Wraiths of the Broken Land

by S. Craig Zahler

  “You’ve got your wits?” asked Dolores. “Can think lucid?”

  “I think so.” Yvette’s desire for medicine had definitely diminished. “Do you know why Samuel ain’t—why Samuel isn’t here?”

  Dolores turned away from her sister, ambled to the south wall and through an opening yelled, “Brent!”

  “What?”

  “She’s awake and clear. Give her the goddamn letter.”

  Hope fluttered within Yvette’s breast. “Is it from Samuel?”

  “It’s from him.”

  Something about the way Dolores spoke gave Yvette a chill.

  Half of Brent’s face appeared in a slit, and his bisected mouth inquired, “How are you feelin’?”

  “Better,” replied Yvette. “Please give me my letter.”

  Brent’s eye stared at her for a moment. “You ain’t gonna like what he wrote.”

  “You went and read it?” The gaunt woman began to shake. “He’s my husband and what he wrote to me ain’t—isn’t your business.” She sat up and said, “Give it over now—those words are private.”

  A yellow rectangle slid through the narrow opening, two feet below Brent’s isolated eye. “Dolores. Take it over to her.”

  “I’ll get it myself.” Yvette discarded her yellow blanket, stood up, felt the room melt, steadied herself, saw the room solidify, staggered toward her brother, grabbed the missive, hobbled back to her bunk and collapsed, exhausted and panting.

  “I didn’t think you could walk,” remarked the cowboy.

  “I had a reason.”

  Brent looked meaningfully at Dolores.

  Yvette’s heart was pounding from her exertions, and bright lights coruscated in her peripheral views. Her lungs, wet and weak, pulled at the chill night air and shuddered.

  Dolores looked at Brent and said, “I’ll stay with her.”

  “And hold her.”

  Yvette surveyed at the envelope. “How come it don’t—doesn’t say Upfield? It just says Yvette. No last name.”

  Neither of her siblings answered the question.

  Dolores sat down and put her right arm around her sister’s shoulders.

  Brent walked away from the crenellation.

  “It’s his calligraphy for certain,” remarked Yvette.

  “He wrote it.”

  The choirmaster turned the missive over, reached inside and withdrew papers that were spattered with brown droplets. “Somebody got something on it.” She laid the envelope down, so that her name was facing up. “Brent probably dripped some coffee or tobacco juice—Samuel is fastidious.”

  Dolores said nothing.

  Yvette unfolded the papers and saw that they were numerous and filled with her husband’s pretty calligraphy. Her eyes went to the top of the first page.

  The Coerced but True Confessions of the Man who was Samuel C. Upfield IV

  Ninth Draft

  “Oh Lord Jesus,” Yvette exclaimed, “he found himself a new wife while I was gone.” Tears filled her eyes. “That’s what this is—a goodbye letter. That’s why nobody’s saying anything about him.”

  Dolores said nothing.

  The choirmaster wiped tears from her eyes and read.

  A Brief Foreword

  Undoubtedly you, my spouse, are intrigued—if not befuddled—by the number of drafts that precede the finished document that you currently hold in your hands.

  I shall explain this to you.

  I was asked to pen a letter that would detail my mistakes, my betrayal, your capture and my subsequent actions. In previous versions of my confessional essay—the first five drafts—certain passages, reminiscences and solitary adjectives were determined by the Editors of the document to be overly piteous pleas for your forgiveness. The Editors did not feel that I should in any way attempt to engage your sympathies, and I agreed with them, although perhaps the manner in which they communicated their critiques to me, the author, was not the preferred. The sixth, seventh and eighth drafts saw a new creative direction for the confessional essay, a turn for the literary, especially as it became apparent to me that this work would likely become my last communication to you and, in fact, the world.

  Yvette’s eyes widened in horror. “What’s happened to him?” Her thin body shook with a desperate panic. “What’s happened to my husband?”

  “Brent and I will tell you after you’ve finished readin’,” stated Dolores.

  Sickened and fearful, Yvette returned her gaze to the tremulous letter.

  The Editors felt that these later drafts contained far too many apologies, and so suggested that I replace all apologetic remarks with an asterisk (*) to convey this sentiment, and this current version adheres to this stipulation. Additionally, there are some subjects that I did not fully explore during my allotted time at the desk, and so I have written notes to myself (enclosed in parenthesis) suggesting possible future elaborations should I live to author a Tenth Draft. I should also point out that the Editors will draw lines through any text that they deem objectionable or irrelevant, and you are advised by them to skip over all words and phrases thus marked.

  The following confessional essay contains nary an untrue word.

  You deserve to know exactly what occurred.*

  Dear Yvette,

  In early December 1901, I received a pair of telegrams that contained news about the prospecting ventures into which I had very heavily invested our life savings.

  The first telegram informed me that a ruinous collapse had befallen our Arizona copper mine, and also how the terrible event had trapped and killed two unfortunate men. Immediately after the incident, the boss was seized and violently thrashed by a mob of angry workers, who had apparently warned him of the danger weeks earlier. The outraged legion claimed the cashbox, which was filled with payouts for the last three months of sales, and absconded with it. I never learned why the boss had not deposited these earnings into the Bank of Phoenix as he had been directed, but the money was gone, and he was crippled, and half of our life savings were naught but still wind.

  The second telegram, which I received only two days after the first, informed me that the eighteen hundred beeves I had purchased from Jeffrey O’Mallory had become ill halfway in-between Montana and Colorado and had to be slaughtered, without exception. Not only did we lose all of the money invested in the cattle, but the cowboys, whose wages were supposed to come directly from the sum that the animals earned, were still owed payment for their work.

  The two sturdy ventures into which I had invested the major part of our savings had fallen into ruin during the same week, and all of the money that remained—six hundred dollars legal tender in the Trusted Bank of San Francisco—could not even cover the debt owed to the cowboys. We were destitute.

  (Elaboration: The inherent risks of investing in business ventures one cannot personally oversee or directly affect.)

  Two days after I received the second telegram, your sister Dolores arrived at our apartment, where she was to stay and with us celebrate both Christmas and the New Year. I decided not to apprise you of our unfortunate circumstances, because of her presence and the coming celebration of His birthday. Additionally, it was my hope to achieve a modicum of amelioration before I involved you directly.

  My anxieties were further aggravated by a telegram that I received from the cowboy boss—a communication in which he promised to visit San Francisco and collect the money that was owed to him and his riders if I did not presently remit. We possessed but a fraction of the deficit, and thus I decided not to respond at all to the aggrieved leader’s request.

  Throughout the week that followed, while we were entertaining your sister and showing her the city of San Francisco, I pondered my options. You will very likely recall your comments about my detached manner, and now you know the cause of
my worrisome preoccupations.

  Four days before His birthday, I received a telegram from the cowboy boss notifying me that he and six of his riders were on “(their) way to San Francisco, to get (their) wages, and also to deliver out a rough whipping for all the hassle. Merry Christmas.”

  I feared that our bank might be contacted directly by the cowboys or some legal official, and so I withdrew all of our money.

  Undoubtedly, you now understand why I burst into tears when you informed me that you had prepared my favorite meal.* It was not easy to enjoy roasted goose with chestnut-bacon stuffing when monetary, physical and matrimonial ruinations loom. Nor was it possible for me to offer you my physical affections as I had throughout our courtship and marriage.*

  You will recall that our friend David joined us for that meal and afterwards, for sherry in our little parlor, where he showed a clear interest in your sister that was rebuffed. His spirits sank after Dolores’s denial, and I volunteered to escort him home and leave you and your sibling to discussion and perhaps retirement, if you were seized by drowsiness. You helped me into my coat, located my bowler hat and kissed me upon the lips. I looked into your soft blue eyes, and nearly confessed our predicament. I desperately yearned to share with you the burden that had grown more ponderous with every waking moment.

  As you will recall, I said nothing.*

  I left the apartment with David, descended three flights of stairs, passed through the front door, and was struck by the icy winter winds of our seaboard city. With my head tilted down, I perambulated the cold avenues with my friend, endeavoring desultory conversation that is now difficult to recall because of my overindulgence in sherry earlier that evening. I know that twice I contemplated confiding in David, but did not because I feared that I would become hysterical in public. The gas lanterns along the avenues hissed, and the shadows cast by their unnaturally bright fires were opaque.

  I watched David enter his apartment, and the very instant that I was alone, I began to weep. I had ruinously invested our life savings and was about be violently thrashed. I thought it quite likely that you would have to return to your family in Texas—a place where I was obviously unwelcome—and at that moment, I felt an utter desperation.

  “You should’ve told me,” Yvette said aloud.

  I thrust my cold hands into my pockets and clutched our savings, which were the only barrier between us and abject poverty, and I went toward the central square.

  “No.” The choirmaster knew where her husband had gone. “No.”

  The church has many adversaries in the modern world. Saloons and brothels are tawdry places wherein obvious transgressions nightly occur, and yet I am convinced that the casino is the establishment that conjures the most fabulous and dangerous hopes. The gambling den is the place where a man can change his entire life—through determination, skill and a mote of luck—and achieve his proper station in the world. At the betting table is where the fallen individual, prostrated by misfortunes, can raise himself up again. Agreeable ivory or beneficent cards are all that he requires to pay off his debt to the cowboys and treat them to a fine seafood dinner so that they might amicably conclude their business. With his amassed winnings, the resurrected man will be able to purchase a large apartment, wherein he and his wife shall live in great comfort and raise a beautiful and pious family.

  These are the delusions—aided by alcohol and despair—that turn a reluctant gambler, such as I, into a man who is willing to risk money that is not even his own.

  The Editors have asked me to state that conditions of depression, inebriation and desperation neither excuse nor diminish my deplorable behavior.

  I entered the casino and went immediately to a table whereupon people played blackjack, a game with which I was well-acquainted and possessed some small degree of mastery. As I gambled, my face reddened, and often I felt as if I had no control over my actions, as if my body were an automaton that I witnessed from a great distance. In thirty minutes time, I had reduced our remainder by half and had no more than three hundred and ten dollars.

  Presently, I seated myself at a poker table, where I saw a man I knew from church, as well as two strangers. I played for a period of an hour, and I lost and won equal amounts. Eventually, I was joined by a striking, finely-dressed gentleman who possessed only one eye and was younger than his white hair intimated.

  Yvette’s stomach twisted.

  The distinct individual introduced himself as Gris, which I believe is the Spanish word for ‘gray,’ but he did not proffer a full name. He proclaimed that he was from Spain, although his delivery of our language was perfect and did not in any way betray his country of origin. A man at the table, a plump codger who wore cracked glasses, stood up from his chair and departed—apparently he was still upset about that little argument America had with Spain a few years earlier.

  We proceeded to play several more rounds of poker, wherein I lost one hundred dollars to the house, and Gris won from them twice that amount. He saw that I was anxious, purchased for me a drink, and recommended that I leave the table before I lost any more money. I thanked him for his generosity and advice, drank my bourbon, and proceeded to winnow our entire life savings down to sixty dollars, which was less than one-tenth the sum I had brought into the casino only two hours earlier. I was filled with despair.

  Gris collected his winnings, which were quite substantial, and invited me to join him in the lounge, where an old man played piano while a negress performed buck dance with wooden shoes. I accepted his invitation.

  The Spaniard purchased for me another bourbon, which I refused and summarily drank. After I had finished, the man asked after my troubles. I told him everything that had happened throughout the previous month. I found it easy to confess my woes and unburden myself to this stranger, a person who was not a part of my daily life, and thus far had been extraordinarily kind.

  Shortly after I had finished detailing my misfortunes, Gris enquired, “Do you possess a photograph of your wife?” His eye did not leave the furious, percussive feet of the negress buck dancer when he asked this question.

  I claimed the wallet from my vest and from it withdrew the photograph taken at our wedding, the single happiest day in my entire life. I delivered the image of us to him, and he looked at it for the time it took the negress to punctuate eight measures of music with her hard shoes.

  Gris returned the photograph to me and remarked, “She is very beautiful.”

  “There is no more beautiful woman in the world,” said I.

  “Shall we return to the poker table?” he enquired.

  The difference between sixty dollars and bankruptcy is nigh negligible, and I agreed to join him. I made several silent promises to our Lord as I walked toward the table, and I hoped for divine aid.

  In a very short while, I was penniless. I sat and stared forward like a dumb imbecile.

  Gris erected a two hundred dollar pillar of blue poker chips and slid it across the table, until it stood directly in front of me. He said, “Buena suerte,” which means ‘good luck.’

  I thanked him for his generous endowment, and in an impressive amount of time, lost this sum as well.

  Resolved that I should return home and finally disclose everything to you, I rose from my chair, claimed my jacket and turned away from the poker table.

  “Mr. Upfield.”

  I faced my benefactor.

  “Please await me at the location of our earlier repair. I shall join you presently.”

  I had no choice but to agree, and so went to the indicated table and sat, envisioning the terrible look upon your face when I informed you of our financial ruin and my deplorable behavior. While I awaited Gris, another bourbon arrived, but I abstained from drinking any of it. I was through with pointless diversions and wanted to return home.

  Presently, my benefactor arrived. “Mr. Up
field.” Gris sat in the chair opposite me and luxuriously reclined. “You face great difficulties.”

  I did not disagree with him.

  “How do you intend to repay my loan?”

  I was surprised by his choice of words. “I was unaware that the money earlier proffered had been a loan,” said I.

  “Do you commonly receive gifts of two hundred dollars from strangers?”

  I had no ready answer.

  “I leave San Francisco tomorrow morning,” Gris informed me, “and I must be repaid prior to my departure.” Shortly after he said this, a man with a rotten nose joined us at the table, as did a third individual who wore a beard and a dark cherry suit. Nobody was smiling.

  From the inner pocket of his white linen jacket, Gris withdrew a deck of cards. “Would you care to win back your debt?” he enquired.

  I shook my head—I did not think that I could win any amount of money from him.

  “If you are not inclined toward more games,” Gris responded, “six men who work for me will follow you to your home and seize items of an equivalent or greater value.”

  I agreed to play cards with him.

  After twenty minutes of gaming, I owed Gris two thousand dollars. I wanted to die. The buck dancer returned, and I felt the tattoo of her wooden shoes upon my spine.

  Gris remarked, “I fear that you cannot resolve your debt.”

  “You are correct,” said I.

  The buck dancer’s shoes impacted the floor like musical gunshots.

  “I own an entertainment parlor for gentlemen,” Gris stated, “wherein each female employee earns approximately two thousand dollars per year.” Gris fixed his eye upon me. “Your wife shall render services and pay off your debt.”

  My stomach lurched. I careered to the water closet and expelled goose and everything else that I had eaten. Presently, the man with the rotten nose escorted me back to the table and I sat. My suit, saturate with perspiration, squeaked upon the chair.