The Last Ride. Thomas Eidson

dying, he wouldn’t have done it. But he was, and he had come to see her one last time. Now he had to move on. Any fool could have guessed how she would feel. He didn’t blame her.

      Thinking on it, he figured he might return to the heart of old Chihenne country. The thought tugged at something that was hurt inside him. Yopon and he had been there years before. It was the last time they’d been together and free. He found himself retracing their wanderings in his thoughts a lot. He forced himself to stop.

      He stood outside the barn, feeling physical pain like a deep boring inside his chest, and turned in a slow circle, studying the darkening trees, the barn, the pastures and the house. He wanted to remember everything here, everything about her, for as long as he could.

      He took a pull on the bottle, then left it on the ground, and walked awkwardly toward her, not knowing where to place his hands. He stopped in front of the porch where she sat. Chaco trailed along behind him. Jones watched her for a moment, her eyes gazing past him, then he leaned forward and set a pure white chunk of quartz on the step beside her.

      ‘I found it in the hills. Thought you might like it.’

      She didn’t say anything or look at the stone.

      ‘The Mexican went to find them,’ he said quietly. ‘They probably decided to spend the night with the herd, rather than try the hill trails in the dark.’ Jones knew that hadn’t happened. If they were spending the night, it was because something had gone wrong. He had watched them saddling up and saw nothing for making camp; no canvas, no grub sack, no skillets, nothing. He had seen Dot slip the eagle charm into Lily’s saddlebag when her sister had gone into the house. The child had a large heart. But then Lily had found it and tossed it angrily to the ground. Dot had retrieved it.

      ‘If they aren’t down by morning, I’ll go find them,’ he said, almost as if he was talking to himself. ‘Then I’ll ride on.’ He turned and looked at her, seeming for a moment to soak her up with his eyes. ‘I used to think about you,’ he said quietly. ‘At night mostly. Where you were, and what you were feeling.’

      She didn’t say anything for a long time, just continued to gaze past him at the hills. When she finally spoke, he was unable to see her face. ‘I don’t need anything from you any more,’ she said, her voice sounding tired. ‘Just go.’

      He walked slowly past her into the house, deciding to sleep near her tonight so that he could keep an eye out, but also wanting to sleep one night in her home. Chaco sat down beside her.

      Maggie contemplated the falling darkness, shutting out all thoughts of the man. She had been praying to God about the cat. Nothing had come to her. She was now convinced it was dead – convinced that was her answer from God. Harriet was lost.

      She stood and picked up the quartz rock, studying it for a moment, then tossed it with all her might into the darkness. Chaco scrambled off the porch after it, barking as he ran. A few minutes later, the little dog returned with the rock, dropping it at her feet. She began to cry.

      Morning light came grudgingly to the valley of the ranch. Baldwin and the others had not yet ridden down. Jones had awakened early in the darkness, unable to sleep, feeling both the searing pain, and something else, something anxious in a place deep inside him. Slowly, he shook it off and crawled stiffly out of his blankets. He had been lying on the floor in the big room of the house, his rifle next to him. Maggie had slept outside on the porch in the rocker. He had listened to the grating sound most of the night. It was silent now. He looked out of the window and saw her asleep in the chair. Chaco was lying beside her. Jones sat and watched her for a long time, listening to a white-winged dove calling.

      Finally, he forced himself to stop looking at her and wandered slowly through the empty dwelling, moving from room to room, examining things that he knew or guessed belonged to her, trying to visualize her in these rooms with these objects, sometimes holding them in his hands. He knew he was intruding. But he also knew that the only way he would ever be a part of her life was by this last moment of intrusion. This was his last chance to be alone with her – or at least, alone within her world. That would have to do him. He understood that. She would let him no closer.

      It was sitting in the shadows on the dresser in the big bedroom. He studied it, unable to move for a while, adjusting his little glasses on his nose. It was almost a dream to him. He cupped it in his hands, committing it to what he knew was his fading memory. That scared him. He knew that when he left this room, he would never see it again. It was the only time in his life that he had felt the urge to steal. He couldn’t do it. Not from her. He had stolen enough from her life.

      He let his eyes move slowly over it: a tintype. Maggie, a teenager, and her mother, Susan. He couldn’t pull his eyes off her face. She had been a good wife and mother; he felt the familiar remorse and forced his gaze and thoughts along. Why had she never remarried? She had such beauty. He shook his head sadly, knowing the answer too well. It didn’t matter. It was over. He could change nothing.

      Their two images alone would have been enough to bring the sadness, but there was another person in the tintype: a small brown-haired girl of eight or nine. It was she who shattered whatever rigid structures were left inside his being, so that his emotional world sagged. A bittersweet pain coursed through him as he stood before the dresser.

      He had never seen her before. He knew only that she had been born after he left, and that she was dead. Seeing her now was both a mysterious gift and a curse. He fought a moaning sound welling within him. He had heard that her name was Thelma. His throat tightened. It had been his mother’s name. He smiled wistfully: just like Susan to have honored him, even after he had dishonored himself. He kissed the photograph of this child he had never kissed in life, never known.

      It was a long time before he could stop looking at her, staring so hard at the small face that her image began to blur. He relived times that he hadn’t thought of in a long while. Why had he left, when they had needed him so? He pulled himself up straighter and set the picture back in its place. He knew the answer. He knew he would do it again. He also knew with painful clarity what he had lost. And what he had found. He took his glasses off, then turned and walked out of the room.

      He was riding stiffly, he and the gray picking their way carefully up a narrow trail through the pines on the western slope. Chaco was sitting on the pony’s rump. Alice ambled along behind with all Jones’ worldly possessions strapped to her back. He didn’t want to ride any more. He wanted only to lie down and sleep. He was ready to take the last long trail.

      He fingered the old Sharps absently, every once in a while taking a pull on his bottle and turning to look back down at the ranch house. Earlier, he had tried to say goodbye. She hadn’t acknowledged him. It was best, he thought. It gave him a chance to look closely at her. He had placed Baldwin’s loaded shotgun across her lap. Still, she had not paid him the slightest mind. Not a glance.

      He drew a shallow breath and told himself to stop. It was over. He tried to visualize Thelma’s small face, vaguely seeing her, the sadness creeping over him. Things were now so different from what he had once believed. Life had seemed so alive, so real and tangible, so easily toted up and carried from place to place. But he realized now it never had been; the things of greatest worth he had never touched.

      An aspen, its bark girded by the claws of a bear, stood dying beside the trail, its yellow leaves dropping silently in the breeze. He watched the sunlight shining on the tree, making it look like a sparkling, spiritual thing, the leaves floating in random patterns down towards the earth, drifting away on their separate journeys. At one time, the tree had been a whole thing, unified in life and purpose, now it was disassembling, its different lives dying different deaths, each alone. He felt much like that.

      Only superficially had he sensed life’s essence, the unseen things which held its true meaning, which throughout the years had touched him like a soft breeze to the skin. Now they were drifting away, leaving him to journey on without them. He was truly alone.

      The hills were still, making the sounds of the animals seem loud and intrusive. It didn’t matter. If there was trouble ahead, whoever was going to cause it already knew he was coming, and what he was carrying, and from what