This Calder Range (50 page)

“No.” Lorna shook her head, trying to be very firm. “He's just …” But as she reached to lift Arthur from his arms, her fingers felt the sticky warmth of blood.

A clawing, wild pain ripped her chest apart. She gathered his limp little body into her arms and pressed him close, as if to give him life again, as she had once before when she carried him inside her. With shattering disbelief she scanned his beautiful face for some small sign of life.

“No. No.” She wasn't conscious of murmuring the protest over and over again. Pressing her cheek against his, she closed her eyes and rocked back and forth.

“God in heaven, but it isn't right,” Rusty declared thickly.

“What's the matter with Arthur?” Webb tugged on her pants leg, but Lorna was beyond hearing him.

Rusty sniffed loudly and wiped briskly at his nose. “Come with me, son.” His voice was gruff, but not unkind.

Slowly she sank to her knees and cried softly, barely making any sound. She just sat there, holding him tightly and rocking, unaware of the hush in camp, the soft-walking cowboys with pain in their eyes, and the darkness that filled the sky.

It was left to Rusty to answer Webb's questions and put him to bed. “Why is Mommy holding Arthur and crying?”

“Because he's going away.” He tucked the quilt around the little shoulders.

“Am I going too?”

“No, you gotta stay here and take care of your mother.”

“But where's Arthur going?”

“Away. Far away. But you'll see him by and by,” Rusty said. “Now, close your eyes.”

“Can we look for my rope in the morning?”

“Yes. In the morning, but first you have to sleep.” He sat with the boy until sleep came, then stole quietly out of the tent.

A fire was burning brightly, keeping a lone vigil with the woman holding her child for the last night. Rusty gathered up a quilt and walked over to put it around her shoulders. She gave no sign of being aware of him. Rusty felt very old. He'd seen too much. He lifted his eyes to the night sky. The endless sky. Cowboys and sailors saw too much of it, whether it was the rolling plains or the sea they rode. He'd seen too much of it.

It was early dawn when Benteen approached the camp. They'd finally caught up with the main herd being chased north by the Indians. There had been a brief running gun battle before the raiders gave up their prize. Outside of two minor crease wounds, none of his men had been hurt. It had taken them another two hours to get the cattle bunched and quieted down. He'd left the rest of the men with the herd in case another try was made for them.

At first, it was the uncanny silence of the camp that struck him. There was no grumbling among the riders as they drank their morning coffee. Then it was the way their eyes shifted away from meeting his.

When he spied Lorna wrapped in a quilt and rocking little Arthur, his tiredness lifted. He swung down from his horse at the chuck wagon and let the reins drag the ground. As he took a step toward Lorna, Rusty moved
into his path. A frown flickered across his face at the old cook's rheumy-looking eyes.

“Ain't no easy way to say it,” Rusty began. “One minute I had him safe …” His shoulders lifted. “A stray shot …” Then he glanced in Lorna's direction. “She's been sittin' with him like that all night.”

There was a roar of pain inside him. Benteen pushed Rusty out of the way and covered the ground to Lorna with long, reaching strides. When he stopped in front of her kneeling form, his breathing was labored and deep. His eyes burned from the vision of his lifeless son. He swayed, undermined by an agonizing grief.

When he felt her gaze lift to him, his mouth opened, but no words came out. He lowered himself into a crouch before her. His hands and arms felt so empty.

“You can cry, Benteen,” Lorna murmured. “It's all right.”

He pressed a hand across the front of his eyes and gritted his teeth together. “I'm sorry.” Guilt weighed on him—for unknowingly putting them in danger, for not being with her.

“Did you get the cattle?” she asked.

“Yes.” It was a brutally painful admission.

“You had to go after them, Benteen,” she said in a calm voice. “There was nothing you could have done for him if you had stayed. You had to go.”

When he finally lowered his hand, there were tears in his eyes. He looked at her for a long minute, then reached for their son. “I'll take him now, Lorna.” His voice was thick.

Reluctantly she relinquished him into Benteen's keeping and watched as he carried him to the chuck wagon. She knew Benteen was saying his last good-bye to Arthur.

It was a sad and solemn procession that set out for the headquarters with the body of the small boy wrapped in a quilt and carefully laid in the back of the chuck wagon.

Lumber from the new house was used to make little Arthur's coffin. The carpenters would have done it, but Zeke insisted it was his right. He'd made the cradle Arthur slept in as a baby and nailed together the cot that had been the boy's bed. He'd make Arthur's final resting place, too.

The grave was dug under the shade of the cottonwood trees by the river where he had played so many hours. Galloping Triple C riders had located a traveling preacher trying to save some sinners at Frank Fitzsimmons' place in Blue Moon. They hadn't wasted time with explanations—just dragged him out of the saloon and shoved him onto his horse.

A cowboy could be put under the earth with a simple spoken introduction to his Maker. But in their thinking, the little boy—Mrs. Calder's little boy—needed some proper words said. It was a way of showing their deep respect and loyalty for Benteen, too.

Word of the tragedy had spread beyond the boundaries of the Triple C. Besides Mary and Ely and the cowboys, there were a couple of neighboring ranchers, Frank Fitzsimmons, Lady Crawford, and Bull Giles among the throng of mourners at the grave site.

It was a crisp, tart morning with a stiff breeze rustling the dried brown leaves of the cottonwood trees. There was more than grief and the mourning of a loved one in the air. The cold breath of revenge had brought its scent, visible in the guns strapped to Benteen's hip and to the hips of his men. Saddled horses with rifle scabbards filled stood waiting at the corral.

The minister took note of this when he finished his prayers, with a request for forgiveness. “And may God have mercy on the souls of those who perpetrated this deed. Amen.”

First Benteen, then Lorna stepped forward to throw a handful of dirt into the grave. One by one, the cowboys began filing past. Lorna's eyes were bright with tears, but she kept her shoulders squared. Benteen stood straight and tall beside her. The minister came quietly over to offer his condolences.

“My deepest sympathies to both of you,” he murmured.

“Thank you, Reverend Worth,” Lorna replied with a faint nod of her head. “My husband and I are extremely grateful that you are here.”

“It is my work,” he insisted.

“We would like to build you a church as … as soon as all this is over …” She faltered slightly. “This country is in need of churches … and schools. I'm sure Mr. Fitzsimmons will be happy to help you choose a site.”

“You are most generous, Mrs. Calder,” the reverend declared. “And you, Mr. Calder.”

Benteen acknowledged the remark with a short nod of his head. The
vaquero
Ramon approached the grave and hesitated, glancing at Benteen and Lorna. After a moment's indecision he approached them and bowed slightly with quiet dignity and respect. Reaching inside his jacket, he took out the little wooden horse he had carved for Arthur and presented it to Lorna.

“I found eet, señora,” he said. “You would wish to keep eet, no?”

“Yes.” She accepted the return of Arthur's toy, gripping it tightly for a moment.
“Gracias
, Ramon.”

The
vaquero
bowed again and moved away. Benteen's arm tightened around her waist. She stood a little taller, strengthened by his silent support. Mary hugged her and cried. Then Benteen's mother, Lady Crawford,
came, a black veil covering her face. She embraced Lorna in a gesture of sympathy and turned to Benteen.

“You can't really mean to go after them.” She sounded impatient, but the veil concealed her expression. “What will you prove? It won't bring back your son, Benteen.”

“No.” Even though he agreed, it didn't change his decision.

“You are being foolish,” Elaine insisted. “Send your men after them, if you must, but don't risk your own life. What if you are shot and killed? You should be thinking of your wife and your other son—of this ranch and what will happen to it if you die, instead of following this stupid code of a man's honor and pride.”

“You don't lead men by staying behind where it's safe,” he said grimly. “And you don't stand by while cattle are stolen and your son is killed and do nothing about it.”

“Let someone else do it.” Her agitation was apparent. “It's a matter for the law to handle.”

“There isn't any law out here. You're looking at the only justice there is. ‘Just-us.'”

“Lorna …” She turned to appeal to her.

“Benteen's right,” Lorna said with an unsteady voice. “If he doesn't stop them, who will? Maybe someday that won't be true, but it is now.”

With a quick turn, Lady Crawford moved stiffly away. Bull Giles paused in front of Benteen. His eyes were red-rimmed with grief, but they burned, too, with a dark anger. Bull worked his jaw for a silent minute, trying to find the right words.

“If you'd see clear to loan me a horse, Benteen,” he said, “I'd like to ride with you.”

“We're not going after Indians,” Benteen said. “We're going after Big Ed Sallie and his bunch.”

“I can show you where to find them,” Bull stated.

“Tell Barnie I said to saddle a horse for you.” Benteen accepted the offer to ride with them, hearing all the explanation he needed.

When Bull Giles left, they stood alone by the partially filled grave. Benteen shifted, angling toward Lorna. She felt the vague movement of his hand on her back and lifted her face. Her eyes clung to him with naked love and anguish.

“I won't say good-bye, not to you,” she whispered, and borrowed the phrase from the Texas border country. “Just … go with God.”

The pressure of his hand pulled her to him. His mouth was hard on her lips, promising to return, promising a life tomorrow, and promising a love that would endure as long as grass grew green in the spring. Her eyes stayed closed when the kiss ended, her lips trembling apart on a breath. The muted jingle of his spurs marked the strides that carried him from her to the waiting horses.

Saddle leather creaked and hooves shuffled. Lorna opened her eyes to watch the band of riders leave. Benteen swung his horse toward her and held her gaze across the distance, then reined it north. She lost sight of him when the other riders fell in behind his horse.

At Lorna's invitation, the minister stayed for an early lunch, then escorted Mary to her home. Lady Crawford was brittlely silent, taking little part in the table conversation. Within minutes after Reverend Worth and Mary had departed, she left Lorna with the dishes and disappeared in the direction of the Homestead.

Rusty and the recuperating Shorty had taken charge of Webb, which left Lorna with empty minutes to fill. She'd already had her time of tears and prayers. She needed another outlet to work off her pain. She began by storing Arthur's things in the bottom of a trunk. From there, it graduated to a general packing.

As she folded a dress and laid it on top of one of Benteen's shirts, the cabin door swung open. Lorna paused only long enough to glance over her shoulder and identify his mother, then began folding another dress.

“Is this why you encouraged Benteen to leave?”
Lady Crawford challenged calmly. “So you could run off while he was gone?” Lorna slowly turned, stunned by the suggestion. “I can't say that I blame you for wanting to leave. I've noticed how fond you are of your children. Losing your son in such a brutal fashion was undoubtedly the last straw. You can take my buggy. Just leave it at the livery in town.”

“You are mistaken. I am not leaving and I have never had any intention of leaving,” Lorna corrected stiffly. “This ranch is my home. Do not presume that because you could not tolerate this kind of life, every other woman feels the same.”

“I don't presume that,” she replied. “But you've been unhappy here. I've seen that. No one should have to fight and struggle, and live like this, especially a woman.”

Lorna's fingers curled into the worn dress in her hand before she tossed it briskly aside. She walked over to grip Lady Crawford's arm and direct her to the map drawn on the piece of canvas.

“Do you see that? Do you know what it is?” she demanded.

“It's a map, of sorts.” The woman shrugged her indifference to it.

“It's a map of the ranch and our future,” Lorna stated, and released the black-sleeved arm to walk to the map. “These are the hundred-and-sixty-acre tracts that Benteen has claimed.” She pointed them out individually. “He has declared ownership of all the rest as stock range.” She faced his mother. “That's why I'm here, working with him to build this ranch. If you had stayed with his father, maybe the two of you could have built a place like this in Texas. When you left him, he lost heart in trying. All he cared about was hanging on to the place until you came back. Benteen told me that.”

“Seth was never half the man that Benteen is,” his mother stated. “He couldn't separate dreams from reality.”

“You start with a dream, then build a foundation under it. This ranch was a dream the day we set foot on it and walked up on that hill where the house is standing now,” Lorna said. “I'm beginning to realize that all your life you have been taking, grabbing for all you could get. Just exactly why are you here?”