'A brother is a friend God gave you;

a friend is a brother your heart chose.'

Proverb

GONE

2

The next morning Jess was the first customer to enter the bank in Laramie when it opened. In curt tones, he asked for a balance of his savings and, having received it, proceeded to give the surprised banker some very specific instructions.

"Je – Mr Harper, you cannot be serious?"

That was a mistake. Jess's formidable scowl bore down on the banker. He was in no mood to have his orders questioned. Nonetheless, the man continued. His professional responsibilities were greater than his fear of impending retribution from his client.

"You do realise that this mandate will give unrestricted access to your account by the persons you have named?"

"Exactly!" The glare now directed at him was terrifying, but the bank manager persisted valiantly.

"I can, of course, see that the one name might be appropriate and as for the other, I am aware of his reputation, but –"

He got no further. Jess leaned across the desk and said simply, "I can close the account and take the balance elsewhere."

No banker wants money withdrawn which could contribute to his profits. But the man remained profoundly shaken by the implications of what Jess had just set in motion, not to mention the sizable withdrawal that he had made at the same time.

"I don't need to remind you, Mr Standon, that these instructions are confidential - do I?"

The narrowing of Jess's eyes and the grim line of his lips left the banker in no doubt as to what would happen if he gossiped; like everyone else in Laramie, he was familiar with Harper's reputation. Besides, he knew how hard the man had worked to help Slim Sherman pay off his bank loan on the relay station and that, on its own, had earned his respect. Despite the misgivings he had expressed and his professional opinion, he promised to carry out Jess's orders immediately and to the letter.

Leaving the bank, Jess went directly to the Telegraph Office. To the surprise of the clerk in charge, he spent some time in what was obviously deep thought. Then he wrote a number of cryptic words on the form and handed the telegram over to be dispatched. As he began to send it, the clerk's brow wrinkled in puzzlement. He looked up to find that he was being watched intently.

"You sure about this, Jess?" he enquired cautiously, knowing the young man's temper and being unwilling to invite a demonstration of it. At the same time, he spoke because he had a professional responsibility: "It don't seem to make a lotta sense."

Like many others, he had heard what had happened at the relay station. He knew both young men well, and the kid too, not to mention old Jonesy. It seemed a whole heap of bad luck that things should have worked out as they had, but the telegram made him wonder how clearly Jess was thinking and how badly he'd been affected by the shock. Made him wonder, in fact, if Jess actually knew what he had written.

"I know exactly what I mean. Just send it!" Jess growled, and stood over him until he did.

Coming out of the Telegraph Office, Jess paused for a moment, looking down the street. In the early morning, it was relatively quiet, just like the first time he had seen it. Then the whole town had been hiding from the Carlin gang and someone had taken a shot at him. Not that he could blame them – a drifter looks very much like an outlaw to a frightened deputy and in truth there were times when he had indeed ridden on the wrong side of the law. It had caused him an ironical inward chuckle when, more than once after that, he had been sworn in on the law's side in Laramie and worn that same deputy's badge. He had no illusions about the extent to which this changed response had depended on the trust that Slim, first of all, had placed in him - the unique trust that only someone of absolute integrity can give.

Now the scene struck into him like blow in the guts. The whole street was dead - the saloon, the hotel, the livery stable, the store - all grey and empty like derelict buildings in a ghost town. Around him the early risers of the community might be going about their business, but he was alone in a lifeless world, surrounded by people, yet separated from his fellow human beings by an inescapable shroud. It was as if every vestige of warmth had been drained from him, as if he were cut off from everything by a sheet of ice, thin but unbreakable as steel. And it was no good thinking of the past or remembering other times when he - when they - had walked along this street. Now a cold wind breathed over his spirit and an iron grip on his soul steered him on a course he had never thought he would take. Now he had to face someone in a way that seared like a freezing brand across his heart and mind.

He jammed his hat on and strode along the street to the Sheriff's Office and his first encounter with Mort Cory since Andy's removal from the ranch.

Mort was just beginning his day by sorting the post and paper work when the door opened and he had to endure the meeting he had been dreading. Although he had had no option but to co-operate with those who had the law on their side, he had been racked with agonising guilt ever since. The lawyers had made it all too clear that he was there to prevent interference, not to carry it out himself. He had done his duty, even though committing Andy onto the stage-coach that had born him away had been the hardest thing he had ever done in his life.

He had known Slim and Andy's parents long before the boys were born and, when civil war came, he had been the one to train and lead, discipline and inspire, and occasionally rescue, their eldest son. Hell, Slim had got that scar on his cheek fighting alongside Mort! After the Shermans' unexpected and too close deaths, Mort had done his best to provide fatherly support for the upright and conscientious young man who took his responsibilities as head of the family so seriously. And of course he had had misgivings when Andy decided to adopt, as his latest stray, a two-legged one, a volatile and unsettling young drifter with a dubious past and a scarily fast gun.

Well, he had been wrong about that one, hadn't he? It had worked out in the way that opposites sometimes do. Slim had provided the bed-rock stability that Jess needed – Jess even nick-named him "Hard Rock" and had been known to joke that this included his head! Slim's deep integrity, sound reasoning and steadfast sense of justice, not to mention his generosity and often-tried patience, were able to temper something of Jess's reckless wildness. And Jess had given Slim companionship of his own age, a spontaneous and unfettered sense of freedom, a way of acting straight from the honour of the heart, and an appreciation of fun that lightened up life at the relay station, especially for Andy. And he had proved to be shrewd beyond his years, unexpectedly hard-working and utterly loyal. In fact, as Jonesy had observed to Mort on several occasions, it didn't matter how much they argued and occasionally fought – over a woman, Andy's well-being or how to hammer in a fence-post – they stood resolutely by each other whatever was thrown at them. Mort had often smiled a little as he thought of them standing together because not only were they opposites in temperament and background, but Slim was well over six foot, heavily muscled and fair as a Viking, while Jess was easily a hand shorter, lean, dark and as tough as whipcord.

Mort looked up quickly and saw Jess's unmistakable silhouette against the early morning sunshine that flooded through the doorway. He could see nothing else, not even Jess's face because it was shadowed by his hat which, contrary to his normal courtesy, he had not removed. What Mort was instantly aware of was the tightly controlled energy and raw power driving the younger man. His heart gave an unexpected lurch and his experienced reflexes nearly sent him straight into preventative action, such was the force this perception. He had seen Jess like this before, when he was hell-bent on a personal mission to sort out something that contravened his sense of honour; it boded ill for someone somewhere.

Before the sheriff could open his mouth or give a greeting or indeed take any action, Jess snapped out: "Tell people not to come, Mort."

"Wh – what?"

"Tell them not to come to the ranch. They're gonna want to come, but don't let 'em." His breath hitched painfully and then he added, "Please!"

"But, Jess –" Mort struggled to find the right words, "Jess, they're neighbours, friends – they'll come out of respect for him! Surely that's right?"

"It may be right –" Mort heard the breath rasp in his throat again. "- But I can't take it!" The admission hung in the air between them as if carved with a knife. Before Mort could speak or offer any comfort to this desolation, Jess went on abruptly, "Besides, there'll soon be no-one there – no-one who cares, anyway!" He took two swift strides across the room and gripped the other man's hand. "Goodbye, Mort."

Before Mort could say anything, he had gone and only the movement of the door, swinging aimlessly behind him, showed that he had ever been there. If it had not been for the sting in his fingers from that powerful hand-grip, Mort would have felt as if he had had an encounter with a shadow, a ghost, rather than with the vital young man he thought he knew so well.