Hard Days

Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

Arrival

It was in the late autumn of seventy-five, some three months before the Apache breakout, that a young man, tall and lean in the saddle, rode into the town of Paradise with murder on his mind. He tied his horse to the hitching rail outside the Parody Hotel and Saloon, kicked his dusty boots against the entrance steps and pushed his way through the batwing doors just as Sarah Lamprey was coming out. Looking flushed, all full-bosomed black dress and dark purple bonnet with matching parasol, she glared at the man, stopping him in his tracks.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” he said, tipping his hat.

Ignoring him, Sarah Lamprey huffed and went into the street, the young man’s eyes following her hour-glass figure.

“No point you thinking dark thoughts,” said a voice. The young man turned to see a large, lurching man leaning against the swing doors, huge forearms looped over their top. He grinned. “She ain’t the courting kind.”

“I ain’t even—”

“Ah shoot, of course you weren’t.” Grinning, he stepped back and pulled the doors open, gesturing for the young stranger to enter.

The stranger surveyed the interior, filled with men wrapped up in thick coats, hats and scarves, a brown fug rising from their collective bodies to mingle with the acrid smoke of numerous cigarettes, cigars, and pipes. Their many voices rumbled low, like the steady progress of a distant locomotive.

It wasn’t long before he gained the information he required. A gregarious and good looking individual, his blond hair flopped over one of his crystal blue eyes, giving him a boyish look. Smooth chin, full lips and an aquiline nose contributed to his comely features. He knew well enough the effect he had on those to whom he spoke. Captivated, his audience warmed to him and put him in the direction of one or two possibilities.

Riding out to the ‘Celestial Ranch’ owned by Francis Rancine, a wealthy cattle rancher whose business was flourishing, the young man presented himself to the portly gentleman sat behind a vast table, eyes peering out from under thick, bushy eyes, studying and dissecting the stranger before he spoke. “I am looking for hands,” he said, “but you don’t look much like a cow-poke, son”

“No sir, I’m more of an odd-job person, mending and fixing and the like.”

“Well, we have plenty of that work to do.” He shot a glance towards his charge-hand whose scowling face told the young man that this was someone who would take some convincing.

“Please, all I’m asking is a chance. I’ll work for free if that’s what it will take.”

“Seems you is desperate, son,” said the big chargehand, his stare never faltering. “Maybe you is runnin’ from something … or someone.”

“No, sir, it is not that at all. I just need a new start is all. I lost my ma and pa some six months ago and … Well, to be honest, there are too many memories back in my hometown. I need to start again, build a new life for myself.”

“So, there ain’t no lawmen on your trail?”

“No, sir. I swear it, on my dearly departed momma’s grave.” To give credence to his words, he raised his right hand, “As God is my witness, I do not—”

“All right, son,” cut in Rancine, “you don’t have to give us any more explanations.” He looked at the chargehand again, “Seems like a week’s trial wouldn’t go amiss here, Hank.”

“I guess not,” said Hank, sticking his thumbs into his belt, a belt which sported a tied-down Colt Peacemaker. “What did you say your name was, son?”

“Emmanuel Torrance,” said the young man, “but most people just call me Manny.”

“All righty, Manny. You follow me and we’ll ride over to the bunkhouse. You can meet up with some of the boys later on.”

Deep in thought, he lay on his bunk, arms behind his head, waiting for the sun to set, knowing that soon the cowboys would be returning from a long day out in the fields. With his eyes wide open he stared at the ceiling, the way the knotted tree trunks held up the roof, knowing this was a well-constructed building but that it would burn easily. If the time ever came when he would need to make his escape, burning this place down would be one way to disguise his departure. The cowhands would be so intent on putting out the blaze that he could disappear without fear of anyone pursuing him, at least not for a long time. Not that they’d know where he was going, or why. Hadn’t Shapiro told him all would be fine? Didn’t he trust Shapiro with his life? Of course, he did and as he lay on his bunk and stared upwards, his mind drifted back to when he met the man who offered him a way out of all his worries.

He stood and watched as they brought Sergeant Burroughs in. As silent as the dead, his eyes never flickered as they pulled him from the saddle, and he caught sight of Torrance standing only two or three paces away. Of course, he was Torrance only to the people of the Rancine ranch. His real name was Nolan, cavalry trooper, one of the soldiers Burroughs used to cover his own treasonable tracks. Stealing and selling Army horses, something he’d been doing for longer than anyone knew. To help, he’d enlisted an eclectic mix of partners – including Julia’s husband. They were all dead. Most of them anyway. Except for Sergeant Burroughs who would face the hangman’s noose for his efforts.

Except he didn’t.

He’d escaped and Nolan, fearing for his life if he were implicated, had disappeared into the vast expanses of the Colorado/Utah territories. There he’d wander into small, half-deserted towns, as anonymous as himself. He changed his name and the veil fell over him, while every night he’d dream of her, Julia Rickman. He did not believe he had ever seen a woman as beautiful as she. Such thoughts made him feel somewhat better.

The days seemed endless and pitiless, however, until he met Shapiro and listened to his story before sharing his own of the man who had changed both their lives.