Dead Man's Ranch Page 4

  “Because she’s fond of you, as if you didn’t know.”

  “We’re friends, is all.” He tucked the gift under his arm, plumed more cigar smoke.

  “So, Callie, anything new in the world?” Junior almost smiled at his sister.

  “I should be asking you that question, Junior. That’s why I bought you that shirt.” She nodded at the brown package she’d handed him. “Time you got off this place now and again—and not just to hit the saloon with the boys. Lots of nice folks in these parts. And they do hold these things called dances every so often.”

  He reddened. “I know, I know. That ain’t what I meant, Callie—”

  Wilf shook his head and stared at Junior. “I never thought any son of mine would become a drunkard.”

  “Papa! Junior isn’t…and you know it.” Callie turned to her brother. “I know what you meant, Junior,” she said, pulling her coat down off the seat of the barouche. She stopped, eager to change the subject, and looked at her father and brother. “Matter of fact, something that happened last night was a little odd.”

  “How so, girl?” Wilf looked up from studying his gift. Junior stood, one step below him, but looked at her with the same look of curiosity and concern, as if they were twins separated by long years. She couldn’t help smiling.

  “Well, since I was staying in town with Miss Gleason last night, she and I went to Mae’s for supper—my treat, Papa—and there was a stranger got there before us. It being a Tuesday, there was no one else in the place, except for Harvey Peterson.” She wagged her eyebrows. Her father frowned and her brother half smiled.

  “And do you know, he was downright rude,” said Callie.

  Her father straightened. “Harv? Rude to you?”

  She shook her head. “Not Harv. The stranger was the one who was rude.”

  “Where is he now?” Her father looked beyond her, as if he could spot this offensive person on the horizon. He stared past the long, curving drive that led up to the house, and out over the plains that stretched for miles. His gaze took in his own vast herds of grazing cattle and pasture land interrupted only by Maligno Creek meandering through the valley.

  “He’s in town, Papa. And yes, he was rude to me, but he was that way with everyone. I don’t think he meant it. I think he’s just, well, not used to being away from a city. Anyway, Brandon put him in his place.”

  “Brandon? How so?” Junior was interested now.

  “He was drunk, no surprise there, and the stranger thought he was protecting me, I guess.” She shrugged. “Brandon up and lashed out, punched the stranger on the cheek. Dropped him and knocked him out.”

  “I never took a shine to that boy, and I can’t say I condone his drinking ways of late, but I won’t disagree with any man who defends my daughter.”

  “There wasn’t anything to defend. It was a misunderstanding, that’s all. I shouldn’t have even told you.”

  “You ever find out who he was, what he’s doing in Turnbull?”

  “Mae said his name is Middleton. But I think he’s from back East. Definitely a city boy.” She stood, mired in thought, one hand on the barouche, her brown coat over one arm.

  “Callie.”

  “Yes, Papa?”

  “Everything all right, then? He didn’t hurt you…?”

  “Oh no. Not at all. He’s fine. A bruise on his cheek, I should think.”

  “You didn’t answer your brother’s question. What’s he want here?”

  “I’m sure I have no idea. But I will tell you there’s something—I don’t know—familiar, I suppose, about him.”

  “Familiar? How so?”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out. I think I finally have it. He reminds me, for some odd reason, of Mr. MacMawe, before he took sick, of course.”

  There was an odd silence. Then her father said, in a voice that sounded thin and brittle, “How so, Callie?”

  “Well, it could well be that shocking topknot of red hair. Or the fact that he’s a fairly large man, like Old Rory. Oh, I don’t know what it was. Probably just a drummer—who else would come to Turnbull? And on a Tuesday? Funny that a salesman who looks like poor Mr. MacMawe would show up in Turnbull, of all places. And just after the funeral too. It’s not like you see red hair every day.”

  Her father turned and disappeared inside without saying another word. Seconds later, he barked for his son to follow. “Junior…my library. And close the door behind you.”

  Junior closed his eyes and sighed. His sister touched his sleeve. “Junior, whatever happened between you two? You used to get along so well—”

  “Yep, when I was a kid.” He took the steps two at a time. He stopped at the top step and looked down at her. “Thanks for the shirt, sis. I’ll step out more often, I promise. And not just to the bars with the boys….”

  But the lines around his eyes were cut deep. He looked so old to her. Old and fragile.

  And then their father’s voice cracked the moment in two. “Junior, where in the hell are you?”

  The young man sighed and turned.

  The only place he’ll wear that shirt, she thought, is the saloon. A few seconds later Callie heard the library door clunk shut.

  Chapter 7

  A bullet whistled, punched into the old cowhand’s shoulder blade with the sound of a fist hitting a sack of cornmeal. It drove through flesh, blood, shattered wet bone, lung, and pushed out through his sagged chest. The force of the shot jerked him hard from the saddle as if yanked by ropes.

  As he lay on the ground trying to get his breath back, Mitchell Farthing wondered what in the hell had just happened. Had Bullock thrown him? No, not Bullock. But then what caused the raw, hot pain in his shoulder? Had he just landed hard and broken it? Did it matter? Mitchell, he told himself as the pain welled in him, none of this matters now. You have been damaged in some way and you are a long way from anywhere. And if you are now addlepated from a fall, to boot, what will you do? What can you do out here alone?

  Think, old man, he told himself. Think. But the only thing Mitchell could call up in his mind was that Quimby and the boys had been right. He should have quit the line at least a year back. But how do you quit something when it’s the only thing you’ve ever done that made you feel as if you were living? How do you stop riding a horse, for God’s sake? He’d lost all his money over the past few seasons, just trying to stay in the young man’s game. Trying to land a choice position at a ranch somewhere. The final straw was when he’d gotten sick, had to use the last of his poke and sell off his good gear to pay for the doctoring bills. No one had wanted the horse, Bullock.

  He was thankful that his old friend was as old as he was—no chance of being separated from him. Then he’d gotten what seemed a lucky break—a telegram, the first he’d ever received—from his old line-shack partner, Squirly Ross. He’d wondered about Squirly off and on over the years, and come to the decision that he’d probably made the right decision to leave the grub line and try his hand at prospecting. But the telegram seemed to say otherwise. Squirly hinted that there was ranch work, and something more, down south in New Mexico Territory. All he had to do was show up. Squirly had also mentioned he should bring his poke. Ha—if Squirly only knew that Mitchell didn’t have a poke any longer. He smiled at the thought of the two of them working a ranch job together, somewhere warm. Turnbull, the telegram had said. Come to Turnbull…big opportunities.

  These thoughts came quickly to him, followed on their heels by the knowledge that he might never get there now. You fell off your horse, you old fool, he thought. And he laughed, or tried to. A wet clot caught in his throat and even as he burbled up an imitation of a chuckle, Mitchell knew he’d been shot. And he also knew that he was sunk before he floated, to quote his old, long-gone Da.

  For a lung-shot man is a dead-shot man.

  It was the first bullet to ever pierce his old hide, which he found remarkable given the amount of time he’d spent roving the West, the saloon scuffles he’d seen,
backed into a corner, not wanting to mix it up with fools too stupid to recognize a bad hand for what it was, or too drunk to take their fight outside. Or all those scrapes with ranchers opposed to free grazers, or fights with free grazers themselves—he’d been on both sides of that tiff more than a few times. And then there was the War Betwixt the States. Good God, how had he managed to slip through that one with little more than ringing ears and nightmares? Doesn’t matter now, old fool, he told himself. You’re cooked and laid out on the hardpan floor of the Cholla Basin, miles from water and inches from rocks.

  Then he heard his horse nicker. Bullock, thought Mitchell, the steadiest old thing on four legs, standing nearby and not sure what had just happened. Make it to the horse, he thought. Might stand a chance. Mitchell’s vision wavered at the edges, as if he were looking through water. Then it dimmed, lightened, dimmed….And there was the sound of a horse moving, stepping closer. Bullock with a nervous chuckle. Someone else, then.

  He heard that someone climb down, footsteps, and then a shadow was standing tall over him. Mitchell tried to speak, forced his eyes to move. Come to it, you foolish old man, he told himself. Or this stranger will think you’ve expired and be tempted to drag you in a hole and cover you with rocks, or else leave you for the coyotes to sup on.

  The old man put his all into opening his mouth and felt that he’d made some sort of progress. But it was only a blood bubble; he heard it pop. All the words he would ever get to say were in that bubble. He looked up at the thin man, not too tall, and saw a low-crowned hat, black. And then the man bent low, the eyes looking down, nose twitching. Do I smell bad? thought Mitchell.

  The man looked down and then to each side. He smiled and lifted the little sack of Bull Durham from Mitchell’s pocket, then touched a finger in salute to the wide brim of his black hat.

  Then the man stood, looked straight down at him, made a kiddie’s gun with his fingers. “I am going to Turnbull now,” said the man. Then he smiled. “And you, my friend, are going to hell.” He pulled the imaginary trigger.

  The last things Mitchell wondered as he lay there on the ground looking upward was that he too had been headed to Turnbull. He could have ridden along with the stranger; they could have kept each other company. But that was not meant to be. How, he wondered, could he have wronged someone so badly—someone he didn’t even recognize? He figured that the answer was that he hadn’t. Hell of a mistake, he thought. And I’m on the poor end of it.

  The man smiled once more; then, where before the man’s fingers held nothing more than the shape of a kiddie’s gun, now he held a long-barreled Smith & Wesson Army revolver. He pulled the trigger and the pistol bucked in his hand.

  As hairs of smoke snaked upward from the tip of the barrel, Darturo sighed, with his eyes closed, as if he were sinking into a tub of hot water after a two-month trail drive. He breathed deeply for a few pulls, his smile widening. His slow, dry chuckle uncoiled until both horses perked their ears toward him.

  “Now…that?” Darturo wagged his pistol at the dead man. “That was better than finding a clear stream in the middle of this dry hell.” He rolled a smoke from the man’s makings, and as he puffed, he rummaged in the dead man’s pockets, flopping the old cowhand one way, then another. He tugged off the man’s cracked boots and shook them. Only grit sprinkled out, powdering away on an unseen breeze.

  He repeated his search with the man’s sagged saddlebags on the old horse that had wandered but a few feet away, found nothing worthy of his interest. Darturo’s top lip rose, exposing his teeth in a sneer. “Useless old man.” He snatched the trailing reins and jerked the horse’s head toward him. The horse blinked once as he cocked his pistol, jammed the snout of the barrel into the sunken hollow above the eyeball, and pulled the trigger. Gouts of hot breath and snot sprayed out of the horse’s mouth as it collapsed, then flopped to its side and quivered.

  “Come on, Picolo. We have places to be. We can make up some time while I am feeling good.” He mounted the buckskin. “Of course, I would feel better, but he had nothing to give me except for this tobacco.” He shook his head as they galloped southward.

  Chapter 8

  Callie ferried the rest of the load from her shopping trip into the house, most of it destined for the kitchen. Her thoughts dwelled half on the task at hand, half on the stranger from the night before. She couldn’t seem to keep his unconscious face from her mind.

  She set the packages on a worktable in the middle of the room, and noted Mica was nowhere to be seen. Probably bringing the noon meal to the men, she thought. She stored most of it on the pantry shelves, leaving a few items for Mica to attend to, knowing how particular he was about his kitchen. Then she filled the kettle and put it on to boil. I’ll bet Papa and Junior would like some tea too, she thought, and set out her mother’s teapot and three cups. When the water had boiled, she filled the pot, covered it with the cozy, and carried the tray to her father’s office.

  As Callie approached, she noticed the heavy door hung ajar, but no sound came from within. She set the tray on the front hall table, then peeked in the opening and saw her brother standing behind her father’s desk.

  “Where’s Papa?”

  Junior looked up, eyes red and wide. “Callie…I didn’t hear you coming….” He replaced the fountain pen in its holder and slipped the page he was writing off the stack. He walked around his father’s desk, resting a hand on the guest chair, running a fingertip along the carved grooves of the headrest. “He just left. Said he had to talk with someone right away.” Junior looked at his sister. “But not before he told me who your redheaded stranger friend is.”

  “What? Who does he think the man might be?”

  If Junior heard her, he ignored her question. “The old man told me to wait here for him. Can you imagine that?”

  Callie saw her brother’s jaw muscle working hard. “What are you up to, Junior?”

  “Nothing that concerns you, Callie.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re not thinking of leaving, are you?”

  “And why not?” He stood straighter and returned her stare.

  It was the first time in a long while that she saw the fire and zest, and yes, if she had to be honest about it, there was a hint of ruthlessness there too in him that she saw every day in her father’s face. But she wasn’t so sure she liked it on her brother’s gentle features. Once again she was reminded of how very similar the two men were. And yet so different.

  “But, Junior, you’re not Papa. He’s—”

  “What? A real man?” he shouted. “Someone who did something with his life, on his own terms, with his own hands?” Junior held up his trembling hands, their work-hardened backs to his sister. In one of them he clutched the paper on which he’d been writing. The page trembled as if in a breeze. Callie smelled the rotted-flower stink of whiskey on his breath. She saw three unfinished lines of a letter that began “Father.”

  Junior gritted his teeth, said quietly, “I’ve heard it all before, Callie. All of it.” His head shook in rage. For a moment their eyes locked; then a leer spread across his face. “I may not be the old man, but I sure as hell can be my own man. And I think I know how.” With precision he tore apart the letter until it was little more than ragged fragments no larger than a thumb. Then his mirthless smile widened and he let the torn bits drift from his fingertips. “Thanks, sis.” He spun from her and strode with care out of the dark room, the study doors slammed back, quivering on their hinges.

  “That’s not what I meant, Junior!” But it was too late—even as she said it the big entry door to the house slammed hard and she heard his boots clunk down the wide front steps. Callie had never seen her brother act so strange.

  So very similar, she thought, looking around her father’s dark, orderly office. At the scraps of torn paper trailing across the burgundy rug. And yet so very different.

  Chapter 9

  Brian Middleton made it just past the southeastern signpost of Turnbull proper whe
n the saddled beast he rode convulsed as if pinched. The big man gripped the reins tight and wrapped his fingers around the saddle horn, his long legs, unstirruped, slamming the barrel of the horse, alarming the mount further with each bucking move.

  Middleton’s derby hat, now the color of sunbaked dust, popped from his head and landed upright under a thudding hoof, and his satchel, tied behind the cantle and hanging loose on one side of the horse’s rump, bounced in counterpoint to his flailing legs and the horse’s jumps. As the horse spun in a circle, Middleton saw a half dozen women and men watching from the end of the cursed little town’s main street. And he felt his hated temper rise in him like storm water filling a too-narrow drain. His battered cheek, a sore reminder of the vicious attack he’d endured the previous evening, throbbed and pulsed with every hop the horse made.

  He’d gladly be damned forever before he’d give those leering folks the satisfaction of seeing him head back to that thief Haskell’s livery for a different mount. He gritted his teeth and worked the reins left, then right, and before he knew what had happened he was flat on the gravel path, on his back looking up at the horse, which stood still and stared up the sloping trail out of town, as if in contemplation of what it might find out there beyond the rocks and sand.

  Without turning his head, Middleton shifted his eyes back toward the people in the street. They were turned away, he knew, not wanting to be seen by him gawping at his calamitous descent. Well, good, he thought. The less the better. He pulled in a great draft of air through his nostrils and rose to his feet, smacking dust from his clothes and looking around for his hat. It had been under him.