Ralph Compton Double-Cross Ranch

by Matthew P. Mayo

  Certainly Winstead had spent much of it in buying and setting up this ranch, but the ranch was a hollow thing, no cattle and only enough horses to keep the man’s buggies moving. So what had he spent the rest on? Nothing, there was no other answer. The fortune was still here, somewhere, squirreled away, safe from the world. Yes, Clewt could just see Alton Winstead roving into these woods to his hiding place—still on Double Cross property—and counting his wealth, maybe sliding free a piece now and again to keep on living like a king.

  Clewt blew a cloud of smoke at the back of his horse’s head. The beast’s ears twitched. Had to be a whole lot of treasure left, though. All those gold chalices, crosses, candlesticks, goblets, plates, platters, bowls, saucers, and who knew what else, all waiting for him. Over the years, he had envisioned the hoard as encrusted with jewels. Now he was unsure if it had just been his fancy recalling that, or were jewels really stippling the surface of a good many of the looted Mexican valuables?

  Before he realized it, he’d crested out atop a mostly treeless ridgeline. He was sure he’d been following their trail. He was also pretty sure they didn’t know he was dogging them. He just knew he’d guessed right—let them go, but make it look like they were breaking out, and they’d beeline right to the treasure. What he had in mind for them would serve their asses right. That sort of greed had to be punished, had to feel the wrath of the dragon! Ha! Clewt loosed a low, wet laugh, spat, and sucked on his cigar, pulling the hot smoke deep.

  In truth they’d made it pretty easy for him—good thing, as he was no tracker. Not like ol’ Paddy. Now that Irishman could follow a trail. Clewt wondered where he’d got to. “Send a man to do a job and you are bound to be disappointed.” He said it as he scanned the gradual slope of the land before him, a wide-open patch littered with a giant’s handful of gray boulders like children’s marbles. Beyond that the land seemed to drop off into a wide declivity that narrowed far below, the base lost in a vast and long jumble of gray rock, scree slopes, and a dark thatch of trees running like a shadowed green-black scar, north to south.

  Far below, beneath that rocky, treed darkness, a river wormed its way through the valley, tumbling from on high to Clewt’s right, upslope at the height of land, through what he guessed were layers of stacked chasms and rocky corridors that looked to grow deeper and darker with more severity, falling away as they progressed toward the south, far to his left.

  But it was a quick, dark flash of movement at the edge of the golden-grassed span between him and the chasm, at the far edge of it, that caught his eye. There was no sound save for a stiff northerly breeze soughing across the spot, whispering in the trees back behind him. Had he seen the woman? Farraday? He was nearly sure of it. What else could it be? His eyes scanned the yellowed thatch before him, saw nothing for a few moments, then detected a faint trail of bent grass—they had come through. What he’d seen must have been them. Maybe one of their heads.

  Clewt smiled, puffed on the cigar sending smoke breezing away, and nudged the horse forward.

  • • •

  Trudging on his slow but surprisingly steady packhorse on his way to the Double Cross, Paddy looked to the northwest and his breath snagged in his throat. He saw a man skylined for a few fleeting moments atop a ridgeline, just above that river chasm. That wouldn’t necessarily be an out-of-place sighting except that something about that silhouette was familiar. Then he nodded and grinned. Only one man he knew sat a horse all slumped and curve-backed like that. And then he saw something that verified it—a long stringing cloud of black smoke bloomed from the man’s head, then as quickly swirled away.

  Only one man could sit a horse like that and spout thick smoke like that—Clewt Duggins. The boss. For a moment longer Paddy watched the spot, now vacant, where the man had been, then tugged the short horse’s reins straight toward it. What Clewt was doing up there was anyone’s guess—unless he’d found where the treasure was hidden. Had to be the case.

  A quick needle of anger drove through Paddy. That would be just like the boss—wait until everyone was gone from sight, then backstab them. Well, now, boss, how about a nice surprise? How about ol’ Paddy shows up when you least expect it and he takes everything from you, beginning with your treasure—so you can see it happening—then following up with your life?

  All those years being the one to take the guff, the one to say, “Yeah, boss . . . Okay, boss.” All those years of listening to him in that foul stink pit of a Mexican prison, dragging chains and mixing adobe, making bricks, gouging rock, listening to the boss yammer on and on about how we’d get even, just the two of them. And then, when it seemed like they’d never live through it, never get to try to hunt down the man who put them there, they were released.

  Just like that, one day they were being gnawed on in their sleep by rats, the next morning they were called before el jefe and told that they had paid their dues and they were free to go. After ten long years that Paddy was sure would end only with their deaths, they were told they would be free men once more. Their ankle shackles were chiseled apart and with the sound of steel still ringing in the air, Clewt and Paddy were pushed out the front gate of El Diablo Prison. Just like that.

  But the time in prison had warped Clewt, made him into something darker than he had been. All that talk in prison about getting revenge on Alton Winstead hadn’t been just talk. It had been the very thing that kept Clewt alive. And everything he did once he left the prison had been with one goal in mind—to find and kill Winstead. Paddy had no one and nothing in the world save for Clewt, so even though the man wasn’t much like he had been, he was better to stick with than going it alone.

  Clewt still had that edge of boldness to him that the Irishman both feared and revered, so Paddy followed along. All the way up from Mexico, stealing what they needed, and much more that they didn’t, but that they just plain liked. And along the way, Clewt insisted that they build up a gang again. As far as Paddy could tell, Clewt had no grand ideas like he used to about robbing trains or looting banks. But still, he wanted a gang.

  And the men he chose . . . Paco, the brutal Mexican, was untrustworthy and vicious. His compadre, Juan, was skittish but slow. Barn Cat, the only man who could stand Paco, had been tall and stupid. Then there was the quiet, dark man with hateful eyes and an impulsive streak that Paddy had enjoyed putting an end to at Farraday’s ranch, and the sorry squealer Paddy had to shoot after Farraday blinded him. No one ever knew his name. Lastly, Clewt had hired on Rufus, a dumb, overgrown boy with a face like a mule and a brain to match.

  Nothing Paddy said could stop Clewt from adding to the gang, a gang that made up not a tenth of the usefulness of their old gang. What a shame. And now Paddy had to kill Clewt for being so much less than what he used to be. And for causing Paddy so much misery. He’d almost done for him back at that fine horse ranch, but it had not been the right time.

  Paddy’s little horse stepped hard, slipped off a rock, and nearly went down on a foreleg, almost unseating Paddy. He strapped the struggling beast on the neck and it righted itself, responded with a lunge uphill to the one leg hammering its sides, the boot’s heel jabbing its barrel of a belly.

  “No time for games, little horse! I have a man to save. Save him from himself, that’s it. Yes, that’s it. And maybe get ol’ Paddy himself a handful of this cursed treasure I have heard of day and night for eleven long years. No time for faltering now, little horse!” Another vicious strapping and the beast dug in hard, nostrils distended, and plunged on up the hill. It didn’t matter to Paddy that he was suffering from a dearth of weaponry. He’d find a way to do for the boss somehow. . . .

  Emerging from the tree line on the flat far behind, Henry Atwood and Crazy Horse Ranch Woman watched their quarry wind his way uphill, toward the spot where they, too, had seen the skylined rider.

  Chapter 36

  Since leaving the ranch, Hob had kept up a fairly constant burble of chatter to Tulip t
he mule, his only companion. And now they had reached the western bank of the Olefine River, really not much more at that spot than a twenty-foot-wide flowage, though deep at times. But upstream, at the falls, the Olefine was a mighty brute, a roiling, thrashing thing that Hob knew had tripped up more than a few beasts, wild and otherwise, in its time. And even though it was somewhat subdued, a bit tamer, downstream, he knew better than to fall prey to the river before him. She was an unforgiving wench.

  “No, no, Tulip.” He shook his head. “Should have crossed sooner, closer to the ranch.” Why did I not? He half smiled and nodded, knowing what he’d done even before he’d become aware of it. He suspected, somehow deep inside, that he had been headed to the falls all along. Yes. That made sense now. That was the place that he and Ty had agreed to meet. And somehow, too, he knew that’s where Ty would be. Not at the ranch. Hob took comfort in the knowing of this. Even in this grimmest of times, he believed in it, had to.

  Even had Hob been the sort of man to think long and deep about a thing, he would have come to the same conclusion, but he wasn’t a thinker in that sense. He was a doer. But it all amounted to the same thing. When a man has raised another man as a son, they form a bond, get to know each other in the way that only a father and son can.

  Many times over the years, Hob and Ty had shared unspoken thoughts, known what the other was doing, had done, or would be doing. Sometimes they’d saved each other’s bacon in a pinch during roundup, branding, or on a drive. Or even just setting posts or clearing land.

  But on this day, Hob knew the stakes were raised. He felt somehow that he had just enough time to either head to the Double Cross or to the waterfall. In that eye-blink of time that it took to make the decision, Hob chose to follow that kernel of truth seeded deep in his brain, that kernel of knowing that told him to head to the waterfall. That’s where the boy would be.

  He nudged Tulip into a lope uphill, on the western edge of the Olefine, headed northward. The mule responded in kind with extra effort, as if she knew just what was at stake for the man astride her. “Got to stop calling him the boy, Tulip. Ty Farraday’s a full-grown man. A good man any fool like me would be proud to call his own son.”

  The only response was the faint but increasing roar of the waterfall’s drumming roar, upstream of them, a sound as constant and certain as the fact that the day could only end one way—with more death.

  Chapter 37

  Ty had Sue Ellen creep forward on her belly beside him toward the tumble-down edge of the chasm. “Hob?” he shouted, though he knew his voice would barely be heard over the constant rush and roar of the water.

  He waited a few seconds, tried again. He very much doubted that the old man would have gotten here before him. Maybe he wasn’t even coming here first. But somehow Ty suspected that though Hob’s mind would tell him to head to the Double Cross, the old man’s gut would tell him to go to the waterfall. But he wasn’t there yet. If he were, he’d have already made his presence known. Of the many things that could be said of him, Hob was not shy.

  The second call went unanswered, and Ty knew for certain they were the first ones there. It wouldn’t do to sit and wait for Hob, hoping the man was going to show—and with weapons. He had to get Sue Ellen to safety. “Let’s get down there, to the falls.”

  “I’m not even certain this is where he hid his treasure, Ty. It was a guess, you know?”

  “Sure, but we have to start somewhere. Besides, I need to show you something.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll see.” He gestured with his head, and they began the slow, switchback trail toward the waterfall. Halfway there they stopped, felt the mist rising up out of the cascading spume.

  “I’d forgotten how beautiful it is here.”

  Ty nodded, but inside he was thinking that he’d never forgotten. Finally, he spoke. “How did Alton really find out about this place, Sue Ellen?”

  “I . . .” But she didn’t continue.

  Ty faced her.

  She sighed, looked away. Even in the dappled shade of the trees, he could tell her face had reddened. “I wrote about it. In a secret diary. I thought only I knew of it.”

  “And what did—”

  But she turned to him and cut him off. “It said how much I still loved you. Okay? Is that what you want to hear? Is it?”

  He said nothing, watched the water roar down the chasm. Finally he looked back over at her, standing slump-shouldered just a foot away, looking as forlorn as anyone he’d ever seen. It would be so easy to gather her into his big arms, pull her in. . . . So he did.

  They fit together as easily as if they’d been made for each other. They stood there on the spot they’d hugged so many years before, together again, but not the same people. After a few long minutes, she said close to his ear, “Oh, I’ve made such a mess of things, Ty. There’s no going back to the past, is there?”

  “No there isn’t, Sue Ellen.” He pulled away from her, held her at arm’s length, and looked into her eyes. “But there is always the future. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “What are you saying, Ty?” A glint of hope sparked in her green eyes.

  “Oh, isn’t this so very special!” The voice thundered down on them, from the moss-slick rocks above. Ty and Sue Ellen looked up, eyes wide, to see Clewt Duggins smiling down at them. A thin black cigar jutted from one side of his mouth, and smoke roiled out of the other and from his nose as if from a half-clogged chimney. His mouth itself stretched in a wide grin. His eyes sparked with the devil’s own light, his dark, curving brows topping them like the wings of a malevolent bird.

  But it wasn’t the man’s face that worried Ty. It was the Winchester, thumbed back and aimed right at them, that set Ty’s teeth to grinding. “Step back, Sue Ellen,” he whispered. “Closer to the rock face behind you.”

  “But he’s—”

  “He won’t shoot us. Not yet, anyway. Now do as I say.” Ty urged her backward, all the while keeping his eyes on the killer above.

  “My many thanks for leading me here, Farraday!” shouted Duggins, still smiling. “Now where’s my treasure?”

  “What treasure would that be, Duggins?”

  “Funny, sir. And an unacceptable answer.”

  Without breaking eye contact with Duggins, Ty spoke in a low voice to Sue Ellen out of the corner of his mouth. “Follow the trail to your right. It leads to the waterfall.”

  She didn’t move.

  “Trust me, Sue Ellen!” he growled.

  “What are you saying down there?” Clewt’s tone was not a happy one.

  “Shut up, Duggins! I’m fed up with you!” Ty knew responding in such a manner was a risk, considering Clewt was as close to a madman as Ty had ever hoped to get. But it was a risk worth taking. He had little else to rely on, save for his pocketknife, a wooden club, and this scant, rocky overhang. Hardly enough, but it had to be, for they’d run out of luck.

  Ty had just made it under the slick rock outcropping when Clewt’s first bullet spanged off the wall. Ty snugged up beside the unmoving Sue Ellen, not taking time to stop, but nudging her toward the waterfall, two dozen feet away.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Saving our hides. Now get going!”

  “But . . . it’s the waterfall!”

  “I know—head for it, but stick tight to the rock face. And do it fast. Duggins will shift around up there, get a better sightline on us. Now move!” To hasten her drag-footed departure, Ty pushed her from behind. As he suspected, no matter the danger she was in, Sue Ellen didn’t take kindly to being forced to do something. He didn’t care. He pushed harder, and she relented, edging forward, her bloodied hands gripping the rock, scrabbling for fingerholds. The sight of her cracked fingernails sent a twinge of sorrow into Ty’s throat.

  Another bullet careened close by the back of Ty’s head in a buzzing line, which he f
elt sure would slice right through the rushing torrent of water that grew louder with each halting step forward they took.

  “Sue Ellen, for the love of Pete, get moving!”

  “Why?” she shouted. “It’s just water we’re headed for!”

  “No! There’s a cavern!”

  “What?”

  “Just go, go!” He thrust his chin forward, indicating that she should keep on moving.

  She must have still held enough trust in him to believe, because she continued onward toward the rushing water. Two more bullets, closer than ever, whizzed by. Ty was sure the second shadowed his shirt. Move, girl, he willed her. Move!

  From above came a garbled shout from Clewt. He didn’t care what the man had to say; it was all trash and of no consequence to their survival.

  Soon they grew wet with the froth and spume whipping outward from the torrent. Sue Ellen halted once again, in the worst spot imaginable—they had rounded the rocky curve by the waterfall. It left them exposed to the killing shots of Clewt Duggins. And much as Ty hoped the man would have taken to the trail and tried to find a way to head them off—a route that Ty knew did not readily exist—Clewt once again disappointed him by holding his high ground and waiting them out. He rained round after round down on them. He must be feeling confident that they had led him to the spot where Alton Winstead had stashed the remainder of his glorious treasure.

  Ty didn’t know or care just what the treasure really consisted of, nor how much was really left over after Alton’s decade-long spending spree. But he did know that Duggins believed it was a vast hoard and that, at the moment, was all that mattered.