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Hounded

By Terry Burns

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Chapter 1

There were no lights on in the small cabin.
Sam stepped inside, fumbled for a match to light the lantern, and turned up the wick. As the tiny flame blossomed, he saw her lying near the fireplace. He caught his breath, suddenly getting lightheaded. The room swam and he put out a hand for the small table to steady himself. Missing the table, he went to his knees.
He crawled over to her. Blood was everywhere. “Mama!” he screamed.
He cradled her head. Her eyelids flickered open. “Sam?” She reached up with a bloodstained hand. “Thank God, I was so hoping that I’d see you before . . . before . . .”
The sentence was lost in a painful sounding cough.
Sam looked at her wounds. She had been stabbed several times. Her simple homespun dress was soaked and a pool of blood surrounded her on the floor. It didn't seem possible she could have any left in her body.
“Who did this?” he croaked.
“Drifter,” her voice was almost a whisper. “He had a marled eye with a scar leading through it. Big man, black hair and mustache. He was so evil.”
She gave a couple of choking coughs, then a tiny smile.
He gathered himself to rise. “I better go for the doctor.”
She took a grip on his arm to prevent him from getting up, her smile becoming weaker. “There’s no time. You’ll bury me by your father, won’t you?”
His face was a mask of shock and disbelief. “Bury you? No, no, you can’t leave me.”
“It’s all right. I’m ready. I prayed that God would let me say goodbye and he did. He allowed me to hang on.”
More coughing wracked her small body.
Sam cried openly now, the tears blurred his vision as they ran down the stubble on his cheeks. “No, it just can’t be.”
“The man tried to have his way me, but I fought. He didn’t expect it, I think. I used my paring knife on him, cut him good on his cheek down to his neck, but then he took it away and used it on me.”
She coughed again and then smiled. “He didn’t get what he was after. I beat him out of that.”
Sam’s face became suddenly hard, his eyes burned in their sockets. “I’ll get him. Those scars will make him easy to find.”
Her eyes pleaded with his, “No! Let the sheriff handle it. I don’t want you getting into trouble. You’ve always been a good boy. Let the law handle it. You hear me?”
His face softened. “Yes, Ma’am.”
He always did as his mother wished, but he wasn’t sure he could do it this time.
“One more thing…”
“Yes, Ma'am?”
“I know so often people lose their faith over the death of a loved one. Promise me you won’t blame God. He isn’t taking me; that bad man did that, but I know he’s ready to welcome me. I can feel it. Someone is here for me, they’ve been here with me, I’ve felt them waiting patiently, but I know they’re here. You have to promise me you won’t blame—”
She made a strange rattling sound. “Mama?”
No answer.
She was gone.



Sam didn’t know how long he sat there, cradling her head in his lap, rocking and crying as he held her close. He knew what he had to do, but he didn’t want to do it, didn’t want to say goodbye. His mother was his life, the only family he had.
Why hadn’t he been there with her? Why wasn’t he there to protect her and keep her safe when she needed him most?
He knew why.
Since his father had died, Samuel Duncan had worked as a day hand on surrounding spreads or even done odd jobs in town as he made ends meet and took care of his mother. The little blanket spread had gone on the block some time ago, bought by a big neighbor who let them continue to live in their house since he had no use for it. Sam paid the rent by the day work he did for that
rancher in return. It was a lot to ask of an eighteen-year-old.
Sam hadn’t complained, somebody had to do it and hard work had been his life since he was a youngster. Hard work and scratching around to keep food on the table made him lean and tough as a rawhide rope.
It didn't make him anything special. Boys his age were riding with the cavalry and on trail drives, working as cowboys or in stores and factories. Girls even younger were getting married and starting families. Young people grew up fast on the frontier.
He knew that everybody was aware of how rough it had been for them and he really felt like people respected him for how he had stood up to a man’s responsibility. He’d done his best to earn that respect and had just finished working roundup at the Anchor J. He’d hurried back, not wanting to spend another day without checking on his mother. He’d ridden through the night to get home. He wished he had started home earlier, or not worked that job . . . something . . . anything.
He knew why he hadn’t been there . . . but it didn’t help.
Light from the windows told him the sun was well up. With a deep sigh he mustered the strength to get up. He had to bury her. He picked up the knife to cut some canvas from the wagon cover in the barn. It would make a suitable shroud.
He moved woodenly, as if in a daydream. His head didn’t work and his chest felt as if it was locked in a vise. He was in such a state that he didn’t even see the big man sitting his horse in front of the house.
“What’s going on here, boy? How’d you get that blood all over
you?”
Sam's head came up to look to where the voice had come from, trying to focus, trying to make sense of the words.
Sheriff Fancher’s gun came out. “That looks like a bloody knife you’re toting, boy. You best let it drop and keep your hand away from that gun.”
The sheriff was from nearby Turkey Creek and had known Sam all his life, but apparently felt the knife couldn't be ignored.
“Knife?” Sam looked at it stupidly, as if seeing it for the first time. “Oh, I’m going out to cut a piece of canvas.”
“Whatcha need canvas for, boy? Where’s yore mama?”
The barrel of the sheriff's forty-five looked as big as a drainpipe and didn't so much as waver, but it barely rated a glance. Sam continued to stare at the knife trying to make sense of things. He remembered what he was doing.
“I need it to bury mama. She’s dead.”
“Dead?” Fancher thumbed back the hammer on his forty-five. "Maybe you best lift that hogleg out of that holster easy like with your left hand, and I ain’t gonna tell you again to drop that knife.”
Sam let both drop on the porch. “What’re you giving me such a hard time for, Sheriff? I came home to find her all cut up; it’s the worst day of my life.”
Fancher extended his left hand as if warding Sam off. He made a sweeping gesture, keeping the pistol trained steadily. “You step away from those weapons, down to the end of the porch. I don’t know what’s going on here, but I shore enough aim to find out. And I can't check it out and keep an eye on you at the same time.”
Sam moved down the porch and Fancher stepped down from his horse. A big man with a potbelly, he wasn’t the lawman he had once been, balding and soft. He was still enough lawman to tote the badge, though, and he took the job seriously.
He tossed a pair of manacles to Sam. “You reach around that post and put these on, boy.”
Sam reached around the rough cedar post and snapped the manacles on both wrists. He leaned against it and closed his eyes, the rough bark grating his cheek, “I told you I didn’t do anything, sheriff. I found her that way.”
“So you say. I ain’t gonna keep telling you everything twice, son. You settle yourself down there and I’ll get to the bottom of this. If I’m wrong, I’ll apologize.”

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