Opal

by Lauraine Snelling

  ‘‘Ma.’’ Multiple sounds. ‘‘Da.’’ More gibberish.

  Ruby needed someone to translate. Obviously Per thought she should understand.

  He repeated ‘‘ma’’ and what sounded like the same lingo he’d spouted before.

  ‘‘Sorry, little man, but you’ll have to speak more clearly if you want me to understand. And saying it louder won’t help either.’’ She kissed his chipmunk cheeks and pulled up the wool soaker over a clean diaper. It would be nice for him to be trained before the new baby came.

  She set him on her hip and headed for the kitchen.

  Rand walked in with Joe behind him.

  ‘‘Where did you see him?’’ A frown furrowed Rand’s brow.

  ‘‘At Williams’ last night.’’

  ‘‘And no one in Little Missouri had the common courtesy to send him on his way? Or lock him up?’’

  ‘‘Didn’t appear so. Them squatters don’t get much sympathy when something goes wrong for them.’’

  ‘‘They aren’t squatters. They have as much right to the land as the ranchers.’’

  ‘‘You know that’s not what others believe.’’

  ‘‘I know. Grab something to eat, and go get Robertson. I’ll send Linc over to get Charlie and Hegland. Perhaps by the time we get to town, they’ll be sleeping off a drunk.’’

  ‘‘Here.’’ Little Squirrel handed Joe two pieces of bread hiding a thick slice of ham. She had another for Linc when he came through the door. By the time the two men rode out, Chaps had brought in the pail of fresh milk, and Beans had announced that the rest of the horses were saddled and ready.

  Breakfast was a hurried affair with no conversation other than ‘‘please pass’’ and ‘‘thank you.’’

  ‘‘What do you plan to do with them when you catch them?’’ Ruby finally asked the question that had been ricocheting around her mind.

  ‘‘Take them to Bismarck to the law.’’

  ‘‘Riding?’’

  ‘‘No. On the train.’’ Rand wiped his mouth, then stood and strode to the gun cabinet where he kept the rifles and ammunition. He handed one to each of the men, along with a supply of shells.

  ‘‘Make sure you fill your canteens. I hope we get them in town, but who knows.’’

  Please, Lord, bring them all home in one piece. Ruby couldn’t force food past the lump in her throat. And here she’d been rejoicing to be over the morning heaves.

  ‘‘Don’t waste your time worrying, but you might send up a prayer or two.’’ Rand kissed her and headed out after the others.

  ‘‘Pa?’’ Per banged his spoon on the table.

  ‘‘Call Ghost,’’ Rand told Ruby.

  Ruby went to the door and called the dog away from the horses. ‘‘Good girl. You take care of Per today.’’

  Ghost looked over her shoulder one last time, then followed Ruby into the house.

  ‘‘I go hoe the garden.’’ Little Squirrel headed out the back door, leaving Ruby to finish the dishes and strain the milk. She took that out to the springhouse and returned with the older cream to churn into butter. She filled the wooden churn half full and set it in front of a chair out on the back porch. Fastening the gate in place, she brought a sack of wood scraps out for Per to play with and started the churning. The paddle beat and swished. A breeze blew tendrils of hair on her neck and two sparrows scrabbled in the crab apple tree at the corner.

  A perfect day, other than the fact that the men were out seeking destruction.

  ‘‘Please, Lord, bring them all home safe. ‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth.’ Lord God, be thou our deliverance, our strong right hand. Fight the battle for them.’’

  ‘‘Ma?’’ More gibberish followed, then ‘‘Opa?’’ Per leaned against her knee.

  ‘‘I know. I miss Opal too.’’ She slammed the paddle a little harder as the forming butter made it heavier. She leaned over and kissed the top of Per’s head.

  He rubbed his eyes with his fists, a sign that he was tired.

  ‘‘Ready for a nap already?’’ She felt his forehead with the back of her hand. Sure enough, it was warm to the touch. What else could be going wrong?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Rand looked at the men assembled and ready to go. Everyone was accounted for.

  ‘‘You all be careful now.’’ Daisy stood on the porch while Charlie mounted up.

  ‘‘Don’t you go worrying.’’ Charlie tipped his hat back. ‘‘All we’re goin’ to do is rope those two worthless hides and haul ’em in to the law.’’

  Ward Robertson shook his head. ‘‘My wife said the same thing. I’d have brought my new hand, but we’d have to wait for him to catch up. He’s got a ways to go yet on his ranching skills.’’

  ‘‘All right,’’ Rand said. ‘‘We’ll wait this side of the river and let Chaps wander in and see if those two are still in Little Misery. Hopefully we can surround the town and take them down.’’ He looked around the circle to see if all agreed. With their nods, he reined Buck around and headed out.

  Once in Medora they mingled with the traffic on the streets while Chaps headed across the ford to Little Missouri, or what was left of it since Dove House burned down. The livery had moved across the river into Medora, and Mr. Nelson had closed his store so he could go work in the abattoir.

  Rand waited in the shade of the general store, arms crossed on the saddle horn. While Chaps was the one most likely to not cause a stir, Rand hated waiting. Too many things could go wrong. Perhaps they should have just gone in together. There was a good chance the two had moved on again.

  After what seemed like hours, Chaps came jogging back as if he had not a care in the world.

  ‘‘The snakes went out the back way. They’re heading down-river.’’ Rand raised a gloved hand to signal the others and jogged back to the main street, heading out of town. ‘‘Do they know we’re on to them?’’

  ‘‘I think so. You know Williams. He’ll do anything to cause trouble.’’

  ‘‘Shame we didn’t put someone out in the back field.’’ Rand called himself a name for not thinking of it. ‘‘Did you hear them leave?’’

  ‘‘No, they snuck out real quietlike.’’

  ‘‘They probably think they’re safe. Charlie, why don’t you take Linc and Robertson, go on out past that big snag and see if we can scare them into one of the box canyons. Joe, you climb on up the butte and see if you can see them. We’ll go real slow, so as not to spook them.’’

  With the plans in action, the men rode without talking, keeping down the dust that could give them away.

  Joe slipped back into the group. ‘‘They’re about a mile ahead. Seem to be taking their time.’’

  Rand pulled his pocket watch out and checked the time. ‘‘The others can’t be in position yet.’’ They slowed to a walk for the next fifteen minutes, then Rand nodded. ‘‘Now remember, no shooting unless they shoot first.’’

  They picked up the pace.

  A single rifle shot announced the others were in position.

  ‘‘Here we go.’’ Please, Lord God, make this work.

  Coming around a rock face, he saw the two ahead by less than half a mile now. They looked back and kicked their mounts into a gallop, suddenly veering to the right, away from the river.

  ‘‘They saw Charlie. We got ’em.’’

  ‘‘Don’t they know that draw don’t go nowhere?’’

  ‘‘Guess not. Unless their horses are half mountain goat.’’

  The two groups formed up and followed the drifters into the box canyon, stopping to dismount as soon as they saw the rider-less horses.

  With all of them taking cover, Rand waited, then hollered to the drifters. ‘‘You might as well come on out. You got nowhere to go.’’

  A rifle shot was the only answer.

  ‘‘We can wait as long as you want.’’

  A bullet pinged off a roc
k.

  ‘‘Keep your heads down,’’ Rand told his men. He turned to Chaps. ‘‘Make sure you watch those buttes so they don’t try climbing out.’’

  They waited, each finding a spot of shade and hunkering down.

  ‘‘You got a better chance with the law,’’ he called. ‘‘I’ll take you there myself.’’

  One of the drifters yelled a couple of obscenities and wasted another shell.

  ‘‘Such talk. What would your mama say?’’ Rand leaned against a boulder, cleaning his fingernails with the tip of his knife. ‘‘What say you throw out your guns and come out nice and easy. We don’t want any bloodshed.’’

  A volley of shots answered him.

  ‘‘Sounds like you’re gettin’ to ’em,’’ Charlie called from his hiding place.

  ‘‘They don’t have the brains God gave a goat.Worthless, that’s all,’’ Joe answered loud enough for the men on the run to hear.

  The sun beat down. The canyon heated up.

  ‘‘I din’t do nothing. I’m comin’ out,’’ one of the drifters called.

  ‘‘Throw your rifle out first.’’

  Metal clattered against rock.

  Rand glanced above his cover to see one man with his hands in the air rising from behind a rock. ‘‘Come on down, nice and easy.’’

  ‘‘Don’t shoot.’’

  ‘‘Don’t aim to.’’

  Rand started to step out but thought the better of it. Two shots came in quick succession. A grunt came from the right. The man dropped behind some rocks.

  ‘‘Bullet ricocheted. Robertson’s been hit.’’

  Rand closed his eyes and groaned. A freak accident. He ducked around the rock and darted to where Ward Robertson lay slumped over, blood pumping from the side of his neck.

  Rand clapped his hand over the wound. ‘‘Hang on, man. God, help us.’’

  ‘‘T-tell Cora I-I’m sorry.’’ Ward crumpled in his arms.

  ‘‘Godspeed, my friend.’’ Rand laid his neighbor on the ground, fighting a rage that burned red before his eyes. Random shots were returned as the two penned-in miscreants fired back. Not Robertson, Lord.

  Get them, his insides shrieked.

  He fought to keep reason. Let the law deal with them. ‘‘We—’’ Rand had to clear his throat to make his voice heard. ‘‘We aren’t a vigilante posse here, boys.’’

  ‘‘They killed a good man. What do you mean, take ’em in? Hanging’s too good for them.’’

  ‘‘You know the law.’’ How will I tell his wife? And the girls? God, a stupid accident.

  A scream came from up the canyon.

  ‘‘One down.’’

  ‘‘Stop your fire.’’

  ‘‘There he goes.’’ One shot brought the man down from his escape attempt up what must have been a game trail.

  Silence fell on the draw.

  ‘‘Should we go get them?’’

  ‘‘Be careful. One might still be alive. If so, we’ll take him in.’’

  Guns at the ready, the men made their way from rock to rock.

  ‘‘This one’s still alive.’’

  ‘‘This one’s gone.’’

  They brought in the one body, and two men half dragged the other.

  ‘‘Tie them on their horses.’’ Rand gave orders, but all the while his heart lay in the dust with Ward Robertson.

  ‘‘Sorry, Boss.’’ Chaps shook his head. ‘‘Bullet hit the rock and did a ninety degrees to hit him. Can’t believe it.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, well, help me get him up on Buck, and I’ll ride behind him.’’ The temptation to leave the wounded man to his fate in the rocks ate at him like a starving badger.

  How was he to live with himself anyway? Would this make any difference?

  ‘‘Charlie, take him into town.’’

  ‘‘Going to treat that bullet hole?’’

  ‘‘Someone wrap a kerchief around it.’’ Two men held Robertson upright, and Rand swung up behind him. ‘‘Let’s go.’’

  ‘‘I’ll take him on to Bismarck.’’ Carl Hegland rode beside Rand.

  ‘‘Go ahead if you want.’’

  The road to the Robertson ranch was the longest ride of Rand’s life.

  ‘‘Oh, dear God, no.’’ Mrs. Robertson flew off the porch as soon as she saw them. ‘‘Is he. . . ?’’

  ‘‘Yes, near to instant. A ricocheted bullet hit him. I’m so sorry.’’

  ‘‘And the drifters?’’

  ‘‘One dead and one wounded.’’

  Chaps dismounted to help lower Ward to the ground.

  ‘‘Bring him in here.’’ Dry-eyed and stone-faced, Mrs. Robertson led the way.

  The girls clustered together, weeping and holding one another.

  Jacob came in through the door right behind them. ‘‘Is there anything—?’’ He stopped when Rand shook his head.

  ‘‘Lay him on the table.’’

  The men did as Cora said.

  ‘‘I’ll bring a box by in the morning,’’ Rand said. ‘‘My boys will dig the grave. You tell us where.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know. Let me be for a while, then I can make some decisions.’’

  ‘‘You want the girls to come home with me?’’

  ‘‘No, Ma, we’ll stay here.’’ Virginia stepped forward, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Ada Mae flew across the room to her mother. ‘‘Don’t let them put Pa in the ground.’’

  ‘‘Hush now. We’ll talk in a bit.’’

  Rand motioned to the men to follow him.

  ‘‘I’ll dig the grave as soon as she tells me where.’’ Jacob stopped by the horses. ‘‘I’ll help her all I can.’’

  ‘‘Good. I’ll bring the box soon as we can get it nailed together.’’

  ‘‘I cannot do it.’’ Jacob stamped the shovel in the ground again, certain that any moment he would hit rock and have to begin again, for the third time. ‘‘I should volunteer to conduct this funeral, but if I do, they’ll know.’’ He tossed the shovel of dirt on the growing pile. Lord, I told you I can never be a pastor again. Right, a shepherd who can’t find his own way, let alone lead a flock.

  But my flock needs a shepherd. Did you think I did not bring you here for a reason?

  You didn’t bring me here. I ran. I ran from you, from my calling, from my people. He tossed a shovelful on the growing pile. All because I could not control my baser instincts. Say the truth, man. It was carnal desire. And a woman died because of me.

  Amazing how anger and fury dug even a gravesite with dispatch. He stomped the shovel in deeper. If only he could clear the debris from his heart and soul as well as he did the dirt for the grave.

  And then bury the detritus of his life as they would the fine man who should not have died yesterday.

  Lord, you make no sense. And here I am yelling at you again when I swore I would not. I would not yell. I would not pray. He leaned on the shovel handle. And so, I cannot rejoice. I have no right.

  A meadowlark took wing, spilling drops of joy as he flew.

  ‘‘Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’’

  Jacob stared at the hole that surrounded him. Nearly hip high. He’d paced out six feet. Ward Robertson had been just under six feet, all muscle and sturdy rectitude. But with a heart big enough to welcome a man on the run and ask no questions other than ‘‘Can you ride? Rope? No, then what can you do?’’

  I can build. Jacob looked to the finished corral. And I can bury.

  No, I can dig the hole, but I cannot say the words.

  You can.

  But then they’ll know.

  Is that so bad? I am the Good Shepherd, and I have appointed you.

  All right. Just this once.

  A crow flew over, his caw sounding more like a chuckle. The breeze giggled with the oak leaves.

  Jacob scraped the floor of the grave flat, then using his shovel as a post, climbed out. He stuck the shovel in the top of the mound a
nd headed back down toward the house.

  Mrs. Robertson had been baking and cooking since dawn or long before. Had she slept at all?

  Jacob entered the kitchen. ‘‘I finished.’’

  ‘‘Thank you.’’ She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, leaving a streak of flour on her cheek for the tears to track through.

  ‘‘Ah . . .’’ He sighed.

  She glanced up from rolling pie dough. ‘‘Yes?’’

  ‘‘I’ll conduct the service for you if you like.’’

  ‘‘You’ve done that before?’’

  ‘‘Yes, a few.’’

  ‘‘Thank you. Could you mention that no one bears the guilt of him dying the way he did? The Lord just figured it was his time. There’s a verse to that effect, isn’t there? I couldn’t find it, but I know I’ve heard it.’’

  ‘‘Yes, Psalm 139 assures us that God knows the length of our days. He knows our going out and our coming in.’’

  ‘‘Good. If you’d read that, I’d be most grateful.’’

  ‘‘What will you do? About the ranch, I mean.’’

  ‘‘Keep on. Neighbors will help. The girls and I will learn to do more. Are you in a hurry to go somewhere else?’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘Good. Then you’ll learn too, and we’ll make do.’’

  ‘‘I’ll get on with the milking, then.’’

  ‘‘The girls have already gone out. We know how to do the home things. When Opal comes back she’ll be over here to help too. Now, there’s someone we need to be praying for. She’s going to take on all the fault for this. If God thought we needed to live under fault and guilt all the time, He wouldn’t have bothered to send us His Son, leastways that’s the way I understand it.’’

  Jacob watched her lay the pie dough in the pan, rolled just the right size so as to lap over the sides only a little. All the while she uttered the most profound faith he’d heard in a long time. Was that what he was doing? Laboring under guilt and blame instead of . . . He turned and left the house. Sounded like he and Opal had a lot in common.

  Friends and neighbors gathered the next afternoon to bury Ward Robertson on a slight knoll north of the house. An oak tree shaded the plot.