Buell strode around the end of the bar and to the left dining-room door. “Locked. This wall is a little pushed over, but that’s all.” He jiggled the partition.
Barrschott had walked to the other end, and checked the other room. “Same here.”
“Well, you can thank heaven for that. I can’t believe you men sometimes.” Lori let out an exasperated snort and went back upstairs.
“Don’t suppose we could talk ya out of a drink?” Barrschott grinned at Twiggs.
“Why not?” The barkeep turned to survey the wreck on the back bar. “Let’s see if I can find an unbroken glass or two in this mess.”
Simon looked across the table as Buell finished up the last bite of scrambled eggs. They were in the kitchen, sitting at Lori’s worktable, the saloon still a shambles. Amos had returned the next afternoon, and he was, as Twiggs predicted, mildly irritated, but fatalistic. Some of the replacement furniture was already on its way from Cheyenne and Denver, and two carpenters were busy at work salvaging some of the less-battered remains.
“What’re you going to do this morning?” Simon asked Buell.
“Thought I’d go target practice a little, then maybe go see Tay fer an hour or so. Why?”
Simon glanced at Lori, who stood quietly by the open back door, looking outside.
“I want to ask you about . . . let’s talk some more about your trip home.”
Buell tilted his chair back and studied Simon’s face. “We already did that.”
“I wanna talk to ya ’bout Sarah.” Simon’s words rushed out.
The chair thumped back to all four legs. “Sarah?”
Simon looked past Buell, and Buell turned to see what drew his attention. Lori gazed steadily back, her eyebrows raised slightly. She nodded.
“Okay. I’m done here,” Buell said. “Let’s go.” He got up, and Simon followed him out through the saloon.
Buell had a place by the river where a bend formed a natural backstop, shaded by trees and shielded from the breezes. The two men tied up their horses and pulled the saddlebags off. Simon hauled his rifle out of the scabbard, and they moved over to a forty-inch downed cottonwood that served as a table for the ammunition. Wide boards stood in the ground at several distances. Each displayed the charcoal outline of a man. The closer one, riddled with bullet holes, portrayed only the head and shoulders. Buell laid out a tin of caps, a powder flask and a pouch of balls for his pistol. Simon did the same with three boxes of cartridges for his rifle.
Buell leaned against the downed tree and gazed upriver. “So, why the change of heart?”
“After my dream the other night, I had a talk with Lori. She made me think about something I’ve never considered. Maybe between you and me, we can figure it out.”
“Are you sure you wanna do this? Sometimes it’s better to just let things go.”
“That’s what I thought, Buell. But if Lori’s right, I’ve done a terrible thing.”
Buell shook his head. “So if Lori knows, why ya askin’ me? I’ll help, sure, but I’m not very good at this woman stuff. You know that.”
“Lori doesn’t know how we lived. How close our town was. But she sure has a way of figuring things out.”
“Well. You gonna ride around it all day, or rope it?” Buell looked down at the ground.
“Lori thinks maybe Sarah was raped.”
Buell’s head snapped up, and he stared at his friend. “You sure you wanna weed that row?”
“If you know something, Buell, you have to tell me. I know what I said before about you not mentioning her, and I know I’ve repeated it since. But now it’s different.”
Buell let a long sigh escape, and he looked past Simon again. A full minute passed with nothing but the sound of flies winging to nowhere, and the soft lap of water at the river’s edge. “I’m going to take a real chance here. My horse sense says to keep my mouth shut, but another kinda sense says I owe it to ya.”
“I don’t understand. What are you chancing?”
“If I tell ya something, I jist know yer gonna hate me.” Buell looked directly at him.
Confusion and fear clouded the usual clear gray of Buell’s eyes. And there was something else, something he couldn’t put his finger on for a moment. And then it struck him—longing. Buell wanted to do this, really wanted to. Then, uncharacteristically, Buell dropped his gaze again.
“I can’t imagine that. Me, hate you?”
“I’m counting on that, Simon. But it still scares the shit outta me.”
Simon reached his hand out, and grabbed hold of Buell’s upper arm. The muscle tensed with the contact. “You’re my brother, same as. And I think we ought to talk about whatever you’ve been holding.”
Buell swallowed hard, and then looked up. The gray eyes now held only fear. “I shot David.”
The flies fell silent, and the flowing river paused, as the enormity of the admission hit Simon like a giant fist. He jerked his hand back and stared. “You? Mace is married to his mother . . . your mother now. Why? My God, Buell, why?”
“See. I knew it.”
The fear in Buell’s eyes turned to misery, and Simon saw him shrink, his head drooping. “Good Lord, Buell, why?”
Buell simply stood and shook his head.
“There’s gotta be a reason. What is it? How’d ya shoot David?”
Buell turned his back, and stood silent for a bit, then, after taking a deep breath, he turned around. “I waited for him on the Kendrick Road. I was going to tell him to leave Pa alone or else, and to leave your aunt Ruth alone too. I told him we was leaving, but I’d come back if I had to. I guess he thought he could tackle me, cuz he tried, and I whacked him with my pistol . . . twice. He was madder’n hell and went crazy.”
“Did he have a gun?”
Silence.
“Well, did he?” Simon shouted.
“No.” Now Buell had his head up and he looked at Simon defiantly. “No, he didn’t have a gun.”
“Gawdammit, Buell. Do you always have to go to extremes? Ya can’t shoot a man just ’cause he argues. And you shot him in the back. That’s crazy!” Simon found himself rigid with anger.
“Crazy, Simon? Crazy! He raped Sarah. That’s why I shot the sonuvabitch! He raped yer girl.”
Silence fell on the sandy gallery like a sodden horse blanket, and Simon’s legs failed him. He slumped to the ground.
“There, ya satisfied?” Buell’s voice hissed in the air.
The anger in it cut through the horror that stormed around in Simon’s head. Raped, raped, raped . . . raped Sarah. “Tell me,” Simon muttered, his voice hollow in his head.
“When David was on his knees, he was threatening everybody. Pa and me . . . and Sarah.”
“Sarah? Threatening? Why? I don’t understand.”
“He hated her, always had, and said he’d get another look at the red mark on her . . . butt.”
“What!” Simon eyes went wide, and then came the sting of tears. With one deep sob, his sorrow turned to fury and he scrambled to his feet. “Noooo!” The scream of outrage filled the quiet grove, and spilled across the water. “The rotten son of a bitch. The dirty bastard. Oh, no.” He looked at Buell and saw his grimness. “Did ya kill him good, Buell? Did the filthy beast suffer? Did he feel it?” Simon lashed out at his rifle, leaned against downed tree. He kicked it savagely, and it crashed into the sand. Then, he swept his arm along the top of the log, scattering cartridges everywhere. One more kick at the rifle, and he stopped. With his head down, he put both hands on the big cottonwood log, desperately needing to hang on to something. “Filthy bastard,” he muttered. His head swung from side to side, denying what he knew. “You should have told me.”
“Ya didn’t leave me much room on that, Simon.”
Both men stood absorbed in the moment, the quiet belying the turbulence that tore at their souls, each man’s storm from a different kind of cloud.
“Did you see her when you were home?” Simon broke the silence.
“She was gone. Went to Philadelphia to teacher’s school. Pa said she slowly come back to the regular Sarah, and then she left. Yer aunt Ruth . . . my ma, said she would be gone three, maybe four years. She said Missus Kingsley told her Sarah was doin’ real good there, and was staying with cousins.”
“Did David actually say he did it?”
“Let it go, Simon. I said enough.”
“I have to know, Buell.”
Buell returned his adamant stare. “I saw the look on his face, Simon. I know that look.”
Simon winced. “I have to ask ya, Buell.” He looked directly into his friend’s face. “Did you keep it a secret ’cause I asked or ’cause you knew I might stay had I known?”
At first, Simon could not understand the look on Buell’s face. Anger flashed to disbelief and back to anger. Simon glanced down at Buell’s clenched fists, and then he looked back at his face. Buell’s mouth was now set in a grim line, and his eyes conveyed a more familiar emotion. Buell was angry.
“Thanks, Simon,” he said with a sneer, and grabbed his saddlebags.
“I’m sorry, Buell, that wasn’t fair.”
Buell climbed on his horse, and roughly sawed the reins across the Appaloosa’s neck. Without another word, he charged up the slope of the bank and was gone.
As though she had been expecting him, Lori plopped the last lump of dough into a bread pan and dusted her hands on her apron. “Let’s go where it’s a little cooler. Those have to rise for a while,” she said, touching the last pan.
Outside, they seated themselves on sections of upsplit logs by the woodpile. The smell of summer, with its soft scent of blossoms and fresh leaves, hung in the still air. Unseen insects hummed with satisfaction as they hurried about their day. The serenity did not extend to Simon.
“I can tell from the look on your face, Buell told you something you didn’t know.”
“And something I’d never have dreamed about in my worst nightmare. You were right about Sarah.” Simon gripped both knees and hung his head.
“Someone forced her?” The question came soft and gentle.
“My cousin . . . David.” Simon saw an image of the hulking bully, and he shuddered.
“I’m sorry, Simon.” Lori reached across and put her hand on his shoulder. “At least now you know why she turned from you.”
“Do you really think that’s the reason?”
“I can’t say for sure, of course, but I think maybe she made a great sacrifice.”
“But why? I would’ve understood.”
“Would you have? Really? You can’t say that, because it didn’t happen that way.”
“But—”
“She felt she wasn’t good enough anymore.”
“But she is. She’s better than I am . . . she’s still Sarah, she’s . . .”
“She needs to know, Simon. Those are the things you have to tell her, not me. You need to go home. Go home and tell her.”
“But she’s not there. She’s gone to school in Pennsylvania.”
“Then write. Tell her in a letter what you feel. And then do what she wants you to do.”
“You think?”
“I’m sure. I think it’s best for both of you. But this may reopen a terrible wound that has started to heal, so please understand something.” Her eyes fixed on his, understanding and sympathetic. “You may not hear what you want.”
“Then maybe I shouldn’t. I don’t want to hurt her.”
“She was thinking the same thing, Simon. Don’t you see that? And what has it done to you?” Lori’s concern furrowed her brow, and she squeezed his arm. “No, she deserves to know. Then you can both go forward with the truth, painful as it is.”
Simon sat at his desk, staring at yet another blank sheet of paper, three aborted attempts, crumpled and cast aside, mocked him for his ineptness. Shutting his eyes tight, he concentrated on the words and began again.
Dear Mrs. Kingsley,
I take pen in hand to beg a favor of you . . .
Simon dropped his letter off and considered the trading post for a moment, then thought about Berggren’s shop. Mentally, he knew he was in no mood to make good casual company, so he turned his horse across the bridge. Tay’s mule brayed his arrival at the hillside dwelling about twenty minutes later.
“Ya home?” he shouted as he dismounted.
No answer came but the rough door was open so Simon poked his head inside. The smell of coffee, old bacon grease, and tobacco smoke soothed his jangled nerves. The place was empty, and he turned to leave. A piercing whistle, sounding much like a mountain marmot, turned his head toward the creek. He spotted Tay, water bucket in hand, trudging up the worn path.
“Hello, friend. Jist in time to do m’ dishes.”
The familiar grin and warm smile brought a surge of warmth. “Ain’t doing anybody’s dishes, ’specially yours.” He followed Tay into the dugout.
“Well, let’s jist leave ’em, then, and see if they somehow get done by their selves.” The old man set the tin bucket on a bench.
“Don’t suppose ya got a cup of coffee ready?” Simon eyed the speckled pot on the stove.
“Will a Cheyenne buck steal a horse?” Tay picked up his half-empty cup and pitched the cold remains out the door. “Inside or out?” Tay refilled his cup.
“Let’s sit outside.”
Tay filled another cup, handed it to Simon, then followed him out the door.
“So what’s been goin’ on with you lately? Ever’thing all right?”
“Pretty good. Got in a scrap with Buell again.”
“So, what’s new?”
“This time it looks like he’s gonna stay mad for a while. He won’t hardly look at me.”
“Let’s hear it.” Tay leaned back, and put his cup down.
“Starts with Lori, actually. I had a talk with her about my girl back home.”
“Ah, the mystery girl.”
“I had a strange dream and needed to talk to someone, and Lori’s as good a listener as you are. Sarah, that’s her name, she kinda rejected me. Just outta nowhere, she said we weren’t gonna be a pair and wouldn’t give a reason. Lori said it might have been ’cause she was . . . raped. I made Buell tell me what he knew about it, and turns out it was a whole lot. My cousin David raped Sarah.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Simon, truly sorry. Most terrible thing a man kin do short of killin’ kids.”
“I wrote Sarah a letter, mailed it just today. I told her I knew David had attacked her, and that it doesn’t make any difference to me. If she’ll have me, I’m gonna go home.”
“Two quick days to Cheyenne, and less than a day east and yer home. Why wait? Sooner ya git something like this settled in yer craw, the sooner you kin crow again.”
“She ain’t home. She’s in school back East.”
“Ah, I see. So, ya wait. And this’s what’s chappin’ Buell’s ass?”
“No, it’s a lot more’n that, I’m afraid. I said something I shouldn’t have. Something I felt but didn’t stop to think about.”
“Sometimes that ain’t all bad. What’d ya say?”
“I didn’t actually ask Buell about Sarah. David was killed and robbed just before we left home. Shot in the back, and left by the road. Buell admitted he did it. It really took me by surprise. I know it was Buell protectin’ himself, but I could see him goadin’ David too. Buell’s like that. He won’t back down, not for an instant. And I told him he was crazy.”
“That’s a mistake.”
“Yeah, I know. That’s when he said why he did it . . . David admitted forcing Sarah.”
“Still don’t see the fork in the trail. Why’s Buell got his back up? Ya backed off didn’t ya?”
“Not till I said one more stupid thing. I asked him if the only reason he didn’t tell me about Sarah was to make sure I left Nebraska with him.”
“Damn, Simon, I kin sure see his point. That was plumb sideways.”
“Soon’s I said it I knew I was wrong. I said so, bu
t he was madder’n hell.”
“Ya tol’ me a lot ’bout you two growin’ up, and knowin’ that, it’s hard to see how’s you could ask such a thing. Mind ya, I wasn’t there, but damn, them’s some gritty fritters you’s expectin’ him ta swallow.”
“I know it, Tay. And I haven’t slept much since then. When I think on one thing, something else comes up. And every time I see a way through, the way gets cut off.”
“Well, a gate that don’t open is jist more damned fence, Simon. Tell me ’bout this stuff that comes up and maybe we kin see a way out.”
“He needed to get out of town. He’d killed a man, and the sheriff was lookin’ at him. Doesn’t make any difference if it was justified or not. Buell didn’t have the best reputation, and I know from experience, he might have been found guilty of plain and simple murder.”
“I know, you told me about yer storekeeper and all. Anything else?”
“I think he took a lot of money off my cousin.”
“Robbed him?”
“There ya go, I don’t know. Did he shoot him for money, or get the money after, or did he get the money at all? David inherited the same money as I did from our grandpa. His ma said he carried it with him. And I saw Buell take that man’s pouch after he shot him by the river on our way here. Can an honest man do that? Do ya see what I mean?”
“I see more than ya think, Simon. Yer wondering if what he might have done is any worse than what you yerself have done since ya got here. Yer wonderin’ if maybe you ain’t become jist like him.”
“Wha—whatcha sayin’?” Simon sputtered, his voice rising.
“Sumpin ya don’t want ta hear, seems like. Ya run a whorehouse, Simon. Ya stacked yer storeroom with army supplies. Ya sold watered whiskey, and ya know that Quinn feller is a cheat. Yet ya keep at it.”
“I ain’t killed nobody.” Simon was completely taken aback by Tay’s accusations.
“And I don’t think ya would. But, yer gittin’ uncomfortable in your own skin, and it’s causin’ you to see things that ain’t there. Hellfire, man, Buell’s yer friend. Accept that and be damn thankful ya got one like ’im.”
Simon didn’t answer for quite a while, his mind trying make order of the confusion Tay’s words had sown. Tay sat quietly. “Ain’t no doubt I owe him an apology,” Simon said finally.
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