WHERE the SUGAR BUSH GROWS
Chapter 1
Johnny did the loading while he pitched. His legs were too long and his back too narrow for neat handling of baled hay, but his length gave him greater leverage on a pitchfork. Sweat striped his forearms through the dirt rings around his wrists, his gloves already too wet with perspiration. Scott leaned on the fork, taking a breather. It would be green in Boston this time of the year, with enough color to hurt your eyes. And still cool in the mornings for a coat while riding along the Commons. But here at Lancer, he'd given up any pretense of wearing a jacket several weeks ago.
He and Johnny were getting in the last of this particular hay crop. The field had been planted in alfalfa but suffered because of the spring drought and had been cut for hay. It figured out to be three full wagonloads at the most.
They were on their fourth.
"You just gonna dally at the end of that pitchfork? Or are you gonna work?" The impudent words with a hint of hurry-up came from the innermost regions of the high wagon. Johnny—hidden deep between the yellow walls. He sighed a little, his mind turning from the vibrant colors back home—and surely they had been that bright—to the brownness that was Lancer.
The sun was high overhead but they still hurried. It was several miles to the home barn and once there, other chores waited. He leaned far over the hay and shoved his pitchfork down until the tines reverberated off the hard-packed adobe floor. The shock sent shivers from his gloved hands to his shoulders. He swayed back, pushing the handle far underneath the mound, then heaved hard. This act was the final insult and the heaviness of the load made his right arm shake.
The hay crashed into the wagon where Johnny walked back and forth, building the walls straight and true. He seemed to have a knack for it.
The fork sang when it hit the floor again, gathering up a few wisps of hay left behind. Scott tossed them up and straightened, rolling his shoulders.
Johnny's voice floated downward from the wagon again, this time the insolence was gone, replaced by a bonhomie drawl. "You know, Scott, you sure can pitch hay. If you ever wanted to quit Lancer, you could find a lot of work."
Scott pushed his hat back and slapped off one damp glove full of hay seeds. "I do believe it's the stacker that shows the greater skill." He looked at the wagon with a critical eye, its shimmering mound of hay looking impossibly high. "Are you sure it's going to make it back to Lancer in one piece?"
Johnny jumped down from the back, bringing dust and hay with him. He looked at the load appreciatively. "Those other three made it back okay, didn't they? You're gonna have to learn to trust the stacker."
Scott grinned. "But those others were decidedly smaller than this last one."
"Did you want to make this an all-day deal?"
"Point taken, brother."
The four horses tethered to the straggly trees were restless, stamping in their leathers, but they went into their traces well enough. Although heavy animals, they seemed almost too small to move the mountain of hay.
As Scott settled the pitchforks into the back and pinned the tailgate, he heard Johnny calling out.
"Hey Jingo, Ace, Paco! Get up!"
By the time he climbed into the box seat beside his brother, the other three horses were already pulling their traces taut. But the wagon hadn't budged. Scott gripped his seat, wedging a foot against the boot, when Johnny yelled for the second time.
"Hey—Patsy!"
Patsy was always saved for last. She was a marvel coming into her collar, and almost pulled the left wheeler out of place with her surge. The wagon lurched and rolled a bit, leather and wood creaking together until they gathered forward momentum. Hooves clopped against the dry ground as they dug in to gain purchase. Soon enough the wagon lumbered past the storage lean-to.
"And so it goes." Scott wriggled in his seat and found the sweet spot, slumping into it with a decided lack of grace. He pulled his hat low across his brow. "Wake me when we get home, and I'll see about helping you unload."
"You do that, brother." Johnny flicked the reins across the rumps of Jingo and Paco. "You mind telling me why I'm doing all the driving?"
"Because I did all the heavy lifting."
"Well that does seem about even, doesn't it?" Johnny remarked.
Scott caught his brother's sly grin and found himself trying not to smile—and failing. He tugged his hat still lower, over his eyes. "For now anyway."
The sound of Johnny's quiet chuckle eased into the rhythmic bumping of the wagon and jingle of harnesses, lulling him into a doze.
Something out of place woke him. "Johnny, did you hear that?"
"I can't hear anything over the wagon and your snores."
The sound came again, weaker this time. He laid a hand on the reins. "Wait a minute."
They both listened to the air…it was a cross between a snort and whimper.
They turned in the wagon seat to stare at a strapping mule standing just beyond a small copse of trees. She stumbled forward a bit, shifting weight off her injured leg. Johnny set the brake and both men climbed down and moved towards the animal.
A trickle of blood ran from a shallow wound across the mule's cream-colored withers, while a deeper gash marred the shoulder to the knee.
"I wish we knew where she came from, there's no brand," Scott said.
Johnny held the worn halter and ran a finger down her smooth nose. "The only place around here is old Ben Riley's. But I don't remember him even having a mule."
Scott thought hard about Riley. He knew little about the old man, save for the trouble between him and his nephew last year in town. And when the furor died down, and everything had been taken away from him, Ben slipped out of town to his small parcel of land—and out of everyone's thoughts.
He crouched beside the mule's leg, looking closer at the wound. "The bleeding seems to be letting up. It doesn't look too deep except for this end. What do you think—stitches? "
Johnny shook his head. "Might be better to let it heal from the inside. It should be cleaned out, though. Then we can take her back to the house."
The mule's breathing was raspy, ending on a whimper. Scott ran his hand lightly down its neck, feeling the animal's skin twitch and pull under his fingers. Wherever she'd come from, the trip hadn't been an easy one. "She's had a hard time, Johnny. And we're a lot closer to Riley's place than Lancer right now."
"What are you sayin', Scott?"
"Just this, you can drive the wagon home then send someone back with bandages and my horse. In the meantime, I'll stay here with her so she can rest."
"Makes sense, but what if she's not Riley's mule?"
"Then maybe he knows who she belongs to…she's been well taken care of in the past."
Johnny looked back at the full wagon where Patsy was pawing the ground. He shrugged. "It's your time; I'll send one of the boys back as soon as I get home."
Scott nodded and waved him off, his thoughts turning back to the mule and Benjamin Riley.
#-#-#-#-#
Their travel was slow. Scott topped out on a rise and paused to let the mule rest again. The hills were hung with shadows on the eastern side. The breeze had changed direction and coolness seemed to float upwards from the ground. A mountainside carved into the valley, white trunks of aspen guarding its flat benches. A small cabin was tucked up alongside its base with a corral and barn laid out to the side in a neat fashion. He put heels to his horse's sides and led the mule down.
It was a silent world at the Riley place. No cackling of hens, no rattling of buckets, no opening of doors. No sound and no movement. He pulled in by the corral and dismounted. It was a rickety affair, a mass of sticks strewn together with baling wire and a few nails. The barn was in no better shape. A door hung crazily off its uppermost hinge; dry rot twisting the wood.
"Hello?" Only an echo accompanied his voice.
He tied the mule to a corral post and walked to the barn. Caution intervened and he drew out his pistol. Pulling on the door, it rasped on rusty hinges and opened outward. Doves scattered in the uppermost beams, filling the air with dust motes. A sack of grain was tipped on its side beside a coffee can, contents spilling onto the floor. Skittering across the wooden slating, a fat mouse trailed seeds from his free meal. The only stall was empty and clean—if rundown. Scott holstered his weapon and walked back to the mule.
He felt her shoulder; it was warm to his fingertips and she was fidgety, blowing out an insistent bray. Looking at the cabin, he frowned. Suppose there was no one here? Or worse—suppose something had happened to Riley?
#-#-#-#-#
When thoughts crept into his mind of what lay in wait for poor Lizzy past the corral bars, Benjamin Riley slammed the door on them. No point to it now, he told himself. He picked at the yellowed lace doily on the arm of his chair, feeling a frown draw his lips down. There was nothing he could do because he didn't know what to do. If anything had happened to her….
He jerked his head up at the loud whinny coming from outside.
Lizzy?
Getting his legs underneath him, he went to the window. Miracle of miracles, the mule was standing behind a stranger with her head held low, blowing out every so often. She'd had a good run all right.
The boy—a young man really—was lanky with a frame that'd edge towards skinny without hard work to shape it. A pang of familiarity struck him as the man pushed the brim of his hat upwards revealing eyes that didn't miss much as he looked around the place.
Where did he know this boy from? Was he one of Tommy's friends? Fear surged up and he fumbled with the curtain at the window sill. With the sound of his frantic heartbeat thudding in his ears, he peeked through the filmy gauze of the curtain at the figure in his courtyard.
Sweat-darkened bangs framed a forehead shadowed with annoyance, but there was no potent anger seen in the stranger's open, angular face. His loose shoulders ran straight and broad—nothing to hide there. The holster around his hips held a pistol although yellow gloves tucked into the belt covered its handle. Weighing one against the other, the scales tipped in favor of the man. And he had brought Lizzy back home.
His mind was made up. Fate be damned, he had to see if the mule had hurt herself. Blowing out a breath to quell the jitteriness thrumming inside him, he lifted the revolver from its resting place on the table beside the chair and stuck it into the belt cinched around his overalls. He stood and reached for the whorled walking stick standing sentry beside the door. The stick made him look weak—he hated using it—but he'd be hard pressed to make it to corral without it. He blew out a heavy breath and slid the knob of it into his clammy palm.
The cane echoed on the planked porch. Enough so the stranger and Lizzy eyed him with concern. Ben shifted weight from his bad leg onto the good left one and stepped off the porch.
Drawing his body up as high as he could, he wagered he was still a few good inches short of the boy's collar. The gun in his belt lay heavy against the knot in his belly. Ben drew his hand alongside it, wanting it to stand out.
And the man standing by his mule noticed the pistol all right, looking at it with a crease building between his eyes.
Ben put forward his best scowl and jabbed the air with his stick. "You there. What did you do to my mule?"
The stranger looked nonplussed, placing hands on hips. "Mr. Riley? All I'm doing is bringing your mule back."
The voice was a bit odd-sounding—cultured—to his old ears. Ben shuffled a foot to the side and cocked his head.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"I'm Scott Lancer."
"Lancer?" His mind spun, trying to pin down a particular thought. "Murdoch's boy?"
A smile formed, taking the seriousness out of the young man's grey-blue eyes. "One of them, anyway."
One of Murdoch's sons. The icy fear slithered away. He'd heard stories—town gossip—maybe this one had arrived when he was still living in the house on Beale Street over to Green River. Quick movement interrupted his thoughts; Lancer had closed the gap between them. He didn't have enough time to grab at his gun before the boy was standing in front of him, thrusting out his hand.
He studied it for a while then held out his own hand.
Scott Lancer's handshake was solid, full of confidence—a young man's handshake. His own misshapen hand felt small and insignificant in the stranger's large one. A quick stab of envy had him looking away for a brief moment. When had he gotten so old?
"Sir? Your mule has been injured."
Ben looked past the man's shoulder to where Lizzy stood. A cry caught in his throat as he trundled forward.
There was a bandage wrapped around her foreleg, dried blood had turned her coat orange all the way down to her fetlock. Lizzy drew her head up and pushed her nose into his shaky palm. He whispered into her ear, "My poor girl. What happened to you?"
The deep voice behind him was startling—the boy was too quick. "She was on our land. My brother and I found her near our hay field."
Ben patted Lizzy's shoulder and fingered the bandage. How…?
"She was injured when we found her. Hard to tell what might have happened to her out there alone." He crouched down to pull up the dressing a bit. "She'll need tending for the next few days.
"I don't want charity."
Lancer stared out him for a few moments, thinking hard on something. And then he was walking again, those long strides taking him towards the barn.
Ben drove his walking stick into the hard-packed dirt, the sharp rap of wood against earth rumbled through the courtyard. "What are you doing?" he yelled.
The answer came from within the barn. "She'll need food and water for the night."
Ben followed into the barn where Lancer had already finished shoveling hay into Lizzy's feedbox.
He grabbed at the large hands, now poking into his last feed bag with the old coffee can. "Here now, I didn't ask you do this."
Scott Lancer's voice was soft. "It needs done, Mr. Riley."
The guilt came, sharp and hurtful.
Lancer stopped his incessant moving and looked at him. "For her sake."
It was the only thing the boy could have said that would save him a chewing. He let go and leaned against the wall, watching. "Lizzy only gets one can, topped off." He thought he heard a sigh as the boy looked up to the rafters, then a few quiet words followed.
"She'll need more, she's injured."
His walking stick came down again. "She won't take it. I know her, only one can at night. It's all Lizzy's ever eaten."
The hands were stilled, and the can placed back on shelf.
"Your hay is musty."
Ben's head came up, tipping his jaw outward. "It was good enough when I got it." In town, how long ago?
A half-smile curved the boy's lips. "I know where you can get some more."
"I don't want…"
"I know you don't want charity. It wouldn't be you know, just one neighbor helping out another."
Silence ensued.
"At least let me get Lizzy settled in for you."
It was within Ben to refuse, but a sharp pain running up his leg made him nod. He watched the boy go to the corral and untie the mule. His head bent close to her twitching ears, while the old girl lipped his fingers. Lizzy liked him—and that bumped Lancer up a few notches in his estimation.
She hobbled into her clean stall and dug right into her feed. Ben nodded. Good water and oats was all the mule would need to get better. He drew his hand across Lizzy's spiky mane, then walked to the barn door.
Slapping the dust from his trousers, Lancer turned to him. "Mr. Riley, do you live out here by yourself?"
He straightened to his full height. "What of it?"
"Nothing, nothing…it's just…"
He followed the boy's glance to the corral. When had the bars fallen down? And the barn door, swinging open like it was—halfway off its hinge. He felt Lancer's eyes upon him, assessing. Guilt poked him again. It was his fault Lizzy was hurt, and the boy knew!
Ben straightened up, feeling his spine crack. "You need to go now, Lancer."
The boy jostled with the crown of his hat, bringing it down over his eyes. "My name is Scott and I'm leaving, but I'll be back with supplies—for Lizzy—tomorrow." He raised a hand at Ben's interruption and said with a smile. "If you won't take charity, maybe she will."
He mounted his horse with a fluidity Ben could only dream of from long ago.
"We've been down to bedrock before, haven't we old girl? We always came out on top, without any help from strangers. And we don't need anyone now." Ben made sure his voice carried with the breeze. Made sure the boy knew he wasn't welcome to mess in his business.
Lancer shifted in the saddle, gave one last glance around and nodded in understanding.
It was quiet after he left, except for two barn doves nestling down for the evening, scratching in the rafters. Ben peered down the trail to where young Lancer hadn't wasted any time moving out, then back to poor Lizzy, standing with her bandaged leg cocked forward. No, they didn't need anybody, him and Lizzy….
And God hates liars, he thought bitterly.
tbc