Ralph Compton Double-Cross Ranch

by Matthew P. Mayo

Sue Ellen stopped once again, right before the waterfall. Ty knew the only thing saving their miserable lives right now was the obscuring effect of the mist rising from the fall’s pounding flowage. But that wouldn’t slow Clewt for too much longer. Ty gripped Sue Ellen’s waist and drove forward with her, much as he would tackle a rogue calf thrashing free of a sloppily thrown loop.

  One second they were being pounded and soaked by pummeling water; the next they lay sprawled on a slick, wet floor of smooth stone, a blinding curtain of diamond-brilliant water cascading before them.

  They lay flopped on the stone floor, Ty atop Sue Ellen, both of them heaving hard breaths, their faces inches from each other’s. The sound, too, had slightly diminished, giving way to an almost soothing rushing noise, as if they were listening to it underwater.

  “What . . . what is this place?” Sue Ellen pulled her gaze from Ty’s face, mere inches above her own.

  “Why, it’s what I like to call a home away from home!” The voice came from behind them, in the dark recess of the cave, and it was followed with a cackle of a laugh.

  “Hob?” Ty rolled from atop Sue Ellen. “Is that you?”

  “Darn tootin’ it’s me.”

  “You’re okay?”

  “I’m alive, but I’ve been in better shape, boy.”

  “How long have you been here?” Ty ran a hand through his damp hair, walked toward the sound of Hob’s voice.

  “Just barely got here myself. Imagine my surprise to see you two stumble on in. And then, well, seeing the way you two landed, I figured I had better say something sooner than later. I’m not used to such shenanigans.”

  Ty heard a scraping behind him, and spun to see Sue Ellen struggling to her feet, sliding on the slick floor. He offered her a hand, but she refused it.

  “How you farin’, girl?” Hob’s voice softened.

  “Hob, I’d say it’s good to see you, but I can’t. Where are you?” She smoothed her dress, pushed her hair away from her dirty face.

  “I’m back here in the shadows. It’s drier and—”

  “Hob,” said Ty. “Much as I’d like to find out what you’ve been up to, we have Clewt Duggins hard on our trial.”

  “I figured something like that was happening, that them shots weren’t just some farmboy out target-shootin’ at cottontails.”

  “You happen to bring anything we might return a few shots with, Hob?”

  The old man chuckled, but he sounded to Ty as if he were tired. A match bloomed and Hob’s dim outline grew brighter as he lit an oil lamp. He lowered the glass globe, and Ty saw how haggard he looked. “Hob, what happened?”

  Sue Ellen went to his side. “What did they do to your hand, Hob?”

  He tried to pull the arm aside, but the move drew forth a groan from his tight-set mouth.

  “Never mind about it now,” said Hob. “We have bigger fish to fry, and I suspect one of them’s looking for a way on in here. Ty’s right—let’s palaver later. Ty, take this rifle, revolver, and gun belt, and, Sue Ellen, you take this revolver and some bullets. Good, now let’s us see what we can do about Duggins. Ty, I suggest you go over there; Sue Ellen, you stick to that side, yonder. That’s the way I come in. Far as I know Duggins is the last of his lot, so we should be able to make quick work of him, call it a day.”

  “You got the rest, Hob?”

  He chuckled again. “In a manner of speaking.”

  A muted popping sound erupted from in front of them, and something sizzled through the watery curtain, pelted and pinged off the rock walls of the grotto. Sue Ellen shouted and staggered back into the wall, the revolver clattering to the stone floor.

  “Sue Ellen,” shouted Ty, rushing to her side. She staggered forward, fell into his arms, her right hand clutching her left forearm.

  “I’m okay—just my arm,” she said through gritted teeth. “Oh, look out!” she said, looking past Ty’s shoulder, but a roar and a flash erupted from right behind them.

  “I get him?” said Hob, stumping forward on his crutch and holding a smoking shotgun, the butt tucked tight under his armpit, his finger ready to test the second trigger.

  “Wait, wait, Hob—” Ty was reluctant to leave Sue Ellen, despite her efforts to show that she was fine. He knew better—that bullet had likely shattered the bone in her forearm. He helped ease her back to the drier recess of the grotto, sat her on the floor, and laid the pistol on her lap. He leaned close and said in a low voice, “Shoot anything that isn’t me or Hob, okay? I’ll be right back.”

  Before she could protest, he low-walked over to Hob, jerked his head toward the far left side of the space, then made a few hand motions that they obviously knew the meaning of. The old man nodded, Ty quickly blew out the lamp, then scuffed low to the left side, advanced beyond Hob, and inched closer to the waterfall.

  As he held there, waiting, crouched in the darkness, he felt the cold dampness of the stone floor. He had intended to tell Sue Ellen about this cavern all those years ago, but wanted to surprise her. They’d had such good memories and good times at the falls, in the dappled sunlight, swimming and drying in the sun on the rocky slopes of the magical pond below. He’d often been on the cusp of telling her about the grotto, about finding it in the old days of a few years before, when the Paiutes had been a real threat.

  Somehow, every time he had wanted to tell her, the timing seemed off, or he’d thought she might laugh, tell him that he and Hob were behaving like schoolboys, with a secret club. He had finally determined he would tell her about it, show it to her; maybe she’d think it was as fascinating as he did, but then she’d left him for Winstead, and he’d rarely come back since.

  He had gone to the waterfall a time or two to brood. One day, months after she’d married Alton, he chanced to go by there while looking for strays. He’d seen a flash of color among the trees. It was Sue Ellen’s dress. She looked so sad standing there. He’d almost called out to her, but bitterness stopped his tongue. Instead he’d ridden back to his life, back to trying to forget what might have been. He’d rarely gone there since.

  But a couple of years ago, Hob had confided in Ty that he’d ride up there sometimes and sit in the cave, puff on his pipe, and think.

  “About what?” Ty had asked.

  “Nothin’. Nothin’ at all. Why?” The old man had stuck out his jaw. “I need a reason?”

  “Nope,” said Ty, turning to hide his grin.

  A few minutes later, Hob had said, “It’s a . . . a soothing place. That’s what it is.”

  Ty had nodded in agreement, not a hint of a smile left on his face. Hob was right, of course. In the grotto, the watery sounds had a way of hushing the worries in a man’s mind.

  • • •

  “You, in there! I’ll let you live, but I want my treasure! I am not leaving until I get it—so you all better make a decision pretty soon. In fact, I’ll give you two minutes. No, no, make that one!”

  Then, not surprising anyone, Clewt began firing through the wall of water.

  “Man’s watch must be broke,” shouted Hob, shuffling away from the water a few feet.

  Instinctively, Sue Ellen slid lower down the wall, Hob flattened against his wall, and Ty used the opportunity to drop low and thumb back the hammer on the pistol Hob had given him. Already the rancher was on the move, gauging the location of the shooter from the direction the shots had come. There weren’t many options for escape, but even so it would be foolish of Clewt to think he could hold them off for long single-handedly.

  Ty hoped the madman had no other members of his gang riding to assist him. But he didn’t know for certain. Hob had said he’d done for the rest of them, but who knew? Until he had positive proof, he’d consider each shot a gang-led attack.

  But at least now he had an idea of where Clewt was shooting from. Ty peeled off four rapid rounds in that direction. And he was rewarded with a cl
ipped groan followed by a shout—considering he’d heard it through the waterfall’s noise, Ty hoped it meant he hit pay dirt.

  He figured that might be enough to slow the man down, catch him off guard, even for just a few seconds. Ty low-crawled, all but belly to the floor, and angling tight to the jag in the rock that marked the edge of the waterfall, he pushed on through until he rounded the edge, peering toward the thin-ledge trail that he and Sue Ellen had scrambled along to get to the waterfall.

  He saw no sign of Clewt, dropped his head lower, and peered up, toward the overhang. He’d been convinced that the killer had been on the ledge, but then a bullet drilled into the rock just above his head, sending splinters of rock down at him, burning trails into his scalp, flecking his face with needles of pain.

  Ty recoiled and crawled back around the rocky edge.

  “I think you got him, boy,” said Hob.

  “Not good enough.”

  Ty scooted back a few feet. “Sue Ellen, you okay?” he whispered.

  “I’ll live, but I’m a fair distance from all right.”

  Hob chuckled. “That’s one of the things I always liked about you, girl. You are an honest woman.”

  She couldn’t stop herself from laughing a little. “Hob, you never change.”

  “Hate to break up the chatter,” said Ty. “But we have a whole lot of mess and I need to get out there and take care of Duggins or . . .”

  The crack of a gunshot stopped the words in Ty’s mouth. In the dim space they held their spots, frozen, listening, straining to hear beyond the dull roar of water. Seconds later they heard another crack, followed by the tell-tale spang of bullet-on-rock.

  “Sounded like a sidearm. What’s Clewt Duggins carrying? You know, Ty?”

  “A rifle. But I doubt he would shoot two rigs at the same time.”

  “What are you saying?” Sue Ellen asked.

  “I think someone else may be out there,” said Ty. “Hob, how many did you get?”

  “Well, when I left the Rocking T, the Irishman had killed two of his own men; then I did for him. He was a tough nut, though. Nearly had me. You?”

  “Yeah, similar situation. I was up on that ledge above that rocky pass. You know the one, up by the hoodoo?”

  “Yep, sure do.”

  “The Irishman, I believe they call him Paddy, he finished off one of his men. I did one, but missed the Irishman as he rode toward the ranch. I’m sorry I didn’t get him before he got to you.”

  “Nothing to worry about, Ty. I enjoyed that whuppin’.”

  Another exchange of shots between two different guns again barked and ricocheted beyond the water, but closer this time. “You both stay here, back in the shadows, and defend yourselves. I’ll make it plain if it’s me coming back.”

  Without another word, he crouched low, headed to the opposite side of the waterfall, and without stopping, snaked on through.

  “Ty!” growled Hob, but got no response from the rangy younger man.

  “He’ll never change,” said Sue Ellen, a trace of bitterness tainting her words like a mouthful of bad food.

  “For our sakes, you’d better hope he don’t never change, girl.” Hob kept an eye on the side of the falls, expecting Duggins to burst in at any moment, trying to figure out how many more men Duggins had in his employ. Could be a dozen, for all he knew. “How many more men does he have, Sue Ellen?”

  “I’ve been trying to figure that out. As near as I can tell, not counting Duggins, there are six men.”

  “That leaves at least one man unaccounted for. I hope Ty keeps his guard up.”

  • • •

  When Ty returned fire through the water wall, what felt like a hundred needles bored straight into Clewt’s belly and right side. The bullets had hit the edge of the rocky fissure behind which he had partially hidden. He didn’t think he’d been shot, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t imagine getting shot in the side could feel much worse.

  He tried to suppress his howl, but breathed hard through his clenched teeth, biting clean through his cigar. The end dropped down into the roiling water. He pulled back and gathered himself, wondering who’d shot at him. He was still waiting for Paddy and however many of the others were left alive— though he doubted any were left—and while that didn’t bother him overly much, he did half-wish he had a hand in killing the vermin holed up in that cave behind the water. Heck, all he really wanted was his rightfully earned treasure.

  And that’s when it hit him—the cave had to be where the blasted treasure was kept. Made sense—especially since that’s where the woman and Farraday had beelined for. Clewt cursed himself, daring to look down at his rock-shard-peppered side, stippled with dozens of angry, oozing wounds. None would be fatal, but every dang one hurt as much as it ever would.

  And then another bullet clipped in close, same direction. Good thing he had tucked himself in tighter to the crevice or he would have had lead for lunch. “Hey!” he shouted. “Who’s there?”

  He hoped it was one of his boys.

  “That you, Clewt?”

  No mistaking that Irish brogue, and Clewt had to admit he was glad to hear it was his oldest friend, even if he knew he’d have to kill him when this was all through. He’d be darned if he was going to share the treasure, not when he’d gone through this much to get to it, and much of it on his own. Paddy had probably been lazily picking through the ranch house, looking for scraps. Well, let him have them, for that was all he would get.

  Another round worked in closer. “Paddy! Leave off that shooting! I’m in that rock!”

  “I’m not shooting at you! I’m over here!”

  As Clewt looked toward where the voice came from, he saw a dirty, battered bowler pop up across the narrow chasm like a damaged mushroom.

  He looked pretty bad to Clewt, bloodied all over, and his nose looked as if he’d been unlucky enough to get a hoof to the face. But he still wore that foolish Irish smile.

  Paddy held up both hands, one hanging lower than the other, no weapon in either. “You stay there,” shouted the Irishman. “I’m coming over. Got something to tell you!” He smiled the entire time he said it.

  “Tell me?” Did this situation look like a Sunday social to him? What was Paddy playing at? “You drunk?” said Clewt over the roar of the water.

  “No, but I am thirsty—can’t wait to buy me some liquor with my share of the treasure!”

  Keep on dreaming, thought Clewt. Then, as he watched, Paddy’s hat whipped off the surprised man’s head, spinning through the air before finally arcing down far below into the mists of the cascading water. Clewt flashed his eyes back to Paddy in time to see the man’s uneven smile droop like something melting. His hands did the opposite, and shot up to the top of his head where a furrow of blood had been carved, from side to side, across the top of his skull.

  The blood welled as if slowed in time, seemed to bubble up, then slipped down like a curtain that soon masked Paddy’s already-battered face. The lower half of it opened wide as the Irishman’s screams rose in pitch and echoed across the roaring canyon, sounding, for a few seconds, louder than the waterfall’s constant thunder.

  For a few horrifying moments, Clewt lost all sense of himself, and his own protection. He couldn’t quite understand what was happening. He saw movement across the chasm, upstream to his right, turned to look at it, and saw that cursed Farraday just peering up from behind a rock, drawing another aim at Paddy. The man’s first shot hadn’t done the job.

  Clewt could shoot at the rancher—all he had to do was to aim his rifle. But in the time it takes for a man to change his mind, Clewt stayed his hand. He watched as Paddy, through his bloodred mask, returned his stare, accusing him, as if to say, “Why not save my life?”

  Clewt held his segundo’s gaze, shook his head no, side to side, as Farraday’s second shot dropped Paddy. The Irishman cr
umpled to his side even as his head burst like an overripe melon. Clewt took advantage of the grisly distraction and slipped free of his paltry hiding place. He didn’t stick around to watch Paddy’s lifeless body collapse into a pile, hidden in the gray jumble of rock.

  Clewt reasoned that though he could have shot Farraday, it was worth it to him to take the trade-off, to let the fool rancher kill Paddy for him and provide him with a way to wiggle out of the spot in which he’d been pinned.

  It wouldn’t take much to get himself to the waterfall. He just had to keep one eye on Farraday, and one eye on the entrance, lest that woman snipe at him. He’d reached a point in the rocks where he could remain concealed. He could also risk being seen by Farraday, who he’d lost sight of, as well as risking exposure to the woman. Clewt climbed.

  Chapter 38

  “For a wounded man, he sure can move like a jackrabbit,” said Henry Atwood, squinting toward the spot where he’d just seen the battered bowler-wearing member of Duggins’s gang hopping along and dragging a bloody leg, one arm looking nearly useless.

  “I don’t care what he moves like.” Crazy Horse Ranch Woman slipped from her saddle and pulled a rifle from its sheath. She reached inside her duster, slid a revolver free, and stalked in the same direction the man had gone.

  Henry sighed and slid from his horse, tied it off, then did the same for Lilly, whose reins Crazy Horse Ranch Woman left trailing on the ground. He retrieved his own rifle, checked ammunition for that and for his revolver. “Well, horses, I do hope if I don’t see you again that someone takes good care of you. You surely deserve it.”

  Henry felt a wave of guilt splash over him, convinced he hadn’t done enough to ensure his wife and son would be taken care of. And then he heard shots up ahead. Thoughts of his family shrank in his mind as fast as they had bloomed. The randomly spaced shots and shouts grew louder the further up a narrow trail he loped. And there was another sound, too, more constant than any others—a rushing roar that soon overpowered all other noise. A waterfall—he knew what it was even before it came into sight.