The Last Rider Part Three: Working the Line

AFTER THE NARROW ESCAPE from the mob in Nopal, Mose drifted back north into Indian Territory, crossing the Arkansas River southeast of Ft. Gibson. Frazzled, hungry, dirty, and trail-weary, all he had to his name were the clothes on his back, his bedroll, and the old pistol and twenty-dollar gold piece the Nopal smithy’s wife had stolen and pressed upon him when she engineered his jail break.

For days he lived on water and whatever small game he could get—a scrawny rabbit here, a bony squirrel there, anything he could capture or shoot. The old .44 black powder pistol the smithy’s wife had given him worked all right, after a fashion, but only five rounds had been loaded into the cylinder. One of those misfired when he tried to bring down a fat possum that crossed his and Buster’s path one hungrier than usual afternoon. He cursed but didn’t fire at the possum again. He figured he better save his ammunition for other kinds of trouble.

“We ain’t got much, Buster.” He patted his horse. “Nothing but this old pistol with two shots left, if they fire even, and… wait a minute.” He reached into his shirt pocket and felt the twenty-dollar gold piece. “We ain’t quite done yet, old hoss. If we can just get to Fort Gibson. I got an idea.”

Just as he had hoped, south of Ft. Gibson he found a gunsmith shop. It was in a little town, actually more a collection of shacks used for businesses serving the soldiers from the fort rather than a real community. He tied Buster to a railing outside and, knocking the dust of the trail off his pants and shirt, walked inside.

“Good day to you, young fella.” A friendly old man working behind a counter in the back of the shop greeted him.

“Howdy.” He took off his wide-brimmed hat and nodded to the old man.

“Nice weather for a change.” The old man wiped off a glass top in the middle of the main counter behind which Mose saw various separate parts of firearms, mostly pistols, laid out on several small tables. “Been cold of late, stormy. Sunny and warm feels good. You bet.”

“I reckon so. I been riding mostly these days, doing my best to stay out of it.”

“A wise course. A wise course, indeed. Yes, sir.”

Mose let the conversation die out. Inside the shop he saw that the old man had several pistols already converted to the new cartridge-firing cylinders that were catching on all over the region. He hoped there might be a Navy .36 like the one the marshal back in Nopal had taken from him. There had been no time to recover it in his hasty escape from the vigilante mob’s noose.

“Needing you a new sidearm, mister?” The old shop owner saw him eyeing the display of pistols beneath the glass-covered portion of the main counter.

“Yes, sir, I am. I have this older one here, but I’d like to trade up if you got a newer one and the price is right.”

“Well, sir, maybe we can do us a little bit of horse trading here.”

Mose produced the black powder .44, took the firing caps off the two remaining rounds, and then handed the pistol, butt end, to the shopkeeper. The old man took his time checking out the weapon. He tried the action, looked down the barrel at the sights, turned the cylinder.

“Old, but serviceable. Not much demand these days what with the new cartridge shooters and all. What are you willing to swap it for.”

“You got maybe a .36 Navy that’s been changed for the new cylinders?”

“Don’t see one. Wait. Here’s something close.”

The old man reached into the case and pulled out a long-barreled revolver. “A Griswold .36. Is that close enough?”

He reached the pistol across to Mose, who tried it for weight and balance. It felt good. Comfortable to hold, easy action, smooth-turning cylinder. It would do.

“Might work.”

“Comes with a free box of cartridges.”

“How much with the trade?”

“Well.” The old man scratched the back of his neck. “How about eight dollars?”

Mose grimaced. “Seven?”

“I don’t know. I only got ….”

“Six. That’s as low as I can go.”

“I’ll take it and that box of cartridges.”

“Comin’ right up.”

Mose paid with the twenty-dollar gold piece, leaving him fourteen dollars—in coins. He knew that wouldn’t last long, but he was so tired of being hungry all the time he decided to stop at the first hotel or eating place he found and get a good hot meal and then, later maybe, treat Buster to some oats.

—

AFTER FILLING HIS GULLET with a big steak, potatoes, bread and butter, and a grand piece of apple pie—all with a cool, satisfying glass of milk—he bought several pieces of thick jerky for eating on the trail and a small bag of oats as a treat for Buster. He headed north into the country away from Ft. Gibson, away from people, away from trouble—he hoped, for a change—looking for a place just to rest for a while.

He found a smooth place under a big oak tree beside a small, clear running stream. Letting Buster forage along the creekside, he spent the daylight hours casually catching small fish for his meals and simply sitting beneath the big oak doing nothing more than chewing on a piece of straw and absorbing the restful beauty of the unspoiled environment. It was a pleasant idyll and a needed respite from his recent spate of troubles.

Within a couple of days, though, he began to feel the familiar tug of the trail. There was something in him that longed for movement, that needed to follow the unknown road, to find the next thing up ahead. With that restlessness mildly gnawing on his insides, he saddled Buster and headed up the old cattle trail toward Baxter Springs.

It was a warm clear day, perfect for easy, steady riding. He didn’t push Buster but let him take his own lead much of the time, only reining him in if the dependable cayuse strayed too far off the trail in search of the perfect stand of grass.

About mid-day, with the sun directly overhead, he saw several riders heading down the trail toward him. Instinctively, he felt for the Griswold tucked behind his belt on the left side for a crossways draw. It was a slower draw, sure, but the pistol rode steadier there and more comfortably. As the oncoming riders drew nearer and nearer, he rested his right hand on the butt of the .36, at the ready.

When he was still some distance from the approaching riders, he heard one of them call out something. One of them waved. Then they all began waving and shouting.

“Well, I’ll be a son of a gun. I never.”

“Mose. Mose!” He heard his name called.

It was Tommy Robison, the waddie he’d defended from Jack Hart, the lousy rat he’d killed in Ft. Smith. He could hardly believe his ears or eyes. Chuy the cook was with the others, too, and another young drag rider named Braddock who’d eaten trail dust with him and Tommy, and Charlie Wilcox—the trail boss and Hart’s kin. Mose slid his hand back onto the butt of the Griswold.

“What do you say, boys?” He halted Buster in front of Wilcox’s bay horse.

“No need for that, Traven.” Wilcox pointed at the Griswold. “We heard about Ft. Smith. We know what you done, and we know you had no choice. Jack Hart was a hard case, and kin or no kin, I reckon he had coming what you give him.”

“No other way. He didn’t give me no choice.”

“Fair enough.” Wilcox reached his hand out. Mose shook it. Tommy, Braddock, and Chuy happily gathered round.

“What’cha been doing?” Tommy smiled. “Where you headed?”

“Just drifting, I reckon. No place particular.”

“There’s a way station back just a mile or so.” Wilcox pointed. “Why don’t we ride back and have a meal together. Me and the boys ain’t in no hurry to get back home. What do you say?”

“Well.”

“C’mon, Mose.” Tommy said. “You can tell us all about your adventures.”

“Yeah.” Young Braddock chipped in. “It’ll be like on the trail again, except there’ll be real food and not that chuck wagon stuff.” The boy glanced quickly at Chuy, who pretended to be offended.

“You’ll think chuck wagon stuff the next time we go on a trail drive.” Chuy caused general laughter. “I’ll cook you a prairie dog pie and flavor it with vinegar and salt.”

“Yum, yum.” Braddock laughed. “My favorite.”

“C’mon, boys.” Wilcox turned his mount back to the north. “Let’s go get some grub and celebrate seeing Mose again.”

“Yee haw.” Tommy and Braddock waved their big trail hats over their heads and spurred their horses on. “Last one there’s a no ’count waddie.”

After the trail riders treated Mose and themselves to steak and eggs and listened intently to the stories of his recent travails—minus the specifics of the jail break—with the sun reaching mid-afternoon level, they gathered by their horses for a final farewell.

“You boys take care of yourselves now.”

“You, too, Mose.” Tommy spoke for the group. “Come see us sometime.”

“Sure enough.”

“Traven.” Wilcox reached in his pocket. “Me and the boys did well with the drive, and we made a bit more than we thought we would.”

“Well, that’s great.”

“We agreed that since you was with us over half the way, you ought to share in some of our good fortune.”

“Ahh.” Mose looked down at his dusty boots. “

Sure, Mose. You deserve it. For sure.”

“Mighty decent of you to say so, Tommy.”

“Here, Traven.” Wilcox held out some bills in his hand. “Enough jawin’. Each hand kicked in a dollar for you. Take it with our blessing. You earned it.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Take it.” The others insisted. “Come on.”

“You all is mighty good fellas.” Mose looked at his boots again. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll take it.” Wilcox pressed. “We want you to.”

“I truly thank you, boys. I’ll always remember this.”

“We’ll always remember you, too.” Tommy said.

“One more thing, Traven.” Wilcox added. “If you’re set on heading north, there’s a ranch up along the Territory border, up where it runs close to Kansas and Missouri and Arkansas. The Rocking H Ranch it’s called. Tell the boss there I recommended you for work. Name’s Ben Carson. You get up in that area, just ask anyone about the Rocking H and Ben Carson. They always need good hands. He’ll treat you right. Tell him I sent you.”

“Thank you kindly, Wilcox, boys.” Mose mounted up. Buster snorted. He was ready for the trail again, too. “See y’all down the line.”

“So long.” The cowboys raised their hats in salute. “Good luck.”

Mose spurred Buster gently and gave the excited animal a controlled lead. To the sound of his old trail mates’ cheers behind him, he waved his right arm and rode on to the north, on toward the far end of the Territory.

—

BEN CARSON, OWNER OF the Rocking H Ranch, hired him on the spot. He needed a line rider. Especially would need one during the coming winter. Was glad to hire anybody that Charlie Wilcox recommended. He could start right away, taking a spare pack horse and supplies enough for a few weeks ahead. Might as well get right to it. No time to waste and plenty of stray cattle to find and drive back to the main herd out in the grassy rolling hills of the Rocking H. Lots of fence to repair and restring. Plenty of work to do.

Mose thanked the stocky, voluble Carson, met a few of the Rocking H boys, and, with little ceremony, loaded up the pack horse and followed a narrow but clear trail out to the line rider cabin nestled at the base of several hills near the four corners border in the far northeast section of the Territory.

The cabin itself was not much more than a oneroom shack. It looked like it had been thrown together out of scrap wood by men in a hurry to get the job done. His first order of business, after unloading the supplies and settling Buster and the pack horse in a small corral out back of the cabin, was to find a hammer and some old nails and reattach several slats on the roof and side of the shack. At least the place would keep out the rain and wind for the time being anyway.

Inside, it was basic living at best. The place had a dirt floor, which helped keep the inside cool—a benefit in warm weather for sure. There was one chair and a little table, and on one side of the room, a bed, more of a cot really, with a thin mattress and thinner down pillow. On close examination, both the mattress and pillow were bug-free, and he considered that a considerable blessing.

There was a small pot-bellied stove for heating the place and a little flat one for cooking, with enough pots and pans to fry some meat, prepare biscuits and the like. In one corner, there was a place dug down and covered with burlap that he figured was used for keeping apples and such, and there were open, partial boxes of sugar and salt and a little wooden container of pepper.

From the Rocking H larder, he was given a sack of flour, a tidy supply of salted meat and jerky, coffee, beans, several tins of vegetables and two of peaches. He looked forward to trying those peaches some evening after a tough day out mending barbed wire. For the fencing, the supply boss at the ranch had handed him a bag with a roll of bailing wire, a sack of staples, a fence tool, and some grease. He was told to cut his own sticks of wood for repairing small breaks and to replace broken fence posts with whatever tree limbs he could find for the purpose.

There was a shallow, clear creek nearby, ample small game in the area and, supposedly, wild berries and such to supplement his diet. With all that and a decent place to stay out of the weather, he figured he could make do just fine in between supply runs to the Rocking H. And for the first month he did.

It was a bit lonely sometimes and the job could get downright boring, fixing broken barbed wire all day. Occasionally, he would find a lost stray, and that broke up the monotony somewhat. Overall, it was a simple existence, one he felt was suited to him and his solitary nature.

One day, about mid-morning, as he was fixing a small break in a stretch of barbed wire, he heard the sound of a rider approaching. Cocking his ear to catch the direction, he saw one of the boys from the ranch pop out from behind a small hill and head toward him. As the man got closer, he could tell it was a young poke called Meador who he had seen before on a supply run. The cowboy reined in his horse a few feet away.

“Morning.” Mose tapped the brim of his hat.

“Boss wants to see ya.”

“He say what for?”

“He just says for you to get back down to the ranch right pronto.”

“Let me finish up this break, and I’ll ride on in.”

“Suit yourself. I done told you what he said.”

“All right.” He wasn’t particularly pleased with Meador’s terse conversational skills.

“Better get to it.”

“I got the message.”

“Don’t make no never mind to me.”

“None to me, neither.”

Meador spurred his horse. The animal jumped and broke into a fast trot. In a moment, rider and horse were out of sight beyond one of the nearby hills.

“Dumbhead.” He spoke in the general direction Meador had gone. “What was eating him?”

—

HE TIED BUSTER TO a post in front of the cowpoke bunkhouse and walked casually toward Ben Carson’s big white house that was the centerpiece of the Rocking H Ranch. After grabbing a quick bite to eat back at the cabin, he had taken his time riding in. By the sun, he guessed it was going on one thirty in the afternoon.

“Come in.” Carson met his new line rider out on the front porch of the house.

“How do you do, Mr. Carson?” Mose removed his hat.

“’Preciate you riding down.”

“Yes, sir.”

The two men stepped inside the big house, which, despite the heat outside, was cool and dark. Mose took a deep breath, smelling the pleasant odors of cooking and such that were so different from the smells of his little ramshackle cabin up in the hills at the far end of the ranch.

“I suppose you was wondering why I called you in?” Carson guided him further into the house.

“I reckon I didn’t really know.”

He hoped he wasn’t getting the axe already. He was just getting used to working at the place.

“I have someone here to see you.” Carson led him into a large living room filled with heavy, ornate furniture.

Mose pulled back like he was about to step on a Texas rattlesnake. He instinctively reached for his sidearm and began to draw it from the holster.

“Whoa, there.” A familiar voice called out from across the big room. “No gunplay. I ain’t here to arrest you.”

Mose stopped with his pistol half drawn. It was the marshal from Nopal, Texas. The one who had locked him up on the false murder charge. The one whose jail he had busted out of.

“Take it easy, Traven. It’s all right. I’ve got your belongings and money. Your pistol, too.”

“I don’t reckon I understand.” He let the pistol slide back down into the holster.

“Marshal Dacus is here to exonerate you of all the charges down there in Texas, son.” Carson explained.

“Marshal Dacus?” He wasn’t quite able to get his mind around the new information.

“I’m awful sorry, young fellow.” The marshal held out a small burlap bag. “Here’s all your stuff. That nice Navy .36, too.”

“That’s right decent of you, sir, but what happened? The way I lit out of there, I figured you had to be here to take me back. Even if I didn’t do what they was charging me with.”

“We know you’re innocent, son, and you’ve been acquitted in absentia.”

“In ab… what?” He rubbed his chin.

“In absentia, it means you was freed even though you weren’t in our custody no more.”

“I don’t get it.”

“You’re a free man, son.” Carson told him. “The marshal has rode all the way up here with your things just to let you know.”

“I appreciate that. But how did I get free. I swear they was getting’ ready to lynch me when I got busted out of there.”

The marshal elaborated. “What happened was that a fellow who was a passenger on that stage what was robbed came forward and described the robber that shot and killed Bert Carey. Fellow named W. C. Hunter testified a few days after you busted out and the description was nothing like you at all. Me and my boys caught the real shooter. He’s locked up waitin’ on his own real trial right now.”

“Thanks to Heaven.” Mose let out a deep breath.

“And I’m awful sorry ’bout the way I busted out of there, but that Carlton fellow and that Enoch, I was sure they was gonna lynch me.”

“All charges against you are dropped. You are free. And, by the way.” The marshal reached into his shirt pocket. “Here’s your $20 gold piece, too.”

“And my paper money?”

“Sorry, needed that for the finding of you.”

“Fair enough.”

“No hard feelings?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, there you go, boy.” Carson grinned. “All’s well that ends well.”

“I reckon.”

“One other thing you might want to know.” The marshal said.

“Yeah?”

“That Enoch, the blacksmith what turned on you?”

“Uh?”

“He’s dead.”

“Dead you say? What happened?”

“After his wife helped you get away, Enoch took to beating her, beating her hard. I went to stop him one day, and he come at me with a hot smithy iron. I shot him dead. Nearly cost me my job, but I’m cleared now. As for me and you, we’re even.”

“No, marshal, I owe you this one, and I won’t forget about it. I appreciate what you done for me.”

“Well, good luck, then.”

“Thank you kindly, sir, and good luck to you, too.”

—

ON THE WAY BACK to the line rider shack, he kept twirling and spinning the Navy .36. He didn’t realize how much he had missed the pistol until he felt its balanced weight in his hand once more. It felt comfortable and made him feel relaxed and safe. He liked the Griswold fine, but there was nothing like his own, original .36. It was the best damn pistol he’d ever owned.

When he was maybe a half mile or so away from the cabin, just as he entered a draw that led through some low, scrub-covered hills, he thought he heard something and reined in Buster.

“Whoa, boy.”

He cocked his head to one side. Definitely someone up ahead. And it sounded like they were in trouble. He spurred Buster lightly, jogged him along the trail—not too fast, not too slow. Coming around a bend in the draw, the sounds got louder. The cries of a woman. The rough shouts of men.

By a stand of sycamores alongside the creek that ran near and beyond the shack, he saw two cowboys bent over a figure on the ground. Digging his spurs harder into Buster, he rode fast toward the men, his Navy .36 in hand.

“Let her be.” He galloped up to the scene.

The cowboys had been so intent on their victim they did not realize he was coming until he was practically on them. One man turned, hand reaching for his sidearm.

Mose leveled his Navy .36 at the man.

“Don’t try it, mister.” The terrified woman, an Indian, scrambled into the brush beside the creek, her leather dress ripped on one side at the hip. When the other cowpoke turned around Mose was shocked to see it was Meador from the outfit. “Let that woman be. Right now. Both of you.”“

You the ‘Indun’ police I suppose?” Meador laughed.

“Maybe he just wants to join in.” The other cowpoke leered.

“You boys ain’t got no right jumping that woman like that.” He kept his pistol trained on the first cowboy.

“What’s the matter with you.” Meador made a production out of tucking his loose shirt back into his pants. “Me and Fuller here was just having some fun with a squaw. What’s that to you?”

“Yeah.” Fuller squared up. “And pulling your sidearm on white men. Boy, you got yourself out of whack here.” He took a step forward.

“Stop where you are.”

“Come on, Traven.” Meador intervened. “Stop acting like a preacher or something. It was nothing but funning.”

“You boys saddle up and git. This is my territory.”

“You ain’t the boss.”

“Here on the line I am.”

“Git down off your horse, mister.” Fuller growled. “We’ll see who’s boss.”

“Step back.” Mose kept his left foot in the stirrup until he was carefully onto the ground. No sooner had the toe of his right boot touched soil than Fuller went for his own pistol

Without hesitation, Mose fired the .36. The shot, loosely aimed—and luckily so for Fuller—hit the cowboy in the fleshy part of his left thigh bringing him down immediately.

Fuller dropped his weapon. “You shot me.”

Meador rushed then, grabbing Mose who struggled, fought back, managed to lift the .36 and with a short, hard swing cracked the pistol across the side of the cowboy’s head. Groaning, Meador fell in a heap beside Fuller. Mose stood over the two men with his pistol still trained on them.

“You shot me.” Fuller repeated, holding his leg.

The wound was bleeding some but not bad. As for Meador, he held the side of his head and continued to moan.

“You boys get up on your horses and git. Now.”

“We’ll get you for this.” Fuller vowed, when the two cowboys, wounded and beaten, drug themselves up onto their saddles.”

“You had no call.” Meador clenched his teeth in pain. “It wasn’t none of your business.”

“You’re a dead man.” Fuller said. “You hear me?”

“Maybe. You all just go on.”

Just to be safe, Mose kept his pistol aimed at the two men until they were not just out of range but out of sight. When he was sure they were gone, he went in search of the girl. He found her not far away, hiding behind some scrub brush beside a dry creek bed.

“Come out of there.” He holstered his pistol and reached out with his right arm. “I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

The girl grunted something that he took to mean no and retreated further into the scrub.

“C’mon.” He cajoled. “You’re safe now. C’mon out.”

He walked over to Buster, who had sidled back up after the fight, and reaching into the saddlebags came up with a big chunk of beef jerky. He unhooked his canteen from the saddle pommel and walked back to the girl. After several more minutes and many entreaties she finally came out of the bushes.

“Here.” He offered her the jerky and water.

The girl grabbed them like he might be a tricky rattlesnake ready to strike.

“Easy now. Nobody’s gonna harm you. Eat and drink. That’s good.”

After the girl downed the jerky and drank half the canteen of water she calmed down. He took the canteen from her and hooked it back on the pommel.

“Do you speak English?” He prepared to mount up. The girl shook her head. “But you understood that?”

He lifted himself up onto Buster and settled into the saddle, then reached his left arm for the girl. She flailed her arms and jumped back.

“Suit yourself, I’m going on to my cabin.”

He softly popped the reins, and Buster took off at a slow gait. He kept the horse at that pace for several minutes before looking back. The girl was following. She was about fifty yards behind him on the trail. She stayed there all the way to the shack.

Back home, he unsaddled Buster, watered and fed him, combed him some, and then put him in the corral with the pack horse at the back of the building. The girl kept watch on every move he made but from a safe distance.

“You still hungry?” He called to her when he was through seeing to Buster’s needs. “I got me some scrawny rabbit stew left in the pot. Won’t take long to get the fire goin’ and heat it up. You’re welcome to join me.” The girl looked at him stone-faced. “Do as you please.”

He got some kindling and some small sticks of wood and in no time had the stove fire going and the rabbit stew heated up. He didn’t bother to check on the girl, but he got two plates and spoons and, after wiping the room’s little table off, set them out. He poured clean water from a bucket into two metal cups and sat down to eat his leftovers. About two bites into his meal, he heard the shack door creak open, and the girl stuck her head inside.

“Come in.” He didn’t look up. “Got plenty for ya.”

The girl pushed into the cabin and came up to the table but wouldn’t sit down. Ignoring the spoon, she lifted the plate and pushed the food into her mouth, drinking the stew juice as she went. All the while she simultaneously fussed with the tear in her clothes.

“I got some pins you can fix that with.”

He stood. The girl raised the plate up in one hand.

“Easy now. You are a feisty thing. I’m just going over here to get you some pins to hook up that tear.”

He pointed at the rip in her clothes and the girl seemed to understand.

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

He found a couple of pins in a little dish sitting on a small shelf near his bed and brought them over to the girl. She immediately backed away from him. He raised his hands as if in surrender and then held out the pins for her to see. She quickly grabbed them from him and hurriedly fixed the tear in her leather dress.

“Be careful you don’t poke yourself.” She felt the edges of the pins. “Now don’t get all fidgety, I got a tool here that’ll bend those over so’s they won’t cut you.”

Somewhat reluctantly, the girl let him use the fencing tool to bend and crimp the pins so that they wouldn’t stick her.

“See, I ain’t such a bad feller after all.”

“Feller?” He thought she might be thinking that was his name.

“Me?” He pointed to himself. “Not feller. Mose. My name is Mose.” He said his name two or three more times. The girl seemed to catch on.

“Mo... se,” she said haltingly, then, “Mose.”

“Yes. What’s your name? Who are you? Are you Cherokee?”

“Aniawi.” The girl pointed to herself. “Aniawi. He repeated.

“Mose.”

“Yes, I’m Mose. You are Aniawi. Good.”

“Good.”

“You do speak some English, then?”

“Some English.”

“It’s getting dark now. You can stay here. You can have my bed.”

When he motioned toward his little cot, the girl became extremely agitated again.

“Oh, no, no, just for sleep. For you.”

The girl pointed at the depressed area in the dirt floor where apples and such had perhaps been stored.

“Sleep.”

“Okay, you sleep there. But I have an extra blanket for you. You use that.”

The girl took the blanket he offered her.

—

HE WAS COMPLETELY SURPRISED to find the girl still there when he woke the next day. He figured she would have slipped off in the night or early morning, but she hadn’t. After he washed the sleep out of his eyes, he made flapjacks with blackstrap molasses for them both, and the girl was still hungry enough to wolf those down fast. He figured she must’ve gotten separated from her people somehow and been lost for at least a couple of days when Meador and Fuller had come upon and tried to assault her.

When they were done eating, he got his gear and started out to saddle up Buster for the day’s work. The girl followed him to the door but stopped before going outside.

“You can stay here if you want.” He didn’t know how much she was understanding. “I won’t be far. Them boys won’t likely be back to bother you none for a while, anyhow.”

He fixed wire until early in the afternoon but thought about the girl all the while he worked. He worried about Meador and Fuller. Maybe they would come back—to get him or her, or both. About 2 p.m. he decided he’d better get back to the cabin and check, just to make sure. To his surprise, once again, the girl was still in the shack.

They ate an early supper, and this time the girl helped with the preparing and cooking. She seemed more relaxed around him now, and he kind of liked having someone there—even if she didn’t speak often. They exchanged a few words in English now and again, and she occasionally spoke Cherokee to him. She repeated the word Aniawi several times, and he decided to shorten that and start calling her Ani.

When she wasn’t looking, he admired her long, deep black hair that fell nearly to her waist in back, and he liked her brown skin and brown eyes. She was thin, what he’d heard people call lithe, and her buckskin dress couldn’t completely hide her pleasant shape. At bedtime she took her blanket and again slept in the recess on the cabin’s dirt floor, but she slept watching him. He fell asleep in his cot facing her.

The next morning after breakfast, which they cooked together, he went out to fix wire again and just a few hundred yards from the cabin looked back to see the girl following him. He walked Buster slow, and the girl stayed behind them all day long, hanging a few feet away when he got down to work on fences. He quit early once more, and when he offered his arm to the girl, she took it, and he pulled her up behind him on Buster.

Back at the cabin, she took his boots and dusted them with a rag she found in a corner of the room. At supper she did all the preparing and cooking of the food while he gathered wood and kept the fire going good.

On the third morning, she again went with him to work, this time riding out and back behind him on Buster. In the cabin, they exchanged bits of English and Cherokee until they were beginning to actually communicate to some degree. For such a short time and from such an unusual beginning, he felt like they were nearly becoming domestic, a couple as it were. After so much time alone on the trail, it was not an unpleasant sensation.

“More coffee?” Ani asked after she had made breakfast for them on their fourth morning together.

“Just a little.” He indicated the amount by holding up his thumb and forefinger.

When she poured the coffee into his cup, she brushed against him. He restrained an impulse to reach out and take her by her slender waist. She smiled at him—a sweet, unoffended smile. He went ahead and put his arm around her waist, and she did not pull away. It had been so long since he had felt the affection of a woman, he simply laid his head against the side of her hip and rested it there. She ran her hands through his tousled hair.

“Work today?”

“Yes.” He admired her face. “Work today.”

“Go with you?” “Oh, yes. Go with me. Please.”

With Ani nearby all the time, the workday flew by. Late in the afternoon, with shadows lengthening on the rolling hills around them, they headed back to the cabin. At home they gathered firewood, collected water from the creek, and made a satisfying supper of beans and cornbread. They even broke out a can of peaches as a special treat for the evening. They visited, in their own manner, until it was dark and time for bed.

On the cot, with the light of day now gone, he was restless. He couldn’t stop thinking of the girl just feet away from him there on the dirt cabin floor. He tossed and turned, pushing his blanket away from his legs. He tried to calm himself but to no avail. He could hear her moving in her blanket across the room. Then he heard another sound. The sound of her moving about. He held his breath, for an eternity it seemed. Then he heard her voice beside him in the dark.

“Mose. I sleep by you.”

“Yes.” His voice caught as he turned to allow her into his cot. “You sleep by me.”

—

HE WOKE TO SUNLIGHT, knowing he had overslept but didn’t care. He felt good, tired but good. It was a rare experience in his young, often difficult life. He took a deep breath, luxuriating in the laziness of not getting up right away and heading out to ride the line. He rolled over to share his good feelings with Ani and was surprised, though not alarmed, that she was already up and gone.

Because the door was slightly open, he guessed she was out scavenging for firewood to get breakfast ready. Slowly sitting up, he pulled his pants over his long handles and slipped into his boots to go help her. Smiling again to himself, he exited the cabin and walked right into the middle of a group of Indian men.

“Whoa.” He cried out, as one of the Indians pushed a rifle directly into his gut.

He raised his hands and backed up. The man with the rifle jabbed it toward him again. Two other men moved toward him.

“Easy, boys.” He slowly dropped his hands to his waist. He had no weapon. Nothing at all to defend himself with.

“Stand still.” The man with the rifle ordered.

“Point that rifle somewhere else.”

The man raised it higher, aiming it at his chest.

“You don’t move.” One of the others, a heavy set, thick-muscled man commanded.

“You got the drop on me, boys, but this ain’t settled yet. Who are you?”

“We are Aniawi.” The heavy-set man spoke again. “Cherokee. Aniawi.”

“What have you done with Ani?” Mose did not understand. “Where is she?”

“Stand still.” The man with the rifle aimed it at him.

“Go to hell. Where is Ani? Who are you?”

The Indian men moved, and Mose dove into the one with the rifle, knocking him to the ground. But in a heartbeat, the other men pulled him off and with a flurry of punches sent him reeling backwards. The big man pulled a long knife and menaced him with it. He reached down and came up with a big rock in his right hand.

“Come on.” “

You come.” The big man held up the long knife.

Just as they were about to fight, a familiar voice cried out from behind the group of Indian men.

“Stop. Stop now. Don’t fight.”

“Ani.” Mose pulled back.

At the sound of the girl’s voice, the Indian men also backed off, and they parted to reveal her standing behind them. She was being held by an older, graying man.

“What is it, Ani?”

“My people. My father. My people. Aniawi. Cherokee.”

“Your people. Aniawi?”

“Yes. They come for me.”

“Come for you?”

“I must go. They are family. To home.”

“You’re going?”

“Must go.” Tears welled in Ani’s eyes.

“This is your father?”

“Yes, father.” The old man released his grip on his daughter’s dress.

“But….” “Have to go. To home.”

The old man signaled to the others, and they began to back away, although the rifleman and the one with the knife kept their weapons pointed at the forlorn cowboy.

“Good… bye.” Ani struggled for the words.

Mose didn’t reply. There was nothing to say. Her people had come for her. She was going back to them. That was only natural. It was the only way things could be. It was all there was to it. That was that. He turned to go back into the cabin. There was nothing else for him to do.

At the door, he paused briefly to look at Ani one last time. She was being led off by her father and the others and she, too, turned back toward him with a final, sorrowful look. A look painfully sad to him, a look that seemed to say she would have rather stayed with him but could not. After a moment, he broke eye contact with her and went back into his empty shack.

In the days after Ani left, he tried not think about her. He tried to throw himself into his work, but from time to time, he could not concentrate at all. At those times he would ride Buster hard through the distant countryside, going nowhere, pushing the animal until it and he were both nearly exhausted.

At night, he tossed and turned in his cot, remembering Ani’s warm presence beside him, the gentle feel of her long, deep black hair. And those thoughts often mingled with a memory of Old Mexico. Specifically of the Hacienda Carlota where he had known a Mexican girl that, like Ani, he could not have either. A girl also protected by her family and one kept away, pulled away from her contact with him, a gringo.

One morning he rose late and slow, saddled Buster, and rode back to the ranch to see the boss. He traveled in silence, barely aware of his surroundings, lost in an unexpected haze of melancholy. At the big house, he walked straight up onto the porch and knocked on the front door. His boss, Ben Carson, greeted him.

“Howdy, I been expecting you. Thought you might’ve come in before this.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I heard of your trouble, son.”

“I would imagine.”

“Was a squaw, was she?”

“What?”

“A Cherokee?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I don’t reckon it coulda worked out for you.”

“No, sir.”

“Well, that’s neither here nor there. No concern to me. The other thing, though, is a problem.”

“The other thing?”

“With Fuller and Meador.”

“Oh.”

“Son, I had to stop the law from coming after you on that one. You shot Fuller, for God’s sake, and beat the tar out of Meador.”

“They had it coming.”

“That may be, but I can’t have that kind of bad blood on my ranch. You understand, don’t you?” Mose nodded. “You’re the newest man and the most trouble we’ve had. Even if you didn’t cause it. It may have come with you and not all be your fault, I won’t argue that. But I have to let you go.”

“I figured.”

“I have your pay here.” Carson produced a sealed envelope. “It’s your letting go money.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m sorry, son, but you better move on, get out of the Territory. I won’t be able to keep those boys away from you forever. They’re after payback.”

“Let ’em come, it don’t matter none to me.”

“I know it don’t, but you watch your back, anyway.”

He took the pay envelope and without another word turned and walked off the porch of the big house. Carson followed him down.

“Good luck to you, son.”

He climbed back up on Buster and took the reins.

“Your pack horse is still in the corral up at the shack.”

“We’ll get him. You watch out for yourself.”

“I will.”

Mose guided Buster away from the house and waved goodbye with his right hand. He headed Buster to the northeast at a slow trot, heading for the last miles of the Shawnee Trail that would lead him out of the Indian Territory and into southern Missouri.

Along the way, he would pass by his original home outside Carthage, not stopping, and on into the state, past the little communities and villages of central Missouri, on to the old trailhead city of Sedalia. He had last seen Sedalia when he’d been a teenage soldier in the Confederate Army. He had liked the town then. He would try it again now.

TO BE CONTINUED....

J. B. Hogan is an award-winning author, poet, and local historian. A veteran of the U. S. Air Force Security Service and Tactical Air Command, he holds a Ph.D. in English Literature from Arizona State University (1979). For many years he worked as a technical writer in Arizona and Colorado. To date, he has published over 270 stories and poems, as well as ten books. Among his books, all published by Oghma Creative Media, are Time and Time Again, Mexican Skies, Tin Hollow, Living Behind Time, Losing Cotton, and Fallen. His first two books, The Apostate (fiction) and Angels in the Ozarks (nonfiction baseball history) have been acquired by Oghma Creative Media and will be re-released in the near future. He has served as chair and a member of the Fayetteville (AR) Historic District Commission. He also has served as president and board member of the Washington County (AR) Historical Society which in October 2019 honored him with its Distinguished Citizen Award. He spends much of his time researching, writing, and giving tours and lecturing. He also plays upright bass in the family band East of Zion, who play an eclectic mix of bluegrass-tinged Americana music.