Second Helping

by Arch Gallen

  Chapter 3

  Trotting his horse first northeast, Essex crossed the stream, amazed at good water flow despite drought across the area. Climbing a small knoll, he peered northwest, following the river with his eyes to a broken, craggy outcropping blocking his further seeing, making a mental note to track its source. He felt the hot, early sun beating through cloudless skies, tired from disturbed sleep despite being in a bed for the first time in memory. Rachel had firmly declined his offer to sleep in the stable, having an extra room suitable, so he’d surrendered to her insistent manner only to find slumber interrupted by hearing Pa’s screams as their house collapsed on him fading to McDermitt’s harsh laughter when riding away.

  Essex woke sweating, hating still the fear which kept him from taking the shot he wanted much to take in the light of flames reaching high that night. Revulsion at shooting the man in the back caused him to miss a chance at vengeance, his line of sight from bushes where he hid perfect for the purpose. Rolling over, he laid in the dark, staring through inky blackness as thoughts of Rachel’s sad eyes pricked his conscience. What had been done to him would be repeated unless Essex recanted his vow to never help, an outcome he knew himself unwilling to accept.

  Rising with the sun, expecting to slip out quietly, he was surprised that Rachel rose early also and looked no more rested than he felt. Silently, they shared a simple breakfast before he confirmed with her directions to Red Rock then saddled the dun and, after checking his guns, headed out. The rifle, a Winchester repeater he’d bought from bounty paid for bringing in the murderer of a deputy sheriff in Rapid City, was the only new thing he ever recalled buying and all he felt pride of ownership toward. The Colt revolver which fit him so well had been contributed down in Abilene by a surly cowhand slower in its using than Essex was with the throwing knife belted at his waist.

  Swinging to the southwest, he followed below a short ridgeline, coming on the rock fall Rachel had told of, seeing how it turned the river. Stepping from the saddle, he examined it with wonder having no doubt some black powder and a few days effort mucking out the remains could restore water flow to Lambertson’s outfit. The man had certainly seen it as well causing Essex’s breakfast to curdle with fresh awareness Rachel’s trouble wasn’t about water at all but about her claim being more desired.

  Returning to the saddle, he warily worked his way south hidden by small bands of spruce rising from brown, dry earth or close around clusters of boulders piled about, spurring the horse to pass quick stretches where neither gave cover. From a distance, he saw Red Rock, an amused twitch coming to him seeing it well named for color and, as she’d promised, singularly alone amid empty prairie on every side. Nearing it, eyes ceaselessly scanning for any movement, he sought a place where two bodies could be dumped believing Lambertson likely a kind to worry less over proper burial than hiding proof of his evil.

  Circling the rock, Essex spotted a shadowed low suggesting a cut and, after pulling up to watch all around, moved toward it realizing Lambertson’s ranch had come to sight lower down the long slope he rode. Uneasy, not wishing to draw attention, he kept one eye on the buildings while inspecting the wash seeking a way down. Finding after a time a runoff providing safe avenue into the gulch, he gingerly descended the thin path until arriving at the bottom some ten feet below.

  To his right, back toward Rachel’s, the gully opened wide, flat and level for a hundred yards or more and completely empty. Edging to his left where it narrowed some, he peered over stones of varied sizes, finally dismounting and leading his horse as he clambered over and among them. A dozen likely places he checked before spying a boot heel sticking out from under sage brush, uncovering there two torn skeletons broken by animals, their fall or, most likely, by both. Observing every detail, he examined them until finding one bullet hole in each skull proving they’d had been shot from behind.

  Sifting through what remained of their clothing, he pulled from under one a leather wallet near as wide as his hand. Easing it open, he saw a small sheaf of bills and other papers there so closed it again and slid it to his pocket for returning to Rachel. Finding nothing more worth salvaging, he straightened, cautiously eyeing the top ledge for any activity then set to burying their remains as best he could. Hands scraped and raw, satisfied what there was left of her men were at least covered decent, he returned to his horse, stopping after a step and looking back.

  Neither man was wearing a belt gun. No one goes out in the country without a holster and pistol and Essex simply knew these men would not either. Filing that fact away, he led his mount up the stony incline quietly as possible, emerging agilely after removing his hat so eyes cleared the lip first. Scanning every direction before bringing the horse out, once both were on flat land he swung into the saddle and turned the animal west, glaring hard at Lambertson’s ranch.

  Seeing no movement there, Essex circled the butt end of a low broken ridge, turning north then stopped abruptly, spying a man a few feet away stretched flat intently watching Rachel’s cabin. Hearing the horse snicker, the watcher rolled, leaping to his feet.

  “This is Lambertson land, mister. You need to get off here!” he bellowed, eyes wide.

  Essex stepped the horse forward, staring harshly.

  “Take no more, I say. Head yourself out of here or I’ll do it for ya’.”

  Flicking his eyes to the man’s rifle setting on a rock near where he’d laid, Essex moved another foot closer, hand on his right thigh, waiting for what he knew would come.

  Losing patience, the man dropped his hand to his pistol, Essex responding by drawing his own, a single shot centered on the man’s chest echoing from the rocks. Tottering, Lambertson’s man looked up disbelievingly before tumbling, sprawled over stones slowly covered by flowing blood.

  Essex dismounted, tossing his reins over a scrub brush, and strode to the man. Unbuckling the holster, he slid it free before fastening the hasp, putting an arm through as he set it over his head. A quick frisk of the man’s pockets revealed three empty and one with seven dollar bills, a tidy sum Essex tucked in his pants without second thought. Straightening, he glanced around, spotting the man’s horse tethered to a bush close by. Releasing it, he tied the reins over the saddle confident the animal would return home when ready.

  Grasping the body at the wrists, Essex dragged it a dozen feet before heaving it between a pair of larger rocks out of sight. Walking his horse onto a slab of stone, he returned, brushing out their prints with a dead pine branch knowing any looking would find the marks but none distinct enough to indicate his horse or self. Picking up the now ownerless rifle, he worked back to his horse, mounting with the gun cradled under one arm before heading north, the man behind given no further thought as he gazed over Adrienne Creek at cattle grazing on grass better than any seen in months.

  Moving at a trot, he continued until finding a ridgeline rising a hundred feet above then stepped from the saddle and climbed to the top. Squatting, his eyes followed the stream north, spotting where it split from the eastern arm as they flowed from the outcropping seen before, likely fed by underground springs instead of snowmelt or rain like most. Nodding appreciatively, he saw Augie Loftin had checked well, neither arm of the river apt to run dry and surely not both at once so able to support an outfit in all but the worst years of drought.

  Shifting slightly, Essex looked over the home constructed by Rachel’s father. Curious, he half-walked, half-slid to his horse, steering the animal at a quick pace toward the place, slowing a dozen feet off with a spooked feeling. Built of native slab stone with a sod over wood roof, caring attention showed in every piece from windows set in thick timbers to shooting loops keenly placed through heavy shutters and high attic walls covering every approach. Empty for a half year, it felt like the old man would arrive home any second as a grey shadow passed across the stony yard letting Essex see for a moment the dim figure of her Pa playing with grandkids before a spit of breeze whirled dust across the image.

  A shudder ran up hi
s spine with beads of sweat trickling from under his hat brim. Wheeling the horse sharply, Essex spurred her to a canter, forcing the picture seen but not there from his mind by putting thoughts to the land and cattle. He knew much of both, working at two different ranches shortly after leaving home, learning most of what was required in the business at the first over a couple year span before three old-timers called him out for having a brusque attitude. Departing there a half-hour later, leaving behind a bunkhouse more tore up than useful and three men even more so with one likely never to ride again, he’d caught a riding job in Kansas that lasted another year.

  What wasn’t learned at the first Essex garnered on that second job, the rancher taking a liking to his willingness to work hard and listen. A daughter who took a shine to the new man spelled an end to his employment there, the rancher declaring, ‘No saddle tramp drifter gonna court my girl.' tossing him from the property with only a window smashed by Essex throwing a bullet through it as a farewell gift. After that, he’d given up working for others, seeing how they prospered from his work but gave nothing back but a few dollars a month, finding better earnings offering his gun to those needing men having special talents with them.

  At different times, he’d done well in that work under several names, earning a reputation few dared challenge. From Texas to Dakota, the violent times suited him, demanding only he be an excellent shot and have no conscience. Cattle wars, bounty hunting and guarding men like Lambertson against all comers suited his manner, even hiring on once down in the Territory to both sides of the same fight, a particularly easy piece of work for any he shot were proper targets paying well for hitting and, as all were outlaws anyway, finding none cared but the dead men.

  Dipping off a rocky trail, he walked the horse while studying Rachel’s land, knowing it was good. From the Mississippi to the Rockies, land was parched, cattle dying on prairie grass already dead while ranchers went broke. He guessed she had five hundred head while the markets were paying top dollar for ones in their condition and could carry twice that number in good years. If she moved half these or less, enough cash money would be earned to tide her over while the herd rebuilt. Pursing his lips, he peered around, tallying in his head a count of men and supply cost needed for a trail drive, his thoughts then going dark, comparing her opportunity to all his squandered or missed.

  Suddenly, Essex reined in and dropped from his saddle. He was tired of riding, tired of moving. Setting heavily on a pine stump, he was just plain tired. Chasing and running, hunting and being hunted were nothing he wanted any more. Off in the distance, a trio of buzzards circled high, looking for the next dead cow or man and he knew the day was coming he’d be the one found. So far, he’d been just enough faster than others but soon one would come along he wouldn’t beat whether he wanted it to be so or not.

  He frowned, trying to recall back, what he had wanted before that night. He found nothing since then to mention. Women were never big in his thoughts, raised without a Ma or sister and distant from towns where any lived. Pa taught letters and numbers best he could and Essex learned well enough, he guessed, but never from a proper teacher in any classroom. Of a home or family, he’d never thought or considered until time for doing was past with all chances wasted. He had wanted nothing and knew that to be exactly what he had.

  Eyes narrowing, he peered off, just able to see Rachel’s house in the distance, wisps of smoke teasing glaring blue sky and knew. He wanted just one thing, to do one good deed before he died. Pa taught a man wanting would take action to achieve so he resolved to remove Lambertson as a problem for her. The ranch was well set, her home nicely made and she was young enough yet to find someone worthy. She had a chance for a good life if he did this one thing and so he would, by whatever means necessary.

  Bobbing his head, he scuffed pebbles on the ground, finding also a wishing deep in him, burying it back instantly. There was no purpose to wishing for her, for this to become his home as that couldn’t happen. Before it did, he’d have to tell her honest about what he was, all he’d done. He couldn’t ask any woman to take him in not understanding lawmen and, maybe, bounty hunters could arrive any morning to haul him off or gun him down and he was certain she’d accept no such possibility after losing her Pa and husband to one not very much different than himself.

  Essex stood, eyes fixed over Rachel’s house to where Lambertson sat. He’d built with defense in mind against Indian attacks as was common, each building providing cover to others across the yard. A grim smile came over him. No good would such planning do against an enemy never imagined.