Railroad To Nowhere

Nine.

Jake allowed himself a week. The native people were good to him, although the men did not trust him. Jake didn't care.

The little girl and boy whom he had first seen often followed him as he explored territory unknown to him, the mountains and forests that all the townspeople were afraid of. The Crawlers lived there, they said. You'd die if you went into the badlands.

One day he approached the chief of the tribe, Sun Hawk.

"I need to leave," Jake said, struggling to hold back the growing sense of urgency he had felt since he had arrived. Sun Hawk looked concerned.

"I give you leave," he said eventually, "If the Crone finds you healed."

She didn't find him healed.

"Your arm is still tender," she said sternly. Jake shrugged. "I can ride a horse with one arm, and shoot a gun. I need to stop a man and I need to stop him now."

The Crone shook her head, but with a weary sigh gave him provisions and bade him go to the Chief, who apparently had a parting gift.

Back Jake went to Sun Hawk, who did indeed have something. A gleaming white ox horn, to be blown in times of need.

"Sheriff Brown gifted it to us," the chief smiled sadly. "The other horn from the ox he shot himself. His horn is broken now." He looked along the river in the direction of Broken Horn, where the sheriff's bones would be bleaching underneath the pine tree. "Good man. We pay our respects. He is at peace."

Jake took a deep breath. Closed his eyes. Fought the grief. "Thank you," he said finally. Then he did something he never thought he would - slowly, he drew his right gun from its holster and held it out. Sun Hawk grasped the polished wooden handle with awe. He knew how much Jake's guns meant to him.

"If I ever blow this horn, you come with this gun. Besides," Jake added with a rueful grin, "I can only use one gun with my busted arm."

The two men clasped arms and nodded to each other. And Jake left.

***

"Where you going, mister Jake?" the little girl asked as he splashed across the river. He turned and looked at her, standing on the bank in her little dress with a confused expression on her face.

"I'm leaving, Flower," he said in a voice gruff with sadness.

Blooming Flower tilted her head to one side. "When you back?"

Jake sighed. "I don't know. Maybe I won't ever come back." He thought of Colt. That man was deadly.

Flower clutched her older brother's hand. "Dipping Bird, make him stay!"

Dipping Bird shook his head sadly. He knew that Jake couldn't stay.

Flower ran across the river and launched herself at the old cowboy, who swept her up in one last hug. Jake was not a young man. If he'd ever had a child, he would have liked it to be Blooming Flower. But it was too late for that now, and Jake knew it. So he hardened his heart, hardened his expression and turned his back on the tents of the River Bear tribe for the last time.

***

Jake was a long way from his own people. The River Bear tribe lived right on the edge of the desert, at least fifty miles from the nearest town, and the railroad that serviced the towns only ran a train once a month.

Jake arrived two days later. Nothing had changed since the last time he was there, the first time he encountered Colt. His lip curled at the memory.

He entered the saloon.

"Well, if it isn't Master Coltman!" the bartender laughed as Jake strolled over. "I haven't seen you in at least a week and a half! Where you been?"

Jake gave a vague reply about moving from town to town and sipped the pint of whisky the bartender slid over to him. "Say, have you heard anything about Colt Johnson?"

The bartender thought for a moment. "Can't say I have," he said eventually. "Although I've heard rumour that he's laying low in Gold Creek, and won't let anyone in or out of it."

"Thank you." Jake stayed a little longer to finish his pint and talk to some of the men there, who were as amiable as the last time he saw them. Nothing seemed amiss - for now.