by David Cross
“I don’t expect he will, but he’s just going to have to get used to it. You just tell him what I said,” Jake said harshly.
Without a further word, the man called Matt mounted and rode out, leading the two horses with his friend’s bodies draped across the saddles. Killman sat watching them out of sight, the dwindling light of the oncoming night swallowing them, as though some giant mouth had devoured both horses and men. He sat his horse for a few minutes, keeping to the shadows, just in case the man called Matt decided to turn back, and try his hand a bushwhacking him. He finally dismounted, loosened his cinch, and threw his saddle over the rail of the corral, along with the blanket and bridle.
When he stepped through the door, he could see the remains of dirty plates on the table, a coating of dirt on the wooden floor, that his beloved Sarah had always kept white enough to shine in the dim light of a lamp. The drapes were becoming dingy from lack of washing, their were cigarette butts strewn across the floor, where careless boots had ground them out, dirty pots were piled in the large kitchen dishpan, and the house showed the general disarray of punchers who had the manners of pigs, and little regard for the amenities of housekeeping.
Standing his rifle against the wall, near the door, and hanging his hat on the peg above it, he closed the door. He stepped across the room and into the kitchen area, picking up a corn broom that stood just inside the back entrance, and set about cleaning up some of the dirt and cigarette butts. When he had completed this chore, he pumped some water into the large dishpan, washed the dishes, putting them away in the cupboards. He turned and surveyed the log house, thinking how neat and clean Sarah had kept it. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do, until she was back home again.
His first thoughts were to go into Strawberry, seek out his wife, or find out what had happened to her. It was a foolhardy thought. It was an eight-mile ride into the settlement, and it would be too late to find out much. The only thing there that would be open would be the mercantile, and the saloon, by the time he got there, and he wasn’t too sure the mercantile would be open. The only other thing in the settlement would be the run down eating place, and a couple of clapboard houses along the dirt trail running in front of them.
He walked into the bedroom, lit lamp, gazing at the disheveled mattress that lay on the iron bed, the litter of whiskey bottles near the side, and the same litter of cigarette butts that littered the floor in this room, as in the front part of the house. He shook his head, set the rifle against the wall near the head board of the iron framed bed, shucked his gun belt and hung it nearby. Any more cleaning would have to wait until the morning. He was tired from his long ride of the last week, and the let down after the sudden surge of adrenaline caused by the shooting. All he wanted right now was to lie down and sleep.
He didn’t bother to take off his clothes, just lay down on the dirty mattress and rest. He lay his head back against the sweaty smelling ticking, closed his eyes, and tried to put the recent happenings out of his mind, drifting into a light sleep; a sleep he had gotten used to when he rode with Forrest’s cavalry. He did not believe anyone would come back tonight, but he couldn’t afford to take that chance. Small sounds in the night brought him awake instantly twice during the night, but they were only the normal sounds of the night, sounds he would have to get used to again.
The next morning, he fixed himself a breakfast from the salt pork he found hanging in the pantry, and a half dozen eggs he found in one of the nests near the back of the house. He didn’t take time to make any biscuits, and he wasn’t much of a hand at it anyway. He finished his meal, took the dirty plate and skillet to the dishpan, and washed them, then strapped on his gun belt, doffed his hat and stepped out to meet the new day.
The sun was just peeping over the mountains, and them morning air was crisp and clean, the tall pines soughing in the light morning breeze, the odor of the pine needles pungent to the smell. He stood on the front porch of the home he had left behind, shrugging into his vest, and wondered how he could have been such a fool to have left all this behind. He had had the word at his fingertips, and a wife that loved him, yet his ire had caused him to take up the sword of a lost cause. Now he had to fight to reclaim his ranch, and find the woman he had set such store by.
Calling his horse, he put a double handful of oats in the nosebag, hung it over his ears. He smiled as the horse started munching on the grain, and continued across the corral to the large wooden trough, where he pumped water into it, before taking down the curry comb from the side of the wall. He spent the next few minutes currying, and brushing the horse, listening to the munching, and an occasional grunt of contentment. It was one of the few peaceful times he had been able to enjoy over the last three and a half years, so he spent a little extra time enjoying this small chore, as the sun reached out to caress the land around him.
When the horse had finished the bag of oats; Jake removed the bag and placed it in his saddlebag, led the horse over and let him drink deeply, then placed the bridle on his head. The saddle blanket and saddle came next. He placed the saddlebags behind it, tying the pigging string to hold it in place, then swung his long lanky frame into the saddle, and turned his her head toward the settlement.
He wasn’t sure if he would find his wife’s trail in town, but it was a start. He didn’t think Sarah had left out of anger, but more likely out of despair. He did not expect any woman to run a four hundred acre spread by her self. Hell, he wasn’t sure he would have blamed her for leaving, even if it had been in anger. What he was sure of was that he loved her, and he wanted her back, and he wanted his old life back. He couldn’t regain the last four years of his life, and maybe he couldn’t even expect Sarah to come home with him, even if he did find her. He sure as hell hadn’t bothered to write to her while he was gone, not that it would have done much good. The Confederacy hadn’t had much of a postal service in the beginning and it quickly deteriorated to a state of chaos close to the end.
He kept his sorrel at a walk, letting his eyes and ears warn him of any impending danger. He looked for all the world like any cowboy out for a nice morning ride. He could smell the fresh smell of the sagebrush, that was made fresh from the nights light shower, reveled in the beauty of the Indian fire that bloomed along the trail, and the squirrels that scampered through the branches of the pines, chattering their indignantly at the intrusion of this man into their world. They were joined in their chattering by a couple of chipmunks, the flash of a startled deer and a stray coyote in search of a morning meal.
He reached the settlement in little more than an hour, and pulled rein in front of the saloon, which he remembered was the busiest place. He swung from the saddle, wrapped the reins once around the hitching rail, stomped across the board porch that was the entrance, and into the clapboard building. There was no one inside this early in the morning, but the barman, who stood behind the bar polishing on a whiskey glass.
“Hello Mike. Long time no see amigo,” he said to the man behind the bar.
“Jake? Jake Killman? I thought you were killed in the war! Ain’t nobody seen, nor heard from you in more than three years, so we all thought you was dead,” he said, sticking his hand across the bar. “How the hell are you?”
“Pretty good. I hear Harvey Murdock has been swinging a pretty wide loop since I left here. I had to run two of his men off my ranch last night.”
“You don’t know the half of it Jake. He has taken over every acre of land he could buy or steal, within fifty miles along the Rim. I’ve even heard rumors that he has planted a couple of hombres that didn’t want to sell. You watch your back Jake.”
“I’ll do that amigo. Do you know where Sarah headed for, when she left the ranch?” Jake asked, toying with the glass of rye his old friend had poured for him.
“She went down to Payson. Not much work around her to keep her in clothing, and food. I haven’t heard from her since she left the ranch. Let’s see,” he mused. “I think that was more than seven or eight months past.�
� He reached across the bar and poured another drink in Jake’s glass, and replaced the cork in the bottle.
Jake downed the rye, smiled at his friend and tossed a silver dollar on the bar.
“Thanks Mike. I guess I’ll ride on down to Payson, and collect my Sarah. Did she say why she left the ranch?”
“She said it was too much work for her, but I got the feeling she was upset about something else. Could be that Murdock was leaning on her a mite.”
Jake nodded in understanding, pulled his hat down on his forehead, and turned to leave, touching the brim in farewell. “Thanks again Mike.”
Jake swung into the saddle, touched his hat again and turned his horse south. The ride to Payson took him a couple of hours, and as on his ride into Strawberry, he sat easy in the saddle, enjoying the cool of the morning, watching the small animals at play and foraging for food. As he rode down the rutted street of the cow town of Payson, he caught a glimpse of the woman he loved standing beside a house with a sign depicting it as a boarding house. She was bent over a washboard, busily scrubbing away at a wet piece of clothing. He immediately felt shame that she had been reduced to taking in laundry to survive.
He stopped his horse a few feet from where she worked, and sat for a brief moment, enjoying the view of her working there. She was just as beautiful as he remembered her, even with a stray wisp of hair falling across her forehead, and soapy lather up to her elbows.
He stepped from the saddle, dropped the reins on the ground and took three steps to where she stood.
“Sarah!” he breathed softly.
She turned from her washing, bringing her right arm up to brush the stray wisp of hair from forehead, surprise quickly registering on her face, which turned quickly to joy as she recognized her husband. Rubbing the soapsuds from her arms with her apron, she stepped into the strong enclosure of his arms, feeling safe, and secure for the first time in more than two years.
“Jake!” she sighed. “I thought I would never see you again. I’ve missed you so!”
They stood like that for a long time, in plain sight of anyone who might ride by, clinging to each other, afraid to let go, in case the other might become an apparition, and disappear. The tenderness Jake felt was overridden by an anger at himself for ever riding away to war, leaving the one person in the entire world that mean anything to him; expecting her to survive in this harsh land alone.
“Can you wait just a minute,” she smiled up at him. “I have to finish this washing. I only have a couple of pieces left. It’s been a slow week,” she said, with a bit of rancor at her circumstances.
“You don’t have to do this any more Sarah. I’m home now. I came to take you back to the ranch. We can build it up again.”
“Now you just hold on Jake Killman! You rode away to your war almost four years ago, never giving a thought to what I might have to do to survive! Now you come riding back, and expect me to jump when you say frog. You can just think again! I told the gentleman who left these clothes to be washed that they would be ready this evening, and they will be ready,” she said heatedly.
Jake took a step back at the heat of her short tirade, smiling at her independence, the very trait that had first drawn him to her when he had first met her. She was beautiful when she was angry, he thought. There would never be another woman who could take her place.
He stood back, and let her continue her washing, smiling at the scene. As he leaned against the sun bleached siding of the house, he rolled a cigarette from the makings he carried in his shirt pocket. He knew his wife to be a stubborn woman, one who finished what she started, if it was at all possible. He would have to tread lightly around her for a time. He was the one who had ridden away to war, and left her to fend for herself, for the last four years. He couldn’t expect her to just drop everything and come at his beck and call. She had too much pride to just walk away from the commitments she had made to the people she did laundry for, even for a man she loved deeply. At least he hoped she still loved him.
When she had completed her chore, she wiped her hands on her apron again, and turned to him with a smile.
“Did you have fun playing war while you were gone?” she asked, with a sour smile on her pretty face.
“It wasn’t a game Sarah, it was a belief,” he said, doubting the validity of his own words. “I wouldn’t have been any good to you or myself, or to you, if I had shirked my belief, or what I thought was my duty to that belief and cause.”
“So, what now Jake?”
“I want you back home on the ranch, with me.”
“You may find the ranch is not yours anymore. The last I heard from a drifter who rode through here a few months back, Harvey Murdock had laid claim to it and put some men in the house to hold it.”
“You heard right,” Jake growled. “I put them on the trail yesterday. I don’t think Murdock will pursue it further, but if he does, I’ll work it out.”
“You know darn well Murdock won’t give up that easy. He was pushy as all get out before you went away. What makes you think he has changed?”
“I sent two of his gunnies back to him across the saddle, along with a message that it wasn’t healthy for him or his riders to come back on my land. I’ll be riding down to his range in a few days, to round up any stock that may be carrying my brand. I just want you and I to be together, to start building a future again.”
“Until the next time you want to ride off into the sunset, tilting at windmills?” she said with some heat.
“You know it won’t be like that. Just come on back to the ranch with me.”
“She thought for a while, then said, “I’ll have to give it some thought. If I decide to come back, you’ll see me riding in soon. If I’m not there in a week that means I won’t be coming back Jake.”
The last statement shocked him, though he had half expected some punishment for his mistake. He had not thought it might come to her not wanting to return, or that she might have decided to make a permanent place somewhere else. He looked at her for a long moment, then nodded, took three backward steps to his horse, ducked his head, turned and swung into the saddle. He looked down at her one last time.
“I hope you ride down the trail to me,” he said sadly. “I love you, and I don’t want to think about life without you there to share it with me.”
“Those were the words that were missing from the beginning of this conversation Jake Killman,” she said sternly. “If you hadn’t said them, I surely wouldn’t have been coming back,” she said haughtily. “You just go on back to the ranch, think on the future, and you could do a little thinking on the past as well.”
A short gin passed Jake’s lips; he touched the brim of his hat, and without another word, turned his horse back toward the north. He knew it would do no good to plead with her; she would just resist that much more. The best thing was to let her think about it and do things in her own time. It would give him time to clean the place up a little, make a few minor repairs, and round up what stock he could find, if any still carried his brand.
Chapter II
The confrontation
He took the high ridge trail back to the ranch, bypassing Strawberry. He didn’t want to have to explain to anyone he might meet about why Sarah had not come home with him. He knew the information would be all over the Rim country within a few days.
The high trail ran along the ridge just above Murdock’s place, so he might as well drop in on him and check out the brands on the stock running on his range, and confront him on his own ground. That was something Murdock wouldn’t expect. He pulled the 44.40 from the saddle holster, checked the magazine to see that it was full, that a shell was seated in the chamber, and replaced it in the boot. He then did the same thing with the pistol on his hip. He, like many others carried a pistol that used the same ammunition as his rifle, thereby doing away with the need to carry two different caliber shells.
He filled his belt loops with shells from the box he carried in his saddlebag, letting his hors
e pick its way along the trail as he worked. Satisfied that all was in order, he continued on the trail at a light gallop, until he was just south of the cutoff that led to the ranch. Turning from the trail, he guided his mount through the soft pine needle carpet to the edge of the clearing that led up to the main house. He sat on the low hill above the ranch for the next few minutes, his trained eyes searching the grounds around the house, the barn, and the outbuildings.
There was nothing but the thin tendril of smoke that rose from the chimney pipe in the back of the house. Killman thought it was probably the kitchen, and the cook was probably cooking the day’s evening meal. There was a lone figure working in the small shed that served as a smithy near the barn, but nothing else he could see. Since the sun had passed its zenith, and was halfway to the western horizon, when he spurred his mount and headed down the hill and across the open terrain.
It was less than a quarter of a mile from the trees to the house, and with the loping gate of his mount, it took him little time to reach it. The blacksmith had stopped pounding with his hammer, watching Jake Killman ride toward the house. From where he was, Jake was sure the man was not carrying a rifle, and he could see no sign of a sidearm. It would be highly unusual for a blacksmith to be armed, due to the extreme heat from the forge.
The man made no move to warn the house, as he rode nearer, just looked on at the approaching man. As he rode past the smithy Killman touched the brim of his hat, and received a nod from the huge, bare chest man, standing with a hammer dangling from his right hand. No other persons appeared from the house, or other buildings, as he continued on to the front of the building, until he was at the hitch rail.
As he pulled rein at the hitch rail, a slightly graying man stepped through the front door, a rifle held lightly in the crook of his arm. The first thought in Killman’s mind was, that Harvey Murdock had not changed much.
