Archer's Return

by Leona Grace

  “Get some rest. Meg’ll warn us if anyone comes near.” He lay down on the ground, one arm under his head. The air was cool but he was too tired to notice and he closed his eyes and dozed, waiting for darkness.

  ***

  “Nearly there.” Archer put one hand on his companion’s arm, his words barely audible even in the silence surrounding them. He’d woken Duane an hour ago, just before ten, and they’d left the horses and set out back to the town, carrying nothing but his gun and rifle and knife. A slow walk back, his boots making no noise on the hard-packed earth and the faint thud of Duane’s feet gradually fading as he followed. Archer had to look back once, just to make sure he was still a few paces behind.

  The buildings were close by now, darker shapes against the dark sky. A single light – a candle maybe – glimmered like a firefly. Archer raised his hand and they paused, both of them holding their breath as they listened. The creak of wood settling in the cooler air, the screech of an owl somewhere above them. Leaves rustling in the fresh breeze that blew sand in their faces and eyes. Water trickling. Nothing else. The light disappeared and he crouched down, aware of the boy doing the same.

  The light reappeared, fainter now and from a window in the upper floor. He breathed out and pushed himself up. The rifle on his shoulder slipped a little and he took a moment to get it secure before he walked on. There was no need to check – he knew Duane was behind, soundless other than the brush of material as he walked, the hiss of breath and the occasional thud of boot heels.

  On and on, round the edge of the town, skirting the outhouses and pits and muckheaps, the town’s ordure kept where it belonged. He paused only once to get his bearings. The town had not changed much since his last visit and he knew his way well enough round the back alleys and the darker places in the town.

  The Sheriff’s Office looked deserted, unlit, its windows still shuttered and no sign of any lawmen. He pulled Duane back into the shadows and waited, leaning against the rough planks as if he had all the time in the world. Absolute stillness, only his eyes moving, darting from side to side, watching everything, missing nothing. Five minutes, ten, fifteen. Without turning, he was aware of Duane standing tense beside him: an occasional wriggle to ease the growing stiffness, a stifled cough when something caught in his throat, the intake of breath held while one leg shifted.

  Cramp. He knew that discomfort well. He risked a murmur. “Relax. You’re doing fine.” His voice little more than a whisper, the syllables fading into the silence surrounding them and he could sense the relief.

  The street was deserted. A final check and he tapped the boy on one shoulder and set off, keeping to the walls, soundless and shadowless, dark ghosts in the night. The boards in front of the building were loose and warped and he waved one hand to stop Duane following. More cautious now, every step placed with intricate care. Wood creaked and he paused, then carried on.

  The window was still shuttered but no light filtered through the cracks. He could hear someone cursing inside; a dark voice, full of venom and anger and threats. Not his business. The door was battered and scorched, bullet holes pockmarking the thick oak. He gave a single rap but there was no answer and, desperately concerned by now, he tried the latch. The door opened and he heard a heavy thud followed by the distinctive click of a gun being cocked. Just behind him.

  A quiet voice. “Hands in the air and turn round slow. You in the alley? I’ve got someone with a rifle watching you, so stay where you are until I say you can move.”

  “Duane? Do as he says.” Archer raised his hands. “That you, Lancey? Thought I recognised your voice. It’s Sam Archer. You remember me, don’t you? Look, I’m turning round, nice and slow.”

  Lancey lowered his gun and holstered it with a sigh of relief. “Blazes, Sam. I was that close to shooting you. Don’t you know what’s going on here?”

  Archer put his hands down. “Why should I? I thought after…”

  “After you finished off the Daltons, things would get better? They didn’t; they got worse, Sam. Much worse.” He reached out and pushed open the door. “Get inside, and you lad? Come in and be quick about it.”

  Archer nodded at Duane. “He’s a friend.”

  Lancey held the door open and he made his way inside. There were three heavy bolts on the oak door, new ones from the look of them. The sheriff slid all three across and then set about lighting a couple of oil lamps before he unbuckled his holster and put his gun on the desk. “I was on the roof, waiting for you to make a move. Thought you acted suspicious when you rode through earlier. Couldn’t see your face though, so I kept watch. Your boy there shows some talent; give him a few years and he’ll be as good as you.”

  Introductions were needed. “Duane? This is Sheriff James Lancey, the man who saved my life last year. If it hadn’t been for him, I’d be dead.”

  Lancey waved a hand, brushing aside the compliment. “Make yourselves at home. I’ve got a bottle of whiskey somewhere.”

  The office room was a mess: the floor covered in dirt, the desk cluttered with papers, two tin mugs on the desk half-full of cold coffee. A pile of blankets on a crumpled bedroll in one corner. The sheriff had been sleeping here for some time judging from the state of things. He ran one finger over the thick grease on the stove. A shout from the cells interrupted his thoughts. “Who’ve you got back there? Sounds like trouble.”

  Lancey leaned back in his chair, one hand resting on the gun. “Trouble’s not the right word. Ever heard of Elias Dalton?”

  “Dalton? I thought the Daltons were…”

  “All dead? Seth and his sons maybe, but Seth had a brother; Elias.”

  “I never knew.”

  “Not many people did. Seems Elias got into some sort of trouble and left home when he came of age, leaving Seth and his pa to run the business. He’s a good few years younger and with a son of his own. Seth never mentioned him and Elias only arrived a few months ago when he heard the boys were dead and everything Seth or his sons once owned now belonged to him. Had the papers to make it legal. He took over your family’s land and told Catherine she had two choices – marry him or move out. Not much of a choice when it came down to it. Turns out Elias Dalton’s as bad as his nephews were and we all knew how Frank treated Catherine and her son. So she went to live with her parents.” Lancey grimaced and shook his head. “That’s Elias’s boy, Jack, back there. He arrived about a fortnight ago – no idea where he was before that, but he didn’t spend much time on the ranch; preferred to be in town, drinking and spending his cash. I took him in more than once for drunkenness. Then three days ago, he shot a man out in the street after an argument, so I had no choice but to arrest him.”

  The shouting grew louder – not the voice of a man proclaiming his innocence, but that of someone sure of his superiority. “You know you won’t get away with this, Lancey. You don’t stand a chance. There’ll be a dozen men coming tomorrow to get me out.”

  Lancey turned round. “Shut your craw, Dalton. They can send twenty as far as I’m concerned. You’re staying behind bars until the marshal arrives from Vancross.”

  “Where’s your deputy?” Sam took off his own holster and removed the gun. Duane was standing by the door, looking nervous. “The one with a rifle.”

  “I lied. There’s no one. I’m working alone here. No one’s prepared to stand up to Elias Dalton and I don’t blame them. The man’s ruthless.”

  “Don’t be a fool. You can’t do this by yourself.”

  “There’s no one else. The town stopped paying me a last month – said there was no money now most of the businesses are closing – but I hung on, hoping things would get better.” He began rummaging through the papers and oddments on his desk. “They haven’t. Elias Dalton’s got the town in his grip. Rents are rising beyond what anyone can afford, and he’s bought out any bank loans as well. Folks are leaving every day and if I live through the next week I’m planning to join my wife. She’s gone to live with my son so at least I don’t have to worr
y about her.”

  The sheriff’s casual acceptance chilled Archer. “One man? You can’t get anyone to help stop him? No one?”

  A shrug. Lancey found a cheroot among the mess on his desk and went over to the stove to light it. “It’s not against the law to raise rents. But there’s more to it than that. He’s got some idea about running the whole town himself. Easy money he says and he’s hired a bunch of mercenaries to do his dirty business. A dozen of them, all in all. Ex soldiers, outlaws, you name it. They come into town threatening folk and helping themselves to whatever they want. Anyone who tries standing their ground finds themselves with broken bones or worse.”

  “And you can’t do anything?”

  “One man against a mob?” Lancey rubbed his jaw and yawned. “They’re clever. Very clever. There’s no proof and no one dares say anything. Folks’ve learned by now to do as they’re told or move out. In a couple of months, this town’ll be run by Dalton and his men, but whatever happens I won’t be around to see it.”

  A couple of old boxes and a plank formed a rough shelf next to the stove. A sack of coffee beans, three empty mugs, a bent spoon. A basket with a few paltry foodstuffs. No sugar or any luxury. There was a bucket of water in one corner, a thin film of grease on its surface, and he took the dirty mugs from the desk and dropped them in. Better than nothing. The bottle of whiskey was lurking under a torn shirt underneath the shelf. No glasses, but he was no stranger to drinking out of a tin mug.

  He uncorked the bottle and poured a drink for each of them, handing the smallest to Duane. “We both need to think about this.” He took a mouthful, the whiskey raw and rough in his throat. “James here’s in a mess. We can either stay and help him out, or you and I head back to where we left the horses and ride out first thing tomorrow. But let’s be clear about one thing; if we stay there’s going to be trouble.” The flash of excitement on the lad’s face was worrying. “You know what I said earlier about why I didn’t want you coming along with me? This is why.’

  “You think I might be able to help you?”

  He darkened his voice, the stern tones of an army officer. “Don’t get any ideas, boy. If we stay it’s likely to be bloody and brutal. I can’t guarantee your safety, and even if we move on and leave Lancey here, we’re going to run into problems. Likely Elias Dalton’s the one causing problems at the Carpenter’s place. You should think about leaving in the morning, take Rusty and head for Vancross and then make your way home from there. You’d be safer than staying here.” As long as Elias Dalton’s men weren’t already watching the sheriff’s office. They could be out there in the dark, surveying the building and making plans. And he had walked Duane right into a trap. He turned to Lancey. “Is there a back way out of here?”

  “If you can call it that. On the back wall in the other room there’s a cupboard, and if you pull it away from the wall there’s a passage beyond – just wide enough for a man to make his way through. Leads along the back wall of the stable on the other side. It looks like a dead end, but there’s a couple of rotten planks on the left at the far end.” Lancey grimaced and shook his head. “One good kick and you’d be through. I put a false wall along the back of the stalls a few years ago – thought an escape route into the stable might come in handy one day. You and the lad can leave that way if you want. I’ve never used it – it’s a tight squeeze for any man but as far as I know I’m the only one who knows about it. There’s a stack of straw bales on the other side but you can get out easily enough. I’ll show you.”

  “No. Best not. At least not until we’re ready. I don’t want your prisoner getting ideas.”

  Lancey smiled. A grim twist of the lips but a smile of sorts. “You got a plan?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. Let’s have a drink and tell me what’s been going on in town. I thought the Dalton’s were finished here.”

  “If only it was that simple. From what I can gather – which isn’t much – Elias Dalton got wind of some plan to drive several thousand cattle north to Denver later this year. He reckons they’ll be coming this way and passing through the town. Stands to reason. This is the only way through the hills unless you want to go the long way round, and there’s good grazing and water there.”

  “And Elias plans to sell his cattle to them?” They’d been Archer cattle, once. He put the thought aside.

  Lancey dropped his cheroot to the floor and crushed it under one heel. “Not just that. Once he gets control of the town, he can charge a toll on every head of cattle passing through. And if he owns the stores and the bars and such-like, he’ll make an even bigger profit.”

  They drank coffee laced with whiskey, the beans bitter and past their best, the whiskey cheap and raw, but it kept them alert while the sheriff talked about the town and the threat from Elias Dalton, and the slow decline. Shopkeepers’ homes burned, wagon trains robbed, men beaten up in dark alleys for supporting a local business.

  Duane went through the supplies on the shelf and found some food: biscuits, a hunk of dry cheese, a sack of beef jerky. A scant meal, but Lancey said he’d eaten earlier and wasn’t hungry, though Archer was inclined not to believe him. The sheriff had the look of someone who hadn’t slept or eaten properly for more than a few days, but the coffee and liquor seemed to have refreshed him, or at least warded off the worst of his tiredness. Time to make plans.

  He cleared the desk surface, dropping everything onto the floor beneath the shuttered windows: official papers and spent matches, broken pencils and stubs of candles, oil-soaked cloths. Even an armful of tinder from the basket by the stove. The torn shirt joined the heap. There would be no need for anything after tomorrow. “Lancey. What chance d’you stand against Elias Dalton’s men?”

  “Without any help? None.” The sheriff took his gun and looked at it for a moment. “A couple of them tried breaking in, but I told them to back off or I’d shoot him. I’m guessing they’ll be back sometime soon and there’s not much I can do against a dozen armed men. Doesn’t mean I’m willing to let Jack Dalton go free.”

  “Still upholding the law. Not many men as honest as you.” Archer prowled the room, finding a dirty oil lamp. He opened the font and poured the oil over the heap of papers and cloth and tinder.

  “Planning something nasty?”

  “Depends if we get any unwelcome visitors. Got any matches handy? I’m running short.”

  Lancey rummaged in a drawer of his desk and found a box. “These do?” He tossed them over and Archer nodded his thanks. The prisoner was still complaining, which helped. The more noise Jack Dalton made, the less likely he was to overhear any plans.

  “What’s happening? What’re you going to do? Ride for help?”

  “No.” He grinned at the lad. “We’re going to free Jack Dalton. Before anyone else tries.”

  Chapter 12

  A simple enough plan but bold; they would sneak the prisoner – handcuffed and gagged – out to the stables before making their way out of the town and back to where he and Duane had left the horses. If anyone attacked before then, he would set fire to the front of the building in the hope of at least giving the three of them a chance to escape through the back, unnoticed. They would have to ride in the dark, heading for somewhere he hadn’t visited since before leaving to join the army. He wondered how much his old childhood haunt had changed since he last stayed there. “Lancey? Your horse fit for a hard ride?”

  “Hasn’t had much exercise for the last couple of days so he’ll be eager to get out. What about the prisoner?”

  “I’ll stick him on your horse to begin with and we’ve got a packhorse he can sit on once we’re away from the town. Duane? You won’t need without a saddle, will you?” A nod from the lad. “That’s settled, then; we’ll rest for now and get ready to leave well before dawn. If we’re quiet enough maybe no one’ll notice us. It’s risky, but it’s our best chance. Once Elias Dalton’s men get here you’ve no hope at all.”

  “You think I don’t know? I’m surprised I’ve lasted th
is long.” The sheriff yawned. “So what’s with that?” He waved a hand at the oil-soaked papers against the front wall.

  “If they come before we’re ready, then I’ll light them and hope it holds them back while we get out and make a run for it. It’d mean leaving your prisoner behind, but…” He held out his hands. “The best I could think of, given the time. Now. I need to know about the passage. Anything that might attract attention?”

  Lancey shook his head. “Keeping Jack Dalton quiet might be the biggest problem. Anyone hears him, they’ll come looking, and he’s not going to come without a fight.”

  Archer drank the last of his whiskey. “We’ll deal with that when the time comes.” Duane was yawning and the prisoner had stopped shouting. Time to get some rest. “I’ll take first watch. Duane? Take a couple of blankets and get some rest. Lancey?” He turned to the older man. “You too. If I need either of you, I’ll holler.” But he had no intention of waking anyone, least of all James Lancey. A few hours sleep would have to suffice, but once they reached the caves by the river where Sam Archer and his brother had played as children, they would be able to withstand any siege by Elias Dalton’s gang.

  It was not long before both were asleep – Duane settling down on the floor within minutes, Lancey taking a while longer – then he set about cleaning his gun and reloading it, the same with his rifle. Lancey had two more in the office and he worked on those as well, the gentle click of metal, the faint tang of gunpowder, the slickness of oil under his fingers. The work calmed him: drawing a scrap of cloth through each cylinder, cleaning dirt and dust from every crevice, loading the cylinders until each weapon was as ready as he could make it.

  A second search of the untidy room revealed a tangle of thin rope hanging on one of the pegs on the back wall and he straightened it out, wrapping it into a neat coil. Strong enough to tie a man’s arms behind his back, or string him up by the neck if need be.