Chapter Five

Milo

Harper proves to be a skilled cowhand over the course of the next day, and the two of us spend most of our time catching up on some branding and completing the list of catch-up chores Sue inevitably has waiting for me upon each of my returns. The end of the week and the beginning of the trap we will set for Huddleston looms dangerous and daunting in the all-too near future.

Harper is still quiet but has a tameless energy about him. He takes care about letting me know what he is doing or where he's going. When we come in for lunch around noon on the second day, he chews through his food quickly and then asks about the big pile of firewood at the back of the barn in need of splitting. I try to talk him out of taking an ax to it like he is offering because I figure that he has spent way too much time with a rough wood handle in his hands already. Instead, I coax him to take some time to relax, maybe grab a pole and head out to the creek and do some fishing. He is determined, though.

Since getting here, he has been working as if he feels he owes me a debt and wants to pay it off with sweat. Maybe too, I ponder, since he is going right back where he just came from when the Huddleston job is over, perhaps he doesn't want to let himself really feel free. It might be too hard to let go of freedom when the time comes to go back. My heart aches to think on it. That is a terrible weight to rest on any man's shoulders, and I hate for it to be on his.

Grudgingly, I end up agreeing that the wood does need cutting. I have conceded to it because the minute he goes still, he gets antsy, and that hunted, broken look comes back. It is plain to see that busyness is good for him, given the state of his circumstances.

So, Sue and I get some needed time together while I do a little repair work on the rabbit fence around her garden. The sun beats down, though, and it is not long before I am panting, sweating, and needing a break. Sue makes a tasty lemonade that she knows I love, and I stop to pour myself a glass from the pitcher set out in the shade of the porch. She turns down my offer to pour her one. The woman is down on all fours pulling up weeds around the green beans. So, I fill a glass of the refreshing, sugary liquid for Harper and amble around to the back of the barn.

I catch the man when he is bent over to fetch a log and realize quickly that I should have given a hollered warning that I was approaching.

"Jess, brought you some lemo…." I pause right there as he whips around so that his bare back is turned away from me, and he faces forward. His shirt is tucked into the waistband of his pants like a hanky hanging down, and he makes quick work of grabbing it and throwing it over his sweat-slicked shoulders. It is too late, though, to hide the mess that is his back, and he knows it, looking the way he does like he is praying for a hole to open in the ground and swallow him whole.

"I brought you some lemonade," I repeat and finish, approaching with the drink. I hurt for him as I come to a halt, casting a chunk of shade, with my height, over the spot he stands in.

Shep had been sitting atop the pile of wood but slinks down now to drop his furry behind beside his new pal and happily hangs his tongue out at me.

"Thanks," Harper mutters, but his eyes don't meet mine, and that red in his face is not just a heat flush.

I decide right then to let it out in the open, unsure if it is the right path to take or not.

"I guess you realize I saw your back just now, Jess."

He looks cornered, and I am thinking maybe it would have been best to ignore the whole thing, but I can't because it burns me up.

"Why did they do that to you?" I growl out.

I am surprised at my own anger. I guess that maybe I feel something like a father would if his son came home from school with black eyes and a split lip doled out to him by a pack of bullies twice his size.

"I'd like to not talk about it if it's all the same to you," he rasps, and he still has not met my eyes.

I sigh, not in exasperation, more like I am letting out some of my initial shock and anger.

"Alright, sure, Jess. I understand, and I want to apologize for walking up on you like that, unannounced."

His embarrassment and shame are palpable, and all I get is a slight nod of acknowledgment as he takes the glass from me.

I think of something to say to fill the strained gap of silence between us. But I decide against opening my mouth again because anything that might come out will sound too paltry. I turn to head back, swallowing down the way I feel.

"The first time was during the war."

I ease back around toward him as he speaks. I am surprised that he opened up, though I don't show it. He still doesn't meet my eyes as he finds a big, upright log and plops himself down on it like he is all out of steam. With a quick kick of his foot, he sends another hunk of oak of about the same size rolling toward me, an obvious invitation to sit and hear his story. I upend the log, and although my knees near my chin, I sit down on it a few feet from him and prepare myself to listen.

He takes a big gulp of that lemonade, and I am wishing I had offered him whiskey instead. He looks like he could use some hard liquor to steady himself.

"There was eight of us caught trying to escape a Yankee camp near the end of the war," he says, not wasting any time getting started. "Four were shot dead: friends a'mine… all of 'em. I took a bullet in the leg.

His dirty fingers lace tightly around the moisture-beaded glass he holds.

"I aim to pay back the man runnin' that camp someday. Halleck was his name." His voice trembles with an undercurrent of rage. "He's got comeuppance comin' for what he done to all of us with the killins and beatings taking place on the regular.

Shep drops to his stomach beside the man's log and rests his chin on dusty paws.

"Soon as I could stand on my feet, they took leather to my back… punishment for trying to make a break for freedom."

I'm afraid that glass might shatter as hard as he is squeezing it now. I just sit quietly, arms folded across my chest, and I am aching for him.

"Guess they thought the killing of my friends weren't enough payment. I was in bad shape already after the bullet wound, and we was all starvin'. If it wasn't for the camp doctor takin' a special interest in me makin' it, I wouldn't of pulled through. I'd've died there on account of what they done and the infection that set up after."

I knew about his war service and that he was in a prison camp at the end. He would have been seventeen, maybe eighteen at the time. I shudder at what was done to him, to one so young, although his story is not an uncommon one.

My short muse is over as he looks up from a quick ponder.

"Seems like the Almighty's got a way of tossin' me a rope at times when I'm just about done in. Just like he done with that doc, that I reckon saved my life."

The way he looks at me now tells me I'm meant to know that I am the Almighty's lifeline this time. I try to listen when I hear the Lord telling me to help bring in one of his lost sheep. I sure hope I do justice to the call to help this youngster. It's been a loud, strong holler from above and an unshakable one, that is for sure.

He carefully sets the glass beside the dog, who proceeds to lick it clean. The man clasps his fingers together tightly, elbows on knees. His shirt hangs open, like his torn soul. He is studying the patch of ground between us, chest in a steady in and out heave.

"Hit a guard the first month in at the Territorial. Knocked out a few of the man's teeth. Should'a learn't my lesson then after they made ribbons outta my back for laying hands on a guard, but I guess my skulls thick as this oak because I did it again some five months later, which is why my backs still looking fresh as it does, like a dadgum hayrakes passed over it. I'd tried to escape that time… covered myself up in a supply wagon headin' outta of the prison yard. 'Course they found me buried up under some tarps just as soon as we pulled out of the gates. Panic grabbed at me hard, and I set to fightin' back and throwing fists." He takes a gulp of air like he is trying to swallow down a whole boiled egg. "They took a bullwhip to my back again for it." He pauses there and swipes at the sweat still dripping down his cheeks.

I stay quiet because I recognize the rarity of the man cracking himself open like this and the fact that it must mean he needs me to listen, not run my mouth.

"The way I figure it, three times having my back laid open in just about three years has gotta say sumthin' about what kinda animal I am. Or maybe the kinda man I ain't."

The whole time he is talking, his head is down, but he looks up at me now with eyes filled to the brim with a sadness that pierces my insides as sharp and barbed as an Apache arrow to the gut.

"It ain't ever gonna happen again, though, Milo. I couldn't stand for another."

Heaven help me. This kid tears me apart. No man, nor animal, deserves that kind of treatment. Something fierce rises up inside that makes me want to tell him I will stand in the way of anyone threatening him with leather again, but it would be an empty promise, even though I mean it wholeheartedly.

Those feelings are working hard inside of me when I clamber to my feet.

"Hey, Jess."

His sad eyes climb up to meet mine.

"Why don't you saddle up Red and Midnight?" I say. "We are getting baked working here. Sue can spare us for a bit."

I think he is a little surprised that I have not acknowledged what all he just told me, but it seems like there is some relief there, too. He got off his chest what he needed to, and I am not going to sit here and let us both stew in the misery. What comforting reassurance can I offer him, anyway? It is time for the man to start looking forward in his life, toward the future, and work on leaving all of this darkness behind.

"Yes, sir," he responds quickly, starting to rise.

I hold out my hand, and he grasps it to pull himself up. I look at him straight and deep, gripping that hand tightly. I am pouring acceptance, understanding, and strength into how I am looking at him, and I think he reads what I am trying to say, although my mouth never opens. I clutch the upper part of his arm gently, hoping to communicate with the touch.

"I've got to grab some gear. I'll meet you out front in a few."

And that is how the two of us find ourselves at a back part of the ranch I use for a shooting range, burning through boxes of cartridges until the evening shadows grow long. We will have plenty of casings to reload tonight beneath the glow of a kerosene lamp.

Harper will keep the Colt .45 he practices with for when he works his way into Huddleston's crew. So far, other than maybe staying out of trouble, I have not found anything that the man is not good at. But his skills with a pistol are bar-none, just about the best I have ever seen. I mostly stay back, watch, and marvel at his craft. It is no wonder he took the path of a gun for hire. The man has particular talents for speed and accuracy, and his pick-ax calloused hands do not seem to slow him down even the slightest.

When we rode out earlier, I tossed him a jar of salve that he accepted with a nod. It is my grandmother's recipe, passed down from a long line of big, leathery Scots, and it works miracles on marked skin. I hope he will use it on his back and hands. Those scars will fade with time, just like the damage he has on the inside if he goes about taking care to heal.

Mid-afternoon on the third day, the short respite is over. I have arranged for Jake Talbott, the sheriff in Forest Hill, to be prepared for Harper's arrival tonight, and he knows the script. Almost without fail, a fair amount of Huddleston's guns frequent the saloon there on Friday nights. Rather than have Harper just ride out to Huddleston's place and either be gunned down before he is even able to speak to the man or tossed out on his heels for showing up without an invitation, I have arranged for him to at least appear legitimate, and hopefully, procure himself an invitation. That is where Talbott comes into play.

Harper does not appear the least bit nervous. He seems determined and confident. We have rehearsed our plans so many times, we both know them by heart, but there are so many variables, too many things that can go wrong. I feel like I am tossing the man naked into a pit of rattlers, and I hate it.

Sue does not like it either, but she sees the necessity of what we are doing.

When it comes time for Harper to ride out, he is standing beside Midnight, looking like he was ordained to have that Colt strapped low to his hip like he is wearing it right now.

Sue comes off of the porch and wraps her strong arms around him as though she gave birth to him and loves him as such.

I can see he is startled by the touch but smiles down at her when she places a palm on each side of his face.

"Jess…"

"Sue," he interrupts. "You're a good woman, ma'am. I can't think of another that's better."

"I'm a blessed one," she speaks into him. "Love, work, laughter. What else is there?" She beams. "Now, Jess, I want you to listen to me and take to heart what I tell you."

"Sure, yes, ma'am," he nods as she pauses for him to acknowledge.

"You are courageous, kind, and good, and you should never think anything differently of yourself. It is plain for Milo and I to see, dear, that for just about most of your short years, you have been all alone. No one can live like that and not be full of need. One day, you will be entirely free, and when that time comes, we want you to come back here. If, that is, you will have an ornery old couple like us to keep you company."

Harper flashes up at me, where I stand on the porch, and I nod with a smile from beneath my bushy mustache.

"Milo and I have already discussed this, Jess. You will have a job helping to run this ranch and a home waiting on you if you will have it."

He seems a little choked and darts his eyes, though he can't hide the dew that gathers there. He manages to say, "I'm wanting to thank you both. That's about the kindest offer I've ever had." With that, he steps back and mounts.

"Stand straight, son," I say. "Play it smart, and may God be with you."

"So long as you do the same, Milo," he grins.

An apt suggestion, I think.

"I'll be seeing you," he tips his hat and then rides off.

I hold onto Shep's collar, and he squirms, trying to make chase, whimpering, and whining the whole time.

"Please be careful, Jess!" Sue calls out, and I can see the tracks of a few tears that run the length of her cheeks.

And she teases me about my tender heart.

It is not long before Harper disappears over the gentle rise of the hill.