5

Michael woke with the sun. He stoked the embers of the fire to flame and huddled by it to drive off the early morning chill. A soft breeze brought the scent of pine, reminding him of the thick forests near the family farm in Connecticut. He shuddered and shook the memory away.

Anxious to get his mission done, he drank the last of the previous night’s coffee and wolfed down a leftover biscuit, then cleaned and packed his gear on his dun-colored mare. He mounted his roan, Buddy, and rode along the top of the ridge searching for a path or trail to the valley floor.

The ridge was steep, almost a sheer drop in places. In other areas, the horses staggered on loose sand and rock that made the footing hazardous. After several miles, Michael found an old switchback trail and guided the horses to the valley floor. Spurring the animals to a brisk trot, he covered the distance to the river’s edge. He pulled on the bell rope to call for the ferry nestled against the opposite bank.

A man emerged from a small cabin on the shore, waved, and pulled on the rope, bringing the boat to Michael. The ferryman was tall and broad-shouldered, with a long beard and legs like spindles. “Howdy, stranger. The fare’s two bits fer you and two bits fer your horses.”

Michael paid him and tied the horses to ropes along the sides of the boat.

“What brings you to these parts?” The ferryman spat a wad of chewing tobacco into the water and pulled on the rope to take the boat back across the river.

“I’ve come to see a man named Samuel Carstairs.”

“Sam Carstairs? I know him. Whaddya want to see him fer?”

Michael glanced at the ferryman. Was he prying or just being friendly?

“I’ve got some information for him. Do you know him well?”

“Do I know him well? Sure do. Used t’ punch cows for him up on the north range of his ranch. Worked for him after the war for nigh on ten year, tendin’ his cows and horses, mendin’ his fences, doin’ whatever he needed doin’. He’s my partner in this here business—set me up in it after my legs was stove up in a stampede three year ago. I gets to keep workin’, and I splits the profit with him.”

Michael let his gaze drift with the river’s current, watching it ripple and catch the sun’s rays. Sure doesn’t sound like the man Ben described.

Sheriff Caleb Davis studied the desk before him, a totem of his years in Riverbend. The scratches and gouges, the dents in one corner from years of keys landing in the same spot every time they were tossed onto the desk, the coffee-ring stains, and the faint purplish smear of an old ink spill that spread like a river overflowing its banks.

The desk had seen better days. Just like him. Fatigue plagued every bone and muscle from too many years on too many horses chasing too many outlaws and breaking up too many saloon fights. Old bullet wounds and knife scars reminded him of the more serious encounters. He looked through the bars covering the dirt-streaked window and shook his head. Sixty years on this body feels like a hundred today.

The swish of a broom caught his attention. An old man appeared in the doorway that connected his office to the cells in the back, pushing a pile of dirt before him. Completely bald, with a grizzled beard, he was short and wiry and walked with an obvious limp, his right leg stiff. He swept his way into the office, stirring up a cloud of dust that made Caleb sneeze.

“Malachi, I know I said to sweep the place, but you don’t have to raise a dust storm.”

“Sorry, Sheriff.” Malachi swept as hard as ever, and Caleb sneezed again. Finally he picked up his coffee cup and stomped outside.

Settling in a chair on the boardwalk, he propped his feet on an old barrel and leaned back against the wall to watch the town pass by. People opened their stores and swept the wooden boardwalks. Farmers and ranchers rattled by in wagons for their weekly visits to town, their wives next to them, their children wide-eyed at the bustling busyness, anticipating the treats waiting for them in the stores.

His internal alarm sounded like a shopkeeper’s bell as a stranger rode up from the ferry landing. Early in his career, Caleb had learned to size up people, to assess quickly how much danger a stranger might pose. This man was tall—maybe six feet—and slender, with sandy-colored hair. Probably in his late twenties. His clothes and his two horses were coated in trail dust but otherwise well cared for.

Strangers weren’t all that unusual for a growing town like Riverbend. Most were families hoping to start businesses, farms, or ranches, but a few were in town to take advantage of folks through gambling, stealing, or crooked business dealings. He tried to pick out the crooks right away and urge them, with the persuasion of his pistol if necessary, to move on.

This rider didn’t appear to be a gambler or crook, but he sure wasn’t a farmer or rancher either. Guess I’m about to find out.

The man turned toward him, dismounted, and tied his horses to the hitching post. He dug in his saddlebags, pulled out an envelope, and walked up the two steps to stand in front of Caleb.

“You Sheriff Caleb Davis?”

“That’s me.”

The stranger held out the envelope. “My name is Michael Archer. I’d like you to read this letter, and then we can talk.”

Caleb raised an eyebrow. “You from out East? New York? New England?”

“Connecticut, originally. Why?”

“Way you talk. Couple of families around here come from New England. Everybody thinks they talk funny.” Caleb opened the envelope, took out the single page, and glanced at the signature. “Well, this here’s a surprise. I ain’t seen nor heard from Gideon Parsons in years. He don’t like to write much—never did—so this is something if he wrote this for you to bring to me.”

Dear Caleb, the letter began.

This letter is to intradus you to a man named Michael Archer. The man that gav it to you should be almost six feet tall, kind of thin, with light brown hair and hazel eyes. I known him for several years. He works with a minister, Zechariah Taylor, that tends to the prisners in my jail and in the state prison. They both done a good job with the men and have really helped us keep things under contrl. I vouch for him as high as I can and ask you, baset on our years of riding together and trusting each other, to help him in what he’s trying to do.

He’s in Riverbend to see Samuel Carstairs about his son Benjamin.

Young Carstairs got in trouble here and was convicted of killing a man. We hung him April 10. Carstairs and Michael tried to reach the father but he never respnded. Michael made a promise to return his belongings and a letter Carstairs rote to his father to try to make emends.

I’m asking you to help Michael make contact with the father and hopefuly get him to listen. His son seemed like someone that could’ve been decent but made too many mistakes. He really wanted to get back right with his father.

Thanks, Gideon

Caleb folded the letter and tapped it against his thigh. “Pull up a chair.” He gestured to the empty chair beside him. “You want some coffee?”

“Sure.”

“Malachi,” Caleb yelled over his shoulder. The door to the office creaked and the sweeper stuck his head out.

“Yes, Sheriff?” he rasped.

“Bring us two cups of coffee, will ya?” Caleb handed him his empty cup.

“Yes, sir.” Malachi disappeared inside.

The quizzical expression on Archer’s face prompted Caleb to explain. “Malachi’s one of our town drunks. Actually, he’s our only habitual drunk. He’s working off a sentence from the judge for public drunkenness. He cleans up my office and the jail and the town hall next door instead of paying a fine.”

Malachi came out carrying two steaming mugs. He handed the mugs to Caleb and Archer and hobbled back into the office.

Archer turned to face Caleb, sipped the hot brew, and said nothing. Caleb studied him over the rim of his cup, not really sipping any coffee. The young man seemed all right. And Caleb trusted Parsons’s ability to read men.

“So tell me what happened to Ben Carstairs.”

Archer related a story about young Ben’s trial and his hanging. Apparently he’d gotten himself saved before he died. But Caleb had been a lawman long enough to know that didn’t mean the boy wasn’t guilty.

“Did he really kill the horse trader?”

Archer shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’ve worked with other men in the same situation. If they accepted Jesus, usually they’d admit what they did, to me at least. They’d say they were sorry and accept their punishment, even when it meant being hanged. Ben wasn’t like that. To the end, he insisted he didn’t do it. He and I talked about it a lot because I wanted to give him every chance to confess. When he didn’t, I believed him. I think an innocent man was hung. But there was no evidence or time to prove someone else did it. Sheriff Parsons had his doubts about Ben’s guilt too but couldn’t come up with anything to postpone the hanging.”

Caleb sighed. “I’ve known Ben since he was little. Even with all the problems with his father and the law, I don’t think he’d ever kill anyone in cold blood.”

“Any idea why he didn’t get along with his father?” Archer asked.

“Ben’s mother died giving birth to him. Sam Carstairs doted on that woman. Gave her everything she ever wanted, and she loved him just as much—always wanted to please him. Trouble was, Sam wanted a big family, and she was never a healthy woman. When she died, Sam was crushed. I don’t think he ever recovered. Never accepted Ben like he did the two other boys. You ask me, he really blamed himself, but he couldn’t live with that. So he blamed Ben. Threw him outta the house ’fore he was eighteen.”

Archer shook his head. “Yeah, that fits with what Ben told me. How did his brothers take it?”

“Took their lead from the father—treated Ben like dirt. The oldest one, Joshua, got real quiet when his ma died. Still don’t talk or smile much. Got himself a pretty Mexican wife now, which annoys Sam no end, but otherwise Josh don’t have much to do with people. He runs the ranch while Sam runs the other family businesses.” He gazed down the busy street. “We don’t see him much in town.”

“And Mark? That’s the other son, right?”

Caleb snorted his disgust. “That boy was already spoilt and didn’t like his mother bein’ in the family way. Sam’s attitude gave him reason to be as mean as he wanted to Ben. But he didn’t stop there. Mark’s a bully, and Sam keeps bailing him out of any trouble he gets himself into. He’s just bad news—uses his name to get whatever he wants.”

“You think the father will talk to me about Ben?”

“It’s hard to tell. He hasn’t mentioned Ben since he threw him out. It’s like the boy never existed.”

“Ben wanted one more chance with his father. I owe it to Ben to give it a try.”

“Well,” Caleb said hesitantly, “I’ll do what I can to set up a meeting based on Gideon’s letter. Won’t happen before Thursday, though. Sam’s due back then from his yearly trip to San Francisco.”

“I appreciate any help you can give. Is there a good hotel in town where I can stable my horses, take a bath, and get some decent food?”

Caleb pointed up the street. “The Riverbend is the best in town. They should take really good care of you.”

Archer stood and touched the brim of his hat with a two-finger salute. “Thanks, Sheriff.”

Caleb watched Archer lead his horses across the street. The man appeared lean and tough—not exactly the minister type. Still, if Michael Archer wasn’t careful, Sam Carstairs would just chew him up and spit him out.