Page 44 of Follow the Lonesome Trail
With one hand, he hauled himself awkwardly up into the saddle and turned the horse towards the rim of the canyon.
She’d run out behind the house at the sound of the sudden shots.
“Mama—”
“No, Henry, stay!”
She stood staring up at the canyon rim, skirt clutched in one hand, her other, shading her eyes.
The silence hung heavy. A couple disturbed birds flew over.
Another shot. Then nothing.
“Mama?”
She let her skirt go.
“I don’t know what it was.”
The homestead stood sturdy and peaceful beneath him. Dusk had fallen thickly over it, the sun no longer reaching inside. Smoke rose from the chimney, barely visible in the dim light. He could see the cattle in their pens, the barn and bunkhouse standing dark, a small light in the house.
For a moment, he thought he saw a figure, a purpled shadow, behind the house.
It was probably his imagination.
He swung his rifle off his shoulder and holstered it.
They’d make it.
She saw a figure on the rim of the canyon, the last place the sun was reaching. A man, tawny-haired—or perhaps dark, and it was a trick of the sun—with a long-barreled gun against his shoulder, looking down into the canyon.
She didn’t recognize the horse.
As she watched, he turned and rode away. A moment later she glimpsed him further down the rim, moving west.
She’d wait inside. It had gotten dark so quickly. Perhaps in an hour or so he’d have made it down the rim, and she’d see who it was, what had happened.
“Did you see anything?” asked Henry, as she came in.
“Just a rider. Time for bed, both of you.”
She waited all night. No one ever came. The next day, and the next day passed, and nothing. The following day, she rode to town.
Blaze of Memories
Allison Tebo
Istared at the end of the gun barrel, my hands in the air, and licked my lips, nervously. “Edith? Don’t shoot. It’s me . . . your granddaughter, Rachel.”
She leaned against the door jamb, fingering her shotgun, so much older than when I last saw her. There were lines and scars on her face that I had never seen, and an emptiness in her eyes that I did not remember.
“I never saw you before,” she said shortly.
Her words were like a slap. They were the last thing I had expected to hear. Tears sprang to my eyes. “What are you talking about? Don’t you remember me?”
She shrugged, careless, not lowering her weapon. “Don’t remember much that happened before three years ago.”
I stared at her, hands still in the air and mind spinning, trying to understand. “Wh . . . why not?”
