Ralph Compton Double-Cross Ranch

by Matthew P. Mayo

  Before he left, Henry had found a bittersweet surprise waiting for him in his saddlebags. Crazy Horse Ranch Woman, family name of Dunderson, had written out a last will and testament, leaving Cuthbert Henry Atwood, should he be lucky enough to survive, her vast horse ranch, provided that he bring his wife, son, and his wife’s family there to live and work. She also asked that he tend her family’s graves.

  • • •

  The day had begun cold, with a stiff norther blowing in, but by the time midday rolled around, the sun had reared its head from behind the dwindling cloudbank. Ty and Hob labored at dismantling the charred wreckage of the house. Both men were shirtless, one well-muscled and coated with a sheen of sweat, grime, and sawdust, the other a bony old chicken of a man, his stringy muscles keeping up, one arm in a sling, the hand bandaged.

  They’d managed to work without stop for hours, but finally Hob called a halt and dragged out the water bucket and a sack of biscuits he’d baked over the outdoor cook fire. They’d been staying in the bunkhouse, enjoying themselves despite the work that lay ahead for them.

  “You know, Ty,” said Hob, “that girl is gonna up and leave the area if’n you don’t stop being angry. We all make mistakes in life. Some bigger than others. Why even I’ve made a few in my day, hard as it is to believe.”

  As Ty sipped his dipperful of water, something caught his eye over Hob’s shoulder and he stood, nodded toward it. “She hasn’t left just yet.”

  Hob turned to see Sue Ellen riding in a buggy toward them.

  “Now how do you suppose she managed to rig that up, what with one arm lame and all?”

  “Hob, that woman has more grit and fire than any ten men.”

  The old man swung his head up to look at Ty. “Well, it’s about time you admitted it.”

  “Admitted what?” said Ty as he pulled on his shirt.

  “Oh, nothin’. Nothin’ at all.” Hob shook his head, smiling as he donned his own shirt.

  The two men stood a half minute waiting for her, fidgeting and trying to not look or feel awkward. She pulled to a stop before them, and Uncle Hob edged past Ty, wobbled forward, and offered her his hand as she stepped down from the buggy.

  “Thank you, Uncle Hob.”

  He grinned and nodded. “What brings you to our fair abode, Sue Ellen?” He winked at the irony of his assessment—the charred building behind them was anything but fair at present.

  “Sue Ellen.” Ty nodded, not smiling as he greeted her.

  “Hello, Ty.”

  As Hob’s head swiveled from one to the other, his look one of expectation slipped into one of pity. But he kept his tongue.

  “I know you’re both busy,” said Sue Ellen. “I’ll get right to the point. Alton wasn’t the sort of man most people would have liked if he hadn’t come around here with money. But at least they pretended to like him, and I think somehow that was enough for him. Or at least he pretended it was. I hope that makes sense.” She looked right at Ty and continued. “He wasn’t a bad man, really. I know you won’t ever believe that. But it’s the truth.” Her voice hitched a moment. She crossed her arms and looked across the long, sloping vista of rippling hills stretching to the west, the sun lighting the tops a golden color.

  “There’s one more thing I wanted you both to know about Alton, and after I’ve said my piece, I’ll leave you to your work.”

  Ty continued to stare at the ground at his feet, his jaw muscles bunching, no indication of what he was feeling written on his wind-burned face. Hob scowled at him, but Ty never looked his way.

  Sue Ellen continued. “I was going through things at the house. When I looked through Alton’s office, I came across a burlap sack. Even after Duggins and his men rooted in there like pigs, they never found it. It was wedged behind a hidden backing in a cabinet I’d never looked in—it was always filled with Alton’s papers, important things. It seemed like it wasn’t any of my business.”

  “Well, what was in the sack, girl?” Hob’s bottom lip pooched out and his brows knitted, telegraphing his eagerness to hear what she had discovered. He glanced at Ty, and could tell that even the big rancher wanted to look at her, could tell he was listening intently too. Hob almost smiled.

  “I found a pair of gold candlesticks.”

  “Gold, you say? That the fortune that weasel was after?” Hob rubbed his good hand on his stubbled chin.

  Sue Ellen nodded. “That’s what’s left of it, apparently. There was also a letter to me in Alton’s hand that said a number of things.”

  Ty looked at her. “Why are you telling us this, Sue Ellen?”

  “Because it’s important to me that you know what sort of man he was. He was certainly all the things you think he was. For that matter, he was so much more—and less—than I thought he was. Some of the things Duggins said about him, I know Alton wasn’t capable of. I’m convinced Duggins was talking about things he himself had done. But none of that matters now.”

  Ty slowly nodded, but didn’t look convinced.

  “Well, just because this galoot isn’t interested doesn’t mean I don’t wanna know what that letter said. Out with it, girl!”

  Sue Ellen nearly smiled. “In short, he wrote that last year he began to feel guilty about what he’d done to Duggins and the others all those years ago, leaving them to pay for their crime while he made off with the stolen items. So he made some sort of deal with the Mexican government to return the rest of the treasure in exchange for the release of Duggins and the others.”

  Both Ty and Hob looked at her.

  “But by then, only Duggins and the Irishman were still alive. Duggins almost died a few years before when he got a wound in his leg that went septic. They amputated it in prison, and he lived.”

  “Curse that doctor,” said Hob, and spit on the ground at the memory of Duggins and his killing ways.

  Sue Ellen nodded. “Alton’s motives, I’d guess, were to help himself sleep better at night, but I wish he had let them rot in prison.”

  All three stood in silence for a time, staring at the ground, watching cattle graze on a close pasture.

  Finally, Hob pushed himself upright. “Well, I got to go work on my new leg. I found a nice piece of stove wood that might do the trick.” He hobbled with the crutch over to Sue Ellen, patted her shoulder and said, “Don’t be a stranger. I’m nearly back to my old cookin’ self.” He winked and made his way toward the woodpile, his crutch making an uneven sound in the dirt as he went.

  Ty and Sue Ellen continued to stand in silence for another minute or so. Then Sue Ellen said, “I should be getting back. Lots to do before I—”

  The tall, rangy rancher interrupted her. “Let’s walk,” he said, avoiding her gaze. He nodded toward the narrow horse trail that wound around past the barn and up into the close-by hills.

  Sue Ellen nodded, and they headed on out of the barnyard, side by side.

  Hob watched them walk away, and it was soon apparent from their slowed pace and slight head movements that they were talking. He rubbed his chin and kept watching. Just before they rounded the corner of the barn, Ty’s big hand reached over and touched Sue Ellen’s. As they walked out of sight, Hob could have sworn those hands folded over each other.

  “That’s my boy,” said Uncle Hob, smiling as he hefted the drawknife and set to work on an improved leg for himself. Soon, he was whistling.

  Read on for an excerpt from

  DEMON’S PASS

  A Ralph Compton Novel by Dick Vaughn

  Available now from Signet in paperback and e-book.

  North Kansas, spring, 1868

  The boy’s name was Parker Stanley, and he had heard all the jokes about having a name that was backward. “Putting the horse before the cart, and so forth.” Now, as he sat leaning against the broken wagon wheel, he tried to hang on to his name . . . to hang on to anything that would tell him
that he was still alive.

  He wasn’t sure how long he had been watching the approaching rider. Heat waves shimmering up from the sun-baked earth gave the rider a surrealistic appearance, bending the light in such a way that sometimes the rider was visible and sometimes he wasn’t. Parker wasn’t that sure there really was a rider. If so, was he human? Or, was he an Angel of the Lord, coming to take him to join his mother and father?

  Parker looked around at the burned wagon, and at the scalped bodies of his mother and father. A few of the arrows the Indians had shot at them were still protruding from their bodies.

  There was very little left of the wagon’s contents. The Indians had taken all the clothes, household goods, food, and water. They had taken his older sister, too. Elizabeth hadn’t cried, not one whimper, and Parker remembered how proud he had been of her bravery.

  The Indians hadn’t found the little leather pouch, though. It contained all the money from the sale of the farm in Illinois, and was to have been the start of their new life. Parker saw his father hide the pouch, just before the attack began.

  How long had it been since the attack? No matter how hard he tried to think, Parker couldn’t come up with the answer. Was it an hour ago? This morning? Yesterday? He had been sitting right here, at this wheel, for as long as he could remember.

  The rider reached the wagon, swung down from his horse, then walked toward Parker, carrying a canteen. Parker watched him, almost without interest. When he felt the cool water at his lips, though, he began to drink thirstily, gulping it down in such large quantities that he nearly choked.

  “Whoa, now,” the rider said gently, pulling the canteen back. “Take it easy, boy. You mustn’t drink it too fast. It’ll make you sick.”

  The rider wet his handkerchief, then began rubbing it lightly on the boy’s head.

  “You took a pretty good bump on the head,” he said. “They must’ve thought you were dead. You’re lucky you still have your scalp. They generally prize blond hair like yours.”

  The water revived Parker’s awareness and, with it, the realization that both his parents had been brutally killed. He managed to hold back the sobs, but not the tears.

  “Your folks?” the rider asked softly.

  Parker nodded.

  “Cheyenne, I expect. I’m real sorry about this, son,” the rider said.

  “There was a white man with them,” Parker said.

  “What? A white man? Are you sure?”

  Parker thought of the big redheaded man who had cursed when they found no money in the wagon.

  “Yes,” Parker said. “I’m sure. He was a big man with red hair and a red beard. I’ll never forget him.”

  “There’s nothing worse than a white man who has gone bad and thrown his lot in with the Indians.” The rider looked over at the bodies of the boy’s parents. “You stay here. I’ll bury them for you.”

  “I want to help,” Parker said, stirring himself to rise.

  The rider smiled at him. “Good for you, lad,” he said. “In the years to come it’ll be a comfort to you to know that you did what you could for them.” He looked toward the wagon and saw part of a shovel, the top half of the handle having been burned away. “You can use that. I’ve got a small spade on my saddle.”

  They worked quietly and efficiently for the next half hour, digging only one grave, but making it large enough for both his mother and father. They lowered Parker’s parents into the hole, then shoveled the dirt back over them.

  “You want me to say a few words over them?”

  The boy nodded.

  The rider walked back to his horse and opened a saddlebag. Parker watched as he took out a small leather-bound book and returned to the graveside. With his own survival now taken care of, and with the business of burying his parents out of the way, Parker was able to examine his benefactor closely. He saw a tall, powerfully built man, clean-shaven, with dark hair. Parker wasn’t old enough to shave yet, but he knew the trouble it took to shave every morning, and he thought the rider must be a particularly vain man to go to such trouble on a daily basis, especially when on the range like this.

  “What are their names?” the man asked, interrupting Parker’s musing.

  “What?”

  “If I’m going to say a few words, I need to know their names.”

  “My ma’s name is Emma. My pa’s is Amon. Amon Stanley.”

  The rider cleared his throat, then began to read:

  “‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.

  “‘Oh God, whose mercies cannot be numbered: Accept these prayers on behalf of thy servants Amon and Emma Stanley, and grant them an entrance into the land of light and joy, in the fellowship of thy saints; through Jesus Christ thy Son our Lord, who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever. Amen.’”

  “Amen,” Parker echoed quietly.

  The rider closed his book and looked down at the mound of dirt for a long moment; then he looked over at the boy and smiled, and stuck out his hand.

  “I’m Clay Springer,” he said. “How are you called?”

  “Parker. Parker Stanley. Parker is my first name.”

  “Parker Stanley . . . that’s a fine name for a man,” Clay said. “Well, climb up on back of my horse, Parker. We can ride double.”

  “Wait,” Parker said. “Can I tell my ma and pa one more thing?”

  “Of course you can, son. Take all the time you need.”

  Parker cleared his throat, and looked down at the pile of freshly turned dirt.

  “Ma, Pa, if all your teachin’ about heaven and all that is right, then I reckon you can hear me, ’cause the Lord has, for sure, taken you into his arms. So, what I want to say is . . . don’t worry none about me. I aim to live the kind of life you would’a both wanted me to live. And I figure, the way things are now, why, you’ll both be watchin’ over me even more’n you would’a if you was still alive.

  “And you can set your minds to ease about Elizabeth, too. I aim to find her. It may take a while, but I promise you, if it takes twenty years, I’ll keep lookin’ for her.

  “I reckon this is good-bye for now, but, if you don’t mind, I’ll be talkin’ to you from time to time. Oh, I prob’ly won’t be comin’ back out to this place anymore. But, then, I don’t think your souls will be hangin’ aroun’ here anyway.”

  Clay stood a few feet behind Parker as he said his final words. He was glad he couldn’t be seen. It wouldn’t be seemly for the boy to see him wipe the tears from his own eyes.

  “I reckon that’s it,” Parker said.

  “You’ll do your folks proud, Parker, I know you will,” Clay said,

  Parker started toward the horse; then he remembered the hidden pouch of money. It was under a loose board in the front of the wagon, a part that hadn’t been damaged by the fire. He started toward it.

  “What’re you going after?”

  Parker looked back toward Clay. The man had saved his life, helped bury his parents, and even read prayers over their graves. But a sudden cautiousness made him hesitate to tell Clay of the money. What if all the help this man had given him had only been a ruse to see if there was anything of value left? He felt almost ashamed of himself for being suspicious, but he thought it would be better to be safe than sorry.

  “Just some letters,” Parker said. “I want to keep them.”

  “All right.”

  Parker moved the board to one side and picked up the small leather pouch. He could feel the hefty wad of bills inside. As he had overheard his mother and father talking about it, he knew they had one thousand dollars left over after buying the wagon and supplies.

  Parker slipped the pouch down inside his waistband, then walked back over to the h
orse. Clay was already mounted, and he offered his hand to help Parker climb up.

  • • •

  The air was perfumed with the smell of rabbit roasting on a spit, while Clay and Parker drank coffee. Parker hadn’t been a coffee drinker before. His ma told him she’d as soon he not drink coffee until he was an adult, and that was what he told Clay when Clay offered him a cup.

  “Well, Parker, some folks become adults before other folks,” Clay said. “Seems to me like that time has come for you.”

  Clay was right, Parker thought. He was on his own, now. As far as being an adult was concerned, that sort of sped things up. He accepted the coffee. It tasted a little bitter to him, but he was determined to acquire a taste for it.

  Clay sipped his own coffee through extended lips and studied Parker over the rim of his cup.

  “How old are you, Parker?”

  “I’m sixteen,” Parker said.

  Clay raised one eyebrow.

  “All right, fifteen . . . and a half.”

  “Where were you folks comin’ from?”

  “Illinois.”

  “You got any relatives back in Illinois that you want to go to?”

  Parker shook his head. “No, all my ma’s folks live in England and I don’t even know their names. My pa had a brother, but he got killed at Antietam.”

  “Bloody battle, Antietam,” Clay said, shaking his head. “Any close friends or neighbors?”

  “None I would want to be a burden to,” Parker replied. He took another drink of his coffee. It seemed to him that it went down a little easier this time. “Anyway, I don’t want to go back. I’ve got to find my sister.”

  “Older sister? Or younger?”

  “Older. She’s eighteen.”

  Clay studied the boy for a long moment before he talked. “Boy, you have to face the fact that you may never find her. A group of renegades like that . . . especially if they have a white man riding with them . . . will sell her to the highest bidder.”