To Die In Glory

Four

FourA small crowd of gaggling townsfolk gathered outside the closed office, some peering through the glass, most moving away after a few moments, disinterested. When Martinson came, he did not hesitate. Pushing those closest aside, he snapped his foot against the door several times, kicking it in, almost falling flat on his face when he eventually broke through.

A jumble of voices, curious but unconcerned, looking for gossip, not wishing to offer any assistance. “Where is he?” asked someone. “Is he hurt? Is he dead?” On his knees in the doorway, Martinson climbed to his feet, dusted off his trousers and rounded on them.

“I'll take it from here,” he said.

“I heard a gunshot.”

Martinson, not liking the sound of that, ushered them away, returned the door to an upright position and, before wedging it into the door well, smiled a distinct 'goodbye' to the onlookers.

In the corner, behind his desk, Simms lay slumped in a heap, a trail of vomit drooling from the corner of his mouth, the empty whisky bottle rolling backwards and forwards next to his gun. Getting down on his haunches, Martinson checked the body. There was no sign of blood and he let out a long sigh before setting about making a pot of coffee.

Sometime later, Simms sat hunched up in his swivel chair, chin on chest, moaning low like a wounded bear. Across the other side of the desk, Martinson absently clicked the Navy Colt's cylinder from one empty chamber to the next. He stared at the top of Simms's slumped head. “What were you hoping to do, blow your brains out?”

“Something like that.”

“I'm glad you failed.”

“I was blind drunk.” Slowly, Simms brought his head up, his face chalk-white, eyes red-rimmed. “Maybe when I'm sobered up my aim will be back to what it was.”

“You can get that thought out of your head straight away.”

“Why the f**k should I.”

Shaking his head, Martinson leaned on the desk, clenching his teeth, “This isn't like you. Caving in, giving up. You've been through so much, Simms. Give it time.”

“Why didn't you come for me when she took bad?” Martinson leaned back, mouth opening slightly, the anger leaving him, replaced by uncertainty, even dread. Simms stared at his friend through bloodshot eyes. “That's the part I don't understand, why you sent for Doc Meadows, but not me.”

“Hell, Simms, everything happened so quick I – I was sitting with her, like you asked me, and it came on so sudden like. I didn't know what to do for the best. She had been coughing, coughing all morning, but it got worse. So bad it doubled her up, made her face as red as blood. She started screaming, telling me the baby was coming. I ran out and got hold of Wilbur, told him to fetch you whilst I went for Meadows. There's no complexity to it, just me trying to do the best I could.”

“Well, I suppose, but even so.” He grew silent for a moment, eyes staring into nothingness and his voice much lower and more distant. “Meadows, he said there was nothing to do, but I would give anything to have been with her. At the end, I mean.”

“Yes. Yes, I know.”

“There's no reason in any of it. I knew she was ill, but … For the boy to die, an infant.”

“Meadows said it was the stress, her being so ill and all.”

“I thought it was a head cold, nothing more. She seemed fine, and she still had a month to go before the baby came, so Meadows said.”

“You can't blame yourself. It's life, Simms. All of us, we could all do things differently, better, if we had the chance. But we can't. We can't bring it back.”

“I've sat out on that prairie many a long year and wondered why things happen the way they do and I can't reach no answers. I have sat in holes in the ground, stinking in my own s**t and piss, as scared as hell, wishing to die quick and easy, but I never did. I came through it all. Through that ghastly war, and lately through my time with the Pinkertons. I have hunted cold-blooded killers and put them in the ground, without conscience. They deserved to die. But that little boy – what did he ever do to harm anyone? Answer me that.”

“There ain't no point in looking for someone to blame for the simple reason there is no one to blame.”

“'cepting God, whatever the hell He is.”

“Fate brought you and Noreen together, and fate tore you apart. You could call that God, I guess.”

“I don't know anything about any of that, Martinson. We're just blades of grass. We die, and the rest just keeps on growing, as if we'd never been there at all. I look at people, living their lives, and no one stops to consider what happened to me, Noreen or the child.”

“That's because they have their own lives. You can't blame them for that.”

“No, I don't blame them. I don't blame anyone. It's just all such a heap of s**t, Martinson. I got through so many life and death events and I'm wondering what the hell it was all for.”

“You're a survivor.”

“You reckon? Well, I'm not sure I'm gonna survive this.”

“You will. Time. Time will be your helper, Simms. It'll not make you forget, but it will ease the pain. I lost my own wife to scarlet fever, as you know, and there ain't a day passes by that I don't think of her. I loved her, and I love her still. But I don't cry no more. At least, not as much.”

“Well, it's a mystery, is what you're saying. Love. Perhaps love is God, in a strange kind of way. I don't know. I don't know much about anything anymore. I guess I'll continue doing what I do, but – I remember after the War ended and we was disbanded, I made my way down to Louisiana and the great city of New Orleans. My, that was some place. I got me to talking with someone who told me they had heard some music composed by a German guy by the name of Back, or Bark, somesuch name. He said it was the most wonderful thing he'd ever heard, brought him as close to God as he could imagine. Anyway, the strange thing is, an orchestra had sailed across the ocean from Europe to play this man's music. Imagine that, to sail across the ocean! Dear God. Well, I went along to hear and, you can guess what I'm about to say – it was God's music. I came out of that theatre as if in a dream and I stayed that way for a long time. “

“So what happened to change your mind?”

“Time. It works both ways, Martinson. It softens the heart, eases the pain, and brings forth changes. I shot two men in a ramshackle place down in Texas and when the Rangers came, I shot them too.”

“Jesus.”

“I rode north and didn't stop until it was all just a distant memory. So, you see, God came and spoke to me in that music, but I didn't pay no attention to what He said. And now, I think I'm paying the price.”

“You believe that? That you're being punished?”

“I reckon. And what's more, I think the dues have yet to be fully paid.”