River Bend

By Nick Wright

It started with the mysterious disappearance of a king’s ransom in gold ingots from the docks of Charleston, South Carolina. Gold intended to influence the Confederate States to favor France in her trade agreements after the South won the American Civil War. It became a story of vengeance, envy, revenge, and betrayal.

It is a story of love lost but never forgotten, of dedication to family and to duty. It tells of a family torn apart … and reunited; a bond that overcomes time and distance and illness and old wounds.

It all came to a dramatic climax in a small village along the Missouri River in Kansas.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 21, 2019
• ISBN: 9781728336534

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© 2019 Nick Wright. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  11/20/2019

ISBN: 978-1-7283-3654-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-3652-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-3653-4 (e)

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Introduction

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

Epilogue

About the Author

For Ginger

Who changed my life the moment she came into it.

Introduction

Life is tough, but it’s tougher if you’re stupid.

—John Wayne

Although characters, organizations, and events in my books are, even early in their creation, very real to me, I realize it is not always easy for the reader to determine which actually existed historically and which are merely inventions of my imagination. To help sort that, here are the ‘real’ people that inhabit River Bend.

Judah P. Benjamin was a United States senator from Louisiana when secessionists’ forces fired on Fort Sumter. He became the only Jew in the Confederacy’s cabinet, and held, at various times, the positions of Attorney General and Secretary of War, as well as Secretary of State.

Secretary Benjamin worked tirelessly to cultivate political approval from France and the United Kingdom. However, the central theme of River Bend, a gift from France, as far as I know, is totally my own device.

But, who can say for sure … it could have happened.

John Singleton Mosby, Gilbert Arrington’s commanding officer in River Bend, was real. He led the 43rd Battalion Command of the Army of Northern Virginia. The ‘Gray Ghost’s’ men, often called Mosby’s Rangers or Mosby’s Raiders operated in north-central Virginia with impunity throughout the Civil War. He held various post in the United States bureaucracy after the war, including the one mentioned herein.

Nathan Bedford Forrest was also a very real Confederate cavalry general. He has occupied roles, minor and not so minor, in several of my stories. Scholars, historians, and novelist have written dozens of books about ‘Old Bed’, his men, and their exploits.

Lucas Boone, a character in Rail’s End and River Bend, is fictional. The unit in which he served during the War, Forrest’s Guard, was indeed real and their courage and loyalty to General Forrest is legendary and also the subject of a variety of books.

Jubal Hazzard, a State Senator in River Bend and a Lieutenant in Forrest’s Scouts in Rail’s End, is also fictional.

Boone and Hazzard are two of my favorite characters and in many ways they are composites of people I have known and respected. I like them so much that I brought them back so I could tell more of their story. Their wives, Kate and Jenny, whom they met in Rail’s End, are only mentioned in River Bend. Don’t be surprised if these four characters reappear sometime in the future.

The designation ‘Confederate Secret Service’ actually refers to a number of organizations and operations conducted during the war. Some of these were under the direction of the Confederate government, others operated independently with government approval. Still others were either completely independent of the government or operated with only tacit acknowledgement. Members of the Confederate government destroyed much of the recorded history of these groups as they prepared to flee Richmond as the Union Army approached near the end of the War.

Confederacy President Jefferson Davis did task Secretary Benjamin to head the Confederate Secret Service but the rest of the story of the Secret Service and its makeup in River Bend is my own conjecture.

Prologue

I know my song well before I start singing.

—Bob Dylan

August 1879

New Orleans, Louisiana

Rumors and gossip traveled as rapidly as legitimate news in the American West in spite of great distances. More often than not, it amplified with each retelling by the teller’s need to escape boredom from a mundane existence—and a need for heroes. People from all cultures possess a strong desire for justice. Heroes satisfy our desire for fairness and lawfulness. Regardless of other necessities, all men seek heroes.

Radiating like spokes of a wagon wheel from their points of origin, reports, rumors, and hearsay took amorphous shapes, blending and meshing and growing with each retelling, often becoming difficult to differentiate fact from fiction. To many, that distinction made no difference; it was ‘news’ of people and events from ‘elsewhere’ and the wilder the tale the more eagerly it was received; mankind is drawn to human drama.

When reports, both the accurate and the embellished, reached the Mississippi River they not only continued east, but also made their way south. They were carried by men on barges and riverboats, on flat boats that plied the upper reaches of the Mississippi and Missouri Rivers bound for St. Louis and Memphis and Natchez and New Orleans seeking better markets for their furs and other items traded with or stolen from the Indians.

All cities, towns, and villages along the route, regardless of size, had at least one centralized location where residents and passers-through gathered to share, swap, and often simply repeat stories, news, and yarns. In many towns that was the local saloon. If there was no saloon, there was almost always a barbershop. If no barbershop, there were general stores. The larger the town the more gathering places.

New Orleans was the largest city in the South, thus it provided numerous such locations—one was the Crescent City Tavern. Referred to by locals simply as The Crescent, it nestled in the arc of the Mississippi River as it passed through the city on its way to the Gulf of Mexico. By the time most news reached New Orleans much of it was old, but it was still news, and rumors had increased in magnitude as well as intensity and appeal.

A man known simply as ‘Frenchy’ was a long-time patron at the Crescent City Tavern. He kept to himself, seldom speaking, and when he did, he never mentioned his past. That was not unusual; many men in New Orleans had pasts of which they chose to not speak. Frenchy, although restive and secretive, got along well with the other regulars, often sitting on the periphery of their conversations, but seldom participating in the yarn swapping and story telling. Instead, he listened, and although pertinent tales were spaced over several years, he had reason to remember specifics—in particular those that mentioned the name of men with whom he was once associated—and the cryptic note accompanying each death. With each new tale, Frenchy became more apprehensive.

Back when he traveled with the now dead men, there was strength in numbers. But Frenchy’s former companions separated … the survivors drifting toward all points of the compass. Frenchy held no numbers now, he was alone and he kept hearing of disconcerting occurrences involving the names of former associates. The post-Civil War American West was a dangerous place; men died—often violently. It definitely happened to the type of men with whom Frenchy once associated. There was never a day in which he did not wish those few months had never happened. There was never a day in which the old bullet wound in his shoulder didn’t ache and remind him of his folly.

Consequently, when the latest account, already inflated and distorted by dozens of retellings, describing the brazen murder of an unpopular gambler named Clell by a bold assassin in the Dakotas, Frenchy paled, and lost his usual appetite for room temperature beer. He associated Clell’s death with other events from which he couldn’t hide: Dunleavy in an isolated Missouri cabin, Gaffney on a distant West Texas plain. Wiley died in an explosion in a remote silver mine in Colorado, and the strange death of Teasdale following a bank robbery out in New Mexico. There was another one, much like the others, from Tennessee. But he did not recognize the name … well; men did change their names, didn’t they?

Speculation was that a ghost was responsible for the killings … the restless spirit of a vengeful soul. But Frenchy didn’t believe in ghost … at least he never had, until recently. He didn’t rule out a vengeful soul.

Those tales, among many others in elaborated form, meant nothing to the tavern’s clientele other than to provide fresh topics for conversation, giving them more upon which to speculate, and to eventually add their own personal twist. For Frenchy, on that particular night, the cumulative, repeated tales caused tendrils of pending doom to clutch at his very core. He stood, his knees weak.

Several regulars sitting near Frenchy noticed a sight quiver in his hand, beads of cold sweat along his hairline, and a distant look in his eyes. However, before any of them could inquire about his health, he abandoned a half-finished beer and stumbled wordlessly away from the table and his story-telling associates.

Nausea rising from deep in his bowels suggested he should have returned to his home country long ago. Clell Wade in the Dakotas, he mumbled to himself, who is left?

~

Frenchy walked cautiously on his way to the small hotel he called home. He stayed in the middle of the road, wary of darkened side streets, skittish of noises and other pedestrians. As he walked, moving more rapidly through the darker areas between street lamps, his mind continued to dwell on the list of names: Clell, Gaffney, Dunleavy, Wiley, Teasdale, and … the sixth man … what was his name … was he the one in Tennessee?

All consideration of the sixth man’s name ceased when, through the wispy gloom of late-night fog drifting in from the river, he thought he glimpsed a shadowy figure lurking in the alley near a front corner of his destination. Was it a sailor? There were hundreds of sailors in New Orleans. Or, was it someone, or something, in seaman’s attire?

Several people, individuals and couples, entered and exited the hotel as Frenchy haltingly approached, but they all seemed unaware of the figure loitering near the corner of the building. Couldn’t they see it? It was definitely a sailor, or dressed as a sailor. Why didn’t they exercise more caution? Was it really a ghost like the reports said… a ghost that only he, and his companions from the past, could see? Is it a demon? He had listened to the wild reports of the men returning from the Green Parrot Tavern and scoffed at them. Demons indeed! But they only spoke of it when they were drunk. Sober, they never broached the subject.

Frenchy again thanked the gods of the seas that he took no part in the action at the Green Parrot … as if that would save him from a demon—or a ghost.

He tensed, uncertain what to do. Run? Hide? Had the others tried to run and hide? Can you run and hide from an evil spirit? Unlikely.

After long, fearful deliberation standing alone in the middle of the darkened street he rubbed the old scar on his shoulder and remembered the storm and the aftermath—the sudden pain and shock of being shot. Finally, he stood taller: How can it find me? No one has known where I am for years, he reasoned. Besides, there’s no such thing as ghosts! His self-admonishment bolstered his courage but he still detoured wide of the figure he thought he saw in the shadows, and continued to the entrance steps closest to the lantern illuminating his hotel’s front door.

Once safely inside the lobby his confidence returned. He took several deep breaths to calm his nerves before peering outside to investigate. The figure in the shadows had not even turned to look as Frenchy passed… apparently he was just another overnight resident enjoying a bowlful of tobacco before retiring. He had gotten jumpy for no good reason. Mon Dieu! What a fool I am.

Upstairs, secure in his room and behind a carefully bolted door, Frenchy breathed another sigh of relief. He was paranoid, afraid of shadows … afraid of a scenario he had created in his mind but would never occur. Sure, he had known those men, even worked with them for a short while, although he hardly remembered what most of them looked like. Rousseau! He nodded in satisfaction at his remembering … that was the name of the sixth man. How could he forget Rousseau?

Even if it was all misconceptions created by an over-active imagination, maybe he had put off returning to France long enough. He didn’t have to go Paris … Paris might still be too dangerous for him. Some people, important people, had long memories and never forgot a slight, much less an indiscretion. But France was a big country and it was home, after all. He would hire out on the next ship sailing for home; captains always needed able-bodied, knowledgeable seamen.

And then Frenchy had a chilling thought. Rousseau had the gold, had he changed his name? Was he the man in Tennessee? He recognized all the others.

He rechecked the locked door and propped a chair under the door handle for good measure. He pulled the worn drape across his window before retrieving a folded piece of paper from under his mattress. It was a map drawn on worn paper, torn carefully down the middle—someone else had the other half. As he studied it, remembering the day they drew it and considered what the map could represent—but only if he was alive—and only if he didn’t return to France.

He placed the half map atop the three-drawer bureau by the window and prepared for bed.

~

The next morning, the neighbor staying three rooms down was surprised to see Frenchy’s door ajar. Strange—he had walked by that room hundreds of times and he had never seen it anything but tightly closed, regardless of whether the room’s occupant was in or out. Once he thought about it, he had never seen anyone other than Frenchy come or go from the room. Frenchy never had visitors—except … late last night … he remembered hearing voices coming from Frenchy’s room. He recognized Frenchy’s from the few time they had spoken passing in the corridor. The other belonged to a stranger—he would have remembered the gravelly, raspy voice if he had heard it before.

He was unable to determine the subject of the conversation but the hoarse-sounding voice portrayed a slight impatience—immediacy. Frenchy’s was, what? Fearful? Pleading? It was difficult to determine through the closed door although the neighbor had paused briefly in the darkened hallway to brush nonexistent lint from his coat sleeve.

The neighbor stopped at the open door and puzzled over the situation for a moment. Eventually curiosity won and he pushed the door all the way open with his foot. His chin dropped and his eyes widened.

~

An hour later, Sheriff LeBeau of Orleans Parish studied the sparsely furnished room: the chair lying on its side in the middle of a small rug, the un-slept-in bed, the room’s occupant’s few possessions neatly arranged or properly put away—and the man hanging from a noose attached to one of the exposed-beam rafters.

The neighbor remained outside the open doorway, basking in the glow of attention from a large crowd gathered around him. There were killings perpetrated weekly along New Orleans’ riverfront. Rarely was there a suicide. Suicide was news.

As LeBeau, assisted by a deputy, cut the rope and lowered Frenchy’s body to the floor, a ragged-edged slip of paper apparently torn from a ship’s log book fluttered from the dead man’s shirt pocket. The deputy picked it up and read it, frowning as he handed it to his boss.

In turn, with his own frown the sheriff read aloud: ‘This was necessary. His past caught up with him’.

The neighbor hurried away his eyes glowing with excitement. The sheriff’s voice reading from the slip of paper rang in his ears. He was anxious to be the first to spread the word. The note-leaving ghost everyone was talking about was real … and it had struck in New Orleans.

I looked, and there before me was a pale horse! Its pursuer was named Death, and Hades was following close behind him.

—Revelations 6:8

1866

Ozark Mountains

Dark clouds had gathered for two days; morphing from dirty gray to brown to stygian black, congregating over the elevated meadow. It began with a sinister grumbling of thunder long before the men arrived in secluded southwest Missouri. Early on the second day a harbinger sprinkle quickly became a drizzle and soon the sky lit with blinding flashes of lightning and the clouds burst with the violence of an extravagant mountain storm.

It was not an event in which a rational being wished to be caught, but a spectacle to observe from a safe distance—or a warm cabin.

Thunder in the Ozark Mountains is like in no other place—throaty, guttural, and unnerving, as if its origin was from deep in the bowels of the Earth rather than the heavens. The auditory marker for each exploding, seconds-long lightning flash rolled and rebounded across vast forests and deep ravines, lonely crags and dangerous gulleys for an interminable duration. Flash floods are not uncommon.

The man calling himself Dunleavy arrived first. By the time his pursuer appeared a short time later, Dunleavy was entrenched, warm and dry, in the cabin. The second man remained mounted … waiting, watching the cabin from inside the tree line. Occasionally, he considered the powerful lightning strikes and the even more impressive thunder claps immediately following each electrically charged display. But mostly, he concentrated on the lighted window in the time-abused, single-room log cabin.

Lamplight through the smudged window was weak. An iron-gray curtain of freezing rain blew diagonally across the brief clearing between the cabin and the pursuer. To the side of the ancient structure was the weed-choked remnant of a vegetable garden, abandoned and forgotten long before. Near the front door stood the dark shape of a gnarled, leafless apple tree, which may … or may not … bear fruit again in the spring.

He could wait; he had nothing better to do—nothing else to do. Whatever gentleness he still possessed lay hidden behind cold dark eyes. There was no visible softness. No discernable shadow left by illusion. He was a man who looked on life with dispassionate realism. His life was empty—no future—all he had was the monumental task he had assigned himself … and an intense craving to complete the task so he could stop. He had only one desire—a long, never-ending rest when he did … or when it ended him.

It took him more than a year to locate Dunleavy. He was the first of several—no matter how long it took. The man’s mission was to hound each of them until they were all dead—or one of them killed him. It mattered not which way it ended; there was no one to mark his passing when the time came.

Thus he disregarded the sub-freezing temperature, the rolling thunder, the lightning and the acute smell of ozone. He ignored the isolation and the extended absence of human contact. He sat on his horse, giving no notice to the icy pellets streaking his weather-darkened slicker or to the occasional drop that gained access to the nape of his neck. The things he couldn’t disregard were the headaches … the pressure, the tightening sensation around his temples. Nor could he ignore the occasional pain in his lower back that shortened his breath to the point of distraction.

He was always well armed; in addition to a revolving shotgun and a repeating rifle in saddle scabbards, he had a holstered side arm and a revolver thrust behind his belt with a hole cut in the right-hand pocket of his slicker for quick access.

He watched and waited. Occasionally, but only briefly, his thoughts drifted to the past.

Eventually, the light in the window dimmed and fluttered out. Intermittent flickering replaced lamp-glow on the grime-encrusted windowpanes as the cabin’s occupant threw another log on his fire against the cold … and then, nothing.

The pursuer continued to wait. He knew Dunleavy would remain wary for a while, and then he would gradually relax and fall asleep. He must sleep. He had hounded Dunleavy for three days allowing no time for rest and forcing him to eat on the run. The fugitive was exhausted but satisfied he had lost his pursuer. He was wrong.

The mounted man had ample time—more time than Dunleavy. The storm continued to rage with incredible fury.

Later, when fire-glow on the windowpane was no longer visible, the pursuer exhaled softly between cold lips and slowly dismounted. Over the thunder, not even he heard the mud sucking at his boots with each step as he walked past the barren apple tree to the cabin’s door.

~

If possible, the thunderstorm’s ferocity had increased when the pursuer exited the ancient log structure. He did not bother to close the door behind him. In the small fireplace, the fire had burned to mere embers and ash and the room no longer held warmth. He stood for a moment beside his horse, water dripping from his hat brim as a breathtaking burst of electricity raised the hair on the back of his neck. Aloud, he said, ‘Rain cleanses’, before mounting and riding away; a lone figure silhouetted by incessant lightning, escorted by deafening thunder. He didn’t look back; he had a long way to go.

Thanks to Dunleavy he was bound for the silver fields of Central Mexico.

Weeks later, a lone huntsman found the remains in the cabin. He was too late to identify the body but news got around. In that part of the country anything out of the ordinary was widely reported—and usually exaggerated. In barbershops, in saloons, around supper tables and campfires, men would speak in hushed tones of the dead man found in an isolated mountain cabin—and they would wonder at the cryptic note pinned to the table with the dead man’s belt knife: ‘This was necessary. His past caught up with him’.

Patience is not passive. On the contrary, it is active; it is concentrated strength.

—Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton

1869

Central Colorado

A Kansas City newspaper article had led the pursuer to Dunleavy and the Ozark Mountain meadow cabin. From Dunleavy, he acquired possible whereabouts for other men he sought. He now had a location for each of them; they may no longer be current, but they were starting places. He would find them … or die trying.

He had discovered most of the names at the very beginning, but he was saving a select few for the last. He wanted them alarmed, to know someone was dogging them … even if they didn’t know who that someone was. He wanted them on edge, stressed … looking over their shoulders, jumping at sudden noises, leery of dark alleys, wary of strangers … afraid of the night.

It was a beautiful spring day, no clouds in a high, light blue sky. He sat on a boulder on the shady side of an aspen, smoking a short-stemmed pipe. His horse cropped grass near-by, safely out of range of what was soon to happen. It shouldn’t be long now.

He waited, briefly contemplated his past—something he only did on days like this. There was nothing to look forward to … he knew he had no future. He had no misunderstandings about his abilities; he was good—but the men he pursued were good, too—at least some of them were. Sooner or later one of them would be better, or luckier, or more alert, and it would be over. So he rarely considered the future.

There was little in his past worthy of remembrance. No, that was not entirely true. There were good times, some good people … long ago. There was his family. So, he did occasionally think about his past—and what might have been. And he thought about the recurring pain radiating from behind his eye—not always the same eye. And the persistent back and neck pain.

He glanced at the angle of the sun to confirm the time. He didn’t know much about explosive’s fuses, but he had learned a few things in his travels—enough to accomplish this task.

From the Ozarks he had traveled to the Bajio region of Mexico looking for a man called Wiley … with no luck. His quarry had been there, but he was gone. From Mexico, with information obtained from a local mine owner, the trail took him to Colorado. Once there, he searched the length of Clear Creek Canyon, twice.

The long round trip to South Central Mexico took nearly three years traveling by horseback, rail car, and stagecoach. Part of that time he worked at various mining operations, learning the trade and gleaning information. He did other things, too. A man does what he must to get by.

Eventually he discovered Wiley working his own claim near Silver Plume. That morning he confronted the hapless man deep in the mine … in the dark, lonely, single shaft. Wiley knew less about the others than did Dunleavy; but he confirmed that each of the men he pursued was involved in the attempts on his life—not that he needed additional confirmation.

He smoked and watched a bird fearlessly harass a much larger crow across the sky. He enjoyed the sunshine and the bird attack and considered his situation. How long could he survive before he made a mistake or one of them got lucky? They were, after all, dangerous and in some cases, desperate men.

Did the blue jay consider its disadvantages when it attacked the crow? Did it matter?

~

It began with a muted, hollow ‘thump’ followed by a low rumble below the surface; he felt the vibration through the ground and the boulder he sat on. In a way, it reminded him of the thunder that stormy night in the Ozark Mountains.

The rumble and the tremors increased in intensity until suddenly a great billow of smoke and sound and dust, of gravel and larger stones erupted from the mine’s opening. The pursuer cocked his head to the side and listened. He wasn’t an expert with fuses but he knew enough … there … a second explosion shook the ground and another, only slightly lesser deluge of the same debris as before spewed through the opening.

The horse raised its head, looked toward the mine’s entrance, glanced briefly at the pursuer, and returned to grazing.

The pursuer remained seated until his pipe went out. He tapped the bowl against a boot heel to dislodge tobacco ash and approached the mine. Along the way he retrieved a board, splintered on one end, that once was the side of an ore tram. Propping the battered plank inside the mine’s opening where it would be found, but not too quickly, he removed a folded sheet of paper from his coat pocket and attached it to the board with a hand axe. ‘This was necessary’, the paper read, ‘his past caught up with him’.

It was time to go; the explosions would soon draw a crowd. Two down.

We never defeat our demons; we only learn to live above them.

—The Ancient One

Dr. Strange

1870

Las Vegas, New Mexico

Cumulus clouds, large and puffy, cast occasional shadows but there was no breeze to disturb the heat even though the altitude in the Sangre de Christo Mountains was above six thousand feet.

The pursuer lounged on a wooden bench in the trapezoidal patch of shade of an awning covering the boardwalk in front of Simpson’s Emporium. He produced an ancient blue bandana from his pants pocket and wiped beads of sweat from his neck and face—a face honed by sun, wind, and hardship. He had removed his weathered duster and held it folded neatly over one leg. So far, it had been one of the good days … no nausea, no abdominal pain. He could ignore the almost constant throbbing sensation in his temples.

The street was crowded; Las Vegas, New Mexico was the first stop on the Santé Fe Trail after a long and often perilous six hundred mile cross-country trek from Kansas. He was aware of the wagons and the horses and the pedestrians, of the ordinary people going about their ordinary lives, but his attention was on the front door of the building across the street.

He didn’t allow himself the luxury of envy; of wishing he were perched on the seat of one of the many prairie schooners pulling through town. Of wishing he had a wife sitting beside him and perhaps two … no, three children to keep them company—to carry on his name. There was no wagon for him … no children, no future … no wife. Only unbearable memories of what might have been.

It had taken him the better part of the next year to locate and follow the third name on his list: Teasdale, one of the men in the bank across the street. He had found his man in Santé Fe, but the pursuer was unable to separate his quarry from the two men he traveled with long enough to do what must be done. He had no desire to harm anyone not involved in his quest.

And then, quite by accident, he learned from a disgruntled saloonkeeper that the younger of the two outlaws riding with Teasdale was paying too much attention to an employee that the barman considered his own personal after-hours property. Thus, he had no scruples against informing the pursuer that the three planned to rob the San Miguel County Bank. The pursuer left Santa Fe that night and rode the sixty-five miles to arrive in Las Vegas in advance of his target.

The three bandits arrived in the morning two days later and went immediately to the bank. The Santé Fe saloonkeeper’s competition remained mounted outside holding the reins of his companions’ horses.

As the pursuer watched with analytic interest, he wondered how they could accomplish the robbery. To his organized, but single-minded way of thinking, their plan was not well thought-out. It was the wrong time of day; there were too many people to witness and to react. It was even the wrong day of the week; why not wait until payday when they were insured a large amount of cash in the bank?

Continuing his mental exercise, the pursuer was considering how he would rob the bank, hypothetically, when a familiar, muted sound from across the street interrupted his thoughts. The muffled gunshot transformed the horse-holder from merely anxious to near panic-stricken; he did not expect gunplay—Teasdale had promised no gunplay. Wide-eyed, he drew his revolver, fired twice into the air, and began shouting frantically for everyone to move back, to get clear of the horses and away from the front of the bank.

No one paid heed; few even noticed him—all eyes were on the bank’s front door.

A second, louder gunshot sounded as the door burst open and two men tumbled into the stark sunlight; Teasdale had saddlebags slung across one shoulder as he snapped a third shot into the bank’s interior.

The pursuer could have shot Teasdale then; he could have easily shot all three of the bandits. He was an excellent marksman with a rifle and well above average with a revolver. But simply killing was not his purpose; he must talk to the man first. He needed a location for one more name—and he had a message to deliver.

Suddenly the street erupted into a cacophony of handgun, rifle, and shotgun reports from a dozen locations. Citizens and passers-by were reacting to the holdup in progress. Las Vegas was wild and practically lawless but that day the citizenry decided enough-was-enough.

The first volley of return gunfire still reverberated from street level facades as the horse-holding robber tumbled to the dusty street. After the second volley, his dead horse fell across the man’s legs, pinning him underneath. The two inside men struggled to mount their excited, dancing horses. As they wheeled to escape, Teasdale caught a bullet in his side.

His colleague was less fortunate. The town’s marksmen hit him three times—once in his gun hand and twice in the shirt pocket over his heart. He died before his saddle was empty. The wounded Teasdale leaned forward alongside his horse’s neck, stabbed his spurs into its flanks, and snapped a desperate shot over his shoulder and raced out of town.

~

The pursuer remained seated in the shade and refilled his pipe as townsmen rushed to their own mounts and thundered out of town in spirited pursuit, leaving the two downed robbers to the few onlookers not joining the posse. He stood and walked slowly, mindful of his occasional spates of lightheadedness. He lit the tobacco with a wooden match as he walked to the horse holder and discovered the young man was still alive—barely. The curious had dragged him from under the horse but they reluctantly stepped back when the pursuer, with a whiskey-thick, authoritarian voice order them away … the young man needed room.

He squatted, his shadow temporarily blocking sun from the fearful, younger-than-it-looked, face. When there was no one near enough to hear, the pursuer said in a rough whisper, You want to die right there, boy, or over in the shade?

The face swimming in and out of the dying man’s focus wore no expression—neither hate nor dislike, nor caring, nor concern; not even curiosity. He coughed blood and although he issued no other sound the pursuer read the young man’s lips to say, Shade, and then his eyes widened, … please.

I can drag you out of the sun and get you water but you gotta tell me where your partner’s going. No threats, no promises.

The wounded man could tell, as often happened to the dying, that the man with the gruff voice was as good as his word, and realization crossed his face … he was going to die … he could read it in the stranger’s small frown and dark, penetrating eyes. But he was powerfully thirsty and the sun was so hot, so terribly hot … and he owed Teasdale nothing. The man had abandoned him pinned to the street by a dead horse. … The ford … north a’ town …

The last thing to registered on the young man’s fevered mind was the taste of pure, cool water on his lips—and the haunted look on the face of the man that gave it to him.

The pursuer was walking away and did not hear the dying man’s weak, but heartfelt, Much obliged, stranger.

~

The following day three cowboys from a local ranch rode up to the sheriff’s office with an elongated, blanket-wrapped bundle tied across another horse’s saddle. Damndest thing, Sheriff, one of them said. We was chasin’ strays out near tha Gallinas Ford crossin’ and seen this campsite back up in tha trees. We rode over hopin’ for a cup ’a coffee an’ maybe some gossip … instead, we found him. He threw a thumb gesture over his shoulder at the bundle.

"He was propped upright at the base of a big ol’ tree … deader ’n a ten-penny. We scouted about a bit but there weren’t no tracks around, not even his own—no boot prints, no sign of another horse. We figgered the gunshot wound in his side did him in ’though it didn’t look all that bad. He’d stopped tha bleedin’ and bandaged it up. I seen folks recover from worse.

These saddlebags was across his lap. We opened up tha flap an’ found a bunch ’a money … an’ this … He handed the sheriff a scrap of paper with writing on it and continued, that camp’s haunted Sheriff. I ain’t usin’ that ford ever again.

The paper read: ‘This was necessary. His past caught up with him’.

Risk everything, fear nothing, have no regrets.

—Anonymous

1872

Northwest Arizona

It was oppressively hot in the narrow valley north of Prescott … and humid. Even in the shade cast by scrubby ironwood trees where he stopped to rest and to continue the argument with himself that had been on going for several days. He could have continued up the mountain but his back ached and there was no reason to disrupt their routine this late in the day. Tomorrow would be soon enough, he told himself; but tomorrow was almost too late.

Higher, on the side of the mountain, cooler temperatures beckoned. Cooler temperatures, friendly faces, and rest. In spite of all that, he was hesitant, unsure if going up there, unannounced, was the correct thing to do. But recently the light-headed, spiraling dizziness and the numbness in his hands had amplified; he needed a place to wait for the symptoms to pass. The pains had always diminished, although he recognized that they came more frequently, and they plagued him longer.

He sat on the ground leaning against a rock, valuing the radiated warmth on his aching back. He had been sitting there for some time … unsure how long. Time was unimportant, except that he feared he needed more than he had. Not more time for living … more time to fulfill his promise. He took a drink from the bottle he held at his side and washed it around it his mouth before swallowing. The whiskey was wet and it tasted good and it worked against the pain, so he took another.

No, he suddenly decided, it was a bad idea to have come here. It was unfair to involve others in his mission … in his quest … in his problems. He placed the bottle on the grass and wiped sweat from his face and the back of his neck with a blue kerchief and painfully adjusted his position. He would ride south; Arizona Territory had numerous crossroad cantinas and Mexican villages where he could pass the time until he was well enough to continue. But first, he needed to sleep. He took another long drink from his ever-present bottle and rolled into his blanket.

He slept lightly, as always. Haunted dreams and a slowly deteriorating body prevented deep sleep. He didn’t need much; he had to rest often, but sleep was not a necessity; like nutrition, he got by on little of either. That night he slept more comfortably and longer that usual. He had ridden several days with little rest to get there and the trip had exhausted him. More fatigued than he would admit, even to himself.

When he did open his eyes the sun was painting the mountain with lavish reds and cresting the ridges with gold. He enjoyed the relaxing view and the colors briefly before he shook out his blankets and began looking for kindling. He didn’t eat much, but a cup of hot, black coffee was always a good way to start the morning.

And then he saw the smoke… boiling gray-black against the light blue of a cloudless sky. There was too much to come from a single chimney; not enough to come from one of the forest fires occasionally started by lightning in the mountains. Besides, there was no storm, no lighting. There were not even clouds… nothing overhead but blue sky … and the sun … and the gray-black blot above the tree tops.

The smoke originated from too close to his previous destination to ignore. He forgot about his aches and pains. He forgot about coffee and his decision to ride south. He quickly saddled his horse and heeled its flanks.

When he heard sporadic gunfire he slowed and let the horse pick their rate of approach. A minute later they crested a rise and stopped at the tree line. The rider could see a small ranch in a hanging valley halfway up the mountain. In the clearing were a stone cabin and a well-constructed barn, larger than the house. A pole corral attached to the barn held a dozen agitated horses. Fire had already consumed much of the barn. Puffs of rifle smoke signified the rifle-slots cut in each of the cabin’s shuttered windows.

The rancher had cleared many of the obstacles surrounding his cabin but the band of attacking Paiute didn’t need much to blend in. They had fanned out and slowly approached their objective. Each time the rifle barrels shifted from their direction, they advanced; two rifles inside against six armed and patient Indians outside. The cabin’s occupants couldn’t keep track of the location of all the attackers but they had lowered the odds against them.

From his position in the pines the man could see inert bodies of four members of the attacking band—as well as the body of a white man sprawled along a worn path between the barn and the back of the house. He was apparently in the barn, probably feeding the horses, when the Paiutes struck. They shot him, obviously several times, as he made a dash toward the cabin.

He knotted the reins behind his saddle horn, pulled his saddle pistol, and removed the revolving shotgun from its scabbard. Mechanically, he checked to make sure both were loaded although he knew they were—they were always ready. As prepared as he would ever be, he steered his horse forward with his knees.

The Paiute raiders had the cabin’s occupants pinned down. It was impossible for them to escape or to get food or water or more ammunition. It was only a matter of time and then the attackers could take the horses. But they would have to wait. The rifles in the cabin also covered the pole corral holding the small herd. But one man was already dead … it was only a matter of time. And time was on the side of the Indians.

The gray horse followed a grassy path down hill, sure-footed and confident in his rider and its own role in what was about to happen.

He caught the Indians by surprise. His first pistol shot coincided with a rifle-report from the cabin so it went unnoticed. Unnoticed by everyone except the Paiute who lost the top of his head to a .45 slug.

It was impossible for his next round to go unnoticed. Even with the gunfire and the increasing roar of the burning barn, the ten-gauge shotgun bellowed and jumped just as a second attacker leaped forward. He took two halting steps toward the cabin and collapsed face first into the dirt, the back of his shirt in bloody tatters.

The Paiute nearest the house was taking aim at one of the rifle-slots when the sudden explosion startled him. He rose from his crouched position behind a tree stump and looked back, just in time to receive a rifle bullet through his neck fired from the slot at which he had been aiming. He died not knowing what caused the explosion.

The remaining three attackers evaporated. One moment they were shooting at the cabin, the next they were gone. One moment they were in complete control of the situation, the next they had abandoned their plans and had disappeared.

The pursuer stayed in the saddle and examined the tree line around the cabin and beyond the burning barn until he was sure the Indians were truly gone.

Finally satisfied, he turned toward the cabin, Hello, the house. I’m friendly. The Indians are gone, at least for now. He reloaded the shotgun and returned it to its scabbard. No sound, no movement from inside.

He reloaded the saddle gun and holstered it and placed both hands on the saddle horn, continued to face the cabin, and waited.

Ten minutes passed. Twenty. After half an hour a rifle barrel protruded from one of the shooting slots and lined up unwavering on the pursuer. A moment later, the cabin door opened slightly, and then all the way. A boy, maybe ten years old, the pursuer surmised although he had little experience at such things, stepped onto the small porch. He had an enormous revolver pushed inside his waistband and he carried a rifle. The pursuer had witnessed that the gun was in capable hands.

Who’re you? the boy said. Not angry. Not threatening… more curious than anything else.

Nobody, much. Saw the smoke and heard the ruckus. Came to offer help … if you need it.

The boy shifted his rifle’s aim away from the stranger and looked dispassionately at the dead Indians, You’ve been plenty of help, Mister. They, he pointed with his chin, had us dead to rights. We’re obliged. He looked over his shoulder at the rifle in the shuddered window and gave a short nod.

The rifle disappeared and a moment later a girl, a year or two younger than the boy, stepped through the door to stand beside her brother. She carried her rifle at port arms across her small body and left no doubt that she was still prepared to use it.

The man studied them for a long moment and asked, Where’s your ma?

There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter.

—Ernest Hemmingway

1873

West Texas

The west Texas sky was a clear, distant blue. Soon the air would be crisp with coming autumn. Leaves on the sparse trees would wither from green to yellow to orange to brown, but not yet. It was the kind of morning that made most men glad to be alive—if there was anything meaningful for which to live.

From a hummock, the highest point visible in any direction, the pursuer stood beside his horse, stroking its gray neck and observing a small herd of buffalo. More and more often he found himself having to dismount to stand unmoving beside his horse. It didn’t make the back pain disappear, but if he were still long enough it would alleviate some his suffering.

The beasts stood so still they resembled figurines placed on a painting. Occasionally one lifted its hairy head to eye indifferently a locomotive, trailed by spewing sparks, black smoke, and a short train of cars rattle and sway across their ancestral grazing grounds. A shaggy bull, scars marking his old body like badges of honor took a few aggressive steps toward the tracks. He lowered his head, blew through his nose, and pawed the ground, tossing dust into the still air. When satisfied he had sufficiently impressed his harem by warning off the distant threat, he went back to grazing.

The pursuer felt empathy for the old bull and slowly exhaled tobacco smoke through puffed checks and lips and wondered how much longer anyone would be able to watch a herd of buffalo of any size do anything. He had chosen a hard and lonely life, one that grew more so as he got older, although he was nowhere near as old as he felt. The life of a man who chooses a dangerous path is never a secure one, never an easy one, and always a lonely one. But now his path was not as lonely as it once was. He considered that, but only briefly, and then turned his attention toward the south and west, where in the distance a thin finger of white smoke pointing skyward.

Near that mesquite fire he expected to find the next man for whom he searched. It had been three years since Las Vegas, New Mexico.

~

Three men labored near the fire and although still early in the day sweat discolored their shirts and darkened their hatbands. The first, mounted on a cow pony, held a lariat taut as a second man threw the calf on the other end of the rope to the ground and deftly bound its legs. A third, younger than the others, had his back turned and was removing a glowing running iron from the fire.

When they looked up they were startled to see a man dressed in Mexican garb, but larger than most men from across the border. The stranger was already near enough for conversation without raising voices—if the calf wasn’t bawling so loudly.

Who’re you? demanded the man tying the calf. He was long-jawed with yellow eyes.

Where’d you come from? You could git yourself shot, Mex, sneakin’ up on folks like that. He straightened and put his hands on his hips menacingly, his right hand near the butt of his revolver. He glanced behind the intruder to make sure there wasn’t a posse with him. The other two kept their eyes on the stranger and waited to see what their leader would do. They hadn’t planned on interruptions this far from town. And how’d he get so close without them hearing him?

Not by the likes of you, amigo, the pursuer said with a slightly noticeable accent. His voice was raspy, as if from lack of use. He then ignored the speaker and gave each of the other two a long, meaningful look before announcing, I came for Gaffney, he pointed the revolving ten-gauge in his left hand at the man beside the calf. "You two have a choice to make, and make quick. The way I see it there’re three options. Since you’re branding someone else’s cattle, you can figure they belong to me and you can go for your guns.

You, he pointed with the scattergun at the mounted man, will die first. You, he shifted his gaze at the younger man who was wondering what to do with the glowing branding iron he still held, will die almost as quick. I can make that choice easier for you; they’re not my cattle. He lowered the shotgun as if inviting them to go for their guns.

Second option, you can let curiosity get the better of you and you can linger to see what’s about to happen. I wouldn’t recommend that one, either. You’d be getting involved in something that isn’t your business and isn’t going to turn out well for him, he motioned at Gaffney again.

If you don’t mind taking good advice from a stranger, your best bet is option three: ride out of here as fast and as far as you can. He squinted at the sun. You can come back for your tack around noon … no sooner.

Who are you? repeated the man beside the still bellowing calf. He had moved his hand from his hip and it now hovered over his revolver’s butt.

I’m your past.

Gaffney studied the pursuer with a slight frown, as if he found something familiar in his face. Rumors are you’re a ghost. Don’t look like no ghost to me.

No, I’m not a ghost.

Gaffney shrugged and turned his head to the side but kept his eye on the man dressed like a Mexican, C’mon, Jake, Kid … it’s three to one … he can’t shoot us all.

Jake, the mounted man, glanced at the one called Kid, risked another look at the pursuer and did not care for the lack of expression on the stranger’s face—except in his eyes—there was plenty of expression there. They looked strange—as if they belonged to someone else—or something else. It was as if he starred into the tortured gates of Hell.

After a tension-filled moment, Jake drawled slowly, I don’t think so, Gaff. He’d only hafta pull that trigger once to ruin my day. You hired us to poach off a few cows—we’ll, maybe a lotta cows, but you said nothin’ about swappin’ lead … definitely not with a scattergun … not with a crazy man. It sizes up to me that I want nothin’ to do with your past… my own’ll catch up ta me soon enough. He turned his head, Mount up, Kid; let’s leave these two gents to settle whatever disagreement stands between ’em.

Before Jake wheeled his horse and he and Kid rode away, he locked eyes with Gaffney, Luck.

To himself he added, looks like you’re gonna need it … amigo.

~

Gray bottomed thunderclouds were gathering in the distance when Jake and Kid cautiously return late that evening. The fire had burned down and the embers were cold. The running iron lay where Kid dropped it at the edge of the fire. The small gather of steers they had started branding was gone. Their gear was undisturbed, exactly as they had left it. There was no sign of the stranger; no boot prints, no horse tracks. No evidence whatsoever that he had been there except beside the cold fire pit their former employer laid bound as the calf had been. Lightning flashed against a background of angry clouds as the two rustlers studied the scene with awe.

Held down by a stone next to the dead man was a sheet torn from a tally book: ‘This was necessary. His past caught up with him’.

Rain had begun to dapple the ground of the branding camp when Jake finally broke the uncanny silence, Let’s make dust, Kid, he said, almost with reverence after a long, respectful whistle. There ain’t no tracks, no nuthin’. This ain’t natural.

"All the cards are on the table

You done laid your money down

Don’t complain about your chances, boy

It’s the only game in town

And the meaning doesn’t matter

Nor the way you play the game

To the winner or the loser

Who’s to bless, and who’s to blame"

—Kris Kristofferson

Who’s To Bless And Who’s to Blame

1876

Deadwood, South Dakota

The town of Deadwood, South Dakota took root on illegally obtained land taken from the Indians, but who