by Leona Grace
A quiet meal, his eyes burning with tiredness, his head stinging where Martha had put iodine on the wound, his borrowed shirt too wide in the chest and too short in the sleeves for comfort so he had to keep the cuffs unbuttoned and they flapped, irritating him enough for him to roll them to his elbows. Martha had washed his shirt and hung it to dry, but the worst of the stains remained. Jack Dalton was quiet in the storeroom after Lancey’s threat of being put to work digging graves.
“What happens now?” Duane scraped butter over a slice of toasted bread.
George pushed his plate away, his food barely touched. “Martha and me, we talked about the farm.” A long pause, a shared look. “We’re staying. At least for now. It’ll be hard but this is our land and our home and I’ve got enough saved to buy hay and a few tools to see us through to next spring.”
“It’s not going to be easy.”
“Hard work never is.” George Carpenter gripped his wife’s hand. “Martha’s aware of the risk as much as I am but it’s what we both want. Please, Sam, don’t try to persuade us.”
There would be no point in arguing. This was a battle he could not win, and he held out one hand. “I won’t. But will you promise me one thing? Will you let me help you as much as I can before I leave? It’s the least I can do.”
“I will, and I’ll be glad.” A firm handshake to seal the pledge, a sigh of relief from all concerned.
He drained the last of his coffee and put the mug down. “I have to go out; won’t be long, but there’s somewhere I need to visit.” He shook his head as Lancey started to speak. “I’ll be safe. No one’s going to come back here, not now, but while I’m gone you can get Jack Dalton to write a note to his father saying he’s here. I might need that later.” He opened the front door and reached for his hat.
Duane followed him out, cramming the slice of toast into his mouth. “Can I come with you?”
It would do the lad good to get away from the place for an hour. “As long as you don’t ask questions.”
Meg was eager for the chance to stretch her legs and, once away from the farm, he urged her into a canter, Rusty following close behind. A yelp of delight from the boy as the horses sprang into a gallop, racing each other across the ground, his own thrill at feeling the power beneath him.
The path was known to him – he’d ridden this way last year – but even so, once they were out in the valley he was cautious. It was unlikely any survivors of the gang would venture out of the safety of the Farley ranch now, at least not until Dalton had hired more men, but Sam Archer had not survived three years of war by being careless and he held Duane back when they reached the wide river valley. “Stay close and keep your eyes open.”
He rode on, seeing the land anew and yet it was all so familiar and then he saw the house. The blackened timbers were less of a shock now; nature and the weather had conspired to soften the brutality and all that remained was an untidy mound of grass and weeds and the stones from the chimney. The barn and bunkhouse had gone completely and the ground on which they once stood left dead and dark. He reined in and sat there, thinking.
“Mr Archer?” Duane’s voice brought him back to the present. “Is that…?”
“My home. Or what’s left of it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No need to be. Not your fault. If anyone’s, it’s mine.”
“Can I ask why?”
The boy had the curiosity of a cat. “I should have known something was wrong. I should have asked to come home earlier.”
“Would that have made a difference?”
He didn’t answer. A nudge of his heels had Meg cantering across the valley, only slowing down when she came to the dry river bed, its thin water course meandering between the stones. Nothing lived in the water now, no fish or plants, no insects dipping into the cool depths, no birds drinking. The mare jumped it without even pausing, and then lurched up the opposite bank, shaking herself as if glad to be free. From there it was a short distance to where his family were buried and he dismounted and let Meg graze the new grass. Duane followed him, hat held in his hands as if he knew the purpose of this visit.
Roses. A profusion of roses: red and pink, yellow and white. Every colour of rose he had ever seen, and all planted here by George and Martha after he had left to seek justice against the Dalton brothers. A tangle of thorny stems, flowers in every stage from the tiniest bud to faded glories. Petals festooned the ground and butterflies and bees dipped into open flowers, searching for pollen. Last night’s rain had renewed the land, and tiny speckles of rain glistened on the dark leaves.
He needed his leather gloves to find the three grave markers: his brother’s wooden cross with its neat inscription, his mother’s with the rose carved at the top, and the final one. A simple stone slab with the Archer brand etched beneath the names of all three members of his family. In time the wooden crosses would rot but this stone would always be here. He pulled his hand away and let the roses fall back, concealing the graves beneath a mantle of thorns and petals. He would not come back for a long time, might not ever return, but it was enough to know his family’s resting place was protected.
His knife made short work of cutting a handful of stems and he tucked them in the canvas bag George had given him. They would not stay fresh forever but, pressed between the pages of a book they would be a keepsake of this place and its beauty. Had he been alone he might have said a few words, but he spoke them in the silence of his mind and then he was done and he stepped back, the sun shining on his face and a rare feeling of peace settling over him. His only regret was that he had nothing to leave here.
Duane had waited, hands in his pockets, head lowered, and he realised how hard it had to be for the boy with no known grave for his family. Not even a marker to let anyone passing know a family lay here and were mourned.
“I’m thinking of planting some roses when we get back. My mother liked roses.” He took Meg’s reins.
“So did mine.”
“Perhaps you can plant some for your family and put up a stone. It won’t be the same as a proper marker, but it’d be something to remember them by.” He put one foot in the stirrup, swung a leg over and settled himself in the saddle before giving the boy a curt nod. “Think about it.”
The ride back was slower, neither of them wanting to race, but for all the sombre mood he savoured the journey and the company though he noticed Duane shifting in his saddle and glancing sideways at him.
“Out with it, lad. What’s bothering you?”
“The carving on your pa’s stone?”
“Yes.” He knew what was coming.
“It’s the same as your scar.”
He nodded. “They burned the house down after he died. When I came home I found the family branding iron in the ashes and I took it. The only thing I could find. When the Dalton brothers caught me, they decided to teach me a lesson.”
“Then I’m glad you killed them. They deserved it.”
He glanced at the boy. “I’ve done too much killing in my time to be glad about anyone’s death, even when it needed doing. One thing to remember, lad; life is a precious thing and whenever you take a life, you lose a part of yourself as well. Now, we’re wasting time and there’s things need doing before it’s too late.” He flicked the reins and nudged Meg into a canter, the sorrel keeping pace until the small cabin appeared in the distance.
Lancey had collected the loose horses and corralled them. Hard-used beasts and eager for fodder, they crowded together, wary of strangers. The sheriff rubbed the nose of one of the beasts, a gentle mare with a scarred nose and the marks of spurs on her flanks. “What’re you going to do with them?”
“Keep them here for now. When we leave I’ll take them with me and drop them off at the livery in town unless you can use them, George?”
“Perhaps. What about the bodies?”
He sighed. “I’ll need your wagon so I can take them back to Elias. I’ll also need you to sit down and write your report o
n what happened so we can send it to the judge at Vancross, but these were Dalton’s men and it’s his responsibility to give each of them a decent burial. When I get back, we’ll look at clearing the….” He shook his head, unwilling to think about the work ahead.
George nodded. “The horses? We’ll see to that, James and me.”
Duane was staring at him, a frown lining his forehead. “You’re not taking the men to the undertakers?”
“Eight men? Not even sure if there’s an undertaker in town now and, if there is, who’s going to pay him? They were hired by Elias and he can do what he wants with them.” He was aware of the boy’s look of distaste at the callousness of his plans. “I could do with some help to get them loaded, if anyone’s willing?”
Duane wasn’t, not that he was annoyed. Hefting corpses onto a wagon was unpleasant at the best of times and would be even worse for the lad given his history, but with Lancey and George taking one end and him at the other, they loaded the bodies decently enough and got them covered with a length of canvas. Not a moment too soon, either, stiffness setting in around the neck and jaw of each man. He tucked Jack Dalton’s brief note to his father away in a pocket. He was climbing into the seat when Duane hurried over, red-faced and hot and looking embarrassed.
“Wait! I want to help. Let me drive?”
“No. This is no job for a boy.” He shook his head. “I didn’t mean that, just –”
“That you don’t think I’m good enough? What if something goes wrong? You’ve told me enough times to make sure I have someone with me when I’m doing something hard.”
Damn. It was all going wrong again. He wiped his forehead, climbed down again and called across to Lancey. “The lad’s coming with me. Tell Martha, will you?” He crammed his hat back on and waved a hand. “Well, get onboard and take the reins. I’ve no time to hang around.” Meg was still willing and he tacked her up, climbed in the saddle and eased her alongside the wagon. “Slow and steady. We’ve a way to go yet.”
Duane flicked the reins to get the heavy horses moving. “How far is the Farley ranch?”
“Ten miles or so. We’ll take it easy, but I’ll be glad when we get there.” He looked back at the wagon bed. Flies were beginning to crawl on the canvas. He hope the boy hadn’t noticed.
“Won’t he try to shoot you?”
“Not if he’s got any sense. I’m armed and he’ll likely know what happened early on. I’m just bringing his men back to him, that’s all. Once he knows we’ve got his son, he’ll listen. As for you?” He shook his head. “One of these days, Duane, you’ll be the death of me, but I’m not going to let that happen today. So when we get there, you climb down and keep the wagon between you and Elias, understand? I don’t want you anywhere near the house.”
“What’s he like? Elias Dalton?”
Archer shrugged. “Never seen him. I knew Seth and his boys but that’s about all. I can tell you one thing though – if Elias is anything like his nephews, then we’ll need to be careful.” The wagon was moving steadily now, and he loosened the reins and let Meg relax.
Chapter 16
The Farley place was as he remembered it: the house with its new rooms, the larger bunkhouse, the additional barn, a woodshed. But the outer corrals were empty of horses and the garden Catherine’s mother had nurtured now overgrown with weeds. There was a sense of decay and neglect, as if the house had been abandoned: a broken window in one of the upstairs rooms, one of the porch rails broken, a mess of empty bottles by the old swing on the porch. A single horse stood inside a smaller corral, watching.
Meg tossed her head, uneasy, and he smoothed one hand down her neck to steady her. The door opened and a figure stepped out: tall, white shirt, dark pants, a rifle in one hand, holster and gun on his right hip. Meg halted at his touch, Duane climbed down as ordered, the horses blowing and edgy in the heat and smell. They were a good fifty yards away.
The man spoke. “State your business.”
“Elias Dalton?”
“That’s me. Who are you?”
“Does that matter? I’ve brought your men back so you can bury them.” He waved a hand at the wagon. “Eight of them. Don’t know what happened to the others.”
“You expect me to thank you?” He spat on the ground. “They were useless, all of them. For all I care, you can leave them to rot.”
“Where’re the rest of your men?”
“Took their belongings and rode away; took their dead with them as well. Said they weren’t being paid to get killed. No one here now but me. I could shoot you. Both of you.” The rifle pointed towards Duane for a moment.
He turned his head a little, his voice quiet. “Remember what I told you, boy. Stay behind the wagon.” His hand drifted to the revolver at his side before he turned back to answer Elias Dalton. “You’d be making a mistake if you did.”
“Tell me why.”
“Because I broke your boy out of prison two nights ago and he’s with James Lancey back at the Carpenter house. If we don’t return…” He waved a hand at the boy standing behind the bulk of the wagon. “…there’s no saying what Lancey might do. So if I were you, I’d let us leave. That way no one gets hurt. Least of all your boy.”
Dalton spat on the ground. “He shot in self defence. You know that.”
The rifle pointed at them. The air was still enough to carry the words clearly. One of the horses harnessed to the wagon tossed its head and tugged at the reins. He heard Duane’s voice calming the animal and he focused on the man hiding in the shadows of the porch.
“Can’t say I do. Wasn’t there when it happened, but it’s the law’s decision, not yours or mine. Lancey’ll make sure he gets a fair trial.”
“How do I know I can believe you?”
He held both hands out, Meg standing obedient and still, waiting for any order. “I’m trusting you to do the right thing. I’m returning your men and I’ve told you about your son.”
The rifle aimed higher. “Can you prove you’ve got him?”
“He wrote you. I’ve got the letter here. Put down the rifle and I’ll give it you.”
A long pause. He waited, preparing to turn Meg and grab the boy and ride hell for leather, and then Dalton put the rifle down and propped it on the rail beside him, took his gun from its holster and put it down. “I’m unarmed. Your turn. Both of you.”
A wave of his hand kept Duane from objecting. He took his time: a slow dismount, leather creaking, flies buzzing nearby, the thud of boots on damp earth. Meg shook her head to dislodge insects gathering around her eyes and he patted her shoulder, spoke to her in a low voice, unbuckled his holster and let it fall slip to the earth. Then the rifle – sliding it from its sheath and lowering it to the ground this time, slow and steady.
Hands held out, he took a step away from the mare. “The boy’s unarmed. He’s no threat to you.” A murmured warning to the boy behind him. “If anything happens, take Meg and ride fast.”
He took the letter from his pocket and held it out, before walking closer to the porch. Only then did he get a decent look at the man standing at the top of the steps. Elias Dalton had the same eyes as his son. The same dark moustache and deep-cleft in the chin, the same build. Like father like son, and in that moment he knew Dalton was not likely to let him live once he had the letter in his hand, even if it ended in the death of his son.
Time slowed down, his senses capturing every movement, every action and sound and threat: the deceit in Elias Dalton’s eyes, the man reaching for the revolver lying on the seat at his side, the muzzle sweeping around to point at his head. He flung himself sideways, crashing to the ground and rolling over and over as the man fired. The hiss of a bullet close to his head and another close to one hand, and Dalton’s footsteps loud on the boards as he moved to get a better shot, Duane’s voice roaring – a terrifying shout of anger and fear – and a second, louder, gunshot followed by a hoarse cry of pain. His blood ran cold.
Duane. He forced himself to his feet, his cheek sc
raped, his shoulder aching. But nothing mattered as long as the boy was alive. He turned to face the house, one hand reaching for a gun that was no longer there…
“If you move I’ll shoot you again. I swear I will.”
Duane’s voice, not far behind him. A tremor of fear and yet the same determination he’d come to expect from the lad. A quick glance showed him Elias Dalton on the rough boards of the porch, his chest a bloody ruin, the gun some feet away and out of reach, Duane pointing a rifle at Dalton’s head. Archer’s own Spencer. He held up his hand. “Put the rifle down, son. He’s no danger now.”
“I didn’t think I’d…” The weapon slid from fingers, the stock landing with a thud on dry earth before the whole thing tipped over and fell. “I didn’t… I only wanted to frighten him.”
“Come here. Come on, son. We need to see to him.” But as he lifted the man he knew. “Give me your neckerchief.” He was already stripping his off and folding it into a neat pad, but it would only delay the end. Duane handed his over, a folded square of pale blue cotton that turned crimson as soon as it touched the gaping wound.
Dalton was ashen and cold and one look told Archer he would not survive long. Maybe it was for the best. If he lived to stand trial Elias Dalton would hang for attempted murder, alongside his son. “Can I get you anything?”
A deep groan of pain. “Whiskey.”
“Duane? See what you can find.”
They would all need a drink, later. He could do nothing now but stay with the man until the end. A sad and bitter end, but he was more concerned for the lad than anything else.
“I found some.” A half-empty bottle, a single mug. Tears running down the boy’s face.
He sloshed whiskey in the mug and knelt to lift Dalton. “Here.” He had to hold the mug to Dalton’s mouth and the first mouthful spilled down the man’s chin, mingling with a thin dribble of blood, but the rest went down without too much wastage. “You shouldn’t have tried to kill me.”
