Disclaimer:
Characters and situations from Lonesome Dove: The Outlaw Years belong to Rysher Entertainment and are used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended. This story or the new characters created by the author are not to be published on any ftp site, newsgroup, mailing list, fanzine or elsewhere without the express permission of the author.
~~~
"You cannot do justice to the dead. When we talk about doing justice to the dead, we are talking about retribution for the harm done to them. But retribution and justice are two different things." ~ William Shawcross ~
Prologue: August 14, 1879
Samuel Holmes unlocked the door and stepped out onto the balcony that hugged the front of the wood-framed building. Crossing to the railing, he stood looking out over the town. It had been one of those stifling hot summer afternoons when the air pressed down close and breathless, heavy with the threat of a thunderstorm that never materialized. The ominous sky still hung gunmetal grey, and heat lightning flashed intermittently on the horizon.
Reaching into his waistcoat, Samuel brought out a silver case. He snapped the case shut and slid it back into his pocket before lighting his smoke. Bringing the cigarette to his lips, he inhaled deeply. He hesitated before letting the smoke out slowly, almost grudgingly, in a time-honored ritual that never failed to calm his nerves, even after a day such as this one had been.
Samuel thought back over the steady stream of loan applicants from this afternoon. It never ceased to amaze him how many men still flocked to the Black Hills with a hungry look in their eyes and an unfailing belief that they were about to strike it rich in the gold fields. Samuel knew just how they felt. A few years ago he had been one of those eager young men, and he too had needed a loan to set himself up in prospecting. Samuel had been one of the lucky ones.
A slight movement from below drew Samuel's eye. A man stood on the porch outside the hotel. Even at this distance, Samuel could see that he was a gentleman, well groomed, his dark suit finely cut. The man leaned on the support post, his cigar glowing dimly in the fading light. As if feeling Samuel's gaze upon him, he turned and looked up. Samuel gave a slight nod that wasn't returned. The stranger held his gaze for a few moments before looking away.
Samuel became aware of a dull throbbing at his temples, and he shivered in spite of the heat. He hoped he wasn't coming down with something. Oh well, it was time to go inside, anyway. Another time-honored tradition, his regular Friday night poker game, was due to start in a few minutes. And Samuel was never late.
~~~
Samuel snubbed out his cigarette and drained the warm whiskey from the bottom of his glass. It was only 10 o'clock, but it was already painfully obvious to Samuel that his luck hadn't changed. Wade Folsom had most of the chips in front of him as usual. Try as he might, Samuel had never been able to read Wade's tells -- those unconscious mannerisms by which one player telegraphs information to another, unintentionally giving away more than he realizes.
Now, compared to Wade, Charlie was easy. Charlie Parsons got excited when he had a good hand, and he had a way of tapping his cards against his mustache, impatient to make his move. Conversely, Joshua Pratt clammed up tight, looking neither to the left or right, lest by a stray glance he give something away. That very stoicism was a tip-off. And the two men were just as easy to read when they were bluffing.
But Wade was another matter entirely; and Samuel had been losing to him for weeks now -- more money than he cared to admit, more than he could afford to lose. One more hour, he told himself. Maybe he could still salvage something from this evening. He reached for the common bottle.
"Pardon me, Gentlemen, if I may be so bold. Perhaps you might permit me to join your game," said a new voice in a polished Southern accent.
Looking up, Samuel recognized the stranger he had seen on the street earlier that evening. He hadn't noticed him come in. The two men regarded each other briefly.
"Sit yourself down, mister," Charlie said, indicating a vacant chair.
The newcomer glanced at Charlie. He set a bottle and glass down on the table and took the offered seat. He drew out a black leather wallet and laid several crisp $100 bills on the table, and Wade pushed over his chips.
"I'm Wade Folsom. This here's Charlie Parsons. That's Joshua Pratt, and our illustrious banker friend there is Mr. Samuel Holmes. And who might you be, sir?" Wade took up the cards for his turn to deal.
The man lit a cigar. He took a deep pull and exhaled slowly before answering. "Clay Mosby."
Wade shuffled and dealt with a practiced hand. "You don't look familiar to me, Mr. Mosby, and I pride myself on knowing most folks hereabouts. Where you from, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Montana Territory -- a little place called Curtis Wells. Perhaps you've heard of it?"
The blank expressions on the other men's faces gave him his answer.
Mosby took another puff of his cigar. "Perhaps not. It's a small place; but I like to call it home."
"What brings you to Deadwood, Mr. Mosby, business or pleasure?"
"I guess you could say a little bit of both." Mosby smiled, and Samuel noticed his unusually fine set of even, white teeth.
"A man doesn't get an accent like yours in Montana Territory," Joshua piped up. "Where you from originally?"
"Virginia born and raised. I haven't been back there for a number of years now, but I suspect a man stays true to the speech he learns at his mother's knee."
"I'm in," said Charlie, impatient to start the game. He tossed his chips into the center of the table. The other players followed suit, Mosby adding his last. Charlie bet twenty dollars.
"I'll see your twenty and raise you twenty," Wade said, throwing his chips onto the pile.
Wagering continued around the table, and Wade picked up the deck again.
"Give me two, Wade," Joshua requested.
"One here," said Charlie.
Samuel studied his lackluster hand and considered his options. "I'll take three."
Mr. Mosby asked for two.
"Dealer takes two," said Wade.
Picking up two Jacks, Samuel found himself with decent cards for once. Nothing from either Charlie or Joshua seemed to indicate that they were a serious threat, and hoping the same was true of Wade and Mr. Mosby, Samuel raised them a hundred dollars. Charlie and Joshua folded immediately. At Wade's call, Samuel laid down two pair -- jacks and tens -- and the pot was his. The win was to be his last of the evening.
After a few more rounds, Samuel noticed that Mr. Mosby wasn't winning either, but it hadn't seemed to dampen his spirits. On the contrary, he seemed to be enjoying himself. At one point, Samuel looked up find the Southerner studying him over his cards, his amber eyes thoughtful, almost amused. Samuel threw off the uneasy feeling that manifested itself and attempted to concentrate on his hand. He was surprised a short time later when the Mr. Mosby stood up abruptly and excused himself, saying something about an early stage on the morrow.
Samuel was the next to call it a night. His head had really begun to pound, and the pile of chips in front of him had dwindled to almost nothing. If he stayed, he would have to ask one of his friends to stake him in the next round -- bad form, that. He stopped by the bar long enough to have Jake put a bottle of Scotch on his tab and carried it out into the sultry evening.
As he walked the short distance to his building, Samuel noted that his steps were still pretty steady. He chuckled bitterly to himself; the night was still young. He climbed the stairs slowly, searching in his pocket for his keys, and leaned against the door while he fumbled with the lock. Hearing a slight sound, Samuel turned his head. From out of nowhere there came a sudden explosion of pain; then blackness took him.
~~~
The first thing Samuel became aware of was the smell of cigar smoke. It sickened him, and he retched miserably. His head was pounding, and he couldn't seem to focus his eyes. Shifting his position, he attempted to bring his hands to his throbbing head, but there was something preventing him -- his hands and feet were tied to his chair. A dull, booming sound echoed about the room, words maybe, he couldn't make them out.
"What? Who's here? Where are you?"
A dark shape loomed in front of him. "Welcome back, Mr. Holmes. I was beginnin' to think you were out for the duration of the evenin'." Samuel raised his head, aware of a trickle of blood beside his left eye. The hurricane was burning dimly on the table next to him. Funny, he didn't remember lighting it.
A man's face swam into view. That face -- the Southerner from the poker game.
"Mosby. What are you doing here? What do you want?" Samuel strained against his bonds.
"This shouldn't take long. The two of us need to have ourselves a little talk."
"We have nothing to talk about; I don't even know you. Untie me, goddammit! You've got no right . . ." Samuel gave up struggling. He craved a drink. He eyed the open bottle on the table beside him.
Mosby took a last puff of his cigar. He stood looking down at the helpless man in front of him. Then grabbing Samuel by the hair, he jerked his head back and held the burning stub in his face.
"I think the important thing is that I know you, Mr. Holmes. You must have known I'd show up one day. You've been waitin' fifteen years for me."
"I don't know what you're talking about." Samuel stared back at him unblinkingly.
Mosby released Samuel's head with a jerk. "You took somethin' from me, Holmes." Mosby dropped the cigar stub on the floor and ground it under his boot. "Somethin' I held very dear, more dear than life itself."
Samuel couldn't drag his eyes away from the Southerner's face, from the passionate hatred burning in his eyes.
"You took my family." Mosby choked on the words. He tore his gaze away from Samuel's. "You took my wife."
Samuel shook his head to clear it. This couldn't be happening. He thought about screaming, but his was the only apartment over the bank. There would be no one to hear him until morning.
Mosby began to pace in the cramped, little room.
"I don't know your wife." Samuel cast back in his memory for an indiscretion on his part, an innocent flirtation misunderstood by this man. He came up dry. He'd been much too busy losing money lately -- and drinking -- to think much about the fairer sex.
Mosby circled his victim, stopping in front of his chair. Drawing out his revolver, he stood for a moment, caressing the cold metal with his fingertips.
"It should come as no surprise to you that I came here to kill you tonight, Holmes. But before I do, by God, you are gonna tell me everythin' that happened there that day."
"Happened where? I don't have the least idea what you're talking about."
Mosby twirled the cylinder of the gun threateningly. He leaned down, his face only inches from Samuel's. Samuel could feel his hot breath.
"Hatton Willows. A fine Virginia plantation. Home to my family for generations."
Mosby straightened up again, awaiting a response, but none was forthcoming. He tapped the gun barrel against his palm.
"Funny, I was sure you'd remember it. It was widely reputed to be one of the most beautiful homes in Northern Virginia." He gave a low, bitter chuckle. "Before our brave men in blue burned it to the ground." He pressed the gun barrel to Samuel's forehead.
"I understand that I have the Second Maine Volunteers to thank for the atrocity. Your unit, Mr. Holmes. Please, correct me if I'm mistaken."
Samuel didn't answer.
Mosby's features contorted in anger. "The bastards raped my wife," he spat out. "Then they killed her. And my mother and father."
He waited for Samuel's reaction.
"You were there. You were a part of it. How about it, Holmes? You beginnin' to recollect the incident to which I am referrin'?"
The pain in Samuel's head intensified as his chest pounded. The memories he had pressed down for so long washed over him. Dear, God, how much did the man know?
"I'm waitin', Holmes."
The muzzle pressed cruelly into Samuel's skull. A cold sweat beaded his brow. "H . . . how did you find me?" he squeezed out finally.
"I had a brief but informative conversation with your commandin' officer, Captain Douglas Armstrong, right before he blew himself to kingdom come, nearly takin' me with him in the process. After that it was a simple matter."
The clock chimed midnight, seconds stretching into eternity. Samuel flinched as he heard Mosby draw the Remington's hammer back.
"You are gonna tell me everythin'; do you hear me? What part did you play in the murder of my family? Did you touch my wife?"
Samuel couldn't look at the younger man. He tried to turn his head away, but he couldn't. He craved a drink. A sob rose in his throat as the words burst out. "It wasn't me! I had no stomach for killing civilians. It was Captain Armstrong. He egged us on said it was our duty to follow orders -- his orders. I only set fire to the barn and some of the outbuildings. We had orders to burn the outbuildings."
Samuel swallowed hard. "But Captain Armstrong, he took a shine to the young, dark-haired woman." His voice dropped. "Some of the others did too."
Mosby dropped the gun to his side. He turned away, sickened, each word a knife in his breast. He held up his hand as if to stop Samuel, but the floodgates were open now, and Samuel continued.
"She was fighting them and screaming," Samuel gasped. "They took her to the slave quarters. We hadn't burned that yet. That's when the old man ran down from the house to help her. Private Redmont stuck him with his bayonet, and he fell."
Mosby listened, his eyes widening in horror. He leaned on the lamp table for support. He forced himself to look at Samuel.
"Go on."
Samuel scarcely heard him over the screams reverberating in his head. The acrid stench of the burning buildings was as strong in his nostrils now as it had been fifteen years before.
"I didn't help them, I swear!" Sweat poured down Samuel's face. "Redmont went with Armstrong and the others. Armstrong ordered me to stand guard. I felt like running, but I didn't. I followed orders. God help me; I followed orders."
Samuel hung his head, his own last words ringing in his ears. "I can't go on; I can't," he moaned.
Mosby backhanded him across the face. "Finish it! So help me, God; you are gonna tell me what happened to my wife!"
Samuel struggled for the words. "Smoke was pouring out of the slaves' quarters," he managed at last. "I didn't see the lady again." He stopped and drew a deep, shuddering breath. "Then Armstrong told me to torch the house."
Mosby's next question came in a gasp of agony. "Where was my mother all this time?"
"I don't know; I never saw her. She must have been in the house."
"Was she alive or dead?"
"I don't know."
Mosby turned his head away.
"I didn't hurt anyone, I swear. You've got to believe me!"
Mosby whirled on him, the Remington leveled straight between Samuel's eyes. "You bastard! Why should I spare your life? You didn't stop them either. You're as guilty as the rest of them."
"Please, I have a family."
"What the hell is that to me? Pity? Is that what you want from me? Those men took everythin' I had, and you helped them."
Samuel made no reply; dry sobs racked his body.
The clock on the mantlepiece clicked away interminable minutes as Mosby glared down at him. "You pitiful bastard," he spat out finally; "you're too pathetic to kill." He slid his gun back into the holster. "I hope you hear their screams every day for the rest of your miserable life. You live with that. I do."
Striding to the door, Mosby flung it open and went out, leaving it wide to the suddenly chill night air.
~~~
The next morning when the bank opened, repeated muffled thumps and calls from upstairs brought George Jackson, one of the tellers, to his boss' rooms on the double.
"Who did this to you, sir? You want me to call the sheriff?"
"That won't be necessary, George," Samuel told him as he rubbed some life back into his numb wrists. "You go on back to work."
"Yes, sir," George said as he turned to leave.
"Oh, and George?" Samuel called after him.
"Yes, sir?"
"Tell Mr. Wallace I won't be coming in today."
Samuel stood on his balcony, smoking as Mosby's stage rumbled past. He dropped his cigarette and went back inside, closing the door carefully behind him. A few moments later a shot rang out, echoing obscenely in the hustle and bustle of a normal day in Deadwood, South Dakota.
~~~~~
September 19, 1880
Claire wet her lips and tasted the dust. This was the last leg of her long journey from Massachusetts, and she would be very glad when it was over. At least it was less crowded in the coach now, the couple sitting next to her having disembarked in Miles City. Their company had been less than ideal. The elderly woman had slept all the way in spite of the jouncing, her head bobbing on her breast, until she fell over at last and leaned heavily against Claire. And the old man *would* spit tobacco juice out of the open coach window through the attractive gap in his mouth where two teeth had once been. He'd spent the rest of his time expounding on the Indian tribes indigenous to the area and parceling out information concerning his own part in their decline and subsequent removal to the reservations.
Three riders remained -- two men and a woman, but they weren't of the talkative sort, and that suited Claire just fine. She smiled to herself. Yes, everything was going according to plan. In another hour she would be in Curtis Wells. She settled back in her seat and watched the changing scenery outside her window.
~~~
Colonel Clay Mosby sauntered across the street, smiling and doffing his hat to the ladies. It was a beautiful September morning, clear-aired and sun-warmed, after the previous chilly evening. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. There wouldn't be many more of these fine days before the Montana winter set in, and he intended to enjoy each and every one of them. As he made his way down the boardwalk, the Miles City stage came rolling into town and halted in a billowing cloud of dust. Right on time, Clay thought to himself as he glanced at the pocket watch pulled from his fancy brocade vest. Snapping the cover shut, he slid the timepiece back into place and was just continuing on his way, when a well-dressed passenger descending from the stage caught his attention. He stopped and stared for a moment, then turned and retraced his steps. The woman stood looking around her as the other passengers dispersed, intent on their own destinations. Approaching her, Mosby removed his hat and cleared his throat. "Clay Mosby at your service," he announced. "Perhaps I might be of some assistance?"
The tall blonde turned to face him, adjusting her parasol to block the sun's brilliant rays. She smiled at the handsome man in front of her. "Claire Benson," she said holding out her hand. Clay took it and brushed it gently with his lips.
"Welcome to Curtis Wells, Miss Benson," Mosby said as he glanced around them at townsfolk hurrying past. "Was someone meetin' you here?" The stage driver was piling a fancy set of matched luggage at Claire's feet.
"As a matter of fact, no, Mr. Mosby, I was just looking for the hotel. Would you be so kind as to point me in that direction?"
"Have Miss Benson's things brought to the Dove," Mosby directed the driver. He replaced his hat and offered Claire his arm. "It is Miss Benson, is it not? Please correct me if I'm mistaken."
Claire smiled up at him as she took his arm. "That is correct, sir. I'm not married. But how did you know?"
"If a lovely young woman such as yourself was married, I would expect to see her husband by her side, Miss Benson; yet here you are travelin' all alone."
Claire laughed. "I like to travel, Mr. Mosby. And I'm used to being unescorted."
Mosby nodded and then asked, "Has it been a long journey? Where do you hail from?"
"From Boston. I left home more than a month ago."
"Then you are indeed far from home."
By now they had reached the Dove, and Claire let go of his arm. Mosby turned to face her. "If I may be so bold, Miss Benson, what brings you to our fair city? Are you here on business or pleasure?"
"A little of both, I guess. As I said, I enjoy traveling. But I'm really here on business. I'm looking for property in this area."
"Oh, really? Well, that's somethin' I may be able to help you with. I'm acquainted with most of the available real estate in these parts." Mosby rubbed his lower lip thoughtfully. "Perhaps we could discuss it this evenin' at dinner if you would do me the honor. Shall we say seven o'clock?"
"I'd be delighted, Mr. Mosby." Claire smiled her thanks.
"Splendid," Mosby said, holding the door open for her. "Till this evenin' then, Miss Benson."
"Till this evening," she agreed.
Clay smiled as she stepped inside, then turned on his heel and headed down the boardwalk in the direction of the Ambrosia Club.
Well, what do you know? Claire thought to herself as she watched Mr. Mosby depart, our Mr. Mosby is a man of breeding, and he's quite stunning to boot. He's not at all what I was expecting.
~~~
Seated at Amanda's best table that evening, Mosby thought Claire looked completely charming. Her blonde curls were done up in a particularly fetching style, and her pale blue silk dress set off her complexion perfectly. He cleared his throat. "Could I tempt you with a little libation, Miss Benson, perhaps a glass of wine . . ."
"Please, call me Claire," she interrupted him.
Mosby smiled. "Very well then, Claire, how about a glass of somethin' smooth and warmin'? There's a chill in the air this evenin'. We can't have you catchin' cold, now can we?"
"That sounds perfect. I'd love some wine, thank you."
Clay motioned Amanda over and ordered their drinks and then turned the conversation to the topic at hand.
"This afternoon you mentioned that you were interested in aquirin' some property hereabouts. If you don't mind my askin', why Curtis Wells? I wasn't aware that this town had such a fine reputation."
"It's quite simple, really; my mother has been in failing health this past year, and her doctors think she should relocate out west, away from Boston's damp climate."
"I see; so you simply closed your eyes, and put a finger on the map, and decided this was the place?"
Claire laughed. "No, my uncle used to live near here, years ago, in a place called Cedar Gulch. He had a mining claim there. He wrote letters to my parents detailing the lovely countryside out here. I've always wanted to see it for myself."
Their drinks arrived, and Clay raised his glass to Claire.
"Cedar Gulch, you say. Hmmm, yes, I am familiar with the spot; though I wouldn't extol its beauty to anyone. Tell me, did your uncle have any luck with his claim?"
"No, it proved to be a fruitless venture, I'm afraid."
"Yes, I know how that is. I've had a few failures of my own in the minin' business."
"Do tell." Claire took another sip of her wine. "What is it you do here in Curtis Wells, Mr. Mosby, if you don't mind my asking?"
Mosby held up a finger. "Call me Clay."
Claire smiled. "Yes, of course, Clay, what line of business are you in?"
"I own a small saloon and gamblin' establishment, the Ambrosia Club. It's nothin' fancy, but I'm rather fond of it."
"I'd love to see it."
"Oh, really? Well, I'd be happy to show it to you. Perhaps tomorrow mornin' might be best, less riff raff hangin' around at that time of day."
"Very well, tomorrow it is. I'm looking forward to it."
Amanda brought their supper, and they turned their attention to their steaks. "This is delicious," Claire commented after a few bites.
"Our Montana beef is quite good," Clay agreed. "I've often thought about startin' a small cattle operation and shippin' the beef to your fine restaurants in the east."
"What's preventing you?"
"Transportation. As you know, the railroad does not pass through Curtis Wells as yet."
"As yet? Does that mean that it's coming here soon?"
"I hope so. It's been a goal of mine for some time."
"So it appears that you are an influential man in these parts."
Clay smiled. "I have my connections, it's true. And I admit to a certain amount of perseverance."
"I see. I find that an admirable trait in a man. It reminds me of my father."
"Oh, really? Tell me about your father. Is he still livin'?"
Claire grew quiet and looked down at her plate. "My father died over a year ago. I still miss him."
"I'm very sorry to hear that, my dear."
Claire forced a smile. "Well, life goes on, doesn't it?"
Mosby hesitated for a moment before answering. "Indeed."
They ate in silence for a few moments.
"Who's that man?" With a nod, Claire indicated a table near the far wall. "He's been quietly observing us ever since we sat down. He doesn't look too friendly."
Clay glanced over his shoulder. "If you mean that grubby cowhand over there, that would be Newt Call."
"Why is he looking at you like that?"
"I'm afraid our Mr. Call is none too fond of me. He likes to keep an eye on me at all times. He probably thinks I'm defilin' you just by havin' dinner with you this evenin'."
"Why, whatever would make him think that about you?"
Just then, Mr. Call pushed back abruptly from his table and strode past without another glance at either of them. Claire turned to watch him go.
"Please, my dear, don't trouble yourself. It was a long time ago. Let's talk about more pleasant matters, shall we?" Clay took his last bite of steak. "Now about that property you are interested in aquirin'. What size spread were you considerin'?"
"Maybe twenty acres. A small ranch. I'd like to have a few horses."
"So you ride then?"
"Yes, I've been riding since I was a girl. It's always been my dream to have a horse of my own. We never had a place for one in Boston."
Amanda came by their table to check on them. "Will you be needing anything else, Clay? Miss Benson? We have a fine berry pie this evening. Callie baked it this afternoon. It's still warm."
Clay leaned back in his chair. "Shame on you for temptin' me, Amanda; you know I have a sweet tooth. I feel obliged to sample a piece. And how about some of that coffee you're so famous for?" He turned his gaze on his companion. "Claire?"
"That sounds wonderful, Amanda. Please bring me the same."
When Amanda left to fetch their desserts, Clay continued where he'd left off. "Perhaps you'd like to go for a ride tomorrow -- after you tour the Ambrosia, of course."
"Oh, yes, I'd love to go if you can arrange for a proper mount for me."
"Gentle or spirited?"
"Why, spirited, of course," Claire answered with a twinkle in her eye.
~~~
"A roulette wheel! Oh, how does it work?" Claire left the gaming table and whirled back to her companion. "Show me, please, Clay?" she begged, grabbing his arm.
"Let me guess, you've always wanted to try your hand at Roulette?" Clay laughed at Claire's display of child-like enthusiasm as he allowed her to lead him back to the table. For one supposedly well-traveled, there seemed to be a good many things she had never experienced. But he supposed that was only natural at her age. Besides, gambling was not a fitting occupation for a lady.
"Please?" she pleaded, impatient at his hesitation.
"Very well," Clay said, standing opposite Claire at the wheel. "This is how it's done. Suppose you pick a number and a color. Shall we say, sixteen red? Then you place your bet -- your chips -- on that number."
Clay handed Claire a small stack, and she dutifully placed them on sixteen red.
"Fine. Then the croupier spins the wheel, like so." Clay gave the wheel a good spin.
"This is such fun!" Claire clapped her hands as the ball rattled around the wheel. She watched excitedly as it slowed to a stop.
"Thirteen black. I'm sorry, but the house wins," Clay informed her.
Claire pretended to pout. "Oh well, it's a good thing I didn't have anything to lose."
Clay gave her a significant look. A brief shadow touched his face. "There's always somethin' to lose, my dear," he said as he picked up her chips and restacked them.
Claire laughed as she came around the table and took his arm again. "Don't be gloomy, Clay. It's a perfectly beautiful day, and I'm anxious to see some of that property you were telling me about." She slid her arm through his companionably. 'What do you say we go for that ride?"
~~~
Claire waited on the steps of the Dove for Clay to bring their horses around. What could be keeping him, she wondered, glancing impatiently at her timepiece. A muffed cough drew her attention to the bench behind her. The lanky cowboy she had noticed at dinner the night before was regarding her with a hooded stare. She waited for him to speak.
"Seems like things're movin' pretty fast between you and Mosby," he piped up finally.
"Mr. Call, isn't it?"
Call looked off down the street.
"Excuse me, Mr. Call, but I fail to see why my activities would be of any interest to you. You don't even know me."
"I'd be careful if I were you, is all. You don't know Mosby."
"Oh, and I suppose you do?"
Call grimaced and smiled a bitter half-smile. "Better than I care to." He remained for a moment, his eyes locked on hers. Then he rose abruptly and strode off down the boardwalk.
Disagreeable man, Claire thought to herself. But something about the way he'd looked at her as if he could see right through her, unnerved her, and she shivered in spite of the warmth of the late morning sun.
~~~
The air was crisp, and the hills seemed to be draped in old, yellowed silk. All around them the ripened prairie grass was high, with a scattering of colorful wildflowers that defied summer's end.
"I declare; I've never seen anything so beautiful," Claire said as they crested a small rise and sat looking out over the rolling countryside.
"Why, yes, it has a certain charm about it, I suppose." Clay smiled, swaying gently to his horse's rhythm as it picked a lazy path through the seasoned grass.
"Where's home, Clay -- where did you get that marvelous accent of yours?"
Clay smiled, thinking that she was the one with the accent. "I'm from Virginia originally. Haven't been back there in quite some time."
"Do you miss it?"
He hesitated for a moment before answering. "It was a different world -- another time. This is my home now -- backward though it may be. But I have plans to make Curtis Wells a show place. Bring prosperity to the area -- a better standard of livin' for everyone."
"Sounds ambitious."
"I suppose it is. And it'll take time. But I am a patient man."
Clay shielded his eyes with his hand as he scanned the far horizon. "It's not far now. Shall we?" He spurred his horse onward, and Claire followed. A short ride brought them to a cluster of dilapidated buildings gathered around a small pond. Clay helped Claire dismount, and she ran excitedly down to the water.
"Oh, this is lovely! There's even a place for ducks! Mother will be so excited. Who owns this place?"
"As a matter of fact, I do. It belonged to a hermit woman who died some months back." Clay's eyes swept the empty horizon. "She lived and died all alone out here."
"Oh, how sad. She had no family?"
"I have no idea who her descendants might be. None have come forward as yet. Turns out she was quite delinquent in her mortgage payment."
"And that's how you acquired the place."
Clay nodded. "Yes."
"I can see why she wanted to live out here, though. It's so peaceful. Father would have loved it." Claire turned away, anxious to begin her exploration.
After touring the several buildings on the place, all of which were in need of repairs, they started back to the horses. Claire stopped midway and spun around once, then stood with her hands on her hips. "It's simply perfect," she declared. "We'll take it."
"But . . . we have other places to see. There are several prime acreages -- some with better buildin's . . ."
Claire placed her finger on his lips, effectively silencing him. "I said it's perfect."
Clay smiled. "Very well. I can see you're a woman who knows what she wants. I'll have the papers drawn up as soon as we get back."
"Fine. But let's not hurry, all right? I would like to see some more of this wonderful countryside."
In the slanted rays of the late afternoon sun, they turned their mounts toward Curtis Wells. Disturbed by the moving horses, grasshoppers rose in diaphanous clouds, only to resettle nearby and be disturbed yet again. A meadowlark sang out lustily, and somewhere close by. its mate answered.
Claire chattered happily beside Clay, pointing out pictures in the clouds as they passed overhead, and he found himself relaxing and enjoying her company more than he ever thought possible. After a time she grew quiet, and Clay let his mind drift with the drowsy singing of the insects in the tall grass. It was good to let the pressing cares of his life recede, if only for a little while.
Suddenly, Claire kicked her pony into a gallop. "Race you!" she yelled as she thundered past him.
Clay followed, and before long he was gaining on her. Her horse was quick, but his was the stronger, and soon they were neck-in-neck, heading down into a slight draw, a line of cottonwoods and heavy brush promising water at the bottom. A downed tree blocked Clay's path, and Claire made it to the creek first. Pulling up short on the bank, she jumped down. Clay maneuvered his mount down to where she stood breathing hard and laughing.
"I beat you! I beat you!"
Clay reined in and dismounted. Laughing as well, he crossed the few paces to where she stood and took her by the shoulders. "I see that I should not have provided you with such a spirited animal. You're not an easy woman to catch."
"Well, you've caught me now, haven't you? And just what do you propose to do with me now that you have?" Claire asked, turning her face up to his.
The hint of subtle perfume in her hair was intoxicating; Clay breathed in her essence. Without realizing that he meant to do so, he brought his mouth down hard on hers, taking sweet pleasure in the soft lips under his own, kissing her with an urgency he hadn't heretofore recognized.
But after a moment, Claire put both her hands on his chest and pushed. "Clay, I'm famished. I can taste Amanda's berry pie now. Shouldn't we be getting back?"
Releasing her in surprise, Clay watched her pick up her reins again and climb back into her saddle.
"I do believe you have compromised my virtue, Mr. Mosby," she said, looking down at him. But he noted the smile curling her lips as she said it.
Climbing out of the draw, Clay noted that the shadows were deeper now, staining the hills purple in the distance. They rode in silence. Clay was a bit confused. Just what the hell had happened back there? A little innocent flirtation on Claire's part. Is that all it was? He wasn't used to being rebuffed. Surely, Claire understood what a man expected of a woman. Granted, she was young; but she didn't strike him as altogether inexperienced. He didn't know what to make of it. He contented himself with thoughts of Amanda's berry pie waiting for him back at the Dove. After all, he was pretty sure that's what Claire was thinking about.
Back in town, Clay helped Claire dismount at the hotel. He pressed her hand in parting and went to stable their horses.
Claire was quiet during dinner, and Clay had a difficult time carrying on a conversation with her. She pled a headache and excused herself before dessert, something he found a bit odd, considering the fuss she'd made earlier about the pie. He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek before she went upstairs.
The last rays of the autumn sun slanted down long and golden as he made his way home alone. The beginnings of a chilly wind gusted to dry eddies in the street, and Clay shivered as he was reminded yet again of the coming Montana winter. He unlocked the door and let himself into the Ambrosia. He removed his topcoat and draped it over the back of a chair. Selecting a bottle of gin and a glass from behind the bar, he carried both to a table in the darkened back room and took a seat, placing the bottle within easy reach. He poured himself a drink and took a long, slow swig, letting the liquor lie in the back of his throat a moment before swallowing.
One or two thoughts preyed on his mind.
The time he had been spending with Claire had made him feel things he hadn't felt in a long time. It was strangely unsettling, this attraction he felt for her.
That's all it was. An attraction. A passing fancy -- less than an infatuation, even. When he was with her he felt young and alive almost hopeful. If things were different . . .. Clay laughed softly. He couldn't deceive himself. He had nothing to give a woman. It had all been given long ago.
What was it people said? The more in love you were, the quicker you found love again? There had been no one in all the long years since Mary . . . no one except for Hannah. And she hadn't even been his.
Clay shook her memory away. Well, there was always Florie.
In many ways Florie was the perfect alternative for the passion he still felt. A ready and willing body with no expectations of more. Clay could not deny the woman's obvious charms, not the least of which was her evident attraction for him, her desire to please him.
Clay wasn't looking for more than that. He had responsibilities. The town needed him -- looked to him for leadership. It was something he didn't take lightly.
He laughed again and poured himself another drink.
Everyone looked to him. Did they sense that he was just going through the motions?
You're such a fraud, Clay. You might fool them, but you can't fool yourself.
Did anyone guess how alone he felt? How vulnerable? How many of the folks out there would gladly wrest control of this town from him? Those who thought the cloak of power rested so lightly on his shoulders. How many of them would like nothing better than to see him fail? Call. Amanda. Austin. How many others?
Maybe he'd been giving too much of himself to the running of this town.
You're all alone, Clay. No one cares about you. Not one person here cares if you live or die. Not one. A man in your position doesn't have friends. He can't afford to.
Clay knew he wasn't getting any younger. The best years of his life were slipping by him. He was in his prime. Perhaps it was time -- time for a home and a family. Someone to pass on his name on to. Thoughts of Mary came unbidden.
Mary. You were my family. It was you I should have spent the rest of my life with.
Clay drained the last of his tumbler.
Ah, my sweet Mary.
Their time together had been so short. But, all the same, he knew he could never love another woman. No one could ever fill the gaping chasm she had once occupied -- still occupied.
He didn't know how long he sat in the dark, but finally he noticed that the bottle was perilously low. He carried it back out front. Hollow eyes met him in the mirror over the bar. Clay usually avoided looking at himself, other than to keep a perfunctory eye on the progress of his shaving hand. He hated looking into his own eyes -- the eyes of the man who hadn't saved Mary, hadn't been there to hear her screams, her pleas for mercy from her tormentors.
He reached into his vest and fingered his father's silver cigar case, but he didn't take it out, didn't remove the fragile paper. He didn't need to. He knew every name by heart. Each one was seared in his mind, and he'd get even with every one of them if it took him the rest of his life.
He silently thanked God for this one small gift: the chance to avenge Mary's death. The chance for some closure at least. It was little enough to ask.
Somewhere outside a lonely dog began to howl. The wind had picked up again, and an intermittent banging reminded him that he'd need to have Pratt nail up that loose shutter in the back.
A sudden creak from the stairs made him jump, and he laughed at himself. He'd gotten a little deeper into his cups this evening than usual. A little deeper than he'd meant to.
Perhaps it was time he turned in. He headed towards the stairs, stumbling in the darkness.
There, there, Clay. Steady now. It's a good thing no one can see you like this.
No, there would be no public drunkenness for Clay Mosby. He'd save that for the likes of Call and the other patrons of the Number 10. He much preferred to do his drinking within the privacy of his own establishment.
Leaning heavily on the banister for support, Clay made it up the stairs and into his room.
The wind, increasing in ferocity, had blown open the balcony door, and Clay struggled to secure it.
It was in turning that he saw her there.
Mary?
His confused wits were playing tricks on him. It couldn't be.
"Claire."
She smiled faintly at him across the darkened room.
"Good evening, Clay."
"Well, I'm glad to see that you're feelin' better. But, my dear, you bein' here, it's unseemly." Clay giggled. "Not unwelcome -- but unseemly. Care to tell me what are you're doin' here?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He went to Claire and took her in his arms, leaning down to brush his lips lightly across the side of her neck.
Claire made no move.
Emboldened, Clay ran his lips down to her shoulder and then pulled her closer, claiming her mouth, as he folded her into a tight embrace.
Claire remained still -- not inviting his caress, not denying it.
Releasing her, he stood looking down into her face for a moment. There was something in her eyes he couldn't quite read. What was it? Fear? Invitation? He reached for the buttons on her bodice and undid them slowly before sliding it off her shoulders, savoring the cool smoothness of her skin under his hands.
Claire closed her eyes and shivered even as she brought something up out of the folds of her skirt.
Clay drew a sharp breath as he suddenly felt cold, hard metal pressing into his ribs, angling up towards his heart. Releasing her hastily, he backed away, hands in the air. "Why, Claire, what's the meanin' of this?"
Tears welled in Claire's eyes, and she pulled her dress back up over her shoulders with one hand, while keeping the gun trained on him with the other. She wiped at the wetness on her cheeks.
"Here, give me that. You had no need to arm yourself." Clay moved as if to take the weapon from her, but Claire waved him away.
"My dear, I confess to bein' a bit confused. Please be good enough to explain. What do you mean by comin' here and threatenin' me?"
Sit down and shut up, Clay," Claire said coldly, motioning him to a chair near the door. "You're the one who has some explaining to do. Turn up that lamp," she said, indicating a dimly burning hurricane on the table next to his chair. "I have something to show you."
Clay stared at her for a long moment before doing as she bid him.
"I think you'll find this very interesting," Claire went on as he continued to regard her in confusion. She drew a small book out of the pocket of her dress and tossed it to him.
"What is this?" Clay caught the book and turned it around. There were no markings on its cover.
"Open it. I've marked the page that makes reference to you."
Clay dragged his eyes from her face to the book in his hands. It appeared to be someone's journal and was filled with lines of tidy script. He opened it to the ribbon marker and began to read.
August 15, 1879.
The past I've tried so hard to hide has found me at last. There's no escaping the past. It has a name. Clay Mosby. He came here tonight looking for answers, and I gave him the missing pieces. Heaven help me. It was another life, another time. I was only following orders. But I should have stopped them. I should have done something. Dear God! My immortal soul depended on it. And I did nothing. I did nothing! I wish he'd killed me, this man from Montana. That would have been so much easier. I can't live with the guilt of what I've done. God forgive me. I can no longer live with what I've done.
It was the last entry in the book.
Clay turned the pages back to the inside of the front cover.
Samuel Holmes
His Journal, 1879
Samuel Holmes. He hadn't thought about that name since he'd crossed it off his list. He raised questioning eyes to Claire.
"He was my father." Claire struggled for control. "He was my father, and something you did to him made him take his own life." The tears flowed freely down her face as she continued. "I want you tell me why. I need to know why, Clay. What happened that night? What was so terrible that it made my father not want to go on living? You owe me an explanation."
Clay sighed deeply and got to his feet. Claire had let the gun drop to her side, but at his sudden movement she raised it again.
Clay stood gazing at her for a moment, and then turned away. He went the sideboard and poured them each a drink.
"Don't you dare turn your back on me, Clay. I want some answers."
There was no immediate response.
"Did you hear what I said?"
Turning , Clay held up her glass, but she shook her head.
He shrugged and downed his whiskey. He set her glass on the desk within her reach and stood facing her. Still, he made no reply.
"Well?"
He cleared his throat and began. "This isn't easy for me to say, Claire. I know you loved your father very much. But perhaps he wasn't the man you thought he was. Did he ever tell you about the war?"
Claire lowered the gun again. "Is that what was between you two something that happened in the war?"
"How old are you?"
Claire raised her chin defiantly. "Twenty-two."
Clay smiled bitterly. "I wasn't much older than you are when I lost my entire family. While I was incarcerated in a Northern prison, they were tortured and killed by a regiment of Yankee soldiers." He drew a long breath and looked down into the bottom of his empty glass. "The Second Maine Volunteers."
He waited for the information to register with Claire.
"Your father's unit. Led by Captain Douglas Armstrong," he said, searching her face for some sign of understanding.
Claire's voice shook. "What are you saying?"
"The men in your father's unit slaughtered my family." Clay gripped his glass until his knuckles went white. The muscles in his jaw clenched. "The bastards laid their filthy hands on my wife, and then they killed her, along with my father and mother. They burned my home to the ground. When I got back there, there was nothin' left. Am I makin' myself clear?"
"No! I don't believe you. My father wouldn't be a part of something so terrible."
"I'm afraid your father remembered it only too well."
"You bastard! You're lying! I'll have you know my father was given an honorable discharge from the service."
He shrugged. "I have no doubt. What were a few more Confederate lives, albeit civilian lives, to a regiment of murderers like Captain Armstrong's?"
"How do you know he did it? Who told you he was there?"
"I went lookin' for your father after I got his name from Captain Armstrong, shortly before his demise."
"You killed Captain Armstrong?"
"No. The man took his own life. I was merely witness to the event. Before he died, I was able to convince him to give me the names of the men who were there that day. Your father's name was on that list."
"No! You're lying!" Claire sobbed. "My father was no murderer! He wouldn't do something like that!" She grabbed her untouched drink and hurled it against the far wall. Shattered glass rained down -- the liquor leaving an ugly stain spreading on the wood paneling. Claire collapsed in tears.
Clay seized his opportunity and made a lunge for the gun, and Claire allowed him to take it from her limp hand. He clicked open the cylinder, emptying the shells into his palm. Pocketing the bullets, he crossed the room in a few, quick strides and placed the unloaded weapon on his desk.
He returned to Claire and waited for her sobs to quiet. She didn't protest as he helped her to her feet. Initially, she refused to look at him. Then, very slowly, she raised her wounded eyes to his.
"I came here to kill you tonight. To take my revenge on you. An eye for an eye. Isn't that what the Bible says? Your life to pay for my father's? But if what you say is true, you've already paid, haven't you?"
Clay handed her his handkerchief and then went and poured them each another drink.
Claire wiped her eyes. She slowly rebuttoned her dress. Clay returned with her drink, and this time she accepted it from his outstretched hand.
She broke the silence. "Why didn't you kill him, Clay? Why didn't you kill my father when you had the chance?"
He pulled out a cigar and lit it. He went to the window and stood smoking silently as he looked out over the dimly lit street below. He was quiet for so long that Claire wondered if he had forgotten she was there.
"Clay?"
He sighed wearily. "I believe in lettin' the punishment fit the crime, Claire. Death is easy. It's livin' that's difficult. I ought to know." Clay took a last swallow of whiskey. "I could see clearly enough what your father's memories were doin' to him. He was a broken man." He turned to Claire, met her gaze and held it. "My lettin' your father live wasn't mercy . . . It was revenge."
"So he admitted killing them?"
"He was there. He saw everythin' that happened that day. He didn't try to stop them. That made him as guilty as they were."
Claire fixed him with a hard stare. "I see. It's all about you, isn't it Clay? Your loss. Your pain. And what about mine? Do you ever for even one minute think about anyone besides yourself ? If you had left my father alone, maybe he'd still be alive. Why couldn't you have just forgotten about revenge? The war was over long ago."
"Don't you understand? The war will never be over!" he blazed out at her. "Those men took everythin' from me. My life will never be the same."
"Nor will mine!" Claire shouted back at him.
The fire in Clay's eyes cooled slowly, and he looked at Claire as if seeing her for the first time. "No, I suppose not."
Claire turned away. She picked up her father's journal from the table. She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Mother and I remained in Boston when my father came west to try his luck in the gold fields. I led a very privileged life -- tutors, riding lessons, a European tour when I turned eighteen. Only the best. Mother and I had no knowledge of business affairs. Father paid for everything."
Claire smiled sadly as she caressed the diary's smooth leather cover. "We had no idea how far in debt he was. The gambling, you know," she said, glancing at Clay. "When he died, his creditors moved in and seized all our assets to pay off what he owed. The shock of it killed my mother, and it wasn't long before I found myself on the street. You see, I have no other relatives; I was left destitute."
She saw Clay looking at her expensive ensemble.
"There aren't many options open to a woman with no money, no family. I've made my own way in the world. I'm a working girl, Clay -- a prostitute." She laughed bitterly, the hollow sound of it falling flatly in the close confines of the room. "I'm very good at what I do. I've made a good living for myself."
Claire walked to the window and stood looking down into the street. She crossed her arms over her chest and hugged herself tightly. Clay watched her knuckles go white. Her next words came with an effort.
"It's funny how my father's friends were only too happy to help me out of my predicament. Some of them are my best clients."
Clay came up behind her and placing a hand lightly on her shoulder, turned her to face him. "I don't know what to say."
"There's nothing you can say."
"What would you like for me to do, Claire? What do you want from me -- a job, money?" He reached into his vest and started to draw out his wallet.
Claire wrenched away from him angrily. "What do I want?" She glanced at the gun lying exposed on the desk and then back at Clay. Her next words chilled him to the bone.
"What do I want? I'll tell you what I want," she said contemptuously." I want you to live, Clay. I want you to live."
He watched her turn and walk out, shutting the door behind her.
Clay drained the last of his whiskey. Extracting his father's silver cigar case from his pocket, he opened it slowly and removed a folded slip of paper. He read the three remaining names: Ezekiel Redmont . . . Nathaniel Whitmond . . . Zedediah Prideman.
Refolding it carefully, he tucked the list back inside the case.
The End
3/2003
