Archer's Return

by Leona Grace

  Archer’s Return

  Book 2 of the Sam Archer series

  Leona Grace

  Licence Notes

  Copyright © 2020 Leona Grace

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, events or locations is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this book are 18 years of age or older.

  This book is written in British English.

  Cover art: Copyright © 2020 Ex Aureolis

  Photos: Depositphotos

  Cover images do not imply model/photographer endorsement

  Edited by A.G.

  Dedication

  Dedicated, as always, to the friend who set me on this course

  and to all who have given me support and encouragement.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Licence Notes

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Afterword

  Also by Leona Grace

  Chapter 1

  Sam Archer stepped away from the fire pit and rubbed sweat from his face as another calf was dragged across to be branded. The heat was relentless. More hot weather ahead of them and still only half-way through June, the herd ill-tempered and the men lethargic. The glowing iron pressed down, filling the air with the stink of burning hair and the bellow of pain.

  A row of canteens hung from a rail and he grabbed the nearest, the water too warm to refresh but enough to wash the dryness from his throat. The last drops trickled over his face, and he collected the rest of the canteens and handed them over to Duane safe behind the fence and waiting his turn. “Give these to Ray to fill and then get yourself in there.” The look of delight on the boy’s face made Archer smile and he cupped his hands around his mouth. “Jonty? Hand over to Ganlet and come out once Duane’s back.”

  Duane hurried over to the gate, a wide grin on his face. He’d grown since last year, the gangly legs beginning to fill out with muscle, shoulders broadening. But at heart he was still a youngster, eager to please and prove himself one of the team.

  “Take your time, lad.” Sam put a hand on the lad’s shoulder. “Listen to Ganlet. Do as he says and you’ll be fine.”

  Jonty Cooper came over. “Sam.” A terse greeting, the foreman’s face filthy with dust and specks of blood and ash.

  Archer leaned back and folded his arms, the rail hot against his back, his shirt soaked, sweat running down his neck to be caught in the dusty folds of his bandana. “Duane’s been itching all day to get his hands dirty. He’ll do better without worrying what the foreman’s thinking. Buck’ll keep an eye on him.” He jerked his head at the wagon. “Get something to drink.”

  He watched Duane wrestle one of the smaller calves to the ground and hold it down with the help of one of the new men. A shout and a bark of laughter as the calf fought to escape, the glow of the brand, the hiss of hot metal against young skin.

  Buck was doing a good job so no need for him to stand sentry, and he opened the gate and walked away, heading for the barrel of cool water in the shade of the trees and a quiet word with his foreman.

  Cooper was down by the camp fire, stabbing at the embers with a long stick, and Sam grabbed a couple of clean mugs, filled them with water and handed one over. “Duane’s doing well.”

  “The boy learns fast.” Cooper stretched one leg out, running his free hand down his thigh.

  “Leg bothering you?”

  One long swallow drained the mug, the stick poked at the fire again, the ashes and embers stirred into brief life before settling down. “Dammed calf kicked me.”

  “Bad?”

  “Just aches. I’ll be fine.”

  “Dance is on Saturday. You should rest it.” Archer reached for the coffee pot. “No shame in admitting it hurts. Everyone gets kicked now and again.”

  The foreman leaned forward, fingers massaging the leg, digging deep into muscles. “Saw Buck giving you and Duane dance lessons in the barn.”

  Archer sighed. “I knew the boy wanted to learn, and I…” He grimaced at the thought of the last time he’d danced – a social gathering at Dalton’s Gap and he’d taken Catherine. His parents had been there, and William. “It’s been a long time and I didn’t want to let Faith down.”

  Cooper shook his head. “You won’t. Not seen her as happy for a long while. Running the ranch was hard for her to take on.”

  He bristled at the implication. “She did a good job. As good as any man could do, if not better.”

  The foreman raised a hand. “I meant after everything that happened – Mr Bishop going to war and leaving her like that. She…” He straightened his leg, hissing. “She came to me once. Said she didn’t think she could do it any more and I told her she had to, for Nathan’s sake. But I know she didn’t like it, not really.”

  He hadn’t realised. “I thought, maybe, she only asked me to take over because…”

  “You married her? Don’t get me wrong, boss, but if Faith Archer wanted to run this ranch, then that’s what she’d be doing. Right now she’s happier than I’ve seen her for a long while. If she wanted things done different, she’d tell you. And so would I.”

  High praise. He sat back and watched the men in the corral. Bear padded over to join them, covered in dust and burrs, and wanting his ears scratched.

  Cooper rolled his shoulders to ease the stiffness. “Herd’s looking good.”

  “Need some rain to bring the grazing on, but they’ll fetch a good price.” And that was all that mattered. “Once the drive’s over, I’ll look at moving the rest down from the hills before winter. We’ve got enough men to do that now.”

  “Been keeping an eye on the new hand.” Cooper paused and glanced over at the group in the corral.

  “Mason?” There’d been a spate of men coming and going, some only lasting a week before moving on again. Mason was the latest – a man who kept himself to himself.

  “Yep. He’s a sly one – got a way with him I don’t partic’ly like. Works hard enough, but you have to keep your eye on him. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with the way he works, but…” The foreman gave another shrug. “He’s one of those men who sneaks everywhere if you get my drift. As if he’s trying to avoid being seen. Creeps up on a man without him knowing. I wouldn’t be sorry to see him leave.”

  “Don’t know much about him. He needed work and we’re short-handed. Ex-army, from the look of him.”

  Cooper spat on the ground. “Perce says he’s got a slingshot and knows how to use it. Also told me Mason dropped a Confederate belt buckle from his pocket last night. Hid it away before anyone else noticed. Not sure I like the thought.”

  “A man has to fight for what he believes in, even if he loses.” At least Mason hadn’t gone the way of some ex-soldiers – turning to crime. “Give him a chance to find his place; the war was tough on everyone.”

  “You’re the boss. Two mo
re nights and we’ll be home. I’ll keep my eye on him ’til then.”

  Archer clapped the foreman on the shoulder and went back to the corral to help rope the next group of calves. Only another hundred or so and they’d be done and on their way home tomorrow.

  Chapter 2

  The last calf staggered to its feet, bellowing and dazed, and Archer swung the gate open and let the men herd the beasts out of the corral to where their mothers waited. The wagon was ready, the horses saddled, the camp packed away until next year. He looked around; a good site even if the fences needed repairing; but without more men there’d be little hope of doing anything this far away from the ranch.

  The ranch needed another barn and storeroom; the cookhouse was showing its age and Cooper and Buck would want cabins of their own soon enough if he was not to lose them. There was a plot of land a mile or so from the main house that would make good homesteads – nothing too big, but large enough for a man and his wife to grow crops and keep a few animals just as George and Martha were doing back home.

  Home. Even after a year, the memories were painful: that moment on the hilltop when he saw the charred ruins of his home, and then finding the graves of his family. Everyone he had known and loved, gone. The old Archer ranch was Dalton land now and owned by Catherine, the woman he had once thought to marry. Sometimes, when he woke late at night, he wondered about the farm: whether it was still as peaceful, whether the graves of his parents and brother were being tended, whether anyone had rebuilt the house.

  He would write another letter to George and Martha and post it on Saturday when he and Faith went to Harville for the summer dance. Cooper and Ganlet and pretty near all the regular hands were going – even Duane. He’d heard the lad talking about it, the shirt put aside for the occasion, the Sunday tie he was going to wear, seen the smiles and looks from the other men. A likeable lad and never afraid of hard work.

  A shout from Cooper alerted him to the cattle heading for the river bank and he hauled himself into the saddle. Duane clambered onto the wagon and collected the reins, Perce and Ganlet and the others took their places and he pulled off his hat, waving it in the air as he gave the order to move out. And then they were heading for home.

  Fifteen miles to go – too far to travel in one afternoon – so they took their time: the creak of wheels, the tread of cattle on hard ground, the occasional bark as Bear herded a stray back into line. He sucked the last of Faith’s peppermints and took a drink from his canteen.

  The trail took them alongside a thick stand of trees and Meg tossed her head, her muscles bunched and ready and he tightened his grip on the reins and sat deep in the saddle, searching for whatever she had seen. Something stirred in the shadows under the trees and he pulled the mare to a halt. Not wolves – Bear would have warned him of those – and he slid his rifle out, slow and cautious and all the while his eyes seeking for the darker shape under the branches.

  The merest whisper of movement, a flash of colour, a low growl from the dog beside him before the branches parted to reveal a young man: tall and slender and proud, long blond hair, hands open and empty and held out. A torn and stained buckskin tunic, tattered leggings, moccasins little more than scraps of leather on filthy feet. A few eagle feathers and some broken beadwork decorated the tunic. A single strand of leather and a few beads for a necklace. No paint or cloak or buffalo robe.

  He lowered the rifle and slid it back in its sheath, loosened his hold on the reins and pressed Meg into a slow walk to where the Indian waited beneath the trees. He was aware of Cooper urging his horse forward and the others turned to face the newcomer and he held up one hand in warning. “Cooper? With me. The rest of you stay back; no need for guns.” A slow dismount, his eyes fixed on the man and the darkness behind. Bear was at his side, silent and wary. He waited.

  The man bowed his head for a moment. “I am unarmed. All I ask is for some food. Nothing more.”

  The voice was softer than Sam expected and he took another step closer, seeing the hollow cheeks, the thin frame concealed by the over-large tunic, the look of hunger in the proud eyes. A long knife and a rifle lay on the ground, out of reach. Despite the clothing, his face was that of a white man – pale skin tanned by the sun, bright blue eyes, hair even lighter in hue than Faith’s. Archer clicked his fingers and the dog sat. “Food?”

  A nod. A sideways glance. “I can trade.”

  Trade. The youth had nothing other than a knife and a rifle, and probably no ammunition for that. No wonder he was starving. “What happened to your tribe?”

  “Soldiers. They came to our village last year. Slaughtered everyone: my mother and my uncles, the young men, the women, the children. All of them. And then they burned it down.” The youth glanced sideways and his fingers twitched. “I was hunting buffalo.”

  “And your father?”

  “An army scout. Killed in the war.”

  Sam held still, not turning his head or breaking his stare. “Cooper?” The youth had the stance of a warrior, his head held proud and fearless and, as such, deserved his own respect.

  “We’ve more than enough going spare if that’s what you want to do, boss.” The foreman sounded hesitant, and no wonder. But Sam had seen Indians fighting in the war, had worked with them and admired their skill and their courage. And now, despite the promises and treaties, they were being hunted and imprisoned, taken from the land where they had lived for generations. Indian blood, even Indian clothing, was enough to condemn someone. But this man – as far as he could tell – was no Indian, not even a half-breed, not that it mattered to Archer.

  “Enough for one man for a couple of weeks. Beef, beans… whatever. I’ll leave it to you.” And then the branches parted to reveal a young girl, huge eyes and thin face, budding breasts beneath a tattered dress, her bare arms stick-thin. A child, her dark hair braided, a look of hopelessness and fear and hunger in her eyes.

  He turned away. “Jonty?” A softer voice this time, unwilling to frighten the girl more.

  “Sam?” Cooper had seen as well. The use of his name, the anger in the foreman’s voice and the pity as well.

  “As much as you think he can carry. And some blankets? We don’t need them in this heat. I’ve got spare pants and a shirt as well. Duane knows where they are.”

  The man shook his head. “I cannot…” The girl huddled behind him, hunched and nervous. “My sister was gathering berries. We are the only ones left.”

  Cooper was clattering about in the wagon. Sam could hear someone arguing and Perce’s gruff voice remonstrating, Duane talking urgently about beans and cornmeal and salt pork. A cow bellowed. Meg shook her head, the jingle of metal, the stamp of hoof on hard ground.

  “Don’t need a rifle.” He waved a hand at Meg’s saddle and the leather sheath. “I’ll trade for your necklace, though.”

  “This?” The youth pulled at the leather thong with its blue beads and quills, before lifting it over his head and holding it out. A moment of trust. The youth’s knife close enough to be of danger.

  Sam stepped forward and lifted the thin length. “A warrior’s piece. Yours?”

  A shake of the head. “My father’s.”

  “Then I won’t take it, but you’re more than welcome to as much food as you can carry and anything else you need.” He turned his back on the youth. “Duane? There’s a box of cartridges left.”

  Mason spat on the ground and scowled. “Giving that animal ammunition? If you’re lucky he’ll shoot you in the back before he scalps you. Wouldn’t give one of them –” He spat again in the direction of the lad. “– a sack of dead rats.”

  “Shut it, Mason, or you’ll find yourself riding drag the rest of the way home.” Cooper was loaded with blankets and small sacks of beans and flour, bacon and other provisions. A larger bag of dried beef, another of pork, dried fruit and sugar and salt. A cooking pot and some utensils. Enough to keep the two fed for a couple of weeks at least.

  Duane approached, hesitant and wary, holding a box o
f ammunition. “Thirty left. Is that alright?”

  It would do for a while and he had enough spares in his saddlebags. “Give them here. And a couple of water sacks.” He glanced over at Cooper. “Can you think of anything else?”

  The foreman shook his head. “Not unless they want to ride along with us and get a few meals.”

  “He won’t do that until he knows he can trust us. Not after what they’ve been through.” He turned to the youth. “We’ll be making camp a few miles ahead. You’re welcome to share a meal later.” But it was unlikely. He waited while Cooper put the supplies on the ground with the blankets and clothes, then he added the ammunition and stepped back. “Think about it and I’ll keep a watch out for you.”

  It was hard to ride on and leave them behind. The boy looked half-starved and barely an adult and Sam would have given him more, but he had seen the shame in the youth’s expression at the need to ask for help. Had it not been for his sister, likely he would have hidden in the trees and starved to death. Pride was a foolish thing. The only thing he could do was slow the drive down and hope they would come close to the camp. He would leave more food before they left in the morning and hope the lad had the sense to take it.

  They reached the camping ground early evening, letting the cattle spread out to search for fresh grazing or dip their mouths in the slow running river. The water was lower than he’d seen it before, the hills dry and parched and the ground tinder-dry. Ray was concerned about one of the geldings – an old boy a few years past his best but always eager to please. The ride had bruised one of the piebald’s hooves and he was footsore and miserable and any further walking in the few days would be cruel if not impossible, even with thick padding to protect the hoof. It would mean resting the animal, but that was impossible as well. Kinder to put it out of its misery, and yet, despite his discomfort, the pied was still placid and willing.