Бесплатный фрагмент - The Buffalo Ridge Outlaw

Dedicated to Sam Peckinpah

Chapter 1

Imagine endless plains stretching to the very horizon, where the air is so transparent that one could almost reach out and touch the bottomless blue sky. Even at the hottest noon, the sky dazzles with its pristine purity: it is so relentlessly bright that one’s gaze involuntarily gets lost in its boundless blue expanse. The vast expanses stretch into the distance, dissolving in the trembling haze of summer heat, as if the very earth breathes in rhythm with the scorching air. Look to the west: at the foot of the majestic, imposing mountains, crystal-clear mountain rivers originate, pure as a tear. They carve their way through canyons and ravines, crashing down the ledges with roar and foam, to later merge with the wide, leisurely streams on the plain. Their waters, bubbling and untamed, like living creatures, carry the strength and energy of the mountain peaks, and then, calming their rush, find tranquility in the expanses of the plains. Thus, the harmony of two worlds is born — the wild power of the mountains and the serene breadth of the steppes.

Once these lands were home to mighty herds of buffalo: their dark silhouettes stood majestically against the backdrop of the sunset sky, transforming the steppe into a living canvas. At night, only the melodic singing of night cicadas and the drawn-out cries of coyotes, echoing through the area and getting lost somewhere beyond the horizon, disturbed the silence. Nature itself spoke here in its ancient language — the language of wind, water, and endless sky. Time has not spared the pristine silence of these places. The lands are now scarred by the traces of civilization.

Look to the east, where the plain meets the rising ground. Among the forbidding cliffs and deep ravines, the railroad lies etched into the land. Like a steel arrow, it cuts through this harsh yet beautiful country, linking it to the rest of the world. It stands as a symbol of progress and the change that cannot be stopped — bringing new chances, yet forever altering the face of this ancient earth.

Between the chain of mountains and the swift river, on lands where the wise and brave Cheyenne once roamed, now stands a small settlement — Buffalo Ridge. The Cheyenne people have long left these places, heading far north to distant, snow-capped peaks, and now only faint echoes of their legends linger in the air, blending with the rustle of grass and the roar of water.

***

By the mountain stream, where the water roars over the stones, the prospectors’ camp sprawls along the river’s edge. This claim was an old one; gold had been found here in the past, but for several years now, men have lost faith in it, and only the desperate come here, chasing a sliver of luck. Tents of coarse canvas and makeshift shelters huddled against the cliffs, as if seeking their shelter from the gusting wind. Narrow paths wound between them, worn into the pebbles and tough grass, and here and there the ground was strewn with scattered kindling and dry grass — so feet wouldn’t freeze in the morning chill.

A little farther off, under a lean-to made of rain-darkened cloth stretched across roughly hewn posts, lay the evening’s place: a blackened pot hung over the smoldering coals, and the thick scent of venison and onions drifted over the camp, overpowering the smell of dampness and wet stone. Nearby, a makeshift shelf of planks stood crammed with tin cans, bundles of dried herbs, and a stack of dented tin plates.

In the camp’s heart, the fire pit lay dark — a circle of charred boulders, within which the embers of last night’s fire still glowed. Around it lay overturned crates that served as seats, and a couple of crudely built stools. There, leaning against a stone, stood an old copper kettle with a chipped spout, and not far away, damp mittens and worn scarves hung to dry on a line.

Along the camp’s edges, the marks of a prospector’s life showed themselves: gold pans, picks, and shovels, their handles polished by countless hands to a silken sheen. By one tent, a heap of sacks and bundles loomed, and nearby, a tin lantern hung from a peg — its dull glass webbed with fine cracks.

That summer, the sun beat down so hard it seemed the very sky had decided to scorch the valley to ashes. In the shaky shade of a ragged canvas lean-to, by the riverbank, two friends bent their backs to the work.

John McBerry, a former soldier of Irish blood, moved with that tight, controlled stillness men carry when they’re used to danger. Out here at the claim, he wore his well-worn army trousers and, over his shirt, a leather vest that had seen better days. Beside him, Sam leaned over his pan — an old prospector whose face was etched with wrinkles like a map of forgotten trails. The old fire still flickered in his eyes, but his hands didn’t hold the pan as steady as they once did, and his back ached more and more from the endless bowing to the water.

John worked as if his life depended on every motion — and maybe it did. He scooped up the heavy, wet sand with his shovel, flung it into the wide, roughly built pan standing nearby, then fell into that endless, soul-wearying dance: swirling the sludge, washing the murky water away, then shoveling more in.

Sam stood a short distance off, holding a smaller pan. Sand streamed through his fingers with the water, revealing the dark, stubborn grains of plain rock. The river wasn’t in a hurry to give up its secrets. Sam squinted, trying to spot a fleck of gold in the muddy water.

— Not much today, – he grumbled without looking up. His voice had a rasp to it, as if smoke had scorched it once and time had never quite healed the burn.

— Just a bit longer, Sam, – McBerry muttered, wiping his face with his sleeve. Dust and sweat had caked into a crust on his skin.

— And what’ll we have to show for it? A couple of gold specks by sundown? I swear, I’ll drop right here.

The sun was sinking toward the horizon, painting the cliffs in crimson hues. The prospectors made their way to the camp by the riverbank. John McBerry, his work done, stood motionless at the water’s edge, letting his weary arms hang loose, his thoughts drifting to home, to his family. The past crashed over him in a heavy wave — as unstoppable as the churning current before him.

In his mind’s eye, he saw their ranch — once proud and sturdy, now looking as if it had aged before its time. The fence leaned askew, stooped under the weight of hardship. The barn roof was rotting in places, dark with damp stains. The fields, which just a few years ago had delighted the eye with golden stalks, now looked desolate: the soil had grown tired, its meager yield barely enough to feed the family. The air carried the scent of hay and horse sweat.

Mary stood at the threshold in a faded, worn dress. Her work-hardened hands were clasped in front of her, and worry shone in her eyes.

— John, I’ve gathered a few ears of corn and a handful of beans — all I could save from our garden. I also took a couple of pumpkins, but they’re small, barely the size of a fist. If things keep going like this, we won’t have enough to see us through the winter… and the livestock needs feeding too.

John stepped into the house and went to his wife. His eyes held the weight of his fears for the family’s future.

— I’ve been thinking long and hard, Mary. It’s time to make a choice. I’m thinking of heading to the old claim. They say there’s still a chance to find fortune there.

— Father! What about the ranch? Who’ll help us with the work?

Cal was only fifteen, but on that day he seemed older than his years. He stood a little behind his mother, and in his gaze flickered a hint of hurt — his father was leaving them to face it all alone.

— The ranch is failing. If I don’t try, we’ll lose everything. This is our last chance. Remember I told you about the gold claims? – John said, turning to his son. – There, a man can earn enough to buy new land and start over.

— But not everyone finds gold…

— No, Mary, that’s true. It’s the truth. But luck might smile on us too.

Mary stepped closer, her face a mix of fear and resolve.

— Be careful, John. We’ll stay here and pray that fortune is on your side. – Her voice trembled, yet it held firm as she bade him farewell.

— Thank you, Mary. I’ll do my best to come back as soon as I can.

John gathered his belongings, weighing each item in his mind to leave behind anything unnecessary. He took his rifle, then looked over his family.

He drew a deep breath, feeling the full weight of his decision settle on his shoulders. Tomorrow, a long road to the claims awaited him. In these harsh lands, only the boldest ever found their happiness. As he stepped out of the house, he embraced them, then turned to his son.

— Cal, help your mother. Take care of her. And with that, he strode toward his horse.

Here, by the mountain river, far from his home ranch, the images of those he held dear became a pillar for the elder McBerry. They lingered in his memory, a quiet reminder of why he had come to this place.

— John, we’re fixing supper. Will you join us? – Thomas, the sheriff’s deputy, stepped up to him.

They were old friends, bound by years of knowing each other. Back in their younger days, they’d served together in the army, and more than once they’d pulled each other through the fire. John had covered Thomas in the hottest scrapes, and later, Thomas had hauled John out of the messes he’d landed in thanks to his quick temper. That was how their solid friendship had been forged. Thomas had often stopped by John’s ranch — sometimes to lend a hand with the horses, sometimes just to talk over the news from town.

Good-natured and easygoing, Thomas was at the claim now out of duty. He’d taken the deputy’s job soon after leaving the army, agreeing almost at once when the offer came. He was a simple man, with no great ambitions, and the thought of hunting down another position held no appeal. It was easier to take what came his way. He rarely interfered with the prospectors’ ways, and truth be told, there wasn’t much to interfere with: the claim had its own laws, harsh and plain — work until you drop, or move on. Still, his presence in the camp served as a quiet reminder that some measure of lawful order still held sway. Now and then, he’d walk over to McBerry and Sam, stand there in silence, watching their work, his eyes squinting against the sun.

— Rough day, – Thomas said, his voice full of quiet sympathy.

— That it is, – McBerry replied, lifting his pan and taking his shovel with him.

The two of them headed for the lean-to where supper was being prepared. They settled by the fire. Old Sam stirred the stew in the blackened pot, tasting it now and then with a long wooden spoon. Lanky McGraves sank wearily onto a log near the flames and began rubbing his aching shoulders, glancing every so often at the boiling pot. Young Billy, unable to sit still, bustled about, dragging dry branches to the fire. He stayed close to old Sam, eager to help in any way he could and not to miss a single piece of advice from the seasoned prospector.

The days blurred into one endless, gray stream. The heat gave way to wind that flung sand into their eyes, making them water. The claim offered a way to live and promised plenty of money, but the gold was scarce — so scarce that many grew disillusioned and left. Only a small handful remained in their camp: about six men.

McBerry never started his day without checking his rifle. Moving unhurriedly, he reached toward the corner of the tent and felt for the weapon wrapped in a scrap of cloth. Gripping the stock, he turned the rifle and checked the action with a practiced hand.

In these wild lands, the morning could bring anything: outlaw gangs could show up at any moment. Once satisfied the rifle was in order, he took his shovel and pan and headed for the river.

The air was fresh and clear. As he drew near the river, the steady roar of the water grew louder. It churned around the stones, its ceaseless murmur almost like a word of encouragement. Old Sam, hunched as usual, worked his pan, trying to coax a fleck of fortune from the current. His hands, a map of old scars and cracks, barely felt the weight anymore, and in his chest sat that bitter feeling when hope becomes a habit rather than a belief.

That day unfolded like all the rest — monotonous, heavy, hopeless. John scooped at the earth with his shovel, almost mechanically lifting another layer, when suddenly the blade struck something hard — not a stone that would simply slide aside, but something stubborn and unyielding. John bent down, dropped the shovel, and began to clear the wet earth with his hands. His fingers met something smooth, unnaturally heavy.

Sam raised his head and squinted, as if trying to read the answer in John’s face before the words could come.

— What is it? – Sam asked hoarsely, setting his pan aside.

John leaned closer, scraped away the clinging clay, and froze as the rough surface of the rock was revealed. It was a huge chunk of stone shot through with veins of gold, and from its side protruded a heavy nugget, dull and gleaming at once.

— Gold, – John breathed, hardly believing his own eyes.

Sam sank slowly to his knees, picked up the stone, and held it close to his face. The yellow veins snaked through the dark rock. At last, the river had decided to give up its secret. A smile tugged at his lips — a smile he hadn’t allowed himself in many months.

— Well, – Sam whispered, – looks like luck’s finally turned our way.

Something bright flickered in his eyes — not just hope, but the предчувствие of change, of a new life waiting to begin.

John kept digging, driven now by a fresh surge of strength and a new, urgent hunger, as if he feared the miracle would vanish the moment he stopped. Sam watched him, and in his chest a fire kindled — the same fire he’d thought long dead. Here and there, the other prospectors were finding gold, too.

In the blink of an eye, the gray stream of days shattered in a blinding flash: the crew had struck a vein. In just a couple of days, they’d torn apart that stretch of the river. What had once been a smooth, gentle bank now lay buried beneath heaps of dug-up clay. Scattered shovels and pans half-sunk in the mud. The ground had been turned inside out, as though some giant in a rage had ripped it open with its claws.

Each man rejoiced in what he’d pulled from the earth for the common take: McGraves, a nugget no bigger than a fingernail; his friend Harvey, hardly able to believe his luck, shoveling sand that sparkled with golden flecks into sacks. Old Sam, browned by the sun, worked alongside John. And young Billy, who’d barely had time to trade his father’s revolver for a pick, darted from pit to pit, terrified of missing even a single grain of this sudden wealth.

The gold they found was carefully washed, then tenderly put away: the golden dust poured neatly into pouches, the nuggets laid separately into saddlebags.

***

In the days that followed, they found no traces of placer gold farther down the stream — not a single grain, not a glimmer among the clumps of clay. Wearily, the prospectors stripped away layer after layer, but the river kept its silence. Now and then, one of them would sigh, wiping the spray from his face with his sleeve.

— All right, – McGraves said, flinging his shovel aside and mopping the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. – I’ve had enough. There’s nothing left to find here. I’ll take my share and head back to the settlement.

— It’s a three-day ride to the settlement, – John remarked, frowning as he glanced at the horizon, where the sun was already sinking toward the sunset. – You sure you won’t meet a couple of hotheads on the road who’d kill a man for the price of a drink?

— Word’s out about our claim. Out here, gold’s like blood to a wolf — they can scent it from a mile off.

— I’ve got my rifle, – McGraves replied, a touch of pride in his voice.

— And what good’s one barrel against a whole gang? – John pressed.

— We’re safer sticking together. That’s the only real protection, – Sam put in.

— But we can’t just leave everything here — all our gear, the wagons, the horses, – Billy said. – How are we supposed to haul the gold out?

— Finding gold’s no use if we never make it to town with it, – Sam added, running a hand over his stubbled chin.

— With all that load, it’ll be near five days’ travel, -Thomas muttered, stepping up to the group.

— Let’s send Thomas, – Sam said, crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes, as if weighing every word. – He can bring back help, and we’ll have a better chance of getting home safe.

— Sounds right, Sam.

— Thomas is a deputy, – McGraves said, tightening the cinch on his horse. – It’ll be easier for him to talk sense to folks. I’ll give him my bay mare — she’s the best in these parts. If he rides out now, he’ll reach the town in a day or two, and be back with help in five.

McBerry stood in silence, his gaze moving from the heavy sacks of gear and gold dust to his companions.

— Let him go, – he finally breathed.

Sam gave a small grin and clapped him on the shoulder. Then he pulled out his canteen and handed it to Thomas.

— Here. It’s not much, but it’ll see you to the settlement. And keep your revolver close.

Thomas took the canteen, stowed it in his saddlebag, checked his holster, and, without a backward glance, spurred his horse. Dust rose in a cloud from the hooves, and soon his figure faded into the golden haze of the sunset.

Sam watched him disappear, then turned to the others.

— Now the trick is to hold out till he gets back.

McGraves gave a grim nod, adjusting his hat.

John McBerry spoke quietly, his eyes sweeping the camp.

— Just hope no one catches wind that we’ve struck gold here. If they do, these next few days will feel like forever.

While the prospectors at the claim waited in anxious vigil for Thomas’s return, he rode hard along the dusty trail, urging McGraves’s bay mare onward. The two days of travel blurred into a rush of wind and sun. The wind whistled in his ears, and the sun beat down without mercy, but Thomas never eased his pace. He knew time was working against them. Every hour lost could cost the men their lives.

At last, the outlines of the town appeared ahead. Houses, saloons, shops — all of it looked ordinary, almost peaceful. Thomas dismounted in front of the sheriff’s office, tied the mare, and strode inside with a determined step. Ahead lay a hard conversation, one that could decide whether his friends lived or died.

Chapter 2

The sun was already at its zenith when Thomas made his way to the sheriff’s office. The two-story building stood on the town’s main street, wedged between the general stores and the post office. Its weathered boards, faded sign with the half-erased words “Sheriff’s Office,” and the wide porch with its listing railings gave the place the look of a tired guardian of the law — still proud, but worn down by years of service. Shadows from the rails lay across the porch in slanted stripes, and in the half-open window on the second floor, a curtain stirred lazily.

On the ground floor was the front office — a spacious room with a high ceiling that smelled of dust, tobacco smoke, and old iron. Just inside the creaking front door stood a heavy wooden counter where the lawman took complaints from townsfolk and recorded them in a well-worn ledger. On the wall hung reward notices for wanted men: faded sheets with ink that had run and blurred, pinned up with nails and tacks. In one corner, a large grandfather clock ticked softly, its steady rhythm seeming to count off the seconds until the next trouble blew into town.

Next to the front office was the holding cell — small but solid. Thick iron bars, blackened with age, separated it from the rest of the room. Inside, there was a narrow bench made of rough planks and a bucket in the corner. The floor was strewn with straw that didn’t so much cushion the hardness as soak up the damp and the smells. The cell door was locked with a heavy padlock, and the key was always kept by the sheriff or his trusted deputy when the sheriff was away.

A staircase led straight up from the front office to the second floor — steep, narrow, with worn steps that groaned under every footfall. Upstairs, the sheriff’s own office was a small but bright room with two windows, one facing the street and the other looking out over the backyard. A heavy oak desk sat there, piled high with papers, maps of the territory, and folders full of case files. On the wall, a rifle hung from a hook, and a pair of revolvers in holsters were kept within easy reach. In the corner stood an old safe with a chipped door; it usually held important documents and confiscated weapons. By the window was a chair with sagging upholstery, where the sheriff often dozed off after long shifts.

Behind the building, a small lean-to was attached to the yard — a place to keep horses and store gear. From there, a discreet door led out to a back alley, a hidden exit for anyone who might need to leave the office quickly and without notice.

The whole look of the place said that it was built for work, not show: everything was meant to be practical, no frills, just steady business.

Dust-laden rays slanted through the window of Sheriff Babbitt’s office, lighting up the coils of tobacco smoke that hung in the air, as Thomas reached the second floor. A half-open curtain let sunlight spill across half the windowpane. The pale beams fell on the worn leather of the chairs, on the stacks of paper, on the silver sheriff’s badge that glinted dully on Babbitt’s chest. The cramped room smelled of tobacco, old wood, and something sour — maybe spilled whiskey, maybe the slow accumulation of years’ worth of weariness.

Thomas, a broad-shouldered man with a round, kindly face, leaned forward slightly, his palms resting on the edge of the desk. His hat lay beside him, the brim creased from the long ride. He spoke quietly but firmly:

— Sheriff, I know you’ve got plenty on your plate, but these men… they’re not outlaws, not hardened killers. They’re simple prospectors. I’ve lived side by side with them for months, seen them break their backs, seen them wash gold out of ice-cold water. Now they’ve got a load — and it’s no small thing. And the road back to town is a trap: canyons, passes, places where the shadows themselves feel like a threat. Please, just give me two men to ride with the wagon train. Some kind of cover is better than none.

Sheriff Babbitt adjusted his badge with a nervous twitch. His face, lean and sharp, twisted in a barely noticeable grimace. He didn’t meet Thomas’s eyes; instead, he let his gaze wander over the desk, shuffling through some papers as if the answer he needed was written there, even though he already knew it.

— I’m short on men, Thomas, – he said, his voice sharper than it needed to be. – This isn’t an army I’m running, to escort every prospector down the trail. And what for? They’re their own bosses. If they found gold, they can damn well protect it. They’ve got picks, shovels, and some of them even have rifles.

Thomas frowned slightly, but his voice stayed gentle.

— Rifles are one thing, but Sloter’s gang is another. You know they roam these trails like wolves. These prospectors aren’t soldiers, Sheriff. They’re used to digging dirt, not trading lead.

Babbitt finally looked up, and something cold and calculating flashed in his eyes. He leaned back in his chair, and it creaked in protest.

— Thomas, – he drawled, stretching the word out as if testing its weight, – you’re worrying too much. I’ve got few men, and I need them here in town.

— I have to go back, – Thomas said firmly. – John McBerry’s out there. I can’t leave him.

— Maybe you shouldn’t go back at all. The road’s long, dangerous… who knows what might happen. So… take your time.

There was more than advice in those words — a thinly veiled hint. Thomas felt something tighten inside him, but he did his best not to show it.

The sheriff fell silent for a moment, then slowly pulled open a desk drawer. Thomas tensed. Babbitt took out a roll of money, tightly bound, and set it on the desk, sliding it toward Thomas.

— Take it, – he said curtly. – For the road… but don’t leave for a couple of days. Consider it thanks for not poking your nose where it doesn’t belong.

Thomas stood very still, staring at the roll. Something stirred inside him — hurt, anger — but it faded quickly, replaced by weariness and a quiet kind of resignation. He was a gentle man, unused to outright rejection or open hostility. Right now, it seemed easier to take the money, walk away, and figure out what to do next.

Slowly, he reached out and took the tight roll, feeling the cool paper against his fingers.

Babbitt gave the faintest of smiles — not kind, but relieved.

— Good, – he nodded. – Just don’t rush. Let things take their course.

Thomas put on his hat, gave a short nod, and left the office, leaving behind the smell of tobacco, old wood, and something subtly rotten that hung in the air — not from the things in the room, but from the words, the looks, the very atmosphere of the place. Outside, the sun struck him full in the face, and he closed his eyes for a moment, as if trying to shake off the sticky web of the conversation he’d just endured. The money sat heavy in his pocket, a cold reminder that the world wasn’t as simple as he’d like it to be. He headed for the saloon, planning to drown the last of the bitterness in whiskey.

In the “Blazing Cactus” saloon, Thomas found a spot near a table where a poker game was underway. The interior lay in half-darkness, broken only by slanted rays of sunset that pierced through the grimy windows. The air was thick with the smell of whiskey, tobacco smoke, and sweat. Thomas’s thoughts were tangled up in the conversation he’d just had with the sheriff. Doubts gnawed at him for a while longer. He poured himself another shot of whiskey, and the bitter sting of uncertainty slowly gave way to a spreading warmth that eased through his body.

A gust of wind sent a swirl of dust eddying through the air as the door of the “Blazing Cactus” creaked open. Thomas glanced at the newcomer.

Sheriff Babbitt stepped across the threshold. His neat uniform and the heavy belt with its holster made him stand out among the regulars. Not far from the entrance, behind the bar, stood Hank Dawson, the bartender, wiping a glass with a greasy towel. A stocky man with gray stubble and a sharp, watchful gaze, Hank knew everyone in the county and had a talent for keeping secrets — for a modest fee.

Babbitt moved to the bar without haste.

— Evening, Hank, – he said curtly, keeping his voice low.

— Same to you, Sheriff, – the bartender replied with the slightest dip of his head. – How’s the town doing?

— Quiet, – Babbitt answered, letting his eyes drift across the room. – For now, quiet. Give me a glass of water.

Hank poured the water from a pitcher without a word. As the sheriff took a sip, his gaze swept the room again. In the far corner, deep in the shadows, sat a stranger. His face was mostly hidden beneath the low-brimmed hat, but Babbitt knew the man was waiting.

The sheriff set the glass down on the bar and gave the faintest tilt of his head — a nearly imperceptible nod that only someone who knew the signal would catch. And just like that, as if on cue, the stranger slowly raised a hand, adjusted the brim of his hat, and got to his feet. His movements were calm, stripped of any unnecessary fuss — the way a man moves when danger is an old acquaintance. Without looking back, he headed for the exit. The door creaked once more, and the stranger vanished into the golden glow of the sunset, leaving behind only a faint stirring of dust. Babbitt lingered by the bar for another moment, then turned his attention back to Hank.

— How’s your daughter? – the sheriff asked, almost as an afterthought.

Hank’s brief question about the girl was more habit than real curiosity. The sheriff muttered something in reply. Hank didn’t bother to catch the words; he simply gave a nod, the kind old acquaintances share when there’s no need for more talk. Then the sheriff bid him farewell.

Thomas watched it all as if through a hazy veil, yet every move the sheriff made burned itself into his mind in sharp, clear frames. That slight, almost invisible nod would have gone unnoticed by anyone else. But Thomas saw it. He didn’t know who the signal was meant for, or what it meant. Maybe the sheriff wanted the man gone; maybe he wanted him to appear somewhere else at the right time. Who could say? This uncertainty made a sticky, heavy sense of trouble grow heavier in his chest.

Not so long ago, when he’d taken the money from the sheriff — the same coins that now burned in his pocket with an unkind warmth — Thomas had told himself it was just a simple transaction, that he wasn’t risking anything. Now it felt as though the moment he’d accepted that roll of bills, he’d stepped into someone else’s dangerous game.

***

A couple of days later, Thomas set out for the claim. He’d decided to ride by the McBerry ranch to see how things were faring there. It lay right on his route, so it wouldn’t be much out of his way to stop in and check on Mary and Kelvin.

The trail leading to the ranch first wound between low hills, covered with coarse grass bleached pale by the sun. Gradually, the path opened onto a plain where no signs of regular homesteading remained — no fences, no hitching posts, no barns, just wild land and the occasional scrubby bush clinging to the rocks. Only as they neared the ranch did grazing enclosures appear, with cows wandering about and a few lonely haystacks standing here and there.

Dust swirled in the wake of Thomas’s horse as he turned toward the McBerry place. The gate stood half-open, and the yard was unusually quiet. Mary stepped out of the house, moving slowly, as if each step cost her effort. Her face was pale, dark half-moons of weariness beneath her eyes, and the shawl draped over her shoulders slipped forward. Without thinking, Thomas leaned forward as if to straighten it.

— Thomas, – Mary breathed softly, offering a faint smile. – I’m glad to see you.

Thomas nodded, trying to keep the worry from showing on his face.

— I won’t stay long. I was passing by and wanted to see how you’re getting on.

Mary waved a hand, as if brushing aside any concern.

— We’re all right. It’s just that these days, the strength isn’t what it used to be… You’re heading to the claim, aren’t you? Tell my husband not to worry.

Thomas nodded again, feeling a tightness gather inside him. He knew Mary wasn’t the sort to complain.

From around the corner of the barn, Kelvin slipped into view — wiry, his eyes bright with energy.