Caleb: A Western tale, circa 1880's

Chapter Twelve

It was nearing chore time before Caleb and Kitty mounted up for the trip back to the ranch house. Kitty rode Porgy but the horse that had been saddled for Caleb was one he'd never ridden before. Charlie Three-Trees had promised to be along 'after a bit', when Caleb had outright invited him to come eat in the kitchen. "So, what did you think of the ridge?" Kitty asked him after they'd discussed the sermon.

Caleb touched his bow. "Not what I expected."

"You can shoot, Caleb. I've seen you practice often enough."

"I sorta expected another scar on my arm," he admitted, making her laugh. "Would it surprise you to know that it wouldn't be my first?"

"Scar on your arm or blood ritual?" she asked. Her tone was light, as if she hadn't taken him seriously.

Caleb looked over at her, catching her gaze. "Blood ritual; met a man who went by the name Comanche Jack. Turns out, he's actually Nez Perce but he could use a knife better than any man I'd ever seen. He took me under his wing, so to speak, taught me to use mine for more than shaving- and wrestle so I wouldn't get beat up in the bunkhouse so often."

"And what did you teach him?" asked Kitty curiously, knowing that such a brotherhood was never one way.

"When to fight." Kitty eyed him curiously but Caleb didn't explain any further. Too many memories had been wrapped up in his simple answer, too various and full of turmoil to explain.

He didn't want to admit that he was a fair hand with his gun or that he'd killed more than one man with it. In doing so, he'd saved Comanche Jack's life once, sparking the friendship between the two of them. Caleb had never drawn first and only in self-defense but he knew from experience that dead men stayed dead- except in Caleb's dreams.

Not wanting her to ask any further, Caleb kicked the horse into a canter and didn't slow until he was near the house. Despite the horse's pace, he couldn't outrun Caleb's memories, both the bitter and the sweet. It was a quiet evening for Caleb, even with Charlie's tomfoolery in the kitchen.

Charlie Three-Trees, as it turned out, owned a sense of humor similar to his brother's. He clowned his way through dinner and occupied such a great part of the conversation that Caleb's quiet mood went almost unnoticed by his boss lady. When Caleb excused himself to the bunkhouse, Charlie went too.

"We're going to town tomorrow," Charlie reminded his cousin. "No sense in me riding clear back home only to turn around again, come dawn. Dusty Back would be tired before we ever set out." Thinking of the flea-bitten, blue roan that Charlie had ridden down on, Caleb hid a grin at the descriptive name he'd given the mount.

Laying in the darkness of the bunkhouse, Charlie said, "you're sure quiet tonight, Cowboy. I cramp your style?"

Caleb chuckled. "No sir," he grinned. The grin faded. "Just had too much time to think this afternoon, I guess."

"Worried about the marshal?"

"Remembering another brother; you ever kill a man, Charlie?"

Charlie's tone turned guarded. "Yes, I have. He attacked Flame-Haired Woman, hurt her bad. Danny, Ghost-Who-Rides and I hunted him down and killed him for what he did."

"I started out on the prod," Caleb admitted. "Never started a fight but I always finished them. Took me a while to learn the value of a human life, to learn which fights were worth killing over and which ones to walk away from."

"Hard lessons," agreed Charlie. "Where was your father?"

"I left home when I was thirteen. We didn't see eye to eye at the time." Caleb remembered his rebellious bent at the time and knew that his explanation was a vast understatement. "Man called Comanche Jack sorta' took me under his wing after I went back to church," Caleb said. "He's Nez Perce, from up Idaho way."