Short Story: Thunder in The Valley Part…

Short Story: Thunder in The Valley Part Three:The Faith

Garrett’s bullet wounds from the gunfight were serious, and the battle-scars were deep. Yet the love and care that sustained him through his semi-conscious state were deeper still, and they remained constant. Maria attended Garrett’s broken body, and nursed his torn spirit.

Outside in the yard, steam rose steadily into the morning air from a large black cooking pot that stood above spurting flames. The pot bubbled and hissed softly from the heat of the yellow flames beneath. Green–Thorn kept the hungry flames fed, with split pine logs that he chopped constantly with repeated swings of the long axe. Each swing forced the keen blade of the axe through the grain of the dry wood, and each blow threw the cleaved logs cleanly apart from the chopping block.

Maria smiled at the young Sioux through the open window, and listened to his rhythmic splitting of the wood. The cuts and bruises that he had endured had healed well, and only the long graze upon his right arm remained. Green-Thorn returned her smile, with a large grin of strong white teeth. He continued chopping. Maria knew that the volume of hot water was ten-fold of her needs, but the task had served its purpose, and Green-Thorn was now content. His need for repayment of honour, to the friends that had saved him, had abated.

Out above the far horizon Maria could make out the dark columns of rain clouds lifting into the blue sky. She began to tear bandages and sterilise dressings, and as she watched the beauty of the building cloud formations, sharp and real memories of her first encounter with Garrett came flooding into her mind, and into her heart. The recalled memories weighed heavily upon her mind, and fatigue pushed her slim frame into the comfort of the high-backed chair. Vivid images of their first encounter came into her thoughts, and she began to remember the events that were vital to her.

It had all started that night of the storm, the night when there was thunder in the valley, and once again she began to relive those first moments....

****

Maria Clarette fidgeted uneasily beneath the folds of the warm blanket. The wind crashed about outside the cabin and the shutters clattered. Maria delved deeper into the warm folds of the heavy blanket, and tried to hide from the sinister night. Her warm body tensioned against the unpredictable clashes of thunder, and the wind devils rattled the loose planking of the barn. Her mind grappled with the fears of yet another night alone. Sleep came to her grudgingly that dark night.

The lone rider clutched his chest and bowed his long body to the searing agony of the double daggers of fatigue and exhaustion. The bounty hunters had chased him far, and had come close, too close, and Garrett Hobourne carried their relentless greed in his aching body. He slumped from the saddle and fell into the mud of the trail, and the heavy rain began to pound onto his unconscious body. The wind lashed the dark plain, and the vastness of the sky gave vent to its sudden anger. Lightning spiked the jagged plain, and thunder shouted at the night. The crumpled figure remained a dark unmoving shape, and scarlet ribbons began to ooze out unchecked, into the rivers of mud.

Garrett’s black horse reached down its long neck and nuzzled the tangled hair of the fallen man. The black snorted, blinked its shining eyes into the driving rain, and then suddenly galloped off to a feint scent that beckoned. Lightning and thunder rumbled away over the next ridge, and left the fugitive alone to the devil's night.

Thunder clapped inside Maria's head, and she peered with tired eyes at the loose shutter that knocked noisily against the wall. The wind continued its ceaseless battering of the cabin, but now the rain could only dribble from the sky. The storm had passed, and the morning had broken through.

Maria moved briskly in the bright morning light, and her heart lifted with the rising sun. She had cleared away her meagre breakfast, and now busied herself within the log cabin. She looked out of the open window, to the shimmering gold and purple pools of water that clung to the open plain. She reached out for her mother's ivory-backed hairbrush, and began to preen her long jet hair, which began to crackle with life. Thoughts of her late husband came to her.

"Will Clarette . . . . Will Clarette, you should be here!"

A bluebird nestled upon the corral and began to preen itself too, as if to smarten up for the coming day. Maria wondered at the small and frail bird. How could it survive in such an unforgiving country? Yet she could see that it see that it held its own dignity, that it had a place in the vastness that surrounded it - it had its own dignity and its own faith.

Momentarily she saw herself.

Will Clarette had been a fine man, and a proud husband - too proud perhaps. She glanced at the woodpile, and could almost hear him laying axe blows into the chopping stump. Maria wiped away the heavy tears from her eyes, and pushed back her long black hair. That was two years ago last spring, and she missed him so.

The fresh mountain air was cool and sweet, as it swept in from the tree-lined ridge. Maria strode about the muddy yard, scattering grain to the skinny darting hens. A void had opened in her life since that dreadful time, and now she filled that void with the hard work of the horse ranch.

Maria knew that without the loyal support of Brokenwing, it would have been difficult to continue. As she watched the corn fly to the wind, she wondered at her ability to carry on, then the thought of the little bird came to her again.

Maria braced herself against the strong gusts from the ridge, and her hair was now neatly tucked under the collar of Will's great coat. She felt at ease, this was a beautiful country, and she was glad to be alive and part of it. She turned to the cabin, and her soul froze.

Silent and motionless behind her, stood the tall figure of Brokenwing. He had blotted out her morning sun. The Shoshone face was granite, and only his eyes lived. Maria perceived his intentions, by following the tender fluctuations of his deep blue eyes. His eyes communicated well, and they had to, for his head no longer held a tongue. This had been forfeit to the Sioux, when he had ridden with her husband. The unspoken bond between Will Clarette and Brokenwing, had been forged in the few seconds it had taken Will to pluck him from the flashing blades of battle.

Maria could fell a forest of truth, and still not understand; why her dear Will had suddenly crumpled at the woodpile. It had been a dark time, yet the silent and ageless Shosone had remained.

The grey and wrinkled face urged her to come, and Maria was shaken from her immobility.

“What … what is it?" Maria offered, and fought to control her emotions. "What's the matter?"

Brokenwing rolled his piercing eyes wildly, and began to canter fitfully.

Maria dropped the grain bag and ran with him. She followed Brokenwing's spidery frame to the lean-to shed. His long thin arm pointed to the darkness of the roughly planked structure, and the dark secret within.

"What is it? Is there something in there you want me to see?”

Brokenwing stood motionless, and his deep eyes flashed into hers once again, and his grey hair flicked across his face in the breeze.

Maria watched as the long strands of his grey hair danced, yet could discern no explanation within the deep lines of his face. It was up to her now and she plucked up all her courage and entered the dark interior of the lean-to. Maria moved cautiously inside, apprehensive of the shadows. As her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she realised that a bloodstained bundle lay on the floor. Suddenly, it became clear to her exactly what the bundle was. It was a man – an injured man.

"…My God!"

Fantasy and agony rattled across the mind of the drifting man. He drifted between the now and the never. In the void of his mind, large jagged shapes of danger danced upon the trail of his life. Only unstinting bouts of care, clean linen, warmth and broth could wrench him from his tortured state. That and the faith of life. These essentials came together in a log cabin, on the wind lashed plains of Wyoming, and the man began to live once more.

An angel seemed to float across the haze that filled Garrett Hobourne's eyes. The challenge of life returned, and he reached out his hand to the angel. The shadows of evening danced across his vision, and he tried to focus. He looked at his trigger hand, and then the slender white arm that held it.

"… Gun - where's my gun?" uttered Garrett, as he slowly pulled the young woman to his grizzled chin.

"All right! All right! … It's over there," she offered, pointing to the studded holster.

Garrett followed her gaze and saw the weapon hanging upon a knotty peg over the fireplace. In the large fireplace spitting logs hissed their heat and power into the room, and he glanced quickly from the gun to the young woman. It seemed safe. He scanned the young woman before him, and noticed how the firelight danced across the beauty of her face. He relaxed his taught body, and pulled himself upright onto the makeshift bed.

"Pass it for me," he said softly, looking at the gun, but he sensed the anger in her body. "...Please."

He watched carefully as she moved her slim body to the leather holster. She lifted the heavy gun, and passed it to him. Their eyes met, and their hands touched in a moment of consciousness, Maria dropped her smile quickly, and retreated to the fireside chair.

Garrett maintained his gaze upon her as he stroked the dark gunmetal of the Colt. He flipped the chambers and worked the trigger in a cold unfeeling manner. He placed the gun lightly on the thick blanket that warmed him. Only after he had completed his ritual, did he return his gaze to the fire.

“Where am I?”

“You’re safe here,“ she said.

He turned his aching frame to the warmth of the fire, and looked deeply into the orange licks of flame.

Maria watched keenly as life began to flow through the rugged man, and wondered at the stranger. He remained unmoving for what seemed an eternity. Oddly, she thought, she had enjoyed caring for this mysterious man. Somehow, she felt drawn to him, and something deep down had compelled her emotions to rise. She knew without reasoning that despite his lean frame and rugged exterior, the stranger possessed an inner gentleness. Her instinct told her he was a good man, and she had faith in him.

The fugitive by the fireside suddenly spoke again.

"… Thank you," he said, and his voice was sad, yet decisive, “I owe you my life."

"No, no, not really," answered Maria after a pause. "It was Brokenwing - he found you out on the trail, and your horse came to the corral last night, during the storm. You were injured - I bound you and kept you warm.

"Brokenwing?” Garrett turned from the fire, and looked into her soul.

Maria became self-conscious, and fought for words to fill the silence, and hid her face.

"Yes - yes, he's Shoshone, he tracks the mustangs for us, …me. He rode with my late husband in the wars. Without his help, life would be even harder here, but I love this country. I don't know why he stays." Maria could hear her words tumbling out across the room and running away with her feelings, "I'm sorry, we ... I don't get many visitors up here; and as for Brokenwing - he's mute, and he spends most of the time out on the trail…"

"It's all right - you don’t have to explain anything to me," said Garrett, and he flashed a half-smile at her. His tousled head returned once again to the spurts of flame within the fireplace.

Maria recoiled, and her eyes became no more than creases. Why had she not noticed before? Perhaps she had been so involved with keeping the tall stranger alive; that the marks around his neck had gone unnoticed to her. The rope-burns showed clearly in the flame-light, and Maria searched quickly for a question to hold back her shock.

"I'm Maria, . . . Maria Clarette, this is the Clarette ranch - what's your name?”

The outlaw stood uneasily, and laid his large hand upon the stone chimney. Maria bounced up from the chair to support him, but he waved her back.

"No, I can make it, - thanks," he said. He straightened himself and stood foursquare before the fire. With one deft movement Garrett tugged at his raw neck and turned once again to peer into her soul. "Garrett Engle Hobourne is the name Ma’am, but really, it’s better you don't know.” He paused, “I'm not the sort of man you should get to know - too close."

Maria remained still and smiled at the tall man and the picture of little bird she had seen that morning came to her again.

"You're welcome to stay - as long as you need, you’re still weak."

"I can't," replied Garrett, and he looked deeply into her emerald eyes. His face became at once a spectre of stone. His thoughts were outside, outside on the wind-torn and wild plain, and he knew that the bounty hunters would come for him again.

"Your wrong you know,” he said. “You under-kick yourself, you did save me. Without you, the Indian would not be here, he follows your life spirit."

“.. You tended me,“ continued Garrett, and he prodded the tight bindings around his chest, “You showed me compassion where many would have drawn a gun. Your life spirit is strong, strong enough for two ..." His voice dropped and his dark eyes turned to the cabin door.

"Yet there are things that compassion will not heal…," and his words tailed off. At once he could feel the wilderness drawing him out; out to the danger that hunted him.

"Maybe your right, I don't know," said Maria, and she stood to face him, "but I do know that it’s my husband buried out there – taken from me in a minute - where’s the compassion in that?” Maria's words passed right through the tall man.

Maria turned from him and clenched a fist, still angry at fate’s whim, yet she could feel Garrett’s presence pressing in on her.

“I can’t stay,” he said.

“Why? You're not fit enough to go anywhere; you could start bleeding again!

“There’s a price on my head,” said Garrett, and he hesitated for a moment and looked once again into her shining eyes, “ .. I killed a woman…”

Silence suddenly filled every space of the cabin, and this silence was only broken, by the spitting of the pine logs.

“ … What happened? “ asked Maria quietly.

“ A while back, I ran guard on a Wells-Fargo stage run, “ offered Garrett, as he stared into the gunmetal of the Colt. “Started out fine, good weather, just a bunch of passengers and cargo. Couple of riders jumped us five miles outside Fort Henry, they had bin’ waiting, spooked the team and she went over – whole coach wrecked in a gulch.” Garrett took a step toward the young woman, but felt her unease, and returned to the fireplace.

“Don’t remember much,” he continued ” I was out cold. When I came to, I found the teamster and three fellas shot through, and the cargo gone – but there was a school teacher on board …young. Found her in a bad way - crying out . . .”

“. . How bad?”

“She was pretty beat up, lost a lot of blood – dyin’. I tried to lift her, ease … help her, but she was hurting real bad - a wheel spoke had run her through.”

“.. Oh! .. What happened…?”

“She begged me, to end her pain … she begged me…”

“You mean … “ Maria’s voice dropped, and her hand braced her eyes. “… Oh.”

“I passed out again, don’t remember clear, but I do recall saying I killed her…’

Garret pulled himself around to face the young woman, and then dropped his gaze to his hands, “… She begged me…”

Silence returned once again to the cabin.

Maria moved toward the tall man, and she laid her hand upon his shoulder. “You’re welcome to stay – as long as you need…There's a set of clothes through there,” she said pointing to an inner door. "There on the bed, they're Will's – they should just about fit….”

"Thank you," he said quietly.

Garrett crossed the room silently, and the inner door-latch shut behind him.

Maria considered his words, and thought of the young woman. She had nursed the injured stranger back to life, but wondered at the deeper scar, not around his neck but within his troubled mind. The stranger had become a stranger no more, and her thoughts began to return to the present . . .

****

Maria could feel the heavy lines of tiredness stretch across her face. The hours that had chased her through her night vigil, had caught her, and reeled her into their velvet imaginings. Sleep became sleep, and the new day raced across the plain. It was yesterday no more.