Atonement

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  Christian’s knuckles throbbed. Hitting the outlaw was like striking rock. This time, Brock struck first. He hit Christian so hard against the head that his vision blurred. He picked Christian up and threw him nearly across the room. Christian bounced back up and ducked under a swipe from one of his foe’s massive arms. He jabbed at Brock a few times, hitting him in the face. The blows seemed to accomplish nothing other than making the outlaw angrier.

  Brock wasn’t going down without a serious effort. He rushed Christian and pinned him against the wall, lifting him into the air as he tried to choke him with his forearm. Christian brought his leg up and kicked the man in the solar plexus. Brock gasped for air and released him. Christian stumbled back and assumed a defensive posture as he tried to catch his breath. He licked his lips and tasted blood.

  Shock registered in the outlaw’s eyes. Christian guessed Brock was probably used to putting his opponents down quickly due to his superior size. He doubted the gangster regularly fought anyone who gave as good as they got. Brock surged toward him and threw another wild punch, but Christian was too fast for him. He ducked, and the blow smashed into the wall, tearing through plaster. Christian reached out quickly and threw all his weight behind a punch aimed at the rustler’s kneecap. He heard a loud snapping sound, and Brock let out a scream.

  Christian took a few steps back to give himself more room to maneuver. Brock was swinging madly now, fighting in a fit of rage. That was how he would take him out.

  “Looks like you don’t hold up as well against someone other than young girls,” Christian taunted, licking the blood from his lips.

  Brock roared and rushed him again. The two spilled into one of the tables and overturned it in their scuffle. Christian held his balance and punched his foe in the face again. He took the larger man’s head and slammed it against the back of the table. Brock released his grip on him. Christian didn’t let up. The outlaw tried shielding his face, and Christian shifted to pounding his torso. He heard the sound of ribs cracking.

  Christian stared down at Brock, who looked back at him with the eye that wasn’t swollen shut. Brock started to reach inside of his coat for his remaining weapon. Christian swiftly grabbed the man’s arm and twisted it back. The gun fell and skidded across the room. He stomped on Brock’s right hand with the flat of his boot. The bones cracked loudly as they broke. It would be a long time before the outlaw fired a gun with that hand.

  “Get up,” Christian said. There was an air of command in his tone. “I’m not finished with you yet.” He allowed Brock room to rise.

  Brock mumbled something unintelligible and tried to stand. He slowly regained his footing.

  “That’s better,” Christian said. Before the man could move, Christian took him by the shirt and threw him through the batwing doors.

  Blinding light surrounded the rustler as he stumbled in reverse from the Dusty Traveler’s entrance. Brock tumbled backward off the porch and landed on the hard earth outside the saloon. Christian took him by the boots and dragged him into the center of the street where everyone could see.

  May Turner was watching from across the road, along with Sheriff Newton and Mayor Hale. Others looked on from the stores and businesses, watching the pair from windows and porch chairs. Christian spotted Finley in the crowd.

  Brock stumbled to his feet, now clearly aware of the eyes following both of them. He swung at Christian one last time, but his tired blow no longer packed much of a punch. Christian grabbed the arm and broke the man’s nose with his other hand. Blood streaked down Brock’s face.

  Christian clutched the man tightly by the collar. “You’re done here. If I ever see you raise a hand against anyone in this town again, I’ll finish what we started today.”

  The man moaned. Christian released him, and he crumpled to the ground.

  Loud murmurs ran through the crowd. Christian sighed. The conflict between the gangsters and the townspeople wasn’t his problem, and he didn’t intend to get mired in it. Even so, he couldn’t look himself in the mirror and call himself a man if he allowed the outlaw to harm one hair on May’s head.

  “Finley,” he said, seeking out his friend. Finley rushed to Christian’s side and looked at him with awe.

  “Mr. Emerson, that was incredible,” he stammered.

  Christian frowned. “It had to be done,” he said simply. He untied the rustler’s horse and handed the lead rope to Finley. “Help me get this man onto his horse.” Together, they positioned Brock in the saddle and handed him the reins.

  “Lead him out of town,” Christian said. “Let him find his way up the mountain.”

  Russell Hale stared at Christian, a deep scowl on his face. The mayor shook his head and returned to the courthouse. Slowly, the townspeople returned to what they were doing―all except one man.

  “Are you still looking for work?” the man called Morgan asked him.

  Christian nodded.

  “Let’s get something to drink,” Morgan said. “I think maybe I could use someone after all.”

  Morgan turned and walked toward the diner. Christian lingered a few seconds before following him into the shade.

  Chapter Five

  Christian signed on with Morgan that afternoon over coffee. They talked little, each man prone by nature to silence. If Morgan was surprised by Christian’s apparent lack of accent, he betrayed no sign of it. He made no inquiries into Christian’s past, which suited Christian just fine. Neither did Morgan make mention of the fight outside the saloon. Christian knew the man had lost a son to Charlie Sheldon’s gang. He wondered if standing up to the outlaw at the bar played a role in Morgan’s decision to take him on.

  Apparently never one to sit idly for too long, Morgan soon shook Christian’s hand, and the two men agreed to meet in the same place the next morning. Christian usually withheld passing judgment on a man’s character until he had time to see it in practice, but he expected Landon Morgan was a good man. There seemed to be a quiet fire in the old rancher, though what that portended for the future he did not know.

  Christian kept to himself for the remainder of the day. A few people watched him curiously, no doubt having witnessed or heard about the beating. Most simply ignored him and went about their business. While the West was unforgiving in many ways, a man’s ability to move from place to place without notoriety was something in its favor. Christian stared across the river, which flowed serenely under the watchful gaze of the sun. He surveyed the town. He doubted he would be making many trips into Casper for the foreseeable future. From the way Morgan talked, there was much work to be done on the farm.

  There was a certain charm to the town and its people. Despite Christian’s best efforts to remain detached, he could easily picture the faces of those he’d met since his arrival. They were the kind of people he might have thrown in with if not for the need to keep running. Christian sighed. Soon he would be on the move again. The life of a fugitive was harsh, and not for the faint of heart. Still, it was the life he led, for good or ill. Many of his friends in the war should be so lucky.

  He quietly returned to the saloon. Brock’s two revolvers were gone. Christian wondered if Sheriff Newton had confiscated them in his absence. The floor had been swept clean, and the overturned table was set right. The damage to the wall from the large man’s fist was the only sign a fight had occurred at all. Christian was glad. Paying for damages would set him back even further. All the same, he made inquiries to learn if Griffith held him responsible. Matthew, who seemed to stand an eternal watch behind the bar, doubted it but promised to pass word along to Griffith before the following morning.

  Christian thanked the bartender and returned to his room for the last time before beginning his tenure at the Morgan farm. He turned in early, hoping to get a decent night’s rest ahead of his first day of work. However, thoughts of the road that lay before him kept him awake for a long
while, though he did not think of Charlie Sheldon’s gang again that night.

  In the morning Christian rose, tried to make himself look as presentable as he could, and left the room with his dearth of belongings.

  Griffith was waiting for him downstairs. The saloon owner emphatically assured Christian that he did not hold him responsible for the fight. Instead, Griffith seemed pleased that he’d given one of the rustlers a sound thrashing. Christian got the sense Griffith hoped his business would start to return with the gangsters having been frightened away. He privately doubted it but hoped the rustlers would let the beating lie and not become aggravated by it.

  Time will tell how they react, Christian thought. He’d learned long ago not to try to predict the behavior of dangerous men. He stayed for a bit of breakfast before saying goodbye to the saloon.

  “You sure put a whuppin’ on that old boy,” Finley Mason said when Christian returned to the stable for his horse. “I heard what he did to May. If I’d have been there, I might have let loose on him myself.”

  Christian chuckled. “Don’t forget how you fared against me.”

  Finley grinned, and Christian fastened Galahad’s saddle. Then he opened the stall door and led the animal out.

  “Passing on?” Finley was clearly disappointed.

  “I took that job with Mr. Morgan,” he said. “I’m grateful to you for that, Finley, and for looking after my horse.” He placed a hand on Galahad’s muzzle. The stallion sniffed at him, likely expecting another apple.

  “I don’t guess we’ll be seeing much of each other then,” Finley said. He held out his hand. “It was good meeting you, Mr. Emerson.”

  Christian nodded at Finley, who was a bit headstrong for his age, though his heart was in the right place. They shook hands with a firm grip.

  “You take care, Finley.”

  Christian smiled to himself as he made his way into the sun. He would actually miss Finley. A long time had passed since he had anything resembling a friend. Most of them were dead―or otherwise believed he was dead.

  Christian mounted his horse and rode back through Casper. Morgan was waiting for him when he arrived. The farmer stared down at his pocket watch, deep in thought. Morgan shut the watch when he spotted Christian and hastily returned it to his pocket.

  “Good. You’re on time. Now we can get started.” He made to spur his horse but paused and looked Christian over. His eyes narrowed. “Your clothes. Are they the same you wore yesterday?”

  “Yes sir,” Christian replied, uncomfortable at having been called out.

  Morgan bit his lip. “We’ll talk about that at the ranch,” he said and let the matter rest.

  The journey to the ranch was far briefer than the wagon ride to Rawlins, though they still rode almost two hours in the hot sun to get there. Morgan rode on ahead of him, and Christian couldn’t help admiring the older man’s stamina. The men reached the ranch an hour before noon. Morgan’s land was sizable, with plenty of room for cattle to graze. The farmer’s house was modest, smaller than the barn not far from it. Despite the recent rain, the pond’s waters had retreated.

  “Here we are,” Morgan said flatly. “Get your things.” The two men led their horses into the barn, and Morgan took Christian up to the house to meet Rebecca. “This is Mr. Emerson,” Morgan said. “He’ll be staying with us for a while.”

  Mrs. Morgan was a small woman with a pleasant face and warm eyes. Even so, she looked somewhat wary of Christian as she served the two men cool drinks on the porch.

  “Rebecca will take your belongings inside and put them in your room.”

  Christian left the pack on the floor.

  Morgan looked at him. “Are you ready to begin?”

  “Yes sir.”

  The two left the homestead to tend to the business of the farm. Christian was used to working hard, but this was a different kind of labor than he was practiced in. Nevertheless, Morgan was patient with him, and the old man rarely had to show him how to do the same thing twice. They exchanged few pleasantries along the way, though Christian got the sense that despite Morgan’s crusty words, he was glad for the company.

  Christian soon realized that the property really wasn’t much of a ranch, at least by the usual standards. This was fine by him, since he wasn’t sure he was cut out to be a traditional cowboy just yet. The workday ended with a bit of drama when they found a calf stuck in the pond. The animal had wandered in to get a drink of water and had become lodged in the clay. It took multiple attempts for Christian to snare the calf’s neck with a rope. Morgan took great pains to give him instruction. With Galahad’s help, Christian hauled the calf back to the bank.

  Covered in mud, he staggered alongside Morgan back to the house, where Rebecca absolutely refused to let him inside. Instead, she served stew to the men outside, and Christian and Morgan ate on the porch. Morgan watched Christian devour the contents of the bowl.

  “You’ve got a healthy appetite, boy. I’d have guessed you hadn’t eaten in days.”

  It had been a long time indeed since anyone called him ‘boy.’ In fact, Christian couldn’t remember it ever happening, even in the army, and certainly not during his childhood. Somehow, he didn’t mind it coming from Morgan. It suited the old man’s personality.

  “Your wife makes good stew, Mr. Morgan.”

  “Hogwash,” the farmer said with a half-smile. Morgan set his bowl down and leaned back in his rocking chair. “You’re going to have to wash before you can come inside.”

  Christian nodded.

  “And I’ll not have you dressed like that if you’re working for me. Those clothes will have to go. They’re so ragged it would take three women to sew them back together.”

  Christian started to protest, but Morgan wouldn’t hear a word. “There is a dresser filled with clothes in your room,” he said. “They should be about your size. You can use them while you stay here.”

  “Mr. Morgan, I couldn’t―”

  “I said they’re yours,” the old man said harshly. “Don’t backtalk me. They belonged to my son. He doesn’t have any use for them now, does he?”

  Christian shook his head.

  “I’m glad you see it my way, Mr. Emerson,” Morgan said. Then he called to his wife, “Rebecca! Bring Mr. Emerson a fresh change of clothes.”

  Mrs. Morgan appeared minutes later with a shirt and pants. She handed them to Christian and gathered the men’s empty dishes.

  Christian excused himself, crossed the ranch, and scrubbed himself in the pond. Afterward, he changed into Abel’s clothes. The dead man’s clothes fit, despite being a bit tight. Christian trekked back to the house, the breeze washing over him. It felt refreshing to be clean for a change. His body ached from the work, but not in a bad way. He bid goodnight to the couple and retired to his room.

  It was when Christian removed his boots that a bit of strange fortune occurred. His hand brushed against something concealed under the bed by the sheets. To his surprise, he found a worn book resting on the dusty floor.

  “The Odyssey,” he muttered.

  Abel Morgan must have been reading it before Charlie Sheldon shot him. Christian swallowed, cradling the book in his hands. He’d seen few greater treasures in all of his travels since the war. Books were scarce in the West. Many people were illiterate altogether.

  He gently opened the book to the first page. The story of Odysseus was one he knew well. The hero’s return home from Troy to Ithaca was a sprawling, epic journey. Christian first read the book as a boy. He never would have guessed his life would take such a similar path. Like Odysseus, Christian, too, had been displaced after the war.

  Reading the words on the page was like seeing an old friend after a long absence. There was a time when so many books lined the shelves of his father’s study that Christian had taken them for granted. As it was, h
e couldn’t remember the last time he’d even seen a book, let alone read from one. He read several pages and reverently returned the book to the dresser, intending to read from it each night during his stay. With that, he closed his eyes in anticipation of the next day of work.

  So began the pattern of his new, albeit temporary, life. Christian’s duties were mainly toward the farming end of the operation. Like many ranchers throughout the West, Morgan allowed his cattle to wander and graze freely. The cattle would be rounded up in the fall in preparation for winter, or to drive elsewhere to sell.

  It wasn’t long before Morgan showed Christian how to administer his brand, which consisted of three Ms in a row. He later came to learn each letter stood for one of the farmer’s sons.

  “Robert and Nathaniel died in the war,” Morgan told him.

  “War is a cruel thing,” Christian muttered.

  “Never seen it myself,” Morgan confessed. “My father was a soldier, though. He died young. I’m probably the only one from our line to live to see old age. Most people around these parts were too busy trying to survive during the war. Those who served died or never came back.” He scratched his head. “What about you, boy? Have you ever seen battle?”

  Christian stared at the fire. “Years ago,” he said. “I was a different person then.”

  Morgan raised an eyebrow and lowered the brand. “Maybe. Life has a way of reminding us who we truly are from time to time.”

  The young bull sprinted away, and the conversation ended as abruptly as it started.

  * * * * *

  The work only seemed to get harder with each passing day, though Christian kept up surprisingly well. He realized Morgan was breaking him in slowly, which he silently appreciated. The farmer didn’t always say much, but Christian gradually learned more about the old man’s history.

  It was Morgan’s older brother who started the outfit after their father passed. At one time, the property was a proper ranch, with both families working side by side. Morgan’s brother suffered a heart attack almost twenty years ago, which was when the trouble started. The man’s two sons died ten years later after long bouts with fever from some unknown illness, leaving Morgan and his young boys to work the ranch. As the years passed, a number of hardships reduced the ranch’s size and the farmer’s finances. Christian realized Morgan often struggled to make ends meet, as Morgan could afford to pay him a sparse silver quarter a day. During Christian’s previous stint as a road worker in New Mexico, he’d made nearly a dollar a day in wages. Christian mused that his current financial situation was just another example of the shared hardships of life on the plains.