Archer's Return

by Leona Grace

  “I wasn’t looking for you.” He pushed himself up until he was sitting. He was lying close to the space where he’d been sheltering; the ground was damp, the gully alongside half-full of filthy water. There was no sign of either horse, or Duane’s for that matter. “Where’s Meg and Rusty?”

  “They’re fine. I’ve got them picketed further along, but I haven’t found your other horse yet.”

  “Bran?”

  “That his name? I saw him run past. If it hadn’t been for him, I’d have waited the storm out where I was and you’d be dead. You nearly drowned.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Your coat and boots’ll be fit to wear now.”

  There was a curtness to the boy’s voice, a sharpness that stung even Colonel Sam Archer’s toughened feelings. There was no time for sentimentality in the army, but he had developed a fondness for the boy over the last months and his betrayal had hurt the lad, not that Duane would ever admit.

  “My head…” It ached and he felt sick.

  “Just a cut. I wrapped your bandana round it.”

  He had been more than lucky. Without Duane’s arrival he might well have died. He looked at the canvas stretched above him, at the neat camp and his coat and boots drying close by. His fingers explored the folded cloth wrapped round his head. “You did all this?”

  Duane shrugged. “I’m not a child.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Does it matter? I’m either man enough to look after myself, or I’m not. How old I am shouldn’t make a difference. Least not to anyone who knows me.” He pulled down Archer’s clothes and dropped them on the blanket. “I’ll fetch your horse.”

  The boy walked away, leaving Archer alone: dried blood on his scalp and down the side of his face, the midday sun hurting his eyes, his head aching like the devil. His clothes were covered with silt and he undressed and slapped them against the rock to remove the worst of the sand. His boots were still damp, but the sun would dry them soon enough. The hat snagged on the edge of the bandage and he was tempted to remove the rough dressing, but he’d seen enough head wounds in the past to know it would only start bleeding again. Better to be uncomfortable.

  He could hear Duane talking to the horses – a calm voice showing no signs of the sullenness presented earlier – before the lad reappeared leading Meg and his own gelding, the latter already saddled. A decent horse, strong and sturdy and biddable, but without Meg’s spark and intelligence. There was no sign of Bran, and Archer gave the packhorse up as a bad loss, regretting having brought the animal out here only for it to die somewhere in this barren, god-forsaken land fit for neither man nor beast. Only rattlers and scorpions could survive here.

  Duane tethered the mare to a stunted brittlebush, swung himself into his own saddle and rode back down the path without a word.

  So that was it. Archer stared after the horse, wanting to call out and ask him to stay, but it was too late. He had made a fool of the boy and at that age – at any age in fact – it was hard to overcome the humiliation. No doubt the boy would make his way back to the ranch and either avoid him as much as possible when he returned, or move on and find work somewhere else. Perhaps go home to his family.

  A thought struck him; after nearly a year he knew little about the boy other than he was a hard worker and had a generous way with him, always eager to help out, to take on the dirty jobs no one else wanted to do, keen to learn new skills and befriend any newcomer. And that was the sum of Sam Archer’s knowledge. He knew Ganlet’s background and Cooper’s, knew about Perce’s sister and her husband who lived in Harville, and Ray’s older brother who was still in the army but Duane was a mystery – a boy who never talked about family or his past. Archer hadn’t pursued the topic, mostly because he’d never thought about asking, and Duane was a shy lad like William.

  Had his brother survived, he would be a man now, full grown and looking to start his own family and had anyone treated William the way he had treated Duane, Archer would have sought him out and made clear his displeasure. It was too late to apologise and he went across to Meg and led her down the gentle slope to where he had left his supplies.

  There was no way he could carry everything without Bran. He began sorting through the packs, removing half the fodder and then putting aside spare blankets and his slicker – anything he could leave behind to ease the burden on the mare. Hay and grain and the water sacks were his priority, his own foodstuffs next, and he set about, ruthlessly discarding until he had a manageable load. But even that was difficult.

  Once off the mule trail, the going would be easier and water and grazing plentiful, but he was facing three days of walking before they were down on the other side. Without a packhorse it would be up to Meg to carry the extra baggage with no hope of him riding, and he was struggling as it was, head throbbing and his legs aching. In the end he dropped some hay for the horse and leaned back in the scant shade of the gully, fighting to keep awake. The sun was warm, his canteen close at hand, his horse safe and he tilted his hat over his face and let his eyes close – just for a moment.

  ***

  The scuff of hooves on rock was enough to bring him to wakefulness and he rolled onto his belly, peering over the slight lip of the gully and flattening himself to the ground. Dust covered his clothes, blending him into the background as he edged forward, one inch and then another, gun ready in his hand.

  The sun was lower. From the looks of things he’d slept a couple of hours, but a quick glance back at where Meg was tethered assured him of her closeness. If needs must, he could get to her and ride away, but the only other people likely to be wandering through these hills were either Indians or raiders and they would not approach with such casual disregard for stealth. A slow pull back on the hammer of his gun, blinking sweat from his eyes, wishing he had thought to keep the rifle close at hand…

  A horse whickered. Meg jerked her head, tugging at her tether, his boots lost their scant purchase on the thin soil and he slipped down, scrabbling to regain his position before the approaching rider came within range. The sun was low, making it impossible to see anything other than the dark silhouette of a man on a horse, and a second horse, walking alongside and riderless. He would let them get closer, shout a warning, and wait.

  The horses came nearer and it was only at the last minute he recognised Duane, riding with Bran at his side as if nothing had happened earlier. With a muttered curse he made his gun safe and holstered it before clambering to his feet and going to reassure Meg. He owed the boy an apology, if any would be accepted.

  He reached out to take the packhorse’s lead rope. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

  Duane dismounted, his back to Archer, hands busy slipping stirrups up the leathers. “I said I was going to get your horse. I keep my word, unlike…”

  Archer put a hand on his shoulder, feeling the muscles stiffen beneath his touch. “I tricked you and you didn’t deserve that. It was wrong of me and I’m not proud of what I did. But I had my reasons.”

  “I trusted you, Mr Archer. I won’t do that again.”

  There was no answer to that. “How did you find Bran?”

  “Followed the trail back. He’d gotten his rope tangled and was just standing there. I think he was glad to see me.”

  A quick examination revealed no injuries to the gelding’s legs. No swelling or heat or anything other than a few scratches and those looked clean. “Maybe we should rest.” He turned to face the boy. “Stay until morning? You’re owed an explanation, as well as an apology.”

  “S’pose so.”

  The curtness was deserved. He found a water sack and drank, poured some in the palm of his hand and rubbed the side of his face. The hand came away marked with blood. A cautious finger explored the fresh scab, longer and more painful than he anticipated and the skin swollen, but the wound was dry enough now and he unwrapped the cloth, wincing as it stuck to his skin. It would be tender for a few days, but that was all. He’d been fortunate, and luckier still that Duane had been de
termined to follow him, regardless of the way he’d been treated.

  Fuel was precious, but the boy looked weary and they were both in need of a better meal than jerky and hard biscuit. The bushes provided enough tinder to get a fire lit, and then he dug through the discarded packs for a bundle of cordwood. A few sticks got a pot of coffee boiling, a handful more to fry slices of bacon. He browned bread in the fat and added his last two fresh eggs. Dried fruit to finish. Duane made no comment, but Archer watched him clear his plate before wiping out the pan with the scraps of his bread. The coffee was all camp coffee ever was. Hot and strong and reviving. His headache eased a little.

  By the time he’d found a decent spot for his bedroll the sun was setting and the horses dozing, fodder eaten, their water bags half-full. He put out another armful of hay. It had been hard on all of them today, but they looked content enough. Tomorrow he would continue his journey but he had this one night to try to repair the damage he had caused. Duane was hunched over, staring at the remains of the fire and poking the embers with the tip of a stick. Archer dug out the small bottle of whiskey tucked in one of his saddlebags and sat down beside him.

  The last time he’d given the boy spirits it was to ease the pain of his broken leg and, although there was no physical injury here, the evening was likely to be painful; for both of them. He’d not forgotten what it was like to be a young lad caught between childhood and adolescence – the uncertainty of trying to find your place in the world. He’d had his father to guide him, and his mother to support him. He’d even had William, taunting him and playing tricks, but never with any sense of cruelty. “Does anyone know you’re here? Cooper?”

  “I’m a free man. I can do what I want, can’t I? They don’t own me.” A defiant tone, with a hint of aggression. He understood.

  “No. But Jonty and Buck and the others care about you. So does Faith. They’ll likely be worried.”

  The stick stabbed into white ash. “I told Ray to tell the others I was staying in Harville for a few days. But not until they were back at the ranch. No one would miss me until then, not with everyone going back at different times.”

  He was right – the hands would have made their own way home after the dance, some setting off after breakfast, others staying for dinner. A ragtag group of riders, laughing and having fun and if anyone had wondered where Duane was, they would have assumed he was with another group.

  “You shouldn’t be here, boy. Not like this, slinking away like a criminal and creeping behind me hoping you won’t get caught. And the men at the mule station? You were lucky to get away without them robbing you blind at best. They wouldn’t’ve thought twice about following you and seeing where you slept that night and then stealing anything they could find. You’re too trusting, that’s your trouble.” He held up a hand to forestall any argument. “What do you know about me? Really know? Has Buck ever talked to you?” He handed over the bottle of liquor. “It’s all I brought with me, but I think we might need it before we’re done here. Both of us.”

  He watched as the boy raised the bottle to his lips, the moment of realisation that this was going to be a conversation between adults. A mere sip before it was passed back.

  “Something you should know about me.” Archer wet his own lips and put the bottle down. “I killed three men last year.”

  “When you were a Colonel, in the army?”

  “No. After the war ended. I left the cattle drive and headed for home and by then I wasn’t a colonel, not even a soldier. I was just a man wanting to get back to his family. Only…” The whiskey tempted him again, but it was too soon. “When I got there, they were all dead. My mother and father and my brother William. He was fifteen when I left, his whole life ahead of him.” He hunched over, the pain of finding their graves still sharp in his belly. “Those three men? They were responsible for their deaths. So I killed them.”

  No point in blaming Meg and Bear and James Lancey. Archer had set the whole chain of events in motion when he robbed the post office and bank, even though he was taking his own money back. Their blood was on his hands.

  “So you’re a murderer; is that what you’re telling me? Because I don’t believe you. You’re gentle and you care about people. I saw how you cared for Mr Bishop when he was dying. No killer could do something like that. And Faith wouldn’t have married you if she thought you were a killer.”

  “I don’t care whether you believe me or not. It’s the truth. Tell me, lad, what do you think I did in the war?”

  The boy was silent.

  “I’ll tell you. I wasn’t one of those fancy officers sitting in a tent and giving orders miles from where men were fighting. I was by myself much of the time, running messages between camps or scouting out enemy positions and reporting back to my seniors. I spent weeks hiding behind enemy lines and setting traps. I killed men, Duane. I killed boys not much older than you, and men who were twice your age. I shot them, and I stabbed them. I crept up on sleeping men and I slit their throats, just like I could have slit yours the night before I rode away and left you alone. And you’d never have known. I’m good at killing. Very good. The only reason I’m still alive is because I’m good.” He did need a drink, this time. The boy looked broken and Archer passed the whiskey across.

  A small gulp, the lad wiping his mouth on the back of one sleeve. “But…but that was war. They were the enemy.”

  “Doesn’t make it any easier, or any more right when it comes down to it. Those soldiers I killed were fighting for what they believed in, just as we all were. Maybe some of them were neighbours of mine, once. But I had my duty to do. And when I get to where I’m going, I’m thinking I may have to do the same again – kill a man.” He handed the bottle across. “Now do you see why I want to do this alone? Why I didn’t want you, or anyone for that matter, coming with me?”

  “I think so. Can I ask why you have to kill him?”

  “Don’t rightly know what I’m going to do just yet. But whoever the man is, he’s trying to take what isn’t his and he’s threatening people; good people who deserve to live in peace. And they need my help. If I can sort it out without spilling blood, then I’ll do so, but if not, well…”

  The bottle changed hands again. “Does Mrs Archer know? About what you did in the war and those three men you killed?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Cooper, and the others?”

  “Cooper and Ganlet know some of it but not all.” He put the cork back in the bottle. The boy was quiet. “I’m not proud of what I did, lad. No man in his right mind can do something like that and be proud of it, but it needed to be done. You’d think nothing of killing a wild beast if it attacked the herd would you?” He saw the nod, the look of understanding. “The men who murdered my family were worse. Took pleasure in hurting and killing. And if I hadn’t stopped them, there’s no knowing who they’d have turned on next.”

  “So you don’t want anyone coming with you because you might have to kill someone?”

  He sighed. “It’s up to me to sort things out. No one else. And no one else should be involved. Easier that way, in case things go wrong.”

  “Might they? Go wrong, I mean?”

  “I hope not. I promised Faith I’d get home to her and I don’t like to break my promises.” He turned to the boy. “That’s enough about me. Want to tell me about your family?

  The lad frowned and reached for the bottle, the squeak of the cork as he pulled it out, the look of defiance as he took a gulp. A stifled splutter and cough as the whiskey burned down his gullet. “What d’you mean?”

  “Your family. You know what happened to mine. I think maybe it’s time I learned something about you. But, perhaps best to leave that for another day.” He reached out and took the bottle, tucking it away under his rough pillow. “No more whiskey. We’ve both had enough for tonight. If you’re going to ride along with me for a few more days, then I want you clear-headed, understand?”

  “Ride with you? D’you mean that? Why?”
>
  Archer held out one hand. “You saved my life, boy. That means I owe you, and the best way I can repay the debt is to make sure you get back safe. And, things being the way they are, leaving you to ride back alone isn’t my idea of ‘safe’. Be clear about this though – I won’t let you come all the way, but you can tag along at least ’til I get to Dalton’s Gap. Then you’ll stay there while I go and help my friends. All being well I’ll be back to collect you a few days later, we’ll ride home and you might learn a thing or two on the journey as long as you do what I say. If you don’t want to come, fair enough, but that’s my offer. Your decision.”

  A slender hand gripped his, the fingers lacking the strength and callouses of older men but the grip was firm and steady. “Sure thing, Mr Archer. You won’t regret it, I promise.”

  Chapter 9

  He insisted on the boy standing watch for the hours before midnight. A timely lesson. As a soldier he’d learned to sleep light and wake easy, and out here he had Meg to warn him of anyone approaching. But the boy slept deep and long, and Archer needed at least two hours proper rest, mindless and healing, not the half-doze of the hunted soldier.

  A cold and miserable night, the wind thin and chill and waking him even before the lad finished his watch. He’d managed to get some sleep, enough to ease his headache and weariness, but it was a relief to see dawn approach and he ignored the soft snores from his companion and made a quick scout of the area, more out of habit than any fear of being followed. They were safe enough here – no one in their right minds would follow this path. The trail to Vancross was clear and well-supplied with watering posts and small settlements. Up here there was nothing.

  The horses were sheltered from the cutting edge of the breeze; sleeping, lips hanging loose, eyes half-shut. They ignored him. Rainwater had collected in a depression scooped out of the rock by countless years of wind and frost and he soaked his bandana and wiped his face. The wound was less painful now, or perhaps he had become used to the soreness, but the swelling had subsided as had his headache. A long and tiring ride ahead, but each mile would bring them closer to the wide valley on the other side with its good soil and grazing, fresh meat to hunt and time to rest.