Guns of the Waste Land: Departure: Volumes 1-2

by Leverett Butts

  “Caught that, too, did ye?” Lancaster smiled and nodded approvingly.

  “Caught what?” Gary Wayne responded a bit surlier than he intended.

  “The lasses were lyin’,” Lancaster’s smile widened a bit, “through their wee pearly teeth in their clean little heads.”

  “How much of it was lies, do you think?”

  “Nae idea, lad, but they knew who we were like they were expecting us, and they knew exactly how to spin their yarn for two lawmen from Bretton. However much truth is in their tale, laddie, there’s a lie in their intent. Mark my words.”

  It was not long before they heard the distinctive four-beat rhythm of horse hooves approaching slowly from the east. Lancaster motioned redundantly for Gary Wayne to stay down and quiet, and they watched as a lone horseman riding a large blood bay stallion approached their stand of yucca. Though the horse clearly moved at a walk, Gary Wayne thought it seemed to cover at least as much ground as Gringo did at canter. The rider was a large man of ruddy complexion, wearing a wide brimmed parson’s hat with a beaded band in greens, white, and reds. He wore a reddish-brown corduroy coat over a tan work shirt open to the chest, and canvas riding trousers. He scanned both sides of his path as he rode, but if he saw Lancaster and Gary Wayne, he made no sign, merely ambled his horse further along the way towards Lancaster and Gary Wayne’s campsite.

  Once he had passed, Lancaster motioned for Gary Wayne to follow as he moved silently from his cover, strode to the middle of the path, and drew his pistol. Gary Wayne first looked alarmed, then confused. Lancaster’s pistol, while polished to a bright silvery shine, seemed only partially complete, with a frame that only barely held the cylinder in place and a barrel seemingly tacked on. That pistol is as liable to explode in his hand as it is to shoot anything, Gary Wayne though and finally resigned himself to the confrontation ahead, drawing his own sidearm and leveling it at the rider’s receding back.

  “Bert Selleck?” Lancaster raised his voice to just below a yell; the rider pulled the horse to a stop and looked over his shoulder. He looked blankly at first Lancaster then Gary Wayne before turning back and spurring his horse forward again.

  Lancaster sighed, raised his arm slightly and fired his pistol with a near-deafening explosion. Gary Wayne held his fire, at first surprised that Lancaster’s hand survived the explosion, then impressed that the gun had to. Turning back to their quarry, Gary Wayne was doubly surprised to see that Lancaster had succeeded in merely fraying the shoulder seam of the rider’s coat.

  The rider again drew his horse to a stop, but this time, he slowly dismounted and, brushing singed fibers from his shoulder, turned to address the two lawmen. As he turned, Gary Wayne swore he knew the man, but quickly decided he didn’t. Just a trick of the light, he thought.

  “Well, you didn’t shoot me in the back,” he said with a smile and seemed to wink at Gary Wayne, “That bodes well for us both, I think.”

  Just a trick of the light, Gary Wayne thought again, but who was it he reminded me of?

  The stranger then looked at Lancaster and held out his hand, “You are correct, sir,” he announced. “I am indeed Bert Selleck; I own a small ranch and alfalfa farm just over the hill yonder.”

  Lancaster gripped Selleck’s hand firmly and gave it one solid shake before releasing it. “My name is Lancaster O’Loch, and this lad is m’apprentice, Gary Wayne Orkney.” Gary Wayne nodded but did not reach his hand out. Lancaster continued, “We are riding from Bretton on business for Ardiss Drake, and I’m afraid, we’ve some questions for ye.”

  Selleck nodded for Lancaster to continue.

  “We have met some lasses along our way who have leveled serious accusations against ye.”

  “Have they indeed?” Selleck mused. “And what sort of accusations have they levied?”

  Gary Wayne answered before Lancaster could continue. “They say that you destroyed their village after raping and murdering the women.”

  “Well,” Selleck’s grin grew wider, “they clearly were not murdered, and I can only assure you that I have destroyed no villages in my recent memory, and I find rape…distasteful.”

  “How about distant memory?” Lancaster asked. “Did ye find rape ‘distasteful’ in your younger days, I wonder.”

  How distasteful does he find murder, I wonder. Gary Wayne continued to stare at Selleck, his memory of the man dancing lightly in the far corners of his mind. He said nothing about that, did he?

  Selleck laughed deeply and heartily. “A very good point, Mr. O’Loch.” His laugh dwindled to a thoughtful chuckle. “A very good point indeed. No, sir. I have, in my long life, neither murdered women, nor raped them. But come,” he said brightly, “let’s ask them ourselves. I assume they are still at your campsite, yes? And is it not the custom of the country here to allow the accused to face his accusers?”

  With that, Selleck turned his back to the lawmen and returned to his horse. He picked up the reins instead of remounting and began to walk the horse in the direction of camp. Lancaster and Gary Wayne shrugged and followed behind.

  “What the hell kind of gun you have, Lank?” Gary Wayne asked as they holstered their weapons. “Looks like it’d fall apart after one shot.”

  Lancaster looked hurt. “This, sir, is a Webley double-action revolver. It is the gun that tamed His Majesty’s empire.”

  “Wobbley, huh?” Gary Wayne chuckled. “I can’t think of a better name for it.”

  Lancaster only scowled and holstered his weapon, turning back to follow Selleck.

  “Why are we doing this, Lank?” Gary Wayne asked following along behind him. “Do we not need to get back on Greene’s trail?”

  Lancaster stared at Selleck’s back and breathed deeply. “What do you think we should do, Gary Wayne?” he asked. “Should we leave these ladies to the mercy of Selleck? After all, he is either a murdering rapist or they have lied about him grievously. Either way, he cannae be too happy with them, can he?”

  “Well, I mean,” Gary Wayne stammered. “You have a point, Lank, a damned good one, but the trail is not getting any warmer the longer we dally.”

  Lank sighed contemplatively. “What does your gut tell you we should do, Gary Wayne?”

  Gary Wayne thought about that. “It tells me we need to see this through, first,” he replied. “But logically, I know we…”

  “Laddie,” Lancaster stopped, turned and looked Gary Wayne in the eye. “if ye take nae else away from our time together, mark this and mark it well. Trust your gut, boy. It’ll lead you where you need to be more times than not.”

  V.

  Boris woke up with the sun shining almost directly overhead. He had intended to sleep only an hour, maybe two, but as soon as he settled into Percy’s bed (neither of them had felt comfortable sleeping in Laney’s bed, and Gary Wayne had insisted Boris take the kid’s bed while he dozed on the couch), he slipped into a deep and dreamless sleep. It was only the stifling noonday heat that woke him now.

  “Gary Wayne?” His voice came out slurred as if here were speaking through molasses. “Gary Wayne, you up?”

  No answer.

  Boris slowly drug himself erect and swung his leaden legs to the floor. “Gary Wayne, get up. It’s after noon. We gotta hit the trail, whichever way we’re heading.”

  Still no answer.

  Boris pulled himself to a stand and stomped his feet to wake them up, then moved into the common room.

  Gary Wayne was not on the couch. Boris felt his gut sink. Quit worrying, he thought. He’s probably just before you and saddling the horses.

  Boris went back to the room and pulled his shirt on, buttoning it as he walked back through the common room and onto the porch.

  There was only one horse tied to the railing, and it wasn’t Gringo.

  Something white caught his eye, and Boris spied a piece of paper folded and shoved into the gap where one log rail met another. He knew what it was before he pulled it free and unfolded it.

  The note was written Gar
y Wayne’s neat blocked letters:

  Boris [it read],

  You are right. The boy needs to know about his ma. Go on back to Bretton and tell him. I will trail the shitass alone. I will mark my trail as I go. When you have told the boy, come back and find me. When I find him, I will try to wait unless he gives me no choice.

  Gary Wayne

  Boris folded the note carefully and stuck it into one of Valliant’s saddle bags. Gary Wayne had at least saddled both horses before leaving. Goddamn it, Gary Wayne, Boris turned back to get his jacket and pull on his boots. You are one sure-fire pain in my ass.

  If he left now without coffee or breakfast, he could probably catch up with him. Gary Wayne did have a point. Percy’s ma would be just as dead whether they got back to Bretton tomorrow or next month, and it would hurt Percy just as much finding out then as it would now. In the meantime, Gary Wayne was either a liar or a fool if he honestly thought he would be able to wait on Boris to face Lancaster.

  Nope, he thought as he finally mounted Valliant and turned the horse to follow Gringo’s tracks, I reckon my choice is made for me.

  Chapter Two – Rev. Tallison

  I.

  Merle Tallison sat in the back of The Caring Lion, playing solitaire. He often played solitaire when he wanted to think. It was a habit he had picked up during the war. As a camp minister, Merle often found that the soldiers, especially the younger boys, the drummer boys, buglers, and teenaged foot soldiers who had lied about their age to go on a grand adventure, would regularly come to him, especially after their first battles, for comfort and reassurance. Most of the boys were ashamed of their response to battle, to their initiation into organized and sanctioned murder, which was, by and large, a blend of disgust, fear, and blind panic. Some of them, a not inconsiderable number, dropped their weapons or instruments in the heat of battle and ran at their first opportunity to the nearest tree line, there to wait until the smoke cleared and they could slip back into their regiments unobserved. These boys almost always wanted reassurance that they were not the cowards they had berated themselves for being, and they wanted Merle’s assurance that God would forgive their cowardice and grant them another chance to redeem themselves in the field.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” he inevitably assured them, “There is always another chance to prove yourself in battle.” He never told them, however, that God would provide this opportunity, only that the opportunity was always there, like the air.

  Other boys, those who had not run but had stood their ground and witnessed the slaughter (or in the case of those adventurous runaways, who had contributed to it) came to his tent deeply concerned that by participating in the wholesale slaughter, they had condemned themselves to the eternal fires of perdition. When the war was young, and God had still spoken to Merle, he invariably explained to these children that there was a difference between state-sanctioned war, however, awful and bloody an affair, and the spirit of the sixth commandment.

  “It is understandable that you would feel this way,” he would soothe them, his hand on their shoulders, squeezing fatherly, “but there is a difference between murdering a man in cold-blooded anger, and deciding a moral question on the field of battle. God understands the difference, and forgives you even before you ask.”

  Is it any wonder, he would later ask himself, that God chose no longer to speak to me? How could he not abandon me after such lies?

  Later, during what Merle would call The Great Silence, he would approach these boys differently. When the boys came in worried for their souls, Merle would now assure them that they had indeed jeopardized their afterlives “for God has commanded us not to kill, and his Son Jesus Christ called us to love one another. You cannot,” he’d continue without the fatherly hand on the shoulder, “take up arms in war, even in defense of your homeland and culture, and not defy both these commandments.” Here, he would inevitably lower his head, looking warningly at his visitor beneath a furrowed brow. “You are damned,” he’d say. “But you scarcely could be otherwise. Given the choice of a pure soul shot for treason and a tainted soul choosing damnation and a longer life, I know of few who’d take purity.” Then he would take the remorseful young killer’s hand and lead him in prayer:

  “I confess to Almighty God, to his Church, and to you, that I have sinned by my own fault in thought, word, and deed, in things done and left undone; especially in the taking of human life. For these sins, I am truly sorry. I pray God to have mercy on me. I firmly intend amendment of life, and I humbly beg forgiveness of God and his Church, and ask you for counsel, direction, and absolution.”

  This was a slight alteration of the Confession as written in Merle’s prayer book, which included a claim of remorse for “all other sins which I cannot now remember.” After The Great Silence, Merle omitted this line from his prayer, reasoning that it was disingenuous to ask forgiveness for sins that you could not be bothered to feel remorse sufficient enough to spur your memory.

  As the war dragged on, more and more boys came to replace the lost boys dead in battle (after Gettysburg, for instance, Merle seemed convinced his entire company had been replaced by children). Merle discovered that as more and more children came to him for counselling, he felt less and less able to comfort them. What, he wondered, could he possibly tell them that would help? Was it not the veriest presumption to offer solace in God’s name if the deity Himself would not be prevailed upon to comfort Merle?

  He found himself more frequently avoiding the boys when they came to his tent, but they could be an insistent lot. He sometimes knelt, folding his arms in mock prayer on the seat of his stool when he heard the sounds of an approaching penitent. However, the visitor would more than likely kneel beside him on entering the tent, forcing him to transform the faux prayer into an actual (if ineffectual) prayer. As the camp minister, apparently the young men assumed Merle would not mind their interruptions. If a boy entered Merle’s tent to find minister reading, he would think nothing of interrupting him. It did not matter what he read: if Merle was reading his bible or prayer book, the visitor would take that as a sign that the reverend was in a spiritual frame of mind and would welcome the opportunity to commune directly with the Lord; a more secular reading selection meant only that the minister was merely passing time idly until an opportunity to practice his divine calling presented itself. Even the privies proved no sanctuary, and Merle often found his morning ablutions transformed into a reverse confessional as he sat within the outhouse providing absolution to a penitent kneeling outside against the door.

  Oddly, the soldiers drew the line at interrupting a card game. Once, when Reverend Tallison really was simply passing idle time with a game of solitaire, a new young recruit fresh from his first skirmish entered the minister’s tent, wiping his eyes with the gray sleeve of his jacket.

  “Reverend,” the young man declared, “if I don’t talk to someone soon, I’m gonna die.”

  Merle placed his hand of cards face down on the desk and looked patiently at his intruder. “How may I help you?”

  However, as soon as the boy saw the face-down cards placed below the tableau of face-up cards on the desk, he began to back out of the tent.

  “I’m sorry,” he said in an embarrassed stammer. “I didn’t know you was busy.”

  “Not at all, son,” Merle began to rise from his seat. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “No no,” the boy said waving his hands, “You finish your game. I’ll come back later. It’ll keep.”

  And before Merle could stop him, the young man had left the tent.

  From that day forward, Merle made it a habit to play at least one hand of solitaire a day. It was the only time he had, and it became a kind of meditation for him. After the war, he continued the habit, even learning new variations of the game to have a selection of games to play based on the length of time he wished to think.

  II.

  Today he had slowly laid a gypsy spread of three rows with seven cards. As he placed each c
ard face-down, in turn, he found himself glancing to his left, as if he could peer through the walls of the Caring Lion straight through the buildings beyond and into Ardiss’ house. He slowly flipped his first cards: the ten of clubs, eleven of diamonds, two of hearts, five of spades. Ardiss had been on Merle’s mind much of late. Lord knew, the sheriff had an ample plenty on his plate these days: wife run off with his best friend and confidante, one nephew killed by the same best friend, and another nephew left town, hell-bent on vengeance. He placed the last three cards of the first row: four of clubs, eleven of hearts, and the eight of spades.

  Merle stared intently at the revealed cards, considering them carefully as if the answers to all his and Ardiss’ problems lay somehow revealed. After a few seconds, though, he shook his head clear and began flipping the second row. Ace of cups. Merle could picture Ardiss now in his study on the second floor of his house, overlooking the schoolhouse across the thoroughfare. Two of clubs. He sat alone, staring out as the children chased each other in the schoolyard, now playing tag, now playing Injun in the Middle. Four of spades. In the guestroom down the hall, Ardiss could hear the slow susurrus of the young man, Percy Murratt as he slept.

  Morgan Todd, the town doctor, had administered a light sedative to the boy as soon as Merle had carried the delirious boy to him seven days ago.

  “Keep him watered,” Doc Todd had advised. “But he also needs his rest.” The doctor nodded out his office window at Ardiss hurrying across the street. “I done asked Ardiss if the boy can stay in his guestroom. I figure giving Ardiss something to occupy his mind right now can’t do him any harm either. Ain’t no use that whole house sitting empty save for Ardiss, and ain’t no use Ardiss sitting idle.”

  When Ardiss entered the office, Merle and Doc Todd turned to him.

  “This the boy, Morgan?” Ardiss asked nodding at Percy’s unconscious form.