Dead Man's Ranch

by Ralph Compton

  She swallowed. “Who’s there?” No answer. Callie felt her heart knock hard in her chest. She repeated her question and heard in response a small voice say, “Hey…”

  “Brandon?”

  She scrambled around the prone man toward the noise, saying, “Who is it?” in little more than a tight whisper.

  “Help….”

  There before her lay Brandon, on his back, his head flopped to one side, his eyes half-open, though unfocused, the lids fluttering as if he were playing a game, acting coquettish. In his hair she saw something wet and thick, and then in a flash she knew it for what it was: blood.

  She set down the rifle, looked from the large prone man behind her back to Brandon. She leaned close. “What happened, Brandon?”

  “Callie?”

  “Yes, it’s okay. I’m here. Tell me where you’re hurt and I’ll help you.”

  “A…fight…hit me in the head, then…shot him.”

  “Who hit you, Brandon? Did you shoot him?”

  “No, no…he’s dead. Brian…my brother.”

  Callie looked back to the other man. His face was turned away, but could it be the stranger from Mae’s restaurant, Brian Middleton? There was the unruly red hair, the same brown coat lay balled up off to the side, that horrible hat dented and wedged under scattered firewood. It was the missing MacMawe boy they’d all been speaking of.

  But what did this mean? Had Brandon and Brian Middleton fought? Did Brandon shoot him? Was that what he was trying to tell her? She couldn’t imagine Brandon shooting anyone. But then, up until a few weeks ago, she never would have guessed she’d see him drunk either. But all the proof she needed lay before her—the handsome stranger, facedown in the dirt, unmoving.

  Chapter 29

  Callie’s first reaction was to ride for home, for Mica and her father. But there was no time, and Espy would be along soon with the wagon. For all of a moment, Callie didn’t know which of the two men to attend first. Brandon was moving, alive, and badly hurt. The other, Brian Middleton, she didn’t know about, though she had seen two dead men in recent years, one an old miner in town who had pitched out of his wagon while waiting for his wife to finish her shopping at Gleason’s, the other a Driving D hand, who had died a slow, painful death after a bucker landed on him. Middleton didn’t look any more alive to her than they had.

  She felt along the length of the large man’s prone body and found that he lay across the jagged hunks of rock from a cold campfire.

  She pushed against his shoulder and by wedging her boots against a larger, solid rock, she was able to roll the big man onto his back. Then she winced as she saw his head flop back onto another rock from the fire ring. He did not react; he was well and truly unconscious—or worse.

  It was but a moment’s work to lift from under him the rocks that held him up, and then she dragged toward him what must have been his own blankets. She left him close to the fire ring and covered him with the blanket for now. Though faint, the stale scent of whiskey clouded up from him much as it had with Brandon, who, she thankfully noted, still groaned where she’d left him.

  She had to get this man out of the way so she could make a fire. Then, if he was alive, she’d need to make him comfortable. By the time the feeble fire engulfed bits of small branches and twigs and begged for more, she had dragged closer the remnants of a small stack of firewood the men must have gathered the previous night. She quickly fed the greedy flames, then turned to see the extent of the wounds the large man had received. Her gasp was loud enough to force a slurred “What?” from Brandon.

  Brian Middleton had been what her father would call gut-shot. She hadn’t seen a wound on his back, so either the bullet must have gone through somewhere she hadn’t noticed, or worse—the bullet might still be in him. She bent low over his face, turned a cheek to his mouth to feel for even the slightest breath. Her left hand rested on his chest, well above the bullet wound that left his shirt a sticky, matted smear against his stomach, and she thought she detected a faint heartbeat, maybe even the slightest of breaths….A strand of her long, dark honey hair slipped free and lay across his face.

  His eyes shot open and he gasped air, pulling it in as if it were soon to fall out of favor. She shrieked and jumped backward.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, smoothing her hair back and staring into the man’s eyes. His skin had a glassy, unhealthy sheen that contrasted with the man’s shocking red hair.

  “Where…”

  “Shhh.” Callie leaned in close and said, “Lie still now and try to relax.”

  “What has…happened to me?”

  Callie hesitated. She didn’t know how to break the news to him, or if she should at all. But a direct, no-nonsense approach had always been her favored way of conducting herself, and she saw no reason to change just now. “You’ve been shot.”

  But if he heard, she wasn’t sure. His head lolled to the side and she leaned in close again and checked him. Still breathing. She didn’t think he could hear, but she said out loud, “I need to go for help as soon as I know Brandon’s going to make it.”

  “Don’t worry…strength of a bull.” Brandon tried to rise and it was as if his elbows were yanked from under him—he groaned and flopped back against the saddle she’d dragged over for a pillow.

  She knew she would have to try to stop the bleeding that had begun anew when she’d moved them. She spied a large satchel but didn’t want to waste more time rummaging. She gripped her blouse’s sleeve up high where it joined the shoulder and yanked until she heard threads pop. Within minutes she was sleeveless and had dressed Middleton as best she could, wadding up a fist-sized clump of shirt fabric and gingerly placing it atop the wound, then securing it in place with a tied strip from her shirt.

  Next, she ripped the other sleeve into strips and swaddled Brandon’s head. While she worked she listened for Esperanza. She should have been here by now. Callie cursed herself aloud for not thinking to leave more of a trail for Espy to follow, though she had dismounted now and again and gouged an arrow into the dirt of the road. And she hadn’t been that far ahead of her.

  Callie knew she would have to leave the two men here, with her rifle and firewood. Then ride back toward the Dancing M. She was sure to meet up with Espy. And as she worked she fought down a growing suspicion that arose from her memory of the conversation between her father and brother of the day before. Lord, forgive me, she thought, but she didn’t trust her own family. She hated the very idea that had formed in her mind, but neither could she discount it.

  She rose and checked her rifle. It was loaded.

  “Brandon, can you hear me?”

  “Yes, yes, Callie. Is Brian alive? He’s been shot.”

  “Yes, I know. But he’s alive. Brandon.” She leaned close to him and tried to get him to focus on her. “Look, Brandon. I have to leave, but I’ll be back soon. I have to find your mother—she’s on her way. Your mother will know what to do, more than anyone I know.”

  No answer greeted her ears. She tried again, and this time Brandon said, “Yes…yes.”

  Callie nodded and turned toward the road. Where was Espy with the wagon? Callie knew the woman would be able to follow her trail well enough. As if in response to her thoughts, she heard the clank and groan of the old work wagon followed by Espy’s shouts, from nearby where Callie had left her horse.

  “Callie! Callie! Where are you?”

  “Over here, Espy!” No sense trying to soften the shock of the scene—she’d know soon enough what she faced.

  Callie knew that, like many women, Espy possessed the enviable ability in a tense situation of remaining calm and clearheaded when others panicked.

  Callie hefted her Winchester and headed to meet Espy and guide her to the gruesome campsite. She prayed under her breath that this mess would end well, though she doubted there was any way that it could. No one was yet dead, but two men lay wounded. Did they do this to each other? It was possible and yet something told her it didn’t seem likely.
If that were the case, whoever did it might still be close at hand. Oh, please, she thought, don’t let it be Junior.

  Chapter 30

  “You look like hell, son.” Wilf Grindle set down his coffee mug and dragged his chair closer to the table. “Like you been rode hard and put up wet.”

  Junior directed a pinched look at Mica. “Didn’t take you long to butt into my business, did it?” But Mica stared him down, shaking his head.

  Wilf dropped his fork on his china plate. The sound brought the other two men’s heads around as if they were attached to strings. Mica left the room and headed for the kitchen, shaking his head and mumbling to himself.

  Wilf shot out a forefinger at his son that looked to Junior like the ridgepole of a new barn. His voice uncoiled and lashed out like a whip. “You ever dare to show your ill manners again here and you will feel the toe of my boot, boy. I will not stand for such rank looks, nor such snide talk. Not to your sister, certainly not to me, and never, ever to Mica. And for what, I don’t know. Why, that man’s been like a second father to you.”

  Junior’s anger with Mica was replaced with shame. He knew that Mica could hear every word the old man was saying, and was probably rankled by this forced flattery. He’d bet Mica wanted more than anything to protest, but felt it wasn’t his place to interfere in affairs between the father and the boy, though Junior knew that there had been many times that Mica had wanted to say something.

  Junior closed his eyes and nodded. When he opened them he was looking at his own plate, heaped with a breakfast he did not deserve, especially considering how he’d treated Mica. And despite that, Mica had made a plateful of Junior’s favorites: corn bread, scrapple, and a mound of eggs, brown gravy pooling over it all. Still, much as he knew he should, much as part of him wanted to, Junior could not bring himself to apologize. Mica had, after all, unwittingly almost forced him to reveal last night’s activities.

  He wanted to tell his father in his own way, in his own time, and without anyone else butting in. But he had to choose the best time. Still, he wasn’t so sure his father would understand, would applaud him for his actions. He thought the old man had been telling him how he wanted the situation handled, but now Junior wondered if he had gone too far.

  “Now, what is all this about?”

  “What?” Junior stabbed a forkful of egg, smeared it around the plate. His father didn’t reply, just stared at Junior, his coffee mug held close to his face. The urge to punch his father boiled up inside him. “Why, what did Mica say to you?”

  “Say to me? About what?”

  Junior stared at his father.

  “You know we hardly say a thing to each other until noon. It’s how we are. Your mother used to call us the Bear Brothers, because we’re both so blasted grumpy in the mornings.”

  Junior knew that his father was telling the truth. Mica truly hadn’t said anything to him about Junior coming in so late. About anything at all. Junior forced a smile and said, “Two peas in a pod, that’s what you and Mica are.”

  His father almost smiled, resumed his breakfast. God, thought Junior, but that man could be so infuriating. He wished he could be free of him, of this place. But at the same time he wanted to be just like the man. At that moment he wanted to tell him everything, wanted to tell him how he’d grabbed the Dancing M for them, single-handed, with no help from anyone—least of all his father. But he also knew that would tip his hand too early. No, it was better to let the events unspool of their own accord. Somebody would find the men, one or both of them dead. But no one would ever suspect Junior. No, sir, thought Junior as he sipped his coffee, he’d taken care of that, confidence growing in him with each restorative bite of food, each swig of black coffee. Best leave well enough alone. Junior smiled and stabbed a big forkful of gravy-soaked egg, jammed it in his mouth.

  “Where’s Miss Callie, Wilf?” Mica ambled in carrying the coffeepot.

  “I assumed she’s already been up and out.” Wilf leaned back in his chair and tossed his napkin on the table.

  “Mmm. Could be, but I ain’t seen her since last night at supper.”

  Wilf sipped the last from his cup, rose from his seat, and stretched. “Well, Junior, go knock on her door. Maybe she overslept. I’m headed to the stable, so I’ll see if her horse is there.”

  Junior nodded automatically, and halfway up the stairs he slowed. I’m doing it again, he thought—jumping first and thinking second whenever the old man tells me to do something. The familiar bile of self-disgust rose in his throat. Not for long, Junior, old boy, he told himself as he trudged up the rest of the stairs.

  His hard knuckle-rap on the door produced no shouts from within, so he pushed open the door and said, “Cal? Hey, Cal, you in here?”

  The curtain wasn’t drawn and the room was filled with morning light. The bed was made, as if she’d been up and out early, which she often was. Orderly and with no clue about the person who slept there, that’s what he would say were he a stranger looking in. But he knew her better than that. And he knew that it was all show. Her wardrobe was jammed full of clothes, unfolded and balled up, and the space under the bed was stacked with books and shoes and boots and Lord knew what else.

  He smiled, knowing that her forceful and tidy outward appearance belied the zesty, too-curious, slightly scattered person she really was. Looking into her room, he missed the old days when they talked more, explored the surrounding countryside together, camped within easy range of the ranch house. All gone, he thought. Gone and traded for adult lives with adult responsibilities. He closed Callie’s bedroom door and in that moment, everything he’d done the night before flooded back to him all over again. A core of ice filled him and he stood in the dark-paneled upstairs hallway, his hand on the doorknob, staring at nothing.

  “Junior…is Callie up there?”

  The boy shook his head and said, “Uh, no, no. Looks like she got up and out early.”

  “Let’s hope so. Just the same, saddle up, see if you can find out where she’s gone to.”

  Junior descended the stairs one step at a time as his father spoke. Mica stood at the bottom of the staircase, leaning on the banister.

  “I’m off to the east range, see if I can find out why the boys ain’t driven the young stock back this way yet. Should’ve been done by now.”

  Mica smiled. “Shoot. You’re headed on into Turnbull, see if Miss Gleason is up for a carriage ride.”

  Wilf looked at his old friend as if he might draw on him, then inclined his head and said, “Hmm. Could be I’ll take your suggestion, Mica. After all, it is turning out to be a fair day at that.”

  When Junior passed his father at the bottom of the stairs, he could not suppress his scowl.

  “Boy,” said Wilf again. “You look like hell. You sure you weren’t up all night?”

  Junior pushed past him and snatched his hat from the coat tree beside the door. He had to get outside, away from his father, from Mica, acting like a couple of clucking old hens. He had to get away from anything that reminded him of ranching and land and his father and this place. After all, it was those things and more that had landed him in the predicament he was in.

  Chapter 31

  It was well into Squirly’s second day out of Turnbull along the north road that he saw the buzzards. And he wasn’t even surprised. It was as if he’d been expecting to see them. “Hell, old Methuselah.” He leaned forward and patted the plodding mare on the neck. “Been a long time since I spent so much time on my backside in the saddle. Can’t say as I miss it. No offense, dearie. But it looks to me we won’t have far to go, sad to say. I’d wager them death birds are swoopin’ in on something I don’t want to see.” He regarded them a moment more, then reached back and unslung the canvas sack tied behind the cantle.

  He was pleased that Teasdale had forced him to go with him to Gleason’s to buy some jerky and hardtack, and Silver Haskell, that old rascal, had even lent him two canteens. Kept mumbling something about how he didn’t want Squi
rly’s death from stupidity to be on his conscience. And then the biggest surprise of all was the bottle of whiskey Teasdale had bought him at Gleason’s store. Stuffed it into Squirly’s sack and said, “Man in your condition, without a bit of this inside you, why, you’ll shiver and shake yourself to death before you can get back to Turnbull and pay off this debt. You hear?”

  “Old Teas,” said Squirly to the horse as he took a measured pull on the bottle. He eyed the level, still above half-full. In a way he hoped that if Mitchell Farthing was done for, the buzzards marked the spot. It wouldn’t do to run out of tanglefoot before he got back.

  Another hour brought him to within sight of the scene. He saw the great-winged birds in two close bunches, their bobbing heads and raised wings giving the groupings the freakish look of dying creatures. He heard them too, their guttural squawks shivering him and causing the old horse to blow and falter and hesitate in her steps.

  Squirly suspected the horse’s eyesight wasn’t all it should be. So long as her legs are, he thought. I got the eyes of a twelve-year-old boy, he told himself, and the legs of a drunk.

  Next came the stench. It wafted to him on an unfelt breeze and nearly turned his stomach. He prayed it wouldn’t, as that might waste some of the effects of the whiskey, and that was one thing he couldn’t afford to lose out on, being that it was in such short supply.

  The toes of the dead man’s boot stuck up, facing the sky, and waggling side to side as if he were fidgeting. But Squirly knew it was from the digging, snatching curved backs of the buzzards, hunks of ragged flesh dangling from their great hooked beaks. Had to be Mitchell, he thought. Ain’t no other thing it could be. And nearby, he saw the gleaming wet bones of the man’s horse, the curve of its ribs still pink with blood and gristle. One of the buzzards tried to claw its way up the slick bones, but slid backward, disturbing two others, who hopped about the mess, their nasty bald heads bucking and squawking.