The Reaper's Song (2 page)

As Zeb did. That lump returned to his throat.

She asked no questions but set the full plate before him and laid a hand on his shoulder.

Zeb bowed his head.
Lord God, bless
. . . Even his thoughts could go no further, let alone his words.

“Bless this food to my son’s body and keep him in your grace.”

“Amen.” He choked on the simple word.

So many things he wanted to say. So many he needed to hear. Like why the Galloways hated the MacCallisters to the point of murder.

He cleaned his plate, using the last of the corn bread to sop up the egg yolks.

Mary Martha picked up his bedroll, wrapped in a piece of canvas,
and set it down on the chair beside him. His mother handed him a Bible, the leather cover worn from hands searching for truth and comfort.

“But, Ma, this is your own—”

She stopped him with a look.

“Thank you, Ma. It will never leave my side.”

“Nor will the good Lord.” She handed him his hat off the rack by the door. “Go with God.” Her hand found his and clenched it once, then again.

The last he saw of her, she and Mary Martha were standing on the top step between the porch posts, the red rambler rose vine arching over them, as if promising to keep them safe. He lifted his hand in farewell and kicked his horse into a lope. They had miles to cover, and only God himself knew what lay ahead.

Dakota Territory
Spring 1886

A
ll I want to do is go home,” Zeb MacCallister muttered as he sat on his horse and stared at the raging Missouri River.

Buster snorted and pawed at the muddy bank.

“You don’t really want to swim this floodin’ beast, do you, fella?”

His mount shook his head, setting the bit to jangling. A tree floated by, pointing its black and gnarled roots toward the lowering sky.

“Didn’t think so.” Zeb looked back over his shoulder. Nothing to see but prairie grass sprouting fast enough to watch it grow. The last man he’d talked with spoke a guttural combination of languages, most of which he’d found unintelligible. He’d gotten the drift, though, and shaken his head. No, he didn’t have any firewater to sell or trade. And he didn’t want the skins the Indian showed him either.

Home
. He closed his eyes and could see his sister Mary Martha running across the field to meet him. His mother would be standing on the porch, waving her apron. The smell of something good cooking would waft out on the breeze and add its welcome home. Old Blue would be barking fit to kill, and Uncle Jed would hustle out of the barn to see what was causing all the commotion. For nearly a year now he’d been on the run, working for a while here and there until some inner sense warned him it was time to move on. Had the Galloways called in the law? Or, as he most suspected, were the two younger sons trailing him? Nightmares haunted him, where he saw himself turning around just in time to see a gun flash.

He looked skyward. “Your Book speaks of vindication, God. I think you done hid your face this time.” Even the lowering clouds seemed to indicate God’s displeasure. What was the sense of it all?
He thought of riding right into that flooding river and letting it carry him on to the next life.

Buster shook his head. Zeb patted his shoulder. No sense wasting a good horse that way.

“I got a bargain for you, God. You leave me alone and I won’t pester you neither.”

The wind whipped up the brown river, sending wavelets to wash his horse’s hooves. He let the reins loosen so the animal could drink. A bloated cow drifted by, turning with the current. Somewhere up this godforsaken river, some farmer had lost part of his stock in the flood. At least he knew there were other people in the area. Cows like that didn’t run loose on the prairie.

“So you s’pose that farm is on this side of the river or t’other?”

His horse raised its head and, ears pricked, looked toward the west. Thunderheads mounded on the horizon like mountains blotting out the sky.

Zeb followed the direction his horse pointed. Was that someone coming toward him? He studied the growing shape, knowing that even this far from Missouri, he didn’t dare trust that the Galloways hadn’t found him. Strange, all the way he’d traveled and still he was bound by the word “Missouri.” More like “misery” out here. Not many trees to hide in. Most of them were trunk-deep in floodwater.

He waited.

The rider drew closer, skirts billowing about her legs as she sat astride her horse.

Zeb let out the breath he hadn’t realized he held.

“Hey, mister, you seen an old red cow around here?” she called as she drew close enough to be heard.

“I saw one floating by about midway out there.” He pointed to the river.

“Oh horsefeathers!” She slapped her thigh in frustration. The horse swerved and she pulled him to a jolting stop, just far enough away so she could see Zeb’s face and he hers. She crossed her hands over the reins on her horse’s withers and studied the stranger.

“You sure it was a red one?”

“Yep. But I’m not sure it was your red one. I couldn’t tell its age.”

The girl looked to be about twelve. A faded brown fedora, well ventilated in the crown, was pulled low on her forehead and shaded her eyes. Straw-colored hair poked out of two of the holes, strands pulled loose from the braid he’d seen bounce when she stopped. A man’s black coat flopped wide open, showing a skirt and top that
hadn’t seen wash water any more recently than her face.

“You said floating. You sure it weren’t swimming?”

“Not on its side like that.” He hated to give her more bad news. It looked like she’d had too much of that already in her short life.

“Oh.” She slumped and after a deep sigh looked up again. “Look like any chance if’n I snagged it, we could butcher it out?”

Zeb thought a moment, then shook his head. “Not bloated like that.”

She appeared to be studying the mane in front of her hands, but when her shoulders began to twitch, Zeb knew she was crying. Now what to do? He couldn’t go off and leave her like this. And yet—he let out a sigh, much like the one she’d given. No way did he want to get mixed up with . . . with what? A family in trouble? As if he wasn’t in enough trouble of his own. But his mother had taught him well. “Do thou unto others as thou would have them do unto thee.” She’d burned the golden rule into his mind and heart from the time he could lisp his first verse.

“Look, miss.”

“I ain’t ‘miss.’ And I don’t need no one’s pity. So the old cow was stupid enough to go drink in a flooding river. I was tired of milking her anyway for the little she gave. Thankee.” She jerked her horse into a spin and drummed her heels on his sides. One hand clapping the hat in place and the other working the reins, she headed back the way she came.

“Well, that settles that.” Zeb glanced up as a gust of wind tried jerking his jacket off his back. The thunderheads seemed to be racing each other eastward, with him directly in their path. He turned his horse and loped downriver in the hopes that he’d find a friendly settler before the storm found him.

He hadn’t gone twenty paces when he stopped and looked heavenward. “Din’t you hear my bargain?” He chewed the edge of his mustache. “You know this ain’t my idea, don’t you?” He shook his head and reined his horse around again. “What if I can’t find her farm?” But the feeling didn’t let up. It was as if God had him lassoed and was dragging him west after that youngster who hadn’t even a nodding acquaintance with soap and water. And who’d been much too proud to let him see her cry. The quaking shoulders had done it in spite of her.

Drops the size of teacups were soaking him by the time he heard a dog bark, which was the only thing that kept him from riding on by the soddy that lay half buried in the side of a small hill. Since it
faced south, the hillock had about hid it from sight, until he followed the sound of the barking dog and nearly rode right over the roof. He swung off on a curve and rode into what might have been called a yard at one time. A corral, or what was left of it, stuck out on both sides of the sod wall that housed a door with one window beside it. Zeb had seen other dugouts like this in the Sand Hills of Nebraska. People used whatever they could to create a shelter from the harsh climate. Right now, he and his horse could use some shelter all right. But there was no barn in sight, and the door to the soddy never opened in welcome. Was this the right place?

“Halloo the house?” He waited. A horse whinnied and Buster answered. Was the horse inside the dugout? Zeb debated for about a second more, then swung off his mount, his slicker dumping a river of icy rainwater down his neck. He grumbled to himself as he led Buster through the missing fence section and up to the door. He hated to tie his horse out in a downpour like this, but what other choice did he have?

He pounded on the door with a gloved fist. “Anyone home?”

The dog slunk out from wherever he’d disappeared to when Zeb rode up. “Some watchdog you are.” The dog whined, his ears and tail perking only a mite at the sound of the man’s voice.

Zeb knocked again. Nothing. The law of the prairie said a man was welcome to an empty home if he needed shelter. Lightning slashed and thunder crashed. He reached for the latchstring, only to realize there wasn’t one, or it had been pulled in.

The door creaked open just enough to show part of a face and a hand clutching a rifle. “Whatcha want?”

Along with the lack of soap and water went a lack of manners. Where he came from, the two were gospel. “If I could get out of the rain?”

“Don’t allow strangers in here. Pa said.”

“Well, tell your pa I ain’t no stranger. I helped you find your cow.” He knew that was stretching the truth, but he’d at least saved her further looking.

“Cain’t.”

“Look, my name is Zebulun MacCallister. I just want a place out of the rain, and since your house is the only one around, I had hoped to shelter here. Land sakes, young lady. . .”

She waved the gun at him as though she might actually use it. “Is your pa here?” he quickly asked.

“No. Gone to get supplies. That’s why I cain’t open the door to strangers.”

“How about sick folk?” He sneezed once and then again.

The door cracked open a bit more. The dog slunk in, leaving Zeb wishing he could do the same. He knew he could push the door open. The thought had already crossed his mind more than once. “Well, then, miss . . .” He waited, hoping she would give a name. “Thank you for nothing. Tell your pa you did indeed abide by his wishes.” He turned and, flipping his reins around his horse’s neck, reached for the saddle horn. The seat ran water. He shoulda just stayed in it and headed east like he wanted. Must not have been hearing right, thinking the Lord wanted him to come here. One more strike against the Almighty.

“You can come on in. No room for your horse, though.” “Pardon me?” He turned back to the doorway.

“I said come in, but you’ll have to tie your horse to the fence. Only got room for one in here.”

“May I bring in my saddle?”

“If’n you want.”

He did want. Jerking a rope out of the saddlebags, he tied it around his horse’s neck and then to the one fence post that looked as if it might last out the storm. He slid the bridle off and looped it over his shoulder, but his gloves were so wet, he could barely unthread the cinch. After several attempts, he pulled one glove off with his teeth and jerked the latigo loose. Swinging the saddle over his shoulder, he headed for the house.

Once inside the door, he breathed in the smell of damp dirt, horse manure, and flickering smoke from the stub of a candle melting on the tabletop. The light reached not much farther than the table on which the candle sat. Zeb let his eyes grow accustomed to the dimness and set his saddle on the dirt floor by the door. A horse snorted back in the darkness.

“Manda?” A voice so frail he wasn’t sure if it came from a child or an adult broke the silence.

“Hush now.” Her voice curt, the girl faced Zeb from across the table, her gun at the ready.

“Look.” Zeb spread his hands in front of him.

“Don’t you go movin’ any.” She raised the barrel of the rifle. “Yer outa the rain and that’s what ya wanted.”

“Thank God for small favors.” He hoped to lighten the mood,
but the frown she wore informed him it hadn’t worked. “Look, Miss Manda.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? Where I come from, Miss Manda is the polite form of address. My mother taught me that, along with verses from the Good Book and even some poetry. Now, you wouldn’t want to cause my mother any distress in thinking that her son might be disrespectful, would you?”

He watched the inner argument chase its way across her face. The gun barrel wobbled. Swift as the water moccasins he’d caught in the swamps back home, he grabbed the rifle, making sure it pointed upward, and jerked it out of her hands. Setting the stock on the dirt floor, he kept the rifle beside his leg.

“What you go doing that for?” She came at him, tipping the flimsy table in her surge for the rifle. The candle died at the same time as she hit him in the solar plexus with the top of her head. The force of it drove him back a couple of paces. He tripped over his saddle, and the two of them crashed to the floor.

It was all he could do to keep hold of the rifle with one hand and try to fend her off with the other. She sat on his chest, pounding her fists into whatever part of his flesh she could connect with.

“Ow. Stop that! I wasn’t going to hurt you or take anything, and you darn well know it. Stop that now.” His cheek stung. His nose ran wet, and still he couldn’t get a good hold on her.

“You gimme that rifle and I’ll let you up!”

“Let me up?” He gave a mighty heave and, tipping her to the side, wrapped one leg around her torso and pinned her to the ground. Never in his entire life had he treated a female like this. His ears burned at the thought of what his mother would say. Or did they burn because the girl lambasted him on the way over?

He finally managed to clamp hold of one of her wrists and twisted it until she yelped. Now his ears burned from the stream of invectives she hurled at him.