Archer's Return

by Leona Grace

  Footsteps faded, leaving him helpless and silenced and lunging forward in desperation and rage until his feet slid from under him and he hung there, arms straining, wrists and shoulders burning with the weight of his body.

  It took every ounce of his strength to get to his feet again and he leaned back against the rough trunk of the pine tree – his only respite now – and listened, but there was only the faint splash of water and the rustle of leaves in the undergrowth, the groaning of the tree above him, his aching hands and head, the bark against his back, the rough ground beneath his feet. Not even able to lick the sweat beading on his upper lip. Darkness and thirst his only companion until Mason returned. If he returned. And the thought occurred to him that, despite all his previous optimism, this time he might not make it back home.

  Chapter 21

  Night fell, the change marked by the chill creeping through the air. He found himself praying for rain, for an easing of the ache in his shoulders, even for the return of Mason. The blindfold made him powerless, his other senses fighting for what his eyes could not see. He was well accustomed to hiding from the enemy and holding himself motionless for hours on end but this was different. No warmth or comfort, no promise of a hot meal or a good bed once this night was over. It was hard to swallow, the gag leeching moisture from his mouth, his tongue dry, every bone aching.

  A few minutes careful shuffling cleared the loose stones from beneath his feet, but twisting to rub his cheek against the bark in an effort to loosen the gag only resulted in more scrapes and a trickle of blood. A tiny respite as warm liquid touched his lips, but the relief was over as soon as it had begun. It was pointless fighting against his restraints – he could only close his mind to the pain and the thirst and the thought of standing here, helpless and without water until death claimed him. He would not give in. He had survived the Daltons’ attempts to kill him and he’d survive this, somehow.

  He counted off the minutes and hours, all the while listening for any sound of Mason even as he fought the thirst and the ache in his shoulders and the unquenchable fear of what the new day would bring. The sounds of the night were little comfort. Each cry from the owls above or the rustle of small creatures in the scant undergrowth made him imagine the man standing nearby and watching him.

  Morning; the merest hint of light creeping under the thick cotton of his bandana. He had never been so relieved and yet so afraid. Daylight meant Mason’s return and by now he was desperate for water. Another day standing here would be beyond endurance, the heat already rising, his tongue thick and filling his mouth. Even the prison camp had not been as cruel as to deprive a man of water.

  Footsteps sounded behind him and he had no chance to prepare himself before a hand gripped his throat. Not a gentle hand either, fingers tight on his windpipe, rough nails scratching loose skin.

  “Still here?” Mason sounded amused. “I came to see if you wanted a drink. Just ask and I let you have as much as you want.” A long pause. The slosh of liquid in a leather sack.

  A vicious cruelty. Even without the gag he would be hard-pressed to say anything, his lips dry, his tongue held hostage.

  “No?” The fingers loosened their grip. A tap on his cheek. “Enjoy the view, Archer. I’ll be back sometime. Might have a nice surprise for you tomorrow.”

  The voice chilled him and he leaned forward, yanking at the ropes, tearing at the rough hemp with numb fingers, every last ounce of strength in a desperate and sightless lunge at the man standing nearby. What would have been a roar of anguish was little more than a deep groan, and only served to make Mason laugh, the sound fading as the man walked away.

  ***

  Heat on his face and head, hands tingling. The tang of pine overwhelmed by the stink of sweat and piss, flies crawling over crusted blood on cheek and skull and lips, into ears and nose and the dryness of his mouth. The tearing pain of exhausted muscles, the sting of insects biting, the burn of rope on wrists as he tried again and again to free himself. No sense to his actions, only raw desperation. He’d stopped counting the seconds when Mason had walked away and he had no idea how many hours had passed as he tore at the rope and screamed soundlessly into the silence of the woods until he hung, exhausted and feverish. Now he thought only of his next breath.

  The sounds around him blurred into a dull roar, his head drooping, legs shaking like an old man. The blindfold had eased as he fought the restraints, just enough for him to make out the shadows lengthening across the earth and the gradual dimming of the light. It would soon be dusk. There would be no release now, not until Mason got his revenge.

  The thought terrified him, and he made one last attempt to free himself, his shouts little more than incomprehensible grunts. His feet swung out, leaving him hanging, but he carried on, heedless of the burn of rope round his wrists, rough bark scraping his back as he swung, again and again until he was beyond exhaustion and hope. He would die here alone.

  Dusk. Colours faded, birds fell silent, the air turned cool again, an infinitesimal noise – a leaf falling to the ground or perhaps a small creature stirring – and then nothing other than the taunting trickle of water. The world beyond his blindfold vanished, leaving him the only person alive. Nothing else had changed: rope burning his wrists, shoulders creaking with the strain, the insects gathering to feast in the last of the daylight.

  The hours crawled by, marked only by the sound of predators and his thirst. A raging, burning thirst, his tongue sticking to the thick cloth, lips cracking, his throat so dry it was hard to swallow or breathe or even think. Even the sound of birds waking to the dawn brought no relief. He would not last much longer. The thought no longer scared him – his death was unavoidable but at least Faith would not know its manner. He would have smiled, had the gag not been so tight. He’d kept his promise to Nathan Bishop and she had never known the truth about her husband. And she would never know this either; the only small comfort.

  Muscles cramped until he wanted to scream, insects crawled on his eyelids, his legs no longer supported his weight, his head too heavy, his whole body a mass of pain and then he heard something coming through the trees towards him. A large animal brushing through the undergrowth, paws dragging on the earth. He held his breath, waiting for the creature to smell his presence, aware of it stopping some yards away, something – claws perhaps – rasping on wood and thudding on the earth and then…

  “Had enough Archer?” Mason’s voice was just in front of him and he had no time to react before a fist punched him in his gut, his breath exploding outwards, leaving him winded and fighting to take the next lungful. It seemed an eternity before his body responded, drawing in a huge gasp and another until he was hanging there, too dazed and exhausted to care any more what his tormentor did, as long as it ended.

  “Thought I’d come and see how you’re doing. It puts a different perspective on things, doesn’t it, being at the mercy of someone else. Hoping they’ll make a mistake and you can get away. You won’t, you know. I’m going to enjoy watching you die.” A coarse laugh. “Might take a while but no matter, I’m not in any hurry.” Fingernails scratched at the edge of his blindfold. The smell of stale tobacco and whiskey and smoke overpowering even his own rank odour. “Maybe I’ll take this off for a while, let you see who’s here.”

  Probing fingers pulled the blindfold away. Sunlight blazed in his eyes and he blinked, and blinked again, his vision blurred and painful until he could make out the clearing in which he was standing, the trees – tall and dark and ominous – all around him, a few scrubby bushes growing in the light and someone on the other side of the open space.

  He’d seen men die from lack of water, delirious and disorientated, their minds wandering and their bodies too weak to carry on. Even now he was aware of a growing confusion in his thoughts, the erratic beat of his heart, the pounding headache.

  And now he was beginning to see things; terrible things from his worst nightmares. Things that no sane man would ever want to see. And his eyes cleared. I
t was not his imagination. He could see Duane on the other side of the stream: gagged and bound and strung from a tree in the same way, the boy’s eyes wide with terror and his whole body shaking.

  A roar of anger and rage and despair forced its way though Archer’s gag and, heedless of the rope and the pain in his shoulders, he flung himself forward in a futile effort to get free. It was hopeless, his feet sliding from under him, leaving him hanging from his wrists so that for a moment he thought his arms would rip themselves from his shoulders. The boy was watching, tearing at his own bindings, lashing out with his feet, but the ropes were too strong.

  Archer turned to Mason, trying to plead with the man, anything other than let the boy die here but the smirk on the man’s face was enough.

  “Think on it, Archer, while you wait to die. Your boy standing a few yards away, watching you suffer and knowing he’s going to end the same way. But, who knows, maybe the wolves will find you before the end.”

  The blindfold covered his eyes once more and then Mason hit him, an open-handed slap on the side of his head, strong enough to leave him dizzy and deafened, his jaw aching and bile rising from his stomach. A desperate minute while he fought the nausea, and by the time he had regained some small control, he could no longer smell Mason, or hear his harsh breathing or the creak of earth beneath the man’s boots and all he could do was stand there. The thought of Duane suffering the same fate was more than he could endure. And there would be no blindfold for the boy, just Archer’s body slowly decaying.

  He had failed everyone he had known and cared about: Faith and Duane, his parents and his brother, the men back at the ranch. He’d even failed Tom Walker and his sister by letting Mason escape. Perhaps the killer would seek them out again and take his revenge on the youth and Red Moon. The thought sickened him. His thirst paled into insignificance beside the knowledge that Faith would wait for him to return, and wait and wait…

  She would never know what happened or why he abandoned her. He would never plant the cherry trees, or buy her that length of material, or take her away for their honeymoon. Would never again lie next to her in bed and feel her warm skin alongside his own, the touch of her fingers, her lips.

  His feverish mind recalled the moment Leroy Dalton set out to kill him with the branding iron. The white-hot metal blindingly bright as it came closer to his face, the utter relief when James Lancey’s rifle killed the last of the Dalton brothers. It had seemed a miracle at the time, but now he thought different. Had he died at the hands of the Daltons – however painful and slow a death – none of this would have happened.

  He could hear the boy’s desperate attempts to free himself, the groans and muted cries that were all the gag would allow, and he found the strength to stand upright, to straighten his back and lift his head and stare, unseeing yet steadfast, at the boy who had become his friend, his brother. He would not let the boy see his own fear or weakness. There was always hope, even when things were hopeless.

  The boy carried on struggling, the noises harsher and more desperate but still Archer held himself straight, his face as calm as he could make it, his hands relaxed, feet steady on the earth. A last message to the lad. Courage. It was all he could do. And gradually the sounds faded until he could see, in his mind’s eye, a young man standing there, tall and straight and brave, and he nodded his head in slow salute even as his heart broke.

  The air was hot and still and silent apart from the creak of the branch above as he let it take his weight. No sound came from across the clearing, but Duane had been standing there little more than an hour, not long enough for young limbs to weaken and turn traitor, or thirst to drive him mad with need. It was creeping closer: the gradual descent into nothing but pain and delirium, the last vestiges of his strength fleeing, the loss of consciousness that would leave the boy utterly alone. And it was all due to his own foolish pride. Had he left Meg and taken Bran instead, had he ridden for Harville with the boy as soon as he realised Mason was waiting, neither of them would be here.

  He let his head hang, sweat dry on his throat, head throbbing. If only it would rain.

  Then the silence was shattered. The crack of a single gunshot, close enough to startle him awake. Other sounds: branches being thrust aside, the clatter of pigeons scattering as someone – or something – headed towards the tree, twigs snapping beneath feet then... stillness. He hung there, desperate to know what was happening, hearing Duane’s voice, quiet and breathy and pleading, close to tears and he could do nothing. Whoever it was on the other side of the clearing, they had removed the boy’s gag and had either untied him or…

  Cold fingers touched the side of his face and he flung his head back, away from whoever it was, whatever they were going to do to him. The fingers retreated and he gulped air, unable to do anything more than remain standing. Those fingers were now exploring the blindfold, working at the knot, easing the thick material loose until all was brightness and blinking and stinging tears.

  “Archer? It’s Tom Walker. Remember me?” The blurred shape of someone standing in front of him. Pale hair, a familiar face. “I’ll get you free.” The gag next, the knot harder to undo this time, the material sticking to his lips and tearing at the skin.

  His jaw ached. And then Walker reached up to untie the rope and free him and he shook his head, the word he needed to say little more than unintelligible slurs. “D…” He tried again. “D...”

  “Duane?”

  He nodded.

  “He’s alright, just shaken, that’s all.” Fingers struggled with the knots. “These are too tight. I’ll have to cut the rope.”

  A final desperate effort to make himself understood. “M...” He pulled his arms away from Walker’s reach, shaking his head in fear. If his enemy returned and saw Walker here, then there would be no hope. There would be no end to this until Mason was dead.

  A look of understanding. “Mason? He’s dead.”

  A laboured twist of his head, squinting to see anything beyond the tree to which he was tied, but there was no sign of a corpse. He waited as Walker pulled out a knife to saw through the thick cord above his hands. A moment of pure agony as his arms were released. His legs gave way, collapsing him in a tumble of screaming limbs and muscles and he could only lie there, the coolness of earth against his cheek, the smell of clean dirt and pine and sunshine.

  Blood trickled into his mouth from where he had bitten his tongue. He tried to move his head but he was too feeble and every part of him hurt. Duane was close by, sitting on the ground and shivering, rubbing his wrists where the rope had held him, his face bruised and scraped but otherwise unhurt. It was impossible to speak.

  Walker sat him against the tree and cut through the rest of his bonds: wrists and ankles, blood surging through swollen fingers in a throbbing rush, the feeling returning to his hands and feet in a painful tingle that held the threat of greater torment.

  “Keep still. I’ve got water here.”

  The squeak of a cork, an arm behind his shoulders easing him closer to the open mouth of a canteen, Walker’s voice quiet and concerned. “Just a sip, don’t try to take too much at once.” The first taste, scant moisture soaking into the parched tissues of lips and tongue and cheeks. Nothing left to swallow and he leaned forward, desperate for more.

  The second mouthful tasted even better, a trickle making its way to the back of his throat this time. Each sip more exquisite than the smoothest whiskey, each mouthful loosening his tongue until he could lick cracked lips and try to make himself understood. “How…?”

  “How did I find you? I’ve been trailing Mason ever since I heard he’d got away from you.” A shake of the head. “Not your fault. He’s more cunning than a wolf. I tracked him to Harville but it took me a while to learn he was hiding in the mule station, waiting for you. I’ve been camping in the woods hoping to catch him when he came back to town but without any luck. Then two evenings ago I met Duane on his way to Harville. He told me what happened and we camped out for the night
before coming back to look for you. He couldn’t remember exactly where he’d left you but we found your mare a mile or so away and I left Duane with her and the horses while I set out to search.” He shook his head. “It was almost impossible.”

  He tried to speak. Duane came closer, hunkering beside him, eyes bright with concern and he would have touched the lad’s shoulder, but his limbs refused to move. Walker gave him another drink, enough for him to be able to whisper: “Sorry.”

  “I thought…” Duane rubbed at his eyes. “I was asleep. Never heard him coming. He was just there and I couldn’t do anything. I should’ve…”

  Archer shook his head. “Alive. All that matters.” His hands attempted to grip the canteen but his fingers were too swollen.

  Walker held it out again, holding it to his lips with an unexpected gentleness. “That was my fault; I never thought he’d be looking for Duane. When I couldn’t find you I knew something was wrong so I went back to where I’d left him.” Another tip of the flask, a longer drink this time. “When I saw he’d gone, all I could do was hope Mason reappeared so I could follow him. He was good at hiding his tracks; I was beginning to lose hope and then I heard him.”

  “He wanted both of us.” His mouth hurt, the cracks bleeding, his tongue more painful with every passing minute, but he was alive and the boy was safe and the discomfort would ease. Nothing else mattered.

  “He won’t hurt anyone now.” Walker glanced away. “I put aside one of the bullets you gave me just for him. I promised my sister.”

  Each word was an effort, the tingling in his fingers fiery hot and unbearable. “Red Moon?”

  “I took her to the ranch and left her with your wife. She was safer there and I told her I’d be back in a few days.” Walker shook his head. “I hope she’s not worrying.”

  A hard responsibility for a young man, having to look after a young girl, especially after the horror of losing her family and the tribe. “You saw Faith?” It was getting easier to swallow, his tongue softer, his mouth holding moisture, but his thirst was unending and he reached for the canteen, managing to take hold of it in clumsy, numb fingers and holding it to his mouth to take the last precious drops.