A good person is like a good gun: Reliable to the Last.
Thunder roared and lightning flashed, and Roland woke with a start.
There was no storm outside. The storm had been within. The culmination of a nightmare that was already fading from his mind. He tried to grasp at bits of it, to reassemble a narrative that had startled him into wakefulness. But it was elusive, like grabbing at wisps of smoke. Even as he tried to close mental fingers around the images, they dissipated into nothingness.
It was gone.
He shifted his head to look over at the bed where Zenobia was sleeping. A bed that had been leant to her. He wondered how long the saloon's owner would permit the current situation to continue. Mr. Fortner was a practical professional. Each day would bring a new calculation about how much having a potential murderess here was injuring his reputation and the action in his establishment. But Zenobia had been so thoroughly beaten that moving her had seemed like its own sort of crime.
Roland knew that when she was evicted from here, he wouldn't let her go home alone. He didn't care who said what. He wasn't leaving her to the uncertain mercies of the citizens of this town. There was a strong puritanical streak among many Americans, particularly on the edge of things, where religion was one of the only things to hold on to. He would put eight barrels of hot lead between her and harm, if need be.
Well... she was sleeping, now. She looked almost peaceful. Whatever nightmares plagued her waking world, it seemed her dreams were free of them. Her face was puffed and black and blue. And her face didn't even have the worst of the bruises. He wished he could split the injuries between them, so that he could carry his share. He'd certainly had his share in causing them. It could hardly have been worth it for her to share their brief minutes of pleasure in order to endure such heartache and agony.
A pressure in his bladder demanded attention away from such thoughts.
He shifted his gaze to the chamber pot, noting that it was full. That helpful black lady Miss Mcmahon had been diligently helping in the care of Zenobia, but Roland felt bad about how many distasteful chores she took on. He decided to take this upon himself. He stood, walked over, and picked up the chamber pot. Then he carried it to the door of the room. He turned the knob as slowly as possible so that it wouldn't make any noise to wake Zen. Then he opened the door just as slowly, slipping out and closing it behind him.
He'd just go downstairs, then out to the outhouse. He could empty the chamber pot and his bladder at the same time.
He moved quickly, not feeling entirely dignified carrying a full chamber pot across a saloon to the exit. Outside, it was black as pitch, except for the glow of distant stars that peeked through the partial cloud cover and the light cast from windows where lamps and lanterns burned.
Six steps to the outhouse, Roland paused. The hairs were standing up at the back of his neck.
Shifting the chamber pot from his right hand to his left, he slowly turned, drawing his pistol.
Nothing. Darkness.
Darkness and foreboding.
His eyes toured the shadows, seeking... something. He felt like he was being watched. Even stalked by an unseen predator.
Still nothing.
He was letting recent events erode his calm.
Shaking it off, he re-holstered his pistol and went into the outhouse.
There, he began to empty the container without and the container within.
Minutes later, he made his way back to the saloon and over to Zenobia's temporary quarters. When he opened the door, his eyes went wide. His mouth opened. He turned his head left and right, looking for a hidden corner that didn't exist. The chamber pot slipped from his fingers and landed heavily on the floorboards. Fortunately, it was not an easily breakable vessel.
"Zenobia?"
He called out loudly, and then followed it with a true bellow.
"Zenobia?!"
He retreated from the room, looking up and down the hall outside.
Within the room, Zenobia's bed was empty and disturbed. The sleeper had awakened... and then disappeared.
"Go ahead and hang me, it was worth it!"
The irony was not lost on Zenobia.
She had been waiting on her chance, too. She was better now than she looked. Strong enough to attempt it.
Roland had been wonderful, he had neglected his business to be beside her as much as possible and it was his quiet, believing presence that had got her through this as much as the medical ministrations of some of the women of the town who, despite her heinous crime, had nursed her so caringly.
Funny, it was the girl she had bullied so horribly at school, Jemima Wigfall, who had been emptying her chamber pot and helping her with her most intimate ablutions. But she was gone tonight and Roland, her dear, handsome, wonderful, steadfast Roland was tasked with the unpleasant chore. And there was one piece of irony. His attendance on that most base of tasks was her opportunity to take herself away from him forever, to employ the knotted under-sheet she had been concealing under her blankets and hang herself before he came back.
It was all she could do for him, and for Raymond, to at least spare them the trial and the dirt that would be exposed by it, and which could have only one, dreadful, dreary conclusion: her parading before the whole town, a bag over her head and an eight foot drop.
This was better.
But it was not a hanging girl Roland walked back to, but the said empty room. Everything was there apart from Zenobia and the nightgown she had only that morning been allowed to don.
And now she was... where? Who was this strange cadaverous man? Where was he taking her? To freedom? That seemed too unlikely. Death at the hands of some lynch mob? Despite her suicidal intentions, that was a terrifying prospect! Or some other unimaginable fate?
"Who are you?" was all she could manage to say. She certainly wasn't going to ask to be taken back, no matter how her heart yearned to touch Roland's hand one last time.
@[Cuban Writer]
What is Good, and what is Legal, are not always the same.
Eric reached out to help her up onto the gray horse he'd purchased for her. It was had not been the finest horse in the stables, but it seemed to have a good half-dozen years left to its life, and it could ably carry a light passenger like Zenobia as far as she needed to go. The animal was saddled, and even had some bags of supplies strapped on. Things they would need on their short journey.
"I am the manifest will of Raymond Matthews," Eric said with a slight German accent as he helped her to get situated. His name was unlikely to mean anything to her, and could only create complications should the law somehow catch up.
"He sold something precious to save your life. An irrevocable sale. So be sure not to squander it." Eric had not missed the improvised rope she'd prepared for herself when he'd smuggled her from her bedroom. He did not think it had been made to lower herself from a window. The look in her eyes had told quite another tale.
Going then to his own 'steed,' he mounted a large draft mule. Despite its incredible size for a mule, it still seemed almost inadequate to the size of the man who mounted it. Nonetheless, it did not complain, but prepared to plod along at a regular pace.
"Last evening, I walked the town at night. I know the best path through the dark to avoid the citizens. Soon, a shout will be raised for you, if it has not already. Soon, people will be about with lanterns. Then horses will be about with people. Our path will be winding and odd for a time. I am sorry for the pain it will cause you."
He urged his mule into motion, checking to see that she was coming along.
"Go ahead and hang me, it was worth it!"
It was clear from Zenobia's awkward attempts to get on the horse that this was the first time that she had ever been on one. The animal sensed it and shied. She tucked her nightdress between her legs and tried again with Eric's help she got on and hugged the animal's neck to stay on. She felt high up, unstable, exposed, looking down on the dark side street to the right of the saloon from this giddy vantage point. He wouldn't tell her who he was, but he told her what he was.
"I am the manifest will of Raymond Matthews," Eric said with a slight German accent as he helped her to get situated. His name was unlikely to mean anything to her, and could only create complications should the law somehow catch up.
"Ray... of course." she said quietly , but no, not of course. Raymond had every reason to let her carry this.. carry it all the way to the scaffold and on, pell-mell, to Hell. If Raymond had killed their Father first, would she have saved him?
"How did he pay you?" she asked hollowly, out of vague intellectual interest. Neither of them had any money: her Father had drunk, gambled, and poorly 'invested' it away in shares from Fortner and Priest's 'gold mine'; he would have been better off investing their hard earned cash into a Leprechaun's pot of gold at the end of the rainbow they never saw in the skies over Kalispell.
"He sold something precious to save your life. An irrevocable sale. So be sure not to squander it." Eric had not missed the improvised rope she'd prepared for herself when he'd smuggled her from her bedroom. He did not think it had been made to lower herself from a window. The look in her eyes had told quite another tale.
"We don't have anything precious; you've been had by my little brother. But get me the Hell out of here anyway." she moaned, her wounds starting to hurt now the adrenalin of the initial kidnapping - escape - was wearing off.
"Last evening, I walked the town at night. I know the best path through the dark to avoid the citizens. Soon, a shout will be raised for you, if it has not already. Soon, people will be about with lanterns. Then horses will be about with people. Our path will be winding and odd for a time. I am sorry for the pain it will cause you."
"Good" was all she could manage. This was not going to be a long relationship. Wherever she ended up at the end of the night; and she had few illusions on that score, she instinctively knew this man would be gone. He was doing a job: doing it well; quietly and with a firm practiced hand. She did not invest in him.
The iron stirrups, chilled by the night air, were cold on her bare feet. The aging mare's neck was sleek and musty under her palm. The leather reins, old, worn, supple. She would never forget that moment, before they started out: the rest of the night was a blur of pain, rocking on top of the horse, trying to keep conscious, alert, to try and work out where they were going, eventually giving up - just letting the night swallow them both on a treadmill to oblivion.
@[Cuban Writer]
What is Good, and what is Legal, are not always the same.
Eric's eyes regarded her with cool contemplation when she suggested that her brother had nothing valuable to sell.
Considering how readily she'd been prepared to give it away herself, he should not be surprised at her poor appraisal of the treasure. From what he'd been told, and what he could see with his own eyes, she'd never been made to feel that her most precious gift had any value. So it was unsurprising she under-sold it now, and indeed could not even conceive of it as something to trade.
He hoped that once they got free of this place, and she settled somewhere new, she found cause to discover how precious a life could be.
Many hours later, they came to a place in the land where a stream extended a long, slender finger through the landscape. It was a stop on an indirect path between Kalispell and Oakdale, thirty-degrees North of the straight-line path. They'd rest here for six hours before setting off again just after the sun brushed against the distant horizon. They'd be lucky to get four hours of sleep in the exchange, though, as setting up camp, eating, and preparing for the next leg of the journey would chew up precious time.
By now, Eric knew that poor Miss Matthews would be sore all over, and especially in her legs, as she seemed unaccustomed to riding.
He had been as deeply injured in his life, but that only enhanced his empathy for her condition.
He set up a blanket for her to lie upon, and a fire to keep her warm, before he helped her down from the saddle. He used as much care as he could, almost lifting her whole weight upon himself, as he moved her for a lie-down on the blanket.
Then he began to unpack bags. One, containing bread and cheese, which he'd break off into small pieces and hand-feed her if she'd allow it.
A bottle of rum to salve some of the hurts and help her to a brief sleep, if she could find it.
Bandages for bloody wounds and to cushion bruises and raw skin from uncomfortable contact as much as possible. He'd do as much work as she'd allow, but not intrude upon her dignity if she felt sensitive about it.
Finally, a bundle she might recognize. Tools of her trade. Scissors, razor, combs, brushes, hair dyes, and a hand-mirror. Enough tools of her barber's trade that she could take it up again in some other place if she so chose. But that was not entirely the reason he'd brought it.
"You need to be different. As different as possible. You will know best how to manage it. My hands can do the work under your direction, or your own hands while I hold a mirror. But there will be people who ask after you in Oakdale, possibly only half-a-day after I get you onto the train. I have a hat and veil to help, and even a set of women's clothes suitable for someone in mourning. I had to take what was available, I hope it is close to your size. But anything you can do to help sell the deception will improve your chances."
He gestured to the un-bundled accouterments of her trade and waited for her to decide how best to proceed.
"Go ahead and hang me, it was worth it!"
She was now in agony, the rubbing saddle beneath her, her still sore welts from the beating, and just the physical effort of keeping her frame upright on the grey. But it was good: it stopped her dwelling on what had happened and the decision she had made and, when she did think about it, she could only appreciate the punishment she was taking for it. Much better than lying there in bed: unworthy of the loving kindness and attention that Roland and some of the women of the town had bestowed upon her. Women she had despised, too: a saloon whore; a repulsively ugly floor scrubber, a black woman. She had fallen to their level and below, yet they had caught her.
This man was ugly, too. Hideous really: like a long thin cadaver; his long, strong, bony fingers cold as they carried her down off the horse and tended her wounds. She didn't stop him, he was helping her now. He could be Death himself: he certainly looked the part. The ugly, the despised: they were who helped her now. Roland was the only beautiful thing in her life now. And he was part of the past already. Death... she called her rescuer that in her mind... Death was the Now.
He fed her, he watered her, he cleansed her. He showed her tools of her trade.
"You need to be different. As different as possible. You will know best how to manage it. My hands can do the work under your direction, or your own hands while I hold a mirror. But there will be people who ask after you in Oakdale, possibly only half-a-day after I get you onto the train. I have a hat and veil to help, and even a set of women's clothes suitable for someone in mourning. I had to take what was available, I hope it is close to your size. But anything you can do to help sell the deception will improve your chances."
She felt clumsily for the mirror and held it up to her face. Apart from the cuts where the belt buckle had ripped her flesh, she looked haggard, drawn: black circles decorated her eyes. Maybe she was dead: she looked it. Maybe she just didn't remember hanging herself. Why was Death even pretending. She looked again at herself in the mirror and nodded.
"When I was 14 my best friend told me I looked ugly when I smiled. I never smiled again after that. Not really. I just need to smile to avoid being recognised." she told Mister Death. Nonetheless, she did something very simple with her hair and suddenly looked quite different.
"I look like a squaw" she said, looking from the mirror to Eric. "Why bother with Oakdale and the rail-road? You could just dress me in buckskins drop me off at the Indian Agency."
Oddly... she sort of did.
What is Good, and what is Legal, are not always the same.
Eric shook his head, "If that was your best friend, then I think I better understand the story of your life."
He was no Adonis, but he had trouble imagining a friend who'd brand him with insecurity about it. It was bad enough that enemies were ready and willing to lay down the scars of a lifetime.
"You do look different. I think a smile will help. Not for the reason your 'friend' said.
Get sleep now, as much as you can. Your bruises will be a shade lighter in the morning. In a week, maybe ten days, no one will know but you.
It's okay to stop wearing these wounds when they fade."
When the sun kissed the horizon, Eric was up and moving, again. He'd let her sleep for as long as he could. Breakfast would be a piece of pan-toast with a fried egg on top. That, and camp coffee. Rum in hers, if she wanted it. Horse and mule saddled and readied. If she would sleep through it all, he'd wake her last. Put a tin plate of food in one hand and a tin cup of coffee in the other.
Then some cards of paper and a pencil, "To say goodbye to those you choose. I'll see it delivered."
When that was done, he passed her an envelope. Inside was a letter Eric had written, and two-hundred dollars in cash.
"Listen, because we will part near Oakdale. When the town is in sight, I will ride away from you. We will never speak again, but you must do exactly as I say.
You will take the train in Oakdale to the end of the line. Then you go down to Virginia. Germanna, in Spotsylvania County. Give this letter to Mr. Arthur Klein. His family will take you in and keep you safe while you figure out the rest of your life. There's enough here to transport your horse and give you a start, wherever you choose to start again. This gray still has some years in it. Use her. She's worth more as a horse than as a sale, I think.
And this," he reached into his boot and took out a short knife. About four inches of blade. Not much to look at, but sharp as a razor. "I will buy another. Keep this secret, hidden somewhere. If a man tries to hurt you, let him think you are letting him have his way. Then put this in his neck."
He looked at her for a long moment, then nodded to the horse, "That's the best I can do for you, I think. Now I'll get you up on the horse. When you get to the train, you'll have a few days of peace, at least. Just think of that. Think of sleeping on the train. Think of good food and friendly faces. Think of a new life waiting for you, bought with a brother's love.
That will get you through the final ride we now take, to Oakdale."
"Go ahead and hang me, it was worth it!"
"You do look different. I think a smile will help. Not for the reason your 'friend' said."
She did smile now. It hadn't taken long for Kalispell to seem very far away all of a sudden. "Amnesia" she said to herself. Perhaps the man might think she wanted to forget. In fact, it was Anæsthesia's nickname at school, at least when she was out of earshot.
Get sleep now, as much as you can. Your bruises will be a shade lighter in the morning. In a week, maybe ten days, no one will know but you. It's okay to stop wearing these wounds when they fade."
"Oooh" she frowned, recovering a little of her Zenobia spark and tart tongue "How very metaphorical." She went to sleep. That was the end of Zenobia Matthews.
She opened her eyes and knew. Zenobia was gone. Jane Clegg was delivered into the world with no pushing, grunting, screaming, crying or afterbirth to deal with. She ate the egg and toast ravenously. She took the rum offered to fortify her coffee and took a swig of it. Maybe she had now inherited her Father's taste for it? No. The Clegg family had no weakness for booze in it's family history, she decided. Once decently dressed, Mrs Clegg looked well in her Widow's black.
The Cadaverous stranger offered her some cards of paper and a pencil, "To say goodbye to those you choose. I'll see it delivered."
She shook her head. "I can't" Jane said "She doesn't exist any more. Or if she does, in the hearts and minds of those foolish enough to have cared for her: I am no longer she." she said firmly. Sorry Roland. Sorry Raymond. Ha! Roland and Raymond: was that a coincidence? So similar.
When that was done, he passed her an envelope. Inside was a letter Eric had written, and two-hundred dollars in cash.
"Listen, because we will part near Oakdale. When the town is in sight, I will ride away from you. We will never speak again, but you must do exactly as I say."
She just nodded her understanding and listened to is instructions. He knew his business. He had guided souls to the Styx before now.
"You will take the train in Oakdale to the end of the line. Then you go down to Virginia. Germanna, in Spotsylvania County. Give this letter to Mr. Arthur Klein. His family will take you in and keep you safe while you figure out the rest of your life. There's enough here to transport your horse and give you a start, wherever you choose to start again. This gray still has some years in it. Use her. She's worth more as a horse than as a sale, I think.
Jane nodded. She never said much, Jane.
And this," he reached into his boot and took out a short knife. About four inches of blade. Not much to look at, but sharp as a razor. "I will buy another. Keep this secret, hidden somewhere. If a man tries to hurt you, let him think you are letting him have his way. Then put this in his neck."
Jane lifted her black dress, as Zenobia had once lifted her dress for Roland. But this widow lifter hers to access a utilitarian garter belt, which held the knife snuggly.
He looked at her for a long moment, then nodded to the horse, "That's the best I can do for you, I think. Now I'll get you up on the horse. When you get to the train, you'll have a few days of peace, at least. Just think of that. Think of sleeping on the train. Think of good food and friendly faces. Think of a new life waiting for you, bought with a brother's love.
She glazed over a little then: she couldn't think of Raymond, she couldn't bear to think of what he might have done or promised to do to pay for this: this lavish escape. She did what she would do for the next ten or so years: she would pretend that all of her previous life was just a dream; a story she had read about someone in a cheap novel. Jane Clegg had lead a very different life. She was careful to not let Zenobia bleed into her new life. The late Mr Clegg, for instance: he might have been a Barber, or a Gunsmith... but no, she made him a stockman.
That will get you through the final ride we now take, to Oakdale."
"Very well. How kind you've been" Jane smiled. She didn't say much Jane, but she smiled a lot.
@[Cuban Writer]