Rhett Butler crossed the busy main street, ducking under the broad awnings to get out of the rain, and entered the post office. There he stood with his hat in his hands and regarded the callow-looking youth behind the counter with obvious distaste. The youth, for his part, stared blankly back. He was not used to getting customers in the middle of the day—and was not used to those customers being gentlemen in a three-piece black linen suit. They stared each other down, until Rhett gave in to his mounting impatience and spoke.
"I'm Mr. Butler," he said, and the boy, who had been staring gape-mouthed at Rhett's polished boots, closed his mouth with a snap. "I sent you a telegram earlier in the month."
"Yes, sir," the boy crowed, and rifled through his papers until he had retrieved that very telegram. "I remember it right well. We don't get very many wires in these parts."
Saints preserve us, thought Rhett, what kind of backwater hell-hole have I wandered in to? He balled his hands in his pockets, annoyed at the ridiculous position he found himself in. He was two thousand miles away from home—if he could consider Atlanta home, and he didn't, really. That annoyed him more than anything else. He was fifty-five years old, for heaven's sake, and at fifty-five years of age a man should have a place to call his home. He struggled to make his voice light and casual, and for not the first time that day, began to regret this fool's errand.
"If you remember the telegram, perhaps you will recall that I have booked myself a place on the Red Rock stage, to Miles City." It was an obvious request for further information, and the boy was at least quick enough to discern it. He ruffled his papers importantly, and found the one he was looking for.
"I have it right here," said he, "Mr. Rhett Butler, one seat on the Redrock stagecoach line from Cheyenne to Miles City. The fee is twenty-five dollars…"
"Which I had my banker wire to you. Everything should be in order."
"Yes—there's only one problem."
"What's that?" Rhett smiled politely, his blood seething. He was anxious to be on his way. The bustling cattle-town, which had seemed so new and exciting only a day or two ago, had begun to close in on him.
"Well, sir, you're a little early."
"Early?" Rhett wondered. "How early? When does the stage leave? Later today? Tomorrow?"
"In October," said the boy.
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"God damn it!" Junius Ford watched as the big, dark stranger swung his arm out and knocked, first, the green-shaded lamp off of the desk, where it smashed on the floor. Then he turned and faced the plank wall, and put his fist right through it. Junius cowered behind his visor, and wondered if the man would turn on him next.
But punching the wall seemed to have relieved his feelings. The man turned and faced him. He was struggling, Junius could see, to make his face appear calm, and with an effort, his voice became composed.
"I apologize," said Mr. Butler, and he tossed a ten-dollar gold piece onto the desk. "That'll by you a new lamp, with some left over to plaster the wall."
Junius nodded. Actually, there would be more than some left over to paper the wall. Old Jake would do that for a quarter. The rest he could pocket himself. Junius perked up—the surplus was more than he made in a month of operating the stage, post, and telegraph offices. Now that the violence had passed, he began to find the situation a little exciting.
Mr. Butler leaned against the counter, his broad form filling the space. His voice had become lazy and conspiratorial. Junius eyed him warily. He had often seen men who could sing sweetly in one moment and strike like a snake in the next. And usually they were likkered up. But Mr. Rhett Butler did not seem to be.
"What's your name, son?"
"Junius Ford," said Junius Ford.
"Born and raised in Wyoming?"
"Yes, sir. I've lived in Cheyenne my whole life."
"Isn't that something?" wondered Rhett, and the timbre of his voice had become sonorous and resonant. "Well, Mr. Ford, I'm in a bit of a pickle."
"You can call me just Junius, sir."
"You see, Junius, I need to get to Miles City, Montana, and I can't wait a month to start getting there. You look like an intelligent man—do you know of any other way I can transport myself?"
"I'm sure I don't," said Junius.
Mr. Butler reached into his pocket and pulled out another ten-dollar piece. He held it very close to his own face and studied it carefully. Then he tossed it in the air and caught it like a flash, and grinning, set it on the counter. The bargain hung unspoken in the air between them, and Junius decided to act.
He slid his hand over to the piece and grabbed it. When it was safely in his pocket, he said,
"The mail wagon."
"Begging your pardon?"
"The mail wagon," Junius repeated. "Twice a month we sond a cart filt with mail up to the army Fort Laramie."
"When does this wagon leave, Junius?"
"Well, I'll have to check—but I believe there's a load going out day after tomorrow."
"That suits me much better than October. Is there often a delay?"
"No, sir," said Junius. "The mail cart always goes out on time. You see, it's awful important for the army men to get their mail."
"I know that very well," said Mr. Butler. "I was an army man myself."
"Then you know that the army's very strict. They don't usually allow passengers. But Mr. Tarkington's in charge of taking it, and sometimes he can be persuaded to bring somebody along. If it's an emergency."
"How much," asked Rhett Butler, slowly and carefully—and meaningfully, "Do you think it would cost to persuade Mr. Tarkington to take me?"
Junius Ford thought it over. Bob Tarkington was as poor as a peeling paint fence, and could be persuaded to sell his own mother for five dollars in gold.
"Ten dollars," said Junius.
Very deliberately, the Butler man reached into his pocket and pulled out yet another gold piece. He flicked it carelessly onto the counter, where it rolled down onto the desk and floor. There was a gleam in his eyes as he watched Junius scrabble for it, his fingers scratching the packed dirt floor until he found what he had sought, and picked it reverently up. Then,
"Let's go see Mr. Tarkington," Rhett Butler said.
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Rhett dried his face with a towel, and then studied his reflection in the cracked mirror over the washbasin.
It did not flatter, that mirror. The glass was wavy and distorted, and the light was poor. Every crag, every line, of his face was magnified, and Rhett curled his lip, and watched as the old man in the mirror did the same. He was dissatisfied, and thought for a moment how nice it would be to smash the damn' thing. It would be pretty pleasant to hear it smash. But the old bat downstairs would likely turn him out into the street for doing it, and Rhett didn't relish spending a night in one of the hovels that passed for hotels in Cheyenne. He settled for turning the glass to the wall, so that it could not tease him any longer.
One thing, at least, was settled. He would be leaving tomorrow next on the mail wagon to Fort Laramie. And Rhett was delighted to learn that the wagon would not stop there—but go on to Gillette, which was above the Platte. There was a doctor in Gillette who depended on supplies from the fort, and the army depended on Bob Tarkington to bring them. Whether or not that was a wise move Rhett did not know. Tarkington was a sallow, shiftless looking man, and Rhett did not think he could be depended on for much. But he supposed that made him a fool, too—for Rhett was depending on Tarkington to bring him to Scarlett.
In Gillette, Bob Tarkington had assured him, he could buy a horse, and from there it was only a day's ride to the Powder River—that is, if Rhett rode hard. And Rhett did intend to ride hard. He sat down on the edge of his bed and reached into his briefcase. He pulled out a worn sheet of writing paper, and turned it over in his hands.
The letter was not from Scarlett or to Scarlett—it did not concern Scarlett in any way except it had had been in her possession, once, and she had left it when she had left her old life behind. Rhett had found it tucked between the pages of a novel he was sure that Scarlett had never read. The letter was as familiar to him as an old friend—he had read it over that often.
He knew it was very wicked to do it but he did not care, of course. Melanie Hamilton (for some reason, he hated to think of her as 'Melanie Wilkes') would not have approved. The letter belonged to her, after all—the treasured letter of a husband to wife. Rhett was not entirely sure how the letter had fallen into Scarlett's possession. It must have happened after Melanie had died—for Melanie would never part with such a cherished keepsake when she still had life in her. No—she must have left it to Scarlett, to give to Beau when he was old enough to appreciate it—or some such sentimental nonsense. Or else Scarlett had stolen it. Either explanation seemed equally possible when confronted with the enigma that was Scarlett O'Hara.
Rhett pictured how it could have happened—Melanie, receiving the note, would have read the first line and put her hand to her throat, her gentle brown eyes filling with tears. She would have risen in a rare frenzy of emotion. He saw the letter fall from her lap to the floor, forgotten in her sudden joy.
He saw, too, Scarlett's calculating green eyes flash—saw her hand grab for the fallen page. Perhaps she had tucked it in her breast, carrying the words against her flesh. Rhett saw her red lips curve in a smile as she read it over after that, as she congratulated herself on having saved it—as she tried to justify her act, and convince herself there was nothing wrong in keeping what did not belong to her.
He saw her so strongly that Scarlett was in the room with him, then—he heard, like the faint chime of a bell, her quick, cruel laughter, and felt the sting of her cutting words. He blinked, and she was gone. Rhett smoothed the letter on his knee, and read aloud the words that Ashley Wilkes had penned, once upon a time, when the old world was in its death throes. Words Ashley had written to a woman who was his wife—words that had been treasured by a woman who was not.
"'Beloved,'" he read, "'I am coming home to you.'"