After Sam

by Sevenstars

SUMMARY: A coda to "The Sam Pulaski Story." Coop has to deal with Sam's death and what it means to his family—and to Coop's own future.

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Coop plodded slowly down the street, staggering a bit, not really thinking about where he was going, knowing only that he had to get away from Sam's body and Rose's accusing eyes. In a vague way he understood that he was more or less stranded, unless he could find a livery barn and hire a horse: he'd planned to go back to camp with the Pulaskis in their wagon, but he sure didn't reckon Sam's mother and sister would want to share it with him now, and of course he hadn't brought Gambler along with him. He came to an unsteady halt, looking dazedly around him. He could feel the accelerated thumping of his heart as it tried to compensate for the open wound in his arm, could feel against his gloved hand the faint pressure of the blood oozing from it. He blinked in confusion—everything seemed to be getting foggy-dark, and the streetscape was spinning around him in long, slow, lazy loops. It was getting hard to breathe. His knees suddenly unlocked, pitching him forward. He tried to turn as he fell, but was too disoriented to control himself and landed hard on the injured arm. There was a great silent flash, and then the soft darkness swallowed him up and the world and the pain went away.

**WT**

"Who is he? Anybody know?"

"I think he's off that wagon train that pulled in about three miles out last night. That man who was just killed, I saw him get off a wagon this feller was drivin'."

"Is he dead?"

"No, he's breathin', but he's bleedin' pretty severe. Somebody fetch a shutter, we'll take him to Doc."

"One of us better ride out to that wagon camp. If he's that outfit's driver, it don't seem like the women will want him workin' for 'em any more, but if he's not, somebody back there should know him."

"I'll go."

"All right, the rest of you—let's lift him up, easy now—"

**WT**

"Say, friend, can you tell me if this is where the wagonmaster stays?"

Bill Hawks turned to find himself confronted by a stranger on a strawberry roan mare. "Mostly, yeah, but he's down the line somewhere. I'm his deputy, is there somethin' I can do?" He was aware that Charlie had paused in his potato-peeling and was listening. The old coot had as good an ear for gossip as any woman in the outfit.

"Maybe," said the other. "We had a shooting in town about half an hour ago. We think one of your people is dead, and another's got a bullet in him—young feller, good-lookin', dark hair, kind of a lean face, wearin' a good shirt and a gray string tie."

"Coop!" Charlie burst out.

Bill didn't even think about what he should do. "Barney, get my horse saddled. And then find Chris and tell him about this." The boy was away like a shot. "Mister, you might better stay, Mr. Hale will want details. Charlie here will see you get coffee and a bite to eat."

**WT**

By the time Bill got to town, Coop was in surgery. The plaza had been cleaned up, but it wasn't hard to find the marshal's office and learn what had happened. The lawman had already questioned the witnesses and satisfied himself as to Coop's role in the affair. "Everybody agreed that the other one, Pulaski, pushed him into it—went for his gun screamin' somethin' about his sister," he explained to Bill. "Your man Smith didn't have a choice but to defend himself. We'll have to hold an inquest, but I don't think he'll be bound over. I know you wagon train folks have snow to beat in the mountains, so I'll try to get it scheduled in the next day or two."

Bill breathed a little easier—not that he thought Coop would have started the ruckus, but he knew the younger man's reputation. "What about Mrs. Pulaski and her daughter?" he asked.

"Mrs. Pulaski was in the church when it happened; I don't think she even heard the shots," said the marshal. "Father O'Reilly brought her the news. He says she took it better than he'd expected—almost like she'd been expectin' it to happen. He's lettin' her and the daughter stay at his house for a while, till they can get their bearings and arrange for a funeral. He's got a live-in housekeeper, so they'll be all right. Now," he continued, "about the other two dead men—"

"Other dead men?!" Bill exclaimed, in shock. "What other dead men? Who killed 'em?"

"Well, one of 'em was up in a room in the hotel, with a rifle, and we think he shot the other by accident, though of course neither one's in any shape to tell us. Smith got the rifleman—everybody says it was one of the best shots with a sixgun they ever saw, firin' from light into shadow like that, and on an up slant at that distance. The girl couldn't or wouldn't tell us who they were, but I know they were strangers, and your outfit bein' a big flock of strangers to these parts, maybe you'd know 'em. We can take a walk over to the undertaker's and you can tell me one way or the other."

**WT**

It didn't take long to identify the men or to find their outfit, which by the ordinary custom would be held by the marshal until it could be determined whether the deceased had relatives, and if not, would be sold to cover the cost of their burial, with the remaining money—a goodly figure, for even a used wagon and a team would typically go for almost $400, not to speak of supplies and camp gear and personal items—going into the local general fund. This done, Bill made his way to the doctor's office, where he found Coop conscious, though still somewhat muddled from the anesthesia. "It wasn't a serious wound," the doctor told him. "He lost a fair amount of blood, so he'll be rather weak for a few days, and the muscle in his arm was torn up some, but he's young and in good condition; he should make a full recovery."

Coop recognized him, but seemed unwilling or unable to talk very much. Duke and Charlie arrived with the lead wagon, and the doctor lent them a canvas stretcher to get Coop on board; the marshal, as Bill had anticipated, didn't object to the wounded man being moved out to the camp, and promised to send a messenger out, or come himself, as soon as the inquest was scheduled. The two tall men easily got their compatriot into the wagon, and back they went.

Charlie made up some thick beef broth and biscuits, but Coop only ate about half of it, despite the cook's scolding reminder that he needed food if he reckoned on getting his strength back. Still muttering indignantly to himself, Charlie retreated from the field of battle and poured what was left of the soup back into the pot, covering it and nestling it among the coals to keep warm in case the scout changed his mind. "How is he, Charlie?" Chris asked.

"Not so good, Mister Chris. 'Course it might just be he's still kinda queasy from that there ether the doctor gave him, but there's somethin' in his eyes—like he's tryin' to shut hisself off."

"Hmph," the wagonmaster grunted. "Is he awake?"

"Was a minute ago."

"All right, hold my supper. I want to go in and talk to him before that wound gets the better of him and he falls asleep again."

"Yessir."

Chris climbed up into the wagon's interior, where a farm lantern hanging from the bows overhead shed a faint warm light against the gathering shades of dusk. Coop lay on the cot, shirtless, the right sleeve of his longjohn top cut away; there was no sign of fresh blood on the dressing wrapped around his arm. He looked pale and tired, and his eyes were closed, but Chris could tell from his breathing that he wasn't asleep. The wagonmaster pulled up a folding camp stool, sat down, and laid his hand firmly on the one lying lax across Coop's middle. The younger man opened his eyes and looked up at him with a resigned air. "What do you want, Chris?" he asked—not sullen, not quarrelsome, but there was a hollowness to his voice, a quiet sadness.

"I want you to get better," Chris told him, "and you won't do that if you don't do as the doctor and Charlie tell you." With a penetrating look: "You also won't do it if you don't pull yourself out of the funk you're in. Don't forget I've known what it is to be in utter despair, to wonder if life was worth the trouble of going on. I don't think you're quite that far gone just yet, but you're certainly not yourself."

"Nobody is, when they've just had a hunk of lead cut out of 'em," Coop pointed out. "And whatever the doc gave me left me with a headache, and I ain't got a lot of appetite just now."

"Normal," Chris agreed. "And you're tired, I understand that. But we need to get straight on just what happened out there, and how you're going to deal with it."

"Ain't the first man I ever killed. Won't be the last, likely."

"Likely. But this was different from the others—wasn't it?" Chris insisted shrewdly.

Coop shut his eyes a moment and let out a long quiet sigh. Then he said: "I'm thinkin'... once my gun arm gets back up to snuff, maybe I best leave."

"Leave?" Chris repeated. "Why?"

"You should know," Coop told him in a low voice. "You were the one that said we were here to protect these people, and here I go and kill one of 'em."

"From what I hear, you didn't have very many other options," said the wagonmaster. "He'd certainly have killed you, by what the witnesses had to say." A pause, then: "What don't I know yet, Coop? Why did he want to do that?"

"Didn't like me sparkin' his sister, I reckon," Coop mumbled.

"If that was all he wanted, he could have forbidden the two of you to see each other," Chris pointed out. "He was the head of the family; he'd have had the right to do that." He watched the younger man's face. "I have an idea you're trying to protect someone, and it certainly isn't Sam Pulaski; nothing can hurt him now. Give."

Coop was silent for a long minute, then: "You recollect when we found out about that 'insurance' scheme them two were runnin', we said it couldn't just be them? That they had to have a leader? They did. Sam was it." Slowly he told the story of his adventure in Brooklyn, and of the way Sam had set him up to be in the street and be killed by a "stray bullet." "I don't know why he suddenly decided he had to shut me up. He must'a' known I'd'a' thought twice, or even three times, before I'd said anything that would'a' hurt Rose. I never really got a close look at any of the three that came at me after I left the room; it all happened so fast, and I'm not used to gaslight, and then I was out on the stoop and it was even darker. I've been out ahead so much of the time, I didn't realize we had two of 'em with the outfit till Sam told me it was my hat the fat one was wearin'. But at first, when I saw that one feller with the rifle up in the hotel window, I figured it was Sam they meant to take down. That's why I fired—not 'cause I had reason to think I was in danger, but 'cause I thought he was. Then he went for his gun, and suddenly I realized. It all came together, you know the way things will, all in a flash, like, and I understood; it made so much sense, I wondered that I hadn't thought of it before. Sam got his way, sure enough," he sighed. "Even losin', he won. Rose told me he'd never let her have a boyfriend. He sure wouldn't have wanted a brother-in-law who'd know what kind of tricks he stooped to—the husband game, assault and robbery. He won't have one now. She'll never want to see me again, and I don't blame her."

"You were lucky to end up only robbed, and not dumped in the East River," Chris told him. "How much did you lose?"

"Three hundred and change that I had in my boot, and lucky not to lose the boots too, as well as the hat," said Coop. "I woke up in a doorway a couple blocks away, about an hour later, near as I can guess it." He returned to his previous line of thought. "It ain't the first time I ever been pushed into a fight; it ain't even the first time I ever been set up—a man gets to be as good as I am, he kind of expects it to happen now and again." It was said not vainly, but almost resignedly. "I just... I never figured on Sam bein' that smart, I reckon."

"He survived a good many years in the city," Chris observed. "That's as surely a jungle as any in Africa or India or the Malays, and I don't doubt there's a lot of competition there as well. It's probably a very good example of what Mr. Darwin called 'survival of the fittest.' " And with a piercing look at his young friend: "Not really so very different, in some ways, from out here; except that most men back there don't carry guns openly, as we do."

Coop considered that. "I reckon that's true. But it still don't change what I did. And... and mostly the kind of men I've shot, over the years, weren't the kind to have mothers and sisters dependin' on 'em, except maybe in the war, which wasn't the same thing." He sighed. "Chris, I... I'm gettin' kinda sleepy, do you mind if we get back to this sometime? The doc told me I need to get a lot of rest."

The wagonmaster snorted softly to himself. Coop might pretend to be an ignorant cowhand, but he had a good mind. He knew that saying something like that would back Chris very neatly into a corner: Chris himself had told him to follow the doctor's orders, so he could hardly protest giving the younger man the opportunity to do so. "All right," he agreed, "but tomorrow I expect you to eat. Meanwhile I'll send Bill and Duke ahead to get an overall idea of the country we're coming to; that way you can take some time off while you heal up."

"Sure," Coop murmured, his eyes already sliding shut.

**WT**

The marshal showed up the next afternoon, questioned Chris and Charlie about Coop's condition and progress, and took a deposition from him describing what had happened as he had seen it, including his exchange with Sam in the saloon beforehand. "Inquest's tomorrow, at ten A.M.," he explained, "but our coroner is the same doc who patched you up, and he told me I shouldn't expect you to be up to testifying in person quite yet, so I came prepared. As soon as we have a verdict, I'll get word to you."

"That won't be necessary, Marshal," Chris told him. "I thought I might ride in and attend, in case a character witness is needed. Besides, I need to talk with the Pulaski women and find out what they plan to do; they're still technically my passengers."

Wanting to get to them before they were any worse upset by the proceedings, he was at Father O'Reilly's house by eight the next morning. After a brief discussion with the priest, he was shown into the sitting room, where Mrs. Pulaski was sitting in a carpet-covered rocking chair, dressed in mourning, of course. Even so, he reflected, she didn't look very different from the way she had most other times he'd seen her; she'd always tended toward plain clothing in dark colors—he'd observed that many immigrant women of a certain age had that habit—and her large dark eyes had always had rather a sad, tragic look about them.

"Mr. Hale," she said. "Please, you sit."

He looked around, located a woven East Indian wicker chair and pulled it up. "How are you bearing up, ma'am?"

"I am Polish," was the reply. "We endure."

Being, as Duke sometimes said, "an educated man," Chris knew enough of the history of Poland to know how very true that was. "I'm aware that this may not be the best time to bring the subject up," he told her, "but I need to know what you and Rose intend to do next. If you want to come back to the train, of course you'll be welcome. If you'd rather try to go back East, I can perhaps make some kind of arrangements for you—two women in a lone wagon can't do it. But I have to know what your plans are. You may remember my telling everyone, in camp outside St. Joe, that this wagon train has a schedule to keep. If we don't reach the mountains by a certain date, there's every possibility that we could be trapped on this side of them till spring—or what's much worse, trapped in a pass for good and all. If I could give you more time to recover your equilibrium, I'd gladly do it, but I just can't."

She nodded. "I understand. Is right. You have many hundred people who depend on you. We cannot endanger everyone. Would be selfish. I have thought already of this." She told him her decision.

"I think you've made a wise choice," he said when she was finished. "Since you didn't complete the journey, you're due a part refund of your fare. I have it with me. If you'll just sign this receipt—"

It took only a minute or two to conclude their business. Then he said, "There's something else. I don't doubt you've been informed of the inquest that's to take place in another hour or so. Cooper Smith is still too weak from his wound to attend and give testimony, so the marshal got a written deposition from him. It'll almost certainly be read into the record, and there's something in it that... well, I felt I should prepare you for what you'll hear." And he told her what had happened to Coop in Brooklyn, so she would understand why Sam had maneuvered the scout into the position he had.

She listened without comment, rocking gently to and fro. "I do not ask you if is true," she said when he had finished. "Somehow, I am not surprised. Sam was always very jealous of Rose—too jealous—but from first I felt was more between him and Cooper. How much did he take?"

He told her. She nodded thoughtfully, then said, "You wait here, please," and rose from her chair. He stood hastily as she left the room.

Father O'Reilly's sitting room was full of books and odd souveniers from exotic places, and he had no trouble keeping himself occupied until she came back. She walked up to him with a very positive air and held out a small bundle of twenty-dollar gold certificates. "Here. Is for Cooper."

"Ma'am," he started to protest, "I never intended that—"

"I know. This I wish to do. Is right and proper. If he had never met Sam, he would not now be lying in wagon with wound in his arm. Is money we owe him. You say three hundred and change, yes? There is four hundred here. Is not bribe, but to pay doctor, to get him new hat... and maybe for him to get little bit drunk, if he wishes."

Remembering again what he knew of the troubles through which her native land had gone, he realized that pride was almost the only thing her people had left, and that he could no more refuse this, which touched on her definition of honor, than he would have refused any reasonable request made of him by a veteran of the defeated Confederacy, many of whom had little more. "As you wish, of course," he said. "But I don't think I'd better give it to him right away, or he's likely to ride in here and try to make you take it back. I'll hold it for a month or so; by then it'll be too late for him to try."

She smiled, put the notes in his hand and folded his fingers over them. "I wish I could do more. You understand."

"Yes," he said slowly, "I do. Mrs. Pulaski, I don't want you to feel you have any further obligations to him. It's just that... Coop is more than just my scout; he's a friend—almost a son. I've known him since he was quite young. He does a good job of pretending to be tough, and in many ways he is, but he can also take things very deeply to heart. He hasn't said so, but I think he's grieving about Rose. And I know he feels guilty about being maneuvered into killing Sam. If there's any word I could take him that might make all this easier to bear..."

She pondered the request. "I will think," she promised.

"That's really all I can ask, ma'am. Good luck to you."

**WT**

Duke had already taken off to begin scouting the route ahead, and Bill was walking the camp, something at least one of them did at least once every evening, when a hired buggy drove up to Chris's wagon in the first shades of dusk. Barney saw it first. "Mister Chris, we've got company," he said.

Charlie, who had a better view of the vehicle from where he was working over the supper, stared open-mouthed as Mrs. Pulaski carefully descended from it and spoke softly to the driver. Chris got up to see what had distracted him and quickly took off his hat as he realized who was there. "Mrs. Pulaski, I wasn't expecting to see you again," he said.

"I come to see Cooper. Is he well enough?"

"He still tires easily, so we made him stay in the wagon most of the day," Chris told her. "I think he's awake, though, since he hasn't had his supper yet. Charlie," he said firmly, "go gather some wood. Barney, help him."

"Wood?" Charlie repeated in confusion, glancing at the neat pile of fuel barely ten feet away.

"Wood, Charlie," said Chris, with a quick eloquent glance toward the wagon, whose canvas tilt was hardly made for private conversation.

Barney got the message, at least. "C'mon, Charlie, I'll bet you I can find more than you can."

Charlie started as Chris's point got through to him. "You do, huh? What do you wanta bet?"

"If you win, I'll wash the dishes as well as dry 'em for the next week," the youngster offered. "But if I win, you've gotta dry 'em as well as washin' 'em."

"Huh!" Charlie snorted. "That'll be the day! Mister Chris, would you just watch and make sure the stew don't boil over? Biscuits won't be ready for another twenty minutes yet." He grabbed his hat and the two of them vanished into the darkness.

Coop, half dozing in the wagon, had been awakened by the sound of voices but hadn't clearly made out who was speaking or what they were saying. His eyes widened in surprise as Mrs. Pulaski pushed the end-curtain aside, and he struggled to sit up on the cot, to get his legs over the edge so he could stand up politely. "You stay where you are," she commanded, in a voice he recognized at once; his own mother had used it often with him and Jeff. "You are not strong yet."

He realized, with a flush of embarrassment, that standing up would have been indelicate in any case, since the doctor had stripped him down to his longjohns and Charlie hadn't given him his jeans back yet. "Ma'am, I—I don't know what to say to you. I—I'm sorry about—about Sam..."

"I was at inquest," she cut him off. "I know what happened. You have nothing to be sorry for."

He looked away, confused and uneasy, as she drew the camp stool up to the bedside and sat down. "You be better soon, Cooper?"

"The doc thinks so, yes ma'am. He says I need to rest and eat a lot of good food—which won't be easy with Charlie doin' the cookin'." Tentatively: "Ma'am... is Rose... is she okay?"

"Is something you must understand, please," she told him. "Rose... often was angry at Sam because it seemed he did not want her to have life of her own, to find nice young man and marry. Often I too was angry at him for this. But Rose was only tiny baby when her father died. Sam was closest thing she remembers to one. For him to die as he did... she could not be to you any other way than she was. You see?"

"Yes, ma'am. I reckon I do," he admitted. "There's something in the Bible, I think, about a woman leavin' her father's house when she takes a husband, but Rose and me... we hadn't got that far yet. She'd known Sam so much longer, and if you're right and he was two things to her, father and brother... it's like a story we tell in Texas, where I come from, about a woman whose husband fell to feudin' with her family. 'Shucks,' she said as she shot him, 'he ain't no kin of mine.' "

She smiled, but sadly. "Yes. Is like that, a little."

"I just wish," he said slowly, "that... that it hadn't had to be me. I know she hates me now, and I reckon she's got a right, but..." He made a helpless gesture with his good hand. "If I could go back, if I could do it over..."

"You listen," the woman said firmly. "You are good boy. Kind, brave, handsome. I would have been proud to have you for son-in-law. But was not to be."

"Yes, ma'am," said Coop, in a soft, subdued voice. "I know."

"Listen," she repeated. "Was not your fault. I know you think so, but you are wrong. Sam made choice, many years ago, that led to this. Before we leave Brooklyn I tell him, is not good to be jealous of his sister like of wife. And before that even, when he was young boy, he chose path of sin. This, or something like this, would have happened, this year, next year, five years, ten. You listen to me. I know."

He stared at her in astonishment. "Ma'am? You mean—you knew what he was?"

"Yes." Her dark eyes were sad. "You remember day we first meet in St. Joseph, Rose told you I did not wish to leave my friends? Friends knew for many years what Sam did. Knew better, I think, than police. Rose warned him one day I would guess truth, but was no guessing needed. We would not turn him in; was not our way. Thought better to give him all chances to see he was wrong, to change for his own sake, not for ours. Was bad thing to do, perhaps. But you have seen Brooklyn; what you think old woman and young woman do, if they are alone, to live? So we take money Sam brings, make most of him while we have him, and keep silence."

"Survival," he murmured.

"Yes," she said again. "You are Indian scout. You know about survival, I think."

"I sure do, ma'am." He looked at her sadly. "I wouldn't'a' done it if he'd left me any other way. Not just for Rose's sake, but because he gave me his word. I didn't want to do it. He forced it on me."

"I know this." She reached out and laid her hand over his, then twined her fingers through his own and squeezed gently. "Was not your fault. This I tell you, and this you must believe. You were perhaps instrument of God. God saw if Sam went on, he would do worse things, maybe, like to Rose. So He set you in Sam's way. Was decided."

He pondered this for a minute or two while she sat quietly beside him and watched the thought-shadows flitting across his face. "I reckon if that's what you truly believe, ma'am, I can accept it too."

"Is good. Now you rest, get better. Mr. Hale will need you to scout for Indians. I go back to town."

"Ma'am?" His fingers closed quickly around hers, holding her back. "You and Rose... you gonna be all right by yourselves?"

"Is nice little town. Dry and dusty and not so lively as Brooklyn, but not bad place. We have three thousand dollars cash money Sam leave, besides wagon and team we can sell. We buy little house, sew, do baking, keep chickens, maybe do nursing when is sickness. We not suffer."

He hesitated. "Is Rose... how's she takin' it, ma'am?"

Mrs. Pulaski sighed. "She loved her brother, as good sister should. She grieves for him. She tell me, maybe she go to Father O'Reilly, ask if he can help her go into convent. I tell her, you wait, year, maybe two; God does not want girl who seeks Him only to ease broken heart, wants girl who has profession. In that time, I think, she will see was best that could happen. If not, I think, she stay until I die, because she is good girl, good daughter, not want to leave me alone far from everything I ever know. But she is young still. Her heart will heal. Maybe one day I have son-in-law after all. Only will not be you, Cooper. For this I am sorry."

He sighed. "Me too. I was almost startin' to think..." He let the thought trail off. "Ma'am, would you do me somethin'? Some time, when you think she's ready, tell Rose... give her my best? Tell her I'll never forget her."

"I tell her. Now, you do me something? You let me embrace the boy who was almost my grandchildren's father?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said, and felt her arms go around him. He returned the hug one-handedly, feeling the little tremors that shook her as she struggled not to cry. He remembered what Chris had said, and thought, I reckon maybe the women in the big city got to be pretty tough too, in their way.

He thought about that for a long time after she was gone, and knew that one day—maybe not too far distant—Rose would heal, and maybe even forgive him a little. There could never be anything between them again; Sam's ghost would always share any place they happened to be. But he hadn't destroyed her, or her mother; they couldn't be destroyed, not that way. And in that, he found, he could take some comfort.

Next time Chris comes in, he thought, I'll tell him I'm stayin' on.

-30-