Power in the Blood

by Greg Matthews

  When all movement had ceased, Clay lifted the boy in his arms. The walk home seemed endless. Clay had to stop once in the shadows while a drunk staggered by. He was sure no one had seen them as he returned Silan to his bed.

  The lamp was brought closer, its wick turned up for an inspection of Silan’s face for telltale marks around the mouth. There was none that Clay could see. It was not that he considered the suffocation a criminal act; he simply had no wish to share knowledge of the event with anyone but the dead boy. It was too personal an episode to allow outside his heart.

  Clay returned the lamp to the dresser and settled himself into his customary armchair. He wanted a drink very badly, but would deny himself, he wasn’t quite sure why. It seemed important to maintain sobriety, so he would, clear through until morning, when he would break the sad news of Silan’s release to his wife. He would definitely need a drink after that.

  Dr. McNab pronounced Silan dead of natural causes arising from his unfortunate condition, and a funeral was held as soon as could be arranged. Many townsfolk attended, out of respect for their leading lawman and his grieving wife. The parents conducted themselves in public with stoicism and dignity, and the community wished them well in their hour of loss. It was hoped that they would have the chance for another son, but Sophie’s three miscarriages following Silan’s birth did not augur well for a continuance of the Dugan line.

  Clay kept his drinking to a tolerable level. Those who were aware of its subtle effect on his work made no comment, allowing him more time for his personal grief. At home, he was able to tolerate the presence of his wife only by way of whiskey, and spent as little time there as he possibly could.

  Sophie had embraced religion with a fervor he had not suspected she was capable of. When he married her, Clay thought Sophie a fairly hardheaded woman who gave the church its due as a force in the land, without subscribing overmuch to its tenets of belief. Silan’s accident, and then his death, had brought out in her a penchant for mysticism he found alarming. She would not leave him alone, and insisted on convincing him that the error of his ways was based on the twin evils of alcohol and atheism. The harder she proselytized for his salvation, the deeper Clay plunged into both.

  “I don’t want the comfort of the Lord,” he told her, “and I don’t need it, because it isn’t there, so I’d be a fool to be wanting it and needing it, now wouldn’t I.”

  “Then you must think that I’m a fool.”

  “Just let me alone, and believe what you like.”

  “Aren’t you the least bit concerned that Silan is watching, and feeling anguish in his heart over the way you refuse to see what must be seen?”

  Clay performed an elaborate inspection of the corners of the room from his chair. “I don’t see him.”

  Sophie sniffed. “He is with us anyway. You would be aware of his presence if you would only allow yourself to turn in the direction of the light.”

  Clay turned to face the oil lamp on the table and squinted fiercely at it. “Still don’t see him.”

  “Playing the fool does not become you.”

  “Woman, I’m not the fool in this room. He’s gone, and you and all the preachers in the world don’t know where he went any better than I do, so don’t be telling me you know what you don’t.”

  “You simply will not be guided.”

  “Not by you.”

  “There’s a darkness in you, Clayton Dugan, that will eat your heart.”

  He lifted his glass. “Here’s to its appetite.”

  Sophie dashed the drink from his hand, her face twisted with sudden fury. “You monster! You blind fool! He sees us! He sees everything, hears every word …!”

  Clay was out of his chair and shoving her against the wall, shouting, “He sees nothing and hears nothing! He went where I sent him because your precious Lord didn’t have the mercy to send him there from the start! He’s dead and gone, and I’m the one that spared him, not God or Jesus Christ!”

  Sophie’s mouth dropped open. She stared at Clay’s face, inches from her own, and stopped trying to wriggle out from between him and the wall. Watching her eyes, seeing in them a horror he had not anticipated, Clay realized he had said too much in anger. She had never looked upon him like that in their entire married life. Her face was screwing itself into a knot of loathing, her lips attempting to shape themselves around the words to condemn him. Clay released her and stepped away. He kept an eye on his wife, as he would a dog he half expected to attack if he turned from it. He needed to be out of Sophie’s house, as far from her as he could get, and he needed a drink as never before.

  Sophie watched him leave the room, heard him pause in the hallway to pick up his hat and shotgun, then open and close the front door. She sagged to the floor, slid down the wall Clay had pinned her against, and allowed her body to find its own position against the skirting boards. She felt the side of her head touch the edge of a rug. It felt comfortable there, so she made no further move to adjust herself; she could not feel the rest of her body in any case.

  Clayton Dugan had killed her son. It was too awful a confession to be a lie, something designed solely to hurt her. She had seen the will to hurt her in Clay’s eyes for years, and known he would one day do so, just to relieve himself of the need; but this thing he had spoken of, this murder … It was an unspeakable deed, the act of a madman. No—Clay was anything but mad. He had done it with his eyes open, his mind unclouded, convinced of his own justification. That was how Clay conducted himself in life, and she saw no reason why he would not have done what he did with exactly the same ruthless calculation, the same unyielding stubbornness of spirit. He would be punished for it, since God would never allow so great a sin to slip past His omnipotent eye; but Sophie, lying crumpled in a heap on the parlor floor, demanded of God that she be His instrument, that she play a part in the downfall of the murderer. She would avenge herself for her loss, and do so in the full light of day, before a legion of witnesses, so God’s retribution—administered by way of herself—would not go unrecorded on earth or in heaven.

  While he walked, Clay cursed his mouth for having opened when it should have stayed shut. It was not that he was ashamed of having released Silan from his suffering—in fact he was proud of it—but he had known, even before pressing the handkerchief to Silan’s face, that it was an act he could never share with anyone, least of all the boy’s mother. Sophie would have persisted with looking after him year after wasted year, in the name of God’s mysterious ways, and Clay, for all that he no longer loved his wife, if he ever had, didn’t wish to see her lose what was left of her youth in the service of unmoving, inhuman Silan. Clay had heard an old tale about a man condemned to roll a large stone up a hill and let it roll down to the bottom, only to repeat the task again, forever. That was how he had seen Sophie’s nursing, and he had delivered her from it, but was unable to claim credit for having done so, not while she believed the things she believed. He should have stayed silent, and been content to know, deep within himself, that he had done the right thing by his boy. He had allowed anger to sweep away prudence, and now there would be hell to pay.

  He entered a saloon and ordered a drink. The bartender set it down without a word. Clay knew there were whisperings about his drinking, knew also that he still had the sympathy of the town over Silan. It wouldn’t last much longer. He had to get on top of the drinking before commiseration with his troubles evaporated. No town or county wanted a drunk in charge of its law enforcement. He would begin tomorrow, after it became clear which way Sophie would jump. If she did the sensible thing and kept her mouth shut, he would be able to lick the drinking without too much trouble. If, on the other hand, she insisted on making a fuss, his lot would be intolerable without a bottle to ease the burden of cohabitation with a vengeful shrew. Sophie was at heart a practical woman, he told himself, and would keep quiet about his revelation. In time, she might even see things his way, and admit their son was better off away from his useless body. It might happen. He
could hope.

  He stayed in the bar for over an hour, drinking steadily. He asked himself, as solitary drinkers often do, if he was a happy man, and was honest enough to admit he was not. No part of his life to date had afforded him the kind of intense satisfaction he considered should have been his; not his marriage, which was probably no less comfortable than many another, or his profession, which had elevated him at a comparatively early age to a position of considerable authority in the community.

  Clay wondered if maybe he was demanding too much from life. Maybe the man pushing the stone was not so unusual a figure after all, and had eventually grown used to his eternal task. Clay had never considered himself a philosopher, and so was unprepared for questions relating to such weighty matters as an ultimate purpose behind the living of one’s life. He made a conscious decision, as he tipped another glass of whiskey inside himself, to make peace with his wife, and attempt to accommodate their differences in a new marriage that would begin once he was sure the business of Silan was behind them.

  He had admired her once, when she was still the wife of Grover Stunce, and could admire her again, if only she would let him. Clay had no desire to begin his life over again. If he and Sophie persevered, they might even have another child, despite the string of failures. All in all it was worthwhile to attempt rebuilding the marriage. He drank again, to celebrate the beginning of something.

  “Marshal? Better come down to the livery.”

  Someone was standing by his side, a townsman Clay could not put a name to, drunk as he was. He smiled at the man and said, “What the hell for?”

  “Your wife just shot your horse.”

  Clay hadn’t heard any shot, and the stable was only two blocks away. He guessed the shooting must have taken place inside the stable, muffling the sound. He was aware, in a befuddled kind of way, that the structure for a revived marriage he had been busily erecting as he drank was collapsing around him as he stared at the messenger’s worried face. He smiled and said, “I’ll push that stone till I die.”

  “You better come see what she did. She’s shouting and hollering all kinds of things about you, Marshal, I better warn you right now. She says the next bullet’s for you.”

  “She does? Well, you know she hasn’t been in her right mind since what happened to our boy.”

  He hated himself the moment the words escaped him, and recognized the lie for what it was—a means of self-preservation in the storm that was approaching. Sophie had shown her hand with remarkable swiftness. He really should have anticipated such a reaction. He’d been a fool to hide away in a saloon and drink himself into a state of hopefulness, a true fool, but he was fully awake now, and not about to compound his stupidity by going down to the livery stable while his wife was still there.

  “Listen,” he said. “You go along to my office and tell Jeff or Elgin, whoever’s there, to go take my wife into custody. I can’t do it myself; you can see why. You go do that for me, would you?”

  “Sure, I’ll do it, but you better hear what she’s saying about you.”

  “I know what she’s saying, and it’s a crazy lie. You go get the deputies working on this, and I’ll have something to say about what she’s accusing me of later on. You go do that, then come back and tell me when she’s under lock and key. Thank you.”

  The man left. It disturbed Clay that he couldn’t remember the fellow’s name. It didn’t really matter, since Clay was all washed up in Keyhoe anyway. No matter how hard he might deny what Sophie was bawling at the top of her lungs, the story would stick, and be believed by more and more people as time went by. To a holder of elected office, it spelled disaster. Either he was a child-killer, or he was the husband of a madwoman. His career in Keyhoe was already a thing of the past, and he hadn’t even seen the carcass of Sunrise with his own eyes yet. Thinking of his wonderful horse made Clay want to cry. Sophie didn’t need to do that. It was revenge, personal revenge against Clay. Everything had been turned upside down. He had only himself to blame, for telling Sophie what he had done. Now he would pay the price. He poured himself another shot of whiskey.

  When informed that his deputies had taken Sophie to the jail behind his office, Clay went down to the livery stable. He saw Sunrise in his stall, blood on his neck from the bullet hole behind one ear. At least Sophie had killed him outright, not left him to suffer from a shot to the belly. Clay assumed she had used Grover’s pistol. He needed to be gone from this town where everything had suddenly gone wrong for him.

  He asked the livery stable owner, “What’s your best horse, and the price?”

  “Sorrel, yonder. Forty dollars.”

  “Thirty.”

  “Thirty-five’ll get your dead animal taken care of too.”

  “Get the sorrel saddled up.”

  Clay went home to collect some cash and a few articles of clothing, then returned to the stable. His new horse stood waiting.

  “Lighting out, Marshal?” the livery stable owner asked.

  Clay didn’t bother to answer. He handed the man his money and mounted up. Outside, he could see a crowd gathered around his office down the street. Sophie would give them an earful, and continue doing so until they all believed her. His riding out of town without any effort to defend himself would be construed as guilt. He was finished in Kansas forever. Somehow he didn’t care.

  20

  They always pressed as close to her as she would allow, and all the girls were under instruction to allow their partners as much closeness as they wanted, no matter how smelly they might be, or how drunk. Inside the walls of Gods of the Dance, the customer was king.

  Zoe was a popular attraction, solely on account of her newness, and soon learned of the propositions she would be subjected to by almost all of her partners. No one had told her of the back-room trade before her first evening. Several of the girls had made cryptic reference to “dancing without music,” but Zoe understood nothing until her second partner suggested they retire “out back for some privacy.” Thinking his suggestion a request for conversation, she had willingly gone through one of several doors leading from the dance floor, only to find herself in a squalid bedroom, already used despite the earliness of the hour.

  “Two dollars,” said her partner, smiling.

  Her partner groped for Zoe’s breast, at which time she broke from him and ran from the room. The girls on the dance floor nearest the door she burst through gave her hard-faced looks of pure delight, and Zoe realized she had been kept in ignorance in order that she might go through this initiation. Her partner came through the door behind her, his face dark, his words drowned by the music until he was beside her. “All right, then—three.”

  Zoe slapped his face, and instantly became the center of attention in that corner of the hall. The man was at first shocked, then sheepish. “Well, now,” he said, recovering his good humor, “I guess I’ll make it five, like I should have all along.” He could not understand why the little miss he’d paid good money to dance with suddenly turned around and walked away from him. A regular patron, he knew she had no right to do that to him.

  “Hey! You come back here!”

  Zoe was halfway across the floor, heading for Taffy’s office to tell him she could not work as a dance partner if the work included having carnal relations with the customers, when she was spun around by a strong grip on her arm. She expected it to be the man who had first ushered her into Taffy’s presence, an individual she had since learned was named Tyler, but it was a girl who had hold of her. “Don’t waste your time,” she said. “He’ll only say you should have known, and he’s right.”

  Zoe pulled away from her and continued on, then slowed to a stop by the corridor leading to Taffy’s door. The girl was right; she should have known. Zoe leaned against the wall, made sick by the noise, the smells of drink and tobacco swirling around her, and above all by her discovery of the dance hall’s other face.

  “You don’t have to go with them.”

  The girl who had taken h
old of her arm was by Zoe’s side again. She looked very young, but had a knowing air about her. Zoe knew this girl had gone to the back rooms, but only when she chose to. “You’ll make more money if you do,” she added.

  Zoe nodded, unwilling even to thank her for the advice.

  “You’ll get used to it,” she was told.

  “No …”

  “It’s easy enough. Just let them do what they want, and you think of something else while they do it. It never lasts for long. They’re too drunk most of the time to even do it.”

  Tyler loomed beside them. “Back to work, both of you,” he warned. “You,” he said to Zoe. “I got my eye on you.”

  “So’s half the men in this hole,” said the girl, “so you be nice to my friend, see.”

  Tyler gave the girl a look that expressed a tolerant contempt, and Zoe formed the opinion that these two had more knowledge of each other than their respective jobs could have accounted for.

  “Back to work,” repeated Tyler, and left them.

  “He won’t be so polite about it next time,” said the girl. “Are you all right? Can you do it? You get through this first night, and the rest will be easy as can be.”

  “Thank you.”

  “If you get in any more trouble, you ask for Winnie.”

  She was gone from Zoe’s side, snatched up immediately by a passing man in search of a partner. Zoe panicked; should she walk out, or continue as a dancer? She was apparently under no obligation to do anything more than dance, unless she became desperate for money. A rough hand took her by the shoulder and spun her around to view a whiskered face inches from her own. “Dance,” said the miner. It was a command, not a request. Zoe danced.

  In time she recognized Winnie for a friend. Winnie shared a room with two other girls, one of them a fellow worker at Gods of the Dance, the other a waitress who slept regularly with her employer. “Just to keep hold of her job,” Winnie explained, “and he’s a big fat brute, but what else can she do?”