Badman's Pass
Page 17
“Nothing in it says we can’t perform a routine patrol in our area of responsibility,” the captain replied, grinning sheepishly. He never took his arm from around Suzanne’s waist for a moment. “Mr. Kershaw, I am sorry for how I behaved toward you earlier. I am eternally in your debt.”
“No need to be. But thanks anyway. And call me Badger. Everyone else does.”
Captain Boyle finally ordered the troop to remount and assigned a driver for the wagon. After all we’d been through, I half expected Barbara to insist on driving it herself, but she seemed fine just riding along as a passenger with her two friends. I remounted the Appaloosa, and we all headed off back to Fort Russell.
Over the next few days, I spent as much time as I could with Barbara, and the more time I spent near her, the more relaxed I felt whenever she was around. I was ill at ease whenever I stopped to think of all the horrendous acts she had seen me commit, but if any of it bothered her, she gave no indication of any animosity toward me.
Barbara was a warm and caring person to just about everyone she met, but I grew to hope that her emotional responses to me weren’t merely attempts to be courteous or kindhearted. Maybe I had no right to get my hopes up, but I wanted it to be more than that.
At night the troopers tended to allow the women their privacy. All except Captain Boyle, that is, who seemed to spend most of the time escorting his fiancé around. I certainly couldn’t fault him for that, since I couldn’t help checking in on Barbara more than was really necessary.
If my actions were too forward, or if they were as obvious as I expect they were to everyone else, she gave no indications of wanting me to back off. Quite the contrary, we began to spend our evenings around the campfire, swapping stories. Truthfully, I have to admit that I tended to swap more than she did. Barbara listened much more attentively than I was ever capable of.
Actually the ride back to the fort from that point on was a rather an unremarkable journey, but it did give me a sense of pride and well-being to be riding once again with the US cavalry troopers I respected so much.
On account of the women, we didn’t rush the trip, and so it took us several days longer than usual to finally reach Fort D.A. Russell. About as expected, everyone there was in great spirits. Everyone, that is, except Helen’s relatives. I left the explanations about what had happened to her to the other women. As I’ve said, I was never comfortable with that sort of thing.
The major, as befitting his command, immediately offered me a commission as scout if I would reenlist, but there was no way I was getting sucked back into that life. I made plans to leave for home, but strangely, I now began to experience a sort of emptiness. I had spent almost my entire life seeking an end to my pain, and now that it was all over, I somehow felt a bit lost.
I’d be going back to my valley, that much I knew for sure. Lord knows there was still a lot to do there, and I’d be kept busy enough, but even with Sarge as company, for the first time that ranch seemed a lonely destination.
After a day in the fort and all the back thumping I could handle, I made preparations to ride out. The last thing I did before leaving was to seek out Barbara Grierson. I walked her over to a quiet corner of the yard and reached into my pocket. “I’d like you to have this,” I said, handing over the silver broach. “It belonged to my mother. She was a very special person.”
Barbara looked down at the broach. “I know you’ve carried this a long time and how much it means to you.” She thought for a moment. “Thank you. I’m touched you’d think of me. I’d be honored to have it.” She looked up into my eyes, and for a moment I didn’t know what to say. There have been times in my life when I have wanted to find the right words, to say certain things, but my emotions got the better of me. This was one of those awkward moments.
Barbara smiled back at me and sensed my embarrassment. Changing the subject, she asked: “So, tell me, and truthfully now. Why does everyone call you Badger?”
I looked into her eyes and laughed. “I was raised by the Arapaho Indians. When I was child, my mother had gone to their tribe as a missionary. The Indians didn’t have a translation in their language for Jedidiah Kershaw, so they nicknamed me Little Badger. I don’t think there was a special reason for it. The chief just liked how it fit me, I guess. Who knows, maybe he saw a badger the day he decided to name me?
“Anyway, our camp was raided by Thompson’s men when the braves were away. After my ma was killed, the rest of the tribe returned and found me half dead, with my skull practically stove in. They nursed me back to health and sort of adopted me. I grew up among them and the nickname stuck. I had gotten used to it, so after I left I kept using the English translation. Thus, the Badger. Got rid of the ‘Little’ part pretty quickly, though.”
Barbara laughed. “I can see why.”
We walked together over to my horse. I tied our ever-present companion, the jack mule, to the Appaloosa’s saddle, and then untied the horse from the hitching post.
Barbara looked concerned. “I am going to see you again, aren’t I?” she asked as I mounted up.
“You can count on it,” I replied. I suddenly felt much better and actually began to recover a sense of purpose. “Trust me, I’ll be back very soon.” I leaned down from the horse and gave her a kiss. “In the meantime, give some thought to ranch life.” Her smile gave me all the answer I needed.
I sat back up in the saddle a very happy man. “Lobo, heel!” I shouted as I galloped away. The big mutt ran after me, and I swear we were both grinning the whole time.
THE END
About the Author
R.W. Stone inherited his love for Western adventure from his father, a former Army Air Corps armaments officer and horse enthusiast. He taught his son both to ride and shoot at a very early age. Many of those who grew up in the late 1950s and early 1960s remember it as a time before urban sprawl, when Western adventure predominated both television and the cinema, and Stone began writing later in life in an attempt to recapture some of that past spirit he had enjoyed as a youth. In 1974 Stone graduated from the University of Illinois with honors in animal science. After living in Mexico for five years, he later graduated from the National Autonomous University’s College of Veterinary Medicine and moved to Florida. Over the years he has served as President of the South Florida Veterinary Medical Association, the Lake County Veterinary Medical Association, and as executive secretary for three national veterinary organizations. Dr. Stone is currently the Chief of Staff of the Veterinary Trauma Center of Groveland, an advanced level care facility. He is the author of over seventy scientific articles and has lectured internationally. Still a firearms collector, horse enthusiast, and now a black belt–ranked martial artist, R.W. Stone presently lives in Central Florida with his wife, two daughters, one horse, and three dogs.