Sagebrush Treasure

By Charles McRaven

Ride with Cole Campbell, driven by nightmares from the Civil War in his search for a new life and hidden silver. He runs afoul of evil in the person of a grasping opportunist bent on owning everything, including Rachel, oldest sister of orphaned girls struggling to keep their ranch. Cole, hunted for a map he has, is given refuge by them, finds love with one of them. But it all comes apart in violence, arson, killing. Cole must try to salvage what is lost…defend, avenge.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613094631

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Dedication

To the four sisters in our family: Amanda, Lauren, Chelsea, Ashley. Not gunslingers, but not to be messed with, either.

One

Cole figured things couldn’t really get worse, what with him having to carry his saddle the last miles into Branscomb, his horse shot from under him and all. And really not the ideal way to come into this new territory either, he guessed, this dodging bullets.

He never knew where the shot had come from; it was just there, along with that echoing thunder from all around, it seemed. And the paint cowhorse had stumbled, collapsed. Easy really, just a slow buckling, a settling that left Cole upright, instinctively snatching the saddle gun from its sheath, searching for the telltale puff of smoke.

No smoke visible, though: cartridge gun. Long, long shot, maybe one of those Union sniper rifles from back in the war. So, certainly no stray shot, no accident...somebody wanted to kill him.

Cole had lunged for the rocks as soon as the full realization hit that the next shot would get him. Whoever that was, he wasn’t just warning him. And just who had it in for Cole Campbell? Who’d gain a dime from erasing a broke cowhand? Well, he guessed he knew the why, even if he didn’t know the who of it.

The paint hadn’t been an old friend, at least. Just four feet instead of wages from that job in Oklahoma. He guessed that’d been worse, all told. No, his best mount, old Ben, hadn’t made it through the five years since the war. And he’d never got his weight back on the long ride west.

Maybe shoulda stayed, after all...No, not after Lucy did what she did. Made her choice, an’ that left nothin’ for me...But no creeks here, no rivers. No trees. Wore out land. Reckon God forgot this part of New Mexico Territory, from th’ looks of things. Well, get to that Branscomb town, then I can start searchin’, get on m’feet better.

He’d hidden out the two hours till good dark, then slipped the saddle off, slung the carbine, started out by the stars. Only trouble was, the shooter would surely stalk him, so he couldn’t show against a ridgeline, or even make any noise. Gonna be a rough hike. Make it in a coupla hours in daytime, so take about six, or I won’t get there alive.

Come daylight he’d be easy to track, and he knew he’d best study on that some. Man could even let him get to town, surely knew him on sight. And who knew which random stranger might smile a greeting and then just draw down on him.

No, that won’t do, won’t do atall. Hafta take a little pre-emptive action here, as Gen’ral Lee used to say.

The dim outline of the rock outcrop was a barrier ahead, jutting from the right, about 15 feet high, shaped like a ship’s sail. The trail, that shortcut from Ridgeline, curved around it and dropped into a dry wash. At first it looked to Cole like the right ambush spot, but he figured he’d best give that some more thought, too.

Say I was trailin’ a feller, saw his tracks goin’ ‘round that rock. Don’t b’lieve I’d chance goin’ blind there. No, I’d scout ‘way out, come up from off a ways, ‘specially if I had me that good rifle. And he knew he’d have to get set up before daylight, not risk even a move then that a man with good eyes could see.

Things come to a bad pass, man can’t ride peaceable ‘cross country ‘thout gettin’ shot at. Just too much meanness around nowadays. So, just some hardcase, figured Cole might have a gold dollar or two on him? So maybe he doesn’t know what I look like; might just get to town, be all right. He weighed that course for a spell, then decided he couldn’t take that chance. No, stakes too high.

Because that man surely knew about the map. That’d be the reason for all this, for sure.

Cole was coming to realize a man had to act a lot like an eagle or a cougar if he wanted to keep on livin’, this country. Folks wanted to play nice, why he could do that. But if not...

He settled in as well as he could, hidden in a little depression well beyond the outcrop. He’d shuffled along, leaving a clear trail in the dust, the riding boots clumsy, not meant for walking. Then, far along, he’d picked his way silently off the trail among the rocky scrub, wide and up a ways, to come back within range of the stone barrier. And in time, he dozed off.

And another of those dreams from the war came.

It was winter, and the opposing armies had entrenched on either side of the shallow river. Miraculously, at night soldiers on both sides began to call out to their opposites, asking about some unofficial trading. Tobacco, scarce among the Northern troops, for boots, shoes of any kind the Confederates needed so badly. Had plenty tobacco, since most everybody grew a patch: cash crop. An’ th’ Yanks always seemed to have boots.

So under a makeshift truce, the ragged men waded out to meet their better-clothed enemies mid-river, and the trading began. It was strange, this discovering that the men they might try to kill next day were so much like them, Cole had thought. Sure, buy a drink for that boy f’m Massachusetts, meet him on a street somewhere. Conversations, mutual gripes, details of where the men were from, what it was like back home.

And of course, girls left behind, with sometimes a match-lighted locket miniature of a lass in Connecticut, or a dog-eared tintype of a Georgia belle, shyly shown by lonely men in this unreal setting. Cole had again realized how futile this war was, how insane, this slaughter, ordered by officials far off and insulated from the blood. ‘Rich man’s war and poor man’s fight’ was the oft-repeated lament on both sides, and it was so true.

The Massachusetts trooper’s name was Caleb Bone, and he’d seemed so friendly, Cole had promised to look him up after the war, if both survived. The man had reached for a scrap of paper to write his address on, and Cole had done the same.

Only the Yankee had whipped out a pistol, and his smile became a snarl. Cole stepped back, but the bloom of fire, the deafening blast struck him down, into the cold, moving water, his blood streaming into it.

He lurched awake, realized it was just a dream—nightmare. Bone hadn’t drawn a gun; they’d shaken hands, exchanged addresses. But the letter he’d sent later was never acknowledged, and he knew the soldier had been killed. Oh, God, I hope I didn’t yell out, give away my position. Damn these dreams, gonna get me killed for sure.

But all remained quiet, with just small rustlings, an owl’s call. Or was that really an owl? He didn’t move, listening for a telltale step, a sign he’d been found, would die. His revolver was cocked, ready.

Nothing.

Eventually he stretched, got his blood circulating, flexed his fingers there under the one blanket. It felt good, and for a moment he considered the possibility of just staying hid, letting the rifleman ride on past in search of him. No, he’d see the off-tracks, come back. Didn’t look like any other way to handle this, then...have to kill him. Could be you shot at th’ wrong man, feller.

There was stunted sage screening Cole’s position, and his ragged Stetson blended with the brown landscape, shading the lighter shape of his face. He lay there, doing his best to separate himself from the insistent hunger, now an actual, gnawing presence.

And waited.

MANY MILES OFF THE trail to Branscomb, a slight young woman tried to sleep, rolled over in the tangled sheets yet again, worrying. Seems all she ever did was worry: about how the four of them would survive, now summer was here, hot, dry, soaking up the ground moisture away from the little spring branch. Well, at least it’s not still winter; we ‘bout froze there a time or two. An’ th’ twins without good coats...Well, maybe when we sell th’ heifers we c’n at least cover our hides. Bonnie’d like a new dress, too, but that’ll hafta wait. Playin’ mama an’ daddy both to ‘em’s gettin’ old—been old—but ain’t a choice. An’ I love ‘em all, ornery’s they are sometimes.

An’ now we’re short two hands, but good riddance t’those two: ‘nother’n lay a hand on one of us like that, I’ll shoot you dead. Shoulda shot botha you anyway, be done with it. Well, we handled th’ place by ourselves b’fore; reckon we can sure do it again. She thought unaccountably of the pushy town boss and his pursuing her, with promises of his idea of a good life, but shook it off. Again. Man just wants th’ ranch, that’s plain, an’ thinks he c’n slick-talk me into marry’n him t’get it. No, no, hell no, you toad: I ain’t got much but my pride, but damned if I’ll let you steal that. She felt she needed a bath, just letting that arrogant manipulator into her head.

Well, be daylight soon, so might’s well get up, let th’ others sleep. Cook for ‘em too, make m’self useful, though it’s Bonnie’s turn in th’ house. Or is it th’ twins? Can’t remember. Well, maybe whichever one’s loose an’ I c’n get that section of fence fixed, after, ‘fore that young stallion busts out. Liable t’run clear on off to th’ Masons’ we don’t. Then there’s that stand of hay to scythe, those bull calves t’cut, brand. No, hafta let th’ fence go for now, round up those calves first. An’ me with maybe four hours’ sleep, make me meaner’n a snake. Well, sisters’ll just hafta live with it; didn’t promise ‘em a good time. Do need more good hands t’handle all this, but th’ ones hang ‘round town worthless as th’ two I ran off. Oh, Pa, why’d you hafta leave us? An’ I’ll never b’lieve it was a fair fight...that gunslinger...Well, no use cryin’ ‘bout it now. Five years, an’ seems like my whole life’s ‘bout gone, punchin’ cows, ridin’ herd on my sisters, tryin’ t’make a life for ‘em. At least they ain’t run off yet, leave me ‘th all of it. But they will, someday...

She got the fire going in the cast-iron cookstove, hearing the juniper snap and crackle as she got yesterday’s eggs out. Need that root cellar bad. That’s what I was gonna get th’ hands on next, an’ now no tellin’ when us girls c’n find th’ time. Maybe not till winter, an’ then we won’t need it. Well...

AS COLE WAITED FOR dawn, alternately dozing and starting awake, in the town of Branscomb a wealthy man rose early to finalize two land purchases in his campaign to expand his commercial ventures. Another hotel, a hardware store, to serve the growing population. He already owned much of the surrounding territory: the best grassland, some rare evergreen-covered mountain slopes, most of the water. The small creeks and springs were oases that could make ranches possible, and he’d also acquired a choice spread on the little river that ran most of the year.

And there were his newer pursuits, one admittedly based on rumors, but worth investigating. There had been discoveries of silver deposits not that far away from Branscomb, and he meant to hunt for more, lay claim to the sites, if they existed. He should hear from the men he’d sent to Ridgeline today, that other settlement east, to bring him information.

And yes, he’d let yet another interest languish entirely too long, needed to act more aggressively on it. A certain forceful young lady had not responded to his overtures, and he’d become more determined to court her, win her, make her his wife, and enlist her alongside him in his ventures. She and her sisters were barely surviving on the ranch their late father had left them, and he was certain he could offer her a real life, lift her out of poverty. She’d surely accept, and with her would come the sizeable, choice ranch they lived on. A ranch he’d coveted ever since coming to this town seven years before, with money to invest and a thirst for more.

THE SUN EVENTUALLY rimmed a jagged skyline to the east, and small movements began. Cole saw a busy black beetle scurrying on some errand, ants appearing. A lizard eased into view, cocking its head to watch for predatory desert birds. Kill or be killed, I reckon. Lizard wants th’ bug, bird’ll want th’ lizard. Or maybe a fox or coyote’ll get it...nothin’s safe outta its hole for long. Well, least no rattler, just here. Don’t think I c’d stay still for that.

A hawk circled high, riding the scant morning breeze. Maybe it’d nail a hapless rabbit, or the lizard. Or even a rattler, if it spotted one. Cole had seen that: the plummeting strike with razor talons, to clamp the snake just behind the head. The eyes speared out, the thrashing, tearing struggle, the hawk evading the fangs lashing out. The oldest story of predator and prey, with everything at stake.

A movement beyond the stone outcrop resolved itself into not one but two riders, bent, following Cole’s tracks. Then they stopped, conferred. Two of ‘em. That means one can flank me. Not good. Other’n will hang back, get me ‘tween ‘em.

The men were well beyond the outcrop...No chance for a shot with the carbine, let alone two. Cole felt as if a vise were slowly closing on him. The men should figure he’d just gone on ahead, but no, these were killers, and they’d suspect the worst, that he’d done just what he planned, get set to ambush them.

So. Waiting to be outmaneuvered wouldn’t do. Neither would moving to another, better position now; the men could/would see him, ride him down. Or the one with the long gun would simply shoot him. From there. Could he even stay hid? Man and saddle? He searched for better cover he might creep to...none but where he lay.

Cole knew his stalkers would move in a moment, and it was an even chance the flanker would come this side of the trail or the other. He held his breath. Then the one with the sniper rifle motioned the other man on ahead up the trail while he covered him.

All right, then, not flankin’. I’ve got a chance. Have to let the first one go on by, take th’ sniper when he gets close. Don’t think the other’n will chance coming back, but I believe I can handle him if he does.

The map. Old Scarborough’s only possession as he lay dying of the bad lung. He’d sworn the silver was there, deep in that redrock jumble of canyons and cliffs and blind draws.

Y’see, he’d gasped between coughing fits, I’d helped this old Navajo, was starvin’, ‘bout half dead... The hacking, from deep down. It left the man gasping, spitting blood, spent. He finally got breath, continued, the eyes unnaturally bright, the realization of death upon him like a blanket of lead.

Fed him up some, but he was too far gone. I drew this map f’m what he told me. Say, y’ain’t got enny whiskey on you, do you, Cole? Jist a swaller’d ease this burnin’. The eyes had beseeched him, and Cole saw this as maybe a last request. Scarborough wouldn’t last the night.

Drop or two’s all. Keep it t’fight infections, but reckon I c’n spare a sip. He’d rummaged in his saddlebags, found the half-empty bottle. The liquid was golden in the campfire light and Cole remembered that last gold coin he’d paid for it. Got a little change back then, but that was all he had in the world.

Morning had shown Scarborough cold, staring, there at their camp, and Cole had scraped dirt away, laid his body in, covered it with soil and rocks. Unmarked grave for a forgotten man. He hoped that wouldn’t be his own fate, out here so far from everything he’d known.

Nobody’d listened to the old man’s story, or to his plea for a grubstake. Or a partner, which he’d hoped Cole would be, any way to go in search of that lode the Navajo had claimed to know of. Other folks just too busy to mind the ramblings of an old derelict.

But now it appeared somebody’d taken notice, and that somebody, or the two of them, knew, or suspected, Cole had the map Scarborough had hinted at, surely still had. And real or not, they’d kill for it.

The rider picked his way, searching every possible cover, not fully trusting the sniper to cover him. But as the tracks went on, he grew confident, sure their quarry was either ahead, or maybe had even reached the town, just four miles on. Cole had never seen the man before. He passed 80 yards from his cover, rode beyond. Then reined in at a low ridge where he could see ahead, motioned for the other man to come on.

Cole knew he had to kill the lead man too, or he might indeed know him, be that gun waiting for him in town. He wasn’t about to allow that. You boys started this, and I aim to finish it. I’ll just imagine y’got enemy uniforms on, an’ do what I’m trained t’do.

The sniper rode toward his partner, also casting his eyes about, the long gun ready. The other man waited, but had sheathed his saddle gun. Both men reasoned Cole had managed to trudge on, surely by now in Branscomb. Cole let him get within 50 yards.

And shot him out of his saddle, clean. Instantly he whirled toward the other man, racking the lever action, bringing the rifle to bear on the twisting, lunging shape.

But the man spurred his mount, keeping low, away on the trail, zig-zagging, and Cole couldn’t get off a shot. In seconds, horse and man dropped below the ridge and were gone. The sniper’s horse had shied away, stood looking at Cole as he rose, called to him. Mine now, by rights, and I reckon that rifle is, too.

But the other man...a problem now. He’d maybe go to whatever law was in the town, give some twisted story, come back with help. And soon. This needed some thought.

Prob’ly shouldn’t be seen on this horse, and sure not with this rifle. Well, damn fine saddle, silver mounted. Fetch a price, right place. Which this territory ain’t, for sure. So, do I just leave th’ saddle an’ rifle? Ride wide around that town, keep goin’, much as I need a job, somethin’ to eat, a place t’ stay? Chancey any way I go, if that feller knows what I look like. Never seen either of ‘em, but that doesn’t help. And yeah, I got to get t’ that town, no matter what.

He took the dead outlaw’s sidearm, decided to hide the rifle, an accurate 50-90 Sharps, and the saddle. He found a spot well off the trail in a sort of cave among big slabs of stone, put saddle and rifle in, and leaned another one to close the opening. Wouldn’t do to be caught with them; guaranteed noose around his neck. He brushed out his tracks, put his own saddle on the horse, a big bay gelding that looked like a lot of other horses, and maybe wouldn’t draw attention after all.

Then he set off across country diagonally from the trail, going back after a few hundred yards to brush out the horse’s tracks and his own.

Wouldn’t do to run head-on into a sheriff’s posse come looking for him. They might find his trail, might not. But he gambled he’d be well away by then, if they did.

Cole scribbled this location onto the map he carried with the stub of pencil Scarborough had given him, sure he could find it again later. Yes, after folks had forgot about the whole thing.

But he’d also have to put off going after that silver, until he could get in better shape. Which meant a job somewhere. He didn’t want a partner...always a chance that man might decide to take it all for himself. Out here, everybody was a stranger, and seemed a lot of them weren’t particular about being honest.

He decided he’d ride far in this oblique direction to discourage pursuers before doing anything else. Yes, let them think he was going clear out of the territory, was too far ahead. If they even bothered to find his trail.

But he had to get to Branscomb, because that’s where the route to the silver began. The old Navajo had spent several years there before traveling southeast to Ridgeline, the village old Scarborough had haunted, trying to find a grubstake for his quest.

Of course, Cole at first wondered why the Indian hadn’t tried for the silver himself, but he knew by then those people didn’t think the way white men did. No doubt the old man, having seen his people starved, herded onto reservations, dehumanized, had just wasted away, without ambition, without any drive or greed for wealth, his land and people taken from him.

Besides, you don’t just find silver lyin’ on th’ ground like gold nuggets. It’ll be ore, need processin’ and that’ll mean, sooner or later, bringin’ in other people. But not till I’ve patented th’ land, got a good deed an’ a decent lawyer to protect what I’ve found, worked for. Don’t wanta get rich, but don’t wanta starve, either. Done that in th’ war, more ‘n my share.

The miles fell behind Cole until he was certain his destination wouldn’t be guessed, then he turned, started his circle to come up to the town from the opposite direction. The second man might know what he looked like, might not. But he hoped the horse was ordinary enough in appearance, and without the no-doubt coveted silver-trimmed saddle or the rifle, he figured to take the chance. He’d use another name, invent a different past, and it’d be his word against the would-be killer’s, if it came to that. Yes, it’d appear as if some other man had shot the marksman, taken his horse, saddle and rifle, and disappeared.

So if Cole could find a job of some kind, get to know the territory, he’d save up, then go after the silver when he could afford it. Good a plan as any. And if somethin’ better comes up, why I can go that way, too. Nobody’s tellin’ me what I can do and can’t, and I sure like it that way.

THE OTHER STALKER HAD indeed convinced the sheriff at Branscomb that his partner had been shot down in cold blood, and rode with him and a deputy back toward the site. He’d thought about going to his boss, but reasoned it’d look better if he went after the supposed outlaw first. Carson Giles didn’t expect to find the expensive saddle or rifle, but he wanted the law on his side, to help him find that Campbell fellow. He’d do the rest himself...get that map and take it back to...

Or just maybe he’d keep it, go after that treasure himself. He thought about that on the ride back down the trail with the others, but then realized Spencer Judson would hunt him down, no matter where he tried to hide. You didn’t cross that man, already owned a big piece of New Mexico. But if he could locate the site first, nothin’ wrong with hidin’ a lot of that silver, then go ahead and join the search, let Judson think he was loyal, keep his hide in one piece. Sure, an’ have that to go back to, later on.

They found the body where it’d fallen, ants and flies all over it, buzzards already circling overhead, but predictably, no Sharps rifle, which Giles was glad of...made his story of the shooter’s innocence more believable. Of course, the horse and saddle were gone, too. Plain robbery. If they’d ridden farther, they’d come on Cole’s dead horse, and that would complicate things. They didn’t.

What else can you tell me about this Campbell feller? the sheriff queried.

Just what little I know. Heard about him back in Ridgeline, an’ Sam an’ me, we happened to set out just after he’d left. Shot Sam, an’ I just barely got away. Had to be him...no road, just this trail, an’ him th’ only one on it but us.

Don’t see but one set of tracks leadin’ off. Sure must’ve had a horse of his own. The sheriff was thorough.

Must’ve tied it back somewhere. We didn’t see it. Didn’t see him, neither.

So you don’t know what this man looks like, you said. Makes it hard to hunt him down. Dunno what we can do, not knowin’. The sheriff was seeing this as a dead end, but he’d watch for a lone stranger in Branscomb. For sure one with a silver mounted saddle.

RACHEL COBURN PULLED the well rope with long, easy strokes after the morning’s work, hearing the wooden bucket bump the stones lining the well as it came up. She remembered her father and the other men digging it, back when she was five, watching from the one glass window that was all the house had then.

The men had hauled stones in the wagon, lowered them in a big bucket to set around the wall of the well after they’d found water. Old Miz Appleby had witched the well, even told how deep they’d have to dig. She was dead now, her gift gone with her.

Rachel was 24. Old, the folk around said, not to have herself a man. And there were men tried to court her. She wasn’t bad looking at all, just sort of well, hard. But she suspected rightly it was the ranch they really wanted. Since Pa had been killed, it was hers and her three sisters’ outright, and she vowed they’d keep every inch of it. Any fortune-hunting male who thought he’d slip in and get it—and either her or Bonnie or one of the twins, Susie or Sarah—had best just shove that idea.

One thing the women agreed on: they’d not much in this world, but the land kept them alive, and they’d never let it go. Not for a life in some town, not for any smooth-talking cowboy. Or banker or railroad man, though Bonnie had started to notice the boys more, and they sure noticed her.

She was 18, the twins 15. Two brothers had died young after Rachel, their graves upslope next to their ma’s and that of their father, Paul Coburn. Rachel had headed the family for five years. And all during that time, she’d still expected him to come round a corner of the house, whistling off-key, to enlist her, the closest, in another escapade. He’d had no favorites, he claimed, but found he was always thinking of Rachel when he’d said that.

Upon settling, the Coburns had carried water from a dug out seep spring up at the base of the hill at first, building the board house where the land leveled out. Then Miz Appleby’d witched the well, and the neighbor men had gone to work with Paul to dig it. Rachel wished for one of those cast-iron long-handled pumps, but they’d not had the money for it. Maybe when they sold the heifers...

Bonnie, hanging the wash on the line, saw the rider first, called to Rachel, and she shaded her eyes against the noonday sun to look. Yes, that moving dot across the flat downcreek was a man on a horse, coming cross-country, not from town or on from the Masons’ place.

Prob’ly lost, or up to no good, hidin’. Well, wait an’ see, since he’s headin’ this way. Rachel carried the full bucket inside, set it alongside the dry sink in the kitchen where the twins were cooking, caught up her lever action Winchester, racked in a cartridge back in the front room. She watched through that same window, the rider coming on steadily.

Bonnie came inside, set her basket down, her eyes going to the loaded shotgun over the fireplace. Susie and Sarah stayed in the lean-to, busy. The smell of onions came from there, along with that of side meat. Rachel let them be...just the one man and all.

Could be he’s hurt, or yes, lost, an’ no threat. We c’n feed him, then send him on his way. If he’s trouble, why we handle trouble most every day, one way or th’ other.

Cole rode up to the porch as the front door opened. He saw a wiry, small, pretty young woman emerge, dark long hair, a little tense, and she handled a carbine casually, in a way that showed she knew how to use it. He could imagine a quick flip, and he’d be looking down its bore.

Hidey, ma’am, he tipped his ragged hat. M’name’s Cole Campbell, an’ I’m a stranger to these parts. Been travelin’, and hope y’all c’d spare a man a bite to eat. Now dammit, I wasn’t gonna use m’real name...forgot.

The girl’s dark eyes appraised him frankly: about 30, cowhand. Not th’ least good lookin’, but that doesn’t matter. Nothin’ special. Thin, like he’s missed a few meals.

Reckon we c’d manage. You look like you ain’t eat regular. I’m Rachel Coburn.

Shows, does it? Well, been driftin’ all since th’ war...seems I couldn’t settle. He eased from the saddle, mindful of that rifle, and those hard eyes. Purposefully unbuckled his Colt sidearm belt, hung it and the outlaw’s gunbelt on the horn. Looped the bay’s reins over the porch rail. Much obliged, ma’am. Somethin’ sure smells good. He looked for a wash basin. Where c’d I wash up?

Horse trough, if y’don’t mind. We ain’t fancy, m’sisters an’ me. She noted the trail dust on him. Rode hard from somethin’, but not lately; horse not winded now. An’ he’s got two guns. Watch him, then. She called inside. Girls, we got comp’ny.

Cole splashed, rubbed, dusted off with his hat. He was suddenly aware of how scruffy he was.

Not fit comp’ny, I’m afraid. Try not to offend. She smiled at that. Maybe this man would be all right. Not much in the way of visitors out here ‘sides the Masons, and them not often.

They went inside, and Cole saw Bonnie first, a tall, wide-eyed, very pretty girl not thin like Rachel, blue-eyed with brown ringlets that fell below her shoulders. She had none of her sister’s hard look, at first glance. She gave her hand...it was rough, though, hard. Workin’ women.

This’ Cole, Bonnie. We’ll see if we c’n feed him up some. Twins out in th’ kitchen, there. Sarah, Susie, come meet a visitor.

The girls emerged, smiling shyly, both wiping hands on their identical aprons, their worn shirts alike too, and their hair in braids a shade darker than Bonnie’s but lighter than Rachel’s. They were both bright, young. They were attractive, but not as striking as their sisters; unremarkable, other than that almost startling similarity. Cute, Cole thought.

Rachel introduced Cole to them. They curtsied as one body, and he felt himself bend in a slight bow.

Well, this’s us, Rachel informed him. "Folks died on back, so we’re th’ owners, th’ cowhands, th’ cooks, seamstresses, th’ carpenters, gardeners an’ hunters.

An’ vigilantes, if need be. She let that sink in.

I’m sorta...well, overwhelmed, ladies. From what I c’d see of your herd, you got a big place here. He was somehow nervous, but tried not to show it. Well, he had killed a man just that morning, and he knew he smelled of sweat and saddle leather. Well, nothin’ for it.

The twins carried hot dishes from the kitchen, Bonnie set plates, and Rachel leaned her rifle against a wall, close, indicated with her head a chair for Cole. He remembered to pull one out for her, and noted a raised eyebrow and hint of a smile. These may be hard women, but they’re ladies, to my mind, an’ a touch of manners won’t hurt. Runnin’ th’ place by themselves. Well.

Rachel said a few words of blessing, and the meal began. Beans with generous slabs of pork, sweet potatoes, turnips and greens, biscuits, and buttermilk. Cole had to restrain the urge to bolt the food. Then there was pie. He’d noted apple trees near the house, so this place had been here long enough for them to grow. He hadn’t eaten this well since he’d left Mississippi.

Where y’headin’, Mr. Campbell? Bonnie asked. Rachel had noted her mild interest in this stranger.

Branscomb, I reckon. Need m’self a job, and hope t’find somethin’ there.

You weren’t on any road to Branscomb, you know. Rachel wanted to know more. This Cole seemed all right, but...

No. Had me a little...umm, trouble back toward Ridgeline, and thought it best to...well...be sorta invisible, I guess you’d say. How much do I tell these women?

Invisible? Sarah asked, puzzled. Rachel had stiffened at this disclosure. And maybe brought that trouble with him.

Guess I’d better explain some, y’all bein’ so good to me an’ all. Y’see, yesterday late, on th’ trail, shortcut from Ridgeline, somebody shot my horse out from under me. Long shot, couldn’t tell where it came from, so didn’t figure it was by accident. Rachel reacted visibly to this statement too, as anybody would, he guessed. So, had he said too much here? But she indicated he should continue.

All right, then. Now, I been workin’ my way west, all th’ way from Mississippi. Just couldn’t seem t’ settle down after th’ war, like I told you, Miss Rachel. No enemies out here, and it plumb put me off, y’know. Figured whoever it was, aimin’ for me...

But you got his horse, didn’t you? The hard way. It was a statement from Rachel, and she didn’t seem repelled by it, or not much. Her eyes, those dark, piercing ones, were hard on him. He made an instant decision to trust these women. At least with some of it.

Afraid I did. Knew he’d trail me, movin’ slow, carryin’ my saddle. Hid out till dark, set an ambush. Then, come daylight, saw there were two of ‘em, and one hadda long sniper rifle. Other one got away t’ward Branscomb, an’ prob’ly got th’ law with him huntin’ me right now, with some wild story.

You didn’t know either of them?

Did not. Only spent a little time in Ridgeline, with ‘n old feller wanted me to go prospectin’ with him. Bad lungs, and he died on me. Buried him, rode on. He turned his palms up. There, that’s it. Or most of it. And now y’all know enough t’ get me caught.

The younger girls and Bonnie had listened, wide-eyed, but Rachel had bored those eyes into him, as if able to catch a telltale lie. He returned her stare. She looked away first.

So, we’ve got us a fugitive at our table, don’t we? Do you know if those men actually knew who you were? What they wanted, or were they just out t’ rob you?

"They might’ve seen me with old Scarborough, his name was, before we camped t’gether. Way I figure it, even broke like he was,