The Winter Family

by Clifford Jackman

  The sun beat down from the cloudless sky. The house was a little bungalow, painted yellow, flat and boxlike and unremarkable, except for the bullet holes in the walls. The detectives crouched against the picket fence were sweating and bored. Inside the house the outlaws shouted, but it was impossible to make out what they were saying. Signal Hill was clearly visible about a mile to the east, bristling with oil derricks like a giant porcupine.

  A rider approached, coming down the dusty street at a steady trot. At first he appeared vague and indistinct, almost like a mirage. Then he came into focus, a tall man, middle-aged, with long red hair that was going orange with gray. No mustache and three days’ worth of beard. A pistol on each hip.

  When the rider got close he drew a pistol, so quickly his hand was a blur, and fired three quick shots toward the house. There was the sound of breaking glass and a scream of pain. The rider dismounted and bent double and hurried over to the fence to speak to the lead agent.

  “Is there a burned man in there?” the rider asked.

  “I don’t know,” the lead agent said. “I know that Collins and Randolph are in there.”

  “What about the burned one?” the rider asked. “They said there was a burned man with them at the bank.”

  “I don’t know, Mister Shakespeare,” the lead agent said, a little impatiently. “I know that Collins and Randolph are in there and I know they killed Chas Schumacher. I’m sorry if that ain’t enough for you.”

  “Fine,” Matt said. “Let’s get this over with.”

  He cocked his pistol and held it up next to his head and quickly peeked over the top of the fence. Satisfied, he stood up.

  “Shout at them,” Matt said.

  “What’s the plan?” the lead agent asked.

  Matt laughed, and it made him look much younger. Then he stalked through the gate and down the path to the front door.

  “For the last time,” the lead agent shouted. “We’ve got you surrounded. Give yourself up right now!”

  The lead agent risked a peek at the house. No one was at either of the windows. Matt Shakespeare had drawn his second pistol and was holding one in each hand, up high next to his ears, with his thumbs on the hammers.

  “Any man that gives himself up won’t be harmed, you’ve got my word on that!” the lead agent shouted.

  “I said fuck you, you scab fuck!” one of the outlaws screamed, sounding furious. “You can go straight to …”

  Matt lifted his knee to his chest and kicked the door and it slammed open and he barged inside. The door banged shut behind him. There was an explosion of gunfire, perhaps eight shots in two seconds, then silence, and then another shot.

  Someone wailed in pain.

  “You shot me!” the person shrieked.

  “Put it down!” Matt thundered. “Don’t touch it!”

  “You shot me!” the person cried again. “Oh my god!”

  The Pinkerton agents hurried to the front door and carefully pushed it open.

  Inside Matt Shakespeare kicked a rifle away from Randolph, who sat on the ground with his back against the wall and his hands pressed up against the side of his chest.

  “Oh my god,” Randolph said. “Oh god. It hurts so bad. You’ve killed me.”

  On the other side of the room George Collins lay facedown, his head blown apart, blood and bits of bone and other organic matter in a pool around him.

  “Ah ha ha ha,” Randolph panted. “Oh my god. Oh my god.”

  “Jumping Jesus,” the lead agent said. “You really are a terror, Shakespeare.”

  Matt holstered his pistols, one at a time.

  “I’m going to die,” Randolph said. “You shot me.”

  “You hang on,” Matt said. “We’ve got a doctor coming for you. You ain’t hit so bad.”

  “Don’t lie to me,” Randolph sobbed. “Don’t you lie to me. I’m going to die. I’m going to die.”

  More agents trooped into the house, their weapons still drawn.

  “Fine,” Matt said. “I guess you’re gonna die.”

  “Oh no,” Randolph cried. “Oh my god. This can’t be happening.”

  “It’s all right,” Matt said.

  “I’m so thirsty,” Randolph said. “Can I have a drink of water?”

  Matt went into the kitchen and came back with a jug of water. He got down on his knees and tilted it up with both hands and poured some of it down Randolph’s throat. Randolph’s shoulders shuddered and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. When Matt took the jug away Randolph gasped.

  “I’m so scared.”

  “Hey,” Matt said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “You don’t need to be scared.”

  “What if I go to hell?”

  “You won’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Well, are you sorry for what you’ve done?”

  “Yes. Oh god yes.”

  “Do you want Jesus to forgive you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then he will. That’s his job.”

  “How do you know?”

  “How else could it be?”

  “Hold my hand,” Randolph said. “Hold my hand.”

  Randolph lifted one of his sticky, bloody hands away from his side and Matt took it.

  “There was a burned man with you when you hit that bank, Billy,” Matt said. “Where is the burned man?”

  “I’m scared.”

  “I know you are, we’ve been through that. Where is the burned man? Hmm?”

  Randolph began whispering between deep gasps, and his head drooped forward, so that his chin was resting on his chest. He kept whispering. Matt thought he might be praying.

  “Hey,” Matt said, shaking Randolph’s shoulder. “Hey. Don’t die on me yet. Who was the burned man with you when you hit the bank? Where did he go?”

  Randolph was still and Matt thought he might be dead. He gave him one more shake but without much hope. As he let go of Randolph’s limp hand Randolph began to whisper again.

  “You chased him for ten years,” Randolph said. “But did you ever talk to him?”

  “Who? Winter?”

  “Did you?” Randolph whispered.

  “No,” Matt said. “Is Winter the burned man? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “If you’d talked to him,” Randolph said. “If you’d heard his devil talk. You’d know.”

  “Where is he?” Matt said. He picked up Randolph’s hand and lifted it close to his mouth. “Where is he?”

  “It don’t matter if it’s him or not,” Randolph said. “It only matters if he’s right about the universe.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “The son of a bitch,” Randolph said.

  “Where?” Matt said.

  He shook Randolph again and Randolph tipped over onto his side. Randolph was dead. Matt stood up and took a handkerchief out of his pocket with his clean hand and wiped the blood from between his fingers.

  “Did he give up your man?” the lead agent asked.

  “No,” Matt said.

  He pressed past the Pinkertons back out into the sunshine and made his way toward his horse. A young agent was holding it for him.

  “Thank you, son,” Matt said.

  “No problem, sir,” the young agent said. “Thank you. You’re just like they said.”

  “Like who said?” Matt asked.

  “In the papers.”

  “Oh,” Matt said. “I ain’t like that.”

  Matt stepped into the stirrup and swung himself up on his horse.

  “Do you really think the burned man who hit that bank with Randolph and Collins was Augustus Winter?”

  “It ain’t very likely,” Matt said.

  “Is it possible?” the young man said.

  Matt leaned back in the saddle and looked up at Signal Hill. All of the derricks rocking back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Through the day and the night. Never stopping.

  “I guess
it doesn’t matter,” Matt said. “Whether he lived or not.”

  Then he lifted his hat and turned his horse and trotted back to the city.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First and foremost, I would like to thank my agent, Carolyn Forde, and everyone at Westwood Creative Artists (including Jake Babad, who provided an enthusiastic early read) who worked tirelessly to get this book published. My manuscript was the dictionary definition of “unsolicited” but Carolyn took me on as a client anyway and stuck with me for the long haul. I could not have done it without you; thank you so much.

  I am also deeply grateful to Melissa Danaczko, my editor at Doubleday, who worked with me in her spare time for almost a year to help me improve this book before Doubleday acquired it, and to Anne Collins, my editor at Random House Canada, for her insightful edits and for providing me with a Canadian publisher when I needed it most.

  I would also like to thank Helen Reeves, a freelance editor who assisted me with an early version of this book, and Amy Ryan, my amazing copy editor at Doubleday.

  I self-published an early version of Oklahoma 1891 with the assistance of my good friend Jeremy Panda. Thank you so much, Jeremy. Thanks to Steve Sal Debus for letting us use his store for the launch, to Maggie Prodger, for doing the design, and to all of my friends who came out and supported me during those days. It meant so much to me.

  Finally I would like to thank my parents, Tom and Jenny, for supporting me in everything I do, and my sister, Jessica, and her husband, Will (and all of my fans in Uganda) for their kind encouragement, and my wife, Cathy, and our son, Anthony, for everything, but most of all, for this:

  Now the house which the Walee had described, in Baghdad, was the house of that man; therefore when he arrived at his abode, he dug beneath the fountain, and beheld abundant wealth. Thus God enriched and sustained him; and this was a wonderful coincidence.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Clifford Jackman was born in Deep River, Ontario, and grew up in Ottawa. He studied English literature at York University and Queen’s University before attending Osgoode Hall Law School and being called to the bar in 2008. He lives in Guelph, Ontario, with his wife, Cathy, and his son, Anthony.