The Cowboy's Crime

by Evelyn James

  Clara stared at him, not believing her ears.

  “Are you blind, Mr Maven? Someone is threatening Clark, two attacks have occurred that are aimed at upsetting him. I have no doubt there are more to come, and perhaps this person is building up to murder, I can’t say for sure, but I know we have to find out who they are and stop them. Polly was nearly throttled yesterday.”

  “Yes, yes, I appreciate that, but I have Gunther and Duncan working hard to keep an eye on things. I shall hire some extra men just to be safe…”

  “How will they keep anyone safe when they have no idea who is behind all this? Or what this person might do next?” Clara said to him, frustrated by his attitude. “You know as well as I do that this is not just about Clark being in danger. Anyone who has associated with him could be a target.”

  Maven was duly rebuked, he cast another surly glance at the caravan.

  “What if that mesmerist tricks him into deciding he doesn’t want to perform anymore?” He asked sharply and Clara finally saw what was at the root of his objections.

  “That is not what this is about. The doctor is going to try to get Clark to remember the night Gung-Ho was killed, while in a trance. We hope he shall learn who the person behind this vendetta is, but once Clark awakes, he shall not remember what he has said. To unlock Clark’s memories properly would take many, many sessions and a great deal of care. This is just about learning what happened that night,” Clara kept her tone calm, matter of fact, not wanting to rouse Maven’s temper even if she was annoyed with him.

  He looked agitated, his gaze wandering to the caravan and back to her time and time again.

  “Tricks, it’s all tricks,” he hissed.

  “This is not the sort of mesmerism you see on a stage,” Clara reassured him. “Why don’t you come and watch, see for yourself?”

  Maven was still not convinced.

  “Clark might just remember by himself,” he suggested. “I could have him sit by the gates each night and look at the faces of everyone coming in. He might recognise the culprit among them.”

  “Do you really think that a solution?” Clara asked him bluntly.

  Maven hesitated, then his shoulders sagged, and he seemed to accept what was occurring.

  “Very well, you can try this trick, but I want it known I protested, so that if anything goes wrong…”

  “Please, Mr Maven, that is not necessary,” Clara interrupted him. “Why don’t you come and watch?”

  She stepped in the direction of the caravan and waved for Maven to follow her. He was torn with indecision for a moment, then he gave in and trudged behind her. They arrived in the caravan just as the doctor was beginning his work.

  It was cramped inside; Clark lay back on the bench, his head cushioned on a pillow. The doctor was perched on an upturned wooden crate beside him. O’Harris was leaning against the wall near the stove, leaving just enough room for Clara and Maven to squeeze beside him. Polly was not present, still resting from her ordeal in her own caravan. O’Harris gave Clara and Maven a nod, then put a finger to his lips for the benefit of the fair owner. Maven pulled a face but obeyed the command to be silent.

  Clara knew the doctor vaguely, having seen him around the home. His name was Vincent and she had spoken to him a few times in passing, though not enough to really get to know him. He was in his forties and according to O’Harris was a very competent psychologist, along with being a keen student of mesmerism.

  While there was no complete cure for the trauma the men at the home had suffered, they could learn to put up barriers, to control their demons and to function in everyday life. Dr Vincent was very good at getting to the core of a man’s problems, using the safety of trances to take them back to grimmer times. He was still learning the power of mesmerism, he would be the first to admit that, but his successes were already making him a popular doctor among the men at the home.

  Clark looked uneasy; his eyes not yet shut. He fidgeted with his waistcoat, as if he could not quite get comfortable. Dr Vincent was used to anxious patients. He took Clark through a series of breathing exercises to get him to relax, then he had him close his eyes.

  Speaking softly, Vincent lulled Clark into a deep state of relaxation, one where the unconscious mind could slip through. He was in a light trance, the conscious self not fully lost, but deep enough to be protected from the trauma that had caused the mind to shut down conscious memories in the first place. Clark looked peaceful; his face had fallen into soft, sleep-like lines. He breathed deeply and easily, his chest rising and falling in a perfect rhythm.

  Clara felt her own body relax as she watched the recumbent cowboy drift into a tranquil state. Dr Vincent lifted one of Clark’s hands and let it fall lightly back to the bench, noting that there was no resistance. His patient was ready.

  “Clark, I want you to remember that you are safe, completely safe. No harm can befall you at this time. You are protected, cocooned by this blanket of peace. Do you understand.”

  “Yes,” Clark mumbled.

  “I want you to take a deep breath and to go back in your mind, back to the other night when you were in your tent,” Dr Vincent continued. “Are you there?”

  “Yes,” Clark said, his voice like a whisper in the wind.

  “Is Gung-Ho there?”

  “Yes,” Clark’s mouth twitched into a brief smile. “Good boy Gung-Ho, here’s a sugar cube.”

  “What are you doing? Describe to me the scene.”

  “I am sitting on my chair, next to my table with the dummy gun,” Clark said. “I removed the firing pin years ago. It looks good, but it won’t fire. Gung-Ho is here. He always comes in the tent with me. Like a dog, Polly says.”

  “You are alone?”

  “Yes,” the smile increased on Clark’s lips, though it was still subtle. “This is the best time, between performances, when it is just us. I like the quiet. People are so overwhelming.”

  “Clark, I want you to concentrate, did someone come into the tent? Someone else?”

  Clark took two deep breaths in and out.

  “Gung-Ho, did you hear something? He has twitched his ears back and scraped a hoof on the ground, like he is worried. Horses know things. Always trust a horse,” the smile faded, a hint of a frown crossed Clark’s brow. “Someone is coming in the tent. Hi! You want an autograph! Strange fellow, face half-hidden by a neckerchief, like you wear when rounding up the cattle and you don’t want to eat dust all day. Never seen that over here. He wants to know if I am Clark the gunslinger. Yeah! Yeah, I am, son. Now he is scowling at me. I feel uneasy, don’t like the look of him. I pick up that fake gun, makes me feel better, that’s all.

  “He is glancing at Gung-Ho. ‘Remember Buffalo Rock?’ he asks. Buffalo Rock? No, I don’t remember, I tell him. ‘I think you do. I saw that look in your eye, you remember well enough.’ Look here, I don’t know you and what is this all about? ‘Just some old justice, Clark, wild west style.’

  “He has a knife! It came out of his coat pocket!”

  Clark’s hands clenched into fists, his jaw tightened, and he grimaced to show his teeth, his breathing was becoming ragged.

  “Clark, become an observer, step back and just watch,” Dr Vincent said in that same calm tone. “None of this touches you, none of it affects you. Just observe and tell me what you see without reacting to it.”

  Clark’s hands unclenched; he breathed a little better.

  “It’s a big knife, I know it, seen it before, but I can’t get a good enough look to say where. Then he spins and aims it at Gung-Ho. Damn it! He is going for my horse!”

  “Back off Clark, you are just watching, you are calm and restful. This does not touch you. Watch it with neutrality.”

  Clark took several deep breaths, seeming to calm with each one.

  “He has stabbed Gung-Ho,” he said in an unemotional voice. “I am screaming. He is amused. ‘Remember Buffalo Rock!’ he yells. ‘There is more to come!’ He’s gone, running out the tent. Something takes ove
r me. I stumble out of the tent and start walking, with each step it is like I am crushing the memory of what has just occurred, stamping it out of existence. Like a campfire.”

  Dr Vincent glanced at O’Harris, looking for guidance as to where to go next.

  “Ask him if he recognised the attacker,” the captain said quietly.

  Dr Vincent crossed his legs as best he could on the crate and addressed Clark.

  “Did you recognise the man?”

  “No,” Clark said.

  Clara was disappointed, but she hid it.

  “What did he mean about Buffalo Rock?” Dr Vincent persisted.

  “I don’t know,” Clark replied, the frown returning.

  “He talked about justice.”

  “He was mad.”

  “Do you think so?” Dr Vincent asked.

  “Had to be, to kill a horse. Gung-Ho was the best horse I ever knew. My friend, my closest friend. Why did he kill him?”

  Clark’s voice was becoming emotional, his words rising and falling as his grief reappeared.

  “I am going to bring him around, that’s enough for one session,” Dr Vincent told his onlookers. “Clark, I want you to imagine a big ball of bright light before your eyes. I want you to focus all your attention on it.”

  Clark’s fingers were gripping at his waistcoat. His tension had returned.

  “Look at the light, focus everything on it. There is nothing else,” Vincent said carefully.

  Clark’s fingers released their clutch on his clothing, his face relaxed once more.

  “I want you to think about that light cleansing you, engulfing you. Everything else vanishes as the light expands and becomes the only thing. Your mind is empty but for the light,” Dr Vincent watched his patient intently. “Now, I am going to count back from ten slowly. With each number, I want you to imagine yourself returning to the room. I want you to feel your hands and feet, the weight of your body pressed into the bench, the soft pillow beneath your head. As I count down you will come back to wakefulness. You will feel peaceful and safe, your mind shall be clear of all negative thoughts and you shall awaken feeling refreshed and happy. Ten…”

  Clara was holding her breath as the doctor counted down, she had to remind herself to breathe. Maven seemed equally affected, or maybe he was just worried about what had occurred. O’Harris was the calmest. He had seen such sessions before and knew what happened during them.

  Dr Vincent counted steadily and as he reached one Clark flexed his fingers and opened his eyes. He took a moment to grasp his surroundings, then sat up and looked at everyone. He yawned.

  “Well, dang it, I feel like I just slept for a year. I am as rested as a bear coming out of its cave after winter,” he grinned at them. “I reckon I’ll have that treatment everyday if I can end up feeling this good all the time.”

  “Do… do you remember anything?” Maven asked him.

  “Like what?” Clark said. “I don’t remember a thing of what occurred. Last thing I can recall is going to sleep, or so it seemed, right on this bench.”

  Clark stretched his arms.

  “So, did I give you anything useful?”

  “We know the person after you is a man, but he hid his face with a neckerchief,” Clara said. “He also appears connected to your days in America. He was talking about a place called Buffalo Rock.”

  Clark looked at her blankly.

  “Sounds like somewhere in the old west, sort of names they give a town barely existing on the edges of the frontier. I can’t say I have ever heard of it.”

  Clara masked that she was unhappy to hear this.

  “What next?” Asked Maven. “Can you make him remember more?”

  He had gone from being wary of Dr Vincent, to keen.

  “You say Clark has lost all his memories of the last decade or so?” Dr Vincent asked O’Harris and received a corresponding nod. “Well, then, that is quite a job and it all depends where the memories of Buffalo Rock reside in the timeline of his mind. I suppose, with a few weeks…”

  “Weeks? I don’t have weeks!” Maven snapped. “I knew this would be a waste of time!”

  With that he stormed out of the caravan, leaving everyone feeling uncertain what to do.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Maven’s outburst had not ruffled the professional calm of Dr Vincent. He tended to his patient, ensuring Clark had fully arisen from his trance, without acknowledging that Maven had said anything at all.

  Clara was feeling less easy about the whole matter. Maven’s outburst had been brusque and ungrateful, but his statement that they did not have weeks to fully restore Clark’s memories was something she fully agreed with. Whoever this man in the mask was, he was unlikely to give them endless time to solve the riddle.

  “Buffalo Rock,” O’Harris said aloud, thinking about the name. “Must mean something.”

  “I think we need coffee,” Clark said, his voice gravellier than ever. “You can tell me what I remembered.”

  “That is not how this works,” Dr Vincent explained politely. “If you wanted to recall, you would. Until your mind is prepared to accept these memories, they cannot be forced upon you.”

  “Seems to me someone is trying to force them on me,” Clark said sombrely. “I think I would rather know what I said, all the same.”

  “It could cause further mental distress,” Vincent said firmly and with mild impatience.

  “I’ll take my chances,” Clark insisted. “I need to know what is going on.”

  He rose and headed out the caravan, expecting them to follow, which they duly did. Clara could hear Dr Vincent muttering to O’Harris.

  “This is not how things should be. He could do irreparable harm,” the good doctor protested.

  “We don’t know that for sure,” O’Harris replied tentatively. “And we cannot deny him, considering the circumstances.”

  Dr Vincent gave a groan of frustration, but the situation was unique and required an unusual approach.

  “All right but let me give him the information in small pieces, to allow him to process it.”

  Clark had headed to the coffee stand where David was just beginning to start brewing. He smiled up at the cowboy.

  “Hello Clark, you look well.”

  Clark started a little at the familiar use of his name, then he recovered himself. Another person he had forgotten, but who remembered him all too well.

  “Yeah, I guess. I’d like some coffee.”

  David went to his work, brass and copper pots and pans bubbling and boiling. Soon Clark’s favourite coffee was ready for him. He took the cup and sipped it cautiously.

  “Not bad, not bad at all,” the tension he had been carrying eased from him. “Where did you learn to make coffee like this?”

  “America,” David said. “I was there a few years. Do you not recall me at all?”

  There was a look of consternation and hurt on his face, as if it was the worst offence in the world for his cowboy friend to forget him. Clark recognised the look and quickly feigned a big smile.

  “Oh, I remember you now,” he said. “Yes, yes, just took me a moment. I’ve been mesmerised. Head’s a little fuzzy still.”

  David’s happy demeanour returned, he seemed satisfied, though Clara was certain Clark was lying and had no better idea of who the coffee seller was than he had a few minutes before.

  “Dr Vincent, coffee?” Clark asked the psychiatrist. “On me.”

  Dr Vincent admitted he quite liked coffee and was soon also holding a cup. O’Harris accepted one too, though of a weaker consistency to that Clark was drinking. Only Clara declined.

  “Would you like tea?” David winked at her, and then he produced a ceramic teapot from a shelf beneath his stall. “I thought, as you were going to be around a lot, I should be prepared.”

  Clara was touched by his thoughtfulness.

  “Why, yes please,” she said with a smile. “That is most kind.”

  “We’re heading to the food tent,” Cla
rk was calling over his shoulder, leading the way once again. Dr Vincent was at his heels and O’Harris was torn between following them or waiting for Clara.

  “I’ll bring your tea to the tent when it is ready,” David assured Clara, almost whispering conspiratorially, as if they were sharing a private secret.

  “Thank you, David,” Clara said, before hurrying to join the others.

  The temperature had dropped considerably outdoors, and it was a relief to get inside the tent and lose the biting winter wind. They all sat at one of the tables, Clark and Dr Vincent one side, Clara and O’Harris the other.

  “Right, give it to me straight,” Clark demanded impatiently.

  Dr Vincent sighed to indicate he did not approve of the arrangement, and then began.

  “You recalled that on the night you lost your memories a man came into your tent. He was hiding his face with a neckerchief.”

  “Red, with white stitching,” Clark said with a nod, then his eyes widened. “I remembered!”

  Dr Vincent looked surprised too.

  “You can recall the neckerchief in detail?”

  “Yes, I can,” Clark said, still a little stunned. “It was a cotton one, not silk, and muffled the man’s voice. The white stitching formed a pattern, a border a little way from the edge of the cloth. I never thought I would remember such detail about a handkerchief!”

  “The mind has a way of focusing on small things when a situation is stressful or dangerous,” Dr Vincent explained. “Even so, this is quite remarkable considering you had no memory of the event at all. What do you feel when you think about the man?”

  Clark seemed rather astonished himself.

  “I don’t feel anything. It’s just like I am observing a scene in a play.”

  O’Harris jumped.

  “Vincent, that’s how you told him to feel when he was in his trance. You told him he was just an observer and the memories would not cause him to react.”

  Dr Vincent was nodding, startled by this revelation.