Henry Dunn sank the posthole diggers into the ground. Hard, dry soil crunched beneath steel. He worked the handles, lifted, and released the soil next to the freshly dug hole.
A worn hat shielded his face from the sun as he carried the posthole diggers back to the buckboard. Drops of sweat streamed down his face as he lifted another post from the wagon bed.
Henry’s horse shifted in the tackle and stomped its hoof, letting out a gust of air. Henry scanned the country, keen to his animal’s unease. He moved toward the buckboard’s bench seat where his Spencer Carbine was stowed and watched as four riders came from the west.
A cloud of dust sprayed out before him as the riders pulled reign. Henry watched the men size up his horse and wagon with steely eyes, ignoring the sweat-soaked man in front of them.
“Frank,” Henry said, keeping his arm close to the hidden Spenser.
Frank McCord nodded. His sharp angular face was one Henry knew well. “Henry,” he said.
Henry eyed their horses, lathered and thin, saddlebags bulging at their sides. “Looks like you boys rode a piece.”
“You know how it is, Henry. It’s a big country.”
Henry motioned toward the canteen hanging from the side of the buckboard. “Have a drink.”
“Whisky,” said one of the men.
“Don’t be rude, Dusky,” Frank said, with a sharp crack to his voice. He turned back to Henry and said, “Don’t mind him, Henry. He just forgot his manners.” Frank motioned to the other men. “This is Waylon Fritz. That’s Sancho. The rude one is Dusky Jones.
“Boys,” Frank went on, “this is Henry Dunn.”
The men stared down at Henry, their eyes telling him what they thought of a man with no six-gun on his hip.
“I heard you was out here, Henry.” Frank shook his head and spat. “You a homesteader now? A sodbuster?” He smiled at his own joke. One of the other men laughed. Henry didn’t mark which one.
“Never known you to leave New Mexico, Frank. What brought you this way?”
“New Mexico got too small for me, Henry. Heard you was out this way, figured it was time for a reunion.”
Henry didn’t like the familiar glint in Frank’s eye.
“Where’s your stock?” said Dusky Jones. “All you got is that old horse?”
Henry didn’t answer, keeping his eyes on Frank.
Dusky grunted.
“How about you invite us to supper,” said Frank. “Do some catching up.”
“I don’t have much to offer.”
“Whatever you have,” said Frank, “I’m sure is fine.”
“I got the rest of these posts to sink,” Henry said.
“That’s fine, too” said Frank, pulling his reigns and starting his horse. “We’ll head on over. Don’t be too long.”
The men filed past Henry, following Frank McCord. Wary men, their eyes constantly searching. Back shooters afraid of getting back shot. Once they were gone, Henry went back to planting his posts.
Henry drove the buckboard back to the cabin, an adobe structure held together with packed mud and prayers. Tired eyes fell on the four horses turned out in his corral, then to the three men lounging within the scant shade slowly taking hold at the front of the cabin.
Dusky and Waylon sat on their haunches, their backs pressed against the wall. Sancho stood next to them. The Mexican’s head was tilted so the sombrero he wore covered his weather-beaten face. When Henry came near, Sancho stood up and vanished inside the cabin.
Henry moved the Spenser from the floor of the buckboard to his lap as he pulled the buckboard into the yard. Sancho stepped back out of the cabin and took his place against the wall. Henry came down from the wagon, Spenser in hand, and set about unhitching the horse from the buckboard.
“You sure you don’t have any whiskey,” Dusky called out.
Henry closed the corral gate and turned to the men lined against the wall. They were men from another time in his life. They were strangers, but he knew them. Knew they would kill with the least provocation. Kill for the sake of killing.
“I don’t drink whiskey,” said Henry.
Henry moved forward and Dusky Jones stood up from his place at the wall.
Dusky said, “You’re a rude, gut-licking dog. And a liar.”
Henry’s hand tightened on the carbine.
Frank McCord’s voice broke from out of the cabin. “Come in here, Henry.”
“We’ll have us a talk later,” Dusky said. “Just me and you.”
Henry didn’t answer. He stepped past the three men and went into the cabin.
He found Frank McCord sitting in one of the two chairs Henry owned, a cigarette in one hand, the other on the table next to a Smith and Wesson. The bulging saddlebags Henry had taken of note of were piled against the wall behind him.
Frank raised his eyes at Henry, light falling across him from the bare windows and doorway. He smiled, flicked ashes to the floor, and said, “Quite a spread, Henry. You’ve come up in the world.”
Henry leaned the Spencer against the wall and poured water from a pitcher into the wash bowl.
“It suits me,” he said, cleaning the dirt off his face.
“Henry Dunn, a dirt rancher,” said Frank. “I never would have believed it.”
Frank laughed. Henry dried his face and hands. He turned to Frank, looked him over. The lines in Frank’s face had grown deeper and the gray at his temples had spread since he’d last seen him.
“How long has it been, Henry?”
“A long time.”
Henry took a box of matches from the edge of the stove, stuck some kindling inside the belly, and struck a flame.
“Let’s see,” said Frank. “I heard you did five years down in Huntsville – how long you been out now?”
“Two years.”
Henry set a kettle of beans he’d left soaking in a pot onto the eye of the stove.
“Two years,” Frank repeated, “and not a word from you.”
“You aren’t exactly an easy man to find, Frank.”
“I found you easy enough.”
Henry shrugged.
“Things are different now, Frank. I’m a different man.”
Frank’s eyes narrowed. He took a drag from his cigarette, exhaled, and let the butt drop to the floor.
“I’d wager you aren’t so different,” said Frank.
Henry crossed the room to the chest at the foot of his bed. He opened the lid and reached inside. A heavy thud on the table brought Henry’s eyes back up.
“If you’re looking for this,” Frank said, nodding to Henry’s Colt Peacemaker, “the boys already found it.”
Henry came up with a clean shirt in his hand. He stripped off the work shirt and slid into the clean one.
Frank’s laughed filled the cabin.
Henry closed the trunk and dropped the soiled shirt into a corner. He crossed the room and took the chair opposite of Frank. He said, “Looks like you took up with some competent company since we parted.”
“Competent enough,” said Frank. He smiled again. “I told you, you haven’t changed much. That brain of yours, always working. What’s the angle, Henry? I know you’re not out here fencing in a dirt farm. You’re working something.”
“I’m different now, Frank. That five years inside changed me. I made a promise to myself. I’m not ever going back in there. Ever.”
“Maybe you want to hear what I have to say before you make up your mind.”
“I don’t want to hear it. You and your boys can stay the night. After that, I’d be obliged if you rode on.”
“There’s fifty-thousand dollars in those saddlebags. More where that come from. A lot more. I got a line on a silver mine down in Juarez. Every month there’s a payroll delivery.”
“Sounds like you’ve got it worked out. What do you need me for?”
“I need men I can trust, Henry. We were partners once. Ride with me again and we’ll be rich in a year. You can buy any ranch you want, if that’s what suits you.”
Henry shook his head. “I’m not going back to having bullets thrown at me and keeping company with killers. That’s how you get locked up. Or tied to the hanging end of a rope.”
A shadow drifted across Frank’s face erasing his smile. He stood up, holstered his Smith and Wesson and slipped Henry’s Colt into his belt. He stood at the cabin door with his arm braced against the frame and stared out at the empty country.
“We’re staying here until I say we move on.”
“That’s the way it is,” said Henry.
“That’s the way it is.” Frank nodded toward the stove. “Don’t let those beans burn. The boys get ornery when the grub isn’t up to their standards.”
The sun went down with all of them except Sancho inside the cabin. An oil lamp hung above the table breathed shadows over the four men cramped inside the tight space.
Frank McCord occupied one chair and Dusky Jones sat in the other, lazily shuffling through a deck of playing cards. He eyed Henry, who was on the narrow bed shoved against the wall. Waylon stood fidgeting in the doorway.
“Why do you only have two chairs,” Waylon said, breaking a long silence. “Can’t even have a good card game with two chairs.”
Waylon regarded Henry with dark, deep set eyes, then turned to Frank.
“Why don’t I ride to town, fetch a couple bottles of whiskey and bring back a chair.”
“Nobody’s riding anywhere,” said Frank. “Quit your belly aching.”
Waylon put his back against the doorframe, his eyes planted on Henry.
“Why does he get the bed?”
“That rights reserved for the leader of this gang.” Frank stood up, picked the two pistols off the table, holstered his, and shoved Henry’s into his belt, and stepped toward the cot. Henry stood up and took a place in the corner of the cabin. Frank laid down, stretched out his legs, crossed one boot over the other, and set his hat low over his eyes.
“Take the chair, Waylon,” said Frank. “Play your cards.”
Henry fell asleep against the wall with his head on his knees. He looked up to see Sancho standing in the doorway, a Springfield rifle held in both hands.
“Rider coming.”
Frank McCord sprang up from the bed. Dusky and Waylon shifted at the table where they had slept with their heads down.
“Alone?” Frank asked Sancho.
“Si,” said Sancho.
“How far out?” Frank crossed the cabin to the stove and picked up Henry’s Spencer.
“Couple miles,” said Sancho.
Franked worked the Spencer’s lever. Shells landed with a dull thud against the table and rolled metallically. He tossed the Spenser across the room to Henry.
Frank turned to Waylon and Dusky. “You two stay here.”
Henry followed Frank out into the yard, Sancho behind them.
“Saddle up the horses,” said Frank. He stared out across the country where small cloud of dust disturbed the blues and grays of the early morning horizon.
Sancho climbed into the saddle, bringing his horse around to face Henry.
“He means you, gringo,” he said, and put heels to his horse’s flanks.
“Where’s he going?” said Henry.
“Don’t worry about him,” said Frank. “Saddle the horses.”
Half an hour later Henry and Frank were within closing distance of the rider.
“You know him?” said Frank.
“Burl Aberdine,” Henry said. “The sheriff.”
Frank leaned over the saddle and spat. “Get rid of him.”
Henry searched the edge of the country for Sancho.
“He’s out there,” said Frank. “Trust on that.”
Henry tapped the butt of his Spencer and said, “What’s the point of this?”
Frank kept his eyes on the approaching lawman. “It might seem peculiar for you to be unarmed. You just remember that Mexican’s out there, and he’s a hell of a sharpshooter with that Springfield. Maybe better than you were.”
Henry walked his horse forward a few steps to meet the sheriff.
He said, “What brings you out this way, Sheriff?”
Aberdine leaned to the side and spat a long stream of tobacco. He looked past Henry to Frank.
“Who’s your friend, Henry?”
“Bob Woolard. Hired him on to help with the ranch.”
“Bob Woolard,” Aberdine repeated. “Friend of yours from Huntsville?”
“That’s right.”
Aberdine leaned over and spat again. He brought his eyes back to Henry.
“Got word of a Comanche making trouble,” said Aberdine. “Indian named Hachi. You run into him, I advise you to ride the other way.”
“Thought the army licked the Comanche out here,” said Frank.
Aberdine considered the man wearing the heavy pistols before he answered. “I reckon not.”
Aberdine spat another stream of tobacco. “Got other homesteads to warn.”
The sheriff put his horse to a walking pace and rode on.
Henry said, “Hachi’s a bad one.”
“Good. Bad Indians keep folks away. You did good Henry. Keep doing good.”
Dusky and Waylon were sitting in the ribbon of shade painted in front of the cabin as Henry and Frank McCord rode in.
“Well?” asked Dusky.
Frank ignored him. He handed Henry his bridle reigns and walked to the water barrel at the side of the cabin. Dusky trailed after him.
“Well?” Dusky demanded.
Frank cupped his hands in the water and washed his face as Henry led the horses into the corral.
Dusky put a hand on Frank’s shoulder. He said, “Answer me, you –,”
Frank reared and slapped Dusky with the back of his hand. The force of the blow sent Dusky to the ground. He came quickly to his feet, hand on the butt of his pistol. He froze with Frank’s Smith and Wesson inches from his face.
“I talk when I’m ready to talk,” said Frank. “Take your hand off that pistol before I decide to split the take three ways instead of four.”
“Sure,” said Dusky. He raised his hand away from his pistol. “I was just felling anxious, Frank. You boys riding off, leaving me and Waylon sitting here all alone.”
They turned, hearing Sancho ride up. Frank holstered his pistol and Dusky took a few steps away, rubbing his face.
“I followed him far enough south to know he wasn’t doubling back on us,” Sancho said from the saddle.
Henry listened from the corral. He reached a hand under his horse to unbuckle the saddle strap when Frank called out to him.
“Leave them saddled.” Frank snapped. “We might need to ride.”
Henry came out of the corral and stepped across the yard toward the cabin. Frank stopped him at the door.
“You can set that Spencer down.”
Henry turned to Frank. “You scared I might use it as a club?”
“Best not to take chances.”
“What do we need him for anyway, Frank,” said Dusky.
“He might prove handy if that lawman decides to double back.”
“Or the Comanche,” said Henry. He set the Spencer down next to the door and stepped inside the cabin. He sat at the table with his back to the door. His eyes fell on the Spencer’s .50 caliber bullets Frank had left scattered across the table and swept a couple of the shells into his palm.
He heard Waylon outside. “I thought the Comanche were all dead.”
Frank McCord’s boots thudded into the cabin. Henry slipped the shells into his pocket as Frank came around the table, saying to Waylon, “Don’t waste your time worrying about one renegade off the reservation.”
Frank glanced at the shells on the table. He picked one of them up, examining it like an artifact.
“What if it that posse shows up here?” said Dusky. “What if that Comanche comes around here, or that lawman comes back?”
Frank tossed the shell into the air and caught it.
“Henry will deal with the lawman,” said Frank. “If the Indian comes around, we’ll deal with him.” He tossed the shell and caught it again. “Maybe he’ll take Henry as a peace offering.”
“I didn’t sign up to deal with no Comanche,” Dusky said.
Henry felt the weight of the bullets in his pocket, knowing two bullets were not enough.
“You signed on to do what I tell you,” said Frank. “If any of you want out –.” He didn’t bother finishing the last part as he caught the shell again.
“Sancho!” Frank called out and took a step toward the cabin door.
“Si,” Sancho answered from the yard.
“Go watch the trail to the west. You see a posse, that lawman, or an Indian, you come back here and get me.”
“Si.”
Henry turned in his chair, watching Sancho ride out, wondering how to get rid of three men with two bullets.
Sancho chose a spot where he could watch the western trail without being seen against the skyline. The valley stretched out below him like a worn blanket as he scanned the country with an old pair of field glasses.
Sancho like being alone. Scouting was a job that suited him. He didn’t eat much, he didn’t drink much, and he had little use for conversation. Sancho didn’t care much for Texas, or Texans for that matter, and preferred the mesas and arroyos of New Mexico. But when money was involved, Sancho adjusted his temperament. Money was one thing Sancho did care about, and he cared about it a great deal.
The horse grazing behind him bellowed. Sancho lowered the field glasses. The feeling of being watched tickled the nape of his neck like a senorita’s lithe fingers. He searched again, his dark eyes hovering over the sparse mesquite bushes dotting the valley.
Sancho didn’t like it. He went to the horse, put the field glasses in his saddlebag, and slid his Springfield from its boot. Turning, he came face to face with a Comanche.
Suddenly, Sancho felt weak. A warm wetness spilled down his crotch and legs. He dropped the Springfield and looked down at the red gash across his belly. At the blue-gray entrails spilling out. At the knife in the Comanche’s hand.
Sancho fell, the world going black. His ears were filled with the piercing screech of the Comanche’s war cry.
“Three kings,” Waylon said, setting his cards on the table.
“That’s five hands in a row,” Dusky Jones said. “No man wins five hands in a row without cheating.”
“I don’t like it,” Frank said from his place at the door.
“What don’t you like?” said Henry, from the bed.
Frank turned his eyes on Henry for a moment, then went back to gazing out on the country. The sun had begun to slip into the west and a thin pink ribbon had formed against the horizon.
“You boys go check on Sancho. He should have checked in by now.”
“We got a game going here, Frank,” Dusky protested, his eyes leveled at Waylon.
Frank exploded. “I don’t give a damn what you got!” In an instant, he was beside the table with a hand on the walnut grip of his holstered Smith and Wesson. “Go check on Sancho before I take both your futures.”
“We’ll ride out there,” said Dusky. “But I’m awful tired of being bossed around, Frank.”
“If you want your shares, you’ll do what I tell you, when I tell you. Now, go.”
Frank watched them mount and ride off.
“You seem nervous, Frank,” said Henry.
“There’s a lot of money in those bags. More waiting for me in Juarez. Nothing’s going to get in the way of that.”
Frank cut his eyes back to the doorway.
“You won’t see him until it’s too late, Frank.”
“Who?”
“The Comanche.”
Frank spit out the doorway, his eyes searching. “I never seen an Indian I couldn’t beat.”
“You won’t see this one either. That’s my point.”
Frank stepped toward Henry.
“It’ll take more than a boogieman to scare me off. I suggest you sit there and shut up. Hope I don’t notice you more than I need to.”
“All right, Frank.”
“You’re a sad case, you know that, Henry? You used to be something. You had money. Women. Now, look at you. It makes me sick to see you like this. I got half a mind to put you out of your misery right here and now.”
“You don’t want to do that, Frank.”
“Why not?”
“If Hachi is as bad as I say he is, you’ll want more than a couple of saddle-tramps backing you up.”
“You just keep talking, Henry Dunn.”
Waylon was only half listening to Dusky. His attention was focused on the country ahead, and what might be out there.
“We been taking orders long enough,” said Dusky. “The last job was it for me. Fifty-thousand split two ways. That’s twenty-five thousand dollars for each of us, Waylon.”
Waylon pulled his horse to a stop.
“What is it?” Dusky said. He followed Waylon’s gaze toward the sky. Several buzzards circled lazily in the late day sun.
Waylon pulled his pistol. Dusky loosened his own, peering up at the dark shapes hovering low in the sky.
“You smell it?” Waylon asked. “Smells like an injin.”
They sat for a minute. Searching.
“Sancho wouldn’t let no injin sneak up on him,” said Dusky.
“We gone far enough. Let’s head back.”
Dusky turned in his saddle. “I never thought you was yellow.”
“I’m going back,” Waylon said. “I seen enough.”
Waylon pulled his horse around. The rifle shot almost knocked him out of the saddle. He dropped his pistol and held on to the saddle horn as his horse bolted in a cloud of dust.
Dusky fell in behind Waylon. He drew his pistol and fired. Hot lead whizzed and whined past him.
Dusky overtook Waylon. Waylon’s face was pale. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. Dusky put his pistol barrel to the head of Waylon’s horse and fired. Waylon’s horse somersaulted and crashed to the dirt, spilling its rider in a cloud of dust, as Dusky raced away.
Frank McCord heard the staccato beats of a galloping horse. He exchanged looks with Henry and they both went to the door. Beneath soft, white moonlight, they saw Dusky Jones, his horse lathered and slick with sweat.
Dusky slid out of the saddle and went to the rain barrel without glancing at the two men. They watched Dusky dunk his head in the water and come up for air, breathing heavily.
Frank said, “Where’s Sancho?” His eyes cut back to the encroaching darkness of the prairie. “And Waylon?”
Dusky stood with his hands on the rim of the rain barrel, looking into its depths, as if the answers were just below the surface.
“Dead.”
“Dead,” Frank repeated.
“That’s right,” said Dusky. “Comanche got ‘em.”
“And you got away,” said Frank.
“He come out of nowhere. Got Waylon with the first shot.
“That’s fine,” said Frank. “That’s just fine.”
“What’d you want me to do,” Dusky demanded, “hand my scalp over to him? I did what any man would do.”
“Hard to believe anyone got the drop on Sancho,” said Frank.
“You can ride out there and look for yourself if you don’t believe me. Just follow the buzzards.”
“Leaves a bigger share for you.”
“Go to hell.”
Frank went for his gun. Dusky got a hand on the butt of his pistol before Frank cut him down. Dusky fell dead in the yard as the sound of Frank’s shot echoed into the night.
Frank turned the smoking barrel of his pistol on Henry. “Get that horse in the corral.”
Henry stepped around Dusky and led the worn-out horse into the corral. He shut the gate, turned to Frank, and said, “That horse is about dead, Frank. I don’t think he was lying.”
Frank waved his pistol toward the cabin’s doorway. “Sit down where I can watch you.”
Henry went into the cabin and sat down. He tried not to look at the Spencer leaned against the door. He’d never get it loaded before Frank cut him down.
Frank reached a hand into his vest pocket and placed a half-smoked cigarette between his lips and lit it with a match. His eyes were black slits.
“Go on,” he said, without looking at Henry. “Try for it.” Frank shook out his match.
A shot shattered the silence. The lantern fell from its hook and flames shot up from the table.
Frank flattened himself against the wall and Henry tore the blanket from the bed, quickly smothering the flames. Another shot slammed into the adobe. Splinters pelted Henry’s face. He threw the table down and barricaded the door. His hand went for the Spencer.
“Touch that rifle and I’ll spill your brains out all over this floor.”
“Damn you, Frank,” said Henry. “That Comanche will kill the both of us!”
“He might,” said Frank.
“I don’t care about your money. You can ride off a rich man. I’m more worried about my scalp!”
Silence grew between them. Frank’s face was pale in the moonlight breaking through the windows. Outside, they heard the horses racing out toward the prairie.
Frank reached out the window with his pistol and fired two quick shots into the night.
“Give me a pistol,” Henry said after Frank flattened himself back against the wall.
Frank looked down at Henry for a long moment. Finally, he drew Henry’s Colt from his belt and handed it down to him. Before letting go, Frank said, “I won’t think twice about blowing your brains out.”
“I never doubted you would.”
Time passed slowly inside the cabin. Both men on edge, poised to act on the slightest sound or shift of air. Anything that could mark the passing of the Comanche.
The war cry came in the morning, rising above the pounding hooves. Henry peered over the edge of the table and Frank stole a look out of the window. Hachi passed the side of the cabin and streaked across the yard. Frank emptied his pistol at the Comanche, a small target shielded by the body of his horse.
Frank fell back against the wall, ejecting spent shells.
Henry said, “We need to draw him out.”
“How we do that?” said Frank.
“One of us makes a run for it and the other draws a bead with this.” Henry held up the Spenser. “There’s two rounds.”
“Sure,” said Frank. “You get me out there and you get to walk away with fifty-thousand.”
“I don’t care about your money,” Henry said. “It’s the only way to draw him out.”
Frank took the Spencer.
“Fine,” he said. “But you’re the one going out there.”
“You better be as good a shot as you used to be.”
Frank holstered his pistol and checked the round in the Spencer.
Henry crouched behind the table and put his hands on the edge, readying himself. Frank took position in the window and clicked the hammer back on the Spencer.
“Go,” said Frank.
Henry jumped through the doorway. He ran for the sliver of cover the corral offered and tucked himself behind a post. A distant shot broke the silence. Henry ran again and threw himself flat against the dirt. Another shot rang out. He glanced back at the cabin. Frank was in the window, waiting for his chance. Henry forced himself up as a bullet pelted into the dirt near his feat. He leaped over the corral and ran out onto the empty plain.
The galloping of a horse and the piercing cry of a Comanche rose from behind him. Henry turned, still running. The Comanche barreled down on top of him, mouth wide, screaming his war cry with arms stretched out, a Winchester in hand.
Now, Frank, now!
The Spencer’s shot echoed from the cabin and the Comanche tumbled from his horse. Henry stopped his run and turned to see the warrior writing on the ground, breathing heavily. The Comanche, twisted, pushed himself up with a grunt. Henry drew his Colt and thumbed back the hammer. The Comanche raised his head, dark eyes like lances stabbing into Henry’s quivering guts, then fell to the ground dead.
Henry breathed the breath of a man who’d just escaped certain death. He walked toward the cabin on wobbly legs and faced Frank, who stood in the doorway aiming the Spencer at Henry’s chest.
Henry nodded and took another step.
Frank squeezed the trigger and the Spencer clicked dry. Henry took a bullet from his shirt pocket and tossed it onto the ground between them. Sunlight bounced off the brass casing.
Frank dropped the Spencer and went for his pistol. Henry fanned the Colt’s hammer and Frank slumped against the doorframe, sinking slowly to his knees. Henry stuck his pistol into his belt and slipped past Frank, clinging to the doorframe, life bleeding out of him. His eyes followed Henry to the saddlebags, watched as he gathered them up, and went out again.
“You – said – didn’t care –,”
“I didn’t, Frank,” said Henry. “But I can’t let fifty-thousand dollars go to waste.”
Donald D. Shore settled in Huntsville, Al after years of traveling the country to see what else is out there. From the deserts of New Mexico to the wild forests of the North West, he found there to be a story hidden within every shadow. He spends his time carving out those stories and searching for more.