Ralph Compton Double-Cross Ranch

by Matthew P. Mayo

  “See to it!” the old man shouted.

  Ty waved a big hand and rode on out, heading northeastward.

  He’d also packed a sack of lime in one of the panniers, intending to visit Alton Winstead—or what would be left of him once the critters got hold of him. But first he had to make sure he wasn’t being trailed or watched from afar. Not much he could do about some of that, but he could do his best to stick to the treed trails, stay on the southerly slopes and not skyline himself.

  It took him an extra half hour to make his way close to the spot; then he reined up, and scanned the graveled ground for continued sign of the man who’d accompanied the ambusher. Since leaving the ranch he’d spotted random signs here and there, especially of tracks headed away, until they veered off in a sharp northeasterly direction, which led right to the Double Cross.

  One set had been deeper and followed a straighter, truer path, indicating that the horse was weighted with a rider, the strides were lengthened from those of a walk, so the rider was likely in a hurry, and direction was one the rider was sure of.

  The prints left by the second horse, however, left a more erratic trail, and didn’t press in as much. This told him it had to be the riderless horse that belonged to the dead man bouncing along just behind him on his packhorse. The Mexican’s horse must have spooked eventually and run back toward where it came from, perhaps the Double Cross. Though if the man’s horse was one he’d brought with him and not from the Double Cross, then it was possible the horse might stray, lost in the hills.

  Likely its bridle would foul on a branch or brambled thicket. Weighted under a saddle, if it hadn’t already slumped and swung underneath, hanging from its belly, it might well not last long. And then the critters would find it in short order. He’d not put it past wolves or lions to deal it damage sooner than later.

  Again, Ty scanned the ground, eventually seeing prints off to the north upslope of him. From there he couldn’t tell which horse made them. As long as it wasn’t a fresh rider, he didn’t much care. He’d help the riderless horse if he came upon it, but he wasn’t going out of his way just now to track it. He had bigger problems to deal with.

  Stub’s ears perked forward, and Ty followed the horse’s sightline slightly upslope toward a stand of ponderosa pine. The horse’s nostrils quivered; then Ty smelled it too. The distinctive, off tang of decaying flesh.

  Ty quietly patted the horse’s neck, and one ear flicked at the reassurance. They were not far, just one arroyo back from where he’d found Winstead. So the rank scent was most likely the unscrupulous pudgy rancher, dragged there by the squabbling half-starved coyotes, or a lion, a wolf, a grizzly. Could as likely be a dead beef, a bear’s kill—grizzly were fond of letting a kill rot and swarm with maggots before they tucked in, enjoying it good and rank.

  Ty had already shucked his Colt Navy a half-mile back downslope. Now he thumbed back the hammer and quietly nudged Stub forward with his heels. The horse didn’t want to advance toward that thicket, but he did as Ty bade him, as he always had, and Ty suspected he always would. Best horse he’d ever known. A whole lot of stubborn in him, and an ornery streak wider than a barn, but he was always there, willing and able, when Ty needed him. A whole lot like Uncle Hob, he mused.

  They drew up within a dozen yards of the trees. Out of the corner of his left eye he saw the packhorse and its gruesome load, all still with him. Good. If anyone had been hiding in the trees, waiting to clip him, they likely would have done so by now. There was no way in there except straight ahead. And his suspicion that the smell was Winstead was far too strong to ignore. So he gambled and nudged the horse once more.

  He would have to go just inside the shaded cool of the trees—the day, though in autumn, had already turned off warm and promised to unravel into a late-season scorcher. They were few and far between this time of year, but that didn’t mean they were done for the season.

  But once he dismounted, tied off Stub well to a stout branch, stepped inside the shade of the little stand, the stink hit him twice as hard as it had just a few feet back, out in the sun where the air kept a slow, steady flow. It took him but a moment more to notice Winstead’s leg protruding from behind a gray-black boulder.

  The boot, poking upright, jostled and wagged. Whatever was hidden from view, tugging on the man, was so intent on its snacking that it hadn’t heard Ty’s approach. He quickly stepped around the rock and came into view of the entire stinking, chewed mess, locking eyes with a lobo just raising its head. It didn’t look as if the creature had been feeding, just tugging and nudging at the body, still on its back, probably in an effort to determine just what this creature was and why it happened to reside, unguarded and unguarding, way out here.

  “Git!” growled Ty. The beast padded backward one, two steps, then stopped, its top lip raised almost comically, exposing long, curving white fangs that even in this shaded dark of the tree cover looked menacing and surgical in their intent.

  “I said ‘Git!’” Ty stepped forward again, his pistol thrust outward, pointing finger poised on the curving trigger, ready to offer one single effective slight squeeze. “If I didn’t have to mind my shots for fear of drawing attention, I’d give you a couple good ones right now, you cur.”

  Ty hoped he sounded menacing to the beast, enough so to drive it into the woods as he had done to the coyotes the day before. In truth, he wished the wolf no ill. The wolf must have sensed something menacing about Ty’s voice and demeanor, for it backed farther away, snarling and showing tooth. Ty lunged fast toward it, feinting an attack, and the lobo dashed off, tail tucked. He made sure it kept going. He tracked it with his eyes far westward, out of the trees, and away over the closest hill.

  Satisfied it would not return soon, he shifted his gaze to the aromatic mess that had been his former neighbor, the man who stole his land and his girl. “Not so much to look at now, are you, Winstead, you poor bastard? I’ll admit I was never fond of you, but I’d not wish your fate on any man.” Ty’s thoughts turned to the men at the Double Cross holding Sue Ellen hostage. “Well, maybe on a few. Might be I can make that happen.”

  He shook his head and walked back to the packhorse. He approached easy, knowing the animals would still be skittish from the scent of the dead man and the wolf. He unpacked the sack of powdered lime and brought it back into the copse.

  It clouded and swirled around his feet as he dumped it from the cotton sack, liberally dosing the chewed parts of Winstead’s anatomy and covering the rest as best as he was able. When the sack emptied, Ty stuffed a corner in his back pocket and began gathering rocks, feeling a sense of urgency now, knowing his horses—and his troublesome load—were potentially exposed to the prying eyes of anyone riding by. Most likely that would be someone from the gang of ruffians at the Double Cross.

  Piling the rocks atop Winstead took longer minutes than he intended, but Ty knew, even with such precautions, curious critters would still, despite the stink-quelling lime and the rocks, find a way to dislodge and work on the body. He’d done this mostly for Sue Ellen’s sake. And for his own, if he had to be honest with himself. So he wouldn’t feel guilt over it. So he could look at his own reflection in a stream as he drank, or splashed his face of a cold mountain morning, when he camped alone up in the high places, his favored spots. Alone is what he’d be with his thoughts and a cold bedroll. But at least he’d be able to tell her, and himself, that he’d done what he could for any man all his days. Including that skunk Winstead.

  Ty mounted up and switchbacked up the slippery, scree-riddled slope until they topped out near the spot where he’d found Winstead the day before. Another short piece and they made it to the overlook where he’d waited for the two rascals from the Double Cross. He’d not bother glassing the place today. Today he’d ride in alone. At least the only living man in his party. Whether he rode out of there in the same shape remained to be seen.

  Something was very w
rong down at the Double Cross, and he needed to find out what it was. And how to save Sue Ellen. Trouble was, he didn’t have a single decent idea how to go about it.

  Ty set his jaw and let out a long, slow breath as they descended the long ridge in much the same fashion as he’d gained the top from the other side.

  Chapter 14

  It wasn’t until Ty passed beneath the arch that an alarm was raised by a loafing hard case leaning in much the same spot he’d been the day before. Ty paid little attention to the man’s shouts. Good, at least they weren’t waiting for him. All the long, straight lane up to the place, he’d kept a keen eye on the terrain to his left and right.

  Clewt Duggins walked out on the porch, that curious stiff-legged gait making him look uncomfortable. He shaded his eyes and squinted toward the arch. Then he shouted, plenty loud enough for Ty to hear: “Well, well, what have we here? As I live and breathe, it’s . . .” He shook his hand as if trying to call up a name from long ago. He continued his theatrics and rubbed his chin, rolled his eyes at the timbers of the porch above his head. Then he snapped his fingers and said, “I’ve got it—Ty Farraday. That’s your name, isn’t it?” His shouts covered the hundred or so yards separating them. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

  The words barely echoed, carried off on a stiff northerly breeze that had kicked up as Ty descended to the valley floor. Dust eddied and dry debris skittered across the late-season hardpan.

  Ty dismounted, kept his hat tilted low so he could let his eyes rove, and with a few quick slashes from his Bowie knife, freed the lashed down, tarpaulin-covered corpse of the Mexican. He glanced once more across the packhorse’s back, over the dead man, did his best to take in the entirety of the place.

  Of Sue Ellen there was no sign—she wasn’t hauling water, wasn’t off to either end of the house, hanging the washing. Maybe she was out back, maybe in the kitchen. If he could only see that she was there, alive and, if not well, at least not being abused. He cursed himself for not making a play for her sooner, no matter her obstinate demeanor. She must have been coerced into acting that way. Daylight glinted off the house’s many windows, two floors full, but in none of them could he see her staring out.

  Ty shoved the dead Mexican by the boots and the bound carcass pitched forward, landed hard. Dust rose, swirled off on the breeze.

  • • •

  Clewt watched the man with a steady gaze. From the looks of him the day before, and again today, he appeared seedy, frayed around the edges like a saddle bum. No, that was not quite right. He had a stately edge about him, as if he were somehow better than the rest of them all. But it was not an attitude that he had pulled on like an old coat.

  It was something that was part of him, something Ty himself was, not something he chose to be. And that’s what bothered Clewt the most. This man, this Ty Farraday, he was dangerous. Someone who maybe had designs on the ranch himself. Someone who maybe had designs on Mrs. Winstead too. He’d bet money on it.

  There was something that passed between them yesterday when he’d ridden up, larger than life, and sat his horse, staring down at the rest of them, how he seemed casual but held a steady gaze, even on the woman. Yes, thought Clewt, there was something there all right. He’d bet good money on it.

  • • •

  By the time the men on the ranch house’s porch recognized Ty’s dropped bundle for what it was, several seconds of silence had passed. Then, as one, they jerked to action, shouting and waving arms. Only Clewt Duggins remained immobile. But Ty fancied he saw the man’s theatrical smile disappear. Several of the loafing men had bolted toward the barn, but in a voice as loud as his mocking tones of moments before, Clewt shouted, “Hold! Hold, I say!” His arms were poised as if he were conducting an orchestra.

  Ty, mounted on Stub, had turned the horse sideways to the house and buildings, and squinting against the dust-pocked breeze, once again took in the surrounding landscape, his eyes roving quickly back to the ranch house and the man holding court there. Duggins’s annoyed minions fidgeted and waved their own arms in anger.

  They must know exactly who he’d dropped there in the dirt. Up until then, had they expected the Mexican to ride up with news of Ty’s own death? What of the second man? For there had been a second man, of that Ty was certain. Maybe he never returned? Unlikely, for if the Mexican’s death was a surprise to them all, it was more likely that the second man played it poorly and lied when he returned alone from Ty’s place. Or hightailed and didn’t return.

  All these thoughts and more raced through Ty’s mind even as he paralleled the ranch and buildings, under the pointed glare of Clewt Duggins and his seething men. What was that man’s game? Ty had his rifle laid across his lap, barrel pointed at the ranch, his Colt Navy ready to be slicked free, and still Clewt watched him depart, this time in a southerly fashion, along the flat, primarily so that Ty would not leave with his back to the nest of vipers.

  And for as far as he rode, he took care to ensure, if they followed him, he was well out of range or else ready to return fire as good as he got. But as he passed over the long ridge, many miles to the southwest, roughly in the direction of home, he saw no riders departing from the Double Cross.

  That meant only that they were biding their time, likely waiting to strike him at home, once again, right where he hung his hat. Well, Ty knew one thing for certain—he and Uncle Hob would be ready.

  Chapter 15

  “I’ll return when I can. Just as soon as I’ve taken care of the business I told you of.”

  The woman stared at her husband, Henry Atwood, former marshal of Dane Creek. He knew by the sadness in her eyes that he had not lied to her well enough. She knew the reason he was leaving, knew as well that he might not return. Nonetheless, he decided to keep up the pretense. It would be easier this way, also for the boy. When it came time to explain to him just what had become of his father, she would be able to tell him, knowing at least that she was telling him what her husband had told her. She would not be lying to him, not really.

  “This business, will it return you to me whole and alive?” She asked him this, but turned away as soon as she said it.

  Henry knew she was crying. Knew, too, that it had taken much for her to muster the courage to say this. He felt sure he had never made her cry. Certainly he was not a man to strike a woman. He had seen too much of that himself as a boy, and had found such men to be weak, cowardly things, prone to crying and simpering when they should have been working and making the most of their days. To her silent tears, he could only stay strong and answer with more lies, lies that he hoped would be proved true.

  “I will return to you, of course, my sweet girl. As soon as I am able.” He turned her gently by the shoulders and smiled, a forced effort that surely must have looked as hollow as it felt. “I will bring you back finery. Perhaps some embroidered cloth, fancy thread. And a good little pocketknife for the boy, yes?”

  He knew she wanted to answer, to tell him once again that she only wanted him to return. But this, they both knew, this they both wanted. None more so than him, in fact, but though he was many things, he was not particularly handy with a gun. Oh, he had done, time and time again, what needed doing. But only when forced to, and usually only against adversaries with more gun than skill and sense.

  As marshal of Dane Creek, Henry Atwood had seen his share of bad things and bad people doing those bad things. Now he had retired from the position, had taken his wife and son to stay with her sister and her husband and children, good people. But he still had an obligation to right wrongs, the ragged results of a situation gone awry during his time as marshal.

  Every day that passed he blamed himself for the lives lost to bad men doing bad things. Lives that he knew he could have saved, should have saved. But he had tried, too many times as it turned out, to save lives by talking, by trying to calm the killers. Sometimes it had worked. Most of the time, in fact. Not
all of those hard-edged people had been killers, of course, but enough of them that his efforts at winning the upper hand through peace sometimes failed.

  For a long time he had believed that being an officer of the law and a keeper of the peace meant that it was his duty to steer the killers to solid ground, take their weapons from them not by force but because they offered them. And because killings had been rare in the early days, this had led him to believe that his methods were right and good, just and successful.

  And he was so wrong, as it had turned out. For as time wore on and the town’s coffers filled with money from mining, and then cattle drives, the town filled businesses that catered to easy-money people. Bordellos and bars and gambling dens and places where, no matter how many times he and his short-lived deputies rousted them, broke them up, and sent them packing off to other holes in town, drunken men would find ways to savage one another. In alleyways between these tall new buildings from which fake women moaned and drunk men raged. In those alleys men died lonely, bloody deaths, found in the mornings by him, gutted with knives that once again rode somewhere in town safely in the wielder’s belt sheaths.

  And then when he thought that he might have begun to develop a harder edge, despite his efforts to avoid such things, the town burst wide open with too many people, too much money, too much promise . . . and not nearly enough law. And just when Henry knew that at least, as bad as it had become, it could not get any worse, that was when Clewt Duggins and his gang rode in and stayed, long enough to rip open the oozing wound of a town and leave a trail of dead behind, among them his deputy.

  Henry Atwood bent low, kissed the shiny black hair of his beautiful young son, Henry, a mere stripling, at six years of age slight and delicate like his mother. He let his thick-fingered hand rest atop the quiet boy’s head while he looked once again at his wife, Maria, nearly twenty years his junior, and a tender butterfly of a woman, as mysterious and open and beautiful as the Mexican countryside in which she had been raised.