Enlightenment
The sun had set, but it was not quite dark as Skillman pulled the saddle off his cowpony. He lifted the halter over the animal’s head and aimed her at the stall; but she balked. Instead of her usual spurt to the feed manger, she nickered and back off. Skillman grabbed a hand full of mane, and led her into the small corral attached to the barn. Probably something stored in the stall.
He dropped the locking loop over the gate post. There was still some twilight, but in the back of the stall it was bible black. Carefully he edged up to the dark patch. His hand gently patted the mass as if it were the nose of his pony. Wire. He felt the barbs. His heart sank.
He pulled another match and scratched it along the wall; the light revealed it all: spools of barbed wire stacked neatly right up to the manger and from side to side. Clearly, the old man was readying to reinforce his claim on the homestead, more farming than ranching. It was a dark night, but Ted saw the light.
Before the flame died, he spied the pitch fork hanging on the outside wall. It appears Spirit would spend an extra night under the stars.
Ted dropped a few forks of hay over the fence then came into the corral and curried the little lady; talking and apologizing for one more un-sheltered night. “Still, it’s good to be home, isn’t it, my winning Spirit?”
He walked toward the house. The flicker of the lantern light in the window acted as his guide in the moonless night. He stopped about three feet short of the door and called out his arrival. “It’s Ted… Coming in.”
Before he could get his hand on the latch, the door flew open; his mother standing there. She did not rush into his arms, but waited, a tear in her eye, for him to come to her at his own pace. They didn’t speak, just hugged for a long moment, then Mattie pushed him back arms length to have a good look.
“Welcome home, son.” She broke abruptly and made for the iron stove. “You must be hungry.”
Martin Tarbutton sat on a straight chair next to a burning fire place. He was working on something-- but then, he was always working on something. He looked up. His eyes scanned the tall, thin young man. “Welcome home, lad...”
He looked down again. “See you’re wearing a gun these days.”
Ted’s right hand moved nervously to his side, then back to the belt buckle. With both hands he removed the belt and holster, with gun, and hung them on a peg at the side of the door. “Yeah, things got a little troublesome early in the drive. The trail boss seemed to think I should have a gun. I bought this off him out of wages,” he lied.
Ted eased across the room dragging a straight backed chair with him. He pulled up to the fire and watched the old man deftly work the leather on a broken harness.
Martin was a stocky man, built like a tree stump; not fat, just powerful. Ted turned his eyes to the fire remembering his widowed mother introducing the two of them back in Ohio. She reassured her six year old son on the journey down to Texas that “her Teddy” would always be the love of her life. Married though she was to Martin, and adoring as she was of the two boys by that union, Ted never doubted her love. He always knew that somehow he was the link between her past and present, and it made her complete.
“Don’t know that you need a pistol around here so much, but it’s your gun, Ted -- your responsibility.” Tarbuton looked up. “Hang it, wear it, shoot it; just keep it away from the boys. They got plenty of time for that kind of thing.”
Ted blinked back to present. “Nothing to worry about, sir. It’s just another tool—for range work and the like... Let me tell you about the cattle drive.”
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