In the morning, he sought out Morgan to make amends. To Christian’s surprise, the farmer acted like nothing had happened between them. Morgan’s usual gruff persona had returned. Even so, Christian tried to say he was sorry and was quickly informed it wasn’t necessary.
“It’s water under the bridge. There isn’t anything for you to apologize for on my account. Now help me with the chicken coop.”
Christian had to stop himself from smiling, and the two men continued like nothing changed. Morgan would occasionally bark an order at him, or make some colorful colloquialism, but mostly they just toiled quietly under the sun.
And so, things returned to normal―for a while. It seemed Rebecca finally sensed the effort Christian was going through for her, and she began to thaw toward him. Some nights she asked Christian to read to her from Abel’s stories, which he was more than happy to do. Christian even caught Morgan listening in from time to time, though he usually pretended he was dozing or thinking over the next day’s workload. His row with his wife having ended, Morgan’s mood improved considerably. For his part, Christian decided it wouldn’t be the end of the world to smile occasionally if he felt like it. He believed life would never again be what it once was for him, but maybe that didn’t mean he couldn’t try to find some measure of enjoyment in it.
Both men had agreed it would be better for Christian to remain at the ranch for the time being—at least until things died down in town. Morgan went alone to Casper on Thursday and returned in good spirits. Christian saw Morgan riding in from his spot atop the barn’s roof, where he was patching a small hole. Morgan waved to him and rode up to the barn.
“Come down from there, and let’s have something to eat.”
“I’m almost finished,” Christian shouted down.
“I said come down, boy,” Morgan snapped. “I want you to read me this letter.”
“Yes sir.” He made his way down the ladder and landed on the dirt floor. The two men returned to the house. Rebecca had a hot meal waiting for them, including cornbread and soup from the kettle.
“After the harvest, there’ll be all kinds of fresh foods in the kitchen,” she said excitedly.
“It’s not the ingredients that are the problem,” Morgan muttered with a smirk.
Rebecca threw up her arms in mock outrage.
“Anyway, I’ve got news from town. Reverend Burke is having a baptism at the river this Sunday.”
“For who?” Rebecca asked curiously. Living largely alone since the death of her sons, and far from town, she was evidently anxious for some gossip.
“Dennis Potter,” Morgan said with a chuckle.
His wife gasped. “What?”
Morgan nodded. “I never thought I’d see the day. Potter was a mean cuss even before he turned to liquor, I’d allow.”
“I thought he was a drunk!” Rebecca exclaimed.
“Apparently Burke got through to him. It seems Dennis was inspired to pick himself up when he saw reason for hope.” Morgan’s gaze fell on Christian, who shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “We’re going,” Morgan said. “All of us.”
“But sir,” Christian started to protest.
“I said all of us,” Morgan answered. “We’ve been working hard these last few weeks. Some church would do us good.” With that, the matter was settled.
Morgan handed Christian a letter. “I was told Russell Hale left this for you,” he said. “Whatever that coward has to say isn’t worth hearing, and I’d just as soon burn it, but as it’s yours it wasn’t my place. However, the man who handed it to me said the contents concern me as well, so I’d like you to read it to me.”
Christian glanced over the words. The letter was brief.
“He’s heard Charlie Sheldon is on his way back to Markham’s ranch. Apparently, Charlie killed a prisoner of some sort in Stillwater, along with a sheriff’s deputy. There is talk in Stillwater of sending a marshal after him, but Mayor Hale doesn’t seem to think anything will come of it.”
“Waste of a letter, if you ask me,” Morgan said. He returned to his plate.
Christian wasn’t so sure. Russell could have easily not said anything at all. He was a hard man to pin down, and Christian wasn’t sure on what side of the fence he stood in all this. Christian kept the letter with his things and pondered its contents further that evening.
By the time Sunday rolled around, Christian was no longer dreading the prospect of the baptism. The long workweek left him thankful for any excuse to enjoy an afternoon away from the ranch. They stopped north of Casper, where dozens of wagons and horses were gathered at the river. Though mostly poor, the townspeople were adorned in their best. Christian was glad he thought to put on some of the nicer clothes he found in Abel’s dresser.
Christian removed his hat and held it in his hands. He saw several faces he recognized and many he did not. There was a faint breeze, but even early in the morning it was hot. Most of the women fanned themselves as the crowd waited for the service to begin. Soon, Reverend Burke addressed the crowd. The preacher wore flowing white robes and spoke with a voice that commanded respect.
Burke delivered a fiery sermon on justice and God’s vengeance, the likes of which Christian had rarely heard. To his surprise, Burke directly called out Charlie Sheldon for the evils he had committed in town. Christian searched for Jim Markham among the crowd, but there was no sign of him.
“The foundation of darkness is strong, but it may yet be broken. As it says in Ecclesiastes, ‘For God will bring every deed into judgment, with every secret thing, whether good or evil.’”
Burke wandered into the crowd and took Dennis Potter by the shoulder. Then he led Potter into the water until they were waist-deep.
“Lean on Christ,” the preacher said, “and not on your own understanding. Dark times have come, and they may come again. Giving yourself to God will not change that.” He rested a reassuring hand on Potter’s shoulder. “For He did not come to establish an earthly kingdom.”
Burke dunked Potter in the water and drew him up again, with the crowd watching.
“Behold,” he said. “You are a new creation.”
Potter’s ruddy face broke into a wide grin.
Christian found himself walking the shore afterward, as Landon and Rebecca Morgan mingled with friends from town. He thought about the verse Burke had quoted. Every deed judged. Christian turned the phrase over in his head. Since he first fled west, he’d sometimes wondered if he was being punished for his own deeds.
“You look awfully glum.”
Christian looked up to see Finley accompanied by two young women Christian recognized as May Turner and Abigail Vincent.
“Miss Turner,” he said politely, touching his hat.
“Mr. Emerson, this is Abigail Vincent,” Finley said.
“Miss Vincent,” Christian said.
“Abigail,” she said, offering a smile. There was an inner joy in the blonde woman; it seemed a stark contrast to May Turner’s sad eyes. The two girls were lovely in distinct ways.
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said.
“I saw you once before,” she replied. “Outside the schoolhouse.”
“I remember,” Christian said.
“You look like him, you know.”
“Who?”
“Abel Morgan. I didn’t see it before, but now I think I do. It’s something in your eyes, I think.”
The group lingered by the bank for a few seconds.
“Are you well?” May Turner asked. “We have not heard much of you since you returned to the ranch.”
“Mr. Morgan keeps me fairly busy,” Christian allowed. “Though I’ve no complaints.” He studied their faces. Although he saw them as youths, they were really only a few years younger than he. All had thoughtful faces betraying deeper
emotions held beneath the surface. As he’d learned from Morgan, everyone carried secrets. Though he supposed he already knew that better than most.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” Finley said. “The guns you carry. Where did you get them?”
Christian was taken aback by the question. “Why do you ask?”
“They are officer’s guns. I’ve seen a pair like them before, when a Yank passed through town. How’d you come across them?”
They were walking too far from the crowd, so the foursome turned and began the trek back.
“Does it matter?”
Finley shrugged. “Some people say you killed a man and took them. I think you won them in a game of cards.”
Christian laughed. “The truth is a little less glamorous than that,” he answered.
“They say you have some skills with your guns, Mr. Emerson,” Abigail Vincent said. Her smile faded. There seemed to be something she was struggling to say, but she was unable to find the words.
“I reckon I’m good as the next man.”
“Be careful,” she warned. “They have reason to want you dead now.” With that, Miss Abigail Vincent left them, and May Turner followed. Christian stared after them, puzzled.
“Abigail has more cause to hate them than most,” Finley said.
“Why?” Christian asked.
“Her brother was the last sheriff,” Finley said. “The one Charlie gunned down. And Abel was always sweet on her too. He never told her so, but I think she knew.”
Christian remembered the look of joy on the girl’s face as she played with the children outside the school. He watched Abigail Vincent go and wondered why some good people suffered so much. He shook his head and left to find Morgan. Some things were better left to God.
* * * * *
Carlos Ruiz sat under the shade of his pine, plotting his escape. From the second the stranger spared him, Carlos decided it was time to ditch the gang. He was tired of a life of thievery and murder. He made up his mind that he would find someplace in his native Mexico where he was unknown and pursue an honest living. After running with the wrong crowd for so long, he wasn’t sure what an honest living looked like, but Carlos was determined to find out.
Word came that Big Jim had demanded the man called Emerson’s arrest, and Carlos was surprised to learn Emerson was still at large. What Big Jim wanted, he usually got―one way or another. Carlos tried to put such things from his mind. He focused on one thing: freedom. The men were due to be paid at the end of the month, only a few days away. That was when he would leave. Carlos made no mention of his plans to anyone else but began spending more time away from the others.
“Ruiz!” a voice called from the direction of the ranch.
Carlos pushed himself up and peered into the distance. It was Kane Pennington.
“Boss wants to see you,” Kane said simply.
The men’s horses were gathered outside Big Jim’s house. Carlos returned to the homestead, expecting to find Quinn waiting for him outside. To his surprise, it was Charlie.
“Amigo!” Charlie boomed with a grin. “Come join us!” Carlos reluctantly made his way over to the boss. “Have a beer,” Charlie said, thrusting a glass into his hand. Carlos drank up. When Charlie gave a command, it was best to follow it.
“I was just telling the rest of the boys about Stillwater,” Charlie said. His eyes seemed to dance in the light. Several of the others looked on edge. Tension filled the air.
“I am glad to see you returned safely,” Carlos said, hoping to slip back into the crowd. He found the way blocked.
“Things got messy on the way out,” Charlie said, “but I took care of it.” He looked at the outfit. “That’s the only way this works. If people don’t fear you, you have nothing.” He put a hand around Carlos’ shoulder. “Do you agree, Ruiz?”
“Si,” Carlos said. “Of course.”
“I reckon you know a thing or two about fear,” Charlie said. His smile faded. “Word is, you turned yellow and ran back here with your tail between your legs when some stranger pulled a gun on you.”
Carlos swallowed. He took a step back. “It didn’t happen like that, Señor Charlie.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“No sir.”
Charlie stared him down. There was a cold look on his face. “I can’t stomach cowards,” he said. “Least of all in my own outfit.”
Carlos looked at the others, searching for a hint of compassion or understanding. He found none; he was on his own.
Carlos felt Charlie’s fist strike him in the stomach. He doubled over in pain, and a second blow rattled his jaw. He tasted blood.
“I knew you were weak from the moment I laid eyes on you, compadre.”
“Please,” Carlos pleaded in accented English. “Don’t.”
Charlie stayed his hand. The boss’s smile returned. “Look at that, boys. He even begs like a coward.” He laughed, and the others followed suit.
For a moment, Carlos thought Charlie was done.
“Get out of here,” the man hissed.
Carlos took off running. He would leave that very hour, before Charlie changed his mind. He reached for the crucifix, hoping it would keep him safe until then.
A gunshot echoed across the mountains, and Carlos Ruiz dropped dead, shot through the back. The crucifix fell into the dirt beside him.
“He died a coward’s death,” Charlie said. “Let that serve as a lesson to the rest of you the next time you think of running from a fight.” He motioned to the Pennington brothers. “Throw his body down the mountain.”
Chapter Nine
With the harvest looming ever closer, there was a change in pace on the ranch. Word came that a traveling fair would pass through town, and Morgan was determined to sell some of his stock to turn a profit. The two men set out early in the morning to begin rounding up cattle. The range was wide, and the men traveled a long way. It was late in the afternoon when they spotted several cows with Morgan’s brand.
Christian had heard tales of cattle drives lasting months, with an outfit pushing the herd many miles each day until they reached a railhead. These large drives required north of ten cowboys, often shepherding a couple thousand head or more. Christian knew a thing or two about hard living, but even he marveled at the idea of day after day on the trail, making camp each night only to start again the next day. Unfriendly Indians or rustlers could augment the difficulty of the trail, and there was always the prospect of a stampede.
As it were, the two men were faced with a more manageable task. Morgan only wanted to sell thirty or so cows, a paltry number compared to the massive herds moved through the plains. All the same, gathering the stock proved to be a more difficult undertaking than either man anticipated. Only a few cows remained close to the homestead, which had been well grazed. Of these, Morgan believed even fewer would fetch a decent profit. So, the pair rode farther away from the ranch to gather the dispersed cattle and herd them up.
Their task grew no simpler when they finally encountered the cows. It proved challenging and time-consuming to round them up. Despite his age, Morgan was up to the job, though occasionally he reacted slowly. The farmer didn’t say so, but Christian suspected his own inexperience was hamstringing them along the way. Several times the herd got away from them, and the two men had to start again. It was Morgan who suggested pushing a smaller herd toward the ranch and coming back for the rest.
They reached the homestead well into the night. Together, the two men led the herd into the corral they had repaired with the lumber Christian brought back from Rawlins weeks ago. Rebecca was waiting up for them inside, though she had fallen asleep in a chair. She woke when they entered the house and served them dinner from the kettle boiling in the fireplace. Christian couldn’t remember being so hungry. Afterward, he coll
apsed on his bed to get as much sleep as he could before starting again at dawn.
Their work should have been easier the following day, given that they didn’t need to gather as many cows. Instead, the cows seemed to have moved farther out, and it took miles longer to reach the herd. Christian’s skills had sadly not appreciably improved, and the old man lost his patience several times and let out a string of profanities when they encountered difficulty moving the stock. Ultimately, they pushed the cows nearly eight miles and had to stop. At Rebecca’s insistence, the two men had set out prepared with supplies in case they needed to make camp. Her foresight proved advantageous, and they shared a heated can of beans and cornbread around a campfire that evening.
“Getting old ain’t for the faint of heart,” Morgan said, stretching his hands. “I never used to get this sore. At my age, being in a saddle all day is a lot harder than it used to be.”
Christian was also sore, though he chose not to comment on it. “Don’t sell yourself short,” he said. “You’re an old pro.”
“Don’t flatter me, Emerson.” Morgan lifted a spoonful of beans to his mouth and swallowed. “I apologize for snapping at you earlier today. I meant no offense.”
“There was none taken. It must be hard for you to take on a greenhorn like me.”
“You’ll do nicely with a little more practice, boy. You’re a hard worker, and that carries a lot of weight with me.”
Christian acknowledged the compliment with a nod.
“The rest will come with time.”
“How do you propose moving the stock from your ranch to town?”
“Finley Mason used to bunk with Abel when we needed to move cattle. If his father isn’t using him for their harvest yet, I reckon I’ll pay him to help.” His gaze wandered over to Christian. “Did you hear that Big Jim cut him loose?”
Christian’s eyes narrowed as he gazed at the fire. “I hope it wasn’t on my account,” he said, despite the knowledge that it likely was.
Morgan shrugged and kept silent for few moments. “I’m of half a mind to sell the rest of the herd next year and be done with it,” he said. “At my age, I’m not sure I can manage it on my own much longer.” He looked at Christian. “I don’t suppose you could be persuaded to stay on?”
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