Chapter 1: Smoke in the Distance

It was late afternoon when Jake saw the smoke. On the plain, he couldn't get high enough to see the source of it. From the distance and duration, he thought it was too large to be a campfire.

It was probably trouble. Jake considered ignoring it, but he was getting bored, and almost immediately turned his tired horse toward the source of the smoke. Normally, he didn't look for trouble, but there could be somebody needing help. Here, the land was vast, and the people were few. One helped strangers and hoped for their help in trouble.

Jake also was getting low on provisions. There was enough game on the plains that Jake could get meat, but he was missing bread, and cooking other than on his own campfire. He never regretted getting away from the large cities and patchwork farms in the East, but he appreciated an occasional town with shops and saloons.

Jake counted himself lucky to survive the recent Civil War without losing a limb. He was a boy when he was drafted. He saw plenty of boys his own age dead and even more without a leg or arm by the end of it.

Jake was drafted late in the war, when it was clear to everyone that the South was losing; it was only a matter of time before they surrendered. Still, the battles in the last months of the war were bloody. Jake, not much older than when he was drafted, emerged from the war a man.

He was a skilled hunter before becoming a soldier. By the time he was discharged, he could hunt men with the same skill. His abilities earned him assignments in scouting. He could sleep through a distant battle, and wake at a close footstep. He was a survivor, and he was happy enough to be one.

After the war, there were few jobs, and thousands of discharged soldiers in the East. Jake was also feeling pressed by the masses of people and the rules they had to obey to live in such proximity. Going west seemed like a good decision, and Jake never regretted it.

Since then, Jake had learned to herd cows, cook on the trail, find waterholes, and drink overpriced beer. He'd gotten used to the smell of cattle and horses much more than he liked, but the life suited him well. A few times he had to use his fists, his knife, or his gun. As in the war, he was lucky in such encounters, some others were not.

Part of Jake's luck was his lack of sentimentality in such encounters. Still, he hoped the smoke ahead of him did not mean more bodies. He preferred the smell of a thousand cows to that of a single dead man. He had had enough experience with both to know them well.

Jake's hunch was right. The source of smoke was trouble. He could see it was a half-burned house. It was a small house, but the outbuildings showed it was the center of a ranch. He could see no horses now, but there were signs of them.

There was no sign of people outside the house. Jake holstered his rifle and dismounted. With a pistol in his hand he approached the house.

"Hello!" Jake yelled. "Anybody in the house? Do you need help?"

Jake continued to yell out as he cautiously walked closer. He heard a weak noise when he was about twenty yards from the door. He had been approaching from the side, where there was no direct line of fire from inside, but hearing the weak voice, he decided to speed things up. In a painful but much-practiced crouch, Jake came to one of the broken windows, and popped his head in, leading with his gun.

Jake saw a room full of shards and broken furniture. The far wall was damaged by smoke, but it seemed like the roof failed to catch fire, and the house had mostly survived.

On the floor, a man lay very still. His head was surrounded by a drying pool of blood. Next to him, sitting on the floor was a girl, or a skinny woman. Her face was grey, but at least she was alive. She held a blood-soaked rag next to her own head, and stared blankly at Jake.

"Is there anybody else around, Miss?" Jake asked. "Does anybody here need help urgently?" Jake also wanted to know if somebody else was liable to pop up with a rifle. The first glance told him this was an attack, not an accident. In situations like that, people in these parts tended to shoot first and asked questions later.

"Is there anybody else in the house, Miss?" Jake repeated. As he kept looking, he thought she definitely needed help, and started to come around the open door.

The girl finally mumbled a response. "No, just my father and me. And there is no help for Father. We had two hands, but they'd been scared off by the Turners."

The house was dim, and as Jake approached the girl, he could see more details. In addition to the bleeding forehead, she had a black eye, and her left arm was cradled on her knees. She had a fat lip; her dress was torn and he could see her thighs. There was blood there as well.

Jake had seen such scenes before, and he held his temper. For some reason, though, he felt a sharp wave of guilt. It was as though he was supposed to prevent such things, and failed.

Jake shook his head sharply to get rid of unwanted emotions. He couldn't prevent the misery in the world, as he learned years ago. All he could do was to minimize what he himself caused. At least after the war, he chose his own battles, and didn't have to kill kids for wearing a uniform different from his own.

"Let's get you cleaned up, Miss. I am Jake Framer, at your service. What's your name?"

"My name is Alice. My father is, — was — Jack Minot." Alice sobbed briefly.

Jake righted an overturned chair, and got Alice into it. He gently peeled her hand away from her head, used his canteen to moisten a kerchief and gently washed her bloody forehead and face. Alice had a cut near the hairline, but it was no longer bleeding.

"Do you have a well?"

"Yes, in the back. I will show you..."

"I will find it. Please rest a bit, Miss Minot."

Jake found a pail, and brought water into the room. Alice looked a bit less dazed.

"I will clean things here a bit. You look better. Do you have other clothes, Miss Minot?" Jake asked, trying not to look at her torn dress.

"Yes, Mr. Framer. Please call me Alice. Um, could you step outside for a few minutes?" Alice asked, with embarrassment.

"Of course, Alice. And I am Jake. If you don't mind, I will dig a place for your father. Is there a place... ?"

"My mother died four years ago. She is buried on the other side of the little red outcropping. Thanks for helping me, Jake."

It was quite awhile later and almost completely dark before the grave was deep enough to Jake's satisfaction. He found the weathered sign for Alice's mother.

Alice has come out a few times to bring him fresh water and to offer help. Jake thanked her and sent her back. She found a change of clothes that she probably wore on special occasions, like going to church. It was peculiar to see her in the pretty dress, with bruises and scratches on her face, tear-reddened eyes and a fat lip. Jake wanted to hug her and promise that everything would be all right. Knowing things were very much not all right, Jake avoided looking at Alice altogether.