Atonement

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  Finley clenched his teeth. “That greedy bastard,” he whispered.

  Matthew shook his head. “What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” Griffith said. “I’ve put my life into this building, and I’m not ready to lose it without a fight. I would rather die than run like a coward, but there’s no one who’ll stand with me.”

  “You’re wrong,” Finley found himself saying. “I’ll help you stand your ground.”

  Griffith smiled weakly. “That’s a kind offer, Finley. You’re a fine young man, but the two of us wouldn’t stand a chance against those men.”

  “What about Mark Forrester? Isn’t he a good shot with a rifle? I know he would do anything you asked of him.”

  “Maybe he’s right, Mr. Griffith,” Matthew volunteered. “And I could use the revolver.”

  “It’s time for someone to stand up to Charlie,” Finley said. A thought occurred to him. “What about Mr. Emerson? You saw what he did to those gunslingers. I know he will help us! That would make five.”

  “You’re right,” Griffith replied, slowly growing more certain of himself. He drained the second brandy. “I’ll send word to Mark Forrester at once,” he said. “Matthew, see if you can get the sheriff to help. It’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try.”

  “I’ll ride home to let my father know where I’m going,” Finley said. “Then I’ll pay a visit to Landon Morgan’s ranch for a word with Mr. Emerson.” The young man felt a surge of energy flow through him. He knew some might consider his actions hotheaded or too bold. But after watching Mr. Emerson show the town that they didn’t have to be afraid anymore, Finley knew in his heart that helping Griffith make a stand was the right thing to do―no matter how dangerous.

  “Finley?” May asked when he returned. “What will Mr. Griffith do?”

  He took her by the hand. “Get out of town for a few days,” he said. “Go stay with Abigail Vincent’s family for a while.”

  She pulled her hand away. “Why, Finley? Tell me what’s happening.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t tell you now,” he said. “Promise me.”

  May nodded nervously. Finley tried to reassure her with a smile, though he couldn’t muster much of one.

  After saying goodbye to May, Finley mounted his horse and made for his father’s ranch. The wind intensified, knocking leaves and debris into the air. Finley had lied to Rudolph Griffith―he had no intentions of informing his father of his plans. Like most people in Casper, his father believed challenging Charlie Sheldon was suicide. He would never allow his son to join any effort aimed at resisting the gangsters.

  Finley returned home and unloaded the supplies he brought from town.

  “You seem awfully jittery,” his mother said. She held a hand against his forehead. “Do you feel well?”

  Finley nodded. He peered outside the window. Clouds gathered over the horizon, dimming the sunlight. He couldn’t tell if a storm was coming or not, but he knew he needed to depart soon if he was to reach Landon Morgan’s ranch in time.

  “Your father was looking for you earlier,” his mother said. “He needed your help.”

  Finley’s face fell. “Maybe I am coming down with something,” the young man said. “I think I’ll go into my room and lie down.”

  As soon as he was out of her sight, Finley instead slipped into his parents’ room and closed the door. He located his father’s shotgun. The weapon felt heavier than he remembered. He’d never used the shotgun much himself, though he knew how to load and fire. Surely that would be enough.

  He crept out of the house with the shotgun, careful not to alert his mother. Finley untied his horse and silently led it behind the barn, where he mounted up. He cast one look back at the house before he took off. It was scary to think he might never return. Finley prayed his father would understand if it came to that. Then he quietly spurred his horse forward.

  When he reached Landon Morgan’s ranch, Finley spotted Emerson and Morgan working in the fields. They had already started harvesting the crops. At the sound of hooves, Mr. Emerson looked up, spotting him. Finley rode up to them on an exhausted horse.

  He could tell Mr. Emerson sensed the worry on his face. Morgan dropped a basket and ran over to them.

  “What is it, boy?” Morgan asked. “What’s happened?”

  “It’s Rudolph Griffith,” he said breathlessly. “Big Jim’s sent word that he’s going to burn the saloon to the ground tomorrow unless Mr. Griffith sells. Mr. Griffith doesn’t aim to sell.”

  Emerson’s hand clenched into a fist. “Then he’s a fool,” he said. “Charlie Sheldon would gun him down in a heartbeat. Any one of his men could do the job, let alone the whole outfit.”

  “Not if we fight back,” Finley protested. He slid down from his horse. “I got here as fast as I could. I told Mr. Griffith you would help us defend the saloon. We’ve got Mr. Forrester and Matthew as well.”

  Emerson snarled, and Finley had never seen him so angry. “You don’t speak for me, Finley.”

  Finley didn’t understand. “We need you,” he implored. “This town needs you.”

  Emerson’s eyes darted to the shotgun in the saddle. “Don’t tell me you’re going to be involved in this madness,” he said. “Do you even know how to use that thing?”

  Finley put his hands on his hips. “Of course I do!”

  The farmhand’s eyes narrowed. “Have you ever been in a gunfight before, Finley? Do you know what it’s like to take a man’s life when bullets are raining down around you?”

  “I figure now’s a good a time as any to learn.”

  “Then you’re a fool too.”

  “Finley, does your father know you’re bent on this?” Morgan interrupted.

  “He wouldn’t understand,” Finley said. He turned back to Emerson. “I thought maybe you would.”

  Emerson strode over to Finley’s horse and unstrapped the shotgun. “Take this,” he said, thrusting it into Finley’s hands. He took off his hat and set it on the fencepost twenty yards away. “Hit it,” he ordered. “Do it now!” he shouted when Finley hesitated. The young man pulled the trigger. The shell went wide, missing the hat by a wide margin.

  “Charlie Sheldon’s boys won’t miss,” Emerson said coldly. He scowled and turned to Morgan. “I intended to wait until the harvest was finished, but I reckon it’s past time for me to be moving on.”

  “You’re leaving?” Finley demanded. “So you’re just going to turn tail and run? I thought this town meant something to you. I thought you were different.”

  “You know nothing of my life, boy,” Emerson replied darkly. “I’m in this mess because I tended to someone else’s problems. I’m an outlaw, Finley. I’m no different than Charlie Sheldon and his men.”

  Finley shook his head. “You’re wrong.” He took the gun, strapped it to the saddle, and swung himself up onto the horse.

  Before Finley could depart, Emerson put his hand on the saddle, and his expression softened. “There’s no coming back from this, Finley.”

  “I know,” the young man replied quietly. Then he gripped the reins and his horse galloped away.

  * * * * *

  Christian watched Finley until he vanished from sight.

  “You shouldn’t have been so hard on him,” Morgan said.

  “You’re right,” Christian said, “but he’s going to get himself killed. I was trying to talk some sense into him.”

  “You’re really going to leave?”

  Christian considered the threat Charlie made against his boss. “I can’t stay,” he said. He looked Morgan in the eyes. His voice wavered. “A long time ago I did what I thought was the right thing. And I lost everything because of it.” He felt pain in his chest. “I’ve given so much already,” he said. “Lost so much. This isn’t my fight.”


  “Before he passed, my father used to ask a question,” Morgan said. “Is a soldier’s work ever done?”

  Christian looked away.

  “I never did get an answer. He died fighting the Indians.” Morgan reached into his shirt and took out the old pocket watch. It shimmered even under what little light passed through the clouds. The faded bronze was scratched, but there was still something special about the watch.

  “This was my father’s pocket watch,” he said. “He carried it with him like it was the most precious thing in the world. By all rights the Indians should have stripped it off him after he was killed, but somehow it was recovered from his body. When my brother and his children passed, the watch came to me.” Morgan flipped it open and watched the hands count down the day. He chuckled. “I always thought I would give it to one of my sons. I planned to give it to Nathaniel when he went off to war. For some reason I decided to keep it until he returned. He never did.”

  “I’m sorry,” Christian said.

  His boss shut the pocket watch and held it by the chain. He placed the watch in Christian’s hand. “You should have it,” he said.

  Christian frowned. “I can’t accept this, Mr. Morgan.”

  “You can,” Morgan insisted sternly. “And seeing as you don’t work for me anymore, I reckon you can call me Landon.”

  Christian knew better than to argue. The two men shook hands.

  “Christian,” he said, offering the only thing he had that meant something.

  “It suits you,” Morgan said. “I won’t persuade you to stay if you’ve made up your mind, but I hope I can convince you to spend the night and head out in the morning. I’ll have Rebecca fix something special.”

  Christian smiled weakly. “Thank you for everything, sir. You’re a good man, Landon Morgan. I think I’ll take you up on that offer.”

  * * * * *

  Quinn Blackwell set the razor down and studied his reflection in the mirror. He liked what he saw. He was an outlaw, but that didn’t mean he had to dress like a man with no class. He wanted to look like a man who was going places, for that was exactly what he intended to do. Quinn was nothing if not ambitious. That was why he fell in with Charlie Sheldon in the first place.

  True, Charlie was a man to be feared. The gang was a force to be reckoned with. That was one reason it frustrated Quinn that they confined themselves to Casper. Big Jim Markham was wealthy by the small town’s standards, but there was real money to be made elsewhere. Quinn had dozens of schemes, yet all Charlie wanted to do was terrorize the local populace.

  Quinn put the mirror away under his bed. He shared a room with four other rustlers but didn’t mind since it gave him the appearance of being just another one of the men. This made it easier for the others to think of him as their friend, not their boss. Quinn took great pains to make sure he was both well liked and still respected.

  “There you are,” Lester said. The large man stood in the doorway, his bearded face red from the sun. “I was looking for you.”

  After Lester took the beating from Abel Morgan during the picnic, he’d been on the outs with Charlie, which had pushed him into Quinn’s corner.

  “What’s this about, Lester? I’m on my way to speak with Charlie about tomorrow.”

  “A friend in town told me Rudolph Griffith plans to put up a fight. Said he’s trying to round up some gunslingers to his cause.”

  Quinn thought about it. He wondered if the enigmatic Mr. Emerson would number among the saloon’s defenders. If so, Griffith might be able to make a little trouble for Charlie. Quinn was smart enough not to underestimate Emerson’s skills.

  “Interesting,” he said. “Thank you for telling me. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep this information to yourself for the time being.”

  “Whatever you say, sir.” Lester tipped his hat and left.

  Quinn emerged from his quarters and went to find Charlie in Big Jim’s homestead. He had as much use for Big Jim as he did Charlie. Both men were hotheaded and intemperate. Whenever he could, Quinn tried to play each man against the other. He was always careful to keep his true intentions a secret from Charlie. At thirty-one years of age, Quinn could afford to wait to make his move. Now that an opportunity had presented itself, it was time to use it for his personal advantage.

  He found Charlie in the den, drinking at the bar.

  “Quinn,” the boss said when he spotted him. “I’ve had a letter from town. Read it for me.” He held out a letter, which Quinn took. He quickly scanned the contents.

  “This is from Mayor Hale, regarding your last visit. He’s written to Marshal Stone and told him you haven’t passed through Casper in months. Is this the man they sent after you in Stillwater?”

  “One and the same. It seems they didn’t take too kindly to me gunning down one of their deputies.”

  “Hale said he received a response. Stone thanked him for the letter and says he’s not coming this way anytime soon. Looks like the mayor came through.”

  Charlie chuckled. “He usually does. The man’s a coward, but he’s an effective coward, I’d allow.”

  “You’ve had a letter?” a loud voice boomed from across the room. The two outlaws looked up to see Big Jim stride into the den, an expectant look on his face. “Is it from Griffith?” The portly man seemed anxious.

  Quinn shook his head. “Still no response,” he said.

  “Maybe he hasn’t made up his mind yet,” Charlie offered.

  Big Jim snarled at him. “Of course he hasn’t, you simpleton. Even now he defies me.”

  Charlie slammed his glass down against the counter and rose to face their employer. “You should take greater care with your words, Jim.”

  The two men stared at each other for a few seconds, and Quinn opened his mouth to speak. “You did give him until tomorrow,” he said.

  “The sun is about to set. He’s made up his mind. It’s time to follow through with our threat.”

  Charlie nodded. “I hate to say it, but you’re right. I’ll miss that saloon though.”

  “I’ll rebuild it once the land is mine,” Big Jim declared.

  “What of Griffith?” Quinn asked.

  Big Jim shrugged. “It’s no concern of mine. If he lives he won’t have the money to pay off the bank, and I’ll take the land anyway.”

  “It’s settled then,” Charlie said. “I’ll ride with the boys to town tomorrow and take care of it.”

  Quinn decided to speak up. This was his chance. “How many men do you plan to take?”

  “All of you,” Charlie replied. “We’ll put on a real show.”

  Quinn shook his head. “I’m not so sure that’s the best course of action.”

  “Really? Why not?”

  Quinn had learned how to play Charlie years ago, and the boss still trusted his advice. “Don’t forget what happened when you shot Abel Morgan. If you use too much force, you’ll make a martyr of Griffith. The people might rise up.”

  “So?” Charlie asked nonchalantly. “Then we would take care of them too.”

  “True,” Quinn replied, “but we’d probably lose a few men along the way. With four men out of the picture, we’re down to eleven.”

  “What are you proposing?”

  “Take a smaller group. Go at noon. Be in and out quickly before they know what happened.”

  Charlie thought for a moment. “That sounds good to me. I’m glad I have you around, Quinn. We’ve had some good times together, haven’t we?”

  “We sure have,” Quinn answered.

  Quinn played the part, but all the while he plotted his boss’ death. Charlie had no way to know that Rudolph Griffith planned to put up a fight. If Charlie got pinned down, there was always the chance something would happen to him. Then the gang would belong to Quinn. He glanced up and saw
Charlie hold his glass aloft.

  Charlie smiled and said, “Tomorrow, this town burns.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Christian was gone before the sun rose. He left the farmhouse quietly, careful not to wake Morgan or his wife. He led his horse out of the barn and strapped his pack to the saddle. Although he hadn’t been able to afford all the supplies he wanted, he’d acquired enough for the journey to Cheyenne. After that . . . well, he would simply have to start over again as he had so many times before.

  He mounted his horse and looked out over the ranch one last time. As he rode out, the sky began to lighten. Christian didn’t look back. He headed east, traveling in the direction of town. He thought of what was to come in the hours ahead. Finley didn’t lack bravery, but there was no way he was a match for any man in Charlie Sheldon’s outfit. Christian reckoned Mark Forrester might put up a decent fight, though he didn’t know about Matthew the bartender. He guessed Rudolph Griffith barely knew the difference between the butt and the business end of a gun.

  The specter of battle haunted him. Christian remembered the look of disappointment in Finley’s eyes when he told him he wasn’t coming, and he gripped the reins tighter. Despite his best efforts to remain unattached, he counted most of the townspeople among his friends, and he didn’t have many of those left in the world. This wasn’t supposed to be his cause. From the beginning, his only intention was to pass through Casper on his way to Cheyenne.

  Christian felt himself pulled in two directions. When he spotted the town, he led Galahad to the church where Abel Morgan was killed. Christian dismounted and went inside, looking for the preacher. The interior of the church was plain, like many such buildings on the frontier. There were no stained-glass windows adorning the walls, only a rustic wooden cross on the wall behind the pulpit.

  “Can I help you?” asked Thomas Burke, the preacher who’d baptized Dennis Potter. Christian recognized him from the river.

  “I don’t know.”