Silver Moon

by Sigmund Brouwer

  When I woke again, it was with a bright shaft of light piercing my eyelids.

  Sunlight.

  I groaned, shook my head, and groaned again as I mustered the strength to open my eyes and turn away from the direct sun of a clear dawn.

  A confusion of charred beams of wood crisscrossed most of the blue of the sky above me. My wrists were pinned between my chest and my knees. And I was stuck in a crouching position in a narrow-deep pit.

  It was common enough, that miners would have a hiding hole like this somewhere near their efforts. Because they went to town only once or twice a season, they needed a place to stow the gold or silver they extracted. Obviously, the miners who built this shack had decided to cover their hole first with thin planks that held dirt, then with the stove that had straddled the hole. I’d crashed through knees first, wedging myself almost at the bottom of the pit, barely safe from the fire that raged above me.

  Only now I wondered if I had gone from the fire to the frying pan. Unless I was able to push loose, this would be a much worse death.

  First, I wriggled and pulled at my hands. Slowly, and eased by the wetness of my clothing, I was able to move them from where they were pinned against my chest. I was rewarded for this by the agony of returning blood circulation, a stabbing of pins and needles that made me want to stomp my feet. If only I could.

  After a rest, I grabbed the loose pieces of wood that had tumbled into the pit with me and threw them clear. It gave me some wriggle room, and I reached to test one of the beams in the pile wedged above me.

  The beam creaked protest.

  I tried another. And another and another until finally I found a beam that did not move as I pulled down. I pulled harder and at the same time pushed upward as best I could with my numb legs. The skin of my back took most of the punishment as I rubbed it raw in my efforts to get into a standing position.

  Progress was slow. A half hour later, I was there. The top of the hole was barely above head, and my shoulders were in a gap among fallen beams. I could rest my chin on one of those beams, and did.

  It felt good beyond measure to be straight and uncramped, so good that I greeted with cheerful chuckles the new rush of agony that came with returning blood circulation.

  All that remained was clearing the beams above that had me trapped.

  By sunset, I was still there in the pit. Able to dance and hop. But unable to find enough room to haul myself upward, for the gap was too narrow, the beams too heavy, and from my limited position I was unable to get the leverage required to untangle the beams from the top downward.

  I was thirsty by then from all my efforts. Twice I’d wrung my shirt, desperate for what water I could squeeze into my mouth. To make it worse, I could hear beyond the the gurgle of the nearby stream.

  But I was alive.

  I settled down into the pit, making a seat of a pile of wood, leaned back, and tried to make myself comfortable.

  I was not without hope. Clara knew where I’d gone. She’d wait the two days, then, I believed, send her driver to see why I had not returned. Those thoughts made it easier to endure the prospect of another night here.

  With darkness came the star dust of a clear mountain sky and the occasional howls of coyotes and muted hooting of owls.

  I tried to sleep. Although the day had become warm enough to finally dry my clothes, the night air cooled rapidly and reached past my clothing to draw from me all my warmth. When it became too cold, I would rise and dance and shiver.

  I gave up on sleep and waited for daylight.

  As the sky darkened, one star caught my attention. The Evening Star. My mind naturally turned to Rebecca. And in thinking of her, to what Clara had said about Rebecca.

  ************

  After stowing the coffins, Clara and I had gone back to the privacy of her carriage. Her driver had simply ridden aimlessly, giving us the precious sadness of spending time together while knowing it would be our last, for Clara had made it clear that we would not meet again after our good-bye.

  We had talked ourselves out in catching up on all that had happened in the years apart, until Clara had fallen asleep with her head on my shoulder. While she slept, I pondered new guilt. Guilt that Rebecca could be so far from my mind. Guilt that I had chosen not to tell Clara about the one woman who had been able to replace her. Guilt that I was betraying both.

  Dawn had approached that morning — was it only yesterday — and Clara stirred at the growing light. Sat. Pushed her tousled hair from her eyes. Blinked at me and smiled.

  In that moment, it felt like granite was falling away from my heart. I did love this woman. And could say it. To her. And to me. All the years I’d pushed her from my mind, forced myself not to care. With that one gentle smile, I was helpless against the surge of joy and pain and sorrow that came with realizing I loved her so deeply.

  I wasn’t sure I liked it. Losing rein over my feelings.

  “You look afraid,” she said. “I’m sorry for you. For us.”

  “Me too.” I could not take my eyes off her face. “Must this be goodbye, never to see you again?”

  Her smile was knowing and sad. “All night I’ve been asking myself the same thing. I have a husband and child, yet if you asked me to leave Denver with you, it would be difficult to refuse.”

  Was that an invitation? I grappled with the immensity of such an act. The price she would pay for me. How in the presence of Clara—despite what I felt now for another woman—it was easy for me to forget promises made.

  I groaned. What was this, that a man could be so torn and confused.

  “Clara, can a body love two persons?”

  We shared a long silence, until she finally said in a quiet voice that I could barely hear above the creaking of the carriage. “You always did ask me difficult questions. I love my husband. And you…”

  “You always did appear to know the answers.”

  “Not now.” She took a deep breath. “Life is complicated, confusing. Here with you proves it. And long ago I stopped looking for simple answers.”

  More silence. “Can a body love two persons?” she said. “You tell me. Can you create something as true as love and ever expect it to die?”

  I shook my head.

  “There’s your answer.” She rubbed her face. “My husband knows you were and are my first love. He knew that when I married him. He’s endured the many times I mourned you. Your memory has always been a ghost between us. That’s why John sent me from the restaurant to be with you tonight.”

  I must have gaped.

  Tears began to roll down her cheeks. “That’s how much he loves me. He gave me the choice. He’s praying I return, and that when I do, your ghost will be gone.”

  She ignored her tears, tracks shiny in the gray of first light. “Can a body love two persons? I do. I told you if you asked me to leave Denver with you, it would be difficult to refuse. Yet I would. I learned to love John. He stood by me when I needed him. I cannot and will not abandon him. That’s part of love too, loyalty. It is killing me to know that as we share this carriage, he waits, afraid I may not return.”

  Clara took a deep breath. “Can a body love two persons? Yes. Sometimes it cannot help but happen that way. Should a body act upon both of those loves? No.”

  She wiped her eyes. “Who is she?”

  I told her. And felt cleansed.

  “I hate her,” Clara said. And smiled to show otherwise. “Don’t run from her like you did from me.”

  I tried to protest.

  She leaned forward and touched my lips with her forefinger to silence me. “I sent you away. It is my eternal regret. It could have, should have, been you with me. Yet the action was taken, and because others love me and need me, I cannot undo it.” She whispered it again. “I sent you away.” Her eyes searched mine. “Still, you could have returned.”

  Tears fell fresh again, and she began to sob. “You could have returned. Tried to fight my refusal. I waited. I waited until I could no longer
wait.”

  She shook away my efforts to comfort her. Light was strong enough to cast shadows into the carriage before she had composed herself.

  “Don’t keep running from Rebecca.”

  “I haven’t run from her,” I said. “She is among the Sioux because she needs to know if she should live as a Sioux or as a white. She—”

  “Stop,” Clara said. She set her jaw. “You can also tell me you didn’t return to me because I sent you away. But you could have returned. You knew where Denver was. So ask yourself why you’ve allowed Rebecca to be apart from you. With me, and with her, you’ve given yourself the ideal excuse not to commit. Ask yourself what it is you’re afraid of. Letting go and the risk of pain it brings?”

  I had no answer.

  She softened. Touched my cheek lightly with the back of her fingers. “I do love you. Always will. The boy too stubborn to beg or quit. The man too stubborn to realize he’s lonely.”

  The carriage jolted. A reminder of our limited time together. Clara closed her eyes. Held her head straight, magnificent in her sorrow and the new tears.

  “Please leave,” she said, eyes closed. “Tap the carriage so that the driver stops and leave without saying goodbye. I cannot bear this any longer.”

  She refused to open her eyes as the carriage jerked to a stop.

  The coward that I was, I had stepped from the carriage into gray dawn. And left Clara again. Without protest. Again.

  Chapter 36

  “Gone from Denver?” I said, surprised.

  “Departed.” Despite my outcry, the woman in David Girard’s bank office spoke in dull tones from where she sat behind his desk. She was staring down at the mess of papers, elbows on the desk, face supported by her hands. She hadn’t lift her head to speak. Otherwise, she would have noticed the two bank tellers behind me, afraid to pull at my sleeves but equally afraid to walk away.

  “Gone,” I repeated.

  I’d endured that pit the entire morning before Clara’s driver appeared. I’d ridden back to Denver at a jolting trot, rushed to this bank, bolted past the startled tellers at a running limp — my torn and smeared clothes stinking of sweat and fire —crashed open the door of David Girard’s office, gun in hand, to confront him, and now this lady behind his desk was telling me he was gone?

  One of the bank tellers did muster the courage to place a hand on my shoulder. “Sir—”

  I slapped his hand away.

  “When?” I asked her without looking back.

  I don’t think it was my sharp question that got her attention.

  Rather, she sniffed. Not disdain. Not tears. But as if she was testing the air. I didn’t blame her. I had never been more rank, even after weeks on the trail.

  She lifted her head.

  Her face registered no surprised to see me, as if it were an everyday occurance in the bank to see someone in filthy, ripped clothing, three days of beard growth, and a gun in his hand as he blocked the doorway.

  “Departed. Yesterday.”

  I realized her face did not register surprise to see me because she was numb with shock, reflected by the monotone of her words and the lack of focus in her eyes.

  She had graying hair. A lean face, strong thin nose, and flesh just beginning to sag, now drawn with weariness. Her dress was simple, but offset by the gleam of pearls on the necklace that matched her earrings. The hands that held her head were adorned with the greens and reds of expensive jewellery. Altogether, she was not unattractive.

  “Mrs. Leslie Girard.” I holstered my revolver.

  “Mmmm.” An acknowledgement that was more like a distracted hum.

  I spared a questioning glance for the two tellers behind me.

  One shrugged.

  I flipped open my vest to show the marshal’s badge and motioned for them to back off. They did, probably happy to have someone with a mantle of authority take over, no matter how false the mantle or how disheveled his appearance.

  I shut the door behind me.

  “You smell,” she said, continued lack of concern in her voice.

  “I would like a long hot bath,” I allowed. “It was more important, however, to speak to David Girard.”

  “Yes. That would be nice.”

  She was childlike in her shock. I wondered how she might be under different conditions, and I decided that someone from a wealthy family and accustomed to running a bank might be someone much less pliable in normal circumstances than she appeared to be now. It was a terrible time to take advantage of her. However, I’d give myself the luxury of worrying about that later.

  “Will he return soon?” I pressed her.

  “He left me.” Absolute hopelessness.

  “How do you know he won’t return?” I asked.

  “He took the money.” She spread one hand across her cheek so it could take the entire weight of her head, and lifted the other hand to point at the papers. “He cleared all these accounts and took the money.”

  “Any idea where —”

  “He had everything,” she said. She was speaking to herself. “The mansion. Easy work here at the bank. Me. All there was in the accounts to take was five thousand. He left everything I could give him for that meager five thousand dollars. I wasn’t that much older, you know. Only a few years.” She was rambling now, in a sing song voice. “Of course, I always knew he might go. That’s why he never got more than a thousand or two at a time. He—”

  I reached forward and slammed my fist down on the desk.

  She blinked once. Twice. Finally met my eyes.

  “He tried to kill me yesterday,” I said.

  Her mouth opened and closed.

  “He’s killed others, too. And may have killed two men earlier this month in Laramie.”

  Slowly, her eyes began to focus on me.

  “Why are you here.” She said it firmly, a statement, as if she were coming out of a daze.

  “I’m the marshal from Laramie.”

  Leslie Girard pushed the chair back from the desk. When she stood, I discovered she was tall. Thin, to match the lean in her face. She took a deep breath. Composed herself.

  “This is an affair of the bank,” she said. “Private.”

  “I’m not looking for him because of this bank.”

  She began to shrug.

  “He tried to burn me to death. If we discuss him here, that will remain private too. Otherwise…”

  She considered that. “All right then.”

  She sat again. I pulled out a chair myself. Set my hat in my lap.

  “Any idea where he might go?” I asked.

  “No.” Had she said it quickly and immediately, I would have guessed the denial to be a lie. But her slow statement had a ring of truth to it.

  “Where was he from?” I asked. Maybe that would give me an idea of his habits.

  “He never talked much about it,” she said. “Whenever I pressed him, he got all cold on me.”

  That stumped me briefly. I remembered Dehlia.

  “Didn’t his daughter claim she was from the south? Did you learn anything from her?”

  “Dehlia?” Her sniff now was definitely disdain. “I spoke to her as little as possible.”

  “Is she still here in Denver?”

  “No,” Leslie said. “She left two or three days ago. I thought it was finally over, whatever they had.”

  Her new ironclad composure cracked along with her voice. “Now, I’m wondering if he left to be with her.”

  I remembered the expression of hatred on David Girard’s face when I’d asked him about Dehlia.

  “Mrs. Girard, I can assure you that would not be true.”

  She took a breath. “I shall choose to believe you.”

  I gave her some time to collect herself once more, then asked, “Does David have any connection to Laramie?”

  “None.”

  “No business there?” I could not keep disbelief from my voice.

  “None. If you won’t accept my answers, don’t bother with
the questions.”

  She’d recovered quickly.

  “What did he do here at the bank, Mrs. Girard?”

  “Loans. Mainly to cattle operations.”

  “Forgive me for asking,” I said. “Any of those ranches in Wyoming?”

  “Possibly. He often went to the Cheyenne cattle market.”

  “Any chance of knowing which ranches?”

  “I can have a list drawn for you,” she said. She paused. Squinted puzzlement. “My apologies for my previous abruptness. There was one ranch near Laramie. Bar something or the other.”

  “Bar X Bar.”

  She nodded.

  No surprise. I had no idea how that fit in, but it was no surprise.

  “This may be troublesome,” I said, “but I’d appreciate a look at the loan papers?” That might give me an indication of what was behind this.

  She frowned. “Banking is a private business. It’s built on —”

  “Trust. I know. But in the last while I’ve been shot at and missed, shot at and hit, bullwhipped, burned, and buried alive. It hasn’t put me in good humor, and while I have no grounds to force you to show me the papers, it would improve my mood considerably if you did.”

  That brought her first smile. She moved out from behind the desk, walked past me, opened the bank door, called one of the tellers, and moments later whispered instructions.

  She stepped back inside.

  “You must think I’m a fool,” she said. “An old lady smitten by a younger man. I was. But money, no matter how much you have, doesn’t hold you at night. And you can’t force yourself to love someone, no matter how much you wish you could. Much as I looked, I found no one to interest me. I feared I would grow old alone. Until David Girard. He had a way about him that made it impossible not to be smitten. So I permitted myself the luxury of marrying him, and never regretted what it cost. I loved him, and my money kept him nearby.”

  She had my sympathy. Because of Rebecca, and more recently, my time with Clara, I understood lonely. Money meant little in the face of it.

  “I wish you the best,” I said.