Archer's Return

by Leona Grace

  He hefted a pitchfork and put it back before clambering up the steep ladder and lying on his belly to push the hayloft door open and look eastwards. The moon hung low on the horizon with clear skies to the east. A good night for watching. It would be cold later but that was no concern. He had a thick layer of hay on which to lie and enough food to keep him content and he settled himself, rifle close at hand, Remington by his hip, canteen and bag on his right side where they would not hinder his gun hand. Now all he had to do was wait.

  The sun lowered inch by inch until it disappeared with a brief flash of light. After a long while the chickens settled and the mice reappeared, tiny claws scratching on wood. He ignored the beads of sweat on his upper lip, the itch on the back of his neck from something crawling there. Still no sign of riders, not that he was expecting them for several hours at least. Whatever was on his neck had either crawled away or settled for the duration. At least there were no snakes here. He thought of Duane, waiting in the cabin with Lancey and George. If anything happened, they would see the lad safe home and Cooper would look after him. And so would Faith.

  Faith. He missed her smile and the touch of her fingers on his skin when they lay together in bed, missed simply being with her and knowing she would be waiting for him when he was finished with the day’s work. He closed his eyes for a moment and saw her, as clear as if she was standing there in front of him, her hair gold in the sunlight, the quiet smile, freckles on her cheeks. It was all he could do not to reach out for her, but he knew the folly of allowing himself to be distracted and he gave her one last look and opened his eyes again as the first rumble of distant thunder echoed across the land.

  The storm was brief. A few flashes, far enough away not to be dangerous but the resulting wind brought a downpour of torrential rain before it disappeared as swiftly as it had come, leaving the air cool and moist and the sky clear, and he settled himself again, waiting as he had done so many times during the war.

  The sounds of the night kept him company: owls screeching, the death squeaks of rodents caught in talons, the uneven dripping of rain, the creak of wood as the barn settled. He took a mouthful of water from his canteen, a bite of bread, a morsel of cheese, watched stars swirl across the sky. The land was still again, not even a breeze to stir the leaves on the apple trees or rustle the tall spikes of wheat.

  He dozed, a little, allowing himself a few seconds of rest from the strain of staring. His work during the war years had taught him how to steal fragments of sleep when needed and he used those lessons now, each short spell enough to refresh him for the next hour or so. Likely Duane and the others were taking it in turns to rest, but he hoped to give them enough warning when the men arrived.

  Another hour, and another and still no sound of horses, no glimpse of riders approaching. He eased his spine a little, grimacing at the stiffness in hips and knees. A slice of the cake, broken off into bite-sized pieces and eaten one by one. Crumbs dropped from his fingers and he heard the scrabble of mice as they came to share the feast.

  The fainter stars were invisible now, an infinitesimal glimmer of light appearing in the sky as morning twilight began. Maybe an hour until dawn. The light changed until land and sky were no longer one. He blinked his tiredness away, splashed the last handful of water on his face and stared out. The sky faded to blue, clear and cloudless in its upper reaches with streaks of bronze closer to the horizon.

  And there they were, a line of riders heading in his direction, little more than dark silhouettes against the glow. A dozen men at least, and riding fast, dust clouding the land behind them, the blazing torches they carried proof of their intentions. The thunder of hooves reached his ears but the men rode in silence, confident in their strength. He lifted the rifle, took a deep breath and readied himself.

  Seven rounds. Seven chances. He pulled the trigger. A horse screamed, crashing to the ground, its rider trapped beneath and the flames of a torch guttering in the dust. It had started. Too late to do anything now but carry on: the thump of the recoil against his shoulder, men shouting, horses whirling and rearing, milling around terrified and uncontrolled, bullets going everywhere as they sought to find him. Another horse down, and he tried not to think of the animals he had seen in the war, tried not to think of anything but George and Martha and how he had to protect them and Duane and Lancey.

  He shut out the screams of men and horses, the stink of black powder, the sound of shots fired wildly in his direction. Recoil after recoil, each bullet aimed with as much precision as he could manage, the last round from his rifle knocking yet another man from his horse. A bullet smashed into the wood above him, just missing his head, but he ignored the danger, took hold of his Remington and steadied himself.

  He took his time emptying the gun. No longer an ordered line of mercenaries, the gang were in chaos but closer to the barn and even more dangerous. Lying as he was in the loft, he presented a small target, but there were enough of them still on horseback to be lethal should they organise themselves to make an assault on his position or get close enough to fire the barn. His only chance was to keep them confused and scared.

  His six spaced-out shots brought down three more, a rearing horse unseated its rider before trampling the man and bolting for freedom, a burning torch arced through the air and landed beside him. He shoved the gun in his holster as the hay smouldered, guttered and then caught fire, the blaze spreading in seconds to his coat and he rolled over, crushing the flames out before jumping down from the loft, rifle in one hand, to land on his knees and jarring every bone in his body.

  No time for rest – he sprang up, running for the cabin, head down and keeping to the deeper shadows. The house was in darkness but he knew Lancey and George would be watching. His shoulder slammed into the end wall and he reached out with one arm to steady himself. Nearly there. Dalton was shouting from the storeroom, his cries unheard beneath the louder ruckus of horses and men and shouted orders from whoever was in charge of the gang. Behind him the barn burst into flames, a hot crackle of wood and straw, the smell of burning turpentine, a screech as the chickens ran to safety.

  Round the back of the small house, one hand outstretched to guide him, fingers tracing over the line of logs until he reached the planks of the door. He hammered on the wood and waited, taking great gulps of air until he heard the bar being lifted. The door opened and he stepped inside into the darkness of the main room and stripped off his coat.

  “Are you hurt?” Duane’s voice, harsh and fearful from behind him.

  “Stay down. I’m fine.” The stink of burned canvas and wool, of singed hair, the tightness of skin caught too close to flames. He ignored it all.

  The flames from outside lit the interior with a nightmare glow, though the barn was too far away to be a real danger to the house. He saw Lancey kneeling by one of the windows, George hunkered down by the other, and he took a minute to reload the gun. It would be close work now and he no longer needed the greater accuracy of the Spencer. His knife was ready if the men came close, but he hoped it would not come to that. If it did, then he would have failed. The barn was a roaring mass of flames, gaudy and bright and taunting him with the threat of what would happen to the cabin should they fail.

  George was looking out at the flames and he bent down and ran to kneel beside him, edging the older man away from the lesser protection of the window, to where the sturdy log wall would stop any bullet. The remaining men and horses – less than half a dozen from what he could tell – had gathered two hundred yards from the cabin, the brilliant light from the barn glinting on guns and spurs and faces. The barn roof fell in a roar of sparks and renewed flames and the riders began moving, gaining speed as they charged.

  He shook his head as Lancey raised his own gun. “Not yet.” A low murmur. “Let them get closer.” It was a huge risk, but even with three of them defending the cabin he was unsure. George was not a fighting man, not with a gun at any rate, and he had no idea of Lancey’s abilities. The lead horse came close e
nough for its rider to throw his blazing torch onto the roof, but it landed short and fell to the ground, dying in a flurry of sparks. Even then Sam refused to fire. And then…

  The riders turned as one, wheeling their horses into a wide curve that brought them sweeping round in front of the cabin, the remaining torches held high, the horses so close together there was no separation between them. Wooden staves wrapped in burning oil-soaked cloth flew through the air. A window shattered as one broke through and fell inside the cabin. A loud cheer from outside, the smell of burning tar, smoke drifting across the floor.

  Time. With a swift nod at Lancey he reached up, smashed the pane of glass with the butt of his gun and fired. Once, twice, each shot reaching its target. Men this time, not horses. He ducked down to the scant protection of the wall as bullets splintered the window frame. Heat burned his head, blood trickling down the side of his face and neck, his senses alert to the movements around him: Lancey firing his own gun a few feet away, George cussing and raising himself ready to shoot again, someone – Duane or Martha, he had no idea – moving behind him to throw a pail of water over the flames and stamp out the embers.

  Another two shots. He struck a man who was making his way towards the cabin on foot, the last two bullets fired at anything that moved, and then there was no one shooting back or racing towards the cabin, only the sound of hooves galloping away into the night leaving the soft glow of early morning filled with the sound of horses screaming.

  It was Lancey who took his gun from his fingers and helped him stand, Lancey who pressed a cloth against the deep scrape above his left ear and made him sit at the table while Martha finished off any remaining embers with deft blows from her thick broom. Duane had run upstairs and could be heard stamping the boards.

  They were alive. His throat hurt. And his head. George was sitting across from him, ashen and shaking, his gun still held in his fingers as if he was unable to let go. The sounds from outside lessened. He needed to see to the injured animals, put them out of their misery, but when he tried to stand Lancey put one hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down.

  “The horses. I need to –” He tried again.

  “I’ll do it. Stay here. Let Martha take a look at you first.”

  He could not bear to listen. Duane had come down, brushing dust and soot and dirt from his shirt before filling mugs with water and handing them round. He drank his in one long swallow and then held the mug in tight fingers. A shot rang out, a horse went silent. He wanted to weep. Cold wetness against his head, the smell of blood and ash and singed hair. He raised his hand to touch, but Martha pushed it away.

  “Hold still now, while I take a look.”

  He did as he was told, all the while listening to the sound of Lancey’s gun and Jack Dalton shouting from the storeroom. George put his gun down with a clatter, his fingers pulling away from the handle as if it was poisoned, or worse. Duane swept broken glass into one pile. No one spoke. Martha dabbed the wound with something that stung like fire, and closed the skin with two quick, painful stitches. His hands were caked with dirt and blood and small blisters where flames had kissed the skin and he reached for a cloth and began wiping the worst away.

  It seemed like years before Lancey returned, hands bloodied and his face tired. “No one left. Three loose horses, but they won’t come near so I’ve left them alone. I’ll see about collecting them later.”

  “How many?” It seemed important to know.

  “Men? Eight. None alive. And from what I saw, some of those who ran won’t last long. You did a –”

  “Don’t.” He clenched his fist. “Don’t say I did a good job.”

  Eight. He’d killed eight men, if not directly, then by his orders. Without any warning, without any mercy. Eight men dead and their blood on his hands. He pushed his chair back and unbarred the back door and went out into the softness of a new morning to where the pump waited.

  He was running his fingers through sodden strands of hair – his wounds still stinging – when he heard the door open and footsteps approach. “I’ll be a minute.” Water blinded him and yet he was still tainted. Another gush of water, and he held both hands beneath the torrent and splashed it on his face.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.”

  It was the boy. “Sorry?” The cloth was too damp to do much more than blot the worst of the water away, but at least he could see now. “No need to be sorry, lad. You did well. You should be proud of yourself.”

  “No. I meant about wanting to be part of it. Wanting to fight. I hadn’t…” A shrug of the shoulders. “I didn’t think it’d be like that.”

  “Not many people do. It isn’t easy shooting a man, even when it’s a matter of them or you. And it has a habit of preying on your mind long after. You wonder if there was anything else you could’ve done instead.”

  “But there wasn’t, was there?”

  The collar of his shirt was thick with blood from his scalp and he pulled the garment over his head and dropped it to the ground. He would have flung it away but it was his only one. “No. There wasn’t. You have to decide who’s going to live. And they weren’t for giving any mercy. You saw what they intended; they’d’ve burned George and Martha alive if we hadn’t stopped them. That still might happen.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  The cold water was making him shiver. “I can’t let them stay here, not now. It’s too risky. There’s no telling what might happen next. They’ll have to come back with us. The ranch has enough land to spare.”

  “And what happens to Jack Dalton?”

  “I don’t know. He’s too dangerous to take along with us. We can’t wait for the marshal and we can’t take him to Vancross – Elias Dalton had men watching the road and they won’t hesitate to kill us all the moment they see us with him. The only thing we can do is try to exchange Jack for safe passage out of here.”

  “That’s not fair though.”

  “Life’s not fair, lad, whichever way you look at it. There’s certainly no fairness here, or any victory for that matter. Elias Dalton may get his son back, but he’s lost most of his men and who knows how many of the ones that ran. We bested him and that won’t sit easy with any man. As for George and Martha, they may lose their home and land, but at least they’re alive. That has to count for something.” He shivered, rubbing his hands down his bare arms. “Let’s get back inside and get warm. We need to talk about what to do next and I’m hoping there’s some apple pie left over.”

  A quick smile. “Martha put the last piece aside for you. Said you hadn’t eaten much and no one else was to touch it.” He put a hand out and then paused. “They care about you, don’t they?”

  “The nearest to a mother and father I have left now.” And he looked at the boy standing there and saw a glimpse of William when his brother was this age, the same concern, the same awkward look of admiration. They were not his family, but it was a shock to realise how much he cared about each of them. He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Let’s get inside. I’m hoping George might find me a spare shirt and after breakfast we need to talk about what to do next.”

  Chapter 15

  Duane helped him bring the horses down and let them loose in the corral furthest away from the still burning embers of the barn and the dead animals. Lancey and George had dragged the corpses of Dalton’s men out of sight, but they would have to be dealt with soon. He went to look at them: lean bodies and scarred faces, worn boots and tattered clothes – some grey, some blue – and a look of hardness on each face. Tough men, no doubt made tougher by the war, but that was no excuse for burning honest folks out of their homes.

  He rifled through pockets in search of anything that might identify them – army papers, letters, a book even – but there was nothing, and in the end he took their weapons and put them aside, along with the few personal items he’d found. A paltry collection: a couple of tarnished pocket watches, a knife with an ivory hilt, a pipe with tobacco still in the bowl, three
battered leather wallets with little enough inside. Those he put in a canvas bag to give to Lancey. He would take the bodies to Elias Dalton later today and let him deal with them.

  Six chickens scurried beneath the fence to scratch for food in the long grass, Meg rolled on her back – an ungainly act for such a large animal and he heard Duane’s easy chuckle at the sight of the mare acting like a foal. But he was relieved none of the horses had taken any harm from a night spent saddled. Bran lay down in the sunshine and the two plough horses made their way to the far corner, away from the interlopers.

  Duane wandered over to the barn and he followed, concerned the boy might stumble across more than just charred wood. The smell of smoke hung in the air, a thin haze of grey clouding the air. Little remained of the barn other than dying embers and tools bereft of their handles. The prongs of a pitchfork protruded from a thick layer of white ash. He put them aside with the blade of a two-man saw and the end of a shovel. Not much to show for a man’s life. Rebuilding would be hard work, even for a young man, and there were no neighbours to help out. He ran one hand over a ruined harness and thought of his father’s barn with its tools and wagons and hay. Everything gone, just like here.

  The two of them were picking over the scraps in the faint hope of finding something saveable when Martha called them to breakfast. He sent the boy away to the cabin and he set off in a different direction, walking out to where the dead horses lay, ugly and broken. Innocent beasts brought to an early death and left to rot in the sunshine. It was the horses that finished him and he stood there for a time, unashamed of tears falling as the horror of the war years came back to him. And then he heard George calling and he scrubbed his eyes and went to wash the streaks from his face in the cold water of the pump.