Outcast by Gary D. Svee Page A

of wood into the stove and used another match to light the lantern. The night was the flat black of false dawn. Less than an hour before daylight. Might as well attend to his morning ablutions.
    Standish stepped toward the door, paused and came back. Might as well pour that quicklime down the hole in the outhouse. No sense putting that off just because it was dark. He hefted the sack to his shoulder, bending down to grab the lantern’s bail. The door protested only a little at his passing, but he stopped to make sure it was closed. No reason to let the heat leak out.
    Brrrrr. A shiver ran down Standish’s back, and he picked up his pace, focusing his attention on the path ahead of him. The door to the outhouse was held closed by a spring. He opened the door with the hand holding the lantern and stepped inside. Good time for quick lime. Though the outhouse hadn’t warmed yet, it was already mildly disagreeable.
    The pile of paper on the seat was getting a little low. He would have to subscribe to the local rag. Town the size of Last Chance should have one.
    Standish did his business, and then cut open the quick-lime bag, taking care to keep it away from his face. He upended it down the hole, swinging it back and forth for good distribution as it emptied. Finished he dropped the sack down the hole and pushed eagerly into the morning.
    The sky was painting the horizon in pastels, not long now before light. The chicks! He had forgotten the chicks. He’d stop by the barn and get a handful of oats. Standish stalked toward the barn, holding each foot up as he probed ahead for a safe place to land it. The barn loomed ahead of him, dark written on dark and on the east side—the door was open! He would never leave the door to the barn open all night. What the hell was happening?
    Someone had come in the night. Probably Bodmer was waiting in the cabin with his henchmen and a rope. Standish turned down the wick on the lantern. He didn’t want to walk to the house enveloped in light.
    Standish stood in the dark, thinking of that afternoon on Flathead. They almost had him that day. He could hear Bodmer shouting. “Shoot his horse. I want to hang the son of a bitch.”
    Standish shook his head. Bodmer didn’t know his men. They would have gladly killed Standish, but shooting his horse stuck in their craw.
    Standish took a deep breath. He had to think this through if he were to survive. He didn’t know when the barn door had been opened. Sometime between the time he went to sleep and the time, he got up. He couldn’t imagine, though, that a stranger had stepped into the barn without the horses kicking up a fuss.
    No time for the horses now, not with his life hanging from a strand in Bodmer’s web. He eased up to the cabin door. The only light inside radiated from the stove, and…Arch. The boy bent over the box with the chicks, sprinkling oats for the little birds.
    Standish’s chin dropped to his chest, and the air escaped him in an explosive burst. He had to take control, shake off those memories. He took a deep breath and stepped through the door.
    â€œYou got an early start this morning.”
    Arch looked up, but then he returned his attention to the box without saying anything. When he finally pulled back from the box, he stared at Standish with accusing eyes.
    â€œWe lost one,” he said. “Cold last night, so they all crowded together, and we lost one. Wouldn’t have died if you’d kept the stove going.”
    â€œWoke up this morning about 3:30. I started the stove then.” Standish said, and then regretted that he was trying to justify his actions to a child. Who the hell was Arch to hoist a full-grown man on his petard?
    â€œI’ll take ’em home tonight,” Arch said. “I’ll keep ’em until they’re pullets, and then I’ll bring yours back.”
    Standish sighed. “Is that what brings you here so early?”
    Arch