We Will Not Be Taken Alive (part IX)

I avoided the Inn on my walk to the Binghams, but it did me no good. I thought I saw Daniel everywhere I looked. It was as if his ghost jumped out of my dream and followed me into my day. I felt him beside me and behind me, but when I turned, I saw I was alone. A man crossed the street in front of me and I swear he had Daniel's stagger. I paused, held my breath until the man turned and I could clearly see it was Jacob Turner.

"Mornin' Lucene." he said.

"Morning Jacob." I answered mindlessly.

Attempting to retrain my thoughts, I focused on Philip. I imagined it was he, instead of Daniel that hovered over me in my dream. I imagined I could feel his breath on my face, see his golden hair a glowing halo in the sun. I visualized being blinded by a reflection from his spectacles rather than spurs. I felt Philip's gentleness juxtaposed to Daniel's harsh frankness. But Philip was an ether in my mind. When I closed my eyes he evaporated instantly, replaced with the hard eyes of a stranger that could already see too clearly into me. Further, I made a new and unsettling discovery. Every time I saw Daniel's face, his drawn, hollow cheeks, the sharp angle of his jaw, the way his beard bulged over it when he clenched his teeth, I began to salivate. I felt compelled to touch him, to kiss him and to punch him equally. I shook my head forcibly hoping to clear away all thoughts when I reached the kitchen door at the Binghams.

I set up the wash bin on the old large pine table in the yard, and concentrated hard to think about nothing. I learned how feeble this attempt would prove as one by one random questions creeped uninvited into my mind. What was Philip's great secret and why had he acted so strangely when I mentioned the ranch? Who was Daniel and what did he want with me? Why was I so drawn to and repulsed by him? What did Pa see in him? When would it rain? I pumped water into the basin, let my hands rest in its cool comfort and closed my eyes. Mama used to tell me to slow down. "You're gonna have to learn to quiet your mind, girl, or you'll make yourself crazy," she'd say. When I let myself think of her, I missed her enough to give me a deep and lasting pain in my stomach. Her death left a hunger that could never be fed. I often avoided remembering her,  the simple way she could explain anything, how her skin smelled like lavender in the spring and cinnamon in the fall, but her face came to me then just as it had in my dream. "Slow down, Lucene."

A voice cut through the quiet of my memory and agony. It grazed my ear. I startled, splashing water across the table.

"Did you dream of me?" Daniel's hot voice rang in my ears. I spun around to face him. My heart raced. "I dreamed of you," he added. He stood there, very real, with his brown Stetson in his rough hands.

"What are you doing here?" I hissed. "You have to leave, now." My question hit him in the chest, a poisoned dart. He stood strong, but wounded.

"You'd turn me away so soon?" he asked calmly. His cologne was a mixture of the pomade in his beard and mustache, Inn soap on his skin, leather, smoke, and sweat. He stood so close it was overwhelming.

"I don't know who you think you are, but they'll have your head if they find you here." An unexplained panic seized me.

"Would you cry for me then? If they took my head?" Chaos swelled within me. A hurricane of confusion and satisfaction overcame me. All at once he was my challenger and my charge.

"We don't have time for your senseless games! You have to go, or it'll be my job along with your head!"

"That wouldn't be so bad for you would it, really? Not to have to do some rich family's laundry?" What was this way he had of assuming authority over me?

"Contrary to your warped misconception, you really wouldn't know anything about what's good or bad for me."

He propped his hat on the crown of his skull and hooked his thumbs into his belt. He then, tipped his head back slowly. He wasn't grinning now, but the contemplative expression he wore meant to show me I was wrong. Very wrong. To my surprise, and his apparent expectation, I was, in fact, pleased to see him, and irrationally comfortable with him. His steadiness eased me. I shook my head and chuckled.

"Who are you anyway?" I asked. His broad, square shoulders bounced as he laughed.

"I'm the new horse hand," he answered. "Hired on yesterday."

"Of course you were," I said rolling my eyes. But he tipped his hat at me all the same.

"Looks like we'll be seeing a lot of one another." The evenness in his voice gave the impression this was no accident.

"And how did you come by the Bingham ranch?" I asked, knowing there was much more to his story than coincidence.

"When I got to town, I started to ask around. I asked who the prettiest girl in town was and where she might be found, and I got sent here by one Curtis Hembrey. I think you know him. He was right but he didn't know it. He had me out looking at some little blonde thing. Waste of time. I almost left the ranch, left town all together, but just then I saw the prettiest little raven, meanest looking girl I ever saw come out to do the wash, and I thought, well alright, maybe all is not lost. You saw me there in front of the station with him, but you didn't know I'd seen you first. So I went back to tell him how wrong he'd been, but thanks anyway 'cause I found what I was looking for. He asked what he was wrong about and I told him the blonde. Well he must carry quite a torch for that young lady, 'cause next thing I knew we was fighting over who was prettier. I said you, he said her, and neither of us felt compelled to give in on the merits of our respective ladies. Of course I didn't know you then, but when you lit into me last night, I knew I was right. You got a fire in you girl I coulda made out from a mile out."

"You're a liar."

"I am not a liar, and I don't much appreciate being called one. Not especially after I went to all the trouble of defending your honor and paying you the compliment of telling you so."

"There isn't a man alive who doesn't believe that Aida Bingham is the most beautiful girl in town."

"On that point, I'm afraid you're quite wrong." His eyes pierced my thin veil of incredulity.

I smiled in spite of myself. The bearded stranger was not entirely without his charm.

"If you're not a liar, you may just be flat out crazy. I don't know what kind of designs you got, boy, but I'll be damned if you'll find whatever it is you're after in Morrison Station, or in me for that matter."

"I don't mind telling you, Miss, I don't plan to be in Morrision Station for long."

"Is that so? Do tell."

"Well, since you asked, I only plan to stay for long enough to convince you to run away with me. Then I intend to take you and shake the dust of this place off our boots."

"And you don't think that'll take you long? Interesting. You've got quite the confidence. I'll hand that to you." He had my attention, had had it really, but with the words "run away" he struck something loose inside of me. I didn't dare let on. "And where will we go?"

"Anywhere you want."

"My, that is convenient. I'll have to consider it."

"I hope that you do. You don't belong here, and you know it."

I really wished he would stop reading my mind.

"Daniel!" Adia was running out from the house. "Lucene, have you met Daniel? He's our new horse breaker."

"Yes, we were just becoming acquainted. Just now, this very minute." I addressed Daniel. "We are just getting to know one another."

"Isn't he wonderful?" She asked me openly.

"He's something," I said not taking my eyes from him. "I think he may be a bit touched by the sun though."

Aida growled. "You just don't like any boy that isn't Philip."

"And you like every boy." I snapped.

"Who's Philip?" Daniel asked.

"Just some skinny little book worm that Lucene has been in love with since grade school."

"Really?" Daniel asked, thick with cynicism of his own.

My face flushed, smoldered red with embarrassment and anger.

"Philip is not the concern of either of you."

"Relax Lucene. No one cares who you have a crush on. Daniel, will you take me out for a ride later?"

"Sure thing, Miss. It isn't everyday I find myself in the presence of such beauty." He said looking at me. She didn't notice. He turned and smiled at her. I wanted to crush them, both of them. I wanted scream and stomp, and run. Instead I tried on Daniel's calculated tone.

"Careful Aida," I warned staring straight at him. "He may have a screw or two loose."

"You are always such a petty, jealous thing," she railed. "Daniel, you shouldn't even bother talking to her. Its a waste of your breath. I know I won't waste another minute of my time. I will see you this afternoon, after she's gone."

She stormed back into the house huffing, slamming the screen door. Daniel laughed.

"What is wrong with you?" I asked through clenched teeth.

"With me?" he asked surprised. "I compliment you and you insult me."

"You stroll into town picking fights and laying out plans to run off with young ladies. You insult Aida behind her back then compliment her to her face, and now you stand their laughing at her outrage. You are crazy."

"You're the one she's outraged with, not me. You really should learn to control that temper. That shade of red is not as flattering as you may think. And you really are so pretty otherwise."

"Stop it! Stop saying that!I don't believe you mean a word of it, of anything you say. I can already tell you're nothing but trouble. Go away. Leave me to my work."

His breathing grew heavy and the register of his voice lost its cool edge. "If you would rather stick your hands in that acid bath for that spoiled witch and her daddy, than come away with me, than you're the one that's crazy!" he shouted.

"Keep your voice down," I warned.

"You keep your voice down," he taunted as he stomped away. I arched my eyebrow at him, but he never looked back.

"Well that was two in ten minutes." I said to myself. Must be some sort of record. I turned to finish the wash in my isolation.

We Will Not Be Taken Alive (part VIII)

Dreams are funny things. No matter how I try, I can never control the content of my own. A kaleidoscopic spectrum of colors, shades and hues engulfs my sleeping world.  Faces appear before me. People I know and people I love dance and sing and laugh. They speak without words, rejoice in silent rain drops, float high above me or far below me. Gentle breezes flutter through stray strands of auburn hair, and flap ivory aprons and violet ascots. Men kneel down by the rushing waters of rivers and streams to drink cool fresh water. It drips silver down their cleft chins and barrel chests. The sun has lost its acrid glare and adopted a golden glow that lights us all from within like living lanterns. Black barked trees stretch up through the atmosphere, shooting spiny green limbs up and down and sideways. The trees reach down for us, offering tender branches as boosters while we climb higher and higher. From the top of my luscious oak perch my arms sprout silk feathers. I practice letting the breezes catch them and drop them while I look out over the whole of Kansas. To the horizon there are rolling amber wheat fields, dotted intermittently with vibrant green gardens, and crystal blue creeks. The scenery is moving, breathing.

And then Mama is there, on the branch beside me with silver wings of her own. Her ruby lips spread into a serene smile revealing opalescent teeth. Her button nose crinkles while she squints out a look at me that says, "I told you I'd see you again." At once she begins to flap those magnificent appendages, slowly but with determined force. The air she displaces swooshes around me in whirling base notes. She gathers momentum and without warning is thrust upward into the aquamarine sky. I can make out only her silhouette against the patrician light. She arcs in high graceful waves over me, trailing tangerine streams in her wake, making figure eights and daring loop-de-loops on the wind. She is an apparition, a phoenix rising, burning through the open air with mastery, surveilling all before her. I wait now, with my back pressed up to a weathered red barn, for her descent. She comes in slow drooping spirals down to me. As she lands softly in the grass I can see its not Mama at all, but Daniel.

 His suit is clean white linen. He radiates white hot light. Under the brim of his Stetson his emerald eyes flame. His smirk draws one corner of his chestnut beard into asymmetry. I hold my breath. My silk feathers are human arms again, covered in goose pimples and shaking. My hands are empty. I have nothing to offer him and no means of flight.  His spurs glint in the sun as he steps toward me. I am momentarily blinded  and he is upon me, breathing heavily onto my face, my neck, into my ears. I wonder why I haven't seen Philip, and then I am awake.

The room was dark and hot. I closed my eyes. How can an entire world evaporate so quickly?  I could still feel Daniel's breath, but the water, the air, the color was all gone. I opened my eyes to the worn wooden floor boards. I was expected at the Binghams by six o'clock.

We Will Not Be Taken Alive (part VII)

Drunken laughter bled into the street and curdled there. Behind me the reluctant sun sent furious red glares that sliced across the town square. If you had a job you might have called this time "quitting hour," but for most this was the transitional period when drinks turned from desperate to social. No matter how many men occupied the saloon, every man who drank during daylight drank alone. It was only with the relief of the cover of darkness that men could shed the yokes of their respective realities and share a constructed type of joy with their compatriots.

Those slotted double doors flapped closed behind me, just like they always had when I entered. Conversations skidded into oblivion, just as they always did. All eyes were upon me momentarily. I surveyed the room meeting none of them, but focusing on the dark, lacquered bar. It was carved from oak and ran nearly as deep as the rest of the room, stopping shy of a poker table in the back corner. Pa was hidden behind it from the waist down.

"To Lucene!" The cheer came from a modest man at the far end of the bar, his mug thrust high over his head.

"To Lucene!" The chorus seconded his motion and echoed his cheer.

Pa beamed. I laid his plate before him.

"Gentlemen,"  he announced, "My daughter!"

The applause was thunderous. Many of the men drunkenly stomped their feet rather than relinquish their mugs in service of clapping. The room rumbled, erupted in such a volume it scarcely seemed possible it could all be the work of one room of men, but in the presence of ale cured sorrow cascades of uproar are hardly uncommon. I flashed a smile and gave a quick, but humble curtsy. At this the pitch of the fever soared. A series of whistles cut through the air. Mugs clinked and cracked. Someone howled like a wolf. Pa raised his hands high over his head and the cacophony contracted down into silence. All eyes were now upon him.

"My goodly daughter has kindly brought her dear old Pa some much needed vittles. So if you need your glasses filled either come and get it now, or hold your peace until I can get this down."

Cheers erupted again as the men bellied up to freshen their drinks. One by one, glasses full, men returned to their seats, their conversations, their jokes, their questions and philosophies, their dares and their threats. With their backs turning, all but one forgot me entirely. A lone stranger watched me intently from the poker table. He folded his hand and I pretended not to notice as I turned to Pa.

Pa's charm won him the respect and admiration of all men. I watched the men thank him, shake his hand, exchange jokes. It was my turn to beam. Pa was a farmer by trade, but this was his true calling. He loved people and they loved him. He listened when they spoke, really heard the things they said. He was a shining star in more lives than mine. He poured three fingers of rye into Mr. Greene's glass.

"How's Mrs. Greene?" Pa asked.

"Fat and nosey," Mr. Greene slurred.

"At least you've got your health." Pa and Mr. Greene laughed.

I tipped my head back as I laughed loudly, but my laughter was interrupted by a determined tapping on my shoulder. I turned with cheer still fresh in my face and my heart to face the stranger. His wore his dangerous grin like a weapon. A bolt of lightening dashed from my belly, through my chest and straight into my brain. I said nothing, but fixated on the small black gap in his smile where a tooth used to live.

"It surely was thoughtful of you to bring supper for your daddy. Do you bring supper every evening?" His voice was low, discreet, but direct. His voice was pooling water.

"No." I answered, glancing around me. No one seemed to notice us. "Not every evening. Just when we have enough, or when I haven't seen him in a few days and I miss him."

"And is that the only reason you've ever found yourself here?" He shuffled a deck of cards while he spoke, but looked only at me. I struggled to diagnose his implication.

"Certainly." I answered coolly. "For what other reason would I ever venture into a saloon?" Exempting looking upon devastating, grinning strangers with remarkably well groomed beards, of course.  

"Well, that was a mighty fine ovation you just received. Seems like maybe a girl could grow somewhat accustomed to that." The pooling water had a heat underneath it that wouldn't be subdued by his hushed tone.

"Maybe some girls," I countered, "maybe even most girls, but I'm not most girls." I squared my shoulders to him while I spoke.

"No you are not. That I can see." He looked me up and down as though he were some judge, some authority on the matter. "But would this particular girl have another reason for a visit to hear dear old daddy?"

"None," I answered sharply.

"She wouldn't happen to be looking for someone? Perhaps someone new to town? Someone staying here at the Inn?" I had known he would be outspoken, but his confidence was transforming into egotism.

"I suspect you're referring to yourself?" Ice formed in my own voice.

"I'm not naming names."

"How downright egalitarian of you. It is quite a quality you possess. I must admit I'm somewhat relieved. For a moment there I thought you were in danger of being an egotist and a cad, but since you're not naming any names, I guess you've shown me." I slathered my sarcasm thick and wide. He didn't flinch. He just stood there staring and grinning.

"You're not afraid to show your fire. That's refreshing. But you haven't answered my question. Does your honesty pour out of you as liberally as your hostility?"

I do not take kindly to challenges to my integrity, and I take even less kindly to being bullied into vulnerability. My intentions and secrets are my own. I am entitled to change them and my mind at my own tempered will.

"I only came only to speak with Pa and if this conversation continues, I think I would rather leave than endure it. That is true and honest," I said.

"I believe it is," he challenged, "but it's not what I asked you." He allowed his words to fall with great weight down on my head.

"Well then, you are not being clear," I lied. "Do ask again, and let it be the last time you speak."

"I will ask again, and I promise it will not be the last thing you hear me say. I did not ask why you'll stay, now that you are have arrived, but rather, why, specifically, other than bringing supper to 'Pa,' you chose to come here in the first place."

I held his stare as meanly as I could.

"It is hot in our house, and cool on the street. I have not seen or spoken to my father in three days. I missed him. I thought the walk may clear some cobwebs from my mind, and on that point I was decidedly correct." I omitted all else. Honesty be damned.

"And what cobwebs could possibly be clogging up that pretty little head of yours?

"The answer to that, good stranger, is without a doubt, none of your business. I hope you can sleep soundly knowing that is the full and wholesome truth."

Pa came upon us with his characteristically twinkling eyes, ever the innocent.

"Ah, Lucene, I see you've met Daniel. He's the newest addition to Morrison. Good fellow, despite having arrived amid a small controversy. You must understand, Daniel," Pa said addressing the stranger, "Morrison is a very small place and shrinking these days. Any small excitement is likely to be blown up into a mountain from a molehill. It'll pass."

"And what controversy might this be?" I asked eyeing Daniel defiantly. He knew what I knew.

"There was a bit of a misunderstanding," he explained patronizing. "regarding honor. Unfortunately it led to an altercation."

"Honor?" I asked not faking my surprise.

"Honor." He answered. " Honor and integrity are quite important to me."

I squinted at him as though it may help me to see through him, but it didn't. I addressed Pa.

"Pa, we shouldn't keep Daniel from his games. And we shouldn't keep you from your supper." I excused Pa and I from Daniel's hard stare, but the stare followed us as we walked to our table. It was a long time after we sat that Daniel returned to the poker table. He didn't look at me again.

"He's a little odd," Pa said, "but I believe a good boy. I think he'll make a fine addition to town if he can stay out of trouble."

We Will Not Be Taken Alive (part VI)

The knocking against our door was desperate and hurried, and when I swung the door wide Philip was struggling to catch his breath. His propped himself up, his arms serving as tandem joists between his ribs and his knees while his chest heaved. He must have run the entirety of the road leading from the town to our farm.

"I have news, " he declared, panting "regarding our new stranger." Something deep in my own chest heaved imperceptibly. My stranger. I disguised my hunger for details as enthusiasm for Philip's story, and ignored the surprise and small guilt that registered.

"Please sit." I offered him the worn rocker on the porch, but agitation kept him on his feet.

"He says he's from Abilene... in town looking for work. If he is, he's a cowboy for certain. Nobody from Texas accidentally finds himself in Kansas. He must have come up on a cattle drive and stayed, or been left behind." Philip's words carried a dull, hollow edge. Plainly his interest, too, ran deeper than mere curiosity. "Curtis neglected to file charges, so the stranger has rented a room at the Inn. Has your Pa heard anything about him?"

I hadn't mentioned the fight to Pa and Pa had made no mention of a charismatic stranger to me. In spite of three quarters of the population of Morrison having born witness to the fight I held it like a treasure, a secret not destined to be shared. If anybody other than Philip had showed up on my thresh hold to discuss it, I would have denied ever having been a party to it. It was not altogether unheard of for me to bring supper to Pa at the Saloon, though it was far from customary. As of late he'd been taking his nightly meals from the kitchen at the Inn to avoid diminishing our own paltry resources.

"He hasn't said anything to me." I answered. There was a magnifying glass hovering over me, and under it my skin was transparent as glass. Taking supper to Pa tonight would surely come under severe scrutiny. I would be exposed for what I really was, a malcontent drawn like a moth to the simmering intrigue of a charming stranger, a runaway yet to take her flight. With Philip, scheming had always been safe. Philip had been to Europe, lived in France, returned a gentleman and a business owner. Were he to fall in love with me, sweep me away, back to Paris, no one could accuse us of being irrational. Besides, hardly anyone suspected the truest of my intentions, and those who may have never asked questions or tried to breath reason into my living day dream.

A question unfolded within me. I had never much bothered with opinions of others before now, why was it that only in my imagined absence did the unspoken words of the town haunted my virtue?

I watched as Philip regained his composure. His breathing steadied, but one thin blue vein in the side of his neck still throbbed.

"There isn't much work here for a cowboy." He stared at me, but his words were a warning directed at an unseen audience.

"There's the Bingham Ranch." I said.

Even in the leanest of times somebody is prospering, and in Morrison Station in the middle of a year long dust storm, that somebody was Andrew Bingham and his bank. He had financed more than half of the growth of the town. People had given him everything they had, more than they had in an effort to save their homes and farms. When the creeks and shallow wells went dry those same people pulled their stakes and hung their heads, and Andrew Bingham collected abandoned land like buttons. He sold most of it to the railroad, and saved the rest for rainier days. Drought be damned, he expanded his own homestead, investing in 1,000 head of cattle, and was in currently in the process of breaking a team of wild horses taken in from the plains. We measured his wealth by the gallons of water he had shipped in every week.

Philip's face twitched, contorted involuntarily, corrupted his soft, boyish features. The thin vein continued to throb as he clenched his jaw.

"What is it?" I asked. He seemed so unlike himself. A shiver rippled over his entire body. He reminded me of our old silver hound and the way he sprayed water from his coat after a dip in the river.

"Nothing," he said coldly. "I have to get back to the shop."

"Oh Philip, please stay. Have you eaten anything?"

"No, I can't. I really must go." His eyes softened with concerted effort for his part. "Thank you, though. Come by the shop tomorrow after work. We can compare more notes then." His departure was brisk and unceremonious.

I stood on the porch, a pillar, for some time after he left, ruminating. The encounter with Philip didn't feel right. An emptiness washed over me where I had expected gratification or longing. He wasn't himself, and I wasn't mine, but the trigger was elusive. The harder I tried to corral a reason, the more I flailed through muddy thoughts.

I walked inside and prepared a plate to bring to Pa.

We Will Not Be Taken Alive (part V)

The commotion was emanating from the train station, but no train was landed there, and no train was expected until evening. Cheers rolled in chorus waves up from the depth of the crowd. As they enveloped Philip and me, the duality of their composition became evident. Underneath the enthusiastic cries pulsed choked gasps and sibilant collisions, as if living meat were being tenderized. I tried not to take my eyes from Philip while my ears wandered a vagrant's path. I blinked heavily at him, wishing I could shut the sounds of the world out with my eyelashes.

"You were saying?" I tried to steady my focus.

"Lucene, there's quite the spectacle yonder." He cast his attention high over my head. "Surely you hear that."

"Of course I hear it," I admitted, "it could give the def a headache, but it sounded as though there was a matter of priority you wanted to discuss."

"Nonsense!" he snapped. Nonsense? "There's time enough for all of that later." Later? He grabbed me by the hand and dragged me behind him toward the station. With my hand in those delicate fingers, I hardly noticed the searing pain rushing into my elbow while he jerked my arm as he darted through the street.

"All of this fuss," he shouted over the din, "it's like all hell has broken loose. Stay here, I'm going to see if I can get a better look." He deposited me softly at the edge of the crowd. "I'll report back momentarily." he said, giving me a playful salute before darting around an old woman. In an instant the mob dissolved him from my sight.

From my perch, I could hear the fleshy blows slow. The choking congealed into exaggerated panting, culminating in a mellow dramatic snort and spit. The roar of the onlookers faded with intense anticipation. The whole of the square pregnant with pause. The silence rang out.

Sheriff Chaney approached unnoticed at first. His presence garnered such little attention that when he did finally speak, he caught most of the audience quite by surprise.

"What do we have here?" his voice was a house fire, a smoldering crackle. No one answered, but obediently, the crowd parted in a stunning recreation of the miracle on the Red Sea. A path cleared before him, and before me for that matter, revealing the core of the spectacle proper.

Two men, in various states of repose and relief, attempted to gather their druthers while maintaining a threatening proximity to one another. Neither man wore his hat and therefore both were impressed subjects in the court of the omnipresent sun. A man could lose more than a fight in a sun like that, and what a fight it must have been. Sweat and blood mixed with dust to make mud on the faces and arms of both men. Tattered vestiges of shirts and trousers dangled from each of their bruised bodies. One of the men's eyes was fast swelling shut, and broken open below the brow. This man I recognized, despite his appearance, as Curtis Hembrey. He was the son of a farmer who warrants little by the way of description. His only identifying quality was that he was and remains a perpetually sour fellow. He could make the routine painful. And yet, he was easy enough to ignore. I wondered, intrigued, at what it must have taken to persuade him to use his fists.

The second man stood hunched in the punishing sun. There were very few people in Morrison whom I had never laid eyes on, but this was one of them. As he straightened himself, cupping his arm around his ribs, he shot another mouthful of blood and saliva into the dust. There was little doubt that he had gotten the better of ol' Curtis. His mustache had been waxed into a fashionable handlebar at some point, in fact half of it still was. The other half looked as if Curtis had taken a fistful of it and blindly yanked it into a wiry explosion. The whiskers of his once preened mustache and his beard splayed across his cheek and chin.

Sheriff Chaney sauntered with his usual air of authority up to both of the men.

"Curtis, I expect better of you," he said all but dismissing Curtis Hembrey. He turned to the stranger who seemed to be regarding him with unaffected admiration. "And what's your name?" I leaned over the shoulder of the old woman in front of me, straining to hear the stranger's answer.

"There was a fight!" Philip whispered into my ear as he reappeared by my side. I heard nothing else. "Very exciting, Curtis Hembrey found himself in a row with a stranger, new to town, I presume."

"I see that," I answered, "But Curtis is easy enough to ignore. Who would want to fight him? Who is that man?" Other's in the crowd shared my curiosity. The question was falling all around us in hushed whispers.

"I'm sure I don't know," Philip answered, "But I'm also sure I intend to find out."

"What do you think he's doing here? There's nothing in Morrison of any promise." I bit my tongue. I hoped Philip would not think that I meant to include him in my assessment. Philip was so integral a figure in my fantasy of escape I hardly counted him among any reasons to stay. If he noticed my slip, he didn't let on.

"That is precisely the information I intend to ascertain," he answered.

"Well, I think you'da better come with me, " Sheriff Chaney was crackling at the stranger. "Curtis, go on home and have your Ma tend to that eye, but if I ever catch you disruptin' the peace again, I'll have you in a cell faster 'n you can whistle 'Dixie'." Curtis gave a slight nod before slinking off.

Chaney had the stranger at the elbow as he guided him back through the congregation. The stranger never resisted, and Chaney never released his grip. The two returned down the isle in the Red Sea as if they had just taken vows at the wedding of the damned, but rather than looking magically into the eyes of his new groom, the stranger stared abrasively at me and smiled wide as a clown. Curtis had knocked at least one tooth free on the side making the stranger's smile feel dangerous.

At no interval down the corridor did the stranger's gaze falter. When they passed he craned his neck to afford his gaze. They passed so close I could smell the iron in the blood on his face and neck and shirt, and the dust and sweat in his hair.

"Can I trust you on this steed, or am I gonna have to walk you all the way back?" Only when the stranger addressed Chaney's question did he take his eyes from mine, and only then did I become aware that I had been staring back. In one ginger leap the stranger had mounted Sheriff Chaney's horse, landing just behind the saddle. He extended his marbled arm down to Chaney then, in an offer of assistance that more than resembled a clandestine condescension. Chaney grumbled, but took his hand and allowed at least part of his squat frame to be lifted into his own saddle.

The stranger looked back at me specifically.

"See?" He said, "You can trust me."

And then with inexplicable confidence he winked.

That sun sure can fry a man's brain.

We Will Not Be Taken Alive (part III.V)

There was no doubt as to the desperation of our finances. It was as if the nothing that inhabited our fields had taken on a will of its own. The nothing was ubiquitous and powerful and patient. It was all of these things as much, if not more so than we, but it was not nearly as clever or as nimble. Pa and I ducked the nothing and its intentions as spryly as we could manage. 


"If you do not bend, my dear girl, you will surely break!" His attitude was defiant optimism. I wished it would catch in me, like a spark that could ignite my own honest engine and drive me confidently into the unknown. But it was a cancer in him, effecting his every movement and thought without any promise of contagiousness. Instead, I wore his outlook like a mask. My costume of cheer kept quite secret my bitter resentment toward the fields and the sun, and the nothing there between. Behind the security of my disposition I grew to personify and resent other inanimate objects. The railroad train was a particularly egregious offender. The tracks, like a finger, pointed directly to a clear, but impossible way out. The steam whistle screamed its "All aboard! All aboard, but you, Lucene!" And the omnipresent nothing sat its obese self comfortably in my seat on the passenger car. Twice everyday, I watched that railroad lead others off to live my life. Funny then, how I never once observed the train bring its fortunate passengers in to town.


Morrison had been progressing ambitiously for years. Money seemed to breed more money. Families arriving to claim and build homesteads and cattle ranches were followed by enterprising and business minded men, who saw promise in the development of the town itself. Charles Hubbard opened the Morrison Station Inn and Saloon and Andrew Bingham started the Bingham Bank before I was born. When Philip returned from France he worked closely with Dr. Mills to open the apothecary between the General Store and the Post Office. Hardly any soul in Morrison seemed to be from Morrison, and though I knew the land was Indian territory not long before the beginning of my life, it seemed to me that we had always just been there. Neither Pa nor Mama ever spoke having lived, or of coming from anywhere else. It was as if they simply sprung from the land, like the wheat, fully grown and already married. 


A wicked storm stampeded across the plains. Wind and rain thrashed at the wooden houses and barns. We took cover in our dank cramped cellar, fearing a mighty twister would sprout up, throwing its unpredictable root down into our house. The twister never came, and by morning the rain had retreated and the sun had emerged. We were all so grateful then. We praised that mighty sun and all of its healing warmth and light. But the rain had not returned. The wind visited us often, unaccompanied by damp grey clouds.  The town stagnated. Frozen in time, partially developed, we all waited, suspended, drying out. 


Charles Hubbard was a fastidious man who kept very regular hours. He insisted he be in bed and asleep by ten o'clock every evening, and was adamant that he awake at six o'clock every morning to personally see after the tidiness of his rooms. He kept a very neat Inn, but in the days of the dust, the Saloon was the only thing keeping the Inn open. Mr. Hubbard was forced to extend the hours of the Saloon very late into the night, and it was only Pa, with his warm nature and his deep integrity that Mr. Hubbard would have mind the bar while he slept, and it was only at dawn that Pa would walk his fields muttering to himself and dreaming plans, before he'd come in to sleep. 


While Pa shucked the nothing at the Saloon, we jived in any way we could. Frank whittled small creatures from fallen branches, and Pa carried them with him to the Saloon nightly, where patrons could buy them for a penny a piece. For my part, I began seeing to the laundry and the housekeeping for Mr. Bingham. I had known Aida Bingham in school, and Pa's reputation for honesty extended to me. I was hired on to the honorable but humiliating position.


Of my earnings, I handed over to Pa all but the little I saved for my escapes. None of my confusion, of my opaque grudge ever alighted on Pa. My wanderlust was my own. I cherished it, and nourished it alone, in secret. My saving was dual in application, but singular of purpose. For the gratification of my immediate need, I put aside one dollar every month, with which to buy a new book. With a book I could escape to any reality, earthly or otherwise on demand. In the words I found relief, fuel for my mind, and for my dreams. The remainder of my savings was stashed, along with the postcard from Paris, in a small jewelry tin that belonged to Mama. This I kept under my pillow. 


And so it was that I found myself upon leaving the Binghams on the hunt for a new book. The sun glowered down with it usual despotism. The shade cast on the square by the buildings was crowded. As my eyes adjusted to the hot dim, I began to decipher the faces of my fellow pedestrians. And there, unmistakably in the door of his shop stood Philip watching as I approached. My heartbeat quickened to my embarrassment, and I glanced away from his face. Still, I drew closer, attempting to determine what I might say, or if I might not say anything at all. Of course I had to say something. We weren't strangers. It would be uncomfortable not to say anything. It would be awkward. But I might let him begin a conversation, and follow his lead like a real lady should. I could pretend not to notice him, and let him approach me. But I was walking directly toward him, and I was not the oblivious type, and Philip knew this, had always known this, had always known me. It would be foolish, childish to pretend. If I said nothing I may even hurt his feelings, and yet if I was too comfortable he may assume I thought nothing of him at all. In any event, the opportunity for conversation would soon present itself, and that was all I really wanted, a conversation that would begin with 'hello' and end when we convinced one another to get on the train and go to - 


"Hello Lucene, Dear. How are you this afternoon?" So that's how you do it. 


"Why, Philip, I hardly even noticed you there in the shadows." Stupid. Of course I noticed him. My trajectory was aiming at him. Forget it. Keep talking. "I'm quite well. As a matter of fact, I'm in search of good, well worn-in book. Have you seen one lately?"


"Can you describe it a bit more for me? I'm afraid I've seen a great many books recently."


"Well, now let me think," I played, "It has a very romantic title." He frowned. "that is very misleading," I added. He stopped frowning, "because its actually about a criminal," his eyes widened, "but not just any criminal, a very cunning criminal, who's been falsely convicted?


"Naturally." 


"Because the criminal was very wealthy," another frown, "quite destitute, I mean, but he was a great thinker," a smile, "a philosopher really, who began to question his government!" He was nodding now, emphatically and grinning wildly. 


"Why, yes! I have seen just such a book. Come with me, I'll take you to it." I took his arm blessing Pa, and Mama and my own good fortune. 


"I am quite lucky," I confessed, "to have someone with whom I can share my love of literature, and to have run in to you on this the very day I am in need of a new adventure." 


"I feel very fortunate as well," he said, "for you literary companionship, and doubly so for catching you today. There's something I was hoping to discuss with you, beyond books I mean." Hold it together, Lucene. Remember to breathe. "I've known you for as long as I can remember, and I've always had a great respect for you and for your opinion." I fixed my hazel eyes squarely on his light blues. The town was swirling around and away from me. I focused on not fainting. 


I was struck on the shoulder, and toppled off balance into Philip's chest. "I'm sorry young lady," said Jacob Monterey as she stumbled on toward the station. He barely stopped long enough to make his apology. It was only then that I realized the town really was swirling around and away from me. A commotion was emanating from in front of the station, and a crowd was gathering.