Ralph Compton Double-Cross Ranch

by Matthew P. Mayo

  Henry came upon a forlorn-looking mule that didn’t even glance at him as he passed. A dozen yards up-trail, just before he reached the river, he nearly tripped over Crazy Horse Ranch Woman. He dropped to his knees beside her, and was about to flip her over to see if she was hurt, when she reached up with a surprisingly strong grip and dragged him down. “Get under cover, Mr. Henry Lawdog,” she growled. “You’ll get shot stumbling around like that.”

  He looked at her, but she jerked her chin toward the river in front of them. At first Henry didn’t see a thing, but as he looked upstream he saw, too far out of rifle range, a figure slowly making its way across one side of the rocky formation that seemed to encase the source of the waterfall, above which sat a natural stone arch spanning the flow. The river gathered much of its force here, where it poured down. All the rocks lining the edges of the river through this stretch looked to have been carved by great gouging fingers, more out of one great mass of rock than a collective of tumbledown boulders.

  “That’s him.” Crazy Horse Ranch Woman nodded.

  “Who?”

  “Clewt Duggins.” As she said it she sneered, gritted her teeth, then spit.

  Henry nodded, kept his gaze pinned to the man scrabbling across the rock, and making slow progress of it with one stiff, bum leg. What was he up to? Henry squinted and craned his neck a bit more, not that it helped much. The man was out of range of anything other than a decent Sharps with a nice scope.

  He did notice that Duggins looked haggard, had lost his hat somewhere, and . . . was that blood on the man’s face and side? Still, the killer was armed, as Henry had expected.

  Crazy Horse Ranch Woman crawled away.

  “What are you doing?”

  “What do you think?” she said. “I’m going to get him.”

  “We need a plan.”

  She wagged her rifle, and without looking back, said, “This is all the plan I need.”

  It was then Henry knew she hadn’t needed him in the least. So why bring him? Maybe she did it for him, knew without her he’d just wander, unsure of his goal, and never make it back. Maybe she did it to make him realize how much he had to lose? Maybe, he told himself, you should get your sorry backside up there and help her.

  Duggins looked to Henry like a stiff-legged spider. He and Crazy Horse Ranch Woman were too far to shoot at the villain with any accuracy. Henry scanned the landscape. What was the murderer so intent on? And that’s when Henry saw the man in the rocks to the left of the waterfall. He was clearly in danger—as Duggins was stalking him. Any man stalked by Duggins had to be someone at least deserving of a warning.

  Henry considered shouting, but that could distract the man, divert his attention in the wrong direction. He lifted his rifle, thumbed back the hammer, aimed it, and touched the trigger a whisker of a second before Crazy Horse Ranch Woman growled and pushed it down to clunk against a rock. But Henry’s shot had taken flight, straight and true.

  Henry saw a puff of rock dust erupt beside Duggins. The killer dropped to his belly, swiveling his head, and shouting, “Who was that? You know who I am?” His voice carried loud enough over the roar of the waterfall.

  If Henry didn’t know who the man was or how evil he was, he might have found Duggins’s genuine dismay to be funny.

  “Why’d you shoot at him?” Crazy Horse Ranch Woman looked about ready to bite Henry’s face.

  Henry nodded upstream to their left. “Him. There.”

  Crazy Horse Ranch Woman followed his sightline and saw a slight movement as a man shifted position in the rocks, looking down toward them, then up again at where they shot.

  “Looked to me like he’s on our side. Didn’t want Clewt to get the drop on him.”

  “He shoots Duggins before I do, I’ll kill him, too.”

  “What’s it matter who shoots him?”

  She looked at Henry with a scowl, shook her head, looked back to the stranger in the rocks.

  “What if I shoot him?” said Henry.

  “Then I’ll shoot you.”

  “Not hardly,” said Henry, but when she didn’t respond, he knew he was as wrong as could be.

  “Look!” Crazy Horse Ranch Woman seethed as she pointed. “He’s heading back the way he came.”

  Henry spotted Duggins again, and sure enough he was backing upward, keeping an eye on their location. Soon he disappeared down behind the rocks from which he’d emerged.

  In the distance, they saw the man Duggins had been stalking stand up, then stare in their direction. Obviously he didn’t regard them as a big threat. Henry saw he was a tall man, wide-shouldered, and appeared much tattered and bloodied. He also didn’t look very impressed with them, though he did look confused as to what they were doing there.

  That makes two of us, thought Henry. Crazy Horse Ranch Woman stood and, as if she didn’t even see the stranger in the distance by the waterfall, she resumed barreling up the path.

  Henry cut ahead of her, led the way this time, walking right on up the path toward the strange, tall man. He heard her behind him. They both carried their rifles, cocked and at the ready as they trudged. The man appeared to be waiting for them.

  “Keep a sharp eye for that rascal Duggins,” said Crazy Horse Ranch Woman to Henry. “We get up there I’m crossing over the top, going after him.”

  Henry nodded, said nothing.

  They were within a few yards of the tall man when he spoke, though still keeping an eye toward where Duggins had been hiding atop the waterfall. “Hold your ground. Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  Henry and Crazy Horse Ranch Woman stood as ordered. But they didn’t lower their rifles. They didn’t know him any better than he knew them. “Easy, friend,” said Henry. “We’re hunting someone.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “What’s it to you, stranger?” said Crazy Horse Ranch Woman. “My business is my business. If you’re a friend of Clewt Duggins”—she glanced right again—“you’d best prepare to die. If not . . .” She shrugged.

  • • •

  While they spoke, Duggins dropped down to the opposite side of the waterfall, edged down beside the flow. He slid back into the crevice in the rocks where he’d hid earlier, so close to the cave’s entrance, so close to his treasure. He was sure of it, could feel it hidden in there. There must still be a lot of it left. Why else would they work so hard to defend it?

  • • •

  Out of sight, across the river, and out of hearing range due to the pounding rush of the waterfall, Crazy Horse Ranch Woman pushed past Henry, and advanced on Ty, her rifle still held before her.

  Ty brought his rifle to bear, trained on her. “I said to hold your ground. You will not pass unless you give me your guns. Now what’s it going to be?”

  “Shut up, mister. I have come a long way for my prize, and I will not be robbed of it.”

  What she said made little sense to Ty, but her determined look told him she was probably telling the truth somehow.

  “Hold there!” shouted Ty again.

  But she kept on advancing, so he bolted forward, pushed the barrel of her weapon aside, surprising her with speed just in time to avoid being shot. She growled an oath at him as he wrenched the rifle from her and threatened to swing it at her, but she put her arms up. Ty glanced briefly across the waterfall, but didn’t see Duggins yet.

  The strange man came up behind the woman on the trail. But this man had his arms up, his own rifle held in such a way that he couldn’t swing it into action easily. “Relax, mister,” said the stranger. “We’re hunting Duggins too. He’s killed people we each know and love. Been on his trail a long time, from way down south of here.”

  Ty gave him a hard stare, alternated his gaze between the two surprise visitors and the opposite side of the waterfall. Still no sight of Duggins.

  “Prove it. Step around th
e lady here and hand me that rifle. Then keep your hands up high.”

  He looked at the woman, who said nothing, just stared him down with a mean look.

  “Lady,” said Ty. “I’ve been through more in the past day than your ugliest stare can do to me. I suggest you get those hands up and keep them up.”

  She did, with prodding from his rifle barrel’s business end. Her duster opened slightly and he saw her revolver in its holster. He kept his rifle trained on her and shucked it.

  “Mine, too?” said the strange man behind her.

  Ty looked at him. “No, but don’t test me, stranger. I mean it.”

  Henry nodded. Ty glanced over across the river again. Still no Duggins. He didn’t like that. “You two, get ahead of me. Walk that path there; we’re going behind the falls.”

  “What?” the woman said. “No, no, no.” She shook her head in defiance. “I’m going after Duggins.”

  “Don’t tell me what you’re going to do,” said Ty. “Besides, he’ll come to us.”

  “Come on,” said Henry, gently pushing her along.

  “Trust me,” said Ty, hustling them before him.

  • • •

  Minutes before in the cave, Hob had rummaged in his outdated sack of meager supplies. The best he could turn up was an old shirt, which he ripped into lengths of rag. “Sue Ellen, you doing okay, girl?”

  “Just like before,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’ve been better. But I’ll make it through. This arm might be useless by then.”

  “Pshaw! Don’t talk that way, girl.”

  “So, I got her, eh?” Clewt Duggins burst forth in a shower of spray, a revolver drawn on them.

  “You!” said Hob. He wobbled from his awkward crouch beside Sue Ellen, clawing for a sidearm and grunting in pain from every movement he made.

  “Eh-eh-eh, don’t move so much.” Clewt wagged his weapon at them. “This pistol’s liable to go off. And, yeah, it’s me. But tell me, old broken man, just who are you?”

  “Don’t tell him anything, Hob. He’s a killer.”

  Clewt was about to respond when scuffling noises from the opposite side of the waterfall drew their attention. “Oh, now look at this,” said Duggins as soon as all three newcomers walked out from behind the water.

  “You two.” Clewt waved his pistol in their direction. “You look familiar. Not that I care much. You all are in my way. I am here for one thing and one thing only. I need you to give up that treasure. You!” He thrust the pistol at Hob. “Old man! Get away from her.”

  Hob crabbed away from Sue Ellen, edging toward the dark, a strange look on his face.

  “You filthy animal,” said Henry, staring at Clewt Duggins. “I came all this way . . .”

  “Yes? And?” Duggins smiled wide, threw his head back in a laugh. “I remember you now! You’re that pathetic milksop of a lawman from way down yonder—am I right?”

  While he spoke, Hob angled closer to his shotgun, half hidden in the shadows. Ty saw what he was up to and created a diversion by making a show of helping Sue Ellen.

  “What are you doing?” said Clewt. “Get away from her! Now!” He raised the pistol and aimed it at Ty’s head.

  “Nothing doing. I’m helping her—or do you want the one person who knows where your precious treasure is to bleed out right here in front of you?” He winked at Sue Ellen, who took the hint and sagged closer to the wall, looking suddenly as if she might fade away any second.

  “What?” Duggins advanced on them, fear and anger warring on his blood-flecked face.

  He didn’t get two steps when a dark shape arced down behind him and clubbed him in the side of the head. He weaved on his feet, his head wobbling, and collapsed to the floor, still conscious but clearly dazed.

  Crazy Horse Ranch Woman made a move toward him, but Ty grabbed her arm, pushed her toward Henry. “Hold her still.”

  Henry nodded.

  By then, Hob had struggled upright, his crutch tucked under his arm, the shotgun held, barrel down, in the other.

  He rapped Duggins with the crutch. “Hey, wake up. You hear me? Now, what I want to know is . . .”

  “Yeah, what?” Clewt’s sneer waxed and waned with his heaving breaths.

  “I want to know how you lost your leg.” And then, to emphasize to the point, Hob thunked the man’s wooden limb with his crutch.

  “Oh, for the love of all that is still right in this foul world!” It was Crazy Horse Ranch Woman, and as she said it she spun on Henry, wrenching free of his grip. Her dirt-colored duster flared wide and she drew free a fresh long-barrel Colt Navy. The handle butt met the side of his head with a thud, and Henry collapsed. But she was already ducking low and pivoting.

  “Look out!” shouted Sue Ellen, but the darkness of the grotto prevented anyone from seeing much of what they should be looking out for.

  Hob turned to see what the commotion was behind him and Clewt lashed out, snatching at the old man’s crutch. That’s all it took for Hob to topple. Duggins rolled onto his left side, snatched at the shotgun in the dark, a pleased look on his face as he wrenched it free of the old man’s flailing clawhold.

  “Gaah! Ty! Duggins is armed!”

  But Ty was already on the move, keeping himself between Sue Ellen and this fresh ruckus behind them. He already had his pistol drawn, but in the dark and with everybody scrambling, it was difficult to get a fix on what was happening.

  “Stay low, Hob!”

  He saw a single form still upright—the crazy woman—saw the man she’d come with laid out on the floor. He saw Hob struggling to get back against the far wall.

  “Where’s my treasure!” barked Clewt. It wasn’t a question, more of a screamed demand. And no one answered him.

  In the few seconds it took for all this to transpire, Ty saw that Clewt Duggins had the shotgun. The woman advanced on him.

  Clewt used the wall to push himself to a standing position, holding the shotgun poised before him. He knew it was a two-shot gun, but couldn’t recall if Hob had shot, reloaded, or not.

  “Where is my treasure? I earned it and you are robbing me—robbing me!”

  Ty swore he could see spittle fly from the man’s mouth as he raged.

  “Where is it—it’s mine, I earned it!” He spit a mouthful of blood, advanced a step, turning, and Ty saw him skylined against the lighter wall of water behind him.

  “I will ask one more time!” Clewt brought the weapon to bear, holding it almost to his shoulder, and worked it side to side slowly, like a snake’s mesmerizing head just before it strikes. “Where . . . is . . . my . . . treasure!”

  The crazy woman stepped forward, brought the Colt up with a confident sweep, cranked the hammer back slowly, and aimed it at Clewt Duggins’s chest. “You filthy killer, I got your treasure right here.” But she didn’t pull the trigger. She merely stared at Clewt Duggins.

  With the shotgun’s barrel pointed at her chest, Clewt fingered a trigger and . . . nothing happened. His smile drooped.

  Crazy Horse Ranch Woman’s smile broadened and she nodded. “My husband, Jay,” she said, and blasted him in the chest. Clewt staggered backward.

  “My son Billy,” she said.

  Duggins took another hit, which whipped his torso to the right, one arm flapping at the elbow. He staggered backward one, two steps.

  Crazy Horse Ranch Woman advanced on him. “My son Little Tully!” Another shot to the chest.

  “My sweet horses!”

  Clewt began to buckle at the waist, but still he stood, staggering backward into the sheeting water. It looked as if he were caught in a raging downpour, but somehow he stayed upright under it.

  Crazy Horse Ranch Woman advanced another step. “And my broken heart that can never be mended!” she shouted, triggering a last shot.

  Duggins’s face, under the pounding water, wa
s a mask of disbelief, his chest a welter of wetness and seeping pink. Then he simply slipped backward, disappearing from sight.

  In that instant, they heard a thundering boom and a blast of lead bees drove through the wall of water and into the grotto—the second shot from the shotgun. Crazy Horse Ranch Woman’s arms whipped upward as if she were overcome with the spirit of the moment, breaking into a revival-tent dance. Her Colt Navy flew from her grasp, clattered to the grotto floor. Her head whipped backward on her taut-muscled neck, and she fell straight back, arms outstretched. Her head slammed into the rock floor, bounced, and wobbled side to side.

  Hob dragged himself the few feet over to her side. “Ma’am! Hey, you all right?”

  She looked up at him, then at Ty, who’d hustled to her side as well. But he saw her chest and gut had been savaged by the thick slugs from the shotgun. She was bleeding badly, bleeding out right there. And she was smiling, even as blood bubbled and ran from her mouth. She tried to speak, coughed, said, “Thank—” Then her eyes filmed over and her head slipped to one side.

  From beside Ty came a soft rush of pent-up breath; then a voice said, “Oh no. . . .” Henry Atwood sobbed quietly, held one hand to his bleeding head, rubbed his eyes with the other grimy hand.

  • • •

  “How many more rats you figure are in these rocks, anyway?” Back outside in the fading afternoon light, Hob scowled at the embankment to each side of the falls, his old whiskered mouth arched in a sneer, as if he’d been told a lie by the very river itself.

  “I believe we’ve cleaned them out, Hob,” Ty said, draping an arm across the old man’s shoulders.

  • • •

  A week later, with Alton’s savaged remains buried properly on his ranch, along with those of Duggins and his gang, Ty and Hob had left Sue Ellen alone for a couple of days, at her insistence, once she convinced them that she would be fine. She needed a little time to figure out where it was she was bound for.

  They had sent the stranger, Henry Atwood, back the way he’d come, with the sad woman’s remains bundled and encased in salt and lime in a plank box, the seams sealed with pitch. Hob assured him it would be sufficient to get her back to her family’s plot so she could spend eternity with her husband and sons.