Tears threatened as he thought about the precious time he’d wasted, all because he couldn’t come to terms with the past. The last time he’d shed tears was the day his childhood friend was shot dead as he rode beside him during the war. Clint was a sharpshooter in the war, always proficient at his duties—until that fateful day. He’d failed to see a man ready to waylay him and his fellow sharpshooters. His best friend died in his arms. Like so many men who returned from the war, Clint couldn’t understand why he’d survived when so many were killed. What was the purpose of neighbor killing neighbor? When the answers didn’t come, Clint buried his feelings so deep that nothing, and no one, touched his heart. Until tonight. Tonight he cried. He cried for the loss of his family, his friends and for the loss of precious time. Time is fleeting. His mother’s words were haunting.
* * *
Hours later, Clint was still wide awake, with his many regrets playing over and over in his mind, when he heard his horses restlessly moving about in the makeshift corral. He knew their habits as well as his own, and they were signaling something was not as it should be. Listening intently, he heard horses slowly approaching. Two horses. He heard a man’s voice in the stillness, which told him the riders weren’t trying to surprise him. Still, he was a cautious man. Moving to a sitting position, he silently pulled his Colt from the holster and held it by his side.
“Hello to camp,” came a deep voice from the brush.
“Come ahead.”
A man leading two horses came into view. As the man drew closer, Clint saw two children sitting atop one horse.
“We saw your fire,” the man told him.
Clint holstered his pistol, stood and raked his gaze over the newcomers. Judging by their disheveled appearance, he figured they’d been traveling for a few days.
“You got any food?” one child asked.
“Hush, Son, that’s not polite,” the man reprimanded.
The hopeful sound in the boy’s voice forced Clint to direct his attention to the children. He was surprised to see the two boys were exact replicas of each other, with thick red hair and freckled faces. “I think I can find something for you to eat.”
The man lifted the boys from the horse. “That’s not necessary; we’d be happy sharing your fire and company.”
Clint recognized the telltale sound of a tired man . . . tired of worry . . . tired of shouldering burdens alone . . . just plain tired of existing. He’d been there. “I was just thinking about rustling up some grub for myself. No trouble.” He pointed to his horses nearby in his makeshift corral. “Let’s get your horses settled first.”
“I’m Whitt Newcombe.” He pointed to the boys who were staring at Clint’s large black horse. “These are my boys, Bo and Boone.”
Clint extended his hand. “Clint Mitchum.” He glanced down at the boys. “Nice to make your acquaintance, boys.”
One boy looked up at Clint and said, “You got a big horse.”
Clint chuckled. “Yep, he’s a big one.”
“What’s their names?”
“The black is Reb, and that buckskin is Champ.”
The same boy pointed to their horses. “That one is Sugar, and the gray is Britches.”
Clint smiled at the names they’d given their horses. “Those are fine names.” He noticed they didn’t have much in the way of provisions, but their horses were well-tended. He opened his sack of grain and offered it to the boys. “Give Sugar and Britches some of this grain.”
After the horses were settled, they walked back to the fire, where Clint pulled out some food for a meal. Once he’d tossed fresh coffee beans in the pot along with more water, he opened the cans of beans and emptied them in a pan. In another pan, he warmed the bacon and biscuits he had for dinner the prior night.
Clint saw the boys eyeing the food. “It’s not fancy, but we’ll make do.”
“We’re thankful. It’s more than we’ve had recently,” Whitt replied.
“Where are you headed?” Clint asked.
“To a spot on the Llano River, a place called Honey Creek. We’re going to try our hand at panning for gold. A lot of folks from La Grange are headed there, hoping to change their luck. Did you hear about the yellow fever hitting our town and towns to the south?”
Before Clint responded, one of the boys spoke up. “Our ma died of the fever.”
Clint eyed the boys, thinking they were about six or seven years of age. Too young to have lost their mother. Here he was, a full-grown man, and he couldn’t bear the thought of losing his ma. The sadness in their big brown eyes told Clint they had already experienced too much sorrow in their short lives. “I’m real sorry to hear that.”
“Just about everyone who hasn’t caught the fever has left town. Where are you headed?” Whitt asked.
“La Grange.”
Whitt looked at him with concern in his eyes. “You don’t want to go there, Clint. They say a peddler brought that disease to town. Too many folks are dying there.”
“I’ve heard, but my mother is there,” Clint answered soberly.
Whitt realized Clint had said his last name was Mitchum. “Your ma is Ingrid Mitchum?”
Clint nodded.
Whitt dropped his head. “I’m sorry. I heard she was real sick. But we left town before . . . well, I don’t rightly know how she fared.”
Trying to ignore the feeling that his heart was being squeezed inside his chest, Clint said, “A lady by
