by S. L. Hawke
“It was the atmosphere. I’m sure of it,” Sloan said, still staring down into the gulch. Shaw-Jones narrowed his blue serpentine eyes and went over to the horn.
“I’ve set this up in other gulches nearby, and yes, you are correct in assuming that this could be normal phenomenon…But,” Shaw-Jones straightened and lifted his tiny but knobby chin, Faustino noticed. “There appears to be, at normal hearing range, no sound. These sounds are collected at a different level. Sound it would seem, has many frequencies.”
“As does electrical current,” Sloan finished, bringing a look of respect, Faustino thought, from this Englishman.
“You saw a mirage?” Shaw-Jones addressed Faustino directly and without aversion, pretense, or disdain. Faustino nodded. “A large needle on a hillside?” Shaw-Jones again narrowed his blue eyes and studied Faustino carefully, like a man looking for deception. This man, Faustino told himself, could not be deceived. Shaw-Jones smiled, not half way, and not a grin, just the smile of a man who knew he had not only won the game but had won the battle. “Of course,” he rumbled. “Absolutely,” he whispered.
Andrew Jackson Sloan, are you there? Can you speak to us? The voices echoed from within the horn, far way, like whispers. Faustino froze. Sloan stared at the horn mouth. Shaw-Jones moved a long metal, yes, Faustino saw, like a needle towards the gulch and turned a gear. A loud, crackling, whooshing sound like running water mixed with odd strains of music or was it a train? And then terrifying, high wailing noises greeted them. They faded as quickly as they appeared, but Shaw-Jones was scribbling madly in his diary.
“Talk back! Now!” Shaw-Jones gestured to Sloan. Sloan started then began to approach the horn. “No, speak to the Gulch now!!! Before we lose them!”
“Yes! I am here. What do you want with me? Why are you calling my name?”
“Will they answer?” Faustino whispered.
“They might. Listen,” Shaw-Jones also whispered.
Thank you. We want to know why you are here.
“What?” Faustino cried. “That does not make sense! Why are they here?”
“SHH!” Shaw-Jones waved at him.
We know you were killed here. Do you know who did it? Can you tell us?
“I’m not dead,” Sloan said in disbelief. “I’m NOT DEAD!!” he shouted towards the gulch.
You were killed on February 11th, 1865. You’ve been dead 150 years.
“My God,” Shaw-Jones whispered. “It is the future. It’s confirmed.”
“What?” Sloan looked at Shaw-Jones, then back to the gulch again.
“What are you talking about?” Faustino asked, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck go up just as Shaw-Jones was frantically reading a temperature gauge and taking notes. February 11th, 1865. Two years from now…
“Right here, across that gulch, I believe we have just bridged time.”
“What?” Faustino did not understand him. But the spirits, or the angels, or someone from another realm told them when Sloan and only Sloan was to die. Why was this so important?
“Now, here, is 1863, but there, out there, on this machine, we have recorded proof of the existence of the future.” Here Shaw-Jones did a quick calculation. “Two thousand and fifteen. That is one hundred and fifty years from now. What is here in 2015? Can you imagine what we could learn by communicating with this future?”
“But that means Sloan will die here!” Faustino looked terrified at the gulch and at Sloan. “You will die here. Will you get sick? Will you be hurt? Or will you be murdered here? We can’t let that happen!”
Shaw Jones smiled, almost as if he were El Diablo. “Precisely. That is why we must keep talking to them. They will know quite possibly the exact information we need.”
“Can we keep talking with them?” Sloan suddenly asked.
Shaw-Jones checked his temperature gauge and the strange long ‘needle’. “It’s very random. But perhaps they are listening in on us in the future. Perhaps if we could just make sure our presence here coincides with their monitoring of us, then we could communicate.”
“But if they are in the future, why can’t they talk to us all the time?” Faustino felt a sense of foreboding and frenzy.
“I don’t know.” Shaw-Jones took a deep breath. Again, Shaw-Jones looked at Faustino like he did earlier, at the wedding. They held one another’s gaze and then Faustino looked down in the gulch.
“Maybe it’s because other things are coming through and visiting us,” Sloan suddenly spoke. He told Shaw-Jones of a fat, well groomed dog that had appeared near a lake in the wilderness with a strange collar with a metal tag that said its name, Boomer, its sudden disappearance, and with it, roaring lights in the sky. Then he told of the voice that called to him again, asking if he were here, but called this place Arana Gulch.
“Those lights you see in the sky,” Shaw-Jones whispered. He straightened and turned off the machine. “That so called ‘needle’ you saw on the top of the hill, that is where you saw it? On the very top?”
Faustino could only nod.
“Like my ‘antennae’, perhaps in the future they harness vast amounts of electricity, from lightning. Or,” Shaw-Jones went silent, placed his fingers to his lips and began to pace. “The question is, what kind of machines could require so much electricity?”
“Antennae?” Sloan said with a half-smile. “Clever. I wish we could place one of those in a room and listen in on some of our enemies. We could bring in a lot of bad folk that way.” Then Sloan did a curious thing. He went over to his saddlebags and brought out something Faustino had never seen before. Shaw-Jones got very animated.
“My God, Sloan, you Americans have done it.”
Faustino moved over to the table where Sloan laid out some of his saddlebag contents.. Shaw-Jones had created a home for himself within the shop, occasionally remarking on the brilliance of the indoor plumbing facilities that extended to the shop itself.
It was a small box with a handle. When Sloan turned the handle the box’s end put out light. Yet there was no flame. “The things I could do with this,” Shaw-Jones rumbled.
“That’s the idea.” Sloan leaned against the table. “I need to know how I die, IF we can even trust what we hear. And why me? Why now?”
3
Harris House, Santa Cruz Township
“What could you possibly want to know from Jaime about Ingram?” Cynthia banged the stack of dishes down on the kitchen table. I shifted from foot to foot, feeling fourteen years old again, with my older sister scolding me for getting into her biscuits. Here she leaned across the table and scowled at me. “I have spent a good two years trying to erase the memory of that moment.” Cynthia let out a harsh breath. “The only reason I am allowing this is because he worships you. Margaret and her ridiculous letter reading nights got Jaime thinking you were some sort of gunfighter.” Here she narrowed her eyes. I straightened. This was not what I had expected. “It would be easy if you were a foul-tempered drunk chasing women or your horse, but the times I have had to tell him he could not ride with you, could not help you out in any way, has made my life impossible.”
“So I have your permission to talk with him?”
“What can he tell you? Other than he lay beaten and helpless while that animal of a man–” Cynthia looked away.
“Jaime did see the man at his worst. It’s either that or talk to Jane.”
“NO.” Cynthia crossed her arms. “That I will not allow.”
“I didn’t think so.” Jaime came in from the stables with Jonathan. He looked at both of us. I turned to face Jonathan.
“May I borrow your son for a moment?” Looking down at the young man in front of me I felt a sudden terrible yearning for Hiru. “Jaime, can I speak with you in private?” Jaime nodded, but he looked to Jonathan for permission. Jonathan closed his eyes as he nodded.
“Hold on, gentlemen. At least take this with you.” Sophia had come out from the kitchen with two plates, both holding large sandwiches filled with beef and ve
getables. “Conversation should always be met with a full stomach.” Jaime grabbed one plate and I took the other.
We found a clean spot to eat and watch the wagons navigate the hill down from the Mission school. The Sisters from the new orphanage were out with their charges, looking like geese in their starched white habits, managing their grey clad goslings.
“I coulda been one of them,” Jaime said suddenly.
“You love Mrs. Guild a lot, I can see.” As men, we ate a few bites in silence. Then Jaime looked up at me, his eyes fierce.
“Will you kill him?”
The question took me by surprise.
“Whom did you have in mind?” The experience had never left his mind. The sickness I felt for him made me both revile this life and marvel at the young man’s resilience. The decision to never talk down to a young adult, especially one that survived such an experience intact, kept me focused.
“Rufus Ingram, the grey coat hurt my sister.”
“Tell me what happened.” It was important for me to stay stock still.
“He hurt my sister. Bad. He found us out there–”
“Where?”
“The point. He wanted to see the waves. He was nice at first, asked me about the currents, the waves, the water tides. But all the while he watched Jane. I could tell.”
Jane was barely thirteen. Jaime, barely ten. Maybe I would kill him.
“How many times did he come out there?”
“About six or seven times. He brought us food, Jane, girl things. We thought he was being kind. We didn’t know Mom, uh, I mean–” (I waved him on to continue.) “I should have taken him another way – told him the best spot for boat landing was further down, then he would have never come back and–” Here Jaime became dangerously silent.
“Show me where he wanted to make a boat landing,” I said, taking his empty plate from him.
We took the buggy I brought down from the estate out to the ocean and went to the far point past the last farm. The hut Jaime and his sister once lived in was now being used by a Chinese family. Neat rows of vegetables, a clean line of laundry, and some chickens and a goat made this place less of a horror for Jaime.
To my amazement he greeted the inhabitants in Chinese. This was Cynthia’s helper, Wen, and her family. She kowtowed to me several times and was equally astounded when I bowed in return. I heard Jaime use the word “shaolin”, and then we were left to ourselves. Jaime pointed to a natural harbor that existed over the next cliff. A cave was also there. A perfect smugglers rendezvous on a road rarely watched.
The Sheriff, I wondered, was he paid to keep this clear for passage by the Rebels? The ledger might tell. Would he keep records, to blackmail for later? That seemed likely, judging by the ledger’s safe hiding place. No one cared about that cemetery.
“I want to go with you. To the camp, where Rufus Ingram lives.”
“I can’t let you do that, son.”
“I can take care of myself.” Jaime held his boy’s hands into fists. He was on the cusp of manhood, that much I could see. “I can write things down. Keep accounting of everything. I can also fire a pistol. Father – I mean – Mr. Guild showed me how.” This young man had a vendetta to settle, but he was too young to understand that justice had to move at its own speed and payment for one’s crimes sometimes came in ways we never could understand or see.
“Your mother would never forgive either of us. And there is a lot more use you can be here.”
“You mean I can help?”
Here, I reached into my vest pocket. I took out my star. I handed it to him. “You give this to the Marshal at Harris House. You tell him I deputized you to be our official U.S. Marshal recorder.”
Jaime handed the star back. “I want to shoot him. I want to look him in the eye too. Or are you going to tell me I won’t feel better even if I got the chance. I’m not a kid anymore. And Jane suffered because I didn’t–”
“You are not at fault here.” I placed my hand on his bony shoulder. Jaime hung his head. “Rufus Ingram will pay. I promise you that.”
He was trembling.
I continued: “These guys are mixture of stupid and smart. Which equals danger for everyone, especially your mom.”
“Because she listens to whore stories,” Jaime added. This kid was not to be underestimated. I sat down on a nearby rock, enjoying the sound of surf, the sun, the beauty of this view. Jaime was a handful. Something told me I should be worried.
“You still have buddies in Chinatown?” My thoughts were about the young boys Lam himself used as runners for medicines, messages, sometimes as lookouts. Jaime nodded vigorously. The boy needed a purpose and a way to set aside this burden he carried. My mind struggled to find something that would not set my sister on my hide.
“Is he there?” Jaime suddenly asked.
“Find out, but don’t spook him. You know what that means, don’t you?” Here Jaime looked a bit puzzled.
“Listen to the stories like your mom does with the whores, listen to your friends’ stories.” I took a breath. “Then let Marshal Sweeney know. Anything you hear.” Then I took his tiny shoulders in both my hands and knelt down looking at him in the eye.
“The Shaolin teaches his boys how to fight off bigger folk. How to use every day things as weapons. Learn from him.”
“I can do that.” Jaime straightened. He looked determined. Good, but there was one more thing I needed from him.
“Will you kill him? For Jane?” Jaime asked me again.
All I could do was swallow.
*******
Emma was greeted by a nicker and a gentle lean against her of the mare that once belonged to A.J. She smiled and brushed her down. Jonathan had taken her out with a trap and was amazed at her turning abilities the first time around.
“It’s like she’s always been a rig hauler.” He smiled as he helped brush her down. Then he went inside the hotel, after a strong insistence that she join them. Emma declined, saying she should make sure to make one last visit to Mrs. Sloan.
“We appreciate all you’ve done. Please know that,” Jonathan said in his firm but gentle manner. She embraced him and watched him leave the livery. She saw to the gelding that belonged to the young Marshal and grabbed a bucket to get the feed, when suddenly Ian McKenna stood at the end of the barn way. The afternoon light shone in behind him, blinding Emma from seeing his face.
“Of course,” he said quietly. Emma gasped. “Right under my very nose. Hidden in plain sight.” Emma dropped the bucket and quickly turned to run when a rope looped around her with a single whoosh. It cinched tight enough that she could still move, so she turned instead to face her attacker.
McKenna moved forward in a hard boot stride, pulling the rope towards him. Emma wrapped her hands around the rope in hopes of controlling it. She dropped down, hoping to use his weight like a tree limb and swing down and around, but Ian was fast and countered her pull and weight like a true rancher, pulling her completely back into him and wrapping another round of rope around her. Now her back was to him. “No, my princess. Not this time. No. If you will not marry me first, then perhaps after, when there is a child put in your belly.” Here he wrestled her into an unused stall that held only blankets. The doors to the livery had closed. McKenna had paid off the other stable hands to ensure privacy.
“Ian – please,” Emma squirmed against the bonds but Ian was a hard muscled, heavy man who quickly used his roping skills to pin her down. He fell on his back, wrapping one leg around her knees while one arm held her hard against him and the other hand deftly began to undo her trouser buttons.
“I should have known. I should have paid more attention to everything!” He was growling in a breathless way. “You and your wild ways, like a colt, needing to be broken.” He got the pants unbuttoned.
“Ian, please, don’t do this, please,” Emma hated herself for pleading, but she hoped he would be swayed by her fear, to ‘treat her right’. They heard the horses around them begin to neigh
loudly, one even began to bang the stall, but this seemed to arouse Ian, dangerously, to press himself against her.
Emma wriggled as best she could with her skills to get out of the rope, to create distance between their bodies, but he was strong and heavy. She cried out when he grabbed between her legs with one hand, while the other expertly trapped every move her arms tried to do. His one hand alone grabbed both her wrists and clamped down hard. In one deft movement, he pulled her arms up, used his legs to spread hers and flipped her on her belly, tore her trousers down, then cinched the rope tight, so that her arms were anchored forward. She tried to scoot away, using the rope to help her move forward, but this only encouraged him to tear away her silk sheaths and a hot, hard, fleshy mass began to delve into her bottom. Emma screamed in defiance. Warm liquid spurted from it.
A crash came down upon them as the stall side fell on top of them. Emma rolled out of the way just in time to see a comical sight. McKenna, erect penis exposed, hands held high up trying to fend off the hooves of a furious horse. A.J.’s mare had broken the stall side and kicked up, neighing fiercely and dropping her hooves down on him. Emma pulled her pants back up and simply ran. When she got to the door it was locked. She banged upon it, yelled to be let out. There was no latch on this side. Then she turned around and tried to run the other direction but Ian was there and he caught her again, lifting her up and throwing her over his shoulders.
Emma began to scream as loud as she could, blocking Ian’s fist from hitting her and ducking beneath his arm to freedom through the door. But again he was close behind her when suddenly a man loomed up and physically blocked McKenna. The blow knocked McKenna flat. The man turned to face Emma.
