Standing, Elmer walked around the fire to kneel beside Franklin, clasping his brother’s hand. “Frankie,” he said softly, calling him by his childhood nickname. “I brought laudanum. It’ll kill your pain. But.…”
Aaron watched him hesitate, lick his lips, shunt his eyes away from the agony in Franklin’s. “Too much,” he went on, “and you’ll go to sleep. Forever.”
Oddly, a smile creased Franklin’s pain-wracked features. “Yes. Please, Elmer.”
Elmer stood up, then crossed the fire again to the leather satchel. He paused beside Aaron, still not looking at him. “Say goodbye to him. Coward.”
On legs he couldn’t feel, Aaron stumbled his way to Franklin’s side, then knelt. He plucked his brother’s hand from the blanket and held it. “Forgive me, brother,” he whispered. “I am so, so sorry. I couldn’t leave you behind.”
“I forgive you, Aaron.” Franklin continued to smile. “Be at peace.”
“Not without you.”
His throat closed up tight, blinded by tears, Aaron rose and walked numbly away from the fire and his dying brother. In the darkness, the shadows crept across what remained of his soul, filling it with coldness and dread. The black emptiness consumed him, and somewhere a distant part of him cried out in grief.
Behind him, he heard George weeping, saying his last goodbyes, listened to him collapse on the ground, wailing. Beyond that, Elmer’s voice murmured something, words that Aaron could not understand. It didn’t matter, though. He knew what was being said, what was happening, what was in the drink that Elmer offered Franklin.
He stared up at the cold stars above and knew there would be no redemption for him. During all the robberies he committed, all the men he killed, he had never once considered what might happen to his soul after he left this world. Now he knew. With his brother dying behind him, and himself too cowardly to hold his hand, he knew there was no salvation for him.
Ever.
He didn’t know how long he stood there, staring at the stars, feeling the emptiness, the blackness, within him, before Elmer stepped to his shoulder. He didn’t turn when Elmer spoke those four fateful words.
“It’s done. It’s over.”
* * *
They buried their brother in a grave under a grove of pecan trees, dug out from the sandy soil with rocks and their own hands. It was laborious work, the sun beating mercilessly down on them, despite the shade of the trees. Aaron said not a word to either Elmer or George as they worked, not when they lay Franklin in it, nor when they covered him with the dirt. To protect the grave from scavengers, they enclosed the mound with large stones.
By late afternoon, the sun descending into the west in a riot of pink and purple, Aaron stood beside Franklin’s grave with his head bared. Had a preacher been there, he no doubt would have spoken prayers, things about eternal life. As the eldest of his brothers and the leader of the Dawson Gang, it fell to him to say something about Franklin. No words came to him. Only the black emptiness in his soul brought him any comfort.
“He was a good man,” Elmer finally said, his hat in his hand. “A fine brother. Maybe he’s in heaven now, if there is such for the likes of us.”
“I’m gonna miss him,” George added, brushing at his eyes with his sleeve.
Aaron felt both his brothers’ eyes on him, but he did not look up from the mound of rocks. He swallowed the lump in his throat, but it returned almost instantly. At last, he managed to choke out, “Goodbye, Franklin.”
Setting his hat back on his head, Aaron turned and strode quickly from the grave to the horses. Though he was hot, tired, and emotionally done in, he needed to be away from this place, to escape Franklin’s ghost. He heard his brothers following, their boots crunching on the rocky soil as he untied his horse from the tree branch.
Mounting up, he didn’t look around as he reined his mount southwards, hearing the rattle of hooves as Elmer and George swung into their saddles to ride on his heels. Striking a canter, his mind empty, Aaron rode with the sunset on his right, not truly knowing what he intended to do. Behind him, he half listened to George’s sniffling, still weeping for Franklin.
Elmer rode up beside him. “What are you planning, Aaron?”
Though he didn’t want to talk, Aaron supposed his brother had a right to know. “Find a place to camp,” he replied slowly. “Then head on to San Antonio, find Price.”
“You know that Price may not know where Benji is,” Elmer pointed out. “He was just the fellow that caught him.”
“That may be so,” Aaron said. “But he will still pay for what he did.”
Elmer shook his head. “Look, we already lost one brother. Maybe we should just ride north, find new territory where they don’t know us. Or head on down south of the border.”
At last Aaron looked over at Elmer. “And leave Benji to rot in prison?”
“We have no choice, Aaron,” Elmer snapped. “We don’t know where he is, and this trying to find him may get the rest of us killed. Is that what you want?”
“I won’t leave Benji.”
Elmer stared at him, his eyes cold. “Then maybe you should do it on your own, Aaron. Me, I want to live a while longer. I’m not liking the odds stacked against us.”
“So, you would leave Benji in jail?” Aaron asked, his voice just as icy. “Then, go. You ride to Mexico and live it up. I’m riding to San Antonio to find Price and make him pay for what he did.”
“I’m with you, Aaron,” George piped up from where he rode, behind them leading Franklin’s horse. “I go where you go.”
“That leaves you, brother.” Aaron turned his face ahead of him to gaze out over the darkening landscape. “Go. I won’t stop you.”
Elmer said nothing, nor did he rein aside to leave, to depart and go his own way. None of them spoke much as they camped beside a small creek, built a fire, then munched cold rations for their supper. Before lying in his bedroll, Aaron strode to the rushing creek and stripped off his dusty clothes. Washing in the cold water almost felt like heaven after the day’s heat as he rinsed the sweat and dirt from him.
His guilt and the darkness in his soul remained with him.
They rode out the next morning, Aaron estimating that they would reach San Antonio by nightfall. He had half expected Elmer to have taken his horse and vanished in the night, yet he continued to follow Aaron without a word. Finding another small creek to water and rest the horses, they sat in the shade of a hackberry tree.
“We’ll camp outside town,” Aaron said at last as the midday sun rode high overhead. “I’ll go into town alone, maybe find a way to disguise myself. Ask around about Price.”
Elmer nodded, chewing a strip of dried beef. “That might work. They are looking for four outlaws, not necessarily a single man alone.”
“How will you disguise yourself?” George asked.
Aaron shrugged. “Tuck my hair under my hat, maybe wipe a load of dirt on my face. Look like a saddle tramp, that sort of thing.”
“Would the law in San Antonio know where Benji is?” George drank water from his canteen. “We can force them to tell us like we did before.”
Elmer shook his head. “Benji was captured in El Paso, not San Antonio. All they’d know is to take his wanted posters down.”
“Oh.”
Mounting up again, the Dawson brothers continued on through the long, hot afternoon, their horses growing lathered under the exertion. In the distance, hills rose into their sight, marking the hill country that encompassed San Antonio and the smaller towns that surrounded it. Bypassing farming and ranching villages, Aaron decided they’d camp for the night near a river, realizing they’d not reach San Antonio that day.
Sitting beside the fire after eating half-heartedly, Aaron glanced up into the darkness and saw Franklin. Dressed in the same clothes they buried him in, he gazed at Aaron with sorrow. He did not smile yet raised his hand as though in greeting. With a low cry, Aaron started up, half in panic and half in joy, garnering the attention of
the other two.
At his movement, Franklin vanished.
“Did you see him?” Aaron gasped. “Did you? He was right there.”
Elmer peered into the shadows, frowning. “See who, what?”
Drawing his gun, George stood up and paced away from the fire, searching. “I don’t see anybody.”
“Franklin.” Aaron pointed to the spot. “He stood right by that rock.”
Elmer scowled. “Are you out of your mind now?”
George holstered his gun and returned to the fire. “There’s no one there, Aaron.”
“But I saw him. I swear it.”
“No such thing as ghosts, Aaron,” Elmer growled. “Franklin is dead.”
“I know what I saw, Elmer,” Aaron insisted, still staring, his eyes wide. “He raised his hand like this.”
Aaron repeated the gesture, but Elmer shook his head. “Your grief for him is playing tricks on your mind,” he said, his tone filled with sorrow. “We are all grieving for him.”
Opening his mouth to protest further, Aaron closed it again. Elmer and George would never believe him. He scarcely believed it himself. Why would Franklin come back from the dead to haunt him? Despite it was Aaron’s fault he got hurt so bad, it was Elmer who actually put him down like a rabid dog.
Haunt Elmer, not me. You said you forgave me, remember?
His sleep that night was fractured by dreams of his dead brother – Franklin’s face twisted in agony, holding his arms out to Aaron in supplication, his mouth saying, let me go even if no sound came out. Tossing and turning, often waking to stare at the stars, Aaron found no peace in his sleep that night.
Nor will I find it ever again.
Chapter Eighteen
On Victor’s heels, his rifle in his hand, Tyler heard Olivia scream for Charlene. A swift glance over his shoulder informed him that Charlene ran as quickly as she could behind him, her skirts in her hands. Knowing that to stop and demand from her to go back into the house was as useless as telling the wind not to blow, he continued on toward the rear of the house.
Victor stopped dead, Tyler all but slamming into his back. Thinking the sheriff had found something, Tyler gazed around, walking into the shadows and found nothing. There was no one back there and also no Harold or the other man who was supposed to stand guard. “Did you see something?” he asked.
“No, dammit,” Victor replied, his voice tight. “Where’s Harold?”
Charlene arrived, asking, “What happened?”
“We don’t know,” Tyler answered, exploring the small yard, peering across the fences into the neighbors’ property. “No one is here.”
“That was Harold’s voice yelling,” she said, striding toward the front of the house. “I’m sure of it.”
Tyler went with her, baffled as to what may have occurred. Standing by the street, he gazed up and down the quiet neighborhood, listening to dogs barking a distance away. Suddenly, Charlene pointed toward the alley that ran between the homes across the street.
“What’s that?”
Peering into the gloom, Tyler thought he saw two men walking toward them, something between them, but he couldn’t be sure. “Hello?” he called.
“We caught one,” Harold hollered back. “The other two got to horses and ran off. This one wasn’t as quick.”
Crossing the street, the two men approached the house, the lights from within the windows illuminating them as they drew closer. Charlene gasped. “That’s just a boy.”
Harold and the other man firmly held the arms of a struggling youth, their grips on him relentless. Behind Tyler and Charlene, Olivia opened the door to the house as Victor trotted around the corner. “What have you got?” he demanded.
Harold and the other man hauled the boy up the porch steps and into the light. “I’d say this here is Ian Miller.”
“Let me go,” the kid squalled, trying to kick, whipping his head back and forth, his dirty face a mask of terror.
“One of the Miller boys?” Olivia asked, standing aside and holding the door as the men dragged the kid into the house.
Tyler’s eyes met Charlene’s, seeing the confusion that must be in his own. “Why would the Millers be harassing us?” she asked, baffled.
“That is what I intend to find out,” Victor snapped, gesturing for Tyler and Charlene to precede him into the house.
Harold and the other man, whom Tyler found out was Jack Ortega, also the local undertaker, sat the kid firmly on the couch and stood over him. Their hands on his shoulders kept him securely planted, even as Ian glared his hatred at Tosahwi, his tears created clear streaks down his stained cheeks.
“All right, Ian,” Victor bellowed, standing in front of him with his fists on his hips. “Start talking.”
Tyler watched as Ian’s expression turned mulish, his mouth closed tight, his brown eyes under the tangle of dark hair defiant. He said nothing. Guessing him to be about twelve years old, Tyler couldn’t help but admire the way he glared back at Victor, not intimidated by the sheriff or all the adults in the room staring at him.
“I know it was you boys who threw that rock and hit me,” Victor went on. “That’s an offense I can put you in jail for. Why are you coming around here, boy?”
Ian shunted his eyes to the side and still said nothing.
“Were you the ones taking shots at Miss Quinn and Mr. Price?”
This time, Ian flicked a glance toward Victor, then away again. Tyler knew immediately it was indeed Ian and his brothers who were responsible for almost killing him and Charlene. “Why were you trying to kill us?” he asked. “Did you set fire to my place?”
Sullen, the kid sat silent, determined not to say a word. Tyler glanced at Harold. “Did you find the horse he was trying to get to?”
Harold nodded. “It’s still tied up a few streets over.”
“Jack,” Victor said, not taking his fierce stare off the kid. “Will you go get it? It might have the Bar H brand on it.”
“Right away.”
The undertaker slipped out of the house and into the night.
“Stealing horses is a hanging offense here in Texas,” Victor went on. “If that pony was stolen from the Bar H, you will hang, son. Is that what you want? The court don’t make allowances for little bitty boys.”
“I ain’t done nuthin,” the kid replied, sullen, not looking at Victor.
“If that horse comes back with the brand I think it will,” Victor told him, setting his hands on his knees and bending toward Ian to be on eye level with him, “then you are guilty of stealing horses.”
“It wasn’t me,” Ian cried, tears leaking from his eyes again. “It was Kevin. He did it, not me.”
Victor straightened, glanced at Tyler and Charlene. “That be the oldest. About sixteen, I think. Dennis is the middle one, maybe fourteen.”
“Kevin made me,” Ian sobbed. “I didn’t want to. He threw the rock, stole them horses.”
“What for?’ Victor demanded.
Ian jerked his head toward Tosahwi. “Him. Kevin hates Injuns just like our pa did before he ran off. Kevin says all Injun lovers should die.”
“Was it Kevin who tried to strangle Tosahwi that first night?” Charlene asked.
Ian nodded. “I told him, we would get into trouble, but he don’t listen.”
“So, it was you who tried to shoot at us,” Tyler said.
“Damn Injun lovers.”
Victor raised his hand as though to slap his face. “You watch your mouth, boy. You just admitted to stealing horses and being an accessory to attempted murder. Burning down that bunkhouse is arson, which is a crime that’ll put you in jail for the rest of your life. Provided the judge don’t hang you.”
Tyler felt sorry for the kid as he whooped in loud sobs, crying his heart out. “It was Kevin who made me,” he wept, his shoulders shuddering. “I didn’t wanna.”
Charlene leaned toward Tyler, murmuring, “Odd how he swings between remorse and defiance.”
“He’s a kid
,” Tyler replied. “He only knows what he’s been taught, hatred for the Indians and anyone who helps them, yet still a young boy who is scared to death. It must have been him I heard crying that night.”
Charlene nodded. “I knew all those boys were troubled but had no idea it was this bad.”
“I’m guessing no one did.”
Tyler met Harold’s eyes over Ian, who nodded. “Their pa was a bad one,” he said, his voice low. “Always in the bottle, beat the kids and his wife, spewing his hatred of Indians, Negros and Mexicans. Anyone who wasn’t white.”
An Unconventional Bride For The Rancher (Historical Western Romance) Page 17