Solitary Horseman by Deborah Camp

who had taken boots and clothing off dead soldiers because what they were wearing was ripped and torn and their boot soles were worn clear through – those men weren’t looking for reasons to kill someone else. Yeah, they might be fed up with the way things were – with having to do business with smug Yankees and freed slaves – but Callum couldn’t believe that they actually wanted more blood on their hands.
    “I’ll be there for sure,” Mr. Summerfield said, slapping one hand on his thigh. “It’s high time we took back Texas.”
    “I couldn’t agree more,” Bob Taylor said, rising to his feet.
    Callum glanced up at him and saw that Taylor was smiling and nodding at someone on the stage. Following his eye line, Callum saw that it was Eller who nodded back.
    “What about you, Latimer?” Mr. Summerfield asked.
    “I might. Depends on if I can afford to take the time away from the ranch.”
    “You might not have a ranch if you don’t take action now.” Mr. Summerfield pushed up to his feet. “You can’t expect those Injuns on your place to keep their brothers and cousins from raiding your ranch and taking horses and steers.”
    “And which ranchers had that happen to them?” Callum stretched to his full height and looked down at the man. “You have any names or just hearsay?”
    “It’s been in the Dallas newspaper. It’s happened to ranchers around Gainesville, Elm, Paris, Denton . . . all over these counties. Only a matter of time before it happens here.”
    Callum ran a hand through his hair and shoved his hat back on. “I have a ranch to run. I don’t have much time for reading newspapers and worrying about raids that haven’t happened. See you gentlemen around, I reckon.” He made his way from the packed hall, pausing to shake hands with a few men and responding briefly to others who asked how his father was doing and if he would be at the barbecue next weekend.
    Outside in the velvety night, he paused to fill his lungs with air that wasn’t thick with cigarette and cigar smoke and sweat before he jogged down the four steps and went to retrieve his horse at the hitching post. He ran a palm across Butter’s flank and let her nuzzle his shoulder and the side of his face before he levered himself up into the saddle.
    He took a shortcut home, riding across the eastern edge of a neighboring ranch to come onto his land out near the old log cabin that had been there when his father had purchased the ranch. No one around could recollect who had built it, but some speculated that it had been an early settler trading in skins. It wasn’t used anymore, although he and his brothers had occasionally spent a night in it when they’d been rounding up rogue cattle in this farthest eastern reach of their land. A couple of creaky bedframes with lumpy mattresses and a few rickety chairs were the only furnishings left in there, last time he’d looked.
    Giving Butter a slack rein, he let her pick her way through a thicket of pines and shrubs that would give way to a trail in another hundred yards that started at the cabin and snaked across the land, past a pond, and then onto the road that led home. The rattle of buggy wheels brought Butter’s ears forward and Callum peered ahead at the glint of harness, breast collar, and buggy hitch.
    “Who in the hell . . ?” he whispered, urging Butter a few more steps closer to the trail. The buggy came into view – a dark red color with a flashy pinto horse pulling it – and he recognized it instantly, along with its driver. What the hell was Lilah Hawkins doing out here at this time of night?
    A few minutes ticked by as he tried on one reason after another as to why Lilah would venture out on her own after dark when she knew Eller was in town attending a meeting. The soft tap of hooves made him hold his breath and he rested a hand on Butter’s flank to keep her still and quiet. The horseman rode through a bright shaft of moonlight and the sight of him made