To Die In Glory

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Book excerpt

One

Three men in long, drab dustcoats, faces obscured by the shadow of their broad-brimmed hats, rode into the town of Glory at the start of a new day, the sky iron-grey like everyone’s mood. Grim. Winter bit deep, forcing townsfolk, when they braved the elements, to scurry from door to door, hunched up, swathed in thick coats, scarves, gloves and hats, memories of the long, dry summer almost forgotten. The rains, when they did finally come, brought a deluge, causing flash floods, catching ranchers unawares, inundating land, sweeping away cattle and other livestock. Soon blizzards and snow followed. Now everything from tiny field mice to the largest, strongest residents shivered and cursed behind closed doors. Except for the three men who arrived, rigid in the saddle, their eyes set straight ahead, faces hard, chiselled from granite. Or ice. Cold as the air they breathed.

Across the street Old Man Dempsey, who had seen many things in his eighty-odd years, tipped his rocking chair forward and studied the men keenly. Their demeanour seized his attention; their expressions, the way they wore their guns. Men on a mission. He watched them turn as if responding to some silent order, dismount and tie their horse reins to the hitching rail outside the Golden Nugget saloon. The lead man gave a cursory glance down one end of the street to the other before motioning to his companions. Together they mounted the steps, clumped across the raised boardwalk, spurs singing, and disappeared through the double-swing doors. Dempsey leaned over to his left and sent a trail of tobacco juice into the dirt. He scratched his armpit, grunting loudly as he stood up, and hobbled over the hard, impacted ground towards the Golden Nugget to satisfy his curiosity.

Within, the depressive mood hung thick like a cloud. At this time of day customers were few. A couple of businessmen sporting Derby hats and tweed suits ate their breakfast in the corner whilst Wilmer Bryant, the pot-boy, looking half-asleep, swept the floor with a wide broom. Lester Tomms, the barkeeper, polished a glass before filling it with whisky then slid it over to the stranger leaning against the counter. The other two strangers were standing some distance apart, one at each end of the long bar. The leader sampled the whisky, smacked his lips in appreciation and downed the whole drink. He indicated another needed pouring and flicked his fingers to the other men. Tomms took the hint, poured out three more whiskies and went to either end with the drink. When he returned to the centre, he stood back, never allowing his eyes to settle too long on any of them. By now, the tension had developed into a palpable thing, broken momentarily when Dempsey came wandering through the doors. No one spoke. 

Looking up from another round of polishing, Tomms cracked his face in a forced attempt at a smile and, relieved, beckoned for the old-timer to move closer. As Dempsey went to take his first step, the stranger in the middle threw the second whisky down and turned. He arched a single eyebrow towards Dempsey, who stopped, mouth dropping open.

“You know where the sheriff is?”

The man’s voice was low, deep, bereft of emotion. Hunching his shoulders, Dempsey tried to look away but the stranger’s eyes seemed to lock him up tight, with nowhere to go. He swallowed loudly, “I reckon he’s in his office.”

“Fetch him.”

And the stranger turned again to Tomms and motioned with his glass for a refill.

Dempsey tried another swallow, but his throat was now dry. He could do with a drink himself and he gave a little jig, somewhat unconsciously, licking his lips as he tasted the imaginary shot of good whisky sliding down to simmer in his stomach.

“Best do it now, boy,” said the stranger closest to him, leaning against the counter, one foot propped up on the rail running along its lower edge.

Dempsey jumped, snapped his head to the owner of the voice, tipped his hat and rushed outside.

The cold hit him like a punch, but he didn’t care a fig for any of that. His rickety old legs propelled him down into the street as fast as he could manage. Something wasn’t right with those boys, he felt it in his water.

Two

Out on Cemetery Hill, over-looking the town of Bovey, exposed to the elements, Simms stood in his thick coat and stared towards the graves. There were two, side by side, one so much smaller than its neighbour, rough-hewn crosses at their heads proclaiming the names and dates of demise. Caleb and Noreen Simms. Whoever carved them did not know Noreen’s birth date, but the little boy’s was there for all the world to see. The same day as his death. And that of his mother’s too.

In a tight cluster, the other mourners, all four of them, hands clasped in front of their stomachs, looked down into those gaping holes without speaking. Reverend Tucker had spoken the words and now the only sound was that of the wind.

Martinson was the first to break the silence, slipping over to Simms’s side, brushing the detective’s arm lightly with his fingers. “You okay?”

Forcing himself to drag up an awareness of where he was, Simms sucked in his lips and muttered, “What do you think?”

There was no answer to such a question. Martinson’s cheeks reddened somewhat and he screwed up the cap he held in his hands, not knowing what to do or say. What does anyone say at such a time? Clearing his throat, Martinson mumbled, “I’m so sorry.”

“No more than me.” said Simms, turning away and moving down the hillside towards the town. He settled his hat onto his head, conscious of the chill wind but not affected by it. He doubted anything would ever affect him again.

Moving through Main Street of Bovey, most people did their best to avoid his stare, some stopping to doff hats, or utter awkward-sounding words of sympathy, commiserations or whatever the hell any of them thought it best to say. Like Martinson, they probably thought it best to say nothing at all at a time such as this. Grief. Total, all-consuming. Simms strode like a somnambulist to his office door, face blank, and stepped inside.

The tiny office, so cold, so unwelcoming, oozed with memories of yesterday and he stood in the doorway for a long time, building up the courage to venture within.

Yesterday.

He’d sat behind his desk, scribbling down the reply to the telegram the Pinkerton Headquarters in Chicago sent him. The news seemed grave and their demands, as always, short and to the point. ‘Travel to Glory. Stop. Contact US Marshal travelling there. Stop. Vital you arrive as soon as possible.’

But then Wilbur Brunt came through the door at a run and his wild eyes spoke volumes. Already on his feet, a lump the size of a melon developing in his throat, Simms managed, “What’s happened?”

Noreen took to her bed, on the doctor’s advice, some three days ago. Old Jim Meadows said the baby had turned in her womb. “It’s going to be mighty difficult, Detective. No point me saying otherwise.”

“What can we do?”

“Not a lot to do. We need to wait, she needs to rest. Let nature take its course.”

On the morning he left for his office, to pen his reply to the telegram, she’d smiled up at him from beneath the covers. “I’ll be fine. You go, get it done. “

But she hadn’t been fine. And then the message came.

He rode with Wilbur Brunt, pounding out of the town and cutting across the open range towards the little ranch he and Noreen had set up together. After putting paid to the contract killer Beaudelaire Talpas, a period of calm and peace followed. It seemed to Simms life might be taking a new turn, one free from violence and fear. As he threw himself from the saddle and burst through the door of his ranch house, Doctor Jim Meadows caught him around the waist, holding him tight. “It’s too late, son. She’s gone.”

The baby too. She’d wanted him to be called Caleb, if it were a boy. So Caleb it was, the name engraved on the simple wooden cross marking his place. Beside his mother, Noreen. Saved from almost certain death out on the plains by Simms. But he couldn’t save her this time, not from the fever, which struck her down so quickly. Meadows said it was typhus, someone else Scarletina, but Simms wasn’t listening. They were dead. Who the hell cared what from?

So here he stood, on the threshold of his miserable office, his life laid waste. He eased the door closed and turned the key in the lock. In the bottom drawer of his desk was the unopened bottle of Bourbon someone from the Town Council presented him on the day of the opening of the first Pinkerton office established in the West. Not a drinking man, Simms had put it away. Sitting down with a deep sigh, he pulled open the cork stopper and, having no glass or cup, raised it to his lips and drank.

He didn’t stop drinking until the bottle was empty.