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Ross Morton Death at Bethesda Falls

CHAPTER ONE

The pistol butt crumpled the worn crown of Drift's hat, and cracked his head hard enough to drive him to his knees as if sledged. He pitched to his side on the packed dirt and straw of the stable floor. The floor became the ceiling and kept on moving, sliding away from him. Now someone was fooling with him, trying to put their hands over his eyes. Some sort of kids' game. A face appeared, leaned close over his, and just under a broad black hat brim Drift saw the man's eyes. He knew those eyes. But from where? As his vision darkened the answer came to him, too late. And then he knew two things at once: This was no kiddies' game, and he must already be dead because those same eyes belonged to a man long gone from this earth.

With a damp rag Jenna wiped the table and pans from the morning's baking, humming the one melody she remembered from her Vermont childhood. Her Gran sang whenever she worked in the tiny farm kitchen where Jenna spent her summers. Now busy in her own kitchen, Jenna understood why. It made the work lighter and kept a smile on her face. Outside, the massive, ragged peaks of the Wyoming Territory's Rockies seemed a world and a lifetime away from those low green hills of her childhood back East. She could never recall any more of the song other than the same short phrase, but it was enough for baking.

Most of the major fall chores were well underway or already done, and that meant the ranch was about as ready as it would ever be for winter. With Niall returning later today from selling the fall stock, it would be the perfect evening for a feast. And Jenna had just the meal in mind.

She gave the rag a final shake into the long dry sink and grabbing a lantern and a match, she went out the back door to the root cellar Niall had dug into the hillside behind the house a few years back. It served them well for wintering over produce from their garden and also proved ideal for aging game.

She held the oil lantern close by her face and stared with satisfaction at the laden hooks and shelves sagging under the weight of a bountiful summer of gardening, one of their best yet. She selected two plump carrots, hesitated, then slid a third from the hanging bunch. She separated two onions from their bunch, chose a half-dozen potatoes, and lifted down the fine fall turkey she'd been aging since Uncle Drift shot it days before.

She climbed the four steps up to ground level, blew out the lantern, and held her breath in anticipation of the biting wind awaiting her. If Uncle Drift was right, and he was, as he said, about half the time, this cold wind was a calling card for a sizable first snowstorm of the season. She slammed the cellar door and slid the bolts through their catches, wishing she'd remembered her shawl. She hustled across the yard to the back door, arms full, and into the warmth of the kitchen.

As she set the food on the counter she heard the familiar cold-weather squawk of the metal pump handle raising and lowering. It couldn't be Niall. He wasn't due back until nightfall. And where time and Niall Winters were concerned, you could set your watch to the man's intentions. Could be Uncle Drift, though it was too early for him to be drawing water for the stock. The only time he did that chore early was before he headed to town, and he just took his monthly town trip last week. She looked through the small window beside the door.

She couldn't see much of the man at the trough except that he had height and was on the lean side. Though not as tall as her husband, he was wide shouldered. He wore a dark, dirty hat with a tall crown, and black, limp clothes. His horse, a blue roan, drank out of the trough beside him.

I'd better be hospitable, she thought, before Uncle Drift comes out of the barn to pepper this stranger with questions. Drift didn't care that it was rude behavior. He'd say that he's naturally curious and too dang old to be polite any more. She reached for the door handle, thought of the increasing wind and cold, and swung her work shawl over her shoulders.

The door opening and closing hadn't stirred the man. She regarded him fully now. He's either deaf or really thirsty. His horse lifted its head and looked at her, water streaming from its mouth, its ears perked forward. She looked beyond the man and horse toward the barn. No sign of Uncle Drift. He'll be cleaning stalls, she thought, and will not yet have seen the visitor.

"Hello there," she said. No response. "You have to raise the pump handle extra high so the gasket doesn't catch," she said, nodding at the pump. He continued drinking, looking up just enough for her to see his unshaven chin. She saw he had dark hair, and he wore it long. She tried again, "It's something else we've yet to fix, but it gets us by." She pulled the shawl tighter about her shoulders.

The man dipped the chipped tin cup that was there for all to use right in the horse water and drank again from it. He didn't look back down at the water, but she didn't think he was looking at her.

"You been here long?" she said, an edge to her tone now. Something about him struck her as familiar, and she was irritated that Uncle Drift still hadn't come out of the barn. For that matter, she wished Niall was back already.

"You come a long ways?" she asked, stepping back onto the porch, just under the shadow of the overhang, enough to keep the cold sun out of her eyes. He still didn't look up, didn't say a thing. But he did nod his head once.

Where was Uncle Drift? It was rare that she couldn't at least hear him from the bunkhouse or the corral just beyond it, though only half of it could be seen from where she was standing.

"If you'll excuse me, I have something on the stove," she motioned behind her toward the door and turned.

He hung the gray cup on its nail and looked over at her. "I ain't eaten in days," he said. His voice was harsh and low, like river sand ground between rocks. He pushed his ragged coat open and slid his thumb behind a worn black gun belt. With a long, grimy finger he pushed his hat brim up and walked forward, dropping the reins on the edge of the trough where they flopped into the water. He stopped at the bottom of the steps.

His hands were filthy, the nails long and caked with crescents of dirt. She knew she should move. Retreat to the kitchen, bolt the door, and lift down the shotgun. She knew she should do this but she did not move, could not move. She saw his face fully now for the first time as he looked up at her. And she knew she was seeing a ghost.

But no, it couldn't be. "Uncle Drift!" she shouted, her voice strained, near hysterical. She didn't care. She shouted again and again. The roan nickered, ears perked, and stepped backward a pace from the trough. That was all. No movement or sound from the barn. She looked to the paddock where the horses were kept. Nothing moved there, either.

She stepped backward toward the door, laid her hand on the latch. "Uncle Drift," she said, only loud enough for the stranger to hear her. Jenna looked at him. He stared at her and shook his head.

She put a hand to her mouth and fumbled with the door handle. By the time she got inside and had the door pulled shut he was there, just outside. She grabbed at the deadbolt and almost had it slid home when the door opened wide and the stranger stood, framed by daylight, the wind blowing into the kitchen and rustling his coat and the brim of his hat. Her dress flapped against her legs. He moved into the kitchen and shut the door.

"What do you want?" she said, backing to the far wall, edging toward the back door.

"I said I haven't eaten in a while."

She stopped. Food. Maybe that's all he wants, then he'll leave. He stepped forward and lifted his gaze. There were those eyes again. It couldn't be him, not after all these years. Not after any amount of time. The dead don't come back to life. She edged toward the countertop where she left her kitchen knife by the vegetables.

"Don't," he said in that dark voice. He pushed the side of his coat back and rested his hand on the hilt of a sheathed long blade meant for hacking. A pistol sat snug in a holster just behind it. He walked to the table and flipped back the towel covering the biscuits she made for supper. He grabbed a handful, stuffed one in his mouth, held it there, and crammed the rest in his coat pockets. He did everything at an unhurried pace. He emptied the contents of the basket into his pockets and chewed the biscuit in his mouth. It was gone in three bites. "Good biscuit."

He stepped around the table and stopped in front of her. She was backed up against the cupboards. She pulled her collar and shawl tight around her throat, but could not stop shaking.

He stared at her as if deciding something. She was right. The face, the eyes, even the voice. It's him, come back from the dead. This can't be happening. She shot a look at the door. Where was Niall? He should be here. This couldn't happen again. It was impossible.

His eyes narrowed and he said, "Let's go," as if she should have been expecting him all these years. He turned to the stove, put his hands over it. Now was her chance. She groped behind her for the knife. Carrots, an onion, the turkey-where was the knife? She half-turned.

"You lookin' for this?" he said, holding up her knife. She'd left it to dry on the warming shelf to prevent rust. The stranger tossed the knife behind the stove. It clattered in the wood box.

He turned, held out an arm toward the door, and said, "Let's go."

She took a step, stopped, and said, "Where . . . where are you taking me?" but even as she asked she knew. He looked her square in the eye and nodded slowly. She knew.

On their way past the trough he grabbed his horse's reins. She saw extra gear lashed securely, just behind the cantle. It was a stout horse, and appeared to be in good flesh.

"To the barn," he said.

As she drew near the big double doors she slowed. Uncle Drift. She didn't want to know, couldn't know. It would be too much. He pushed her in the middle of her back with his knuckles. The touch sent a trail of ice up her spine. She stumbled forward and stood in front of the closed doors.

"Open 'em," he said. She obeyed and there lay Uncle Drift in the middle of the barn floor, on his back, arched a bit, his boots moving slowly as if he were trying to walk while lying down. He didn't make a sound. His face was gray like old fabric washed too many times. Dirt and straw were gripped in his hands and there were furrows where his fingers had clawed. A puddle of near-black liquid surrounded his head like a halo. Half of his head was smeared with the same. It can't be blood, she thought. It's much too dark, though she knew better. His crumpled hat lay upturned by his head. The two-tined hay fork lay on the floor a few feet away. She ran to him, dropped to her knees, and took his face in her hands. She whispered his name, told him he would be fine, everything would be fine. But he didn't see her. His eyelids flickered and his tongue looked swollen, gray and thick, too thick for his mouth. She kissed his forehead and heard his breath rasping.

"Get up," the stranger said. For a second she didn't know who he was talking to.

She looked up at him and shouted, "You did this! You filthy animal. Why?" He just stood there, staring at her.

She rose to her feet, sobbing, not caring now what happened to her. She lunged at him and, so quick she didn't see it happen, he pulled his pistol. "Saddle that horse. The bay. Now." He wagged the pistol toward the horse. He didn't seem concerned about any of the goings-on. The bay was hers, Sweet Baby, Niall's present to her for their wedding anniversary six years ago.

She stood still, clenched her teeth, and stared at him. He pulled the hammer back and said, "Now" as if he were saying, "Good soup."

She still didn't move. He stepped forward and put the end of the pistol barrel against her face, right between her eyes. "Now."

She closed her eyes and swallowed. She could not stop shaking, but she did what she needed to, going through motions born of repetition. Her entire life she'd been rigging horses to ride. When her horse was saddled, he pointed his pistol at Slate, Niall's big gray.

"Saddle him, too." She did as told and then he had her fill two gunny sacks with feed corn, tie them off, and hang them from Slate's saddle horn.

Minutes later they were out of the barn and mounting up. He tied her hands together with rough rope, wrapping the wrists until they throbbed, then he tied them to the saddle horn. It hurt but she was beyond caring. Niall was nowhere to be seen. Uncle Drift would soon die without a doctor's attention, and she was being kidnapped by a ghost from a past she thought was long buried. She took a last look in the half-open door at Uncle Drift. He lay in the same position as before. Cold wind sliced across the yard and blew hair across her face.

The past, she decided as they rode out of the yard, never dies.

"Heyah," said the stranger and spurred his horse forward. Her horse was last in the short line, following Slate, who was tied behind the stranger's horse. They galloped into the high hills beyond the ranch as the first lazy snowflakes drifted down. The snow, she knew, would soon cover everything in sight.

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