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THE COWBOY WHO STOPPED AT THE LAST HOUSE

 The House at the End of the Road

By the time Daniel Mercer saw the house, the sun had already fallen behind the western ridge.

He had been riding since before dawn.

His horse, a gray gelding named Boone, moved beneath him with the slow, steady rhythm of an animal that understood there was still a long road ahead.

Daniel preferred horses like that.

Quiet.

Patient.

Uncomplicated.

He preferred most things that way.

For eleven years, Daniel Mercer had lived according to one rule:

Never stay anywhere long enough for anyone to ask you to stay.

He had followed that rule through Colorado, Wyoming, Montana, and the dry territories farther south.

He had worked cattle.

He had repaired wagons.

He had guarded stagecoaches.

He had spent one winter driving freight through a mountain pass where the snow buried horses to their bellies.

He had slept in barns, abandoned cabins, mining camps, and once beneath a church porch while rain poured through the roof.

He had never owned a house.

Never planted a tree.

Never put his name on a deed.

Never promised anyone he would be there in the morning.

It was easier that way.

People were less likely to become important.

And people who were not important could not be lost.

Daniel had learned that lesson when he was twenty-four.

He had been married once.

Her name had been Clara.

They had been young enough to believe that love was stronger than everything else.

They had been wrong.

A winter fever took her.

Three days later, their little daughter followed.

Daniel had buried them both beneath two cottonwood trees.

Then he had ridden away.

He had never returned.

That had been eleven years ago.

Now he traveled with a rifle across his saddle, a revolver at his hip, and a small leather bag containing everything he considered necessary.

He had no photographs.

No letters.

No keepsakes.

Nothing that could make him stop.

But that evening, the road ended.

Daniel knew it immediately.

The trail narrowed between two rocky slopes, then disappeared beside a dry creek bed.

There was nowhere else to go.

He turned Boone toward the only visible structure.

A house.

It stood alone at the edge of the valley.

A weather-beaten wooden building with a stone chimney, a small barn, and a fenced pasture.

One lamp burned in the window.

Daniel slowed.

Something felt wrong.

The house was too quiet.

No dog.

No chickens.

No movement.

Even the horses in the pasture stood unusually still.

Daniel's hand moved toward his revolver.

Then a voice came from the darkness.

"Don't come any closer."

Daniel stopped.

A woman stood on the porch.

She held a shotgun.

She was perhaps thirty years old.

Dark hair.

Pale face.

A gray wool coat.

She looked tired rather than frightened.

Daniel lifted both hands.

"I wasn't looking for trouble."

"That's what men say before trouble starts."

"I'm looking for water."

"There isn't any."

Daniel glanced toward the dry creek.

"Your well?"

"Empty."

"Then I'll keep riding."

"You can't."

Daniel frowned.

"Why?"

The woman looked toward the road behind him.

"Because they're coming."

Daniel turned.

Nothing.

Only darkness.

He looked back at her.

"Who?"

She tightened her grip on the shotgun.