Archer's Return

by Leona Grace

  And then they were gone, a fast canter taking the three men away from the cabin and the small group of workers busy unloading wood. Sam watched until they were mere specks in the distance and even then he was reluctant to turn away. Not that he cared about Jack Dalton, but there had been something too biddable about the man as he was manhandled, handcuffed and sullen, onto his father’s horse.

  Lancey came over to stand next to him. “I offered to go with them but the marshal made it clear he didn’t need me.”

  “His loss. I hope his pride doesn’t cost him.” He turned back to look at the cabin and the horses in the corral. “What’re you going to do now?”

  “Me? I’m staying here, for another week. Now my wife knows I’m safe I’d like to make sure things are straight here before I leave.”

  “Last duty? Appreciate that. I was thinking of staying on a couple of days, but if you’re here there’s no need.”

  “I owe you that much. And you’ve got a wife waiting and no doubt worrying.” Lancey gestured at the workers. “I know these men; a decent bunch, all of them, and a couple with young families as well. You’ve no need to worry.”

  “We’ll leave tomorrow then. Sooner we’re on our way the sooner we’ll be home.”

  Lancey stuffed his hands in his pockets. “You’ll take care of Duane? I mean…”

  “I will. He’s a good lad, deserves better than he’s had so far. I mean to change that.”

  A shout from one of the workmen had them both going over to help with unloading the beams and then there was little opportunity for anything other than hard physical work and the pleasure of a job done well.

  A last meal around the big table in the evening, the atmosphere more comfortable without Jack Dalton’s voice from the storeroom, or the threat of Elias Dalton’s men. Martha produced meat pie with gravy and beans and mashed potatoes and the lad cleared his plate twice over and then devoured a good helping of cake. Sam watched him with relief. It was going to be alright.

  Chapter 19

  Early morning mist covered the land when Archer took the lead, the hills and pasture hidden beneath a grey mantle and yet there was a beauty to the land that made him want to hold the picture in his mind forever.

  Duane came alongside, yawning. “Seems strange to leave. I’ll miss Lancey.”

  “He said he’d let us know how things go. And Martha did. Not sure about George, he was never one for putting pen to paper as far as I remember. Pa used to have to do the writing for the ranch.”

  “I told Martha I’d write, maybe come and visit them in a year or so.” Another jaw-cracking yawn.

  Archer rolled his shoulders, aware of his own tiredness and struck with a deep pang of homesickness for the comfort of his own bed and Faith’s arms around him. “You can write when we get to Harville, let them know you’ve made it home safe. They’ll like that.”

  Martha had hugged them both this morning, and he’d seen the tears in her eyes – and in George’s – when it was time to say goodbye. George had shaken hands and ruffled Duane’s hair and handed the boy a book to read on the journey back and given Sam a pouchful of tobacco. Lancey had said his own goodbye, quieter but nonetheless heartfelt, and then it was time to leave.

  By the time the midmorning sun had burned the mist away, they were a dozen miles from the cabin and taking it easy. He leaned forward, running one hand along Meg’s neck, feeling the mare respond to his touch. “I was thinking.”

  “About?”

  “Teaching you. There’s a lot to learn, not just about how to look after cattle.” Silence. He glanced sideways. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not going back on my word; just wanted you to know, that’s all. You might find it easier to move into the house, live with Faith and me.”

  “Oh.” The boy shuffled uncomfortably. “Won’t she mind?”

  “I’ll ask her. The house is big enough so you won’t be under our feet, but it’d mean you living separate from the others. I don’t mind either way. Just thought I’d give you the opportunity.” He could sense the boy’s unease and reluctance, but the offer needed to be made. It was his duty to the boy’s parents to do his best now and help their son make a success of his life, and if that meant taking him into the ranch house, then so be it.

  “Can I think on it?”

  “Surely. We got a week or so before we get home. Plenty of time to make a decision.” He twisted to look at his companion. “I’ve let you down, we all have one way or another. Someone should have taken responsibility for you, and that was me, but I never thought to ask. I was wrong and I’d like to make up for that. Anyway, even if you decide to stay in the bunkhouse, I’ll be there. And if Tom comes to work on the ranch, I guess his sister’ll stay with us as well. Faith can make her some dresses and so on. Those clothes she had won’t do.” He shook his head in amusement. “And the same goes for you. First thing is to get you some pants before you grow right out of those.” The store in Harville got new supplies every month or so, and he could get that length of material he’d forgotten to buy for her.

  Duane stuck one leg out and stared at his ankle. “They’re getting a bit short aren’t they?”

  “You could say that. Seems to me every time I turn round you’ve grown another inch. You’ll need a longer bunk the way things are going.”

  “I don’t have any money. Well, not that much, and I want to get a gravestone for my family but I’ll pay you back as quick as I can.”

  He pulled Meg to a halt, resting his hands on the pommel. The mare stamped one hoof. “I don’t want paying. I want to do the right thing by you. Seems to me I was getting things wrong before, trying to be the boss and not seeing what really needed doing. The little things that make a difference.”

  “Like offering Tom and his sister a home? Old Mr Bishop wouldn’t have done that.”

  “No man goes hungry if I can help it. Even men like Jack Dalton. And certainly not a child. Cooper had the right of it though, and Buck, telling me to ease up and see beyond the cattle. They’re both more than capable of running the ranch from day to day. I just needed to prove myself.” The admission was hard to make, but there could be few secrets between him and the boy now.

  “That’s what Nathan Bishop said when he went to fight.”

  “He was a brave man.”

  “I don’t think I could have gone to fight, or do what you did – risk your life for George and Martha. I’m proud you let me come along with you. Even if you didn’t want me.”

  Archer shook his head. “Don’t put yourself down, son. Without you, I wouldn’t be here right now. Don’t ever forget that.’ He sat straight and held the reins. “Enough talking. I’d like to be on the other side of Dalton’s Gap and in the valley before evening. Let’s get moving.” A flick of the reins and they were off again but Duane’s words stayed with him all that day and well into the evening.

  ***

  Quiet, easy days riding back to the high ground. Archer didn’t rush, but neither did he allow the boy to be idle. Mornings and afternoons were spent travelling, evenings reserved for lessons: how to conceal a small cooking fire, making camp where they would not be found by the keenest searchers, foraging for food, trapping rabbits and skinning them. Small things he’d learned from his father and from his time as a teenager and that Duane had missed. Good times, the lad eager and quick, the lessons enjoyed by both.

  They swam in the river and lay in the midday sun to get dry, walked alongside the horses and talked ranching and fishing and families. Cleaned the rifle until the boy could do it alone. And then they were at the start of the old mule trail.

  He grinned at the boy. “Three nights, if the weather holds. Tonight I’ll teach you how to clean the Remington.”

  “And how to shoot?”

  “Later. You need to know the basics first; a weapon’s only as good as the man who looks after it. Even in the war, when things were hard, I made sure my guns were ready. I bet your father was the same.” He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering
. “Anyway, that’s tonight’s lesson once you’ve set camp and got those rabbits on the spit.”

  “Again?”

  “Best way to learn. You’ll thank me one day.” He could hear the boy grumbling, but it was more in jest than any serious complaint and in a couple of days, if there was chance, he’d find a suitable place and let the boy use the rifle.

  No one had been along the trail since they’d come down into the valley over a week ago, their tracks the only ones visible in the dirt. He thought of the journey ahead: the valley with its few trees, the miner’s camp with the small lean-to, the dead land and the cold nights and the dry air. And home, just a day’s ride once they were past the mule station on the other side.

  Mid-afternoon they came across the miner’s camp. Meg halted, shaking her head nervously and he could feel her trembling. The mouth of the tunnel was as he had left it, dark and gaping and hiding its secrets. Gold and death. Duane was waiting and Bran edgy and pawing at the ground. He dismounted and handed Meg’s reins across. “Stay here.”

  The length of rope he’d bought in Harville was still fastened to one of Bran’s packs, and he lifted it off and uncoiled it before easing one end through a gap above the stone lintel of the crude doorway. He tied it off in a sturdy loop around the stone and then went back to the mare, wrapping the other end around the pommel. “Take Bran and Rusty ahead. I don’t want them spooked.”

  Duane handed back the mare’s reins. “What’re you going to do?”

  He sighed. “What I should’ve done when we came this way. The mine’s dangerous and we’ve both seen what happens when greed gets hold of a man. Best thing’d be to bring down the tunnel itself, but this’ll have to do. It’s the only way.” He took hold of Meg’s halter. “Go on. We’re waiting.”

  The boy led off, not too far, but enough that the noise and resulting cloud of dust would not scare the horses, and then Archer urged the mare onward. The line became taut, the horse pulling against the tension, dropping her head to put her shoulders against the weight. A creak, the grating of stone against stone and then the lintel was falling to the ground and the whole structure was shivering and he pulled the rope from the pommel and hurried his horse away as, with a sigh of relief, walls and roof collapsed in a deafening clatter of falling stone.

  The settling dust revealed an untidy heap of rocks interspersed with splintered wood. But he had achieved his aim; the tunnel entrance was now hidden behind a pile of stone, and he tugged off his hat and said a few words of prayer for the unknown miner before getting back in the saddle to catch up with his companion.

  The weather held out for their journey. Cold nights under a cloudless sky, the stars brilliant, the moon waning. Hot days, the sun-baked rocks too hot to touch at times. Bran’s load grew lighter each day and he transferred some of Meg’s load onto the gelding’s back: his rifle and bedroll, canteen and poncho. He’d grown fond of the horse – a biddable animal with a brave heart and a willingness to work hard. The ranch could use a reliable packhorse; could use any good horse in fact. The war had stripped thousands of farmers of their riding stock and even though the ranch had a good herd of mustangs, any sensible rancher would be looking to breed for the future, not just round up wild horses and break them.

  Their last night on high ground. They’d reached the end of the mule trail but the sun was low and he had no intention of risking the horses on the steep slope in such poor light. Tomorrow would see them on the wagon trail and heading for Harville, but tonight he and the boy deserved a decent fire and hot food and he found tinder and a bundle of cordwood in Bran’s pack and laid the fire ready for later. And then there was nothing else to do but get the Spencer and take Duane away from the animals to somewhere he could try the weapon, properly this time.

  A rite of passage in some respects – a father teaching his son – but for the fact that most other teenagers of Duane’s age were already familiar with using a rifle. He took his time, nothing too difficult – the splintered stump of a dead tree fifty yards away. No pressure, no fuss. Making sure the stock was firm against his shoulder, the sights level and unwavering, the trigger easing back slowly. The shock and stink of black powder and the flare and the noise and a shared sense of pride when the bullet hit the stump. Not a great shot, but good enough to make the boy have another try.

  He let him shoot all seven rounds before they stopped. It would not be long before the boy needed one of his own. “Enough for today. I’ll make supper while you clean up, and then get some rest. I want to get to Harville by afternoon so it’ll be another early start.”

  “Can I carry the rifle tomorrow?”

  “You mean you want to have another go?” He pulled a pan from the pannier and set it on the ground. “Skillet eggs do you? With shaved cheese and camp bread? We can eat the last of the salt beef and finish all the firewood as well; less for Bran to carry tomorrow.”

  Full stomachs and a splash of whiskey in each coffee afterwards, crackling logs and sparks rising into the darkness, the animals resting and content. Easy talk about horses and steers and his plans for the ranch next year until the air turned chill and he made the lad turn in for the night. There was enough in the bottle for one last drink and he poured it into his mug and sat there, watching the flames and thinking about the last couple of weeks, the men he had killed and the way Duane had risen to the challenge of growing up faster than anyone might have wanted.

  The fire warmed his face. Even now there was a sense of guilt that he was not on the ranch making sure all was well. Wolves were moving into the west range where the new calves were grazing, the autumn steers needed bringing closer to the ranch, he had trees to plant in the orchard. Too much for one man to do alone. He found a length of wood and poked at the fire.

  The lad’s soft voice broke the silence. “My dad used to do that when we were on the trail – poke at the campfire when he was worried. I remember…” The words trailed into silence.

  “You should be asleep. Long day ahead.”

  “I was thinking.”

  “Too much thinking can be bad for you.” He snapped the stick in half and threw it into the fire. “So tell me. What’re you worrying about?”

  “I wasn’t. I was thinking about Elias Dalton.”

  He tipped the mug a little. There was a mouthful or so left in the bottom if the boy needed it. “Elias? Why’re you thinking about him?”

  The lad sat upright, shoulders hunched over. In the flickering light from the flames he looked younger, his sun-kissed skin pink and smooth, soft bristles hidden in the glow. “He didn’t care, did he? Not about his son. He’d have killed you even though it might’ve meant losing his only child. I don’t understand how anyone could do that.”

  “Don’t let it eat at you. Some folk are like that – callous and cold-hearted, thinking only of money and forgetting the important things in life. Think about your parents. They did the only thing they could; they gave you to someone else to save your life, knowing they might die. It takes real courage to do that. And they trusted the Carters to do right by you, even if they weren’t going to be there.”

  “I hate them. I always will.”

  The violence in the words was heart-breaking. “The Carters? I don’t blame you, but it’ll only hurt you in the long run. It’ll fester inside you like a sore until it ruins your whole life. And you don’t know what the situation was like for them. Maybe it was the wagon master made them leave you behind. Most likely they still hate themselves for what they did. You’ll never know.” He handed the mug over. “I hated a man once. Ate me from the inside like a sore in my gut. I spent months working out what I would do if I ever caught him. And then I realised I was wasting my life thinking about revenge when I should’ve been planning my future.”

  “Who was it?”

  The face still haunted him. “Man called Goddard. He was an officer and a drunk, and no one had the guts to do anything about it and when he ordered me to deliver a message I rode straight into a trap. He’d been t
oo drunk to check his own dispatches and I ended up a prisoner of war for three months.”

  “And what happened to him? Goddard?”

  Archer shrugged. “Deserted. No idea where he is now, and I don’t care as long as he’s not hurting anyone else, not like the Daltons. That wasn’t revenge. That was justice. They’d committed a crime and they had to pay for it, whereas Goddard was just…” He shrugged and found another stick to poke the flames. “I think he couldn’t face the war and his responsibilities and he turned to drink. Lots of men did. If I spent my life hating him, then there’d be no time for the important things like helping George and Martha.”

  “And teaching me to shoot a rifle?”

  “That as well.” He gestured to the mug. “Now finish that and go to sleep. We’re safe enough here so no need to stand watch; Meg’ll warn us if there’s any danger.”

  But even so he lay awake for some time, thinking about Goddard and the war and his time in the camp. It was only when the fire began to die he rolled himself in his blankets and closed his eyes.

  Chapter 20

  The trek downhill would have taken much longer had it not been for leaving much of Bran’s load behind. They emptied the water sacks, fed the last of the grain to the horses, discarded anything unnecessary. He let Meg take the lead and the packhorse followed, each step carefully placed. No stumbling this time or need for encouragement and he determined to purchase the animal once they were back in town. He liked the brown gelding, as did Meg, and it wouldn’t take much work to train it to the saddle – a good task for Duane to undertake.

  They stopped for a while at the bottom of the slope, both men hot and thirsty, the horses glad to be on level ground again and he took a drink from his canteen and handed it across to the boy. “When we get to the mule station I want you to take Bran and ride alongside me. Don’t stop, don’t look around. Whatever happens keep riding. Got that?”