Free Soul Catcher by Michael C. White Page A

workin' up a considerable appetite."
    Cain headed back to his horse and removed his rifle scabbard and then from his saddlebags got a section of oilcloth as well as the wooden case containing his gun supplies. He went over and sat near the sputtering balsam-wood fire, trying to coax some of its frail heat into his chilled bones. He draped the oilcloth over himself and his lap so as to keep out the rain while he worked. He methodically cleaned and oiled his Sharp's rifle, then put it back in the leather scabbard. Next, he set about reloading his pistol, concerned the powder might have gotten wet in the damp weather; he didn't like to take the chance of its not firing if called upon to do so. The Walker Colt was a large, heavy gun, .44 caliber with a nine-inch barrel and ornate engraving along the side. Designed for Captain Walker by Sam Colt himself for the war in Mexico. Cain had had it since '46 when he'd joined the fray. It was a good and dependable gun, one that shot true and didn't jam, and it had seen him through some close calls both in the war and after. He first melted lead in a frying pan over the fire and then poured the molten metal into his bullet mold. When the lead had hardened sufficiently, he clipped off the bullet's sprue and polished the round with a cloth. After that, he cleaned and dried the gun, then poured fresh powder into the chambers and rammed home the six large-caliber balls and topped off each chamber with lard to prevent flashover. After that, he placed the percussion caps in place, all except for the sixth chamber, which he kept open. He'd seen men accidentally shoot themselves in the foot because of such an oversight. For all that his life was a thing of wild disorder and impending mayhem, when it came to the tools of his trade, his gun and horse and saddle, Cain was a precise and careful man. Cautious. Even fastidious. Someone who didn't know him well--and few did-- might have said he was timorous of heart or that he set too high a value upon his own neck. He wasn't and didn't. The truth was he simply took pleasure in his small rituals, in doing a thing the right way, just for its own sake. Do it right the first time and it would stay done, his father had taught him. One of the few tidbits of wisdom that his father had given him that he held on to. Finished, he wiped the gun lightly with a greased rag and slid it into the holster on his hip and covered it beneath his greatcoat.
    Then he reached into an inside pocket, grabbed hold of the flask, and took a long draft of laudanum, hoping to quiet the throbbing ache in his bad leg. He thought of his father again. He had not seen him, had not so much as exchanged a written word, since that night he'd run off to join the fight down in Mexico. Cain could still recall the moment vividly. His father had been in his study perusing ledger books. The man's life had been governed by such things, shackled by lists of expenses and profits, penned in by crop and livestock prices, feed and grain costs, the purchase and upkeep of his slaves. He had his head down in concentration and didn't see his son standing out in the hallway trying to work up the gumption to tell him something of importance. Cain, who was to be married in less than three days' time, had wanted to talk to his father. He'd wanted to tell him . . . what? That it was a mistake, that he didn't love the woman he was about to tie his future to? That the life his father had, more or less, chosen for him was not the one he himself wanted? That he'd envisioned another sort of life, one that he could not even shape into words, let alone words his father would understand? That he was planning on going off and fighting in a war that had nothing to do with him in the least? Of course, he couldn't have told him any of that. His father would have understood that about as readily as if he'd told him he was going down to the slave quarters and telling them they all had the next day off from working in the