Late March 1876
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"What good would it have done? You didn't--don't know who you are. Knowing who you worked for doesn't change anything."
Much as he hated to agree, Mister had to. "I'm leaving tomorrow."
The patriarch nodded solemnly. "You've paid your debt as agreed. God speed."
"I'm taking my six-gun."
"You'll get no argument from me. Handguns are evil, devices meant only for murder." He turned his back and stared out the open window. "Brother Bates tells me Zachariah wishes to travel with you. I have forbidden it."
"Seems to me a boy old enough to be sent out to hunt alone is old enough to decide for himself."
"He is of the Brotherhood. They abide by my wishes."
"We'll see."
The next morning Rye was waiting along the trail about half a mile from the settlement. "I'm comin' with you."
"Fine by me. You bring any food?" Father Jacob had decreed that once Mister left the settlement, the Brotherhood no longer was responsible for feeding him.
"Nope. Pap wasn't happy at me leavin'. He said not to come back. He made me empty out my bundle, leave the biscuits and bacon I'd kept back from morning meal."
Unwilling to say what he thought of the lad's father, Mister walked on in silence.
"Pap said Father Jacob knows what's best for me," Rye said after a bit. "You reckon that's true?"
Mister thought for a while. It went against everything he believed, everything he'd been taught. But who'd taught him? "No. No, I don't believe it. A man's responsible for himself and for those weaker than him. You're still a boy, but you've been doing a man's job quite a while. I reckon that gives you the right to decide what's best for you."
"It's hard, though." Rye sounded thoughtful. "Goin' off on my own is kinda scary, but leavin' family behind, knowin' I'll never see them again, that's hard."
"Maybe you should go back, stick around 'til you're older."
"The longer I stay, the harder it'll be to leave. Besides, Pap's not who he used to be. He really believes what Father Jacob says about not ownin' anything, and everybody livin' together." A stone went skittering along the trail ahead when he kicked it. "Mister? You really think they're gonna make a go of it. The settlement, I mean?"
The lad deserved an honest answer. "I don't think they have the chance of a snowball in hell. That's not farming land. If they were to run cattle, or even sheep or goats, they might make it. But farming? One bad year and they'll be close to starvation."
Now how did he know enough about farming to draw that conclusion? Tarnation, I wish I could remember!
Rye was well shut of the Brotherhood. He'll be better off with me. At least I'll take care of him, instead of expecting the other way around.
Where the north and south forks of Horse creek joined, Rye suggested they stop and set snares. Before an hour had passed they'd caught two rabbits and an unwary grouse. "We'll save these for supper," Mister said.
"I'm hungry now." Rye looked longingly at the grouse.
"Chew on this." Mister pulled two strips of jerky from his coat pocket. He'd expected to be forbidden to carry food from the settlement, and had pilfered half a dozen such strips from the kitchen over the past week. Since he'd been hunting with Rye, he'd filled their larder well, so he had no compunction about taking enough food to carry them through the first day on the road.
"How far is it to town?"
"I dunno," Rye said. "It took us five days to get to the Brotherhood, because we took a wrong turning. "I don't think it's too far, but with the creek running high, it'll take longer.
They climbed out of the Horse Creek drainage and into a wider one. "Lodgepole creek, I think," said Rye when Mister wondered aloud what it was called. "I never hunted this way. Mostly I went north and east."
"Then I'm lucky you found me."
"Yeah. First time I'd gone that way for quite a spell." He walked in silence for the better part of a mile. "I'm the lucky one."
"How so?"
"I'd been thinking on how I could get away from the Brethren. I don't cotton to what Father Jacob preaches, not like Pap does. And livin' out so far from town just don't appeal to me."
"Nor me either, I think. Sure wish I knew who I am."
"I'll bet somebody in Cheyenne knows, you working for the freight line and all."
"Uh-huh." When he'd learned yesterday he'd been the guard on a shipment of food brought in by Morrison and Robb just two days before Rye had found him, Mister had nearly lost his temper. Jacob should have known the others might have been shot and left for dead by the road agents, and he'd done nothing. Now it was too late. Whatever had happened, no trace remained. They came across the skeleton of a dead horse near the creek about a mile from where he'd been found, but there was no telling how long it had laid there. There was both cat and coyote sign all around. "It's been more than a month, and we've had snow and more snow," Mister said, when Rye wondered aloud if it might have been his. "Not to mention the warm Chinook wind that had every creek running over its banks."
The farther they went, the better the road became. Twice they passed lanes leading off to the side, one with a gate across it. They kept walking, for the ranches could be many miles off their route. Late on the third day they heard the faint, faraway sound of a train's whistle. Shortly thereafter they topped a ridge and saw, in the distance, puffs of black smoke rising to blend with the low clouds. "Cheyenne?"
"It's headin' that way. I don't think there's anything else hereabouts. Laramie's almost due west of the settlement."
After a moment's thought, Mister said, "It's nearly sundown. We'll not find work this late, nor anybody with answers. Let's find a place to camp."
In the morning the road they were following turned east and ran straight for a ways. They met several wagons and riders as the morning wore on, were passed by a couple of men on horseback. The town lay ahead, in plain sight now. When they came to a crossroad, Mister had a strong sense he should go south. "This way," he said to Rye. "If I'm wrong, we won't lose much time."
Rails snaked across their route after a while, making Mister even more certain he was going in the right direction. Whatever he was headed for, it lay on the other side of those tracks.
What looked like a military camp was off to the west. Cheyenne lay to the east. In between, along a road perpendicular to the one they were on, were a few barns, surrounded by corrals and long structures that looked like warehouses. As they drew closer he saw, a little ways east of the barn closest to the military camp, a black patch of ground in which a few charred poles stood. A couple of empty corrals were nearby, evidence the burned structure had been a barn. Close to them was a rock fireplace, standing alone in another patch of ash and charred logs. Just across the road, a warehouse bore fire scars, and its wide doors stood open.
This place was familiar. This had been his home. Here, he was sure, he'd find some answers.
And wondered, still sick with dread, if he really wanted them.
They turned toward Cheyenne and entered the next warehouse, nearly a quarter-mile away. It housed, according to the sign above the door, Transmountain Shipping. A young man wearing an eyeshield sat at a high desk. "Help you?" he said when they entered.
"Yes. That is, I hope so."
The clerk took a second look, and his mouth dropped open. "Merlin? My God, Merlin, it's you!" He hopped down off his stool and came forward hand outstretched. "We thought-- Oh, hell. What happened?"
"I don't know. I was left for dead, up on Horse Creek. I was hoping you could tell me."
"Yes, I-- Hell! Look, why don't you sit down. Here, take this chair. I'll get coffee."
"Coffee would be welcome, but what I need most of all is information. You called me Merlin. Is that my name?"
"Yes, of course."
He collapsed into the chair, feeling as if he was about to burst into tears like a babe. "I can't remember a damned thing about myself. I just learned the other day that I worked for a freight outfit out of Cheyenne. When I saw the...the burned-out place next door, I had a feeling that was it. Right?"
The clerk handed steaming cups around. "I'm Bill Walters. We'd met but...never mind. It happened a few days after you and Murphy took off. By the time the alarm was given, it was too late to save anything but the warehouse. You and Murphy were gone. Jeb was on a run to Fort Laramie, and Stewart had taken the short train up to Chugwater. We didn't know who to contact. Not until Jeb came back, three days later. And we didn't know--"
He looked away, as if there was something he didn't want to say.
"What?"
"Murphy came in, driving the mules, on...Tuesday, I think it was. Five days after you were expected back. Same day Stewart pulled in, as a matter of fact. Said you'd been ambushed. Tom Ainsworth was dead. Murphy was shot, but not too bad, but he was unconscious for a while. He saw you take a bullet too. He figured you either wandered away or was taken. The sheriff took a party up there to look, but all they found was Tom. They salvaged the wagons and brought Tom's body back."
"Murphy?" The name rang a chord in his mind, but he didn't know why. "Where is he?"
"Took off, oh, a couple of weeks ago now. I guess he'd had a bellyful. He never did like being tied to a job, he said, and he was just sick over--" Again the clerk seemed to bite back something of great import.
"You're not telling me something."
"Well, no, it's not my place..."
"Do I have family here? Did I live here?"
"The cabin. You lived there. Next to the barn."
"The fireplace? That was the cabin?"
Bill nodded miserably.
He closed his eye, for he'd a sudden memory of a woman standing in a cabin door. A woman with a wild mane of black hair and eyes as green as spring leaves.
"Tell me," he demanded, his voice hoarse. "Tell me what happened."
"Your wife. When the fire died down and the ashes were cool enough to search. They found her."
"Dead?"
"Y-yes. They identified her by her wedding ring. That darkie who used to cook at Lambert House, he said it was hers." Bill's throat worked convulsively. "Merlin, I'm...I'm sorry. The sheriff, he says the fire was set. There was a strong smell of coal oil, he said. And old Willis, he'd been gutted. He was laying outside the cabin."
His insides frozen, Mister--Merlin, but he didn't know whether it was first or last name--said, "Thanks. I'll be talking to the sheriff, but I'm obliged to you for telling me. A colored man, you said? Where can I find him, after I've seen the sheriff."
Bill gave him directions to both places.
Numb, but determined to get the whole story, he headed for town.
A wife. I had a wife, for less than a week. He could see her face, but he had no idea of her name or why he'd married her.
"Mister?"
He turned, saw Rye, who he'd forgot all about.
"I'm real sorry Mister. It don't seem fair, somehow. You comin' home to something like this."
"This isn't home," he told the lad. "It wasn't ever home, and we wouldn't have stayed long."
Who was she, my wife? The girl with the green eyes? Did I love her? He felt only a sense of great loss, but it was general, as if no one thing that had been taken from him--his eye, his wife, his job--meant more than any other.
I want to go home. There's nothing for me here.
But where is home?
* * * *
Gunshots weren't all that uncommon in the part of town where Ariana's Palace was located. Callie woke every time she heard them, but usually turned over and went back to sleep within minutes. Not this time. Those shots were here, in the house.
She sat up, listened. Loud voices came from somewhere downstairs. A scream, cut off quickly, said at least one of the girls was still awake.
Maybe this is my chance. She got out of bed, felt her way to the chair where her clothes lay. After dressing quickly, she picked up her shoes, stuffed her stockings into them, and tied their laces together. She tucked Merlin's purse into her bodice and knelt to lift the loose board under the window. Under it were the few bills and coins she'd managed to conceal from her father, tips from satisfied diners at the midnight buffet. At last count she'd had a bit over nine dollars.
More gunshots sounded while she was dressing, all within the house. She was just about to open her door and peek out when she heard heavy footsteps on the stairs. They went as far as the second floor, thundered down the hall.
Another shriek, this time from the room directly under hers. Amalie, her father's current favorite, whose room he spent most nights in.
The next shot came from a different gun. It was sharper, more like a crack than a boom.
Amalie shrieked again, in chorus with another shot, but her scream was cut off when the first gun spoke again.
Silence fell, lasted until Callie had counted slowly to eighty-seven. And then she heard steps on the stairs again, cautious ones, as if the climber was afraid of being a target. Cautiously she opened the door and went to the stairwell. Peering down, she could see the top of the first flight. The blonde head that came into sight gave her a moment's relief, before she had to bite back a warning. Lily could be walking into the middle of a gunfight.
Instead of turning down the hall, Lily crossed and entered the enclosed second flight. When she saw Callie, she whispered, "Oh, my God. I was afraid you'd come running down to see what had happened."
"Come up, so we can talk quietly."
"No, you stay there. I'm going to see what happened."
"Lily!"
Callie tried to count the seconds, but her mind refused to stay in one place. She was sure it was at least a month before Lily reappeared at the bottom of the narrow stairs and motioned her to descend.
"They're both dead. Amalie's bad hurt, and she'll probably die too. No loss." Her sniff told what she thought of Amalie, who'd given herself airs.
"Who's dead?"
"Frisco and Smith. Get your things. We're leaving."
Callie's legs gave way and she plopped onto the top step like a rag doll with too little stuffing. "Smith is dead. Lemuel Smith? Really dead?"
"Go see if you want. But you'd better have a strong stomach. Frisco's bullet must have hit him square in the heart, 'cause he's layin' there in the middle of a big pool of blood."
"No...that's all right. I just..." She drew a deep breath, let it out on a long whoosh. Drew another. "Lily, he's...he was my father. I hated him."
"Then you're not gonna miss him. Now, are you coming with me or are you gonna sit here having the vapors?"
"Where are we going?"
"Anywhere that's not here." She took hold of Callie's arm. "You're white as a sheet. Sit down while I get my grip. Yes, here, on the stairs. I'll be back in a trice."
Lily returned quickly, carrying a satchel. She'd exchanged her negligee for a sober dark dress and had knotted her long, fair hair at her nape. She looked like a different woman. "You all right? Can you make it to the depot?"
"Yes. I can make it. But shouldn't we see to Amalie first?"
"I did. She's dead."
They were nearly to the kitchen when Callie said, "Lily, let's go to the office. I've got an idea."
The door to her father's office was usually locked, but tonight it stood open, its lock broken. Someone had already been here, for papers were strewn everywhere and the few books had been swept from the shelves.
"What are you looking for?"
"Money. Pa always had what he called 'running-away-money'. I'll bet whoever looked in here didn't find it."
A brass umbrella stand had stood beside the door. It lay on its side, the two umbrellas it had held beside it. Callie knelt and tipped it upright. She rocked it, tipped it back down again. "You hold the top so it won't turn, Lilly. I want to try something." With both hands she gripped the heavy base and turned. It moved. She spat on her palms, took hold again.
Slowly, with an occasional small brassy screech, the base came free. Inside a space, no more than an inch deep, was a flattened pouch holding half a dozen gold eagles. "I knew it," Callie breathed. Even when she was a child, Pa had liked hiding money in jars. She'd noticed the umbrella stand the one time she'd been in his office, and wondered why he would have it here, where rain fell so rarely.
"Now we can go." She got to her feet.
They clung together as they made their way through the dark streets to the depot. It was closed, but there was a light inside. Lily stopped Callie when she would have started across the street. "Wait. Do you know when a train's due?"
"Which way?"
"I don't care, I just don't want to stand around here. Sooner or later Deed's gonna come in and discover all his chickens have flown the coop. You want to bet on him letting us get away?"
Remembering the reptilian coldness of Deed's eyes, Callie shivered. "Let's hope he doesn't look here first."
They'd stood there for perhaps an hour when someone appeared and unlocked the depot door. Callie could see his shadowy form moving about inside, lighting lamps. "There's got to be a train coming."
"None too soon," Lily replied, as she looked nervously over her shoulder. "Let's go. I keep feeling somebody's watching me."
If there was a watcher, his intentions were benign, for no one stopped them on the street or questioned them as they sat stiffly in the depot, waiting for the westbound train, due, according to the ticket agent, at 5:00 a.m.
"That settles it," Lily said when he told them the first train was going west. "We're going to Denver. Back to Tilly's. I never should have left."
Callie said nothing, but she prayed Tilly needed a cook.