Dead Man's Ranch

by Ralph Compton

  “You wanna know what’s wrong with the boy, Wilf? Look at yourself.” Mica paused. Wilf tried to speak, but Mica cut him off and kept right on talking. “Ever since Carla died, you got hard. Hard and mean, mostly where the boy’s concerned. All he ever does is try to please you, but it’s never enough. Never. And now look at him. Kid’s a mess.”

  Wilf opened his mouth, but said nothing. Their eyes met. Mica held the gaze for a moment, then shook his head and walked out the front door.

  Wilf gritted his teeth hard and stared at the closed door long after he heard Mica’s horse drum its way down the lane westward. His shoulders slumped as he turned back to the dark, paneled room. He slopped whiskey into a tumbler. The first glassful burned going down.

  Chapter 39

  Mortimer Darturo sat his horse, one hand atop the other resting on the pommel, waiting. Someone would come out soon enough. They always did. He’d found that people were nothing if not curious. Ah, he thought as a shadow grew in the doorway. Here we are, and a stout little Mexican woman in an apron appeared.

  “Good morning to you, ma’am. I am seeking ranch work. I was told to look for a Mr. Rory MacMawe. I am good with cattle and horses. And people too.”

  She regarded him, one eye squinted shut against the morning light. Finally she spoke. “We don’t need help here.” But she made no movement to go back inside.

  This could prove interesting, thought Mort, sizing up the woman, even as she regarded him with the same hard stare.

  “No offense, ma’am, but you do not seem to be the type to tell me what to do. In fact, no one is. It has been a long time since I took any orders from a woman.” He laughed, a short, sharp bark. “Maybe never, eh?”

  The woman turned back to him, stood a little taller, and now her hands were on her hips. He continued to smile.

  “I own this ranch.”

  “As I said, I was told that a man by the name of Rory MacMawe owned it. Now, you don’t look like someone of that name. Let me speak with Mr. MacMawe and I won’t mention this little show to him. How does that sound to you, eh?”

  To his left chickens scattered as if dried leaves in a sudden stiff breeze as a young man, head wrapped high in a bright white bandage, staggered out of a leaning coop, the door wagging open behind him. “Dead, dead, dead. He’s dead. We are all dead….And I have done this….” The boy tried to focus on Mort, then pitched too far to one side and flopped to the hard-packed yard, dust rising.

  This could not be more fun, thought Darturo, as he steadied Picolo with his heels, his hands tight on the reins.

  The short woman ran down the two steps and bent low over the boy, but he pushed at her to no effect. “What does it matter now?” said the boy. “We won’t be staying and you know it.” The boy turned to face her. “And you are to blame, old woman!” With her help, he rose again to his feet, then pushed at her, missing her with his flailing hands, and staggered off toward the barn.

  I know that voice, thought Darturo. So this is the home of at least one of the savaged men from the other night. And as if to set the idea with a final hammer blow, a deadweight thump and then a moan drifted out to them from inside the house.

  The old woman met Darturo’s gaze. His eyebrows rose and he nodded, still smiling, toward the house. “Sounds like you got yourself another problem in there, eh?”

  She stared at him hard, but he waited her out. A few seconds, no more, and she was gone into the little house.

  Darturo smiled. He knew she had been itching to get in there, tend to the other man, the one who was shot. Must be him, he thought. A tough bunch. We’ll see how tough. He turned his horse and together they sauntered out of the yard.

  Chapter 40

  “You foolish boy.” That was all she said. But it was enough to make him feel like a child. He had tried to rise off the floor and get back to the bed before she could help him. Brian had only managed to grip the edge of the old wooden table before stiffening as if he’d been shot again. Pain coursed upward like a lightning strike through his gut and into his head, blurring his vision. He felt her strong hands lifting him under the elbows and together they got him back to the edge of the bed. He sat there heavily, panting and drained of all strength.

  Once she was sure he could sit upright without help, Esperanza left him leaning and padded back to the big black cook stove. From the snatches of moments he’d come around during the past few days, it seemed she was always standing at the stove, her back to the room, strong, spiced smells rising from her steaming pots.

  “These boys will be the death of me.”

  He tried to speak, but had no strength for it. “I’m sorry…for this.” When he finally opened his eyes, she stood in front of him, her hands on her waist.

  “You should be. Bad things happened before you came here. But since you come, even worse things. Why is that?”

  Before he could respond, she’d grasped his shoulders with strength that surprised him and eased him backward. “Look what you’ve done. Your wound has opened.”

  He looked down and a dark red patch flowered on the white bandage wrapping his middle. “I heard voices, saw Brandon fall….Was there trouble?”

  “Nothing of your concern.”

  They were silent for a few minutes as she eased the old bandage off him, reapplied the soft, folded wad of fabric to absorb the blood, then rewrapped his middle, easing the bandages under him, tying them off.

  “How is Brandon?”

  “His head will heal. His mind won’t.” Then she looked at him and her eyes softened and she looked so much older.

  “I must have done it, but that means he must have…”

  “No.” She shook her head. “No, no. You did not hit him like that and he did not shoot you.”

  “How can you be so sure? We fought the first two times we met.” He tried to raise himself on an elbow, but fell back to the pillow.

  She put a hand flat against his broad chest. “Brothers would not do this, even with the horrible power of too much drink in their bellies.” He reddened but she continued. “And besides, Brandon no longer has a gun. He does not think I know, but he sold his father’s old pistol for liquor money weeks ago.”

  Brian’s brows met in question.

  “Callie saw it for sale at Miss Gleason’s store and bought it back for me. I have it here, along with Rory’s old shotgun.”

  He was silent a moment, working to take in what she was saying. “I read the letters in the Bible. I don’t know what to say, other than I’m sorry.”

  She smiled. “You were a good boy, Brian. I hated to give you up. But you were not my boy, no matter how hard I wished otherwise. And your father…”

  She looked up at the stones of the fireplace, and above, the mantel, all crowned by a deer skull. “Your father was a good man, but also a difficult man to understand.” She stood, smoothed the little towel that always seemed to be draped over her shoulder. “You have much of your father in you, Brian. I only hope you will find peace here with his ghost.”

  From the front door, a soft knock interrupted their silence. Brian’s eyebrows rose as she crossed the room toward the door.

  “I’m not staying here,” he said. “I just can’t. This is no place for the likes of me. I have a life elsewhere….”

  She nodded in agreement, but her eyes told him she thought she knew better. “If you are the result of the way they raise children back East, Mr. Brian Middleton, then when you get back there, do all of New Mexico Territory a favor and tell your friends to stay put. We have enough rude children of our own. We don’t need any more, thank you.”

  Esperanza turned to the door. “Hello, Callie.” Espy waved the girl into the kitchen and set out two cups for coffee.

  Brian and Callie exchanged glances. He looked away, tired and confused, and chewed the inside of his lip. He felt his face redden like a struck thumb, but there was little he could do. He couldn’t even care for himself, couldn’t stand, couldn’t sit, nothing, at least not without assist
ance. And as much as it pained him to admit it, the woman had every right to feel as she did, bitter with him for being rude. Since he arrived in this backwater, enough people had told him he’d been acting that way that he supposed they were right.

  The devil of it was, this “backwater” was beginning to grow on him. The beauty of it, which he’d finally realized, the beauty that Junior had seen on that first night of camping out under it, the vastness of the night sky, with nothing but the great arching dome of heaven above, beset with the jewels of that sky flashing down just for him…No, he’d not easily forget that. Even before they’d been attacked, he had lain awake for a few minutes, staring up at the same sky. Wondering about the possibility of making a life out here in this wilderness. But no, he’d decided, that would be impossible. His life lay in the East. There were a few young ladies, and one in particular, who awaited his return. And more importantly, his grandfather awaited his return. His grandfather! That man was destined for an earful on Brian’s return.

  To have denied him at the very least the knowledge of his father and yes, if he had to admit it, his father’s love, plus this home place, all these years. And the presence in his life of this strange woman, Esperanza, and so, his half brother, Brandon. That was galling him, especially in light of the fact that he’d probably been the one to hit Brandon hard enough to have caused him permanent damage.

  He hoped that wasn’t the case. But despite what Esperanza said, he felt certain it was he and Brandon and no one else who had inflicted these wounds on each other. It stood to reason, as they’d been at odds since they first met. They also had good cause to dislike each other, even to the point, dare he think of it, of killing each other. And if all that weren’t enough, they had been drinking whiskey.

  “I just don’t know what to think about Junior anymore, Espy….”

  Brian heard Callie Grindle’s voice crack as she spoke, low and in private conversation with Esperanza. He looked at her, her gold hair, a few strands of which had slipped down over her face from the loose gather she’d made at the back of her neck. Her profile was…perfect, and he knew in that moment there wasn’t a woman in all of Providence, or Boston, or in all of the East, for that matter, who could compare with her pretty face, sharp mind, steellike resolve. She looked at him, stiffened, and the soft look in her eyes was replaced with the fierce glint it seemed she reserved especially for him. Still, he did not look away. In truth, he knew he could not, such was the power of her gaze over him.

  To his surprise the softness made its way back into her eyes. They stared at each other a moment more, and then she rose from her seat at the table. Espy carried their cups to the dry sink, picked up her egg basket, and went outdoors.

  Callie stood over him, her arms folded. “Espy told me you got out of bed, opened your wound because you thought Brandon was in trouble.”

  “I heard the stranger—”

  “Don’t do that again. It was foolish of you.”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “She’s right.”

  He looked away, toward the smooth gray stone of the fireplace, and felt the heat of early anger rise in him. This woman would never give him the time of day, so why did he bother feeling anything at all toward her? It was a waste of energy that he could put toward healing. And the sooner he did that, the faster he could get out of this backwater. And then he looked back to her. There was no hard glint in her gaze, still the softness. What could that mean?

  “Miss Grindle?”

  “Callie. My name is Callista, but people call me Callie.”

  “Callie, then. I want to thank you for helping me. I don’t know how I can repay you, but I’d like to. Somehow.”

  She sighed. “You think I did this for payment, Middleton? Is that all you care about? Money?”

  He tried to protest, to tell her that what he meant to say was thank you, nothing more. But the formality of the phrase, the way he was brought up to say things, blocked the way. It always would, especially with someone as thin-skinned as Callie Grindle.

  “I don’t understand you or your kind, Mr. Brian Middleton. And I don’t think I ever will.” She walked to the door as she said this, but paused at the threshold, stopped by his words.

  “Fortunately for me and my kind, Miss Grindle, you need not worry your pretty head over it. I will take my leave of this place as soon as my injuries permit. Then you will be free of me forever.”

  She shook her head, looked at him as if he would never understand anything she said. “Whether you like it or not, Mr. Middleton, you are from here. You are of this place as much as any of us. Yes, you were forced to leave as a child, but if you hadn’t been, you would still be here, no different than the rest of us, the very people you seem to despise.” She looked at the floor, seemed about to say something else, but walked outside instead.

  Brian shook his head again. When would he learn? Never, it seemed. Never.

  Esperanza looked up from wiping out the chickens’ water trough. “What’s the matter, Callie?”

  The girl said nothing as she let the cracked corn sift through her fingers.

  “Let me guess—you’ve had an argument with Brian Middleton.”

  Callie nodded, looked up. “Why are you smiling, Espy? It’s not funny in the least. He’s such an…ass.”

  “Yes, he is, but I think that ass is in love with you.”

  Callie stiffened, corn dribbling from her hand.

  “Yes,” said Espy. “And I know you think he is special too.”

  Callie looked at her, her face hot and her throat tight. “Did he…”

  “No, Callie.” Espy stood up straight, held a hand to her back. “He said nothing to me. But Espy has learned a few things. Oh, I know things.”

  “But, Espy, he’s—”

  “No, no more names, Callie.” She chuckled. “Take your mind to other things. Help me find Brandon.” She lost her smile. “Before he wanders too far.”

  Chapter 41

  “I tell you, Sheriff, that stranger is the man you want to be looking for.” Squirly stood before the sheriff’s desk, his buckskin-clad arms crossed on his chest.

  Sheriff Tucker sat staring at him. He wasn’t sure he could trust that what he was seeing was truthful. There stood the town’s worst drunk, still smelly, but not wobbly and slurring his speech. No, this had to be some sort of trick. “Now, just hold on there a minute, Squirly. You say you just got back to town? From a trip up north? And on a horse?”

  “Yessir, I did. And—”

  “Hold on there.” Tucker held up a hand and shook his head. “First off, should I be worried about you being a horse thief? ’Cause last time I looked, you didn’t have enough money to buy a horse, a saddle, or even a handful of oats.”

  “My good friend, Station Agent Teasdale, staked me. I’m going to pay him back, work off what I owe him for the rental of the horse from Haskell’s, the groceries he sent me with.”

  Tucker closed his eyes. He felt sure a headache would soon be on its way. The world was changing, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to be part of it. “So, you’re telling me that the stranger, Rory MacMawe’s son, murdered your old friend, the cowboy?”

  “What?” Squirly regarded the sheriff as if he’d just eaten a live tarantula spider. “No, no, no. The other stranger. That little foreign fellow.”

  “Well, now, that would make a bit more sense. But where’s your proof, Squirly?”

  “Proof! Well, by gum, I guess to hell I know my own old friend’s face if’n I see it. I spent a few winters with old Mitchell Farthing in a line shack far north of here.”

  “I understand, Squirly. But the law operates on things like evidence, proof, motives, you see? Without them, we’d be in a world of hurt. And no offense, ’cause it seems like you’re not all that drunk, but you’re not known for being overly coherent most of the time, let alone truthful. So if I go question this man because you say he killed someone who may or may not exist, and without proof, well, I’d be a fool. Y
ou see?”

  Squirly let his arms drop. After all that riding, all that work burying Farthing, all those miles with nary a drop to his name. And that’s all he could expect from the sheriff? He snorted and shook his head. “I wasn’t asking you to hang the man, nor arrest him, nor even accuse him. Just wanted to see if you’d keep an eye on him, is all. Long time ago, Mitchell Farthing saved my hide a time or two. Figured it’s the least I can do. But I reckon you’re a busy man and I been a burr under your saddle for far too long to expect you’d listen much to what I have to say.” He left the office. Tucker stood up and watched out the window as Squirly crossed the street, head hanging low, and headed for the saloon.

  Chapter 42

  “Where were you today, girl?”

  “Oh, hi, Papa. Didn’t see you in there in your gloomy cave.” Callie sat on the foyer bench and pulled off her boots. She stayed seated, holding the second boot and staring at the flagged floor.

  “Callie?”

  “Oh yes. Sorry. I was at Espy’s.”

  “I knew it,” said Wilf. “Off playing in that nest of fools and rogues. For the life of me, girl, I don’t know why you associate with them.”

  She looked up at him as if she’d just awakened. Her jaw was set hard, her teeth clenched. “I see now why Junior feels as he does toward you.”

  “Just what do you mean by that?”

  “I mean that you ought not to ride Junior so hard. He’s not right lately. I think he’s in some sort of trouble….”

  “He’s weak, nothing more, nothing less. I’m beginning to think he always will be.”

  Callie shook her head as if he’d disappointed her. “You are insufferable.”

  She had made for the stairs when he spoke again, stopping her in her tracks.

  “Insufferable, eh? Fancy two-dollar word. Now I know you’ve been hanging around that back-East city fellow. I’ve heard all about him from the folks in town. I’d appreciate it if you’d stay home. At least for the time being. No sense you traipsing off over there every day. I expect that Mexican housemaid of Rory’s knows how to heal him up enough to send him on his way back to wherever it is he came from.”