“You certainly can. If you don’t, I will worry that much more. Do me a favor and save me from it.”
I kissed her on the cheek. She smelled of flour and spice. The baby squirmed and grizzled over the proximity of a stranger. Blue-eyed, towheaded—if I hadn’t known better, I would have sworn her father was Osterlund himself.
I hightailed it from the little house, avoiding the congregation of new homesteads, and searched out the emptiness of beyond.
Once I felt well and alone, I stopped to consider my next step. It began to sink in: I was a free man. Freed from all identity, all past, free of all responsibility. All ties had been severed, my debts forgiven. I was as light as a babe.
I finally had a moment of euphoria, unparalleled by any experience I’d ever had or, honestly, that I would ever have again.
But no one is ever truly unfettered. As soon as joy buds, the rose begins to fade: memory like time on those tender petals. I would not repeat my litanies of loss, refusing to think of all whom I had known and would never know again. Instead I set my jaw against the loneliness of unfettered life and attempted to draw again that moment of joy by reminding myself I now owned any number of possible destinations. The world was mine alone.
But it was not true, nor did I want it to be.
I pointed myself toward Utah, making haste until the sun had long set and I could no longer see the ground in front of me.
I pulled a blanket from my pack, wrapped myself against the cold, and took out the packet, peering at the writing on the front. I could do little more than make out my name, but I thought I could discern a faint whiff of Mother Fenton’s sweet apple pie. The homey perfume eased me into sleep.
When I woke I tore open the envelope. Inside, a dozen or so crackling documents, many charred on the edges, stinking of smolder. The first leaf I drew out was a note written in a spidery, nervous sort of penmanship.
Dear Mr. Bayard,
I am a clerk in the offices of Alan and Jamieson. I found these documents partially consumed in the fire one morning, and as the business they concerned was transacted within the last year, I felt compelled to save them. When I heard the conversation between my employer and Montgomery Elias, I knew I had been right.
I am sorry to have taken so long to track you down, but a clerk’s life is one of continual labor, and Mr. Elias (understandably) was loath to be of help. I, in turn, could not risk giving him too much information, not assured of his loyalties. In any case, I hope this collection of papers yet proves helpful to you.
I must say it would be disastrous for me to lose my job at this point. However, as I believe law is about justice and not about money, I assure you I will provide any aid I can to make sure that justice is indeed met.
Yours truly,
Daniel Ritter
Next, I drew out a receipt, paid in advance by my grandmother, for six months’ care at the Gravenhurst Sanatorium in McPherson, Nebraska, for Edward Turrentine Bayard III. The sum on the receipt was $800, the amount that Cornelius Pierce had lent the estate. I was warmed by the thought that my penurious grandmother would have paid out such a sum for my care. I also wondered about Mr. Pierce’s place in all of this. The sum paid out of the estate did not seem to include any interest or fees. Perhaps the old man was not a part of the plot at all, but merely the curmudgeon I’d thought him to be, enjoying a vigorous carping session as much as Grandmother did.
Four envelopes that once held pleading letters I sent to my mother spilled out next. The letters were missing but I discerned embossing on the return address. Someone had traced my name, perhaps to forge my signature.
Next, a health file on Edward Turrentine Bayard’s health. A sheet listed types and doses of pharmaceuticals, from opium to Sneefit’s Pectoral Drops.
Something about the writing on these forms gave me pause. I stared at the sharp crowns on the p’s and h’s, the overlong tails on the g’s, until it hit me. The writing was that of my private physician, Dr. Bateman.
Bateman continued his false file with an accounting of my time at Gravenhurst. I had supposedly arrived at the sanatorium near death and been given emergency pneumothoracic surgery to puncture and rest the left lung. I wavered on the brink of death for three weeks before rallying, making great improvements on a diet of milk and radium water. Two months after my arrival I relapsed, after receiving news that the family home had been sold and my mother was involved with a tradesman. I suffered labored breathing and night sweats and was coughing up bloody sputum. The Gravenhurst Sanatorium doctors unanimously agreed that the patient should receive no more correspondence until his health had been fully restored.
Apparently my mother complied and Gravenhurst reported I was bled to good effect and, over the next months, improved on heliotherapy and a nostrum called Kickapoo Sagwa. Finally, “curing” wrapped in dressing gowns and blankets on the hospital’s wide porches put the shine on my restoration, and I was released in glowing health nine months after I’d arrived.
Discharge papers rounded out the file. They stated I left the sanatorium with a month’s supply of pectoral drops and instructions for deep rest, good food, gentle exercise, and constant vigilance against depression and morbid thoughts. It seems I shook my physician’s hand and thanked him for saving my life. I refused to leave a forwarding address, claiming my mother had thrown away my estate and honor, and so I would make my own way from this day forward, a man without a name. It was signed Edward Turrentine Bayard III.
I laughed at this unbelievable document, laughed until I had to stretch out on the cold ground and wipe the tears from my eyes. I reclined, stared at the milky mare’s tails galloping across the sigh of blue above me, until the beauty primed sorrow, and I cried for being lonely and lost. Blue days are short, and it is a dark night we blunder through, evil intent at every turn. I sat up and traced lines in the dirt, thinking. Though there was evil, I supposed good luck had its hand as well.
I had not been meant to live. The morning of my departure, Dr. Bateman had bled me until I was barely conscious. Then, he’d administered a tincture of arsenic. But instead of experiencing the usual light-headedness, I became nauseated, delirious, and could not make out my mother’s face. Had there been a hypodermic? Of what? And what was in the nostrum he had dribbled into my mouth after he’d seated me on the train? Whatever it was, Dr. Bateman figured I would not live long enough to report that there was no sanatorium and no miracle cure.
Bateman and Jamieson would have expected to be called by the railroad and be given charge of the body. I thought of the old attendant nodding at Bateman, acknowledging the doctor’s name in my pocket and a fiver in his. That the call never came must have cost the scoundrels some worry but, as it turned out, made no difference in the end.
Jamieson and Bateman had certainly split the proceeds of the auction between them and, when it was done, tried to burn the incriminating evidence that Daniel Ritter providentially rescued. The thieves and would-be murderers had gotten away with it by taking advantage of my mother’s gullibility, her ignorance of our affairs, and by feeding her hopes on reports of my growing health. However, these men certainly made a grave mistake.
My mother would never believe my repudiation of her. The instant they had tried to make her believe I had been so low as to forsake my mother because of bricks and mortar, or because she loved a man of a different social class, she would have known they were villains and alerted the authorities.
It was a chill comfort in these circumstances, but a comfort nonetheless, to know there was likely an investigation into the offices of Alan and Jamieson under way now. I only hoped the good Daniel Ritter escaped being tarred by their brush.
As I sat mulling the justice I’d like to see come to bear, I heard the clatter of a wagon. As I quickly stuffed the papers back into the envelope it occurred to me that the mention of the tradesman indicated that the pickle man did actually exist. I could only hope it was so and that my mother had indeed gone to England with him, never to hear th
at her only son met his end in a burning barn, pursued by the law, a murdering anarchist.
When the wagon overtook me, an old black man wearing a threadbare version of the farmer’s swag I had on leaned from the buckboard seat, evincing his own poor hearing by shouting. “Give you a ride, if headin’ this way. Slow goin’! Freak storm mudded ever’thin’ up!”
I climbed aboard, noting the grindstone, tin, and hammers in the wagon.
His name was Amos Even. “Almost Even, they call me. Snoos runs down one side of my chin, not t’ other.” A tobacco stain marked the left side of his lip and colored his white beard. “What’s yer name?”
I had a moment of panic and fell into a spate of coughing while I grabbed for a moniker. I shouted back, “Tom Piper.”
“Tom, Tom, the piper’s son?” he shrieked and cackled while I kicked myself for the choice. “By God, that’s a good ’un. Yer ma musta had some sense of humor.”
“Almost as good as yours.”
“Yoop. Thank God fer wimmin with good humor. Whatcha doin’ out here?”
“Looking for a good-humored woman—well, sometimes good-humored. Met her on the trail and haven’t been able to get her out of my mind.”
He nodded. “Hope you get to her in time. Women’re like candy out here. No matter how bad they are for ye, everybody wants ’em.”
Amos exhausted his conversation after ten minutes of shouting and fell into silence, working his chaw with a slight smile on his wrinkled face.
The silence was fine with me. I was in the infancy of my new life, with much to feel and little to say.
We traveled companionably along the South Platte for two days. Every so often he would break into a spate of loud conversing, exhaust himself yelling, then retire back into silence, apparently ruminating on the last conversation, for after a stretch he’d add on to it.
“Speakin’ of wimmin. Knocked on a door las’ month, house in the middle of nowhere. Woman answered th’ door, little brown bird. Had three plain sisters. I stayed a week sharpenin’ knives and patchin’ pots.” He shook his head. “No sign, no paint, no light, no lace, and still, musta been thirty men found their way there in that time, sniffed out those harlots like they was pies on to cool.”
Hours later Amos added, “Speakin’ of sniffin’. Ever et a skunk? Wouldn’t recommend it.”
The next day he offered, “Speakin’ of stink. I used to play the harmonica. Fella took it from me in Ohio. Said it was his duty as a citizen. Miss it somethin’ awful.”
On the third morning he shouted, “You were yellin’ Turpentine! las’ night. Why was that?”
I glanced at the old man. He showed no sign of mistrust or even true curiosity, for he hardly waited for my response.
“Speakin’ of turpentine. If they make maple syrup in heaven, turpentine’s made in hell. Thought I’s a free man after the Civil War, workin’ for a wage. I scraped sap from the suicide forest—southern longleaf pine, yellow pine. It were another slavery, black men an’ white.” Amos shook his head. “Vagrants, debtors. The prisons let the convicts out to die working that timber.”
“Why didn’t you leave? You weren’t a slave any longer, but working a paying job.”
“Oh, sure, was against the law in the new South not to pay us. An’ we all spent our wages in the camp commissary. The more you ate, the more you owed, see? Then the other law kicked in. A man didn’t leave camp until the debt were paid”—Amos patted his pocket, drew out a twist of leaf tobacco, and wrenched a bite from it—“less’n he were dead.
“Worked tobacco most my life. It were bad, but it din’t compare to that sin. Sometimes I dream I’m distilling, wake up afire.” He held out an arm, sleeve up. The black skin was mottled pink and puckered. “Still can’t smell nothin’ no more, ’cept turpentine.” He laughed. “Guess maybe tha’s why I never sniffed out a woman.”
“How did you get out of it?”
He grinned. “I died. And then I went t’ heaven.” He gestured expansively. “Gits colder than I thought it would, but it sure is purty.”
The Rockies loomed like blue rebellion ahead of us. Amos pointed.
“Speakin’ o’ purty!” Then he shifted his sight to an upcoming settlement and bellowed, “Hell’s Gap! End of the line, Tom! Me an’ this wagon both ain’t stupid enough to reckon those mountains this late in the season. You got sense, you’ll wait for spring t’ have your sweet. Stay with me, if you care to. I’ll teach you to patch tin an’ you’ll never want agin.”
I shook hands with Amos and thanked him, but he and I both knew I’d be pushing on, no matter the white peaks shimmering in the thin air.
I’d search out the Hell’s Gap mercantile first. This would be my last chance to stock up for a while. I’d stretch Lill’s money and what I had left of the bone cash. I’d buy as many matches, beans, and bullets as I could afford and get on with the journey.
I was careful to keep my hat low, anxious to keep my anonymity for the rest of my life, if possible, hoping it would be a good stretch after all this. I meandered along the singular avenue of Hell’s Gap, a town roughly twice the size of Philip, with what looked like a saloon, a livery, the mercantile, a dozen houses, and a school building. From outside of the saloon came a call. “Cal! Cal Morton! Tis me, Will Smith!”
Will teetered on the edge of the wooden walkway fronting the saloon, apparently having abandoned the wagon train for an inebriated life.
I nodded and headed his way. “Will Smith! What are you doing here?”
He lifted his bottle. “Fell off ’n the wagon. Wagon, heh, that’sa good ’un!” He laughed, then lost the hilarity like a mask. “Pushed off. One mistake too many.” He peered at me. “Where’s lil’ Ben?”
“Where’s Ph—Alice?”
He bent his head and slurred conspiratorially. “There was trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
Will crossed his arms unsteadily and looked decidedly smug. “Turned out Alice had a few weaknesses of her own. Now I know you liked her and all, but she were sure hard with me on my sins for someone who liked tobacco the way she did.”
“What happened, Will?”
“She were concealing smokes, got found out, and wouldn’t give ’em up! Instead of jus’ takin’ her punishment, made a stink like a polecat, screamin’ and yellin’. Blasphemin’ like all git out.” Will smiled beatifically at the memory and took a seat in a weathered chair. “She give ’em what for, did some eye-blackin’ and nose-bleedin’ for sure when they took ’em from her. If it had been one on one, she’d be sittin’ back havin’ a good smoke right now.”
“What happened?” I was more than nervous, all the stories of cannibalistic Mormons suddenly seeming reasonable in light of sweet Phaegin.
“She shoulda let ’em go. They was nice see-gars, but—” He blew out his breath and shook his head. “Between her trouble and my tipplin’ it didn’ go well fer either of us.”
I grabbed hold of Will’s shoulder and shook it. “Where’s Alice now?”
“They put us out.” He looked mournful. “Fer good.”
“Here? Alice is here?”
“Nah. They put us out there. Folks headin’ to the Dakota Territory took her on. I did what I allus do—followed the wagons, beggin’ an’ whinin’ like a puppy at weanin’.” He looked sad again and swiped at his eyes. “Thought they’d think better of it an’ lemme back in. But no, ten year invested an’ they gave it up in a minit.” He sighed, leaned down from his chair for his bottle, and, after offering it to me, tipped it back. “Nothin’ to do but wait fer what comes next.”
I took my leave of Will, pulled out my map, and charted a new direction: the Dakota Territory, due north. I figured the wagon Phaegin was on must be headed to Deadwood or Sturgis. It would take me well into winter to walk there.
I’d had enough weather to last me a lifetime, but I would not hesitate. All in all, I considered my luck astounding. First to have heard of Phaegin’s whereabouts at all; second, to be spared cros
sing the Rockies in what would almost certainly be more winter than I’d live through; and most of all, that Phaegin was free of the Mormons. A dozen winters were sure to be less a challenge than one tenth of a husband.
I’d find a ride; there would be a way. In a terrific hurry, I counted my coins and went into the general store. I picked up a hunk of hard cheese, beans, cornmeal, and matches. I went to the counter and asked for ammunition. Sliding payment across the counter, however, I saw something that took the hurry out of my sails right away.
The mercantile noticed my stare. “See something you like in there?”
“Those cigars.”
“Yep. Good ones too.”
“Where did you get them?”
He smiled. “Now that’s a story. You know them Mormons up the way? Why they had ’em I couldn’t tell you. Cost me a pretty penny too. Like I said, they’re good ones, Georgia rolls.”
“How much?”
He eyed me. “Too rich for a farmer’s taste, I can tell you that.”
“How much, both boxes?”
The merchant laughed. “You wearin’ gold underwear, son?”
I dug through my bag and pulled out the silver pistol. Slid it across the counter. The shopkeep nodded. “So?”
“Trade straight across.”
He made a face. “Bunged up, don’t guess it even works.”
I checked behind me in case my luck faltered and Coy Hayes had stopped in for dill pickles. The shop empty, I confessed. “You know the fella that was hanged and the anarchist who burned to death? This is their gun. I found it out where the horse theft happened. The thief threw it in the grass and the cattleboys couldn’t find it. I came by the week after and there it was, shining in the sun.”
The mercantile perked up. “Yeah, yeah. I heard about them boys looking for it. You sure it’s the anarchist’s?”
“Sure as shootin’.”
The mercantile gave me the eye again and shook his head, frowning. “Wait a minute there. Hold on.” He scrabbled through the cubby below the counter. “Whar’s that poster?”
My heart leapt into my throat. I was caught. The damn cigars were finally going to be the end of me. Heart pounding, I picked the empty pistol off the counter while the shopkeep was scrabbling for the wanted poster. I ran my hand over my whiskery scalp, swallowed hard while eyeing the boxes of ammunition a prohibitive distance behind the counter. I was going to have to bluff. I took a step backward, pointing the gun at the man’s head.
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