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PART 2

'That dark fortress received the sunlight like a mortal wound.'

Salman Rushdie

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10

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The atmosphere in the fort was stifling. Set as it was on a high bluff, overshadowed by the mountains, it seemed to absorb heat and hoard it like a miser. Carlin's house was no exception to this, but it was also a total surprise. Given the dark and brutal nature of the place and the ruthless cruelty of the man running it, it seemed incongruous that they should be sitting down at a proper dining table and be served with palatable food. The girls who were responsible for this service shot Chantal several hostile looks, but as they were not present for the meal she chose to ignore the antagonism for the time being.

Carlin made a great show of seating Chantal and Jess appropriated the chair on her left with exactly the fluid arrogance he had demonstrated in the wagon. Four of Carlin's men, including his chief lieutenant, sat down on the opposite side of the table, but Carlin remained standing. He looked down with amusement at his guests, almost as if he construed their unwillingness.

"We have a custom here which makes for a nice family atmosphere," he informed them genially. He gestured to the pegs in the wall behind him as he spoke. "Everyone at the table hangs up their gun-belt until the meal is over - saves a lot of unnecessary bloodshed ."

The four men made haste to comply. Jess stood up slowly, watching Carlin like a hawk. "You 'n I gonna do it together then?" he asked.

"Of course." Carlin began to unbuckle his own belt and Jess, albeit reluctantly, mirrored his every move. When their guns were safely out of reach, Carlin turned back to the table and said jovially, "It applies to ladies too. If you'd like to put your derringer on the table, ma'am, that will suffice."

After she had reluctantly complied, the meal proceeded in an entirely conventional way. It seemed impossible somehow that Carlin, the charming host and raconteur, could possibly have any other designs than to entertain them. The company discussed the exploits of various well known outlaws and fortunately Jess had crossed paths with enough of them to be able to keep up his reputation. The food was reasonably well cooked and presented, but Chantal hoped Carlin did not know about Jess's habitual appetite – because he was eating extraordinarily little, as little as he thought he could get away with. Presumably he figured there was trouble ahead and didn't want to fight on a full stomach.

It was not until the meal had ended that the crisis came. They'd been talking about the way the growing network of telegraph and railways helped to spread news quickly. This obviously favoured the forces of the law and those around the table, who wanted to evade it, were vehement in their dislike and condemnation of such innovations. Suddenly the topic turned dangerous.

"It's a good thing I've kept up with the news," Carlin's smile grew harder as he spoke. "Kept up with what's been going on in a certain back-end town in Wyoming, for instance. And the activities of the owner of a miserable relay station not far from Laramie."

"Thought you'd have better things to do with y' freedom," Jess sneered, apparently unmoved by this revelation.

"I never forget anything!" Carlin assured him, his fingers going to his jaw as they had before. "Not least something I heard less than a month ago."

"And what was that?" Jess contrived to sound totally bored, although behind the facade he was thinking furiously.

"That the relay station is now a partnership. Seems they've got real fond of a retired gun-slick? And maybe you didn't part company as soon as you suggested?"

Jess sighed and said, with an air of long-suffering: "Ok, I thought I could make an easy dollar or two out of the partnership deal. Soon found out my mistake! Ranching's nothing but a hard slog, day in, day out. When Sherman talked me into escortin' his friend's daughter, it looked like a good way out. I find I like travellin' a hell of a lot more than I do diggin' fence post holes!"

"You lied about Sherman!" Carlin's tone did not suggest he took this well.

Jess sighed again. "Of course I did! You can't stand Sherman and I want a job. You weren't gonna feel more kindly to me if I admitted to the partnership, now were y'?"

Chantal held her breath. This inventive piece of logic sounded entirely natural, but was Carlin going to buy it?

"You want to sign on with me? To be my hired gun? Instead of taking her for yourself?" His predatory glance switched suddenly to Chantal. "That's the first time I've been more attractive than a beautiful female!" There was a burst of laughter from Carlin's men, which he quelled with a single, hard look.

"Well, I had hopes she might hitch up with me," Jess admitted with apparent frankness, "but I ain't never met a female less susceptible to any kind of courtin'. If there's any money to be made out of such a bitch, it's gonna be by puttin' some kind of pressure on her old man."

"Kidnapping? Blackmail? Threatening to damage the goods?" Carlin sounded as if he could go on inventing possibilities for some time, but he didn't get the chance.

"When you've quite finished discussing me as if I was a payroll you were stealing!" Chantal told them in icy terms: "You might like to consider what I can contribute on my own account. I've no wish to be trapped into another version of the life I've just escaped, but I'm not going to change it for poverty! I am the only one who can really persuade my father to part with any money without unnecessary trouble on your part."

"Really?" Carlin gave her a long, considering look, calculating where his most profitable options lay. "Your father's a friend of Sherman's. How to I know that the two of you aren't in cahoots behind my back?"

Chantal gave a haughty sniff. "Believe me, I've never met Sherman or his … partner … until I got him as a body-guard. A not very efficient one, either, I may say!"

"Look, lady!" Jess leapt up from the table, his chair crashing behind him. "I've had just about enough of you! All I did was what you asked. And believe me, the money you paid ain't anything like enough for the aggravation!"

Bud Carlin looked from one to the other of the angry pair in gleeful amusement. He was always willing to have a little free entertainment, but he also had more serious things in mind.

"So you want shot of him, do you? And he can't wait to get out of your employment. I'm certain I can help."

This statement did nothing to reassure either of them but it was too late to back down, even if it would have helped. Whatever Carlin had in mind, they had to go through with it. His self-satisfied smirk was not encouraging.

"Let's make sure I've got this straight. Harper, you want me to take you on because you're a fast gun and you're through with Sherman and this escorting job?"

Jess had not resumed his seat. Instead he slammed both hands on to the table and leaned towards Carlin, looking far from enthusiastic or co-operative. "You heard. And if you ain't interested, I can hire out anywhere."

"Possibly." Carlin shrugged as he turned to Chantal. "And you want to get out of an arranged marriage and find some more exciting company?"

She did not deign to reply to this, just inclined her head in a frigid nod.

"So I need to find out if this gun-slinger is serious about joining us and if you really couldn't care less about him? I do believe it might prove amusing!" He crooked a finger to the man who acted as his chief lieutenant. "Call up the boys. I want everyone in the yard except the main guards." He turned and lifted down Jess's gun-belt from the peg behind him. "Let's see if you're really tough enough to have the right to wear this."

The yard of the fort was hot and dusty. Not a breath of air stirred and the beat of the sun's rays was heavy, despite the lowering cloud obscuring it. Carlin steered Chantal firmly to the far side, where they could look down the long line of his men as they stood in two rows across the whole area. Her eyes widened as she realised that every man was armed in some way - a whip, a rifle-stock, a stick, a gun-butt, a belt – all of them leaning forward in anticipation, like hounds straining at the leash.

Jess did not follow them. Instead he halted at other end of the double row of men. His head lifted and his eyes bored into Carlin for a moment. He shrugged and tossed his hat to one side. This was swiftly followed by his vest and then he pulled the shirt he had objected to so much over his head and dropped it with the rest. His shoulders hitched and flexed for a moment.

"Ready," he told Carlin.

Carlin drew a quick breath, almost as if he were surprised. He stared hard down the waiting lines at the man standing calm and resolute at the other end. His attention switched to the men in the lines. "Stick to the rules of the game," he told them abruptly. "You can take one step forward. You can strike when he's in front of you. No blades or anything that can pierce and no gun play!" Then he looked directly at Jess again. He held up the gun-belt, stretched between his hands. "You want this? Come and get it!"

It took every ounce of Chantal's self-control as she realised what was about to happen. She knew if she showed the slightest reaction to what Jess was about to undergo, it would be the end for both of them. She stared down the long avenue of eager men and focused her whole attention on Jess's eyes. As she did so, he too looked up and met and held her gaze as if it was a magnet to draw him safely through the storm of violence about to break over him.

Carlin accorded Jess a mocking bow. "When you're ready, Mr Harper!"

Jess knew that he was allowed to protect his head and he had no illusions about what would happen if he didn't. But he also needed to see where he was going. He put both hands behind his head and steeled himself to take the first step forward. It was, perhaps, twenty paces to the other end. Twenty paces to be taken at a steady walk, as long as he could stand on his feet. He fixed his eyes on his goal. And the eyes shone back at him with unswerving courage.

He began to move between the lines of waiting men, casually, smoothly, lightly as if he were strolling down the centre of a main street and heading for a shoot-out.

The first blows would have made him stagger if they had come singly, but landing all at once as they did, he was simply driven onward from both sides. Almost immediately he had to switch off the pain and enter into the deep, calm place which was the source of the resolution that would carry him through it. Long ago he had learnt the bitter lessons of physical suffering and the impassive endurance which enabled survival, triumph even.

The blows became more erratic and more savage, their intent to beat him into the earth of the yard.

He walked on stubbornly, his eyes firmly fixed on the end.

# # # # #

"Jess! No! Don't!" The plea was barely whispered but deeply agonised.

Slim jolted from relaxation to vigilance, all his own misgivings suddenly forming a cold vice around his heart. He shook his head, peering into the dusty light which seemed to be fogging his vision. He looked round the interior of the smith's wagon.

Callum Harper was sitting bolt upright, his eyes wide open and fixed rigidly ahead of him, but he was not seeing anything – or at least, not anything in the wagon. A violent shudder ran through his lean frame and he gasped in pain, flinching as if blows were raining down on him.

Almost in the same instant Vin Warwick was kneeling at his side. The look of anguished concern on his face made it impossible any more for Slim to think of him just by the cold designation of his surname.

"What is it?" Vin laid a gentle hand on his friend's shoulder, but his face was grim.

There was no reply except for another agonised groan.

"Cal! Tell me!"

Still no reply. Cal's arms were wrapped round his body as if to protect himself and he had bitten his lip so hard that blood trickled down and dripped on to his shirt.

Vin gave an exasperated sigh and shook him harder. "Report, soldier! We need your observations!" The demand was sterner now, with all the authority that a commanding officer has over his men.

"Gotta keep walking …" Cal's low growl sounded uncannily like Jess, even though his normal speaking voice was much lighter. "Gotta get … to the end!" He was struggling fiercely to stand upright, despite still being oblivious of his surroundings and companions, but fell back on his knees.

Vin looked up from the suffering man. He stared at Slim, his black eyes burning and the full force of his anger blazing out as if it were Slim's fault. "One of these days –" he said between his teeth, "one of these days I'm going to –" He stopped abruptly. Vin St John Warwick was a just and generous man and he knew he was looking at his equal. He had no doubt that Slim was feeling just as powerfully moved by this uncanny link between the two cousins as he was. And venting frustration at the process was not going to help either of them.

"Hold up, Cal!" Vin tightened his grip, supporting the other man with a firm hand under one arm and lifting him upright. "Keep breathing, now. Breathe through it. Stay calm."

Without being asked, Slim moved swiftly to hold Cal's other arm and between them they sandwiched the distressed man, enabling him to remain upright.

"Keep breathing!" Vin ordered again, sensing that somehow Cal was linked directly to whatever was happening to Jess. "Keep going. Stay with him!"

It seemed like eternity as they both tried to pour mental and physical strength into the one who was dreaming. Slim had no idea why he felt it was so vital to keep Cal on his feet and to lend him every ounce of energy which he could. He just did.

Gradually the rasping, panting breath grew quieter, although the tormented shuddering seemed even more intense. Suddenly Cal slumped in a heap, so suddenly they almost didn't catch him. Vin lowered him to the floor of the wagon. He was deathly pale and lay absolutely still. So still that if it had not been for the faint rise and fall of his ribs, it would have seemed he was actually dead.

Vin leaned out of the back of the wagon and called: "Sam, can you get me some water, please."

He came back shortly with a jug and a cloth in his hand. He crouched down next to Slim, who was still supporting Cal gently. When the unconscious man's face had been cleaned and bathed, he seemed to breathe more easily and some colour returned to his cheeks.

"Let's sit him up," Vin said quietly. "It usually helps to wake him."

Sure enough, once they had done this, Cal stirred and shifted, yawning slightly and completely normally. He rubbed his eyes and stared at them in puzzlement. "What's up with you two? I thought you were goin' to take a nap? You look exhausted."

"It proved quite an exciting rest," Vin replied drily. "Do you remember the dream?"

Cal's face blanched again and he looked from one to the other of them in horror. "The ganlet! He ran the ganlet!" He leapt to his feet, heading for the flap of the wagon. "Lemme get to him!"

"Stop right there!" Vin grabbed the flying figure before he could jump from the wagon. "Use your head, will you! You can't just rush up there. You'll wreck everything."

"I've gotta go!" Cal looked as if he was prepared to fight with all the characteristic stubbornness of the Harper clan. "Gotta find Jess!"

He was unexpectedly backed up by Slim moving to stand with him. "He's right. If that's true," – his mind recoiled at the thought, but it had to be faced – "if the dream is real, Jess needs help to survive it!"

"He'll need help to survive me!" Vin snarled. But it was the last outburst of his anger at the dreaming. He looked at the pair of them and began to think logically. "Alright, but you'll have to take the same way you did when you used the rope. And if you value those children's lives, don't let anyone see you!"

Quite how they were going to do this if Jess was still in the middle of the hostile fort, he did not specify. Vin was a great believer in strategic improvisation, which was what had enabled him to lead so many reckless but successful raids into Yankee territory.

Cal gave an appreciative thump to Slim's arm. He took the bandages and salve which Vin handed him with a wry grin. Then he led the way cautiously out of the wagon to find their horses. All was quiet in the heat of mid-afternoon and they were able to retrieve Alamo from the hotel stables without trouble. As they did so, Traveller turned in his stall, his eyes wide and his ears pricked so hard they were like furry arrows. Slim didn't think Jess would be in any fit state to ride, but he would also be furious if they assumed he couldn't. He saddled the bay too and they led the horses, step by furtive step, until they were out of town and safe to ride to the rescue.

# # # # #

Four more steps. That was all that was needed. Four steps to the end.

Jess clung like a life-line to the jade-green eyes calling him onward. He had shut down all the responses of pain and felt as if he was moving in a calm, cold sphere, devoid of sensation. Somewhere in his mind he knew he had sustained damage, maybe serious damage, but his will and his training over-rode the pressure to attend to the needs of the body. That would come later, when this was all over and there was time.

Carlin stood, impassive, at the end of the line, holding up Jess's gun-belt.

Three more steps.

Two.

One.

Jess came to a halt. Slowly he reached out and took the gun-belt from Carlin's hands. Slowly he buckled it on again and tied it down. Then he lifted his eyes to meet those of his enemy.

He did not feel the thud of the pistol-butt on the back of his neck. He pitched face down on the dusty earth.

Carlin gave a little chuckle of triumph. "Brought you to your knees in the end, didn't I?" he boasted, but his words sounded hollow. Angrily he turned and grabbed Chantal by the arm. "Take a good look, darling!" Carlin's hand shoved her towards Jess's limp body. "Take a good look at the one who's supposed to be protecting you!"

Chantal found herself forced across Jess's sprawled body, her face so close to his the blood joined the two of them together. She wanted nothing more than to fling her arms round him and keep everything and everyone from doing him any more harm. But that would be playing into Carlin's hands. She stiffed her back and pulled away.

"Get me out of this!" she demanded. "He's nothing but trash, a corpse, no use to anyone!"

"Yeah, we can deal with trash!" Carlin grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet again. He turned once more to his lieutenant. "Throw him over the stockade!"

Inwardly Chantal screamed: the fall itself would probably kill Jess, if his injuries didn't. Outwardly she maintained her scornful facade and said derisively: "How unimaginative!"

Carlin scowled at her. "What would you suggest?" he demanded.

"You want to keep people away from this place?" When he nodded, she continued: "I'd take him down the trail a way. Leave him propped up against a convenient boulder and let the crows and the coyotes do the rest! A little sign for others to read," she laughed. But she was hanging on to a slender hope, the very faintest of movement that she had felt in Jess's fingers when her hand had covered his own.

A cruel gleam lit Carlin's eyes. "You're a woman after my own way of thinking!" he complimented, before turning to his men. "Do as she says!"

The men began to disperse, only a couple of them remaining to deal with Jess's body. As they bent to do so, his lieutenant began to unbuckle Jess's gun-belt. He was summarily stopped by a command from Carlin: "Leave it! Just make sure you take the bullets." His face was a curious mixture of hatred and admiration as he added: "He's proved he's got the right to wear it."

"You sure you ain't recruitin' him?" the man asked curiously. "Ain't never seen anyone take it quite like he did."

Carlin scowled. He'd subjected men to such a treatment frequently, just to test their metal. More often than not they'd cave in before it was over, sometimes even before it had begun. Such men could be cowed into obedience. "He's got too much independence!" he replied shortly, and under his breath added, "And too little fear …"

"Maybe we should just hang him by the trail?"

"No. Tie his hands. Then leave him." An evil grin spread over Carlin's face. "It's a much slower death. And a better warning!"

He still had hold of Chantal's arm and, once he was satisfied that his orders were being carried out, steered her irresistibly back into the house.

"Now, my dear, let's see if I can make life a little more … exciting for you … and entertaining for me!"

Chantal took him by surprise as she twisted out of his hold and told him contemptuously. "You call that exciting? Seeing one man beaten half to death by so many? I'd rather have watched a decent knife-fight! But perhaps you were afraid he'd win?"

"Would you, indeed?" Carlin regarded her thoughtfully. "I'm sorry Mr Harper won't be able to oblige. But he isn't going to be beating anyone in the foreseeable future."

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Running the gauntlet (19th c. US = ganlet) was an ancient form of trial. In some cultures it was used to test courage and endurance, manhood even, and as an initiation rite. In the period of the story, it had become a mainly military and severe punishment for serious crimes, sometimes resulting intentionally in death.

It would be possible, but probably not help the flow of the story, to use period vocabulary throughout. In this instance, the 19th C term just felt right for the experience of the characters concerned.