Wilding In The West 2

Roger Trace awoke then, stirring his way out of his slumber with an extravagant yawn he then begged pardon for. The women graciously excused the salesman, but from the longing looks they darted Chad’s way, he got the impression they would rather Roger went back to sleep so they could continue the conversation unvarnished.

Chad, though, was grateful for the break. He looked out the window, seeking distraction from the memories stirred up in every scraggly plant, each heaping of stone with no skill or artistry. The blasted landscape offered no relief and his own inner questioning didn’t provide any new answers. A few pointed remarks from some pretty ladies and he was awash in doubt all over again. Southern women… they could be too much.

Chad knew something of himself. He’d always been stubborn, bordering on pigheaded. When he’d been thirteen and the bank had foreclosed on the family farm, he’d decided that it was as fair for him to take the bank’s things as it was for them to steal his. His father hadn’t seen it that way. Chad had a feeling that if his mother were still alive, she would’ve argued Chad’s side of it.

And now here he was, as he’d told Allie and Michelle. He’d gained some scars and given a few out, won and lost several fortunes, and found a pointlessness to it all that he’d needed to escape. What was the point in packing in as much drinking and whoring as he could before he attended a necktie party?

And yet, what did the life of the honest man offer beyond longevity? If all those men clutching their dime novels longed to be him, and he knew the only satisfaction of the outlaw was in forestalling the inevitable…

Chad found his face reddening in the reflection of the glass. He wished he could swear up a good tear, but there were ladies present. And no point in expending so much as a good curse word when he hadn’t even made a try at ranching yet, as he’d resolved to.

He was stubborn enough to sit that horse until it bucked him, so what was the point of flagellating himself over a decision he hadn’t even seen through yet? He certainly wasn’t going to trade his white hat for black, draw his Colt, and demand a traveling salesman’s case and whatever change the driver had in his pocket.

The Concord’s easy speed brought them along to the next stopping place with plenty more thought from Chad, but few conclusions. Except one: as torturous as it was to ride a horse for days on end, at least it didn’t give you so much time to think as a stage.

The day had about run its course and the gloom of evening crept over every horizon but the west, where the sun still tried to have the last word. Cool had not yet descended and the shimmers of heat blurred everything at the edges, so that the world looked like a hurried sketch rather than a Godly painting.

“If you want out of this barge, now’s the time to get ready!” the driver crowed down from above. “We’re almost at Ol’ Buck’s station, where we’ll be stopping til we’ve traded out these worn horses.”

The station itself was nothing much. Exactly the kind of place you’d picture if you knew its only purpose was to be between here and there. It was a full moon that night and the driver, first scaring them with tell of fleas in these particular cots, urged them to accept a ride through the rare illumination to complete their journey with time to spare. More of that damnable, corporate haste.

But Chad found himself unable to argue against it. The girls were willing enough, or at least femininely diffident. And Roger seemed to relish the prospect of spending more time in such enchanting company, but knew better than to say so, and allowed his paltry objection to be defeated readily.

The driver found his scheme for whatever bonus a night ride would earn him thwarted, though. Ol’ Buck—face all black beard and startlingly blue eyes—informed them that the stables were empty, as the Conestoga they’d been expecting from their destination hadn’t arrived yet. The terrain of a difficult grade on the coming leg of their travel and the Conestoga’s team would be better suited for it. Their current horses could attempt it, but only after a night’s rest and a going over by the stable boy. Their driver took the news poorly; the rest of them received it magnanimously. Even Roger amicably restrained his merriment and restricted himself to a few probing jabs at Allie and Michelle.

As unimpressive as the loghouse and adobe stables were, nature had corrected for man’s lack of vision. There was a high, sheer mesa overlooking the habitation; Chad could picture its shadow sweeping over each building in turn as the day progressed. At the base of the mesa was a watering hole, big enough that Chad wondered if any fishing might be done.

There was only so much to do at a waystation and Chad did them all for want of variety. He made use of the outhouse, washed up in the pond, changed his sweaty clothes, and resolved to give the old set a going-over in the water come morning. He took dinner then washed it down with moonshine that he refused a second helping of for it tasted of the sort that had made his uncle blind. Last he retired to a brick shack, where the accommodations were a cot and nothing else. He could see why the driver had wanted to press on.

Chad curled up on the bed and closed his eyes and tried to empty his head of the roving memories that had chased him ever since he boarded the coach.

Gunsmoke swirled around him in every shade between blue and gray. There were voices inside it.

“This is a democracy when it comes to guns, boss. Your one peashooter don’t outvote all of ours!”

“We can make money on the reward or not make money on these train jobs! Hell, that’s an easy choice for me…”

“I’ve got a murder warrant on me! They ain’t giving me anything but a noose!”

“Let’s just go our separate ways—this isn’t some Mormon marriage we meant to last forever!”

“A big bounty will give us all enough oof to ride clear of any lawman or bounty killer what cares about our faces!”

“You think any bull out there is gonna just hand you the money? They’ll hang you right next to him!”

“What about the softhorn? They won’t have paper on him. We truss up Chad, the boy turns him in, and when he comes back with the money, we get one last payday. Courtesy of the boss! We’ll drink to you, Chad.”

“Yeah, beers are on you!”

“Now, boss, step away from those guns. No point—”

“He can’t take all of us!”

“Hell, the more of us he gets, the bigger the split will be! Long as he doesn’t shoot the—"

Chad reached out into the haze of burnt gunpowder, that dead air enlivened only by zinging bullets, though he knew he’d scorch his hands as surely as reaching into a pot of boiling water. Could some gesture he made calm the lynch mob that had once been his men? Or call back the bullets in flight?

His hands encountered flesh. Bare flesh. The distance of sleep misled him; he thought he might be in a hothouse brothel, but instead he saw the shack’s leather roof and the busted stitches that surely let in rare rain but now allowed stars to pepper the darkness. The moon was up too, but he could only see it by the light that came in and, like him, caressed silken hair and exposed skin.