Dead Man's Ranch

by Ralph Compton

  The little man nodded, taking it all in.

  “Now go!” shouted Chester, pushing him toward the stable.

  Chaz had made it but a few miles from the Driving D when he saw a cloud of dust up ahead, from the direction of town, boiling closer to him, the midday sun causing him to squint, his horse to shudder and blow. Still, he could tell she didn’t want to stop. As Chester said, this was a spirited little filly.

  The dust cloud drew closer and Chaz knew it was a rider. He slowed the horse to a lope, hesitant to meet the rider, half wondering if it might be the man who shot Mr. Grindle. From what he could gather, it hadn’t been the boy who shot his own father, but maybe that man from the bar last night.

  Relief like a cool drink on a hot day washed over Chaz as he recognized the two riders as Sheriff Tucker and his deputy, Sweazy. He reined up and flagged the men to a standstill, but the lawmen didn’t look pleased with the interruption.

  “Sheriff, I was sent for you—”

  “Have you seen Junior Grindle? And Wilf? I aim to give them a piece of my mind. Had enough of people thinking that money gives them the right to skirt the law. Not in my—”

  “Sheriff, listen to me! Mr. Grindle is dead, shot. And Junior took off to the Dancing M. I was coming to get you.”

  The sheriff’s face slackened. “Wilf…dead? Shot? Not by Junior…”

  “We don’t think so, but Junior said something about that stranger from the bar last night. You know the one, Sheriff….”

  The lawman nodded. “That foreign one,” he snapped, his distaste evident in the sneer on his face. “So that’s what Squirly was on about. And Junior too. Deputy Sweazy here tried to tell me.”

  “Junior also said something about how…the brothers are in trouble? And now Callie and Mica….”

  The sheriff’s gaze sharpened. “What? Where are they at? Where’s Callie?”

  “At the Dancing M. Chester and the boys are headed there now.”

  Sheriff Tucker nudged his horse into a gallop and shouted, “Good! We’ll meet up with them, form a posse. I don’t understand what’s going on, but I don’t like it one bit. I am not riding into trouble without better odds. Let’s go, Sweazy!”

  The deputy nodded and sank spur, riding just behind the sheriff. Chaz fell in line behind the deputy. A short time later, they met up with five Driving D ranch hands down the lane toward the Dancing M.

  As they rode, Sheriff Tucker had a good bit of time to mull over just what it was he might be facing. First off, there was that young Grindle whelp. He gritted his teeth at the thought of that boy, whom he’d known his entire life, drinking up the town and expecting no consequences of his actions. Then there was that big dude from the East, MacMawe’s oldest boy. The man, Middleton he called himself now, was Rory’s son, no doubt about that—one glance proved it. He looked like a younger version of Rory, had the same hair, same big build, same way of walking. And yet he was as city as any you’d find in Frisco or Chicago.

  And then there was that Italian rascal, Darturo. He’d found out the man’s name after too much pestering and snooping. Didn’t like to do that normally, but the man wasn’t forthcoming with information and it was his job, after all, to make sure anybody who came to his town was not an unsavory. This one was too much of a bad thing. Something about him that the sheriff didn’t trust in the least. And try as he might, send as many telegrams as he liked, he couldn’t turn up paper on him. He could have sworn there was a notice on him in the stack, but he’d be jiggered if he could find it.

  Even Sweazy, his deputy, who had a nose for such things and a solid memory too, swore he’d seen him in the stack, but when it came time, nothing.

  The most galling knowledge of all to Sheriff Tucker was the fact that Esperanza and Callie and Mica had kept a shooting from him. Did they honestly think that someone would get shot in these parts and he’d not find out about it? He’d ridden out there to the Dancing M the morning after the Driving D boys told him about the shooting. They’d heard it from Wilf, they said. But when he rode out there, Esperanza hadn’t let him in. He’d asked to see Brandon, but she said he was gone, didn’t know when he’d be back.

  Callie stood right there lying to him too. Little girl he’d known all her life, same as Junior. Friends with her daddy and all. Got that stubborn streak from Wilf, he’d guess. And then he was winded by the sudden thought of his old rich, cranky friend—and friendly rival for Miss Gleason’s affections—gone, shot by someone.

  As they thundered down the road, gaining ground on the Dancing M ranch house, Tucker cursed himself for not investigating that shooting more seriously. He’d come to the conclusion that something had happened between Brandon and Middleton. But it wasn’t like him to just take someone’s word for it. But that’s exactly what he’d done—take Callie and Esperanza’s word for it that Brandon and that Middleton fellow were both alive, if not unhurt. He figured that as long as they knew that he was aware of the incident, that would be enough, and that they could solve their own problems. But now that Wilf had been shot, he knew he’d been a fool to be so lax about following up.

  And as much as he hated to admit it, he’d been a double-damned fool for not paying attention to Squirly Ross, who’d warned him just the night before about that rogue, Darturo. Tucker heeled his horse harder as the little ranch house came into sight, and vowed never to take anything his old gut told him, or even what a little drunk like Squirly Ross told him, for granted ever again. If it proved the little drunk was right, he’d owe him a big apology. And a drink…or three.

  Chapter 51

  “I honestly don’t understand this savage behavior. It’s as if everyone out here is afflicted with a sort of…madness, an anger….”

  An hour before Junior took off for the Dancing M, Callie had ridden there herself. And now as she rode, Brian’s words echoed in Callie’s thoughts. She and the horse were both well rested for the first time since the attack days before. As the words echoed in her head, she recalled staring at the face of Brian J. Middleton, the man who’d said them, and for an instant anger much as he described flared up in her. But it was an anger with herself for allowing feelings for this citified oaf to veil her judgment. And then that anger passed and she saw him for what he was—a stranger here in more ways than mere presence. He might have been born here, but that was a long time ago. He was raised in a different place, a different world as removed from this one as if she were called to visit a city back East.

  She worried this thought over and over, like a frayed end of rope, as Butter carried her, at a steady lope, toward the Dancing M.

  The last half mile before she thundered into the dooryard of the Dancing M had been the hardest to bear these past few days. She didn’t know what she would find, but she knew what propelled her forward, faster with each day. Not just her feelings for Esperanza and Brandon, people who were like family to her, but concern for Brian too.

  Mixed with this was her worry that it could have been her own brother who had attacked the brothers. But as eager as she knew Junior was to please their father, would that really be enough to drive him to kill?

  As she thundered into the dooryard of the Dancing M, Callie saw that strange horse tied out front. It was a fine-looking animal, a buckskin, and wore a gleaming black leather rig, adorned with modest but expensive decoration and accoutrements. Something unknown niggled at her, but she ignored it. It was not uncommon for even the remote ranches to have visitors on occasion. But then again, what if it were an unwanted person? Someone the sheriff sent, perhaps? He had been steamed and not a little embarrassed when they sent him packing the day before. She didn’t think it would take him long to figure out a way to get into the house and find out just who had been shot and why. Neither of the boys would be in much of a situation to help Espy should she need it.

  Callie cursed herself for being so caught up in her own thoughts that she didn’t see potential danger until she was in it. Always the way with me, she thought. Can’t see the fores
t for the trees, Mica would say. Instead of reining up to the house as she usually did, she rode straight for the barn, through one of the big, open double doors. She swung down and looped the reins through a ring mounted on the wall.

  That sound—it was Espy’s chickens, but these were not the long, drawn-out clucks of a hen on the nest, but the short, clipped sounds of agitated hens unaccustomed to missing their morning feed of cracked corn. Espy never neglected her brood—something must be wrong. Other than the chickens, there were no sounds, no songs in Spanish floating on the scents of fresh tortillas from the kitchen, no odd mumbling from Brandon as he walked about the place, scuffing from one task to another, not finishing much of anything.

  She looked again at the other stalls. They were empty save for one. There was Mica’s horse, the big gray he called “Horse.” She half smiled. That was a good sign. Mica surely would see to it that no harm came to Espy or the wounded brothers. She cursed herself again. It was later in the day than she meant to get there. She had overslept, and woke with Mica’s old saw ringing in her ears, “You wouldn’t have slept if you didn’t need to.”

  “Sleep or no,” she whispered, “I’m here now.” And reached for her rifle on Butter’s saddle. But the boot was empty. She had forgotten it back at the Driving D stable. “You fool!” she cursed herself in a harsh whisper.

  “Come on, little girl! We are having a grand old time in here. I insist you join us.”

  The man’s voice, shouted from the house, froze her. Who was that? Callie swallowed hard, her throat dry and her mind a blank. What should she do? None of this made sense. But something was definitely wrong.

  Callie stepped through the big barn door and walked with care toward the little quiet house. Smoke crawled slowly up and out the chimney. A gallinipper buzzed and rattled in a thicket of mesquite a few yards away, the buff-and-white hens scratched closer to their night pen, eyeing her, still complaining loud enough for Callie to look toward them. As she did she heard Mica’s familiar voice. “Get out of here, Callie! Go for help! Go—”

  His pleas were cut off by a loud thudding sound and a drawn-out groan.

  “Mica!” she yelled, and ran toward the house, hearing but not heeding his warning. She took the two steps into the kitchen as one quick stride and just inside the open door stopped short. Sprawled on the floor at her feet lay Mica, an upturned chair kicked to one side, dark blood pooling under his head.

  Espy snatched towels and half-dried shirts from behind the stove, anything to stanch the flow of Mica’s blood. He moaned softly as she tended him. Espy made no sound, but Callie saw sparks of hate dancing in the little woman’s eyes at the smirking man standing just behind them, half in the shadow of the rear of the room.

  “Who are you? What have you done?” Callie spat the words, no fear showing on her stern, tight face. She dropped to her knees beside the groaning man and stole a quick glance toward the trundle bed where Brian lay, white-faced and unconscious…or worse.

  The sound of the hammer clicking back into the deadliest position of all seemed to echo outward from the shadows. Callie and Espy looked up at the man, who was shaking his head and clucking his tongue as if he were disappointed with what he saw. “You should back away from him, little miss. He already has one wet nurse.”

  Callie and Espy exchanged glances. The older woman nodded once in assurance, and went back to tending Mica. Callie stood, her jaw thrust outward, raw hate narrowing her eyes.

  “As for who I am, why, I suppose there is no harm now in telling you. I am Mortimer Darturo, at your service, little miss.” The man offered a quick bow, then said, “But not really at your service. That is merely something one says in such social situations.”

  “What do you want here? You don’t belong here.” Callie stood firm, tried to control her breathing. Her hands formed hard fists at her sides.

  “Now, is someone going to tell me who this gut-shot fellow is?” Darturo nodded once at Brian Middleton’s still form.

  Callie held her breath until she saw Brian’s chest rise and fall beneath the thin quilt covering him.

  “He is nearly done in, eh? In fact, I would say he is knocking hard on death’s front door. I would guess they’ll let him in soon enough. No need to waste lead on a foregone conclusion.”

  Callie’s gut tightened. Minutes ago she was sure everything in their lives would somehow turn around, that it was going to work out for the best. But now a stranger she’d never seen or heard of held them all at gunpoint and Mica’s face was distorted with lumps and one eye had puffed shut. What was going on here?

  A scuffing noise outside drew their gaze to the doorway. Brandon weaved into view and peered into the dark of the cabin, the bandage on his head smudged and unraveling. Several feet of it dragged behind him, though he seemed not to notice.

  “I had forgotten about the boy—he looks ‘tetched in the bean,’ as an old miner I once knew would put it. There is no denial from any of you, so I guess he must be crazy, eh?” Darturo stared at the oblivious boy, smiling and on the verge of a laugh. “I will deal with him in a moment.

  “Now, as touching as this family scene is, it is not feeding the baby, is it? Eh?” Darturo looked around the room at the faces staring back at him. “All of you make my plans more complicated than I expected to find here.” He paced back and forth behind them, wagging his gleaming pistol in emphasis. “But, then again, when we are faced with the unexpected, well, that is often where the sweetness of life comes from, eh?” He looked at each of them in turn. No one said anything.

  “You people.” He smiled. “You need to relax. Understand that very little in life works out as we hope it might. I came to your dusty little turnip of a town in the hope of finding an angle for myself, some way to take something for Darturo, eh?

  “But the drunken rich boy I think will not be worth much when he is held upside down and shaken out. That is too bad, as I have had much luck in the past with putting people in painful situations and forcing them to buy their way out of them. It’s not a bad thing, you see? They end up happy and so do I. And I can always return to them later, as if they were a bank, should I need more money down the road. It makes good sense.”

  He leaned down and peered at Espy. “Are you listening to me, you mother hen?” He brushed a loose length of hair from her forehead with the barrel of his pistol. She jerked away from him, sneering but saying nothing. “Your look, it is angry, eh? How much angrier could you be with me if I were to put a bullet in your man’s brain, eh?” He poked the snout of the barrel into the wound on Mica’s head. The man’s groans hitched in his throat.

  Callie bent to help Mica. “Stop it! What do you want? You want money? Is that what this show of yours is about?”

  Without warning, Darturo pounced like a barn cat on a mouse and grabbed Callie’s wrist, slamming her backward into a chair. “You will sit there, little miss, until we are ready to leave.” The entire time a sort of smile stayed on his face, his lips pulled tight against his teeth.

  “Why are you doing this?” croaked a voice from the other end of the room.

  Mort turned to him. “Oh, so you are still among us, eh? Allow me to explain, as being an Easterner, you would not understand the ways of the West….

  “When I left Denver, it became all about the land, the land, the land, the land. It was all I could think about. I heard of an opportunity there that I thought might make me a wealthy man, an important man. I thought to obtain a ranch where I could live out my days in peace, get fat, settle down with some women, that sort of thing. But this is not turning out to be the case. For that, I blame that fat, bigmouthed lawyer in Denver. He talked this place up, but this is not very pretty land, is it? It is hot and dry here. I see few trees that can proudly wear the name.” He thrust his bottom lip outward and shook his head as if he were lamenting the passing of a friend.

  “But this is the way of things. I am no richer than when I arrived in Turnbull, and then again, I am no poorer.” He shrugged. “I t
ook the chance on seeing it through, and now it is time to cut my losses and get the hell out of here, eh? But I’m just going to have to slow you all down so you are not tempted to follow after me. Now, who is the first loss to be cut?”

  Then, as quickly as it began, his laughing ceased and he looked at them all in a sweep of the room. “The only way to fix a problem is to get rid of the things that cause it. At least that’s the only way I know of. In this case it was the rich old man and the two half brothers. That’s what we talked about in the bar the other night.”

  “Who’s this ‘we’?” said Mica, who had pushed himself up so that he leaned against Esperanza. “You got a mouse in your pocket?”

  Darturo’s eyebrows rose. “I do not know what that means, but it was a business arrangement between myself and…Aha! No, not a mouse.” He wagged a finger at Mica, and one side of his mouth rose in a smile. “But a young man. Someone I think you all know very well….” He watched their faces and nodded as the recognition hit them. “Yes, yes, you see, you see….Now I wait here so we can talk about what I get out of all this. For I am owed something.”

  Another noise from outdoors drew Darturo’s attention. Brandon tottered into view and pointed at Darturo. “Out of my mother’s house now, or I will come in after you.” It seemed as if just saying the words drained him of strength.

  Darturo sighed. “You again, you addled whelp.” He sighed. “Pardon me, good people. I will stop the madman from interrupting our proceedings and then we can get back to the matters at hand.” He hoisted his pistol and walked to the door, eyeing the four figures in the room as he walked, the gun outstretched before him. He raised it as Brandon, wobbling in the yard, assumed the stance of a drunken pugilist, both fists raised in the air before his chalky, wobbling face.