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Riverbend Justice: Book 2 in the Riverbend Sagas

By Henry McLaughlin

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Chapter 1
Monday, June 17, 1878
He squeezed the trigger. Opened his eyes. Had he said a prayer? Was it granted or rejected when the kidnapper, Maria, slumped to the ground, dead at his hand?
Why would God listen to the likes of me?
Michael Archer’s eyes focused on the flickering campfire, the heat warming his face, but his mind was back in that valley with its lush grass, gurgling streams and stench of death.
At the edge of his consciousness, he knew others moved around the camp, knew two sat at the fire with him.
“What time you figure we’ll get in tomorrow?” Jeremiah Turner, awkward in his sling, poured coffee into his tin cup. He blew across the surface before risking a tentative sip.
“Late morning, I expect.” Bill Barkston scooped a spoonful of beans into his mouth. “Looking forward to seeing my wife and boy.” He looked at the wagon holding eight shrouded forms downwind from the campfire. “Ain’t looking forward to bringing sad news, though.”
Jeremiah sat on his haunches. “Yeah. That part’s never easy. Especially this much.” He nodded across the fire. “How about you, Michael? You looking forward to seeing Rachel?”
Michael started as if woken from a dream. His untouched plate of beans and bacon sat beside him. A stick was in his hand, random drawings in the dirt at his feet. Rachel? “Yeah. I guess so.” But would she want to see him? Once she knew what he’d done? He tossed the stick in the fire. “Excuse me.”
He walked toward the trees where the horses were staked out.
The conversation behind him followed the still night air. Jeremiah’s deep voice was soft and low. “He’s sure carrying a burden. Too heavy for one man, but he won’t share it with anyone.”
“Reckon he will when he’s ready. If it don’t crush him first.” Bill’s spoon scraped the bottom of his tin plate.
Michael stepped into the shadows of the trees, grateful to be away from the prying questions, the watchful, accusing eyes. His horse, Buddy, whinnied softly. Michael stroked the animal’s neck and buried his face in the mane. He waited.
The tears wouldn’t come. That well dried up during the days of the journey back, getting the wagon from the way station, retrieving the bodies of Vernon Phelps and his posse group. The lump in his chest grew heavier, the grief and shame pressed against him, his spirit bending, yielding, ready to break.
A twig snapped. Michael froze. Maybe whoever it was wouldn’t see him.
His friend, Old Thomas, would have seen. But Old Thomas wouldn’t have snapped a twig. Once again, Michael saw him spread-eagled on the dirt, blood around the hole in his chest, dead eyes staring into the crisp blue sky of the foothills, spirit gone before his body hit the ground. The rifle shot echoed in Michael’s brain.
The rifle shot he fired echoed, too. The one that only postponed Sam Carstairs’ death—but didn’t save him.
Tomorrow they would return to Riverbend, bringing grief and horror to so many people. So much waste. And he contributed to it.
Jeremiah’s words from the cabin rose up, as they had so often on the return journey. The part of him he used to hurt people could be used to help people? Really?
He killed his father to protect his sister. He fought Mark to protect Rachel. He killed Maria Alden to save Sam, to buy a few precious minutes during which Michael reconciled Sam with his youngest son, Ben. Because that was the only choice he had? He could use it as a tool for good?
At times, he could embrace the idea as life saving. At other times, his mind barraged him with memories of men beaten, women mistreated; memories of stealing and cheating; of using this same tool for meeting his own needs no matter what it did to others. How could he change that? How could he control it? He deluded himself if he thought he could allow the old Michael to roam free because it helped people.
Maybe Jeremiah’s words were what the hired gun told himself when he was feeling the weight of the lives he took.
Caleb Davis spoke from behind him. “Must seem like Buddy’s the only one you can talk to.”
Michael faced the sheriff. “Yeah. He’s always been a good listener.” He stroked Buddy’s flank. “Don’t talk much, though. Which is a good thing sometimes.”
“Yep.” Caleb pushed his hat off his forehead. “You ain’t talked to anybody much. You ready to ride into town tomorrow?”
“Not really. I’ve never been part of bringing this much grief to anybody, or being such a big part of making it happen.”
“Your part tweren’t no bigger than anyone else’s.”
Michael shook his head. “If I had shot sooner, I might have been able to wound her. If I had waited, we might have come up with a better plan.”
Fists planted on his hips, Caleb said, “There was no more time. She knew she wasn’t going to get away. She figured she’d at least take Sam with her. But you stopped her.”
“And Sam died anyway.”
Michael waited while Caleb paused, rubbing his chin. “Yes, he did. But not by your hand.”
Michael combed Buddy’s mane with his fingers, separating snarls, avoiding Caleb’s gray-green eyes. After a moment, the sheriff shrugged and walked to the fire.
When Caleb was seated, Michael edged his way down the picket line to the packhorses, their packs on the ground nearby. He slid his hand into one of the bags, grasped the hard, smooth cylinder. He held the bottle up, and, in the faint glare of the fire and the pale moon, saw the liquid shimmer when he shook it.
He held it like an infant. About a quarter full. No one would notice. His fingers touched the cork, danced away as if lightning struck, returned and gripped it firmly.

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