Archer's Return

by Leona Grace

  Walker touched the sleeve of the shirt he was wearing. Archer’s shirt, the spare one from the wagon. Something trivial and insignificant. “You gave me these clothes. A gift, given freely in a time of need. We would have been hunted and killed if you hadn’t. I had nowhere else to go. Your wife gave me a pair of boots and said she’d make Red Moon some dresses and such but it would take a few days. It seemed better to leave her there in case….” Walker held his hand out for the canteen. “I’ll get more water.”

  Archer leaned back against the bark, too weak to move, every muscle, every sinew and joint and bone aching. Sunshine warmed his feet and he stretched his fingers wide, closing his eyes against the brightness. Red Moon was safe at the ranch, Duane was sitting next to him now, unharmed but shaken, and the man who had started this terror was lying dead. He could feel the boy shaking and he managed to wrap one arm around the thin shoulders and pull him closer. “It’s over. You’re safe. We both are. Tomorrow we’ll be back home.”

  A fierce, tight hug from the boy, hard enough to make him wince, but welcome all the same.

  Walker returned to hand over more water. “I’m going for the horses while it’s light. I’ll be back as soon as I can, so try to rest.”

  By the time he’d finished the second canteen, the sun was sinking. His fingers throbbed, his head ached, but with each mouthful of water he felt his mind clear, his limbs a little stronger. Not enough to walk unaided, but he would be able to sit a horse. Duane was silent and shivering. It would be a cold, cheerless night.

  “I thought we were going to die.” Duane was hunched over, arms wrapped round knees, head bent forward as if it was too painful to sit upright.

  “But we didn’t.” Perhaps it was time to be honest. “We were lucky. If Walker hadn’t followed Mason, we’d still be standing there. My mistake. I should have gone after him when he escaped.”

  The first stars were beginning to show, faint pinpoints of light in the cobalt sky. A bat fluttered overhead, a silent shape hunting early night moths. He leaned back to watch for more, keenly aware of the stiffness in every limb and joint, the rank stench of the last days wrapping him in a foul blanket. “Hands alright?” He held his out, the fingers looking a little more normal now, the rawness of the rope bright against suntanned skin.

  “Sore. It hurt more at the orphanage. You… I thought you were dying. And then…” A shake of the head, a glance sideways. “I knew you were watching, even when you couldn’t see.”

  It would be a long time before the memory faded, and as the thin shoulders leaned against his in search of comfort, his eyes closed and darkness welcomed him.

  Chapter 22

  A hand touched his shoulder and he thrust it away, his mouth dry and the taste of death on his lips. Even that slight action was difficult, his arm stiff and aching, his head fuzzy with more than tiredness, nightmares waiting to sink their fangs into his consciousness.

  “Archer? Wake up.”

  He pushed the hand away again, wanting the comfort of sleep, unwilling to open his eyes and face another senior officer requesting his presence. He’d done enough, hadn’t he? The thin mattress beneath him was as hard as the ground, but his blanket was warm and heavy and whatever barrack room he was in quieter than the usual raucous billets he’d endured. And he was bone-tired.

  “Sam.”

  An order this time, the voice allowing no refusal, and he groaned a reply of sorts and uncurled himself from his bed. “What?”

  “Sit up.”

  An arm slid under his shoulders and for a moment he thought about lashing out, but his knife was missing. Too late to do anything other than comply with the order, so he pushed himself up on his elbows, reluctant to open his eyes to daylight until he knew why he was being disturbed. “What d’you wan...” His voice slurred, his tongue sore, lips cracked and bleeding. He was naked beneath from the waist down, his legs covered by a rough blanket.

  “Drink this.”

  Metal against his lips, a faint smell of rotting grass and warm liquid on his lips. Barely warm, but his thirst was impossible to resist and he took a mouthful. The taste was enough to make him spit and turn his head away from the mug and its tainted contents. “Poison.”

  “Sam.” Duane’s voice now, urgent and scared and on his other side. “Trust me. You need to drink it. Tom says it’ll help. I know it tastes like cat piss but drink it. Please.”

  Duane. He should never have brought the lad along – he’d been nothing but trouble – but he took a mouthful and swallowed and another and another until there was no more. “Cat piss?”

  “No. Warm water with sugar and salt and herbs. Took me a while to find the plants I wanted. You were without water for a long time and you need to replace it. This is better than anything else.”

  He recognised Tom’s voice. The arm beneath him shifted. “Another. He needs more.”

  He was not going to be left alone. With a sigh of regret for his blanket and lost sleep, Archer opened his eyes.

  Trees towered over him, the night sky hanging overhead, a small campfire blazed a couple of yards away in a stone-lined pit, a kettle hanging over the flames. The warm smells of smoke and coffee and horses. “What…?” He rubbed his face, aware of tender skin, cuts and grazes, the thick soreness of his lips, the pounding ache in his head, burns stinging on his wrists. Mason leering at him, the blindfold and the gag.

  A shudder ran through him, his whole body beginning to shake with the memories filling his thoughts. He reached out, blindly. “Duane?”

  “I’m here.”

  “What happened? Where am I?”

  “You’ve been asleep for a couple of hours. Tom came back with the horses and we’re camping here until you’re fit to ride. Here.”

  Another mug, this one no less disgusting, but he drank it in one long swallow before handing the mug back. “Coffee next time?”

  Walker shook his head. “Best stick to cat piss until you’re on your feet again.” But even in the dim light, Archer could see amusement on the man’s face.

  “My pants? Where are they?”

  “I’ve washed them. Couldn’t get your shirt off without waking you though. Now go back to sleep. You need it.”

  He managed a thick ‘Yessir’ before lying back but, as tired as he was, he fought off sleep for a while, watching the flames and the man sitting cross-legged close by. Familiar and comforting sounds filled the night: the crackle of wood, a horse stamping its feet, the gentle roar of water boiling in the kettle and the soft splash as it was poured out. Duane rolled out a blanket and settled, the light from the small fire glinting in the boy’s eyes. Someone else staying awake, no doubt to avoid nightmares. He fought the urge for as long as possible, but he was warm and tired and his thirst satisfied for now and the boy had closed his eyes and he relaxed and did the same.

  The smell of coffee woke him some time after dawn. Duane was still a-bed, a long shape under a heap of blankets, Walker was pouring dark liquid into a mug, a mess tin near the fire, a haversack close by. Five horses edged the other side of the clearing: Meg hobbled at one end with Bran beside her, Rusty and the piebald he had given Walker. The horse looked healthy, standing square-footed with no sign of soreness. He recognised the last beast –Mason’s shaggy pinto last seen at the mule station.

  His stomach growled and he pushed back the blanket and sat, aware of bare legs and feet, but at least the stench had eased. “Breakfast?”

  Walker turned round. “Bread and eggs if you think you can eat something. How’re you feeling?”

  There was no point in lying. “Tired. Aching. Not so thirsty.”

  “Get dressed first.” Walker brought his pants and undershorts and socks, washed and still slightly damp, dropping them in a heap on the rough blanket. “Best I could do. Then if you can make it over here for a drink, you can have coffee after.”

  It took all his strength to pull on the damp clothes and get to his feet and take the few stumbling steps to where Walker was holding the mug
and he sat down with relief, his limbs shaking. The brew was as vile as the one last night, but he drank without complaint, the grinding headache fading and his mind clearing, leaving only deep weariness.

  The second mug contained a decent drink. Coffee, black and sweet and hot. A long swallow and another and he wrapped his hands round the mug, savouring the fragrance. “That’s Mason’s horse.” A nod at the pinto. “He took my guns.”

  “And your boots. I found them in his bags along with some other things. Looks as if he’d been stealing stuff for a while – pocket watches and wallets.”

  A thief as well. Cooper had been right not to trust the man, and yet Archer knew how easy it was to misjudge someone. He’d been wrong about Duane after all. He ate in silence, thinking about the day ahead. The ride home, the ache in his bones, the trembling in his legs when he tried standing. Walker was watching him.

  “No need to rush. You can be back at the ranch by evening if we take it slow.”

  Faith would be horrified if he returned looking like this: haggard and bruised, unable to stand without clinging onto something. It was only temporary – he could feel himself getting stronger all the time – but the ride home would tax him to his limits. He sat still, unwilling to speak.

  “Finish your breakfast.” Walker stood, brushing leaves and soil from his pants. Duane was stirring, faint snores coming from the bundle of blankets. “I’ll get your boots and we can make a move as soon as you’re both ready.”

  ***

  His shirt was filthy and torn beyond saving, but there was nothing else to wear. He was pulling on his boots when Walker reappeared, carrying a bundle of treasures: Archer’s hat and duster, rifle and gun and holster.

  “I found these. I guess Mason planned to pick them up later when…”

  “Guess so.” Archer pushed himself to his feet and held out his hand for the coat. The duster bore its own marks of the past few weeks, but he slipped it on. With any luck he would pass for just another vagrant, riding through town in search of work.

  It took a while for them to walk down to the wagon trail: the trees making it impossible to ride and his strength giving out more than once and he only made it to the end with Walker on one side of him, half-carrying his weight. Duane was quiet, staying close to Rusty and walking slow. A painful trek made worse when they passed Mason’s body crumpled beneath a tree. In the growing heat no corpse would remain untouched for long; as it was, flies were gathering round mouth and nose and the dark stains on the man’s chest and several crows were arguing noisily over the choicest morsels.

  Archer could feel no remorse or regret. The man got what he deserved, but even so, he turned to check on the boy. A brief look, a nod of shared understanding. They walked on, ignoring the birds and flies and stench.

  Mid-morning they reached the open trail. He took the pinto and rode alongside Walker, the horses keeping to a slow walk. The horse had spur marks on his flank and a look of fear in his eyes but there was no viciousness in the beast, just resignation and a surprisingly delicate mouth given its former treatment. He loosened the reins and let the gelding follow Bran and Rusty. It seemed to work, the pinto plodding along but making no attempt to misbehave and after a mile or so they fell into a quiet rhythm, horse and rider comfortable with each other, Archer content to sit in the saddle and let the pinto do the work.

  The ride to Harville took longer than he expected and he dozed, legs and spine aching. By the time they reached town the pinto was tired as well, dragging its feet as he led them through the back alleyways. No need to startle the decent folks of Harville or call attention to himself, but his real reason was darker.

  Had anyone recognised him – or Tom – questions would have been asked and then it might all come out: Walker’s heritage and his half-sister, Mason’s assault and the man’s own death at the hands of an ‘Indian’. Tom Walker would be hanged as a murderer and there was no way Sam Archer would allow that to happen. So he took the quiet path, slumped in the saddle and listing like a drunk, the pinto trudging along with only the occasional flick of the reins to guide it.

  They reached the other side of the town and he allowed himself to relax. Just a few more hours would see them all at the ranch and he would sleep in his own bed tonight with Faith beside him.

  ***

  Mid-afternoon found them making slow progress. Walker and the boy were alongside him now, the pinto struggling to keep pace even though it was making every effort. It was foolish to travel any further today, and one look at Duane was enough to make the decision easy. The boy looked ashen and diminished and fragile. Still a child for all his height, all trace of the confident youth gone.

  Sunlight glinted on water and he recognised the small stream he and Faith had followed such a short time ago on the ride to Harville, and he slipped his feet from the stirrups to slither down from the saddle, hands clinging to the pommel, legs threatening to buckle. Where had his strength gone? The feel of warm leather beneath his head as he leaned, ashamed of revealing his weakness before the others. The pinto turned its head and sidestepped. He heard Walker and the boy dismount and the sound of boots on the hard-packed earth of the trail.

  “I think we should stop here for the night. I’m…” He shook his head. No point lying, they knew well enough already. “I’m done in.” He watched Walker survey the area, a long and careful examination that spoke of an Indian upbringing. It was easy to forget his background – the man spoke fluent English and looked like any white man, but being brought up among natives would have given him a different insight into the land and its dangers. He would have made a good army scout.

  “A good place. Sheltered and safe.” Walker looked across at Duane. “We’ll stop here for the night.”

  “There’s grazing a little further up.” He was reluctant to mention the cabin or lead them to where he and Faith had eaten cherries and lain on the grass beside the stream. He stroked the pinto’s nose. “And this boy deserves a rest.” And maybe Meg would be fit to ride in the morning.

  It was easier to put his arm over the saddle and let the pinto bear his weight as he followed Walker up the stream. The thought of fresh fruit was tempting but he stopped well before they reached the old orchard. Fresh grass for the horses, clean water for everyone. Walker found feral stalks of corn and root vegetables. Duane gathered wood and set a fire going and all the while he sat there, half-asleep in the sunshine. They put beans to soak for morning and Duane disappeared and returned some time later laden with fresh fruit.

  “Look what I found.”

  Red-skinned apples, hard pears with a hint of sweetness, dark crimson cherries. They sat by the stream, spitting cherry stones like schoolboys and munching apples. He sliced a couple of hard pears and tossed them to where the horses were hobbled and the three of them shared tales of fishing and hunting game and their plans for the future. No one mentioned the last couple of days or Mason. He did not even know the man’s first name. And all the time he watched the boy, aware of the young face regaining its colour and the horror slowly fading.

  Early evening they feasted on potatoes baked in the fire, fresh corn and bacon and, although Duane complained that he was sick of bacon and wanted one of Mrs Archer’s beef pies, the boy cleared his plate well enough. It would be dark soon and Archer pushed himself to his feet and went across to check on the horses. The rest had restored his strength, or perhaps it was the peace and quietness, the sunlight and the taste of cherries.

  Meg was settled and easy, the nameless pinto lipping at fresh grass though not with any real hunger and he made his way past the small herd and headed for the cabin, wanting another look so he could decide what needed doing first. It would be a fine place for a small family.

  He followed the faint path, then halted. The corral fence was new and the lean-to stacked with fresh hay and readied for a couple of horses. The weeds had gone from the outside of the cabin and the stoop swept clean of leaves and debris, the door hung on new hinges, the window edged with pale bl
ue curtains and the glass sparkling. Someone was living here. He opened the door and stepped inside, wary and unsettled.

  A wide bed stood against the end wall, complete with blankets and sheets and pillows and a quilt he’d seen in one of the spare rooms in the ranch. A razor and brush and fresh tablet of soap on the washstand, a stack of folded clothes on a shelf. He flicked through the garments with a sense of dismay: two of his shirts, the vest he kept for trips to town, socks, underclothes. A pair of his pants. The razor was his as well, the one bought last year in Harville, the nick on the bone handle familiar, and he spun round, looking for any reason why his belongings would be here.

  A pipe and tobacco pouch on the hearth, sacks of beans and flour and sugar and salt on the shelves near the stove. Cans of peaches and tomatoes and condensed milk, a slab of smoked bacon, a basket of nuts. Two plates, a skillet and kettle, a small bag of coffee beans. Knives, forks, spoons. One of the mugs he liked to use by the basin.

  His belongings – a few of them at least – all brought here and waiting for him. Enough food supplies for several weeks, clothes and blankets and the quilt he had admired from the small bedroom. A rag rug on the stones in front of the fireplace with wood laid in the hearth, ready to be lit. Two of the old chairs from the house stood across from each other – old and battered but still comfortable. He sank into the one nearest the fireplace and sat there, unable to bear the thought of what this meant.

  Was this to be his new home? Exiled here because she no longer wanted him? There was no sign of her clothes or personal things – the tortoise-shell comb he had bought her or the silver-backed hairbrush from her mother. He was too tired to do anything right then, but tomorrow he would send Duane and Tom to the ranch and ask the boy to bring back Bear and the leather pouch that held the last treasured memories of his family, and then he would pack his things and ride away. From what he could see in the cabin, there would be no future for him on the ranch.