Atonement

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  Markham frowned, clearly disagreeing with this premise. “I’ve been leaning on him for too long already. My associates tell me the saloon’s business has dried up.”

  “Maybe it has, but as long as Griffith makes his payments to the bank, he owns the property. You’re on the board―you ought to know that.”

  Markham’s eyes narrowed. “I will have that saloon, Russell. One way or the other.”

  The muscles in Russell’s neck tightened. “For the love of God, don’t bring Charlie into this.”

  Markham didn’t reply. He rose from his chair and buttoned his coat. One of the gangsters handed him his bowler hat on the way out the door.

  “You’re playing with forces you can’t control,” the mayor said. “Charlie Sheldon does as he pleases. You don’t own him.”

  Markham stopped. “On the contrary, Russell. I own everything.” A thin smile spread over his wide face. “At least I will soon.”

  The mayor watched Markham go before draining the glass of bourbon on his desk. He hated the rustlers, Big Jim Markham, and especially Smiling Charlie Sheldon. Men like Markham and Charlie were devils freely walking the earth. Russell despised himself for being unable to stand up to them.

  God help us, the mayor thought. He poured another drink.

  * * * * *

  It was almost noon. Christian stepped out of yet another store, wearing a frustrated look on his face. He wasn’t having much luck finding work. Casper was a modest town, and most of the storekeepers seemed to be struggling just to make it on their own. He made his way to the stable, intending to let his horse out for some fresh air while he continued thinking of ways to find employment. If all else failed, he could take a job as a hand at one of the ranches or farms, but he was more than a little reluctant to do so. He’d grown up in a different world, one far removed from the hardships of the West. Christian would be out of place on a farm, and despite his many talents, he wasn’t sure he would develop a knack for it.

  The chestnut stuck its head over the edge of the stall when Christian approached.

  “Sorry,” he said. “No apples today.” He opened the stall door and fixed a lead rope to the horse’s halter. Christian ran his hand over the animal’s mane. The horse had been groomed well.

  “I was hoping to see you today,” said a voice near the front of the barn. The stable boy with the curly brown hair was waiting for him.

  Not this kid again, Christian thought, frowning.

  The young man held up his arms as if to show he was not a threat. “I wanted to apologize for last night. My name’s Finley, sir.” He stuck out a hand, which Christian ignored.

  “Like I told your father, there was no harm done.” Christian led his horse out of the barn.

  Finley pursued him. “I hear you’re called Emerson,” he added. Christian didn’t reply at first, but Finley continued following him. “I also hear you’re looking for work.”

  “Been looking into my affairs, have you?” Christian growled in an effort to scare the boy away. It didn’t seem to be working. “Don’t you have work to do?”

  “Your horse is one of the only three in the barn. Besides, I got Jimmy to fill in for me,” the young man said. He pointed to a child playing with a barn kitten. Young Jimmy looked unlikely to accomplish much of anything else. Christian kept walking. Finley continued, “After what happened last night, I kind of feel like I owe you. I figured I’d show you around the town.”

  “I don’t require your assistance.” The kid was proving harder to get rid of than consumption.

  “He’s a beautiful animal, if you don’t mind me saying so,” Finley said about the horse. “What’s his name?”

  “Galahad,” Christian replied. He led his horse along the river for some light exercise.

  “That’s a good name. It sounds like something Abel would’ve come up with. He was always coming up with fancy names for things from books.”

  Christian sighed. Clearly Finley was too stubborn to take the hint, so he might as well take the kid up on his offer. It could help to know more about Casper and its people if he was going to be staying there for a while.

  “Abel was your friend?”

  Finley nodded and stared off at the water. “We grew up together. He was just a few months younger than me.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “A rustler gunned him down outside the church. Smiling Charlie Sheldon. He and his gang just left afterward, like nothing happened.” Finley looked down at the ground. “No one even tried to stop him,” he whispered.

  “Charlie Sheldon?”

  “He’s a rustler and a killer, one of the worst you’ll ever meet. Charlie is crazier than a lunatic, and meaner than the devil.”

  “I’m surprised this man was allowed to carry his gun in town, if he’s as dangerous as you say. I understand there’s a strict ordinance on guns the mayor put in place.”

  Finley laughed out loud. “Mayor Hale is a coward.” The harsh word stuck in the air like a splinter. Finley’s voice conveyed obvious bitterness. “Charlie and his gang just ignore the ordinance. The mayor has never stood up to Charlie, or to Mr. Markham.”

  “Markham?” The name sounded familiar.

  “Everyone knows Big Jim Markham. He’s the one I told you about last night. Big Jim is the one who charges the high rates to use the stables. He owns the barn, along with half the town. He’s a rancher that lives up in the mountains. One of the richest men around for miles. Big Jim owns almost everything in town, except for the Dusty Traveler, Doc’s Apothecary, the barbershop, and the church, of course. Charlie works for him.”

  Christian wondered how Finley felt working for the man who employed the gang that killed his friend. Finley probably didn’t have much of a choice. From what Christian could tell, many of the townspeople were poor and needed all the work they could get. He decided to change the subject, which was clearly an uncomfortable one for Finley.

  “You made mention of work. Do you have any idea where I can find some?” He led Galahad back toward the road.

  “Well, I doubt many of the shopkeepers are looking to hire. We’ve already had the planting season, so that likely goes for most of the farmers too. I don’t suppose you’re interested in being a hand?”

  “At this point, I’ll settle for whatever I can get,” Christian answered honestly.

  As they returned to the road, the clatter of the bustling community grew louder. A carriage pulled up to a building across the street, and a thin man rode a horse past the pair and down the road. Christian smelled meat cooking in the distance and licked his lips.

  Finley stroked his chin. “I think I know just the person who might need your help,” he said. “He’s a farmer with a small ranch who needs to take on someone new, even if he’s not ready to admit it.”

  The carriage door opened, and a young woman stepped out. She was a lovely girl, likely a few years younger than Christian, with flowing curled brown hair partially tucked under a white hat. The woman stepped under the shade of the walkway, her light-yellow dress fluttering gently in the wind.

  Finley looked at the girl with unmistakable adoration. Christian spotted the expression on Finley’s face and raised an eyebrow.

  “That’s May Turner,” Finley said. “She’s the prettiest girl in the whole town. Some say Abigail Vincent, but I say it’s May. It’ll always be May.”

  There was something in the young man’s voice, an inner optimism that made Christian smile despite himself. The world and all its cruelties hadn’t stomped out Finley’s inner fire yet. Although their age difference was probably smaller than he cared to admit, something about Finley reminded Christian of himself at a younger age. That made him sad, though he wasn’t entirely sure why.

  “She’s a fine-looking girl,” Christian agreed. The two men watched Miss Turner convers
e animatedly with a female companion.

  “May has the loveliest voice you’ve ever heard,” Finley added quickly. “She sings at the saloon sometimes.”

  “You aren’t sweet on her, are you, Finley?” Christian grinned.

  Finley blushed. “She’d never go for someone like me,” he muttered. “I’m just a stable boy.”

  Before Christian could interject, a loud commotion across the street startled the girls. He followed their gaze and saw three people assaulting a man in an alleyway. They were the same gunmen from the courthouse―the ones who’d accompanied Big Jim Markham.

  “Does that look polished to you, boy?” one of the outlaws hollered. The man backed away, but his attacker struck him in the face, and he fell to the ground.

  Christian’s fist curled into a ball.

  I’m through fighting other people’s wars, he reminded himself. This town’s troubles are none of my business.

  The portly man from the courthouse rounded the corner, and the three men immediately stopped what they were doing.

  “That’s Big Jim,” Finley whispered. “I wonder what he’s doing here. He hardly ever comes into town.”

  Christian watched Markham, followed by the three gunmen, enter a carriage and disappear from sight. He turned his gaze back to the injured man in the dust. In another life, he would have gone over and helped him up. Instead, he turned his attention back to his companion.

  “Thugs,” Finley spat. “Come on, there’s someone I want you to meet.” The smell of food grew stronger, and Christian found himself standing outside the diner. Finley made eye contact with an old man sitting in a chair outside, smoking a pipe.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Morgan.”

  Morgan inclined his head politely. “Finley.”

  “This is Mr. Emerson, sir. He’s looking for work. I told him you might be interested in a hand.”

  Morgan watched the two men, expressionless. Finely slapped Christian on the back.

  “Well, I had best be getting back to work now, Mr. Emerson. I’ll leave you to it, then.” Finley took the lead rope, and Christian let him take Galahad back to the barn.

  Christian turned his attention back to Morgan. There was a look of quiet despair in the man’s eyes, though he tried to hide behind a face of iron. Christian recognized that this was a man who had seen death. The farmer looked back at him, sizing him up much as Sheriff Newton had done the night before.

  “You have much experience on a farm, boy?”

  “No sir,” Christian answered. He looked Morgan directly in the eyes. “I’ve never worked on a ranch before,” he said. “But I’m not afraid of an honest day’s work, and I’m not too proud to learn.”

  Morgan’s eyes wandered down to Christian’s pistols. His jaw tightened.

  “You ever use those before, Mr. Emerson? You ever take a man’s life?”

  Christian didn’t answer.

  “That’s what I thought. I don’t throw in with killers, Mr. Emerson. We’re done here. I’m not interested in your help.”

  Christian nodded. “Good afternoon, sir,” he offered politely and stepped off the walkway.

  He didn’t know Morgan’s story, but he knew the man’s demons all too well. So far, almost everyone he’d met in Casper was haunted by something. This was a town with its fair share of issues. In that respect, he fit right in.

  Christian turned and headed back to the saloon. The others’ troubles were disheartening, but they weren’t his concern. He had his own problems to focus on, and his own needs to meet.

  The Dusty Traveler was relatively full when he returned. Several men sat in front of the empty fireplace, exchanging stories and drinking liquor. A few were playing cards. Christian found lunch ready for him―the one meal a day allotted by his rent―and hungrily devoured it. As he finished his meal, he noticed a mousy-faced man speaking with the bartender in a hushed voice. The man’s gaze moved over the room until he settled on Christian, who couldn’t help overhearing their conversation, which was growing louder.

  “Of course he isn’t one of them, Matthew!” the man exclaimed. “Do you see a black bandana around his neck?”

  Before Christian could set his fork down, the man was standing in front of him.

  “Mr. Emerson, is it?” the man asked, a well-rehearsed smile on his face.

  “Yes sir.”

  The man’s clothes were not as expensive as Big Jim Markham’s, but they were certainly finer than most of the residents of Casper could likely afford.

  “My name is Rudolph Griffith. I own this establishment.”

  Christian stared at the saloon’s owner, puzzled.

  “I understand there was some unpleasantness last night,” Griffith said. He was a short man with wispy, graying blond hair. Christian didn’t have time to open his mouth to respond before Griffith continued. “Word travels fast in a small town, Mr. Emerson. I’ve already had a few people ask about the stranger staying above the bar.”

  “I don’t catch your meaning, sir.”

  Griffith cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. “I would be grateful, very grateful, if you would consider not sharing what happened last night with anyone.”

  “I wasn’t planning on it.”

  Griffith continued as if he hadn’t heard him. The short man sat down next to Christian. “Look around you,” he said. “You might not be able to tell by looking at it, Mr. Emerson, but this place used to be packed day and night.”

  Now Christian really wasn’t sure where the conversation was headed. He decided it was best to remain quiet and let Griffith finish.

  “Then Jim Markham decided he wanted the saloon for himself. He’s done everything he can to cripple my business. What’s worse, no one wants to set foot in here when those ruffians come to town. A few months ago, one of them beat a man nearly to death over a game of cards. So, if at all possible, I’d rather avoid any further negative gossip.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me, Mr. Griffith. I’m just thankful to have a roof over my head.”

  The saloon’s owner grabbed Christian’s hand and shook it vigorously.

  “Thank you, Mr. Emerson. This town could use a few more men like you.”

  Christian doubted that very much, but he thought Mr. Griffith friendly for saying so.

  “Now, I also hear you’re looking for work.”

  At this, the man had his full attention. “That’s correct, sir.”

  “As it happens, I have a task that needs doing. It’s a one-time thing, and the pay isn’t much, but it’s something.”

  “Of course. Thank you, sir.”

  Griffith laughed. “You’re not much for smiles, are you, Mr. Emerson?”

  “I suppose not, sir.”

  “I put in an order for lumber in Rawlins. I’m sending a man tomorrow to pick it up. It’s a big order, and he could use the help. Are you up to it?”

  “Of course.”

  Griffith slapped him on the back. “Exemplary!” The owner glanced at the grandfather clock. “Well, I have other business to tend to. It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Emerson. I hope you enjoy your stay here.” With that, Rudolph Griffith was off to the next patron, eagerly engaging him in conversation.

  Christian watched the saloon owner for a few moments before finishing his drink. Griffith certainly liked to talk. The man exuded a frantic energy. Christian didn’t know Jim Markham aside from reputation, but he had a hard time believing Markham was a match for the saloon owner.

  Christian grabbed the empty plate and rose from his chair. He had found a temporary job, learned more about Casper, and managed to avoid turning in his guns. Things were off to a promising start.

  Since the day was still young, Christian decided to visit the town’s stores again and window shop, picking out the supplies he would
need in advance. Then he would pay a visit to Sherriff Newton and reclaim his ammunition. He left his empty plate at the counter and walked through the doors back into the sun.

  Chapter Four

  Morgan saw ghosts everywhere he looked. Sometimes he spotted Abel sitting in the living room easy chair, a book in his hands. Other times, he looked into the full-length mirror in the den and saw Nathaniel, dressed in an ill-fitting uniform, staring back at him.

  He trudged through the farmhouse, which felt emptier than ever. There were no words for this silent hell. If he were prone to belief in the supernatural, he would be tempted to think the house was haunted. He felt older than his years, and he wasn’t a young man to begin with. Morgan tried to avoid looking at his reflection. He didn’t want to see if he looked as rough as he felt.

  Rebecca was still asleep. Morgan was careful not to wake her when he rose and dressed. He hadn’t slept easy as of late, but then again, he always was an early riser. Morgan opened the front door and stepped onto the porch. It was dark on the farm, and light was faint in the early morning sky. Dew hung against the parched grass surrounding the homestead.

  He half expected to see one of the boys emerge from the stillness at any moment, as if nothing had changed. Memories, he thought, are truly cruel things. How many times over the last several weeks had he wondered if he could have done something differently to change what happened at the picnic? Abel showed himself to be the man Morgan always hoped he would grow up to be, and he’d been killed for it.

  The morning sun started to emerge. Vivid colors unfolded over the vast landscape beyond the meager ranch, stretching to the horizon. Morgan remembered waking the boys at sunrise to start their chores. For some reason, this morning it dawned on him that would never happen again.

  “Was I too hard on them?” he wondered aloud. Lately, he’d taken to talking to himself to combat the loneliness.

  Morgan heard movement in the house and felt a presence behind him. “Did you say something, dear?”