For anyone who is faced
with the choice to do what’s right.
Stand.
We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.
―2nd Corinthians 4:8-9
Chapter One
May 1871
It was unseasonably hot. The unforgiving Wyoming sun bore down on the town of Casper, with not a cloud in sight to mediate the heat. What shade there was came from the specter of the mountain range to the south. It was rare for someone from town to venture too far into the arid region beyond the mountains, though it happened on occasion.
Casper was a quiet place―at least until recently. The town lingered between two times: the era before the war, and the age of industrial expansion that was on the horizon. Years ago, Casper served as a fort for American soldiers tasked with holding hostile Indians at bay. The community was now home to farmers, ranchers, and other settlers having made their homes in the heart of the West. Like many settlers in the area, most of the townspeople just wanted to be left to live their lives in peace. It was a hard existence, but the people endured it for days like today. This was a day for celebration.
“Lord, it’s hot,” Landon Morgan muttered to no one in particular.
Despite the heat, he was determined to enjoy the respite from his labor. Mr. Landon Morgan—known to most simply by his surname—owned a farm a few hours from Casper, which he operated along with his wife and son. Hours earlier, his son, Abel, had ridden into town on his horse to help with preparations for the picnic. Morgan arrived in the wagon with his wife only a short time ago. She went ahead while he found a place to water the horses.
After dropping off their wagon, Morgan pulled down his wide-brimmed hat to shield his face from the sun. Nearby children laughed as they ran toward the church. The farmer smiled at them. He was reaching the point where it would be stretching the truth to still call himself middle-aged, and he was grateful to be in the company of children. They’re reminders of life’s promises, he mused. A hard place like Casper needed reminders like that from time to time.
Morgan’s father had been a soldier stationed at Fort Casper during a time of conflict with the Indians. It was where Morgan was born. Casper was his home, and he had lived there all his life.
A voice interrupted Morgan’s reminiscing about the past.
“I was wondering when you’d get here.”
Abel was rolling a barrel down the street toward the church, apparently still unfinished with his work. He smiled at his father with a wide grin that evoked both pride and sadness in the older man.
“Your mother’s already at the picnic, I suspect. I dropped her off so I could tend to the horses.”
Abel wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow. His eyes shone brightly in the sunlight. They were blue, like his brothers’. Abel’s older brothers, Robert and Nathaniel, died several years prior in the War Between the States. Thankfully, Abel was too young to fight at the time. Being born in the West, Morgan was no stranger to hardships. The loss of his sons, however, was almost more than he could endure.
“You got here just in time,” Abel said. “They’ve already started eating. I reckon they’ll have to kill some more pigs at the rate Mr. Griffith is putting it away.”
Another youth whistled loudly as he rolled a second barrel past them. “Looks like I’ll be getting that prize,” he hollered to Abel.
“We’ll see about that, Finley!” Abel shouted back. He looked to his father. “We have a bet to see who can finish our work first.”
“Then you’d best be getting back to it, boy,” Morgan replied.
“Yes sir,” Abel nodded with a grin and returned to his task. Morgan watched his son until he disappeared from sight. The farmer swallowed hard and resumed walking in the direction of the gathering.
I suppose he’s not really a boy anymore, Morgan thought. Abel was nineteen now. He was already a man in many ways. It was something Morgan was having a hard time accepting.
Abel had grown into a young man who was different than his brothers. He was softer, more sensitive, and often more interested in roaming the hills with a book than performing his chores. But the boy had a good heart, a fact readily acknowledged by everyone who knew him. As far as Morgan was concerned, that was all that counted.
Reverend Thomas Burke, a fiery Irish immigrant, stood in front of the church conversing animatedly with Russell Hale, the town’s mayor. Burke was smilingly widely, but the mayor looked uneasy about whatever they were discussing. Above Burke hung a banner that read ‘Harvest Picnic,’ though the banner wasn’t entirely accurate. It was far too early in the year for harvest―the planting season had only just passed. Despite Wyoming’s arid climate, Casper usually boasted a strong spring crop of barley, beans, corn, hay, sugar beets, and oats. Wheat was planted later in the year. This was possible largely because of the North Platte River, which ran through town.
Morgan decided to continue onward to the picnic and leave the two men to their conversation. He didn’t want to pry into their business.
“Mr. Morgan,” Burke called loudly. “It’s a pleasure to see you. I’m glad you came despite the heat. I know how far that farm of yours is from town.”
Morgan shook Burke’s hand and greeted the mayor in turn. The three walked around the building, where scores of blankets were strewn across the grass behind the church. Even the simple decorations were relatively elaborate by Casper’s standards. Chairs and tents were dispersed intermittently between the blankets, and the meager churchyard was packed with the largest crowd the small town could muster. Nearly everyone was there.
“I’m impressed,” Morgan said. “This was a good idea, Reverend Burke.”
“It was God’s idea,” Burke answered. “As the scriptures say, ‘see how the farmer waits for the precious fruit of the earth, being patient about it, until it receives the early and the late rains.’”
Though Burke was popular with most of the townspeople, Morgan personally had little use for him. There was an unspoken confidence about the man, as if someone had let him in on a secret to which no one else was privy. Since the deaths of Nathaniel and Robert, Morgan wasn’t much of a religious man, though he attended services with his family when time allowed.
“I was skeptical of the reverend’s plan to celebrate the harvest early this year,” Russell said, “but now I think it was the right thing to do. This town needs a reason to rejoice for a change.”
His voice was solemn, and Morgan didn’t envy the mayor’s position.
A loud, uneven voice interrupted the conversation.
“If it isn’t Casper’s biggest coward,” Dennis Potter slurred. A stout man with a ruddy complexion, Potter stood toe-to-toe with Mayor Hale, who was several inches taller. Potter was holding a beer in one hand. His other hand was tightly balled into a fist.
“There’s no need for that kind of talk,” Morgan said calmly in an attempt to defuse the situation. Potter didn’t seem to notice Morgan standing there. In other places in the West, such talk might get a man killed―drunk or not. However, Potter had little to fear from Russell, who bit his lip and said nothing while the other man berated him.
“Look at all these people,” Potter continued, gesturing to the crowd with his mug. “Everyone’s smiling like nothing’s happened. Like this town isn’t being destroyed. Those smiles aren’t real.” He brought the beer back around to his face, spilling a few drops of the frothy liquid on the mayor’s shoes. “They aren’t real,” he repeated quietly.
“Mr. Potter, you’re drunk!” Reverend Burke exclaimed.
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“Like hell I am,” Potter replied, again spilling the drink. “I worked my whole life for them cattle, Mr. Mayor. They were everything to me.”
“Mr. Potter?” Finley Mason, Abel’s friend, had stopped what he was doing and approached the group. Finley’s family lived not far from Potter’s ranch. “Are you all right?”
“Finley, m’boy.” Potter smiled, as if forgetting entirely his quarrel with the mayor. “I hope you’re enjoying this fine day, lad.” He wiped sweat from his face. “It sure is hot.”
“Let’s get you out of the sun,” Finley said courteously. Potter moved forward and stumbled. Finley was quick to catch him, allowing the large man to lean against him for support. Morgan inclined his hat to Finley as a gesture of thanks, and the younger man led Potter toward the shade.
“That Finley’s a good lad,” Burke said once the pair was out of earshot. “A little headstrong, perhaps, but a good lad all the same.”
Morgan nodded. Finley held much in common with Abel, which was why the two were such close friends. They were also the only two nineteen-year-olds in Casper. Finley often seemed more ambitious and focused than Abel, who was bold in a less pronounced kind of way. It was a quiet courage, different than the brand his brothers had possessed.
“You’ll have to pardon me,” Mayor Hale said. “I have something I need to attend to.”
Russell found a corner close to the church and stood silently with his arms folded, standing apart from the crowd. Morgan couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. Russell was forty-three, tall and handsome, and looked the part of mayor in every way. He was also friendly and charismatic, or at least he had been at one time. Respect for Russell among the residents of Casper had long since started to fail, though no one else expressed any interest in seeking his office. No one wanted it or the trouble that came with it.
“I should be going too, Reverend,” Morgan finally said. “Rebecca will be looking for me.”
Burke smiled. “I still remember your sons in my prayers, you know.”
Morgan nodded and walked away to search for his wife among the crowd. There was food as far as his eye could see. It would be a long while before Casper would have a picnic like this again. He waved to Pete Hodges, a retired Confederate cook. The busy cook took no notice of him. Hodges numbered among the many travelers who intended to make their way to California but never quite ended up there. It was a good thing too―Pete’s food was better than anything Morgan had ever tasted, including his own wife’s meals.
“Hello there, Mr. Morgan.” Morgan didn’t have to turn around to know who was speaking to him. Everyone in Casper recognized the Yankee accent.
“Mrs. Kays,” he said politely.
Mrs. Kays kept her gaze trained on the children chasing each other across the grass. Originally from New Jersey, the thin older woman now served as the town schoolteacher. Although there were theories, Morgan had never heard the true story of how she ended up in Casper. He suspected it was an interesting one.
“I’ve been looking for your son.”
“He’s about,” Morgan replied.
The teacher nodded. “In any case, I was hoping you would give this to him for me.” She handed Morgan a book, and he studied the cover for a moment. Although Morgan never learned to read, Abel always had his nose buried in one dusty volume or another. It was rarely a source of contention between them unless Abel forgot his chores, but Morgan secretly thought his son would be better off without filling his head with fanciful ideas.
“I will,” he said politely. “You have a nice afternoon, ma’am.”
“Landon Morgan, where have you been?”
Morgan turned around and found himself standing face-to-face with his wife. It seemed she had found him, instead of the other way around.
“Mingling,” he replied. “You’re the one who always encourages me to come to these things.”
“Don’t act as if you don’t want to be here,” she said with a knowing smile. “You won’t eat this good for the rest of the year.”
The aroma of homemade pies and cobblers filled Morgan’s nostrils, and he licked his lips. “Then let’s get to it.”
He and his wife found their place in the line under the tents. Morgan studied Rebecca from behind as they waited. She was having difficulty holding her plate, despite taking pains to hide it from him. The arthritis was getting worse. To Morgan, Rebecca was just as beautiful as they day they met, though there was no denying they were both getting older. Her hair was mostly gray now, with only a few streaks of black remaining. Rebecca had always been several inches shorter than he was, but she seemed to have shrunk after the deaths of Robert and Nathaniel. Rebecca mourned for months, regularly crying for hours at a time. Morgan, no less grieved, dealt with his pain in less visible ways. Everyone in the West had his or her own way of coping. Regardless of the method, you dealt with the pain and moved past it, for life continued either way.
Rebecca’s words proved correct. Morgan could not remember eating so well in quite some time. They sat on a blanket under the shade of a tree, watching the children play. Soon it would be time for games, but for now people were still returning to the line for seconds. A breeze picked up, and Morgan started to relax.
He heard the commotion before he saw what was happening. A murmur spread quickly through the crowd. Morgan glanced back at Russell Hale, who was still standing with his arms crossed near the church. Russell’s face went white.
They had arrived.
Horses circled the church, kicking up dust. Morgan put their number at twelve. The riders dismounted and fixed their horses to posts in front of the building. They were a rough-looking outfit. Morgan scanned the horsemen, searching for one man in particular. When he spotted him, the farmer gritted his teeth. The gangsters joined the picnic, and the crowd fell silent.
“I heard there was going to be a party,” said the outfit’s leader, a man known across the territory as Smiling Charlie Sheldon. “I’m a little hurt you didn’t invite me and my friends.”
Charlie’s words were soft, but there was a sharpness underneath that set everyone on edge. He was a tall man, and powerfully built. His black hat did little to conceal his unkempt wild brown hair. Charlie’s angry, pale-gray eyes narrowed as he surveyed the townspeople. Then he broke into a grin.
“No harm done,” he said. “We’re here now.” He turned to the others in his outfit. “Come on, y’all. Let’s get some grub.”
“Why did they have to come today, of all days?” Rebecca whispered.
Morgan didn’t answer. Charlie Sheldon and his gang were the basest kind of men. They were rustlers, thieves, gangsters, and outright murderers. They had all but taken over Casper. Morgan had only seen Charlie in person once before, though his men frequently stopped in town. Charlie worked in collusion with Big Jim Markham, the richest man north of the mountains. Markham owned a ranch several miles from Casper. He paid Charlie and his outfit handsomely for stolen cattle, along with other services Morgan preferred not to dwell on. It was said that Charlie’s gang numbered near the twenties, though Morgan had never seen them all gathered together.
It was less than a year ago when Charlie first made himself known in Casper. He liked the town, its remote location, and its proximity to the river and Big Jim. Whenever he and the others passed through, they took and did whatever they wanted. The townspeople were too frightened to stop them. Charlie gunned down Casper’s last sheriff in cold blood. The town’s new sheriff, a man named Newton, was careful to look the other way. He was of the opinion that it was best to let the rustlers have their way and wait for them to leave town. There would be a few months of peace, but it was never long before Charlie was back again. Along with Big Jim, he practically ran Casper.
Morgan made eye contact with a young, well-dressed gangster and then looked away. The man’s name was Quinn Blackwell, Charlie�
�s second-in-command. In contrast to his boss, Quinn was groomed and well kempt. Unlike the other gangsters, who mindlessly devoured their food, Quinn watched the townspeople with a cool and analytical gaze. It seemed strange to Morgan that a man like Quinn would run with Charlie, who was infamous for his lack of control. There was a reason the outfit’s boss was known as Smiling Charlie Sheldon. The gangster’s mood swings were legend across the territory. One moment he might shake a man’s hand―the next he would put a bullet in the same man’s back. No one, not even the members of the outfit, knew what version of Charlie they were likely to get at any given time.
Aside from Charlie and Quinn, Morgan didn’t know any of the others’ names, and he didn’t particularly want to. They were all hard and dangerous killers. He was careful to stay out of their way. When Morgan noticed Charlie walking toward them, he froze. He felt Rebecca’s hand grab his tightly.
“Hello, Russell,” Charlie said, a wide grin plastered on his face. “You don’t look so good, friend.”
From his spot on the blanket, Morgan watched Charlie speak to the mayor. The sound of the crowd returned, with the townspeople doing their best to ignore the rustlers.
“It’s just the heat,” Mayor Hale replied. He tugged at his collar. “We haven’t heard from you in a while, Charlie. I was starting to think maybe you had moved on.”
“Nonsense,” Charlie replied, slapping a big hand against the mayor’s back. “I’m far too fond of this place for that. We just returned from Big Jim’s homestead. Dropped off another herd. We’re planning on taking our money and heading for the city.”
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” Russell replied. “The last time your outfit came to town, you took some cattle that were on Dennis Potter’s land.”
Charlie’s smile tightened. “That’s a mighty big accusation to be throwing around. You sure about that?”
Russell choked. His eyes drifted down to the pistols at Charlie’s side. “It’s possible they wandered away, I suppose.”
Atonement Page 1
