Lawless

by John Jakes

  ii

  Gideon and Julia listened to his footsteps clack down the main staircase. Then came the distant slam of the front door. The venomous hazel eyes lingered in Gideon’s mind as he moved slowly to Julia and put his arms around her, feeling her shiver.

  Neither of them spoke. At last Gideon leaned down to retrieve the piece of the Beacon. He laid it on the tea cart, smoothed it almost as if it were a fragment of a priceless painting.

  “Let him try,” he said, wanting to sound much more confident than he felt.

  “I’m sure we won’t have to invite his wrath, Gideon.”

  “You really think he—?”

  She broke in. “I don’t think there’s any question of it.” And again Courtleigh’s presence seemed to hover near them, ruining their earlier enthusiasm for talk of his decision to join the New York Union.

  iii

  The eastbound express was arriving. The time had come.

  A cold autumn rain poured down on the roofed platform at Englewood Junction south of the city. Wind whipped the rain beneath the eaves, and drove silver needles through the beam of the locomotive’s headlight. The locomotive was still a quarter mile from the platform, pouring out steam and wood smoke that added to the murk of an afternoon already dark and dreary. Fast-flying black clouds filled the sky.

  Julia’s servants had managed to find a closed carriage for the trip. Many eastbound and westbound trains were using the country depot until those in the central city could be restored to full service. Riding through the rain with the wind-lashed lake on their left, Gideon had held Julia’s hand tightly and thought about the days just past. The discovery of his love for her was a wondrous experience, though it had now become a saddening one. He was taking the only sensible course, and he hated it.

  Still, he knew he dared not prolong the affair. It was wrong. That seemed a dismal admission to make about something so filled with joy and love, but it was inescapable. What he and Julia had done was wrong in the traditional sense, and memories of his biblical upbringing would never let him forget it. But abstract morality wasn’t the most compelling reason for his decision. In his opinion there was a much more practical and important one. The affair was wrong because it carried the possibility of pain and injury for others. For Margaret. For his children, should the liaison ever come to light by accident. For Julia herself if Courtleigh fulfilled his vow.

  No, unquestionably, he had to leave her. Perhaps breaking things off would have at least one benefit. He might spare her from Courtleigh’s reprisals.

  But now, on the platform illuminated by the headlight of the arriving express, it was proving hard to do what was right and necessary. Hard because her mouth was so sweet and eager. Hard because his will wavered.

  He lifted her off her feet, kissing her without embarrassment while waiting passengers gaped or made disapproving comments. Because the afternoon was chilly, Julia had worn a little fur-trimmed cape. The fur tickled his cheek as he pressed his face against hers.

  “Sometimes I wish this week had never happened.”

  “I know, dearest. It would be easier for both of us.” She drew back. “But what you must think about is—”

  A quick glance to see if there were any listeners close by. She saw none. And the express was chugging in, trucks rattling, drivers squealing, steam hissing, bell clanging in a way that sounded mournful, somehow. She formed a word in silence: “Courtleigh.” Then, aloud, she added, “He’ll do what he threatened.”

  “Yes, you’ve convinced me of that.”

  “You must be very careful, darling. Very careful of your family, too.” A wistful smile as she wiped rain—or tears—from her face. “Some of my freethinking sisters would drum me out of the movement if they saw me carrying on this way. I—I don’t quite know what you’ve done to me, Gideon. I’ve fallen in love with you, but at the same time, you’ve got me fretting about the welfare of the”—she had difficulty saying it—“the woman who’s going to keep you away from me. Well, I can’t help that. She’s important to you and so she has to be important to me. I want her to be safe. Your children, too. You most of all.”

  She rested her cheek against his chest as the locomotive roared by, shaking the platform. “I’m not so liberal and brave as I pretend. I want to be an independent woman, but all at once, a part of me doesn’t. The part that’s linked to you for good and all now—”

  She was crying. A voice within him insisted, You’ve got to say goodbye. Time’s running.

  “I think I’d die if anything happened to you, Gideon, I do love you so very much—”

  “I—”

  Say goodbye. End it!

  But the words that were torn out of him weren’t the ones conscience and good sense demanded.

  “I love you too, Julia.”

  Unashamed, she let the tears stream down her face. “Oh—dear heaven, that’s—the first time—you’ve told me—”

  “I’d tell you a hundred times a day if I could. I love you, Julia. I love you.”

  The pain of parting consumed them as they hugged each other on the noisy, rain-swept platform. The smeared and dirty windows of second-class cars rolled slowly by, lit from within by hanging oil lamps. Gideon felt dizzy for a moment. He didn’t want to plunge into a lifetime of deception, lies to Margaret, silent shame in front of his children. Those were things no decent, rational man wanted or sought.

  And yet when he looked down into Julia’s blue eyes, so sad and lovely, he knew he couldn’t leave her.

  Over the train’s roar, he exclaimed as he hugged her again, “I’ve got to see you.”

  “But—you said—”

  “I know what I said. I didn’t mean it. Do you want to end it?”

  “Yes.” She was laughing and weeping at the same time. “Yes, but I can’t do it either. Oh, thank you, darling. Thank you, thank you—”

  They kissed again, ignoring stares, ignoring mirthful faces behind the streaked windows. Almost out of breath, he said, “It will take me three or four months to close down the Beacon. And that’s assuming Molly and Theo Payne will have me on the Union. You can write me care of the Beacon till I send you another address.”

  “I will, my darling. I’ll write you there once a week. Daily. Hourly! Oh, God, you’ve made me so happy, Gideon. I know we should stop it. But I don’t want to—I don’t want to!”

  He picked her up by the waist and whirled her around. While the other passengers climbed aboard, Gideon and Julia talked blithely, saying the foolish things lovers say—things that should never be overheard. He was almost able to ignore the nagging voice of conscience.

  You damn fool, you should have broken it off. You could have. This way, you’ll gain a little joy, and ten times the grief a quick parting would have caused.

  Somehow he didn’t care. He loved her. That swept everything else aside. In his own way he had become as lawless as Tom Courtleigh. And if that was sinful, why was he so happy?

  Finally, the conductor’s cry broke through his euphoria. After one last kiss, he raced along beside the moving train and jumped to the steps of a second-class car. He clung to a hand rail, overcome with the miracle of his love for her, and watched her small, strong figure disappearing slowly in the rain, her head high—confident and unafraid now, as he was.

  Her gloved hand rose and moved slowly, waving in affectionate farewell. He gripped the hand rail and stayed in the slashing rain until she was lost from sight.

  But he knew he’d see her again. Whatever the price, whatever his punishment.

  Interlude

  A Shooting on Texas Street

  i

  ON THE NIGHT the Chicago fire began, Jeremiah Kent was sharing in the prosperity of Abilene, Kansas.

  His professional wardrobe showed he was doing well. Just within the last three months, he’d purchased a new long-tailed coat, checked trousers, embroidered waistcoat and silk cravat, not to mention the flat-crowned hat in which he kept his hideout gun. After drifting from place to plac
e for a couple of years, he’d finally stumbled into El Dorado.

  He’d arrived in Abilene in April, a few weeks before the start of what the locals referred to as the summer season. Everyone told him 1871 would be the biggest year yet in the town’s short history as a cattle shipping center. Optimists predicted that six hundred thousand Texas longhorns would move north to the Kansas railheads before winter again closed Jesse Chisholm’s trail through the Indian Territory. Of that total, the Abilene stockyards would get by far the largest share.

  Ever since the little promoter from Illinois, Joe McCoy, had stepped off the train and seen a profit potential on the empty prairie, Abilene had developed a reputation for enterprise. McCoy and his associates had financed and built pens, chutes and scales, then arranged favorable shipping rates with the railroad.

  They had somehow persuaded or paid the governor and members of the state legislature to ignore the quarantine line which made it illegal for longhorns to enter Dickinson County because they were probably carrying spleen fever ticks.

  And from the beginning McCoy and all the energetic merchants who’d caught a glimpse of his vision saw to it that the summer visitors were accommodated in every way so that they’d speak favorably of Abilene when they returned home. After all, the war was in the past, Texas was back in the Union, and the drovers and their crews of youthful whites, blacks and Mexicans were not, first and foremost, Southerners or even Americans. They were customers. In the true spirit of Yankee enterprise, the customer was Abilene’s first and only uncrowned king.

  Whatever a trail-weary man wanted—from new red-top boots with stars and crescent moons cut into the leather, to groceries, to a bath, to a woman—he could find it in Abilene. Prostitution operated full tilt in the Devil’s Addition, the southeast quarter of town below the tracks. Despite the lobbying of a certain small clique whose piety was bad for business, the City Council refused to vote to drive out the soiled doves. Instead, the Council chose to contain them, since the girls were absolutely vital to the success of a combination shipping point and end-of-the-trail resort.

  Strong drink was necessary, too, of course. More than thirty saloons along the Texas Street esplanade provided it. Some of the visitors also liked to buck the tiger. That was where Jeremiah came in. Within four short months, under the latest of a succession of assumed names, he’d made himself one of the best-known gentlemen of Hell Street, as the town’s moralistic minority termed the esplanade. He had done it by turning his favorite pastime into a successful profession. He dealt poker, monte, and other games of chance.

  In Abilene, he was not far from Ellsworth; it was located just about sixty miles west, beyond the quarantine line. When he had drifted out from Kansas City in the spring, he’d been concerned that he was returning too near the scene of one of his crimes. He stayed alert in case anyone from Ellsworth or Fort Harker should show up and penetrate the various layers of protection provided by his new clothes, new name and new profession. So far, no one had. In fact, after killing the sergeant in the Ellsworth dance house, he’d never seen a sign of pursuit, which convinced him the United States Army thought Amos Graves was unimportant, or that he was. The latter angered him not a little.

  Now, in early October, he’d been in Abilene longer than he’d been anywhere else since the war. It seemed an ideal spot for a man of his ability and growing reputation. Besides, the pickings were incredible. And involved next to no risk. Another itinerant gambler whom he’d met in his travels—an older man, wise with experience—had lectured him convincingly about the best way to get rich and, just as important, stay out of meaningless fights. The secret was simple honesty. Not only was cheating dangerous, it wasn’t necessary. The odds favored the dealer, and the Texans were usually besotted when they played, further heightening the dealer’s advantage. Jeremiah drank too. He’d discovered gin, and put away a pint to a pint and a half every day of the week. But he took care never to be as drunk as his customers.

  By cultivating a reputation for honesty, he attracted a lot of repeat business. Of course he had to pass a small percentage of his winnings to the owners of whatever liquor palace he happened to be playing in—the Old Fruit, the Applejack, Jim Flynn’s, the Pearl or any of a half dozen other good ones. Even so, he earned enough to dress well, live comfortably, and provide himself with all the female companionship he wanted.

  Another aspect of his reputation contributed to his success. Since arriving in town, he’d taken pains to establish that part by dropping casual remarks into card table conversation, and by backing up the remarks with participation in whatever shooting contests or exhibitions the saloon crowd arranged.

  Jeremiah never won those contests, never pulled off the most spectacular feats of marksmanship in the exhibitions. His friend the marshal always bested him. No surprise there, though. Abilene’s marshal practiced with his pistols for an hour or two every day. Men such as George Custer and Little Phil Sheridan called him the best sharpshooter in the West. The marshal’s favorite challenge was to call for a tomato can to be tossed up in the air. No other man Jeremiah had ever met could fire at the can with both pistols, keep it spinning aloft and score nine or ten hits out of twelve rounds—every time. The best Jeremiah had ever done was seven out of twelve rounds. Once.

  Nevertheless, he usually ran a good second in the contests, and that lent an air of truth to his smiling, modest answers to questions put to him over cards. Hearing him say certain things about his background, the Texans always seemed to enjoy their game a lot more. Jeremiah knew it was because in the West, murder was not always considered reprehensible. Done at the proper time and place, it could make a man a celebrity. It had certainly done that for the marshal. So he was more than willing to admit to a less than spotless past—without going into detail, of course.

  Jeremiah kept track of his family with an occasional letter to Boyle, the Irishman he’d met at the Union Pacific railroad in ’66. He always asked Boyle to write him care of a post office. Jeremiah signed a different fictitious name to each letter, but Boyle always knew from the content who was inquiring. During September, Boyle had written to say Jeremiah’s father had died of a heart seizure. He’d wept in his room and his tears had made the ink run so that when he went back to read the letter a second time, it was nearly illegible.

  The Irishman was certainly doing well for himself. Jeremiah had seen some of his retail stores along the U.P. route further north, and in June, he’d played monte with a man who turned out to be a purchasing agent for Boyle. The man had traveled all the way down from Cheyenne to pick up five hundred prime head to add to the herd Boyle and his wife were building. Jeremiah hadn’t let on that he was acquainted with the Irishman. But he was rather proud that the only person in all the world who knew he was still alive was a very prosperous individual, a solid citizen.

  Whenever he wrote Boyle, he kept personal details to a minimum. He had a lingering fear of Kola’s prophecy, and hence a fear of revealing too much about himself, particularly his whereabouts. Under no circumstances did he want to make it possible for Boyle to slip and accidentally tell one of his brothers where he was. No matter that they were hundreds of miles away—in Matt’s case, thousands—he just didn’t want to take a chance. So far, every one of Kola’s predictions had proved out.

  Since Ellsworth, he hadn’t put the guns away. And they had indeed given a certain luster to the name he used most often. But Kola had also said the killing would never stop, and that too was turning out to be correct. Once having acquired a reputation, it was periodically necessary to defend it.

  So he lived with a nagging fear of the rest of it coming true: the gradual slide back into obscurity, the end of his life as the Sioux had described it.

  That, he absolutely couldn’t bear to think about. Which was one of the chief reasons he’d grown so fond of gin.

  ii

  Abilene’s commercial establishments didn’t observe the Sabbath. Doing so would have eliminated one seventh of a week’s profit. So
Jeremiah worked that Sunday night as usual. About six forty-five he concluded a blackjack game in the town’s largest and finest watering spot, the Alamo.

  The place occupied a corner on Texas Street but fronted on Cedar. A good deal of money had been spent to make it opulent. The bar was solid mahogany, the fittings solid brass. A splendid array of pudgy, pink-breasted nudes in gold frames decorated the walls. But the management also believed in appealing to higher instincts. Two musicians sat in a niche playing popular airs on the piano and violin.

  Jeremiah had just gotten up from the table and was at the bar, buying drinks for himself and his victim, a gregarious, freckled, tipsy young Texan. He signaled the barkeep.

  “Gin for me, Hal. Whiskey for my friend. Ben, I’m mighty sorry to have relieved you of all your wages.”

  The boy grinned in a fuddled way. “Pleasure—pleasure’s mine.”

  The barkeep put down two brimming glasses. He slid the darker one toward Ben. “Kansas sheep dip. Best in the house.”

  “Obliged to you,” Ben said. He spilled half the whiskey before he got one swallow. He wiped his mouth with his cuff. “Besides,” he said to Jeremiah, “I know you did it fair an’ square. I don’t mind losin’ to any man who’s good friends with the marshal.” The boy belched. “That is the truth, ain’t it? You and Wild Bill are pals, ain’t you?”

  “Bosom companions.” Jeremiah nodded, stretching it slightly. “I suppose that’s unusual, him being a former Yank scout and me a onetime Reb. But we both like handsome women. We’re both students of the picture cards. We both shoot pretty well, although he’s the best—” A touch of envy had crept in. He hunched over his tumbler of gin and lowered his voice. “His real name’s James, you know.”

  “Is that right!” The boy glowed. The tidbit of information made him feel intimately connected with the great, which was exactly why Jeremiah used it with all his customers.

  “Yes, sir. James,” he went on. “James Butler Hickok. I’ll tell you one more thing. Jim just can’t figure why people out here, and then the Eastern magazines, started calling him Bill. It’s a genuine, gold-plated mystery.”