Outrider

by Steven John

  “Mr. Scofield! So happy to see you in one piece!”

  Old Candice Wilbee was making her way down from the second car, assisted by the large man Scofield recalled from the desert town.

  “Thank you, Russell,” Wilbee said, dismissing her associate, who climbed back aboard the train.

  Scofield walked to meet Wilbee, stopping just far enough away that the old woman would not offer her hand. He glanced up at the passenger car, and could see in the lamplight the face of a pretty woman with dark brown hair sitting beside a blond-haired man. After a moment, Scofield recognized the man as Hale, Dreg’s executive secretary.

  “An awful day, Mr. Scofield. But a necessary one. An awful success, I suppose one could call it.”

  “Depending on your alignment.”

  “Yes, as always. Where’s yours, if I may ask?”

  “Right here.” Scofield tapped his chest.

  Wilbee nodded slowly, a kind smile on her face. “I thought as much. But I’m still going to make you an offer to come with us.”

  “Can’t do it.”

  “It’s not worth my trying to convince you, is it?”

  Scofield shook his head, repeating “Can’t do it.”

  Candice nodded, then shuffled over toward the open door. “I thought not, but just the same, give us a minute more of your time.” She called into the car, “Ryan, Matt. Come out now if you’d like to.”

  Scofield was hardly surprised when old Ryan Cannell eased himself out of the doorway and climbed down to the ground, followed by Matteson, the bartender.

  “Shake my hand, Scof?” Ryan asked, fixing his former comrade with an earnest look.

  “Sure, Ry.” They shook. “I don’t begrudge you or anyone much anymore. I got no idea who to be against, at any rate.” He shifted his attention to Matteson, who wore a beige robe cast back behind his shoulders. “And you kept me full of bourbon, so I’ll shake your hand too.”

  “Still time for that new drink, buddy.”

  “No thanks, Matt. Can’t do it.”

  Wilbee cleared her throat. “Mr. Matteson, would you indulge me?” Matteson nodded, and Candice turned to Scofield. “You may not know this, but your erstwhile bartender is a student of poetry. He has this one memorized that I’ve asked him to recite a hundred times if it’s one. What year is it from again?”

  “1906 or 7. Can’t recall right now. It was by an Italian named Castelnuovo.”

  “Please, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  Matteson looked over at Scofield. The outrider’s face was an inscrutable mask in the dim light of the interior lamps. But he nodded once. Matteson returned the gesture and took in a long breath, then threw back his head and closed his eyes, beginning to recite the poem with a strong, deep voice.

  Once countless men were filled with awe when first they saw the Ishtar Gate.

  When mighty, blue, the king unveiled,

  How teeth were gnashed; how women wailed.

  When shackled foe from Nineveh

  or Chaldean (or many lands)

  Laid eyes upon the mighty gate,

  he knew the might of Babylon.

  He felt the endless might and will;

  he drank in timeless Babylon.

  Immortal land now dead and gone.

  When hooves like thunder shook the land,

  When from his pleasure home he rode,

  All hearts too shook like wilted leaves disturbed by gentle evening breeze.

  And with his ruthless rugged men,

  Did he lay waste, the savage Kahn.

  And though the kingdom spanned the known,

  All that was has long been gone.

  (Twice ten miles of fallow awn.)

  The vast and trunkless legs have crumbled.

  The lighthouse shines no more.

  The helots with their shouldered spears and zealots with their righteous tears and prayers for rain across the years . . .

  Oh cold and sylvan (as it were), black and red the story went.

  The countless walls and endless flanks and

  All the grain grown in between.

  The tribesman with his talisman,

  Or alchemist who sought to glean . . .

  Not built nor fallen in a day,

  But fallen still.

  And fallen still.

  As all things will.

  Matteson stood still, head back with eyes closed, for a long moment. Then he opened his eyes, looked at Scofield, and climbed back into the train without another word.

  After a second, Ryan Cannell moved to joined him, calling over his shoulder: “You said you can’t come with us. Not that you wouldn’t. Is that right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Would that have anything to do with that beautiful horse of yours?” Cannell asked, pointing at the mare where she stood a few paces distant.

  Scofield glanced over his shoulder. Still looking at his horse he answered: “Everything to do.”

  “It may surprise you to know that the last car on our little train is all horse pens. I couldn’t stand to leave without my ol’ girl, either.”

  There was no more light from the west. The black canopy of night, studded with countless heavenly specks, spread out above Scofield, the sky as dark and the stars as bright as the outrider had ever seen. The kerosene lights had all been doused for the long journey ahead, and the outrider’s ears had grown numb to the cacophony of the steam engine five cars ahead. He gripped the wall with one hand to stabilize himself, the other scratching his nervous horse’s neck. His head hung out the small window of the pen, the back of his neck resting on its cool iron sill. He rode like that for most of the night, his eyes ever on the impossibly dark sky.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Were it not for a conversation I had with my brother, this book would not exist. It was he who planted in my brain the idea for a setting which grew into the novel you are holding. However, had Dave and I never had that conversation, the book would have been dedicated to him nonetheless (albeit a different book, of course). So thanks for the idea, and for being an effortless role model and constant friend.

  Thanks go next to my wife, Kristin, who offered nothing but support and once again had more confidence than I that this book would eventually find its way to publication. And thanks to Ben, our son who joined us in October of 2013, for being a pretty amazing source of inspiration and motivation (and charming as all hell, too).

  Once again my agent Russell Galen found the perfect editor for one of my books in Jeremy Lassen. Russ, thanks for hanging in there. Jeremy, thanks for believing in this book and for your astute and creative notes, which have made it all the better of a story. Jason Katzman, thanks for helping to sail the ship home—your help and guidance have been immensely valued.

  Kevin Berresford, thanks for your early notes and enthusiasm; I’ll keep writing books if you keep reading them. Mom and dad, thanks for your many readings of the manuscript and your constant support. My mother in particular deserves special recognition for her truly astute and excellent editorial faculties—all writers should be so lucky to have so careful a reader in there [sic] nuclear families.

  Family, fellow climbers, friends in general—especially those of you who might see a little of yourselves turn up in this book—thanks for being part of our lives; Kristin, Ben, and I are all the richer for you. Especially if you buy ten copies.

  Glendale, California—2014