To Die In Glory

Two

TwoOut 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.