In the Year of My Revolution

By James Welsh

The American West, December 1892: a vagrant wins a train ticket to Wyoming in a game of poker. However, the train is overbooked with danger. There are cattle ranchers, both rich and poor, aboard, who still have open wounds from a recent range war. As well, there is a disturbed killer being transported by marshals to Wyoming to face trial for his involvement in the conflict. When the train derails during a blizzard in Nebraska, the passengers face the looming specter of death, which becomes more real when the killer is found mysteriously dead. But the killer's death is only the beginning, as more and more passengers are found brutally murdered. As tensions rise, it is up to the vagrant and his new friend, the investigative reporter Nellie Bly, to find out the truth before another range war is triggered.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Welsh
• Release date: Aug 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310019241

James Welsh

James Welsh is a writer who was born downwind of a chemical plant in Delaware. His poetry has been published in roughly a dozen literary magazines, including New Plains Review and Grasslimb. He can be reached by email if you have any questions or comments about his work: [e-mail]

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IN THE YEAR OF MY REVOLUTION

By James Welsh

Copyright 2015 James Welsh

Smashwords Edition

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Oh le bon temps où étions si malheureux.

Alexandre Dumas

History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.

James Joyce

Chapter 1

Burlington, Iowa

December 1892

No, no, take it back, please. I said I wanted water, not coffee.

But that is water.

The man swirled the drink in the sweaty glass, looking curiously at the hurricane of grit swirling dizzy in the cup. This is water? Are you sure it’s not coffee?

The waitress shrugged. Whatever’s in there gives the water taste. Clear water can’t do that.

The man, impressed that the waitress would shamelessly try to sell him muddy water, laughed. Well, when you put it like that…

Hunter! Hunter! Are you in this game or not?

Ian Hunter smiled. The game is…

Waiting, Mr. Hunter, it’s waiting, one of the men at the table rumbled.

There were six men seated at the table that was meant to hold only five. There was Louis, a man who lived in Iowa only because he was wanted in all of the other states. He covered up the bald spot on his head – the monk’s crown – with a blood blister in the shape of a rifle butt. There was Barrett, who had a boulder for a head and who once held up an orphanage, because he wanted to be the first man in history to do so. There was Clive, who had sunken eyes like the graves he dug up for family heirlooms. There was Harper, with a grizzled face and hair as long and black as his clothes – he was just a priest. And then there was Elijah Cobb, a man who had the build of a champagne flute, and whose pale face clashed with his jet hair like cream splashing off black ceramic.

The men all looked each other in the eye, chasing after their own reflections in the cracked glass of the others’ irises. The card players found themselves in a hall of mirrors, their fears stretched fat and tall.

Ian was seated across from Cobb at the round table, sitting in the midnight chair of their little clock. While the other poker players were reading each other, trying to become literate in their bluffs, Ian was as bored as a god must be. He had already met enough villains like them in his life, and he knew their looks were not so much hard as much as they were stale. Ian let them know just how bored he was by letting his fingers garden his thick, sycamore beard. He knew that a person’s eyes instinctively followed hands like the footsteps of candles in the night, and he needed them distracted so that he could be free to look around the room.

The saloon they were sitting in was once the pride and shame of Burlington. Once upon a time, patrons would walk through that wide door with gold crown molding and find themselves in a world of women with dangerous legs, and not just because the ladies kept revolvers strapped to their shins with their garters. Liquor was the saloon’s blood, and it bled to the edge of death every night yet still kept living. And with men found their fortunes in card games as if the dealers were gypsies, the saloon was the first place to look when a man went missing.

But the saloon partied too hard, and it aged faster than the whiskey it sold by the barrel. Now, the doorframe was peeling, revealing that the gold was nothing more than cheap paint. Other bars sprouted up around town and stole what the saloon thought were loyal customers. But while the establishment was husked of its shine, the owner still put a sizable deposit in the bank every Friday evening. The fact that the owner’s brother was a pirate on the nearby Mississippi was just a coincidence.

One of the last veterans from the saloon’s old days was perched on Barrett’s leg like a bird on a gnarled branch. Ian remembered her name – it was Natalie – although Barrett didn’t, even though Barrett had paid her to be in love with him for the next three hours. She wore a raven mask that was once the color of coal but had since withered grey. Some feathers still streaked from the mask, but the years had plucked many of the feathers. Her top was burgundy, presumably to cover up wine spills.

She was continuously crossing and uncrossing her legs, trying to find a better position on Barrett’s rickety lap – through Natalie’s frayed, black-cat skirt, Ian spotted garters but no stockings to go with them. He wondered what guns she had holstered in the garters. He imagined a single-shot derringer, one for each leg. She had the bored confidence that comes with having two bullets but only needing one. The drink she had before sitting down with Barrett made her hands shaky, but her trigger finger was probably as steady as ever.

Across the room, the bar counter jutted out of the wall like a broken finger, the countertop bowed so much that a glass of beer could have ran away if it wanted to. There was a bison head on the counter, the mount having fallen off the rotting wall a few days before. Patches of its mane had molted off, leaving behind leathery skin that crackled in the air. What sips of light could worm their way through the dirty windows lit up the bison’s black eyes like coal on fire. Behind the counter was a large mirror that sat like a blister on the wall. On the mirror was a bullet hole surrounded by a halo of cracks. Ian noticed that the bullet hole lined up with the reflection of his face – not always the best sign.

Behind the counter was another of the saloon workers, a woman old enough to be looking back at her life rather than towards it. She had hair as black as the sea with white foam floating on top of it. She wore a cowboy hat cocked like a revolver’s hammer, ready to strike, and a black dress that once felt comfortable but now stuck to her like oil. Her skirt shrank over the years since she started working there, and now her skirt showed off the cold milk of her thighs like the dawn getting out of bed.

Ian took all of this in within just a few seconds, because he knew that he would need an escape route soon. The only thing that worked in the room besides his brain was the clock, and there was only thirty minutes left until noon struck. He caught Elijah taking glances back at the clock too, his seat creaking as he did so. With every passing minute, the creaking grew and grew like fire in dry grass.

The other players were oblivious to this. The next round came: Barrett was dealing, and so Clive was the first to bet, putting down a dollar. Then came Ian, who looked down at his hand and couldn’t make sense of the cards. Ian frowned for a few moments before turning to Louis and showing him his hand.

Is this a good hand? Ian asked.

For the last time, stop showing me your cards! Louis snapped, pushing Ian’s hand away.

Yeah, Clive laughed. Stop showing him your cards and start showing me.

The betting continued clockwise around the table, because time is money, and it wasn’t long until the first person folded. Barrett stared at his cards in one hand, while he ran his thumb over the fingers on the other, cracking the knuckles like peanut shells. Then he growled and threw the cards down on the table. He had nothing, not even a decent high card.

Not a good hand, I guess? Ian wondered out loud, peering over at the fallen hand. It was hard for the others to determine if he was joking or not. Harper folded soon after and so did Louis. Ian, Elijah, and Clive were the only men left standing. Neither Elijah nor Clive paid any attention to Ian, rightfully believing that the rookie had no idea what he was doing. Just then, silence fell across the room like an eclipse, the only sound a soft clicking like raindrops knocking on the window. Still Elijah kept looking up at the clock, as if he was trying to find the tell in the clock’s face.

Finally, the reveal came. Clive spread his cards in a rainbow across the table – he had two sevens and two fours. Elijah shook his head as he put down a high card of an ace. Clive was about to collect his earnings, forgetting that Ian was still in the game, when Ian set down three kings.

Does this beat your hand? Ian asked innocently.

Clive growled something primordial and pushed the winnings over to Ian. As Ian counted through his windfall, he wondered out loud, "Say, shouldn’t three kings be called the wise men in poker? I feel like that should be a thing."

All he got was a table of stares. Ian shrugged. Well then, never mind. And Clive?

Yeah?

You might want to get that stone off the bottom of your boot. You sound like a Morse code operator having a seizure.

Clive stared at him blankly and reached down to inspect the sole of his boot. Ian pretended to rub his nose to hide a little smile.

The next game of poker started. This time, the dance picked up some rhythm and Louis was steadily betting a solid amount each turn. The other players were leery, and so it wasn’t long before they folded like notes. Only Ian kept up with the pace, calling each of Louis’ bets and even raising him once or twice. A laugh jumped out of one of Barrett’s mouth, a laugh so big, it caused Natalie to jiggle on his lap. The laughter was infectious, and the other players joined in.

What’s so funny? Ian asked. He didn’t like it when others were laughing and he wasn’t in on the joke.

You expecting to get lucky twice? Barrett asked.

I think I’m starting to get the hang of this, Ian said, feeling a little defensive.

He’s right, you know, Louis said to Ian. You’re just burning your money at this point, and it’s not even keeping you warm.

And still Ian kept playing. When the time came, the two men put their cards down. Louis hesitantly revealed his hand: a pair of queens. The other players groaned as they realized that they had folded with much better cards. Ian sighed and offered up his cards. I guess you got me. All I have is a high card of three…

Wait, what? Barrett leaned over the table. That means you have four of a kind in twos.

Oh! I didn’t even notice that, Ian yelped, grateful. I guess that means I win again. Also, here… Ian offered his handkerchief to Louis. I noticed you were sweating quite a bit. That’s not healthy, you know.

Louis refused the handkerchief. Everybody sweats.

Yes, but not in the middle of December.

As the next game started, Ian asked casually, So, Mr. Cobb, are we keeping you from something?

What’s that?

You’ve been looking at that clock as if it’s showing you a bit of leg.

Elijah cleared his throat. My train’s leaving at noon. I have a business meeting in Cheyenne.

Ian looked surprised. What are you still doing here then? I know we’re great company, but don’t miss your train on the account of us. I took a look at the train schedule when I walked by the station earlier. There won’t be another train coming through for at least a few more days.

Elijah scoffed. I’m right where I need to be. He then looked at Ian’s scruffy look and his ragged coat – he couldn’t see Ian’s boots under the table, but he imagined them to be polished with mud. What are you doing looking at a train schedule anyway? You look like you’ve never been on anything with wheels in your life, let alone a train.

You shouldn’t judge people, you know, Ian pointed out. He added with a little smile, Unless you’re me, of course.

What are you, a gypsy or something? Barrett asked. You’re going to tell me how I’m going to die by reading my palm?

Ian shook his head. I’m more fluent in the language of fingers. Like how your tell is that you run your fingers along your bald head like you’re running them through hair. Speaking of which, you should probably invest in a hat. Not only would it improve your poker game, but I can’t stand to look at that knobby head of yours. You have more hills on your skull than Rome…

Why you… Barrett growled as he tried to reach for something in his pocket, but Natalie was still sitting on his lap and blocking his hand. He asked her in a voice that was casually dangerous, Can you move so I can get my knife?

Aw, don’t stab him – not yet anyways, Natalie said, her eyes laughing at Ian. He’s too much fun.

Can we get back to the game, please? Elijah asked, raising his voice like a fist.

Ian lightly smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. I almost forgot that our good friend here has a train to catch for his business meeting. Speaking of which, I see you’re packing light. You don’t have any luggage with you. You don’t have a coat – don’t you know how cold it gets where we’re going? And you’ve been betting big, but not like a businessman would. You’re mocking me for looking poor, but I’m getting the impression that I’m the richer of us two.

I’m not poor. Someone broke into my room last night and took my stuff.

Poor, robbed – same difference, Ian said with a shrug. But I suspected as much. Your eyes are bloodshot – meaning you haven’t been getting your sleep – but you don’t have bags under your eyes, so whatever caused the insomnia happened recently. And the fact that you’re willing to miss your meeting over some silly game of poker means this game isn’t a game to you – it is desperation. It must have been a fortune you lost. But how do you expect to win back a fortune with the spare change you have in your pockets? I’m no physicist, but I’m pretty certain you can’t make something out of nothing. Unless, of course, you had some something else that was valuable, like, for example…

A first-class train ticket to Cheyenne? Elijah offered, putting his ticket down on the table.

Who in their right mind would play you for a ticket to Wyoming? Louis demanded.

While looking Louis in the eye, Elijah pointed a finger at Ian from across the table. He sounds interested.

Oh, I am, Ian said, looking at the ticket. He couldn’t help but feel a little hungry for it. I’ve heard good things about first class – it’s about time I experience it for myself, to see what I’ve been missing out on.

Are you sure it’s not because you have somewhere you have to be and the train that can get you there is booked solid? I should have known it was you.

This caught Ian off guard. Who am I, then?

You’re the man who robbed me. You ransacked my room last night, looking for this ticket, and now you’re here to finish what you’ve started.

I don’t have to answer to you. You’re not a marshal.

Elijah looked thoughtful.