Dead Man's Ranch

by Ralph Compton

  The big man sighed, and said, “I am afraid I insulted her last night at a dining establishment in Turnbull proper.” He looked up. “It wasn’t my intention, I assure you.” He faced Junior fully and said, “My name is Brian J. Middleton.” He nodded his head once in greeting, though he still did not smile, nor offer his hand for a shake.

  There was a quiet moment where neither man knew what the other might do next. Junior knew he had every right to defend his sister’s honor, but that had never ended up, so far as Junior knew, in anything but a silly knife fight with someone going home in a box. He sucked in a draft of air through his nose and stepped down from his horse. “Let’s make us a fire, brew up some coffee, and you can tell me all about how you didn’t mean to offend my sister.”

  Junior was thankful he’d had the foresight to bring along jerky and biscuits, coffeepot and coffee, and two tin cups. That, plus oats, two canteens, whiskey, of course, and a blanket made a decent enough load, for he had expected to run into this man in just such a fashion. This was working out well…so far. Now he had to make doubly sure this was old Rory’s long-lost son. And if he was, then it was time to get to work on him.

  Chapter 15

  The reassuring ruffle of fanned cards, the plink of chips, and the dull clank of coins hitting others on the baize surface of the gaming table were a soothing balm to Mortimer Darturo’s travel-weary mind. He should have stayed in the hotel and slept, awakened refreshed and ready for a big meal, a good bottle, and a slow game of stud. But he wasn’t much for sleeping or eating. That left him with his two favorite pursuits—booze and poker. A woman could hardly be considered in a town this size, he knew. But still, he held out hope. For if he found one, then this town would surely furnish him with all he’d ever need. No, no, Mort. Too small, he told himself. You will become bored in two days. He smiled and slid another two chips, red and white, forward. “Raising, eh?”

  The bartender’s high red cheeks twitched, worked up and down behind the greased handlebar mustache as if he were literally chewing over the problem.

  “You do not play this game often, do you?” He took another sip of his whiskey in milk, ignoring the bartender’s pained expression on seeing him drink.

  The bartender’s slow headshake confirmed what Darturo had known since he walked in. The man was a soft touch but ran a clean place. Small and offering few opportunities, at least the Doubloon was somewhat civilized. Mort liked that. He’d never understood why so many saloons allowed their patrons to dribble their chewing tobacco on the floor, spitting at but never hitting the stained, crusted brass cuspidors.

  Darturo had grown used to the finer establishments in Denver and other cities he had visited over the years. The betting could usually be counted on to pay well, and if not, the alleys never failed to yield profits from the pockets of a drunken dandy lured in with a request for help. As Darturo learned early on, good people never failed to help other good people. And most people, as it turned out, were doing their best to be good. He thought them fools, naturally, but realized that he was as necessary as were they, for he provided a balance to their efforts of kindness.

  “How about we call it a game, eh? You can pour me one drink of your finest whiskey and then I’ll go find a steak and that will be that. I am tired.”

  The big bartender looked relieved. Darturo knew he’d only agreed to play because no one else was in the place, except for the little soak at the half table by the door. He had the same near-empty glass of beer before him as when Darturo had walked in an hour before. Darturo only knew he’d been there, sitting in the shadows, from the powerful reek rising off the man’s ragged buckskins.

  Darturo made his way to the bar, and the bartender poured Darturo a small glass of McMurdy’s Finest from a bottle he slid out from under the counter. “So,” said Darturo. “What do you know about a stranger, a Mac something or other, just came into town this week?”

  The bartender paused in recorking the bottle. “Why do you ask?”

  Darturo sipped. It was decent whiskey. Perhaps he would have more. He would see, but first, he would play a little dumb. “No real reason. The fellow at the hotel told me something about him being a long-lost son of a…dancing rancher? Does that sound right?”

  The bartender squinted, shook his head, and then understanding smoothed his brow. “You mean the Dancing M. Yessir, that would be old Rory MacMawe. Was a big rancher hereabouts.”

  “But?” said Darturo, his eyebrows raised.

  “But he died a few weeks back.”

  “Well, that would make it difficult for him to still be a big rancher, eh?” He laughed alone at his joke and pinched it off sooner than he wished. He did not want the locals to think him insensitive. “So, the man who is his long-lost son…?”

  Behind Darturo, from the corner near the door, a throat cleared. “That’d be the big fella come in on yesterday’s train. Rude as a log to the head, he was.”

  The little man shuffled out of the shadow, moved closer.

  Darturo could smell him. Like a rain-wet dog, he thought. Only worse. Two wet dogs perhaps. He smiled and said, “Another beer…for my new friend.” He winked and twitched his head toward the sullen little figure. He knew the soak had heard the generous request, because he licked his lips audibly.

  The bartender sighed and filled a glass, an honest mug of it with little foam, then set it at the end of the bar and pointed at it. Faster than Darturo expected, the soiled man was at the bar, quaffing down the top half of the beer.

  “Much obliged, mister. Been a long road today. Been through the mill, as they say. Hard times for an honest man, I’ll tell you—”

  “That’s enough of that, Squirly Ross.” Tom the bartender slung a fresh white towel over his shoulder and rested his meaty palms on the bar. “This man doesn’t want to hear your tall tales. Drink up and go find a trough to take the edge off that sweet smell you got going.”

  Darturo said nothing. Of course, the bartender was right. He had no desire to hear a drunk’s embarrassing thanks, the inevitable stories that dragged on with no end, always with one eye measuring the level in the glass, one eye measuring the new patron’s tolerance, all the time with that begging look. Darturo half smiled and decided that if the man played that hand with him, he would gut him like a fat little river fish before he left this town. That would be repayment enough for his kindness. Surely the gift of a glass of beer deserved something….

  But not before he found out more about this prodigal, the Dancing M, and the Driving D. And how much money each was worth. Much, he thought. And where there is money, there is a way to take it. He wondered how much money the families would be willing to part with in return for the lives of their loved ones. Not all of them, of course. Some of them would need killing beforehand, as a matter of business. Such sacrifices he found were necessary to proving that he was a man of promise. They also helped to keep the process of negotiation moving along at a decent rate of speed. Otherwise, the families might take their time and wonder and think too much and then come to the realization that they might not love their loved ones as much as they thought they did. It had happened in the past, and he was sure it would happen again. People did very little to surprise him anymore.

  Darturo turned to the smelly little buckskin-clad figure and smiled. He was about to open the ball, as the cowboys said, when the little drunk spoke first.

  “So, newcomer, what say while I have your ear, I ask you a question or two?”

  Mort fought the urge to close his eyes and sigh. He wanted to be the one to ask the questions, not answer them. But he held his pasted-on smile and turned to face the little smelly drunk in the rank buckskins. Had the man ever peeled them off and actually bathed? Mort doubted it. Still, he knew from experience that some of the best information he’d received in the past had come to him for the price of a few drinks, the odd full bottle of whiskey.

  This he had bought and held just out of reach while the sputtering man or woman licked their lips and
burbled enough coherent facts that seemed of sufficient value to warrant the proffered drink. If not, he had warned them, they would surely regret lying to him. Such threats were usually understood to have teeth. And so, the truth, in some stumbling form, had always come to him. Then he gutted them anyway. The world never mourned the passing of a gibbering drunkard.

  Squirly glanced at Tom the barkeep, and, seeing the man was busy in the storeroom, he slid himself down along the bartop on one begrimed elbow, his head leaning on his bar-propped arm. “So, newcomer. Not sure I caught your name.”

  “I can assure you, Mr. Ross, that you did not catch my name. Because I never tossed it to you.”

  “Oh, uh…okay, then. So, what’s that accent you got goin’ on? I never heard of that.”

  Darturo stared at Squirly, said nothing.

  Finally the funky-smelling little man nodded. “Okay, gotcha, then.” He lifted his head from his hand and straightened his back, arching and stretching. “Ooh, but it’s a hard line of work I’m in. Hard on the body and soul, I tell you, stranger. And make no mistake about it.”

  “What work would that be, then, Mr. Ross?”

  “Well, I thank you for asking. Truth is, it’s a bit of a hush-hush sort of thing. Can’t really talk much about it, you know. I can tell you that it’s dry work. By gum, but it’s dry work.”

  Mort regarded the little man for a moment, then smiled. Something told him this drunken fool was smarter than the average drunken fool each little trail or rail town seemed to offer. “Mr. Ross, you began this conversation by asking if you might ask me a question. You have done that, but you have told me very little about yourself. Feel free to share your life story with me. I have all night, as I am passing through and have no plans but to perhaps play a friendly game or two of cards with anyone who might wish to do the same. And also, I might just end up drinking for the evening. That is more preferable to do with an acquaintance. Someone with whom I might share a bottle and conversation, uh?”

  Mort winked at the bartender and requested a second glass and a fresh bottle. Then he motioned for Squirly to accompany him at a table.

  They seated themselves and Mort poured a shot for himself and two shots in rapid succession for the little drunk. Soon Squirly’s cheeks reddened enough to match the veined ball of his nose. “I wonder, I wonder,” he said, staring at the ceiling. Then he shifted his gaze back to his newfound best friend and drinking companion. “Now, far as I know, you come to Turnbull from the North, am I correct?”

  Mort said nothing, but stared at Squirly with a half smirk.

  “So, I’ll take that as a yes. Reason I am pryin’ so is I have been waiting on the arrival of a friend of mine. Old trail hand from way back, so far back, we knowed each other when we were both pups, drovers on too many trail drives to mention. He’d be hard to miss, I reckon. An old cowhand riding some old bone rack of a nag, knowing him. Cheap? My word, you’ll never find a man who can do more with less than ten men could. Tighter than Dick’s hat band, he is.”

  Darturo held the questioning gaze as he stared at Squirly Ross. But his gut instincts told him that this was indeed a man to be aware of. If what the drunk said was true, the old cowboy he’d shot a few days’ ride north of here was probably the little drunk’s friend. Not that anyone would miss a broken-down old cowhand. They were everywhere. Their watery eyes and bowed legs limping along most cow town sidewalks made for annoying obstacles when one had to get from one gambling parlor to another. He had made it a point over the years to eliminate the more scurvy-looking members of the breed. He considered it a kindness, really, much as one would shoot a yellow-eyed dog or a snotting cat. In the end, it made the world a better place for all—of that he was certain.

  “Reason I’m asking is, he’s a couple of days overdue, see? According to his response to my telegram—first one I ever did send, and wouldn’t you know, old Teasdale, he’s the station agent, he charged me full price for sending it! Full price, and me always down there lending a hand, lugging bags and toting crates and keeping the place shipshape, don’t you know? Where was I?”

  Mort nodded toward their glasses. “You were about to sip to the fine weather we have been enjoying.”

  Squirly squinted at Darturo. “I reckon not, but I will take you up on the sippin’ part. That is, if I had something to sip….” He held up the glass and winked.

  Mort poured him another drink and watched the man tipple half of it gingerly.

  “Now, that’s a way to wet a whistle, I say. Speakin’ of saying, I was about to tell you about Mitchell, my old friend. We used to work on the trail drives together. Not much call for old-timers on the trails nowadays, though. But he’s a stubborn old mule and he stuck with it. Me, I got out of that young man’s game and set myself up with a burro, a pick and shovel, and enough supplies to go broke quick out in the hills. That was a few years back.”

  “So, how came you to be here?” said Mort, mildly interested in the old drunk’s tale, despite himself.

  “I know what you’re thinkin’, Mr. City Man with the fancy talk, but I’m here to tell you that I was nearly skinned alive by the Apache. A more unforgiving breed of cat you’ll not find. I was out prospecting, sniffing silver ore on a light breeze, I tell you no lie. I was sure it was my day for the big strike. Bigger than old Schieffelin’s Tombstone strike.”

  “Bigger than that, eh?”

  “Oh, Lordy, stranger.” Squirly paused to knock back the few drops in his glass. “Make his look like nothing more than a childish notion.” He set it down on the table and looked at it as if he had just seen a kitten die. Mort refilled it.

  “As I was saying, that silver ore was practically leaping out of the rocks at me. I was headed toward the rock shelf that was for certain my promised land, when out of nowheres come what amounted to a hundred and a half Apache warriors, a-howling and bawling like their heads was on fire. And they were all riding hell-for-leather right straight at me and no one else.”

  “What did you do?” Mort sipped his own whiskey. There were worse ways to spend an afternoon in a town without whores.

  “Why, first thing I did was reach for my rifle. But it wasn’t there.”

  “Where was it?”

  “Well, it had been in its scabbard roped across the back of Agnes, my pony—”

  “I thought you said it was a burro.”

  “Same thing, small and ornery it was, but as surefooted as a goat. Anyway, Agnes had been felled like a lightning-struck tree. Enough arrows sticking out of her she looked like a quilled-up porcupine.”

  “But you were not shot?”

  “Now, who’s telling the story? Me or you? I appreciate the whiskey and all, but I have to get one thing for certain and that’s when I relate to you my adventures, I need to know that my story won’t be dry-gulched by someone who wasn’t even there.” Squirly leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

  So, Mort thought. This is the sort of drunk he is—belligerent. And yet, amusing too. He smiled and nodded. “Please continue. I will endeavor to keep my questions to a minimum.”

  “Well, now, yes. See that you do…um, endeavor to do that. Now, where was I?”

  “The arrows.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. So, there I was, afoot and surrounded by howling savages. I was about ready to cash in my hand, call it a day, if you know what I mean. But right then, an interesting thing happened.” Squirly sipped his whiskey. “You know what that is?”

  Mort shook his head, tried to keep from laughing. This little drunk was indeed interesting. He’d almost forgotten that the man had been fishing for information about a man Mort had killed but a couple of days before. Almost forgotten, but not quite.

  “Well, them savages didn’t kill me right then. No, sir, but I am quite sure they were none too pleased that I was about to be the first white man to discover the biggest silver strike ever seen in the entire history of the land hereabouts.”

  “That seems plausible, to be sure.” Darturo nodded as if
in total agreement with the drunk man.

  “You bet it do. So, next, they wrapped a dung-smellin’ rag around my eyes and drug me off to their camp.”

  “Then what happened, Mr. Ross? I am afraid you have me at your disposal.”

  “If that means you need to hear the rest of the story, well, it’s dry work, all this chin waggin’.”

  Darturo nodded. “Of course, have a drink to soothe your parched throat.”

  “Thanks, don’t mind if I do.”

  “So, you were captured by hundreds of savages.”

  “That I was. I have a theory about why I was held.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, you see, I was younger then, and I had more hair on my pate. Blondish it was too. I suspect them braves wanted to show off to other tribes, get themselves some blond-headed babies.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “Yes, indeed, I was held captive by them brutes for, oh, must have been a couple of years. Kept me mostly naked, used me for this and that, if you know what I mean. Tied up like a camp dog. Beat me with sticks and leather whips, and made me do all the work that women usually do. That’s why I don’t take kindly to the suggestion that I ought to bathe. And I will also not stoop so low as to cook. Unless I am forced to do it.”

  “But you are here now. So that means you must have come to some agreement with them.”

  “Agreement? Nah, it just took me a while to escape.”

  The two men were silent for a few moments. Then Mort cleared his throat. “I wonder…how does all this relate to the fact that you are expecting a visit from an old friend?”

  “Oh well, that’s easy. See, I heard from a friend of a friend of an acquaintance who come in on the train a while back that Mitchell Farthing, the very same one I knew, finally had enough of whompin’ on the backsides of other folks’ cattle and was out of work, sort of driftin’. And what’s more, I know he had a poke that was looking for something to invest in. I also happen to know, since old Mitchell’s a creature of habit, that he used to keep his coin purse lashed around his chest and sort of tucked under one wing.” The little man demonstrated by patting his armpit with one hand. “Odd duck, is Mitchell, but I’d wager that’s why he still has the first nickel he ever earned, and that’s why I was hoping he’d been here by now.”