Free The Savage Trail by Jory Sherman Page B

him.”
    â€œNope, he sure didn’t, did he?”
    â€œSo let me go my own way. I made a vow over my pa’s and ma’s graves that I’d avenge their deaths. And Pa left me that pistol. It’s the only thing of his I have. I think he and God, maybe, want me to use it. I took that as a sign. From the Great Spirit, maybe.”
    Ben took his hand from John’s shoulder and reared back for another critical look at him. Then, he smiled.
    â€œYou know, Johnny,” Ben said, “sometimes you make a lot of sense.”
    â€œYou understand what I mean. Why I have to stay on this trail.”
    â€œIt’s maybe a danger trail, Johnny.”
    â€œAnd I’ll ride it out.”
    â€œYou want me to go with you?”
    â€œSure, Ben. I’m sorry I let my temper loose on you a while ago.”
    â€œThat’s all right. Let’s ride it then, Johnny, that danger trail.”
    Ben went to his horse and climbed up into the saddle. John stepped into his saddle and moved Gent close to Ben.
    â€œOne more thing, Ben, about those two graves.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œI dug mine a long time ago, when I put my folks in the ground. So don’t you worry none, hear?”
    Ben shivered in the warm sun as Gent stepped out and headed back down to the road. John sat straight and tall in the saddle, like a man who feared nothing nor anyone. Ben loved John in that moment, and he respected him, too, for speaking his own mind and working things out for himself.
    Maybe, God willing, that other grave would stay empty a good long time.

12
    Two crows strutted along the corral fence, stopping every so often to peck at a kernel of cracked corn or a grain of dusty wheat. They looked like miniature preachers in black sacerdotal garb, the sun glinting on the sheen of their feathers, flashing black and green and blue. A horse in the corral watched them with wide-eyed suspicion as he stood at the feed trough just inside the shaggy cedar poles of the fence. Another horse, its neck arched, head down, slaked its thirst in the water trough, nibbling with rubbery lips, nostrils blowing little waves in the water as if to cool it all down as he drank in the heat of the seething yellow sun.
    â€œSomebody’s comin’, Mitch,” Roy Kerrigan said as he sat in a chair under the shade of the ramshackle porch.
    Mitchell Dooley, on the top step, his lanky frame sprawled there with legs outstretched, looked up from the stick he was whittling on and squinted into the glare.
    â€œYeah, it looks like Bender.”
    "Bender? The damned mole who never sees the light of day?”
    â€œIt’s Bender, all right. Seldom seen in sunlight.”
    Roy Kerrigan laughed and swatted at a bluebottle fly that buzzed around his face, attracted by the dried remnants of eggs and biscuits clinging to his chin. He was a redheaded string bean of a man, with blue eyes so pale they looked as if they were coated with whitewash. With his hat pushed to the back of his head, the scars on his face stood out in stark relief, blanched serpentine scrawls on weathered, suntanned skin.
    â€œHe must have something pretty big in his craw,” Dooley said, drawing one leg up and putting a boot on the bottom step. He set the stick down on the edge of the porch and closed the blade of his barlow pocketknife. The bluebottle sizzled around his face and he waved it off with a tanned, leathery hand.
    The two men waited for Bender to ride in close enough for positive identification. Dooley turned his head to look at Kerriganand nodded.
    â€œYep, it’s Roscoe hisself,” Roy said. “In full daylight. If that don’t beat all.”
    Mitch chuckled. They had never seen Bender except at night and seldom away from the Frontier. They often joked about Bender being a mole who stayed underground all of his life.
    â€œGlad I found you boys to home,” Roscoe said as he rode up.
    â€œLight down, Roscoe,” Mitch said.