Page 42 of Follow the Lonesome Trail
He threw a leg over his mustang and turned back the way he’d come. So much for another job.
She’d cooked a whole chicken in celebration. Took down Frank’s fiddle and played an old Scottish war tune for the children. It was a small defiance, and a little early, but one she felt made a world of difference.
A fighting chance was all she wanted. And by all that was good, she was holding it fast.
The sun was setting in purple dusk, the birds quieting, the stock fed, and for the first time since Frank died, there was a sense of contentment, a feeling that this place could be happy again.
“Are we going to sell the cattle?” asked Addie, her mouth full of chicken. This once, she’d been allowed to go back and eat more after dinner.
“Yes, we are. And we’re going to stay here. I will go to town and find us an honest hand for the winter. It won’t be too hard to care for the herd that’s left.”
Addie gave a fierce, joyous clap. “Let’s dance! Come on, Henry.”
“I’ll play something,” volunteered Henry, getting up. “You can dance, Mama.”
“Look at you, taking after your father.” She gave up the fiddle with a smile.
Henry took the instrument and his fingers ran up and down for a second as he adjusted it under his chin.
Then he broke into a hornpipe.
She took Addie’s hands in hers and they danced, spinning and jumping and laughing until they were breathless on the porch.
“You are getting good, Henry.”
“Thanks.”
She sighed, settling onto the steps.
The cattle were stirring a little in their pens, but the reminder of the added stock was a happy thought. She’d have to fix up some of the fencing for the breeding stock, but she could do that with a little help from Henry.
She closed her eyes.
A distant gunshot broke the silence.
He stood up in the rocks, rifle trained on the milling riders. The horses were spooked, turning, looking for an escape in the narrow pass. Their riders, a half dozen of them, looked around, pistols out, for their assailant.
“The next one can go between your eyes,” he said, loud enough for the men to hear.
“There he is!” The foreman pointed him out.
“Uh-uh. I wouldn’t.” He clucked his tongue. His sights were on the man in the center of the group, a fellow with a thick, groomed beard.
He’d not seen the man more than a couple times, but he knew him to be the owner of the Bar S.
“There’s six of us. You should have shot to kill.” The boss said, easing in the saddle, a little smile in his eyes.
“I warned you on purpose.”
“You can shoot, but we’ll get you. One of us will.”
“Maybe.” He didn’t move a muscle. “But I’ve got my rifle square in your chest, sir, and the Bar S don’t belong to anyone else.”
The smile in the boss’s eyes froze a little.
“Now the way I see it, you can ride on back and leave this woman alone, or else you can do it after someone’s dead.”
“Why do you care about the woman?” The boss tried a different tack.
