The Ride Back
Arnold Ashford’s Journal Entry #20
Riding back into Town, several paces behind Lawman Harry Houston, I was reflecting on all that had transpired since I first rode into Abilene. Thinking about the hustle and grit of these folk that were cleaning up and restoring the Town after that Dust Storm had blown through. Thinking of that Rancher and his vision for a prosperous, successful Town and his boundless energy and drive.
Thinking of Rusty Cobb, the pint-sized Lawman with the heart of a giant, and how he gave his life in the line of duty. Not for some other purpose or unknown end, but for me. To save me. Thinking of that scoundrel, that scavenger Bret Beuville who brought nothing to Abilene save misery and hate; thinking of the fear that flooded my very soul when he slammed his six shooter into the side of my head, and the look on Rusty’s face as he made his last choice.
I thought of the renewed vigor that fueled the Townsfolk to finish that Doctor’s Office after Rusty was killed, and of the young M.D. that came all the way out to Abilene, Texas. I started laughing to myself as I remembered the vile ochre that spewed from that young man, and then I felt warm tears on my cheeks as I thought about the life that he still has in front of him. I thought of the hard-boiled Lawman just yards in front of me, and the remorseless violence he employed on The Beef Czar to get a bead on the murderer, Bret Beauville.
As my thoughts began to focus on the hard stare of this Harry Houston, dispassionately watching Beauville die, wondering what could so wholly scar a man, the sun was dropping behind the hills outside Abilene. For a space of no more than five seconds, the sky flashed and flared pink; it lit up the Clear Fork just below us, as it lit up the left side of Harry’s face. The deep pink reflected on the surface of that bending river, just as it reflected in the eye of the taciturn Lawman. This was a hard man, and he did hard things. The path of least resistance leads to crooked rivers, and crooked men. There were no bends to Harry Houston.
— Check back next week for a new entry in Ashford’s journal —