Archer's Return

by Leona Grace

  At any other time Sam might have asked one of the men to stay behind with the horse until it was recovered, but they were shorthanded as it was and he refused to leave the animal in the faint hope it would survive. Predators were always searching for easy pickings.

  He spent a few minutes with Ray talking about the horse and trying to find some way to avoid the inevitable. One night. He’d give it one last night of good food and rest and then, in the morning, when the herd was on its way and not close enough to be spooked, he’d come back here and do his duty. But it was a hard way to end a life. The piebald deserved better than a bullet far from home.

  Duane had given him a withered apple from the supplies and he broke it in half and held one piece out to the horse. Soft lips, intelligent eyes watching him, one foot shifting uneasily, despite Ray’s treatment. “Sorry, lad.” He tugged the ears and was rewarded with a snicker of appreciation. The second half was for Meg who had come to see what was happening.

  She nudged the piebald with her nose then stood with her head by his rump, her tail warding flies from his face. The bell sounded for supper and he left them standing in the shade and went to eat. There was no sign of the youth or the girl but he had the feeling they were somewhere close by, waiting for morning to see what they could scavenge from the camp site once the cowboys had left. He would make sure Duane left more than scraps.

  Late that night he woke, uneasy and alert, pushing back his thin blanket and sitting up to listen. It was not yet midnight: a couple of men on first watch, the camp fire bedded down and nothing disturbing the peace. Out in the land like this, he woke regularly throughout the night, listening to the sounds of the herd or the sleeping men or the night-time animals searching for prey, before drifting back into the half-sleep he had learned during the long years as an army scout.

  But something had roused him – not the enemy creeping closer, or the sound of gunshots. This was an unfamiliar noise, and unpleasant. Bear growled, little more than a deep rumble in the dog’s throat. A low, threatening sound that spoke of trouble and danger and he pulled his boots on and followed the dog, loping over the ground with his gun held ready. The faintest of sounds, the scuffle of boots on dry earth, a muted shout coming from outside the camp and away from the sleeping herd and the picket line of horses.

  He’d gone a some distance when Bear halted beside him, frozen in place and waiting. A hand brushed over the dog’s head and he edged his way forward, aware of soft sounds ahead: the rustle of leaves or material, a stifled cry of pain, a man’s voice hissing a threat. Even from here he could recognise Mason’s voice and he hunkered down, his breathing slow and steady until he was aware of the man’s harsh gasps. And then another cry, so faint that he might have missed it, but he was utterly alert now.

  Bear was alert beside him as he took the first soft step, aware of dry leaves beneath his boots, of dead twigs and grass and the moonlight silvering the land. One step and another, slow and steady, the dog close behind. He’d seen Bear attack before, heard the screams before the dog tore out Eugene Dalton’s throat.

  Movement caught his eye, the silhouette of someone in a small clearing ahead. A tall man, leaning over a shape on the ground, someone struggling on the other side of the space. Moonlight revealed pale skin, bare skin, dark braided hair, the man undoing the buttons of his pants.

  Rage swept through him. Bad enough that these two had lost their home and family, but this was sickening. Gun in hand, a click of his fingers, and he stepped out into the clearing, the hound brushing against his leg.

  “Stop or I’ll shoot you.”

  Mason grabbed the girl, dragging her upright, steel glinting against her throat. “I’ll slit her throat.”

  “Then I’ll shoot you in the leg and leave you here, alive. Indians have a way of killing those who rape their women. Takes a long time from what I’ve heard.” He nodded at the youth, hog-tied and gagged and desperate to escape. “Easy, lad. You’ll be needing your strength if he hurts your sister. But if he does the right thing, lets her go and steps away, I’m going to take him prisoner. Let the law deal with him. That’s my way. Understand?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Last chance, Mason. Drop the knife and let her go.”

  The blade dropped to the ground and the man backed up a couple of paces, his arm now wrapped round the girl’s neck. “She just an injun. What do you care about a worthless piece of trash?” The man spat on the girl and for a moment Sam wanted to step forward and smash his face with the butt of his gun.

  “She’s a child. That’s why.” He could feel Bear growling, a sound so low that he could feel the vibrations in his leg where the dog pressed against him. “I’ll let the dog loose.”

  Mason released the girl with a shove and Archer bent down to scoop up the knife and throw it into the undergrowth. “Stand still and don’t move unless you want the dog at your neck.” He clicked his fingers and Bear came closer, teeth bared.

  The girl was lying where she had fallen, her eyes wide with terror, her face covered in scratches. He turned away and went over to the youth, removing the filthy gag before getting out his own knife to cut through the ropes. “See to your sister.”

  And now he had to deal with Mason. He could not kill the man, much as he might want to, but he could take him back to the ranch and then to the sheriff in Harville, for all the good that would do. He’d seen the way the government treated Indians and it was unlikely the sheriff would have much choice in the matter. It was tempting to leave Mason here and let the youth take his revenge but that would be akin to murder and, however much an animal Mason was, he could not countenance that.

  It took him a minute to tie the man’s hands behind his back, his prisoner spitting and swearing and yelling blue murder, until Sam kicked him to the ground and told him to shut up. Even that didn’t work and he found the rag and stuffed it in the man’s mouth, not caring if he suffocated. Then it was time to speak with the two orphans. He hunkered down in front of the youth and the girl, hands spread out in a gesture of openness. “If I had my way, he’d be hanged for what he tried to do.” He looked at the two of them and shook his head. “But that’s not my decision to make. I’m sorry.”

  “You were not to know what he intended. I should have been watching, but he is very skilful at hiding. More than some of my people I fear.” The youth shrugged his shoulders. “It was not your fault.”

  “This is my land, my men. I’m responsible for what happens here. I just wish I had more to give you right now.” And then it came to him. He sat down, cross-legged and easy. “Would you take one of our horses? I have an old one with a few years still left in him, well-trained and hard-working but he’s footsore at the moment. Nothing bad – all he needs is rest for a few days – but I can’t spare anyone to look after him. Would you be willing to take him, as a kindness to me?” A chance for the piebald to live.

  “A generous gift.” The youth nodded, long blond hair falling over his face to hide his emotions. “Thank you. We will stay here; my sister will be glad of the rest.”

  Archer tilted his head and looked at the youth. “You’re not Indian are you? What’s your name?”

  “My parents were white. I used to be called Tom Walker but I was known in my tribe as Sun Walker.”

  “Were you taken as a child?”

  The youth shook his head. “My father died when I was six. My mother and I had to travel to relatives in…” A pause as if he was trying to remember the word. “…Illinois. We were caught in a snowstorm. I thought we would die but the Indians rescued us.” He wrapped his arm round the young girl and pulled her closer. “I had heard how brutal they could be to white people, but they showed us nothing but kindness and told us we had to stay with them until spring. And over the winter my mother fell in love with the Chief’s son and…” His speech was becoming more fluent, more relaxed, as the words and the language came back to him. He looked at the girl beside him. “Red Moon is my half-sister. She’s twelve years old. Sh
e speaks English, but she is very wary of strangers.”

  A beautiful child and with good reason to be scared. Archer held up one hand. “I’d like to say you’ll be safe here but the soldiers are everywhere. Best thing would be to find something else to for her to wear and burn your Indian clothes. That way you won’t stand out so much.” He scratched his head. Faith would be appalled at what had happened here, and he was deeply ashamed of his negligence in allowing Mason to attack the girl, especially after Cooper’s warnings. “Come to the ranch when you’re ready. Just follow the trail; my wife’ll find some clothes for your sister and there’s a place for anyone willing to work.”

  The youth nodded. “I am grateful. As is my sister.” The girl gave a shy nod, but Archer could see the fear in her eyes.

  “You’ll be made welcome, both of you. I promise.” He grabbed Mason and dragged him to his feet. A last look at the meagre campsite and the two huddled together. The youth would not want to come into the camp tomorrow. “We’ll be heading out soon after dawn. I’ll leave everything for you.”

  Another nod of the head. He wanted to do more – medical supplies, more clothing, a second horse – but they had nothing else to spare right now. Food and some old clothes and a lame horse. A paltry offering, but better than nothing. It was difficult walking back to the camp, Mason fighting him with every step and only the gag keeping the man from shouting abuse.

  “That you, Sam?” A soft voice broke through Bear’s rumbling growls and the snap and rustle of breaking twigs as Mason kept up his struggle. A dark shape stepped into the path – Cooper, gun in hand and looking grimmer than Sam had ever seen him. “Duane woke me, said there was something happening and then headed out this way. I was about to rouse the rest of the men, then I heard the dog.”

  “Duane’s here? Where?”

  A rustle of foliage, the boy stepping out from where he had hidden, looking scared but determined. “I heard… Are they…?”

  Archer shook his head. “It’s over. No one’s hurt but, if I have my way, Mason’s going to pay for what he tried to do.”

  Cooper shook his head. “Mason. Guessed as much. Out to cause trouble were you?” His spittle landed on the man’s boots and Mason kicked out, a lashing blow, but the foreman was too quick – a blow of his fist left Mason stunned on the floor and bleeding from a split lip. “I can guess. The girl? Is she alright?”

  He nodded, grimacing with the thought of what might have happened had he not woken. “He must have known they were following us. It’s my fault. I should have kept watch, but I never thought… If he’d hurt her…”

  Cooper stepped in front of him. “You can stop that right now, Sam Archer.” The harshness in the man’s voice was enough to bring Archer to a halt. “You can’t do everything. Look around you. No man can do it all, not even you, so stop blaming yourself and think on how you can help the lad instead.”

  Harsh words from his foreman, but Cooper was right. He was trying to do too much and it was an impossible task. The work overwhelmed him at times: the need to prove his worth and to make sure the men knew what to do, the responsibility of making the ranch profitable. Anything might happen: a severe winter, a stampede, drought, sickness. There were nights when he lay awake worrying about the future, unwilling to burden Faith with his concerns. But Jonty was right. He was only one man. Time perhaps for him to share his concerns with Faith and let Cooper and Ganlet take over some of the responsibility. His hand ruffled Bear’s thick fur. “I’ll think on it. As for Mason, he didn’t get what he wanted, thank god.”

  Duane stepped forward. “What’re you going do with him?”

  “With Mason? Lock him away when we get back to the ranch, and take him with us to Harville tomorrow. He can sit in the jail there and wait for trial.” He bent to grab the man’s shoulders. “Jonty? Give me a hand will you, before he comes round.”

  By the time they had dragged the man back into camp, the rest of the hands were awake, grumbling and surly for having been disturbed. Ray and Duane went out on second watch, Ganlet threw off his blanket and went to check the horses, Perce came over to help them – a thin shape incongruous in underclothes and sturdy boots.

  They had no problem securing the man to one of the wheels: wrists bound to one of the spokes, ankles tied together, the wad removed from his mouth under threat of being replaced if he disturbed anyone sleeping. There were still several hours until sunrise and the air was cool after the heat of the day but he kicked Mason’s bedroll and blanket aside, not caring if the man was cold.

  ***

  Breakfast was a quiet affair, the men uncomfortable at seeing one of their own confined and asking questions. Sam answered with a few curt words, and after that Mason was ignored, no one even looking at him let alone offering him coffee or food. He was allowed a brief walk into the woods to relieve himself, though Sam refused to untie his hands.

  They broke camp early, no one wanting to hang around, the air tainted by the events of last night and even the cattle eager to move. He left the piebald and more food by the remains of the camp fire. Duane added his spare shirt and a neckerchief to the small pile; a generous gift from a lad who seemed to have precious few possessions. It was all they could do.

  Mason was mounted on his own horse, hands tied to the pommel and reins fastened to the back of the wagon. Too easy for the man, but was either that or make him walk and if the herd started to run, there was no way he could help turn them with a man tied to Meg’s saddle. The sky was palest blue and bright with the promise of more heat and he flicked his reins and let Meg lead off.

  They would be home in time for supper.

  Chapter 3

  Archer finished the last bite of his bread and threw the crust to the dog loping alongside. Everyone was hot and tired and wanting shade and cool water but there was nothing he could do until they stopped to rest. He twisted in the saddle, looking back at the line of horses, the wagon with all the equipment, the cattle. “Perce?”

  “Boss?”

  “Mason get anything to eat?”

  “Bread. Threw it back in my face. I told him it was all he was going to get until we reached the ranch but he didn’t want it. He had some water.”

  “Any problems I need to know about?”

  A jerk of the head. “Depends on what you mean.” Perce spat on the ground. “Mostly complaining. I’ll be glad when we get back. What’re you planning to do with him?”

  “Let the law take care of him. Not that they’ll do much.” He shook his head. “Watch yourself; he’s got the look of a cornered rattler.”

  The cowboy glanced across at Mason, slumped in his saddle as if he’d given up any hope of escape. “He’s settled for now. But I’ll keep my eye on him.”

  They reached the point where the trail broke away from the river and over the short cut; the last stretch of river where the herd would have room to drink without crushing each other and he called to the riders to spread the herd out before taking up his own canteen. A mouthful of tepid water swilled dust from his throat before he soaked his bandana – not for the first time – and wiped his face. Duane and Perce busied themselves filling buckets for the wagon mules, the two of them standing on the low bank and elbowing thirsty calves out of the way. Sam ran one hand down Meg’s hind leg and lifted her foot to check for stones.

  The herd moved forward, pushing each other in their eagerness to dip their mouths in the slow-moving water. Cattle bellowing, men lifting handfuls of water to their faces and pouring it over their heads. He plucked his shirt away from his skin, but there was little relief. Hooves stamped on dry earth, flinging it into the still air where it hung, powdery and thick, clinging to lips and eyelids. Meg snorted, tossing her head to signal her distress and he nudged her into the river to cool her down. And then Mason, wary and silent for the last few miles, made his move.

  In the settling dust and the thirst and heat, no one noticed him edge his pinto round the side of the wagon and out of sight and the first anyone knew of th
e escape was when their prisoner – hands now free of restraints – appeared from the shelter of the wagon, knocking Duane to the ground as he dug his heels into the gelding’s sides, lashing it into a fast and perilous gallop away from the river. Too fast to follow and, with most of the men burdened with loose horses, there was no chance of recapturing him.

  All Archer could do was watch as the gelding lurched away. It was the animal that concerned him – not one of his own horses, thankfully. Mason had arrived on the pinto and refused to take any other horse but it had been ridden hard over the last few days. As for Mason, he hoped the man had the sense to avoid the Indians. Tom Walker was well armed now and would not fall for the same trick again.

  The men were waiting, no doubt expecting him to order a couple of them to chase down the escaped prisoner, but he shook his head. “Let him go. He’s on his own now and it was his choice. We’re close enough to home I doubt if he’ll bother us, but I’ll let the sheriff know what’s happened.”

  “My fault, boss. I shouldn’t have left him alone.” Perce shuffled his feet, avoiding Sam’s eyes.

  “No, you did your best. I should’ve known he’d try something. One good thing at least – we don’t have to listen to his grumbling anymore. Now, let’s get moving.” He climbed back in the saddle with creak of leather and a grunt from the mare. The mules finished drinking and Duane put the buckets away and clambered to his seat, reins in hand and ready. Once past the watering place they would be on the upward slope, the ranch on the other side of the hills and Faith waiting for him.

  A slow walk to the top, but they made it without too much delay, and he pulled the mare to a halt and sat, staring down at the land with its small clusters of trees and the ranch house on the higher ground above the flood plain, the river meandering through the wide valley in sweeping curls. The outer corrals were empty now, most of the horses out with the men, but he could see the colts Ganlet had broken this year standing in the shade of the trees. A thin plume of smoke rose from the house, a line of washing drying outside. Clean sheets and the smell of hot sun. A thicker smoke came from the smokehouse – no doubt the cook taking advantage of a few easy days to kill one of the pigs and smoke the meat. The preparations for the coming months already underway.