Chapter One

Montana Territory, 1868

The land lay empty around him, lonely and still. On his right, a ridge of mountains with scattered cedars rose up black and stark against a bleak sky. On his left, an open plain swept to a far horizon where a blanket of white met with a gray haze that threatened to dump more snow on an already burdened land. In all that vastness there was nothing but the creak of the saddle and the labored breathing of the horse beneath Guthrie Tanner.

He hunched his shoulders against the cold. “Only a couple of miles, now.” He spoke to the gelding whose black mane was crusted with ice. The buckskin plodded, its head bobbing with weariness. Then as if to reassure himself, Guthrie said, “Two more miles, ol’ son, to a warm stall with extra oats for you, and a double shot of whiskey for me.”

Frigid weather had forced Guthrie down from the mountains. It’d been almost a year since he’d last visited a town. In all that distance, he’d not seen a ranch, or a miner’s shack. Nor had he carried on an intelligent conversation with a civilized human being.

The gelding stumbled, nearly toppling Guthrie from its back. He spoke softly, encouraging the animal. “I know you’re tired. Hell, we’re both near our end.”

Two miles.

Guthrie hoped he’d correctly calculated the distance. The horse plodded on, each step a struggle, the pace so slow that the cold leaching through his buffalo-hide coat caused Guthrie’s bones to ache. Pellets of ice settled heavy on the brim of his hat, crusted his eyebrows and thick black beard.

His chin wobbled against his chest. Exhaustion wrapped around him like a warm cocoon. He jerked his eyes open. Going to sleep in weather like this guaranteed a death sentence for both man and beast. For a distraction, he tried to whistle, though his wind-parched lips emitted no sound. He fought the heaviness in his eyelids.

There was a reason why he needed to stay alive. He searched around the fuzziness of his mind, trying to remember why living was important when dying was so easy.

By sundown, Fort Smith loomed like a solitary ghost, square and bare, without shrubs, without trees, and one hundred miles from the nearest town.

Guthrie urged the gelding to pick up its pace. The horse reared as it tried to lunge through chest-deep snow. Losing its footing, the buckskin fell backward, then rolled over. Guthrie’s boot caught in the stirrup, and when the horse rolled, the pommel came down hard on Guthrie’s shoulder. His first thought was how warm the blood weeping against his cold flesh felt.

There was no pain, no shock, only a kind of surprise. Death, he knew from experience, was dramatic and often filled with suffering. He needed to cheat death—if only he could remember why.

The horse thrashed and struggled to rise, then fell back. But Guthrie was free of the horse’s weight, even though his boot remained trapped beneath the animal’s heaving body. Somehow Guthrie rolled to an elbow. He felt faint and sick.

Then he looked at the horse.

One leg was broken. An ugly compound fracture with the naked bone exposed. He knew nothing could be done for the faithful animal that had carried him hundreds of miles through Indian Territory as he looked for a band of Sioux renegades led by Otaktay, better known by white settlers and soldiers as Kills Many.

Guthrie inched his hand down and pulled his pistol free from its holster. A string of oaths erupted from his throat. “Sorry, ol’ son.” He fired. His throat tightened, and a heavy feeling of remorse filled his chest.

A moment longer he remained on his elbow. The pistol stayed in his hand. He tried to pull his leg free from the dead animal’s weight, thinking perhaps he could drag himself the few hundred yards to the fort’s massive log-hewn gates.

He hoped the wind hadn’t carried away the Colt .45’s blast. He prayed a sentry had heard the shot. Guthrie Tanner knew all too well that if the snow buried his body, the remains would rest frozen until spring thaw.

He was tired, more tired than he’d ever been in his life. Now there was pain, a poker-hot pain that seared through his shoulder.

Rolling to his back, he gazed up at the sky. He thought he saw a face staring down at him from a gray cloud. A face with large blue eyes, surrounded by spirals of golden ringlets. Snow stung his wind-burned cheeks like pellets of ice and drove against him. Through lips made blue from the cold, he whispered, “I’ll find you, Rachel. I’ll find you, baby girl.”

With the last of his ebbing strength, he lifted the pistol and, as he pulled the trigger again, remembered why it was important for him to live.

A Cowboy’s Fate

by

Gini Rifkin