.
.
10
1978, A home-coming
with a glimpse of 1952 and the man who was afraid to dance
.
Finally!
Going home.
He was going home.
Rafe Sherman kept his face resolutely turned towards the window of the bus as the familiar road unfolded under its wheels.
How long was it since he'd sped its length, glorying in the power of his first motorbike, seeking adventure in Cheyenne?
It was long ago, in the days when the world was a less complicated and painful place – when his future and his fortune had been, as he thought, in his own hands. He hadn't known what he wanted then. He was not sure he knew what he wanted now. He was just going home.
He remembered speeding along, but the bus was doing nothing of the sort. He didn't care. The slower it went the longer before he had to face the inevitable.
He could not believe that he would not walk across the yard and see his father, leaning on the post of the porch, as he always did when he had a few moments. Leaning and letting his eyes travel around the yard, the barns, the paddocks, the hills rising across the road. He would not see the delighted grin light up his father's face as he came swiftly to meet his son. Conall Sherman was a big man, over six foot as Sherman males generally were, and muscled like a working rancher who spent much of his days in hard physical labor. Yet he moved like a dancer.
Conall was a dancer – now. An accomplished, confident dancer.
Rafe never tired of hearing his father relate the story of how, as he put it: "My two left feet became inspired! I was a clumsy youth, tall and gangling, with hands and feet still too big for my body. I was a walking accident! Or more often, a stumbling accident. I was terrified of company, in case I crashed into a delicate female or broke a precious possession of hers. At local dances, I'd hide out somewhere so's not to be noticed. There was no way my partner, if I got so lucky, would survive my attempts at whirling and jiving. The only form of Rock and Roll I'd be doing was rolling on the floor. And then she found me. A girl who scarcely came up to my elbow. Who seized me by the hand and demanded: "Dance with me!". And I panicked of course. "I can't! I don't dance!" I blurted out. "Why not?" she demanded. "I'm afraid to!" She looked at me steadily. She smiled. She said: "Not with me, you're not." She steered me out into the school-yard and she said: "I'm Mary and you're Con. We're alone on a heavenly dance-floor and we can dance like angels!" And she smiled brilliantly as she made a sweeping gesture taking in the whole of that empty concrete space. "We're together. Together we can dance to the end of time." And we danced. We danced under a million stars shining like our hearts. We danced like the angels in heaven. We danced for the first time and we will never stop dancing!"
It was a true prediction. His parents had gone on to become experts in several forms of dance, winning competitions and giving demonstrations all across the state. They danced all their lives together right to the end. Rafe could still see his mother's letter, the ink as graceful and flowing as she had been when she danced with Conall.
'We had just finished breakfast. Con had gone out to sit on the porch and I said I'd bring him a last cup of coffee before he started the work he'd got planned. He looked up and smiled that smile, the one he usually saved for starlight. He said "Who needs coffee? It's the most beautiful morning because we're together. Dance with me to the end of time." He held out his arms. Then in an instant he was gone.'
Gone.
The bus was climbing now. The scattered outcroppings and wind-cut pillars of rock dotting the mighty plains gave way to a steadily narrowing valley, leading up towards the distant summit still to be traversed before the land fell away to the high plain of Laramie itself. They rattled through a narrow canyon and Rafe recalled the tales he had heard of a Rebel raid and lost gold in the depths of winter, which had led to his many-greats grandfather's death. Then the land opened out, and the bus climbed and the road twisted and turned, at times passing over a river or dry gulch. In one of these another Sherman had lost his life saving the passengers in a stage-coach accident. Such recollections did not make Rafe gloomy – or not more gloomy than he already felt. On the contrary, he was heartened by the courageous lives his forebears had lived and the traditions of loyalty, generosity and caring they had been honoring at such a cost to themselves.
Soon the bus came over the last ridge and headed down towards his home. It had always given Rafe a thrill to look down at the ranch and imagine for a moment that he was riding shotgun on a stage-coach, especially when he was riding his Harley. But the road no longer wound its way down the ridge and into the yard as it had once done. The modern highway had been built across what had formerly been Sherman pasture so that it cut out the big bend through the ranch-yard and headed directly for the river. It was still steep, but it was straight. The old ford was still there too, but the river itself had long been bridged. The only reason the road wasn't carried by a viaduct from the ridge to the other side of the river was because the normally placid and law-abiding Sherman clan, aided and abetted by a host of Williams and Donovans, had mounted such a protest against having to look at it every day for ever – and they happened to have a distinguished civil engineer among their number!
"Sherman Ranch stop," the driver informed his passengers as he drew to a halt.
Rafe had already shrugged into his rucksack. He picked up his crutches, edged his way along the bus and cautiously descended the steps.
"You gonna be OK walkin' up there, son?" the driver asked kindly, although it was not clear what he could have done about it if Rafe's answer had been negative.
"Fine, thanks." Rafe nodded in acknowledgement. The driver would not know him from ten years ago. Hell, practically nobody would know him now!
"Find peace at home," came an unexpected call from somewhere down the bus among the fellow travelers he had been so studiously ignoring.
Rafe nodded again and raised a hand in thanks, his voice choked by his swelling heart. There could so easily have been a far different wish for him.
He swung along the old road, which was now more or less a driveway to the Sherman Ranch. The diversion of the highway had not helped the gas business, but they still got some passing trade. They probably needed it even more now. He was aware that things had not been easy during the last five years, though he had been away for most of it. The early death in childhood of his youngest brother, Michael, from polio had inspired the middle one, Gabriel, to make a career in medicine and research into the disease. This was how Gabe himself came to die in a typhoid outbreak while he was carrying out research and giving medical aid in the slums of a far-off Indian city. Bringing him home to the family burial plot had cost his parents dearly. Rafe knew that stock had had to be sold, including the moderately famous alpacas and llamas.
Such a sale would have hurt his grandparents too. His two sets of grandparents. For as long as Rafe could remember, his grandfather, Elijah, and his best friend, Jay, had worked the ranch and Conall had worked in partnership with them. Rafe's earliest recollections were of riding passenger with one of the three men – Pa, Gramps or Granjay – whenever he could wrangle it. Elijah and his wife had raised five children – Thomas, Lucy, Rory, Ryan and Conall - but only Conall was their actual son. Jay and Rachel, at the same time, had their hands full with their own brood. Since Eli's wife was Caitlin and Rachel was always known as Mouse, their grandchildren had unanimously named them Grannycat and Grannymouse! With six active adults and a horde of energetic youngsters, all of whom were totally committed to the ranch, it had flourished after the Depression and through the following decades. It was a sorry blow, losing those two dear Grannys, who slipped away quietly during the course of the years. Gramps had moved into the Williams Wing with Granjay then. Rafe's heart quickened at the thought of seeing the two old men again and he hoped his arrival would cheer their hearts. He knew his father's death must have been an untimely shock and would have required all their steadfastness to face.
He was so preoccupied with these thoughts of the past that he was almost in the yard before he registered the number of cars parked there and along the old road.
Rafe frowned. What call had the neighbors to get so neighborly all of a sudden?
But it was too many for just neighbors. It was not anyone's birthday. No-one knew he was coming home, even if they wanted to celebrate the fact …
Suddenly he knew. He knew what but he did not know who.
If he had been able to, he would have sprinted the last yards, leaped onto the porch and burst into the house from which he could now hear the subdued murmur of many voices, to demand an answer to his fears. But he was no longer sure of his right to demand an answer to anything. Besides, if he tried to hurry, he would end up falling and making even more of a helpless fool of himself. He crutched his way steadily, determinedly, on but his heart was screaming out the terrible question: Who? Who this time!
The kitchen door opened and his mother came out. She seemed to heave in a great breath, as if she needed the air in her lungs after the crowd inside. She saw her son.
"Raphael!"
"Ma!"
Mary Sherman opened her arms and he limped into them. The crutches made it an awkward embrace. They rather stood leaning against each other, torn and shaken by the profound depths of joy and grief together.
"It's Elijah," she told him at once, sensing his distress. "Just like Con. Out on the porch, first thing in the morning. He must have got up early. Jay found him."
Rafe shook his head. He could not imagine those two doing anything separately. It was terrifying that this was the one thing each of them had to do alone. The thought pierced him to his broken core.
"You don't need to come in," Mary said, understanding how hard it would be to face the neighbors under these circumstances. "Go into the wing."
Rafe straightened up and took his courage in both hands. "Granjay's in there?" He indicated the main house with a jerk of his crutch.
Mary nodded.
"If he can, I can. Home is where I should be."
# # # # #
Coming home! It was so much more difficult than he had thought.
The realization that his mother had been keeping the ranch running with the help of two old men and whatever hands she could afford to hire hit Rafe hard.
Why had he not come home sooner?
The answer was simple. He had been coming home. A single choice and a single action had turned the journey of a few days into a saga of eighteen months. Aside from the amputation of his shattered leg below the knee, his internal injuries combined with infection affecting kidney and liver function, not to mention serious head trauma, meant that he was lucky to be alive at all. Months of enforced isolation, recuperation and rehabilitation had kept him from his family and the sheer distance and expense involved had kept his family from him.
He would not regret his decision. If he had not taken the impact of the getaway truck from a routine urban robbery, a child and a mother would be dead.
The irony of it all did not escape him. He had endured and survived so much, only to be cut down on the streets of his own country. He had saved a mother and child at the cost of any wife and child he was destined to have.
That cost weighed heavy upon him in more than one way, when he began to try to live again at the ranch. He had once expected to return and take over the demanding physical tasks which the owner of the ranch had always fulfilled, even if for them help was close at hand in the form of brothers and friends. He had no brothers or friends left. He had not expected to return a near-helpless cripple.
Every single task, from the simple matter of getting out of bed in the morning to bedding down the livestock at night required double, treble, quadruple the energy and concentration he had once had to give to it. He was unable to take his father's place properly, or even Elijah's. He was weaker and less use than a seventy year old man and felt it, despite the fact that Granjay just supported him in everything he attempted with unswerving trust and encouragement.
Worst of all, Rafe was trapped in the close confines of the house and yard. Shermans had always had the freedom of broad horizons and the wide sweep of mountain and plain. He was chained to a small space. He could no longer drive an ordinary car. Buses stopped but were not frequent or regular enough to provide a means of transport into town for some escape. In the barn, his beloved Harley, the light of his life and one of the things he had treasured in hope during the long years before he was released to return, lay idle and gathering dust. A man without a leg could not ride a motorcycle.
Rafe accepted he was destined never to ride again. With this resolution in mind, he crutched his way over to the barn one mild summer morning. The sun was scarcely up, but he had not been able to sleep. He had crept out of the house, hoping the tapping of his crutch would not alert his mother. He intended to go to the barn and get the Harley cleaned and polished up ready for sale. That at least he was capable of doing.
As he slowly crossed the yard, the gentle waft of cool air brushed his hair and face. It was scarcely light, but some of the warmth of the previous day seemed to linger and the air was fragrant with the smell of herbs. No, just one herb. The one the family cherished. Oregano. Sharp and stimulating and newly picked.
Rafe had always loved this time of sunrise when the whole world of a new day seemed to be his.
The barn smelt just as sweet as always – hay and horse and herbs rising above the inevitable and more mundane odors. At least, slowly but surely, he had been able to help keep the barn clean. The hired hands deferred to him as if he had been there all along. His years of practical knowledge, gained through working beside his father and Gramps and Granjay, had not been lost or erased from his memory by subsequent events.
Despite this, he just felt so powerless!
The horses were all turned out at night in this season, so he was surprised when a bright shaft of light from the barn door lit up a horse standing quietly in the second stall.
"Watcha doin', boy?" Rafe crooned softly, raising a gentle hand for the horse to smell.
The horse huffed over his hand and bent its head so that he could pull its ears and run a hand down the firm curve of its neck.
"Too beautiful a morning to be stayin' inside," Rafe told it.
The bars of the stall had already been slid back, which was why the animal had been able to wander in. It must be some kind of escape artist to get out of the field in search of an early feed, Rafe grinned to himself as he went into the stall too. When he looked around for a halter to lead the horse out, he saw instead a bridle and saddle on the partition, worn but well-kept gear which had seen hard work over the years.
He bridled the horse and, on a sudden impulse, just to see if he could, he saddled it as well. Then he led it out into the yard, the reins clutched in one hand while he used his crutches, fully intending to turn it out again with its companions in the near pasture before finding how it had escaped in the first place.
The intention came to nothing.
The sturdy Western saddle seemed to exude comfort and a degree of safety. After all, it was designed to keep the rider on board during the most taxing of maneuvers. He knew there were no rogues among the few horses they still owned, although he had not yet handled them enough to know them individually.
Could he? He could only try!
The horse turned its head and nudged him, huffing another warm breath over him.
Rafe led it over to the porch, where the steps would give him a little height to help mounting. He tested and tightened the cinch. Now he just had to get on. Something made him joke to the animal: "No, I ain't takin' a running leap over the hitching rail, whatever you're used to!"
The horse stood stock still. Rafe leaned his crutches up against the rail and seized the horn of the saddle to keep himself upright. Now he was standing on his left leg with no obvious way of getting the what remained of the right over the horse's back. The height was just too much.
But Rafe was a Sherman. Determination was his middle name. It could be done and he was going to do it!
He had not been idle during recuperation and while he could not get up and exercise in the normal way, he had developed considerable upper body strength. Now he used this combined with a carefully directed hop-up into the stirrup. He hung poised for a moment. It was not impossible! He swung his damaged leg over the remaining height and landed safely in the saddle.
The subsequent ride was magical. The horse seemed to have a mission to take care of him. He really didn't need to do much riding, but just allowed himself to be carried quietly and surely in the growing light. They went along the drive to the old ford, splashed through it and then took the very minor road which branched off towards the disused cemetery. Presently a track took them uphill to the Sherman lake.
Rafe smiled. He and his brothers had spent many happy hours swimming and fishing here. When they reached the old 'No Trespassing' sign he slid from the saddle to land by the remains of a fallen tree, which still afforded a seat for anyone not too fussy about moss and bark stains.
At first the place was all quite shadowy and dim because of the surrounding trees. He sat for a long while watching the broad, bright rays of the sun stealing across the water and lighting everything with gold.
It spoke to him.
When the time came to return, he had no difficulty in hopping up into the saddle with the help of the old log. The horse carried him gently and surely home.
In the kitchen, his mother was preparing breakfast as usual. She handed him a mug of coffee and remarked, "You're up early."
"You know I love this time of day! I went for a ride."
"A ride?" Mary looked disconcerted.
"Yeah. The little bay Quarter Horse in the second stall. He took good care of me. I enjoyed it …" Rafe's enthusiastic voice faded away as he registered the shock now transforming his mother's face.
"A bay Quarter Horse with a white star on its forehead?" she whispered.
"Yeah."
Realization dawned. Rafe felt as if the solid ground had suddenly turned to vapor underneath him. He had ridden a warm solid horse who should by rights be no more substantial than a cloud.
He and Mary stared at each other in wonder.
# # # # #
From that time on, Rafe rode every day. Out of the few remaining horses he selected two sturdy, sure-footed mustangs to train in the ways he needed them to co-operate. Kneeling so that he could mount was one. Responding solely to neck-reining and verbal commands rather than leg aids was another. Carrying his crutch behind the saddle a third. This last was not too successful until Granjay, who could still turn his hand to anything, fashioned him a walking aid which would fold and could be locked open if necessary. It was not perfect, but Granjay had adapted the foot so that it was safer on the rough terrain of the range.
Rafe's heart lightened with the reminder of past skills and the sense of purpose which he had been given in the dawn. Nothing would mend the ultimate damage which the accident had done, but he would not waste his final days in useless frustration and helpless anger. He watched over and shepherded their remaining stock, moved them to new grazing when necessary and checked the miles and miles of boundary fences his ancestors had established. Sometimes he had a strong sense of them riding alongside him, keeping him company in the work they had all done. Sometimes he just felt a single presence, a brother, a friend. Especially when the warm wind ran through the flowering grasses.
The ranch continued to struggle financially, although it still fed them bountifully. But they made little from their stock and had only intermittent custom at the gas station. Cars were more efficient now. People did not want to turn off the main highway.
Most people, anyway.
Late one afternoon Rafe rode down the slope behind the barn. From this elevation he could see they had had customers. A group of half a dozen motorbikes was wheeling and revving on the gas pump forecourt. They had obviously filled up and were ready to depart. All except one rider and his passenger.
Sahara, the dun mare, was light-footed and her approach was silent. They had scarcely rounded the corner of the corral when Rafe could hear the clash which was taking place to a background of catcalls and cursing from the other members of the gang. None of them noticed the approaching rider, least of all the man who was abusing the slender girl confronting him.
"You should've got rid of the thing! How d'I even know it's mine, you lying whore!"
The man twisted the girl's long hair and wrenched her flat on her face. His boot raised to kick her in the belly.
"Get your damn hands off her!"
The horse reared high over the man, who screamed involuntarily at the sudden danger.
"And get the hell off my land!" The stock-whip cracked within an inch of the man's face.
Rafe swung the mare round in a tight circle, challenging the disconcerted bikers. He let the mare paw and strike out again, her silver shoes flashing in the sunlight and her solid muscles radiating power. Then he wheeled back to the end of the yard and urge Sahara into a charge, brandishing the stock-whip for all the world like the flail of a medieval knight!
A horse weighs around half a ton.
An angry rider on an agitated horse weighing half a ton bearing down with sudden, furious speed –
The bikers were full of empty bluster as they belted their machines into action and took off. The abuser was last to get aboard and barely skidded out from under the horse's nose in a cloud of dust. Rafe did not stop his pursuit until the gang hit the main highway.
As the roar of engines faded into the distance, he soothed Sahara gently before turning her and ambling back to the yard. The girl had risen to her feet. She was standing in the middle of the yard, her clenched hands on her hips, her bleached hair a tossing, tangled cloud. Staring down the road. When Rafe halted his horse beside her, all he got was a furious yell.
"What the f – ing hell d'you think I'm gonna do now? Walk to New York?"
So much for rescuing damsels in distress.
From behind them on the porch there came an amused chuckle. Granjay put down the rifle he had been holding and extended a hand, his bright eyes twinkling with appreciation.
"Welcome to the Sherman Ranch. I'm Jay Donovan. Come on in, miss, and have some coffee before you try to wear out your boot-leather!"
The old devil still knows how to flirt! was Rafe's first thought, but it didn't take more than a second to appreciate that he had been given the opportunity to dismount without an audience. By the time he'd turned Sahara out and got himself into the house in a dignified manner, Sunny Agnellini was firmly established at the table, being made much of by Mary and Jay.
She was three months pregnant.
# # # # #
That summer was the sweetest Rafe had ever known.
This was utterly unexpected, as it could not be said Sunny's disposition lived up to either of her names, at least not at first. She was feisty, fiercely defensive and foul-mouthed. She had never had a stable home or known the trust or care of another human being. In many ways it was like taking a wild animal into the house. But in the Sherman family tradition there had been enough tamers of wild animals for the genes to continue working.
Once she found that Mary, Jay and, above all, Rafe were as tough in their own way as she was, Sunny stopped trying to prove herself. When she understood that they genuinely wanted her to stay, she stopped demanding to be put on the next bus. When she realized that there would always be good food on the table and a warm bed to sleep in, she finally began to relax just a little. It took a further while for her to help with the chores and she was never much of a hand with any of the domestic ones.
She reveled in accompanying Rafe on his expeditions around the ranch. She never learnt to ride a horse, but she was an expert on a bike. No sooner had she discovered the Harley in the barn than she was astride it, her face lighting up with pleasure, as her world – the violent, unpredictable world she had lost – gave back to her something which she valued and which freed her to be useful. Rafe was uncertain about the wisdom of her riding the bike, but she was as tough as any pioneer woman who had traveled vast distances to give birth in the back of a wagon. It was also impossible to deny the affirmation of skill so similar to the one he himself had received.
They went everywhere together. They worked. They fought. They laughed. They supported each other. He respected her fierce independence and she honored his hard-won wisdom. Both of them had to face the future with courage. Together they were able to face each day with surprising joy.
Finally, however, there came a time when even Sunny had to admit she was getting too big to ride the bike. This was much to Mary's relief. She knew that the girl had little concern for the limitations of her condition or for the health of the child she was carrying although she had stopped smoking when she ran out of weed. Having a bored, resentful and increasingly physically uncomfortable Sunny about the place all day was not an enticing prospect, but this was better than a miscarriage. At least she was making a real effort to stop swearing.
It was Jay who came to the rescue. He no longer did much building and laboring but had taken to making things with his hands. Whittling and carving produced items of quirky beauty and revived skills he was willing to share with his unexpected pupil. Jay's latest enthusiasm, however, was clockwork mechanisms. It was an amazement to them all that Sunny took to the tiny, intricate workings, which required such patience and control, as if she had been born mending clocks. Soon the pair had acquired quite a reputation and the little business even began to make some money.
One clock, however, defied both their efforts. It was only a simple carriage clock, with all the workings showing through its glass sides, but no amount of cleaning, oiling and adjusting would get it to start.
"That clock's got a mind of its own!" Jay declared. "It'll go when it's ready or not at all." He set it on the mantelpiece and resumed his perusal of the newspaper. He would reserve his energy to spend on another less recalcitrant piece.
Mary and Sunny were together on the couch, the older woman giving the girl a relaxing foot massage. Rafe was sitting in Pa's chair, though no child would ever call him by that name. The quiet evening underwent a subtle change when Sunny shifted carefully so she could look at Jay, rocking gently in Jess's chair, and made an unexpected observation.
"Y'know, the darnedest thing happened the other evening," she said, staring hard at him. "I was here on my own. You two had gone into town and Mary was visiting the Travers. I was working on that damn thing –" she pointed to the clock, "concentrating real hard. I looked up and there you were, sitting in that chair, rocking just like y' doing now – and smoking a cigarette."
No need to point out that Jay did not smoke. Had never smoked. The other three looked at Sunny, sensing there was more to come.
"It was so real I could smell the smoke, but it must have been some kind of weed 'cos the herbs in it were so strong. The next minute, there was no-one there!" She looked uneasy and even a little afraid. "I'm not going mad, am I?" Her hand went instinctively to her bump, though whether in protection or blame it was hard to decide.
Mary and Jay both smiled and shook their heads, leaving the explanation to Rafe.
"It's a kind of welcome to the family," he told Sunny. "You really belong here if you've seen the cowboy in that chair."
"You mean he's a ghost?" her voice squeaked in disbelief.
Rafe shook his head. "He's the spirit of the place. It's a good sign."
He knew the idea in his head had received a blessing if Sunny had seen Jess Harper. Two evenings later, as they were sitting on the porch together, he proposed to her.
"You know I can't offer you much. I've little time left. But I can give you and the child a name and a home. What d'you say?"
"It'd lead to trouble!" Sunny told him firmly.
"Let's take that chance."
"I can't!" She bit her lip. "I should have moved on all those months ago."
"Not even for a short while? You won't be tied to me for long. You'll still be free."
They stared at each other intently, intimately, in the gathering dusk. Then Sunny shook her head vehemently.
"You want a son to inherit, Rafe, but that isn't fair."
"How can it be unfair to him?"
"Unfair to you, you dummy! Who says this," she slapped her stomach, "is going to be a boy? And who says it'll be a good rancher? That's not fair to you!"
"I'll be the judge of that."
"Rafe!" Her lips trembled just a little, but she would not stop. "We're bad blood, this kid and I. Both of us. We have no tie to the land, to any place. This place is in your heart and soul. Your family has sweated blood and tears and courage and darn'd stubbornness to make the ranch what it is – a home of safety and loyalty … and joy."
The last word was just a whisper.
"I can't do this to you."
The next day she was gone. She took the Harley.
# # # # #
About a week later, the phone rang.
"Yeah?" Rafe was in no mood for polite conversation with potential customers, although he'd want to kick himself later, if it had even been possible.
"Rafe?"
"Yeah?"
"God, you sound like one of the damned."
"Yeah."
"You gonna come in and fetch your Harley?" It was Karl Haber, still running the family automobile business in Laramie. Rafe winced at the tact which avoided suggesting he ride it home.
"For it to sit in the hay and get dusty, Karl?"
"At least it ain't eatin' the hay! Cheaper to keep in than a horse."
"Yeah."
"Is that all y' gonna say, man? Or do I have to threaten you with fees for garagin' it?"
"You took it in."
"The chick left it for you. A real cool chick. Surprised she could still ride a bike in her condition, but she said she was travelin' on by train and just borrowed the bike t'get to the station."
"Yeah." By this time Rafe sounded both baffled and irritated, but he was concealing that in his heart he was touched by Sunny's honesty and stubborn courage – and deeply bereft.
"So? What d'you want to do with it?"
"I want you to sell it, Karl."
"Sure?"
"Yeah, it's too good to stand around waiting for someone to enjoy riding it."
"It's worth a dollar or two," Karl reminded him. When Rafe made no response, he agreed: "Alright. I'll bank the money for you."
"No."
"No? Well, that makes a hellava change from yeah!"
"Keep it. When I'm gone, buy a drink for every Laramie boy who made it home."
"Ok." Rafe heard a gulp at the other end of the line. Not everyone wanted to think about his future. "If you're sure?"
"Sure I'm sure. And if they need anything, any help, use the money to do it, as long as it lasts."
"You're sure you don't need the money yourself?" Karl knew how hard the ranch had been hit financially as well as emotionally just recently.
"I'll have no use for money, Karl. It won't be long now."
# # # # #
Come on! Let's ride!
Rafe sat up abruptly in the darkness of the bunk-room. He was completely awake in the way he had not been since rousing for a night patrol, so long ago and so far away.
Come on! Now!
He dressed quietly, without putting on the light. Somehow now light and darkness were the same. He went quietly out of the house, his crutches making no noise. He locked the door behind him. He wanted the home to be safe.
He crossed the yard. Over his head the vast sweep of the night sky was sparkling with a million heart-shaped stars. Just like the old love-rug which still lay on his parents' bed.
When he reached the barn he was not surprised to find the bay horse in the second stall, waiting. A snort of greeting and a huff of warm breath touching his face was an invitation. There was no saddle or bridle. No obvious way to mount. He laid his crutches aside. He leaned in trust against the solid, comforting warmth of the animal, then took hold of the rough mane. The next instant he was astride.
This time they did not stop at the lake. This time they climbed effortlessly further and further, far up into the smoky blue heights, which thrust like exultant arms into the heavens where the new day was opening in all its bright glory.
At length they gained a point where they could look down over the whole of the Sherman spread. It was a place of eagles - a pure, clear lifting of the spirit to all that was and is and will be. A place where the curtain between heaven and earth had been rubbed thin by faith and trust and courage and sheer endurance.
The horse halted on the edge of the precipice.
Together they gazed out at the sky-meadows, at the dark and white horses galloping free, at the shards of sunlight flying from their hooves like beckoning fingers.
Rafe leaned forward and pulled his mount's ears gently. The horse gave a soft huff.
"Yeah – you're right. Time to go home, Trav."
In the kitchen of the ranch far below, her hands covered with the dough of that morning's bread, Mary stilled and looked up.
He's gone.
.
.
Notes:
A passing reference to Leonard Cohen's 'Dance me to the end of love' and a sideways nod to The Hard Ride.
Harley Davidson price in 1978 = c $3,500
The cliff from which Rafe leaves this life features in Eagle of Bone. The geographical features of this chapter, of course, bear no resemblance to the real Laramie, but are loosely based on the show.