Ralph Compton Ride the Hard Trail

by Ralph Compton

  Sue Dixon uttered the first words she had spoken since she arrived. “I bet you handled it right fine, though.”

  Lin nearly choked on the coffee he was swallowing. His brother had blushed, and Patricia Dixon gave her daughter a look that made Lin think of twin daggers.

  “I am still breathing,” Chancy said. Then he became interested in a corn dodger.

  Only after the meal was over and the children had been whisked to bed did the adults get to the business at hand. Etta June started it off by saying, “You can’t be serious, Pat, about Seth Montfort wanting to exterminate you and yours.”

  “Then why all the short-trigger men?”

  “Seth says cows have been disappearing off his range,” Etta June said. “That is cause enough. Remember, most punchers are not all that gun wise.”

  “I could see hiring one or two,” Pat said. “But he has upwards of fifteen. He told us so. Bragged about them as if they were prized bulls.”

  “Seth does like to crow about himself,” Etta June said.

  “Talk to him for me,” Patricia requested.

  “What?”

  “That is why I came over. Everyone knows he is sweet on you. The next time you see him, ask about the gun crowd. Find out why in heaven’s name he has accused Cody of having a sticky rope. We are not brand blotters.”

  Etta June fingered her glass of lemonade. “As a matter of fact, I am having him over tomorrow night.”

  Pat reached across the table and squeezed Etta June’s hand. “I knew I could count on you. This needs to be settled before blood is spilled, or worse.”

  “What can be worse than spilling blood?” Lin interjected.

  “A strangulation jig,” Pat said, anxiously. “In these parts brand artists are turned into human fruit, and I do not want my husband or either of my sons dangling from the end of a rope.”

  “How old are your sons?” Lin asked.

  “Tyler is twenty-two; Hank is eighteen. They are good boys.” Pat stopped and swallowed, but she had nothing in her mouth. “When Montfort showed up and accused us, Tyler said he was willing to swear on a stack of Bibles that we never rustled a head in our lives. And do you know what Montfort did? He said my boys would not know the truth if it jumped up and bit them.”

  “He didn’t!” Etta June exclaimed.

  “I heard it with my own ears,” Pat confirmed. “If you ask me, Seth Montfort was trying to provoke my menfolk. I honestly think he was hoping they would go for a gun so he would have an excuse to have his hired killers bed them down permanent.”

  “Surely not.”

  “Who is to stop him? We are awful short on law. Mason is not big enough to have a marshal. We don’t have a county sheriff because the legislature has not gotten around to creating counties this far north. All that leaves is a federal marshal, and getting hold of one of them can take months.” Pat wrung her hands. “No, we are on our own. Seth Montfort can do pretty much as he pleases, and there is not a thing we can do about it.”

  “If he dares to harm you I will go to the governor,” Etta June vowed. “I will tell Seth that too when I see him tomorrow.”

  “I thank you, but it won’t stop a man like him. He is used to having his own way.”

  The talk drifted to other matters, and at one point it was agreed that Pat and Sue should stay the night.

  “These mountains are not safe after dark,” Etta June said. “Especially not with rustlers and Indians on the loose. Get a good night’s sleep and head home in the morning.”

  Lin and Chancy could sleep anywhere that struck their fancy—so long as it was not in the house.

  “I figure one of us should stay near, just in case, while the other beds down in the stable,” Lin proposed. Some Indians were as fond of helping themselves to horses owned by whites as they were of counting coup on the whites who owned them.

  “I will sleep near the house,” Chancy promptly said.

  Lin looked at him. It would be more comfortable in the stable. “Are you sure? I don’t mind sleeping under the stars.”

  “Neither do I, Big Brother.”

  Etta June had a contribution. “Why not sleep on the porch, Chancy? I will give you extra blankets and you will be as cozy as can be.”

  “I am obliged,” Chancy said.

  The women indulged in more small talk. About the weather, about a new dress Pat was making for Sue, about how much manure to add to a rose garden and the prices Abe Tucker was charging these days for essentials like sugar and flour.

  Typical female prattle, Lin thought to himself. He did not take part. Neither did his brother, who was being unusually quiet. Chancy did speak when Sue Dixon asked him to pass the bowl of sugar so she could add some to her lemonade.

  “Of course.”

  It was probably Lin’s imagination, but he had the impression their hands brushed as Chancy slid the bowl to her.

  Then the meal was over, and Etta June escorted Lin and Chancy to the door. Lin thanked her for a fine time.

  “The first of many,” Etta June said with a smile. “You were perfect gentlemen, the both of you.”

  “The next time I will try to be more rowdy,” Chancy said.

  Laughing, she held the door open for them. As Lin went past, she snagged his sleeve. “Both of you be careful. What with the Indians and the wolves and now this business with Seth Montfort, there is no telling what might happen.”

  “Have you always had a wolf problem?” Lin asked, mainly so he could stay near her a bit longer.

  “Not until the last year or so,” Etta June revealed. “All the ranchers have lost a few calves and yearlings.”

  “Strange,” Lin said. Where game was abundant—and the Big Horns had plenty—wolves normally let livestock be.

  “Might be a lobo.”

  “I suppose,” Lin said. It was rare, but every now and again a lone wolf took to killing stock and went on killing, often because the wolf was so old it could not run down wild game, or it had been crippled.

  “Keep your rifle and revolver handy,” Etta June advised.

  Chancy placed his hand on his pearl-handled Colt. “I never let this out of my reach.”

  “Ever since my husband died, I have taken to sleeping with a rifle by my bed,” Etta June mentioned. “Give a holler and I will come on the run.”

  Lin idly wondered why she had stopped referring to her departed spouse as “my Tom.” He put his hat on, touched the brim with a finger and went out. As the door closed he was filled with regret that the meal was over.

  “I will go with you to the stable to get my bedroll and Winchester,” Chancy said.

  “Nice folks.” Lin bobbed his head at the house.

  “The sprouts can be a nuisance.”

  “They did not act up once during supper,” Lin observed. “What did you think of the Dixons?”

  “The mother is a she-bear. Get her riled and she shows her claws. Seth Montfort had better watch out.”

  “What about the daughter, Sue?”

  “What about her?”

  “She must be awful shy. She hardly said a word all night. She is pretty, though, don’t you think?”

  “I didn’t notice,” Chancy said stiffly.

  “The young men in these parts are bound to. She probably has more suitors than you can shake a stick at.”

  “Don’t you have better things to talk about than romance?”

  Lin looked at him, hiding a smile. “Why are you so prickly?”

  “Men should talk about manly things and not who is courting who,” Chancy said.

  “What do you want to talk about, then?”

  “Not Sue Dixon.”

  The stable was quiet, the interior mired in shadow. Lin lit a lantern that hung on a peg near the door.

  Soon Chancy, his bedroll under one arm, strolled back out. “Don’t sleep too tight, Big Brother, or you might wake up without your hair.”

  Lin did not find that amusing. He once met a man who had been scalped and lived to tell the t
ale, but when his head healed, the man’s hair had not grown back. These days the man hardly ever took his hat off.

  Where to sleep was the question of the moment. Lin decided on the hayloft. He blew out the lantern, waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark and walked to the ladder. He climbed carefully. The hay smell reminded him of his childhood. He stamped some of it down and spread out his bedroll.

  Weariness nipped at Lin, but he shrugged it off. He had left the stable doors open in case Chancy or the women needed him in a hurry. Now he knelt at the hayloft door. It opened at his second tug, and cool air blew over him. He put his rifle down and leaned out.

  The night was peaceful. A few windows were still lit in the house. He could not see Chancy thanks to the porch overhang.

  Lin pushed his hat back on his head. He liked the ranch, he liked the kids, he liked Etta June more than ever. He hoped—no, he prayed—that it worked out so he and his brother could stay for as long as they wanted. If only he could keep a rein on Chancy. His brother’s recklessness had already brought them enough trouble. They did not need more.

  Lin yawned. On hands and knees he crossed to his blanket. Sinking down on his side, he place the Winchester next to him, removed his hat and closed his eyes.

  The hay was as good as a bed. Lin drifted into dreamland, and in his dream he was stalked by a pack of starving wolves. He was on his horse, but they chased him, and one of the wolves brought the buttermilk down by ripping a rear leg with its fangs. He heard the horse whinny, felt the jolt of striking the hard ground.

  Suddenly Lin was awake. He lay in a cold sweat, unsure whether the dream had woke him, or something else. He had about decided it was the dream and was closing his eyes to go back to sleep when a sound came through the hayloft door. It was faint, but he would swear it was the rasp of metal on metal.

  Puzzled, Lin rose onto his elbows and cocked his head, waiting for the sound to be repeated. When it wasn’t, he sank onto his back.

  Another sound reached him, only from inside the stable, the suggestion of a stealthy tread.

  Lin sat up and jammed his hat on. With infinite caution he crept toward the edge of the loft. He tried not to rustle the hay, but it was everywhere. Easing one leg forward and then the other, he reached the ladder. But he did not descend. Not yet. Not until he had some idea of who or what was down there.

  The open space between the loft and the front of the stable was empty. At least, it appeared to be.

  Lin craned his neck to scan the center aisle. Only a few stalls were visible, and they were plunged in darkness. None of the horses were acting up, which suggested it was a person, not a wild beast. The scent of a big cat or a bear would have them in a panic.

  Lin leaned out—and froze.

  A vague shape was almost directly below him.

  Placing a hand on the ladder, Lin leaned farther out and strained his eyes to pierce the gloom.

  Suddenly the shape bounded forward. Before Lin could guess its intent, the ladder was wrenched out from under him. He tried to catch himself, but it was too late.

  Headfirst, Lin plummeted from the loft.

  Chapter 7

  For an instant Lin imagined crashing to the ground and hearing the snap of his neck. Then instinct took over. He twisted as he fell, contriving to land on his side. He succeeded, but the pain nearly blacked him out. He thought his chest burst, so hard did he hit.

  Aware that whoever pulled the ladder away was still there, Lin struggled to sit up. He had dropped his rifle when he fell and desperately groped about to find it.

  Movement registered.

  Lin glimpsed a furtive form darting from the stable. He almost shouted for the prowler to stop, then realized how silly that would be. Besides, it was better this way. He was in no shape to defend himself.

  Sinking back down, Lin pressed a hand to his side. Lord, he hurt. Gingerly probing, he established that as near as he could tell, none of his ribs were broken. When he could, he slowly sat up. His fingers brushed something, but it wasn’t the Winchester; it was his hat. Placing it on, he got to his hands and knees.

  Lin thought of his saddlebags, and what was in them, and how foolish he had been to have only the rifle. But he refused to use the other. It was a matter of principle. Maybe to his brother it did not matter, but it mattered to him.

  A short search produced the Winchester. Propping it under him like a crutch, Lin stood. He shuffled to the open doors. The lights in the house were out and the ranch lay serene under the multitude of sparkling pinpoints above.

  Lin moved toward the house. He needed to tell his brother so Chancy could be on his guard. Whoever had been in the stable might still be lurking nearby. He was forty feet from the porch when he spotted a darkling silhouette a stone’s throw from it. Squatting, he jammed the Winchester to his shoulder. It had to be the skulker. Or so he assumed until the silhouette split down the middle and became two people. One of them, he was sure, was wearing a dress.

  Lin heard whispering. It was Chancy—and Sue Dixon! Her skirt rustled as they strolled toward the rear of the house.

  Lin was dumfounded. He debated whether to intrude and decided against it. Chancy would resent it, and the girl might be embarrassed.

  As quietly as he could, Lin rose and turned and retraced his steps to the stable. The night was a bundle of surprises. He should be mad, he supposed, that his brother was sparking and not keeping watch. If Chancy had been doing what he was supposed to, he might have spotted whoever snuck into the stable. But what was done, was done, Lin reflected. Besides, for his brother to show an interest in a female was a miracle in itself.

  Provided the interest was genuine.

  The prospect troubled Lin. He would not put it past Chancy to trifle with her affections. A harsh thing to think about his own brother, but there it was.

  Lin made a circuit of the stable. The horses in the corral were fine, the valley beyond peaceful.

  Instead of going into the stable, he slipped between the left-hand door and the front wall. There was enough space for him to sit with his back to the wall and stretch his legs. No one could see him, and he would hear if anyone came near.

  Lin massaged his shoulder. The pain was almost gone. He would be badly bruised but that was all.

  The time crawled by. Lin could not stop yawning. His chin dipped to his chest several times, but he snapped his head up.

  Gradually, Lin’s eyelids became more and more leaden until finally his chin fell and did not rise. He slept sitting up. He stirred only once, when a faint noise punctured his slumber. He listened, and far off a wolf howled. When nothing else happened, he went back to sleep.

  A pink blush tinged the eastern horizon when Lin stirred and stiffly rose. He could use more sleep, but dawn was breaking.

  Several chickens had come out of the coop, and soon the rooster would emerge.

  Cradling the Winchester, Lin went into the stable. The ladder lay where it had fallen. He propped it against the loft, then checked on the buttermilk. As he emerged, the rooster was about to do what roosters always did; it flapped its wings, arched its neck and crowed.

  On a ranch, that was the signal to start the new day. Lin figured Etta June would be up soon, if she wasn’t already. He strode to the house.

  Snores came from under a pile of blankets on the porch. Lin kicked them, lightly, and was rewarded with a grunt. “It is a new day, Little Brother.”

  “Go away.”

  “Our new boss expects us to rise and shine early,” Lin said. “We can impress her by being up and raring to go.”

  The blankets shifted and Chancy poked his head out. He blinked, rubbed his tousled hair and scowled. “I never have liked getting up at the crack of dawn.”

  “Cows can’t milk themselves,” Lin said, then innocently asked, “Didn’t you get enough sleep?”

  “Not as much as I would have liked, no,” Chancy answered, his scowl disappearing.

  “Work hard enough today, and tonight you will sleep like a bab
y,” Lin predicted.

  Just then the front door opened. Etta June had an apron on over her dress and was holding a large wooden spoon. “You are both awake. Good. Breakfast will be in fifteen minutes. Then we will saddle up and ride up the valley.”

  “I am not all that hungry,” Chancy said.

  “Nonsense. I may not be able to pay you much, but you will not work on an empty stomach while you are working for me.”

  “Can I help?” Lin offered.

  Etta June smiled. “You can fetch the eggs if you want. I keep a bucket out by the coop.” The door closed behind her.

  Lin stepped from the porch. “I expect you up when I get back. Roll up your blankets while you are at it.”

  “Should I shine my boots and iron my clothes too?”

  “You can be a trial,” Lin said.

  “Life is a trial,” Chancy glumly responded. “It beats on us from the day we are born until the day we die.”

  Lin stopped. “Is that what you think? Good Lord. There is more to life than that. What about all the good things?”

  “I must have missed them. All I remember is that we lost Pa and then we lost Ma, the two people who cared for us the most.”

  “What about the fun we had growing up? Going fishing and hunting with Pa. Riding and playing and hiking. And how Ma always tucked us in at night and read to us. Have you forgotten all that?”

  Chancy said in disgust, “You always look at the bright side, Big Brother.”

  “Where is the sense in always dredging up the worst? Yes, are folks our dead. But everyone dies sooner or later. We mourn, and we get on with our lives.”

  Rising onto his elbows, Chancy stared hard at Lin. “You are not being honest with me. You miss them as much as I do. You wish we were back living with them, and everything was as it used to be.”

  “Sure I do,” Lin admitted. “But we can’t let our heartaches sour us on life.”

  “I can,” Chancy said.

  Lin could think of nothing to say to that, so he went on to the chicken coop. He wished he was good with words. His brother used to be so happy and carefree. It hurt seeing him so bitter.