The Night of the Mexican Revenge
Chapter 1
The House in the Dream
"I felt like one who was toiling home barefoot from distant travel, and whose wanderings had lasted many years."
(Charles Dickens,Great Expectations)
Artemus Gordon was still unsettled by the dream he had experienced the night before, and could almost have wished that Jim had woken him earlier. He couldn't think what it might mean and found it hard to rid his mind of thoughts of it, as they continued their journey to Beaumont, the following day. When they came across the house from his dream, he believed, at first, that he must be hallucinating but, realised it must be real, when he heard Jim saying that they should ask if they could sleep in the barn.
Suddenly Artie was more that unsettled, he was deeply troubled. Would tonight's events follow his dream and what if they did? Could he stand to go through it all again? Would he be able to step in, and avert disaster?
As they approached the house the door swung open but there was no-one there. The hairs sprang up on Artie's neck. Then it closed again and he realised that the door was swinging feely on its hinges. He saw the sheriff dismount and push the door open again.
"It looks empty," he shouted back to them.
They all got off their horses, except Liston Day, who had to be helped down by Artie and Jim. Artie supported him into the house, 'just like I did in my dream,' he thought. Artie looked up as they entered and saw the blue chandelier that he remembered it. He looked at it warily. Last time it was only the swiftness of Jim's reactions that had saved him from being crushed beneath it. He entered the sitting room and noticed that the familiar white sheets were draped over the furniture and there were large cobwebs hanging everywhere. No difference there then.
His attention was drawn back to their prisoner.
"Let's put him in that chair over there," Jim suggested.
Liston had seemed almost unaware of his surroundings up until then but, since they'd entered the house, he appeared to have perked up a little. Artie was reminded of how, in his dream, Day had become younger and younger the longer he stayed in the house, until he was the same age as when he was arrested. He strove to break the spell.
"We ought to light a fire," he said, walking over to the large mantelpiece. There he found newspaper and kindling, already laid. He wondered how long it had been there and looked at the newspaper to see if he could find a date. It was an edition from roughly thirty years ago. He used a match to set fire to it and, when it and the kindling had caught, he looked around for logs. There were some in a box next to the hearth, and he placed several onto the burgeoning flames. He was pleased to find that the wood wasn't damp, though it gave a small hiss as it began to burn.
Jim walked over to warm his hands.
"According to the newspaper, which was in the grate, this house has been abandoned for at least thirty years," Gordon said, quietly.
"Piece of good luck for us then," Jim said. "We'll have the place to ourselves. Better bring some food and bedding in." He strode out to the front door and left the three men alone in the house.
Artie wanted to tell Jim about his dream but this didn't seem to be the right time. Maybe it would be best if he kept it to himself anyway. Although the house was identical, it wasn't behaving in the way it did in his dream.
Even though Day had a blanket around his shoulders, he began to shiver, a symptom of the swamp fever he was suffering from, and which was prevalent along the Bayou.
"He needs more blankets," the sheriff said. "I'll go upstairs and see if I can find some."
"Be careful up there!" Artie warned him, still thinking of his dream.
"Sure," the Sheriff replied, giving him a puzzled look.
"Floorboards," Artie invented.
The Sheriff nodded and went up the stairs.
Now Artie was all alone with Day, he took the opportunity to have a look around the room. The portrait from his dream was on the wall, she was a beautiful woman. He turned his back on her and walked to the windows. Looking out, he noticed the sun was going down, so he lit a lamp and then started to close the shutters, against the cold he knew would be seeping in overnight.
He heard a noise behind him and turned to see Jim entering the room. He was carrying their bedrolls and the small amount of food they had with them. One of them would have to go out and catch something in the morning, if they were going to have a decent meal before they left.
"Where's the sheriff?" he asked, dropping the load onto the sofa.
"Gone upstairs to see if he can rustle up some more blankets for Day," Artie replied. "We'll have to air them in front of the fire."
"Yes, it must be pretty damp upstairs after all these years. We'd better sleep down here. I've bedded the horses down in the barn, by the way. I couldn't find anything for them to eat, though."
"We can sort that out in the morning," Artie said.
They heard the sheriff coming down the stairs. He had a couple of blankets with him and he walked over to the fire and held them up to the warmth. "Lots of dust and cobwebs upstairs but things aren't in too bad a condition, considering," he said. "I found these in a closet."
The blankets were soon aired and Day was put to bed on the sofa with the extra blankets tucked in around him.
"He looks real bad, Jim," Artie said. "I'm not sure he's gonna make it all the way to Beaumont."
"We don't have any other choice," Jim said. "It's where the nearest hospital is."
"Poor devil," Artie replied.
"I don't expect the families of the men who died would feel that way, even now," Jim said.
Artie knew already how Jim felt about Liston Day. Hadn't he compared him to Benedict Arnold? But what Day had done happened over thirty years ago. To Artie, it seemed hard to associate the frail, sick old man with the young one, who had caused so many deaths because of his treachery. 'Maybe this is the right time to tell Jim about my dream,' he thought.
"Jim, I need to tell you something."
"What?" Jim asked.
"Last night I had a dream and this house was in it, I won't bother with all the details except that the house in my dream belonged to Liston Day's family and the painting on that wall over there is his mother, Caroline."
"So you think this is Liston's family home."
"Yes."
"What happened in this dream?"
"We found Caroline Day's diary and, in it, she wrote that her husband, Charles, was the one who told Santa Anna the revolutionaries' plans."
"But that was just a dream," Jim said.
"Yeah, but if it was just a dream then how did I know what this house looked like, down to the last detail?"
"I don't know; some things just can't be explained."
"Yeah, I guess you're right. I think I might just go upstairs and look for that diary, though."
"All right, I'll get supper sorted out," Jim said.
Artie couldn't help keeping his eyes on the carpeting as he ascended the stairs and made his way along the landing, remembering the way the floor had given way in his dream. However, his journey to Caroline Day's bedroom was uneventful. It surprised him to find that the room was not the dream version. It also held no portrait of her son. There was a painting on the wall, though, a water-colour of a beautiful garden, the one from the house Caroline had grown up, perhaps? It certainly bore no resemblance to the unkempt garden outside and wouldn't have, even if it was returned to its former condition.
Still, since he was there, Artie felt no qualm about searching the drawers and cupboards, starting with the dressing table. All he found were some scarves and a few handkerchiefs. There was no journal. He returned to the sitting-room to report his failure to Jim and to get something to eat.
He had almost reached the bottom stair when the front door was flung open and two people swept into the hallway. It was a man and a woman and they were holding rifles, one of which was aimed at Artie while the other was covering Jim and the Sheriff.
"Stand still!" the woman said, looking at Artie, "or I'll blow your head off."