Dark Trail Rising: Four Tales of the Old West

by Cheryl Pierson

  Jericho swallowed past the hard lump in his throat. Of everything that had happened over the course of the past two weeks, he'd congratulated himself on holding his emotions in check. If Freeman hadn't produced that damn puppy with his magic, or however he did it, everything might have been fine. But to see the children who had been thrust into a world of loss, of having everything stripped from them, just as he had, rally around the little dog and make him their focus…it made him feel small with his thoughts of giving up.

  "Best be on your way." Freeman's tone was frosty.

  Jericho glanced at him. "You're…not coming?"

  "No. This is a journey you'll have to make alone. One way or the other."

  Just then, Mary wrapped her arms around Jericho's leg to keep her balance, and he bent to pick her up.

  "Do you have to go, Mr. Dean?" Willie asked plaintively.

  "Sure he does, Willie," Arthur answered. "Mr. Dean has to go do important things."

  Mary pulled at the leather string around Jericho's neck. Her chubby fingers settled around the cross he had fashioned so long ago. He remembered his own daughters doing that very thing.

  Life went on.

  Who would care for these children if he did not? Wouldn't he hope for the kindness of a stranger for his girls if he'd been killed alongside Elena?

  "No," he murmured, watching Mary's bright, inquisitive expression. "I don't. Not anymore. There's nothing more important than you."

  "And Rascal," Willie said, matter-of-factly.

  Jericho looked at Freeman, who stood, scrutinizing him in silent approval. "Uh…kids, we need to go bury the dead, Mr. Hart and I—"

  "I'll take care of that," Freeman stated, taking a step toward the door. "If you'll give me a few minutes? Maybe long enough to tell them a story?"

  Magic again. Or heavenly intervention. But Jericho was relieved for it, this time. He was ready to move on, to take Arthur, Willie, and Mary somewhere new and start over.

  "Freeman?"

  The angel turned, his hand on the barn door.

  "Will I—will we be seeing you again?"

  "Not likely. I think…you'll be able to find your way from here on out, don't you, Jericho?"

  Jericho nodded. "Much obliged. For everything. All that help I didn't want." At Freeman's odd smile, Jericho asked, "What was it they took from you? Tidwell's gang? When we first met, you told me they had taken something "mighty precious" from you too."

  "Don't you know, Jericho?" he asked. "It was your soul. I'd thought for a while…we'd lost you for good. When you believed there was no good left in the world. Now," he nodded at the children and continued softly, "you only have to look into their faces to see what you mean to them. Right now, you're everything. You are the only good left, in their eyes." Freeman touched his hat brim in salute. "Just give me a few minutes, will you?" He opened the door, then pulled it shut behind him to keep out the cold wind.

  Inside the barn, the lantern cast a soft glow, and Jericho felt the remains of the ice that had encased his heart melt and slip away in the warmth of the expectant anticipation in the eyes of the children.

  "Sit down here, boys," Jericho said, seating himself on the floor with Mary still in his arms. "I think I've got a story you might like to hear."

  Willie and Arthur settled onto the floor in front of him, their legs crossed, elbows on their knees as they leaned forward intently. Mary held up the cross, the light catching it for a moment like a distant star.

  "Once, there was a king whose name was Arthur Pendragon…"

  And the world was his.

  SHOT for a DOG

  It had been an accident—a trick of the relentless, shimmering heat—that had made Luke pull the trigger. At least, that had been the story he told, and the tale he stuck to in his own mind, until he had almost come to believe the fabrication himself.

  He and his younger brother, Jeremiah, had been finishing up hoeing the corn. The late afternoon sun had begun to relent, and though this July day would never cool off enough to be comfortable, at least it was becoming tolerable.

  “I’m hungry,” Jeremiah declared.

  “We gotta finish,” Luke answered flatly. At sixteen, he was responsible for Jeremiah, who was only half his age—and with no more brains than a turtle.

  After a moment, Jeremiah stopped hoeing. “I’m goin’ back to the house,” he stated, straightening to stretch his back muscles.

  “You ain’t goin’ back ’til I say we’re done, brother,” Luke said mildly, but when his blue gaze met Jeremiah’s dark eyes, the animosity couldn’t be hidden, nor did he bother to try.

  Luke had hated his half-brother from the day he’d been born, with his coal black eyes and hair the color of a raven’s wing. Jeremiah was not like the rest of the Marshall clan, all fair and blue-eyed, with light hair. More than once, Luke had noticed the disapproval in the eyes of his aunts and uncles when they came to visit his mother. When he got older, he realized it was two-fold. The fact that she had slept with an Indian was almost worse than her having a child out of wedlock. A bastard half-breed baby was what Jeremiah Marshall was—and he was only a “Marshall” because Ma had been before Pa died.

  “It’s dinner time, and I’m goin’ back.” Jeremiah picked up the mason jar containing a half-inch of now-tepid water, and started through the corn rows carrying his hoe and the jar.

  “Hey! Hey, come back here, you little—” Luke broke off as Jeremiah kept walking. His anger swept over him, making him almost sick with the impotent feeling. His fingertips itched in murderous rage.

  Even worse was the unhurried way his little brother moved, as if Luke’s authority meant nothing to him. By God, he thought, I’m older, I’m in charge, and I’m whiter than you. But he didn’t say it—not then.

  “Dammit! I said come back here, you little bastard!”

  The rustling stopped, and Luke knew Jeremiah was thinking about running back the way he’d come from and barreling into him, his fists flailing. The last time he’d tried that, Luke had given him a shiner for his efforts—claiming it to be an accident, of course.

  Luke stood listening, hopefully. But there was no noise, except for the evening breeze whispering through the cornstalks. He ignored the cooling spell it tried to weave around him, too angry to think of anything but teaching Jeremiah a lesson he wouldn’t forget.

  “Jeremiah! Get your ass back here!”

  There was no response, and the wind mocked him as if it tried to cool his anger as well as his body. He wouldn’t let it happen.

  Luke jerked up his hoe and the old rifle that had been his father’s, according to his mother. Leaving his own mason jar at the end of the corn row, he started through the same row of corn where Jeremiah had disappeared moments earlier.

  The corn was above his head, and in his fury, he shouldered his way through until he came out, breathing hard, at the far end. He’d have to wait to show Jeremiah who was boss. Anger tasted almost like blood, he thought. It would be hard to pretend nothing was wrong when they sat down to eat dinner. But he could wait.

  From the corner of this eye, there was a flash of movement in the falling shadows. Reflexively, Luke dropped the hoe and raised his rifle, sighting down the barrel.

  Soulful brown eyes stared back at him, under hair as black as night. The screen door of the little cabin was thrown open. Jeremiah stood for only an instant looking into Luke’s twisted soul with the eyes of age; age that Luke couldn’t fathom, and an understanding that speared him deep in his gut.

  Elizabeth Marshall followed her younger boy out onto the porch, her own gaze questioning, until she saw Jeremiah running across the yard toward his beloved dog, Shadow.

  “No! Jeremiah!”

  Luke still aimed at the big dog, refusing to let go of the terrible idea that had seized him. His finger pulled back on the trigger, and there was a moment of conscious decision at the next level, that urged him forward in this course of action

  Just as the trigger came back fully to se
nd the bullet forward, Jeremiah entered his sights. By that moment, Luke couldn’t have stopped if he’d wanted to.

  With the reverberating shot echoing in the evening stillness, he understood that what he’d done had been a ruthless act that would change his life forever. But, no matter—that damn boy should have listened to him!

  A cry of mingled despair and victory escaped him, and he lowered the rifle as his younger brother’s body was flung, like a puppet, to the ground along with the dog. They both lay still, then Jeremiah’s shaking fingers moved to stroke the dog’s velvet-soft ear.

  The dog was not quite gone yet, his loyal dark eyes looking up into Jeremiah’s as the boy reverently touched his fur and whispered to him.

  Elizabeth screamed, then rushed toward where Jeremiah lay, his face on Shadow’s bleeding chest. She laid a hand on his head, but he didn’t seem to notice. He whispered brokenly in the soft ear beside him, his words for no one but the only friend he’d ever known.

  She turned to look up at Luke. “What in the world? Go get Doc Myers! Now!”

  “It was a mistake,” he said tightly. “I—I thought it was maybe that big cat that’s been stealing our chickens—”

  “You thought maybe?” Elizabeth’s eyes glinted with anger and fear in the twilight. She turned her attention back to Jeremiah, trying to see how bad he had been hit.

  “Ma, I said I didn’t mean to! I made a mistake—”

  “Luke…” She spared him a glance, shaking her head. “Surely, you could see that it was Shadow, not a bobcat—and your brother—Go! What are you waiting for?”

  “Ma! I didn’t mean to!”

  “I ain’t so sure of that,” she murmured in a low voice, humming with fury.

  Luke’s anger overcame his indignation. “That little blanket baby been lyin’ on me to you?”

  Rising quickly, Elizabeth took a step toward him. The slap across his left cheek echoed, and fixed him rooted to the spot. Elizabeth still stood with her hand upraised, her breathing rapid and heavy, staring at the red imprint of her hand on her son’s pale skin.

  “I can’t stay here,” Luke muttered finally.

  Elizabeth’s mouth was drawn and set. “No, you can’t. But you go get the doctor! Your brother’s hurt bad.”

  Luke’s chest clenched. He hadn’t expected that. He’d thought his mama would forbid him to leave. He’d expected her to protest, to tell him things would look better in the morning…but maybe this was something that would never look better. Maybe this was something that could never be forgiven.

  He couldn’t help looking over at Jeremiah. His little brother lay in a pool of Shadow’s blood, mingling with his own. The dog’s dark eyes held a faint spark of life, accusatory as they met Luke’s, but also with an understanding that wrapped around Luke’s heart like choking vine, making him take a step backward. The dog had always belonged to Jeremiah, since Old Man Jackson had brought him to their little cabin four years earlier. But, Shadow had never shown aggression toward Luke; neither had he shown any particular affection.

  Now, as he lay dying, Luke was filled with a sudden, unreasoning fear at what he saw in the big dog’s eyes. It was as if Shadow could see deep down into him, and Luke let go a relieved sigh as the light in Shadow’s eyes finally guttered out.

  Jeremiah must have felt the final breath rush out of his companion’s body. He put his face up to the big dog’s soft snout, his own body shaking.

  “Just look what you’ve done,” Elizabeth muttered vehemently, kneeling again to see to Jeremiah. “You are pure evil, Lucas. Pure evil.”

  “Ma, I didn’t do it on purpose!”

  “I don’t believe you! Go fetch the doctor! No more arguing!”

  Though desperation warred with this fearsome side of his mother he’d never seen, Luke tamped down the urge to beg for forgiveness. He swallowed hard. It was time for him to get out in the world on his own anyhow.

  “I’ll get my things.”

  “Later!” Elizabeth said tersely. “Saddle up Bessie and get to town.”

  Jeremiah lifted his head finally turning to look at Luke. His black eyes were filled with pure hatred. His face was streaked with Shadow’s blood, making him look like a young Indian warrior painted for battle. For death.

  The grim set of his mouth showed no sign of forgiveness, just as there was none apparent in his expression or the tense lines of his body. His dark hair glistened wet in places with the dog’s blood, where he’d laid close to comfort him in his last moments.

  As long as he was going, Luke decided he might as well have some satisfaction from this. He wasn’t some little child to be slapped like a rented mule! For just a moment, he thought of hugging his mother, throwing himself at her mercy, and asking to stay. Where would he go? What would he do, now? But one look at her told him things had gone far beyond that. She looked at him as if he were a stranger, and one she didn’t ever want to see darkening her doorstep again. Worry knit her brow, all for that little red heathen, and none for him.

  Luke turned away stiffly and walked toward the cabin. Light spilled out from the door and windows, casting a melted buttery glow into the falling darkness. He refused to allow any feeling to enter his heart other than relief that this was all finally over.

  “Lucas! Ride for the doctor! Go now!” Elizabeth’s frantic calls could be easily heard in the surrounding stillness. He’d do what he damn well pleased. Let that Injun heathen bleed. What did he care? He was leaving, anyway—cast out by his own mother.

  Luke came up the front steps and pushed the door completely open. The light was hard to get used to—he’d been in the falling darkness, and Ma had already lit all the lamps. He made his way to the stairs that went up to the loft room he’d shared with Jeremiah. And he took his time about it.

  He climbed slowly. Reaching the last rung in the ladder, he looked around their bedroom for what was to be the last time. He hoisted himself up into the room and walked slowly to the chest where his spare clothes were.

  He fingered the splintered wood at the corner of the top drawer before he pulled it open, his eyes unseeing as he finally gave it a gentle tug. He didn’t have many clothes; they’d all ft in a pillowcase.

  His lips thinned as he pressed them together tightly. In one moment, he wanted to open the window and yell out to his mother to forgive him—and, in the next, he thought of burning this damn house down before he left it.

  All because of Jeremiah. He shook his pillow out of the case.

  As he loaded his clothing into the empty pillow case, he thought of what else he might take with him. There wasn’t much; they didn’t have much to begin with. Jealousy of his younger brother made him want to destroy the things he couldn’t carry. Instead of thinking of his own needs for his journey, his mind turned to what he might keep Jeremiah from having—if he survived.

  The damned dog was first on the list. That hadn’t been as hard as it might have been, had he given any thought to his actions. But he had given thought to them. And he’d done just what he had tried to do—punish Jeremiah for not obeying him. Jeremiah had been a fool to get himself shot for a dog.

  Still, all that had happened wasn’t enough. Not when he was being forced out of the home that was rightfully his! Luke’s gaze fell on the small book that Jeremiah used for his drawings. He walked to the bed and picked it up, thumbing through it quickly, a sneer on his face in the gloom.

  All of the pictures were of Shadow. That damn dog. Didn’t Jeremiah think of anything else? Well, he would now, Luke gloated. Shadow was dead. Savagely, he ripped the pages from the book and stuffed them in the pillowcase on top of his clothing. For all he knew, Jeremiah was dead, too. He wouldn’t be needing these anymore.

  There was one last thing near and dear to Jeremiah’s heart, he thought. A silly flute he’d made and taught himself to play like some damn savage—which was just what he was.

  Luke knew where it was—under Jeremiah’s pillow. He shoved his hand under the softness and groped until his fing
ers closed around it. He pulled it out, looking at the crude drawings his brother had made to decorate it—turtles and snakes, mostly.

  He raised a knee, and brought the flute down sharply across it, snapping it in two. But that wasn’t good enough. He wanted to feel his brother’s utter destruction, and what better way than to break the flute completely so it could never be mended? Besides, he might not be using it again anyhow.

  The wood wasn’t that strong after all, he thought, as he broke one of the pieces in two again, then the other. Carefully, he scattered the wood pieces under Jeremiah’s pillow.

  Feeling better about everything, he shouldered the sack with his belongings and started down the ladder. Maybe he’d send Doc Myers out this way if he passed through town.

  No need to ask any kind of forgiveness now, he thought. He didn’t want it or need it. He had something better—the satisfaction of revenge.

  ****

  Lucas didn’t bother to say a proper goodbye—not to his mother and certainly not to Jeremiah, the sorry little savage who had run him out of his own home. Let him lay out in the yard by that damn dog all night, if he lived.

  He glanced at the barn, thinking of taking the only horse they owned. He had his rifle and some bullets. He’d leave the damned horse. He struck off down the road on foot, his belongings slung across his back, rifle in hand. He ignored his mother’s cries as they turned from the pleas for him to go to for the doctor to the angry cursing him for a devil for leaving them, leaving his brother, to die on the ground.

  When he’d walked far enough that the cries faded, and he’d almost lost sight of the little cabin when he turned, he couldn’t help but noticed the cheery yellow glow in a field of darkness. Just for an instant, the thought of going back seized him so violently it clamped his chest like a vise, but it didn’t linger. “I’m just hungry—that’s all,” he muttered to himself.

  He hadn’t taken any food. The thought of the warm golden cornbread on the kitchen table tempted him, and made him curse himself for a fool. He should have taken some of it.