Archer's Return

by Leona Grace

  Meg was sulking but he slapped her saddle on regardless of stamping hooves and flailing tail. A knee in the ribs made her blow out the breath she was holding so he could tighten the cinch. He grabbed one ear and was telling her to behave herself when Duane appeared, yawning and rubbing his face and holding out a mug of coffee.

  “Martha says there’ll be bacon and cornbread when you’re done here. And she’s got food for the ride as well.”

  Hot coffee, thick with sugar and cream. He drank it while the boy finished putting the bridle on Meg and gave her more sugar before leading the mare to where the buckskin was tethered. Lancey had come out and was scratching the gelding’s nose and looking nervous.

  “Out with it.” He waited.

  “My wife. She doesn’t know I’m alive and she’ll be worrying. Could you…” Lancey swallowed. “She lives in the town. Could you send a telegram for me? They’ll take it to her as soon as it arrives.”

  Martha was beckoning him to come in for his breakfast. “Write it down – address and message. And hurry up.”

  The promised bacon was hot and crisp, the bread thick and slathered with butter and he stood in the kitchen eating, listening to their prisoner making a nuisance of himself and wondering if he was doing the right thing, leaving them to look after the last surviving Dalton. “Don’t let Jack fool you. He’s more dangerous than he looks.”

  “George’ll keep an eye on him. He’s not one to be tricked.” Martha handed him a sack of provisions and he resisted the temptation to look inside, aware of the sun rising.

  Lancey handed him a piece of paper and he stuffed it in his pocket. “I aim to be back sometime this evening, but don’t wait up. If I’m late, I’ll sleep outside.” He walked outside to where the horses waited.

  “You won’t tell us why you’re going?” George had joined Martha, his face lined with concern.

  “Tomorrow.” Leather creaked as he swung himself into the saddle, accompanied by a snort of disapproval from the mare. “Look after the boy for me.” He took hold of the lead rope and set off, the buckskin keeping pace.

  It was easier to go the old way, past the ruins of his home and the thin trickle of water where there had once been a wide river. The dam was little more than a raw and jagged tumble of rocks with a lake forming behind and the river running uneven in its new course, and he leaned on the pommel, staring at the ruined land before tugging his hat back into place and riding on. It would take a lot of work to break the dam, but it would restore the land to the way it was. He would have a word with George, when he got back.

  Around mid-morning he stopped for a rest and to change horses, and he opened his sack, digging through the contents and laying everything out like he used to do as a child: cornbread and a chunk of golden cheese, slices of apple cake and a handful of dried fruit, crisp cold bacon and soft bread. The horses grazed, the sun shone, and he sat against a boulder and ate, alone. The last of the cake finished, he leaned back, tipping his hat over his eyes and wondering when he’d last had a proper night’s sleep. He’d give the horses an hour and move on.

  Midday found him a mile or so outside town, and weary. He missed his travelling companion, but the boy needed a break after the last few days, and Martha was the person he trusted to look after the lad. She’d have him helping bake bread or pick beans, collecting eggs and tasting whatever pie she was making for supper – the small things any child would do at home. And although Duane was no longer a child, he would at least have some good memories to help wipe out the bad ones. Meg tugged at the rope and he sighed and dismounted, swapping his saddle from the buckskin to her broad back. “Happy now?”

  She butted him with her nose and he ran one hand down her neck and promised her a decent rest before they headed back. No doubt she was missing Rusty and the lad. As he was.

  The town sign looked old, the wood splintered where a bullet had caught one edge, the paint faded and peeling away. Dalton’s Gap. There’d been a Dalton living on this land a good twenty years before he’d been born. The name might live on but he doubted anyone here would mourn the family, or maybe the remaining townsfolk would change the name in the hope of a better future. It was not his concern. All he wanted now was to finish his work here and go home, to Faith.

  No wagons or horses on the street, no old men smoking pipes on porches. Another broken window in the Mercantile, the sign above the saloon hanging askew. A woman swept leaves from the porch of her boarding house and paused to watch him ride past. A handful of men hung around the General Store – duster coats and battered hats and the hungry look of cowhands seeking work. He nodded an acknowledgement and rode on, keeping Meg to a slow walk until they reached the livery and then he dismounted, pulling his rifle from its boot and leading both horses inside the shade of the stable.

  An extortionate cost for feeding and watering two horses for a few hours and he insisted on inspecting the stalls and the hay, but even his stern eyes could find no fault in the accommodation or the fodder. He handed the man an extra coin. “Know of anyone looking for work?”

  A wary glance. “What sort of work?”

  “Building, farm work.” Coins jingled in his pocket. “Fair pay for a fair day’s work.”

  A jerk of the head. “Outside the store. Usually a few there. The honest ones leastways.”

  “Much obliged.” He patted Meg and collected his saddlebag. “I’m looking to buy lumber as well.”

  “You’ll need to be quick then. Abel’s the one to see, on the other side of town, but he’s thinking about closing up and moving away. Says there’s no future here, not with the rents so high.” The man peered at him. “Don’t I know you?”

  Archer shook his head. “Long time since I was here last, and even then I was just passing through.”

  “You’ve come from that end of town. You working for the Daltons?” He spat. “If so, you can take your money and your horses and ride on. I’ll not be helping any friend of Elias Dalton. Neither will anyone else round here.”

  “Elias Dalton’s not going to trouble anyone again. Tried to shoot an unarmed man and ended up dying himself.”

  “You see the body?”

  “I did. Trust me, he’s dead, and I know where his son is as well. Which is another reason I’m here.”

  “You looking for the marshal then? He’s over there, in the boarding house. Arrived yesterday with another man, asking for the sheriff. Told him Lancey was missing along with Jack and no one knew where they were. I’ll go and tell him you’re here if you want? There’s a lot of townsfolk’ll be glad to hear your news.”

  “Can you ask him to meet me at the sheriff’s office in an hour?” He glanced back at Meg and the buckskin. They were in good hands. “I’ll be back for my horses later.”

  The five men outside the saloon were eager for work and he hired them for a fortnight with the promise of more if they proved themselves. A couple were scarred from the war, one was getting on in years, but none were drunk and he handed each one a few dollars from the payroll money hidden in his saddlebag with instructions to get a meal and supplies and to meet him at the office in an hour.

  His visit to the lumber yard owner was as successful, Abel more than willing to sell sufficient timber for the Carpenters’ new barn and have it loaded and delivered the next day along with his two grown sons to help with the construction. The saddlebag was getting lighter every minute. Then he made a quick detour to the telegraph office to send the telegram as promised.

  By the time he was done, a small crowd had gathered outside the saloon wanting to buy him a drink. He had hardly taken a mouthful of beer before the questions started and he answered as best he could, the bare details only, brushing aside his own part in the story and making no mention of the boy. They would have kept him there longer but for the fact that the marshal was waiting and he had to get back before dark.

  It was with a sense of relief that he walked out, leaving a quietly jubilant crowd behind him. He paused for a moment on the boardwalk
, peering through the unshuttered window of the Sheriff’s Office to see who was inside. Lancey’s seat behind the desk was taken by a man with a weather-beaten face marked by years of work and another man was pacing the floor.

  He opened the door. “Marshal? I believe you’re looking for Jack Dalton?”

  ***

  It was well past dusk when he returned, aching and tired and wanting nothing more than a hot drink and a soft bed, but the cabin was dark and he resigned himself to rubbing down the horses and then finding somewhere to sleep outside. The gelding had its head down and was miserable and he left Meg with water and an armful of hay while he saw to the weary beast.

  “Sam?”

  The voice startled him and he spun round, seeing a dark figure carrying a lamp. “George? I thought…”

  “Lancey and I waited for you. Go inside lad, we’ll see to the horses. Lancey here’s sleeping on the couch tonight, and the boy’s taken the rug, so don’t stand on him.”

  He fumbled his way to the small room and made swift work of undressing and getting under the quilt. A thick mattress and a decent pillow and, despite the soft snores from the teenager asleep on the floor, he was asleep within seconds.

  ***

  Jack Dalton was sitting at the end of the table, sullen after yet another night in the storeroom, his hands clasped round the mug of coffee Martha had placed in front of him. All fight seemed to have gone from the man, but even so Archer knew well enough how dangerous a cornered animal could be. He pushed a plate laden with cornbread and cold pie towards the young man. “Eat something. Might be your last chance until evening.”

  Dalton raised his eyes to stare at him. “What’s happening?”

  “I was in Dalton’s Gap yesterday; the marshal arrived two days ago with a deputy. He’ll be here sometime this morning to take you into custody.”

  A scornful laugh. “He’ll be wanting the money more like.”

  “Might go down well with the judge if you were to tell them where it is.”

  “Won’t stop them hanging me.”

  It was pointless trying to argue and Dalton was right. There was no mercy for killers. His eggs were getting cold and he finished, collecting the last smear of yolk with a corner of bread. “George? You made me a promise, remember?”

  “I did?” Furrows lined the older man’s forehead. “And what promise was that?”

  “That you’d let me help you before we leave. Maybe I should have asked but I hadn’t the time to argue with you, and I know how stubborn you can be.” He was aware of Martha coming to stand behind her husband, one hand on his shoulder. “I hired some men yesterday to help build a barn for you. They’ll be arriving today along with the wood you’ll need.” The payroll money was in an envelope in his pocket and he pulled it out and put it on the table. “There’s enough there to pay their wages and buy hay and supplies to see you straight for a while. And you’ll need the extra help I guess, once the cattle drive comes through here. Take it.”

  “You had no –”

  “Yes I do.” The look of anger on the old man’s face hurt more than any rejection. “I owe you more than money and you know that well enough.” Arms folded, he leaned back. “Duane and I’ll be heading out in the next few days. I don’t want to part as enemies, George. I respect you too much for that.”

  George started to push his chair back, but Martha stopped him. “Your pa was generous to us when he was alive and I know he’d be proud of you right now. But there’s too much here. We’ll take what we need and only if you let us repay it once we’re back on our feet.” She took the money and counted it out before handing back a bundle of notes, a fierce look in her eyes.

  There would be no arguing with Martha Carpenter and he nodded in defeat. “Very well. Duane? I could do with a hand checking the horses.”

  It meant leaving Lancey in charge of watching Jack Dalton, but after the heat of the room he needed some fresh air and Dalton looked too drawn to be a threat. The boy followed, climbing on the fence rail and watching as he took hold of the mare and began inspecting her feet. “Why did George not want the money?”

  “Pride. It’s a foolish thing, a man’s pride.”

  “But Martha doesn’t mind?”

  He pulled out his knife and scraped a hard knot of mud from one hoof. “Women look on things differently. George thinks of it as charity whereas she sees it as one friend helping another. Thing is, they’d both do the same if someone they cared about needed help.” A second foot, the handle of the knife tapping round the shoe, a thumb wiping dirt away from one side, a quick dig at a trapped stone. The leg twitched and he gripped it with more strength. “New shoes when we get back, Meg. You’ve worn this set down.” He let the foot drop and ran his hand down one foreleg.

  “What would you’ve done if he’d refused?”

  He straightened up. “George? I’d’ve made them come with us. But I guessed Martha would see sense.” He waved a hand at the land stretching out in front of them. “This is good land and I hope there’ll be more than a few families wanting to come and start a farm of their own now the Daltons are finished. Maybe the men who’re coming might settle hereabouts. I hope so; it’d be good to come back one day and see what they’ve made of the land.”

  “But you won’t, will you.”

  A shake of the head. “I doubt it, unless they need me. This land holds too many memories for me.” He let Meg go and turned to watch her trot to where Rusty waited. “And I have a new life now.”

  “With Faith?”

  He leaned back on the rail, the boy perched beside him. Clear skies and a cool breeze, the horses content. “And the rest.” He tipped his hat back and closed his eyes against the brightness. “My father used to say running a farm is the second hardest job in the world. The hardest job is running a family. But I guess a farm’s pretty much like a family one way or another, just bigger.”

  “I don’t remember much about my dad or what he told me. He liked things tidy, I remember that much, and he was tall.” A hollow laugh. “I was just a child. Everyone seemed tall to me back then.”

  “If you’re anything like your pa, then he was a tall man. Taller than me from the way you’re growing.” He reached across and ruffled the boy’s hair. “And you still got a way to grow yet, I guess.”

  “When are we going home?”

  “Depends. We could leave today if you want, ride with Lancey and the marshal back to town and then head off home. What d’you think?”

  “With….” A shake of the head. “With Jack Dalton?”

  A foolish suggestion. “Maybe not. Tomorrow, then? Give us one more night here.”

  The boy stared at the earth, his boot toeing a small stone. “I’m going to miss this place.”

  He took a deep breath. “You can stay, if you want; I won’t stop you. And George and Martha’ve taken to you. They’d likely be more than happy to have you stay here.”

  A long pause. “What about you?” The stone skittered a few feet.

  “Honest?”

  A brief nod, a look of fear. “Honest.”

  “I’d rather you came back with me.” The look of gratitude was painful. “You’ve got friends waiting at home, and I think a better future. Maybe Tom Walker’ll be there with his sister. I’d like to think so.” He waved a hand at the small cabin. “Not that the Carpenters wouldn’t do their best for you, but this last week’s taught me a lot about my own responsibilities.” His hair was damp and he tugged off his hat and ran fingers through the strands, staring across the corral at the horses on the far side. “I lost my parents and I lost my brother as well. If it’d been just William and me, I’d’ve taken care of him, taught him the good things I learned in the army, helped him start his own farm. I’d like to do that for you, if you’ll let me. A sort of older brother, help you learn the skills you’ll need later. What d’you say?”

  “Really? You’d do that for me.”

  “I would. And I’d be proud to do it. I think your parents would be
pleased as well.”

  “I’d… I’d like that.”

  ‘Good. Then it’s settled. We’ll head for home tomorrow morning. One last day here to help get things started.”

  The lad’s fingers were white as they gripped the rail. This had not been the exciting adventure Duane had expected. Instead he’d seen death and destruction and his whole life had changed. And it was Archer’s responsibility to see him safe home and help the lad deal with the consequences of his actions. But first, he needed to be kept busy. “Grab your gloves and a couple of those shovels we brought back. There’s plenty to be done before we can think about leaving. First thing’s clearing the ground for the new barn.”

  Hot, dirty work dragging charred timbers, shovelling ash and grit, sweeping the ground clean. Both of them hard at it for the next two hours, little time to think let alone talk, but there was satisfaction in the work, in clearing away the ruins and making the land ready for a new building. He’d helped build the barn at home when he was just a teenager: edging his way along beams and hauling crosspieces into place, hammering nails into wood as far as he was able. Duane scraped the last shovelful of ash into a heap, stopped and pointed. “Riders. Are they…?”

  He stood beside the boy, watching. Two men in the front and a small cluster further back, horses held to a slow canter. The marshal and his deputy and, some distance behind, the men he hired yesterday. He shaded his eyes with one hand. Two laden wagons coming the same way. It was going to be alright.

  He gave the boy a quick smile. “Think we’ve done enough here. Go and tell the others.”

  ***

  Archer held out his hand. “Safe journey, Marshal. Watch out for Dalton; he’s got a look about him that spells trouble.”

  The older man’s gaze was cold and dismissive. “I’ve not lost a prisoner yet. Are we ready?” He glanced at his deputy and received a nervous nod in reply. “Then let’s stop wasting time.”