Atonement

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  When he returned downstairs, Christian selected a barstool and waited patiently for the bartender to return. The sole patron from earlier was gone. In his place sat two men drinking whiskey by the fire. Even from his barstool, Christian felt the warmth of the flames. It felt good to be dry again. He glanced at a grandfather clock leaning against the wall. It was a quarter till eight. If not for the storm, the sun would still be visible in the sky.

  Christian’s stomach growled. He reached into his pocket and removed one of the remaining apples. He would have to wait until morning to get something more substantial to eat. The bartender stepped out from a room behind the counter, a broom in his hands.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the large man said. “I didn’t see you waiting there. Is there something I can get for you?” He gestured to the bar with an open palm.

  Christian nodded. “If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like a glass of water.”

  The cold water tasted much better than the warm river water in his canteen. Christian drained the glass in seconds and ordered another. He yawned involuntarily. It would be prudent to turn in early. His travels had exhausted him, and a night’s rest in a warm bed would do him good.

  Outside, a flash of lightning illuminated the dark sky. The batwing doors swung open, and a man walked into the dimly lit saloon. Christian could tell that it was the same man he saw from the window. The man’s badge glimmered in the soft light. He was probably in his fifties, with peppery hair and a thick white mustache. When the lawman’s gaze fell on the bar, the hair on the back of Christian’s neck stood on end. Upon spotting him, the sheriff walked over to the bar. He took a seat two barstools away.

  The bartender idly rubbed a cloth against the counter, all while keeping an eye on the two men. Christian wasn’t sure, but it looked like he had been expecting the lawman to show up.

  The newcomer removed his wet hat and placed it on the counter. “I’ll have a whiskey, Matthew,” he said. The bartender quietly poured the drink and slid it across the counter. “I’m Sheriff Newton,” the lawman said, declaring himself. Christian was aware the sheriff’s gaze had finally settled on him.

  “Emerson,” Christian replied calmly. He betrayed no emotion. Christian lifted the glass up to his lips and the sheriff did the same.

  “Planning on staying for a while?”

  “No longer than necessary. Just passing through.”

  “You aren’t from around these parts, are you, Mr. Emerson,” the sheriff said more as an accusation than a question.

  Christian stared ahead. After years of riding through the territories, he could blend in just fine in most places. The one thing he couldn’t fake was an accent. His own had been lost over years of travel. It was virtually impossible for anyone to guess where he came from just by speaking with him.

  “You running with Charlie?”

  Christian didn’t understand the question and shook his head. “I’m on my way to California,” he lied. In case others came looking for him later, the sheriff would set them on a false trail. Christian drained his glass and stood up. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Sheriff.” He started walking toward the stairs in hopes Newton might let the matter lie.

  “Not so fast,” Newton said from behind him.

  Christian stopped dead in his tracks and turned to face the sheriff. Every muscle in his body tensed. “Do we have a problem, Sheriff?” There was ice in his voice.

  “There’s still the matter of those,” Newton said. His eyes dropped to Christian’s guns. Christian remained silent and waited for the sheriff to finish. “Casper’s a peaceful place. We don’t like trouble. That’s why we don’t allow strangers to carry guns in town. Why don’t you hand those pistols over to me, until someone can vouch for your character?”

  Christian’s eyes narrowed. Law or no law, he wasn’t about to hand over his guns. He took a step backward toward the doors. If the sheriff suspected who he really was, having him hand over the weapons might be a ruse to make an arrest. Christian didn’t intend to allow that to happen. He hadn’t remained a free man this long by being reckless. The stables weren’t far away. He could escape on horseback if it came to that, though without supplies he wasn’t sure how far he would get.

  “What’ll it be, Mr. Emerson? Are you going to hand over those guns, or perhaps you’d like to spend the night in jail to think about it?” Newton extended a hand, which Christian ignored. The sheriff was sizing him up, taking the measure of the man to see if he would back down first. This was the way of the West. Christian stared Newton down to assure him he wouldn’t give in.

  “I don’t want trouble. I’ve been riding for days and need a place to stay for the night. But the guns are mine. I won’t part with them for any man.”

  “Well, I reckon that puts us in a tough spot.” The others in the bar were watching carefully, waiting to see what would happen next.

  “I won’t hand over the guns,” Christian insisted firmly, “but I will give you my bullets, on the condition that you return them to me once I’ve spoken with your mayor about permitting me to carry them.”

  Newton bit his lip. Christian could tell this wasn’t a man looking for a fight. He’d given the sheriff a way out. Now it was time to see if the lawman was smart enough to take it.

  “That sounds like a fair compromise,” Newton said.

  Christian went up the stairs to his room and removed the ammunition from his pack. When he returned, he handed his bandolier and a box of shells to Newton. The sheriff took the bandolier and looked it over. “Do you have a shotgun?”

  Christian shook his head. “Not anymore,” he said truthfully.

  “Very well then,” the sheriff said. “I can’t say I like you keeping your guns until we get this sorted out. I can live with your solution for now, but I’ll be keeping an eye on you while you’re here. You’d be wise to avoid causing trouble.”

  “I give you my word,” Christian said. That carried a great deal of weight for him, though he understood why Newton might be skeptical. The world was full of opportunists, men without integrity, and outright criminals. It was dangerous to assume anyone in the West was an honest man.

  “I’ll hold you to that. Goodnight, Mr. Emerson.”

  With that exchange, Newton turned around and headed back into the rain, the shells and bullets in hand. Christian waited until the sheriff was out of sight before slipping a hand into his pocket where he’d kept a handful of bullets just in case. He regretted that his visit to Casper hadn’t gone unnoticed, though he was fortunate no one recognized him—so far.

  I’ll have to be careful during my stay here, he thought. The need for caution wasn’t all that unusual for him; Christian was used to sleeping with one eye open.

  Thunder echoed loudly outside. The saloon doors swung open again. For a moment Christian thought the sheriff had returned.

  “You bastard,” a slurred voice growled from behind him. Christian turned around.

  It was the brown-haired boy from the stables. The stable boy stumbled into the saloon, tracking water in his wake. His eyes were filled with rage, and they were locked on Christian.

  “Finley!” the bartender hollered. “What are you doing?”

  Finley ignored him. “You killed Abel,” he stammered, looking only at Christian. In his hand he grasped the same bottle of liquor the portly man in the barn had been clutching.

  “You have me mistaken for someone else,” Christian said. The young man was clearly drunk.

  “Liar! It’s your fault he’s dead,” Finley said, circling him. He dropped the nearly empty bottle, which shattered against the wooden floor. “You and your gang.”

  Christian had known men who killed for less, though he happily did not count himself among their number. Finley was intoxicated and obviously mourning the loss of his friend. Christian started to offer another word of pro
test, but the young man stepped forward and aimed a punch at his face. Christian easily sidestepped the blow and looked at the young man.

  “You don’t want to do this.”

  The bartender and the saloon’s patrons watched the conflict silently, waiting for the pair to settle their differences. The young man took another swing at him. This time, the punch caught Christian in the chest, though it didn’t budge him. Finley hit him again, screaming nonsense, his voice full of fury. Christian blocked the strikes with his forearm and took a few steps back.

  Finley swung wildly, but Christian was out of reach. The young man lost his balance, and Christian caught the youth before he fell to the ground.

  “Get off me,” Finley roared as he fought fiercely to get free.

  Christian held on tightly and slipped behind the young man, pinning him from the back. Despite Finley’s struggle, he was unable to break Christian’s hold on him.

  “Enough,” Christian said. The young man went limp in his arms. When Christian released his hold, Finley fell to the floor with tears in his eyes, and Christian felt a sting of pity for him.

  “Finley!” a voice shouted over the thunder. A man ran into the saloon, his clothes dripping wet. He spotted the bottle on the ground. His gaze traveled to the young man on the floor and Christian standing over him. He stared down at Finley with an angry expression.

  “What did you do, you foolish boy?”

  “Pa,” Finley mumbled weakly.

  “I can smell the liquor on your breath,” Finley’s father said. He looked up at Christian. “Did he offend you, sir?”

  “There’s been no harm done,” Christian said. He decided not to mention the fight.

  Finley’s father helped him to his feet. Finley stared past both of them.

  “I’m sorry, sir. He never does this. He’s normally a good boy. He’s been . . . having some difficulty lately.”

  Christian nodded silently. Finley’s father excused himself and led his son back outside into the night. Christian stared at the broken bottle for a few moments. He briefly wondered what Finley meant about the gang that had killed his friend, Abel. Finally deciding it wasn’t his business, Christian headed up the stairs and back to his room before anything else unexpected could happen. For such a seemingly quiet place, Casper was full of surprises. Like it or not, it was where he was stuck for the foreseeable future.

  The weary traveler removed his boots and holster and slid into bed. He drifted off to sleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow.

  Chapter Three

  Christian rose early, feeling well-rested and ready to get to work. He finished the last apple before leaving his room. Light streamed inside the saloon, which again sat empty.

  “Good morning,” said Matthew the bartender, busy sweeping the floor.

  “I’m looking for the mayor,” Christian said. “Could you point me in his direction?”

  “I reckon he’s probably in the courthouse,” the bartender answered. “It’s the tall building next to the jail.”

  Christian thanked the man and headed for the doors.

  “Mr. Emerson?” the bartender called. “It was mighty decent, letting the boy off like that. Finley’s a fine lad most of the time.”

  Christian nodded but didn’t reply. Finley was low on his list of problems. There was enough on his plate as it was. He pushed the doors open and stepped into the sunshine.

  It was a beautiful day. A cool breeze ensured it was warm but not hot. Under the vivid blue sky, the town of Casper seemed transformed. The street and stores brimmed with life. There was no trace of the storm from the night before. It was as if the deluge never occurred.

  Christian didn’t have any trouble finding the courthouse. The large building dwarfed the nearby stores. It was impressive, especially by small-town standards. Someone had obviously invested a great deal of money into its construction.

  He walked up the concrete steps and entered the building, his footsteps echoing loudly in the wide hall. An empty courtroom loomed in front of him. Christian followed a wall of portraits until he came to an office with an open door. A middle-aged man of average build sat behind the desk, scribbling furiously on a legal document of some sort.

  Christian knocked on the wall, and the man looked up. “I’m looking for the mayor.”

  “You’ve found him,” the man said before rising from the desk. He extended a hand. “Russell Hale. I don’t believe we’ve met before. Are you new to town, mister . . .”

  “Emerson,” Christian finished. “I’m on my way to California, but I’ll need a few days to restock on supplies, maybe longer.”

  “Always glad to see a new face,” Russell said. He put on what seemed to Christian to be a forced smile. “Something tells me you’re here for reasons other than introducing yourself.”

  Christian nodded. The mayor was perceptive. “Your sheriff left me with the impression you frown on strangers carrying guns. I’d like to convince you to make an exception.”

  “Sheriff Newton means well,” Russell replied. He stared at the window as if wishing he could go out into the sun. The mayor carried an unspoken burden, a weight pressing down on him. Christian knew the look well. The same one stared back at him when he looked in a mirror. “It’s a relatively new ordinance. It was supposed to make Casper a safer place.” Russell rounded the desk and picked up a pen and a piece of paper. He looked Christian dead in the eyes. “Do you intend to bring harm to this town or any of its citizens?”

  “No,” Christian said, and he meant it.

  The mayor wrote a few words on the paper, folded it up, and handed it to the rider. “I thought not,” Russell said. “I can always tell an honest man when I see one, Mr. Emerson.”

  You don’t know anything about me, Christian thought, but he kept silent.

  “Take this waiver to Sheriff Newton.”

  Christian was about to thank the mayor when a large silhouette crossed over the wall in front him. A massive giant of a man stood in the doorframe. The man was almost as wide as he was tall, dressed in tailored clothes that seemed out of place in the small town. Flanking him were three gunmen, all wearing black bandanas tied around their necks.

  “Russell,” the big man said, ignoring Christian’s presence. “We have business to discuss.”

  The mayor started to say something to Christian, but Christian nodded at him politely and left. He passed the four men on his way out and looked the leader squarely in the eyes before exiting the room.

  * * * * *

  The large man crossed the threshold and took a seat opposite the desk. His three gunmen remained outside the room. “Who was that?” he asked.

  Russell Hale sat down and studied the man across from him. Big Jim Markham’s size was physically imposing, though no one feared physical violence from the man himself―not when he had others to do his dirty work for him. Russell guessed that if Markham had ever been in a fight, it was surely a long time ago.

  “Just a stranger,” the mayor replied. “He goes by Emerson.”

  Markham made no further comment on Emerson, who was beneath his notice. “Let’s get right to it,” he said. “I’ve been informed the solicitor in Stillwater County intends to bring suit against me for bribery, extortion, and theft, among other charges. I want you to make it go away.”

  Russell sighed. Helping Markham avoid prosecution for breaking the law was the last thing he wanted to do. Unfortunately, despite his position, he didn’t always have a choice, especially where Big Jim was concerned.

  “What is this in regard to, Jim?”

  “A farmer and his wife claim fifty head were stolen from their land. The Stillwater authorities have a man sitting in his own filth in a cell who will testify he was working under my behest.”

  Russell tried to keep the look of triumph out of his eyes.
Even if the charges stuck, Markham would likely never see jail time, but the financial penalty required to bribe his way out of trouble might bring the man down a peg or two.

  “What do you want me to do about it? I can’t stop the man from testifying.” He didn’t even ask if the criminal’s testimony was valid. Russell was sure Markham was guilty.

  “Don’t worry about that. It’s being dealt with.”

  “I don’t want to know.”

  “Once the prisoner is taken care of, the farmer and his wife will be the only witnesses. It’ll be their word against mine. This is what I require from you, Russell. You will use your talents to persuade the judge in Stillwater to dismiss the suit.”

  As usual, Markham thought of everything. Russell was sure the businessman was having Charlie Sheldon handle the prisoner, or else one of his gang if Charlie was up to other business.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.” Markham’s eyes flickered to the gunmen waiting outside. “Lester, why don’t you pour us a couple of drinks?”

  One of the gangsters, a tall man with a dark expression, entered the room. Russell recognized Lester from the picnic: The man who Abel Morgan lost his life for fighting. Russell watched as Lester opened his cabinet and removed a jug of bourbon and two small glasses. Lester handed one glass to Markham and the other to Russell.

  From the way Markham lingered, sipping his bourbon, Russell knew they had more business to discuss. The man rarely left his ranch, a vast area in the mountains that was basically a small fortress. Whenever Markham graced Casper with his presence, it was to conduct important business or remind the townspeople who was really in charge.

  “What else can I do for you, Jim?”

  “Mr. Griffith still refuses to sell to me. I’m growing impatient, Russell.”

  They’d had a variation of this discussion several times in the past. Russell noted that Markham was bringing up the subject more often as of late.

  “You can’t force Mr. Griffith to sell, Jim. There are still laws here that have to be followed, even by you.”