About The Names We Go By (Added Content Preview)

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Chapter 1: Loot

            He was set up high in the hills behind three granite boulders that tended toward pink in the sun. A small opening in the rock afforded enough space to manage the barrel of his rifle down the slope, gunmetal as still as the stones left and right. Someone was riding alone and deliberate up the trail to his cabin. He wasn’t much partial to hosting company. Just a little longer and the lone stranger would know permanent the error of coming this way.

            His repeater was cleaned from the night before and aimed at a point where anyone sticking to the trail would have to cross, maybe a hundred yards down. His gloved hand steadied the weapon while an unadorned trigger finger was bent ready and hard calloused. He heard a raspy voice calling, “Hey Loot! Loot Moreno! You up there!?”

            As the rider below kept on, he let out a half minute’s stored breath and allowed his body some slack. A familiar face passed by the gunsight. He got up slow and dusted off his heavy wool pants, steady and sure-footed around the boulders while high pines drifted back and forth under a sharp afternoon sun. Jasper Bedford was close now, struggling atop a horse appearing to match the rider for age. “When you going to learn to make yourself known farther down the hill?” asked Moreno. His throat caught as he tried to project. It had been a spell last he’d said so many words running.

            “Your violence could never extend to me,” Jasper announced, slurring his proclamation a touch as he eased back the reins. “Our rich history has taught me so, though I’m sure you’d jump to say otherwise.” He gathered steam as he spoke and patted his vacant stomach. “Ah, lives such as ours can’t be snuffed so trivially.”

            Moreno’s voice was steadier and attained a sharper edge. “Point is, I don’t know if it’s friend or other. Holler sooner. My mutt blood doesn’t come with the power to see past what is.”

            Jasper appeared ready to let fatigue slide him from his saddle as Loot neared. “I can’t ever remember when I’m supposed to call out. Apologies. Confusing in a way, rocks and the trees. Everything out here tends toward sameness.”

“I suppose.”

“Don’t be so disappointed in me,” Bedford huffed. “I’m a top hand at finding the nearest saloon, regardless of orientation.” Jasper’s long bare chin was raised, trying to claim back some dignity.

            “Well,” said Loot, “that’s got the ring of truth.” He took the reins with his naked hand and ushered the gray gelding up a widening trail carpeted with brown tree needles to his home; just a little cabin, fashioned out from an indention in the mossy cliff-side. “All to say, if you’re feeling unsure out here, early introductions are best.”

            Bedford sat high in his saddle before addressing Moreno with a formal bow. “Your logic is concise and unimpeachable, my friend.”

            “Get on down,” Loot said, breath still quicker than normal. “Come inside and take coffee. Smelling whisky about, so I reckon you already got a jump on feeling warm.”

            “I did indeed,” Jasper smiled tentatively. He was weary and near drunk by any reasonable standard. Coming up on Moreno’s hideaway absent proper form was a good way to hasten St. Peter. He whispered a warning reminder to himself for next time, else it might be his last.

            Loot moved fast to spell the horse its rider. “You’ve got a look like you might be about done in. Take my hand. I’ll help you off.”

            “Cheers. My steed could be tuckered. A ghastly trudge to get up here.” Jasper cleared his ragged throat and spit once his feet were under him. “More importantly, my procreative elements suffered greatly from this unforgiving saddle. The leather is harder than diamonds.”

            Loot patted the weary animal just above his drooping eyes. “A bettin’ man might wager on your horse falling dead before too long.”

            “Oh,” Bedford said, scratching his wrinkled brow in wonder, like Loot’s assessment was a revolution in thought. “Losing Rocinante would be a dreadful loss. I really enjoy him, despite the deleterious effect riding has on my balls.” He stood up on his toes a little when he said despite. It was a habit Moreno had noticed and tried figuring out for years. Bedford liked to get higher up to put extra heat to a word, but there was no telling when it might be or what word might command the honor.

            “You’re strange, JB, even for an old white man. Gonna get to what brings you?” Loot hitched the horse and opened the door to his little hideaway. It was a tidier situation than one might expect from the outside. A dry, single room setup that served mostly as surroundings for a large cast-iron potbelly stove. Transporting it up the steep hillside might’ve whittled years from a man less robust than Moreno.

            “Yes, what brings me,” Jasper said, removing a tan duster big enough to force Loot into assuming it was a borrow. He placed it on one of two chairs in the cabin and took to the other like he’d just endured all forty years of wilderness. “I know you don’t love callers, but I felt duty bound to make the ascent.”

            Loot pulled the other chair near his visitor and sat himself. “Something’s weighing heavy, enough to go through that flask more than once.”

            “No fooling you.” Jasper was staring at the table, rubbing the sleeves of his wrinkled brown suit for warmth. “I always said you should’ve been a newsman.”

            Loot grunted. “Nothing against your trade, but I never myself understood the draw.”

            Bedford kept to the table, attempting to avoid the sober midnight blue of his friend’s eyes. “Like I said, apologies for scaling Olympus. You value your privacy, I understand.”

“Value might not be the right word, Jasper.” Moreno kicked the dirt-covered stone floor with the heel of his boot. “People don’t hole up like this without necessity hammering in some of the nails.”

            “Of course,” Jasper smiled, patting the top of his glistening head. He was about the only “European” Loot had ever known that refused a hat. It didn’t make much sense to him or anyone else, considering the nature of the man’s hair. It was sparse and ragged and nonexistent saving the sides, the color of chalk or soot, depending on the spot. There was something to his looks, though. Bedford had forgiving brown eyes to match his suit and slumped shoulders that would rise to meet excitement or fall to share a burden. His was a posture of ready humility, always reacting and therefore always engaging. Most meeting the wrinkled writer gave over to his winning ways within minutes. In that regard, Loot, as much as he’d deny it, was like the herd.

“I understand it’s not been ideal up here, but solitude sometimes is best society,” Jasper said, all thumbs, trying to find the old feeling of familiarity with his host. It had been near six months since their last encounter.

            “Best society. Is that one of your writings?”

            “Hell no. It’s Milton. Paradise Lost? Forget it. I was trying too hard. Foolish.”

            “Paradise Lost, huh?” returned Moreno. “Well, that’s a title I can get my head around. The lost part, anyhow.”

            Bedford realized he was clenching his veiny hands with strength not called upon in many years. He wrenched them apart and used one to awkwardly smack Loot on the knee. “I’ve said it before, but a woman or two could really make time go faster. Isolation is fine, but life needs punctuation marks.”

            “You’re saying what you’re always saying? Saying it different?”

            “Yes! Copulation, my good man. I can always hire a few discreet beauties to make you forget about things.”

            “What things in particular?” Loot would play along, seeing that it was helping to speed Jasper’s recovery.

            “Anything in particular. Anything in general. I find that in general, a little affection can cover a multitude of particulars.”

            “Same old letch, Jasper.”

His shoulders were high as they’d go, a product of the lightened mood. “I won’t prevaricate. You’ve always had my measurements.”

“Don’t know how you get through a day without paying for flesh.”

            “Me neither,” returned the writer, now hitting Loot on the arm. “But,” Jasper stopped, all of a sudden embarrassed. His hollow drunkard’s cheeks turned ruddy, regretting the frivolous course the conversation had taken. There was hard truth on the docket and a swift tonal change wasn’t the best way to go about things. Still. Enough stalling. Had to be done. He leaned in for the sharp bend. “I came to let you know, word from Thunder Hill was sent through on the telegraph. That’s the machine, we’ve had one—”

            “I know all about it. On and on about that damn thing each time seeing you.”

            “Of course,” Jasper coughed, sitting up solemn as his back would take. “Anyway, word came down that Ben Laird’s dead. Happened yesterday. I climbed Rocinante for this mountain the minute I confirmed the sad news.”

            Loot moved strange and turned his head as he took in Jasper’s report, like dodging slow punches. “How?”

            “Fever grabbed him up and didn’t let go. Only took a week, start to finish. Something in the lungs. Said the last few days it was like he was breathing underwater.” Jasper imagined a bought woman from the week previous, anything not to contend with the choking sensation presently gripping his throat. Fighting the urge to pull for his flask and shrink lower, he instead raised his bearing high to Loot. His friend was now standing over the homemade table, head almost forcing up the roof. Jasper’d never seen a man to match him on the frontier. A neck like a tree trunk. Legs bigger than the average westerner’s waist. Hair black like coal ran south of his shoulders absent a hint of gray, despite a run of years now stretching well into middle age. Dark blue eyes didn’t seem likely on a face with such uniformly olive skin, but you could trace that back to his unique extraction. Loot’s mother was a white settler who’d come over with a big family from somewhere in the high climes of Europe with barely a nickel and barely a word of English. Jasper’d heard rumors of a scandal, some sort of affair with one of society’s “undesirables.” A young rider that caught her eye, apparently named Moreno. He was hanged shortly after Loot’s birth, this unwanted horseman, part Mexican and part Indian. The only time Bedford spoke with Moreno about his past, Loot put on like none of it made a difference. No allegiance to any band of people or group had ever earned him a damn thing, he said. The only tribe he’d ever joined turned him bad and done the world wrong. He explained it vague, not enough to help Bedford make sense of it. Jasper found the parts he knew and the parts he didn’t endlessly fascinating, but the writer made no more approaches toward it. He’d always respect Moreno’s wishes, much as his inquisitive nature told him to do otherwise. In a wide-open country where the individual was a castle, Loot was a fortress on a hill too high for the clouds. Close as Moreno kept his own council, Jasper, without knowing exactly the reasons, knew the man cared a whole heap about very few.

            One such was Ben Laird. 

            “Damn. Preacher Laird. Damn shame,” Moreno said, setting down a shaky tin cup of coffee in front of his guest. “Should’ve had some more years left in him.”

            “I thought you’d want the news, bad as it is. And you don’t have to tell me what it was… the connection and the like. I know I’ve asked b—”

            Moreno covered Jasper’s mouth. “You hear that?” he asked, hand still where he left it. It was large enough to cover most of the writer’s face. “Twig broke. Sounded not too far off.” Moreno listened breathlessly a little longer and sprang. With strange agility he grabbed his repeater and glided out of the cabin, down the hill to his spot behind the three boulders. He fell to his chest silently, just in time to catch sight of black hair coming across his field of vision. One shot. Before the smoke cleared, he knew he’d hit his target dead between the eyes.

            “Should I ready myself?” Jasper yelled, doing a bad job of moving quickly down to Moreno on his skinny legs. Loot was leaning against one of the boulders by the time Bedford made his way. The newspaper owner was struggling to free his pistol from its holster and wiping sweat from his spotty forehead with a favored red silk handkerchief. The thin air wasn’t helping his lungs to find respite.  

            “It was just a bear. Big for a black. Had a good summer of eating, looks like.”

            “That’s nice,” Jasper panted, still a little on edge from Loot’s sudden dash.

            “Not really. I’m fixed for meat.”

            “Why then did you fire?”

            Moreno was a little embarrassed, poor decisions with a gun not being a common trait. “Didn’t know it was a bear until I’d already fired.” He paused abruptly. “Or maybe I did. Hell, thought someone might’ve followed you up here, Jasper.”

            “I’d never give away your spot, Loot.” Despite his wily ways, Bedford could pull an honest face and mean it when the occasion called.

            “I know it,” said Moreno. “C’mon back inside and take a load off.” He walked up and stood square to his friend. The sun was getting lower and his massive shadow was thrown up along the boulders behind. “Truth is, I shouldn’t have shot. Didn’t used to make mistakes. Not that kind.”

“But your aim was perfect. I’m still trying to figure out how you heard it from the cabin.”

It’d take more than a bit to describe being in tune with nature. Moreno chose a smaller explanation, one with a quicker exit. “Killing’s not the hard part, JB. Deciding, choosing’s the hard part. Either I’m old or Ben Laird’s death has me jumpy.” There was a solemnity in his voice the newsman couldn’t recall hearing.

Once inside, Loot seemed unsure whether to sit back down, moving cautiously. He was somewhere else, even in the familiar confines.

            Bedford had a sip of near tasteless coffee and coughed, saying, “Also wanted to tell you I was off to the funeral.”

            “Why?”

            Jasper pulled out a flask from the coat pocket next to his heart and drank the coffee taste away. He’d done his sacred duty as the bearer of bad news. Now he could resume normalcies without feeling too guilty. “Well, I knew the man. And there’s more than a few folks from Durington heading down.”

            Loot wasn’t mad at the newsman. Just mad in general. People had every right to pay their respects to Ben Laird. And Jasper, he was the type that earned his keep and helped more than most would ever try. Still. “Sounds like scheming. You’re wondering who’ll show up. Write one of your stories on it.”

“I don’t have any malicious intentions,” Jasper said pointedly. “But yes, I made plans to pen something simple to honor the good pastor. Nothing beyond that.” He rubbed at his thin salt and pepper mustache as it quivered from nerves.       

Moreno’s voice was a locomotive engine when he called upon it, arrestingly low and powerful, and he knew it. “Sorry, JB,” Loot said, gentler now. “Anyway, Thunder Hill’s a long ride. Day more than Fort Callaway, if you’re really about your business.”

            “We’ve got three days until the service. They’re holding off, presumably on account of all the people coming in for saying goodbyes.”

            “Best be on your way then,” Loot said. His delivery was too flat and cold to be believable as an honest demonstration of his feelings; from years of conversations and searching questions, Jasper could discern that much.

            “I’m sorry,” Bedford said, standing up. “I really am.”

            “It’s not your fault, Jasper.”

            “I know. But I’m wondering if I should’ve said anything. Obvious you’re itching to go to Thunder Hill. Looks like you’re ready to knock down a wall. Not that I need a demonstration.”

            “How could I? Too many gawkers. You know I can’t risk it.”

            “That’s precisely my point. Sticking my nose in.” Jasper clenched his weathered teeth together after another stingy drink. “Anyhow, anyway, I’m truly sorry about your friend.”

            Loot stood up and signaled the visit’s drawdown. “Appreciate you coming up here and giving me the news. No small favor. I’ll be owing you.”

            Jasper took his mighty hand for a shake, having one last look around the cabin. Orderly as it might be, he felt for his friend. The thing Milton said about solitude and society felt like horseshit. As publisher of the Durington Daily, he was well-versed in the practice. A man could move a heap of nonsense with the right words. “It’s me that forever owes. Be seeing you, Loot.”

            Moreno watched Bedford down the trail, one old horse on top another. He’d kept his calm through the visit as best he could, but his insides were suffering. He walked in circles over the flat ground in front of the cabin, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets, heart and head arguing the immediate future. If he could’ve taken leave of his body for a minute, he might’ve forgiven himself the turmoil to recognize the undeniable drama. In a life full of gunpowder and darkened decisions, Loot Moreno had only made a few friends that were worth a handshake. One was heading down the mountain, on his way to stand over the grave of another.

            “No,” he said, over and over, repeating the circle until his boots had cleared the pine needles from his path. A taste like iron and ash filled his mouth and nose. The past and all its leavings were pressing on his brain, coming to the fore, dashing what little peace he had like breakers against rock.

            Finally, he stopped retracing steps and repeating words. Jasper Bedford was out of sight now, probably nearing the flats leading into Durington. The short walk back to his cabin was labored and panicky. Despite the brisk air swirling against the mountain, little circles of sweat were collecting underneath his rugged arms. I’m just worried for the boy, he thought, removing the single glove to look disdainfully at the top of his hand and the mark carved into the skin. He wanted to forget the time when he looked at it with pride. Live with it like you have been, he thought, arguing with himself. It wasn’t an uncommon thing for Moreno, considering the isolated nature of his existence. This was different, though. This one-party quarrel was going somewhere. It was about going somewhere. It won’t hurt to go check on him. Ben’s not around anymore. You can talk to Doc Rufus, make sure he’s okay. Kip and the rest of the townsfolk of Thunder Hill will never know you were there. Same as it always was.

            This was the logic that led Loot onto his saddle and down the mountain. After packing enough provisions to quickly get there and back, he took the western hill trails that skirted Durington Valley and gave Fort Callaway an extra wide berth. It was a strain to put on Pecos, but Moreno knew how far and long to push the muscular quarter horse. Despite the roundabout route, they made it to Thunder Hill’s vicinity ahead of the big party that set off from Durington. No surprise. He’d spent most of his days in a saddle, chasing or being chased. Putting himself out to pasture was a fairly recent development, compared to the whole of things. Not enough time to unlearn the ways of getting around fast and quiet over difficult terrain.

            After sighting the town, he stopped just above the tree line on the mountains to the south. Thunder Hill was plumb center in a valley flat as a table, surrounded by cliffs and mountains on all but one side. There was no way to approach without being seen for miles. “We’ll wait till dark,” he told Pecos, patting his deep brown coat just above the shoulder. Loot could hear the sound of water nearby; either a little mountain stream or waterfall. “Let’s get you a drink, brother,” he said, walking Pecos along the uneven slope, taking his time. It was no use lunging about and turning an ankle. Although the two-day trip had been steady as she goes, he had a sense that getting hobbled could mean the end. Maybe it was the feeling that his sand was on the wane; he’d never speak it, but his legs and back were giving him little fits. Loot held the reigns and watched each step carefully as the sound grew in intensity. “Not much fun off the beaten path, brother,” he whispered, guiding Pecos gently along. “Just a little farther and we’ll take rest till night’s black as coal. Moon won’t be much. Then we’ll go see Doc.”

Chapter 2: Kip

            “There is but one thing we can seek with a mind toward what matters. One thing that can’t be moved when we strip it all away. The loves and desires of this world, enticing as they may be, are nothing compared to the Glory of God.” Kip Laird believed what he spoke. He needed to. The only father he’d ever known was gone and there were secrets in his midst. A look down at Ben’s bible gave him strength, but stubborn questions persisted. Getting on with the day was the goal. Then, getting answers.

            Everyone packed in the humble church was transfixed on the young man behind the pulpit. Many of the females were quietly taken hostage by his bold green eyes and precociously handsome face; despite the worthy menfolk sitting in their midst, men they’d sworn to cherish alone. There wasn’t much harm in it, one of those innocuous untouched understandings, like a thousand silent contracts folks strung together in community enter into without form or rancor. The entire congregation, young and old, couldn’t help but admire Kip’s humble passion and sense for the Good Book. His voice was fresh and eager. There was excitement in it, a signal to all that he loved speaking and hinted at an even stronger fondness for listening.

            As adept as Laird could be at handling the Message and the wanting eyes and all the rest, now there was a new heaviness to hide in everything he said and did and everything that went on around him. His adoptive father’s body lay still in the house next to the church; the man who’d preceded Kip in the running of the church and one of the founding members of the Thunder Hill community. Man, woman, and child alike did their best not to stir and cry at the thought of Ben Laird, stiff and cold, spirit already ascended, flesh prepared for the dirt.

            It wasn’t Sunday. The usual din of a working town drove on steady outside the church walls. Between needed words of hope and comfort, the congregation cringed hearing the sounds of the less devoted to God and His word.

            “Ben built this house of praise and worship with his own hands and sweat, alongside many of you, when I wasn’t even a pup.”

            As the older pioneers nodded and grumbled their agreement, solemnity was punctured by the tinny sound of a faraway piano and unfettered hollering from afternoon drinkers. Realizing the limits of their grace, many began turning toward the door to express disgust.

            “C’mon now folks,” Kip said, bringing the attention back his way. “That doesn’t sound like Armageddon. More like a few wagonloads a’ranch boys blowin’ steam before heading back out to it. Ben wouldn’t judge those men, but I’ll tell you what.” The young preacher set down his Bible and stepped purposefully out in front of the pulpit. He stood quiet on sturdy legs straight and true, inflating his rugged chest and shoulders as a physical manifestation of spiritual strength. A tiny smile snuck from the side of his full-lipped mouth as he sunk his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “I think our Ben would want to be the center of attention, just this once.”

            The congregation laughed, pining after a collective moment of release. Not everyone packed into the pews believed the same things the same ways, but they were all there to pay an honest measure of homage or respect to Ben. Kip leaned slightly toward the attendees and forged ahead with his message, pressing across the battle lines and checking his swelling emotions. He wondered if they could sense the maelstrom breeding chaos in his soul. Like Mr. Caesar at Pharsalus, unsure of the outcome, but sure that ahead and head high was the only way. For now. A time for every purpose. Lord, hand me down Solomon’s inscrutable wisdom. I’ve need of it presently.

            Pieces of Kip’s past had been revealed, whispered hot and sick in his ear by Ben Laird during those dying days. How many in his midst had been keeping the same secrets, and for how long? He snuck a glance at his family in the front row. His adoptive sister Elsie looked up at him with salt-burdened, loving eyes. As she cried pure tears of a grieving daughter, did she know? Mabel Laird, the woman he’d called mother since he could make words, freshly widowed, dignified and well-presented to the last—she had to know. Kip tried to imagine a scenario that ended with her innocence or ignorance on the matter, but none came to mind.

            And now that he was privy, what good did it do? He looked at ruddy-cheeked Sydney, his mostly good-hearted but troubled older brother, puffy and usually ill-fitted to his surroundings. Syd could be awkward and inflame, though his recent enlistment as one of the young Thunder Hill deputies had helped even his keel. Kip thought perhaps he’d broach the subject of secrets with Sydney first. Maybe today. Or not. Oh God give me a little strength, what to do? Handle your business first, remember? Honor thy father. Don’t go pitching fits in holy hallowed moments.

            “So, let’s not get too caught up attaching ceremony or tradition to this day. Pa wasn’t about such things. I’m of limited years and limited wisdom, but I doubt there’s many a man of faith that put less stock in all the ‘nonsense’ surrounding belief.”

            Another reference to the man they’d gathered for. It helped Kip recapture their attention and lent him a tick to put personal gripes on hold. Remember your Solomon.  

            “Nonsense,” the young man declared, making bold gestures with his hands.

            It was a bad impersonation, but they got the point. Ben liked to wave his long fingers in front of his face and say, “That’s a hot pile of nonsense,” never failing to follow the gesture with a tiny wink and a country-sized smile. Each attendee in the church had their own memory picture of the man, and in capturing them, they felt an impossibly pure mixture of grateful and sad; a formula rendered by looking back on a life lived right before man and God.

            After a prayer and some grateful words amongst the family and friends, Kip walked over to the Laird house, no more than twenty paces from the church door. It was a sturdy affair with a neat little garden out front and yellow flowers underneath the windows. Not the biggest place in town, but it was looked after like new by Mabel and Elsie. Besides the steep green roof, the house was as white as the church that it sat next to, at Mabel’s insistence. She said if God took up in a white residence, so should she. Like most things mentioned sidesaddle by a woman, old Ben accepted it as a joke and a threat, in equal portions.

            Old. Ben Laird never really had the chance to be old. Kip lamented this truth as he stepped slowly up to the open coffin sitting in the front room. A man in a fine Chicago black suit with slicked-back tinsel-gray hair sat hunched on a little stool by the body. A stranger might think he was lost in prayer, but Kip knew better. He was holding his slender stomach, practicing a sort of exhalation ritual. “Doc Rufus,” said the junior preacher. The three syllables cut through the whole house, powerful and unwavering. Kip couldn’t bear to speak softly at present. He feared any cracks or gentleness in manner might turn him brittle to breaking. “Is that breathing some new technique for wrangling a hangover? Something from one of your New York medical journals?”

            “New York? Medieval. Worse. Prehistoric. This country is behind. Sadly behind. If I could get some publications from France or England delivered to this backwater, maybe there’d be something worth reading.”

            “But?” Kip smiled.

            “But I doubt that would even do me any good. We’re centuries away from catching back up to the Greeks or Romans. Persians. They had fine physicians.”

            “The Persians,” Kip crossed his arms. “You only bring them into your tirades after particularly long nights.”

            “Well, good reason for it. You do your part, youngster?” Rufus asked, rubbing the thick mustache that covered his top lip. He was proud of each and every whisker, as long as they remained dark. The doctor claimed his facial hair as proof that he was a man no older than thirty to any woman passing through town. It worked, generally, until he had to take off his bowler. Add all that up and the doctor got a fresh trim at Billy’s Barbershop every morning and rarely went about head uncovered.

            “I sank my heels in. Got through it. Getting through it.” Kip accepted a sturdy hug as the older man rose to his feet. Doc Rufus was in his early 50s, near as tall and still strong as Kip, especially thick in the neck and arms. An embrace from the town surgeon required a little preparation or at least resolution. Rufus wasn’t given to handing out quarter to those close to him. As they slapped each other’s round shoulders Kip said, “You might’ve come in the church this once. Could’ve used the support. I know it’s not your way, but heck.”

The doctor grabbed his sheened lapels and looked down in self-defense. He wasn’t ashamed or regretful. Something with more layers. Given his fondness for the kid and the setting and the circumstances, though, he’d let it go this time. A grunt followed by silence was his chosen course of action. Rufus understood the boy’s burdened state of mind as well as anyone could. They were looking down at his closest friend: Elias Rufus had struggled and bled alongside the departed. They’d survived a war, cleared forests, fought off Indians, traversed a whole country together. That the doctor and preacher agreed on very little was a hard bit of philosophy for any youth to chew, even one as sharp and clear-headed as Kip.

            “Sorry, Doc,” Kip sighed, sensing he’d tread clumsy on proper etiquette. “I’m tired, I think. And it’s more than that. More than this whole deal,” he said, motioning toward the casket. The body was so strangely inert; the absence of life making it infinitely more dead than the box that contained it. The simple casket sat there on dusty sawhorses, waiting to be observed and inspected by morbidly interested townsfolk making their funeral faces.

            “I can see you’re full of complications,” Rufus said with a playful bit of suspicion. His inquisitive icy blue eyes sharpened toward the young man and then relaxed again. “Are the rubes coming in, kid?”

            “You can hear them out there as good as I can.”

            “Though I consider myself learned and fairly understanding of the human experience, this is one tradition I’ll never apprehend.” He pulled a leather flask from his back pocket. After a short taste he passed it to Kip. “What do the rubes get out of seeing a body? I can indulge a gathering, telling tales, remembering. But the spying of a breathless being, not even a being at all. The rubes are an astonishing lot.”

            The intake of liquor momentarily wrinkled the junior preacher’s usually fresh face. “You’re in here yourself, paying respects. Judge not, if’n you please. And what do you get out of calling everyone a rube? How and why you settle on these terms, it’s quite astonishing.”

            Rufus beckoned the flask back with a hand thick from life’s hard fight. “Me being here’s different than being in the worship house. You’ve known that about me since you were knee-high.” He gave the youth a hearty slap on the back. “I love you, son. But as for your astonishment, well, follow that river to its source. You’ll find an almost incalculable lack of life experience at the headwater.”

            Before Kip could muster a response, the door swung open and Mabel walked in with typically short, determined steps. After a carefully muted cough the new widow turned back to the door and held out her hands, fixing a warm expression for the procession of people, prayers and personal messages to come. Her dark brown eyes, now observably swollen from grief, shot holes through her adopted son and turned with vigorous ire toward the silver-haired doctor. “I don’t want you here, Rufus,” she said, as mannered as she could. “Please find your way out the back. I’d appreciate you being quick about it.”

            Rufus donned his signature charcoal bowler without a word. He bowed in retreat to Mabel and gave Kip a wink. The doctor walked past the narrow staircase then skirted through the warm kitchen where he’d broken bread so many times before. Mabel’d been out those nights, nights with the women’s church group or playing cards with the few ladies of Thunder Hill sharp enough to keep her interested. Ben’s dinners weren’t exactly a secret. The “rumor” was famous around town: everyone imagining Preach Laird, Doc, and Sheriff Cox all exchanging stories and whiskey over a warm dish. When Doctor Elias Rufus, as he liked to be called in public, was asked what they discussed, he would deny it outright or tip up the shiny brim of his hat to say, “Some things aren’t for public consumption.”

            Mabel made sure she heard Rufus close the door then gave Kip one more look of admonishment before nestling her petite frame between his body and the casket of her late husband. She waved people in with the smallest dutiful smile on her trembling lips. “You shouldn’t talk to that old heathen,” she whispered between handshakes. The line was awkward, as people had to go out the way they came.

            Between God bless yous and thanks for comings, Kip whispered back, “I’m sorry, Ma. He was here paying his respects, just like everyone else.”

            “I know you’ve always been partial to him,” Mabel said. “Heaven help me, your father was. Despite me. Maybe to spite me. I shouldn’t have been so rude. Y’all didn’t deserve it.”

            Kip draped a long arm around the woman who’d taught him devotion and wit as much as anyone else ever could. “This isn’t a day you apologize for anything, Ma. I love you. Everybody loves you. Even that old heathen.”

            Mabel almost let out a defensive laugh. She bumped him with her hip as they kept coming, one handshake after the next. Otto Buchholz, the blacksmith, with his entire brood. The town surveyor and his wife. Lindy Samuels, with her fiancé. He was fairly new to Thunder Hill, working the town’s first official bank. Kip had wondered if Lindy would show, hoping she wouldn’t. He lowered his emerald eyes and accepted her warm little hand. She did a full curtsy that gave off not-so-subtle hints of flirtation. The obvious gesture riled Elsie; she was standing next to him now. Sydney sat on a windowsill in the corner, chewing on a toothpick and looking out the glass with a hangdog expression. He fiddled with his crooked short brim hat and rubbed his paunch, typically unable to summon the requisite patience for observing decencies.

            More and more piled in. Kip tried not to wince as they scuffed up his mother’s prized rug and filled the house with whatever smell they couldn’t get off their clothes that morning.

            Kip was reeling from the consistent sorrow that hung over everything. It was inescapable. The little draft that always managed to find a path through the house was stunted by bodies. A coat of sweat began to form on his normally pacific face. There was still the burial. More words. More thinking about Ben’s dying revelations and pretending not to. God help me.

            The crack of three distant gunshots sliced their way through all those thoughts. Everyone present stiffened and apprehensively turned their heads toward the noise outside. Sydney roughly pushed his way out the door and started running in the direction of the gunfire. “Syd!” Kip yelled, pulling his mother and sister close. “Keep them all here if you can. I’m going to see what that’s about.”

            He didn’t wait for a response. His father’s Colt was in the study next to the stairs. He grabbed it and checked the load and action, spinning the oily chamber and snapping it closed again. Quickly he was out the backdoor and around the front of the house, trotting heavy through the thick mud of Thunder Hill’s main thoroughfare.

            It didn’t take long to see. Two men were down in the street, not moving. He recognized the Tollier brothers, sons of one of the county’s prominent ranchers. Another man he didn’t recognize was leaning against the hitching post in front of the saloon, bleeding in silence from a wound in the right leg. Sheriff Cox, Syd, and three others were training their pistols at the hobbled man, yelling with hammers cocked. Kip skidded to a stop at the periphery of the fracas. “Everybody, calm down,” he said, gripping his dead father’s gun tight in his right hand. He didn’t have the weapon raised. There seemed to be enough of that at the moment. “The man’s wounded.”

            “Back,” the newcomer said, using the post to steady and turn his focus on Kip. He was a singularly large black-haired man who didn’t seem too put out by the bullet in his leg or the numbers stacked against him. The newcomer started raising his pistol again but stopped, looking directly into the green of Kip’s wondering eyes. The shouting continued from every which way and the big man appeared to be somewhere else all of a sudden. He dropped his weapon then slumped to the ground, wind gone from his sails. The young preacher was fixated on the face of the stranger. It was brown as treated oak, made darker by a layer of dirt caked across his cheeks and forehead. Only that wasn’t what had Laird’s focus captured. There were two vertical lines below the eyes of the wounded man where his skin was slightly lighter. He was crying. Without knowing a thing, Kip could tell that this wasn’t the sort to go bawling over something as trivial as a bullet wound.

            “Stay out of this, kid,” Sheriff Cox said, slowly closing the distance to the shooter. “And stay still there, chief. It’s a few fresh holes if you’re thinkin’ to reach back for that gun.” The sheriff was lean as a bottleneck at the waist and taller than average, not to mention tough as a coffin nail. He had a flattened nose and dark eyes, carrying the focused aspect of someone you ignored at your peril. Cox wore the same style blue denim shirt and sheepskin-lined leather jacket every single day, on account of being superstitious. The lawman had faith in his skill and pride in the way he went about his part, but he also figured never getting shot besides once in the ear was based on some measure of plain old luck. He’d worn a uniform for the Union during the dark days of the War, and now he wore another. Cox had no inclinations toward changing his ways as long as intransigence kept him above dirt. “Back away!” he commanded. “All of you!”

            Everyone obeyed. Kip was confused and angry. Selfish thoughts flooded his mind. His father still needed burying. He still needed his answers. Had to have answers. There hadn’t been a shooting in Thunder Hill in ten years. Now two bodies in the street. This odd figure at the center of it. Kip looked at the gun in his hand and turned his head toward the church. He forced himself into returning to a dutiful mindset. The spiritual torch had been passed down from Ben; there were no more comers. Duty bound or not, Kip didn’t want to go back still unsure of who he was. Every step through the stubborn muck of the road seemed a mile. Ma to take care of. The church to take care of. The faithful. The flock. Elsie, that was a knot that needed a man’s work. It was all on him, and he wasn’t even sure he was a man. Only one thing was certain. He couldn’t go forward in earnest until he knew exactly where he’d come from.

Chapter 3: Carrying On

            Kip sat against the wall in his room above the Grimes General Store, heavy-eyed but unable to catch a wink. Something about the big stranger in the street had him riled bone deep. He needed to know more about the man, but presently he was miles short of his best. After the excitement of the shootout and the unremitting pain of returning his father to the dust, he’d taken more whisky in the last twelve hours than the whole of his life. Ambrose, a three-year-old golden retriever, made a whimper and set his pointy nose on Kip’s legs. The dog lifted its head and brought it down again and again.

            “You understand me, don’t you boy?”

            For a moment Ambrose stopped and looked at his struggling master. Then he yawned and licked his chops. “Or, more likely, you need to eat and do your business.” Magic words. The retriever’s tail began wagging furiously, thudding against uneven floorboards every three or four cycles. “Fine,” he said, peeling himself slowly from the floor like he’d been stuck there for years. The movement set off little demons of pain throughout his body until they all seemed to run at once toward his head. “Mother of mercy,” he groaned, afraid to even rub his temples. Despite the human’s condition, Ambrose was encouraged by the simple fact of progress and started scratching at the door. “Let me get the leash, Ambs.” He tied the rope off short and tight; no choice, living on the town’s main thoroughfare. Too much length and his excitable friend could wind up trampled by horse or carriage. “Hold on, now,” he said, finishing the knot, fighting off the throbbing above his eyes. He held the homemade dog collar with one hand and pulled on the rope hard but not enough to see Ambrose choke. It seemed in good order. “Try not to explode on the front walk, will ya?” The suggestion was met with another happy lick of the chops and rhapsodic wagging.  

            Before he could reach the knob, two gentle knocks were followed by a small, familiar voice. “It’s Lindy. You around, hun?”

            Ambrose looked up at his suddenly paralyzed owner. A few whimpers from the dog forced him into regaining his senses. Kip opened the door and secured his pet. “Hey there, Miss Lindy. Sorry,” he stopped, imagining the sight and smell he was presenting to the lady. “We weren’t expecting.” Ambrose scratched his hind parts. “Guess that’s obvious.”

            She was smiling sympathetically and trying in vain for sad eyes. They weren’t at all convincing. Lindy danced through life. No time for sadness when you’re dancing. Wouldn’t even be appropriate. “How you faring, handsome?” she asked, letting her fiery hair spill down with the removal of a pin and shake of the head.

            “I’m well enough. Maybe didn’t acquit myself too heroically in the wee hours last night, but okay.” He barely lifted his head as he spoke, letting his sandy bangs fall over his eyes like a wave.

            Without a lick of time or added ceremony, Lindy Samuels was across the threshold, kissing him on the mouth wet, all sorts of angles and intensities. Her tightly gloved hands wrapped sure around the back of his neck as she pulled him down to stay the embrace. Kip eventually surrendered a hand for the small of her back. His lips met the tightness of her uncovered shoulders. There was familiarity to the exercise. Shame too.

            “C’mon now, Lindy,” he said, pulling away just enough for breathy words. The contest between heart and head was no small thing. Something so sweet only seemed right after the bitterness of the last few weeks—that is, he wished it seemed right.

            Lindy wasn’t stricken by any such contest. She wouldn’t let go. Never did, really, once she got her hands moving. She loved to play with his thick hair, separating the darker roots from the lighter ends with her dainty fingers as she whispered lecherous. He didn’t know what was so interesting about hair or the great need for such talk. This time, unlike the other times, he wasn’t pretending to indulge what he couldn’t understand. “Don’t push me away, Kip Laird,” she said. So dramatic. Uses both my names for some dang reason. As always, she was unrelenting, turning his already disheveled mane into something more confused. “You need me right now.” One of her wild hands found comfort below his waist.

            “I need you to go,” he pleaded, guiltily looking right and left like his home was a train station platform. “Somebody could’ve seen you come up here. We’ve spoke on this.”

            “Who cares?” Her hand remained tightened with intention.

He made a guttural sound at the touch that meant a million things but mostly just one. “This ain’t Chicago. It’s a small town and people are gonna talk.”

“Let them,” she whispered, fingers making things tumble.

“You’re getting married. Dang, Lindy. If the banker fella finds out, I’m more than likely to take a bullet in the back.”

            Her face was no more than an inch away and all parts of their hips and legs were tangled up. Kip felt convicted and drawn back in, depending on the second; every time they kissed it was Hell and Heaven. He understood his dalliance with Lindy was a simple sin of the flesh, base and low. But that wasn’t the whole of it. He did feel for her. A substantial portion of him wanted to close the door behind and spend the day in her enthusiastic embrace, laughing and carrying on like consequences were mere myths. But not now. God help me, not ever again.

            And so, after a few more minutes of mumbled deflections, he was able to steer her back and out the door. She said something about it not being over while he repeated fine, fine, fine, all the time trying to keep her hands off his britches.

                                         __________________________________

            He slid down the door and listened to Lindy descending the steps. Ambrose sat in front of him, mouth closed and completely still. The animal looked disappointed at his master. Kip almost laughed at the idea, but it wasn’t that funny. What did he know, anyway? Maybe Ben and Jesus and all the saints and angels were behind that dog’s messy eyes, using Ambrose as a vessel to witness the messy destruction of a young soul. I might still be drunk. “Come here, boy,” Kip said, holding his hand out while Ambrose lowered his ears and gave over for a good hearty petting. “Just a few seconds more, pal. Got to space out departures, in case anybody out there’s by the door.”

            The dog wagged his tail and plopped his rear back down, craning his head forward to make sure the petting kept on without interruption. Boy and dog enjoyed a few moments of peace before Kip could will himself back to his feet.

            As he reached for the knob, three sharp knocks sent him reeling backwards. “You in there?” Another female voice, but not Lindy.

Remnant head pain and lingering agitations gave Kip notions of playing silent, but Ambrose was reaching a breaking point and had been the good soldier long enough. “Yeah,” he coughed to clear his throat. “Yeah, Elsie. Coming out.” He wiped his face wildly with the back of his hand and forearm then opened the door quick and nonchalant, playing for regularity. His sister was on the landing, looking fit and proper in her black dress and tilted silk-lined hat. Twisting rivulets of blond fell down in carefully executed chaos over her porcelain forehead.

            “Aren’t you gonna put something on?” she asked, aiming her tiny purse at his barrel chest.  

            “I’m wearing things, Else,” he said with a contained smile. “And we’re not traversing the Himalayas. My boy needs his time in the sun, is all.”

            “Alright, feller. Only, conventionally some type of shirt is placed underneath the suspenders. Forgiveness if I’m being a little lady about things.”

            “Else,” he said, unhid irritation in his voice, trying to control Ambrose down the steep, narrow staircase. His place had its own door, right next to the store entrance. That was the good news. Bad news was the stairs; a boot wrong and it’d spell curtains.

            “I’m sorry,” Elsie said, following him down with royal composure. If he was holding on for dear life, she was floating like a feather and making a show of it. “And since you asked so politely, I’d be happy to walk with you and Ambrose.”

            Once outside, Kip struggled to find a point ahead and stick to it, still battling the headache. He was experiencing a good old-fashioned hangover. The prospect of ever drinking again seemed worse than death, but he had a feeling a lot of full-time drunks fostered similar thoughts after their first hard stint with the bottle. “I think I’m dying, Else.”

            “All things pass,” she said weightlessly. “Besides, I think it’s best to save the drama for your sermons.”

            Elsie placed a guiding hand on his back and took the rope as they nodded past Mr. Haines the butcher and Mrs. McCarthy, the recently widowed schoolteacher. “We’re heading out back, Ambrose,” she said, moving the party along with a sudden vivacity, “but you hold steady until we’ve got some privacy.” A quick look behind at Kip. “Can’t have you adopting your master’s manners.”

            “Hilarious, Else.”

            She didn’t respond to his jab, instead walking head high with Ambrose, long skirt swishing against the tall yellow grass behind the store. Kip leaned against the back wall of the building. A hazy minute or two went by before Elsie handed back control of the dog. “I understand the impulse to tear yourself asunder, but it’s past midday.”

Kip bent over, hands gripping his knees as he fought the urge to vomit.

“Unfettered and unseemly isn’t your style, feller.”

            “It’s past midday,” he reasoned, kneeling down to pet his dog. Ambrose was calmer now, but still hungry. “Not two years from now. A little repose is all I’m asking for.”

            “Alright,” Elsie said, realizing Kip wasn’t in fighting shape. She leaned in and whiffed his breath. “But what you need is a repast. Something to lock horns with that presence. I’ll go back up and grab you a shirt, feed the dog.”

            “You don’t have to.” There was too much decency in her offering. Maybe she knew about Lindy Samuels and was granting calm before the storm. Could be he was thinking too much? Or not at all. Damn that whisky. Damn. Sneaking around like the most pitiable sinner, lying by not telling the whole truth. His people deserved more. Especially Elsie and especially now.

            Finally, he threw up.

            “There,” she said, reclaiming the leash. “After you’re gathered, go place yourself out front. My guess is you’ll put the other town beggars out of business by the time I get back from feeding the boss here.”

            “Always funny, Else.” He was talking to the ground, talking to her.

            “Wherever more than one is gathered, somebody has to be wittier.”

            “It never stops.”

            “Never will.” She winked as he rose up, meeting his pain with a sweet surprising smile of understanding. “Meet you out front.”

            Five minutes later, Elsie emerged on the orderly little boardwalk outside Kip’s apartment. He was sitting with his long legs dangling over the side, sleepy again now that his stomach was calm. She threw a black shirt over his back along with a gray bandana. The cheerless colors crushed his heart all over. Making a show of mourning seemed an extra dose of cruelty to the ones needing comfort and the ones doing the comforting. No matter. Conventions.

            After getting up and tucking in, Elsie asked him to wait a tick. She slid back inside the door and emerged with a fresh towel and washbowl full of clean water. “Figured you’d cleanse up before we adjourned.”

            He was grateful to dunk his head. The idea of baptism struck him. If ever he needed another one. “Suppose you’re right,” he said, rubbing off the stink and sick from his hands. “Probably needing a scenery change. Three little kids started poking me with a stick before you got out here.”

            “You possess an indelible gravitas,” she said, holding her arm wide for him to escort her. “Even partially adorned. Fully adorned—well, you’re positively magisterial.”

            They walked slow and silent in and out of the overhang’s shade, grateful for a cool mountain breeze dancing down from the mountains. Crossing two streets of hardened clay, they arrived at The French Café. Only people that made Thunder Hill home used this appellation. To those passing through, it was simply The Café. Understandable. They served nothing French. An ancient named Beckett French owned the place, is all, and despite the lack of international cuisine, it was the best joint (out of three) in town.

            Though swollen with customers, several parties stood up and offered their tables when the Lairds entered. Conversations about crops and cows and yesterday’s shooting skidded to a stop in every corner.

            “Oh no, fellas. We couldn’t,” Kip said. Simple deferential instinct.

            “Thanks, George. Wilson, thanks so much,” Elsie followed, happy enough at taking the first seat offered. Before he could object, the young preacher could see a chair and a clear place set in front of him. He began to mumble something like an argument but found himself cut off. “Just pipe down and accept some courtesy. Let other people take care of you. Stuff that mule obduracy.”

            “I’m only—”

            “Nope,” Elsie said, holding up the little menu in front of her comely, heart-shaped face. Kip looked around and realized that elbow-to-elbow in the busiest spot in town was no place for an argument. He took his medicine and began to brood in silence, still wearing the weight of Lindy Samuels around his neck. Little Cara, French’s youngest granddaughter, came by with water. Kip ventured close to swallowing the glass whole. Drinking the wrong thing makes you thirsty. Perhaps the start of a sermon. Cara immediately came back and refilled his glass, big honest eyes and honest innocence. Probably best not to do a sermon on debauchery’s aftermath.

            “Thank you, Cara,” Elsie said, rolling her eyes like she was witness to his thoughts.

            “You’re handling this like a Spartan, aren’t you?” he asked, immediately wishing he hadn’t.

            “What’s that supposed to mean?”

            The only thing was to continue. If he went another direction she’d train him back. Since he was aware of the world, there was Elsie, made sharp by God. He’d speak his piece and follow it out. “Pa’s dead, is what I mean. We’re sitting here wearing black and people are looking at us queer. Not a lick of it seems to stick to you, though. Just chin up and crack wise, like always.” Due to the close quarters, Kip’s analysis was hardly above a whisper. Still, Elsie felt the intended bite.

            “I’m away from Mama for twenty minutes and,” she stopped abruptly but not emotionally, gaining composure. “Is this going to be our midday meal? If so, I’ll go invite myself to sit with the boys from the Thompson spread.”

            He turned around. Elsie wasn’t threatening idle. Thompson’s cowpunchers were indeed seated in the corner. “You’re not going over there,” he said, squaring back up to the table. They’ve been whispering things unsavory.”

            “I heard a little. Nice to know my curvatures can’t be ‘hid by no ladylike adornments and my backside is just the right size for grabbing hold.’”

            He was brimming. Playing into her. “Don’t with that.”

            “Why not? I bet they’d enjoy my company.”

            “I reckon they’d do more than that, if you open the barn door.”

            A scowl like he’d never seen came across Elsie’s unblemished face. Her dimpled chin was protruding as she bit down on what she wanted to say. Her eyebrows, darker than her golden hair, were crooked and bent in more than one direction. Elsie’s natural good looks made it worse when she turned them against you. “I’m sorry,” Kip said. His hands were in the air to signal apology and surrender. He really did regret his behavior, from after the burial and on. Elsie wasn’t supposed to be caught up in his backslide. She was good and right most all the time, and it was nice of her to check in on him. Nice to take him to French’s. Their routine. Heaven knew she almost had the same heap piled on her shoulders, what-to-do’s and wonderings. He stopped thinking of his damned thumping head and gathered his hands together, like offering a prayer. “You know what I’m thinking… I shouldn’t be acting like this.”

            The gesture seemed to have a disarming effect. Elsie rolled her shoulders back and let the seat catch the nuances of her frame. “You’ve got a lot on your mind,” she said, “more than just Pa. Something specific that won’t just go away.”

            “That’s right,” Kip said, fiddling with a fork that looked like it predated the word antique. “But how’d you guess that, Else? In a rush you’ve moved from insightful to clairvoyant.”

            “You were on about something the other day. I couldn’t make heads or tails of it…”

            Kip thought back through the vicissitudes of the last week. It was fog. Was it possible that he’d broken reticence and offered up the secret to someone who could understand? Was Elsie playing coy, just pretending she wasn’t already privy to the things revealed to him by Ben? Add to that, he still didn’t know if she was feigning ignorance about Lindy.

Damn. Had the haze and crushing confusion caused some sort of fevered state of forgetfulness? Surely not. Even she wouldn’t be able to cut jokes pulling the same insufferable freight. Then again, she was a powerful, beautiful bird. His sister. “So,” he said, toeing for solid ground, “we haven’t talked about it…”

            “Not in any good order. But whatever it is, I can handle the reins. God, give me something else to think about.” She almost laughed, then caught herself. Pining for diversions wasn’t proper public form. Elsie knew it, yet somehow, she knew the desire to be inevitable. At least for her.

            “I’m not your brother.”

            She was still as stone, deciding from many options on which way was best to go. “I’m aware of that. We’ve talked on this. I mean, you know what I mean.”

            “I’m not putting it in the bullseye.”

            “Try harder, then.”

            “Before Pa passed, he told me some things. Elsie, he said who my real parents were. How I ended up here at all.”

            Elsie leaned forward and said, “Mama and Pa always said you were left on the steps of the church.” She took the fork from his hand and gripped his thick fingers lightly. “So, this is what you were getting your mettle up to talk about the other day. Before you just faded off.”

            “If you say so. I was here and there, truth be told.”

            “Well go on and finish, because I didn’t get the whole of it. Whatever it is.”

            “My parents—my other parents were killed when I wasn’t much but a baby. Pa got to know the man who brought me. They kept in touch over the years. Said it was Loot Moreno.”

                                                      ___________________________

            The din of dishes and conversation dropped away as Elsie’s hazel eyes went narrow and turned from green to gold depending on the spot.

            “I know what you’re gonna say,” Kip continued, “but this came out of Pa’s mouth straight as Gospel fact.”

            “But c’mon, feller. He was uttering all manner of nonsenses those last few days. Think of the state the man was in. Loot Moreno? He’s a make-believe monster. Heaven’s sake, they still tell stories about him around campfires to scare runts.”

            Elsie wasn’t saying anything he hadn’t already run through, but he trusted her enough to disclose the rest. “I might’ve just let it be…”

            “But?”

            “But then I set eyes on the man yesterday, the one in the shootout. Call me crazy, but I think that’s Loot Moreno.”

            “I’m calling you crazy,” Elsie said, crossing her arms. “And how’d you come to this conclusion?”

            “A couple things Pa said about him. His gun. Heck, you didn’t see him. Unique, to say the least. Then his hand when they were dragging him away. He had this one glove that fell off. A strange mark. A circle with two lines. I’ve heard about that mark.”

            “Let me guess. From Pa.”

            Kip couldn’t help but smart from the incredulity. “No. But a few other places.”

            Elsie had every reason to throw water on whatever his brain was cooking up. He was talking myths and legends and the fevered last words of a dying man.

            And his head was killing him.

            And the man who raised him was gone forever. “Hey, Preach,” said Andy, Beckett French’s son, coming by in his trademark grease-stained apron to get their order. Preach. It was a strange thing to hear. Ben Laird’s title since the founding days of Thunder Hill. Someone had to be the first to say it. A rather inglorious passing of the torch. Elsie could see the awkwardness bubbling underneath Kip’s placid visage.

            “Hi there, Andy,” Elsie said, smiling wide up at the waiter, calming the chaos of his day with her orderly teeth and playful, shrugging shoulders.

            “That was a nice service yesterday,” Andy said, wiping his hands as a way to deal with the clunky nature of decency. “I’m sure gonna miss Ben. No finer fella around. Anything we can do, don’t hesitate. People are being polite sometimes, but I mean it true. Glad you came in today.”

            “Thanks, Andy,” Kip managed, “kind of you.”

            “Y’all want to order?”

            Yes, Kip thought. I want to eat and quit all the talking. Elsie went ahead with her order as Sydney barged in the café, ungraceful as ever. His backside and belly knocked every dish, chair or person down or to the side. When he docked with their table, Elsie stood up gasping. “Syd! What happened to your face?”

            Sydney asked a speechless Andy if he could get him a chair and stood rapping dirty knuckles on the table as Elsie looked him over and examined his wounds with her hands, trying to do too much with them in the absence of proper medication and dressings. Kip let her chide their brother for getting hurt and left it alone. The moment was all too revealing. He couldn’t believe that before today he’d thought to confide Ben’s deathbed confessions to Sydney. Trouble stuck to him like he was bred for it. Much as Kip loved him, his brother rarely made things better.

            “Really, Syd. How’d you come by all that?” Kip finally asked, patting his arm on one of the few spots not ruined by blood or muck.

            Sydney answered like a cannon shot. “The damn crossbreed put the boots to me is what happened. Took four of us to get him in the cell yesterday, even with the bullet wound in his leg.”

            “But I saw you yesterday,” Elsie said, thinking he might need sewing up, “You seemed to come out all right.”

            “No, little sister. This was from today. He near escaped on the way back from seeing the judge, clattering all of us with them irons. I’m telling you, that mutt bastard is a ruffian of the highest order. Devil’s spawn, I’m thinking. Scary sumbitch is what I’m saying.”

            Everyone in French’s was looking at their table now, silent and attentive. Elsie and Kip might’ve been a heavy presence in the room, but now, with Sydney there, the Lairds were center stage with a spotlight beaming down.

            Andy came back with a chair and Syd collapsed into it. He took a drink of water from Elsie’s glass and left blood on the rim from his split lip. “What’s this fella’s name?” Elsie asked softly, eyeing the room, serving everyone notice to go back to their own doings.  

            “Calhoun. Brandon Calhoun. Son of a damn gun, I think he broke something in my chest. I better get on and see Doc Rufus. Hope he’s not too drunk yet.”

            Syd looked first at Kip and then to Elsie. It was an expectant face, that said help me up here, dammit.

            Kip did the lifting and told his brother he’d be checking on him later.

            “Always with the courtesies,” Syd said, rubbing Kip’s dense hair with a mixture of condescension and acceptance. “I’m off then.”

            “Why didn’t you go straight through to Doc’s?” they asked, almost in unison.

            “I was walking by and saw you through the window. Can’t a man talk to his family? Just wanted to check in’s all I’m driving at.”

            “You wanted to let Betsy Taylor get a look at you all rough and lawman’d up,” Elsie said with a tiny smile and flared nostrils.

            “Ain’t she working?” Sydney asked, suddenly a little spryer in his boots as he torqued his head back for a last survey.

            “Afraid we haven’t seen her,” Kip added. “Just little Cara and Andy running the tables.”

            “Damn shame. She’s developing into quite a sight.”

            “You’re incorrigible,” Elsie whispered harsh. “Thrashed and all, still the same.”

            “Pretty girl, all’s I’m trying to tell you. No sense hiding intentions under my hat.”

            “There’s wisdom in that,” Kip said, sitting back down, forced to smile at Syd’s unchangeable ways. “Before you leave—that prisoner, are you sure he’s giving you the right name?”

            “What do you mean?”

            “I don’t presume to do you fellas’ jobs, but that didn’t look like any Brandon Calhoun I’ve ever slapped eyes on. Assumed it was something a little more mysterious.”

            “Nothing mysterious, little brother. Don’t go making it a something. I know you’re boiling cause Pa’s peace was interrupted, but it won’t matter come a few days.”

            “How’s that?”

            “I mean Brandon Calhoun’s gonna hang. Judge sentenced him this morning. That’s why I got this face. He wasn’t taking too kindly to it. Figured on you doin’ the math.”

            Elsie gave her goodbye as Sydney lumbered out of the café. Kip wore a pensive look that had her worried. “Whatever it is, best you stop rolling it around.”

            “I don’t know, Else. The whole thing is off. And hanging…”

            “You’ve got your principles.” She gripped his hand. “But he did shoot down those Tollier boys. You’ve got nothing to say for it. Justice isn’t pretty.”

            The crushing headache was starting to dissipate, leaving space for confusion, doubt, and shame. Though the young pastor opposed executions, he wasn’t upset about hanging in general, as was most likely Elsie’s point. His problem was specific. He needed some answers. Answers beyond the words of his dying father.

            He rubbed her fingers, amazed at the softness. Elsie was near a miracle. He still needed to come clean about Lindy and what he’d been up to, almost as much as she deserved straight shooting. It would have to wait a little longer.  

            Kip raised his hand to flag down Cara or Andy. He was about finally getting some lunch.

            Then, he needed to go to jail.

Chapter 4: Waiting for the Wanted

            “You boys get down off the wagon now.” The man serving instructions was calm, hunched casually on a bulky mount. His red and gray-bearded face was barely visible to the two men driving the stage. “The ones inside, come out showing hands.”

            “Who the hell are you supposed to be?” asked the fella riding shotgun. He was ill-groomed and short for teeth, as was the driver.

            “I’m Fallstead. United States Deputy Marshal Fallstead, if you’re hard for credentials.”

            “Seems awful steep demandin’ for someone set by his lonesome,” growled the driver, spitting tobacco juice down his scraggly chin. “You just get on out the way before we get angry.”

            The wind was pushing a cloud of dust down the narrow road. The deputy marshal shielded his slender eyes by turning away from the stage and lowering his old tan bowler to his meager eyebrows. It was hard wrapping their heads around this obstruction; out on his own, showing his back without hint of caution. They scratched at their spotty beards and tensed their muscles and tried thinking if they’d heard tell of this lawman.

He turned back slowly after the air cleared. “Tell your boss to come on out that carriage. Needin’ to wrap this up and get back to town.”

            The driver and his companion exchanged bewildered looks and started busting their underfed guts. The door to the wagon opened and a tall man rigged in a striped three-piece suit stepped out. He was a dimpled picture, tailored head to toe. The tips of his fingers glinted in the sun as he extended his hands outward. “What can I do for you, Marshal?”

            “Called on to bring you to town. Got a warrant signed by the judge in Boyd City.”

            “You didn’t even ask who I was.”

            “Don’t need to ask. Seen you before, Mr. Trill. You know, ‘round.”

            “I don’t recall meeting.”

            “Never said we’d met.” Deputy Marshal Fallstead slowly lifted the short brim of his hat and looked hard at the three men before him. “Y’all put down any weapons, and I’ll ride you into town living as is. Fair dealing. Sure it’ll get worked out.”

            “What’s the charge?”

            “No charge yet. Suspicion of murder. Couple of folks that worked your ranch haven’t been heard from. Two negroes and a half-breed.”

            “Doesn’t ring a bell.” Trill pulled off his velvety top hat, allowing his shining black hair a breathing. He was proud of his pretty. “Three creatures. Not even people. Hardly worth coming out here.”

            “Don’t much care one way or the other about them or you. Clear it up with the judge.” The lawman sighed audibly and said guns like it wouldn’t be said again.

            “You’ve got a hell of a lot of nerve.” Trill seemed taken with himself. “Don’t you have any cohorts?”

            “Yep. Got one cohort. Not necessary for you. Last chance, now. Goes for the slinger that’s still holed up in that wagon, too. So we’re clear.”

            “You must be about the most impetuous son of a bitch I’ve ever had the bad luck to meet,” Trill said, putting his hands on his hips. Fallstead looked at the ranch owner’s rig. Polished like new. Probably never been fired but to show off to some purchased company.

            “Alright, then.” Fallstead showed no tells. Most men would tighten up or, at the very least, change their expression. Not so with the veteran marshal. He reached across his body and pulled his pistol, killing the dirty man with the shotgun before he even knew a fight had commenced. The driver was dead before his pal hit the dirt. Both headshots. Fancy Mr. Trill was struggling to pull, but he was pulling. Idiot. Fallstead winged him in both arms and once more in the shoulder. Trill looked like a puppet on a string, gyrating back and forth before falling to the road in agony and then shock. He’d live. Maybe.

            “You wantin’ me to let you reload?” The question came from inside the wagon.

            “Nope,” Fallstead answered, holstering and finally getting down from his steady mount. “I saved the one.”

            “You gonna shoot me before I get the chance to set my feet?”

            “If you make me.”

            “Alright then.” The man inside came out the same door as Trill. He stepped over the moaning cattleman with his head held high, sporting a weathered look of unflappable confidence.

             The two had about fifteen yards between them. The man from the carriage was staring holes at Fallstead through the smoke of spent cartridges. The marshal wasn’t so keen as his opposite, looking only as much as he had to.

            “There is a resemblance,” Fallstead said, hardly loud enough to reach the other.

            “What’s that?”

            “I met your brother in Boyd City, Mr. Rade. That’s how I knew you were coming this way.”

            The gunman’s symmetrical face took an odd shape. “Not possible.”

            “No?”

            “Picker’d never sell me out to no tin star.”

            “Picker didn’t want to.” Through all the talking and shooting, the marshal’s face still hadn’t changed. Rade the gunman was put off. The “tin star” seemed lifeless. Plain old-fashioned bored.

            “You trying to say you beat it out of him?”

            Fallstead didn’t answer, but he took note of Rade, lowering his arms little by little.

            “You trying to say he’s dead?”

            Again, no answer.

            Time and silence were enough for the gunslinger. He went for his right hip and came near to clearing the pistol from its holster before Fallstead’s final bullet blew a wide hole through the back of his head.

            “Let’s get you up,” he said, walking calmly over and kicking Trill lightly in his boot sole.

            “You’re a lunatic,” the ranch owner cried. He didn’t look so prim anymore. The only parts of him not covered with dirt were soaked through with blood. “You can’t just kill everyone.”

            “You’re still alive,” the marshal said, stolid to the bone, voice rough from use but still even. “C’mon. I didn’t shoot you in the legs.”