by E. L. Ripley
“Then why are you selling rifles?”
“It’s a prototype, Sheriff. It is neither practical nor profitable to produce.”
“Does it at least shoot straight?”
“You’ll know in a moment. Is this the best time for these questions?”
“I can’t ask a dead man,” Joe pointed out.
“Get more use out of a rifle,” Carpenter said mildly. “Can’t put dinner on the table with that,” he added, indicating Joe’s Navy with his eyes.
“Just watch me, Bill. I’m about to.”
“He’s quicker than you, Joe.” Was he? Probably not, but Joe didn’t know that.
“I ain’t as old as you, Bill.”
“Nor as smart.” Carpenter stepped between them, truly taken aback. Had Joe really intended to pull? Even in front of him? His intent at the hotel had been clear, but that should have gone away as soon as he saw he was exposed. What was this? What was he thinking?
He was thinking that it didn’t matter, and he was right. He was the sheriff, and who was Carpenter? An old friend, yes. Beyond that?
Nobody.
“What’s the matter with you, Joe? You really want to kill a man because you don’t like him?”
The other man looked set. “I don’t want to, not in particular. I have to.”
“Mr. Carpenter,” Silva warned.
“Quiet,” Carpenter said without looking back.
“Oh, stop it, your holiness,” Joe groaned.
“I can’t tell which of you has less brains,” Carpenter hissed at Joe. “You boys for bothering this man for no good reason, or you for not knowing when you’re beat,” he snarled at Silva.
He was about to go on, and no doubt to raise his voice considerably, but something caught his eye. Joe looked as well, and Silva couldn’t help but do the same. For a moment Joe and Silva both forgot their guns.
A stag had emerged from the trees down by the water, intending to drink. It would’ve been a fine animal under any circumstances, but this one wasn’t normal. Its coat was white, and under the harsh naked moonlight, it shone so brightly that Carpenter almost had to squint at the silvery glow.
He’d heard of animals like this, but this one had to be one in a million.
For a moment, no one spoke. They watched in silence as it moved closer to the water.
Carpenter had forgotten whatever he’d been about to say. He might’ve stood and watched all night if Joe hadn’t spoken.
“I wager that skin is worth a hundred dollars,” he said under his breath. “The head, twice that or more.”
Carpenter smiled. “Glad I don’t need the money, then.”
“I do,” Joe replied, and Carpenter looked over sharply. His friend had forgotten about Silva, and he looked pained. “Could use one of your rifles right now,” he whispered to Silva, who grinned.
That was easy to say, but they were at least eighty yards from the animal. The stag was drinking in peace.
Carpenter envied that. “Well?” he muttered to Joe, glancing at the knife on his belt. “You want to use that for what it’s meant for? Make a dollar honestly? Or does that offend your delicate sensibilities?”
“Age has not made you more agreeable, Bill.” The sheriff’s voice was tight.
“Why should it have? Or do you have pressing business elsewhere?”
“I have pressing business here.”
“Then shoot me and get on with it,” Carpenter said impatiently.
Joe glared at him, then looked back down at the stag. He shook his head in disgust. “You going to help me, Bill?”
“Of course. You won’t get but one shot.”
Joe glanced down at his Navy. It was only a thirty-six. It might do if he was close enough. It would have to be a good shot, though. Then he looked past Carpenter.
“How about it, Silva?” Joe asked. “If I only get the one shot, it should come from yours.”
“I’m flattered that you trust my design.”
“I trust a bigger bullet.”
Joe put his hand out. Carpenter had been about to take a drink from the whiskey bottle, but he stopped. Silva’s smile stayed in place.
“It wouldn’t be very neighborly of me to say no, would it?” He drew the gun and offered the handle.
“I’ll return it,” Joe promised wryly, taking the larger pistol and tucking it into his belt.
“Right behind that front leg,” Carpenter told him.
“I know how to kill a deer, Bill.”
“I’d expect you to. But I’d also expect you not to build a gold town in a valley with no gold,” he added. “And here we are.”
“Ought’ve just shot you both,” Joe grumbled. “You stay here, Silva. You make more noise than a column of blue bellies. Go left, Bill.”
“I know how to stalk a deer, Joe,” Carpenter replied, imitating the other man’s voice.
“Yet you can’t put down your own damn horse?” Joe whispered back, struggling out of his boots.
Carpenter didn’t say anything to that, but he took his own boots off, handed the bottle to Silva, and crept into the trees. He scooped up a handful of needles and crushed them, rubbing the scent on his hands as he felt his way down the slope.
Joe was off to his right, making a wider circle and even less noise. It had been a long time since either had had reason reason to move quietly, but it wasn’t a skill one could forget, even if he wanted to.
The stag looked up from the pool, but not toward either of them. Something else had caught its attention.
Joe was within ten yards, but he was still creeping forward, so it wasn’t close enough. Apparently he didn’t feel quite as cocky as he had acted in front of Silva.
Carpenter was a little farther back, but there was less cover for him. He couldn’t go any nearer without being smelled or seen. And if the wind changed, the stag would bolt at once. There wasn’t much time.
Joe stopped, leaning against a tree and laying Silva’s revolver over his arm. It wouldn’t be an easy shot with a pistol, but it was feasible.
Carpenter put a hand up, and Joe returned the signal. Gently, he used his foot to find a small stick on the ground and eased out from behind his tree. With painstaking slowness, he let his weight down. The stick broke.
The stag went rigid and looked straight at him, presenting its left flank to Joe.
Then there was no sign of it, as though it had never been there, vanishing into the trees so quickly that it left stars in Capenter’s eyes, and nothing but a silent curtain of pine needles floating to the ground like snowflakes as the hoofbeats faded away.
Shaking off his surprise, Carpenter went out into the open as Joe did the same, looking wistfully after the stag, which was now long gone.
Carpenter had given Joe the best shot he could hope for, but the sheriff hadn’t taken it. Carpenter just looked at him, puzzled. The other man gave him a scowl.
“Handsome animal,” Joe said after a moment. “It would be a waste to kill it.”
He whirled and brought up the pistol, taking aim at the object sailing toward him, but for a second time, he didn’t fire. Joe snatched the whiskey bottle out of the air, but it hadn’t been flung at him with malice; it had only been tossed.
Silva came out of the woods, carrying their boots. “More like you didn’t want us to see you miss,” he said.
“Am I the wisest man to provoke?” Joe asked, irked.
“If not the wisest, then at least the ugliest.”
“I liked that stag more than I like you, Silva.”
“You’ll shoot an unarmed man?”
“Depends what his mouth’s doing.”
Silva just threw the boots on the ground and looked expectant.
After a moment, Joe lowered the pistol’s hammer and twirled it idly on his finger.
“That’s the second time you’ve lost your nerve tonight, Joe,” Carpenter remarked. “How long before they start calling you soft?”
“I’ve been called worse,” Joe replied, going up to Silva, who stood his ground. “Better soft than dead. Or deaf.” He held out the pistol. Without hesitation, Silva took it, then the bottle as well.
“You know, Joe,” Carpenter said, beginning to pull on his boots, “I’ve had this dream.”
“Yeah?” Joe was standing in shadow; they couldn’t see his face as he picked up his own boots.
“I wake up in my bed, in my house. It’s only me.” Carpenter straightened up and faced him. “Penelope ain’t there. I’m always by myself.” He shook his head. “I’ve had this dream half a dozen times at least. I have a lot of dreams like that. Over and over.”
“The same ones?” Joe asked, still standing in the dark. Silva took a drink from the bottle, saying nothing, though his left hand was still on his belt, right next to the gun.
Carpenter nodded. “They don’t seem to change, and they don’t get no easier. I get up, and I get dressed. And I have breakfast.”
“You don’t cook it, do you? That’s how you’d know it was a dream,” Joe pointed out.
“No, I don’t cook it,” Carpenter went on impatiently, scowling at him. “And I remember Byron, and I know that it would be all right if I could tell him. If I could tell him why I did what I did. Why that was the way it had to be. If he knew, he wouldn’t mind.”
“Wouldn’t mind being dead?”
“He wouldn’t,” Carpenter told him flatly. “And in my dream, I finish eating, and I go out and start my walk, because it ain’t that far. And I’m in the best humor I’ve ever been in, because everything else . . .” He trailed off, gesturing toward his head. “Everything else is getting old, but my memory’s still good. I remember what it’s like to wake up like we did.” He paused. “Do what we did.” Then he smiled. “So I never did mind going to the factory, but it’s different in the dream. I’m so happy.”
“Why are you happy in the dream, Bill?” Joe asked tiredly.
“Because I know that when I get to the factory, Byron’s going to be there. And I’ll tell him. I’ll tell him everything, and then he’ll know.”
“Yeah?”
Carpenter nodded. “So I walk to work, and I go in, and I go up the stairs to the office.”
Joe put his hands on his hips and waited. “And then what?”
Carpenter shrugged. “And that’s always when morning comes.”
Silva held out the bottle to Joe, who didn’t take it. After a moment, the sheriff just turned and started away.
“Does Mr. Silva need to mind his back with you?” Carpenter called after him.
Joe stopped. “Bill, do you really believe that tonight I came to take his life?” He looked back over his shoulder. “I came to save it. To make him understand, because he don’t.” He pointed at Silva, who didn’t react. “He never should have come back. He needs to understand. You both do, by the look of it.”
That was all he had to say.
They watched him go. Carpenter knelt at the edge of the water to take a drink, and after a while, Silva joined him, sitting down on the smooth rocks. There were some clouds in the sky now, and the stars didn’t seem quite as bright.
Silva toyed with the bottle in his hands, which was still half full. “Do you believe him?” he asked.
About not being at the hotel to murder him? Carpenter shook the water from his hands and sat back, looking up. “Do you?” he asked.
CHAPTER TEN
In Richmond, dawn liked to creep around as though it had something to hide. In Antelope Valley, it came in a flood. One moment there were a murky haze and the sounds of a few hesitant birds, and the next it was as bright as noon.
The bed in the hotel lived up to Carpenter’s expectations, and leaving it was as difficult as putting Oceana down. His back, his head, and general principle were just a few of the reasons he had not to hurry, but the noise of the settlement rising with the sun wouldn’t let him go on as he was. His dreams were as reliable as the sunrise, but at the moment, they were the least of his worries.
So as he had many times before, he shook them off and turned his back.
The canteen downstairs wasn’t as full as it should’ve been, but there were enough men in it that it took him a moment to spot Hale. He was at the counter drinking coffee and waiting. It was telling, the way they all stayed away from him. He was a gregarious fellow and the town’s patron. These people should have flocked to him, and normally they would have, but they knew this wasn’t a good time.
Carpenter paused on the steps as a boy passed with a basket of fragrant herbs. A coach rattled past outside, sending a pale mist of dust through the open doors, and a man in a white suit scowled and tried to brush it off, to no avail. This wasn’t Richmond.
Joints creaking, Carpenter put his hand on the bannister and made his way down.
“Morning, Bill.”
“Morning.” Carpenter helped himself to a cup, and held it out to the man with the coffee, who filled it. “Nice day to be alive.”
“You reckon?” Hale was controlling himself with some effort, and it was a sight to see. He’d once been well acquainted with his temper. Not with controlling it, but with the thing itself. It seemed these last years had changed that, and now he was fumbling for what had once been instinct. That was for the best; bluster hadn’t ever done much for Carpenter, and these days it would do even less.
“I am at a loss,” Hale announced. “Bill, I can’t tell if you are a changed man or if change has never touched you. You always did things to take me by surprise. And you still do.”
“That ain’t my intent.” Carpenter blew on his coffee, wincing as someone outside the hotel shouted and pain shot through his head. It wasn’t just the pain; his stomach was unsettled as well. Maybe it was time for a break from the whiskey.
“Well, what is your intent, Bill?”
“I’m retired. I don’t need one.”
“Some might call that rude.”
“Good Lord. Look at me,” Carpenter said, annoyed. “What the hell do I care what people call it?”
The other man stiffened. “Have I offended you somehow, Bill? Did you not receive my invitations for you to join us? To share in what we had? Is my house not comfortable enough for you? Is there someplace in the road where I fell short as your friend?”
“Never once.”
“Then why do you want to come here just to spit in my face?” he snarled.
Carpenter took a drink. “I ain’t done that yet.”
People were gathering outside, across and down the street a little. Carpenter couldn’t see what was so interesting to them, though.
Hale shook his head in disgust. “I’m a simple man, Bill. I don’t understand it. And I don’t like it.”
“I was just thinking the same thing.” Carpenter squeezed the bridge of his nose, clenching his jaw while his belly tossed and turned. “Why send Joe? Why not Fred? He wouldn’t have had the sense to listen to me and see reason. On your word he’d have just slit my throat as well, and you’d have two fewer things to trouble you today.”
Hale ignored the question. “I am asking you to help me understand. Asking as your friend. Mayhaps you don’t want to be my friend and do the things that you should, but you can still talk like my friend, and that means talking straight. You can do that much for me, can’t you?”
“Why can’t you just let him build his factory?” Carpenter asked directly.
Hale twitched, but he didn’t hesitate long. “Why can’t you just let him leave?”
“I ain’t what’s stopping him leaving.” It was as though the coffee had gravel in it. It was strong, though. He snorted. “I’m pushing him as hard as you are.”
“If a man won’t leave your ho
use of his own accord, even you would lay hands on him,” Hale said.
“I would, and I have before,” Carpenter replied, unperturbed by the insult. “Only one difference, Captain. This valley don’t belong to me.” He finished his coffee. “Or to you.”
Another hesitation, this one a little longer. Then Hale broke into a smile. “Bill,” he said, shaking his head. Then he leaned forward and struck him on the arm in a friendly fashion. “Bill, that may be, but what kind of men would we be if we let a man like that stay and do as he pleased? The things he’s done. It’s only his good grace that Joe doesn’t act in his capacity as sheriff and hang him from the neck in the street.”
“What’s he done now?” Carpenter asked, catching the eye of the owner. He looked meaningfully at a plate of food that a prospector was eating. His stomach was still in a bad state, but he had to eat regardless. Age had taken enough of his strength from him already; this wasn’t the time to let any more of it go.
“He took advantage of Abigail Manley. And, I hear it tell, the widow Miller.”
“I thought it was O’Doul’s daughter that he had led on.”
“He’s guilty of that as well.”
“When were these allegations made?”
“Just this morning.”
“Just this morning,” Carpenter echoed, looking out the window. So that was the reason for the crowd that was gathering out there around the newspaperman.
“Bill, you know these things ain’t always talked about when they occur. You understand that, I know.”
Carpenter nodded. “I understand a lot of things.”
“You want to defend a man like that?”
“Have I defended him yet?” Carpenter asked, and Hale shrank from his gaze. “Even one time?”
“You certainly have,” the other man replied, remembering himself. Hale straightened on his stool and looked around, but everyone was being very careful not to look at them. “On the road. You showed more spine in that exchange than you have in the rest of your life combined.”
The barman, with an astounding lack of sense, chose that moment to deliver his breakfast. Bill accepted the plate, fork, and knife and began to cut his eggs and sausage, not looking at Hale.