Archer's Return

by Leona Grace

  A rattling cough, bloody froth on thin lips. “Should never’ve come here. Tell my boy I’m sorry.”

  “I will.” He sat there with Duane, the two of them watching and listening as Elias Dalton died, and then he held the boy in his arms as he wept, his own eyes blurred with sorrow for a young man’s lost innocence. There were no words of comfort he could give, no solace or forgiveness. A life had been taken and even though it had been done to save his own, he knew something of the boy’s distress. Nothing would ease the pain.

  When the worst was over he sent the lad to find water for Meg – not that she needed any but it would keep him busy for a while – and he left Dalton on the porch and went across to inspect the old barn. A solid enough structure with a decent woodpile at the far end and a quantity of musty hay and he toppled the woodpile into an untidy heap before he backed the wagon closer.

  A few minutes hard work had the bodies lying side by side on the dry timber and hidden beneath a layer of hay and the canvas shroud. He was leading the wagon out into the fresh air when the lad reappeared and he handed the reins over and hurried back to close the doors. “There’s tools in the other barn. We’ll take as much as we can carry back with us.”

  The newer barn was full: a decent plough, a collection of saws, scythes and rakes and pitchforks, shovels and axes, and they loaded the wagon.

  “What now?” Duane was pale, hands trembling and his eyes red.

  “Take the wagon and head back. I’ll see to things here and catch up with you in a while.”

  “What’re you going to do?”

  “What I have to.”

  “You can’t bury them all, not by yourself.” Duane looked tired and he saw the pain in his eyes, but the voice was more forceful than he expected.

  “No, I can’t.” He wiped one hand over his forehead, his eyes stinging with sweat. “There’s only one decent thing I can do and that’s burn them. Leaving animals for scavengers to clear is one thing, but not men. Whatever they did, they deserve to be treated right.” He looked at the house. “No one’s going to want to live here, not after what the Daltons did. Best thing we can do is get rid of it, clear away the taint and give the land a clean start. It’s unlikely Jack Dalton’ll come back, but in case it happens, I’ll leave a barn and the bunkhouse for him.”

  “I’ll help.”

  He shook his head. “No. Not this time, son. You’ve done enough already. Best you leave it to me. I’ve…” He swallowed. “I’ve done this sort of thing before. Trust me, take the wagon and leave. Me and Meg? We’ll be with you soon enough.”

  “I thought…” A long pause before the boy shook his head and climbed up. A flick of the reins, the horses taking the strain, the creak of wheels on dry earth, metal clattering, the rattle of tools, the wagon moving away and leaving him alone with Meg, standing by the wooden fence of the empty corral. He waited until he could hold his thumb up and not see the wagon behind it, and he went over to the corral and brought the lone horse out, tying it next to Meg. Then he began work.

  Dalton was not a big man, but it was impossible to lift the dead weight and in the end he resorted to dragging the body into the house. An ignominious end for any person, but better than the alternative. A quick search of the house revealed nothing of any value, no money or supplies other than a few sacks of flour and some ham, but he found two full oil lamps, a can of kerosene and a threadbare quilt. He dug Lancey’s matches out of his pocket, covered Elias with the quilt, emptied the lamps over him and lit a match. The flames were taking hold even as he walked across to the barn.

  A hard tug on the canvas had it slithering to the floor, and he opened the can of kerosene and poured it over the remains, splashing it over wood and walls and hay until it was all gone and he stank of oil and death. It took one match, tossed in from the doorway, to set the hay alight and then he ran, hurrying away to where the horses waited. The deep roar of flames leaping up walls and exploding outwards and then he was swinging himself into the saddle and reaching for the rope. “Let’s go.”

  A kick of his heels and the mare leaped forward, Dalton’s horse close behind. Once they were a safe distance away, he pulled her to a halt and turned to make sure he had done the job right. Bright flames rose high into the cloudless sky, dark smoke and sparks billowing from house and barn, the crackle of wood, the crash of falling timbers, and he lowered his head and rode on to meet the wagon. He did not look back again.

  Chapter 17

  The two of them arrived back to find Lancey and George putting the gunmen’s horses back in the corral, the animals lining themselves along at the fence like any well-trained mount, heads down and with an air of despondency. Hard-ridden animals not used to kindness. Little evidence remained of last night’s grim outcome other than the charred timbers of the barn and several dark draglines on the earth marking the removal of the less fortunate animals.

  Duane had not spoken since taking the reins of the wagon, the journey back completed in silence. They’d stopped once – to let the horses rest, Sam told him – but in reality to allow the lad time to recover. Even now, a good two hours after Elias Dalton’s death, the boy was struggling: hands still shaking, unable to look at Sam or answer questions. It was going to be a long trip back home, and not in terms of miles travelled and days spent riding. Distance was not the problem. He knew only too well what Duane was going through; the heart-stopping moment when a man realised he had taken another person’s life. Didn’t matter that it might have been in war, or self-defence, or in saving someone else. Nothing made it easier to bear.

  After his first time, he’d hidden in a ditch for hours, numb and sick and shivering. Even now the memories continued to haunt him in those dark hours when nightmares woke him from sleep. His first kill had been a Confederate sniper, picking off anyone who’d come within reach over the last four days: two officers, the quartermaster, a trio of newly-enlisted soldiers still raw and foolish, and his final victim – a young boy, the regimental piper. The piper, blond and small and unarmed and still with a child’s high-pitched voice, began playing one evening to entertain the men in camp. Bright tunes and laughter, soldiers joining in with rough voices and cheering him on until a single shot ended the music forever.

  Late that night Archer left his blanket and the warmth of the fire, took his rifle and made his way from one hiding place to another, working behind the enemy line until he saw the sniper’s lair. He’d always been good at hunting and keeping himself concealed, at being able to creep unheard through the thickest undergrowth, to hide in the shadows in plain sight and be unseen. It was this skill that made Daniel Sanford write and ask him to join the regiment as his senior scout, and he’d been glad to go and serve. A good cause, he’d told William, and they’d agreed that it would be a fine adventure and likely there’d be some tall stories to tell later.

  He only needed one shot before the sniper fell, crashing down through the branches to lie in a broken, bloody heap in the leaf litter on the ground. And he had seen, not just the body of the sniper, but also the line he had drawn. He had taken someone’s life. Now Duane had seen that same line and there was no going back from this point, only going forward.

  “Sam?” Lancey shut the corral gate and came to meet them. “What happened?”

  He shook his head. “Duane? Need help with the horses?” He was relieved to see a shake of the head. “Leave the wagon here; we’ll unload it later. Come inside when you’re done.” A quick glance at Lancey before he jerked his head towards the house. “I’d better wash first.”

  Even Martha’s lye soap could not remove the stink of kerosene and smoke and decay from his skin, and after a minute he stopped trying, rubbed his face and hands dry and went inside.

  The cabin was busy: George sanding a board charred by last night’s flames, Martha kneading dough on the scrubbed table. They turned as he entered.

  “Elias is dead.” The scrape of a chair as he pulled it out, his boots thudding on boards. George took a bottle of whiske
y down and poured him one, and then a second glass. “Jack should hear this.” The creak of bolts, pulling back, the storeroom door opening, and then Dalton was sitting at the table, face lined with tiredness and dirt, uncuffed hands reaching out for the glass.

  Archer put one hand to his head, feeling the coarseness of the stitches and the skin on his hand, hot and tight from the flames in the barn. “Your father’s dead.” He waited for a response but there was nothing, only the gulp of whiskey and the clink of glass. “I’m sorry. He gave me no choice.”

  “He tried to shoot you.”

  “Yes.”

  “I wouldn’t have missed.” A cold and callous voice. “I’ll have another drink if there’s one going.”

  Archer poured another for all of them, and they sat round the table drinking whiskey like old friends. He sipped his drink, eyes on the door, hoping the boy would take his time.

  Dalton shrugged. “So what happens now?”

  Lancey leaned forward. “The charge against you still stands. I’ll be taking you back to town to wait for the marshal and he’ll escort you to Vancross for a fair trial. After that, it’s out of my hands.”

  A scornful laugh. “A fair trial? What would you know?” Dalton sighed and tipped his empty glass over. “Doesn’t matter now. There’s likely a warrant out for me in Texas. Surprised I got this far without being arrested.” His eyes lingered on the bottle. “Never thought I’d end up hanging. Always thought it’d be a bullet that got me.”

  There was enough for one last drink. Archer poured it out and pushed the glass across. “Why are they looking for you?”

  “Train robbery four months ago. Shot three guards and a couple of passengers before we got what we wanted, but it was worth it.” He grinned at them, a boyish look that made Archer think of a small lad caught stealing apples in an orchard, not a callous killer who saw nothing wrong in gunning down defenceless men. “I thought we’d got away with it, but last week I heard they’d caught Spike somewhere near Denver and he must’ve spilt the beans. I never trusted him much. I guess I won’t be going back to the ranch now.”

  “There’s nothing left of the house.” Archer folded his arms. “I burned it.”

  The bark of laughter surprised all of them. “Good. The old man went on and on about that place. Kept telling me it was my future and all that. Wanted me to live there with him and raise beef and kept telling me how much we’d make when the first cattle drive came. Ten cents a head, if not more, he kept telling me. Ten stinking cents, when I’d got over forty thousand dollars hidden away just waiting to be collected.”

  He regretted the whiskey now. “There’ll be no one to rescue you this time. You know that, don’t you.”

  Dalton put his elbows on the table, head resting in his hands, his voice quieter now and tinged with some emotion – fear or resignation. “I always knew it’d end this way. Can’t say I’m surprised.” His fingers tightened. “I thought about being a farmer when I was a boy, if you can believe that?”

  The look of regret in Dalton’s face was not something he had expected. “What happened?”

  “I killed a man over money. Plain and simple. Sometimes…” He shook his head. “Look, it was him or me, and I made darned sure it was me. And then I took up with a gang while the war was on.” He leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Had good pickings until I came here: couple of banks, a payroll or two. When I get out of here I’ll most likely ride south and start again.”

  Duane came in, sat at the table hands, clasped together. Sam turned his attention back to Dalton. “You avoided the draft to go robbing banks?” It was impossible to keep the disdain from his voice.

  “It wasn’t my fight.” Shadowed eyes stared at him. “So what happened at the ranch?”

  Archer shrugged. “Why d’you want to know? It won’t change things.”

  “Not for me. As I said, it’s too late for that, but…” Eyes flickered over the lad. “For all his faults, he was my kin. I’d like to know.”

  “The boy and I took his men back. I thought he’d know who they were, or if they had any family, that sort of thing. He wasn’t interested. And I told him we had you here, and if anything happened to us, then you’d be the next one killed. I took your letter and he tried to shoot me. I was lucky.” It was not a lie, though he heard Duane shifting in his seat. “That’s all you need to know.”

  A harsh laugh. “He got what he deserved then. Should have killed the both of you the minute you came in range. That’s what I’d’ve done.”

  Duane pushed his chair back and stood, both hands flat on the table. “Then you deserve to die as well.” The chair toppled back, crashing to the floor as he walked out, the door slamming behind him.

  Archer put one hand on Lancey’s arm. “I’ll go. Get Dalton back in the storeroom where he belongs, and make sure he can’t escape.”

  Duane was with Rusty, his head leaning against the gelding’s strong neck, fingers tight in the coarse hair of the mane.

  Archer let his hand rest on one shaking shoulder for a moment. “He’s going to hang, you know?”

  “Good.”

  “When I was a prisoner I saw a friend hanged for spying. Cruel way to kill a man; firing squad’s kinder.” He shook his head at his own carelessness. “I mean…”

  The boy turned round. “I’ve never shot anything before. Not even hunted. My dad said I was too young and then there was the orphanage and the mules and since I’ve been at the ranch I was too busy learning what to do. Ray took me out shooting last year, just messing about – cans off a stump, that sort of thing. That’s all. My dad would have taught me, if he’d lived, but he didn’t.” He scrubbed at the tears brimming on his lashes.

  “And you took my gun and shot Elias Dalton. Not many lads could have done that. It takes a brave man to risk his own life.”

  “I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t even aim it. I just wanted to make him stop.” He wiped one sleeve over his eyes. “When does it get easier?”

  Thin shoulders beneath his arm as he hugged this young man who had come to mean so much to him. “The truth? It doesn’t. You just learn to live with it.”

  “Jack Dalton –”

  “Forget him. For all his bluster and bravado, he’s nothing but a coward. I guess if you asked him he wouldn’t be able to tell you one thing about any of the men he’s killed, even that first one. He doesn’t care and he never will. But you’ll always remember Elias Dalton and that’s the way it should be.”

  “Do you remember? All of them?”

  He closed his eyes for a moment. “Every single one. Not all their names – sometimes you don’t have time for names – but where they were and what they looked like and why I had to do what I did. I’ve never taken a life that didn’t need taking. But Duane?” He brushed a lock of hair away from the boy’s forehead. “What’s just as important is to remember the people you save.”

  A thin smile. “I don’t think Jack Dalton ever saved anyone.”

  “But you have. You saved me. That makes you a far better man than he ever was, and you’ve still got your whole life ahead of you.” He thought about a young boy climbing into a wagon only to find his whole family dead. “Your family would have been proud of you. I know I am.”

  “You are? I thought you were mad at me.”

  So many misunderstandings. He shook his head. “What gave you that idea?”

  “When you told me to leave with the wagon. You said I’d ‘done enough already’. I thought…”

  “Well you thought wrong, Duane Boardman. I meant you’d done a hard enough thing as it was and I just wanted to spare you more misery. My mistake. While we’re here, I need to tell you something.” He took off his hat and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. “I’m heading to Dalton’s Gap tomorrow, first thing. I’d take you with me, but I need you to stay here and help Lancey and George watch Jack Dalton.”

  “How long will you be?”

  “A day, maybe more. Depends on what I find there.”<
br />
  “Like?”

  The boy was as bad as William for asking questions. “Messages from the marshal or any sign of the rest of Elias’s men. I don’t want to let James go back if he’s going to be in danger.”

  “What about George and Martha? Are you going to leave them here like this?”

  “This is their home. If they want to stay, then who am I to say they can’t?” He sighed and shook his head. “When I get back we’ll see how they stand, but for now I want you to keep an eye on things here for me. Can you do that?”

  “Suppose so.”

  He clapped a hand on one thin shoulder. “I know you’d rather come along, but I’ll make it up to you when I get back. And we’ve got the ride home ahead of us.”

  A faint blush of pleasure coloured the boy’s cheeks. “I’m looking forward to getting back. D’you… d’you think you could teach me to shoot properly sometime?”

  “I think it’s be a good idea, don’t you? Until then, I’ll try to do a better job of taking care of you.” He sighed. “I owe you my life and that’s a big responsibility for any man. Now, let’s go see what Martha has for supper.”

  Chapter 18

  Dawn was peeking over the horizon when he roused himself, Duane and Lancey sprawled asleep on the bed in the boneless slumber shared by children and old men. A decent night’s rest, the thick rug and blankets better than any bedroll by a camp fire. The door creaked open and he padded barefoot into the living room to sit in front of the stove and pull on the grey socks Faith had darned with neat stitches while he’d worked on the ranch accounts. Borrowed shirt, boots, coat and hat, saddlebag lifted from the hook on the wall and then he made his way outside to the corral to call for the mare and feed her lumps of sugar.

  He left her tied to the rail and crunching, while he started the harder task of picking out a spare mount from the horses they’d gathered. Rusty was not his horse to take and Bran still not accustomed to reins, but the other horses were unknown and he took his time, checking hooves and legs before selecting a buckskin gelding. A poor beast compared to Meg, but good enough for the journey in mind.