'Act well your part,

there all the honour lies.'

Alexander Pope

CALLING IN OBLIGATIONS

6

Exile

The first light of dawn found Andy still leaning against the window pane. He was cold beyond trembling, his body rigid with stiffness, and yet he seemed to feel nothing. As if a door had been slammed, locked, barred and bolted – a door separating his heart, his spirit, from the world in which his mind knew his body still existed. His senses told him that he was sick with hunger, yet the thought of food revolted him, especially the rich fare from last night which lay behind him, untouched, on the table. He knew he wanted plain warm bread and fresh milk, but he could remember neither the taste nor the smell. His inner vision showed him a homely scrubbed table and someone's hands kneading dough. Jess's hands. It always seemed so strange to Andy that anyone whose hands were trained to kill with a deadly-fast gun could also be an expert at bread-making. Life and death in the same hands. But he could no longer think about such a question - the memory just deepened the ice around his heart. He only knew the simple, trustworthy things were gone for ever and their place taken by a cold alien world. The walls of the luxurious suite in which he stood were impassable and the palatial accommodation concealed a prison. It was a world in which nothing was dependable and appearances were deliberately designed to deceive.

The Grand Palace Hotel, Denver, was definitely a deception, in name and construction, a pretentious façade concealing mediocrity. It was in fact anything but grand and was hidden away in a side street not far from the railway station. Around noon, a red-headed man entered the vestibule. There was nothing in particular to distinguish him from any other lone traveller: his clothes were plain and dusty, his face calm and approachable, but the clerk at the desk had a sudden disconcerting sense of déjà vu.

While he was picking out a vacant room and finding the key, the stranger took a quick look at the current guests by turning the register round. Having noted a certain room number, he took the key he was given and made his way upstairs. He did not go to his own room. Instead he climbed to the second floor. The room whose number he had ascertained so surreptitiously was at the back of the building and had, he noticed from the corridor, access to a veranda above an obscure and little frequented alley. He scratched at the door, using a particular signal.

"What's the price?" came the question from inside.

"Cut one of us, we all bleed!" he responded.

He heard the sound to the key turning, then the door opened and he was face to face with his cousin. Callum Harper's first instinct was to fling his arms round Jess and hold on to him tight, but he didn't. Almost immediately he had registered the icy, forbidding expression, the darkened eyes and the cold fury and pain literally radiating from him. It was no more than Cal had expected, given what he had found out, as well as what he had instinctively known.

They stared at each other, frozen to immobility by the enormity of the contrast between this and the other times they had met. Cal said softly again "We all bleed."

The familiar response seemed to release something or at least provide an anchor in a world gone mad. Jess drew in a harsh breath: "Cal, I'm sorry - the dreaming –"

"It's ok." Cal put a hand on his shoulder and felt the muscle, taut as a stretched rope, move slightly, then become still in a way that was more frightening than any violence of action or emotion. Now was not the time to say Jess, sharing your dreams is like a knife in the guts!

Cal thought of the times before when they had been linked by this strange power of communication, the overwhelming need that had conveyed itself so vividly in past dreams. It was a link perhaps forged when he had been the only refuge of Jess's troubled childhood and almost the last living person who had known the family who had been torn away from him. Jess had been barely thirteen, but already tough enough to shoulder the burden of grief and revenge, as well as to make it on his own in a hostile world. That didn't mean he did not need family and often Cal had been so much more than a cousin. Always, in extremity, Jess's emotions could and did call across the intervening space to trouble Cal's sleep. Usually he knew instinctively what the need was, but now, this time, there had only been a terrifying sense of emptiness, a desolation he could see for real before him in Jess's eyes.

He responded with the reckless loyalty which was the mark of the Harper clan: "Whatever you need. You called us. We're here."

"I never doubted you would be. And that Vin'll be –"

"Madder 'n hell with you, as usual? No, not this time," Cal reassured him, with a reminiscent grin. His partner had not infrequently asked why Jess could not just send a telegram instead of giving Cal nightmares.

"Where is he?"

"Checking out some of the things you asked about. He'll be here presently."

Jess heaved a sigh of evident relief. Cal saw him deliberately relax physically as he moved to the bed and sat down. But there was no relaxation of the mind and the iron-hard determination Cal could still sense in the aftermath of this latest dream-sharing. There was nothing he could or would do to change that; he simply asked, with his characteristic blend of common sense and compassion, "Jess, when did you last eat?"

"Yesterday, I think."

"If you're goin' to do this, you've got to be fit for it!"

"Do what?"

"Whatever you've got in mind, because I don't doubt you've got a plan. You can talk about it when Vin gets here. Right now, I'm gettin' you something to eat and drink!"

# # # # #

Some time later the hotel clerk looked up in surprise and saw a tall man, who seemed to have materialised from nowhere, standing in front of him. He was plainly dressed in black, his long hair caught back and clubbed to his neck; he wore no hat and carried two saddlebags over his shoulder. He enquired for one of the guests and, receiving the room number, made his way silently upstairs.

The newcomer did not, however, go to the room whose number he had been given. He was adept at reading registers upside down. Instead he gave the same signal at the same door and made the same response: "Cut one of us, we all bleed!"

When the door opened, Stewart Vincent St John Warwick was struck again, as he always was, by the uncanny resemblance between these two cousins, both in their lean, wiry physique and in the carved planes of their faces. Sitting at opposite sides of the table, they were like the two sides of the same coin – Cal, red-headed, calm and emanating a warm friendliness, Jess, dark, uncommunicative, and, Vin recognised, at this moment in the ice-cold fury stage of one of his rages. He sighed inwardly, wondering where this was all going to end. He could see Cal had been encouraging Jess to eat, even seemed to have managed to get about a pint of milk down him, which was a major miracle. He could also see, from where he was standing, the tell-tale stains darkening the back of Jess's shirt heavily in at least three places.

He strode across the room and said, "That doesn't mean you have to go on bleeding! Get your shirt off, Jess, and let me have a look."

"I'm fine!"

"Which means you're actually in need of serious attention! Now, are you going to let me do something about it, or do I have to knock you out first?"

Things hung in the balance for a moment. Cal said persuasively, once again, "You've got to be fit to do it." He and Vin exchanged rueful glances; years of dealing with Jess warned them they could have a fight no-one needed on their hands.

"Don't waste your strength defying me!" Vin was used to command and to being obeyed by men he had had under his command. "You know I can make you."

Not many people could actually say that to Jess Harper, unless they had first taken the precaution of threatening someone he cared about, because pretty much nothing else would work. Vin, however, had had the unenviable task of dealing with an insubordinate and hot-headed sixteen year-old, drafted to his patrol because no-one else had had any success in disciplining the boy. Admittedly he had also had the advantage of having Cal as his second-in-command. But he was more than capable himself of channelling and providing an outlet for Jess's wilder tendencies in a patrol which had earned a fearsome reputation as ruthless lightning-raiders and fighters.

Now he stood towering over the younger man until Jess gave in and pulled the offending shirt off over his head. Vin looked down and his lips tightened in disgust and anger. "Quite an expert job!" He could see from the marks where the maximum pain had been inflicted with relatively little obvious damage.

"They knew what they were doin'. Except the one who got carried away with the belt buckle." It was clear that this was the source of the jagged cuts still bleeding on his shoulder and ribs where the friction of the shirt had prevented them from scabbing.

Vin made no comment, just rummaged in the saddle-bags he had brought in with him until he found iodine and strapping. He didn't bother to say the treatment was going to hurt – it was nothing compared with the original beating. When he'd finished, he took the clean shirt which Cal had found in Jess's bag and handed it to him. "Better keep it on in public for a bit, if you don't want to be identified."

"That's the general idea," Jess affirmed. He sat down again at the table and motioned the other two to join him. He told them bluntly: "I need to call on the Ranulfhjar."

The familiar nick-name took the other two right back to the night when their patrol had returned in threes and fours like a hunting wolf pack, battered, weary, but exultant, to collapse around the fire in the shelter of a ruined barn. Exultant because, against all the odds, it had been a highly successful raid. Not only would they have enough to eat that night, but there were plentiful supplies to ship back to the main lines of the embattled and starving Confederate army. How they had laughed at their luck in wresting this success from the jaws of the enemy! But, in reality, it was not luck but the success of a finely honed and highly disciplined group of men, who trusted each other implicitly and who each knew their place in the team and would willingly die for any member of it. Never one for empty compliments, Vin had been moved to praise them that night and laughingly said they needed a grand name for such a troop because they were "an army of plundering wolf raiders!" This appealed to their imagination, but someone had objected that it was a bit of a mouthful for every day. So Vin had dredged back into the extensive reading he had once had time for and came up with 'Ranulfhjar', an Old Norse name with the same meaning. Somehow it was so outlandish it had stuck with them and so did the men who belonged to it, supporting each other whatever the consequences whenever there was need.

Cal whistled as Jess invoked the old bonds. "Is it so bad?"

"I don't know yet, but I aim to find out. And when I do, I may need back-up. It depends partly on what you've been able to discover."

"Tell us what's happened so far."

Jess narrated the events of the past week concisely and gave them his reactions: "The first thing wrong is the way they handled Andy. No-one who knows his family history could treat him like that!" Cal and Vin saw the light of vengeance flash bright and brief from his eyes. "And there's no way anyone who understands anything about the Shermans could possibly underestimate the importance of Jonesy. Andy's been cut off from everyone who knows him. I have to find him and make sure he's safe and happy. And if he isn't –" He stopped abruptly, his teeth clenched against the spasm in his throat. Then, with an effort, he continued: "The second is that they tried to scare me off - why bother? They had every right to sack me. And if they were goin' to do either of those two things, why bribe me as well?" He reached into the breast pocket of his discarded shirt and laid down the torn bills, which had survived his several changes of clothing.

"Not much of a bribe," Cal commented.

"I tore them. And I've got a use for them!" A wolf ready to kill could not look more menacing. "Now, what can you tell me about who I'm up against?"

Cal glanced at Vin and said, "Your call."

Vin took a moment to draw together mentally the information that he had accumulated from his investigations, undertaken as a result of the messages from Jess. When he had reviewed his findings, he reported succinctly: "Nathaniel Sherman – rich, successful, well established in St Louis – reputation for ruthlessness - might have been involved in blockade running during the war, but no-one really seems to know where his money comes from – has a number of employees who you wouldn't want to encounter in a narrow alley on a dark night, but no known convictions among them, he's careful – gives lavish hospitality to the rich and influential, plus he runs a very private poker school for selected guests – unmarried, his niece, Catherine Gordon-Sherman, supervises the household for him."

Jess's reaction to the woman's name was unmistakable, but he just said: "What about Rueben Bradley?"

"One of those employees –"

"Yeah – I've got reason to know that!" Jess snarled, hitching his shoulder muscles irritably. "I need a weakness."

"Opium. He smokes at one of the down-town dens. Not addicted, but careless. You want me to get Li Chen on to it – he's got relatives in every town?"

Jess nodded. "It's a good entry for me, but make sure Li's kin know who I am – damned if I need any of that stuff in me right now."

"Well, you look the part," Cal told him. In truth, Jess's pale, gaunt and seriously unshaven face could easily give such an impression.

Vin completed his report on Bradley with the comment: "And of course, he likes hurting people, but only if he can get away with it."

"Or get someone else to do it for him." Jess stared down at the table for a moment and then snapped "He's the only one who'll be there who's likely to recognise me from personally meetin' me. I've got to be sure he won't. And that no-one else has a chance of guessin', especially if they come across one of those old Wanted posters!"

"Any ideas about what you can do?" Cal asked.

"Yeah – and that's where you come in. You're a pretty good match for me."

This was perfectly true, Vin reflected: although Cal was some five years older than Jess, there was hardly a hair's breadth to choose between them physically.

"I want you to go ahead to St Louis and find the best tailor in town," Jess told Cal. "Get measured for the right clothes for Mr Nathaniel Sherman's social circle and get them made up as far as you can. They'll have to fit them when I arrive. Remind them I pay for the best and for very fast service!" Jess waited until Cal nodded before continuing, "And buy me a horse, will y'? I need something fancy to catch people's eye in town. Not a horse that's ever seen the wrong end of a cow!" He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of money, which he pushed across the table to Cal.

"I suppose you want a good horse, all the same?" Cal risked a gentle tease. "Not like you to waste money on ornamental horse-flesh."

"Just as long as it ain't never belonged to a saddle tramp." Jess moved swiftly on to the next point. "What's the name of the best hotel?"

"The Metropolitan."

"Book in and I'll meet you there. Don't use the name Harper." When Cal nodded again, Jess added: "An' grow a bread, will y'? Don't want anyone noticin' the family jaw-line!" This settled, he turned to Vin. "Who've you got near enough to St Louis?"

Vin thought for a moment, running through the location of the remnant of his crack cavalry patrol. Once enemies of the Union, they had subsequently been recruited by it for precisely this kind of unofficial surveillance and investigation. "Tod lives there, got a gun-business, which is useful. Greg and Raoul are both within easy distance. Gabriel could make it in a day or so. No-one else we can call up very quickly."

"Seven of us. That'll do."

"We'll be there when you need us," Vin assured him. "Anything else I can do now?"

"I'm not sure you'll like it."

"Like what?"

"Adoptin' me!" Jess had the satisfaction of seeing Vin's jaw dropped, although he was quick to recover and demand "Why?"

Jess jerked a thumb at Cal and replied, "Well, you're pretty well a member of our family and you know what we're like! I need a real respectable background and a name that people will recognise."

"True enough. But I can't invent relatives, so who did you have in mind?"

"A certain gentleman who, I did hear, is in jail in England."

Vin laughed and said "The black sheep of the family - right choice! It's about time he made reparation for the damage he's done to our reputation. Can't think of anyone more likely to get involved with whatever Nathaniel Sherman is up to. And they've certainly never met."

"And what do you think he's up to, Jess?" Cal asked.

"I don't know," Jess admitted. "What's so special about a relay station?" He stopped abruptly as the memories he had carefully isolated and ignored of exactly what had made it so special came flooding back.

"There's something botherin' you, though," Cal told him shrewdly. "What is it?" This sounded a ridiculous question, given all that had happened, but Cal knew his cousin almost as well as he knew himself and could read the subtleties of his thoughts.

"It may be nothin' much …" Jess replied, but nonetheless explained what Mose had told him about the changing ownership and staffing of relay stations on the main stage routes.

"I'll look into it," Vin said at once. "We've got Ranulfhjar all along the lines."

"Good. I admit it's naggin' at me, but I can't make any sense of it. Maybe you can." Jess stood up and began to shrug into his coat.

"Where are you goin'?" Cal queried.

"To the theatre! I've an obligation to call in." He grabbed his hat and slid silently out of the balcony door. As it sighed closed behind him, they heard his footsteps whisper faintly into the alleyway below and it seemed as if a journey of great distance already separated them.

Exile

Andy stood on the balcony beyond the window, his hands clenched on the rail, as his eyes stared unseeing down the length of the mansion's garden. He had never seen a formal garden before but it made no impression on him now, he was only aware that it was empty and no matter how much he yelled, no-one would hear him. They would not have given him even this small access to fresh air if there had been any chance of his contacting the outside world. It was as if the freedom and openness of his previous life had been obliterated. He had emerged from the first shock and dislocation of being dragged away to this place, to find himself frozen – it started from deep in the centre of him, a coldness which chilled his body, curbed his tongue and froze his heart. After the long, lonely and silent journey, he had not been reunited with his brother. When he demanded to see Slim's body, Nathaniel Sherman had told him it was too late: "He's at the undertakers now, Andrew. We can't open the coffin." I wish Jess was here, Andy thought, he'd rip that undertakers apart to find Slim! He gripped the iron railing of the balcony and stared sightlessly into the garden

Cal and Vin looked blankly at the balcony door and then at each other. Vin spoke from long knowledge of the way Jess reacted to crises: "His mind is compartmentalising. Isolating situations. Shutting down everything except the immediate action."

Cal drew a deep breath. His expression had changed from the reassuring optimism he had maintained throughout the conversation. Now he looked both deeply troubled and guilty. "Maybe we shouldn't have encouraged him?"

"To stay there?" Vin recalled their visit to the Sherman relay station to explain the importance of the Ranulfhjar's new responsibilities and Jess's struggle to decide where his loyalty lay. He also had in mind the strange and powerful mental tie between the two cousins – their sharing of the consciousness of the hunting wolf-pack. He regarded Cal thoughtfully. "This is the first dream since we did, isn't it?"

"Yeah – and you have no idea what it's like!"

"But it proves one thing, doesn't it? That's where he belongs."

"Belonged!" Cal corrected him. The words began to tumble out of him. "It ain't the Ranulfhjar dream, Vin, not the wolf pack, not the hunting. It's just …" his voice trailed off, then he whispered, "like something's been amputated and he's bleedin' to death." He was shaking with the power of the experience. "You can't imagine!"

"Yes, I can." Vin reached out and put a comforting arm round his shoulders. "I can imagine if it were you or me – how the other one would feel. God give it never comes like this, but it will come, sometime – some long time off, I hope."

Cal managed a shaky grin. "Amen to that!"

"Good. Now, you'd better get going and catch your train." He gave Cal a gentle shove in the direction of the door. "And, Cal …?"

"What?"

"Don't worry about Jess. I'll be near him, whatever happens. I gave my word."

"We both did, long ago. And there's no sense in worryin' till it happens - family motto!"

"All the same, you could put up a prayer for me while you're travelling!" Vin sounded amused. "There's something I didn't tell him about this impersonation – and I don't think he's going to like it!"

Notes:

In the St John Warwick surname, 'St John' is pronounced in the English way: 'sin-jon'.

Ranulfhjar (pronounced 'ran–ulf –yar'), is an Old Norse word composed of the same elements Vin attributes to his patrol: "rán" meaning "plunder" plus "úlfr" which is "wolf" and "harjar", the word for "warriors".

Cal and Vin first appear in an as-yet unpublished story, Wolf's Clothing, the plot of which is briefly referred to in this chapter. Although it is probably difficult to believe, I did not chose 'Vin' because of any connection with any version of The Magnificent Seven, either on film or TV - it was a complete co-incidence. I didn't find out about the name in this connection until Wolf's Clothing was finished and the character relationships were established in a way that would make it hard to change the name.