Archer's Return

by Leona Grace

  Hooves pounding behind him, Meg shaking her head and edgy, the gelding snorting. He ignored them all, hands on the reins, anger bubbling close to the surface. He had made himself clear – one man, riding alone. And yet…

  The sorrel came alongside and he glanced once at the rider. “You and Rusty can turn round and head right back, boy.” He stared straight ahead again, aware of the rider’s hesitation, the look of dismay. “I gave orders you were to look after Bear, not come pestering me. Who said you could come along?” He hoped it was not Faith.

  Duane pulled off his hat and slumped in the saddle. “No one. Cooper said you were riding out and I heard him say you shouldn’t have gone alone. I thought…”

  “You thought wrong. Go back. I don’t want you with me.”

  “You can’t make me.”

  He thought about that for a while. “Believe me, boy. I can. Did you stop at the mule station?”

  A shake of the head. “Didn’t see any reason to stop.”

  The best way to draw attention to himself. They would be wondering what a young lad, well-provisioned on a decent horse and with a quality saddle, was doing out here alone. It was going to be a long night. He looked at the sky. “It’ll be dark soon. Find somewhere round here to camp. Get off the trail and out of sight and make only a small fire, understand? I’m riding on a while.”

  “But –”

  “But nothing. If you can’t look after yourself, then you’re no good to me. I’ll camp a mile or so further along the trail. Come and meet me on the trail a half-hour after sunrise and be ready for a long ride. I don’t want to see you before it’s light. And…” He glanced over. The boy was armed only with a hunting knife. “Make sure you’re well-hidden.”

  A kick of his heels was enough to get Meg into a fast trot and he hurried on, wanting to look back and check on the lad, but knowing if he did, the boy would see it as concern or worse – approval. He cursed under his breath. It would mean short sleep tonight and an early start, but if he left at first light he could be in the hills before Duane realised he had been tricked. The only way.

  Chapter 6

  That night he ate alone, his campsite tucked in a dry hollow hidden away from the trail and any attempt by Duane to find him. His fire was small and contained and kept alight just long enough to boil water before he smothered the embers with earth. A simple meal eaten only out of necessity, the horses content with hay, the night air cold after the heat of the day and he wrapped himself in the blanket and listened for footsteps on the dry twigs he’d laid around the perimeter.

  The men at the mule station would be drinking and waiting for the quiet hours. Back on the ranch the bunkhouse would be thick with smoke and the fug of tired men after a long day, Cooper and Ganlet and the others talking about the dance or what they were going to do tomorrow. Faith would be getting ready for bed. he turned his back to the wall of rock behind him and lay down for an hour’s rest.

  Meg snorted and he flung the blanket away and crouched in the darkness, his gun ready and heart pounding, every sense straining, hearing the accompanying stamp of the gelding’s hoof, the squeal of a small rodent, the rustle of leaves as it ran for cover. He let his hand drop. No one was following him. Tomorrow morning he would leave the trail and head for high ground and Dalton’s Gap, but he had things to do first. Meg and the packhorse would be safe here, out of sight and sound of anyone travelling along the trail. It was time to leave, and he stood up, reached for coat and gun and then set off down the trail to find Duane.

  An easy enough task, the marks left by the boy and his horse as good as any signpost. He approached with caution, wary of what he might find but, as expected, the boy was asleep, his small fire guttering from lack of wood but well-protected from any breeze. The camp was tidy enough, the horse picketed with water and hay. He ran one hand over the sorrel’s coat. Duane muttered in his sleep and Archer went over and knelt beside him, stretching one hand out before stepping back on silent feet. He could have slit the boy’s throat without him ever knowing, and he hunkered down under the dark shadows of the trees to keep watch.

  ***

  A crack of twigs underfoot, the murmur of drunken voices. Two of them, maybe three, creeping through the undergrowth following the clear trail left by the horse. They were still a good distance from the camp and he eased himself up, cat-like and soundless, and crept away from the sleeper. At least the lad wasn’t snoring. He took a moment to roll back the sleeves of his shirt before moving on.

  The air was still – no leaves rustling, no small creatures scuttling for cover – only the faint creak of footsteps and the muffled sound of drunken men. Stifled curses when one tripped and a branch cracked. Archer was closer to his prey now and far enough from the boy not to wake him unless he made a mistake. He pressed himself against a thick trunk, the hush of steel against leather as he drew his knife. Somewhere nearby a match scraped and he closed his eyes, not wanting to ruin his night vision. They would be blind for a while now.

  A slow intake of breath, and then he let it out, his body relaxing. No sense in wasting energy, not if there were three. The voices became more distinct – the barkeeper and the man with the huge hands. Hands bereft of any delicacy. Hands that would rely on strength instead of skill. The knife blade rapped against his palm, his fingers gripping the hilt with casual ease. He would give them one chance to turn round and leave.

  Two of them. Dark shadows a few feet away, rustling through the bushes, thorns snagging their clothes and each step accompanied by the rasp of barbs pulling free from cotton and skin. The bigger man was in the lee of the barkeeper. Moonlight glinted on steel; a vicious blade, long and thin and razor sharp for cutting undergrowth in the woods. And throats.

  He wondered how many unsuspecting travellers had been robbed at knifepoint by these men, and he tightened his grip on the hilt. The pad of one finger slid along the edge to the point. Sharp enough to bury itself in a man’s chest. He took a deeper breath, holding it while he thought. To kill or not? To let them live, knowing they might do the same to the next traveller who came this way, or to kill them without justice. He’d done enough killing in the past. More than enough to fill a lifetime, and all he wanted from life was the peace to find his way once more.

  In the end it was the men who made the decision. “Don’t give him chance to call out. I don’t want the horse spooked this time.”

  This time. He breathed out, long and slow and patient, planning his next move as he had done so many times during the war. A deep breath before springing into action. One step took him behind the second man, his free hand fastening over the man’s mouth to silence him even as he dragged the man’s head back, exposing the throat to his knife. Warm wetness pouring over his hand, the hilt slippery in his fingers, a heavy weight slumping against him in silence. He let the body fall, heedless of the dull thud as it struck the ground. And then the barkeeper was turning, face wide with horror, hands grasping for anything that might save him. No point in saying anything. His arm swung, the blade trailing blood as it breached the gap and buried itself deep in the man’s throat.

  The gargled and desperate cries were too faint to wake the boy. The thrashing limbs too weak to do more than disturb fallen leaves. Quick and silent. And more than either of them deserved.

  His hands were thick and sticky with blood, warm and cloying, the smell enough to fill his mind with memories of other deaths. He left them where they fell and made his way back along the rough track they had taken, finding two mules tethered by the edge of the trees. Tired beasts, heads hanging down with nothing ahead of them but drudgery. It was no life for any animal. He did not dare light a match, and he ran his hands along the side of the larger animal in search of anything useful.

  A full canteen provided enough water to wash the blood from his hands before he tossed it into the undergrowth. The mules were next; left here they would attract attention and he unsaddled both, throwing saddles and bridles and everything else away with the canteen. The be
asts were too cowed to do anything other than stand there until he slapped one on its rump and it shied away and began trotting down the trail, followed by the other. With any luck they would find good grazing and avoid recapture, but he was not hopeful.

  Then it was back to where he had left the bodies. Duane had not stirred. On his way out, he had seen a fallen tree, plants clambering over the remains to form a hollow beneath. A grave, of sorts. It took him a while to move both bodies, dragging them away and rolling each one down the small slope to rest under the rotting trunk. A few slashes of the long knife hid both men under a blanket of cut ivy. He tossed the blade down as well, and then he was done and he made his way in silence back to where the boy lay.

  A last check, a slight smile when he remembered his own brother sleeping as heavily and blissfully unaware of life going on around him, and he sat down to continue his watch, his hands clasped tight together. Blood spattered his shirt and pants but there was nothing he could do about that tonight. If he found a stream he would wash them but if not, dust would hide the stains soon enough.

  The hours passed in silence. He dozed a little, wary of the nightmares that would visit him if he allowed himself the luxury of real sleep, and then the first glimmers of dawn appeared in the east and he pushed himself to his feet, stiff and aching. Time to return to his own camp, roll up his bed and head out.

  Chapter 7

  Sunrise was lightening the sky when he led Meg and the packhorse back onto the trail. Duane had not appeared, and he mounted up, let the gelding find its place, and rode on. This early the lumberjacks would still be sleeping off last night’s drinking. The mules had disappeared and the landscape was empty of wagons, but even so he paused every so often to check for hooves behind him, or a familiar voice calling out. It was unlikely. In an hour or so Duane would realised he’d been tricked, and if the boy had any sense at all, he’d make his way back to the ranch, tail between his legs.

  A mile or so further on he found the start of the old mule trail, a well-worn and narrow path leading to the top of the plateau, and he dismounted and led the gelding first, trusting to Meg’s surefootedness to bring up the rear. Even with the trail the journey was hard. He had a heart-stopping moment when the packhorse slipped on loose stones and nearly went down, but the beast managed to regain his footing and stood there, trembling and unwilling to move.

  It was Meg who saved the day, reaching out, her nose pressed against his rump as if encouraging him to take the next step. And he did, pawing the ground with one hoof and then another, before shaking his head and stepping out as if nothing had happened. It took them an hour to get to the top of the ridge and out of sight and only then could he relax.

  The ground was bone dry, the soil too thin for anything other than stunted shrubs. Even those were scarce. There was no respite from the heat; if anything it was hotter here, a thick and heavy heat that brought flies swarming round his face. He brushed them away but there were too many and in the end he pulled his neckerchief up over mouth and nose. It helped, a little, but there was nothing he could do about the ones crawling on his throat and eyes.

  The gelding was miserable and he took pity on both animals and spared a small quantity of his precious water to wash their eyes and lips and ears, then he took Meg’s reins and the gelding’s lead rope and set out, making his way northwards and conscious of the tracks left behind in the dust and grit. One man moving alone might have been able to traverse this ground without leaving any sign, but with two horses it was harder and although it was against all his instincts to leave such a noticeable trace behind him, he could do little about it.

  He followed the trail upwards between towering slopes bare of anything other than stunted trees and a few scrubby bushes parched of moisture, dry leaves already falling onto the coarse sand and pebbles worn smooth by wind and water. The scuttle of insects, the occasional rattle as a snake warned him away, an eagle soaring overhead. It was safer to keep to the higher ground, avoiding the dry gulches where snakes and scorpions would be hiding and where a flash flood might catch him unawares. The weather was unpredictable at best and the air heavy. A family of goats, feral and stinking, clattered up a steep rock face to escape him and all the while sand and grit drifted into his eyes and mouth and hair.

  Late that afternoon he came across a dry stream, little more than a narrow depression in the arid soil. Winter would be fierce: thick snow, bitter cold, a biting wind. There would be floods when the snows melted, filling the narrow gullies and washing away even more of the thin covering of earth. The remains of a long-dead tree hung over the dry bed, brittle branches stripped by wind and frost.

  Sometime ago a deer had found its way here – a frantic escape from wolves or human predators perhaps – and had died close to the stream, its sun-bleached bones scattered by carnivores. It was tempting to ride on while the light was good, but the horses were tired and so he made camp, breaking branches from the tree for firewood and digging deep into the soft earth of the river bed for any roots for the horses, but nothing remained and he pulled out the packs, producing grain and hay and a sprinkling of salt for both of them after their hard journey.

  An uneasy night, the air cold and the desiccated branches giving off only enough heat to boil a single can of water before crumbling to ash. He wrapped himself in duster coat and blankets but even those did little to keep him warm. A miserable time but at least he didn’t have to worry about the boy. Eventually he slept.

  ***

  It was mid-morning on the next day when he saw the first sign of trouble. Meg was restless and edgy, and the gelding – who he was starting to call ‘Bran’ in the absence of any better name – began tossing his head and stepping sideways and it was only when Archer twisted in the saddle to check the packhorse’s load he saw the thunderclouds behind. A growing layer of cloud, monstrous and threatening and building itself into a thunderhead, rain already falling in a distant swathe of grey. He could do little other than dismount and hurry the horses into the leeward shelter of a wind-worn boulder where they might be protected from the worst of the coming storm.

  A couple of minutes’ work saw his belongings and Meg’s saddle stashed on an outcrop of rock and covered from the oncoming storm as best he could. The gelding’s packs were a different matter. Too bulky to fit on the rock, he was forced to unpack the panniers and put the fodder and his foodstuffs out of reach of the rainwater that would surely flood this area. There was not enough canvas to cover everything and he spread his slicker and the duster over the packs. His pants and shirt would dry once the storm passed but trail food and fodder would be ruined if it got soaked.

  The horses turned their backs on the coming storm but there was no safe place for him here, the rock only large enough to shelter the animals, and he had no idea how the gelding might react so, as the first bolts of lightning slashed across the darkened sky he huddled down in a clear space, letting the rain fall on his back and staying as small as possible.

  A long time he crouched there, the ground too hard-baked to let the rain soak through its crust, the wind colder with every passing minute, his legs aching with the strain. The crack of thunder, the blaze of lightning, the distinctive smell of rain after a long drought. Water drenching him, pouring between his feet in a thick soup of sand and silt and dead leaves, bouncing off the rock like pellets, splashing into his face and lips. Bran was squealing in panic and fighting to escape the tether, but he could do nothing other than wait and hope the gelding settled.

  And then came one crack, so bright it seared through his eyelids, so loud he thought his head would split open, and the gelding reared up, tearing itself free and crashing into him as it fled. Crouched as he was, he had no chance. Hooves bowled him over and he had only a glimpse of a rock before…

  …cold and wet, his head pounding, the taste of blood in his mouth, his whole body aching and shivering and sodden. Fingers dug into a thin layer of mud, nails scraped on the ground beneath as he tried to push himself up, but dizzin
ess swept through him and he slumped back into mud and silt even as a faint voice called out in the distance.

  Chapter 8

  Daylight, the sky blue once more and the air fresh with a sharp, clean smell, his head resting on something easier than the usual saddle or rolled blanket. Above him, a length of canvas had been stretched on stakes to shade his face from the sunshine and he was covered by a blanket. It made no sense. His feet were bare, his boots…

  “Mr Archer?”

  The voice startled him into action, his hand reaching out, but his revolver was not where it should be and he pushed himself up on one elbow, ready to lash out at his captor.

  “It’s alright. Lie down.”

  A shape leaning over him, the sun making it impossible to see the man’s face. James Lancey? No. That was last year, on the edge of Copperhead Bluff. And now he remembered: the packhorse crashing into him, waking to find himself unable to stand, silt-rich water filling his mouth.

  The figure bent down. “I didn’t think you’d be awake for a while. That was a pretty bad knock you got.”

  That voice. “Duane?” His own voice sounded feeble. “How did you get here? I thought…”

  The boy lowered himself to sit cross-legged on the ground, his face no longer in shadow. “I’d give up and go back to the ranch? I didn’t.”

  “You’ve been following me.” He cursed his own pride in thinking the boy had given up. Instead he’d carried on, blind to the lad following in his tracks. Daniel Sanford would have thrown him out of the army for his carelessness.

  “Since you left me behind on the wagon trail. Took me a while to work out you’d gone, and then I found the path and I’ve been tracking you since then, staying out of sight behind you. I thought you would’ve seen me.”