by Al Lacy
In the hotel dining room, Jenny chose a table near one of the windows. A diminutive young lady wearing a crisp white apron approached the table with a menu in hand. Speaking in a southern drawl, she said, “Good evening, Miss. Our special is a roast beef dinner with all the trimmings. Or you can order off the menu.”
At the mention of food, Jenny suddenly realized how hungry she was.
“The special sounds good to me. And a pot of tea, please.”
“All right. I’ll be right back with your tea.”
As the waitress walked away, Jenny eased back in the chair and let her gaze roam around the room. The place was almost full, and suddenly she realized that at every occupied table, there were couples or families. She was the only person there who was alone.
Her thoughts ran to her parents. Both dead.
Then to Nate Conrad. She had lost him.
Jenny sighed. I see nothing but loneliness in my future.
The waitress returned, carrying a tray with steaming teapot, cup and saucer, cream and sugar. She poured the tea into the cup, saying the roast beef dinner would be there shortly.
Jenny pushed the sugar bowl and small cream pitcher aside, picked up the cup, and took a sip. Her mind went to Dan Tyler. She felt frustration caused by the fact that she had failed to find the dirty killer. Now what? She was just too tired to think about it at that moment.
Soon her dinner was served by the waitress. Jenny managed to devour most of it, and felt a bit more energy coursing through her body as she walked to the counter and paid the bill.
When she entered her room, she laid the purse on the dresser and took off her hat. With her mind on Dan Tyler again, and feeling the frustration of not finding him, she fidgeted and paced the floor. How was she going to stand it, knowing her father’s killer was walking free and unpunished somewhere out west?
Jenny’s pacing went on until deep into the night. Finally she sat down on the edge of the bed and resigned herself to the fact that the west was too big for her to be able to track Tyler down, even if she had the money to go out there.
She must accept it. She would never have the satisfaction of exacting justice on the man who murdered her father, and by so doing, took the life of her mother.
Feeling sick at heart, she prepared herself for bed, put out the lanterns, and slipped between the covers. Moments later, sleep claimed her.
Suddenly, Jenny was dreaming.
Time had slid back some ten years. She was on a picnic with her parents at the Harrisburg Park. Other families were there. Children were laughing, playing, and having a good time.
Nine-year-old Jenny was among them. She knew most of the boys and girls; they were her schoolmates.
While playing a game of tag with the other children, Jenny noticed a girl her age who she knew well, sitting alone at a picnic table, crying. Her name was Maggie Knowles. Maggie’s mother had died of consumption a few months previously. At the moment, Maggie’s father was playing horseshoes with some of the men on the other side of a stand of trees, and apparently thought Maggie was involved with the other children in their games.
Jenny’s heart was suddenly heavy for Maggie. She dropped out of the tag game and hurried to the table where Maggie sat. Maggie looked up at her through a wall of tears while drawing a shuddering breath.
“Maggie, what’s wrong?”
“All … all the other children here have their mothers with them, Jenny. But my mother is dead.”
Jenny put her arms around her. “I’m so sorry that your mother died, Maggie. If I could, I would take all the hurt out of your heart.”
Maggie hugged her tight. “Thank you, Jenny. You are a true friend.”
Jenny continued talking to Maggie in a soft voice until the weeping stopped. Maggie thumbed the tears from her cheeks and told Jenny she felt better. She would be all right now.
Jenny headed back to the picnic table where her parents were sitting and talking to the parents of a boy and girl from her school. She set her eyes on her Mama and Papa and told herself how awful it would be if one of them were to die.
The sound of her own sobbing awakened Jenny. She sat up in the hotel room bed, trembling. “Oh, Mama! Oh, Papa! It is awful! It’s terrible! I miss you so much, and I will never see you again!”
Early the next morning, while Jenny was brushing her hair at the mirror, she stopped and looked at herself in the reflection. “Since you’re already in the South and you still have some money, why not go over to Andersonville and see if you can find Papa’s grave? I think it would make you feel better if you could visit his grave.”
She firmed her jaw and nodded. “Yes. I like that idea.”
When she arrived at Chattanooga’s depot, she approached a ticket agent.
“Good morning, young lady. May I help you?”
“Yes, sir. I need to go to Andersonville, Georgia. Can you route me there?”
“I can put you on a train that will take you to Atlanta, ma’am. You will change to another train there that will take you down to Macon. At Macon, you will have to hire a buggy at the depot that will take you down to Andersonville.”
“All right. How soon can I get a train to Atlanta?”
“There’s one that leaves in forty-five minutes.” He checked a sheet of paper. “You’ll arrive in Atlanta at nine-fifteen. The train I’ll book you on in Atlanta will leave at nine forty-five. You’ll arrive in Macon at eleven-thirty.”
Jenny opened her purse and took out the wad of currency. “Let’s do it.”
At noon, Jenny walked out of the Macon railroad station and approached the driver of a buggy who was putting grease on an axle. He rose to his feet and smiled, wiping grease from his fingers with an old rag. “You needin’ a ride, ma’am?”
“Yes, sir. I want to go to Andersonville.”
“Well, it just so happens that this ol’ buggy has been wantin’ to get down to Andersonville again and so has my horse.”
“I … I need to go to the prison camp there. My father was a prisoner in the camp during the last few months of the War. He died just before the War ended. I want to visit his grave. Do you know where the prison camp is?”
“Sure do. Been right by it many times.”
It was just past two-thirty when the driver pulled the buggy up to the gate in front of the Andersonville Prison Camp. The gate stood open, and from what they could see, the place was deserted.
Jenny craned her neck, peering as well as she could inside the stockade. “Do you know where the graveyard is?”
Before the driver could answer, an elderly man appeared from under the guard tower and came through the gate. “Somethin’ I c’n do for you folks? I’m Jess Walz, the attendant here.”
“Mr. Walz,” said Jenny, “my name is Jenny L–ah … Jenny Blair. My father was a Union soldier. He died as a prisoner in the camp shortly before the War ended. I would like to visit his grave.”
“Well, ma’am, I need to explain somethin’.”
“Yes?”
“First, let me say I’m sorry that your father died here.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You see, ma’am, the prisoners weren’t buried in individual graves, but in mass graves. There is no way to know which of the mass graves holds the body of your father.”
Jenny bit her lower lip. “Oh.” She took a deep breath. “Would it be all right if I just go there for a little while?”
“Of course.”
“Where is the graveyard?”
He pointed north. “It’s just over that ridge, ma’am.”
As Jenny alighted from the buggy, the driver asked, “Would you like me to go with you, Miss?”
She set soft, teary eyes on him. “Thank you, but I’d like to go alone.”
“Sure. I understand.”
“I won’t be very long.”
“Take your time, Miss. I’ll be right here.”
Jenny slowly made her way over the ridge and down the gentle slope to where the mass graves scarred t
he land. She stood on level ground and ran her eyes over the countless lengthy mounds of dirt, now speckled with weeds and tiny patches of grass.
“Papa … I’m so sorry I won’t be able to bring justice to the man who murdered you. I love you. I always will. Good-bye, Papa.”
Jenny turned and with shoulders slumped, made her way toward the slope, her eyes scanning the massive stockade wall that surrounded the Andersonville prison camp.
19
THE NEW MEXICO SUNSET WAS A GLARING BLAZE without clouds. It was Thursday, June 1, and Dan Tyler stood on the small balcony outside his second story room in Santa Fe’s Buena Vista Hotel, looking west toward the rugged Jemez Mountains. The mountains were taking a dark, uneven bite out of the sunset, and their long shadows were shading the desert in purple toward the spot where Dan stood.
“Lord,” he said, his voice full of awe, “You sure know how to paint pictures that would bankrupt the greatest orator on earth for words to describe them. That is beautiful!”
Dan was feeling the exhaustion of the long train rides he had taken since leaving Chattanooga seven days ago. The two-day layover in Little Rock due to a train wreck that tore up a lengthy section of track served only to weary him more.
His stomach growled. “Okay, okay. I know it’s time for supper.” He turned and went back into the room. He stopped when he saw the golden light of the lowering sun painting the walls with gold bars that were slowly changing to red. “Lord, if this is any example of what kind of sunsets You paint farther west, I’m sold on this part of the country already.”
He stepped out into the hall and headed for the staircase that would take him down to the first floor and the restaurant. He was about halfway down the hall when he heard angry voices inside a room a few steps ahead.
Suddenly the door came open and a young woman came out, weeping. A male voice snapped, “Marlene, you get back in here, or I’ll beat you half to death!”
She paused and looked back inside. “If you touch me, I’ll scream for the people down at the desk to call the law on you!”
Dan was moving toward her when a big, husky man came through the door, red-faced, with bulging eyes. “Get back in the room, Marlene! Right now!” As he spoke, he raised a hand, ready to strike her.
Dan rushed up. “Hold it, fella!”
Both the man and the woman turned to see who had spoken.
The man’s beefy features grew darker. “You stay out of it, mister!”
Dan shook his head. “If you touch her, I’ll have to take you down.”
The look in the woman’s eyes spoke a world of relief.
The man’s face looked like a thundercloud. “This is none of your business! She’s my wife, and if I want to beat her good, there’s nothin’ you can do about it. You ain’t man enough to take me down. You get out of here before I pound you like a nail into the floor!”
Dan’s piercing eyes locked on the man. “No man is going to beat on a woman, no matter who she is, as long as I’m around. Now you just cool off, mister.”
The big man cursed through his red blur of anger and stomped toward Dan. The woman put a shaky hand to her mouth and took a step back.
Dan braced himself, fists balled.
The beefy man’s eyes blazed as his right arm shot forward like a piston behind his fist. Dan saw it coming and dodged far enough that the fist whistled past his ear. He countered with a savage blow to the man’s mouth.
The man staggered back. His massive head settled into his shoulders until his neck was no longer visible. There was a low, rumbling sound in his throat.
Dan knew better than to let him set himself. He smashed him in the mouth again. The man staggered back, shaking his head, and fell on his back with a loud whump. Drops of blood flew from his mangled mouth.
Briefly, Dan saw the woman. Her own fists were doubled and her lips were drawn tight. “I’m going down to the desk for help.” She ran toward the stairs.
The big man was rolling onto his knees, fire in his eyes.
Dan stood before him, fixing him with a cold stare. “Better let it go, mister.”
The man stood up and wiped the back of his hand over his bloody mouth. He looked at the crimson brightness on his hand and let out an animal-like roar. He charged like a mad bull.
Well-experienced in handling the enemy on the battlefield when both were out of ammunition, Dan was on the balls of his feet. He dodged the muscular frame as it came his way. The big man roared, came to a stop, and whirled around, fury in his eyes. Before he had a chance to make a move, Dan’s fist caught him flush on the jaw with a loud cracking sound. The man’s head bobbed like his neck was made of rubber. Dan stepped in, cocked his fist, and unleashed another powerful blow, then hit him with the other fist.
The man’s knees buckled and he fell to the floor facedown in a heap. He was out cold.
Dan heard rapid thumping on the stairs. He turned to see Wally Ames, the clerk who had waited on him at the desk when he checked in.
Dan looked back down at the unconscious man, then met the clerk’s wide eyes. “Mr. Tyler, Mrs. Watson told me what happened up here. I’ve got a messenger on his way on horseback to the sheriff’s house. He just lives two blocks away. He’ll be here soon.”
“I was heading down to the restaurant for supper, but I guess I’d better wait till the sheriff gets here,” Dan said. “I’m sure he’ll want to talk to me.”
Mrs. Watson topped the stairs, panting, and hurried to the spot where her husband lay on the floor. She set admiring eyes on Dan. “Sir, I appreciate what you did. Louis was really angry. He would’ve hurt me.”
Suddenly there were more footsteps on the stairs. A husky man in his early forties with a badge on his vest appeared. He looked at Wally. “I was just down the street when your messenger spotted me and told me what was going on.”
Wally nodded as the sheriff looked down at the big man on the floor, who was now beginning to stir.
“Sheriff,” said Wally, “his name is Louis Watson. And this is his wife.”
The sheriff touched his hat brim and nodded. “Mrs. Watson. I’m Sheriff Burt Benning.” Then to Dan: “I understand this man was about to rough up his wife. I assume you’re the one who intervened.”
“Yes. My name is Dan Tyler.”
“Well, Mr. Tyler, you did the right thing. Sometimes family squabbles are best left alone, but not when a man is about to beat up on his wife.”
“I can’t stand to see any woman manhandled. God made men physically strong so they could protect women, not beat up on them. Whenever I see a girl or a woman being manhandled—or even about to be manhandled—it gets to me, and I have to do something about it.”
Benning grinned. “Like I said, Mr. Tyler, you did the right thing.”
Louis Watson moaned and moved his head.
Mrs. Watson smiled at Dan. “Your wife is a very fortunate woman, Mr. Tyler. I know she appreciates your protective attitude toward her.”
Dan grinned. “Well, I’m not married, ma’am, but when I do find the right woman, I’ll take care of her.”
“I don’t doubt that. Bless you for it.”
Louis Watson rolled over, moaning louder.
The sheriff turned to Dan. “If you had something to do, Mr. Tyler, you can go. I’ll handle the situation.”
“All right. I was on my way down to the hotel restaurant when all of this started. I’ll just move on then.”
As Dan headed for the stairs, Mrs. Watson called after him, “Thank you again, Mr. Tyler.”
Dan smiled over his shoulder.
Just after sunrise the next morning, Dan was standing in front of the Wells Fargo office in Santa Fe, waiting for the stagecoach to come from the barn behind the office where the coach and team had spent the night. The Fargo agent had told him he would be the only passenger on the short trip down to Albuquerque this morning. At Albuquerque, Dan would board the stage that would carry him all the way to his destination, which was the town of Mogollon, Arizona.
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His head came around when he heard the rattle of the stagecoach and it came round the corner from the alley. To Dan, the stage was a thing of beauty as it bobbed serenely down the street behind the prancing team with chains jangling and harness rings shining in the early morning sun.
When the stage rolled to a halt, the driver smiled down at Dan. “You must be Mr. Tyler.”
“Sure am.”
“Since you’re our only passenger this morning, you can just take your bags inside with you.”
Dan placed his two bags on the front seat, climbed in, and sat on the backseat. The stage rolled south out of Santa Fe.
Two hours later, Dan boarded the westbound Wells Fargo stage with a well-dressed man in his early fifties and two elderly women. As the stage pulled away from the Fargo office, the ladies introduced themselves as Sadie Collins and Ruth Barton. Sadie explained that they were only going as far as Gallup. She added that both she and Ruth were hard of hearing and wouldn’t be very talkative on their short part of the trip.
The man nodded and smiled. “My name is Pastor Richard Kelmar, and I’ll be getting off at Holbrook, Arizona. I pastor a church in Holbrook. I’ve been in Albuquerque on business.”
“I’m going just a little further than you, sir,” said Dan. “I’m going to Mogollon. My name is Dan Tyler.”
The men shook hands. Kelmar asked, “Are you going to Mogollon on a visit?”
“No, sir. I’m going to make my home there. I was in the Civil War as a Confederate soldier. Two of my army pals have gone to Mogollon to live, and I’m going there to join them.”
The preacher nodded. “Well, let me tell you, Mr. Tyler, Mogollon is in a beautiful area. I’ve been there many times. The town is some sixty miles east of the San Francisco Mountains, and is situated in the magnificent Valley of the Little Colorado River. You’ll love it.”
“That’s what my friends told me in the first letter they sent. They really made it sound inviting.” Dan paused briefly. “Pastor Kelmar, may I ask you something quite personal?”
“Of course.”
