Chapter Text
A foreboding sensation settled at the pit of your stomach the moment you found yourself standing in the small garden outside your cousin’s home in Saint Denis on the day of your father’s scheduled arrival, an unopened telegram in your hand. Today is the day you were to see him again for the first time since you left your birth home last year to pursue a lifelong dream of studying at St. Denis University. But instead of the long-awaited reunion with your father you are holding a piece of paper, with WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM printed in bold letters marked Emergency delivery – never a good sign.
Perhaps the presentiment had started even earlier, when you first opened your eyes this morning and the sweet, delightful butterflies of anticipation accompanying you to bed last night had been replaced by this strange, ominous feel of something being amiss. You had brushed it off, or tried to, imputing it on a night of restless sleep, a forgotten nightmare still lingering in the subconscious of your mind. Oh, how wrong you were. And how right had been your first intuition.
With trembling fingers you tear open the sealed, yellowish paper and read the few printed words. It has today’s date, Friday, April 6th, 1900.
As you read, each word fills you first with disbelief, then denial, which is promptly replaced by anger, finally settling on anguish and grief. You read and reread, as if you had misunderstood the meaning at first perusal, or even the second, or if you just read it enough times the message will somehow change. Eventually the dreadful truth sinks in. Your knees go weak and you sink to the ground, whimpering and sobbing with your head buried in your palms. You cry, quietly at first, then louder and louder until you are practically screaming at the top of your lungs and have to be escorted inside.
~*~
The trip back home with your extended family you all but barely remember. Your uncle meets you at Wallace Station, his back hunched from being the bearer of grief and bad news. You remember hugs. Sniffles and sobs and mournful eyes. The wagging of a stagecoach and finally, the smell of home. You stand in front of the dining table where you had bid your father a hasty goodbye all these months ago. Your father. Dead. Gone. Taken from you, just like that. You are now an orphan. Parentless.
People are gathering around you and a hand escorts you to the couch. Your father’s couch. Now your uncle’s couch? It is not until now that you realize you have been standing in the dining room all alone while the others stepped outside to allow for a moment of reflection in solitude.
You sit in the middle with your late mother’s niece Millie to your left and her husband Thomas to the right as your uncle details the events leading up to your father’s death, as relayed by his murderer. On his way to Wallace Station to board the night train to Saint Denis, he’d been held up at gun point, whereupon he blatantly refused to give up the money needed for the train ticket, as admirable, reckless or foolish it might be, depending on who you ask. He also refused to let go of his travel bag containing a gift to you. He had begged, pleaded the gunman to leave him be so he could see his daughter again. For that he had been shot, robbed and left to bleed out in the middle of the road where a traveler on his way to Cumberland Falls had found his body in the early morning hours. From what he could tell, your father had already been dead for hours. The bastard had been caught by bounty hunters for other crimes when fleeing towards Valentine. Your father’s travel bag with its belongings however, is still missing and the perpetrator refuses to say anything on the matter.
The voices around you grow distant and incomprehensible as you silently recite your father’s latest letter to yourself. It is one you had read so many times you know it by heart. Sentence after sentence detailing his excitement for the upcoming journey and to be reunited with you, his angel. Then, in a cruel form of self-torment beyond your control your mind conjures an image of your father splayed out in the middle of a dusty road, encircled by a growing pool of his own blood. Your body goes cold as you picture him alone and scared, knowing he'll never see his angel again as the kindness in his eyes fades away, replaced by cold, unfeeling death.
You know it’s not your fault. You cannot be blamed for the actions of a heartless gunman no more than you can control the weather. Yet you can’t stop the searing guilt burning in your chest, corrosive and destructive, like vinegar on paper. He had died on his way to see you. Shot to death because he didn’t want to give up money he needed to come and see you, or his gift to you. Your father’s last moment plays in your head over and over, magnified to a thousand by an overzealous imagination. You see him before you, eyes wide with fear as he begs his murderer to leave him be with that tremble in his voice he always gets when scared or agitated. You can imagine it all too well because this is your last memory of him. On the day you had left for Saint Denis someone, whom you had tried long and hard to forget, had beaten him half senseless for owing him, or whomever had sent him, money. A debt he had put himself in to fulfill your childhood dream. Even though you had left him money, he thought it best to give you time and space to settle down and focus on your studies. You had exchanged letters regularly but it wasn’t until now, the week before Easter, that he was to finally come and see you. The plan had been to spend the spring in Saint Denis with you whilst his younger brother Bryan looked after the homestead. There is so much you had wanted to show him. Parks, extravagant buildings, exhibitions, the Vaudeville theater and moving pictures shows… With aching heart, you can only think of what could have been, and how different everything will be.
Sheriff Farley comes over the next day. Or at least you think it’s the next day. You learn that the man who had robbed and murdered your father, one Clive Nevans with unknown affiliations, is currently holed up at the sheriff’s office in Valentine awaiting transport to Strawberry where he will stand trial as the offence took place in West Elizabeth.
After that, you catch only fractions of the conversation. Cold sonofabitch was grinning the whole time… Regrets nothing… Like he was bragging… Bastard’s gonna swing…
You feel a pair of hands on your shoulders and your cousin’s melodious voice reach your ears. “Please, Thomas. She doesn’t need to hear this.” You allow her to escort you to your room.
The rest of the day goes by, followed by night and then another day, blending into one another. You are unsure of how many. You remember bits and pieces of words, events and conversations. Someone talks to you about what the law says about movables, livestock and property and what women can and cannot inherit but you don’t remember much afterwards. You remember however, crying over diamond-shaped wood with the smell of lilacs in the air, a beautiful and heartfelt eulogy you can but barely recall afterwards, your father’s coffin being lowered into the ground, followed by a thousand handshakes and condolences whose faces you immediately forget.
Sheriff Farley comes by unexpected after the service, bringing devastating news. Nevans has escaped! Three words that hit you like a horse’s hoof to the stomach. Helped by two accomplishes, he ran from his cell in Valentine early this morning, whereupon the trio fled east, according to reliable eyewitnesses. A formidable manhunt is transpiring this very moment, that is all he knows for now. They might know more at the sheriff’s office in Valentine. When your uncle says he’ll leave first thing in the morning you insist on going with him, not backing down until he agrees.
In Valentine, sheriff Malloy regrettably informs that there is nothing he can do as Nevans is believed hiding in the easternmost side of New Hanover, a place called Roanoke Ridge. A treacherous, forested mountain area out of his jurisdiction, reigned by barbarous, inbred savages. As your uncle half discuss half argue with the sheriff, your gaze lands at Clive Nevans bounty poster, an uglier mug you have never seen in your life. You let out a bitter snort at the $50 bounty. Ten dollars for every life he’s taken. That they know of. One human life, valued to ten measly dollars. A sour taste grows in your mouth. The men still preoccupied with discussing, you snatch the poster and tuck it inside your clothes.
You are given money. A decent sum of money. Your heritance you are told. More than what you are entitled to as an unmarried woman, but it is what he would’ve wanted. The next day, you are on your way back to Saint Denis with Thomas and Millie. Best way to move on is to get back to the daily routine you are told. Maybe that is true. However, you can’t bring yourself to agree. Or care.
Like vinegar corrupts paper, grief and guilt corrupt your heart and soul. Burning deep within, it haunts your every thought every second of the day until you are consumed by blind, burning hatred for the man that took your father’s life. Finding him, and bringing him to justice, is all you can think of.
Back in your room in Saint Denis, you unpack your travel bag only to repack it late in the evening, but only what you deem absolutely necessary. You leave a note for Thomas and Millie, thanking them heartily for everything and apologizing for leaving in the midst of the night. You hate to leave them worried, but you have to do this for your own peace of mind. Or, so you firmly believe.
~*~
“No nonono, NOO!”
What had once been a sheriff’s office is now a burnt down building inhabited by squatters too drunk to tell you anything of use. A torn poster, barely eligible after exposure to the elements for who-knows-how-long has been nailed to the charred building. You can barely make out -herif…, …-nquiri-… …Ann-sbu-.
Okay, so your first, and for all intents and purposes, only bounty mission has hit a bulk in the road. Nothing you can’t handle. The van Horn train station is no longer in operation and the stagecoach has just left, though didn't you see a sign pointing to a nearby stable earlier?
~*~
“I’m real sorry ma’am but I’m afraid I can’t help you.” Sheriff Jones of Annesburg dismisses you with a surprising degree of solemn earnest after you have relayed your purpose for the visit. He draws a lungful of breath, allowing for the rejection to settle before continuing. Placing both elbows on his desk and interlacing all ten fingers he locks eyes with yours, making sure he has your full attention.
“Roanoke Ridge is a vast and dangerous place, and I ain’t just talking ‘bout bears. Ever since the van Horn inferno last year, this has been the only sheriff’s office for miles. I’m heavily understaffed as it is, and I neither can nor will order the few men I have at my disposal to go huntin’ some low-life hidin’ out in Murfree land when what he’s wanted for happened out of my jurisdiction.”
He leans back in his chair, a matter-of-fact conduct to his tone, face and, posture denoting an end-of-discussion to this issue in which he will not be persuaded. You manage to keep your composure but not without an internal fight threatening to tear you asunder at any moment.
“I’ve come all this way, mister,” you plea, your voice wobblier than you would’ve liked but you are, with what you are about to say, incapable of hiding the grief in your voice. “I lost my momma at a young age, and I have no brothers or sisters. My pa was the only-”
You stop mid-sentence to force down a sob. Your hand clutches over your mouth. You take a deep, uneven breath. Through your exhale, you hear a heaved sigh.
“Where’d say you came from again, miss?”
“Saint Denis.” You swipe the skin under your eyes with your knuckles. “Before that, Strawberry.”
“Well I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing. Best advice I can give you is to return home.”
The sheriff picks up the wanted poster on his desk. Thumb to lip, he traces the features on the wanted man’s face, burning them to memory. Deep-set, beady eyes combined with bloated, rotund cheeks, like that of rodents hoarding food in preparation for winter, with a scar in the shape of a lightning bolt across the left side of his face he is easily recognizable, even from a sketch. Jones puts down the yellowish paper and returns his attention to you. “This Nevans fella ever comes near here, he won’t even have time to blink before he sees the inside of a cell, I can guarantee you that. But more likely, he’ll end up dead in a week or two by the hands of a Brood, a bear, a cougar, or maybe even the mountain itself.”
It’s clear from his tone that the sheriff has made up his mind. But you refuse to give up. If not to catch the men and women breaking the laws of this land, then what are lawmen even for?
“My father’s murderer is roaming around somewhere out there, a free man,” you needlessly remind. “And you say there is nothing you can do! I will not be able to rest until I know he will answer for what he did. For what he took away from me, my family. For what he may – will do to other innocent souls.”
“Bad men doing horrible deeds at the suffering of innocents ain’t nothing new, miss,” Jones responds in a flat, deflated tone conveying compassion though not without a slight hint of warning. “You catch one, and ten more appear before the end of the week.”
“If this is an attempt to dissuade me, I can assure you that your words have quite the opposite effect.” You cross your arms over your chest. Jones leans back in his chair, letting out a languid sigh.
“Okay, fine. I will hunt him down myself, then.”
“Miss, that would be suicide. Pardon my supposition, but you don’t seem like a lady who is familiar with the wild and them Murfree Broods ain't to be messed with, ya understand!”
“I have to do this.”
“And this is what your father would’ve wanted for you?”
This time, you can’t hold back the tears. You squeeze your eyelids shut, yet you feel your cheeks getting most. If you had been able to speak, you would have said that you are doing this for you. It takes several minutes before you are composed enough to talk again. You open your eyes to a concerned frown, with a hint of parental scold.
“I ahem, can’t with good conscience endorse you, miss. But I… know someone who might be willing to help. A bounty hunter, or claims to be one although I suspect that is not all he is. Real tough and mean-looking this fellar, yet quick and deadly, like a hawk. He’s brought in some hard ones. Just last week, he caught one that, 'til then, had been considered an impossible catch after mere hours. Big Josh’ Brown, you heard of him?”
You’ve been listening attentively in silence. It takes you a few seconds to realize he asked you a question, and judging by his pause he did not mean it rhetorical. You shake your head.
“Used to be a bounty hunter himself, but ended up getting too trigger happy. Turned into what he’d been chasing all them years. I guess that’s what they call irony. Anyway, having been a bounty hunter himself he knew exactly how to avoid the ones going after his bounty. Had nearly half the man hunters in the area looking for him when this feller I told you ‘bout strolls in, grabs Big Josh’s poster and asks me where he was last seen. I said, ‘Mister, you ain’t got much of a chance with this one, they either search for days on end before giving up, or they end up dead’. Feller says s’mthing charming like, ‘If I wanted advice, I’d ask for it’, walks out the door without another word and I think nothing more of it until he returns not even four hours later, Big Josh over his shoulder like he was a sack of wheat, hollerin' about how he shoulda gone out with a bullet to the heart, not to the knee and tied up like a filthy hog.”
“How did he find him?”
“Didn’t ask, didn’t care. But if anyone can track down and capture this Nevans feller, it’s him.” Upon seeing your expression, he raises his palms and his tone instantly shifts from captivatingly narrative to defensive. “Now, I can’t guarantee anything. This man works for no one but himself, he’s made that much clear. Though he’s always looking for ways to earn some extra cash. For a sizeable enough reward, I’d reckon he’ll be inclined to offer his services.” He returns the bounty poster to you at the same time as he delivers the last sentence. By instinct, you accept the curled-up paper.
“Where can I find him?”
“I don’t have a name for you but he’s actually huntin' bounty right now. He should be back in a few hours - or days.”
As unpleasant as is the thought of making such a deal, or any deal, with a complete stranger whom, from what sheriff Jones has relayed, is on the unfortunate end of the shady versus trustworthy scale, you reckon you don’t have much of a choice lest all this will have been for naught. After three seconds of consideration, you conclude that you ought to at least talk to him.
“Thank you, mister. Is there a place in this town where I can rent a room?”
“Gunsmith, ‘cross the street from here.”
Returning to the sheriff’s office after a quick visit to the gunsmith, you slump down on a bench by the door. The leather holster holding your recently acquired six-shooter slams against the wall as you pull out pen and paper from your bag. You have but a vague idea on how to use firearms, so you put your trust in the supposition that the mere threat of a raised revolver will suffice in dissuading anyone with possible malicious intent should you ever come in a situation in which drawing a gun would be deemed necessary. And when it comes to hostile animals, well you reckon the horse you bought at the van Horn stable should suffice as decent protection.
You write a letter to your uncle and to your cousin Millie to let them know you are all right, and to the University notifying them of your unscheduled absence. The letters written and carefully tucked into their respective envelopes with the correct address – you’ve checked trice, you bag the letters and pick up a book. A few pages in, your attention drifts from the wall of text on dirt-white pages to the bed in the corner opposite of where you are sitting. Oh, how you long for a full night of blissful sleep where you don’t wake up in tears after having been reunited with your father in your dream alive and well, only to wake up and relieve the grief. The sheriff takes note of the fatigue in your eyes, and informs that he’ll be happy to give this bounty hunter a word when he returns, upon which you reply that thanks but you would rather meet him here. The sheriff shrugs, and makes sure you know that he will resign to his bed by eleven. Duly noted.
The front door bursting open stirs you from the slumber you did not know you had entered. As is common after a sudden rouse, you stretch, yawn and rub your eyes all at once. Through rapid blinks, you see the silhouette of a gigantic figure with a hideously deformed backside, its footsteps weighty enough to make the entire floor quiver.
“Where you want him?”
“In the cell back there, thanks,” Jones responds without even looking up from his papers.
It takes your sleep-deprived mind a few seconds to realize that this is in fact not the Hunchback of Norte Damme but rather the mysterious bounty hunter returning with his prize slung lifeless over his shoulder. The distinct cling of metal to metal you presume is the unlocking of a cell. You rise to the sight of this enigmatic hunter of man hovering over his prey, an internal monologue running through your head in preparation of forwarding your job offer, or mission or whatever the correct term is, though you’ll most likely just end up winging it anyways.
“Took you a while. He gave you trouble?”
The bounty hunter turns to face the lawman now standing next to the open cell. He is a good half a head taller than the sheriff, whom is by no means a short man. A tingle of recognition stirs inside you, an uncomfortable one at that. Why is the manhunter’s posture making your heart beat so fast?
“Had me chasin’ him through half the state.” There is a hint of strain to his voice when he says the last word as he is hovering over the comatose captive severing the rope tying his hands together.
That voice. No, it can’t be.
“Got him cornered at a headland down by the river. Fool tried’a escape me by swimming.”
You refuse to acknowledge the prickling under your skin caused by numerous, tiny hairs on your body going erect. This is just a coincidence, you tell yourself. It has to be. Just two very different people sounding an awful lot alike, that is all. But when sheriff Jones starts introducing you, the mortifying dread flaring through your chest makes it impossible to deny what your heart already knows. You open your mouth to stop him but not a word comes out. You can do nothing but stand idle by like the gaping chump that you are as the sheriff relays the purpose of your visit.
“…if you’re interested in some extra cash then this young lady here has a job that might be of interest…, lost her pa in a robbery last week… It was last week, right miss?”
The bounty hunter finally turns to look at you, revealing a unique blend of green and blue hitherto concealed by the wide brim of a well-worn, tattered black leather hat.
You would have recognized those eyes anywhere.