Post by California gal on Apr 7, 2009 13:55:13 GMT -8
THE NIGHT OF THE FORGOTTEN MIND
While Memory watches o’er the sad review
Of joys that faded like the morning dew.
— Pleasures of Hope. Part ii. Line 45, Thomas Campbell (1777-1844)
While Memory watches o’er the sad review
Of joys that faded like the morning dew.
— Pleasures of Hope. Part ii. Line 45, Thomas Campbell (1777-1844)
“That’s some shootin’, Al.”
The man with the heavy dark whiskers holstered his shiny pistol and held out his hand. “So pay up.”
“How about double or nothin’?” another man asked, younger and blonder, reluctantly digging into his pocket, as were the other two men involved in the impromptu contest just ended. They had lined up sticks and twigs of varying lengths and thicknesses at different distances from where the men stood outside the corral and taken turns trying to hit them on the quick draw.
Alvin Gaffney shook his head. “Don't know about you boys, but I don’t like wastin’ good bullets. I prefer to land them where they’ll do the most good.” He grinned, white teeth gleaming behind the dark whiskers.
“Well, that is what we’ve been hired for,” the first man who had commented spoke up, handing over a few coins. “Sure wish the boss would get goin’ with this job. I’m tired of hanging around.” His name was Errol Fincher, a thin, almost bony man in his thirties with lank dark hair.
Alvin accepted his winnings and jammed them into his trouser pocket. “Be nice if he even told us what he expects us to do in this whole business!”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Errol nodded, pulling a toothpick out of his shirt pocket and sticking it in his mouth. Seemed the only time he was not chewing on a toothpick was when he was using his gun. “I got no problems helpin’ him take over the territory if that’s what his idea is. He’s a secretive man, and I guess he’s got his reasons.”
“When he first hired me on, I thought it might be a train robbery,” the younger blond man called Jackie commented. “But I learned quick that ain’t it. We’re a long ways off from any railroad what carries big money shipments.”
“Yeah,” Alvin chuckled softly, “the Arizona desert ain’t exactly the mint.”
The fourth man of the group spoke for the first time. He was older than the other three, with gray in his grizzled beard and curly dark hair, lines of wear and tear on his tanned face, and known simply as Puma. “Ain’t our job to question, boys. We’re getting’ paid just to hang around here. The boss’ll tell us what we need to know, when we need to know it.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” Errol repeated. “I don’t suppose I got too many complaints other than being bored as hell. Pay is fine. Food’s good. Bed ain’t bad. And we can go into Lockjaw any old time. That reminds me. What about this evening?”
“Sounds good to me,” Alvin nodded. Glad you suggested it, Errol. Jim should be rolling in any old time. “Think I’ll go in and see if I got me a clean shirt. Dory has seen this one a few times!” The other men laughed, knowing that every shirt Alvin Gaffney owned was exactly the same, a blue gingham check. With a wave he turned and strolled toward the spacious bunkhouse, spacious because it had been built to accommodate at least two dozen men and right now less than ten occupied it.
Entering through the door of the building, Artemus Gordon glanced at the cloudy mirror over the stand at one side that the men used for shaving—if they shaved. He grinned at the reflection showing the dark-bearded man with the shaggy hair. One of the easier disguises I ever affected. Knowing that he was going to have to retain the guise of Alvin Gaffney for at least a week, and possibly longer, he had decided against any makeup or prosthetic.
After all, Alvin Gaffney was not a real person. He had been developed from Artemus's fertile brain when they worked on the plan for this assignment. Artie chose the initials A.G. for his new identity so that he would not be required to leave his favorite pistol behind. A letter from an anonymous person had informed the agency that one Giles Lytell was conspiring to take over the whole of Arizona Territory and perhaps southern California, as well as parts of northern Mexico.
Jim West had been startled when he heard the name during their meeting with Colonel Richmond in Sacramento. “Giles Lytell? I knew a Giles Lytell in Indiana years ago, before the war. He was a respected businessman. His son was in my university classes, and enlisted with us. Hugh died at Vicksburg.”
Richmond had confirmed that the Giles Lytell in question was indeed from Indiana. An investigation had revealed that Lytell had sold everything he owned after the death of his son and moved to the southwest, buying property and virtually secluding himself on a large ranch. Although Lytell had lived rather quietly for the first five or six years, he now was known to be hiring gunmen, some who were living at the ranch, others in a camp in northern Mexico. His activities had been very quiet, unknown to the federal government, until the letter arrived in the Washington office of the Secret Service.
“We think he has at least fifty men so far,” Richmond stated. “Seems to be keeping the best of the gun hands on his ranch, and may be training them to lead, though that’s not confirmed yet.”
The obvious ploy would have been to send Jim West in to try to hire on, but the colonel stated that their information also indicated Lytell had been keeping up with the activities of his former acquaintance. “Our informant stated Lytell possessed newspapers with stories about your activities. Both of you.”
“But he’s never met me,” Artie had quickly pointed out. Both Colonel Richmond and Jim West had voiced protests, of course, but Artemus had been adamant. The pictures of him in most newspapers were not that clear. With some whiskers, longer hair, and a different demeanor, not to mention garb, he could easily pass himself off as a gun for hire. “I’m not as fast as Jim with a gun, but I’m faster than most others,” he stated matter-of-factly.
Finally the plan was laid out. Artemus would become Alvin Gaffney, a gunman recently from the northwest who had headed south to get away from the heat he was lately feeling because of a couple of skirmishes with the law. He had drifted into the desert town of Lockjaw, got into a ruckus at the lone saloon and, after displaying his prowess with his weapon, had been taken to meet Giles Lytell.
That had been nearly a week ago, a week spent loitering around the ranch during the day, and often heading into Lockjaw in the evening for a few drinks and some card playing, not to mention hanging out with the trio of women who worked at the Scarlet Ribbon Saloon. A buxom blonde named Dory had latched onto the newcomer. Artie had encouraged her attentions because she also seemed to know everything that was happening in the region and liked to talk about it.
The next stage of the ploy was for James West to drift into Lockjaw, ostensibly on his way to Sonora, Mexico, on government business. He would somehow contrive to hear the name of his old acquaintance mentioned and call on him. Artemus knew that Jim was still somewhat skeptical that Giles Lytell could be involved in such a scheme. The Lytell he had known had been an honest man, a true patriot, though Jim admitted he had not talked to Lytell after the war because when he returned to Indiana briefly after the conflict ended, the businessman had already sold out and left. Jim had assumed that had occurred because of the painful memories Lytell would be experiencing after losing his son.
What would happen after Jim’s arrival was pretty much up in the air. Artemus had some information to pass on, but none of it was solid proof yet. The hope was that Lytell might attempt to recruit Jim to his side, if indeed he was planning a coup. Artemus himself had not had that much contact with Lytell, other than a couple of meetings after the initial one, meetings that included all ten of the men currently residing at the ranch.
And nothing much said. Nothing incriminating. Just vague talk about the work progressing, the time nearing. Artemus stripped off his shirt and tossed it in a pile in the corner. Lytell had a couple of Mexican women working for him who did the cooking, cleaning, and laundry. They would gather up the soiled clothes and wash them in a day or two.
He found a clean shirt in a battered bureau, a blue-gingham loose-fitting shirt identical to the one he had just shed. Artie grinned as he remembered the comments of the other men when they noticed the newcomer owned several shirts all the same style and color. He had solemnly told them they were his “good luck shirts.” None had questioned that philosophy, especially because one carried a lucky coin, another a lucky knife.
With any luck, Jim will arrive today, tomorrow at the latest, and I will figure out a way to talk to him. Not that I have much to tell him, but he needs to know that. Richmond was ready to send more men, undercover and in the open, if necessary. Frank Harper would be the next in line. In his guise as a gambler, he usually fit into circumstances like this quite well. More information was required before further moves could be made, information that Artemus Gordon and James West were supposed to garner.
After tying a scarf around his neck and tucking in his shirt, Artemus headed out the door. The men he had been shooting with were not in sight, but he could hear voices in the barn. Likely they were saddling their horses, so he headed that way. The double doors on the side of the barn were standing open, and as Artemus approached, he heard the whinny of an excited horse, and a man’s angry shout.
He refrained from shaking his head in disgust, just as he had refrained from calling Errol out these last few days over his treatment of his pinto. A good horse gone bad because Fincher mistreated the animal constantly. Fincher believed in the whip, which only caused the spirited steed to react worse. Jim could sure teach him a few things about handling a headstrong horse.
“Watch it!” someone yelled just as he stepped into the dim interior.
W*W*W*W*W
Jim West dismounted in front of the stone building bearing the sign “Sheriff’s Office and Jail, Lockjaw, Arizona Terr.,” tied off the black stallion to the hitching rack, and went up to the door. He found it locked. An old man ambling by stopped long enough to inform him that they had not had a sheriff for some years now. “Built that fancy jail, had one sheriff. He was so bored, he up and left. Ain’t been the need to elect a new one. Quiet around here.”
Jim’s next question brought another laugh from the old fellow. Hotel? What would a town like Lockjaw do with a hotel? The widow Hatfield, big house on the west side of town, sometimes took in boarders. The only place in town to get a meal—other than from Miz Hatfield if one was boarding with her—was at the Scarlet Ribbon, if Jess Chaney was about. He was one of the bartenders and could be sometimes persuaded to cook a meal.
Jim led the black horse as he strolled down the street to the saloon, not a particularly large or impressive establishment, in keeping with the other buildings in town, and at this time of day, mid afternoon, not very busy. The bald bartender acknowledged to being Jess, and though at first reluctant to agree to cook a meal during the off-hour, he acquiesced as soon as Jim displayed a five dollar gold piece.
The steak and eggs were more than decent, though Jim idly wondered if that might be because he had not eaten since he rolled out of his bedroll before dawn in the cool Arizona desert. He also had an opportunity to talk to one of the women in the saloon, a blowsy blonde who introduced herself as Dory and sat down at his table without invitation. She proved to be a talkative sort who did not need many prompts.
Dory brought up the name Giles Lytell on her own, saying he was the biggest landowner and wealthiest man in these parts. The mention offered Jim the opportunity to wonder if the rancher could be an old acquaintance of his. Dory didn’t know whether Lytell came from Indiana. Didn’t know a whole lot about him, grumbling that he was a widower who never gave the women in the area a chance at him. “I bet I’ve only seen him two, maybe three times, since I come to Lockjaw couple years back, only said hello to him once.”
Dory also talked about her boyfriend, handsome Alvin Gaffney who worked for Lytell. Jim expressed interest in meeting the fellow, and was assured that the Circle L boys would probably be in town tonight. They showed up almost every night. “Don't know where the heck they get all the money they spend on cards and drinks,” Dory opined, “but that ain’t none of my concern, I guess, long as they spend it here!”
“If they work on the Circle L,” Jim commented easily, “I presume they’re receiving wages.”
“Oh, heck no! I mean, they ain’t cowhands. The Circle L don’t run any cattle anymore. Mr. Lytell never was much of a cattleman. I wasn’t here when he came to Lockjaw eight, ten years ago, but I hear he came with a lot of money but never bought any cows to speak of and sold off what was already there. Just all that land and ten-twelve men hired to work on it. Well, actually, I guess it’s just been the last year or so that he hired so many men. Could be he’s thinking of finally going into the cattle business. I don't know. Errol Fincher, he told me the boys out there just hang around doing nothing most of the time.”
When he departed from the Scarlet Ribbon, Jim slipped Dory a silver dollar to thank her for her company as well as to ensure her future good will. The slight possibility existed that she could be used as a go-between with Artie, if such a situation became a necessity. Mounting the black horse, Jim rode west and soon found the two-story house situated on the far edge of town, surrounded by cactus and sand.
The woman who opened the door to his knock was middle-aged and sharp-tongued, but she allowed that yes, she had a couple of spare rooms that she sometimes rented out—by the week, mind you, paid in advance. Meals and the stable for the horse were extra. Jim told her that although he expected to be in town only a day, two at the most, he did not mind paying for the week for a chance at a real bed and a home-cooked meal. “I’m told you’re a fine cook,” he fibbed. He had been told only that she served meals to her renters.
But the little white lie brought a smile and softened Mrs. Hatfield’s tone as she led him up a narrow staircase. “This is the better of the two rooms,” she informed him, opening the door. “Sure isn’t the Willard Hotel, but I keep it clean.”
Jim surveyed the small room with the narrow bed, single chair, and a battered bureau that served as a washstand as well. “This is fine. You’ve been to Washington, ma’am?”
“Born and bred there. My husband worked at the Willard, and I did too before we wed. Sam decided to try his luck out here… and died before we was settled in a year.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Like the fib, the sympathy loosened her reserve. “It hasn’t been too bad. Taking in boarders from time to time makes it easier. I own this house free and clear. I lost one son at Gettysburg, but my other boy lives over near Phoenix with his family, and they come around time to time. Or I go there for a visit.”
Jim smiled and thanked her, conscious that now she was warming to him, she could easily become like Dory, a real font of information. He told her he had eaten a late lunch and would not want supper. He planned to feed and water his horse in her stable, then ride back into town, probably not returning until late evening.
“I expected that,” she nodded. “Ain’t much to do in Lockjaw for the men-folk except that grubby saloon. Too bad. There was talk of the railroad coming through here once. I understand that’s why the town was built here. Didn’t happen. Town just hangs on because of the ranchers and cowboys in the area.”
A good place for a man to bury himself if he didn’t want anyone to know his business, Jim reflected as he led the satin black horse around to the rear of the premises and the small stable. If it’s true that Lytell is planning to attempt a takeover, was that his original idea in settling here?
Jim realized that he was still having a difficult time thinking of Giles Lytell as a conspirator in such a plan, let alone an instigator. The letter, which Jim had seen, appeared to say that Lytell was alone in his planning but that was so hard to believe. Lytell had been a very successful businessman, owning several stores in the Indiana area, and well liked for his philanthropy and good nature. The library at the university had a whole collection named after him because Lytell had donated the money to acquire it.
It would be good to talk to Artie before I approach Lytell. With any luck, he’ll come into town tonight and we’ll be able to find a way to get together. Need to find out what he’s learned over this last week… if anything. We might be on a wild goose chase. Jim West stared for a long moment at the currying brush he held in his hand. I hope so. I don’t want to have to arrest Hugh’s father.
W*W*W*W*W
I construct my memories with my present. I am lost, abandoned in the present.
I try in vain to rejoin the past: I cannot escape.
— Nausea, p. 50, Jean-Paul Sartre (1905–1980), French novelist, dramatist
I try in vain to rejoin the past: I cannot escape.
— Nausea, p. 50, Jean-Paul Sartre (1905–1980), French novelist, dramatist
Alvin Gaffney was a troubled man. He was also a hurting man. Sitting on the stoop of the bunkhouse in the morning sun, he gingerly felt the bump on his head, touching it through his thick hair, then winced. Dumb thing to do. Whole thing is dumb. I don’t think I’ve been so scared in my whole life. Then again…
He sighed and looked down at the gleaming pistol in his hands. How was he to know whether he had ever felt this unsettled before? He could not remember anything. The other men here had to tell him his name when he woke up yesterday afternoon. They said he had been unconscious almost a whole twenty-four hours after been struck a glancing blow on the head by the hoof of that fellow Fincher’s bad-tempered pinto.
Actually, the other young fellow, Jackie was his name, had confided that the pinto was not that bad a horse, just that Errol Fincher tended to mistreat him. Too dang bad, Jackie had opined, that it had not been Fincher who took the blow. He deserved it more. According to what Alvin had been told, he had stepped inside the barn just as the frantic, rearing pinto broke away from Fincher’s grasp, and an iron hoof had felled him.
Could have been killed I guess. But I don't know if this is any better. I try to think and it’s like I walk into a brick wall. There’s nothing there that happened before I opened my eyes in the bunkhouse yesterday afternoon. The boss fellow… Lytell?... said there isn’t a doctor in a hundred miles. I don’t feel so badly except for this headache and the awful sense of being without a memory of who I am, where I came from…
They told him he had related upon his arrival that he had been living and working up in the northwest, Oregon and Washington. Things had gotten too hot there, he had said. Hot? Alvin shook his head slightly, and regretted the movement as the pain throbbed. The younger Mexican woman from the house had brought him a cup of strong tea of some sort earlier, and that had helped some. He might ask Juana for another cup later.
He stared again at the shiny weapon, inlaid with the initials, A.G. His initials, to be sure. But something was not right. He had been told he had been hired because of his skill with this gun, and that was okay. He felt comfortable handling the gun, and owned a sensory memory of it bucking in his hand. He knew he had fired it more than once. But this gun means more than that. I just don't know what!
Even his clothes seemed wrong. They fit. The boots were comfortable. The gun belt slid around his hips perfectly. The other men told him that all his gear was in that one drawer of the old bureau. He had not rummaged through that drawer yet, but just what he was wearing seemed amiss. The clothes and his face. The face he saw in the mirror did not look familiar at all, but the others told him he had arrived with a heavy beard and they had not seen him shave. What would happen if he shaved off that beard? Would he recognize himself? That was part of the terror he was experiencing. What if…?
Jackie and the older man, Puma, had sat with him for a long while yesterday afternoon, after his loss of memory was realized, telling him what they knew about him. Alvin had listened hard and tried to make sense of it. Why was none of it familiar? Nothing struck a chord, not even remotely. The only thing that seemed to ring some deep bell was this pistol. Why?
Puma had stated he had known a couple of other men who had lost their memories, one due to a blow on the head, such as Alvin experienced. The other one had been in the war, a young fellow who pretty much went crazy after experiencing his first combat and had no idea who he was or where he was. The one with the blow on the head never got his memory back so far as Puma knew. He did not know what happened to the kid.
That’s me. I don't know who I am. I wouldn’t know where I am if it wasn’t for these fellows telling me. I don't know where I was born, whether I have family or friends…. All I know is what they told me, and that is only what I told them. How much of it was the truth? If I’m a hired gun, like they say, did I fabricate some of it, hide portions of my past? Alvin Gaffney might not even be my name. It doesn’t feel any more right than the clothes do.
Alvin heaved a sigh as he lifted his gaze toward the dry lands beyond the immediate ranch area. He could see the road that he was told led into a town from here, and on that road he saw a horseman. Appears to be coming to the Circle L, Gaffney mused. More as a way to take his mind off his own troubles, he watched the approach of the rider, and eventually made out a slim fellow on a gleaming black horse, a horse that required a strong hand at the reins, that was for sure.
Fincher could learn from this man. He’s letting that black horse have just enough head to let the animal think he’s the boss, when it’s the rider who’s in command. Excellent rider, too. Ex-cavalry maybe.
Alvin almost shook his head, halting the movement that might have caused new pain. He wondered why he would know anything about the cavalry. Had he been in the war? He had noticed some scars on his body that could have been bullet wounds. But a hired gun could have acquired those wounds in a different situation than a soldier would have.
Once entering through the gate that opened onto the main ranch area, a rider was required to cross in front of the barn and bunkhouse in order to approach the house. Thus this rider passed within twenty or thirty feet of where Alvin was sitting. A sober glance was cast his way, with a short nod of greeting. Alvin did not nod back. He just stared.
Jim smiled slightly as he turned away from the man sitting on the small porch of the apparent bunkhouse. He had not expected Artie to jump up to greet him, nor to acknowledge him in any manner. Good to see he’s alive and well, though. After two days lingering in Lockjaw without the appearance of his partner, Jim had become concerned.
Primarily because Artemus had not showed up in town, especially because Dory and others in the Scarlet Ribbon were expressing surprise that the Circle L men went two nights in a row without coming in, Jim decided to ride out to the ranch. He knew that if he lingered too long, word might get to Lytell of his presence, and suspicion could be aroused. That is, if Lytell had any reason to be suspicious.
The ranch house was pretty much what Jim expected, a Spanish style adobe, all one story, with a small walled in patio in front, entered through a wrought-iron gate. He dismounted, tied off the horse, and pushed through that gate, noting a padlock hanging on the hasp that was not, fortunately, locked.
Reaching the heavy wood door, Jim rapped on it with his knuckles. Within a minute, a handsome Mexican woman in her middle thirties opened it. “Good day, senor. May I help you?”
“I was hoping Mr. Lytell was home. I’m an old friend of his. James West.”
For just an instant, Jim thought she was going to say something as her eyes flickered ever so briefly. However, the woman simply nodded. “Please come in. Senor Lytell is in his study. I will ask if he will see you.”
Pulling off his hat, Jim stepped inside, noticing the marked changed in temperature as the thick walls held off the Arizona sun. The expansive room was comfortably furnished with heavy furniture, a Spanish influence obvious in the colorful serapes and pottery displayed here and there. The woman took his hat, hung it on a rack, then departed through a door on the far side of the room.
W*W*W*W*W
No memories of felicity save with faint ruffle of sorrow.
— Rockaby and Other Short Pieces, p. 62,
Samuel Beckett (1906–1989), Irish dramatist, novelist.
— Rockaby and Other Short Pieces, p. 62,
Samuel Beckett (1906–1989), Irish dramatist, novelist.
Jim West could not help but compare this room, this home, to the large two-story mansion where the Lytell family had resided in Indiana, perhaps no more luxurious, but certainly more mainstream, decorated he had been told by Lytell’s wife in the current fashion. He had known Mrs. Lytell briefly before her sudden illness. She died the same year he entered the university. Because Hugh had been the only child he had been doubly precious to his father.
“James!”
The man who strode in through the same door the housekeeper had used was familiar, yet different. As Jim extended his hand, he told himself that over a dozen years had elapsed, so seeing the snow-white hair and mustache should not be surprising. Yet the change was there, and it had more to do than simply the hair color or the fact that Giles Lytell was pounds lighter than he had been, a gaunt look to his mien now.
“Hello, Mr. Lytell.”
Lytell grabbed his hand, and then wrapped both around it, his eyes gleaming. “James! I can’t believe this! How good to see you. You haven’t changed much, except to have matured. You were a handsome boy, you are now a handsome man.” His gaze swept from the brushed hair down to the shining, though slightly dusty boots, touching on the black leather chaps.
“Thank you, sir,” Jim had to grin. Being in the haberdashery business, Giles Lytell had always advised the young male friends of his son on their appearance, and had been an immense help to Jim West, who had not had such a male influence in his young life.
“Sit down! Sit down! Juana will bring something cold to drink. This is so amazing. Just the other day I was reading a newspaper article about you, and wishing I could see you again. Hugh always counted you among his best friends, James.”
“And he mine,” Jim replied, sitting in a large chair while his host took a broad divan nearby. “Over the years, I’ve thought about Hugh often. I never would have gotten through what I managed to accomplish at the university without his tutoring.”
Lytell cocked his head slightly. “Did you return to finish?”
“No, I’m afraid not. After the war… well, my perspectives had changed a great deal.”
“I imagine so. I imagine so. Ah, here’s Juana.”
The woman had entered bearing a tray holding two glass tumblers and a pitcher of pale yellow lemonade, ice floating at the surface. She poured the liquid, served each man, and departed. Jim took a sip.
“Ice, sir? In Arizona?”
Lytell chuckled. “One of the perquisites of having money, James. I have it brought down from the north. I simply cannot bear to be without something icy cold in this heat.”
“Do you mind if I ask how you came to settle here?”
“Not at all. I roamed around a bit at first. I thought I would like California or the northwest, but did not feel comfortable either place. I was traveling through this area on my way to Louisiana, and the train broke down. It was some miles from here, but the entire region aroused my interest. I have no idea why, but I felt more at home in this arid, hot climate. Perhaps it was the ability to have a house like this where I can live comfortably, only going out into the heat when I’m in the mood.”
“It’s a beautiful home.”
“Thank you. Tell me about yourself, James. As I mentioned, I read a newspaper article about your work not long ago. I have followed your career rather extensively. Perhaps with an ‘uncle’s’ pride.” He grinned. Back home, the college boys had addressed him as Uncle Giles. “Tell me, don’t you usually travel with a partner?”
“Yes, sir. Artemus Gordon. Unfortunately, he suffered a fall and injured his leg or he would have been with me. He’s recuperating in Los Angeles.”
“And might I ask what brings you to this area? Secret business?”
“No,” Jim smiled. “I’m on my way to El Paso on some government business, delivering some papers. Nothing confidential or even all that important. Has to do with some land boundary issues.”
“And you fortuitously passed through this area?”
“Yes, sir. I stopped in … what’s the town’s name? Lockjaw… to lay over a day or two. Traveling through this country is hard on man and beast. I’m way ahead of schedule, so I’m taking my time. I heard your name mentioned and inquired, then decided I’d come and see if you were the Giles Lytell I knew.”
“I’m glad you did! I hope you can stay a little longer. We have so much to talk about.”
W*W*W*W*W
While memory holds a seat
In this distracted globe. Remember thee!
Yea, from the table of my memory
I’ll wipe away all trivial fond records.
— Hamlet. Act i. Sc. 5, William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
In this distracted globe. Remember thee!
Yea, from the table of my memory
I’ll wipe away all trivial fond records.
— Hamlet. Act i. Sc. 5, William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
“Good looking horse over there. Who’s it belong to?” The youth named Jackie sat down on the porch beside Alvin, jerking a thumb toward the shiny black horse tethered in front of the ranch house.
“How should I know? I don't know anybody or anything!”
“Aw, come on, Al. Can’t be that bad. We all got stuff we’d like to forget. Maybe it’s a good thing!”
Alvin just scowled at him. He kept trying to convince himself he should go back inside out of the sun, lay on his bunk awhile, and was unsure why he did not. Something to do with the fellow who rode in a while ago. He wanted to see him again. The way he looked at me, almost like he might know me from somewhere. Maybe he could tell me something about myself.
Puma strolled up then. “How you feeling, Al?”
“Lousy.”
Jackie put a hand on his shoulder. “What you need is a few rounds at the Ribbon. Maybe we can go into town tonight.”
“Not me,” Gaffney responded. “I’m not getting on a horse until my head stops feeling like it could fall off my neck any time.”
Puma had wandered over as the two men conversed. He looked at Alvin a long moment. “Did you see that government agent ride in?”
“Government agent?” Jackie exclaimed. “You sure of that? On the black horse?”
“That’s Jim West,” Puma affirmed. “I seen him more than once before.”
“Who’s Jim West?” Alvin asked. Puma said the name like it should mean something.
“Likely you’ve heard of him. You just ain’t remembering. He’s pure poison. Him and his partner ain’t to be fooled with, and I’m wondering what he’s doing here. Lytell can’t be liking it much.”
“Jim West,” Jackie spoke thoughtfully, staring toward the house. “Now there’s a man I’d like to see at the wrong end of my gun barrel.”
“Don’t even think about it, Jackie,” Puma scoffed. “You’re no match for him. Fact is, none of us is, ‘cept maybe Alvin here. And I’m not real sure about that. West is faster than lightning and damned accurate. I’ve seen him in action with that gun.”
Alvin Gaffney looked down at the pistol he still held, and then pushed himself to his feet, holstering the weapon. Without a word, he turned and entered the much cooler bunkhouse, an adobe building like the ranch house. Only the barn was made of wood, a sometimes-scarce commodity in this area.
Stretching out on his bunk, he tried to will the throbbing head to subside, closing his eyes against even the dimness of the interior. Not the first time one of the boys mentioned how good I am with a gun. That’s nothing to be ashamed of. Seems I made my living with my gun. Killing for money. If it didn’t bother me then, why does it bother me now? But maybe that’s why that West fellow looked in my direction as he did. Perhaps I am the one who can match him, maybe even best him, and he knows it. Alvin Gaffney grimaced, opening his eyes to stare at the slats of the bed above his. A paid killer.
Not something Mother would be proud of.
He sat up then, swinging his legs over the side and resting his elbows on his knees. Why that thought? Mother? I can’t remember two days ago, let alone my mother. Or father. Or any sisters or brothers. Hell, I don't know where I was born or even when. How old am I? Do I have any friends anywhere, or are they all just men like those here, ones I encounter when I’m hired? Do I then just move onto the next job and another batch of “friends”?
Alvin Gaffney buried his face in his hands. Somehow he had to get his memory back. He could not live the rest of his life not knowing anything about himself. And then he wondered why he would feel like that, especially if he was the kind of man the fellows here said he was.
W*W*W*W*W
Though this be madness, yet there is method in ’t.
— Hamlet, Act ii. Sc. 2., William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
— Hamlet, Act ii. Sc. 2., William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Jim waited for nearly an hour in some dry brush off the main road after he left the Lytell home. He had not seen Artie as he departed, but he was certain that his partner would have been watching for him and would find a way to get away from the ranch to meet with him. However, after that long hour in the afternoon heat, Jim decided that it was not going to happen, so headed on into town.
He had spent several hours with Giles Lytell, finally having supper with him, enjoyable hours, as they talked about the days back east. Jim was glad that “Uncle Giles” appeared to be able to talk about Hugh without apparent renewed pain. Nothing that Lytell said even remotely hinted that he was planning the coup they had been told about.
Yet the fact remained that Lytell had been hiring gunmen. Besides “Alvin Gaffney,” Jim had spotted one Puma Candliss, a man he had run into a few times in the past. Artie had as well, but Jim knew that his own contacts with Puma had been more frequent, and more face-to-face. Jim had faith in his partner, and knew that Artie could change his voice, manner of speaking, and even his stance enough to fool someone like Puma.
I have to talk to Artie. Surely after a week on the Circle L, he’s learned something. I hope it’s enough to call off the whole affair. I can’t see—and I know I don’t want to see—Hugh’s father as a conspirator, a traitor. Makes no sense why he would do such a thing. He’s not an Armando Galiano.
After giving up the wait, Jim rode back into Lockjaw, a ride of over an hour at a brisk pace, which he allowed Blackjack to have. After a couple of days and nights in Mrs. Hatfield’s stable and small corral, the horse was full of energy. Lytell had had one of his men, a kid with sly eyes he called Jackie, take Blackjack to water and the stable, out of the sun, during Jim’s visit.
Back in town Jim went to the Hatfield home to apologize to his landlady for missing dinner. She shrugged it off. He had paid for it whether he ate it or not! He then climbed the stairs to his room, laid on the bed for awhile, and thought more about his encounter with Giles Lytell, trying to remember everything said, the expressions on Lytell’s face and in his eyes.
I’ve been fooled before. I hope I’m not being fooled now.
Eventually he rose, splashed water on his face and combed his hair, then took the black out of the stable to ride into town and the Scarlet Ribbon. This had to be the night Artie would come with the Circle L boys.
But it was not.
Shortly before the summer sun sank into the desert, half a dozen boisterous men arrived. Jim saw the young blond Jackie, but no Puma, and no “Alvin Gaffney.” Because he could not go up and ask about their missing companion, Jim waited, playing solitaire and enjoying a surprisingly good whiskey for such a remote saloon. He saw the looks he got from those men; they knew his identity for whatever reason. Had Puma told them? Or Giles Lytell?
Dory and the other two women spent time with the group as they started a poker game, bottles of whiskey and glasses of beer in front of them. After awhile, Dory left the party, approached Jim’s table and sank into the opposite chair, disappointment plain on her round face.
“Which one is your boyfriend?” Jim inquired, idly. “He ignoring you for the card game?”
“Naw. He didn’t come. Seems he bumped his head and wasn’t feeling good. Dang it. I ain’t seen Al in close to a week now!”
“Is he all right?” Jim knew his voice was too sharp, but the woman did not appear to notice.
“They said so. Just has a headache. But I sure miss him. He’s a real gent. You know? You wouldn’t think that a man like him would be so polite, but he knows how to make a gal feel like a lady.”
Overdoing it, Artemus! Jim bit back a smile. “Well, if he’s not injured badly, he’ll probably show up with the next foray to town. I was out at the Circle L today. Turns out that the Giles Lytell there is my old friend.”
“Well, isn’t that nice? Like I told you before, I hardly know the man, more’s the pity.” Dory rested her elbow on the table, her chin on her hand. “Did you have a nice visit?”
“Very nice. I’m going back tomorrow. Funny, isn’t it?”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“That Mr. Lytell has hired a bunch of men like that.” His eyes flicked toward the half dozen men at the other noisy table.
Dory screwed her face slightly in thought. “I guess it is. Seeing they ain’t cowhands. Not really. Maybe he’s scared about something and brought them on to protect him.”
Jim nodded. “That could be. Although it would seem strange he’d allow so many of his ‘guards’ to leave their posts if he was worried about being attacked or robbed.”
“Yeah, ain’t it?” The woman heaved a great sigh. “Oh, well. I guess that ain’t for us to worry about, huh. Can I interest you in a dance, Mr. West? I could ask Jess to play the piano.”
“I’m not a good dancer,” Jim lied smoothly. “Go on and enjoy yourself with the Circle L boys. I’ll be fine here…”
His voice trailed away as a newcomer entering through the front door caught his attention. Dory saw his gaze, and looked around. “Huh! Looks pretty slick, like a gambler type.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Jim murmured. What the devil was Frank Harper doing here? He was not due for another few days, if at all. The plan had been that if Richmond had not heard from either of his primary agents by a particular date, then Harper was to be sent in. That date had not arrived yet.
Harper’s eyes scanned the room, and he wandered over to the bar, asked for a beer. Jim knew Frank would be coming in under a different guise, not as an agent. His skill with cards and his smooth manner lent themselves well to that of a gambler.
Dory sighed again. “Guess I’d better go see if he wants company.” She got up and strolled toward the bar.
Jim was unsure whether to be insulted or not. Dory obviously either realized he was not interested in her, or she was not interested in him. As he played his card game, he kept his eyes on both the poker game and his Secret Service associate. Frank knew better than to brush off a woman like Dory directly. He would do it in a friendly, gentle manner, so as to keep her good graces, never knowing when her assistance or information might be of use.
After a few minutes of conversation, Dory left the gambler and returned to the poker table. Frank Harper turned from the bar, holding his glass of beer, gazed around for a moment, then crossed over to where Jim was sitting. “Looks like a lonely game, mister.”
“It passes the time,” Jim replied. “Sit down.” He held out his hand. “Name’s West.”
“Haskins. Frank Haskins. You live here?”
“No, just laying over a couple of days in the middle of a long ride. You?”
“You might say I’m doing the same. Looking for a place with a lively game. Don’t think I’ve found it here.” He was referring to the size of the pots at the poker game, obviously small ones. “I didn’t see a hotel as I was riding in. Of course, it’s dark out there but…”
“No hotel. But I’m staying with a widow who rents rooms. I’m sure she has another one.”
“That sounds like a better deal than another night on the hard ground.”
Although the bartender was the only one who might have been able to overhear their conversation, and he evinced little interest, they had kept their voices normal, with no attempt to disguise what they were saying. The men playing poker were too interested in their game now, and only one, a thin man with a toothpick in his mouth, bothered to look when the two men strolled out the door.
Neither spoke again until they were on their horses and heading to the Hatfield house. “Why are you here, Frank?” Jim asked, this time keeping his tone quieter.
“Richmond received another letter. Seems the coup attempt is imminent.”
Jim frowned, shook his head. “It can’t be Lytell then. I spent all day with him, and he did not give any hint of urgency, of trying to get rid of me. In fact, I’m invited back tomorrow.”
“What does Artemus say?”
“That’s the problem,” Jim sighed. “I haven’t been able to talk to him. I’ve been here two days now. The woman in the saloon, the one who talked to you, claimed ‘Alvin’ as her boyfriend, and she says he and the other men from the Circle L come in several times a week. But they did not appear the last two nights. Those playing poker you saw are Circle L—but Artie was obviously not with them. Dory said they told her ‘Alvin’ wasn’t feeling well. Bumped his head or something. Apparently nothing serious, but it gave him a headache.”
“Doesn’t sound like Artemus to let a little headache deter him,” Frank frowned.
“Yeah. I know. I saw him out there today. Of course, he didn’t acknowledge me, but I thought he’d find a way to meet me after I rode away.”
“And he didn’t.”
“Right. There’s one man out there who might recognize him. Puma Candliss. You know him?”
“Don't think so.” Frank listened as Jim described the man in question, and then shook his head. “No. Can’t recall ever running into him. You think Artemus might be in trouble?”
“I don't know,” Jim sighed. “And I can’t go barging in there. I’m going to have to wait until tomorrow and hope I see him… and talk to him.”
They reached the Hatfield house where Frank acquired a room, but not before complaining over paying for a full week when he might be staying for only a couple of days. However, he yielded, grumbling about Mrs. Hatfield’s monopoly on the room and board situation in Lockjaw. Jim finally laughed out loud when they entered the stable with their horses.
“Never knew you to be such a miserly curmudgeon, Frank!”
“Well, I couldn’t be as agreeable regarding her rates as I’m sure you were,” Frank explained. “Who knows, Mrs. Hatfield might be a spy for the other side.”
“Yeah,” Jim chuckled. “If there is another side.”
Frank hefted his saddle over the wall of the stall and looked at the other agent. “I don’t get it. You have doubts about Lytell?”
“I don't know what to think, Frank. As far as I can tell, Giles Lytell hasn’t changed that much from his days in Indiana. Just older, maybe a little sadder. I simply cannot comprehend why he would be involved in such a plot. What was in the second letter?”
“That the number of men in the camp in Mexico has neared a hundred, and that Lytell plans to attack Fort Challenge and the Mexican garrison simultaneously.”
“That’s a big order,” Jim mused, doubtfully. “Even Galiano didn’t attempt that feat. He used a war of attrition… and duplicity.”
“I know. Suppose they succeeded in taking over those garrisons? Both the United States and Mexican governments would send troops from other forts. Likely several hundred Mexican and American soldiers would be available within a day or two. A lot of bloodshed.” Frank shook his head somberly.
“True. Nonetheless, neither President Grant nor President Juarez would sit by and let it happen.”
“Is Lytell mad?”
Jim paused at that one. He had encountered any number of men—and women—who were later adjudged insane, but at the time appeared perfectly sane. Giles Lytell seemed normal. But I haven’t talked to him in a dozen years. Even then, my conversations with him were always in the company of Hugh and perhaps other fellow students. I can’t remember ever sitting down and talking to him as I did today.
“I don't know, Frank. That’s why I need to talk to Artie, to see if he’s learned anything while working for Lytell. If Giles Lytell really does plan to take over the Arizona Territory and Sonora, he has to be mad.” He paused and looked at his fellow agent. “What’s being done about the hundred men in Mexico?”
“Juarez is being contacted. He was notified before, but was asked to wait until we have more information. Now President Grant is requesting that he send troops to watch these men.”
“If they exist.”
“Why would you say that, Jim?”
Jim West sighed. “Frank, I just cannot believe that Giles Lytell could be behind such a thing. These letters may be a malicious prank.”
“But the men on the ranch and those in Mexico. They are real.”
“I know. I know. Somebody may be planning a takeover. But not Giles Lytell.”
W*W*W*W*W
An early morning meeting had been called. A man Alvin could not remember having seen at the ranch—at least not over the last two days after his injury—charged into the bunkhouse, rousting the men, who would have preferred to sleep a few hours more considering how late they had returned last night. However, no one complained beyond a few grumbles.
“Has this happened before?” Alvin asked Errol who was dressing at the bunk across from his.
For an instant Fincher stared at him in surprise, then grinned. “I forgot. You don’t remember nothing, Al. The boss only calls us to the house when it’s important. Something must be going on. Maybe about that fellow who was here yesterday, West. Or maybe we’re finally going to get some action!” Fincher put a hand momentarily to his forehead, grimacing. “Just wish he’d a-waited ‘til a little later in the day.”
“Who’s that fellow who woke us?”
“That’s Jeb Lowry. He’s Lytell’s right-hand-man. Guess he’s been down south taking care of things. Must-a got back last night. Makes me think we’re going to be moving soon.”
At least my head feels better this morning, Alvin realized with satisfaction. The bruise was still very sore, but the swelling had abated some. His thick dark hair disguised the knot, but it was there. Coffee would help. How strange. Suddenly I have this sense of putting together a pot of coffee in a small space. Not really a kitchen. Not a campfire. And an odd sense of the floor under my feet swaying as I did it. What could that mean? A dream I had at some point?
The men trooped out of the bunkhouse toward the main house, all pulling off their hats respectfully as they entered the large living room. Alvin looked around with some curiosity. He knew he had been inside here before. Jackie had related some of what happened the day he came out here to apply for a job, how Mr. Lytell took him into the house to talk to him.
But nothing looks familiar. Not even Lytell. He had had glimpses of the boss yesterday, and had a vague recollection of Mr. Lytell talking to him when he first roused after the head blow. But he had drifted in and out of consciousness, they said, and right now Alvin had no memory of what Lytell had said to him. Thus he was quite surprised when Giles Lytell singled him out as the men settled among the various chairs and sofas.
“Gaffney, how are you feeling?”
“Much better. Thanks.”
“Feel up to using your gun?”
“I expect I could if I had to.”
The housekeeper entered then, a good-looking Mexican woman, followed by the older, stouter woman named Alma who Alvin knew did the cooking for both Giles Lytell and the men from the bunkhouse. Both were carrying trays loaded with steaming cups of coffee, which the men accepted eagerly.
Lytell virtually ignored the women. “Good. Gentlemen, you are here for a special reason. You’re going to be the advance men in my plans. But before we can go forward, it will be necessary to rid the world of one James West. Some of you saw him here yesterday, and he will be returning today. I’m sure my hospitality is throwing him off guard if he had any suspicions in the first place. He’s one of the men who murdered my son, along with Grant and others who will soon pay.”
Alvin glanced at the men around him. They were listening impassively, not really caring about the reasons why. The financial rewards were their motives, and Alvin knew that like him, they had been promised large rewards. Puma told him that Lytell had sworn to give him a large section of land near Phoenix, his own little kingdom within the new kingdom. No one seemed to know what Alvin Gaffney had been offered. “Money, probably, just like me,” Jackie had said yesterday. “You were talking about having money and heading for South America to live it up.”
“Gaffney,” Lytell continued, “I believe you may be the only man who can match West with a gun. Even if you are a bit slower, we can arrange matters so that Mr. West will not have a chance anyway. The important thing is for him to die, specifically in a gunfight, a fair gunfight that cannot be challenged by the law. I’m quite aware that the government will investigate the loss of one of their most valuable men, and that that investigation will delay matters slightly. The delay will be worth it to have James West out of the way. He may or may not be here to look into my business, but I will sleep easier knowing he’s dead.”
“You’re saying I should brace him, Mr. Lytell?” Alvin inquired. He noticed that the comely housekeeper had paused to straighten some newspapers stacked on a small table near the door through which the cook had already exited. No one else paid her any mind, so he shifted his attention back to Lytell.
“Something like that. As I mentioned, he’ll be here today. I don’t want anything to happen at the ranch. But I’ll make sure West remains in this area another day or two. You’ll be able to encounter him in Lockjaw, perhaps at the saloon. We’ll set it up so that for all intents and purposes, Gaffney, you will gain the reputation of having killed James West in a fair fight, but in reality, it’s possible someone else’s bullet may do the trick. All will be paid well, I assure you.”
Giles Lytell went on to assure his men that his original plans were still in effect. Once James West was out of the way—as well as whatever investigation followed—they would begin. He told them he had over a hundred men waiting in Mexico, and another hundred, possibly more, just waiting the word to join that party. “I have no doubt the Mexican authorities are aware of the camp, so it is wise to not allow them to realize just how large our army is.”
After some more words of encouragement, Lytell dismissed the group, warning them to not do anything to arouse the interest or suspicion of the Secret Service agent when he visited today. “Work on some chores, and appear normal.”
“Lucky you,” Jackie spoke rather querulously as he caught up to Alvin outside. “I’d sure like to have Jim West as a notch on my gun. Wouldn’t be anyone dare buck me then!”
Alvin glanced at the younger man. “Be my guest.”
Jackie scowled. “The boss says you’re to do it, and I don’t reckon we’d better go against him, especially if we want to get paid.”
They paused in the shade of a cottonwood tree near the corral. “How’d you get in this group, Jackie? You seem kind of young compared to the rest of us.”
Jackie grinned widely. “Age ain’t got nothin’ to do with in, Al. The boss knows what I can do. Hell, I’ve already faced down a half dozen men. Got the first one when I was not yet sixteen.”
“You’ve killed six men in gunfights?” Alvin Gaffney knew he should not feel so appalled, yet he was. I might have killed two-three times that many by now. Who knows when I killed my first!
“Yep. I’m fast, but you know I ain’t a match for you… yet. I’m practicing though.” The youth’s blue eyes met Alvin’s brown ones straight on.
“I’ll remember that.”
They went on toward the building behind the bunkhouse that was the eating area for the hands. Juana and Alma were putting plates of eggs, bacon, and hotcakes in the middle of the table, and providing more coffee. Alvin found himself the center of attention, most of it envious, as they ate. Jeb Lowry joined the other men, sitting directly across from Gaffney. He seemed as resentful as the others about the choice of the man to take credit for the killing of James West.
“I haven’t seen you draw, Gaffney. Are you as fast as the other boys say?”
Alvin shrugged. “They tell me I beat them in pulling leather and also in accuracy.”
“I forgot. You got that knock on the head. Maybe it messed up your gun speed as well as your brain.”
“Maybe.”
“Hey, Al,” Puma called from further down the table, “you remembering anything yet?”
“No.” Unless you can call a sense of making a pot of coffee remembering. Or the sense that something isn’t right, that I’m in the wrong place.
“One thing I been noticing,” Puma went on, loading his fork with a chunk of hotcake and a portion of eggs, “is you talk different now.”
Alvin frowned at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Puma just shrugged. “I don't know. I just said I noticed it.”
“Come to think of it,” another man put in, “that’s true. Can’t rightly say what the difference is.”
Annoyed, Alvin glared at all of them. “Any of you ever know another fellow who got his memory knocked out of his head by a horse’s hoof? Hell, maybe my brain can’t remember how I talked before. I don't know. I’d gladly trade places with any of you. This not remembering is no fun.”