End of the Drive
by Von Harter

Three stumbling horses trailed young Dev Ganian. He glanced back. Two hauled packs stuffed with gewgaws for Mama and his little sisters. The last, the dark horse, held his father's gear. Of the three, the gelding was the weariest. The man's war bag was strapped to a worn saddle, his gun belt over that.

Dev closed his eyes. He pulled the sombrero from his head to wipe sweat and maybe a little something more from his eyes. The hat went back on with a sharp tug. He straightened in the saddle.

A bitter thing, a boy forced to watch his father, his hero, back-shot in a saloon. To see the man breathing his last facedown in lumps of chew, and sawdust and dark, wet stains.

From Kansas to the southern hills of the Pecos, Indians watched from many a rise. Four good horses, two with packs, weapons and the boy himself was strong wealth. For a lone boy to be so far from home, it was a sacred thing, a cleansing, and they respected bravery.

The hand on the reins tightened a hair and the dun horse slowed.

Dev loosened his grip. The horse quickened its pace. Mountains looming on the horizon sheltered home. In the midst of them were a rock house, and a corral the horses knew well enough. Dev let them take their time moving into the foothills.

The miles and the trail wound through a shallow, spreading canyon. A thicket of mesquite trees sheltered a spring. The horse angled towards that and the boy let him go. Less than a mile more, then he would break the news to Mama and the girls.

Mesquite stretched airy branches overhead. The horses jerked a few beans from the trees. Branches shuddered and the slender trees swayed. The kid was gaunt, unable to sleep or eat, only taking snatches of naps and a little water for the last week.

Dev let the horses drink. Mottled red and dun, a bean hung near him. As if remembering, one hand reached out. He pulled and the bean fell in his hand.

Dev stuck it in his mouth. A mild, sweet taste filled him. His stomach rumbled, demanding something to fill its shrunken depths. Suddenly starved, he gnawed on it, teeth working through the brittle shell to the sweet center. He spat out a seed and reached for another.

The horses nipped at grass. Crude headstones showed in the bluestem and flowers of high summer. Gramma, Pappy. An uncle who died before he was Dev's age.

Looking from them, Dev urged the dun out of the thicket and back to the trail. Wagon ruts cut through the land. The folks would travel to town, taking a little corn or hides to trade. Returning, they brought back one of life's essentials, or so Pa said of his coffee.

Tea and needles for Ma and the girls. A pound of rock candy to be shared by all. Sheet iron for nails, bars of it to be shaped on Pa's forge for a dozen other things.

The dark horse stumbled and Dev's face twisted. He choked and his head hung. Tears ran down his face. He dashed them away and booted the gelding into a shambling walk.

The trail wound into the canyon, the hills spreading out to make a valley. In hot, breathless air, the spring corn waited unmoving behind a ripgut fence. It was ripe, the ears sinking to point at the ground. Almost hidden by corn leaves, the vines of pinto beans were dying, pumpkins and peppers bright with unpicked fruit. Both guard and fruit, watermelons and squash lay nestled amid broad leaves all around the field

The adobe plaster glowed with fresh whitewash. Mama and the girls must have done it to welcome them home. Dev glanced back at the dark horse and the war bag.

The yard held a few hens and a clutch of peeps scratching for fleas in the dust. Waiting to be milked, Mama's red Longhorn moaned outside the corral. He leaned forward and frowned. Wilted geraniums stood behind the twig fence. The garden between the house and barn showed sign of neglect, as well.

"Mama?"

Smoke drifted from the chimney but the doors were closed. No one sat cooling themselves in the dogtrot, not even little Crissy with her dolls. Just the same, a breeze carried the smell of bacon and coffee.

In a louder voice, Dev said, "Mama? Please. I got bad news." His voice cracked and he bit off a small, choked sound.

The door burst open. A cornhusk doll clutched in her arms, Crissy raced out.

"Run, Dev, run," she screamed. A stranger leaped after her, scooping her up. A big man on a sorrel jumped from the barn. The rider fired and panic made Dev jerk on the reins. The dun bolted down the trail.

Manahan. It was the murderer, Ross Manahan.

Now Jeanie and Mama cried out as the men charged after him.

"Run, Dev," Mama shouted. "Get away. Ross means to kill you."

Mesquite trees and the gleam of spring water loomed.

A shot rang out and the dark horse squealed. Dev leaned back in the saddle. The dun, good cow horse that he was, planted all four hoofs in the dirt. The packhorses scattered. Chasing after them, the dark horse stumbled with a little blood from a crease in one shoulder. Packhorses slowed and trotted back. Eyes wide and showing white, they stopped, waiting. Dev scrubbed his eyes clean.

Manahan slid a Colt in his holster.

"Where's your pa, boy?"

"What do you want?"

The man gave a crooked grin and scratched at one unshaven cheek.

"Your old man."

"Look-ee here," said the second. He pointed at the dark horse. "Reckon Ganian's gone up the flume?"

Manahan's gray eyes widened a hair. "He's dead?"

Dev let the gelding ease to the dark horse. He gave a slow nod and Manahan uttered a whistle.

"Who would o' thought? How many did the deed?"

"One." The words came hard and bitter. "A back-shooter."

Manahan grimaced. "Well, ain't that a shame." Then he laughed. "I was hoping to do it myself. But you'll do." He pulled the Colt. It rested on the saddle horn and the second man hooted a laugh. "Where's the money?"

Dev shivered under the cold smile. His eyes jerked in his head.

"Fetch the war bag," Manahan said, leaning over the saddle horn.

"Git up." Jim kicked his mustang in the flanks. The gelding leaped to the dark horse. The horse snorted, running back. He circled, trotting close to press against the boy's leg. Under the war bag, Pa's holster was a dark blot, the walnut handle a softer shade of gold.

Chortling, Jim reached for the war bag. Manahan cocked a leg over the horn. In an idle move, he pulled a tobacco pouch from a shirt pocket.

Frozen and staring, Dev saw the hand tear the war bag from the horn. A tintype of his mother made a small, metallic sound as it hit a rock. A worn deck of cards that had been almost new at the start of the drive scattered to the winds. The Ranger badge was next. Jim scowled and threw that into the trees. He grinned, holding up a set of cavalry spurs from the Great War. They were tossed aside.

He upended the bag. A slim poke fell into his lap. The bag flopped to the ground and the mustang snorted at it.

"Reckon them boys is fools. Did ya get a dollar a head for the cows or maybe just give 'em away?" With a grunt of contempt, Jim tossed it a few times.

"Better than a sharp stick in the eye," Manahan said. He started to grin. "Listen, will you, to the music of gold."

With a small laugh, Jim opened it. Brass disks clattered in his hand. Jim gagged, staring at them. Manahan leaned forward. The sorrel made a delicate step to stand next to Dev's horse.

"Where is it?" To Jim, he said, "Check the rest."

Muttering to himself, Jim threw a leg over the saddle horn and worn boots hit the ground.

Grub sacks and a frying pan were thrown back, over his head. Silk slippers for Crissy and Jeanie, cloth for Mama's new Sunday dress, a sack of baubles and the rest scattered over the curling grass of summer.

The second packhorse was unloaded. Jim screamed. He stood with chest heaving and his face a mask of hate.

"Where is it, boy?"

Dev closed his eyes. Stars exploded in his head and he dropped from the horse. He thudded to the ground, staring in shock as Manahan clenched a fist a few time and rubbed it.

"Jim wants to know where it is," he said, his voice soft, the eyes hooded. "You know the man. Last thing you need is to get him peeved. Gets mean when he's peeved."

Dev looked away and Manahan said, "Stomp him."

Jim whooped and leaped at Dev. A boot thudded into Dev's ribs and the boy cried out. Dev rolled under the horses and leaped to his feet. Jim ducked. Though weary and trembling, the dark horse jumped and kicked.

"Ow, ow, you sunuvabee."

Dev ran for the trees. A horse pounded after him. The sorrel rammed him, sending him tumbling over the ground.

He slapped into the headstone. The uncle who was not yet fifteen when he died. Devlin Ray Ganian, Born 1838. Died — The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.

The horse spun and leaped him. Dev cried out, huddling in a ball trying to shield his head. The horse stopped and Manahan turned it.

"I want that money. Your old man done me enough hurt to last a lifetime."

Dev closed his eyes.

"He arrested you for murder —"

"I murdered nobody."

Dev crawled to his feet. "Y-You whipped old man Garcia for the change in his pockets." He grimaced, muttering, "You stomped him bad, but he lived long enough to tell Pa."

"Who cares —"

"He was our neighbor. He fought in the War of Independence right next to Grampa and Pappy."

The cold look on Manahan's face changed to something less pleasant. He barked a laugh.

"Boy, how much you think them little sisters of yours are worth?"

"Hundred each," Jim said, holding his shoulder. "The lady in Nah Orleans says that much. More, if they're pretty."

Manahan examined his fingernails.

Trembling, Dev watched, staring.

"You know what happens to women in them places, son?" The man smiled.

Dev gave a small nod.

The man glanced at him. Manahan drew out the tobacco pouch and rolled a cigarette.

"Give me the money."

"No." Dev choked on tears. "We need it."

"So do I, boy, for the time I was in the calaboose."

"You murdered —"

Manahan jerked forward in the saddle. "I'll kill you, too." He leaned back and took a slow breath. "When I meet the man that killed your pa, I'll give him a share to thank him."

Head down, Dev crept to the dark horse. He leaned his forehead on the saddle skirt and shuddered. No money and they would go without this winter. It wasn't vital. They survived the war years with nary a copper.

Jim started to snicker. Manahan barked a laugh.

Pa, blood swelling from the back wound. Whispers to Dev. Voice tight, filled with pain.

"Son?" Mama called to him. Little Jeanie wailed in her arms. Jeanie was near to five and too old to weep like that. Pa's 'war baby.' The man called the little girl that, grinning while Mama blushed so pretty. Mama choked but her voice echoed down the hills. "Devlin?"

Almost, he could hear a deep, calm voice echo her.

The saddle skirt clenched in his hands, Dev gave a small nod. "Yes, sir," he said. "A man keeps his word."

Manahan's cigarette flicked at the dark horse.

"What are you maundering over, boy?"

Dev snatched at his father's revolver, still hanging on the saddle. For one agonizing moment, the hammer caught in the rawhide thong. He spun and straight-armed the gun.

"You durn fool," Manahan shouted, grabbing his own pistol and firing. Manahan's horse bucked and the man flopped backwards. Jim screamed, snatching out his gun. A bullet knocked the hat from his head and an arrow caught him in the side.

Jim frowned. He raised his hand but the pistol dropped to the ground. Muttering, he reached up.

"My new John B. It's gone." He toppled to the ground.

Dev dropped the gun and vomited raw mesquite beans. On all fours, he choked and spat.

Small, delicate, old man Garcia's granddaughter, Alma, stepped from the trees.

"You stole my revenge," she said, her face a mask of rage. An arrow notched in the rawhide string, the girl raised a bow. The wood creaked. "I wanted to kill that animal."

Dev coughed. His arms shook but he caught himself from falling.

Her face changed, softening.

"Are y'all aright, Dev?"

Sitting back, he wiped his mouth off with the back of one hand and pulled the gun into his lap. He nodded.

In grim silence, Dev and Alma gathered the things packing them away.

Manahan's pretty mustang watched him. He coaxed it close and scratched its chin. Trembling and eyes white with fear, the horse pressed its head against Dev's chest. Of Jim's wiry mount, only a little dust showed in the distance.

Dev swung up in the horse's saddle. He held down a hand. There was a flash of bare leg as Alma grabbed the hand, swinging up behind him. He blinked. When had Alma become so pretty?

Her head pressed against his shoulder and her tears soaked into the shirt. Dev gripped her hand and the girl shivered.

Carrying a wailing Jeanie with Crissy running behind them, Mama raced through the trees.

"Dev? Oh, Lord, let my boy be all right."

Alma sighed.

Dev gripped her hand. "Let's go home."

In a whisper, she said, "I would like that. After the New Year, I'll be sixteen and can vote."

A small grin flicked on and off Dev's face. His voice deepened a little, taking on a man's timber as he said, "Me, too, woman."

As he passed Manahan, the man groaned, opening his eyes.

"You . . . sssshot me." He gave a ghost of a smile. "Tough . . . little bugger. Just like . . . Ganian." He coughed. "Where's the gold?"

"Under the saddle." Dev's head tipped at the weary dark horse. "Pa said to."

"Used that un m'self . . . d-during the war." Manahan chuckled. He coughed and blood colored his chest, running out with small bubbles sparkling in the sun. "Who killed Tom? What fool . . . had the brass to murder Tom Ganian?"

Dev leaned from the saddle and swallowed a faint, queasy taste in his mouth. Would he ever see blood again, and not think of this?

"Roy Elam, a cardsharp."

Manahan laughed and choked on blood. He turned his head and tried to spit. It drooled from his mouth.

"Who . . . took Elam? Sheriff . . . hang him?"

Dev looked at the Colt.

Voice low and bitter, he said, "The same man who killed you, Uncle Ross."

Clinging to his back, Alma shivered. In a whisper, she said, "Bravo, me valeroso."

Manahan said something. Dev straightened his shoulders and let the horses move from there. Manahan's head slumped to one side, the eyes staring, longing for Heaven.