'Act well your part,
there all the honour lies.'
Alexander Pope
CALLING IN OBLIGATIONS
5
Exile
Silence and darkness. Black night smothering sight and sound and feeling. Andy Sherman stared blankly at the equally blank window. On the blackness of the night not a single star was showing. His eyes strained to see just one, the precious one. He could hear Jess's voice telling him: "That's the Mother star. She rises at evening and doesn't fade until dawn and all night long she's watchin' over you, even if you can't see her." Now there was nothing and no-one. Only an echoing void of darkness waiting to swallow every light. He pressed his forehead to the ice-cold glass and spent the rest of the night leaning against it, an unfeeling and invisible support in a blank and featureless world.
As the stage pulled into Cheyenne, Jess woke up. He was stiff from his awkward sleeping position and the jolting motion of the coach had battered him in a way he would not have been able to ignore, had he not been so utterly spent and exhausted. His body was protesting, as well it might, from the additional punishment added to all that it had had to take in the last night. But as soon as they drew to a halt, he stretched, yawned and managed to jump from the coach as if nothing had happened. Almost instantly, his mind took charge, as it always did, pushing the physical pain into some part of his brain where it could be locked away and ignored. It was a useful skill, simply shutting down the demands of the body until they could be dealt with. He knew that he would go on functioning with cold and ruthless efficiency, not sparing himself, as he had done ever since the letter had arrived.
"Where y'goin', Jess?" Mose called down from the box as he alighted.
"Texas," Jess replied curtly.
"What, right now? It's a heck of a long walk!" the old man reminded him.
Jess dragged to the front of his mind the fact that Mose had been a staunch supporter of the Sherman Relay Station, a friend of Slim and Andy, not to mention someone who had accepted a wandering gun-slinger on to the team without, surprisingly, a single murmur. He did not really want to hurt the old man by cutting short the conversation, even though his inquisitiveness rasped across Jess's raw nerves and made him want to escape or hide or become suddenly invisible.
"Right now I'm gettin' a bath." He pointed to the hotel and picked up his bag.
"At this time in the afternoon?"
"Yeah. Right now."
The old man looked keenly at him, sensing that Jess was literally washing his old life off him. He wanted, like everyone else, to say something which would help, but conventional expressions were going to be worse than useless, even if he had been the kind to utter them. Years of ordinary, straightforward living and a simple sense of human solidarity made him decide to settle for something practical instead: "Come over to the saloon when y're finished. I'll stand y' a drink."
Jess hesitated for a fraction of a second, then made up his mind. "Thanks. I'll see y' later."
"Not too much later," Mose warned. "I'm as dry as a creek bottom in summer." He gave Jess another keen look, then added some pertinent advice: "Jess, get some food down y'. I ain't keen on drinkin' with a skeleton!"
It was indeed sometime later when Jess actually joined him in the saloon. He had visited the Telegraph Office without result, then the General Stores to purchase a selection of new clothes. Returning to the hotel, he bathed, taking a grim pleasure in scalding water and vigorous scrubbing to cleanse a little what could not be healed. Then he changed his clothes and went out to the nearest café, where he forced himself to consume some bread and soup. He knew Mose was right – he simply could not go on without eating, but even such a simple meal nearly choked him and his starved stomach at first threatened to throw the lot right back up.
Drinking on top of this did not seem like the best decision, but he felt he had no option and went across the street to join Mose in the saloon.
The first sip of whisky just opened a pit into which he wanted to fall and drink himself to blessed oblivion. If only he could blind himself and drown his feelings! But he would not deal in realms of 'if only' – the only thing he acknowledged with stark understanding was the absolute reality of his situation. He held the glass firmly down to the table and ignored the temptation, as he stonewalled Mose's curiosity.
The old man had greeted him in total surprise. "Hey, Jess! Ain't never, ever, seen you wearin' a red shirt before!"
It was partly to disguise the blood where the bath had set his back bleeding again, but also because he wanted to be sufficiently conspicuous for anyone following him to trail him easily. He had left the relay station quietly enough, but it was obvious Bradley did not trust him and the agent would be stupid to assume Jess would necessarily comply with the orders given him. After all, that was what the beating had been intended to reinforce. And Jess would be stupid to imagine the hostility of the newcomers would finish when he quitted the ranch. Whatever was going in, nothing could be assumed except that there was deceit and danger all along the way.
There was no reason which would persuade Jess to explain all this to Mose, though. Whatever his loyalties and support for the Sherman family, there was no point in pulling the old man into the treacherous and devious web-tangle Jess found himself caught in.
"There's a time for everythin', Mose. New start, new clothes."
"So, where are y' headin'?"
"I already told y' - Texas. Where else?" The reply was forbidding.
"Takin' the stage again?" Mose was clearly puzzled because he was not riding Traveller. Of all the things he knew about Jess Harper, his affinity to and partnership with this particular mount was undisputed. What on earth had he done with the horse, if he wasn't riding it? Mose could not imagine Jess going far without the mount who was an integral part of him, still less that he would take any job which involved riding, without his beloved horse. And if he was after a job that didn't involve riding … Mose's heart sank as he remembered all he had heard about Jess's history before he arrived at the relay station. He guessed that, bereft of Slim's strong, simple integrity, it would be easy for Jess to slip back into old ways - or worse! But he let none of this show and instead quipped pointedly: "Just don't y' think of walkin'! Y' ain't gonna get far on y' feet in them boots."
"Train."
"That's a good choice y're makin'," the old man told him. "Ain't nothin' the same now on the stage runs out o' Cheyenne. Everythin's changin'."
"What d'you mean?"
"Well, take the relay stations. When y' drivin' the routes regular, like I done all these years, y' get to know and work with the folks all along the lines. Y' git to be friends." Mose paused, suddenly stricken by the memory of one single friend. Jess's expression had not altered, but the old man hastened to carry on: "Most o' them stations've bin just the same for years, but there's three or four recently, just sold out or left for some reason."
Jess shrugged, unwilling to even start on this topic. "It happens."
"No, it don't, Jess!" The old man was surprisingly vehement. "Not like this. Places change hands, yes, but usually it's folks like the Shermans - family concerns, makin' a livin', takin' care of folks, raisin' kids to follow in their footsteps. Folks who got a pride in their work an' the company. Folks who'll put themselves out an' give somethin' extra. Not the hard kind of scoundrels we're getting' runnin' things now. Just look like they're in it 'cos someone's payin' them! Ain't got no respect for the crew and precious little for the passengers neither. Darn stage company'll find out soon enough they ain't good for business!"
Jess shrugged again, because nothing was further from his mind than the running of relay stations. Indeed, that part of his mind was locked and barred and bolted against all recollection, until there might be a time when he could bear to remember again. But he had liked Mose in the time when he was capable of feeling anything and this seemed a harmless topic to divert the old man from more painful ones. It was only later that his mind brought up and examined the facts he was learning. Now he simply asked: "How many?"
"Maybe as many as a dozen, from what I heard. All along the main routes. All stations like yours – just beyond the town."
"It ain't mine!" Jess's voice was so bitter it made Mose regret that he had got carried away by his concern for the changing situation on the stage-line.
"Now, Jess –"
"Now I goin'!" He stood up and pulled on his hat. Then he held out his hand. "Thanks for the drink. Goodbye, Mose!"
The old man shook his hand and shook his own head at the same time. Danged if he knew what was going on! He watched Jess stride away into the gathering dusk and found his vision getting blurry. Old fool! he told himself. It was a moment or two before he noticed the almost untouched glass of whisky on the other side of the table.
Jess collected his bag and left the hotel by the back entrance. He had, however, paid for the room overnight and signed the register in his own name. He headed back by some side routes to the train station, but on the way stopped at the Telegraph Office again. This time there was a reply. He read it through carefully and sent another message in response.
He caught the overnight train to Denver, paid for a compartment to himself and once again made a complete change of clothing. This time he discarded the gaudy red shirt that had identified him so clearly in Cheyenne and put on a plain working brown shirt and pants which distinguished him from no-one. He stowed his faithful black hat in his bag and unwrapped the new, brown one he had bought; this he proceeded to beat up until it looked as if he had been wearing it for years. Then, rolling carefully onto his side on the bunk to avoid more damage to his back, he deliberately exerted all his will power to shut down his thoughts and his feelings for a second time so that he could sleep out the journey out to Denver. Right now, he could not, however much he wanted to, afford to allow himself to think about Andy.