Archer's Return

by Leona Grace

  Duane stepped forward. “So where d’we go now?”

  He had no idea. He’d brought them here in the false hope of finding a safe hideout and he’d betrayed them. There was no way to go back and nowhere else ahead other than the Carpenter place a few miles further along. “I don’t know. It was stupid, thinking I could help. I’ve just made things worse.”

  “For god’s sake, Sam, don’t think that.” Lancey pulled off his hat and dragged filthy fingers through unkempt hair. “I’d be dead right now if you hadn’t come along; we all know that. And you know where we can go; George and Martha’ll be needing help once Dalton’s men get there. We can lock Jack here –” He spat on the ground, just missing the prisoner’s feet. “– in a root cellar or a storeroom. I bet George can find somewhere to put him, and we can help fight off Dalton’s men when they arrive. Because they will do, sooner or later.”

  It would work. Hope renewed him. “Duane? What do you say? Are you willing to risk your life for a couple of strangers?”

  “They’re your friends.” The lad took hold of Meg’s reins. “Let’s get going.”

  He led the way this time, Dalton quiet and subdued as if waiting his chance, or simply resigned to going along with them. The route to the farmhouse took them further along the trail and away from the thin stream of water flowing sullenly beneath the sun. He avoided looking at it, keeping his eyes on the narrow track winding between the pine trees. A few birds called out a warning, a squirrel barked at them from a tree, but the other animals had fled, no doubt scared away by the destruction of the crags.

  When they got down to the river level and he turned back to look at the land he had once farmed, the destruction was a gaping wound, bleeding and raw. The smooth red stone of the crag face had gone, leaving behind a jagged mass of broken boulders and stone, tumbling down from the cliff face and pouring out across the now-dry river bed. The dam had forced the river into a new course, a wave of muddy water flooding across the land and heading far away from the old river bed.

  In a week or two the flood would have scoured its own path and unless the dam was removed the original river would wither away. But the loss of the water was nothing compared to the destruction of the scarp. The maze of caves and tunnels and the wealth of paintings and drawings had been utterly obliterated. For that alone, Elias Dalton earned his utter contempt.

  “Sam?”

  He turned to face Lancey. “I always thought…” The words stuck in his throat.

  A hand on his arm. “We need to move on.”

  He nodded. “I just…” Needed to see it for himself. William had loved the river and the caves, had spent as much time as he could either fishing or hiding away in the cool spaces, reading. The last time they’d both been there was just before he left to join the army. They’d come with a sack of bread and cheese and half a cake and sat in the dim shadows of one of the larger caves, legs dangling over the edge, the river flowing several feet below them.

  They’d looked out over the land, talking about everything and nothing: the quality of the calves they’d bred that year, the number of catfish in the river, William’s latest wood carving, and they’d argued – only in jest – about who broke the chisel and whose turn it was to ride drag when they brought the herd in. All unimportant things. He’d never said the words he wanted to say, and now he would never get the chance. The day had ended with a swim in the river, splashing water over each other like children. No mention of war. A slow walk back to the ranch, a quiet promise to come back when the war was done and share stories.

  Duane was watching him and Archer swallowed and put thoughts of the past aside. “The path’s wide enough now. We can ride the rest of the way.” He saw Lancey’s eyes close in relief. The sheriff had done a good job of hiding his lameness, but the last few miles had been tough on all of them – the path rocky and uneven, their passage hindered by trees and fallen boulders. They were all tired, but the older man looked ashen, not surprising given he’d been on scant rations as well as little sleep for the last few days.

  He left the others to ride behind, while he led Bran and his unwelcome burden and headed for the farm some five miles ahead.

  ***

  Duane was discussing food with Lancey: the merits of corn bread, meat pie as opposed to stew, the best way to fry bacon. A lone deer wandered across the path ahead of him, leapt into the trees and was gone. Life returning to the ravaged land.

  In the distance he saw the small homestead: a single cabin, smoke rising from the chimney, a couple of corrals fenced off close by. From a distance it looked serene and well-managed, but distance had a knack of distorting the truth. The crops looked less verdant than he remembered, but that was no indicator, neither was the lack of any movement outside. He rode on, pushing Meg into a trot without realising and only slowing when Bran jerked his head to tug on the lead rope. Dalton was tugging on the packhorse’s mane and trying to get it to halt and he pulled out his gun and pointed it. The threat was enough and his prisoner slumped down in his saddle. The other two caught up, still discussing food.

  “Fresh bread with new butter.” Duane smacked his lips in anticipation.

  Lancey shook his head. “Roast pork with green beans. And apple crumble. Can’t beat hot apple crumble with cream. That’s what I like.”

  “Mrs Archer makes great cobbler. And spiced cake.” Duane pulled Rusty alongside the mare. “Good farming land; is that where your friends live? They won’t be expecting us though, will they?”

  In his haste, he hadn’t considered that. Four men riding towards the cabin would be seen as a threat. He handed Bran’s lead rope over to Lancey. “You and Duane stay here and keep watch. I’ll ride down and make myself known. If you see any sign of the gang, or hear shots fired, leave Jack and ride for safety. Got that?” He stared at the lad. “I mean it, boy. No heroics. We’ve no idea who’s in that cabin. For all we know it could be Dalton’s men.”

  A quick glance, the fleetest of scowls. “Yessir.”

  “And you, Lancey. I need your word you’ll look after the lad.”

  A nod.

  “I’ll be as quick as I can.’ A tug on Meg’s rein had her turning on the spot, eager to run, but he held her tight, keeping her to a steady trot down the path beside a narrow stream to where the wide valley opened out: the stand of fruit trees over in one corner, the two heavy horses over by the fence, the small river that was the life blood of this homestead flowing unhindered beyond the neat fields. But apart from that, and the thin curl of grey smoke drifting from the chimney, there was no sign of life.

  As he got closer the damage became clear. A fence torn out, the barn with a sweep of charred wood at the front, fields which had been healthy last year now choked with weeds. The horses gone ungroomed for too long. He pulled Meg to a slow walk, making his way round to the front of the house and keeping his hands where anyone inside could see them. He was a hundred yards away, making no attempt to hurry, his eyes searching for any movement, any sign of treachery, when a voice shouted.

  “Stop right there.” A man’s voice, loud and firm and yet with a hint of fear.

  “George?” He let go of the reins and held both hands up. “It’s Sam Archer.” A long pause. He stayed still, the mare four-square and solid beneath him. She would not move unless he urged her on with his knees.

  “Sam? What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Martha wrote me. Said you were having some trouble.”

  The creak of a door opening, someone coming out onto the shaded porch, rifle in hand. George Carpenter. Even from this distance he could see the stooped shoulders, the look of fear. “You shouldn’t have come. There’s nothing you can do, not by yourself.”

  “The sheriff’s here, and a young lad I know named Duane.” He glanced over to where the others waited, unseen. “They’re waiting on the slopes back there, in the trees. And…” He paused, but the truth had to be spoken. “And we’ve got a prisoner with us. Jack Dalton. We need somewhere safe to stay u
ntil I can work out what to do.”

  “James Lancey? You’ve got him with you?” The old man put the rifle down. “Tell them to come down. Put the horses in the stable, out of sight with mine. There’s plenty of hay in there.” He took a step closer. “Can’t say I’m glad to see you, boy, not in these circumstances, but Martha’ll be pleased to have company. Now, hurry up.”

  A loud whistle got Lancey’s attention, and a wave of his hand brought the three hurrying down. By the time they joined him, he had Meg unsaddled and settled in the stable with hay and water and he let Lancey escort their prisoner into the house. Rusty, Bran and the sheriff’s sturdy gelding were soon in with Meg and he took Duane round to the back of the cabin to where the water pump and soap waited.

  “Martha’s a mite fussy about being clean and so on.” He handed the boy a chunk of soap and started pumping water. “Do a proper job, or she’ll send both of us back out again.”

  Splutters and splashes accompanied the lad’s wash and then it was his turn. The shock of cold water in his hands and on his face. The painful memory of the last time he was here: his mind still reeling from the loss of everything, George’s compassion, Martha’s kindness. He dunked his head under another gush of water. Would they still have his mother’s earthenware jug with the chip on the rim? Soap stung his eyes and he cursed, one hand reaching out for the damp cloth.

  “Here.” Duane put it in his hand. “Do they mind us coming? Your friends?”

  He rubbed the worst of the water from his hair. No point in trying to make it look tidy. “They won’t admit it, but I think they’re glad of some help. I don’t know if we can do much.” He glanced across at the fields and the weeds standing proud above the neglected crops. “Let’s get inside.”

  Martha was in the kitchen, putting food on the table: a loaf of bread, a crock of butter, thick slices from a baked ham, three-quarters of a cold peach pie next to an earthenware jug with a chipped rim and half full of cream. She waved her hand at the chairs. “Duane, is it? Welcome to our home. Now, sit down everyone, it’s not a lot, but we’re a bit…”

  He put his hand on her arm. “Martha, this is too much.”

  “Hush now. There’ll always be a place at our table for you and your friends, Sam.” She tilted her head, listening to faint voices. “Jack Dalton’s in the storeroom, door bolted and no window and he won’t come to any harm. I gave George a plate of food for him and a candle. And there’s water and a bedroll. You can check on him later if you must.”

  Lancey was already seated and slathering butter on bread, looking more tired than Sam expected. Duane started eating, mouthfuls of bread and ham washed down with milk, and he sat down and took a plate, aware of Martha bustling about, making sure they had enough and reassuring them that there was plenty more for later. He didn’t argue, though he’d seen inside the pantry; there would be little left in a couple of weeks, especially if the crops failed. He put the thought aside and ate, aware of his hunger and the quiet comfort of the cabin.

  Lancey pushed his plate aside with a sigh. “Best pie I’ve had in a long while, Mrs Carpenter.” His fingers searched out a stray crumb. “My wife makes a good cobbler, but her pastry’s nothing like yours.”

  She straightened up, brushing her hands down the front of her apron. “I’m just sorry there wasn’t more. But if you’d like, there’s some of last year’s apples for supper?”

  “Pie?” Duane finished scraping his plate clean, scooping the dregs of cream with one finger and sucking it clean. “That was great, Mrs Carpenter. Really great.”

  “Martha, please. And you can have pie or cobbler, whichever you want. Now, none of you look as if you’ve had much sleep these last few days and there’s a bed through there if anyone wants to use it? What do you think, Sam?”

  He looked at Lancey. “Go. You won’t be any use to anyone if you’re half-asleep. And Duane as well. I’ll see to Dalton and then find out what’s been happening here.”

  Lancey didn’t even try to argue with him, following Martha through to the small room with its bed and faded quilt. Duane gave him a questioning glance and tried to hide the yawn threatening to crack his jaw. “Go on, lad. You’ve earned a decent rest, and I’ll need you alert tonight.”

  The door shut, Martha came back into the kitchen and sat at the table next to George. Tired hands clasped together, faces drawn and lined from more than the passing of years.

  The cream jug was still on the table and he ran one finger down the handle before pushing the vessel aside. “So what’s going on here?”

  George Carpenter leaned forward, arms folded on the table. “First of all, I want to know why you’ve brought Jack Dalton here and what he’s doing locked in my storeroom.”

  “Believe me, bringing him here was the last thing I planned, but I had no choice. If I’d not brought him along, Dalton’s men were planning to spring him, and they’d have killed Lancey to do that.” He looked down at his fingers. “I’m sorry. I’d thought to put him in the caves where he’d be safe and out of the way, but then I saw what’d happened. I can take him back, tomorrow, but I’d be grateful if the lad can stay here with you.”

  “No need. Dalton’s safe enough where he is right now and if his pa wants him, he can ask for him. As for what’s happening here?” George pushed his chair back and went to drag a box out from one corner. “I’ll show you.” The box was heavy and iron-bound, hinges creaking as the lid opened to reveal a thick sheaf of papers. He picked them up and spread them across the table. “These started in March. Demands for money, demands to see the land rights, the water rights, everything. All from Elias Dalton’s lawyer, claiming we had no right to this land. I went to the bank and showed them the papers your pa and I agreed on, but they said they weren’t legal because I couldn’t prove I’d lived on this land for five years and there were no credible witnesses or something like that. Martha and I talked about it and thought we’d ignore them and hope Dalton would give up, and it all went quiet until the beginning of May.” He shook his head, blinking as if the sun was too bright.

  “And then…” Martha continued the story in a quiet voice. “Well, I suppose you saw the barn? They set fire to it one night. Six of them there were, shouting and laughing. We got the fire out easily enough, but it was as if they weren’t really trying to burn it down, more to frighten us. And then things started happening. Someone shot at George one morning.”

  ‘Were you hurt?” He could feel the anger rising inside him. Hot rage, burning through his veins.

  The older man shook his head again. “They weren’t out to kill me. They just want us to leave. That way Elias Dalton’s got control over all the water round here.”

  “So you know what he’s planning?”

  “The cattle drive? Sure. I can’t say as I like the idea; thousands of beeves trampling everywhere and ruining grazing land, but folks have to eat. I reckon your pa would have given them free passage though. I’ve known for a while Dalton needs my land. He can’t have full control if we’re here, letting folks use our water.” He cracked his knuckles, the sound loud in the stillness of the room, the joints showing signs of age and hard work. Tough hands, scarred and calloused and strong.

  “And he’s dammed the river.”

  “That he has. Brought in some dynamite a week ago and blew the crags.” George shook his head. “I knew right then we were in trouble. He came round a few days later and said we should leave before things got worse. But I’m not going to, even if they carry me out in a box. This is my land, bought and paid for and worked.”

  He pushed his tiredness away. “How often do they come?”

  “Evenings, sometimes middle of the night, sometimes just after dawn. They’ve come riding through the fields at noon a few times, trampling the crops just for the hell of it. Killed some of the sheep and set the chickens loose. Got to the stage where I don’t let Martha out of the house.”

  He glanced at her – the lined face now tight with anger as fierce as his own. “So you
’ve been doing all the work by yourself? You can’t go on like that, George.”

  “I have to. I told you, I’m not letting anyone hound me out, least not while I’m alive.”

  The stubborn pride of a man who had spent his whole life working the land, rearing cattle and riding herd. Back-breaking, unforgiving work. No man would willingly surrender his home like that. His father had been the same, fiercely determined and proud. But it was not just George living here – Martha’s life was as much at risk. “When did they last come? And how many?”

  “Two days ago. Dusk. Eight of them. Sometimes they come later, or wait for dawn, and no telling how many of them either. They come, they do what damage they want and then they go. They don’t shoot now. They know there’s just the two of us and only one rifle. Like cats playing with a mouse.”

  “You told Lancey?”

  The weathered face darkened. “No point. There’s nothing he could do other than get himself killed as well. Elias Dalton’s worse than his brother was. A vulture, looking for easy pickings and flying off when the wolves arrive. I’ve no witness to say he’s behind this, other than those papers and there’s nothing against the law in them. If I had some real proof then I’d feel right about shooting him but I can’t. Not while Martha’s here.”

  “And what happens if they kill you, George? What happens to Martha then? Don’t you care about her?” A cruel thing to say, and brutal, but it needed to be said.

  “Of course I care. What sort of man d’you take me for? Another Frank Dalton, treating his woman like she was worthless? Martha’s my life and I’m doing this for her. This is our land. Our livelihood. Once it’s gone, we have nothing. Nothing.”

  He’d never thought. He’d gone through life secure in the knowledge that the Archer land would be his and then, when that was lost he’d found a new home, never considering what might happen to him when he was too worn out to work. He’d seen the same look in Jonty Cooper’s face – the awareness that one day he might have nothing of his own. “It was wrong of me to say that. I’d ask you to forgive me, but it still doesn’t change things. You can’t stay here, not with the Dalton’s hell bent on taking everything. They’ll come for you sooner or later.”