by R. Kent
Crack. Glass smashed. The shards rained down around my ears. My last thoughts were regrets. Sahara.
The Watering Hole went dark.
The next thing I knew, my body bounced and flopped. I couldn’t get up. Couldn’t open my eyes. The bright sun glared through my closed lids. Sharp pain jolted my shoulder. I heard the snort of a horse and its jingling harness. Hooves slapped in a constant rhythm. A woman’s shrill. A man’s rumbling reply.
I gave in to oblivion.
The aroma of fresh coffee. The crackle of a warm fire. The firm pallet beneath me. A scratchy woven wool blanket over me. Home. I was home.
I didn’t know if it was real. I didn’t try to open my eyes. Opening them might dissolve the illusion. Then what? Where would I be? What would I be? I listened to the voices around me.
Sahara.
Rose?
I startled at the thunderous tone not a breath away from me. McKade.
Scrambling, I attempted to lurch from the bed. Screams of pain ripped through me. My body was sluggish and weak in response. My mind was fuzzy. I couldn’t open my eyes even though I had desperately tried to.
“Settle. Settle.” McKade’s forced monotone had an edge of alarm. Meaty hands pressed me down. “He’s awake.”
“Austin?”
Sahara? I didn’t dare utter it out loud. I stopped struggling against McKade’s hold.
“We’re going to take the bandage off your head,” Sahara said. “Sit still if you can.” I felt Sahara’s small hand on my cheek. It was warm and smelled of lilac soap. I knew it was her. I pressed into her touch. “Okay, here we go,” she said.
I nodded. At least, I think I nodded.
In seconds, the wraps slackened. Warm air caressed my face. My hair pulled. Pain stabbed. The fabric of Rose’s flouncy sleeve brushed my nose before she jerked the bandage away.
Even the dim light inside the closed, dark hogan stabbed at my eyes. I winced.
“Go slow. Let your eyes adjust.” The stiff pallet shifted as Rose got up.
Sahara filled the vacant space. She pressed close. I ached to wrap my arms around her. Sahara. I thought I’d never see you again. When I saw her through the slits of my eyelids, my heart leaped like a feral cat. Tears burned their way to leaking from the corners of my puffy lids. Words caught in my throat. I thought to never see her again.
Her gentle embrace gingerly wrapped around my shoulders. “Welcome back,” she said. Her warm breath caressed my ear. She pressed her moist lips to my lobe.
“I missed you,” I croaked. I hauled her tightly to me with one arm and clutched the fabric in the middle of her back as if I’d never let go. I never wanted to let go again.
“Jack McKade? Is he—”
Sahara moved out of my grasp. “You shot Jack McKade.” She was animated and excited and disgusted. I couldn’t exactly tell which she favored most.
Justice cleared his throat. “Well…first, you shot Seth, in the middle of Main Street. That ignited a town-wide war.” He fidgeted. I noticed Justice wore a sidearm. The gun was plain. The steel was dull. An over-large bucket holster swallowed it. The make and model were difficult to discern. It looked cumbersome and slow. I wondered if he’d ever actually shot the revolver. He didn’t seem the type. But life had a way of forcing folks into living something they’re not.
“I was almost too late,” Justice said. “I don’t know how Rose found me in the fray without getting killed. She commandeered a team and wagon and bolted along the back side of town, screaming and hollering my name. I’d never seen the like of it.” He looked at Rose with admiration. “If we’d arrived even minutes later, you might have bled to death before we got to you. Molasses Pond isn’t safe, at the moment, if you can’t use a firearm.” He patted the leather engulfing his ancient weapon. “We carted you away.” His eyes turned to Rose. “Let’s get you up,” Justice said, looking back at me for anything he could be helpful with.
He hauled my weight into the air with little effort. Justice held me steady as I wobbled on my feet. “The folks in town tore down the posters Jack put up. The sketch on that wanted poster? I recognized your likeness to a pair of younger boys from years gone by. Myself and Jack. That’s when I knew who you were.”
I hooked my uninjured arm around his burly neck and kept the wincing to myself as we lurched toward the bench seat.
“Austin. You’re a McKade.”
Sahara gasped. Her hands slapped her open mouth. I would have preferred the irritating jumping, hand-clappy thing to the horror on her face.
I dumped onto the bench seat at the table.
Justice was reluctant to let go of me.
TwoFeathers sat in the chair with his leg propped. He was silent. Overwhelmed? Or wondering if I’ll turn into his enemy?
“Os-ten.” He had a crumpled poster in his fist. I reached across and coaxed it from him, smoothing it out on the table. WANTED.
I traced the drawing of wavy black hair falling to my shoulders from beneath a wide-brimmed, black hat. My eyes were drawn small and piggish and mean, like Lightning Jack McKade’s. That wasn’t me. My lips were thin, like a severe knife slash. It wasn’t me. The poster gave no name, just a likeness to go by. It wasn’t me. The charges listed were for murder and rape and horse thieving. And all of that wasn’t my doing.
Rose ran her hand over my messy head of hair, inspecting the stitches. “I knew your ma.” She slid onto the bench, next to me. Her thigh pressed against mine. Her warmth radiated up my side. Rose leaned into me as if she was a favored aunt sharing confidences. “For a short time, your ma was married in all ways but legal, to Jack McKade. She left him when she found out that I was also pregnant with his child. And further along than her.” Rose paused, as if gauging my blank reaction.
“Lily is your half-sister,” she said. “There could be others. I wasn’t special. Not like your ma. Jack McKade was smitten with your ma.”
Not smitten enough. “Sounds like he had a funny way of showing it.” I clenched my jaw. It kept me from saying things I might regret.
Sahara dropped a plate of stew in front of me, from behind my bound shoulder. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking, or how she was feeling. I stabbed the point of my knife at the chunks of venison and potatoes hiding in the broth.
“No doubt, your pa killed your ma that day to protect her from the cruelty of Jack McKade.” Rose placed her hand around my white-knuckled fist gripping the knife. “He would have wanted to protect you too.”
I growled through gritted teeth, “I didn’t need his brand of protection.”
“No. You didn’t. But eventually, we all need someone.” She got up and left me alone.
My belted six-guns banged onto the tabletop.
I shuddered at the noise.
“You’re a hero,” Sahara flatly said.
And I still hadn’t gotten the measure of her.
“You did good,” Justice added. “I couldn’t be prouder of you if you were my own son.”
What I did was for selfish reasons. What I did wasn’t for the greater good. I was no hero. I killed Seth. I hoped I killed Jack McKade. Killing made me a killer. Not a hero.
“I’m a gunslinger.”
There was silence. A log on the fire burst, sending a shower of crackling sparks into the still air.
I brushed my fingertips over the twin revolvers, brooding. Say something, Sahara.
On the vacant pallet, the pup paddled her legs in slumber.
TwoFeathers sucked the rim of his cup then shifted his braced leg.
Rose got up to plunk more stew plates onto the table.
Justice finally broke the deathly quiet. “This town’s not ready for another gun-slinging McKade to be sure.” He shook his head, lost in the moment. “This town’s not ready for a lot of things. It’s not ready for you, Austin.”
Rose slopped more stew onto already full plates.
Justice continued. “Let’s just say Jack McKade pushed you too hard. Everyone knows he’s a bully. Yo
u were only defending yourself.” He touched the side of his nose with his index finger. “The details will be our secret.”
Sahara and Rose nodded in agreement. TwoFeathers bobbed his head.
And I didn’t know which details made for our secret. The gun-slinging? Being a McKade?
I had so many secrets.
Peering across the table at TwoFeathers reminded me of being raised by the Navajo and siding with the Apaches against the Whites. That was a secret.
When I looked at Sahara and Rose standing as two womanly pillars, it was difficult to forget my female body. It had never matched my boy’s brain. It had never matched me. That was a secret.
I had come to the Arizona Territory in search of my White pa’s dream of homesteading in paradise. I had come to grow into an upstanding man. I wanted to be a good man. Then I found the lode of copper. And I knew the precious metal would nurture fevers of greed, envy, and hate around me. Absolute wealth corrupts absolutely. The copper strike was a secret.
I felt the weight of my secrets sucking me down. My mind churned. My stomach growled in discontent. I heedlessly played with a stabbed potato.
Sahara took my silence for indecision. “You’re going to strap on those guns. And you’re going to live who you are.” She set her jaw forward, pursed her lips outward, and squinted.
She had tried that face on me before. I couldn’t help my grin.
“I love you, Austin, late of Molasses Pond, Arizona Territory. The rest of it? We’ll figure out together. All of us.”
Chapter Twenty
July 4, 1865, Molasses Pond, Arizona Territory
Seven months had seen a lot of changes in Molasses Pond.
We set out early from the hogan, riding toward the butte before the summer sun had any time to blister the dry landscape. The blue dog, Kadey, darted after rodents. My sorrel was a ball of restrained enthusiasm beneath me. Sahara chattered away atop a logy mare from town. The stocky mare continually pinned her ears at my high-stepping sorrel.
I grinned. Two fiery redheads. And the two that attempted to rein them in. Yup, that wasn’t ever going to happen.
TwoFeathers emerged from the rocks, dragging a cayuse behind him. The animal wore a woven blanket slung with packs and pouches. Tied into its scraggly mane were beads of copper and turquoise. Feathers flapped beneath its chin from the single loop of rope through its mouth.
Across the dried flood plain, five mares, three foals, and Charlie Horse, my Appaloosa stallion, pecked at scrub among the strewn boulders near the base of the butte.
Charlie Horse raised his head. His nostrils flared, scenting the air. He snorted, pawing against the hard ground.
A periphery band of branded strays and yearlings moved farther away from the mares. A wobbly foal took too many steps in their direction. She was a fuzzy-coated bay filly with three white stockings and a wide blaze running between her large, round eyes. Charlie Horse laid his ears flat, shoving his nose toward the ground. The mare collected her foal, banding closer to the other mares.
Charlie Horse thrust his head high and bugled. He had decided we were too close. The lead mare sprang into motion, choosing a path that ascended the treacherous butte.
Charlie Horse gently nipped at a lagging dam as she carefully gathered her foal. The tiny, spotty-blanketed colt was spraddle-legged and knobbly-kneed. He floundered for balance under his dam’s urging muzzle. I was content to watch them go.
In town, we met Rose and Justice on the boardwalk outside the Watering Hole.
Justice had received a letter from Lily. She wrote to say she’d be starting at a finishing school in Boston next term. She sent no words about her father, Jack McKade.
Sahara headed off to collect a slab of pork from the butcher. I could already see she had designs on raising pigs. And she wanted chickens for the eggs. I was hoping she’d raise biscuits. I liked biscuits.
It was a quiet morning. The town woke early these days. But today was a lazy holiday. Celebrations would start at noon. The new pastor was to read a sermon under the high-flying flag at the restored Spanish-Mexican fountain in the middle of town. Fiddle players were warming up for their rousing rendition of the “Star Spangled Banner.” A man with a banjo led a parade of unlikely musicians with washboards and jugs and pails toward the fountain.
The Watering Hole was closed until midafternoon. Rose, it’s new proprietor, took up residence in a rocker under the newly added covered porch. Justice dragged chairs out to watch the festivities.
“I heard there’s going to be a horse race.” I leaned against a post and contemplated the sorrel. The bowed tendon had thickened his lower leg, but he was none the worse for it.
“They’re going to start off by McKade’s Livery.” Justice had always wanted his name over the barn doors. With his paying in good copper ore for the reconstruction of the establishment, folks got over their distaste of the name. “You thinking on running?” Justice asked. “You’ve got those new, blue boots on. You might want to show them off.”
“I’d put my money on you,” Rose said.
“I don’t think it’d be fair. We all know the sorrel is the fastest horse in these parts.” I polished the copper star pinned to the chest pocket of my old cotton shirt. Molasses Ponders had voted me sheriff in their fight to grow up.
“The town should be called Sorghum Pond.” Sahara held up a bottle of the sweet syrup as she stepped onto the boardwalk. Her eyes sparkled and danced. Her walk jounced with enthusiasm. She wore a pale green summer shirt tucked into fine, doeskin riding breeches. Her curves had filled out in all the right places. I would never get enough of looking at her.
“Then again, there’s no pond either,” she said. “Sorghum Dry?”
TwoFeathers looped the rope of his cayuse to the hitch rail.
“Sounds like a promising whiskey,” Rose said.
“Now that you mention it…” Sahara fluttered her free hand in the air. “Later. That can wait. I’m making us a celebration feast. I have news.” She winked at TwoFeathers in a conspiratorial way.
I swear he smiled back at her.
“Er, um, Sahara?” I cleared my throat, shucked my hat, and smoothed my hair. Out of habit, I tried to pull on the silk neckerchief I no longer wore in hiding my scar.
“I don’t know how to be a good husband. I’m still learning to be a good man.” I dropped my hat to the board walkway and wiped my sweating palms down my holsters. I took her hands in mine. “But if you’ll have me, I’d like to try to be your man. Er, your husband.”
“Oh, Austin, are you proposing marriage?” she asked, exasperated.
I stood stiff like a deer that heard a crackle of twigs from the underbrush. “I hoped—”
“I think we’re far too young for that. Times are changing. Folks just don’t run off and get married at our age anymore.” She placed the flat of her hand over my heart. “When I marry you, I want it to be for love. Not for want of a better situation.” Sahara slipped her arms around my waist. “And I do love you Austin. But I need to find my own worth first.”
What was she saying?
“I put a claim on the land along the Gila River next to yours. One hundred and sixty acres, to be specific. All I need to do now is stay on that claim for five consecutive years in order to gain its title. Then the sprig of land will be all ours.” She puckered to kiss my cheek.
She said “ours.” I turned my head quick. Our lips met.
I wrapped my arms around her and held on tight. I thought she’d pull away. But her mouth opened for our tongues to touch. We tasted of each other. And I knew if we lingered much longer our hunger would become insatiable.
“Eh-hmm,” Rose interrupted.
My face heated immediately. I’m sure my cheeks were colored to crimson. Sweat trickled over my temples. I swiped my forehead with my arm and fidgeted my booted feet.
I’d wait for Sahara. I was in love with Sahara Miller. This was only the beginning of the rest of our lives.
Folks began
strolling through Main Street in a pretty parade of colorful parasols and starched Sunday-go-to-meetin’ shirts. TwoFeathers, with his two-colored face, sat on the walkway to watch the procession. He handed my hat back to me. Justice stuffed a pipe.
Sahara excused herself to prepare a feast. She had been cooking up many things of late.
Rose stood and hugged onto my arm. “You’re a good man, Austin. Never change who you are.”
She hadn’t painted her face lately. I thought she was all the more lovely. Her cheeks were soft and rosy from the sun. Little wrinkles spread from the corners of her bright eyes as she smiled. And she was quick to smile these days. She was beautiful. And fierce.
I thought perhaps my ma would have liked her had circumstances been different. I thought of my ma and pa and baby sisters. I thought of the Navajo who raised me, and the motley crew that befriended me. I was one lucky man.
Rose laid her cheek on my shoulder. “McKade won’t rest until he kills you or controls you. He’s out there. Somewhere. Licking his wounds. He’ll be back.”
About the Author
When not writing, R Kent is cowboyin’. Specifically, R Kent clinics equine behavior and language, raises horses, tends cattle, is proficient with a six-shooter, is handy with a rope, and can seriously crack a bullwhip. That’s a ripe background for a mud-on-the-spurs and blood-in-the-dust Western.
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