Atonement

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  Just like that, Charlie was grinning again. “Absolutely. Now what do you say we get back in line and have some more food, Russell? You’re starting to look a little thin, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  The mayor looked like he’d rather do anything else, but he silently followed Charlie back to the tents. Then the crowd fell silent again. Morgan heard shouting not far away. He stood up and attempted to get a better view.

  “Landon, what’s going on?” Rebecca asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said, wandering toward the commotion.

  “You’re scaring him,” Mrs. Kays was yelling. The teacher was standing between one of the gangsters and a small boy. The man was among the tallest and largest in the outfit, though that didn’t seem to intimidate the older woman.

  “The little bastard made me spill my plate,” the gangster hissed. With one sweeping gesture, he brushed the woman out of the way and grabbed the child by the neck with a tight grip. The boy started crying.

  “Let him go!” Mrs. Kays regained her balance and slapped the man across the cheek.

  The rustler turned back toward her slowly, a savage look in his eyes. Before anyone could react, he struck the woman in the face. She landed on the ground in a heap.

  “You should have stayed out of this, Yank.”

  Mrs. Kays only glared at him, blood dripping from her mouth.

  It was then that a fist connected with the gangster’s stomach. Then another. Someone had emerged from the crowd to defend Mrs. Kays. Morgan tried to push his way forward so he could get a better look.

  “That’s for hitting a defenseless woman,” a youthful voice rang out. It was surprisingly strong. Morgan’s eyes widened in surprise. The voice belonged to his son.

  The gangster roared with rage and hit Abel in the jaw. Abel took the blow but did not go down. Instead, he grabbed a glass sitting on the barrel behind him and shattered it over the rustler’s head. The man sank to the ground, and Abel kicked him in the chest.

  “We’ve had enough of you bullying us,” he said.

  The crowd clapped in approval. Abel walked over and helped Mrs. Kays to her feet. In that moment, Morgan saw his son as the man he had always been. He caught his son’s eye through the crowd, and the two smiled at each other.

  Then a gunshot rang out, and Abel’s smile faltered. He stared down at his stomach. A red stain marred his brown shirt. He looked back at his father, an unspoken question in his eyes.

  “Pa?” Abel’s legs buckled, and he collapsed in the grass.

  “Abel!” Morgan shouted. The farmer hurried to the front of the crowd. He dove to the ground and held his son in his arms. “Help!” he yelled, but none came. Morgan spotted Sheriff Newton standing in the crowd, a weary expression on his face. The sheriff made no move to provide assistance.

  Suddenly, a shadow loomed over them. Both men looked up at the silhouette backlit by the bright sun. The figure’s black hat obscured his face.

  When Charlie Sheldon addressed the crowd this time, he was no longer smiling. “What will it take to make you people understand?” he demanded, pistol in hand. “This town is mine. I own all of you. Anyone who ever raises a hand against one of my men again will answer to me. I promise you that.”

  He looked down at Morgan and his son, who was trembling.

  “You should have taught your son respect,” Charlie whispered. “Maybe then he would still be alive.” He turned to the gangster on the ground. “Get up, Lester, or you’re next. I can’t believe you let a boy get the better of you.” Charlie holstered his pistol and turned to the rest of his gang. “Let’s go, boys,” he said. “I’ve eaten my fill.”

  The men knocked over barrels and overturned tables on their way back to their horses. The townspeople watched in fear, powerless to do anything about it. Then the outlaws were gone, leaving only a trail of dust in their wake as they rode toward the desert. The crowd began to whisper. Morgan heard his wife scream. Everything was happening so quickly.

  He stroked his son’s hair and stared into his deep blue eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Pa,” Abel sputtered, coughing up a lungful of blood. There were tears in both men’s eyes. As Abel lay dying, Morgan did the only thing he could do for him. He said what he had been unable to say to his two other sons.

  “I’m proud of you, boy,” he whispered, holding his son so tightly his arms whitened. He repeated the words again and again, oblivious to the others watching him. “I love you, son.”

  Abel’s eyes fluttered before finally closing for good. In that moment, Morgan’s world was destroyed forever. He looked up toward the blazing sun, tears stinging his eyes, and did something he had not done in a long time.

  He prayed.

  Lord, send someone to deliver this town.

  Chapter Two

  June

  It was about to rain. He glanced over his shoulder. The dark clouds blanketing the sky behind him were closing in fast, sending the light fleeing over the mountains. A cool wind blew down across the ordinarily arid landscape.

  Thunder crackled overhead, and he nudged the chestnut horse to spur it onward. Like its rider, the stallion was covered in dust. Several days had lapsed since they last passed a river or stream. The Wyoming desert could be treacherous, even to an experienced rider. The horseman searched the area for a place to take shelter. He knew he would not get farther than the distant mountains, at least not for the rest of the day.

  The man’s bearded face was browned from exposure to the sun, and the expanding shade felt good. The wind swept his wild black hair about and stung his blue eyes. Despite his ragged clothes and rugged appearance, there was something refined about the rider, a quiet dignity that most people couldn’t place. He looked thirty, though he was actually closer to twenty. The West was famous for maturing young men and sharpening them into steel. The rider of the chestnut horse was no different.

  His given name was Christian, although it wasn’t something he divulged with any regularity. When he was forced to identify himself, Christian usually used an alias, often the name of someone he knew from the war. He tended to come and go so quickly that no one ever bothered to call him much of anything. That was the way he preferred it.

  Thunder echoed across the basin as he spotted a town ahead. Even from a distance it looked like a small, intimate place, isolated by the mountains―hopefully the type of place where no one would ask questions. Whatever the case, it would have to serve for the time being. Christian was all but out of money, out of supplies, and almost out of water. He had been riding for a long time, and he needed rest, however brief.

  The first raindrop gently brushed against his cheek. More droplets fell as the horse galloped off bare earth and onto grassy pastures.

  With the storm looming, Christian found himself wishing he had a hat to shield him from the elements, and a change of clothes for after the tempest had passed. He wore a simple cotton shirt under his jacket and a pair of worn pants largely covering his boots. Two silver pistols were holstered at his side. The pack strapped to his horse was mostly empty, aside from a few apples, ammunition, and what was left of his money. Gripping the reins, he rode like he was being chased. For all he knew, he was.

  By the time Christian rode into town, the sky had turned black. Rain poured down in torrents, which drenched him to the bone. As expected, the streets were all but empty. A few residents sat on their porches in rocking chairs, watching the rain from the cover of their roofs.

  A bolt of lightning struck the ground a short distance from the town.

  “Easy,” he whispered to his horse, which remained steady. They had seen worse. He guided the chestnut to the path leading through the heart of the town. Christian dismounted, and his boots landed in the soft mud as he took a look around. He was the only person standing in the street, and several eyes belonging to those stranded ins
ide by the storm were trained on him. Not that they could make out what he looked like under the barrage of rain. Christian left his horse tied to the post and stepped onto a walkway in front of a large building.

  His boots thudded against the wooden planks, drowned out by the ceaseless patter of the storm. Christian spotted a man smoking in a doorway in front of what appeared to be a feed store.

  “Pardon me,” Christian said, running a hand through his wet hair. He preferred keeping it at a shorter length, but an opportunity to cut his hair hadn’t presented itself recently. The man looked up at him with a tired expression. Christian continued, “I’m looking for somewhere I can put my horse up for the night, and a place to stay as well.”

  The smoker took another puff of his pipe and looked past Christian into the rain, and for a moment Christian thought he wasn’t going to reply.

  “Keep heading down the street. You’ll find the stables next to the feed mill. As for your lodging,” he pointed across the road with his pipe, “there are a few rooms above the saloon. Talk to the bartender.” Christian noticed that the man’s eyes were watching his pistols the entire time he spoke.

  “Much obliged.”

  Christian returned to the chestnut and wasted no time leading the stallion to the stable. Rain pelted the wide barn’s roof and collected in large puddles below. He stepped into the barn and out of the storm. Christian stopped and sniffed. He could smell alcohol even above the musk of the barn. A few feet away, a large, red-faced man lay collapsed on a pile of dry hay. A bottle of liquor hung loosely from the man’s hand.

  “Don’t mind him,” a voice said from the hayloft above. “That’s just Mr. Potter.” A young man slowly climbed down the ladder, carrying a square haybale. He was a tall boy with curly brown hair and dark eyes. Christian guessed he was about eighteen. There was an absent look on his face as if he had been dwelling deeply on some unpleasant matter.

  The adolescent broke up the bale and pitched it into one of the stalls. Christian’s gaze wandered to the drunk, who seemed not to have noticed his presence.

  “I let him sleep it off in here,” the stable boy explained. “Better than the rain.”

  “I’m looking to put my horse up for the night,” Christian said, ignoring Mr. Potter.

  “Just for the night? Mr. Markham charges weekly rates.”

  Christian frowned. He was reluctant to part with what little money remained to his name. He needed some for a room for himself, and for supplies. With a sigh, he unstrapped his pack and retrieved a small wad of bills.

  “Will this be enough?” he asked.

  The stable boy nodded. “Hay costs extra,” he said, clearly embarrassed. Christian raised an eyebrow. The charge seemed a bit exorbitant for a stable in such a remote location. Even the young man looked uncomfortable passing along the fee. Christian handed the stable boy some more bills.

  “Sorry about the rates,” the adolescent said apologetically. “I’ll look after him real well, mister. I promise.”

  Christian nodded. He removed the pack from the horse and swung it over his shoulder. Then he took out an apple and offered it to the chestnut, which bit into the fruit almost immediately.

  “I’ll be back to see you in the morning,” Christian muttered to his animal companion before turning the reins over to the youth.

  * * * * *

  Finley took the horse and led it into an empty stable. By the time he unsaddled the animal, the stranger had vanished from the barn. Finley went to fetch his brush.

  “How could you let him just walk in here like that?” a slurred voice asked from the pile of hay.

  “What do you mean?” Finley asked.

  “He’s one of them,” Mr. Potter spat.

  Finley clenched his teeth. “I don’t think so.”

  “Didn’t you see his guns? Nobody carries guns like that who isn’t trouble.” Potter’s bottle of liquor fell from his grip and rolled across the dirt floor.

  Finley peered outside the barn. Through the pelting rain he observed the rider walking back toward the saloon. Sure enough, two pistols were holstered at his side. He frowned at the sight.

  “If it was my friend they’d killed, I’d teach those bastards a lesson they’d not soon forget.”

  Finley cast the brush down on the ground. “It’s not right,” he muttered. “Every time one of them comes into town, they ride right past Abel’s grave.” The youth took the liquor bottle from the floor, hesitated, and lifted it to his lips, slugging a quick gulp. “Someone needs to make them answer for what they’ve done.”

  * * * * *

  Christian made his way back to the heart of town, once again soaked by the rain. He was looking forward to putting his feet up for the night. It would be a welcome change from sleeping next to a fire out in the open. When he passed the jail, he glanced over the wanted posters outside the quiet building, as was his custom whenever he found himself in a new town. He had never actually seen his face on one of them before, though he supposed they were out there someplace.

  Standing outside a jail for any prolonged length of time made him nervous, so he found his way to the saloon, a tall building across the street. ‘The Dusty Traveler’ was painted in faded white letters above the batwing doors.

  Christian pushed the doors open and walked inside. The quiet, dimly lit room caught him off guard. He’d expected the saloon to be filled with rowdy gamblers, lively music, and the smell of alcohol. Instead, the room was virtually empty. The bartender was cleaning the bar with a cloth. A lone patron drank silently at a table in the corner of the room. Though the place felt like a graveyard, it was certainly well-kept. The wooden floors were polished, as was the piano that sat unused near the back of the room. Oil paintings hung from the walls, their frames free of dust.

  Christian approached the counter, and the bartender noticed him with a quick glance. A fairly muscular man, bald with a handlebar mustache, the bartender’s eyes narrowed as he gave Christian a once-over. A faint look of disapproval flickered across the man’s face.

  “Can I help you?”

  Like the smoker outside the feed store, the bartender’s eyes wandered down to the two pistols at Christian’s side. The guns were the last link to a past he had tried desperately to shed; the only things he could not bring himself to part with. Black with tips plated with real silver, the pistols were probably worth more than all the liquor in the saloon.

  “Where am I?” Christian asked directly. He held the bartender’s gaze with a steel expression.

  “You’re in Casper, sir. Wyoming.”

  Casper. The mountains should have warned him. He had traveled too far north. Christian was heading to Cheyenne, where a friend owed him a favor. Unfortunately, he lacked the supplies to resume the trip in the morning. He needed a fresh change of clothes to start with. Most of all, he needed money.

  I’ve already purchased a week’s use out of the stable, he thought. I might as well stay at least that long to restock. He was fully aware it might take longer than that before he was able to leave.

  The bartender looked him over again. “I reckon you’re not one of Big Jim’s boys, are you?”

  Christian remained silent.

  “What’s your purpose here, stranger?”

  “I need a place to stay,” he answered. “The rest is my concern.” There was a hard edge in his voice.

  “I meant no insult,” the portly man said, offering a weak smile. “We’ve had lots of rough folk come through these parts recently, that’s all.”

  “That’s no business of mine,” Christian replied, slightly harsher than he intended.

  The bartender took the hint. “Very well. We’ll get you that room.” He retrieved a logbook and a quill dipped in ink. “Can I have your name, sir?”

  “Emerson,” Christian answered after a slight pause. The a
lias was a tribute to someone he knew in another life; a man long dead. He gave no first name.

  When the bartender told him the price for a one-night stay, Christian was pleasantly surprised at the cheap rate, especially considering how much he’d paid to put up his mount. He glanced again across the empty saloon, wondering if there was a reason no one wanted to stay there. Then he shrugged. There was no point in idle speculation. Besides, solitude suited him just fine. He fished out what was left of his money and paid for a week’s stay.

  “Well then, Mr. Emerson, here’s your key,” the bartender said. “Your rent covers one meal every day, other than tonight of course. The cook has gone home.”

  Christian took the key and said no more. He walked up the stairs to find his room. He lit a small oil lamp on the dresser, which cast a pale light across the room. He removed his jacket and hung it over a chair. Though average-sized, the bedroom was well-furnished. Christian hadn’t stayed in a room so nice in a very long time. He didn’t even want to think about how long it was since he last slept in a bed.

  He was again amazed at the cheap rent.

  The owner must really need business badly, Christian thought.

  He sat briefly on the bed and had to fight the urge to close his eyes. There would be time for rest soon enough. He counted his money. Along with a handful of change, Christian had three crinkled bills left to his name. He was broke. Finding work moved to the top of his list of goals for the following day.

  He stood up and walked to the other end of the room, where he dried himself off with a towel. The storm continued raging outside. Christian looked out the rain-streaked window to the jail across the street. Squinting in the darkness, he saw the door of the jail suddenly open, and a man stepped outside under the walkway’s roof. The man looked middle-aged, though it was hard to tell in the rain. A metal star was pinned to his chest. Before Christian could avert his gaze, the man stared up at the window. Christian retreated from view.