Part 22 (2/2)

”Have ya heard anythin' aboutamy pa?” asked Laramie, s.h.i.+fting his attention back to the man beside him.

White Eagle's eyes darkened.

”Not good news,” he said.

Laramie turned toward him. ”What do you mean?”

”They raid. Bank. Not good.”

”You meanasome of themadidn't make it?”

White Eagle nodded.

”My pa?”

”I not know. Only know not good. Only two horse come back. Funny little man.”

”Sam?”

”Man makes much spit.” White Eagle spit in the dust to demonstrate.

”Sam,” said Laramie.

”One more. Hurt bad. Not new horse of father.”

Laramie felt a lump come into his throat. He knew with a certainty that he had to get to his father's campa”quickly. He began to gather the reins of the buckskin.

”How long ago?” he asked as he mounted.

”Twoa”maybe three moons,” said White Eagle.

Laramie reached down to clasp the hand of his old friend one last time. He might never see him again. They looked at each other steadily, then without exchanging words, they both turned to go.

There was no man on the ledge that guarded the entrance to the camp. Laramie carefully studied the position before urging his mount forward.

As he rode into the little settlement he noticed how dilapidated the buildings all were. Bad before, they were even worse now. Everything seemed strangely deserted. Maybe there was no one around.

Then he noticed there were two horses in the corral. Someone must still live here.

He was dismounting when a shot rang out and splintered a pine bough just above his head. He dived for cover at the same moment that the buckskin reared and spun around, fear making the animal's nostrils flare.

Another shot. This one thumped into the tree behind which Laramie crouched. In the instant before Laramie ducked, he saw the shooter. It was Sam who leveled the rifle and was taking careful aim.

As soon as the echo stopped resounding off the rock walls of the valley, Laramie bellowed, ”Sam. Sam, it's me. Laramie.”

He waited.

”Show yerself,” came a raspy voice.

Laramie wondered at the wisdom of obeying the command, but at last he eased out from behind the pine.

”Well, I'll be,” said Sam, his rifle barrel gradually lowering. ”It is Laramie.”

Laramie looked around for his buckskin. The animal stood a few feet away, still appearing skitterish. The pack horse had run off several yards and was now feeding on the thick gra.s.s beneath a clump of birch.

Sam was walking toward him, his rifle lowered but still in his hand. His whiskered face was gaunt and his eyes dark and angry. ”Ya got a nerve showin' up here,” he growled.

It was not much different than Laramie had expected.

”I came back to see my pa,” he said in explanation as he stooped to pick up his hat, which had landed in the dust.

”Yer pa,” said Sam, and he spit in the dirt.

Laramie nodded and whipped the dust from his Stetson before putting it back on his head.

”Wella”I'd say you were about three months too late,” snapped Sam.

Laramie stared. ”Ya meana”?”

”Dead! Like the rest of 'em. I'm the only one left.” He spit again, his eyes glaring at Laramie.

The sudden pain in Laramie's heart was like a huge fist squeezing the life out of it. If onlya”

He turned away for a moment.

He turned back to Sam, swallowing hard. ”Buried here?” he managed to ask.

Sam nodded. The gun had finally dropped down to his side. ”Ya ain't brung a posse in here, have ya?” he asked gruffly.

Laramie's shock showed on his face. ”Ya know better,” he threw back at the old man.

Sam nodded his head toward one of the falling-down buildings. ”Wella”come in, then,” he offered.

”I'll not be stoppin',” Laramie replied. ”Just long enough toapay my respectsa.”

He gathered the reins of his mount and led him to a hitching post. The pack horse wouldn't wander far, he reasoned. Not with the other horses nearby.

”Now thet yer here, ya might as well come in,” Sam said, spitting. Then he nodded toward the trees to their right. Laramie understood that his father had been buried there.

He found the grave. It was marked by a small homemade cross. On it had been written one word. ”Boss.” Laramie reached up and removed his hat. He felt choked. Saddened. He had wanted to talk to this man. To ask his forgiveness. To tell of his newfound faith. And now he was gone. It was too late. Too late.

It was some time before Laramie felt ready to talk to Sam. He knew now that he would have to talk with him. He had so many questions. He needed some answers.

Sam had brewed an awful pot of weak coffee. They sat sipping it slowly, each deep in thought. Sam chewed on his dirty mustache and spit frequently into the corner, and Laramie toyed with his Stetson and rubbed unconsciously at the scar on his forehead.

At last Laramie spoke. ”How'd it happen?”

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