Prairie Song

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  His sister’s death had started it all. Just thinking about Charlotte had Cole wanting to kick something. Damn, she’d always had a tough life, beginning with their mother dying when she was fourteen and he was seven. After that, Charlotte had been the only real mother he’d ever known. Joey was seven years old, the same age Cole had been when he’d lost his mother. And then, also like Joey and Willy and Lydia had, Cole had lost his father. Suddenly the similarities were too much. And overwhelmed Cole. What he and Charlotte had suffered then, her kids were suffering now.

  What was going on here? Cole clutched his bedroll in his hands and looked around, half sure he would find someone else standing here with him. Someone much bigger and smarter and older than himself, someone who was trying to show him what he needed to see, and to teach him what he needed to know. But no one was there. And he felt the least bit silly for having looked. But still, he was left with the feeling that he was supposed to realize something that he just couldn’t get. Maybe if he went back to what he’d originally been mulling over. What had that been?

  His mother. He’d been thinking about his mother.

  Over the years, and to his regret, his memories of her had faded. All he had of Lucinda Youngblood now were the stories Charlotte had told him. The same thing would be true of Joey, Willy, and Lydia. Over time, they too would have only faded memories of his sister, their mother. What a damn shame that was. But a truth he could do nothing about. Because Cole knew he wouldn’t be around much to tell Joey and Willy and Lydia about their mother.

  You could stay.

  Cole stiffened against the truth of the words whispered to him, seemingly by the warm breeze. Then, a far more unsettling memory grabbed at him and had him striding—almost desperately, as if he wished only to get away from it—with his half-folded bedroll back to the buckboard and tossing the blankets inside. Then he stood there, his arms propped up against the worn wood of the wagon’s railing. All his life Charlotte had told him he looked like their mother, Lucinda. She’d said he had her ways, her smile. Cole’d never understood what Charlotte had meant by that. Even now, he couldn’t fathom it. Surely, their mother had possessed finer sensibilities than Cole’s. His had led him to a life of bloodshed. How could he be good and fine like his mother?

  But you are.

  Cole’s breath caught, the hair on his arms stood on end. Where was this coming from? Suddenly he saw himself all those years ago with Charlotte back on the homestead. She’d raised him. She’d had to. Their worthless son-of-a-bitch farmer father hadn’t seemed to want to make much of himself or of the place after his wife died. No, within days of burying Cole’s mother, that bastard had just up and rode off, telling him and Charlotte that he’d be back, that he had to go call in a debt and get the money he’d need to take them all back East so they could start over there.

  And that was the last they’d ever seen of him. There they were, in Kansas, over by Wichita … two kids on their own.

  But Charlotte had never complained, had never run away from what she had to do. Instead, she’d worked hard, had worked in other folks’ homes, doing anything she could to keep them in food and clothes and shelter out on their homestead. And then, years later, she’d married Mack Anderson. A man also from back East. And a man with no skill with the land. But a man who swore he loved her and that he’d try. And so, they were married. Then, sensing he was in the way, Cole at sixteen had taken up with a gun and a way of life that still stood him in good stead. Every penny he hadn’t needed to keep himself alive, he’d brought to Charlotte and to her kids as they had come along. But what had Mack Anderson done for them?

  Cole’s expression hardened, became unforgiving, as he thought of his dead brother-in-law, even as he tried to figure out why he couldn’t get himself in motion this morning, why all he seemed able to do was live in the past. And what good does that do a body? Can’t anything be changed. But right now, at this moment, it seemed that the past wouldn’t allow his mind to rest, that like a person, it had something yet to tell him. Something that he had to realize before he could set off on this most important of days. A day, he suddenly knew, that was much more personally important to him than he’d realized until just now. So, giving in, he stood there and told himself to think it through, just get it over with.

  So where had he been wandering in his memory’s pathways? Ah. Mack Anderson. Charlotte’s worthless husband. Again Cole’s expression hardened. Why did he hate Mack so? Even asking himself that question told Cole he was on the right track in his thinking. Because never before had he questioned how he felt about the man. He’d disliked and mistrusted him from day one when he’d stepped onto their homestead. He hadn’t been jealous of him with Charlotte. Cole knew she was his sister and not his mother. And that she, a young woman, needed someone other than him, something more than a brother in her life. And she deserved it, too. Deserved happiness, a happiness that Mack Anderson seemed to give her, no matter how hard the times were. And seeing that, Cole had stepped aside, had gone off on his own, had left them be.

  It’s all mighty strange, came Cole’s sour thought. Sometimes he believed that every man he hunted down wore his own father’s face. Sometimes he felt certain that in every town he rode through, the possibility existed that he’d find the man. He’d asked around, but nothing had ever come of it. Still, sometimes, when he looked into some old codger’s face, he wondered … Could this man be my father? It was silly, he knew. The old bastard was probably long dead. But Cole just wanted to ask him why. That was all.

  He just wanted to know why. Didn’t particularly want to kill the man, although he deserved it, most likely. Just the why of it. That was all. Why had he just ridden off and left two kids standing there in the doorway of a small farmhouse with no means of seeing to themselves? Why? What kind of a man did that?

  A good-for-nothing one, Cole knew. Then he remembered Joey, Willy, and Lydia. And the fact that he himself was getting ready, after this land run, to do the same damn thing to them that his own father had done to him and Charlotte. Leave them. Son of a bitch. I’m no better than the old man was. Cole suddenly felt sick, all the way to his own rotten soul. An angry, aching chuckle erupted from him, and had Kitty woofing at him. Cole turned to the dog. “Go on now, Kitty. Leave me be.”

  As the dog turned and padded off, Cole returned to his musings. All he could think was, how was this—meaning his situation here with Kate and the kids—for things coming back home to roost? It was true. All his adult life he’d condemned his father for leaving him and Charlotte behind like he had. He’d never allowed himself, after so many years of trying to believe otherwise, that his father had had a good reason for what he did, for not taking them with him.

  In his own youth, Cole remembered trying to believe, hoping and praying, that maybe something had happened to him which had prevented his coming back for them. Maybe he’d been ambushed and killed. That was better than believing that the man simply hadn’t cared about his own children. Maybe he had meant to come back for them. Why couldn’t that be true? Why couldn’t he forgive the man? At least give him the benefit of the doubt?

  Cole took a deep breath. He really didn’t want to think about any of this. But the questions wouldn’t release him, wouldn’t stop coming, wouldn’t go away without answers.

  Could the truth be that he’d heaped on Mack’s head all the hate and hard feelings he harbored for his own father? Could it be that he’d never given Mack a chance, seeing in him what he’d so despised in his own father? Was that what kept him in the saddle and hunting men down? Was that what made him not care about the killing? And why didn’t he care? What did that say about him? Was it because he maybe thought himself worthless?

  After all, how worthwhile could a kid be if his own father didn’t love him enough to stick by and see him raised to manhood?

  No. It isn’t about me. I don’t count. I’m a man, and I made my own way. It’s about Charlotte. The old man left her, too. But she’d never hated him like Cole d
id. She’d never said as much as one bad word about the man her whole life. All she’d talked about was how much he’d tried and how much he’d always been kicked down by circumstances. By drought, by flood, by tornadoes, by bad land. Excuses. All of that. Excuses. Abel Youngblood could have made it if he’d tried.

  And what about you, Cole? Could you make it? Do you have the guts even to try?

  Cole spun around, his hands fisted, looking for the enemy, the one whispering these questions, these … truths to him. What about me? he wanted to yell. But he knew … and now questioned himself. Am I trying to make it? Am I sticking around, trying to do the right thing by my own sister’s kids? No. I can’t wait to haul my carcass away from here so I can go kill a woman. Some poor little maid who stole some money and some pretty rocks from a man rich enough to buy every bit of land that’s up for grabs here in Oklahoma Country. What does that make me, then? I’ll tell you—no better than my father. Just like the old man. The fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?

  His breathing ragged, his chest tight, Cole stood there, looking all around. Nothing out here was amiss. The day dawned bright and beautiful. Full of promise. But the ugly truths inside him remained. He still wasn’t willing to forgive his father, to do more than briefly entertain the notion that the man, as Charlotte had always said, had tried, that he had loved them, and that she was sure he’d meant to come back for them. She’d clung to that all her life, to the point of staying on the family homestead after her marriage and working that land … all in the hopes of being there when their father came home.

  And what had that dream, that hope, ever gotten her? was Cole’s hard-edged question.

  A life as hard as their mother’s. And a death at the same age. With her oldest child the same age that Cole had been when his and Charlotte’s mother had died. And now—suddenly weak, Cole bent forward, bracing his hands on his knees and staring blindly at the ground—here he was, doing the same thing his father and Mack Anderson had done before him. Running away from their women and children, leaving them to fend for themselves.

  Son of a bitch. It’s true. Cole straightened up, stiffening his spine. He was worthless, not suited for anything more than hunting down and killing men. Cole didn’t pity himself in the least. There was no poor-little-me implied in any of his thoughts or conclusions. Because he was one of the fortunate ones in the world. How many people could say that—that they truly knew why they were put here on earth? It was simple. He was a vulture. An ugly critter meant to live off the bones of other souls. A nasty critter not meant to live among the civilized folks. But still, he performed a service, in his own way. He was useful. He had meaning.

  And it hurt like hell. Because this blinding insight into his own soul pointed out to Cole how much he was like his father. He too was a man who ran away. Who didn’t have the courage it took to stay and to fight and to make a life in one place with one woman. But he didn’t have any choice in the matter, now did he? And he wasn’t looking for excuses. Because what did he matter? Who, with Charlotte dead, would care if he lived or died? No one. Not really. Which made him perfect for his own fate, now didn’t it? After all, who missed a dead vulture?

  No one. Except for the past few weeks when they’d been together constantly, the kids barely knew him. He’d pass out of their memories soon enough, just as his own mother had from his. Cole nodded with the rightness of that. Hell, they deserved better than him, anyway. And he had the life he was meant to have, that of a wanderer, a paid killer. It was all he was good for. Then, that being so, the sooner he got out of these kids’ lives, the better off they’d be.

  And Kate’s, too.

  There it was, the crux of his present dilemma. It was Kate Chandler, now Youngblood, who’d really brought him to this place on this morning and had him making ready to become a part of history. One woman. She’d changed his whole life, just as his mother had changed his father’s life, just as Charlotte had changed Mack’s life. Just as Cole knew he’d changed Kate’s life. Because they were married. Maybe in name only. But that agreement was only between them, and not upheld in the eyes of the law. The whys and wherefores didn’t really matter to the law. Because Cole and Kate were now one. Forever. And nothing but death could change that. It was a scary feeling, this sense of permanence that came with yesterday’s brief ceremony.

  Not that the ceremony itself had seemed so binding, not even when he’d been standing there and repeating the vows with Kate. Because he’d known, as had she, that theirs wasn’t a real marriage. Not one like Charlotte had had with Mack, as worthless as the man had been.

  But remember, Cole, he wasn’t worthless.

  Again Cole stopped, blinking, considering his new conviction regarding the man. His thinking about Mack was undergoing real change. Was it because he now bore the weight and the worry of Mack’s responsibilities? That he now walked in the man’s shoes? Was that why he was seeing his late brother-in-law in a new, more favorable light? As a man who’d tried to do the right thing. A man who’d stuck by his woman and raised his kids and made a difference in their lives. While he, Cole, had always killed folks for money so he could help his sister keep herself and those same kids alive—without ever giving Mack even a tiny portion of respect for all he did, day in and day out, year round.

  That’s a hell of a note. The more answers Cole found, the more riddled with questions were his thoughts. Then, feeling a sudden need for activity, Cole reached for some firewood he’d had Willy collect last evening. As he worked getting the morning’s campfire going, Cole again found himself reflecting on how what he did for a living didn’t seem to make much sense. Essentially, what he did was end one life to keep other ones going. Surely there was more to him than a quick-draw. The fire caught, began to flare up. Cole poked at it with a long stick of wood.

  And wondered again where all these thoughts were coming from this morning. But there was still one truth that his mind wanted him to acknowledge, something connected to Mack Anderson. He knew that because every time he thought of the man, something stuck in Cole’s craw. Well, he kept trying to get at it. But it appeared that every time he thought he had it … the thought slipped farther away, as when a thirsty man thinks he sees water out in the desert and it always shimmers just out of reach. That was how Cole felt now.

  One thing he knew, though, was he surely hadn’t done as much thinking over the whole course of his life as he’d done in the past forty-eight hours. And especially not along these lines. His present line of thinking, he was convinced, couldn’t be good for him. Because if he began to see his jobs, his targets, as individual men, then he wouldn’t be so quick to shoot. And a split second’s hesitation could cost him his own life. And would leave Kate a young widow.

  That’s what he’d been thinking about. Kate. Their marriage yesterday. Before then, Cole now acknowledged, nothing in his life had been permanent. Nothing had been forever. He’d always moved on and had kept moving. His life had been built around change, around the next job, the next city, and the next man he’d been paid to hunt down. Cole frowned now, promising himself that soon his life would again be the way it had always been. Lived alone. The way he liked it.

  Damn. Cole watched the fire and scrubbed a hand over his mouth and chin, feeling the roughness of his day-old growth of beard. And liked its coarseness. That was something he understood. Just as he was coming to realize he needed to get the hell out of here. Away from this family place. He needed to be on his own, riding alone, seeking his next target.

  A woman.

  Overwhelmed with that truth, Cole blew out his breath—and determined that his thinking days were over. Whatever he was supposed to realize … well, it hadn’t come to him yet. So the hell with it. Turning on his heel, as if he’d just turned some corner in his mind, too, he decided he’d be better served seeing to the mules and to his horse than standing here and trying to set the world to rights—something he wasn’t having much luck with, anyway. But first, coffee. No. First, he needed
to get Kate up. They had a lot to talk about—more land run details—before he left. And judging from the already faster pace of movement evident throughout what he could see of the Walnut Creek camp, the sooner he got her up, the better.

  Cole turned in the direction of the schooner, but again stopped. Kate. How had she changed him so much in the course of one day? He didn’t know. He just knew she had. Somehow. And because she had … he didn’t think he could lie to her about that cousin of his. He’d honestly tried to think of the woman’s name. But he’d be damned if he could come up with it. Something with an m in it. Mary? Marion? Margaret? Martha? Who the hell knew? And her married name? No clue.

  Cole firmed his lips, accepted the truth. He stood about as much chance of finding that cousin as a tender thing like Kate did of successfully making the run herself.

  Which meant he had to tell her the truth. Two evenings ago, when he’d told Kate he’d marry her and had realized if he did she’d be the kids’ aunt and he could leave them with her permanently, he hadn’t felt the least bit bad about hiding that fact from her. Because he hadn’t cared. But now, it seemed, he did. And he didn’t like it one bit. The longer he was around her, and around Joey, Willy, and Lydia, the softer his edge became. So what had he done to fight that? Hell, he’d signed on to stay longer, long enough to build them all a home.

  Well, what else could he do? He couldn’t just leave her. Not like his father had left him and Charlotte. At least, he couldn’t leave her for a while. He’d do what he could. And then he’d leave. But not forever. He’d come back by and check on them, drop off some money. Like he’d done for Charlotte. But his obligation to Kate, that of marriage, was different than it had been to his sister. He knew it was. Kate was his wife.

  And that was another thing. He didn’t think he could leave Kate and the kids at all. In fact, he was afraid he couldn’t. Really afraid. He had no desire to go. Maybe it was just because of the nature of his next paying job. Killing a woman. Maybe he was just trying to avoid that. But he feared that wasn’t so, at least not completely so. Hell, that Talmidge maid, Anne Candless, could be camped right next to us this very minute and I wouldn’t know it, for all I’ve gone looking and asking. But Cole knew he hadn’t had any time to himself to go off and do that since he’d gotten here. A man doesn’t take three little kids with him when he has dirty work to do.