Man from Stone Creek

Haven, Arizona Territory Fall, 1903THE PINTSIZE CULPRITS, heretofore gathered around the well, scattered for the brush as soon as Sam O'Ballivan rode into the schoolyard on his nameless horse, but he'd seen enough to know they were up to no good. He caught glimpses of bowlcut hair, denim trousers and chambray shirts as they fled. Pigtails, too, and a flash of red calico, bright as a cardinal rousted from the low branches of a white oak tree in winter. With a disgusted shake of his head, Sam reined in and dismounted, leaving the gelding to stand untethered while he strode toward the scene of recent mischief. A part of his mind stayed behind, with the animalit was newly acquired, that horse, and the two of them had yet to form a proper acquaintance. All during the long ride south from his ranch just outside Flagstaff, he'd been too busy cogitating on the complexities of this new assignment to consider much of anything else, going over Major John Blackstone's orders again and again in his head, sorting and sifting, weighing and measuring. "Hold on," he called. The bucket rope was taut and quivering, and he recalled this particular trick from his own youth. A male voice echoed from the depths of the water hole, a shambling train of plaintive syllables rattling along a track of hopeful goodwill. Sam recognized the keynote as relief. "I find myself inobvious difficultiesand willbe profoundly grateful for any assistance" "Hold on," Sam repeated, the words underlaid with a sigh. He was powerfully builtlike a brick shithouse, the boys in the bunkhouse liked to sayand seldom moved quickly, except in a fight or when called upon to draw his.45. He secured the rope with his left hand and reached for the crank with the other, peering downward. All he could make out, even squinting, were the soles of two small, booted feet, bound at the ankles with what looked like baling twine. Here was a dainty fellow, for sure and certainand most likely the incompetent schoolmaster Sam had come to relieve of his duties. "I'm all right!" the teacher called cheerfully from the pit. "Thomas P. Singleton, here!" Sam felt chagrined that given the circumstances, he hadn't thought to inquire after the man's wellbeing right off, but kept cranking. He was a practical man, given to engaging the crisis at hand and dealing with the conversational aspects of the situation later. "That's good, Mr. Singleton," he said belatedly, and when the ankles came within reach, he let go of the handle and grabbed for them with both hands. Poor Tom resembled a trussed gander, plucked and ready for the stew pot, and he didn't weigh much more than one, either. Sam hauled him out of the well and let him plop to the tinderdry grass like a freshcaught trout. He wasn't wet, so the water must be low. Crouching, Sam pulled out his pocketknife and commenced to cutting the twine. The teacher's thin red hair stood straight up on his head, wild and crackling with static, as though it didn't subscribe to the law of gravity. The face beneath it was narrow, with pointy features and blue, watery eyes. The girlish lips curled into a selfdeprecating smile. "My replacement, I presume?" he asked, feeling for what turned out to be his pocket watch, still safe at the end of its tarnished chain, and tucking it away again with a relieved pat. Singleton was certainly a resilient sort; the way he acted, anybody would have thought the pair of them had just sat themselves down to a grand and sociable supper in some fancy Eastern restaurant instead of meeting the way they had. "I must say, your arrival was timely indeed." Still resting on his haunches, Sam nodded in acknowledgment. "Sam O'Ballivan," he said, though he doubted an introduction was necessary. Up at Flagstaff, he'dMiller, Linda Lael is the author of 'Man from Stone Creek ', published 2007 under ISBN 9780373771981 and ISBN 0373771983.