The WidowMaker Read online

  The

  WidowMaker

  R.A. Constible

  Copyright 2022 by R.A. Constible

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotation in a book review.

  ISBN 978-1-957956-08-4 (Paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-957956-09-1 (Ebook)

  Inquiries and Book Orders should be addressed to:

  Leavitt Peak Press

  17901 Pioneer Blvd Ste L #298, Artesia, California 90701

  Phone #: 2092191548

  This story is dedicated to Martin Pelichaty, a friend whose spirit now wanders the high plains country he embraced and loved so dearly. I miss his kind words and encouragement.

  Contents

  BOOK 1:

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  BOOK 2:

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY ONE

  BOOK 3:

  TWENTY TWO

  TWENTY THREE

  TWENTY FOUR

  BOOK 4:

  TWENTY FIVE

  TWENTY SIX

  TWENTY SEVEN

  TWENTY EIGHT

  TWENTY NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY ONE

  THIRTY TWO

  THIRTY THREE

  BOOK 5:

  THIRTY FOUR

  THIRTY FIVE

  THIRTY SIX

  THIRTY SEVEN

  AFTER NOTES

  BOOK 1:

  In the last years of our lives,

  it comes to pass, the one love we seek —

  all encompassing, filling needs and wants

  and desires.

  Reaching out, seeking to touch

  the love we crave, searching for the immutable haven, basking in the wellspring of strength

  flowing from within, and peace, and security.

  Concealed emotions, rising from obscurity:

  a phoenix with no beginning and no end;

  love eternal, buried within the heart, Unexplained. Undefinable.

  Forevermore.

  ONE

  McPherson sat astride the grey buckskin, one leg hooked loosely around the saddle horn as he allowed his horse to graze while he watched for signs of life in the cabin across the field. Nestled in the shadows of the Cumberland Mountains of East Tennessee, the cabin was the end of a journey that began a month before in East Texas.

  It was well into the spring of 1885. Warm weather had been late arriving across the South, and even now, patches of snow remained within the dense forest that covered the ridges and mountainside, the after- effect of a winter of heavy snows and deep cold. But the pockets of mist McPherson encountered since leaving the campsite below Winter’s Gap were a sure sign that spring had arrived.

  Starting before dawn that day, he had pushed his horse to complete a journey to deliver the words of a dying man. And as the horse continued to forage on the new grass, McPherson gazed at the thin ribbon of smoke spiraling from the cabin’s chimney, wondering again why he agreed to make this ride. He certainly owed nothing to Picquett; the man had tried to kill him. That he survived was less good fortune than skill with a gun, a skill that condemned Picquett to an early grave. But there was an inner sense of responsibil- ity, an obligation to honor the man’s last request; and now that he had arrived at his destination, it was time to take stock of the situation before passing on the message.

  McPherson sat motionless for better than an hour, watching the cabin with calm detachment, waiting for any indication of movement. He reacted with a grunt as his patience was finally rewarded. A woman came out of the cabin carrying a milk pail in one hand and a rifle in the other. He gathered up the reins and started down across the field toward the cabin, wondering how he was going to explain her husband’s death…

  For three long months, McPherson had spent the better part of each day sitting at a table near the back of the River’s Edge Saloon in Texarkana, playing cards and waiting out a winter that seemed deter- mined to go on forever. Seven years past, he succumbed to the lure of the West, and since then, had time and again crisscrossed most of the states and territories west of the Mississippi, following an inborn need to wander. But the weariness of the trail was beginning to weigh him down, draining him of the constant vigilance that had been his companion for almost as long.

  “Mista McPherson!”

  McPherson glanced up from the hand of cards he had been staring at. Standing in front and to one side of the table was a sorry excuse for a man. Unshaven and reeking of stale whiskey, his eyes bloodshot, he was dressed in the remnants of the attire of a fancy man. In his hands was a Winchester, pointed at the middle of McPherson’s chest.

  “Git up, McPherson.”

  McPherson calmly laid his cards face down on the table and sat back in his chair. “I know you, sir?” “No suh, you don’t know me. But you know’d my wife.” The last words were spat out. He waved the gun barrel. “Now, git up.”

  “You have me at a disadvantage, Mister…?” McPherson accentuated his query with a show of empty hands.

  “Name’s Picquett. Thet mean anythin’ to ya?”

  “No, I’m sorry.” McPherson replied after a moment of reflection. “The name’s unfamiliar.”

  “James Picquett…from Tennessee.” His voice went up in pitch, his agitation underscoring the fact of the rifle in his hands.

  “A lot of people are from Tennessee, Mister Picquett, myself included.” “Don’t fence with me, McPherson. I been afollowin’ you fer months.”

  Maintaining as calm an exterior as he could manage, McPherson slowly edged his left hand toward the Peacemaker resting on his thigh, “Mister Picquett, why would you be following me?”

  “`Cause I’m gonna kill ya.” The gathering around the poker table reacted as one and moved ner- vously away.

  “And why would you want to do that?” McPherson asked.

  “You was with my wife. I seen ya ride away. Thet grey buckskin o’yourn was easy enough to foller.” McPherson let out a sigh, relaxing. “Mister Picquett, you can rest easy. I was in the Montana Terri-

  tory last summer. I haven’t been this far East in over seven years.”

  “Yore lyin’, McPherson. Now stand up, or I’m gonna shoot ya where you sit.”

  Resigned that there was no way out, McPherson kicked the chair back and sprang to his feet, draw- ing and firing his pistol in the same motion. His intention was to wound—he’d had enough killing to last a lifetime—but Picquett turned into the bullet, the force of it spinning him around and slamming him against the bar. The rifle slipped from Picquett’s grip as he slumped to the floor.

  • • •

  As was her custom each morning upon rising, Hatty Picquett dressed quickly and built a fire to make coffee. Glancing out the window to see what weather awaited her for the morning chores, she saw the horse and rider on the knoll overlooking the farm. She took little notice; a rider pausing there to look around was not unusual given that the hill was close to the road and the highest point around.

  A few minutes later, she glanced ou
t the window a second time toward the hill. The stranger hadn’t moved more than a few feet, but his interest in the cabin was evident. As she stepped onto the porch with a milk pail in one hand and the rifle she kept by the door in the other, she wasn’t really surprised to see him start across the open field that lay between them. She continued walking toward the barn, all the while watching the rider’s movement out of the corner of her eye, noting that he seemed to be in no great hurry. One thing was sure: the milking would have to wait. She was about to have a visitor, the first in more than a month.

  Setting the milk pail inside the barn, she went out a side door and circled down behind the cabin. From there, she could follow his progress without being seen, and at the same time, decide how to deal with him. As the rider neared the gate, she got her first clear look at him. He sat upright in the saddle, and appeared to be a tall man. He worn his blondish hair long, and although his rough-hewn complexion indicated that he spent much of his time in the outdoors, she surmised he was her own age, or perhaps a year or two older.

  Dressed in a tan buckskin shirt and well-worn denim pants, he wore a red bandanna tied loosely about his neck, and sported a dust-covered black hat with a low crown and a brim turned down in front; a pistol was tied low on his left thigh. But it was the horse that unsettled her. Her instincts told her the sudden appearance of this stranger on a grey buckskin had something to do with her husband’s departure the previ- ous summer.

  From behind the cabin, she watched as he as he rode up to the fence and stepped down from his horse in order to open the gate. Once inside the gate, his back was to her while he tied the horse to the fence. She moved quickly, leveling the cocked Winchester at his midsection.

  “Something I can help you with, Mister?” “You Miz Picquett?” he asked.

  “That’s right. Who might you be?”

  “My name’s Jess McPherson, Miz Picquett. Fraid I’m the bearer of bad news. Your husband was killed about a month ago.”

  For a brief moment, her mind raced frantically to make sense of the news, but she never allowed the rifle leveled at his chest to waver. “Where… How?”

  “Over to Texarkana. He got into a gunfight.”

  “And how is it you’re here to tell me this, Mister McPherson?” She was a little surprised that her vis- itor continued to ignore the rifle, acting as if guns were pointed at him every day.

  “I was with him when he died. He asked me to look in on you and I said I would.”

  “All right, Mister McPherson, you’ve looked in on me. Now please get on your horse and ride out.” “Excuse me, Miz Picquett,” he asked, his forehead furrowed. “you don’t seem too grievous about your husband.”

  “Mister McPherson, my husband’s whole life was affected by only two things: his inability to recog- nize the truth and his foul temper. It would seem that one of those particulars has gotten him killed.”

  As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wished she hadn’t been so flippant, but McPherson’s comment had struck home. She sensed…knew she should be overwhelmed with grief, but she felt little anguish. Her early enthusiasm for wedded bliss had worn off quickly. Nevertheless, she found the news of his death disturbing.

  “Actually, it was a misunderstanding,” McPherson responded.

  “I’m sure it was. James Picquett had a real problem with misunderstandings. Was it you that shot him?” The look on McPherson’s face answered her question. “Your horse, Mister McPherson. My husband left here last summer following a man on a horse just like yours. Another misunderstanding.”

  She allowed the gun barrel to drop and turned away as the tears began to flow. Her husband was dead. And this stranger had ridden a great distance just to communicate his last words.

  “Ma’am?” McPherson appeared confused.

  Hatty took a deep breath and turned back to face him; her eyes were red, but she was no longer cry- ing. She knew she had to make him understand that he had done the right thing by coming there.

  “I’ve forgotten my manners, Mister McPherson. Have you eaten this morning?”

  “No, ma’am. But I don’t want to put you to any bother. I’ll just ride on out, like you said.”

  “You won’t be putting me out. Take your horse out to the barn. There’s oats there. Then wash up and come to the house. I’ll put on some coffee.”

  • • •

  McPherson’s mystification grew as he watched Hatty to the cabin. How could this woman have been married to the wretch he shot in Texarkana? Given the unkempt appearance of the man, the farm—and his wife—were totally out of character.

  Besides the cabin, there was a roughed-log barn with a small fenced corral located off to one side. Two smaller out buildings which evidently served as a chicken coop and a tool shed were situated near the barn. Like the barn, the cabin was also constructed of logs, but they had been smoothed down, the cracks between the logs filled with caulking, and then white-washed. A front porch ran the full length of the cabin, serving as a platform for two rocking chairs and a long-eared hound that had noted McPherson’s approach and then went back to sleep. A waist high split rail fence completed the scene, encircling the cabin and main yard, each end butted against the barn. A water trough was nested just to the right of the doors.

  After allowing the horse to drink, McPherson stepped inside the barn, and his wonderment contin- ued—it was as neat and tidy as the yard. He unsaddled the horse and led him into a stall, found the oats she had mentioned, and doled out a healthy couple of scoops which the grey acknowledged with a snort. Out- side the barn, McPherson cut across the yard to the washstand near the cabin and filled a washbasin with water from the hand pump. He hung his hat on the pump and splashed water liberally on his face and hair, tossed the water and refilled the basin, repeating the process. She walked up and handed him a towel just as he finished.

  “Coffee’s ready,” she announced and returned to the cabin, McPherson trailing close behind.

  “You can hang your gun and hat there,” she gestured, smiling at his hesitation. “It’s alright, Mister McPherson. You’re safe here.”

  Untying the leather thong around his left thigh, he unbuckled the gun belt and draped the gun and holster across the chair next to the door, hanging his hat next to them. At the table, he made short order of the food she put in front of him—he was obviously much hungrier than he had let on—while she carried on a one-sided conversation. But in spite of her efforts to make him feel welcome, his discomfort at being inside the cabin was quite apparent. It was only with a lot of encouragement that she was finally able to get him talking about his travels, but it wasn’t until he openly admitted the incident in Texarkana that he finally relaxed.

  “I appreciate that talking about this makes you uncomfortable, Mister McPherson, but I’d like to know about my husband’s death.”

  “He didn’t give me a lot of choice in the matter, Miz Picquett,” he answered softly. “I would have been surprised if he had. My husband was not a fair-minded man.” “You said something about my horse and a misunderstanding?”

  “I did,” she nodded. “One morning last summer, a traveler come through here riding a horse the same color as yours. He stopped just long enough to ask for directions and some water.” She paused momentarily, uncertain if she should continue. “My husband happened to be returning from Knoxville about the time the man rode off. He assumed the worst. When I denied any wrongdoing, he became hateful and left that afternoon to find the man.”

  McPherson picked up his coffee cup and leaned back, amazed that she would talk of such things. But he could understand her husband’s feelings. Hatty Picquett was a pleasant sight to McPherson’s weary eyes after years of dust-choked trails and look alike dance-hall girls. She fit no image he could conjure up of a farm woman. Obviously, she worked hard—the farm presented ample evidence of her efforts—but she didn’t seem to suffer physically from
the labors of farm life. If anything, the work had enhanced her appearance, and from the moment he first laid eyes on her, something reached inside him and grabbed hold.

  “I gather he thought the man was me…”

  “So it seems,” she acknowledged, getting to her feet.

  McPherson’s eyes followed her as she walked over to the cook stove to retrieve the coffee pot. She stood a good head shorter than McPherson, her shoulders and hips gently mocking her slenderness. She had small delicate hands that belied the long hours spent in the sun. Her features were exotic: high cheek bones and lush green eyes framed by auburn hair that cascaded in soft waves across and below her shoul- ders, reaching almost to her waist; a mouth that was inviting and alive. She dressed simply, wearing a long calico dress that had seen better days, faded from the sun and washings too numerous to count.

  Her eyes radiated a softness and warmth that countered the severity of her cheekbones, and spoke of a knowledge far beyond her years. There was something about her calmness in the face of what he had thought would be disaster, an unpretentious manner that bespoke of self-assurance, of a certainty in her convictions.

  Her surroundings were just as intriguing. The farm had a rough hewn symmetry about it and she took obvious pride in how it looked. And there were the books, piles of them, stacked high against the walls of the cabin. He had never seen so many books in one place. Whether or not she had actually read them was immaterial; that she had them at all put her into a unique category.

  He found it hard to believe that an hour before, she had been pointing a rifle at him and was ready to shoot. He finally decided it was the hair. Outside, she had worn her hair in a single braid, but she had obvi- ously undone it while he was in the barn, because now it was loose and flowing, and the effect was dra- matic.

  “Did he suffer?” she asked.

  “No ma’am. I don’t believe he did.”

  “You’re a kind person, Mister McPherson. Most people wouldn’t of ridden this far just to deliver a message.”