'A brother is a friend God gave you;
a friend is a brother your heart chose.'
Proverb
GONE
4
And the next day was the 10th. Jess expected the agents who were taking over to arrive early in the day and that he would be allowed to leave when they were satisfied with their inventory.
When he returned from the Travers he had locked up and then gone to the concealed hiding place in the chimney breast. He took out his gunfighter's weapon and, as he did so, dislodged something else which had also been placed in the hidden cavity. Jess picked it up and saw that it was a sealed envelope addressed to Slim by his given name, Matthew John Sherman. He held it for a long moment, wondering how it had got there and why, but even the sight of the formal name was too painful. He thrust it back into the cavity and replaced the stone, taking care that it showed no hint of what it really was.
Then he stumbled into the bunkroom, stripped off shirt and boots and lay on his bunk, forcing himself to relax his muscles. The empty beds and the deserted bottom bunk were like open wounds and even in the darkness every single item in the room was a silent reminder goading him.
He had expected them early, but not that early. It was a little after midnight when a key turned silently in the locked front door. The yard dogs gave no warning.
# # # # #
Rueben Bradley walked quietly in and surveyed the darkened living room by the moonlight leaking through the uncurtained window. Then he motioned to the three men accompanying him, indicating the closed door to the bunkroom. Stealthily they crept into position. At a hand-signal from Bradley, they slammed the door open.
It was unlucky for them that Jess was not sleeping, but resting, open-eyed, as he had every other night. It was also lucky for them that, having heard their entry and knowing that no-one else would have a key, he did not go first for his gun. But, as a result, far from overwhelming an unsuspecting, sleeping man, they found themselves struggling to subdue a steel and whipcord demon, who was bent on doing as much damage to them as was possible with bare hands. Three to one was not bad odds for Jess, had he been in peak condition, but the privations of previous days had taken their toll and, despite his fury, his blows were slower and less vicious than they might normally have been. Eventually, his arms were twisted savagely behind his back and he was forced into the living room where the agent was waiting.
"Mind the furniture!" Bradley ordered, seeing his men were still struggling to hold down the man he had come to eject from the ranch. "Mr Sherman will have any breakages out of your wages."
He stuck a match and lit the lamp standing on the table. By its glow, he turned and moved leisurely to survey Jess, bare-foot and shirtless and already marked by the efforts to subdue him. "You might just as well stop struggling, Harper. I am Rueben Bradley and I have full legal authority as the agent of Nathaniel Sherman to take over the management of this ranch and relay station. I'm here to see that you leave and don't come back and I have no objection to making that absolutely clear to you."
There was no response. The man in front of him stood braced like a coiled spring, just waiting to turn the least slip on their part into mayhem.
Bradley shrugged. "Well, your reputation and your current behaviour don't suggest you'll be willing to go quietly. I think we shall have to apply some persuasion."
There was burst of anticipatory laughter from the men holding Jess and one of them said gleefully "You want us to start on him now?"
"Not in here. I told you Mr Sherman wants this place to look absolutely normal, as if there'd been no change. No-one must have any reason to doubt that things are being run just as before, in the little boy's name. So take this … saddle tramp … to the barn and make him understand what will happen if he comes within a hundred miles of anything with the name Sherman on it again. Then we can get rid of him."
"What's to stop him talkin' – about the fact that he didn't leave willin'?"
"Use your brains - we rely on his southern pride! Make sure the success of your methods of persuasion is something he'd rather not discuss with anyone." He ran his eye over Jess's body and grinned. "And don't touch his face or his hands – I don't want a mark on him that anyone can see. He's got to take that morning stage and the stage teams know him."
He turned away, ignoring the difficulty that the other three were still having in restraining their slight captive and dragging him outside. Presently the sounds died away and the barn door groaned shut. Rummaging through the cupboards, Bradley found Jonesy's hoard of medicinal whisky and settled back in the rocking chair to enjoy the screams that he anticipated hearing quite soon. When none were forthcoming, he shrugged – they'd probably gagged him.
# # # # #
Rueben Bradley dozed peacefully until first light began to filter into the room. Then he got up, stretched and made his way out to the barn. No need to risk any early morning callers finding out what was happening. He pushed open the door and surveyed the scene within.
The horses were restless and edgy, as well they might be, following a night of unaccustomed activity. His men were lounging about the place, obviously taking a break from their orders, and smoking, which also upset the horses. He was none too pleased with this stupidity and wasted no time in telling them in choice terms what would happen if they ever did anything that irresponsible again. "Can I remind you that this is a well-run relay station with an excellent reputation? Mr Sherman wants it to stay that way, not burn down!"
Then he turned his attention to Harper. He was still standing, but that might have been because his arms had been lashed to one of the stall partitions. Contrary to the agent's expectation, he was not gagged. Bradley picked up a lantern and examined state of the young man's body carefully. He inspected the wheals, bruises, cuts, burns and lashes liberally distributed about his torso, noting that the main damage was to his back where it would show least. He expressed his qualified approval. "Neat job, boys – not too much blood, but I trust there's been enough pain to make him wish he'd never heard the name 'Sherman'?"
"You bet!" The assertion was accompanied by scornful laughter. "He won't want to tangle with the boss again."
"Mr Sherman to you." Bradley moved with the speed of a whiplash and struck the speaker across the mouth. "Now, you two, get on with the morning chores. Stevens, cut him down and get him into that shower outside. Can't have him looking as if he's been up all night enjoying himself."
"You want me to tie him, Mr Bradley?"
"Only if you think you can't handle him."
They should both have known better. Jess walked meekly enough outside and gladly into the shower, which shook him awake as well as washing away some of the physical filth he was feeling. Stevens leaned against the door, treating him to further examples of his particularly crude sense of humour. Jess ignored him until the water ran out.
When it did, he gave an almighty kick to the shower door, which slammed hard into Steven's body. As the man staggered back, Jess leapt on him with all the silent, pent-up fury that had been building within him. Stevens went down without a sound; it was a while before Jess drew breath and stopped hitting him. Then he straightened up, turned on his heel and strode contemptuously back to the ranch house. Half way across the yard, he stopped. No wonder the dogs had not given warning. He stared at their twisted carcases for a moment, before he gently touched the head of each one. It was not their fault – but gratuitous poisoning was certainly going to be added to someone's account.
# # # # #
The front door of the ranch-house crashed open and Rueben Bradley looked up to see the last thing he expected – his prisoner, unnervingly free and minus any guard, dripping wet from the shower but confident as if he had been clad in armour. Harper totally ignored him and stalked across into the bunk-room, slamming the door behind him. Bradley hastily drew his gun, leapt to his feet and looked out into the yard. What he saw caused him to yell for his men. By the time they had disposed of Stevens, who showed no signs of coming round, and of the dogs, Bradley had recovered his poise and returned to his place at the table, where he had been drinking coffee. He did not, however, reholster his gun. The other two men came in to report and he ordered them to get ready for the early morning stage that he knew was due to run by in a short while. "And make sure you're quick about it. Don't give the crew the opportunity to ask any questions. I want Harper on it and out of here for good!"
As if on cue, the bunk-room door opened and Jess emerged, fully clad as usual in battered denims, blue shirt, black waistcoat. In his hand was a small and rather worn carpet-bag which, Bradley presumed, contained his belongings. Evidently he was not going to try to make off with anything that belonged to the relay station. He halted in front of the table and stood looking stonily at the floor, avoiding eye-contact with the agent.
The door opened and one of the men hurried in. "Stage is comin' in, Mr Bradley."
"So we come to the parting of the ways, Harper. And just in case you think that Mr Sherman is an unreasonable man …" The agent felt in his pocket and produced three $100 bills. "Your wages to the end of the year."
There was no reaction until Bradley came round the table and forced the money on him. When he did so, Jess just held the bills stretched between his two hands for a moment before slowly ripping them in half. Then he folded them, very deliberately, and stowed them in the pocket of his shirt, where they rustled against some other piece of paper.
Stunned for a moment, Bradley recovered himself enough to say "More fool you!"
Jess ignored him and reached for his gun-belt which was lying on the table. The other man moved as if to prevent him, but Bradley snapped "Let him be! The gun's not loaded and the stage teams know him. He'd look naked without it."
Bradley watched as Jess strapped on the belt and tied it down, noting the sure and automatic movements of a man performing a familiar and essential action. Even if the gun was empty, there was something menacing in being face to face with a gunfighter of Harper's reputation.
Jess picked up his bag and walked over to the door. He reached for his black hat from the otherwise bare rack. That single sight hurt him much more than he would have thought possible.
In the yard, Mose, the regular driver, had pulled up the fretting team, who were just getting into their stride and did not want it interrupted. He was surprised to see Jess walk up to the coach, obviously ready to leave, and to have strangers checking the rig instead.
"Danged if'n I knows what the world's comin' to!" he muttered to himself, but aloud he called out, "You comin' up on the box, Jess?"
"Anyone inside?" Jess spoke for the first time.
"No-one, you got it all to yourself. Just carryin' freight right now." The old man jerked his chin in the direction of the roof, his hands being fully occupied with the reins.
"Then I guess I'll put my boots up in comfort."
"You just keep them spurs off the dang'd upholstery!" Mose warned him, still very puzzled.
The smartly dressed man who had followed Jess out of the ranch-house called "Goodbye, Mr Harper. Pleasant journey. I'll be sure to remember you, should we meet again."
Jess paused and turned back on the step of the coach. He looked hard at Bradley. His eyes narrowed. His tones were cold and impersonal. "I'm sure you will. I'm in your debt, Mr Bradley. You must remind me, when we meet again, what I owe you!"
The coach door shut behind him and Mose clucked to the horses, urging them on. Soon the stage was lost to view in a whirl of dust. Rueben Bradley turned back to the ranch-house, a contented smile on his face; he was convinced that, although he would recognise the dark, unruly hair tumbling over the forehead above those blazing blue eyes, he would never see Jess Harper again.
In the coach Jess wedged himself as comfortably as he could across the seats, deliberately shut down his recollection of all that had happened that night and in the last week and, for the length of the journey to Cheyenne, finally allowed himself to sleep.