memory of Annette was why Hob had strapped on a cross-draw holster that he’d shucked off the gut-shot skinny man. His own left arm was far beyond useless with its purpled throbbing fingers. But his right could still draw, peel back a hammer, and squeeze a trigger. And he hoped he got the chance to do just that before the day was through.
• • •
Long minutes after Hob rode the mule northward out of the ranch yard, a low moan rose up, wavering from a bloodied mess of a man laid out on his back past the far end of the cabin. Shallow breaths convulsed with small, sharp coughs. Eventually one eyelid fluttered, then the other, and they both snapped wide open, revealing bloodshot brown eyes that stared straight up at a smoke-hazed blue sky. The moans grew into growls, the shallow breaths grew deep, and the Irishman pushed upright to a sitting position, looking around in a state of raw anger.
As he took in his smoking surroundings through bloody eyes, his breathing ragged and a whistling sound coming from his left nostril, Paddy wondered how in the name of all that was sacred he ever survived all that had dumped down on his head since he left Winstead’s place. By all rights he should have expired after being shot at by that Farraday from up in the high rocks.
Then the old man had actually shot him right through the shoulder; then he’d been rammed into the barn, then dragged by a horse! But he’d lived. And then he’d braced those other two fools and shot them, even when they’d hauled iron on him themselves!
But the worst had yet to come—the old man refused to die, refused to give up, even after Paddy shot out his tree-stump leg. And just how could the skinny old man haul that thing around all day? Then just when Paddy had thought he’d finally get his revenge on the nasty old dog, when he’d stomped the life from the old man’s hand, the vicious cripple had stabbed Paddy in the leg—the pain was excruciating.
And now here he was, sitting in a pool of his own blood, his leg a permanently gimped thing, much like the old man’s. Paddy wasn’t sure, but he might even lose the use of it, maybe lose the leg completely. He looked down at it, tried to move it, and noted the wound had puckered and crusted somewhat.
He would never forget that crazy old man’s face. And as soon as he could wrap his own face and leg with a few rags, he would find himself a horse and head on back to the Double Cross, deal with Clewt, and then track down the old man. If he had to, Paddy would spend the rest of his days as drunk as possible, only sober enough to draw a sight on the old man’s head, then pull that trigger. He couldn’t be far, but Paddy wanted to find that blasted Clewt first. The “boss” would be the first to die, treasure or no.
As Paddy grunted and groaned and gasped his way upright to stand, wobbly and woozy on his one good leg, he wondered if maybe he hadn’t reached the end of his road after all. Waves of hot and cold rushed up and down him, from his head to his feet and back again. He felt suddenly ill and, before he could stop himself, the bubbling remnants of his last meal—a greasy wad of lard biscuits and near-raw bacon, topped with four runny eggs—all rushed upward, gushing out his bloody mouth and nose.
As he stood leaning against a wobbling stack of firewood, vomit dripping from his face, Paddy grew quite satisfied in his anger. It wasn’t until he’d made his way around the front of the house and found Barn Cat, the string bean of the gang, sprawled on his side, dead and bled out, that he realized his own gun was gone. The old man must have snatched them all. Then he looked around. Maybe the old man was still in sight; maybe the old dog was preparing to draw down on him that very second.
And the thought struck Paddy as funny, so much so, in fact, that despite the pain of his cored leg, his shot-up shoulder, his broken ribs, and his bruised and bloodied face, he chuckled and chuckled as he used Barn Cat’s own knife to hack strips of fabric off the dead man’s togs. He fashioned a sling for himself, and wrapped a few tight lengths just under his knee to help stanch the flow of blood that had begun welling out once again when he’d started hobbling about the yard.
Paddy rummaged in Barn Cat’s vest and found a few lucifers. He snatched out the man’s makings from his shirt pocket and rolled himself a sloppy quirly. The smoke tasted good and helped clear the rattling sounds in his throat. “I feel like homemade sin, Barn Cat.” He looked down at the dead man, one of the two he’d shot to death earlier. “But you, sir, look absolutely under the weather.”
When he’d had his fill of the cigarette, he tossed it onto the dead man. Then he tipped his head back and sniffed the breeze, for no particular reason other than all he’d smelled for a long time, it seemed, was the rank tang of blood. This time was no different.
He limped his way around the far side of the house, found the other fool as dead as when he’d left him there, and, satisfied that the old man had also taken that man’s guns, Paddy slowly made his way toward the barn, where he was pleased to find two things there, both appearing as if they were waiting for him.
The first was a flattened but still serviceable bowler hat, the very one that had careened off his head when the old man had shot him. After a couple of false grabs, he managed to hook a finger under its upended brim and lift it up to inspect it. He punched a fist into it and plunked it on his
head. A sigh marked its welcome return.
The second pleasing surprise was the sight of a somewhat short, rather fat pack pony standing close by in the corral, munching on a wispy stand of late-season grass at the base of a leaning, weathered post.
“You and me, pony, we’re about to become good friends.” He made his way into the barn and found a bridle and saddle just right for the small horse. It took him a few minutes to lug it all out to the corral, but he was pleased to note that the beast had been much-handled and so was of an even temperament.
He rigged it up, mounted, and headed northward, his savaged leg throbbing to beat the band. The only thing that kept him from giving over to the wash of pain pulsing all over his body was the picture he kept polished in his mind of Clewt Duggins—the man responsible for all the misery in Paddy’s life—writhing in the dirt, screaming for mercy, and spurting his life out a little at a time from a dozen-dozen wet wounds.
Even in the midst of his own agonies, Paddy grunted in anticipated satisfaction and smiled.
• • •
“What are you doing?” growled Henry, making a quick grab at Crazy Horse Ranch Woman’s reins. He held fast to them as her horse fidgeted.
“You unhand my horse, Mr. Henry Lawdog.” Her face was tight, red with excitement. He knew why.
“No, I will not. You can’t take off after him.”
“Why in the heck not?” she said, still in a hoarse whisper, as they both watched the wrecked man in the bowler slowly depart from the ranch yard on the too-small horse.
“Because he can lead us to Duggins.”
The two exchanged a silent look; then, as if rehearsed, they both looked back toward the retreating form. They watched a few moments more until the wounded Irishman on his little horse slowly rounded a corner out of sight.
“He was one of them,” she said, so quietly Henry wasn’t sure he’d heard her.
“I know.”
“That Irishman. . . . I want to kill him with my bare hands. . . .”
“I know,” said Henry. “I know. But that won’t be enough. Let him work for us for a little while, then—”
“You won’t let me kill them, will you?”
Henry shrugged. “Let’s investigate this place while we’re waiting for him to get on up the trail.”
They rode, slow step by slow step, into the dooryard of the ranch house. “Lots went on here,” she said.
Henry nodded, slipped down from the horse. He checked the man stretched out, gut-shot, before the house, but he was too far gone to be helped.
“Where there’s one, there’s bound to be more. Especially if Duggins and that Irish pig are involved.” She looked down at the gut-shot man, sneered, and spit in his face. “He was another one.”
A few minutes later, they found the man behind the still-smoking house. She repeated her greeting and said, “We should go. I don’t want to lose him.”
“He has to be going to Winstead’s place. According to that old marshal there aren’t any other ranches out here.” He turned to her. “We’ll find Duggins.”
“We’d better.” She climbed aboard Lilly and rested a hand on her thigh. “You coming?”
Henry nodded and climbed back into the saddle, more nervous than ever.
Chapter 34
As Ty and Sue Ellen approached the once-familiar chasm, he was struck, as he always was when he came upon it, no matter the direction, by how suddenly it always appeared, seemingly from nowhere, a long, ragged gash in the landscape. The next hundred or so yards would be tricky to navigate, because aside from a few small boulders the landscape was barren of anything they might use as cover from Clewt’s approaching eyes. And he had no doubt the seedy rogue was on their trail.
He’d heard the hoof clacks, fleeting sounds, but there nonetheless. And the breeze, a light norther, had at times shifted and carried the whiff of tobacco, again a fleeting thing, but enough to tell Ty they were being trailed. The thought gave him grim comfort. Soon he would deal with the cur. And he could hardly wait. But first he had to get them to the waterfall. Its rock-jumbled, lairlike setting would afford them the most natural protection they were likely to get.
And if Sue Ellen was correct, and the treasure, whatever the blasted thing was, was to be found there, it might buy them time until either Hob showed his old, craggy face, or, if he were dead—a likely but horrible thought—then Ty would have at least gained the only somewhat safe point for miles around. And Ty was glad to have at least that slight bit of help, especially against someone as crazy as Clewt Duggins, and any other members of his gang still left alive and roaming the countryside like hydrophobic coyotes.
From what he’d seen of Clewt, coupled with what Sue Ellen had related to him, Clewt’s behavior bore all the earmarks of someone becoming unglued from whatever it was that held him together. In Clewt’s case Ty was sure the binding agents were mostly spite and greed, with a double pinch of mean to keep it unpleasant.
In the war, Ty had seen a number of men who looked fairly normal one moment—if a life of shooting men and men shooting at you, at all hours, in all conditions, can be considered normal—stand right up in the midst of a volley and walk right into a dozen bullets. Some of them had walked surprisingly far before whipping in circles like tossed rag dolls, before dropping to the bloody earth. That sort of behavior was what he was pretty sure Clewt was up to. Heck, the man might have been that way for years. The way he was behaving, he’d end up shooting at them even before they revealed where the treasure was, if there even was a treasure, and if they even knew where it might be. There has to be an easier way of living, thought Ty.
Sue Ellen seemed pretty sure of the treasure, and all the vague pieces had fit together—Alton had wandered into the region looking newly rich and acting like a fool with his money, spreading it around like it had no more value than water in a rainstorm. And then there were the buying trips he went on, rarely taking his new bride with him, where he’d be gone for weeks sometimes, only to come back puffed to the gills with money.
Sue Ellen had told Ty everything she knew that might be useful about the so-called treasure. Even then she’d seemed cagey to him. Seemed to Ty she was keeping something back. As long as it wasn’t something that might get him or Hob killed, he didn’t really care.
“You hear it?” He gestured with his chin, not caring if he sounded like an excited kid. “The falls.” He loved the place.
She paused, her eyes narrowed. There were lines around her eyes, accentuated by the grime they both wore as evidence of the previous few rough days. She was still a beautiful woman, but there was something else about her now. Something almost cold, maybe even with a hint of ruthlessness about it. He hoped he was just imagining things. But living with a money-minded man such as Alton Winstead was sure to taint anyone’s way of acting.
“Mmm, no, I don’t hear it yet.” But she kept staring toward it. “What do we do once we get there?”
“We get that treasure, use it as ransom—our lives in exchange for the treasure—and then we’ll see what he does.”
Sue Ellen’s eyebrows rose. “We’ll see what he does? He’ll kill us, Ty. That’s what he’ll do. That’s your plan? We’ve come all this way and that’s what you plan on doing to him? Ty, he tried to kill us. Not just kill us, but . . . kill us with snakes! Oh, I don’t believe this.” She held the sides of her head and slumped to the ground.
Ty shook his head. “Did I say that was my entire plan?” He offered a callused hand. “Come on. We have to get across that open patch without stopping.” She refused his hand, pushing to her feet with a knee-popping sound. She looked tired. Heck, so was he.
He’d forgotten how bloody belligerent she could be. That was one thing he’d always wondered about—how that sort of trait would age on a person. Apparently he was finding out, at least for a little while. If Sue Ellen was any indication, that stubborn
ness hung over her like an old wash rag, weighing her down and making her bitter.
Chapter 35
As he gently steered the horse through the petering trees, for the most part letting the beast pick its own path, Clewt mused on the past few days. He hadn’t reckoned on feeling so confused. It felt to him as if nothing had gone right since he got out of that Mexican prison. Of his entire gang, he and Paddy were the only ones to survive the experience. All the others—Manny, Roger, Shanky, Bulleit, and Garvin—died inside the walls.
Two were beaten to death—Manny by a guard, Roger by his cellmate. Shanky caught TB and coughed up little chunks of his lungs until there was nothing left to cough up. Bulleit went crazier than a hatter and tried to force his own head through the bars one night. He was partially successful—he pushed his skull halfway through the bars, but that’s as far as he got. Poor Bulleit was found the next morning with his eyes bugged out of his misshapen skull, and his lips pooched as if he were trying to kiss someone on the other side of the bars. And ol’ Garvin, he just plain died in his sleep.
Of all the boys, Clewt envied Garvin’s way of passing the most. How pleasant that would be, he’d often thought, to go to sleep one night and that, as they say, would be that.
Clewt caught a glimpse of a bird rising out of the stunted pines up the slope before him. The woman and Farraday had doubled back on themselves, then changed course from their initial direction east, where Clewt assumed they were headed to circle around the Double Cross, maybe pick up mounts that he assumed Farraday had hidden in the woods. But in that, he’d been wrong. They’d changed course and headed northward, then west. What was their game?
“Where’re you headed, my little treasure hounds? Gonna lead Clewt the Dragon to his earnings?” He mumbled this in a low voice, raspy from tobacco, then tweezered a fresh smoke out of his shirt’s breast pocket and thumbnailed a match head alight. He could feel the treasure filling his hands, stuffing his pockets, overflowing the panniers on his pack animals.
Ralph Compton Double-Cross Ranch Page 22