Page 21 of Follow the Lonesome Trail

Morning came. Bright, as it often did after a storm.

Snow lay in drifts against all the buildings, like cobwebs in the corners of an abandoned room.

It was melting off the sides of the cattle bunched together in the corrals.

There were over a hundred now, by her reckoning, and that was enough to give her hope. They looked good.

She pulled her coat collar higher on her neck. The day was warming, but vestiges of the bitter wind came in fitful bursts.

As she passed the corrals, she saw hoof tracks in the snow outside the barn, leading away. He’d left.

She opened the door anyway. No sign of his being here, except the coffee pot and the empty bean pot. Even the medicine cupboard was closed.

Last night could almost have been a dream, and yet she felt the difference. She knew what she had to do next, and now she had the courage to do it.

Teller and Hughes arrived later that day, bringing in a meager seven head. She met them down at the west corral, pulling down the poles for them to drive the cattle in.

Nothing seemed off about them, save the lack of cows for the time they’d been gone.

“I hate to say it, this might be all we have,” said Teller, taking off his hat to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

“You looked in the valley?”

“Sure did.”

“What about the storm?”

“We holed up in the Braggs cabin down on the riverbend. The cattle did fine.”

“I’m glad. The wind was fierce.”

Hughes nodded in wry agreement.

“Well, go put the horses up,” she said. “They look done in.”

She walked with them as they rode up past the corrals and noticed how they took in the extra head in the south one.

“Where’d these come from?” asked Teller, looking over the new cattle.

“They made their way home,” she said. They didn’t need to hear, and she wasn’t about to put her benefactor at any more risk than he probably was already.

“That’s a lot of cattle to come back themselves,” muttered Hughes.

“On that note,” she began, “I must let you know that I will no longer need your help here.”

Teller stopped his horse. “What?”

“I can’t afford to pay you beyond what you’re owed this week. I expect you to gather your gear and be gone within the hour.”

“The hour?” Hughes echoed indignantly.

“At that rate, all my gear’s here,” said Teller stubbornly.

“Leave the outfit horses, please.” A man could steal cattle out here and think to get away with it. Almost no one dared take a horse.

“What happened?” Teller’s lip took on a faint curl.

“It has been a long time coming. Surely you knew with so many cattle missing, I wouldn’t be able to afford hands.”

Teller continued to stare at her, as if trying to discern another motive. Surely he was afraid she knew, and he was gauging how far he could push her.

She returned the stare coolly. “My mind is made up. Unless you want to work for nothing, I cannot keep you.”

Teller bit out an oath.

“Come on, Hughes. There’s better work to be found, anyway.”

From there, she let it be. She watched them from the porch as they swapped gear from the outfit horses to their own and rode out.

“Where are they going?” asked Henry, his face puzzled.

“They’re leaving for good.” She let her breath out in a low sigh. He was old enough; he was shouldering the burden of the man of the house, even at eight. “They were stealing from us.”

“Money?”

“The cattle they were bringing in.”

“But they won’t do it again?”

“I don’t expect so.”

Stealing cows off the range and taking them straight from a homestead were very different things.

She’d go to town and hire a couple hands for a week, talk to the sheriff, and get the cattle driven to the nearest town.

If she could sell them off, they’d survive the winter.

She still had the bull, and the breeding stock would rebuild the herd.

It was just a small crack of hope, but it was enough for now.

The Bar S was quiet when he rode in; most of the hands seemed to be resting. Strange how this land froze you in the dark and burned you out during the day.

He’d barely begun to strip his gear and tack from the horse when the foreman met him in the yard.

“Where’ve you been?”

“Out scouting for cattle.”

“Find any?”

“Not enough.”

“I don’t see any.”

“I left them with Hank.”

“Hank, huh?”

He glanced back at the foreman and continued working.

“Hank said you took some cattle by yourself. At night.”

“They weren’t ours. We shouldn’t have had them.”

“A few mix in every time—”

Johnny’s hand stilled on his horse’s bridle. He turned to face him.

“I don’t know how many times a body has to say that before I get a stomach full. None of those cows were ours. We had no business with them.” He pulled the bridle off and dismissed the horse with a gentle push.

“Did they have our brand?” The foreman’s voice was cold.

So that’s how it was. They were going to play that game with him, have the audacity to change the brand in front of his eyes and then point to it self-righteously.

He met the man’s eyes. “I ain’t rustlin’. We all know who’s doing that.”

Something snapped in the foreman’s face. “Get your things and get out, before I shoot your ungrateful hide.”

Johnny shouldered his saddle and swung the gate open. “I was getting out anyway.”

“You better get far from here, because the boys, they’ll shoot you on sight.”

He ignored the threat. Cowards. The louder these boys shouted, the less it meant.

His own horse was in one of the rear paddocks, lean and a little out of shape, but not bad.

He caught him and threw his tack on. Normally he’d demand his week’s pay, but he figured he wouldn’t push his luck.

Depending on the man, they would shoot you in the back riding out if they thought you had any pull with the local authorities.

Good riddance. He’d find another outfit before winter came, get nice and settled. His mind went back to the Lucky Dollar, the pale woman alone—but he’d already done her a good turn. To come back might seem like he was forcing himself on her when she had little choice.

A voice broke into his thoughts. One of the windows in the bunkhouse was open. He paused, listening.

“But if she stays alive, she’s got legal claim.”

“Not if she is scared off. Many a man’s caved. She’s not going to be any stronger.”

“I don’t know, this woman—she ain’t the type to scare easy.”

“If you don’t have the guts to put a bullet in her—”

“What about her kids? There’s more to it than just her.”

“We can make it look like the Apache or some sort done it.”

“Or that half-Comanche,” added a new voice. “We just sacked him. I think he’s what happened to that forty head we branded.”

“Yeah, she didn’t say nothing about him, but I think he went to the ranch. She gave us the boot the minute we rode in.”

There was a mean kind of chuckle.

“That’d be a twist of fate.”

“Figure he’ll go to her?”

“Naw, he’s going to light out in the other direction. Not the sentimental type—they rarely are.”

“Well, we’d better do something about her before the weather actually turns. The other night was just a taste.”

“I can do it, if you boys don’t have the stomach. Go get the hands. I’ll lead the way and do it, and then we’ll bust the cattle out.”

“Is it worth it for a hundred head?”

“Nobody’s going to know. She’s alone out there. Her loss if she’s too stubborn to get out. This land’s unforgiving….”

Not if he reached the pass first.

He threw a leg over his mustang and turned back the way he’d come. So much for another job.

She’d cooked a whole chicken in celebration. Took down Frank’s fiddle and played an old Scottish war tune for the children. It was a small defiance, and a little early, but one she felt made a world of difference.

A fighting chance was all she wanted. And by all that was good, she was holding it fast.

The sun was setting in purple dusk, the birds quieting, the stock fed, and for the first time since Frank died, there was a sense of contentment, a feeling that this place could be happy again.

“Are we going to sell the cattle?” asked Addie, her mouth full of chicken. This once, she’d been allowed to go back and eat more after dinner.

“Yes, we are. And we’re going to stay here. I will go to town and find us an honest hand for the winter. It won’t be too hard to care for the herd that’s left.”

Addie gave a fierce, joyous clap. “Let’s dance! Come on, Henry.”

“I’ll play something,” volunteered Henry, getting up. “You can dance, Mama.”

“Look at you, taking after your father.” She gave up the fiddle with a smile.

Henry took the instrument and his fingers ran up and down for a second as he adjusted it under his chin.

Then he broke into a hornpipe.

She took Addie’s hands in hers and they danced, spinning and jumping and laughing until they were breathless on the porch.

“You are getting good, Henry.”

“Thanks.”

She sighed, settling onto the steps.

The cattle were stirring a little in their pens, but the reminder of the added stock was a happy thought. She’d have to fix up some of the fencing for the breeding stock, but she could do that with a little help from Henry.

She closed her eyes.

A distant gunshot broke the silence.

He stood up in the rocks, rifle trained on the milling riders. The horses were spooked, turning, looking for an escape in the narrow pass. Their riders, a half dozen of them, looked around, pistols out, for their assailant.

“The next one can go between your eyes,” he said, loud enough for the men to hear.

“There he is!” The foreman pointed him out.

“Uh-uh. I wouldn’t.” He clucked his tongue. His sights were on the man in the center of the group, a fellow with a thick, groomed beard.

He’d not seen the man more than a couple times, but he knew him to be the owner of the Bar S.

“There’s six of us. You should have shot to kill.” The boss said, easing in the saddle, a little smile in his eyes.

“I warned you on purpose.”

“You can shoot, but we’ll get you. One of us will.”

“Maybe.” He didn’t move a muscle. “But I’ve got my rifle square in your chest, sir, and the Bar S don’t belong to anyone else.”

The smile in the boss’s eyes froze a little.

“Now the way I see it, you can ride on back and leave this woman alone, or else you can do it after someone’s dead.”

“Why do you care about the woman?” The boss tried a different tack.

“Why do you think it’s right you can steal from a widow?”

That was it.

The boss fanned his gun. Half a dozen shots all barked at once. The rifle roared, kicking back into his shoulder, and he dropped to the ground, his forearm searing. He cocked and let another go.

Horses turned and ran, men were shouting, and smoke hung on the air, menacing.

He cocked the rifle loudly. Below him lay the boss, dead where he’d fallen. Another man was crawling across the ground.

“Anyone else?”

“The horses are gone, they ran,” came a shaky voice below.

“Not my problem.”

“Just let us go.”

“What makes you think you can flaunt the law and get away with it?”

“Please. Boss is dead,” he persisted, “We’ll go.”

“Will you?”

“I will.”

“Drop your gun where I can see it.”

A Colt hit the dust in the middle of the trail.

“Okay, stand up and walk back the way you came. Hands where I can see them.”

A young fellow stood up slowly, hands shaking, and started up the trail, his neck craned, trying to watch his back.

“Anyone else? I got a lot more where that came from.”

Two more guns hit the dust. Two men stood up and started to follow the first.

“You boys crazy?” came a voice from behind one of the rocks.

“You’re the crazy one, Smith. Gerhardt’s dead. This ain’t for us.”

“Smith, last chance,” Johnny called.

Another pistol hit the dirt. Shaking with anger, defiance in every line of his body, the last man stood.

“If I see you again—”

“I’m heading west,” he answered. “You can find me there.” He loosed a shot at the man’s feet for emphasis.

The men scrambled. A few minutes later and they were all but gone, specks in the distance. It would probably take them the rest of the night to find those horses.

As for the boss—

Johnny pushed himself up on one arm with a grimace. His right arm had made a good puddle of blood in the dusty gravel.

He moved it a little, watched it bleed and let his breath out. It was a crease, nothing more. With one hand, he undid the neckerchief at his throat and tied it tight over the wound with his teeth.

It would hold for a little while.

With one hand, he hauled himself awkwardly up into the saddle and turned the horse towards the rim of the canyon.

She’d run out behind the house at the sound of the sudden shots.

“Mama—”

“No, Henry, stay!”

She stood staring up at the canyon rim, skirt clutched in one hand, her other, shading her eyes.

The silence hung heavy. A couple disturbed birds flew over.

Another shot. Then nothing.

“Mama?”

She let her skirt go.

“I don’t know what it was.”

The homestead stood sturdy and peaceful beneath him. Dusk had fallen thickly over it, the sun no longer reaching inside. Smoke rose from the chimney, barely visible in the dim light. He could see the cattle in their pens, the barn and bunkhouse standing dark, a small light in the house.

For a moment, he thought he saw a figure, a purpled shadow, behind the house.

It was probably his imagination.

He swung his rifle off his shoulder and holstered it.

They’d make it.

She saw a figure on the rim of the canyon, the last place the sun was reaching. A man, tawny-haired—or perhaps dark, and it was a trick of the sun—with a long-barreled gun against his shoulder, looking down into the canyon.

She didn’t recognize the horse.

As she watched, he turned and rode away. A moment later she glimpsed him further down the rim, moving west.

She’d wait inside. It had gotten dark so quickly. Perhaps in an hour or so he’d have made it down the rim, and she’d see who it was, what had happened.

“Did you see anything?” asked Henry, as she came in.

“Just a rider. Time for bed, both of you.”

She waited all night. No one ever came. The next day, and the next day passed, and nothing. The following day, she rode to town.