Atonement

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  “You look tired, friend.”

  The man sitting at the bar must have been waiting for him. Christian couldn’t think of any other explanation as to why he would have stayed up so late. He stared at the stranger, who was wearing a black bandana. The hair on Christian’s neck stood on end. He started to reach for his guns.

  “That won’t be necessary,” the outlaw said. “I mean you no harm.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” Christian replied. “A few of your friends tried to kill me earlier.”

  The man shrugged. “You look like you could use a drink.” He got up, walked behind the counter, and took out a jar of whiskey. He poured the liquor into two glasses and laid two bills on the counter before returning the bottle to its resting place.

  “I don’t drink with strangers,” Christian said.

  “Quinn Blackwell,” the rustler said. “And I know a little about you, so we’re not exactly strangers. Mr. Emerson from parts unknown―the man with the silver pistols.” There was a hungry look in the man’s eyes. He was younger than the others and wore finer clothes.

  “What do you want, Mr. Blackwell?”

  “Please, have a seat. I don’t bite.”

  Christian hesitated and then took the barstool nearest him. Quinn slid the glass of whiskey toward him, which Christian ignored.

  “I’ve got no quarrel with you or your outfit. I just want to be left alone until I can earn a little money and move on.”

  “And Brock?”

  He started the fight. I warned the others about pulling on me. They should have listened.”

  “I’ve seen a lot of gunfights, Mr. Emerson. Even been in some of them myself. I have never seen anyone as fast as you.” When Christian didn’t answer Quinn continued. “With your talents, you belong with us. You don’t have to scrounge for a living working for an old man who can hardly pay you.”

  “I don’t think your boss would take too kindly to recruiting someone who put two of his men in the ground.”

  Quinn smirked. “It’s happened before.”

  “I’ve heard about your outfit, Mr. Blackwell. Charlie Sheldon doesn’t sound like a safe man to work for.”

  Quinn’s smile grew wider, exposing his teeth. “Don’t worry about Charlie. He won’t always be running the show.”

  Slowly, Christian began to understand Quinn’s intent. Quinn desired control of the gang and thought Christian could help deliver that to him.

  “What makes you think I’d be interested in joining up with you in the first place?”

  Quinn’s smile faded, and he took a long drink. “You’re an outlaw, Mr. Emerson. You belong with us.”

  Christian’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know that.”

  “No man with skills like yours, without a badge, comes to a place like this―other than someone who is running from the law. You’re a killer, Mr. Emerson. A good one, from the looks of it.” Quinn sighed. “This town is too small and too poor to waste time on. Charlie will get bored with it eventually, and then he’ll burn it to the ground. I’ve seen it before. It need not be that way.”

  Christian studied Quinn carefully. He had a persuasive way of speaking. Christian already knew Charlie Sheldon by reputation, but he had an inkling Quinn might just be the more dangerous of the two.

  “I’m afraid you have the wrong man,” he said finally. “I’m not interested in joining your gang.”

  Quinn shrugged. “It was worth a try.” He got up from the barstool and walked toward the batwing doors. “Maybe we can still be useful to each other, Mr. Emerson. I look forward to our next meeting.” With that, Quinn pushed the doors open and left the building.

  Christian watched him leave before finally relaxing his grip on his pistol. Exhausted, he trudged up the stairs and locked the door to his room. He fell forward onto the bed and closed his eyes.

  * * * * *

  Christian awoke to the sound of the birds. He rolled out of bed and grabbed his hat on the way out of the room, making sure his pistols were loaded before opening the door. Despite his lack of sleep, he was wide-eyed and ready to go.

  Chatter rose from below, and Christian was surprised to discover dozens of men gathered in the saloon. Raucous conversation and whispers filled the wide room. Mathew was hard at work trying to keep up with all the drink orders.

  Christian hesitated at the top of the staircase. He searched the hall for a sign of Sheriff Newton, but the lawman was nowhere in sight. His eyes wandered over to the clock. It was a few minutes until ten. He’d slept much longer than he intended.

  A short man leaning against the wall next to the staircase glanced over his shoulder and spotted Christian.

  “There he is,” the man whispered audibly to one of his friends.

  Word quickly spread through the saloon. One man raised his glass and cheered. Several others looked on in disapproval. Christian sighed and descended the stairs. So much for going unnoticed. He made his way through the sea of faces, trying to disentangle himself from the crowd. It seemed every man wanted to engage him in conversation, which he avoided with a scowl and a dark gaze.

  “It’s about time you’re up,” a gruff voice said once he made it outside. Morgan wore a bemused expression. “You won’t get away with waking this late on the ranch.”

  “No sir,” Christian said. “That is, if you still want me. I’ll understand if you’d rather me not work for you anymore.”

  Morgan laughed. “Nonsense. I may not say this often enough, but I need the help. There’s a wagon full of lumber back at the ranch, and I don’t fancy unloading it on my own.”

  Christian looked around. Several people in the street walked past, though few took notice of them.

  “About what happened yesterday―”

  “Forget about it,” Morgan cut him off. “I already have.”

  “Well, I suppose I should speak to Newton before we leave town.”

  A familiar shout echoed behind him. “Mr. Emerson!”

  Christian turned around. “What is it, Finley?” he asked.

  “They’re at the courthouse. The town council is meeting to talk about what happened. You’d better come.”

  The trio walked across the road to the large building. A small group of men in tailored clothes spilled out onto the street. Christian spotted Mayor Hale and Sheriff Newton standing in the doorway.

  “Mr. Emerson,” Russell started, but before he could finish, Rudolph Griffith ran up to the courthouse. The portly man’s face was flustered from exertion.

  “Mayor Hale, I’d like to say a few words in the young man’s defense.”

  Russell looked exasperated. “The meeting is over, Mr. Griffith.”

  Rudolph drew himself up and grabbed his suspenders. “All the same, Mayor. I saw what happened yesterday. Mr. Emerson was only defending himself. He’s done some work for me, and I can vouch for his character.”

  Christian couldn’t help smiling. He hadn’t done anything to deserve Griffith’s loyalty, but the saloon owner was sticking his neck out for him.

  “It’s true,” Finley said. “Those men were planning to ambush him. They were going to gun him down in the street.”

  Russell nodded. “We know. That’s why, despite the sheriff’s concerns, the council voted against issuing a warrant for your arrest, Mr. Emerson.”

  “You’re making a mistake,” a loud voice boomed from behind the men. Big Jim Markham stood in front of the courthouse, accompanied by a thin man wearing a pair of glasses. Markham’s carriage loomed across the street. “Russell.” He looked over at the saloon owner. “Mr. Griffith. I came as soon as I received word that the council was meeting.”

  Christian noticed Morgan’s jaw tense.

  Markham pointed at Christian. “This man killed two of my farmhands in cold blood. He deserves no
better than the hangman’s noose.”

  “You have no proof of that,” Griffith protested. “Do you have any witnesses?”

  The thin man extended a piece of brown paper. “We have a signed affidavit from Carlos Ruiz swearing that this man fired on his friends, unprovoked.”

  “That’s a lie!” Finley exclaimed.

  “Keep out of this, boy,” Markham warned, “or I’ll find someone else to take your place in the stables. Now run along and get back to work.”

  Finley started to open his mouth, but Christian nodded at him, and the young man turned and stomped away.

  Russell sighed. “Jim, we’ve already heard from a dozen witnesses who saw the fight. The men drew on Mr. Emerson first, or at least they attempted to.”

  “This is the second time this man has assaulted one of my workers,” Markham said. He looked Christian over with a cold, hard stare. “I won’t stand for it.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to,” Griffith interrupted. “You heard the mayor.”

  Markham turned his gaze to the saloon owner. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about you, Griffith. Your time is coming. Come, Weathers. We’ve wasted too much time here already.” Markham strode away toward the carriage.

  “Wait,” Christian said, and the two men stared each other down. “I’ve known men like you before, Mr. Markham. You have a little money and influence, and you think that gives you the right to bully everyone as you like. You think no one will stand up to you.” He looked down at Markham with a dark expression. “You’re wrong. Men like you always come to the same end.”

  Markham flushed a deep shade of red. He started to speak but then turned and hurried toward the carriage, fuming the whole way.

  Sheriff Newton shook his head at Christian and walked toward the jail. “Until we next meet, Mr. Emerson,” he said. The sheriff peered off at the carriage vanishing in the distance.

  “I should be going too,” Griffith said. “Mr. Emerson, always a pleasure. Mayor Hale.” The portly man tipped his hat and scurried away.

  Christian and Morgan turned to leave.

  “Mr. Emerson,” the mayor called after them. “You have a lot of nerve, talking to Jim that way. It may come back to haunt you.”

  “Maybe so, but it needed to be said all the same.”

  “Did it?” Russell’s expression soured. “When we first met, you assured me you weren’t trouble.”

  “I meant it, sir. With respect, Mr. Markham isn’t my enemy. I could leave tomorrow and his shadow would still be cast far over Casper.”

  Russell moved closer until he was standing inches away from Christian. “Do it,” he said. “You should leave. The town would be safer for it.”

  Morgan had been holding his tongue through the entire conversation, but suddenly he seemed to have had enough. He opened his mouth before Christian could respond. “This here is the only man in town who has actually made the town safer, Mr. Hale. All your fancy words and big talk didn’t do anything to spare my boy.”

  The words seemed to take the wind out of the mayor’s sails. “I―I’m sorry about your son, Mr. Morgan,” Russell stammered.

  “Being sorry won’t bring him back. And here you are, still doing Jim Markham’s bidding. You’re a coward.” Morgan balled his hand into a fist. Then the farmer sighed and lowered his hand. “You’re not even worth it.” He turned to Christian. “Come along, Mr. Emerson. We’ve got work to do.”

  Chapter Eight

  The return to the ranch was marked by several days of relative peace. Morgan said even less than before, if that were possible, and Rebecca was withdrawn whenever Christian was around the house. He did his chores and completed his tasks often alone, with only Abel Morgan’s faded book to keep him company. He suspected Mrs. Morgan wasn’t too keen on having under her roof someone who had just shot two men. Christian couldn’t blame her. His presence had caused a row between the farmer and his wife, and he suspected it was best to stay out of it.

  All the same, Christian felt a growing sense of frustration stirring within him. Events had steadily spun out of his control since arriving in Casper. His conversation with Quinn Blackwell weighed heavily on his mind. There was a devilish gleam in the man’s eyes that didn’t sit well with Christian. Whatever Quinn said, Christian had gunned down two of Charlie Sheldon’s gang, and the outfit’s boss wasn’t going to take too kindly to that―especially not with Jim Markham breathing down his neck. When Christian retired to bed each night, he made sure his pistols were close by.

  But the gang didn’t come for him in the days that followed. He was forced only to endure the uncomfortable tension in the small farmhouse. Christian took great pains to show Rebecca she needn’t fear him, though it didn’t appear to do much good. He put it out of his mind and focused on his tasks around the farm. After he and Morgan unloaded the lumber from the wagon, the two men set about repairing the rundown fence before doing the same with the corral beside the barn.

  Christian’s mind occasionally drifted back to Casper. He wondered if Russell Hale was right. Had he put the town in danger? Maybe the best thing to do would have been to look the other way from the beginning.

  This didn’t have to be my fight, Christian thought. It isn’t my fight, he corrected. He would finish out the harvest, buy what he could, and leave. It would take two, three months at the most. Then Casper wouldn’t be his problem anymore. If the town and the rustlers both wanted him gone, well, he was already planning on moving on anyway. There was no reason to stick his neck out for people who didn’t want him. Except . . . His thoughts turned to May, Finley, Griffith, and all the rest. Christian remembered Mark Forrester’s words. Casper was headed for a reckoning, whether he was there or not.

  “You’ve done well,” Morgan said, interrupting Christian’s thoughts.

  The remark caught him off guard, as Morgan wasn’t a man prone to compliments.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “We’ve finished the repairs three days faster than I expected. You work like a man possessed, Mr. Emerson. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “I need the work, Mr. Morgan.”

  Morgan chuckled. “I’ve seen you reading that book of Abel’s, you know. Between that and the way you use those guns, you really are an odd sort of fellow. I can’t believe you couldn’t find something that paid better if you really wanted to. A man with your talents could make a pretty penny working for the law.”

  Christian didn’t know how to articulate that the idea of him working for the law wasn’t feasible, so he kept his mouth shut.

  “Why don’t you come with me.”

  It wasn’t a question, so Christian, grateful for the break, followed.

  Morgan led Christian up a hill overlooking the ranch and the homestead below. Six carved wooden crosses were planted firmly in the hard soil. Piles of stones covered the graves.

  “My sister-in-law was the first to be buried,” Morgan said, pointing to one of the crosses. “She died in childbirth. I’ve had to replace the cross a couple of times over the years. My brother was never one for tears, but he cried like a child when we lowered her into the earth.” He moved on to the next one. “That’s him, right there, buried next to his two sons. And these are for my boys, Robert and Nathaniel.”

  Christian remained pensive. He didn’t know what he was supposed to say. Then he realized a grave was missing.

  “When Abel died, I wanted to bury him here,” Morgan said. “He belonged with his family, I thought. Rebecca saw it differently. In her eyes, Abel gave his life for the town. She thought burying him in the town cemetery, close to the church, would be a reminder to everyone. She was right about that.” His voice gave way. “No parent should follow their child to the grave. I’ve buried all three.” Morgan looked at Christian, his pain exposed. “Have you ever lost someone you loved?”

 
Christian could have gone without answering, or given a cryptic response, but he sensed that this was a time to tell the truth―or what little of it he could.

  “I’ve lost everyone,” he said. “Everyone I’ve ever known.” Somehow, saying it out loud made the words sink in. He thought of his friends and of his father. Most of all, he thought of a girl back home with dark hair and fair skin. Emily. The person he loved above all others was someone he would likely never see again.

  “When I saw you beat that man in the street, I wondered. Maybe there was finally a man who would stand up to them. Someone who would help drive those bastards out of town. Then I saw you take on those three men, and I knew it was true.”

  Christian sighed. “Mr. Morgan, you’re wrong,” he said plainly. “I’m not here to save anyone. I’m here to earn enough money to buy supplies and leave. I’m no hero. I’ve killed men before.”

  The farmer shook his head. “My son’s death cannot be in vain,” he insisted.

  Christian gritted his teeth. He felt the sense of aggravation return. “A lot of good men died in vain,” he said. “And I suspect many more will before this life is through.”

  Morgan gazed at him for several seconds longer until at last his face seemed to fall. “I think I’m quite done with work today,” he said weakly. “Finish up for me, Emerson, won’t you?”

  Christian watched Morgan shuffle down the hill and return to the meager house below. He turned his attention to the small cross at the grave before him. It seemed to burn him, and he found he could no longer look at it. Christian took a step back but lingered for a few moments before returning to the business of the day.

  That night, he found himself too wound up to read. He closed the book and waited for his mind to clear. Christian remembered men from the war who couldn’t sleep without having nightmares. They were haunted men surrounded by the faces of those they’d killed. Christian was not one of those men. He waited up with the rustler he’d shot because it was the right thing to do, but he would not lose sleep over it. He instead fell asleep thinking about the hilltop with the six wooden crosses.