Old Soul Syndrome |ONC 2020|

June 22, 1870

Finally, a quiet moment.

I had some unexpected visitors yesterday.

They were waiting at the house when I got back, one man slumped in the saddle, the other banging his fist against the door. I watched them from the little bluff that protects the house from the north winds and shucked my Winchester from its boot on my saddle.

I looped the reins around the saddle horn and tucked the rifle carefully into my shoulder before I nudged my heels into my horse's sides. The red paint had his ears pricked, as unsure of these newcomers as I was, but he picked his way gingerly down the slope, his ears flicking back and forth.

The one banging on the door whirled around when he heard my horse's hooves crunch in the dry dirt of the yard. His hand shot to the revolver tied down on his leg when he noticed the sunset glinting off a rifle barrel. He opened his mouth, likely to demand something, then stopped short when he realized I'm a woman.

He cast a shocked look at the shape of my leg shown so clearly by the pants, then shook his head and took a few steps toward me.

"Howdy, ma'am," he said, tipping his hat back to squint up at me. His skin was tanned by sun and wind, his eyes like black holes in his head. He was scruffy and unwashed with a few weeks' worth of beard on his jaw.

"Good evening," I said cautiously, prepared if his hand made another move toward that gun on his hip. "Can I help you gentlemen with something?"

Finally, he took his hat off. "Ma'am, my name's Clay Taggart. This here's Dan Blaine." He looked over his shoulder at the man still slumped in the saddle, then looked back up at me. "He's been hurt mighty bad."

I relaxed, lowering the rifle, letting my eyes flicker over to Mister Blaine. "What happened?"

Mister Taggart hesitated just long enough that I knew the next thing out of his mouth was a lie. "We ran across some Arapahoe. We got away, but Dan was shot. You're the first white person we've seen since."

Immediately my eyes darted to the other man and, sure enough, on a closer study, I found a dark stain at the top of his trousers. The maroon shirt he was wearing did a lot to hide the extent of his bleeding, but he looked seconds away from keeling out of the saddle.

Keeping the Winchester in one hand, I dismounted, leading Paint to the hitching post. Over my shoulder, I called, "You'd best bring him inside."

Once inside, I put down the rifle and snatched up an oil lamp from the table in the kitchen. I took it into the smaller bedroom then darted back into the kitchen, picking up a box of matches. Taggart had gotten Blaine down from his horse and they stumbled into the house. I could now see that Mister Blaine's face was deathly pale—nearly grey—and beads of sweat cut tracks through the trail dust on his cheeks.

"Put him there," I ordered, gesturing to the bed before I lifted the chimney on the first lamp and lit the wick, then lit the other lamp already in the room. When Blaine had been settled as comfortably as he could be, I handed Taggart the first lamp. "Is the bullet still in him?" I asked, pitching my voice low.

Taggart shook his head. "It went clean through. We ain't had time to clean it up is all."

This only made me wonder what it was they were running from.

I nodded in relief, rolling up the sleeves of my shirt. "Take that lamp closer to the bed. I need to wash my hands first." 

Not waiting for a reply, I went into my own bedroom and took up the pitcher waiting on the vanity. I splashed some water into the waiting bowl and scrubbed at my dirty hands and splashed my face. I dried off as I strode back through the house.