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  It had not been his intention to ride through Tatanka Crossing. The trail to his father’s ranch ran along the embankment where Jenny Svensson had been examining the pinto’s leg. But for that encounter, Charlie would have stayed on the trail home. He wasn’t sure why he had ridden down to the township with her; perhaps hoping to glean the reason for her behaviour at the river; perhaps amused by the invitation to race; or perhaps for no reason at all except that riding beside her had seemed the most natural thing to do. Now that he was here he realized how much had changed since his departure.

  Fifteen years earlier, when he’d first stood on this spot alongside his parents, brother and the members of the other eight families that his father had led from Missouri, there had been nothing here. The long valley stretched before them – high, wooded slopes, acres of fertile pasture land and a slim, constant flowing stream which wended north-easterly to a junction with the North Platte. There was no indication that any man had ever passed this way before. There were no buildings or cattle herds, no cultivation of the land or bridges across the water. Nothing here but the land itself, good land, land as fertile for harvesting crops as it was lush for rearing cattle. They saw the land and wanted it. It was land on which to settle and leave their mark, land to develop and leave as a legacy for their descendants.

  So those original settlers explored the valley and agreed boundaries that would divide it into eight portions, each having its share of timber, grazing land and access to water. As Charlie’s father, Dagg, had been their leader, he was allowed first choice. He selected the section at the southern end of the valley. The other families, the Prescotts, Svenssons, Dunstons, Kelloggs, Humboldts, Johnsons and Castleways drew lots and spread northward to build their properties and establish their stock.

  Sam Flint arrived alone in the valley. His wife, along with Ezra Prescott’s wife and eldest daughter had been buried along the way. Their three graves on a knoll overlooked the Republican, their death attributed to a harvest of some unrecognized berries. Subsequently, with no other family to provide for, Sam had chosen to forgo a rancher’s life, choosing instead to act as trader, haulier and blacksmith for the families. His trading post was log-built, long and low and situated near a shallow crossing point of the Tatanka. Around it, over the passing years, more buildings had been erected and the small gathering became known as Tatanka Crossing.

  The winters were hard, snow coming in a swift fury that was capable of trapping the animals in deep drifts. The first two winters caught the new ranchers unprepared, much of their stock freezing to death on the open range before it could be rounded up and brought close to the homestead. The losses of the second winter were enough to discourage the Johnsons and Castleways who, when the sun heated the land again, travelled south to the Oregon Trail to join up with the first wagon train heading to California. Their land was absorbed, Dagg Jefferson expanding over most of Bill Johnson’s share and Ezra Prescott becoming the main beneficiary from Seb Castleway’s departure.

  For those who remained in the valley their lives were industrious but, in the main, content. The cattle herds increased and, after the disaster of the first two winters, their vegetable crops yielded sufficient to satisfy each family. Fulfilling his role as agent for the families, Sam Flint negotiated the sale of steers and excess vegetables with the military at Fort Laramie. Cattle were driven there twice a year.

  In the early years, without nearby professional people, all matters were resolved within the valley. The families took care of themselves; tended their own ailments, settled their own disputes, buried their own dead and taught their offspring the things they needed to know to help the family prosper. Those who had come after them, if they stayed, were obliged to follow the same creed. From time to time an army patrol would put in an appearance, its arrival welcome but always edged with caution lest it wasn’t just the bearer of news from beyond the valley but the herald of tribal hostilities against the white man. No more than once a year they’d receive a less welcome visitor – a travelling preacher seeking donations from those who had little but the land on which they lived, cajoling them with threats of fire and brimstone and, on more than one occasion, attempting to seduce the wives and daughters while the men folk were abroad, tending the stock. Neither of the two who left the valley puffed up with self-satisfaction made it to their next congregation. But there was no law west of the Missouri at that time; no sheriff to apprehend those who had ‘jerked to Jesus’ the errant preachers; no judge to try anyone who might have been apprehended.

  Newcomers to the valley were welcome as long as they were prepared to work for one of the existing ranchers. No-one else was permitted to run cattle on the range. Some came and stayed, finding employment on one of the spreads. Others came, worked a summer round-up then drifted on again. Only one man tried to buck the rule. His name was Grice; he tried running cattle on the Jefferson range. He’d been chased away, his beasts confiscated and when he returned with a bunch of armed men he encountered a united force of valley families. All the invaders were buried where they fell. The message was clear: This valley was spoken for. There was no room for anyone else.

  Charlie was fifteen at that time and the settlers were eventually beginning to show some prosperity. The herds were larger, outbuildings more numerous and hired hands on the increase. Drifters, having heard of the valley from tales passed on by wagon scouts and soldiers, rode in, but only those with the intention of finding work on one or other of the ranches ever stayed. Sam Flint’s trading post was no more than that. He’d sell a jug of whiskey to anyone who could pay for it but his establishment wasn’t a saloon bar where men could gather to play cards or dally with dance-hall girls. Without those attractions there was nothing to persuade drifters to stay.

  Now, as Charlie gazed along the extended street, he noted all the high-fronted buildings that had been erected in his absence. There were signs, too; Sheriff’s Office; Barber; Milner; Bank; Saloon. At the top end of the street there were new buildings under construction and the street was busy with people, men and women, going about their daily affairs. Out of habit, he’d stopped outside the original trading post. As a youth he’d spent many hours inside; sometimes stacking goods for Sam Flint; sometimes listening to travellers’ tales. Soldiers, wagon train scouts and adventurers all had yarns to tell, but Charlie’s favourite visitors were the mountain men fresh down from the hills, enjoying their first contact of the year with civilization as they made their way to St Louis, prepared to swap a tall story and a fine beaver pelt for a jug of whiskey.

  It wasn’t until he’d taken his weight from Smoke’s back that he noticed there had had also been changes to this building. A new high-front had been added and a sign board that proclaimed Deacon’s Mercantile in large red letters. He was still wondering why Sam Flint’s name wasn’t on the board when he passed through the door into the well-remembered store house. Little natural light got into the store but as Charlie’s heeled boots clattered on the hard, wooden floor, he knew that the internal layout had not changed. There were still sections for hardware, dry goods, canned goods, fancy goods and clothing. What had changed was the atmosphere.

  The old trading post had been a vibrant centre for the people of the valley. Even when there were no customers inside it seemed busy with expectancy, as though prepared and eager to assist the next person who entered. Now the darkness within, which had once been a token of welcome and security, hung about the place like an unfriendly bear. The man in the apron behind the far counter viewed Charlie with suspicion.

  ‘Where’s Sam Flint?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘Never heard of him,’ the man replied.

  The answer surprised Charlie. He remembered the name on the board outside. ‘You Deacon?’

  ‘No. I just work here.’

  Charlie looked around. No one else was in the store. ‘Quiet,’ he observed.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’

  Charlie shook his head. ‘Just came in to see Sam Flint. If he’s no
t here I’ll go.’ Slowly he turned and headed back to the street. As he reached the door, four horsemen passed by. One wore a red shirt, one a blue shirt, another rode a fine chestnut and the fourth had a star attached to his leather waistcoat. The front rider, the cowboy in the red shirt, was pointing ahead, exhorting his companions to follow his lead. Charlie guessed that Jenny Svensson’s pinto had been seen and that the little posse was eager to make an arrest. He hurried down the street in their wake.

  By the time he caught up with them a small crowd had gathered around the rail where the pinto was hitched. Charlie could hear Jenny, her voice resonant with indignation and, he suspected, a little fear. ‘You’ve got no right to search my saddle-bags,’ she shouted. ‘I haven’t broken any laws.’

  ‘Harbouring a fugitive is against the law,’ observed red shirt as he stepped forward to grab the saddle-bags slung across the pinto’s back. Jenny got herself between the man and her horse, a grim look on her face, defying him to take the matter further. ‘Your brother is a killer.’

  ‘He is not,’ denied Jenny.

  ‘Sure is,’ sneered the man, ‘and you and your family are hiding him. You’ll go to prison too if we prove you’re aiding him.’ He made to move forward again and Jenny pushed her hands against his chest to keep him away from Collie. The man reached forward, grabbed both ends of her shirt collar and heaved her aside, into the arms of the tall man who had been riding the chestnut. Jenny struggled to break free of the man’s grip but he was too strong for her.

  From those gathered around arose a murmur of protest. The man in the red shirt stared at each of those who appeared to be the most angered by his action. No-one raised any other objection.

  ‘Now let’s see what there is in here.’ He was undoing the fastening of the bag when Charlie Jefferson pushed through the crowd, grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.

  ‘Men don’t treat ladies like that where I come from,’ he said.

  Startled by the rough interruption, the man in the red shirt glowered. ‘And where do you come from?’ he asked.

  ‘Here,’ said Charlie. His right fist came round in a wide arc, delivering a haymaker which landed flush on the other man’s jaw. Red shirt went backwards, arms flying high, legs splaying wide and he landed with a loud thud on the dry, dusty street.

  With a yell the man in the blue shirt launched himself at Charlie. Instantly, he threw a right that was blocked by Charlie’s left. In return, he received a short-arm uppercut to the midriff from Charlie’s right which doubled him over. Although he saw the next punch coming, there was nothing he could do to stop it. It was another right-arm punch which caught him on the left side of his face, below the ear, jerking his head to the right, causing his whole body to turn as he fell, leaving him unconscious, on his face, in the street.

  The big man, the one who had grabbed Jenny when she’d been manhandled away from Collie, pushed her aside and thought briefly of intervening in the affair. His hand went to the butt of the ivory-grip pistol that hung in a holster on his right hip. If his draw was hampered by indecision, it probably saved his life. By the time his hand had encircled the butt and begun to pull upwards he discovered that Charlie’s gun was already in his hand.

  ‘You’d better take your hand away from that pistol,’ Charlie told him, ‘and let Miss Svensson mount her horse.’ Jenny came forward but threw an angry glare at the man. Charlie waited until she was in the saddle. ‘You,’ he said, indicating the young man wearing the star, ‘are you a lawman?’

  ‘Deputy sheriff,’ he declared.

  ‘What reason do you have to search this lady’s belongings?’

  ‘Her brother is wanted for murder. We followed him on that pinto,’ he declared. ‘She must have met him with a fresh horse so that he could escape.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ Charlie told him. ‘Miss Svensson was out riding with me. There were plenty of people around when we arrived in town together. Make your enquiries; someone will vouch for us.’ He turned his attention to the big man. ‘If I hear of anyone molesting Miss Svensson in the future, you’ll be the first one I come looking for and you’ll get the chance to try your luck with that pistol.’

  There was silence among the crowd that had gathered as he began to back away up the street towards Smoke. Jenny Svensson kept pace with him and paused outside Deacon’s Mercantile while Charlie mounted the grey. Then they rode out of town together.

  No words were exchanged until they had gained the high ground above the town. ‘You’d better give me that grey hat,’ Charlie said, indicating the saddle-bag where he’d seen her stow it after eluding the posse. She gasped in surprise, having convinced herself earlier that he was unaware of her part in her brother’s escape. ‘That’s a dangerous game you are playing,’ he told her.

  ‘They could never catch Collie, and what could they do if they did?’ she asked, defensively. ‘I’m not the one they’ve accused of murder.’

  ‘They weren’t trying to catch you, Jenny. They were trying to kill you. And Collie can put her foot in a rabbit hole as easily as any other horse. You’re gambling with your life. I’m sure Lars doesn’t want you to do that.’

  ‘He needs help,’ she said. ‘He’s accused of killing a man.’ Hurriedly, she added, ‘He didn’t do it.’ She sniffed, trying to hide her emotion, not only overcome by thoughts of her brother’s predicament but also affected by the incident in town.

  They’d reached the fork in the trail that led off to the Jefferson ranch and although he was anxious to know more of the accusation against her brother, he was also aware that this wasn’t the time to be asking questions of the girl. Jenny needed to compose herself. As neither of them expected her to be accosted again by the four man posse, they prepared to part. ‘I’ll take up that invitation to visit,’ he told her.

  A smile tugged at the edges of her mouth. ‘Good.’

  ‘Is tomorrow too soon?’

  ‘Come to dinner,’ she said. ‘Ma and Pa will be pleased to see you.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Dagg Jefferson spotted him when he was nothing more than a slow moving silhouette high on the ridge. Took him, at first, to be one of their ranch hands, or a neighbour, or just some drifter searching for employment. As he got closer and Dagg failed to identify the rider, he studied him more closely. The horse was coming on at nothing better than a slow walk but even the distance between them couldn’t hide the purposeful manner of the rider’s approach.

  Dagg shielded his eyes against the sun and watched. Something in the way the man’s shoulders moved jarred at his memory. The shoulders were different now, broader and deeper, filled out like the rest of the torso which was upright from the saddle. He put down the axe he’d been using, propped it against the door post and opened the ranch house door. He spoke without averting his gaze from the approaching rider, fearful, perhaps, that if he stopped watching he would disappear and never return again.

  ‘Mary,’ he said, ‘come outside.’ His voice was low and gentle, as unlike his normal manner as it was possible to be. Yet, for his wife, that very timidity conveyed urgency and commanded immediate obedience. His words struck her as a portent of an exceptional event, as an alarm call to prepare for the unexpected.

  She came into the sunshine drying her hands on the long calico pinafore she wore over her grey cotton dress. Following her husband’s gaze she shielded her eyes with her right hand to watch the rider. ‘Who is it?’ she asked. ‘Tommy Humboldt?’

  Dagg Jefferson looked at his wife and slowly shook his head. ‘It’s Charlie.’ He felt her hand on his arm, pressing hard, using him for support. He heard the catch in her throat as she tried to repeat the name and he saw the wetness in her eyes as she tried, unsuccessfully, to control her emotion. By the time Charlie reached the house his mother had abandoned her attempt to hold back her tears. She wept against her son’s chest while his father gripped his hand and studied his face, trying to fathom the character of this man who had left them when little more than a determined y
outh.

  The need for food, its preparation and consumption, eventually brought a semblance of normality to the Jefferson homestead. While his mother busied herself with pots and pans Charlie took Smoke to the stable, unsaddled him, gave him a drink then rubbed him down with handfuls of clean straw. With his mount tended, Charlie set to washing away the trail dust that had settled on him. His mother’s home-made soap didn’t produce much lather or have a particularly pleasant smell but it cleaned the skin just as well as the fancy store-bought products he’d had occasion to use on his travels. He was drying himself on a piece of rough towel cloth when his brother rode in.

  ‘Charlie?’

  Charlie flung aside the towel and reached for his shirt. ‘Your very own brother, John. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine. Just fine. How about you?’ As he asked the question John looked pointedly at the long slash of puckered skin that scarred the left side of Charlie’s body, high up, near the shoulder.

  Charlie put on his shirt. ‘I got that instead of a medal,’ he said, giving a twist to his lips that was meant to pass as a smile. ‘Come on, wash up. There’s a meal ready and I haven’t eaten home cooked food for six years.’