Caleb: A Western tale, circa 1880's

Chapter Eight

Caleb stared at the dying man for a moment, took in the smoking gun in his boss' hands. Her blouse was mussed some, telling Caleb all he needed to know for the time being. "You hurt?" he asked, scanning her for obvious injuries.

Kitty looked up at him. "No, just mad; they got Jethro though." She pointed in the dog's general direction so Caleb waded into the scrub brush, looking for Jethro. Caleb didn't want to leave the dog behind; if he was dead, Kitty would benefit from seeing her beloved pet properly buried. Aside from that, there was a chance he wasn't dead, and Caleb had taken a liking to the dog as well. As he looked for Jethro, Caleb kept an ear out for Kitty, wanting to be sure she was safe.

 ∞

From the ground, the dying man gasped as he stared up at the mounted pair and searched the area with his eyes, obviously looking for the source of the arrow. Kitty looked down at him. "I told you that Infinity would always take care of me. If you had listened, you wouldn't be headed toward Eternity now."

He covered the wound in his abdomen with one hand. "Please," he begged. "Finish me." 

Kitty knew that, even if his friends were to get him to the town's doctor, the man would be dead within a couple of days, having come to the end of his life in indescribable agony. Remembering how he'd treated her as a child and what he'd planned for her, Kitty felt no pity for the man. She shook her head as she gathered up her shotgun and shells from under the wagon.

An idea of how to explain the appearance of her wild rescuer flashed through her consciousness. "You need to live long enough to warn others of the ghosts that are not afraid to leave my ranch in order to protect me. If your friends bother me again, I'm sure the ghosts will return."

He shook his head, denying the idea she was working to plant into his brain. Kitty allowed her choice to take on a note of scolding, as if he should already know. "My whole place roams with the ghosts of my family and with injuns who were shot a long time ago by the army, Billy. Those who stay on my ranch take care of me."

He shook his head again and swallowed convulsively. "That weren't no ghost."

"No?" argued Kitty, trying to sound casual. "Then how did he disappear so quickly? I don't remember hearing any footsteps, either. That was my dad and I'm sure Ghost-Who-Rides will be along shortly for his arrow. He once had a hundred horses before the army shot them. On moonlit nights, sometimes I see him riding with his wife and sons over my range."

"But its daylight," protested the dying man. "And that arrow wasn't no ghost arrow."

"And this is my horse, with no saddle, no bridle and no way to let himself out of the barn, either," retorted Kitty, leaping astride her horse. "Ghost-Who-Rides is a lot stronger than the spirits of his wife and sons. He appears from time to time in the daylight; he and Dad were always friends and he makes a good cowpoke, too." From Porgy's back, Kitty winked at the man.

She could see inside her destroyed wagon, noticed that just behind the seat lay the Winchester's box, miraculously untouched, along with the wrapped package of shells and reloading supplies she'd bought to go with it. The rifle had been protected from the gunfire by the wagon's seat and front wheels. With a grin, Kitty kneed Porgy close enough to the wagon to retrieve her few things that were still usable, knowing that her attackers would likely burn the wagon to hide the evidence of their crime.

After a moment's thought, she grabbed the fuel well of her ruined lantern as well; no sense in letting expensive kerosene go to waste, after all. When she'd gathered into her arms what she wanted, Kitty looked down at the man on the ground, who was desperately holding onto the hole in his gut. "You tell the others," she ordered, "I am still protected."