Free Haxan by Kenneth Mark Hoover

at the expansive desert, the high grass in Larsen Valley burned yellow by the sun, the silver curve of Broken Bow River miles away, and the blue buttes and red mesas rising like giant chess pieces to the north.
    For all its brutality and raw violence, Sangre County was also wild and beautiful, free and open country.
    Magra faced back around. I saw she accepted the unavoidable fact her father was gone forever. She was a strong girl. I found myself wishing I had known both her parents. I think I would have liked them.
    “My heart is on the ground but you picked a good place to bury my father, John. Even though a very bad thing happened here.”
    The tree was scarred where I had pulled out the railroad spikes last night. One remained embedded in the trunk, driven deep and caked with dried blood.
    “I did what I could for him, Magra. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.”
    “No, I want to thank you.” She squatted beside the grave and rested her brown hands on one of the stones. She looked very small and frail inside her big coat with its jumbled carpetbag patches.
    “You did more than enough,” she said softly. “When I put my ear to the ground I listened to the desert speak. My mother taught me how to do this. The land is at peace and my father is resting.”
    “I hope so.” I didn’t know what else to say.
    She regarded me. Her hair was braided tight on either side of her face. “Papa can still night-walk me if he has a mind. Mother did it when I was back east, long after she died on the Long Walk to Fort Sumner. Yet I haven’t heard from her in many, many years. Maybe she lost her way in the Everywhere Land and can’t find a spiritual path back to our world. It happens sometimes when you night-walk.”
    “I hope they both visit you soon, Magra.”
    “I carry much grief inside. I should cut my hair and knife the tip of my little finger off.”
    “I know it’s your custom, and it’s not my place to say, but I don’t think you should. I don’t want you to mutilate yourself. It’s not right.”
    “Papa would not like it, either. He loved Mother, yet he did not believe in all of her ways. So I will continue as he would have wished and not do those things to myself.” She sighed. “I am ready to go home now.”
    I helped her back on my horse. We rode around, looking to see if we could cut the trail of the wagon. We couldn’t follow it far. The ground was too hard. As we rode toward town she put her chin back on my shoulder.
    We listened to coyotes calling across the flat.
    “The season has been very dry,” she remarked. “They will come to the ranches and kill cattle if we don’t get rain.”
    “I’ve heard they already started. What’s that big butte off to the north?”
    “That’s Cottonwood Butte. Many of the largest ranches surround it like spokes on a wheel.”
    “Ranches like the Lazy X?”
    “Yes. John, stop by Papa’s old place.”
    “No.” There was nothing for her to see there.
    “Please? I want to look around.”
    I tugged the reins and we set out across flat, weathered stones. We followed a thin, meandering creek between the black boulders and their shining white symbols of mystical power.
    I pulled short. Magra stared at the blackened and charred remains of her father’s home. Her entire life lay in ruin.
    “All right,” she said, releasing a pent up breath. “Let’s go.”

CHAPTER 8
    W hen I reached the office I had to head right back out to deliver government papers to Fort Providence. It was a long, hot ride. When hours later I returned to Haxan I discovered my packages from the mercantile emporium had arrived. I opened them and was putting things where I thought they belonged when Jake sidled through the door, a bundle of mail in his arms.
    “Hello, Marshal. How was the ride to Fort Providence?”
    “Damned hot and dry.”
    “We’re hurting for rain,” he agreed. “While you were gone I thought I would run down to the depot to see if there was mail. Most of this