The Cowboy's Call

Chapter 12

"I was young, foolish, a foolhardy young man, full of hope, lust, love..." His voice faded off. "Thought I owned the world, turned out I didn't even own myself."

His gravelly tones sent desolate shivers down Gold's back. He held her gaze, but his eyes were far away, in a land lost to time.

A sad smile lifted his lips infinitesimally. "I'm sure you can guess," he rasped "what it was that caused such a rash, young man..." Again, his voice petered out. The whiskey was drawn to his lips, and he let the liquid pour into his mouth, dribbling its way down his whiskered chin. Drawing his arm across his mouth, his once-white shirt barely registered the dark brown drink amidst the already dirt-stained linen.

Gold watched the man, the incalculable regrets saturating his eyes, dug like a knife into her tender heart. She longed to reach out, to ease the hurt that shone from his brittle expression, but with the lean muscles of Lance's arm tensing up against her own arm, she thought better of it. Instead, she waited silently.

"I fancied myself in love," he laughed, bitterly. "Caught her with another man, the rest is history." He swigged the remaining whiskey.

"You killed him," Gold added quietly.

"Bright girl," he raised his glass to her, setting two stormy, grey eyes upon the small man sitting opposite him. "It was a long time ago, but I guess there are some things that not even time can erase."

"So, did you mean to kill him?" Gold pushed.

"I killed him, isn't that all you need to know?" His eyebrows rose, dangerously.

"That doesn't tell us much, though, does it?" Lance glanced between the older man and the girl facing off.

"I meant to do it." His eyes dipped back down towards his mug of beer.

"Then, why aren't you swinging on the end of a rope now?"

"Because it was ruled self defense."

"So, it was self defense."

The man shook his head, gloomily. "I murdered a man," he said again, doing nothing to discontinue his unnecessary repetition.

Lance thrust his hand up as Gold prepared to continue her interrogation.

"What about the other man?" he leaned forward, bridging the distance between them. "Did you kill him?"

Again the man laughed, humorously. "Does it matter? People think what they wanna."

"It doesn't matter if you don't mind being the next main character in a lynching," Lance retaliated.

His eyes narrowed as they shifted to Lance. "I did not," he bit out, his jaw clenching, bitterly.

"Where were you on the night of the murder?"

"I work up at old Mrs. McCafferty's ranch. I was there all that night. Why you so interested anyway? What's it to you?" For the first time, the man raised his eyebrows suspiciously at the odd pair.

"I'm a deputy," Lance shot back. His own eyebrows rose in challenge. "We received a telegraph about the murder, and I am here to see justice done."

Ignoring the shooting pain that pulsed through his leg as Gold's spur dug into it, he held the man's gaze.

Finally, the man's eyeline strayed back into his empty mug. "Didn't realize anyone cared that much," he whispered in a barely audible tone.

Lance grunted. "Is there anything you can tell me about the night of the murder?"

"Naw," he answered. "Like I told you, I was asleep in my bunk that night. Ask any of the cowhands up at old McCafferty's. Ain't got no reason to go 'round murderin'. Though, I do hope you find your man." With a gentle crook of his hat, he stood. The old chair protested angrily against the wooden flooring. With long, uneven strides, he reached the swinging doors of the saloon and staggered out.