by R. Kent
The travois was heavy. I struggled to hold it up, only long enough to drag it a few steps.
“I promise,” she whispered again. “I won’t let go. Not unless my very life depends on it. Even then, I’ll really try to hold on tight.”
“That’s right. Hold on tight.” Don’t leave me. I beg you not to leave me Sahara. “Stay with me.”
My right shoulder and arm were useless. Straining sent shooting pains through me. It’s no wonder tears trickled down my face. I sniffled. I wanted to give up. I wanted to sit on the cold ground and quit. Life was too hard. Too much struggle. Too much suffering. I was tired of fighting.
“Hold on tight,” I heard her whisper.
I retrieved the discarded cinch and laid it over my good shoulder to diagonally cross my chest. After I notched the poles’ ends, I hooked the string girth’s large metal rings onto each.
When I leaned into the girth, it pulled forward. This time, the rig worked.
Every step took me nearer to the homestead. The thought of getting Sahara warm and safe in the hogan kept my feet stomping in that direction. I was tired. Pained. And I was seething.
I’m going to kill you, McKade. You’ve been a plague on my entire life.
My heart pounded. Every breath slammed my lungs like I had been gut punched. Every step was a battle. I sulked on anger to spur me forward.
That all-consuming fury drove my feet to plodding. Even in the dark. Even as the moonless night shrouded us in blackness and spooks howled their hunger.
I’m going to kill you, McKade.
The horse was the first to quit. As it balked to a standstill, the reins slid from Sahara. I didn’t know whether he was done in, or if he recognized the fork in the path. One direction jogged on to the road leading to Molasses Pond. The other went toward my homestead. Town was closer.
I lowered the travois and trudged back for the stalled animal.
“Where are we?” Sahara’s voice was weak, like the whisper of a frightened child.
“We can turn here for town.”
“No. I’d rather die at home than live in Molasses Pond under Jack McKade’s reign.”
Home. She said home. “You’re not going to die.” I rubbed on the sorrel. He leaned into me.
“Austin? Would you bury me by your garden? I love to garden. I’m good at it. Rose was going to bring me cacti blooms in the spring.”
“I’m not burying you. You’re not going to die.”
“But if I did. Please. By the garden.”
“In town, I could get you help. Rose, maybe.”
“No. They’ll kill you.” I thought I heard her hiccup a sob. “They’ll keep me. Please don’t take me to Molasses Pond.”
I hauled on the sorrel. In his three-legged hop, he moved with me. I kept his reins in my hand and hoisted the travois, trudging homeward once again.
Of course they’ll kill me if they’ve seen the wanted posters. I killed Jamie. Justice McKade’s son. Justice is well respected and well liked. No doubt the civilized folk of Molasses Pond will come for me. They’re too afraid to go after the real evil in Molasses Pond. They’re too afraid of Jack McKade.
I stewed into the night, until the sorrel pulled back. If he quit completely, I’d have to leave him.
I’m sure his muscles were burning like mine. His lower leg had swelled to twice its normal size. Sweat sopped his neck. He was done in. Horses lived in the present. His here and now was forever. He couldn’t pep himself up with flowery future promises. In exhaustion, his self-preservation was waning.
My own body ached in places I hadn’t known it could ache. My arm was near to numb. I was losing this fight too. It was a battle of my mind now. A battle of will. And I had Sahara that I was responsible for. I had to see her safe before I could selfishly quit.
“C’mon,” I encouraged him. “C’mon.” He hopped, leaning farther onto his shaking haunches to lift his front end. He hopped.
Right, left, right, left, right, left. I kept hauling Sahara, scolding my feet to move forward.
But I was tired too. Too tired.
Riigghhtt, leeeeeft, riiiiiiggghhhtt—
The horse stopped, snapping the ends of the reins from my hand. “Darn it to hell.” I collapsed to the ground in a defeated heap.
The sorrel barely remained upright. He swayed in a puddle of exhaustion. He leaned onto his nose for support.
Sweat soaked my buckskins. The cold air quickly chilled my stilled body. Tears welled behind my dry eyes. I choked on an intake of breath.
There was no time to wallow. I needed to get Sahara warm and safe. I needed to kill Jack McKade, ending his tyranny of terror.
I coaxed myself to stand then approached the horse for what might be our last moment together. I gathered his reins then stroked his slick neck, speaking in the low, soothing, guttural tones of the Navajo. His eyes watched me intently. His ears twitched. I should free him from his pain and spare him from the torment of predators.
I slid my hand to my sorrel’s poll and gently slipped the bridle from behind his ears, careful not to let the heavy hardware bang his teeth. The long-shank bit fell to the hard-packed ground with a resounding clank.
I thought of my revolver. I thought of the shame it had been to make this animal suffer a long, agonizing walk just to come to the same conclusion I should have made at the outset. I should have shot him in Apache Pass.
I thought about the fact that his lameness was repairable with time and attention. Time. Time I didn’t have to get him home to where he could lay up and where I could afford him the proper attention.
And I thought it would be nice to pretend that if I left him, he could now run free and live happily ever after, herding with one of the wild bands that roamed the territory. The trouble was, I knew the truth of it. The grain-fed animal wouldn’t survive the night. He’d be taken down by that pack of coyotes circling us. They’d spill his intestines over the ground, causing a slow, terror-filled death.
The sorrel pressed his forehead to my chest. My breath caught in the back of my throat. Love made decisions more difficult.
I ran the cold tips of my fingers over the grips of my gun. If Sahara hadn’t needed me…
If I hadn’t been saddled with a bride I never asked for…
If I had never come to the ruthless frontier in search of Pa’s paradise…
If I hadn’t survived the massacres…
If I had never been born…
I flipped the loop off the hammer and eased my revolver free of its holster.
I stepped away from the sorry animal and cocked the hammer.
The sorrel watched my every move with questioning eyes. I wished he could run from me.
He gimped forward, reaching to nuzzle my leg.
I stepped back. Turned. And fired. The report of the gun echoed throughout the landscape. The kickback nearly jerked my fatigued left arm off.
There was a yelp in the dark.
“What?” Sahara asked in a voice as weak as an orphaned kitten. “What happened?”
“Coyote. It’s been following us. I nicked it to give us all time.” I flicked the cylinder open by rote, replacing the spent shell. “We need to get out of here.”
“Your sorrel?”
“I’ll come back for him.” I raised the travois and towed. The horse attempted to follow at its own pace, but was too slow to keep up.
In the distance, coyotes barked and screamed and squelched and howled in epic proportions. The pack attacked its own wounded, as was their way.
I dragged Sahara toward the homestead with renewed strength of mind.
“Do you think Justice will forgive you?” Sahara asked.
“No.” There was no way he would. How could he? I killed his son.
“Maybe you underestimate him.”
I hadn’t yet forgiven myself.
I saw the horror in their eyes. The townsfolk so easily believed I was a cold-blooded murderer, where moments before, they had looked to me to be their savior
from Lightning Jack McKade. No. There was no way Justice had any forgiveness. Toward me, he was now likely to be deadlier than his brother.
At some point, I recognized the overhang’s looming backdrop. It was a daunting black shape in the blackness of night. “We’re home.” My voice wavered with too much relief.
There was no reply.
I kicked at the door to the hogan. When it burst inward, the pup lunged at my legs, knocking me to my butt. I would have stayed there forever under warm, welcoming licks to my frozen skin. I didn’t think I had the strength to pick myself up one more time. I hugged the pup to me and buried my face in her short, soft fur.
Don’t think. Do.
Rose was right. My fight was in my head. Over-thinking and second-guessing continually got in my way. Pull the gun. Pull the trigger. No thoughts. No hesitation.
I hauled the travois directly to the fireplace. The fire caught quickly. Its flames devoured the kindling and chips, eagerly tasting the fat logs. There were blankets on the pallet. I wrenched them over to Sahara and swaddled her, travois and all.
TwoFeathers. I needed him now. Something must have happened to him. He would have known about the rockslide in Apache Pass. He would have heard the gunfire. TwoFeathers would have discovered it was me. He was always watching. I rubbed the hammered copper band around my wrist, swiping the pad of my thumb over the large turquoise eye. That’s what he had meant. The band was his symbol that he watched over me. He had given one to Sahara too.
TwoFeathers had always been at my rescue.
But not this time.
And even as Sahara slept nearby, even with the fire crackling to life and illuminating the inside of the hogan with lively shadows, even with the pup nudging at my hand, I had never felt so alone.
Sahara’s hand touched my leg. She smacked her dry lips, grimacing. “Tea. Can I have some tea?”
Tea?
“In your basket. There.” She pointed at the wicker basket Rose had given me a month ago. It was full of labeled bottles and cloth-wrapped packets. There was a tall bottle of sorghum syrup. Smaller bottles of iodine and oil of clove. Packets of thyme and catnip. There was comfrey and rosemary and sage. And a bar of lilac soap.
“Catnip tea, please,” she said in barely a whisper.
I shifted the bottles and wrapped packages, uncovering other packets and bottles. Laudanum. I knew what that was. A quarter-pint bottle of laudanum.
“Did you find it?”
“Have it here.” There was a notebook. I dipped a mug in the pot of water that continuously hung in the fireplace. As the tea steeped, I flipped through the pages of the book looking for a certain dosage.
Sahara blew over the surface of the hot brew when I handed the cup to her. “Mm. Thank you.”
While she sipped, I studied by the firelight.
“I’m glad you didn’t go to Molasses Pond.” She fussed with the blanket, smoothing the top and tucking the edge under her armpits. “You are not going to Molasses Pond? Right?”
What could I say? I didn’t answer.
“Austin, promise me.”
I reluctantly said, “Yup. Sure.”
“Say it. Promise me.”
It felt like I should cross my fingers behind my back. But that would be childish. And obvious. I crossed my toes instead. “I. Won’t. Go. To. Molasses. Pond.” I hoped she’d forgive me the lie. It was for her I was going. And that was only a half-truth. I was going for me. I was going to kill Lightning Jack McKade. Because he needed to die and because I was the only one in the territory to get the job done.
What I didn’t need was Sahara mixed up in the killing. I needed her to stay right here. I needed to know she was safe.
I freshened Sahara’s tea with hot water, adding a splash of sorghum syrup. “This should taste better.”
“Mm. Nice. Thank you.”
I had also added six drops of laudanum.
She was out like a blown candle and had a smile across her lips.
What I needed now was to get gone. I had already hung around too long. The sun would be up soon. It was light enough to travel easily. I grabbed jerked venison and a short hunk of rope at the door. The copper band on my wrist caught my attention. I plucked it off, turned back to Sahara, and placed it on her wrist. “I love you, Sahara Miller.” Loose hair had fallen across her sleeping face. I pushed it behind her ears then kissed her forehead.
She really was beautiful. And good and gentle and kind. I laid the loaded Dragoon on Sahara’s belly and folded her hands over it.
The pup whined, snuggling into Sahara’s hip. “Take care of her, girl.” I tossed her a venison strip.
I didn’t know why I was reluctant to leave. Something just felt wrong about it.
I gently closed the door, stuffed the painted feather in it, then scurried into the dark night.
When the threat of dawn seared pink streaks across the sky, I had finally arrived at Molasses Pond with the lame sorrel in tow. I draped the limp neck rope over the hitching post outside the bank. Someone was bound to find him come sunrise. Justice would find him.
The sorrel had meant a lot to me, but I had let him go once before. It had near to broken my heart. I lifted his head in my hands and pressed my forehead to his. His body relaxed. “You’re safe now.” With a last stroke along his neck, I left him again, fading into the dark alley.
Molasses Pond was still asleep. Main Street was empty. The boardwalks were barren. A few tent flaps were just now lazily lifted to greet the streaked dawn. A bell jingled over the mercantile’s door, admitting that it was open for business. But the rest of the town couldn’t be bothered as of yet.
Wanted posters with my likeness were nailed to every wooden facade. Rubbing blue fingers of my tied hand, I watched Main Street from the alley. It was quiet. Too quiet. But Molasses Pond was always too quiet too early.
I jumped onto the boardwalk and secreted into the mercantile, forgetting that the bell would betray me.
“I need some strong liniment, bandages, smelling salts, and more of the laudanum.” I needed one of his boys to fetch Rose from the Watering Hole. But I’d gauge his reaction to the sight of me first. “Could you put that on my account?”
“No, Mr. Austin. You need to leave. You have no credit here.” He began sweating profusely. His wire-rimmed glasses slid down the sheen on his narrow nose. If he hadn’t been dusting and tidying, he would have escaped me through the back door.
I didn’t say a thing. I glared at him.
“You had credit, yes. But you don’t. Those fireworks you took used the rest of your money.” He adjusted his bow tie which had already been perfectly straight, then rubbed a palm over the back of his neck.
I said nothing.
“If you’d like, I can fetch the tally sheet to show you. But I’ll have no foul business in this establishment.” Like a skittering bug on hot sand, he peddled backward for the false safety behind his counter.
The clerk winced as I reached just above my gun handle into a pocket. I slapped the .53-caliber copper ball that TwoFeathers had given me onto the counter’s top. “Will this cover what I need?” I needed to get a message to Rose.
The door slammed open, jangling the bell. A maddened mob rushed inside. Not one of them was properly heeled, but one of them carried a rope, which made the mob dressed for a lynching party.
I weighed my options. Flight or fight. There were way too many of them.
The clerk made himself scarce.
The bell above the door complained again. Justice walked in.
The days hadn’t been kind to him. Stubble darkened his jaw. Brown bags drooped beneath his eyes like a hound dog’s jowls. His shoulders rounded over his large, muscular physique. I thought his hair was more gray than black now. It was definitely unkempt, where it had been clean-cut and brushed flat previous. His small eyes were steely gray, from their usual vivid blue. They darted from one man to the next.
When his cold gaze landed on me, Justice looked much like his broth
er, Lightning Jack McKade.
Chapter Seventeen
“Jack McKade has everyone believing you killed my boy,” Justice said. His eyes were red. He might have been crying. I couldn’t imagine it. A grown man crying. “There’s wanted posters substantiating Jack’s claim.” Justice’s haunted look said he hadn’t slept.
“It’s true. I killed Jamie McKade.” I didn’t stand any taller over it. I did look him in the eyes though, without wavering.
“And that’s all you’ve got to say?”
What else was there to say? I was called out. It was kill or be killed. If I had to do it all again, I wouldn’t change a thing. I didn’t know Jamie McKade. Even if I had, I wouldn’t want to be dead in his place. He called me out. Being dead was his deal.
I was sorry Justice was heartsick. I’d never wanted to hurt a man like him. None of that changed anything.
Justice stared at me. The rabble behind him quieted to stillness.
I couldn’t apologize for something I wasn’t sorry for. And I wouldn’t do Justice the disservice of lying about it. I did it. I killed his son.
A man coughed. Another sniffled. The waxed coils of the lariat rattled as they jostled in a fidgeting grip. Shuffling boots scuffed at the floor. Coats rasped against one another in the close confines. These were the upstanding businessmen of Molasses Pond. The boot maker, Sven, stood elbow to shoulder with the coffin builder, Edgar, and the banker—I didn’t recall his name.
The government man from the land office was flanked by his counterpart from the assay office. The owner of the hotel rubbed against the sketchy man who ran the opium den. Both looked like they’d rather be elsewhere. The butcher, I’d sold deer and elk to in the past, blocked the doorway with the mule driver from the last freight wagons to have arrived in town before the snows covered the mountains.
They were all here—ready to hang me. It’s a shame they wouldn’t grow a spine between them to stand up to Jack McKade.
Justice faced the assembly. “Go home. There won’t be any gallows dance today.”
The gathered men mumbled.
“If anyone has the right to hold the boy accountable, it’s me. Go home.” Justice turned from them. He looked me in the eyes as he waited for the crowd of men to disband.