Charles said, “Might spend the night there—”
A bird squawked and launched itself into the air from a pine near an outcrop.
“Get cover,” Charles hissed. “They’re here!”
Samuel felt Spooky shudder and stumble at the same time he heard the crack from the rifle. He saw the puff of smoke from the ridge above the draw as he flew from his saddle. Spooky’s hit! Oddly, he remembered his father telling him if you wanted to stop a man, you stopped his horse.
Samuel hit hard, the air smashed from him. His rifle flew. Pain shot through his left shoulder. He tumbled, rolling downhill, slamming into the rocks, and a bright light exploded in his head.
Light slowly found its way into Samuel’s senses. He woke, finding himself staring up at the blue sky, numb, trying to remember where he was and how long he had been out. He heard gunfire. Blood covered him. His shoulder was in agonizing pain. He tried to clear his senses. His head throbbed. Carefully, blood pounding in his temple, he turned to look toward the sound.
“Give it up, Chambers.”
Samuel recognized Culler’s voice.
“Your kid’s dead. We got what we wanted. You can walk out of here alive.”
Samuel checked himself to be sure he was not dead. He hurt like blazes. He figured he was alive, but barely. He tried to move. Painfully, he turned his body and looked downward. He was in a narrow ravine, far below the trail. Below him were sheer rocks. A few more feet and he would have tumbled to his death.
Samuel tried to move again. Dizziness wracked him. Might as well be dead.
An occasional shot sounded from above him. He tried to see his father. He could tell he was holed up in a cut. Samuel could see he had one of the men pinned down—Finney, he suspected. He turned his head to watch for Culler but couldn’t see him. Then a puff of smoke showed on a knoll above his father, followed by the rifle crack. For the moment, his father was safe, and if Finney moved, his father could kill him. He saw movement on the ridge. His heart raced. Culler was trying to work his way to where he could get a clear shot.
His father fired toward Culler, causing him to duck, but it was a matter of time. One of them would eventually get into a clear position and kill his father. He could not keep them both occupied.
Frantically, Samuel wrestled himself up. They were no longer watching for him. He dragged himself through the weeds back upward toward the trail. He had to find his rifle. He saw Spooky’s motionless form. He bit his lip, anger flooding him. He hauled himself upward. He figured that his shoulder was not broken, or he would not be able to move. It just hurt. His head throbbed worse.
He saw the glint of sunlight off his rifle. If Culler looked down his way, he would see him. Samuel had to risk it. He waited until his father fired again in Culler’s direction, and he saw Culler duck. He lurched forward, grabbed his rifle, and dragged himself into the shrubs above the trail. He could no longer see his father or Finney. The occasional shouts and gunfire told him that his father was still alive.
Scrambling, every step wracking his body with pain, Samuel hauled himself up the slope. If he could get a bead on Culler, it would be over. He dragged himself toward the man. He didn’t have the strength to crawl much higher. He gritted his teeth and lurched upward onto the knoll. Desperation flooded Samuel. Culler was still well out of sight, cut off by the descending knoll and rocks above him.
Culler hollered down again. “It’s over, Chambers. Go now, you can live. I know you got a wife and daughter. Go home to them. Tell them how you got your son killed.” He laughed and fired another round.
Samuel saw his father scramble backward, tripping. In a few more yards, Culler would have an unobstructed shot. You bastard, Samuel thought. Come this side of the rocks so I got a shot at you.
He brushed at the sweat in his eyes. His hand came away bloody. It was not sweat. He felt his heart hammering strangely, and a wave of dizziness swept him.
He pulled himself up farther; he could see Culler crouching, hiding. Come on, Culler; come down where you can get a shot at my pa, you bastard. Where I can get you.
But Samuel knew the moment Culler was in his sights, his father would be in Culler’s. Hands sweaty, he checked the rifle, hoping it had not been damaged.
Culler moved, slid down below the rocks, and brought his rifle up.
Heart pounding, Samuel took careful aim, hearing Sheriff Sinclair’s words—“a kid that needed more target practice.” Shaking, he held his breath. He had no more time. He aimed at Culler, his full body in his sights. He squeezed the trigger, the same moment his foot slipped. The explosion rocked him, and his shot went wide.
“What the—” Culler whipped his rifle toward Samuel.
Frantically, Samuel chambered another round, bracing himself for the impact of a coming bullet. He ignored the overwhelming fear flooding him. He felt an inexplicable calm, and the buzz of a bullet burned past as he heard the rifle’s report.
He had Culler in his sights, squeezed the trigger, heard the explosion, and felt the rifle butt slam his shoulder. Culler pitched forward, sliding downward and then tumbling, leaving a bloody trail staining the grass like a shot deer.
Other shots echoed from below. Samuel struggled up to see, fearing that Finney had jumped his father. Instead, Finney sat, slumped. His father kicked away the man’s rifle. Samuel guessed Finney had run at his father the moment he had shot at Culler.
Painfully, Samuel sidestepped downward, trying to keep on his feet. He reached the trail and walked past Spooky, the animal’s blood staining the earth.
Cocking his rifle, Samuel walked up to Finney. “You bastard.” He raised the rifle. Finney was looking at him, eyes frantic, blood soaking the front of his shirt. He raised one arm in front of his face.
“Please—”
“Son—”
Finney was dead or soon would be, Samuel realized. He lowered his rifle and sagged down onto the trail, shaking, watching the man who wanted him dead. Fear flooded the man’s eyes. He’s afraid of dying, thought Samuel. Finney coughed. Clots of blood came up. He slumped over and then rolled, eyes staring upward. Samuel watched Finney’s chest rise and fall. He began struggling; his chest wheezed up rapidly and then slowly relaxed. His eyes glazed, now sightless.
Charles kneeled next to Samuel and examined him. “How bad you busted up, son?”
“Bad, Pa,” Samuel managed.
His father helped him lie back and got him some water. “Got yourself a nasty cut.” He ripped cloth and bandaged Samuel’s head. “Take it easy. It’s a few miles to the Shearers’.” He brought up Buster, hoisted Samuel up, and swung up behind him, holding him in the saddle.
Samuel could tell that his father was pushing Buster hard. He was worried. It might be the old horse’s last trip.
He did not remember much, but he knew they had arrived at the Shearers’ when he heard Mrs. Shearer’s voice and he felt himself being lifted down.
Chapter 56
SAMUEL WOKE SHORTLY AFTER being carried into the Shearers’ home. It all came to him, and he began shaking uncontrollably. Tears streamed from his eyes, but he made no sound. He remembered Spooky, his horse that brought him here and would have taken him home. He remembered his father trapped, unable to move, desperately defending himself, waiting for death. He remembered Culler in his sights and pulling the trigger. He remembered the man falling, tumbling, the red streak of blood in the grass. He had killed the man.
His father stood inside the doorway. Samuel didn’t remember him coming in.
“You going to be okay, son?”
He tried to see him, his eyes blurry. “I killed a man, Pa.”
“I’m sorry it had to be. For that, I will never forgive myself.”
Samuel looked up, confused.
“You should not have had to go through that. You should have had a chance to grow up, you and your sister, on the far
m, never having seen anything like this.”
“But he’s really dead.”
“And you would have been, and so would have I, had you not killed him.” His father sat, eyes tired looking. “The good Lord knows each man has to protect his own life and those of the people he loves. Sometimes it becomes necessary to kill a man. You did what had to be done.”
Samuel knew he had been given no choice, but it gave him little solace. They were leaving, and still it had come to this.
After two days in bed, Samuel was up and near ready to go. His shoulder remained sore, but his loss of blood had been much worse.
It was not easy saying good-bye. Samuel noticed it was more difficult on his father. His father and George had been swapping stories for a good two days and were still at it. The two men had gone back, found Molly, and retrieved the gear. They buried Finney and Culler and had dragged Spooky into the ravine. This time, no one returned to Warren’s, but instead, they sent word to the sheriff.
“We’re heading out, Samuel. I figure they owe you at least two good horses for Spooky. And, if you want, another rifle.”
Samuel didn’t want the rifle. “Sell it to Mr. Shearer if he wants it, or someone else. We can use the money to get home on. Sell him one of the horses too.” Samuel didn’t want either Finney’s or Culler’s horse but needed one for returning to Iowa.
“You sure?” his father asked.
George had overheard. “I’ll take the rifle.” He dug in his pockets and handed an eagle to Charles. “And I think I’ll swap Samuel a better mount than either of the two you brought in.”
“That’s too much,” Charles replied. George shook his head.
Back on the trail, Samuel felt a strange sense of relief. For the first time in many months, he felt like he was no longer being hunted. He studied all the familiar sights: the cabin where he and his father had wintered, the narrows where Dudgin and Smith had first jumped them, the Indian hot springs, and Berg’s bar, where they had met Hallelujah and Pete. But as they approached the junction of the Little Salmon and Groff’s ferry, Samuel slowed up.
“You okay?” his father asked.
“Okay,” he replied. “I just been thinking.”
They crossed at Groff’s. Jason Weston was still the operator, and he talked about Samuel’s decoy trip up the trail. Samuel tried to forget. He just watched the deep green waters of the Salmon River sliding by. He wondered if it was the last time he would see this mighty river and the people who lived here. The River of No Return, he thought, ironically.
They rode back upstream toward the Little Salmon and about a half mile beyond before Samuel stopped. He could ride no farther.
His father sat his horse and turned, studying him.
“Pa—” he began.
His father raised his hand. “I’ve been waiting on you,” he said simply. “You best be on your way.”
“Pa, I-I’m sorry.” A terrible weight lifted.
“Don’t be sorry, Samuel. You don’t go now, she might be spoke for. Your ma will understand.”
“I-I’ll come see you someday. I sure will.” Samuel managed.
His father nodded. “I reckon you will.”
Samuel reached out to shake his father’s hand. “Thanks, Pa.”
“Samuel?”
He looked back at his father.
“Remember when I said this country don’t much care how old you are whether or not you’re a man?” his father addressed him quietly. “Well, I reckon that hasn’t changed. The country still don’t care. But I reckon what you’ve been through and what you’ve done these past few days, what people have seen from you, speaks pretty loud who you are.”
Samuel felt warmth wash through him and, similarly, a deep sorrow. He was parting ways with his father, something he would never have imagined he could do. And he was parting ways with his family. He wondered when he would return to Iowa to see them, if ever. He knew in his heart Bonnie would have him. This canyon country was about to become his home. He would raise his own family here. A great ache welled within his throat, but a burning pride also welled within.
“I reckon I better be off” was all he could muster.
Chapter 57
WHEN CHARLES REACHED the spot above Thomas Pollock’s, the one he had seen on the way into Warren’s camp over a year ago, he paused. Carefully, he surveyed the valley. It was as he remembered, maybe better. It had good grass, good water, and protection from the wind. A wide bench above the river would make a fine cabin site. He laid out his claim markers.
The next couple of days he spent clearing the cabin site. He shot a doe for fresh meat for when Samuel returned. He guessed he would be back any day, but he could not help wonder if he would not.
He had the coffeepot on, boiling water, roasting some venison when he heard the horse approaching. He knew it was Samuel.
“Pa, is that you?”
Charles looked up to see his son grinning from ear to ear.
“I-it can’t be, Pa,” Samuel stammered. “How? I didn’t figure on catching you until almost to Fort Boise.” He swung down from his mount.
Charles stood and embraced his son. “Glad you could make it in time for dinner.”
“What’s up? What you still doing here?” Samuel’s brow knotted.
“Tell me first—what’d she say?”
Samuel flopped down on the grass. “You know what she said, Pa.”
“I reckon I do.” He reached and shook his son’s hand. “Congratulations. When’s the big day?”
“We figure sometime next summer.” Samuel beamed.
“Did you tell Bonnie that you’re more a miner than a rancher?”
Samuel nodded. “She’s good with that. Figures we can always visit the ranch and work there some in the winter.”
“How about visiting this one?”
Samuel glanced around. “This one?”
“I figure we can pretty much have the cabin laid out and some of the logs cut before we should leave for Iowa.”
“We’re staying? I can’t believe it, Pa,” Samuel exclaimed. “I figured I’d ride on back to Iowa and say my farewells then come on back here. But I was real afraid I’d get to Iowa and not be able to come back—that I wouldn’t be able to leave you and Ma.”
“Reckon you won’t have to worry about that part now.”
“Figure we can make it back here by June, in time for my wedding?”
“Before that. Soon as the snow is gone over Council Summit.”
Samuel pushed his fingers through his hair, eyes raised wide, biting his lip. “How we going to manage that?”
“I’m figuring on loading the stock onto that new railroad, whisking everyone out to Ogden, and taking the trail up from there. We’d get here several weeks earlier than we did last year.”
Samuel frowned. “We can’t afford that.”
“You never checked those vegetables the Chinese sent with you.”
Samuel searched for one of the Chinese packs, lifted it, and laughed. “Gotta be a couple extra pounds. It’s gold, ain’t it?”
“Yep. Guess the Chinese wanted you back as well.” Charles poured a cup of coffee and handed it to Samuel.
They clinked their tin cups together and offered a silent salute toward Slate Creek and then toward Warren’s. The sun still lit the highest peaks. The Salmon gorge was lost in purple shadows.
“We aren’t in as much a hurry now, son. Ma knows we’re coming. Might as well get some work done. As long as we get out of here before the first snow, we’ll be good.”
Samuel shook his head. He was home.
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