Dead Man's Ranch

by Ralph Compton

  They were quiet for a few moments, and then Brian jerked his head behind him. “And that side of the river?”

  “That? Oh, that’s the Driving D. Home of the Grindle clan. Mean as a nest of vipers. You reach in there you’ll draw back a bloody stump.”

  “Junior Grindle?”

  Brandon lugged his saddle to the fireside, flopped it down, and said, “You know him already, eh? I should have guessed. Varmints seek out their own kind. You’re cut from the same cloth.”

  Brian backed up a step, then crossed his arms. “I found him to be cordial and generous.”

  “Generous? A Grindle? Ha. You’re as crazy as you look.”

  Brian lowered his hands again, clenching them. He gritted his teeth, but Brandon only looked up from warming his hands and said, “Relax, will you? Call a truce between us for the night.”

  “As I recall, I didn’t invite you to my camp.”

  Brandon didn’t move. “That’s true. But the way I figure it, you have questions you might like answered, and I have questions I would like answered, and we each might have the answers the other wants. Then after a night’s rest we can both go our own ways and never have to see each other again.”

  He didn’t look up from the fire, but Brian saw the young man’s jaw muscles working, as if he were chewing tough steak.

  “What information could you possibly have that I might find useful?”

  Brandon stared into the flames. Finally he shook his head and said, “Forget it, Middleton. You’re a tough nut to crack. Too tough for me. I’m just tired. And I wish I had a drink. You got any whiskey?”

  Brian nearly dismissed the question, then remembered the half-full bottle of booze that Junior Grindle had left at the camp that morning—possibly because it was half-wedged under Brian when he awoke. Brian had stuffed it in his bag before riding off in search of the ranch.

  “As a matter of fact, I do indeed have whiskey. I can’t vouch for its veracity, but then again, I doubt your palate is sophisticated enough to discern the difference between something refined and something that will put you over the edge in short order.”

  “Believe it or not, I understood what you just said. And you’re probably right. But I’m not looking for anything more than a cheap way to vanish for a time.”

  Brian stared at the flames a moment longer, then bent to his satchel. He pulled out the Bible and the note poking from beneath the cover, and reached for the bottle.

  “Hey! That’s my mother’s Bible. Did she give that to you?” Brandon snatched the note before Brian could stop him.

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.” Brian popped the deep-set cork from the bottle with a tunk sound that brought Brandon’s gaze up from the paper. He smiled and involuntarily licked his bottom lip. Brian splashed some of the dark liquid into his tin cup. The other man handed him his own tin cup of chipped blue-black enamel. Brian tipped whiskey into the cup and watched the young man.

  He gulped it down and held his cup toward Brian, a smile and raised eyebrows doing the talking for him. Brian splashed more into the cup. The boy frowned, looked at the chipped blue-black enamel, then looked up at Brian, wagging the cup. Middleton sighed and drizzled more into the cup.

  “Now, what did dear old mother hen write to you that was so important?” He held the note toward the fire to read it better, and Brian snatched it from his grip. “Hey!”

  The bigger man regarded him for a moment, took a healthy swig from his cup, then said, “If it’s that important, then I’ll read it to you.”

  “Why? Don’t think a savage like me can read?”

  “You’ve not exactly proven yourself to be a shining example of the benefits of a solid education, now, have you?”

  Brandon just stared at Brian, eyes narrowed. Brian looked at the paper and said, “She does have exemplary handwriting.”

  “Does that surprise you?”

  Brian lowered the note and looked at the young man. “Why are you so thin-skinned?”

  “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  “Is it because you’re…” He nodded at the young man. “You know….”

  “Nope, I guess I don’t know what you mean.” He almost smiled.

  Brian sighed. “Forget it.”

  “No, no. I think I know. It’s because I’m half Mexican and half Scottish and a whole lot of nobody.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means just what I said. You try it sometime. When I say hello, women put their hands to their throats and pull their children to the other side of the street. Even in Turnbull, where everybody has known me my entire life.”

  “I apologize. I didn’t mean to—”

  “Keep your sorrow for someone who will need it. Like your future wife, God bless her, whoever she may be. What a trial she’s in for.”

  “What makes you say that?” Brian was intrigued more than angry by the comment.

  The boy drained the whiskey in his cup and held it out. Brian downed his own, then half filled each cup.

  “Because,” continued Brandon, “you have a bad way of conducting yourself.”

  Brian began to protest, but Brandon held up a hand. “No, no, no, you asked me and I’m going to provide you with an answer.” He sipped again. “In town, then with my mother”—he nodded at the note—“then again with me, you are rude. You act as if everyone you meet here is stupid and of such low character that it’s taking all the effort you can muster just to hold a conversation before you can get away from here and return to the perfect East, where you belong.”

  They were quiet for some time. Finally Brian said, “I didn’t realize it was that apparent.”

  “I’m not wrong.”

  Brian shook his head. “No, you’re not wrong. I should never have come.”

  “Then why did you?”

  Brian laughed, a short, clipped sound that could have been mistaken for a sign of disgust. “I thought I knew. I thought it would be a way to show my grandfather that I am a man capable of handling my own affairs without his help.”

  “But it’s not turning out to be the case, is it?”

  Brian sipped from his cup, then looked at the young man across the fire. “No. For someone who’s little more than a boy, how did you become so astute?”

  “You see? That’s what I’m talking about.” He waved a hand at Middleton. “You just insulted me and you didn’t even know it.” He smiled and shook his head. “Go ahead, read my mother’s note to me.”

  Brian regarded him for a moment, then said, “Okay. But just remember that you asked.” He cleared his throat, held out the note toward the fire. “ ‘Brian—Though we do not know each other now, we once did, and you were a dear boy, the center of your father’s life, and the reason for all he did in his too-short life. I knew this day would come and I hoped, for your father’s sake, that you would love the Dancing M as he did. But that has not happened. So here are the only things I have of your father’s that I trust one day you will find comfort in. I hope you find peace.’ ”

  He straightened and stared at the fire. He opened the Bible, intending to slide in the note. But the book opened to reveal other folded papers. “What’s this?”

  Brandon prodded the fire and added a few sticks, saying nothing.

  Brian slid out the papers and unfolded the topmost. The firelight revealed a sheet of parchment, its creases worn limp from much folding and unfolding. The calligraphy told Brian that it was a marriage license between one Penelope Regina Middleton and one Rory MacMawe. His throat tightened. His mother and father. To actually see their names together…something his grandfather never spoke of.

  “They were married twenty-six years ago, in Providence, Rhode Island. At Our Lady of Salvation Church.” He looked up at Brandon. “I know where that is. I have passed that very church more times than I can count.” He looked back to the sheet, but there was little other information there. Then, as if he were a man begging water after a crawl through a desert, Brian Middleton clawed
open the next paper. He recognized the precise, clipped hand—that of his grandfather, Horatio T. Middleton. It was dated the day before the marriage certificate, and it too had seen much opening and folding. Unlike the grandeur of the previous sheet, this was a plain, personal letter.

  He read it quickly, and halfway through, a groan escaped his mouth.

  “What does it say, Brian?”

  The larger man looked up from the letter, sipped from his cup, and nodded. “ ‘My dearest Penelope, light of my life, I will cut to the quick and state plainly my wishes and the subsequent results of disobeying them. I plead with you not to wed this Scottish ruffian. He is a hoodlum with a head covered in fire and a heart full of treachery and woe. His kind only bring ill luck and can only produce more of the same, even if tempered with the fine stock of your proud and noble upbringing, Penelope Regina Middleton. If you insist on wedding this brute, I shall have no choice but to disown and disinherit you, and disavow any knowledge of you from here on. Your heartbroken but loving father, Horatio T. Middleton the Third.’ ”

  For several minutes the only sound was the soft crackle of the small fire. Then Brandon shifted position and poured another drink. “He sounds like a bad person. Bad to the core.”

  “What do you know about him? What do you know about anything in my life?” Brian waved him off as if dispelling a fly. “Let’s see what else is in here.” He lifted from the folds of the Bible a last tri-folded sheet, with smudges and blotted words.

  “This looks as if it’s written by a child.” He held up the sheet, as if Brandon could see it in the dull firelight, then resumed reading. “The spelling’s atrocious, even for a child, and some of the letters are backward.”

  “What does it say?”

  “I’m getting to that,” said Brian, irritated at the interruption. “Let’s see….‘I want to take you up on your offer which you have put to me for years now to give my son—’ ” Brian slowed his reading, then recommenced, “ ‘The good Eastern education his dear mother would have wanted for him. I would not allow him to be taken from me without your promise that he will be sent to me for a time each year until he is growed.’ ”

  Despite his advancing inebriation and the waning light, Brian read the note twice out loud, slowly, carefully.

  “Well, what do you know?” said Brandon, smiling. “So that’s the letter that started the ball rolling, eh?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Aha! So Mama didn’t share with you the stack of letters she wrote for Papa. Well, they were really for you.” He stood and stretched his back, motioned with a hand toward the letters in Brian’s lap. “You can see for yourself how poor his own writing skills were. He had none at all before Mama taught him that much. But Mama, now, she has a way with words. She wrote all those letters, and even after I came along she continued to write letters for him. Of course, by then he was obsessed with getting you back. He nearly lost the ranch in lawyers’ fees trying to get you back from that tender old man you call ‘grandfather.’ ”

  “How do you know all this?” said Brian, still smarting from all these revelations.

  “Some from my mother, some from rummaging in the sideboard where all the letters that came back unread were kept. We all knew, even him, that they were rejected by your grandfather. So it’s really no surprise to me or Mama how you come to be here now, not knowing a thing about our lives.”

  Brian said nothing, just stared at the fire as the younger man spoke.

  “If your dear grandfather had given you the letters, you would know that mostly they were full of Papa’s descriptions of life here at the Dancing M. News of Mama and even me. He didn’t want there to be any secrets; that much I knew. I always wondered what happened to the presents he sent you. Special things—toys, books, knives, even a fine hand-tooled holster and six-gun once, not too many years ago. We never had much here, but he made sure to send you fine things. I always thought he was trying to lure you back here. But I guess you never got his gifts.”

  Brian shook his head. “I never received any gifts, nor information about him or my mother from my grandfather other than that I was better off not knowing him, as he was, and I quote, ‘an unschooled ruffian.’ ”

  “Well, that unschooled ruffian, as you call him, owned one of the most promising ranches in this part of the state.”

  Brian stared at the young man standing over him, his back to the fire. “I had no idea of any of this, Brandon. No idea.”

  “That doesn’t make how you’ve been behaving right.”

  “I know.” Brian looked at his hands holding the aged sheets of paper. It was too dark now to read, and the little pile of wood was nearly spent. He’d read most of what he needed to anyway. For tonight. He knew that tomorrow he’d reread the pages. And for days after. “I’d like to see those other letters.”

  “You’ll have to ask her. I’m sure she didn’t share them because she was afraid of hurting you.” Brandon stretched out on the ground again. “That’s just how my mother is.” He settled back and tipped his hat over his face. “She’s a saint to put up with him and then me.” He lifted the hat slightly and stared at Brian. “But make no mistake, Brian Middleton,” said the young man, his square, tan jaw reflecting light from the fire, a finger pointed straight as an arrow at Brian. “I will punch you on the nose if you upset my mother again like you did today.” Then he settled his head against his saddle once more.

  Brian nodded slowly, only half hearing what the boy had said. Tomorrow he would return to his father’s ranch and talk with Esperanza, ask to read the letters that she wrote to his grandfather on his father’s behalf. Letters that were returned unopened. He folded the papers into their familiar creases and slid them between pages in the heavy Bible and closed it.

  After he too had settled back and the night noises became less worrisome, he thought back on the day. What a mess he’d made of things by coming out here. If only he had stayed in Providence….But was not knowing something any better than knowing it?

  “Middleton, you still awake?”

  “Yes.”

  “Answer me this: Why don’t you still have the name MacMawe? Is it so bad to you?”

  There was a pause, and then Brian said, “I had no choice in the matter. I was raised by my grandfather as a Middleton. As far as he was concerned, everything about me was Middleton and there was no such thing as MacMawe in his eyes in the world.”

  “But legally, are you a MacMawe or a Middleton? What does it say in the court documents?”

  Brian sighed. “I have no brother. I have no father. I have no mother. I have no one but an old grandfather. And that’s just the way I like it. Now go to sleep.”

  There was no response. Brian lay awake for a long while wondering about what he was going to do next, the whiskey dulling the edges of his thoughts with a warm glow, despite the harsh words he had just spoken to the one person in years with whom he’d let down his guard.

  Chapter 25

  Junior Grindle sat on the hard boulder until long after he’d heard the last snatches of talk drift away from the meager camp. Though there was nothing more than a slight breeze tonight, he sat downwind of the two men, and made sure to stay that way. Horses were mighty sensitive creatures. Fortunately Middleton had no idea how to pay attention to his mount, the perk of the ears, the low, throaty whinny, the attentive stance. But that Brandon MacMawe, now, he was one person Junior knew in these parts—or anywhere, for that matter—who could practically tell what a horse was thinking just by looking at or hearing the beast nicker.

  He couldn’t take any chances. Drunk or no, that half-breed MacMawe would be the one to watch. He almost giggled aloud. Drunk….That’s where he was at himself. Or nearly so. It had taken a mighty effort to put down that last glass and bid the boys a good evening. Including that foreign gambler fellow, an odd one, to be sure—friendly but something about him seemed a little oily too. Probably just a damn cardsharp coming around to skin the boys out of a week’s
wages. He’d seen ’em before, and they’d no doubt show up in Turnbull again.

  He surely wanted to stay on at the table, at least for another hand or two. But when the idea hit him, well, Junior knew it was now or never. All he had to do was track down the big greenhorn. In his hazy whiskey glow, this seemed like an easy task. And halfway home, on the ranch road south out of town, he heard the big greenhorn making far too much noise out in the open and he knew that his plan was meant to be.

  Junior shifted on the rock, slid down, and glanced back behind him toward Spunk. Still nibbling unseen grass and not having to walk too far had put the horse in a relaxed, quiet state. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about Brandon MacMawe’s presence at Middleton’s campsite. But heck, the more he thought about it, the more he realized that having Brandon there too could work in his favor.

  He’d waited long enough. Now that it was dark, Junior breathed deeply and started off toward the campsite with slow, deliberate steps, keeping the faint ember glow of the men’s fire roughly in front of him. He knew what he felt needed to be done. He also knew that his sister, Callie, would surely disagree with him, but there was no other way. He’d been over it in his head and he knew sure as a prairie dog digs holes that Middleton thought he was just a kid. Heck, he saw the man’s face when he proposed buying the Dancing M from him. Eastern dude just wanted to laugh at him as if he were a child.

  That ranch would be sold off, hacked up, covered with a hundred settlers, and ruined forever. And because it was right next door, he was sure that the Driving D would struggle to keep from being a ruined wasteland too. No, he could not—would not—let that happen. Finally, tonight he understood what his father had been talking about. And if he could make this thing happen, then his father would give him the Dancing M and he could make a heck of a success of it, he just knew. Then one day he would run both ranches as one.

  There would be the matter of coming up with a dowry to buy off Callie and her husband, whoever that might be down the road. All he knew right now was that she was a girl, and there was no way he was giving up any land to her. But he’d worry about that later. Right now he wanted to make sure that he accomplished what he was sure his father meant. He’d have to hand it to his old man, saying what needed to be said without actually saying it. The mark of a true businessman.