The rider laughed, laughter that was free and easy with no malice in it. Still, the sound of it raced like wildfire along Luke’s strained nerves.
“You always was a hardheaded cuss, Luke Pettigrew,” the rider said.
Luke, stunned, looked to see who it was that was calling out his name.
The rider was about his age, in his early twenties. He still had his youth, though, what was left of it, unlike Luke, who felt himself prematurely aged, one of the oldest men alive.
Luke peered up at him. Something familiar in the other’s tone of voice ...
A dark, flat-crowned, broad-brimmed hat with a snakeskin hatband shadowed the rider’s face. The sun was behind him, in Luke’s eyes. Luke squinted, peering, at first unable to make out the other’s features. The rider tilted his head, causing the light to fall on his face.
“Good gawd!—Johnny Cross!” Luke’s outcry was a croak, his throat parched from lack of water.
“Long time no see, Luke,” Johnny Cross said.
“Well I’ll be good to gawd-damned! I never expected to see you again,” said Luke. “Huh! So you made it through the war.”
“Looks like. And you, too.”
“Mostly,” Luke said, indicating with a tilt of his head and a sour twist of his mouth his missing lower leg.
“Reckon we’re both going in the same direction. Climb on up,” Johnny Cross said. Gripping the saddle horn with his right hand, he leaned over and down, extending his left hand.
He was lean and wiry, with strength in him. He took hold of Luke’s right hand in an iron grip and hefted him up, swinging him onto the horse behind him. It helped that Luke didn’t weigh much.
Luke got himself settled. “I want to keep hold of this crutch for now,” he said.
“I’ll tie it to the saddle, leave you with both hands free,” Johnny said. He used a rawhide thong to lash the tree branch in place out of the way. A touch of Johnny’s boot heels to the chestnut’s flanks started the animal forward.
“Much obliged, Johnny.”
“You’d do the same for me.”
“What good would that do? I ain’t got no horse.”
“Man, things must be tough in Hangtree County.”
“Like always. Only more so since the war.”
They set out for Hangtown.
Johnny Cross was of medium height, compact, trim, athletic. He had black hair and clean-lined, well-formed features. His hazel eyes varied in color from brown to yellow depending on the light. He had a deep tan and a three-day beard. There was something catlike about him with his restless yellow eyes, self-contained alertness and lithe, easy way of moving.
He wore a sun-bleached maroon shirt, black jeans, and good boots. Two guns were strapped to his hips. Good guns.
Luke noticed several things right off. Johnny Cross had done some long, hard riding. His clothes were trail-worn, dusty; his guns, what Luke could see of them in their holsters, were clean, polished. Their inset dark wooden handles were smooth, well worn with use. A late-model carbine was sheathed in the saddle scabbard.
The chestnut horse was a fine-looking animal. Judging by its lines it was fast and strong, with plenty of endurance. The kind of mount favored by one on the dodge. One thing was sure: Johnny Cross was returning to Hangtree in better shape than when he’d left it.
The Cross family had always been dirt-poor, honest but penniless. Throughout his youth up till the time he went off to war, Johnny had worn mostly patched, outgrown clothes and gone shoeless for long periods of time.
Johnny Cross handed the other a canteen. “Here, Luke, cut the dust some.”
“Don’t mind if I do, thanks.” Luke fought to still the trembling in his hands as he took hold of the canteen and fumbled open the cap. The water was as warm as blood. He took a mouthful and held it there, letting the welcome wetness refresh the dust-dry inside of his mouth.
His throat was so dry that at first he had trouble swallowing. He took a couple of mouthfuls, stopping though still thirsty. He didn’t want to be a hog or show how great his need was. “Thank you kindly,” he said, returning the canteen.
Johnny put it away. “Sorry I don’t have something stronger.”
“That’s plenty fine,” Luke said.
“Been back long?”
“Since last fall.”
“How’s your folks, Luke?”
“Pa got drowned two years ago trying to cross the Liberty River when it was running high at flood time.”
“Sorry to hear that. He was a good man,” Johnny said.
Luke nodded. “Hardworking and God-fearing ... for all the good it done him.”
“Your brothers?”
“Finn joined up with Ben McCullough and got kilt at Pea Ridge. Heck got it in Chicamagua.”
“That’s a damned shame. They was good ol’ boys.”
