Page 34 of Follow the Lonesome Trail
“Hm.”
He pushed his horse on, past Hank, past the grazing cows.
“Where you goin’?” Hank bawled after him.
“North.”
He rode past the low mesquite and up towards the hills above the river. It was clear that the cows had come this way; the grazing was picked low and there were tracks everywhere. Here and there the trail hinted that a few steers had peeled off fromthe rest of the bunch and gone their own directions—he’d chase those down by and by.
Half an hour down the trail, he spotted a couple riders coming his way. Cattlemen.
He chirped to his horse and went down to meet them. He wasn’t on Bar S land anymore, and with that came the responsibility to declare one’s intentions.
It was an older gentleman and a skinny fellow chewing an unlit cigarette, both riding Lucky Dollar horses.
“Howdy.” The older of the two touched the brim of his hat.
He gave them a nod.
“You out gathering cows?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re riding Bar S.”
“Mhm.”
“Seen any of our cows?”
“Sure. Downriver a ways.”
That didn’t seem to be the answer or tone they were looking for.
“Anyone riding with you?”
“Yeah, but he’s downriver a piece.”
This seemed to satisfy them. They pulled the brims of their hats and rode on down the direction he’d come.
He waited for them to go on a ways, watching them.
They hadn’t seemed worried he was on their land. Almost like they’d expected it. Something was off about the whole thing.
He glanced up at the sky. There was time, almost half a day to get over the hills before darkness fell.
Instead of turning towards Bar S land, he whistled to his horse and pressed on.
They were asleep. Little tousled heads tucked above the homespun, worries erased for a brief time. In the stillness of the house, she could hear their quiet breathing. This was the hardest part. Watching the cares of the world steal over these little faces, the reality that the world was a hard and cruel place taking their innocence piece by piece. It was only a matter of time before she’d have to make the decision. How she would tell them that they were leaving their only home, leaving their father for good, she didn’t know. Gently, she reached out and moved Addie’s hair out of her sweet face. Addie gave a long sigh and pushed at the place where the hair had been, then settled deeper into sleep.
She stepped outside. The night air was cool, sweeping softly across the space between her and the corrals. The bunkhouse was dark—it was just Teller and Hughes now, and they were both out on the trail tonight. And soon the decision would be made, by her or by them, to end that too.
She went out beyond the buildings, beyond the corrals, to a lonely little stand of trees where a single headstone stood. The pale moon illuminated the words:Frank McKinley, 1845—1879. Father, Husband. So simple and impersonal for what they stood for, but they were all she had now. Her hands smoothed over the rough stone as if she could touch him through it. She closed her eyes.
“Frank, I don’t know what to do.”
The night was silent in reply.
“I mean it, Frank. I am so alone. I don’t know who to trust—if there is anyone to trust—and I don’t want to give up. I don’t. But—I don’t know if we’ll survive the winter. And the children—”
