Free The Long Trail Home by Stephen A. Bly Page A

fingered the trigger.
    It doesn’t make any sense.
    No matter what happened in the Black Hills, you just don’t mail a Sharps off to Indian Territory in hopes that a wayward son will wander by and spot it.
    I haven’t had an address I was proud of in years.
    If Daddy died, then this belongs to Todd. He’s the oldest. The favorite. The one who shadowed Daddy around the ranch. The one I never could be like. Taller. Stronger. Smarter. The Coryell County ranch was going to be yours, Todd. I wonder how you ever got over losin’ that.
    I never did.
    Or they could have sent the carbine to Robert. Why didn’t they send it to him? It would have looked good on that prancing cavalry horse. It’s anyway as good as a trapdoor. Robert’s the perfect soldier. For every rule I broke, he kept two. Just like Mama. He was her little trooper from the day he was born. Everything was cut and dry; black and white; right and wrong. Bobby, life isn’t that simple—except for you. I’m glad you’re happy with your Jamie Sue, . . . and no tellin’ how many children. You named the first after Big River Frank. Must be more by now. Bobby, I bet you’ve got their faces scrubbed and their hats on straight, and you’re marchin’ them around that white picket-fenced yard. You got ’em signed up to West Point yet?
    Fortune picked up the carbine and held it gingerly at his shoulder. He aimed it for the southern night sky. He sighted in each flash of lightening as if it were a target. The huge Sharps hammer wasn’t cocked, so he squeezed the trigger at each flash.
    Daddy, no wonder you liked this old gun. It fits comfortable in the hand and packs a wallop. That’s fine if you’re huntin’. But if you’re the one bein’ hunted, . . . well, I need more than a single-shot.
    . . . When Rocklin pays us off, I’m goin’ home to Coryell County. Aunt Barbara and Uncle Milt will still be there. They’ll tell me what happened to Daddy. I’ll slip in late some night, get caught up on the news, and slip out by daylight. Maybe I’ll ride by the ranch. At least I can pull some weeds from Mama’s grave.
    A sudden pain at the base of his back caused him to sit straight up and stretch his arms out.
    I think maybe I’ll retire from breaking horses. This is a job for kids. All the Fortune boys are over thirty. . . .
    Dacee June’s twenty-one? She could be married. Heaven help the boy she marries. She was only ten when I left home the last time. Ten, but actin’ sixteen.
    Fortune let out a deep sigh and tried to find a comfortable spot on his side.
    That’s the trouble with not sleepin’: A man becomes melancholy. Maybe I ought to be like Kiowa—just think of women at night . . . instead of kin. But most of the women I’ve known have been like Ladosa and Piney, good-hearted women who have to live with a lifetime of bad choices.
    I need to sleep.
    For about a month.
    When he finally sat up straight, the green prairie grass around him stood a foot tall. The sun barely peeked over the western hills and the mild wind swayed the grass like gentle waves lapping the shore of a mountain lake.
    The lady sitting on the blanket beside him had a wide-brimmed straw hat pulled low to shade her face. Her legs were tucked beneath her, covered by her dark blue dress. In her lap a small Bible lay open. She was reciting a verse and did not look at him.
    â€œâ€˜Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy lovingkindness: according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies blot out my transgressions.’”
    â€œMama?” he gasped.
    â€œWell, you decided to wake up! I trust all of that watermelon didn’t give you a stomachache. Sammy, go check on Daddy and your brother.”
    â€œEh, . . . where are they?”
    She waved to the north. “You know! See if they need any help. Take Daddy his carbine.”
    He scooped up the Sharps and