Charon the Legend of a Gunman

By Frank Okusako

The legendary gunfighter lay in his grave, but his story was far from finished. His seventeen-year-old son, Riley, wore the old man's signet ring and promised to bear his infamous name until he fulfilled his pa's last request: "Live, prosper, and do right by others, and when the stigma attached to my name has passed, then cast aside the name Charon forever, give yourself a real last name, and be reborn."

Riley left his home in the Nations determined to go out and right the wrongs of a world he knew little about and to meet every deadly challenge that his name must conjure up. There would be many because his pa's name was both feared and hated.

All that he had to side him was his horse Mars, his weapons, and the incredible skills to use them.

The old Charon name and the legend associated with it began with blood and bullets. That was how it must end. His pa prepared him for this day. Trained him to survive by any means. Made him the best he could be. He taught him how to kill and how to die.

The only thing he didn't teach him was how to live a normal life. That would be left to the town of Peaceful and a young girl as innocent as himself. Together, they would pit themselves against a gang of outlaws bent on his destruction and the ransacking of the town and countryside.

The legend of Charon begins anew. From the Nations, to the Rockies, the Roaring Twenties, and the birth of Hollywood Riley was there and he made his mark.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frank Okusako
• Release date: Jan 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201077044

Book preview

Charon

Legend of a Gunman

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By

Chris Okusako

Copyright Pending 2020

All rights reserved.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are products of my imagination or are used fictitiously. Resemblance to actual persons living or dead and the resemblance to actual events and places are purely coincidental, except within the epilog.

DEDICATION

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To my wonderful family and especially my

Grandchildren whose names I used

In this story.

I hope that when you read it, it leaves a

Smile on your faces.

Wyatt, Aria, Carson & Riley

Thanks to Dan Aguilar for help on the cover art,

And thank you Shauna for proofing my work.

Table of Contents

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Table of Contents

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Epilog

About the Author

Chapter I

Truth

Friday, June 2, 1882

The Indian Nations

Caleb Tremain slammed his pick into the hard-packed earth again and again before tossing it aside for a dinged up shovel. Breaking ground and moving large quantities of dirt and rock under a nooning sun was taking a serious toll on the man who was only now, finally admitting to himself that age and a serious heart condition had withered away his strength... somewhat.

Somewhat?

Quite an understatement, but a good word for a proud man clinging to the last vestiges of life. Had he a single friend remaining above ground, that friend would have told him that he was a far cry from the legendary boogeyman oft times spoken of in hushed tones around cowboy campfires. No, Caleb was not nearly the man he imagined himself to be when he first grabbed the pick and shovel, but he persevered. He would not yield to his weakness. The man had no back-up in him and never had.

By God, no, he muttered.

He would finish his digging, his son would return home, and then he would unburden himself of his dark secret before God called him to judgement. That was Caleb’s hope. His mind was set.

The hole in the ground gradually took on a sinister, rectangular shape, and by-and-by, Caleb stood three feet deep in the grave of his own making. He wanted to go a foot deeper, but his legs were wobbly and he felt a faintness and a blurring of his vision every time he bent over. So he sat down and rested his back against the short side of the hole. His head arched backwards and found support on the ground as he stared heavenward.

What a fine and beautiful day, he thought.

The sky was so blue with just a few low lying clouds drifting by. Now that the heat of the afternoon had passed, there came a cooling breeze that wafted across his exposed skin and cooled his damp clothing. Birds chirped in the trees. A lizard rustled the leaves in a nearby bush, and then popped out into the open and stared at him.

As Caleb stared back into those tiny eyes, thoughts began to course through his mind. Like what would the world be like without him in it? How could one man screw up his life so bad? What if he had turned left instead of right all those years ago? What if...? He raised his right hand and gave his cheek a ringing blow.

What if I stop thinking thoughts at a dumb lizard, he griped.

The sound of a racing, inbound horse brought Caleb back to the present. He reached down and flicked the hammer loops off his Colts.

Caleb squinted. He shaded his eyes with his hand.

Far and away he saw an imposing rider stirring up a sizeable cloud of dust. His hat brim was bent back and his longish hair and neckerchief streamed behind like a wind whipped gonfalon. The horse he rode was golden in color and of impressive size and girth... the mount of a conqueror.

Not so bad, grinned Caleb with pride. Cuts a mighty fine picture.

The rider was his son, Riley. Caleb’s half-drawn pistols slipped back into their holsters, the hammer loops were refastened. The grin faded to be replaced by its usual inscrutable façade.

Time to face the music, thought Caleb.

*

Riley saw his father from afar and was puzzled because it looked to him like his pa was sitting in a big hole. He slowed his horse to a walk, not wanting to barge in and to give himself some time to think things out.

Strange behavior but nothing new, thought Riley. Nothing new at all.

As long as he could remember, his pa seemed a bit tetched in the head, but he rationalized, what did he really know about the goings-on of fathers, family, and people in general? During his seventeen years of life, he had met a handful of boys and pitiful few girls. His mother was a distant and painful memory. Their nearest neighbors were twice as far away as he could see, and that was on purpose. People feared his pa and for good reason.

Callers who wandered across their homestead were driven away, or as in the case of many of them, they ended up buried just beyond the vegetable patch to, as his pa put it, ...add flavor to the onions.

Bad men, his pa said, although oft times he called them idiots, former associates, saddle tramps, or challengers. Riley sometimes wondered after a killing, if his pa really knew who these people were before he shot them, but of one thing he was certain. Most of the men who went down under his blazing guns knew who killed them because invariably, the first or last word they spoke before they took their last labored breaths was a single word.

Charon.

The frequent deaths raised questions in Riley’s mind, and he asked his pa if fighting, killing, and solitary life was the way of the world for everyone, every day, and all the time. But ask as he would, he got few answers because Caleb remained silent on most issues involving people and what he referred to as the, ...world out there. And if not silent, then he discouraged such talk or was slyly evasive.

Wait, he would say, and in due time I will take you from this valley and show you the world beyond the hills. Trust me, son. It’ll happen.

Riley trusted his pa, but that didn’t stop him from wondering about a whole slew of issues. One such was girls. This oft occurring interest stemmed from two separate and unrelated past events that left an indelible impression on the young boy’s mind. When he was fourteen and hunting game, he came across a number of Indian maidens bathing and frolicking in the river some miles from his home. Riley’s mouth dropped and he openly stared. They looked so... so different. He was of a mind to speak to these marvelous creatures, but he was soon run off in a hail storm of rocks, sticks, and high pitched shrieks.

Then last year, when he was sixteen, his pa took him to town on his once a year supply trip. Pa had spoken of towns in passing, but Riley had never seen a town before. This was his first time, and he was flabbergasted. There were rows of buildings and there were people everywhere.

Riley rubbed his eyes, blinked, and took a harder look. Meanwhile, his pa was halfway to the saloon across the street.

Tarry a spell by the wagon while I wet my whistle. And stay outta trouble, he warned, but Riley heard none of this. Something caught his eye.

It was during a second sweep of his eyes that he saw several young girls gathered together on the boardwalk. He approached them, and for no good reason that he could articulate other than that they looked nice and smelled nice and made him feel funny. Once he got within spitting distance he was shocked when they giggled and whispered amongst themselves. One girl dared to step away from the group, and she spoke to him in a fetching voice that made him feel kinda odd... like his mind was frozen, even though his face was on fire.

Do you always stare so at girls? she asked sweetly. Is it that you like what you see? And she slowly pirouetted and twirled her parasol while the other girls laughed and laughed, bobbed and clapped their hands.

When she stopped twirling, her face was red and she asked him a bold-faced question that made the other girls gasp and whisper to each other behind their hands.

My name is Marigold.

She looked at him gravely while pausing to let that tidbit of information sink in. She continued, this time smiling and showing her teeth while she rhythmically twisted at the waist.

There is a dance at the school house on Friday, she said in earnest. I will be there, and I will save my first dance for you.

Dance?

Riley was puzzled and about to ask her to explain the word dance, when there was a stentorian shout from within the saloon.

Charon! someone hollered.

The shout was followed by two gunshots.

Men scurried from the batwing doors and scattered. One man wore a bright and shiny tin star. He ran the fastest. Pa was the last one out, and he came out wary with his pistol cocked and smoking in one hand and a full bottle in the other.

Riley’s raised eyebrows brought forth a curt reply.

His pa raised two fingers, and then he said, Time to go, son. He tipped his hat to Marigold and said, Ma’am, as he passed by.

But Riley hesitated. He wanted to say something to the flustered Marigold first, and he was about to when his pa steered... well, more like manhandled him back to the wagon. Riley looked over his shoulder at the girl and saw that the joy had left her face. That was the look of disappointment, and Riley admitted to himself that he also felt disappointed.

Riley sniffed the air. They smell good, said Riley.

That’s what trouble smells like, boy, spat Caleb. I’ll tell you more about girls when you’re eighteen. Until then, you keep clear of them varmints. And when Riley made a pouty face, Don’t look at me like that, son. Be grateful. I just saved your life.

They didn’t look like varmints. They actually looked kind of nice, thought Riley. And dangerous? Pshaw.

In spite of all the unanswered questions and glaring holes in his life, Riley was an emotionally stable and happy boy because he knew one major truth that was hammered home almost daily. And that was that he was loved unconditionally, and that his father would do anything, sacrifice anything for him. Riley felt the same way about his pa. They were a team.

Scattered thoughts of past events faded as Riley reined in his horse and tentatively stepped down next to his father. There was something in the air that was dark and troubling. Pa was in one of his dark moods, and Riley tried to chase away the gloom with light banter.

Pa? he questioned as he raised both arms into the air, palms up. You lost a penny? Maybe you discovered a gold mine? Or maybe you be digging up the biggest worm you ever did...

No more, Pleeezzz, came the raspy voice. Have mercy on an old man.

Caleb sighed with mock disgust and then grinned at Riley. He patted the ground next to him and beckoned his son to sit.

Riley, he said, I’ve got a lot to say to you, and the hands of the clock are jabbing at my heels. Will you set down by my side and hear me out?

Riley felt his spine tingle with alarm. He stood open-mouthed with his hands on his hips while he contemplated a response.

Pa...? he finally began, but Caleb cut him off with a shaky handwave.

No questions, please. Just sit down and hear my story.

Riley made to sit across from Caleb but Caleb stopped him. No, Riley. Sit next to me, for what I have to say... I can’t bear to look you in the eyes. Please, son. And Caleb once again patted the ground next to him.

Riley hesitantly seated himself beside his father so that they sat shoulder to shoulder in what he guessed was a grave. He turned his head and faced his father who steadfastly stared straight ahead.

Finally, Pa? Whatever you got to say, give it to me straight-up. Man to man as you always say.

There was a brief pause as Caleb gathered his wits and his nerve. A tear began to form in the corner of his right eye. This was the time. This was the time to unburden his soul to his son, that never was his son, except in name only.

Riley instinctively moved to hug his dad, but Caleb’s next words froze him in place.

I’m dying son. My ticker is near to giving out. Surely you’ve noticed my weakness and my pallor over this last year. Hell, it was only a fortnight ago that you beat me to the draw nine times out of ten.

So, what’s new about that? said Riley with feigned glee. You been losing to me steady-like since I turned fifteen.

Both men contributed a brief but uncomfortable chuckle before Caleb took up his twisted tale.

"Nigh on a month ago, whilst you went on that hunt, I took a trip to the big city and saw a doctor for a pain I was suffering in my chest. After a lot a poking, prodding, and listening... well, to make the story short and to the point, the doc gave me the long face and told me to get my affairs in order. He placed emphasis on the word soon.

"How soon? I asks him. And Doc Spellman replies, ‘Well, there’s no telling for sure. That you’re here talking to me now is nothing short of a miracle. The only conclusion I can draw is that of divine intervention. Someone up there loves you and is not yet ready to bring you to final judgement.’

"Humphhh, not hardly, I says on the way out the door.

So here I am getting my affairs in order. I been working diligently on my last will and testament for quite a spell now, trying to get the words right, for much of it is downright hard to admit to. All I own in this material world is my love for you, Riley, a terrible skill with a gun, a hefty bank account, and some dark secrets that I kept from you all these years. It’s time for me to fess up before it’s too late.

Riley tried to get a word in, but Caleb waved him off and continued.

"I, Caleb Tremain, am the last of a proud line that I can trace back as far as the Revolutionary War, where your Great Great Grandfather Kent fought alongside General Washington and fell, a hero, at Yorktown. Your Great Grandfather, Hiram Tremain, was a famed mountain man and western trailblazer. He fought with Andy Jackson at the Battle of New Orleans and was on a first name basis with Old Hickory hisself. My father, George, fought at Chapultepec and received a battlefield promotion for bravery... yet in the end, your grandpa died of shame. My shame for I have been a blight on the family name.

"Like those who came before me, I was trained a warrior and born an adventurer. My family schooled me in the art of war and the hard ways of a man until I became, in a manner of speaking, a poised weapon. My great grandaddy oft times told me, ‘We been hard on you, son, but life is a bitch, where oft times every hand may be raised against ye in unjust cause. At sich times, remember what we have taught you. Smite your enemies and show them no quarter. Do to them before they do unto you.’ To which my daddy always said, ‘Hallelujah,’ before he would slap me on the back and tip the jug. Then grandpa would chime in with, ‘Learn to depend upon no one but yourself. Relying on others weakens a man and will get you killt. Have yer friends if you must, but always remember that when push comes to shove, they be lookin’ out for themselves more than you.’

Life was fine and good until the year 1861 rolled along and the Civil War began. That damned war, groaned Caleb. "I signed up and excelled in combat, and like my father before, earned a battlefield commission. But maybe because of my youth and the utter brutality of this particular war, my outlook on the world changed. I changed and not for the better. Where others cringed in terror from shot and shell, I craved the excitement. I felt like a god on the battlefield, and somewhere along the way and over time, I lost my moral compass amongst the fields of dead. Winning was the only thing that mattered. My people were useful until they died, the people on the other side, bugs to be squashed.

It’s not like I no longer knew right from wrong. It’s more like I no longer cared whether the acts I committed were right or wrong. Something inside me broke is the best way I can explain it, and I never was the same afterwards.

A crow cawed from a nearby tree attracting both men’s attention. Caleb and Riley looked up at the distraction to see a handsome bird poised over their heads. But then their attention shifted to the beyond. High in the sky, a buzzard rode the swirling currents of air.

They always know, groused Caleb, and then in a faraway voice, Son, would you dig this grave another foot for good measure? I’d do it myself, but I might expire before I finish the rest of my tale.

Riley knew better than to argue. He heard the truth in his pa’s words.

Sure Pa. You just rest and I’ll do you proud. Riley took the proffered shovel and then leaned on it while his eyes met his father’s.

Pa, he said, "you don’t need to add another word to your story. I may only be 17, but I ain’t blind to what I seen all these years past. Long ago, I suspected that you had a dark past. You are suspicious of your own shadow, and your Colt is a part of you whether you’re in the outhouse or sound asleep. You go to town once a year and sometimes once every two years, and when you leave, you carry enough guns to arm a half dozen men.

"I says to myself, ‘What must you be afraid of? What must you be hiding?’ And I answers back to myself, ‘I don’t really care. You’re my Pa. You’re a hard man, and I love you.’

And now I’m supposing that it’s time for you to confess to me that you are not my real father? Is that it? Because if it is...

Caleb hung his head and his expression was dreadful to behold.

Sure pa, I mean... well, look at you and look at me. You’re 5’6 tall, the average height of a man born before 1840, says you. You have black hair and gray eyes. Me? I’m 6’2 tall in my stocking feet, with blue eyes and blonde hair. You have more hair on your chest and back than you have on your poor head, while I’m slicker than polished steel. D’ya suppose I’m blind to what that means?

Caleb smiled but it was a sad smile as he recalled a day long ago in the past that was burned into his memory.

Your Ma was blonde haired and blue eyed, tall for a woman and full figured. I imagine she had a wonderful smile when she was happy, but I never saw her that way. I saw her horror, her sorrow, and her agony. The last thing I saw in her eyes was her love for you and her courage. And then with you in my arms... I shot her dead.

Pa! shouted Riley. A look of surprise and dread etched his face as he reared backwards. A throbbing feeling seemed to radiate from his ears and temple. His vision tunneled as he sank down to his knees. Then came a realization. The recurring nightmares, they were bits and parts of a remembrance, not a...

Dig, Riley, and I will tell you the rest. I have to get this off my chest before I leave this world. Grant me this favor, pleaded Caleb.

Riley plunged the shovel into the ground and shoved down hard with his boot. His love for his pa warred with his hurt and sorrow.

I’m listening, pa, but no matter what you say, my faith in you is unshakable. Nothing can change our relationship. The past is the past. You may not be proud of it, you may have done horrible things, but you built a fine life with me and that can’t be undone.

Caleb wanted to hug his son for those words of support, but that would come later. Maybe. Instead he forced a smile and continued his story.

"After the war, like a lot of broken men, I drifted off to the west. I had no money, and the only skills I possessed were with weapons. So I just naturally gravitated to the owlhoot trail. Son,... I been a cattle thief, a horse thief, an assassin, and a professional gunman. My reputation as a bad man spread far and wide, and early-on, some eastern gent writer with an eddication gave me the name Charon. According to him, Charon is the mythical ferryman of Hades, who carries the souls of the dead to hell. The name stuck and the moniker, Caleb Tremain, was lost to me as if I was never borned.

"Now in my defense and up until I met you, I never shot no one in the back... unless I had to, and I never harmed no woman or child... directly. But I am ashamed to say I left many a family without a husband or without a grown son. I never killed me an honest lawman which might explain the law’s surprising lack of interest in me. And I never murdered no one that didn’t have it coming to him.

"Riley, a man’s soul is likened to a white sheet when he is born, and from birth on, every evil he does takes a chunk out of that sheet until nothing is left for him but a soul full a holes and the gift of death and rest eternal. By the time I met your ma, I was a ruined man, weary of life, and not much caring whether I lived or died.

"On the morning I met your ma, I was riding drag for a band of outlaw trash. There was four of them, bad men, and I mean far beyond the pale bad. My job was to watch our backtrail for a posse from the town of Lonesome. We had robbed the town’s bank of roughly $5,000, and for that amount of money, we knew the town folk would follow us straight to hell’s door if they had to.

"From up ahead I heared a flurry of gunshots. I kicked my horse into a gallop and came upon a scene that sickened me. There on the ground was your father, shot to doll rags. Your ma held you in her arms while Gus and Hank were ripping at her clothes. Pete was trying to wrestle you from her arms. Glen’s belt was undone, his gun and holster were laying on the ground, and he was laughing like a crazed maniac.

"I didn’t think about what I would do. I just acted on an impulse... a good impulse for a change, and I have to believe that God whispered in my ear, for what I did was completely out of character. I drew my horse up in a cloud of dust, leaped out of my saddle, and landed on my feet with my hands hovering over my gun grips.

Glen yells out, ‘You hold on there, Charon. Watcha think you’re doing? Cain’t you see that we’s just having a little fun? No call for gunplay! Let’s talk about this, he yelled as he began to inch away.

I been a lot of bad things, I said, but I never harmed a woman and her child. By my association with you, you have dragged me to a new low.

Wait! pleaded Glen.

Time for talk is over, I growled. Go for them guns.

"Gus, Hank, and Pete faced around and went into a crouch, probably expecting me to let them draw first, the bloody fools. Glen yells, ‘Don’t shoot. I got no gun. You gonna murder me in cold blood you bloodthirsty bastard?’

"What a dumb question. I whipped my left hand pistol out and shot Glen through the groin, while my right hand pistol went to work on Gus, Hank, and Pete. Only Pete got his gun into play, and his fateful shot went wild.

"Riley, the bullet intended for me struck your ma in the gut.

"She went down hard but kept herself between you and the rocky ground. I sheathed my weapons and ran to her. ‘Take my child,’ she cried. She was in agony.

"I knelt beside her, and took you in my arms. Your ma reached out and gripped my wrist with all the strength she had left. ‘Take care of him,’ she said. ‘Save my boy and I will pray for you in heaven. Save my baby, Please. Please.’

"And suddenly, I felt a power in me that I never felt before. The feeling was indescribable... it was as if an angel put his hand on my shoulder and made me see clear, what was and what should be in the future.

"My name is Caleb Tremain, I said solemnly, and I am a no good, tramp gunman with no more sense than the Lord allows, but I promise to do as you ask. I pledge my word to you and Him above, if God listens to sinners such as myself.

"Her hand dropped from my sleeve. ‘My name is Helen. My son is Riley. His pa’s name was Silas.’ Her eyes began to have a faraway look to them. Helen turned her head toward me and pleaded. ‘Have mercy and end my suffering.’

"She stared over my shoulder, and a smile came to her lips causing me to spin around and look skyward. Mebbe she was staring at the pearly gates opening their doors, I don’t know, but my task was set before me. With you squalling in the crook of my left arm, I drew my pistol. Your ma’s last words to me were, ‘You’re a better man than you think, Caleb. Be that good man for yourself and my son.’

"And then I fired the shot that ended her life.

"That day changed my life, boy. I took you and moved to this lonely valley in the Indian Nations where I and the name Charon would hopefully be forgotten in the course of time. You must’ve been around three at the time this happened.

Now son,... if you still love me, help me finish my grave.

Riley silently finished shoveling dirt while Caleb went to the cabin and gathered what he described as his burial furniture. And once the grave was deep and wide enough, Caleb dropped an old mattress and feather pillow into the pit and surrounded it with fresh cut wild flowers. With that done, he headed to the creek with his Sunday best for a bath and a shave.

When he returned, the sun was easing itself below the western hills. Riley stood at the head of the grave and looked like a lost calf while he turned the brim of his Stetson round and round in a clockwise circle. Caleb put his arm around his son and led him toward their cabin.

Let’s get something to eat, and we’ll talk some more tomorrow. Truth be told, I need to get some rest cause I’m all tuckered out.

The venison steak, baked potatoes, and gravy that Riley prepared for dinner was a good one that Caleb capped off with some good sipping whisky that he had set aside for a special occasion. Riley, who never developed a taste for hard liquor, joined his father in his cups for the first time. And so light headed and light hearted, father and son reminisced and spoke of the good times they had together until finally, Riley put his frail pa to bed. Then he dragged himself to his own bed and collapsed onto it in a befuddled state of mind. His final thought was that his pa would be fine after a good night’s rest.

The hours dragged by peacefully until either late that night or early in the morning of June the 3rd, Caleb’s eyes popped open and his face contorted in pain. His hands clutched at his chest. A low groan escaped from his clenched lips.

That is the worst one yet, he thought. But that wasn’t the whole of it. This latest attack left Caleb with a feeling of impending doom.

My time has come, he realized.

Caleb eased himself out of bed, belted his holster, and adjusted his pistols before tip-toeing down the hallway. He passed Riley’s room and looked in on the boy who had fallen from his bed and onto the floor. He had a smile on his face, and so too did his pa.

He’s a good one. The best. Thank you Lord for letting him see the best in me.

The old man crossed the living room, stepped out into the darkness, and made his way over to his grave. He stepped down, removed his boots, and lay down under a cloudless, starry night. If this was to be his last night on Earth, then Caleb felt he was a lucky man on all counts.

The pain in his chest began anew and intensified. Caleb’s mind blurred and wandered to past events in his life, such as stories told to him during his childhood. One such tale was an ancestral account of Sokki Triuun, a Viking who sailed the seas until, by might of arms, he ended up securing a large plot of land on English soil. He was a conqueror, who when put to rest in his sixtieth year, was buried with his finery and his sword in his hand, while his family wept for him and sang his death song. Around his neck he wore the Christian cross and the amulet of Thor. Sokki, a prudent warrior, was not one to take chances with the afterlife.

Then, sometime between the Nordic invasion of England and European migration to the Americas, the name Triuun was anglicized to Tremain. It was a fine story of an honorable beginning of a noble family.

Caleb chuckled in his near delirium and spoke out loud, I wonder if any of that story is true? That noble blood sure don’t run through my veins. And then more softly he added, Riley will make things right. He began to hum the song, Shall We Gather at the River.

Now and then he added a remembered word or two.

An owl turned his head and listened, not with alarm but with curiosity. An approaching coyote stopped, turned around, and trotted away. The crickets stopped chirping for a few seconds and listened.

Caleb drew his beautifully engraved Colt .45’s with their pearl handles, and crossed them over his chest. His Winchester 76 was already by his side next to his tomahawk and Bowie knife.

I’m ready, he thought.

And then he smiled at the fact that he was one of the few, in his former line of work, to die with his boots off. Then he outright laughed when he realized his feet were cold. He knew he was dying, but he reasoned that if his feet were not on fire, then he didn’t have one foot in hell. A whimsical smile settled upon his face. There’s still a chance then, and he imagined he could hear Riley’s mom keeping her word. She was praying for him.

The humming finally stopped in the wee hours of morn, to be taken up by the haunting cry of a common loon, and an orchestra of bullfrogs and crickets.

***

When Riley awoke, he found himself on his stomach with his gums and tongue pressed against the dusty floorboards. He rolled over onto his back and rubbed his eyes.

Never again, he thought as he spit some particles of dust out of his mouth.

Luckily for him, he felt pretty well rested and did not experience the dreadful hangover that over imbibing often leads to, and the reason why was simple. Riley was sensitive to the effects of even a small amount of alcohol. The two shots of whisky that his pa served him were enough to send him into a deep and dreamless sleep, but not nearly enough to seriously discomfit him when he awoke.

Riley struggled to his feet and headed for the front porch where he relieved himself. Like a lot of men do, he tilted his head back during the process so that when he finished and buttoned his britches, he was staring upwards at the blue skies of a new and beautiful day. The only anomaly was that the buzzard of yesterday had returned and brought friends.

Buzzards.

A suspicion and a dread washed over Riley as he turned and walked quickly to his pa’s bedroom. When he looked in and discovered the room empty, he knew where he would find his pa.

The young man steeled himself and walked toward the grave. His eyes were moist and a lump in his throat made swallowing difficult, but his aura exuded severity. His pa passed on to him a harsh code of life that had been handed down from father to son since the time of Sokki Triuun, and that code did not allow him to show fear or weakness.

Not ever.

Riley walked to the lip of the grave, crossed his arms, and looked down.

Chapter II

Dear Son

Saturday, June 3, 1882

Caleb looked at peace. There was a slight upwards tilt to the corners of his lips, and his gray eyes stared up into the heavens. Riley wondered if his pa saw something beautiful in his last moments of life that gave him hope for the hereafter. With all his heart, he hoped that it was so.

Pinned to his pa’s chest was a piece of paper with a message scrawled on it. Riley knew the importance of his father’s last words so without hesitation, he hopped down into the hole beside his pa, retrieved the note, and began reading.

Dear Riley,

In the event that I didn’t survive to your eighteenth birthday, I left you detailed information, farewell gifts, and my last will and testament in the trunk beneath my bunk. It is vital to your future that you read this material.

In regard to my mortal remains, I would be obliged if you would place a piece of cloth over my face before you cover me over. I hate the thought of getting dirt in my eyes. Thank you, son.

Riley reached for the edge of the patterned cloth that rested against the side of his father’s head. He took one last look at his dear pa and then reverentially dragged the material across his face until his body was shrouded from the neck up. Then he stepped out and away from the pit, before he shoveled dirt into the hole. Riley could not bring himself to watch his father’s body despoiled by the falling clods of dirt, nor could he bring himself to watch his father disappear forever from the face of the Earth.

When he completed his task, Riley wandered down to the creek to wash up and take stock of all that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. After he finished his morning ablutions, he returned to the cabin and entered his father’s bedroom. Riley strode to his pa’s bed, knelt down, and raised the blanket draped over the mattress and piled against the floor.

There it was.

The trunk was large and with good reason. Aside from his weapons, horse, and cabin Caleb did not have much in a materialistic way. But what little he did have was stored away inside this box. The meager contents represented a lifetime of living and defined who he was as a person.

What will I discover?

Riley cracked the lid open and peeked inside. What he saw surprised him because very little inside the container was about Caleb. Instead, almost every item within was set aside for his son, as a large note proclaimed in bold letters: FOR MY SON.

A last will and testament left everything Caleb owned to Riley. That included his horse, whatever was found within the storage container, and anything residing within the confines of the cabin. The cabin and the property it sat on were not to be passed down to Riley because Caleb, plain and simple, was squatting on government land.

Next came two sealed envelopes, each with a sheaf