Atonement

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  Christian led the palomino outside the barn. He heard voices coming from inside the farmhouse. The front door opened, and Morgan and Rebecca stepped onto the porch.

  “Is there anything I can get you when we go to town?”

  “We’re running low on coffee,” she said. “Remember, you’re buying for three again.”

  Christian looked ahead and tried not to appear to have overheard. He wasn’t used to the idea of being included. He tried his best to remain apart, but Morgan was starting to depend on him more and more. In the short time they’d worked together, Christian had learned a great deal about farming. Judging from the state of the ranch, the old man had difficulty keeping up even when he had his son to help him. There was still much to be done.

  Christian frowned. He hadn’t told Morgan yet that he intended to move on in a couple months. Although he knew he needed to speak up on the matter soon, Christian couldn’t seem to bring himself to do it.

  Rebecca returned inside, and Morgan made his way across the yard to the wagon.

  “Sorry about the wait.” He looked up at the sun and sighed. He’d wanted to make the trip earlier that morning. Now it would be noon before they reached town. “I suppose we’d better get a move on it.” He climbed into the wagon and took the reins. “I’m going to do some shopping for Rebecca when we reach town,” he said. “I want you to pay a visit to the barber. If you’re going to work for me, you won’t be looking like a vagrant.”

  “Yes sir,” Christian said.

  “We need to repair the holes in the fence down by the pond and elsewhere. You know that lumber you and Mark Forrester brought back from Rawlins?”

  Christian nodded.

  “I bought some off Mr. Griffith. We’ll load it up on the wagon, along with some wire, and that should be everything.”

  The rest of the journey elapsed in relative silence. When they reached Casper, Morgan handed Christian a couple of coins and dropped him off outside the barbershop.

  “Thank you, sir,” Christian said.

  “I’ll deduct it from your wages at the end of the month,” Morgan replied. He gripped the reins. “I’ll meet you back here in half an hour.” The wagon rolled away, leaving a trail of dust in its wake. Christian stepped out of the sunlight and into the barbershop. Upon spotting him, the barber stopped what he was doing at once.

  “As I live and breathe,” the barber said. He walked over to Christian and shook his hand. Christian tried not to look surprised. “I’m Sam,” the barber said. He looked to be in his late fifties, with a medium build and wavy white hair. “This here is Pete Hodges,” he said, gesturing with his brush to a man about the same age on a stool next to the mirror.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Christian said. “I go by Emerson.”

  “We know who you are,” Pete said, “and so does most of the town.” The man’s gruff voice suited his ruddy complexion. Pete looked like a man who’d done some fighting in his youth.

  “What he’s trying to say,” Sam chirped in, “is that we heard what you did outside the Traveler.” The barber returned to the stool and picked up a pair of scissors.

  “Saw it myself,” Pete said. “A mighty fine sight it was, too. That Brock had it coming.”

  Christian didn’t comment. He took a seat against the wall and waited for Sam to finish his work. A few minutes later, Pete stood up and paid the barber before turning to Christian.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you in person, Mr. Emerson. The next time you’re in town, you should drop by my diner for supper. It’s on me.” His eyes drifted down to Christian’s guns. “I knew a man who had a pair of pistols like those once.” The two men exchanged a look only two soldiers could share, and Pete left the barbershop without another word.

  Christian rested his hat in the chair and crossed the room. He sat down on the stool, and Sam covered Christian’s body with a drape and his face with foam. Christian leaned back and felt the razor scrape against his beard. When the barber was finished, he began cutting Christian’s hair with sharp scissors.

  “What’s your story, Emerson? You looking to stay for a while, or are you planning on moving on?”

  “I’m just passing through,” Christian answered reluctantly. “I took a job with Landon Morgan until I can afford to strike out on my own again.”

  “Morgan’s a good man,” Sam said. “And if you don’t mind me saying so, he certainly could use the help, from what I hear.” Sam finished and laid a hand on his shoulder. “A word of advice. Not everyone is happy about what you did to that rustler. Some people might say you’re trouble.”

  “What about you?” Christian asked, curious.

  “I think you did the right thing. May Turner is a sweet girl, and she deserved someone to stand up for her. I hear she’s become quite taken with you. Just be careful not to make enemies with Big Jim Markham. They don’t tend to fare too well around here.”

  Christian tipped his hat to the barber.

  “I plan to keep my head down from here on out,” he said, “but I appreciate the advice.”

  Christian caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the way outside. He was stunned. The transformation was staggering. Between the haircut and his new clothes, he almost felt like his old self again.

  He stared out over the town. Aside from the rustlers, Casper was a nice place. It was the kind of town he wished he could settle down in. Unfortunately, that wasn’t an option for him. Christian would be on the run for the rest of his life. This was the fate he had chosen for himself, and it wouldn’t do him any good to dwell on what might have been.

  Morgan was waiting for him outside. “You clean up nice, boy.” Morgan grinned at him, and Christian couldn’t help returning the smile. He climbed onto the wagon and Morgan drove to the storehouse behind the saloon. They got right down to loading the lumber. The task didn’t take long, and Morgan soon departed to purchase some wire, leaving Christian to load the last bit.

  When Christian finished, he walked past the saloon to stretch his legs. A few strangers waved to him, and Christian tipped his hat to them in return. Things were finally moving according to plan. A couple months’ wages, and he would be ready to ride to Cheyenne.

  In the distance, he spotted someone up the road, running toward him. Christian squinted against the sunlight and saw that it was Finley.

  “Mr. Emerson!” Finley shouted. “Get back!”

  Christian tensed. His eyes darted toward the shadowy alley next to the saloon. Three men emerged from the alley, all wearing black bandanas around their necks. He took a step back to prevent them from circling him.

  Having heard Finley’s cries, a crowd began to form on either side of the street, but Christian’s attention was directed only to the three men surrounding him. It was a bold move for them to attack him in town, in the street, rather than ambushing him on the way to or from the ranch. They were there to send a message.

  “Look who we have here,” said one of the rustlers, a middle-aged man with an unpleasant face. The man turned to his companions. One was tall and thin, and the other was a younger man with a dark complexion. “You know, I thought he’d be bigger.”

  “What do you want?” Christian demanded, betraying no weakness.

  “You messed with one of our friends,” the first man replied. “You picked a fight with the wrong man.”

  The three men stepped closer to him. Christian’s pulse raced. “You don’t have to do this,” he said firmly. “I haven’t killed a man in a long time, and I would prefer to leave it that way. Get back on your horses and ride away.”

  He thought he saw the rustler with the dark complexion hesitate for a moment, but the three men moved on, undeterred. Christian spotted Finley standing a short distance from the gangsters, a fearful expression on his face.

  “Big Jim sends his regards,” the first man s
aid, reaching for his revolver.

  The gangsters never stood a chance. Christian moved like lightning. His pistols were out before the first rustler even touched his weapon. Everyone watching stood still, transfixed. They had never seen anyone move so fast.

  Christian pulled the trigger. The gun roared like a locomotive. Smoke rose into the air. The first gangster toppled backward over the saloon’s wooden deck, clutching his chest. Blood streaked down his shirt. The tall gangster barely gripped the butt of his gun when Christian shot him in the abdomen.

  Christian spun around quickly and hit the younger man in the face with one of his pistols. The man tripped and fell backward, his gun clattering to the ground. He landed in a heap in the dust. A crucifix tumbled from his pocket.

  Christian held his pistol trained on the man, whose whole body shook with fear. The man looked at his gun, which lay in the dust a few inches away. For a moment, Christian thought he might go for the gun, but instead the man crawled away, clutching at the crucifix.

  “Madre de Dios,” he pleaded, trembling in the dirt.

  Christian lowered his gun slightly but kept it trained on the rustler’s chest. “Get out of here,” he ordered. “And don’t ever come back.”

  The rustler scrambled to his feet and ran for the nearest horse. He mounted the animal and headed for the mountains without looking back.

  Christian dropped his gun arm and prayed he wouldn’t regret the decision to leave the man alive. All the same, he refused to kill an unarmed man. He returned his attention to the two men on the ground. The first gunman―the one he shot through the chest―was already dead. The other man was still alive. Christian kicked the rustler’s gun out of his reach.

  “This man needs a doctor,” he shouted, holstering his gun and turning away from the bleeding rustler.

  Chapter Seven

  Christian stayed by the rustler’s side for hours. He waited up long into the night, even after Doc Brooks said there was nothing further that could be done. A few people came and went in the beginning, though after sundown their numbers dwindled. Christian supposed most people didn’t care for the rustler―no one seemed to know the man’s name―and he couldn’t blame them.

  Near midnight, he felt someone’s presence behind him.

  “I never thanked you for saving my life.”

  Christian blinked and shook himself fully awake. It was May Turner. Compassion shone in the young woman’s eyes, even in the dim candlelight.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Christian shook his head. “No harm done.” He looked at the clock. “You shouldn’t be here, Miss Turner. It’s late, and this isn’t the place for a woman.”

  May’s eyes briefly wandered over to the man on the table and the bloodstained cloths littering the floor.

  “This isn’t the first time I’ve seen a man near death, Mr. Emerson. I watched my father bleed to death when I was fourteen after a wagon rolled over him. This is a hard country, sir.”

  Christian nodded. In the first hours, the rustler had screamed and moaned, but he’d fallen quiet since then. “I suspect you’re right.”

  “It was very brave,” May said. “What you did for me in the saloon. You didn’t even know me. And now this . . . it wouldn’t have happened if not for that.”

  He turned from the man and looked into May’s eyes, which were full of the vulnerability of youth.

  “You can’t blame yourself, Miss Turner,” he said softly. “I learned that a long time ago in the war.”

  “You were a soldier?” She seemed surprised.

  “In another life. I saw more than my share of men die. It never gets any easier, especially when it’s your finger pulling the trigger.”

  “You’re very frank, Mr. Emerson. I like that about you.”

  “Am I?” Christian looked at the clock again. “It must be the hour. I’d appreciate it if you kept that under confidence, Miss Turner.”

  May sat with him for a while longer in silence. “I’m worried about what comes next,” she confessed.

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s lots of talk in town about what happened today. Some people aren’t happy about it. They think the sheriff ought to arrest you.”

  “I know. Newton told me not to leave town until everything is sorted out.” The sheriff had confronted him in the immediate aftermath of the shootout. Newton, along with Finley, helped carry the rustler inside Doc Brooks’ Apothecary. Brooks kept a room in the back of the store where he sometimes treated patients when the need arose. Newton also tried again to persuade Christian to relinquish his guns, though he again refused.

  “People are worried about what Charlie’s going to do when he returns.” She took Christian’s hand. “I’m afraid for you.”

  Christian gently pulled his hand away. “I’ll worry about that day when it comes. You should be getting home, Miss Turner. It’s late.”

  May rose and walked toward the door.

  “And, Miss?”

  She looked back.

  “You’re welcome.”

  May smiled and left.

  Christian returned his attention to the man on the table, whose skin was almost translucent. The rustler shivered intermittently, though his eyes never opened.

  How did I get myself into this mess? Christian wondered. What was he going to do now? His best bet would be to leave Casper that night and head for Cheyenne. He’d already drawn far too much attention to himself.

  But it was too early to flee. Christian was confident the sheriff wouldn’t be able to hold him for any crime since he’d acted in self-defense. If he could just wait things out, he could make enough money to depart properly. He thought of Morgan, who still needed his help.

  I’ll stay through harvest, at least, Christian thought. Then I’ll leave Casper behind. Hopefully, the uneasy peace between the townspeople and the gangsters would resume once he left town.

  A figure lingered in the doorframe. Christian turned to see Finley.

  “Was that May Turner?” he asked, confused. He hadn’t changed out of his clothes, which were still stained with the rustler’s blood.

  He nodded. “She wanted to thank me for standing up for her in the saloon.”

  “Oh. I thought you might want some company.” Finley had been in and out of the store all evening. He’d brought Christian something to eat earlier, though Christian couldn’t seem to remember what it was. Finley sat, and the two men took watch over the dying light of the flame.

  “I owe you one,” Christian said after a time. “For warning me.” Finley was a good kid and had proven himself a loyal friend.

  “After what you did for May, it was the least I could do. The way I see it, this town is better off with you as a part of it.”

  “Not everyone would agree with you.”

  “Casper’s full of people who don’t do anything but hide when trouble comes looking for them. You’re one of the only people to ever stand up for what’s right.”

  Christian mused over those words as the two sat in silence. Here he was, an outlaw, leagues from home, and he was still trying to do the right thing. Life had a funny way of reminding him who he was and where he came from.

  After almost an hour, Finley stood up. “I’d better get to bed,” the young man said.

  “Goodnight, Finley.”

  Finley paused at the door. “Mr. Emerson?”

  Christian looked up. “Yes?”

  “The man with the cross. Why did you let him go?”

  “He was unarmed,” Christian said simply.

  Finley looked down and chuckled. “You’re a good man, Mr. Emerson. Better than you give yourself credit for.” Then he was gone.

  After Finley, no one else followed. It was just Christian, alone with the man he’
d fatally wounded. Part of him wanted the man to open his eyes before he died, in hopes he would reach some sort of peace. The other part feared staring into the eyes of a man whose life he’d taken, and those eyes staring back at him. If the gunman had only listened to him in the first place, he would still be alive.

  Christian thought back on the events of the day, replaying them over in his mind. Everything since the shooting was a blur. Morgan found him hours earlier with Doc Brooks. He didn’t say much. There wasn’t time at first, amidst all the confusion. Christian didn’t know whether to take Morgan’s silence as disapproval, but when he eventually rose to leave saying he needed to return to Rebecca before nightfall, he confessed he hated leaving Christian there alone. Christian assured the old man he would be fine, and Morgan promised he would return for him the following morning.

  A few minutes after they’d laid the dying man down on the table, Reverend Burke, the town’s preacher, had entered the store and led the onlookers in a prayer as Doc Brooks worked. Burke returned later in the night when there was no one else aside from Christian, and prayed for the rustler’s salvation. He never addressed Christian.

  Rudolph Griffith sent word through Mark Forrester that Christian could stay in his old room above the saloon, though Christian had yet to make use of it. The rustler was strong and lasted much longer than anyone expected.

  The man finally fell motionless long into the wee hours of the morning. Christian continued watching the dead man’s body for several moments longer. He wondered who the man had been in life, and what circumstances had brought him to this point. Would there be money for a funeral? What would happen to the body?

  After what seemed like an eternity, Christian rose and walked outside into the moonlight. He looked down at his hands and realized they were still stained with blood. There were men in the war who had been broken after having to take lives. There were others who seemed to enjoy it. Christian belonged to neither group.

  After washing his hands in a bucket of water, he walked down the lonely street to the saloon. It didn’t take him long after setting foot inside to realize he wasn’t alone.