Archer's Return

by Leona Grace

  “It was the spring after I got there, so I was maybe eight. They didn’t celebrate birthdays in the orphanage, we worked in the mornings and went to school in the afternoon if we’d done all our jobs. So I said I could help and I was good with horses and he took me with him, there and then. It was hard work, but there was plenty of food and that was all I cared about.”

  “Not as good as Faith’s meals I bet.” A reminder of better times.

  A sigh of longing. “She makes the best pies. I remember my ma making pies. Those were good as well.”

  Time to get the conversation back on track. ‘So how long did you stay with the mule train?”

  “About a year, I think. I didn’t get any money, but I never went hungry. They were rough men, but kind enough. Even made me keep up my lessons and helped me learn my reading. Anyway, in spring we arrived in Harville, delivering supplies. I was dragging sacks inside the store when a man came in to collect the ranch supplies. Mr Bishop – the old man. He gave me a bag of butterscotch for helping him and…”

  “You followed him home?”

  A sad, quick smile. “I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had butterscotch, so I stowed away in his wagon. I don’t know why. I’m not even sure if he knew I was there. And once we got to the house I found somewhere to hide. There was plenty of food around if you knew where to look – even better than before so I thought I’d be alright, until he found me in the cook shack one night, helping myself to bread and cheese.”

  There were plenty of places a boy could have hidden. The hayloft or the unused storerooms, under the wagons or in the dark corners of the stables. The trick was not to get caught. “He took you in, didn’t he.”

  “Gave me a bed in the bunkhouse, found me some clothes, fed me. Told Cooper to keep an eye on me until I’d learned to do a good day’s work in the stable, mucking out and cleaning the tackle.” Duane dug in the pocket of his pants. “He gave me this at the end of my first month. My first dollar. I’ve kept it for good luck the last six years, and I’m saving for a place of my own. At first I thought about opening a store, like my pa, but I don’t like being inside all the time. I’d rather keep horses.”

  “What was he like? The old man, Mr Bishop?”

  “Something fierce at times. Used to shout at the men if they did something wrong. He was alright with me, but he was hard on his own son. My dad never shouted at me like that. And then once Nathan went to fight, he changed and I kept my head down and stayed quiet and no one bothered much with me.”

  Not much of a childhood. He wondered how he might have grown up given the life Duane had led so far. The boy yawned and he took pity on him. “Get some sleep. Tonight’s going to be cold, so wrap up. There’s a spare blanket in my bed roll if you need one.”

  Meg snorted and he went over to check on her and the others picketed a few yards away. Enough water and fodder until morning, the ground soft enough for them to lie down if they chose. He spent a couple of minutes running his hand down her back, appreciating her strength and endurance, her willingness to keep going. Like the boy.

  It was hard to imagine any young lad being left alone like that with no relatives or friends, not even a single token as a reminder of his family. Archer had the solace of his father’s last letter and the three gifts left for him and, even more, he had Faith. Duane had nothing: no gravestone for his family, no special reminders of his parents, no family heirlooms. A young lad at the start of manhood and no one to cheer him on.

  The boy was lying down when he returned. A slender shape stretched out and silent. The flames had died down but there was still enough light to sparkle in the wetness on young cheeks. There would be no further talk tonight and he unrolled his own bed, leaving the boy protected between him and the fire. It was going to be another cool night and they were both tired. Arms behind his head, he stared at the stars and tried not to listen.

  Chapter 10

  The valley opened out ahead of them with the river on the far side. A small stream ran close by, heading for the larger watercourse and Archer slid from his saddle and stood there, one hand gripping the pommel. A hard ride for both men and horses, but they were down from the hills and the worst of the journey behind them.

  The horses deserved a rest and he dragged his saddle from Meg’s back and unbuckled the bridle. A tug of her ear, a quiet word of thanks before he let her loose and the mare, freed from her restraints and with a stretch of sandy ground in front of her, raced free, bucking and leaping with the joy of being released. Duane was busy with his mount, the gelding tossing his head in his eagerness to run. Bran, once free of his burden, was less boisterous, contenting himself with rolling on his back and then lying down, head stretched out and rubbing his cheek against the grass.

  They would stay here for the night. Water and grazing for the horses, fresh meat for him and the boy if they were lucky, and an early start in the morning. The boy had been withdrawn since breakfast and a few hours relaxing would do no harm. He shook his head at his own thoughtlessness. This was no boy standing beside him. This was a young man: breaking voice, fledgling beard, limbs grown too long for his clothes.

  A memory flashed into his mind of William stretching his arms and his shirt ripping under the strain and the two of them falling about laughing. He’d found one of his own shirts for his brother and was surprised how well it fitted. No growing lad should go dressed in clothes that were too small. He would find him new pants and shirts when they got back. Maybe even look to buy some when they got to Dalton’s Gap in a few days.

  He’d keep the conversation easy for a while as well; there’d be time for serious talk on the way home and, once back at the ranch, he’d have to see about doing more for the lad. More responsibility instead of giving him the jobs no one else ever wanted, maybe hand him over to Ganlet to work with the colts for the next year. The army paid good money for well-trained horses. But for today they would rest.

  He watched the horses for a while: Meg frolicking like a new-born foal, Bran lying flat out, Rusty kicking his heels and chasing after the mare. The river tempted him with its promise of cool fresh water but he put the thought aside for now. There would be time for relaxation when he was done with his errand. Until then he needed to maintain his image of a rough cowhand on the search for a better life.

  Duane dropped his saddlebags on the ground and twisted his spine to loosen the stiffness. “Which way to Dalton’s Gap?”

  He pointed at the hills ahead. ‘See the line of hills? We’re heading beyond those. Three days if we push the horses.”

  The lad shaded his eyes and stared. “Will you be stopping long in the town?”

  ‘Depends. If the sheriff’s around I’ll have a word with him and see how the land lies, but I’m more concerned about where to put you while I’m…” He paused. “While I’m doing what has to be done.”

  “I’ll stay out of your way. You can trust me.”

  He glanced sideways. “I do. But what I don’t know, is who else I can trust. James Lancey’s one, but there’s few I’d be willing to trust with my life, or yours.”

  “Will anyone recognise you? In the town?”

  “I hope not.” He took off his hat and ran his fingers through hair grown too long. “I was what… twenty-three when I joined the war? Lot’s changed since then. I’m no longer the man I was when I set out, and they all think I’m dead anyway. You might have to come with me, but hopefully we’ll just be another couple of hands looking for work. Might have to say you’re my brother or something.”

  “I can make camp outside the town, stay well clear of anyone and look after Bran until you get back.”

  The thought was tempting, but Duane was a stranger to the area and if things were going wrong for George and Martha, then he had no idea what else might be amiss. He had been a fool to let the boy come along but it was too late now. Only two choices remained: travel to Dalton’s Gap and hope something turned up, or send him across country, alone, to Vancross. Neither option was wel
come. If need be, he could always ask Lancey to take care of the boy for a few days.

  From what he remembered, the sheriff had a son of his own – a full-grown and successful businessman living some two hundred miles east in Abbotsville – and he might be persuaded to let the lad stay with him and his wife. He shrugged and spread his hands out. “No need to make a decision right now. Things might change before we get there. Now, I’ll get some wood and start a fire. D’you fancy trying your hand at fishing?”

  “Can I? I haven’t been fishing for ages. Last time was just before you arrived at the ranch when Ray and I went out one evening.”

  The enthusiasm was childlike and endearing. “Well then, about time you had another turn. Why don’t you head for the river and see if you can catch us something for supper. There’s hooks and line in my saddlebags.”

  It would give the lad something else to think about, and with any luck they might have fish to eat later. He’d heard the thud of rabbits warning of their approach but it was still too light. Come dusk, he’d head over to the trees and settle down to wait.

  Duane gathered the tackle, dug a couple of worms out of the damp banks of the stream and headed off whistling, any cares put aside in the anticipation of a quiet hour beside the river. Archer set to work, building a fire pit and finding wood ready for later, then watching the boy settling down to wait for the first bite. He’d found a slender branch from one of the trees, sturdy and long enough to reach a good way across the river and he was casting the bait out to midstream. After the dreary and unsatisfying rations of the last few days, fresh food would be welcome. It was still too early to hunt rabbit and, after a watching for a while, he headed down to the river.

  “Anything?”

  The boy looked up from his seat on the bank. “A couple of bites, but I was too slow. I’ll do better now I know where they are – over there, in the shade.” He pointed to where water swirled in a lazy arc, cutting into the bank to form a deep pool on the other side.

  “Haven’t fished for a while myself. Used to go with my brother.”

  “D’you want…?” He held the pole out.

  Archer shook his head. “I’ll get my own and join you, if that’s alright?” The look on the boy’s face was reassuring and he cut a branch from the same tree and found hook and line and worm. Sunshine on his face, the water glinting in front of him. A quick glance at his companion and a smile in return. He cast the line out, a decent swing across, the hook landing plumb where he wanted it and he turned to the lad. “Last to land a fish does the cooking?”

  “You’re on.” Duane pulled in his line and recast, a determined throw that had Archer wondering who would be doing the work tonight, not that he minded preparing fish for the pan, but it was good to see the lad smiling again.

  By the time they had a half-dozen fat brown trout lying on the bank and had put away the tackle ready for another day, he was hot and dusty and the pool was a temptation he could resist no longer. “I’m going for a swim.” A pause. “Before I get supper ready.”

  Duane’s brief laugh made him grin and he stripped off: boots and socks, shirt and neckerchief, pants and undershorts last of all, before wading out into the gentle current and plunging into the pool, gasping as he surfaced. “Cold, but worth it.”

  A moment’s hesitation then Duane was stripping to the buff, clothes flung to the grass in a tangle before jumping down the bank and splashing across to where he bobbed easily in the deep waters of the pool. A fish breached the surface, a shimmering flash of silver before it disappeared again with a splash that startled both of them.

  He let himself sink below the surface, down and down until his feet touched the smooth rocky surface, the water cooling his face and head. Then he pushed himself to the surface and relaxed, arms sweeping through the water to keep himself floating in one spot.

  The boy stared, mouth tight, and he sank down into the water again but it was too late to hide the silvered scar on his breast.

  “Who… who did that?” The words spoken with concern and sympathy.

  He breathed out, letting the water support him as he touched the brand. “The men I killed last year. They would have done more, but…”

  “You stopped them.” A splash of water as Duane moved closer. “I didn’t know.”

  “Not many do. Tell you the truth, I’d forgotten you hadn’t seen it until now.”

  “It looks painful.”

  “It’s not, now.”

  “I wondered, when you came to the ranch last year. Sometimes you carried yourself like your shoulder was stiff.”

  The lad was more perceptive than he’d thought. “Best get out before we get chilled.” A couple of strong strokes brought him to the edge of the pool and he stood chest deep for a moment until he was sure the lad was on sound footing, then he made his way out onto the bank and dressed in shorts and pants before going back to the camp. He still had half a dozen fish to gut before trying his luck with the rifle. And the sun was still warm enough for him to wash his shirt and have it dry before evening.

  They ate well that night: pan-fried fish followed by spit-roast rabbit and camp bread. Duane was picking the last scraps from the carcass, sucking meat from the small bones before throwing them into the flames and Archer left him there and went over to the nearby stream to clean the grease from his hands and refill the coffee pot. It was only when he was on his way back to the campfire that he remembered the pieces of rock he had tucked in his pocket.

  He dug them out and held them in the palm of his hand. Three small chunks of glittering ore. “Forgot I had these. That miner? He was digging for this.”

  “Those are from the mine?” Duane hunched forward. “Looks like gold.”

  “It is.”

  “How much are they worth?” A gleam of excitement, of anticipation.

  “A man’s life? No amount of gold’s worth paying that price. There’s enough here to make a wedding ring maybe, so less than an ounce, I’d guess. Worth about twenty dollars.” He handed the tiny nuggets over. “That’s what happens when greed takes hold of you.”

  “Will you go back and dig for more?”

  He shook his head. “What would I do with a few gold nuggets out here? Gold won’t bring happiness, just more worry and there are enough people trying to steal things belonging to others.” He glanced at the boy. “I’ll be happy to take you back there, if you want to try digging yourself?”

  Duane passed the nuggets back. “I hate tunnels. You wouldn’t catch me going anywhere like that.”

  “Good. Then you won’t mind if I throw these away.” He tossed them into the flames. They would be lost among the charred bones. “Best place for them.”

  Tomorrow they would set off for the pass and Dalton’s Gap.

  Chapter 11

  “There it is; all we have to do is follow the line of the river up.” Archer pointed out the wide pass. “If we’re lucky there’ll be time to get something to eat before we camp on the other side of town.”

  Three gruelling days behind them, early mornings and late nights, pushing the horses – and themselves – hard. But there was no time to rest now. He forced Meg into a reluctant canter, concerned that they hadn’t found anywhere suitable to leave Bran behind. The packhorse was struggling to keep pace with Meg. Duane and Rusty were close behind, the sorrel finding it easier given its lesser burden.

  An hour’s ride took them along the pass and out to where Dalton’s Gap stood. In the gentle light of the setting sun the town looked warm and welcoming – soft shadows hiding the worst of the dirt and dust. They rode side by side, seemingly relaxed, yet he was aware of eyes watching them, of men shifting their stance, of an uncomfortable quietness around them.

  Meg danced sideways and he could feel her muscles twitching. Something was wrong. He gripped the reins tighter in one hand, eased the flap of his coat back from his side, touched the handle of the Remington with the tip of his fingers, even as Duane glanced at him. “Stay close.”

  Th
e General Store was as he had left it, dirty, and an air of bleakness clinging to the building. Other businesses fared no better: boarded windows, the Bank closed for business, the glass in the barber’s door cracked. He walked Meg to the Sheriff’s Office and sat there for a moment, before jerking the reins and pushing her on. They rode down the main street and out onto the open range beyond.

  Only when the town was behind them and out of sight, did he stop, away from the well-remembered trail and close to a small stand of trees. “We’ll stay here for a while.”

  “Why? I mean, I thought the sheriff was a friend of yours?”

  “Something’s wrong. James Lancey wouldn’t have his windows shuttered like that.” He dismounted and pulled his stirrups up the leathers. “Unsaddle the horses. I’ll go back on foot when it’s dark.”

  “Planning on leaving me behind again?’

  He sighed and ran one hand over his forehead, his fingers catching on the remains of the scab. A timely reminder. “You’re worse than William at times. If you promise to do as I say, you can come along. But if there’s any sign of trouble, you’ll have to leave. Got that?”

  “I promise.” The words were no longer sullen or grunted, A true promise and one that he respected. They’d both learned a lot about each other over the last few days. They unloaded panniers and saddles, hobbled the horses and gave them fodder. Quick and efficient, working in silence and not hindering each other. No need to give instructions either – Duane knew what needed to be done.

  The packhorse was weary and he ran a hand over its legs and back, testing for heat or strain, aware he had pushed the animal hard for the last few days and there would be little chance for a proper rest until they reached the Carpenter’s cabin. There was a back route – little used by his father – that edged Archer land and would bring them close to the acreage farmed by George. A quicker route, narrow tracks through rocky terrain and not practical for a farm wagon.