Ryley: And Other Stories of Adventure

By Albert C. Dawson

RYLEY

and

OTHER STORIES OF ADVENTURE

THE STORIES

The dominant focus in these stories, as in the first collection entitled LIFE AT STAKE, continues to be the human will to struggle and survive. Such struggle in moments of crisis not only defines and shapes who the person is, but reveals how he or she developed as a person, and who they will be in the future, pending their survival.

Each story portrays at least one aspect of the courage required to confront and, hopefully, to conquer imminent danger. Some win, some lose. That is the normal human equation, but it is of utmost interest to us as readers to observe how that person coped, each of us hoping that we might discover within ourselves traits of the protagonists character that would allow us to act heroically if found in similar circumstances.

The exploration and settling of the western frontier and the inspiring and inflammatory events of the Civil War provide the setting for each grouping of adventures.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 27, 2010
• ISBN: 9781449059545

Albert C. Dawson

Al Dawson was raised on a small farm in the Northern Neck of Virginia, a peninsular surrounded not only by water but by history that encompasses the birth of this great nation, including the exciting figures of the Powhatan tribe and nation, Pocahontas, Captain John Smith, George Washington, Robert E. Lee, and so many others. Bullet holes in the walls of the local church, fired by Union soldiers, inspired his imagination as a youth, as did the exploits of distant relatives who fought in the War Between the States. After a wonderful, even inspiring, education in the small local high school, Al attended the University of Richmond where he earned his Bachelor of Arts in Spanish with Phi Beta Kappa honors, then continued his studies at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, where he received his Ph.D. He returned to his alma mater, the University of Richmond, to teach there for 34 years and with his wife to raise their two children, Eric and Sheila, both of whom continue to follow their parents professions as teachers and exponents of Spanish language and culture. After retirement, he and his wife Laila moved to the Rocky Mountains of Colorado where his long ingrained love for the rich history of western frontier life, mining and ghost towns, cowboys and Indians (native Americans to us now) came to the fore. The beauty, mystery, and lore of the mountains, deserts, and plains captivate him and his imagination, encouraging him to render in word something of the magic of not only where he lives but the marvelous resiliency of human nature itself.

Book preview

Contents

DEDICATION

The West

RYLEY

THE WEASEL

CAPTIVE

THE SADDLE

A ‘SODDIE’ CHRISTMAS

WOLVES

SAFE

MUSIC TO MY SOUL

BAD SPIRIT

LOVE’S LOSS

THE CIVIL WAR

HELL HOLE

MY SON, MY SON

SURRENDER

HANDS

PA

THE AUTHOR

DEDICATION 

I dedicate this second volume of stories once again to Laila, my wife, who remains a constant source of love and inspiration, plus patience, and to our incomparable offspring, Eric and Sheila, each of whom bears so many gifts, talents, and fine human qualities that far exceed any I might claim.

Of special importance to me also is the privilege and desire to dedicate the first story, RYLEY, to the young man who inspired its creation. From the first moment we crossed paths, he seemed to embody the quintessential qualities of my image and definition of a true cowboy. It was with great delight that I learned later in conversation that he is indeed a cowboy, of the North Dakota breed, a man who enjoys being on horseback roaming the family ranch and the expanses of that state. I thank him for his patience and willingness to allow me to expose his fine qualities in the first, and major, story of this collection, and in the photos, one of which is the cover.

A number of special acquaintances and friends have also served as inspiration for several other stories, and I am so appreciative to them for letting me present them as fictional characters: Evan in A Soddie Christmas, Ben in Wolves, Aaron and Heidi in Safe, Hannah and Joe in Music to My Soul, and Ryan in Love’s Loss.

The West 

RYLEY 

The Shot

The one single shot, reverberating and echoing through the canyons, had put Ryley on alert. He thought at first it could be a hunter but, because of the remoteness of the area, seriously had his doubts. Also, Indians had long ago abandoned the entire region, so he wasn’t concerned about that. But still, his sixth sense, which he had learned to respect, told him to tread carefully. Thus, he pulled his rifle out of its scabbard, crossing it over the front of his saddle pommel as his horse wove its way along the high canyon rim.

He was in a section of country that men he had met on the trail some days ago had referred to as Dead Man’s Gulches, mainly because several individuals had become lost in the endless canyons and washes that stretched on for miles. They had said that water was available but found only in isolated areas where it trickled out of the crevices of rocks to occasionally form shallow pools. Indian legend had it that there was at least one canyon of some size with ample water and grass sufficient to maintain even a small herd but men were reluctant to penetrate too far into the vast reaches of the interior to search it out. Thus far, Ryley had seen no trace of such a canyon, although its existence, he figured, still held some possibility, maybe even the one just below him. And this is what had lured him on, in spite of the potential danger.

He refocused his attention on where he was and trying to follow the animal trail that at times zigzagged dangerously close to the drop off. The sheer depth of the canyon to his right made him feel a bit squeamish as in places the trail had been partially eroded by small rockslides. That, coupled with his own dislike for heights, fretted him even more.

The several hundred foot precipice seemed to reach up toward him, as if seeking to draw him closer. However, he knew to rely on the sure footedness of his horse as she slowly and meticulously weaved her way along the edge. He felt more secure in the fact that he would soon work his way down out of the maze as the path was gradually descending. The increasing number of animal tracks indicated there was an outlet somewhere ahead…most likely a supply of water too.

But that also made him proceed more cautiously. Where there was water in country like this, there could be trouble waiting—either wild animals or wild men, men who fled to such areas to escape the law or who, for other reasons, preferred to be left alone and would kill to keep it that way.

As he rounded a bend, he was surprised to see an expanse of green defined by a broad band of grass and cottonwoods, split down the middle by a silvery thread of water, its roiling flow sparkling in the clear, high country sunshine.

He pulled up for a moment to allow himself time to admire the scene, taking in every detail, checking to see if there was movement or some kind of hidden threat. That shot sat foremost in his mind, and he knew he was exposed on the canyon wall, silhouetted against the sky, an easy target for even a mediocre marksman. As he sat there in his saddle watching and listening, he heard in the distance the faint sound of cattle mooing and bawling. He couldn’t see them so guessed they were farther up the canyon, hidden around the bend. That meant that the grass and water stretched on for a ways, the canyon walls forming a hidden, enclosed paradise.

The idea of a small ranch house cozied up against the bottom of the canyon wall popped into mind, and he imagined having his own place, a corral, stables, a few horses, a good sized garden, a small herd of cattle, and, of course, a wonderful woman and hopefully two or three rambunctious kids. He let out a soft sigh as the image rolled through him, bringing a momentary sense of peace and contentment.

His eyes followed the depression northward as far as he could see; then, he tracked down the opposite direction where, by the lay of the land, he guessed the steep walls closed in to form a bottleneck, virtually sealing the canyon off from the outside world.

What a perfect place, he thought. A small, stoutly built fence there would keep the cattle from getting out to get lost in the gullies and gulches beyond. A man wouldn’t have to be always scouring the countryside for strays, building fences, or worrying about rustlers or any of that.

As he mused about the possibility, he nudged his horse with his knees to move on. After about ten minutes, he could see that his conjecture was on target. The sheer walls tapered down gently and closed in to form a narrow pass through which the stream tumbled to disappear in the depths below.

It was then he saw something unusual, prompting him to rein up his horse and survey more carefully. A slight trace of smoke, probably from a dying campfire, wafted upward. He studied the area more, but willows along the edge of the stream blocked his view, prohibiting him from seeing who was there, or how many there might be.

What would anybody be doing way out here? he wondered. And where are they now? And why that one shot? Maybe a rattler.

For some inexplicable reason, he dismissed that possibility.

He waited, constantly looking, searching for some sign of activity but beyond the trace of smoke, nothing, no movement, no sounds. After several minutes he decided to move on and make his way down into the canyon mouth. After about several hundred yards, he picked up the smell of the smoke but there was something different about it. Then, he realized what it was—not the usual clean smell of a campfire, of burning wood mixed with the aroma of coffee or beans and bacon cooking, but the bitter, acrid sting of burning hair and singed flesh.

Somebody’s doing some branding, he muttered. Branding way out here is definitely not normal. Better watch out, he quietly reminded himself. But the lack of detectable movement or sound confused him still.

He continued forward, his horse’s hooves clicking against stones on the path, a loose stone occasionally breaking away and clattering down the canyon wall.

Dang, he grumbled, as the sound definitely announced his presence, giving forewarning to anyone who might still be there, and, if they were up to skullduggery, ample chance to waylay him. But still he could see no movement, convincing him that whoever was there had probably already left.

As he and his horse made the final switchback to step out into the small, flat area bordering the creek, he saw a man’s boot, toe up, jutting out from behind and beneath a thick clump of willows. He jerked up his rifle, resting the butt on his thigh, thumb on the hammer, finger resting at the trigger, ready to spring into action.

His horse seemed a little more skittish too as she slowly stepped forward, ears perked up, obviously picking up some sound that he could not detect. The rushing water tumbling over and around craggy rocks in the streambed didn’t help either. After several more yards, and feeling very exposed up on horseback, he swung one leg over the saddle horn to slide down to the ground. He dropped the reins free, letting them fall loose, knowing his horse would not move without him.

He crouched down low, finally dropping down on his haunches to once again survey the area. Although he could not see the body, he knew the man lying still on the ground close to the dying embers of the fire was either dead or unconscious. He waited, looked over at his horse to see where she was looking or how her ears were perked, signaling the direction of an impending threat or attack. He inched his way forward, stopping every few feet to listen.

He finally crept around the clump of bushes and was able to view the entire length of the man’s body. He was clearly dead, a neat, red bullet hole in the center of the chest. His eyes were wide open, a look on his face as if in shock at something he had seen. His gun was still in its holster, clearly indicating he was caught off guard.

Ryley glanced toward the fire and saw the branding iron lying across the blackened ring of stones surrounding the smoldering pieces of wood. The visible scuff marks and tracks were those of small hooves, typical of calves and young heifers. Clearly this man, and whoever else was here, was branding livestock. Ryley thought back to the rim where he had heard cattle in the far reaches of the box canyon. He figured that this man, and probably others, were rustling cows and calves from down on the lower range, herding them up here into the canyon, and then changing the brands. More than likely they would keep the stock bottled up until the new brands healed and the young livestock grew and fattened up for shipment to a market and buyer.

All in all, he knew that it spoke to no good. It was obvious to him that ranchers were gradually having small numbers of their herds siphoned off, so few at any one time, that the number might not even be noticed, especially if it was a big spread. Every cattleman expected some losses due to cows wandering off to get lost, or calves falling prey to mountain lions, wolves, and other reasons, and would not necessarily question the missing stock.

As he was reflecting on all these possibilities, even though remaining alert and vigilant, he was startled by a sudden cascade of small stones and pebbles tumbling down the opposite steep ridge. He dived to the ground seeking shelter behind a clump of willows, close to the dead man’s prone body. He brought his rifle to his shoulder and sighted upward from where the stones had tumbled. As he scanned slowly across the cliff edge he caught a glimpse of sunlight reflecting off a rifle barrel. Without taking further risk or chance, he quickly squeezed off a shot that clipped off two branches from a pinon tree right next to where he had seen the barrel.

The figure of a man jumped back in the branches, his dark hat tumbling off his head, obviously startled by Ryley’s close shot. Then Ryley saw the man drop down out of sight, followed by another rivulet of rolling stones that came to a stop about ten feet from where Ryley lay. He remained completely still for several minutes, waiting to see if there was more movement up on the ridge, but there was none. Soon, he heard a horse neigh, followed by the sound of a single horse, retreating at a gallop into the distance. Fearing a ruse, he waited a while more until he felt sure the man had left and posed no further threat.

He slowly crawled out from behind the willows and quickly lodged himself behind a nearby boulder where he sighted the rifle over the top, searching the trees, the ridge, and surrounding area. But there was no further movement and the sound of the horse was soon lost in the distance.

P1010063.jpg

Ryley let out a sigh of relief and relaxed a bit, trying to get the tension out of his shoulders. Finally, he turned and knelt on one knee to examine the tracks and markings left close by the fire. From what he could tell, there were the distinct marks of two different sets of boots, one of which belonged to the dead man lying close by. As he looked at him, Ryley’s eye picked up on a dark discoloration on the man’s shirt, a faint, charred, grayish area surrounding the blood stained bullet hole. He moved over for a closer look, and lifted the cloth of the shirt to examine it up close.

My God, he exclaimed aloud to himself. Whoever shot this poor bastard did it from point blank range, so close it left the flash of gunpowder burned into his shirt. Either this man got totally caught off guard by someone sneaking up on him, or he knew the man who did it and let him in close, not suspecting what he would do." Ryley guessed that the latter was more likely.

He was still mulling over these possibilities, as well as studying the area to see if there were other signs he had missed, when his horse nickered and raised her head to look down the pass where the sparkling stream dropped out of sight in its rush to lower areas. Soon he heard the clip clop of a number of horses approaching.

He stood up and waited, the rifle cradled in the crook of his arm, ready to be lifted and used if needed, but at the same time not offering an immediate threat to those who were coming. He figured that anybody making that much noise and arriving in the open was not any part of the gang of rustlers.

Within seconds he saw the first rider, followed by about eight others. The man in the lead was older than the rest and, as he drew closer, Ryley could see that he was a large man, possessing broad shoulders and a tanned, wrinkled face with long grey sideburns. He had a stern look on his face and his brow was wrinkled from frowning. From his expression and the firm set of his jaw, Ryley had no doubt he was the boss of the group, and he was angrier than a hornet.

None of them had pulled their pistols or rifles; so, Ryley kept his own Winchester pointing to the ground, and waited. As they drew close, the band of men split into two smaller groups and moved in to surround him, their horses trampling the entire area, kicking up stones and dust. The older man came straight toward Ryley, his eyes shifting from Ryley to the body lying close by. He drew his horse to a halt only several feet away, his intent obviously being to intimidate Ryley, to force him to retreat. But Ryley held his ground, unmoving or flinching. He knew the animal would not trample him as horses have a natural aversion to bumping into or stepping on a human.

Ryley and the man stared at each other for a moment before anyone spoke, the only sounds being the occasional snort of a horse and the stamping and pawing of their restless hooves. The tension of the moment was explosive. Without averting his eyes, Ryley was aware of several of the riders to each side moving in closer. He heard the unmistakable sound of metal against leather, pistols being slid out of leather holsters and knew, without looking, they would be pointing directly at him.

Finally, the silence was broken by the older man’s deep, resonant voice. Okay, mister, who the hell are you and what happened here? That’s one of my men lying on the ground there. From the way I see things, it looks to me like you shot ‘im. Probably caught you rustling and branding some of my stock.

Before Ryley could respond, a voice from behind him said, Boss, it’s Charlie, and he’s dead, been shot clean through the heart, one shot, up close, …real close.

All right, boy, you drop that rifle real slow and careful like to the ground. You make any false move and we’ll fill you so full of holes you’ll look like a sieve.

Surprised and shocked that he was being accused, Ryley was left speechless for a split second. Now, wait a minute, he shot back. I didn’t shoot this man. He was dead when I got here. You think if I’da killed him, I’d still be standing here waitin’?

Ain’t much else you could do, the boss responded. Only way outta here far as I know is the way we came up, and you wouldn’t have gotten past us. Didn’t have much choice, I reckon.

You’re wrong there! Ryley retorted. There’s at least two of us got here, me, who came down that rim back yonder, off the ridge, and the man who took off over the canyon wall behind you when I shot at ‘im.

The boss and several of his men glanced around at the cliff edge that Ryley pointed to, snorted in derision, and looked back at him. You expectin’ us to believe the real killer took off from up there?

Yeah, I do, Ryley answered. He was settin’ to take a shot at me when I saw him. I put a bullet right beside his head and he lit out.

That’s all fine and dandy, except it ain’t likely, the rancher declared. If what you say is true, we shoulda heard two shots, his when he killed poor ole Charlie there and yours when you shot back at him. We only heard one shot coming up from below, not two, right boys?

The men in unison declared, That’s right, boss.

One of the men from behind Ryley asked, What’re we sittin’ around jawin’ with this fella for? He did it. All we gotta do is look at his rifle to see if one bullet’s been fired. That’s all the proof I need.

Several other men nodded, growling their agreement in angry voices.

Suddenly Ryley’s rifle was snatched out of his hand. He twisted around to grab it back but was met by a fist slamming into the corner of his mouth. He reeled and staggered a bit, recovering his footing quickly. Immediately he tasted the thick saltiness of his own blood pouring out of his cut lip. He put his fingers against the split skin and wiped away a thick streak of red.

Now listen here… he started.

But the boss growled, Shut up. You say another word and I’ll be all too tempted to plug you myself and be done with it. Hank, check his gun and see how many shells are left in it.

Already done, boss. It’s been shot one time and real recent. I can still smell the burnt powder in the barrel.

Damn it. That’s what I just said, Ryley angrily shot back. I told you…." But before he could finish, another fist slammed into his back, just above his kidney, stunning and knocking the breath out of him. Before he could recover, someone hit him in the back of the knees, dropping him to the ground in a half kneeling position. He felt a lasso drop over his head and settle around his shoulders, upper arms and chest. It was viciously yanked tight, biting into his flesh.

Tie his hands in front of ‘im so he can ride, the old rancher ordered, then get ‘im on his horse. Bernie, you and Rollins catch Charlie’s horse and bring ‘im back to the ranch. We’ll take this fella…

But, boss, one man protested, why we gonna take this no good sonofabitch all the way to the ranch? I vote we put ‘im up against a rock and use ‘im for target practice.

Angry murmurs of approval echoed the man’s sentiment.

Men, that’s what would give me most pleasure right now, but I figure Frank ought to have a say in this, ‘specially since he and Charlie were such close buddies. I’m thinkin’ Frank’ll have some real set notions on how we handle this young fella, somethin’ special, I bet. Probably be a lot more satisfying than just gunnin’ him down out here. Heck, we might just make a special event of how we’re gonna take this bastard down.

The men vigorously voiced their agreement.

You’re right, boss. Frank needs to be a part of this, and I’m thinkin’ he’ll come up with somethin’ real good. Ole Frank has a bit of a mean streak in ‘im at times, ‘specially when he gets real mad. Can’t wait to see what he comes up with. Wonder where he is, by the way? I thought he and Charlie went out together this morning to check on the herd out on the flats.

One of the other men spoke up. I heard Frank tell Charlie he might have to go into town for a coupla days, to handle some business, somethin’ about getting’ off a telegram and seein’ some folks he knew that was comin’ into town. Charlie told him that was fine and headed out on his own.

Shame too, ‘cause if it’d been the two of ‘em, this wouldn’t a happened most likely, one of the other men added.

Well, ain’t no use wastin’ words on all that now. What’s done is done! Hoist this fella up on his horse and let’s get back before it gets dark, the rancher ordered.

Ryley was jerked to his feet, which sent a shot of pain through his bruised back. His hands were tightly roped together in front of him and the reins stuffed between his fingers.

The group moved out, slowly retreating down the hill from which they had come.

Ryley pondered on this unusual twist of fate and what was to become of him once they arrived at the ranch. Judging by his recent punishment, by the ugly, mean looks on the faces of the men escorting him, and by what the boss had said, he knew he was in for a long line of trouble with a bitter ending. A twinge of pain cutting through his split lip seemed to put an exclamation point to his morose thoughts.

The long ride down the canyon and across the expansive open flat lands was accentuated by occasional brutal jerks on the rope around his chest and arms, by ugly remarks concerning his pending punishment, commonly followed by a blow to his ribs or back from a rifle butt, and by the occasional rough nudge from a cowboy’s horse bumping into his own to throw him off balance, perhaps with the hope of knocking him off his horse. But he managed to grab the saddle horn and hold on, looking straight ahead so as not to give them any satisfaction taken from his pain or discomfort.

The Ranch

Within several hours he looked up to see in the distance a large ranch house surrounded by a complex of corrals, fences, and outer buildings, which were dominated by an imposing barn and attached stables. By the size and number of buildings he knew this spread had to be huge. They soon came onto a road that lead them under a massive gateway constructed of two large upright log columns and a thick crossbeam from which hung a sign with the letters BAR H RANCH.

As they drew closer to the house, he saw a small boy come running out of the main house, yelling something back to whoever was behind him. The slender figure of a young woman soon joined the boy and the two stood there together, the woman holding a hand on the boy’s shoulder. The youth was pointing at them and excitedly saying something to his mother, at least, Ryley guessed it was his mother. But he couldn’t hear what was being said.

As they drew up close to where the two were standing, Ryley saw the woman put her hand to her mouth, a look of astonishment on her face. The boy broke free from under her hand and ran to where Ryley’s horse had stopped. He stood there, looking up at him, mouth open. Ryley tried to give him a smile but his split lip stopped him short.

Tad, get away from that fella, …now! the older man thundered.

The young woman meanwhile rushed forward to grab Tad’s shoulders and shepherd him away. But, before doing so, she paused and looked up at Ryley, a mixed expression, half questioning, half scorn and condemnation, clearly etched in her eyes, but also one that he interpreted as possibly tinged with pity.

What she saw was a seemingly clean cut young man of about her own age, probably a bit younger, hands tied in front of him, clearly in pain, blood that had dribbled down from a cut lip and which had dried and caked on the blonde stubble of his chin and neck, leaving red stains down the front of his checkered flannel shirt.

She stopped short, holding on to Tad, looking at Ryley while the older man, her father, he guessed, swung stiffly down out of his saddle. He stood beside the two and likewise looked up at Ryley.

Pam, I’ve got some bad news. Charlie’s dead, he lamented in a somber voice.

Ryley saw Pam shudder and put her hand to her throat as if to suffocate a sob.

Her father continued. We caught this fella standin’ over ‘im with a rifle in his hand, one shot fired, the one that Charlie took in his chest. We brought this good for nothing butcher here where we’ll keep ‘im ‘til Frank gets back. The boys say he went into town to tend to some personal business. Sure wish he’d talked with me ‘fore takin’ off on his own like that, but, either way, when he returns, we’ll see what kind of frontier justice we’ll stick to ‘im.

Ryley looked down at her and the boy, seeing the anguish, and now the burgeoning repulsion in her eyes.

Ma’am, he managed to say, his voice dry and hoarse, I didn’t kill that man. He… but a vicious blow across his shoulders stopped him in mid sentence, followed by a savage yank on the rope that caught him off balance, jerking him off his horse to fall heavily to the ground at their feet.

Pam, and the boy, startled, jumped back.

Ryley, lying prone in the dust, looking up at her, managed to stammer, You gotta believe me. But a pointed boot into his ribs left him gasping and breathless.

Another jerk on the rope about his torso tightened the loop more and then he felt himself being dragged behind a horse toward the dark, forbidding entrance to the barn.

Quickly two cowhands came up on either side and lifted him to his feet as they shoved him into the entrance.

The boss yelled to the men, Put ‘im in the tack shed. Tie ‘im up to one of the crossbeams and leave ‘im hangin’ there. We’ll see how he likes tryin’ to sleep standin’ on his toes all night.

But, Daddy…, Pam started to protest.

Her father quickly turned to her and said, Now, Pam, you shush. I don’t wanta hear another word outta you about what we do to this killer. He’ll deserve everything we do to ‘im and more. Ain’t nobody gonna kill one of my men, especially a good man like Charlie, and not pay the price.

Pam opened her mouth as if to say something but thought better of it.

As her dad put his arm around her shoulders to turn her away, she cast one more glance toward the barn door to see the young man being roughly pushed into the gloomy interior. She heard the muted thud of several blows, of fist on body, followed by a groan of pain, and knew that the young man’s punishment was just beginning. Her heart sank.

That night, as Pam, Tad, and her dad sat around the evening meal in the big house, not much was said. The feeling of awkwardness permeated every second of time and inch of space, no one venturing to make a comment without fear of saying something that could be misinterpreted or misunderstood. Pam would glance at her dad as he sat sullenly at the head of the table, the cook bustling to and from the kitchen bringing more coffee, seconds, which even Tad turned down, and finally dessert. To Pam the food had little to no taste, perhaps the real flavors obscured by the bitterness and bile in her throat.

Finally, she thought to herself, Enough of this. Someone has to openly admit what’s going on here. We’re all embarrassed, knowing another human being, no matter who he is, is out there in our barn suffering in the dark and alone. So she sallied forth, clearing her throat as a prelude.

Daddy, I’m not condoning what that man did, but I must know what you plan to do with him. You know the boys are talking about taking it out on him tonight. They could end up beating him to death, or killing him in some other God forsaken way.

Then, he’ll only get what he deserves, her dad shot back angrily. Pam, I don’t want to hear any more about it. We just about caught him red handed. The rifle was still in his hands, one shot fired. And there’s Charlie sprawled out, dead as a doornail. What in the hell do you want me to do? The boys are all so riled up and were ready out there in the canyon to blow him full of holes. I only stopped ‘em by saying Frank would want to have some say on it. And, frankly, I was ready to plug ‘im myself.

But, Dad, Frank wasn’t even there. What else can he say judged on what you and the men tell him? she queried.

I don’t rightly know, Pam, and right now don’t care. All I know is what we saw, and by my standards it’s pretty hard to deny. This fella can protest all he wants, but…

What do you mean, he protested? Pam interrupted. If you caught him red handed, what could he protest? He must have said something for you to say that. By the look on your face, I can tell something happened that made you stop and think a bit, maybe even have a little doubt.

Pam, you know if I don’t do somethin’ with that fella, make an example of him, I’ll lose the men’s respect, maybe even have a rebellion on my hands. They won’t know where they stand with me if somethin’ similar happens to one of them.

That begs the question, father, of whether he might be telling the truth, doesn’t it? Which would be worse, killing a man that might be innocent, or temporarily losing face with the men? she asked. Please tell me what he said when you caught him. I must know.

Pam’s dad knew he was in for a hard time whenever his daughter called him father. He took a deep breath and said, Well, I guess a little bit of doubt crept in when we rode up on ‘im. He was just standin’ there, waitin’ for us plain as day, rifle in the crook of his arm and all, just as if nothin’ had happened, or he was as innocent as all get out. Once we accused him of killin’ Charlie, he said he hadn’t done it, that he heard a shot from up in the backcountry and had come down to find Charlie just like we saw ‘im. He even gave some far fetched story that somebody had been up on the canyon wall and he’d taken a shot at him. He said whoever it was had lit out. But, Pam, that wall’s pretty dang steep for somebody to get up there and then to get away on horseback like he claims. The boys certainly didn’t buy into it and I wasn’t about to try to convince ‘em either, not as mad as they were. If I hadn’t been there, they’d probably torn him to pieces.

He stopped for a moment, reflecting on what he had said and probably trying to remember if he had forgotten anything. Pam waited until he spoke again.

Problem is, I don’t see any way, even if we did believe ‘im, that we could prove what he says is true. When we came up on ‘im, we kinda stomped all over the place, so’s if we go back, there’d be little to no way to pick up any sign of somebody else bein’ there. ‘Sides, if there was another man, it could’ve been a partner of his who lit out, leavin’ him to take the blame. What I can’t figure is why Charlie was so far out there all alone if Frank had taken off for town, and why Charlie let a stranger like him in so close, point blank range.

Pam thought on his words, while Tad remained silent, taking in all he was hearing, looking from his mother to his grandfather, then back again, realizing even at his young age the gravity of what was happening.

Pam looked over at Tad, smiled and told him, Tad, it’ll be all right. We’ll figure out a way to get at the truth, one way or another.

She saw a brief look of relief flash across his face.

Mom, can we go out to see him? Tad questioned, his face serious.

Why in the world would you want to do that? she asked.

I don’t know. I ain’t never seen a killer before. Please, Mom, can we go?

Pam looked at her father who shook his head no, but for some strange urging from inside her, perhaps motivated by her own wish to see this man again, she decided to buck her dad’s wishes and agree.

I think we can do that. Maybe we’ll get Gus to pack up some leftovers from supper and we’ll take him something to eat and drink. I bet he hasn’t had anything all day.

Her dad gave her a scowl but didn’t move to stop her. He only added, If you got a mind to do this, then get Gus to go out with you, with a gun. We got ‘im pretty well tied up, but no sense in takin’ chances. Hard to tell what he might try.

A big smile burst over Tad’s face as he jumped up from his chair to rush to the kitchen. Pam got up and walked over behind her dad’s chair, bent over to kiss him on the top of his head. Thanks, she said. We’ll be real careful, and I know Gus will go along with us.

She turned briskly to follow Tad into the kitchen area, her dad watching her departure, shaking his head.

When she got there, she was met with another scowl, this time from Gus.

I don’t take to this at all, he said grouchily. I’m thinkin’ the boys should just take ‘im out and string ‘im up from that big old cottonwood by the barn. But if you and the boy are so insistin’, I’ll go along just to make sure you two are okay.

He then picked up a tin plate of food left over from the night’s meal, plunked a big biscuit on the top and groused, Well, let’s get to it. I ain’t got all night, what with all the dishes to do before hittin’ the sack.

Prisoner in the Barn

Tad led the way outside as Pam grabbed a kerosene lantern off the hook and all three headed across the barnyard. Before they entered the darker interior, she lit the lantern and led the way to the far end where the tack room was located. She listened intently to see if the prisoner was making any noise, but all was silent, almost too quiet, eerily so, she thought. The lantern’s light flickered against the surrounding walls and stables, casting shadows about, which added to her sense of apprehension.

When they got to the wall separating the tack room from the stalls and the rest of the barn, she paused, took a deep breath, then stepped into the opening.

She gasped as the light reflected the young man’s body, strung up by his wrists, his boot tips barely touching the plank flooring below. The position looked agonizing. She lifted the lantern higher to see his face and head, which was drooped to one side, cheek resting on his shoulder. As she moved closer, he, apparently semi-conscious, raised his head to look at her. The look in his eyes was one that spoke volumes. She knew he was expecting almost anything but a woman, a boy, and an old cook. It was as if he was girding himself for what was to come, probably an indication that some of the ranch hands had been sneaking in to apply their own individual brand of justice.

As she held the lantern higher, she could see that, in addition to the dried blood on his mouth, chin, neck and shirt front, there was fresh blood streaming down his arms from his wrists. She recognized that his strength had given out, and he was no longer able to support his weight on the balls of his feet. Gravity had taken care of the rest as he succumbed to fatigue, the ropes cutting into the flesh.

Gus moved in to take a closer look, eyeing him up and down by the light of the lantern, muttering to himself. He took the lantern from Pam, handing her in exchange the plate of food. When the light covered Ryley’s face, his eyes flickered open and shut several times. Gus moved around in front and to the side of Ryley’s stretched taut body. Noting that his shirttail was completely out of his pants, Gus gently lifted the cloth, pulling it high to reveal Ryley’s bare stomach and rib cage.

Well, I’ll be durned, he exclaimed.

What? What is it? Pam questioned.

Maybe you don’t wanta see this, Gus warned.

Pam, without hesitating, however, stepped around Gus, accompanied by Tad before she could stop him. She took in a deep breath as she saw the ugly bruises and lacerations across the man’s entire midsection.

Looks like some of the boys couldn’t wait for Frank to get back, Gus offered, somewhat meekly.

Pam looked quickly at Tad, having momentarily forgotten in her shock over the sight before her that he was there by her side. She grabbed at him to turn him away, but the expression on his face revealed he had already taken in the disturbing image.

Oh, Gus, we’ve got to get him down. He’ll die if we leave him there like this. Please, you’ve got to help me. Please! she begged.

Ma’am, I can tell ya, I don’t like this, no matter who this fella is or what he done. Ain’t no way I want to be a party to torturing. I gotta admit I was all ready to take him out and string him up myself, but your dad decided we gotta wait ‘til Frank gets back, and I’ll abide by that. I’ll help take him down, but I didn’t bring my gun, forgot it back in the kitchen. Probably, ‘cause of his condition, we don’t need one, but, just to make sure, you grab that pitchfork over there and hold it ready. Tad, take this lantern and plate of vittles and back off aways.

Gus then dragged over a bale of straw and stood up on it. He pulled a knife out of his pants pocket and sawed away at the ropes until Ryley’s arms started to fall free. Gus grunted and grabbed Ryley under his armpits to hold him up until he could finish cutting through the last cord. As soon as the task had been completed, Ryley sagged limply and folded over as Gus caught and supported him. Gus was fairly old, but it was clear he still maintained the wiry strength of a former cowpuncher.

Grunting and puffing, he gently lowered Ryley to the plank floor, Pam having dropped the pitchfork and now reaching in to help as much as she could. Once they got him safely down, both pulled and dragged him over to the wall where they propped him up. His hands were still bound together even though the ropes suspending him from the crossbeam had been severed. Pam fumbled at the cords binding his wrists, but Gus stopped her.

Don’t think we’d better do that just as yet, he admonished.

Pam took the lantern from Tad and hung it on a nail nearby. She then placed the tin plate of food on the bale of straw and knelt down beside Gus to assess Ryley’s condition.

Tad, run to the kitchen and bring back a kettle of hot water, some clean rags from the drawer, and alcohol, Pam ordered.

Tad, however, didn’t move,