by J K Ellem
“You decide. But don’t cross onto the Morgan’s land if you do. Their ranch runs adjacent to the McAlister’s. They don’t take too kindly to strangers,” Callie replied. She straightened her apron and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “If you do take up the offer I might see you around, back in here maybe,” she said with a knowing smile, before turning and walking away.
* * *
The air was cool and clear, and the sun was climbing towards its apex. Shaw stood on the shoulder of the road, both feet on a battered gentle slope of gravel and dirt. The gas station and diner were at his back, a thick layer of blacktop in front, inches from his toes, its edges cracked and warped in places, a white line border down each side and a thick faded yellow line down the center. It stretched away in both directions.
To the left, the road fell away and in the distance he could see the township of Martha’s End. A cluster of non-descript buildings at the center surrounded by a small urban sprawl with a red water tower poking up into the sky. Quaint. Scenic. Civilized.
To the right the road shrunk into a broad expanse of open landscape. Sparse. Raw. Unknown.
In his head he did a quick recap of the morning's events, then made up his mind.
Shaw hitched up his rucksack, turned right and started walking along the road.
5
Ranch hand wanted.
The sign was faded and scuffed. Scorching sun, harsh rain and cold wind had weathered it over the years such that Shaw could hardly make out the words on the metal sign that hung beside the road. He had been following what seemed like an endless fence line of post and wire for almost two miles along the old highway. It was warm and he had taken off his jacket, tying it loosely around his waist.
The fence line then cut inwards along a side dirt road that led to a ranch entrance. A double gate of rusted tubular steel was hinged on each side to a set of tall posts with a high cross-beam, the timber worn and dilapidated, split and cracked. A sign Private Property Keep Out was attached to the gate with twists of old fencing wire. A rusted metal cutout sign hung from the beam over the entrance that announced McAlister Ranch.
The whole place looked tired and run-down. Shaw was already beginning to regret his decision to turn right at the gas station and follow the road. Maybe he should have turned left and walked into town, and found some nice comfy small motel with air-con, hot showers and cable TV. Maybe he should have just stayed on the bus, not broken the trip and been closer to Denver by now. With each step he seemed to be getting further and further away from his original destination.
But something had drawn him towards this direction. Things he had observed in the diner. Something that Callie the waitress had said. It could be nothing.
He shook his head, berating himself. This is a bad idea.
He turned and walked back to the main road, starting back towards the gas station. If he hurried he could make it into Martha’s End before dusk, maybe grab a ride from a local farmer heading into town.
Shaw had only walked a hundred yards when he heard the throaty rumbling in the distance behind him.
He recognized the sound of a custom exhaust.
He kept walking. Probably a truck or sports sedan.
Then the pitch changed as the sound drew closer, higher and more drawn out like the vehicle was accelerating, the revs topping out before the driver shifted gear. Shaw stepped further to the side and back from the broken edge of the blacktop.
A blur of red tore past his shoulder, missing him by a few inches, a backwash of heat, grit and exhaust fumes in its wake pulled him nearly off his feet.
“Damn it!” Shaw yelled.
The taillights flared as the driver hit the brakes and brought the pickup to a stop a hundred yards up the road.
Shaw straightened himself, dusting off the dirt that had washed over him, then looked to where the truck had pulled up, the big motor idling. The driver waiting.
Son of a bitch.
Crew cab, ruby red, tinted glass. The same pickup truck from the diner.
The driver had actually crossed over on to the opposite side, into the oncoming traffic lane just to brush past Shaw.
Shaw began to walk towards the truck.
Now he was pissed.
He didn’t care how many of them were in the truck.
The truck just stood there as he approached. Taillights illuminated, driver's foot on the brake pedal, fat twin exhausts emitting a low rumble.
Shaw got within thirty feet, then the truck lurched forward with a screech of tires and a burst of rubber smoke, and took off.
Shaw watched as it shrunk into the distance, before finally vanishing in a watery shimmer of heat and road.
Pricks. Shaw shook his head.
He stopped for a moment. Contemplating. Then he looked back over his shoulder.
Ranch hand wanted.
He turned and walked towards the McAlister ranch, his mind made up.
* * *
Unlocking the steel gate was simple. It was a chain and latch affair. He made sure he closed it securely behind him. He made it about half a mile before he saw a boil of brown dust in the distance rolling towards him.
Daisy McAlister reined in her horse in a cloud of dirt in front of Shaw.
He stood still, and studied her.
She was young, maybe the same age as Callie back at the diner. Sunflower blonde hair that spilled around her shoulders, loose strands across her face. She wore a red checked riding shirt, sleeves rolled up but a few buttons undone at the front, riding breaches that hugged her supple legs like a second skin, and riding boots through the stirrups. Shaw couldn’t really see her face too well as she kept her distance, but what really got his attention was when she casually slid out a rifle from a leather saddle scabbard and rested it low on the pommel. She didn’t aim it directly at Shaw, but her intention was obvious.
Shaw didn’t move, hands by his sides, in clear sight. He didn’t want to give the young woman any reason to aim the rifle at him. He definitely wasn’t in Kansas City anymore.
“This is McAlister land, mister. State your business,” she said, her voice had a certain twang to it, but it also had a depth of maturity and confidence that belied her young age.
Shaw said nothing, trying to make up his mind what to say. So he did the next best thing, he slowly raised his hands. “Sorry. I mean no trouble. I’ll just turn around and go back through the gate,” he said, his voice calm and slow.
The horse moved slightly and Shaw could see her correct it using just the slightest movement of her hips and knees pressed into the animal's flanks. She was good. Shaw knew little about horse riding, but he knew that the woman in front of him had a skilled bond with her horse. Something that came only from spending years in the saddle.
“Did the Morgans send you?” she said, her voice turned harsh. She angled the rifle slightly higher, aiming below Shaw’s waist. “Because if you’re from them I’ll put a round into your leg and you can limp back and tell them to go to hell!”
The situation was escalating. Shaw could see the weapon better now and his threat assessment went up a notch. It was a Winchester lever-action. Black walnut stock, polished, looked after, cared for. Iron sights, no red-dot. A true shooter's carbine owned and held by someone who appreciated the weapon, and was skilled and proficient in its use. Not a tool, but an extension of themselves.
“No, the Morgans didn’t send me,” Shaw replied, holding his hands a little higher. “I don’t know who they are, but I think they just tried to run me off the road a few moments ago.”
The woman said nothing. She was still assessing him like a threat.
“Red pickup truck, looks new, big wheels, raised, loud exhaust?” Shaw offered, he could quote the registration number, but he didn’t want to go too far. The woman might think he was a cop. “Don’t tread on me sticker on the bumper?” he continued.
The woman raised an eyebrow, but the gun was still trained on him.
He was sure she ha
d recognized the vehicle, but she still wasn’t convinced. He could see the skepticism in her face.
“If you just let me go, I’ll turn around and walk back out the gate. I’m sorry for the intrusion.”
She thought about this for the moment. “Are you from the bank?”
Shaw frowned and was thrown slightly by the question. The bank? What bank?
“Because if you are, I’ll shoot you all the same. Bunch of thieving jackals,” she spat.
Shaw was intrigued by the woman now. She certainly had spirit and balls. “Do I look like I’m from the bank?” he asked, a bemused smile on his face.
The woman’s face softened slightly. No, he certainly didn’t look like he was from the bank.
Shaw was making some headway at least in trying to diffuse the situation. “I saw the sign on the gate saying ranch hand wanted. That’s all. I’m sorry if I made a mistake. I was just looking for work and a place to stay.”
The woman lowered the rifle, but still had it pointed in Shaw’s general direction. “What’s in the bag?” she nodded.
Very slowly Shaw unslung his rucksack and threw it midway between them. “See for yourself. No weapons. Just a book, some toiletries and a spare change of clothes. I travel light.”
The woman looped the reins over the pommel, swung one leg over the neck of the horse and slid smoothly off while still holding the rifle in one hand. Her dismount looked like something she had done a million times before.
The horse stood perfectly still and waited.
She walked to the rucksack and, without taking her eyes off Shaw, crouched down and unclipped the top flap of the rucksack and tipped its contents out. She patted down the side pockets until she was absolutely sure there was no gun or other weapon.
“See. I’m unarmed.”
“Lose the jacket around your hips and turn around slowly for me,” she said, standing up fully. She stepped closer to Shaw and now held the rifle in both hands, aiming it squarely at his head.
She is good, Shaw thought to himself. Overly cautious, but for a reason.
Shaw undid the arms of the jacket and tossed it to the side. With his hands back up he did a slow turn until he faced her again. “I’m not carrying a gun or anything,” he repeated. “The waitress at the diner, Callie, she said you’re looking for ranch hands and that I’d get room and board for a day's work.”
“I know,” the woman said. She lowered the gun completely and her entire demeanor changed. “Callie sent me a text and said to keep an eye-out for some guy who was looking for work.”
Callie had gone into more detail in her text about how good-looking the man was, but Daisy didn't explain that.
Shaw lowered his hands, a little annoyed. He felt like he’d been pulled from the line at an airport and had been given a full body search for no reason at all. “So you knew?” he said incredulously.
“I didn’t know exactly who you were. You can never be too careful. We get all types around here.”
She stepped closer. “I’m Daisy, Daisy McAlister. I’m sorry, but Callie has a tendency to exaggerate everything.” She looked Shaw slowly up and down. But she got it right this time, she thought.
Up close she had dazzling blue eyes, golden skin and a proud jaw. She was a real mid-western beauty. Slightly shorter than Shaw and with her shirt unbuttoned a little too low, without dropping his eyes and looking like a fool he could make out the white-laced curve of her bra. She certainly filled it out amply.
“So you’ve gone from pointing a gun at me to being hospitable?” Shaw bent down and started to refill his rucksack.
“I’m sorry,” Daisy said again. Shaw stood up and could see in her eyes that she was genuinely apologetic. He wandered what had been happening in her past that warranted such distrust and fear. People, even in rural areas, didn’t greet everyone who turned up on their property with a pointed gun unless something really bad had happened in their past. It got Shaw’s interest up and he wanted to know more.
He picked up his jacket, dusted it off and tied it around his waist again. “That’s OK. I’m Ben, Ben Shaw.”
“Ben as in Benjamin Franklin?”
“No, Ben as in Benedict Arnold.”
“Wasn’t he a traitor? Swapped sides and joined the British?”
Shaw just smiled. This was going to be an interesting day.
6
They walked the rest of the way to the main house. Daisy led the horse by the reins. It ambled behind her and Shaw carried his rucksack. The sun was low off the trees and everything was golden and hazy. In the distance brown shapes moved in open paddocks and there was the occasional sorrowful bovine moan.
Daisy explained that they had close to three hundred acres, small compared to the Morgan’s land that shared a boundary on the eastern side. They had over ten thousand acres, and they ran cattle and grew crops as well.
“We get ranch hands here on and off to help, but in the last six months they’ve been scarce. We had a few last month, but they just upped and left a few days later. No reason, no explanation. I came down to the bunkhouse one morning with breakfast and they had cleared out. They even missed a week's wages. It’s not much, but it’s still money.” Daisy said.
Shaw was content to just listen, gather information. Casual labor was not loyal, but it was rare they would leave before getting paid.
“You said we?” he asked.
“It’s just my mother and me. My father, Stan McAlister, died about two years back. An accident or so they say.” Daisy’s voice didn’t falter or skip a beat, and she didn’t expand further on her father's death. She was strong-willed and independent, but she kept her raw emotions under wraps. Shaw didn’t press the point, but he could tell there was something below the surface as he watched her. He didn’t know the woman and she didn’t know him, but she seemed troubled.
Daisy stopped and turned to Shaw, the horse nuzzling at the back of her shoulder. “I don’t care how long you can really stay. There’s plenty of work as you’ll see. I look after the cattle, but they’re grazing now for the next few months. We’ve had to sell a lot of them. I just can’t keep up with managing them. Callie said you seemed like an honest person.”
“And you trust what she says? I could be a serial killer for all you know.”
“We went to school together here. We’re best friends and I trust her gut. She’s a better judge of character than me. Besides, I sleep with a gun by my pillow just in case.”
Shaw didn’t doubt it.
Just for a brief moment Daisy looked weary. The stress, pressure and workload had taken their toll and Shaw wanted to help, but he was just passing through. He would fix what he could, but he would be gone in the next few days. “I can’t ride a horse, but I’m good with my hands.”
“That's fine. This is an old fashioned ranch, but we do have a few vehicles. My father's old Dodge is in the barn and we have an ATV. I don’t use them much, only when I need to get into town or go to the produce store. I much prefer horses.” She stroked the muzzle of the horse.
“What’s his name?” Shaw asked, trying to shift her thoughts to something more upbeat.
Daisy smiled and her eyes brightened, her look of weariness gone as fast as it had appeared. “You really don’t know much about horses, or ranches or anything rural, do you?”
Shaw shrugged. “I’m not really the big-city type either. I can’t stand crowds and traffic, and the mayhem.”
“It’s a she, the horse and her name is Jazz.” The horse reached towards Shaw, he held out his hand and she nibbled at his fingers. Her head was huge, almost the entire length of his arm, but compared to police horses he had seen, Jazz was a small horse. “She’s an Australian Stock Horse, fast, agile and built for endurance. They breed them tough because of the harsh conditions there.”
Shaw could now see the slight feminine traits in the horse’s face, the eyes, the bone structure.
“Maybe I’ll teach you to ride?”
Shaw thought for a moment. H
aving something large under him that he had no control over didn’t really appeal to him. Especially when it could outrun a human. Looking up at the saddle it seemed like a long way to fall at full gallop. “Thanks, but I’m fine with my feet planted on the ground,” he smiled.
They reached the top of the dirt road and the homestead came into view. It was all verandahs, timber siding, sash windows and a tin roof. Large and airy, but in desperate need of attention. Shaw guessed that the house was originally painted a mustard color, but years of sun had bleached away the pigment to a yellowish stain. The paint had peeled in places and there were large patches of raw timber black with discoloration, the original oils and protective resins long since washed away or evaporated. The rain had done its damage. There were blotches of rot on some of the rails and on the pickets along the verandahs.
A chimney of worn brickwork ran up one side of the house. In its prime the homestead would have been spectacular, but neglect, scorching summers and the harsh Kansas winters had taken its toll.
The main dirt road split into three smaller, narrow tracks. One curved past the front steps of the homestead and formed a circular driveway around a large cottonwood tree before rejoining the main dirt road. A second angled to the right and led to a large red barn. Beside the barn was a small structure that was a bunkhouse for the ranch hands and itinerant workers. There were stables further away, past the bunkhouse.
Another track ran behind and then past the back of the homestead to a large three-gable shed that housed farm machinery.
Daisy paused at the junction. “I think the Morgans ran them off. We’ve been trying to get help here, but it's been hard.”
“Ran them off?” Shaw asked. They continued towards the bunkhouse, the horse still following.
“They’ve been wanting to buy this ranch for years now. When my father was alive, Jim Morgan, the patriarch of the Morgan family, kept hassling him to sell. He said he wanted to amalgamate his farm with ours and have more space to run his herds. But my father didn’t trust him. So he dug his heals in and refused to sell.
