Sarnai4

With an urgency and swiftness born of natural prey instincts, a massive jackrabbit held its ears flattened against the top of its body as it sprinted across the yard whilst a group of three men rode bulky ponies in a line towards the home. The type of men who stood out as men of action by the guns on their hips and rifles slung across their torsos. Neither were young men, even from this distance and through the dust kicked up from the hooves as they traveled up the trail alongside that tall indiangrass that dotted everywhere.

There on the cabin’s front porch, as broad and tall as a mountain that a human could be, stood a red-bearded giant of a man. A double-barreled shotgun cradled in the crook of a powerful arm. Grasped in his other hand, a brass lantern, almost dwarfed by it that lit the yard forward of him. Dull blue eyes never left the men who rode ever-closer towards his property and family.

Several steps behind him and just within the doorway of the cabin, on a table situated beside a statue of the Virgin Mary with child, sat two revolvers from Father’s time in the US Army. Heirlooms from a war that changed everything, and if up to Father, he differed from the boy who was drafted. And a Winchester Repeater that leaned against the wall, which a strong and broad-shouldered thirteen-year-old girl snatched up.

“Alexandra, what are you doing? Drop that right now.” Mother hissed as she grabbed hold of the gun’s barrel.

“Pa might need a bit of back up. I’m a better shot than anyone else here, aye?” she replied with a gesture toward her bookish twin brother. Though he seemed scared, kept his nose buried in the cover of a book. “Someone has to protect papa.”

Alexandra stood second in height to Father only, even at thirteen, and found herself taller than the size of an average man. So, it took no effort to jerk the gun from Mother’s hand—who protested nary a single word further. Then she stepped out onto the porch beside her father, who gave her a look but said nothing. Pressed the butt of the repeater against her shoulder, Alex took aim at the riders.

Father boomed with a voice that any would not deny: “who goes there? Riding ‘bout in the shadows. Declare yourselves.”

This caused the riders to stop several yards away. With the oldest of the three men, the one who led the group, dismounted but moved no further. In the faint light, the golden star on his buckskin vest glinted, which eased Alex enough to lower her gun. That old sheriff scratched his bushy white mustache for a moment as he sighed. His five o’clock shadow added to the grizzled look. And he carried with himself the look of a stereotypical western lawman Alexandra had read in one of the many penny novels she kept in the trunk under her bed.

“Roger,” the sheriff’s voice came out in a smoky rasp. “You’re Roger O’Connor, yes? Just know I ain’t looking for any trouble. Not a one.”

With a weary eye, Father looked over the man for a moment before he shouldered his shotgun and nodded. “Aye, sheriff. That I am indeed. What brings you to my door step this evening?”

After the sheriff glanced over his shoulder at his two deputies, who dismounted from their own steeds. He lit a thinly-rolled cigar as a halo of smoke surrounded him. “Mister O’Connor, my name is Edward Morgan. And I must say, I know all ‘bout you. Your history as a gunslinger and a gun-for-hire—”

“—no, sir. You’re mistaken. My papa is a devout, Christian man. A man of God, he is. You got the wrong person. Soldier, aye, but who wasn’t way back when?” Alexandra piped up as she stepped forward to the railing. “Must have the wrong homesteaders, aye?”

“Alexandra, hush,” Father’s voice croaked out and caused the young teen to step back, but her mismatched-colored eyes never left the men in the yard. Several moments passed before he broke the silence, “sheriff, I’m long retired by now. All that’s behind me. Has been for a long, long time. So, turn right back ‘round and get back to town ‘fore the night fully sets on. I’m a family man, now. Rancher and farmer. I can’t help you.”

Sounding much like a deflating bellows, a long-held breath escaped Sheriff Morgan. “Alls I am asking for is a bit of your time to bend your ear. There’s more on offer than just a bounty, sir. You do this with us and, well, I promise that the government will wipe clean any past….indiscretions still attached to your name. No questions, nothing else owed. Just your life to go forward with.”

Father grunted as he lit a cigarette, then beckoned for Alexandra to head back inside with a finality in his tone: “go on, girl. Tell mother to ready my pack. I’ll be back inside soon.”

“Yes, papa.” And she begrudgingly returned inside to relay her father’s message before she moved to watch from the window.

The crisp, dry air carried the faint scent of pine and dust as Alex pressed her face against the cool glass of the window. Outside, the setting sun cast long, dramatic shadows across the rugged Dakota hills, painting the landscape in hues of orange and deep purple—it painted the scene in such a surreal manner. The indistinct murmur of voices—Father’s steady tone and the clipped, formal speech of the lawmen—drifted in through the ajar door, a somber soundtrack to the unfolding scene. Inside, the comforting aroma of dried meats and the faintly yeasty smell of double-baked bread filled the small cabin. Alex heard the soft rustle of the cloth as Mother carefully wrapped the trail food, the gentle thud as she set it beside the worn leather satchel. Her gaze drifted back to the lawmen, their dark clothes stark against the dusty earth. A knot of unease tightened in her stomach, a cold, heavy feeling. She let out a sigh, a puff of warm air misting the glass, obscuring the stark reality for just a moment before it cleared, revealing the familiar, yet now unsettling, landscape.

For Alex did not know how long Father spoke with the sheriff. Only that they eventually seemed to have reached an accord and shook hands. Then, after they parted, Father watched the lawmen mount their steeds and trotted toward the town of Reynold’s Ford. Before he turned to darken the doorstep with his massive shadow. Alexandra moved away from the window and scrambled back to sit down on the floor beside the cast-iron stove, which still radiated heat and caused sweat to bead on her brow. And she knew of the past fights they had and the tempest to come when Mother got pissed—and boy, did the maelstrom rage tonight.

As tempers cooled and the storms settled, Mother sat at the dining table exhaustion colored her features. “You promised me you were done,” she uttered just above a whisper. “What if you don’t come back this time? Do you not remember what happened last time?”

“I am the one with a piece of lead stuck dug against my ribs. How could I forget, Amy?” Father growled back, but then sat on the chair across from her. “This will set us up through the winter—hell, through next winter—and no longer will we have to live with an eye over our shoulders for deeds done past.”

Over the following hour, he prepared his well-worn leather satchel with the supplies Mother set out, cleaned and oiled his revolver and bolt-action rifle, and gathered some ammo before he stepped over to his daughter. Placed in front of her the repeater and his other revolver. “Keep everyone safe whilst I am gone, aye?”

“Aye, papa.”

“Promise me, child.”

Alexandra fought back the tears that threatened to form at the edges of her eyes, but she recovered herself and had to be strong for him. “I promise.”

“Aye, good.”

Yet as he walked over to say a few words to Andrew, even if he was not sure how to connect to his son. Alex let a few tears roll down her freckle-covered cheeks as she watched them. But soon enough, Father wished his family well and gave one last knowing look toward Mother. Then he exited into the sweet-scented summer night air. Followed by his daughter out onto the porch to watch him as he saddled their only horse, Rose, and mounted the old mare. A short wave before he directed the mount onto the trail and towards town. As she watched, Alex silently swore to stay strong for him and her family.

“Mama, tell me something,” Alexandra sighed as Mother walked onto the porch to watch Father leave. “What was papa before Andrew and I came into his life?”

Mother took a moment to respond as her grip on the railing stiffened. “He doesn’t speak much on it, but I can say that he wasn’t always the good, Godly man you see today. That war which still divides the lands send him wayward for many a-year. And, like so many others, the whiskey had a mean hold on him when we met.” Turned to face her daughter, Mother brushed away a reddish-gold strand of hair out from Alexandra’s eyes. “But when he found out you and Andrew grew in my womb. Well, he finally changed his ways—and real quick to boot. Alls I know, to be honest. Like I said, he never spoke much on it.”

And though mother and daughter stood there side-by-side for a long moment before they could no longer see Father, they disappeared back into the warm confines of the suddenly empty-feeling home. Neither slept well that night.

As the following morning dawned, it came with a soft rain that started its symphony against the cabin before the sun even rose. Soft footsteps on a cold wooden floor as the tall young teenager made her way to the central stove. Where she added more fuel to the fire and stoked the embers within. Set the coffeepot on top, added water from the bucket and some grounds, and placed the cast-iron pan beside it with a knob of lard. She stretched out her limbs above her head, almost touching the ceiling, and nearly came out of her nightclothes as they rose up on her to show the slight curves her body possessed.

“Thank you, dear,” Mother yawned as she placed a hand on Alexandra’s forearm. “I’ll get breakfast started. You go and get started on your chores, alright?”

“Aye, mama.”

Andrew’s monotone snoring still sounded despite the hour; Mother would never wake him early or interrupt his sleep. But much the better for the moment. As within the shadows of the morning, Alex stripped down and pulled on her faded denim pants. Then wrapped a tight-fitted cloth around her chest and draped a flannel shirt over herself. Tugged on her boots just as Andrew seemed to awaken—did she imagine him waking whilst she dressed?

Gross. But she put it out of her mind, as it did not matter right now.

“Morning,” he yawned whilst he stretched out his limbs. “Do you want help? I-I-I mean with your chores.”

She shook her head. “Appreciate it but no thank you. Stay and help mother around the house. It’s a wee bit too much for most. I got this.”

And with that, Alexandra left the home to tend to the pigs in their sty and the chickens huddled in their coop. All needed to be fed and everything cleaned. Nothing too difficult, but it acted to ground herself in reality. To center her mind, body, and soul with hard work. Something that allowed her to fall into a comfortable routine that passed the first week without a soul vocalizing their concerns for Father’s well-being. At the very least, Alex knew she had so many concerns. Enough that, like the first night, she found sleep elusive. Instead, she focused through the window beneath which her bed sat. Alex stared at the stars when they showed and wondered if her father stared at the same ones. Until exhaustion overtook her. An uncomfortable but steady rhythm that life took.

On the Sunday of the second week after church, Alexandra sat underneath a massive, gnarled oak tree that grew on a hill near the Chippewa River at the ford which gave the town its name. A breeze, fattened by the industry of the town and the nearby cattle, rustled the vibrant emerald-green leaves as Alex watched children as they played unknown games around the bank of the lazy river. Whilst off to the side, older kids and teenagers stood in semi-circles, talking about this or that. Girls laughed and giggled as they spoke in hushed tones. The boys challenged each other to more and more ridiculous feats but did nothing as they were all in their Sunday clothes.

The completely unwelcome voice of the despicable Norm Malcoy boomed, “Oi, Andrew, Andrew, Andrew.” A square-jawed bully who always seemed to be on a quest to make everyone around him feel like shit.

Rather apt that the son of the preacher is a spoiled shit, Alexandra thought as her attention focused on the teenager.

“What ya reading there?” Norm mocked. “Why you always hiding behind books? Afraid of reality? Running away, eh?”

Andrew meekly protested when Norm ripped his copy of Moby Dick from his grasp. Instead, much to Alexandra’s frustration, he mewed almost like a kitten and stuttered as he said, “Norm, just g-g-give it back to me, okay? I-I-I don’t bother you or your friends. Just leave me alone.”

“From what people are saying round ‘bout these parts is your pa is actually a deadly gunslinger and outlaw. With dozens and dozens of deaths notched under his belt,” Norm ignored the boy’s pleas and tossed the book to one of his cronies. “Which gots me thinking: how did he have such a puny and pathetic son like you?” But mid-thought, the bully stopped in his tracks for a moment. “Oh, that’s right, aye? Your family got all twisted around. Your sister got the strong and manly traits. Whilst you ended up with the girly, house-maker traits.”

“Shut your mouth, Norm!” Alexandra stood up and stared daggers at the teenage bully. “And what did God’s blessing bestow upon you? A father who dips his wick in anything warm and wet? A mother with preference that company of communion wine to her own, pathetic child? Do not throw rocks if’n you can’t take ‘em, you swine.”

Her sharply-edged words caused the brown-haired boy to ball his fists, and his cheeks turned crimson. “Shut your mouth,” Norm demanded. “Or I’ll shut it for ya. You-you cow! At least I have a father still. My pa said yours prob’ly nothing more than worm food right now. Going after Kid Carver was suicide anyways.”

Alexandra had enough as she roared out a growl with all of her chest before she stomped over to the overly-confident Norm and his two associates. Working off anger than any other thought, she approached and his friends took several steps back from the larger girl. At least Norm stood his ground before she used her entire strength to punch him across the jaw so hard that he fell to the ground like a sack of dropped flour.

Before anyone could react, Alex straddled Norm with knees on both sides to keep him from moving. Punches of rage, of deep frustration rained down over and over and over. And for the briefest of moments, she thought perhaps to kill the lad, or at the very least, to permanently teach him and others like him a lesson. Spit flew from her lips as she did not feel the coming pain in her knuckles or the swelling that had already started. And only from the grace of his so-called friends that Alex grabbed her arms and stopped her barrage.

“He’s had enough,” said one.

“He’s learnt his lesson,” cried the other. But neither the friend nor Alexandra believed that.

Finally, with control over herself, and an intense pain in her knuckles, blood covered them, but not nearly as much as the boy at her feet. “You come ‘round my family with your shite again—I’ll not stop, Norm Malcoy.” Dredging up a glob from her throat, she spat on him before turning to see that blanched look across Andrew’s face. “Come on. Let’s head home before we get our clothes dirtied further.”

Andrew’s only response was a quick “aye” before he rose and forcefully pulled his book away from one of his tormentors. “I tire of such boarish company, anyway.”

Alexandra chuckled to herself before beckoning her brother. Walking side-by-side along the path back home, as they both awaited, without fear or anxiety, the fallout of the fight. And though Mother was far-more-annoyed about the dirt stains on Alex’s knees than about the fight itself. Not happy about the fight, sure, but neither of her children tried to lie or cover it up.

“Oh, I believe that he had it coming, dear, but you must control your emotions,” Mother chided as she stirred the stew within the cast-iron pot. “Men? They are allowed to be angry. To have drive and passion and goals. But it won’t look well on you. Not at all.”

Alex dismissed it as bullshit. The same double standard shit fed to her and that everyone seemed okay with. Or, at least, women and girls seemed content to live under. Perhaps some were not and were just like her. A deep sense of inner turmoil churned within her regarding the injustice, but they believed they lacked the ability to change societal norms with only her ability to change her own life if nothing more. She hissed as Mother cleaned her busted knuckles.

That evening, with bandaged hands, Alexandra sat on the front porch as she cleaned and oiled the repeater. More out of a habit to keep busy than any actual need to do so. And the sun dipped towards the horizon in a slow trajectory, long shadows stretched ever-more across the lands as far as she could see. Across that tall grass and those thickening tree coverage; those rolling hills and vast fields, and even the occasional boulder that peeked out from the ground.

Off in the distance, dark, ominous-looking clouds lingered on the horizon—promising a late summer storm to come. A small herd of deer chewed on soft, young, succulent grass, undisturbed and unperturbed about what was to come. Alongside a family of hares not too far, prey animals gathered close to keep safe. A perfect hunt if the larders demanded it, which right now, they did not. Instead, she just observed nature as she cleaned.

There came that familiar aroma of petrichor that lingered at the very edge of her nose along with cut grass and the overly-ripe berries on the bushes near the woods. Near that well-trodden trail that led deep into the woods, which she and Father had traveled oh-so-many times since she was a little girl. Going out hunting and trapping for many days away from home. How to spot edible and medicinal plants and mushrooms, as he would always say, “you never know when you will have to live off what nature can provide.”

Along with memories of sleeping under a lean-to, Alex would wake with that distinctive aroma of earth and fungi filling her nose each morning. Learning everything from Father that he wanted to teach. At first, he tried to make Andrew go, who had no talent nor interest—until Alexandra convinced him to take her, and the rest was history. This, along with the weather to come, Alexandra missed her father even more and found herself far-too-introspective. That gnawing anxiety in her gut intensified with each passing day. And Mother’s reassurances every day seemed less and less convincing. Whilst Andrew buried himself more and more into his stories—among other things. Not that Alex could blame him for that.

A crack of lightning and thunder lit up the sky and boomed through the muted evening and brought her back to reality. That preceding natural symphony which came before the deluge that fell to the earth in thick shafts of water of which brought a cool wetness to the air. In her childish years, Alex viewed storms with fear and disgust; however, she now perceived them as possessing a beauty she never imagined. Vibrant violets, brilliant blues, and pure whites lit up the sky and clouds with each lightning strike. And then, the wind turned into intermittent gales, coming and going on some unknown rhythm.

“Beyond beautiful,” she uttered.

“Alex, come in,” Mother called out. “Lest you catch your death, that is.”

“Aye, mother.”

----

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