River Song

by Sharon Ihle

  The thud of flesh against solid pine and Stormy's agonized moans, coupled with the sight of his rumpled body lying on the floor like a pile of discarded laundry, gave Cole the strength to harness his rage. He had to organize his thoughts, and make his plans.

  The seconds ticked by. Cole whipped into action when he decided what he must do first. Reaching down, he grabbed the back of Stormy's shirt and jerked him to his feet. "Get up. We're going for a ride."

  Wincing, disoriented, the ranch hand protested. "I cain't. You done hurt me so bad, I cain't even walk."

  Cole propelled the man backwards and propped him up against the wall. Then he drew his Colt .44. "You've got two choices. Pick one or I'll do it for you. You can ride into Phoenix with me, tell your story to the sheriff and take your medicine, or—" Pausing, Cole pulled back the hammer and pressed the gun barrel under Stormy's chin. "I'll be happy to put you on trial and carry out your sentence right here and now. Choose."

  Looking exceptionally boyish, more ridiculous than ever, Stormy's eyes crossed as he stared down the length of the barrel. "I'm feeling lots better now. I believe I can make the ride to town."

  Cole increased the pressure of the gun against his neck and added, "By the way, I've heard all I want to from that big stupid mouth of yours. One more word, here or on the trail, and—" Cole made a popping sound with his mouth. "I'll save myself a trip into town."

  Stormy opened his mouth, but quickly shut it. Then Cole jerked him forward and pushed him towards the door.

  Out in the yard, the other ranch hands milled around, pretending none had heard what went on inside the bunk-house. Calling them over, Cole singled out one of the men. "Go saddle a fresh horse for me—get the strongest one you can find—and bring Stormy's horse around, too."

  The man nodded and Cole turned to another hand. "Brownie, you go to the house. Tell Mrs. Fremont I'm taking Stormy to see the sheriff. When my father returns, make sure to tell him I'm on the trail of Buck's killer and I'm taking care of things. I'll wire him with my progress from Yuma. Understand?"

  "Yuma? Well, not exactly. I thought that injun we caught was the killer."

  "I'm not asking you to think, Brownie. We got the wrong man in jail. I can't explain any more than that right now. Do you know what to tell Nathan or not?"

  "I guess I understand what to do."

  "Good. And, there's one other thing. Tell Nellie not to worry, that I've got everything pretty well figured out. Tell her I'll be in touch as soon as possible."

  "Yes, sir."

  Cole thought of mentioning Buck's funeral, of excusing himself from the occasion, but found he couldn't even spit out his name. To think just minutes ago he'd felt sorry for Nell because she couldn't enjoy a physical relationship with the vile animal. It soured his stomach.

  Cole's spirits lifted when he realized how fortunate Nellie actually was. Just know that his sister had never been forced to endure the touch of a filthy pig named Buck Wheeler nearly gave him cause to smile.

  "Come on you piece of cow dung," Cole said almost cheerfully as he grabbed Stormy's arm. "I've got a long ride ahead of me."

  Days later, camouflaged by thick bushes and reeds, Sunny and Dust Bucket drank their fill of cool water near the junction of the Gila and Colorado rivers in Yuma. Fanning herself with a yellowed copy of Godey's Lady's Book she'd found along the roadside, she sighed. Only a few weeks into spring, and already tongues of heat from the desert sun absorbed every precious drop of moisture the earth had to offer. The air was thick with the cloying aroma of fresh alfalfa crops baking in the mid-afternoon sun, and alive with bugs and mosquitoes.

  Slap!

  Sunny lifted the magazine from her arm and plucked a bloated, but very dead mosquito from her skin. The insects had arrived early with the heat. It was going to be a bad year for crops. An even worse year for bugs. And so far, it wasn't looking too good for Sunny, either.

  What now?

  She looked up river, longing to continue her journey to the farm, but forced herself to turn away. She and Pop would have their hands full trying to figure out how to save her hide. It would be best to wait until nightfall to bring a stolen horse onto her father's property and announce her crimes, her guilt. The decision made, Sunny slipped off her tattered trousers and eased into the cool river for a much- needed bath.

  Several long hours later, exhausted, frightened, and dejected, Sunny trudged up a sandy path cut through the melon patches on the Callahan farm. Feeling her way in the darkness, she led Dust Bucket to a corner crop of feed corn and tethered the hungry animal on a nearby stake. Satisfied the tall stalks would hide as well as feed her ill-gotten mount, Sunny made her way to the only home she'd ever known.

  Light from her father's kerosene lamp flickered in the window, beckoned her to come inside and seek comfort in Patrick's burly, understanding arms. Careful not to startle him, she crept silently across the wooden porch, then stood in the open doorway, waiting to be discovered.

  Patrick sat at the family dining table. A large map was spread across the heavy pine like a tablecloth, and the graying Irishman studied it intently through spectacles held in place by his bulbous nose.

  Sunny sighed as she noticed his bushy grey brows knot together as he spotted something of obvious importance. Patrick gave the paper a furious half-turn, then pushed the blunt edge of his index finger along some winding trail or river.

  Another map leading to hidden gold, she surmised with a crooked grin. Knowing if that were the case, she could stand here all night and he would never notice her, Sunny kept her voice soft and low, and announced her arrival.

  "Pop? I have come home."

  Patrick whirled around in his chair. "Is that me girl I'm a hearin'? Me pretty yellow flower?"

  Working the kinks out of his stubby legs, Patrick pushed away from the table and drew himself to his full height just in time to catch his daughter as she flew into his arms.

  "Yes, Pop," she said against his stout shoulder. " 'Tis your Sunflower."

  Patrick gave her a great hug, then pushed her at arms length. "Let me have a look at ye, lassie."

  His robust grin and sparkling eyes dimmed as he took in her appearance. "Aye, and yer a sight for sore eyes, lass. Yer looking more like a refuge from a potato famine than me fine beautiful daughter. How could yer brother let ye skedaddle around the countryside looking like that?"

  "Pop, that is one of the things I must tell you about." Sunny took his calloused hand and tried to lead him back to his chair. "Let us sit down."

  But Patrick would have none of it. He jerked his hand free and limped to the door. "Where is my Sean boy? Ye out there, lad?"

  "Pop," Sunny sighed. "Sean is not here. He remained in Phoenix and did not return with me."

  Keeping his back to her, he quietly asked, "And do I want to know the reason why he'd let ye make such a journey without him, lass? Has Sean met with trouble?"

  "Oh, no, Pop, I don’t think so." Sunny hurried to his side. "I do not wish to fill your mind with more thoughts of grief. Sean was very happy and quite alive when I left him. He is healthy, my father."

  Patrick turned and regarded his daughter. Cocking his head to one side, his ice blue eyes clouded, grew distant. "Ye know, lass, I never realized how much ye sound like your dear mum. With me eyes closed, listening to your sweet voice is almost like havin' her here with me again."

  Sorrow choked her, but she held back her tears. The time for weeping would come soon enough. Swallowing hard, Sunny reached for her father's hand once again. "Come on, Pop. We have much to discuss."

  As quickly as he'd retreated to the past, Patrick returned to the present. "Not so fast, lass. If yer brother has decided to remain in Phoenix, who has been so kind to see to yer safe return home?"

  Avoiding the question, Sunny whirled around and made a great show of looking through the cupboards in the tiny kitchen. "Where do you hide the poteen these days?"

  As if locked in place, Patrick's girth filled the doorway. A scowl peeki
ng through a coarse gray beard, he said, "Ye'll not be tellin' me ye've returned the same way ye left—alone?"

  "Ah, here it is." Sunny looped her finger through the jug's crockery handle and took two glasses off the sideboard. Still feigning deafness, she marched to the table and began to pour the spirits.

  Finally distracted, her father approached the table.

  "Two glasses? What's this in me home?"

  "I thought we could both use a drink."

  "Then ye thought wrong, lass. 'Tis sin enough yer own father suffers from the curse of the Irish. I'll not be visitin' such a burden on me own young colleen."

  Sunny pushed one of the glasses across the table, then eased down into a chair and took the other in her hand. "I may have been no more than a little girl when I left Yuma, my father, but I have returned a woman. I have seen and learned much over the past weeks."

  She lifted her glass. "This is to the souls of our beloved Callahans who have gone on to their reward, and to the strength of those who remain behind."

  Mimicking a feat she'd seen her father perform many times before, Sunny tossed the liquid down in one gulp.

  At first she wasn't aware she'd swallowed anything other than warm water. Then a fireball exploded in her throat, shooting tendrils of liquid flame into her lungs and stomach. Sunny opened her mouth to draw in a breath, but even the oxygen seemed combustible, and ignited in a white hot flash in her throat.

  Her eyes slammed shut as a tremendous shudder rippled throughout her. Then, her smile wan, as counterfeit as her earlier deafness had been, Sunny straightened her shoulders and said, "Mighty fine poteen you stock, Mr. Callahan. I believe I shall have another."

  Patrick roared his laughter, then tossed his own drink down. Pulling out a chair, he straddled it and leveled one blue eye on his daughter.

  "All right, lass. Ye've made yer point. But have ye growed up enough to know ye've no blitherin' fool for a father?"

  Sunny poured another glass of poteen and nodded. "I never thought otherwise."

  "Then it's time yer atellin' yer pop everything." Patrick held out his glass. "And fill 'er up while yer at it—me mouth's as dry as an old miser's heart."

  Sunny replenished the drink, then leaned back in her chair and admitted, "I believe I am wanted for murder."

  At her father's gasp, she quickly explained. "I have caused the death of two men. One was an outlaw who left me no other choice."

  Sunny took a sip of poteen, and said, "The other exchanged his life for the murder of my mother."

  Patrick's mouth dropped open. Then he removed his spectacles and finished his drink. With a long sigh, he softly said, "Go on, lass. Start at the beginning."

  Slowly spinning her own glass of liquor around in her palm, she told her father about Cole, leaving out the most intimate details, then explained about the events leading to her confrontation with Buck Wheeler. When she finished, she slumped in her chair, bleary-eyed and exhausted.

  Patrick rubbed stained and weathered fingertips across his brow, then glanced up at Sunny. Releasing the breath he'd been holding, he asked, "Are ye certain this Buck was killed then, girl? Could it be ye've only hurt the black heart a wee bit?"

  Sunny laughed bitterly and took a sip. "I am afraid I hurt him a lot, Pop. He was deader than this jug of poteen last time I saw him."

  Patrick jiggled the bottle, but no splash of liquid tickled his ears. "Then yer mum and I thank the Lord ye've managed to rid us of this blight of a man."

  He rose and walked stiff-legged into the kitchen, observing as he looked through the cupboards, "The law may not think too kindly on yer generous deed, tho. There's somethin' about an Indian man or woman killing a white that just don't set well in these parts. We must prepare for what's to become of ye, lass."

  Patrick dug through the pots and pans until he found the last jug of Moonstar's homemade poteen. Carrying it back to the table, he popped the cork and filled Sunny's glass before he poured his own.

  Too late she protested, "No, thank you, Pop. The drink already lying in my belly has my head spinning and has given me a case of the walleyes. What I really need is some food."

  "Ah, and I've just the thing." With an awkward pirouette, Patrick waltzed back into the kitchen. "I'll just be warmin' some soup for ye, girl. That'll put you in fine mettle."

  "Do not take the time to warm it," she laughed feebly. "I am afraid I shall doze off before the flame reaches the pot."

  "Aye, and I kin see that." Patrick filled a bowl with tepid soup and made a great show of serving it. "Made by me own hands with me own crop of the finest potatoes this side of the Atlantic Ocean."

  Suddenly ravenous, Sunny forgot her manners and brought the bowl to her mouth. Sucking it down greedily, she only paused long enough to savor the few clumps of cabbage and onion tossed in among the chunks of potato, before setting the bowl on the table and pushing back in her chair.

  "That did it, Pop," she groaned. "I must be off to bed now while I can still walk."

  "Aye, and I'll be happy to give ye yer leave, but I must first inquire of me son's health. Why has Sean not returned with ye, girl?"

  Sunny laughed and stretched her arms over her head. More tired than she could ever remember being, she yawned and said, "Do not concern yourself with Sean, Pop. He could not be better or happier. He is helping a damsel in distress. We will hear from him soon."

  "First you, and now me son has lost his heart in Phoenix, as well? Humph. What d' ye suppose they put in the water in those parts?"

  Sunny managed a short laugh, then shrugged. "I cannot be sure if he has lost his heart. The only thing I am sure of right now is that I will soon fall out of this chair. I have hardly slept these past four days."

  "Four days, lass? How'd ye make the distance between here and Phoenix so fast?" Patrick shook his head and wagged a finger. "Ye must've run poor Paddy to the ground."

  "No," she yawned, barely finding the strength to get to her feet. "Paddy's just fine. I left him at the Triple F ranch."

  Sunny pushed in her chair and started for her bedroom.

  "But Sunflower, girl. How'd ye make the trip home?"

  "It was no problem, Pop," she said through another yawn. "I stole a fast horse. Goodnight."

  Open-mouthed, Patrick watched his daughter disappear into the other room. Reaching for his glass, he muttered, "Bad cess. 'Tis awful bad cess I feel a comin' our way."

  Late the following afternoon, Patrick returned to the farm, the buckboard filled with supplies. He fed and watered his mule, Flossie, then afforded Dust Bucket the same kindness. By the time he'd unloaded the last sack of flour and re-stocked his whiskey supply, the sun had dropped behind the mountains. Tip-toeing to the bedroom door, Patrick pushed it open a crack.

  Still his Sunflower slept.

  Pulling the door shut, Patrick went into the kitchen and began to prepare the leg of lamb he'd purchased to celebrate Sunny's return. He filled a kettle with water, onions, and the piece of meat and placed it on the wood-burning stove, but stopped short of lighting the fire.

  Cocking his head he listened, Was that the sound of a rider approaching?

  Moving quickly for a man with arthritic knees, Patrick went to the front door and scanned the yard. In the vague light of dusk, all appeared calm.

  No puffs of dust on the horizon announced a visitor. No startled crows shrieked and exploded from the corn fields where they fed.

  Shrugging, the Irishman returned to the stove and struck a match on the heel of his boot.

  "Evening."

  Patrick wheeled on one leg, nearly falling, and gasped, "Wirra! And who'd be scarin' me half outta my wits?"

  "Sorry, I didn't mean to alarm you, but I'm a stranger to these parts. I didn't want to walk into the barrel of a shotgun."

  "Kindly state yer business, sir."

  "I'm looking for the Callahan farm. Have I found it?"

  Patrick stood rock still, the match burning in his left hand, and stared at the tall blond man in the black
felt hat. Everything about him exuded confidence, an understated sense of wealth. Could this be the man his Sunflower spoke of? Was he here to help her or arrest her?

  The flame inched its way down the wooden match until it met Patrick's toughened flesh.

  "Faith and begorra." He flipped the match to the floor and stuck his fingers in his mouth, but managed to keep one eye on the stranger.

  With a chuckle, Cole stepped into the room and removed his hat. "I'd say I found the Callahan farm. I'm Cole Fremont from Phoenix. A friend of Sunflower's."

  Patrick narrowed a wary eye as he followed the progress of Cole's extended hand. He decided to accept the greeting. "Pleased to make yer acquaintance, sir. I am Patrick Callahan. What's yer business here?"

  Cole glanced around the small house, then gestured towards the table. "May I?"

  "Uh, I suppose there's no harm."

  One side of his mustache lifting in a grin, Cole walked over to the table and tossed his hat down. Grabbing the back of a chair, he used it for support as he continued to look around. "I'd like to speak to Sunny."

  "Uh, she's not here, I'm 'fraid."

  "No?"

  Making another visual sweep of the wood and sod home, Cole noticed the woman's touch, the flowered curtains and boldly colored Indian rugs hanging on the walls. The room was small by any standards, but every square inch of space had been utilized to the maximum. Two chairs circled the dining table, but three others hung upside down on the wall behind, their legs serving as temporary hat racks.

  An extra-wide sofa, its wooden frame built right against the wall, looked as if it had doubled as a bed for one or both Callahan boys when it wasn't supporting visitors, and the curtained closets were carefully shelved to serve as pantries during the winter months. Neat, compact, efficient. With no visible sign of Sunflower.

  Cole glanced at Patrick, then to the back wall and its two doors. One was ajar, revealing the corner of a mussed bed. Patrick's? The other was shut tight.

  Inclining his head in the direction of the latter, Cole said, "Is that Sunny's room?"