by Leona Grace
He eased himself out of bed; the sooner he was done with the morning’s business and on his way, the better. No time for a shave or more than a quick wash to wake him from his listlessness before dressing. He left his best pants and shirt from last night on the chair for Faith to take back home. And then he was done: hat and neckerchief, holster and gun, Martha’s letter. Faith was still asleep when he closed the door and went downstairs to write his instructions to Cooper and order breakfast for himself later.
The streets were quiet as he made his way to the livery at the far end of the town where Meg waited with the rest of the horses. They had brought nothing with them that he could use on his trek, and an expedition across rough territory was going to need more than one horse. The livery had a couple of packhorses and he took one of them out of the corral to inspect it. A sturdy brown gelding and well-trained, it lipped at his hand in hope of an early morning treat and he arranged to hire the animal together with packsaddle and panniers and fodder, leaving the beast with Meg while he finished his preparations.
The General Store was shut, the blinds drawn down and the door locked, but he hammered on the frame until the shopkeeper appeared, unshaven and stuffing his shirt tails into his pants. A terse dismissal. “It’s Sunday. We’re closed.”
He pushed the door wide. “Now you’re open.”
Hesitation, a wary look and then a sigh. “Very well.”
It didn’t take long. Three years of army life had taught him to be efficient and he made his way round the store collecting supplies suitable for a hard journey over difficult terrain: bedroll and blankets, trail food and dried fruit, beans and flour and coffee, fat and matches, a single mess tin and mug. A pouch of tobacco for the nights, bandanas, a second knife. Tools and a brush for Meg. Nothing of value but all things he might need. His own well-used and comfortable work coat was at home, but he found a worn duster left behind by someone. The canvas was dark enough to conceal him at night and he added it to the pile. Water sacks and rope and a pair of binoculars. Extra cartridges for both rifle and gun.
No one was about as he carried his purchases back to the livery, adding the empty water sacks and feed for both horses to the panniers. Now all he had to do was leave Cooper his instructions and say goodbye to Faith.
Breakfast was laid out for him in the dining room, two places set at the table where Faith waited, dressed in her riding clothes from yesterday: pants and loose shirt, a neckerchief and wide brimmed straw hat, a bag on the floor beside her seat. “I’m ready. I’ve packed only what I need.”
“I thought you knew. You’re not coming with me. It’s too dangerous.”
Her face turned pale. “I thought…”
He shook his head. “This isn’t an easy ride. Getting to Dalton’s Gap will be hard going even if the weather breaks. I went more than a few days without clean water or finding food when I came this way before. Travelling alone I should make Dalton’s Gap in a week or so and then another week to get back home. Taking you along will only slow me down.”
“I don’t want you going alone. Anything could happen.”
“Three years scouting for the army. You have to trust me.”
“I do. I just don’t...” She pushed her chair back and went to the sideboard. “You have time for breakfast before you go, don’t you?” It was as if the brief argument had never happened.
He watched as she loaded a plate for him: biscuits and gravy, sausages and bacon, fried potatoes and eggs. His cup filled with coffee, the sugar bowl moved closer to hand.
They ate, the silence of the room broken by the scrape of his knife, the chink of china. The next few meals would be scant sustenance until he was over the high ground. Rations pared to the bone in order to carry water and fodder for the horses.
She pushed aside her plate and poured a second cup of coffee. “How are you going to get there?”
“I was thinking about that.” He spread his napkin out on the table, relieved to have the uncomfortable silence broken. “We’re in Harville, here.” A stab of one finger on the lower edge. “I’ll follow the road to start with, then I’ll head north tomorrow over the high ground – here.” He picked a triangle of toasted bread, placed it in the middle of the napkin and pointed to one of the lower corners. “It’ll take me over the hills between Harville and Dalton’s Gap. From the maps I’ve seen, it’s a shorter journey than the one I took getting here.” He hoped she didn’t ask too many questions.
“That looks like the old mule train route they used before the mule stations were built ten years ago. It’s a difficult track, not much water and some narrow paths. They lost a lot of mules there. Nathan’s father once told me the Indians used it but that was a long time ago.” She stirred sugar into her coffee with a shaking hand. “Is that the only way?”
He dabbed the tip of his knife at the top of the napkin. “Here’s Dalton’s Gap, and here –” A harder dab a few inches to the right of the first. “– is Vancross. To avoid the hills, I’d have to go right round here –” He drew a curved line in the white linen. “– taking me through Vancross and I don’t have the time for that. Going over the high ground should take me three days if all goes well, and I’m taking enough supplies to see me to the other side.”
“I see. You said it was three days from Vancross to Dalton’s Gap, if I remember right?”
He nodded. “This way, once I’m over the hills there’s a stretch of good land and I can rest the horses for a day if I have to. Saves me a good hundred miles or so.” He pointed to where the wide pass led to Dalton’s Gap. “And here’s where I’ll head for home.” He closed his eyes. “I didn’t… I mean…”
Her hand reached for his. “Your family are there; it will always be your home. Even as our ranch is your home now and I am your wife. I don’t think any the less of you for thinking that. Your parents would be proud you still think of it as such, and more proud that you’re going back to help your friends.” She took a deep breath. “I shouldn’t have expected to go with you.”
“I’m sorry. There’s no one I rather have, but…” He shook his head, frustrated at his inability to tell her the truth – that he was going into danger and she was too precious for him to risk her life as well as his. The Daltons may have been eliminated, but there had been an air of lawlessness in the town even James Lancey would struggle to crush.
Had the letter not been so bland and vague, he might have thought less of Martha’s message, but something was wrong and, as the last member of the Archer family, it was his duty to go to their aid. Whatever the cost. He would not disgrace the family name. “I’ll have to travel hard and fast, and having you along will only slow me down. Do you understand?”
“I do.” She turned away and finished buttering her toast, before putting it aside, untasted, and pushing back her chair. “It might be a good idea if you leave before anyone comes down. Is there anything else you need?”
He stood, hand dipping into one of his pockets to bring out the sheet of paper and give it to her. “I’ve hired a packhorse from the livery, and this is a list of jobs that need doing on the ranch. Give it to Cooper and tell him to keep an eye out on the west range, will you? Maybe put a couple of hands there to keep watch? Perce said he heard wolves there a couple of weeks ago and the young calves are out there right now. But there’s nothing major to do so let them take it easy for a few days. They’ve all worked hard this year.” He could see the paper trembling in her fingers. “Before I forget. You might get someone coming to the house looking for work – a young man called Tom Walker and his sister. She’s a couple of years younger than Duane and she’s half-Indian. They’ve had a bad time of things recently and I told her brother you’d help find her some better clothes; maybe find him some spare things as well? Is that alright?”
She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Of course; you know I’ll look after both of them. Does Cooper know?”
“Yes, he’s more than happy to have him. And another thing.” He tugged his jacket s
traight. “I’m taking some of the payroll money. I hope I won’t need it, but I just…”
“You don’t have to explain. It’s your money.”
“It’s our money, Faith. Yours and mine. But I don’t know what I’m going to find when I get there. There’s plenty in the bank to cover next month’s payroll and well beyond but I should be back before then. I just don’t want you worrying about things. Meg’s good for a long ride and I’ve got everything I need.”
“Except me.”
He closed his eyes. Hard enough leaving her anyway but making her to go back to the ranch with Cooper and the others was more painful than he had imagined. “I can’t… Don’t do this to me. If there was any other way, I’d take you. But there isn’t.” He took hold of her arms. “I don’t know what’s happening there. Anything could be wrong, and all I know is they need help. I can’t not go. I owe them too much.”
“Even if it costs you your life?”
There was a coolness in her voice that made him want to shred the letter and tell her he wasn’t going, but then he thought of Martha and he let go of her and turned away. “What sort of man would I be if I didn’t go? I couldn’t live with myself knowing they needed help and I’d done nothing. Do you want a husband who’s afraid to stand up for what’s right?”
Her hand touched his face. “No, you’re right, I wouldn’t. But I’m worried.”
“I know what I’m doing and I’ll be careful. Tell Duane to look after Bear for me, will you?”
“I will.”
“Stay here. Don’t come out. I’d rather…” He bent to kiss her, but she flung her arms round him instead, holding him so tight he could feel her heart beating against his chest, and for one treacherous moment he wanted to forget George and Martha, and stay here with her. Then she let him go and the moment passed, though the ache of leaving her remained, a sharp stab in his heart.
“I think you’re wrong, Sam. I think I should go with you, but if you say you don’t need me then…” She shook her head. “You’d better go, before anyone sees you.”
“I’m sorry.” He pulled away and kissed her forehead. “I should be back in a couple of weeks if all goes well.”
“And if it doesn’t? What then?” Her eyes were bright with tears.
He shook his head. “I have to go. I’ll be back, I promise.” He turned away and hurried out before his courage failed him.
The brown gelding was laden with panniers and he saddled Meg and set off, out of the town and away from Faith. A mile further on he joined the trail made by timber wagons – deep ruts marking the route – and he heeled Meg into a gentle trot, the gelding keeping alongside with an easy gait and biddable. Tomorrow he would turn from the trail and head north over the high ground he crossed last year on his escape from Copperhead Bluff. An arduous journey, but this time, forewarned of conditions ahead, he had prepared himself. He’d have travelled faster without the packhorse but crossing barren land without extra water in this heat was tantamount to a death wish.
Meg tugged at the reins and he dismounted to walk for a while, boots tapping on the hard earth. The unnamed gelding kept pace, head down and uncomplaining, making no attempt to pull away or drag on its lead rope. Heat and sunshine, dust and dryness, hooves snicking on stone, leather creaking. He’d forgotten the loneliness and silence of travelling alone, the need for constant vigilance and the empty hours. This was a wild land, the lower slopes of the hills thick with trees and many of the valleys as yet untamed by farmers, but it would not be many years before they began settling here, displacing any remaining Indians who dared defy the government.
At midday he stopped to rest the horses and he pulled the shabby duster coat from behind Meg’s saddle and slipped it on. Seen close-up it was even more disreputable than he had thought, but that was to his advantage. No longer the respectable and hard-working cattle farmer and no need for a mirror to see how he would appear to anyone unfamiliar. He eased the coat on his shoulders and felt his old life settle on him. A solitary man, well-armed and cautious with more than a hint of danger and darkness in his eyes. He was not fine-looking as his old friend Daniel Sanford, and neither was he burly like the lumberjacks working in the nearby forests, but he could slip into cover and make himself invisible, could work his way through dense undergrowth in silence, could protect himself with fists and feet and elbows. And he would fight to the death to protect his family.
Each mile took him further away from the world of Sam Archer, husband and cattle rancher, and with each hour he was aware of his army skills – put aside last year when he found himself at the Bishop ranch – slipping back into place again as if they had been waiting for just this moment. Without effort or thought his eyes scanned the horizon for anything unusual, his ears listened for the enemy, his whole being alert to any danger, and he welcomed the change. There were rough places ahead of him on the trail where a solitary rider would be an easy target for robbers and he had enough money in his saddlebags to make him uneasy. Anyone could have seen him leave Harville and even now be on his trail.
He would never have admitted it – and certainly not to Daniel Sanford – but after so many months of working alongside other men, of riding the range and keeping the ranch running, he missed their comradeship. When it came to Faith, however, his feelings were very different. There was the sense of betraying her, of abandoning her to fulfil his own selfish plans. She had lost one husband to the war already and now he was leaving her as well. He rode on, heartsick and torn.
***
Later that afternoon the wooded slopes on either side gave way to a pass between the hills, the trail just wide enough for a wagon, the walls steep and treacherous. Fallen boulders littered the ground and he hurried through, the silence broken by hooves on stone. It was a relief to get away from the louring walls of crumbling rock and out into the gentler slopes of the hills, and a mile further on he reached one of the small outstations supplying fresh mules for the wagon trains.
A simple enough set-up: supply store with a bar and bunkhouse alongside, a cluster of corrals, stables and a barn. He counted over two dozen beasts in the corrals – bad tempered animals who spent their lives hauling wagons. A handful of men tossed hay with careless lethargy, a boy filled horse troughs – water slopping from the heavy bucket and soaking into the parched ground.
He stopped outside the bar and dismounted. The lad put his bucket down. Men leaned on their pitchforks and stared. A wind pump creaked, mules brayed. A dog barked. Smoke plumed from the small chimney, the smell of boiled meat and burned fat and cigar haze floating in the air. He tied the horses to a rail outside the cabin, put a few coins in his pocket and pushed open the grey weathered door. Rifle held in his right hand, the other relaxed and yet ready, his gun loose in its holster.
A dozen men turned as he entered: drivers and loaders, lumberjacks and outriders, all strangers. Rough men and wary, the chink of glass as they put their drinks down. He gave a brief nod, slung his rifle over his shoulder and strode to the bar. He’d walked into enemy camps like this, confident and sure of himself. It had only failed him once. “Whiskey.” Coins clattered on the stained counter.
The bar keeper frowned even as he poured liquor. “Not seen you before.”
The glass was dirty and chipped. Archer held it up, looking at the liquid for a moment before swallowing it in one mouthful. “Just passin’ through. Thought I’d stop by and ask leave to water my horses.”
“Where you heading?” A man leaned on the bar, huge hands and strong shoulders. The smell of whiskey and pine resin and hard work.
“Depends. Looking to put down roots somewhere west. Heard there’s good land out there for the taking. Right now I’m just following the trail and hoping to find work.” He put the glass down. “Water?”
“Help yourself.” The bar keeper scooped up the glass and wiped it with a rag before replacing it on the board behind the bar. “Water’s free for the taking. Beds’re a dollar a night. Meals extra.”
And the beds rife with bugs no doubt. He shook his head. “Obliged, but I’ve stayed in enough barracks in my time. And I sleep light.” He tossed a coin on the bar, his task complete. They would take him for another ex-soldier, armed and capable and in no particular hurry, not a man hell bent on reaching Dalton’s Gap several day’s ride north. “Planning to make a few more miles while the light’s good.”
Far enough away to make camp somewhere well away from the trail and hidden from anyone looking for easy pickings. A good mare and a well-laden pack horse were valuable commodities out here. He hefted the rifle in a fluid, easy motion. A last nod and then he was outside, the pump creaking as he slipped ropes from the rail and led both horses to the trough, daring a quick look to see if he was being followed. The wind pump turned with a squeal of rusting iron and warped wood. He wondered how anyone slept with the noise.
Battered tin mugs hung on hooks around a water butt and he picked one, dipping it into the barrel. A first small sip, but the water was clean and cold and fresh enough to wash the tang of cheap whiskey from his mouth and he filled his canteen and water sacks. Clean water was scarce out here. The gelding drank deep, Meg less so, and then he was swinging himself into the saddle. A kick of his heels, a tug of the lead rope and they were heading out.
Behind him, the creak of the pump faded into silence.
He’d gone a few miles down the road when Meg shook her head and pranced sideways. The gelding snorted and tugged on the rope, but Archer was accustomed to the mare’s behaviour and he swung her round to face back the way they had come, drawing his rifle out in one smooth gesture and bringing it to his shoulder.
A single rider on a sorrel gelding. Archer cursed and slid the rifle back, turning Meg around again and flicking the reins, planning what he was going to say when the lone rider caught up with him.
