Archer's Return

by Leona Grace

  Duane wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before fastening the canteen on Bran’s pack. “Sure. Any reason?”

  Archer stared into the distance. The lumberjacks in the station would be getting ready to move out. Fresh mules being harnessed, men busy in the corrals. “Just do as I say. That’s all. And…” He pulled the rifle out and handed it across. “I want you to carry this across your lap. Look as if you know how to use it.”

  “Why?” The boy reached for the rifle and stared at it. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No questions. Trust me. Just think of yourself as one of those Texas Rangers you like reading about, sitting tall in the saddle and able to shoot a dime off a man’s hat. You know what I mean.” He grinned at the boy. “And don’t say anything when we get there. If anyone asks questions, you leave the talking to me. Got that?”

  A nod, the rifle held in a tight grip.

  “Good. Now, let’s get moving.”

  ***

  The wind pump creaked as they approached. He handed Bran’s rope over to the boy and ushered him alongside, glancing at the rifle to make sure it was held firm. A brief nod of approval, a quick word of encouragement – ‘ride tall’ – and they were close by the first of the corrals, his hands holding Meg to a stiff trot as if she knew they were watching. And they were – a handful of men standing by the water troughs, as dishevelled as they had been the first time he came through. He could feel Duane hesitate and he dared a look of encouragement. “Steady.” The words directed at the horse but meant for his companion.

  Mules clustered together in the corrals, waiting for fodder and he wondered if the ones he had freed were still loose. Horses waited beside another fence, a couple of nice-looking buckskins, a big-boned chestnut, a handful of nondescript animals in need of grooming, a shaggy pinto facing the other way.

  Duane had straightened in the saddle, sitting taller, his face stern. A good actor. He held Meg tight, aware of the tension in her muscles, a shake of her head, a grunt of annoyance at being held back. They rode in front of the supply store where more men had gathered, a good half-dozen this time. He pushed the edge of his coat back, fingers resting for a second on the handle of his Remington. A nod of acknowledgement before he focussed ahead once more.

  A small boy ran into the stables, a mule brayed miserably, a door slammed. A muttered curse from one of the watchers – loud enough to be heard by both riders. They would be fools to try anything, but even so he shifted in the saddle, dropping his hand again. A glimpse of someone in the background, eyes shaded by the brim of his hat, nose and mouth concealed behind a dark bandana as if he was reluctant to be seen, before the man – whoever he was – moved aside to be hidden behind others.

  His sense of disquiet increased, but he put it down to his own wariness. This was a grim and dangerous place and he gripped Meg’s reins even tighter as the mare responded to his unease by tossing her head. Then they were past the supply store and the bunk house and heading away, the creak fading into the distance and he allowed himself one backwards look to check. The trail was empty, the men back in the bar or the stable or wherever they had been congregating before he and the boy rode through.

  He took the rifle, slipping it into its sheath with a practised hand before flicking his coat back into place. “We’ll stop for water on the other side of the pass.”

  “You aren’t going to tell me what that was about?”

  Tell him about two bodies lying hidden in the woods further back? Of men willing to murder for whatever they could find? “One day, maybe.”

  Maybe not. There were some things Duane didn’t ever need to know. He pushed Meg into a slow canter, the mare glad to stretch her legs again and the packhorse – freed from his burden – tossed his head and ran, keeping pace alongside. He heard Rusty come behind, and then overtake, Duane urging his horse onwards in a flurry of legs and flying mane and tail. On any other day Archer would have accepted the challenge, but he had Bran to consider and he let the sorrel race on in a cloud of dust that left him coughing.

  His sense of unease had not lessened and when they came to the narrow pass he made the boy ride behind with Bran. Rifle at the ready he led the way, all the while his eyes flickering from side to side, watching the places where a man might hide, or lay in wait to ambush any unwary rider. Hooves clattering on rock, wide tracks in the dust marking the passage of wagons, the air rippling with heat.

  The walls opened out, the pass left behind them and he relaxed, easing his grip and leaning forward to tug at Meg’s ear. No one had reason to suspect him or the boy in the disappearance of the men from the station. Chances were no one had even missed them that much; workers came and went; there one day and gone the next, looking for better pay or chasing a dream of finding gold.

  Ahead on the trail a cloud rose – an approaching wagon train with all its dirt and noise and disruption – and he turned to the boy. “We’ll stop here while the dust settles.” It was time for a break anyway, and he dismounted and led the way into the cool shelter of the trees until they found a clearing with enough grazing to keep the horses busy. The rumble of wheels and crack of whips, men cursing and mules calling. He sat on the ground and drank water. Duane lay back on the soft green grass and closed his eyes. The sounds grew louder, intrusive and unpleasant before beginning to fade. A single horseman rode by, heading towards Harville. When the sounds from the wagons had faded to a distant rumble he pushed himself to his feet, ready to face the hot trail and dry dust.

  ***

  They were an hour from Harville when it happened – no sound or warning, just the mare’s scream before she threw back her head and reared. Quick reaction saved both of them, Archer slipping his feet from the stirrups and jumping away to land, crouched on the ground as she flung herself up on hind feet. Only a miracle and his grip on the reins stopped her going over backwards, but even so she went down in a tumble of thrashing legs before shuddering to her feet again, shivering and distressed.

  A quick glance showed no obvious breaks, but it was with real trepidation that he ran his hand down forelegs and hind, seeing scrapes and blood where she had grazed her skin but his searching fingers found no distortion in the bones and he pressed his head against her neck for a moment unwilling to let the boy see his face.

  “Is she…?”

  “Nothing broken as far as I can tell.” He dragged one hand across his face. “I could be wrong, but I don’t think so.” He took hold of the bridle to examine the mare’s face and she nudged him with her nose. “She’s cut herself, here.” A gouge on her cheek just below the eye, blood soaking into black hair. “A couple of inches higher…” His turn to shudder now. “Let’s find somewhere away from here while I see to her.”

  By the time he’d got her under the trees and somewhere quiet, Duane was searching out tinder for a fire and had water and a cloth ready. Meg’s cheek glistened crimson and he dabbed at the wound looking for grit or a stone, anything trapped in the skin.

  Duane hovered, anxious and unsure. “How did she do that?”

  “No idea. She didn’t hit her head when she fell, I know that much. Something else scared her.”

  “Maybe she caught herself on a branch but I don’t remember seeing anything.”

  The wound was clean – no sign of an insect’s sting and nothing trapped under the skin. He could do little other than leave it to heal while he unsaddled her for a more thorough check. Deep scrapes on flank and rump, the leathers smeared with blood. She shivered under his touch, her head lowered in misery, one foot scraping the ground. “We’ll stay here a while. Is there anything left to eat?”

  Duane scrabbled through Bran’s packs. “I’ll find something. What are you going to do?”

  “Check the trail. Something startled her – I want to know what.”

  A stealthy walk back, the trees sheltering him from the track. He waited, listening for any unfamiliar sounds, but there was nothing other than the rustle of small creatures and the occasional call of
birds. Even so he was wary. Something had injured the mare, and neither bullet nor arrow, though he could not think of anything else that might have caused such a wound. Her fall had disturbed the dust and grit, the grasses at the edge torn by flailing hooves. He bent over, searching, scuffing away jagged red rocks and fallen leaves.

  And there – a single grey pebble not much bigger than his thumb, water-washed and heavy and smooth apart from one sharpened edge; an interloper in this landscape of rough red rock. He picked it up. A small thing, but lethal in the right hands and he looked around, Cooper’s words coming back to him in a juddering moment of realisation – Mason carried a sling and was proficient in its use. The possibilities raced through his mind: the man at the mule station with his face concealed, the pinto in the corral, the single rider heading for Harville.

  Mason had been at the mule station – either by chance or having found out that he gone this way and would come back along the trail – and had overtaken them. He cursed his foolishness, even as he ran for cover under the trees. He was trapped here, with an injured horse and, more importantly, an innocent boy and, from what little he knew of Mason, the man would delight in hurting anyone close to Archer. It would be dusk in a couple of hours – enough time to get the boy back on the trail and heading for the safety of Harville, alone. And then he would search out the man and make an end of it.

  Branches cracked as he pushed them aside, heedless of the noise he was making. If Mason heard, so much the better. He hardened his heart, pushed thoughts of the boy’s kindness aside. Kindness would kill if he let it. But it was a cruel thing to do.

  Duane gave him a questioning look. “Did you find anything?”

  Meg’s saddle was lying on the ground and he carried it over to the packhorse, putting it on the broad back of the gelding. “No.”

  “So what are we going to do now?”

  “We?” He bent to fasten the saddle in place, found his canteen and rifle and put them aside for later. “This is where we part company. I’m staying here with Meg and your job is to ride on to Harville with Bran. Get him back to the livery then make your own way back to the ranch. There’s your bed roll if you need it, and here…” He handed over a few coins. “Enough for a meal. Don’t waste it.”

  “You can’t –”

  “Can’t what? For once in your life, you’re going to listen to me.” He let the sound carry. “I let you tag along on condition you followed orders. Don’t tell me what I can’t do.”

  The boy went pale. “I didn’t think –”

  “That’s your trouble, isn’t it. You don’t think.” Words sharp as vinegar, but he would do whatever it took to get the boy away from Mason. Explanations could wait. He handed over the sorrel’s reins and added Bran’s lead rope. A final word. “I’ll be glad of some peace and quiet. Now get.”

  The boy was silent. A crushing, painful silence of unshed tears and humiliation. He could not part like this, letting this youngster believe it had all been for nothing and he reached out a hand, his words soft enough that anyone close by would not overhear. “Whatever happens, don’t stop for anything. You made a promise to do as I said, so keep that promise now, hear me? Just trust me.”

  Frightened eyes stared into his, a single nod of the head before the lad shuffled away, leading the horses away to the trail. Meg nudged his shoulder and he turned to reassure her, fist clenched in regret. The rifle was lying on the ground and he left it there while he checked revolver and knife. No point in doing anything yet.

  With any luck Mason would be watching the boy ride away before turning his attention to Archer. Even so he waited, listening for any untoward sound: a cry of pain, a gunshot, a horse screaming. Nothing other than the regular thud of hooves on tight-packed earth. And then – silence. The boy should be safe now, unless Mason wanted to risk Archer escaping, for it was Archer he would be seeking, no one else.

  A long wait, his hand on the mare’s neck bidding her be quiet, listening for footsteps or twigs breaking, for the click of a rifle or clack of stone. Mason would be making his way closer, edging through the undergrowth or searching for a lookout point where he would be able to pick Archer off at leisure. Going back to the trail would be like signing his own execution paper and he stepped away from the horse and bent to scrape up a handful of earth and rub his face with the thin soil. The duster coat, scarred by fire and shabbier than ever, was too long for silent work and he slipped his arms out of the sleeves and hung it on a branch, grateful for the dark cotton of his shirt.

  His hat next – hung above the coat in the hope of confusing the man. Each movement slow and precise, nothing that might attract attention, or disturb the silence. Meg grazed, each clump of grass taking her further away from him until she was little more than a distant movement in the sunlight unhampered by saddle or bridle. He slid the rifle from its sheath, a familiar weight in his hands, smooth wood and cold steel and he stood against the rough trunk of the tree, a vague shape in the shadows, his eyes flickering everywhere, alert for the slightest change in the shadows or the faintest rustle of cloth or a bird’s call of alarm.

  Nothing. But he had not survived the war by being impatient and he waited, a half-hour, an hour, even longer, standing unseen in dappled shadow. The air was still and thick with the scent of pine, sweat itched in the rough bristles on his jaw and throat. He’d planned to take the boy to the barber shop in Harville and treat him to a proper shave and a haircut before they journeyed home – his first one by all accounts. If he had done as told, Duane would have settled the horses in the livery by now and be finding something to eat. His stomach growled and he clenched his belly to suppress the pangs of hunger and tightened his grip on the rifle.

  The sun moved behind the hills, darker shadows spreading across the land. Still a couple of hours until dusk and another hour after that before true night would make it safe to venture away from the scant safety of his position. His back ached and he shifted his feet – one heel raised for a moment before he put it down and lifted the other, a slow roll of his shoulders. He dared nothing else. Mason was waiting for him to make a mistake – he could almost taste the man’s presence on his tongue. It had been a blunder to let him go but… Archer shook his head. It was too late for regrets, all he had to do was hold out until the hunter either made a mistake or gave up.

  The shadows deepened, birds gathered to roost and he made his move. An elegant dance through the darkness: each breath controlled, each step slow and steady, sliding unseen between the pine trees – a wraith half-hidden in the gathering gloom, soundless feet leaving no footprints. A hundred yards and he paused.

  A twig cracked somewhere in the distance and he moved on, searching for a place where he might hide – a fallen tree or a hollow in the ground, anywhere he could lie in wait until Mason had passed him and it would be safe to leave. But there was nowhere: the trees spaced out, the undergrowth too scrubby to conceal a man, the thin soil covered with a layer of pine needles. And so he continued, pausing every few yards to listen before moving on, aware of the man nearby now: a deliberate footstep, the click of a rifle, a faint laugh as if Mason was enjoying himself.

  The man was good. More than good – he was better than any scout Archer had worked with. Better than Archer himself. He edged his way round the huge bole of an ancient Ponderosa pine and leaned back against it, listening for the next sound from Mason. A nearby creek – a mere runnel of water – trickled down the hillside a few yards away, reminding him of his thirst and it was only when the blade touched his neck and a voice whispered in his ear, he realised just how badly he’d underestimated his opponent. The blow against the side of his head was enough to make him stagger, a foot swept his legs from under him and he fell to the ground, pine needles and dirt on his lips and face, too dazed for anything but the feeblest of struggles before a second blow landed on the side of his head.

  ***

  “Awake?” Mason’s voice close to his ear, whiskey-laden breath on his face. His head ached but he’
d been gagged – a length of thick cloth tied round his jaw forcing his mouth open. A cautious exploration revealed his hands bound together with rope and his feet bare and also tied and he opened his eyes in time to see Mason stand before a boot crashed into his ribs and he rolled in a hopeless attempt to avoid the worst of the beating. The boot landed again and again, sparing no part of his body and by the time it ended he had to fight for each breath, his chest burning, legs aching, his gut a mass of pain.

  Mason bent down, grabbing his hands to haul him back against the trunk of the tall Ponderosa, dazed and breathless, bloody and bruised, but still alive which was the greater surprise. His rifle and revolver and knife were missing, as was his bandana.

  “Not so tough now, are you?” A gobbet of spittle landed on his cheek. “I went asking for work at the mule station and one of the men mentioned a soldier who’d gone through a couple of days before. When they described him, I realised it could only be you and I reckoned if I stayed there a while, you’d have to come back the same way. Only road to Harville, see.”

  The gag prevented him spitting his contempt, any words stoppered in his mouth. He could only lie there, mute and dazed as Mason took a length of rope and threw it over a thick branch. It was when he looped it under the rope tying Archer’s wrists together before hauling his prisoner to his feet, that his intention became clear. He was going to leave Archer here.

  The rope tightened, his arms stretching upwards, fingers curled round the hemp. Not an unbearable stance, his feet – bare and scraped as they were – remained on the ground and the rope was loose enough that he could flex arms and knees a little, but in this position it would be impossible to remove the gag. And Mason was not done with him, tying another cloth – Archer’s own bandana – round his eyes, leaving him deprived of both speech and sight.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow. Sleep well.”