“That’s true, Slim,” he said softly. “We never did.”
He straightened and took a deep breath. “We need to find out for certain. Can you follow our back trail at night?”
“I reckon I can,” Duval said.
“Take three men with you and scout behind us,” Latch ordered. “I want to know if that posse is back there, and if they are, how close they are. Can you do that, Slim?”
“Of course I can,” Duval answered without hesitation. He didn’t particularly relish the job, but if that’s what Latch wanted him to do, he would try his best. To do otherwise would be too dangerous, and Slim Duval was a cautious man.
“Good. I assumed they would turn back after we hit them before. Men like that get worked up and join a posse, but as soon as they realize it could get them killed, their courage evaporates. If this bunch is being particularly stubborn, we may have to take steps.”
“Steps?” Duval repeated.
“That’s right. We may have to stop long enough to wipe them out.”
By nightfall, Abel Gustaffson and his sons had settled into an attitude of stoic, stolid grief. It matched what the other members of the posse from Fire Hill had felt a few days earlier when their homes had been destroyed and their loved ones killed.
That pain had dulled slightly for them with the passage of time, but it was still fresh for the father and his two sons.
That was the thing about pain, The Kid mused as the men went about the work of setting up camp. It never went away completely. For days at a time, you might not think about everything you’d lost in life, but then something unexpected would remind you and you’d feel that all-too-familiar twinge deep inside, like somebody had just poked you in the vitals with a knife.
Maybe by the time thirty or forty or fifty years had passed, those feelings finally went away. The Kid hadn’t lived that long yet and didn’t really expect to, the way he kept getting mixed up in things where people shot at him.
But somehow he doubted that grief ever really died.
Nick was hanging around with Thad Gustaffson, and his brother Bill had joined them. The Kid figured it was probably good for all of them.
Some of Bill’s worries had been eased when the posse stopped at the neighboring ranch and found that Latch’s gang hadn’t been there. Doris Horton, the pretty brunette eighteen-year-old Bill had been courting, was fine.
She and her mother and her sisters had all cried when they heard what had happened at the Gustaffson ranch. Doris’s father J. W. Horton had shaken Abel Gustaffson’s hand, slapped him encouragingly on the back, and solemnly promised to look after Abel’s place for as long as necessary.
“If we’re not back in a couple weeks, consider it yours, J.W.,” Gustaffson had told him. “You’ve been a mighty good friend and neighbor to us, and I don’t know anybody else I’d rather see take over the place.”
“Now, don’t be talkin’ like that,” Horton had told him. “You’ll be runnin’ your own ranch again before you know it. You and the boys are gonna come back and be just fine.”
Gustaffson hadn’t had anything to say to that. They might come back, The Kid mused, but he doubted if they would ever really be fine again.
After that side trip to the Horton ranch, the posse had picked up the trail of the outlaws again and put quite a few more miles behind them.
As The Kid sat beside Culhane at the campfire that evening, the Ranger said, “Another day, maybe less, and we’ll start gettin’ into the hill country. Ever been there, Morgan?”
The Kid shook his head. “Like I told you, I’ve been to San Antonio, but I don’t know that much about the rest of Texas.”
“It’s a land of ... what do you call it? ... infinite variety,” Culhane said with the note of pride in his voice common to people who had been borned and raised in the Lone Star State. “Just about any kind of country you’re lookin’ for, you can find it here.
He straightened and took a deep breath. “We need to find out for certain. Can you follow our back trail at night?”
“I reckon I can,” Duval said.
“Take three men with you and scout behind us,” Latch ordered. “I want to know if that posse is back there, and if they are, how close they are. Can you do that, Slim?”
“Of course I can,” Duval answered without hesitation. He didn’t particularly relish the job, but if that’s what Latch wanted him to do, he would try his best. To do otherwise would be too dangerous, and Slim Duval was a cautious man.
“Good. I assumed they would turn back after we hit them before. Men like that get worked up and join a posse, but as soon as they realize it could get them killed, their courage evaporates. If this bunch is being particularly stubborn, we may have to take steps.”
“Steps?” Duval repeated.
“That’s right. We may have to stop long enough to wipe them out.”
By nightfall, Abel Gustaffson and his sons had settled into an attitude of stoic, stolid grief. It matched what the other members of the posse from Fire Hill had felt a few days earlier when their homes had been destroyed and their loved ones killed.
That pain had dulled slightly for them with the passage of time, but it was still fresh for the father and his two sons.
That was the thing about pain, The Kid mused as the men went about the work of setting up camp. It never went away completely. For days at a time, you might not think about everything you’d lost in life, but then something unexpected would remind you and you’d feel that all-too-familiar twinge deep inside, like somebody had just poked you in the vitals with a knife.
Maybe by the time thirty or forty or fifty years had passed, those feelings finally went away. The Kid hadn’t lived that long yet and didn’t really expect to, the way he kept getting mixed up in things where people shot at him.
But somehow he doubted that grief ever really died.
Nick was hanging around with Thad Gustaffson, and his brother Bill had joined them. The Kid figured it was probably good for all of them.
Some of Bill’s worries had been eased when the posse stopped at the neighboring ranch and found that Latch’s gang hadn’t been there. Doris Horton, the pretty brunette eighteen-year-old Bill had been courting, was fine.
She and her mother and her sisters had all cried when they heard what had happened at the Gustaffson ranch. Doris’s father J. W. Horton had shaken Abel Gustaffson’s hand, slapped him encouragingly on the back, and solemnly promised to look after Abel’s place for as long as necessary.
“If we’re not back in a couple weeks, consider it yours, J.W.,” Gustaffson had told him. “You’ve been a mighty good friend and neighbor to us, and I don’t know anybody else I’d rather see take over the place.”
“Now, don’t be talkin’ like that,” Horton had told him. “You’ll be runnin’ your own ranch again before you know it. You and the boys are gonna come back and be just fine.”
Gustaffson hadn’t had anything to say to that. They might come back, The Kid mused, but he doubted if they would ever really be fine again.
After that side trip to the Horton ranch, the posse had picked up the trail of the outlaws again and put quite a few more miles behind them.
As The Kid sat beside Culhane at the campfire that evening, the Ranger said, “Another day, maybe less, and we’ll start gettin’ into the hill country. Ever been there, Morgan?”
The Kid shook his head. “Like I told you, I’ve been to San Antonio, but I don’t know that much about the rest of Texas.”
“It’s a land of ... what do you call it? ... infinite variety,” Culhane said with the note of pride in his voice common to people who had been borned and raised in the Lone Star State. “Just about any kind of country you’re lookin’ for, you can find it here.
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