End of The Road Ranch

On the day Eli Jumper died an early chinook softened the crusted snow. By sunrise the eves of the ranch buildings began to drip, and the warming air raised vapor from the backs of the horses in the corral. Sunlight on the snow reflected with a blinding intensity, affecting horses, cattle, even the coyotes, whose prowls were frequently interrupted by paws drawn across sore eyes. The world gleamed.

In his gimcrack hide shelter Jumper drew charcoal stripes across his cheekbones as he readied himself for the day’s hunt; he dried his bowstring, loaded the quiver and sharpened his skinning knife before taking a few bites of jerked antelope. He would ride east, hoping to cut the trail of elk, buffalo or antelope driven toward the Platte in recent snowstorms.

He had heard the drunken cheers and laughter in the main ranch building late last night… so much for Cutter’s drinking embargo. What Jumper did not hear was Tabonneau’s silent rise from his blankets in the predawn hours to gather jerky and biscuits, or his stealthy advance into the storeroom to slit the throats of the sleeping prostitutes.

Nor as he stepped out of the stable into the sunlight did Jumper see the half-breed waiting for him just outside.

The Osage did not hear the bowstring release, but the arrow struck him between the shoulder blades, and he went to his hands and knees in the snow and saw his blood, bright and frothy from the lungs, blossoming red in the whiteness beneath him. A loud ringing surged in his head and a shadow passed over him, arms raised.

Down came the axe.

Minutes later Tabonneau saddled his horse and tethered the others together to be led out of the corral. Then he went back to the main building, quietly opened the window of the whores’ room and lit a fire on the bloody blankets covering their bodies. He returned to the corral, mounting his horse like a man with nothing better to do. He led the string of horses out of the corral and rode north to join his mother’s people.

The wet conditions inside the sod building slowed the fire’s progress; it took a few minutes before the smoke roused Cutter. He put on his boots, a shirt, trousers, and a buffalo coat, then took up two pistols before he shouted at Cole.

Open yer eyes, son of a bitch.
Huh?
Ye’ll cook in another minute.

Cutter kicked open the door and stepped into the sunlight, smoke trailing him out the door. Shielding his eyes, he turned and backed away from the building, watching more smoke roll out of the whores’ window.

Cole stumbled out of the doorway, coughing, a blanket around his shoulders, his left hand holding his unbelted trousers. His right held a shirt over his nose and mouth.

He coughed hard.
What about the whores? he said.

The wind shifted, bringing the smoke toward them. With it came the smell of burning flesh.
Don’t guess we have to worry about them, said Cutter.
Cole coughed again. What about Tabonneau?
Cutter shrugged.
And Jumper… where’s the damn Indian?

Cutter turned his head, saw the empty corral and recognized the answer: There, tied by its hair to the top of one of the gateposts, was Jumper’s head.
Cole followed his gaze.
Aw hell.
Well now, said Cutter, let that be a lesson…
What? What lesson?

Just then the snow-covered section of roof over the whores’ room collapsed, raising a large plume of steam as wet snow came down on the burning contents. Cutter shoved his pistols into the waistband of his trousers and looked at Cole.
Whoremaster is no longer our line, he said.