Absaroka Ambush

8

Preacher got all choked up and sort of misty eyed when he swung down from the saddle in front of the neat little home on the edge of town. There was an old man choppin’ kindlin’ wood by the side of the house, and some good smells comin’ from the house. His ma was bakin’ bread. But why was pa havin’ to chop wood? Seemed like some of his brothers could come over every day and tend to that. Preacher would have to talk to his brothers about that, and make arrangements of some sort. One way or the other.

Preacher pushed open the gate and stepped inside the small yard, walking around to the side of the house. He stood for a moment, looking at his father. The man grew conscious of eyes on him and straightened up with an effort, to stand staring at the rugged-looking stranger in buckskins.

“Can I help you, stranger?” the old man asked.

Preacher had to clear his throat a time or two before replying to that. Stranger? Then Preacher realized that he’d been gone for twenty-odd years. And he had changed.

“You want me to finish up the choppin’ and tote that wood in for you, Pa?” he managed to say.

The old man moved closer. “Arthur? Art, boy? Is that really you, son?”

“It’s me, Pa.”

The back door opened and a gray-haired lady stepped out. “Who’s there, Homer?”

The old man smiled. “The wanderer’s come back, Mother. It’s our son, Art.”

The lady caught her breath and then quickly dabbed at her eyes with a tiny hanky. Then she was off the porch and into Preacher’s arms.

The mountain man had come home.