Dead Man's Ranch

by Ralph Compton

  Mort felt a tightness in his throat. So the old cowboy did have money, after all. Tied around his chest, of all places. Who in their right mind would do such a thing? In the end, it certainly didn’t protect him from thieves, did it? He decided that what he suspected all along was now proved true: cowboys were a special breed of crazy men. He ran a tongue over his teeth, smoothed his black mustache with a thumb, wondering if it would be worth his time to ride back there and retrieve his rightfully earned pay from the dead man. Perhaps this old soak knew the amount. “Why do you need him so badly, Mr. Ross?”

  “Because, Mr. Fancy-Talkin’ Foreigner, I happen to know of a certain ranch that might soon need a couple of old cowhands to run it. I told him so in my telegram. Figured that with his grubstake, and my expertise in such affairs as running a ranch and all, why, me and him could partner up and get rich.” He offered a luxuriant wink and tapped the side of his nose with a grimy finger. “Ol’ Squirly heard tell that the place will go for pennies on the dollar, and right quick too.” He nodded, his eyes blinking slowly.

  Darturo’s heart thudded for a moment. Could the old cowhand really have been carrying enough cash to purchase a ranch? No, no, it was not possible. Keep in mind who you are listening to, Mortimer Darturo. You are listening to a drunk tell of his drunken fantasies. If there was an ounce of truth in this tale, why, this old man would surely have acted on it by now. And he would not share such information with a stranger, eh? Still, it might pay to keep him talking, learn more. And it might pay to gut him and head back to where he’d left the dead old cowhand on the north trail. What was it…two days’ ride back? He smiled at Squirly Ross, who he found had been scrutinizing him with a bleary-eyed intensity that he found not a little unsettling.

  “That is quite a tale, sir. Was this friend of yours carrying a great amount of money? Perhaps I could help you find him.”

  “Who said he needs finding? And what do you mean ‘was’?” Squirly leaned forward. “You know something about Mitchell Farthing that I don’t, mister, you got yourself a duty to tell me.”

  Darturo leaned back, smiling, and raised his hands as if he were being held up. “No, no. I am merely making conversation, eh? I know nothing of this…this Farthing character.”

  Squirly nodded slowly, pooched out his lower lip. “I only wondered if’n you seen him on your way here, comin’ down from up north as you did.”

  “No, I regret to tell you that I saw no one on the trail.” Mort was silent a moment, then said, “Tell me, Mr. Ross, whatever happened to that ledge of silver?”

  “Aha! Thought you’d get around to asking about that.” The drunk slapped the tabletop hard enough to bounce the glasses and bottle. “I still know where it’s at.” He leaned over the table and in a lowered voice said, “Problem is, so do them Indians, and they keep a sharp eye out for Ol’ Squirly Ross, I’ll tell you.”

  “Even after all this time?”

  “You bet, you bet. More than ever. You see, I’m what you might call a bit of a rough cob to them savages. I rub ’em the wrong way. They don’t like that one bit. Can’t never forgive me neither. No, sir. I still know where that old ledge of silver ore is located. Well, the general location anyways.”

  “By the way, how do you know which direction I came from, Mr. Ross?”

  “Huh? Oh well…” Squirly again touched a grubby finger to the side of his bulbous red nose, the grime-ringed nail a curved claw from lack of trimming. “Squirly sees all, knows all, hears all.” He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, a small belch working its way through his lips.

  Mort watched the old man slip into a doze. In a low, even voice little more than a whisper, he said, “Be careful, Mr. Ross, that you don’t see or hear or know too much. It could be a fatal habit.” Darturo stood, sliding the chair quietly away from the table. He looked at the man once more, then picked up the bottle and his own glass and walked back to the bar. “Bartender, I would like another short glass of milk, sir.”

  “Again with the milk?”

  “Yes, yes. It is for my whiskey. It soothes me.”

  “Right, then. Coming up.”

  From his seat at the table in the corner, Squirly Ross creaked open one red-rimmed eye and studied the back of the well-dressed thin man at the bar. As he drifted back to sleep, he wondered if Silver Haskell might be willing to trade a few hours of stall mucking in exchange for the loan of one of his nags for a day or two. He had a hunch if he headed on the north trail out of Turnbull, he might find sign of ol’ Mitchell Farthing. He hoped, if he did track him down, that the old cowhand was just late, riding a bone rack, and grousing about the price of oats. The alternative notion did not bear thinking about.

  Chapter 16

  Brandon MacMawe rubbed both sides of his head as he crossed the street, and allowed himself the luxury of a long self-indulgent moan. He barely noticed that the noon sun had already begun its slow descent to mark the second half of the lengthening spring day. That whiskey of the night before had started out all right, but then he’d reached that point where any memory he’d had of the evening was at best blurred, and at worst a pitch-black night full of him snoring in the cell.

  He headed toward the Doubloon Saloon, digging in his pants pocket for anything resembling a coin. All he needed was a shot of rye to dull the sharp knives trying to slice their way out of his skull. But every pocket revealed the same amount of nothing. Maybe Tom would give him one on the cuff. As he pushed through the doors, Brandon tried to stand up straighter, somehow overcome the shakes that plagued him. He didn’t think he could stand much abuse today. He felt like a piece of paper trying to stay upright in a breeze.

  As he closed the door softly behind himself, the bartender turned from rearranging the rows of honey-colored liquid on the shelf behind the bar. He didn’t say anything to Brandon, just regarded him a moment, then went back to his task.

  Brandon stood at the bar a moment longer. “Don’t you know who I am? If my father were still alive, you wouldn’t treat me that way. You would be buying me drinks and nodding and saying, ‘Yes, Mr. MacMawe, no, Mr. MacMawe, can I get you anything else, Mr. MacMawe?’ So, what’s changed?”

  The bartender leaned on the bar, his wide shoulders framing his gleaming bald head and long, waxed mustache. “What’s changed, boy, is that your father is dead and as far as I and everyone else in this little town can tell, you aren’t a patch on his ass, never were, let alone someone who deserves the sort of treatment that I’d give him. That man was well liked around these parts. To be fair, so are you. Or you were before you chose the easy path in life. It don’t take much effort to be a drunk, Brandon. That’s like being water. You’re just taking the path of least resistance. You keep this up, and there’s going to be trouble, mark my words. This town is small, but it’s going to grow. Now that we have the railroad stopping regular-like, instead of just whistling right past us, there will be other saloons and more chances for you to drink yourself silly.”

  Brandon slapped his palms on the bar in front of the man, his young face a bloodshot, shaking thing. “I am now the MacMawe man running the Dancing M.” He slammed his hands down again, emphasizing each sentence with a hand slap to the bar top. “It is one of the biggest ranches around.” Slap! “And this little pissant town better watch its step around me.” Slap! “That ranch is mine and you would do well to keep that in mind!” Slap!

  Quick as summer lightning, the bartender’s meaty fists reached out and snatched up the thin young man’s soiled shirtfront. He dragged the boy upward, over the bar top toward him, hoisting him up so that their noses nearly touched. Through gritted teeth, the big man said, “I don’t care if you are the emperor of China, by God. You young ranch whelps come in here thinking you can do whatever you please with no consequences. You’re worse than the other one, that Grindle boy, and you know who I mean. He may be a pain in the ass too, but at least he can pay his bills when he breaks things. You…you can’t even afford to pay attention. You stink ’cause
you don’t bathe, you don’t help your mother tend your dead father’s ranch. Soon enough it’ll fall in around your ears. All that, and you haven’t got the price of a drink, but you demand that I give you a snort.” He gestured with his chin toward the rear of the room. “Hell, even that old soak Squirly Ross will work for his booze. And if he’s dry, at least he knows enough not to beg.”

  “That’s right, by gum,” came the old man’s voice from his table in the corner.

  The bartender pushed Brandon backward. The shaking young man staggered, but remained standing.

  “That wasn’t an invitation for you to talk, Squirly. You’re still a worthless drunk.”

  “Yes, that’s true, but at least I’m a drunk who can empty spittoons and sweep floors.”

  “I work, and plenty,” said Brandon, not looking at either of them. He stepped back from the bar, smoothing his grimy shirt. He backed a few steps toward the door and pointed a finger at the bartender. “And you leave my mother out of this. You have no right to talk about her.”

  The bartender held up his hands as if Brandon had the drop on him. “You’re right, Mr. MacMawe, I don’t. But it’s not like any of this will matter anyway.”

  Brandon paused, narrowed his eyes. “What’s that you say? Why? Why won’t it matter?”

  The bartender resumed his counter wiping. “Oh, just that a stranger arrived on yesterday’s train.”

  “What about this stranger? People come to Turnbull all the time. “

  “Not on purpose, they don’t,” said Squirly, then laughed, a ragged, wet sound that devolved into a coughing fit.

  “True,” said the bartender. “And I bet this one won’t be here any longer than he needs to be.”

  “Well, who is he and why are you telling me all this?” said Brandon.

  “You really don’t remember, do you? Last night…at Mae’s? When you slugged that man in the face?”

  Brandon’s brow creased in thought. Finally he shook his head, said nothing, ran a shaking hand over the knuckles of the other.

  “Well, from all accounts, he’s Rory MacMawe’s long-lost son.” The bartender leaned on the bar and stared at Brandon. “You know, his firstborn. The one he always spoke of, the one he wanted to have the Dancing M. Have to say, he looks more like ol’ Rory than anyone I ever did see.” He leaned forward farther. “You included.”

  The bartender watched the boy before him tremble, his dark fists clench and unclench. Then the boy’s shoulders shook, and his eyes welled wet with tears that slid down his cheeks. He turned and bolted from the bar.

  The room was silent a moment. Then in a quiet voice, Squirly said, “Kinda hard on him, weren’t you, Tom?”

  The bartender continued to stare at the closed bar door. “Somebody needs to be.” He looked at the little drunk. “That boy has a future, and he’s blowing it. He’s just too dumb to see it for himself. Unlike you, Squirly Ross. You’re just an old pickled mess.”

  Squirly smiled. “Thank you, but I prefer the term ‘finely aged.’ ”

  Chapter 17

  Junior watched the stranger’s attempts to remove the saddle from the aged brown mare. “You might not wanna—” The saddle slipped down the horse’s barrel on the beast’s far side, his satchel pulled with it, and the entire mess, saddle, bunched blanket, and bag, hung there. Junior turned away and bit the inside of his cheek. This one was greener than a day-old calf. “Mr. Middleton, if I may be so bold…”

  The tall man turned on him, his green eyes narrowed, his jaw set firm, and a big hand bunched trembling and held in front of him, knuckles white, as if to display the size of his fist. He stood like this for a moment, then turned back to prying at the cinch, now tight and twisted.

  “Fine, fine. No need to get your drawers in a pinch over it. Just thought I’d offer some friendly advice, is all….”

  The big man paused in his fumblings with the cinch, the mare standing as if carved from stone. He put one arm on the horse’s back, let out a deep breath, and turned back to Junior. “I…apologize. I’ve not had much experience in these matters…and I would appreciate any assistance you might care to offer.”

  Junior poked his hat back on his head and nodded, careful not to smile, lest he set off the man’s hot temper again. With a few deft moves, he had the weighty pile of gear dragged off the horse, which, despite its calm nature—more likely exhausted, thought Junior, considering the size of this fella—stretched its back with a shudder, walked off a few paces and lowered herself to her knees, then eased down to the dusty earth and rolled.

  “My God, what’s the matter with it?” The stranger stared wide-eyed at the horse, then looked to Junior, his eyes begging for help. “I…was I too big for it?”

  For a brief moment Junior thought the man was having him on. Then he saw the genuine concern on Middleton’s face and he couldn’t help himself. Immediate laughter forced itself right up and out of him. Angry stranger be damned, thought Junior; it had been a long time since he’d seen anything this funny. He gave over to it fully, howling until his ribs ached, his throat burned, and his eyes streamed.

  He finally looked up at the tall man, convinced he was about to receive a wallop on the jaw by one of those wide pink hams the man had for hands. But instead, he saw Middleton’s features soften and a half grin settle there. “I assume, by your reaction, that my alarm was unfounded.” He nodded toward the horse. “And the horse appears to have recovered from its fit.”

  Junior choked off a fresh round of laughter and rubbed his eyes. “Oh, you are a piece of work, Middleton. Your horse is a she, an old nag mare, not an ‘it’—and she’s fine. Just taking a dirt bath, is all. You would too if you had to carry you around all day.”

  Junior retrieved his hat from the ground, where it fell when he’d doubled over in laughter. “Let’s get a cook fire going and fix up something to eat.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have much with me in the way of food.” Middleton looked at his piled gear, his brow knitted. “I didn’t expect to be roughing it like this.”

  “No worries, Middleton. When me and the boys are out here working the range, we never know if we’ll be alone or bumping into another hand, so we all carry extra. Enough to keep us from chewin’ our boots anyway.” He winked and pulled a bottle of Milligan’s Whiskey from his saddlebag. “Here,” he said, tossing the bottle to Middleton. “Something to prime the pump. Make setting up camp easier.”

  A short while later, the horses were ground-tied and hobbled. The late afternoon sky was mellowing and shot through with streaks of gray clouds above them as the men sat before a small fire, staring into the dancing, flicking flames. The chipped coffeepot steamed slowly and the beginning gurgles of boiling coffee could be heard and smelled.

  Junior splashed a slug of whiskey in each man’s cup, set the bottle between them, and said, “It’s not considered good form out here to pry into a man’s business—and don’t take this the wrong way, Middleton—but you don’t seem like the sort of man who’d take it on himself to go riding across the wilds of New Mexico Territory. Lots of rough things could happen to an inexperienced fellow out here….” He let the implication hang in the air like the fire’s slow smoke.

  Middleton said nothing, sipped his whiskey and stared at the campfire. Junior looked over at him. The man looked as if he wanted to talk, as if he’d been with himself long enough that he wanted to give over to a palaver. He hoped so anyway; otherwise this was going to be a long damn night.

  One more try, thought the younger man. “I mean, it’s not as though you’re from here. It’s different if you’re born here. Then you sort of have something more, some sort of leg up on the dangers, if you know what I mean.”

  “No, I really don’t.” Middleton turned to look at Junior. “And whoever said I wasn’t from here?” He waved his cup broadly about him, taking in the vast landscape now purpling and taking on a wholly different look than it had moments earlier. “Until this very moment, I’d not thought of this place as anyth
ing but a nuisance, a blighted, savage corner forsaken by civilization.”

  Now it was Junior’s turn to bristle. “Just a minute—”

  “Hear me out. I said ‘until now,’ for now I can detect an inherent beauty that I suppose people like you, that is to say people who are of this place, see every day and therefore must take for granted.”

  Junior nodded. “I know what you’re saying, but I for one don’t take it for granted.” He leaned back, his shoulders resting against his saddle, and stretched his legs, crossing them. “I look at this place every day and smile. ’Cause it’s that beautiful, it truly is.”

  Middleton grunted in understanding, then said, “You’ll note I didn’t answer your unspoken query.” He smiled. “I was born here, actually. To a man now dead these past few weeks.”

  That’s what I wanted to hear, thought Junior. He sipped his whiskey to hide his smile.

  Middleton continued. “Perhaps you knew him—one Rory MacMawe? He owned a ranch hereabouts.”

  Junior laughed again, sat up, and still snorting, slid the spitting coffeepot back from the flames.

  “What, may I ask, has struck you as humorous now?”

  Junior lightly punched the man on his brown coat sleeve. A cloud of dust rose. “Hereabouts? Try here!” Junior laughed and with the same fist punched at the ground between them. “And there”—he pointed behind them—“and there”—he pointed southward, the direction Middleton had earlier been heading.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand you.”

  The young man shook his head and said, “We’re on MacMawe’s land right now. You have been for a couple of hours, I’d say.”