The Scarlet Pen

by Jennifer Uhlarik

  Eyes widening, the idiot’s jaw cracked open. He collapsed backward with a short inhale as Stephen withdrew the knife. Instinctively, the man’s hands clamped over the wound, though Stephen batted them away as the blood soaked his dingy white shirt and trousers.

  When again the man grasped for the wound, Stephen wiped the blade on the idiot’s blanket, sheathed it, and stared into the wide eyes of the suddenly sober fellow. “No, I’m not angry.”

  “Help me.” The fellow’s terrified whisper pierced the night. “Please.”

  Stephen launched a vicious kick that snapped the man’s head back. Once the man slumped, unconscious, Stephen pulled the blanket over him.

  “Not angry at all.”

  In the fastly dwindling light, he returned to his bedroll, retrieved the last sandwich from the bag he’d bought, and took a bite.

  Clay awakened in a sweat, the nightmare’s haunting images so vivid he fought to free himself from the binding bedclothes as if they were his attacker. Kicking them off, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and looked around the dark room, unsure at first where he was.

  The Draycotts’ guesthouse. Not his family home in St. Joseph. Cyrus Jupe wasn’t here.

  Tension drained so fast, he sagged back into the feather mattress. Why had the nightmares returned of late? He’d not had them in several years—thought maybe God had taken them away completely.

  Obviously not.

  “Father, why now? What is this about?” The only thing that might explain it was how much seeing Thomas and Cynthia Draycott had reminded him of himself and Dori on the worst day of his life. It was the only trigger he could think of. “Is that it, Lord?”

  He lay across the mattress another few minutes, then sat up again, lit the lamp beside the table, and fished his worn Bible from his bag. He’d learned—when the memories came and the nightmares pounded him, it was the only peace he would find.

  An hour. One hour since he’d sunk his blade into the fat belly of the drunken fool. Stephen’s heart still pounded with the thrill of it, and his limbs still tingled with the warmth of excitement. But come daylight, he could have some issues.

  “Munson, wake up.” Stephen shook the sleeping man.

  His traveling companion breathed deeply and tugged the blankets to his chin. “What?”

  “This fool didn’t even lay in wood to get through the night.”

  “Go find some, then.” Munson burrowed deeper.

  “Let’s go. I’ve packed everything and saddled the horses. We can make Steubenville within the hour.” Far better to get him up and away now than to risk him discovering Stephen’s action after daybreak. In the five years they’d corresponded, Munson had proven he had no qualms about counterfeiting. He’d rob a person blind without a thought. But how would he feel about blood and violence? Little clues told Stephen he was somewhat squeamish.

  Even in the dark, Munson’s scowl was evident. “To do what? It’s the middle of the night!”

  “It’s colder than deuces out here, and that drunken idiot we camped with was too far gone to lay in proper supplies.” Thanks to Stephen’s blade, now he was just gone.

  Munson swore and waved a hand at the trees. “You got a forest full of wood. Go find some.”

  Frustration locked Stephen’s muscles. “Go hang yourself. It was his camp. He should’ve done it.”

  “Then make him go.”

  Stephen envisioned the red stain that had spilled across the man’s filthy shirt like ink. “I’m not bothering with him. I didn’t want to stay here to begin with, and I’ll not try to get the sot awake to handle this. Let’s ride.”

  Munson growled something under his breath. “You lazy fool.” He threw back the covers. “If it’s such an issue, I’ll wake him up.” He rose.

  Stephen braced a hand against Munson’s chest. “You’re not listening.”

  If he couldn’t make Munson see reason, he’d kill him too. What might it feel like to wrap his hands around another person’s throat and squeeze the life out of him? To feel him struggle and fight, movements strong and forceful at first, but weakening as his body succumbed to death. But he couldn’t explore that thought. Not yet. Munson was still useful, what with his seemingly endless supply of counterfeit bills and his vast knowledge of how to survive in the shadowy world on the wrong side of the law. “Roll your bedding and mount up.”

  “Richards, you’re off your chump!” He batted Stephen’s hand away. “I’ll just put on my boots and get us enough wood to make it to morning, and—”

  “By the time you do, you’ll be as wide awake as I am. Neither one of us is likely to sleep again before dawn, so we might as well get on to Steubenville and the train.”

  “The train doesn’t leave for hours yet. We’ve got time.” Munson swore as he sat down again and pulled on his boots. “Help me gather an armload of wood, and we can both get some more shut-eye.”

  This was taking too long. He needed to end it now.

  From his pocket, Stephen pulled the .32-caliber Blue Jacket pistol he’d taken from home. Stalking back, he leveled the barrel at the drunk’s head and cocked the gun, the metallic click of the hammer unmistakable in the cold silence.

  “What’re you doing?” Munson clambered to his feet.

  “Either roll your bedding and let’s be off, or I’ll shoot this idiot.”

  Another string of curses erupted from Munson’s tongue, and he rushed up to shove Stephen’s hand out of alignment. “You are off, you crazy—”

  Stephen shoved him aside and leveled the pistol again at the blanket-clad body. “You coming?”

  “Yes, you scum-eating toad,” Munson hissed. “I’m coming. Now put that thing away before someone gets hurt.”

  “Fine, then.” Stephen lowered the hammer and stalked toward the horses.

  “Give me a minute to roll my bedding, and I’ll be along.”

  Stephen tucked the gun away and mounted his horse, squinting into the moonlight. Minutes passed, the only sound that of Munson shuffling around.

  When he finally mounted and rode alongside, Munson slapped the hat from Stephen’s head, sending it flying into a nearby bush.

  “Rather childish, don’t you think?” Stephen groused as he dismounted to retrieve it.

  “You make about as much sense as flowers growing in a snowstorm, Richards. Exactly none. A grown man too lazy to gather firewood, but he’ll break camp and ride a few miles in the middle of the night.”

  The image of choking the other man came again, though this time Stephen shoved it aside. Munson was useful, but perhaps one day he’d live out the fantasy of strangling the life from him just to see how it felt.

  Chapter 6

  Mount Pleasant, Ohio

  February 2, 1876

  It had been a short night, what with the nightmare that had awakened him suddenly. Clay had managed to get back to sleep and rest peacefully after an hour of Bible reading and prayer. Awakening again at dawn, he’d prepared for the day, then sat in one of the comfortable chairs in the well-appointed guesthouse to read through the list of names Emmitt Draycott had given him the previous night.

  He blew out a breath at the list’s length. It would take days to speak to everyone named and ferret out who was passing the counterfeit banknotes. He extracted the list he’d received from Melcher’s Emporium naming the people who’d recently paid for their purchases with twenty-dollar notes and compared the two. His attention lingered on the final name, the only one he recognized. Stephen Richards. Surely, that was the purchase he’d seen the man making the day he’d met Miss Draycott.

  His mind shifted to the pretty gal. He’d not meant to stare the previous evening, but something had obviously been wrong, given her red-rimmed eyes. If he’d had the opportunity, he would have asked her if all was well. However, they’d been surrounded by her entire family, and none of them seemed alarmed at the sadness in her eyes, so he’d kept his mouth shut. As he’d sat awake after the nightmare, it had been near impossible to forc
e her from his mind, so he’d spent part of the night asking God to ease whatever might be paining her.

  “Focus, Timmons—on something other than the pretty gal.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. It’d become far too easy to let his mind wander to her since they’d met.

  He pinned his attention on the lists again. Did any names match? He read them carefully. Not a one.

  “Lord, show me where to look.”

  As he leaned in to scan the names again, a knock interrupted him.

  Laying both pages aside, Clay rose and grabbed his weathered Bible.

  Thomas awaited him outside. “Morning, Mr. Timmons. Breakfast is ready.”

  “Morning, yourself.” He tucked the book under his arm, shut the door behind him, and followed his young host toward the main house.

  “Did you have a good night?”

  “Far quieter than sleeping in the stable.” He wouldn’t mention the dream.

  “I would imagine so.” The young man fell silent, which afforded Clay a moment to look around. In the light of day, the Draycott place was even more impressive than what he’d thought the previous night. A large and sprawling back lawn gave way to farming fields, all which sat fallow in these cold months. A banker and a farmer? Draycott had done well for himself, it appeared.

  Thomas led him inside and to the dining room, where the rest of the family was already seated.

  “Morning. Hope I didn’t keep y’all.” He cringed inwardly at letting the y’all slip. There was little he could do about his Texas accent, but when working cases in the East, he tried not to speak too much like the country hayseed he was, especially around the likes of the bankers and business owners he often dealt with. Thankfully, if any of his hosts noticed his slip, none reacted.

  “Welcome,” Mr. Draycott said. “You’ve not kept us. Please, have a seat.”

  Clay took the place at the end of the table, facing Emmitt Draycott at the head. Thomas and Cynthia sat on either side of Clay, and at the opposite end, flanking Mr. Draycott, Emma and her mother.

  Mr. Draycott offered a brief blessing, and they all began to eat.

  “Did you sleep well, Mr. Timmons?” the lady of the house asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. Very well, thank you.” The bite of ham melted in his mouth. Once he’d swallowed, he looked Thomas’s way. “You’ve asked a couple times about the Pony Express. Thought you might be interested to see this.” He handed over the leather-bound Bible. Clay indicated the gold lettering on the spine, now largely faded.

  “Presented by Russell, Majors, and Waddell.” Thomas looked up, wide-eyed. “The founders of the Pony Express gave you this?”

  “Alexander Majors was a very godly man. He insisted that the Pony Express give all their employees a copy of God’s Word, and they expected their riders to take an oath to honor the Lord, stay away from strong drink, foul language, fighting, and other bad behaviors.”

  “And did you?” Miss Draycott asked from the other end of the table.

  “They didn’t hire any man who refused.”

  “I meant, did you uphold it?”

  “Emma,” Mr. Draycott growled. “That’s hardly appropriate.”

  “It’s all right, sir. It’s a valid question.” He speared another bite before meeting Miss Draycott’s gaze. “To put it mildly, most of the riders tended to be a rude, fractious, and foul-mouthed lot. I was far from perfect, miss, but I did try to uphold those vows.”

  Cynthia touched his sleeve. “Emma said that the Pony Express preferred orphans. Does that mean you are one?”

  The unexpected question sloshed sadness over him like a wave of icy water.

  “Cynthia Mae.” Mrs. Draycott grabbed the girl’s wrist even as she turned an apologetic look on him. “Forgive my daughters, please.”

  “Nothing to forgive, ma’am. I don’t mind questions.” He smiled at Cynthia. “Yes, little lady. I am.”

  Both Mr. and Mrs. Draycott opened their mouths as if to divert the discussion elsewhere, but before they could, Clay pressed on.

  “My pa died when I was nine, and my ma and sister just after I turned thirteen.”

  Cynthia’s eyes misted. “That’s terrible. Have you been alone since then?”

  “No. God was real good to me. A few days after Ma and Dori died, I joined the Pony Express, and a couple of the other riders, Zeb Elder and PJ Guthrie, realized I was in a bad way. They were older—eighteen or nineteen—but two of the steadier fellas in the bunch. They took me under their wing, protected me from the incessant teasing of a lot of the older, rougher sorts. They taught me the value of hard work and clean living, how to be a man. I thank God every day for ’em.”

  Clay glanced down the table to Emma. “Those fellas were the reason I stayed true to my vow as well as I did.” He returned his focus to Cynthia. “Once the express closed, a childless couple—Seth and Deborah Quinn, friends of Mr. Majors—took me in. I finished my growing-up years in their home in Omaha.”

  The younger Draycott daughter laid a hand over her heart. “I’m glad. I couldn’t bear the thought that you had to grow up on your own.”

  “It does seem God was watching over you.” The elder daughter motioned for Thomas to pass her the Bible.

  “That He was. They provided me a lot of love and a good family.”

  For an awkward moment, she held his gaze then glanced down to the spine of the Bible before peeking inside.

  “Are you still close with them?” Mrs. Draycott asked.

  Clay shifted his focus to her. “Seth passed a few months ago, but I’m quite close to Deborah. In fact, the reason I’m this far east is because she wanted to move closer to her brother and sister in Pittsburgh, so for the last month, I’ve helped her pack and move.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about Mr. Quinn, but it’s very kind of you to help his wife.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. It’s a small price to pay for all they did for me.”

  Thomas spoke again. “Did you ever see Indians?”

  He laughed at the sudden shift of conversation. “More times than I can count. I lived in Texas my early years, after all.”

  “Right.” He pondered that for half a breath before plunging on. “What about bandits or desperados? Did anyone ever try to steal the mail from you? Attack you? Shoot you?”

  A wry grin overtook Clay. “I had a few run-ins.”

  “Did they succeed?”

  Clay sobered some. “Not at stealing the mail, no.”

  “Aww, c’mon. Surely you’ve got some kind of exciting story to tell.”

  Emmitt Draycott again acted as if he might speak, but Clay beat him to it. “I did have one particularly bad run-in, and I carry the scars from it, but I won’t be so uncouth as to share the sordid details at the breakfast table.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Timmons.” Mrs. Draycott nodded her approval.

  Thomas pondered that, then shook his head. “You’re teasing about that last part, aren’t you?”

  “About the scars? No, sir. I am not. That incident nearly cost me my life.”

  “Will you tell me that story when we’re not at the breakfast table?”

  “It’s not one I like to recall.”

  “That’s enough, Thomas.” Mrs. Draycott smoothed the napkin in her lap. “Let Mr. Timmons eat before his food grows cold.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Disappointment tinged his words.

  Emma closed the Bible, which she’d been perusing while they’d talked. “It would appear you’ve read this fairly thoroughly, Mr. Timmons, if the worn pages and ample notes are anything to go by.”

  Why did it please him that she’d noticed such details? “I’ve made it my practice since I received that Bible to start each morning with at least a psalm, and often more.”

  “And a fine practice it is.” Mr. Draycott punctuated the statement by rapping his knuckles on the table.

  Miss Draycott passed the Bible to her father. “Do you have a favorite verse or passage?”

  If she hadn’t asked, he’d have b
een able to rattle off a good many, but at her genuine curiosity, every coherent thought flew out of his head. “That’s a bit of an unfair question, miss. Choosing just one is pert near impossible.” Pert near? Had he forgotten the years of work the Quinns had put in to root out such turns of phrase from his vocabulary? “There are so many that inspire.”

  “Which several, then?”

  “Um …” Clay grasped mentally and finally rattled off the first verse he could lay hold of. “ ‘And what doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?’ ”

  “From the book of Micah, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right.” Thank goodness he’d remembered one. “And what about you, miss. Do you have any favorites?”

  “Oh yes. Isaiah one, verse eighteen. Do you know it?”

  “I’m not sure. How does it start?”

  “ ‘Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord.’ ”

  The familiar words came to mind quickly. “ ‘Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.’ Isn’t that the one?”

  Her eyes sparkled at his recitation. “ ‘Though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.’ You know your scriptures.”

  Clay resisted the urge to fidget. There was absolutely no reason her praise should thrill him as much as it did.

  Steubenville, Ohio

  With midmorning sunlight warming him through the restaurant window, Stephen stared out on the edge of Steubenville. The little eatery sat on the main thoroughfare within view of the train station and the livery where Munson slept. Turning from the window, he sipped his coffee and reread the brief note Emma had wrapped the pen and ink set in, then flipped to the other page, which he’d not read the previous night. It took only a few words to recognize the Bible verse she often quoted.

  Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.

  What would possess her to send the verse? Had she had some premonition of what he would do on his first day apart from her? There was no way she could have. He’d given her no forewarning he was leaving, and she’d been so tearful in their final moments, he doubted she’d had many thoughts at all.