Beyond the Pale —Part 85
May. 9th, 2006 10:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
secret_historyWelcome back, faithful readers! The serial continues apace, and you'll be happy to know that I already have next week's instalment already written out and ready to go as well as tonight's. I'm trying to get a "safety buffer" going, so that if I get sidetracked by my other writing projects then I'll still be able to keep posting BTP regularly.
Just writing "BTP" like that makes it sound vaguely like a sandwich you'd find at a truck stop, doesn't it?
Okay, so. New story arc! Isn't this exciting? I know I'm excited. I hope you are too.
*****
Carver's Landing
Winslow Monroe was not a man who prided himself on being faster and better than others. He liked to take things at his own pace, consider all his options before acting, and even then it often took extreme circumstances to galvanize him into action. Not that he was incapable of making decisions, not by a long stretch: he'd proved that in his years as a scout for the Union forces, up until a Confederate bullet had put an end to that career. The wound was completely mended now –he didn't have so much as a limp to speak of– and he was seriously considering re-enlisting. He hadn't thought of it before, but now that he had had the time to visit his parents and see just how proud they were of their son the soldier, the idea was growing in his mind. However, Slowpoke was also nothing if not loyal to his friends, and there were a few loose ends he needed to tie up before he could seriously consider going back to his old life.
One of those loose ends was Victoria James, and she was the main reason that Slowpoke now found himself on a boat, bumping queasily over the waves in the narrow channels of the Great Maze. He wasn't sure how he felt about Vicky, unless he used the word "confused," and that didn't help much. Vicky was a prickly animal at best, quick to take offence, and quicker with her pistols. In fact, other than Taft, Monroe had never met anyone faster than the frail-looking girl with the tough demeanour. She was a contradiction wrapped in a paradox wrapped in an enigma, he was fond of thinking. She pretended to be a simple gunslinger, but she let slip things that hinted at a more educated, perhaps even genteel life. She had never spoken of her past, except to mention a younger brother in passing who was studying to take the cloth. Vicky kept her personal life close to herself, and Monroe had never tried to pry into her past, as much because he liked his skin intact as because he respected her privacy.
The truth was that he was worried about her. She'd proved to be a good friend since that day she'd nearly shot Taft in the saloon, and he'd found himself admiring her decisiveness, the obvious confidence with which she performed her duty. He'd half-fallen in love with her that first day, but the feeling had quickly become one of almost fraternal attachment. He wanted more than anything in the world for her to trust him, and in a way she had, more than anyone else in any event. Now, leaning on the railing and watching the murky waters churn underneath the prow of the boat, he could only think of her as he'd last seen her, unconscious and fighting desperately for each breath. It occurred to him that he'd been watching her die since the moment he'd met her, and the thought saddened him. Death seemed to follow her around. He'd seen her dispatch men without hesitation, had seen her bullets open up a man's skull like a flower.
The townsfolk of Coldwater Springs had thought her cold-hearted, even though they respected her skill and integrity, and they had treated her with circumspection at best, and fear at worst. But Monroe thought he knew better. He'd seen her looking at the men she'd killed, had seen the expression in her eyes, the same expression he'd seen on countless battlefields in the past. She wasn't beyond caring; she was just at the end of her rope, and yet she felt as though there was no end in sight. He'd seen men like her, walking as though they were already dead (now that he'd seen the real thing, the comparison struck him as inaccurate, but he had found no better way to describe it). Like the soldiers he'd seen, he knew it was only a matter of time before she gave up completely, and that was why he'd postponed re-enlisting and had found passage on a ship heading out to the Maze. For some reason, he found that he wanted to see things through to the end with her, especially now that the end seemed so near. He was amazed that she hadn't died in New Orleans, after their ordeal on the Mississippi, but she was a fighter: he'd known that for a long time. Still, there was only so long that she could fight, sick as she was, and he wanted to be there for her, in the end.
He broke out of his reverie as another passenger came to lean on the rails beside, him, a pipe clamped between his teeth. He was a tall, thin man with a dour look on his face, dressed in a black suit and a long black duster, his expression belying the very white clerical collar that peeked out over his black shirt. He had very dark hair that fell raggedly over his ears, as though he was accustomed to wearing it shorter but hadn't been to a barber in some months, and a small moustache and beard that had been carefully trimmed to a point. Monroe observed him for a few moments as he took the pipe out of his mouth and carefully tamped some tobacco into the bowl with long, sensitive fingers that looked as though they had never done a day's worth of hard labour. The priest then began fishing in the pockets of his duster for a match, with apparently little success.
Monroe pulled his own matchbook out of his shirt pocket. "Need a light?" he asked, unnecessarily.
The priest looked at him, then nodded. "Much obliged, sir." He took the matchbook and puffed carefully at the pipe until it was lit to his satisfaction, then handed the matches back to Monroe.
"You heading to Lost Angels?" Monroe asked, suddenly and inexplicably curious about this priest who looked nothing like a priest.
The man shook his head. "No. Carver's Landing. I'm supposed to meet someone there and accompany them back to Denver."
"That's where I'm headed too," Monroe said cheerfully, even more curious now. He extended his hand for the priest to shake. "Winslow Polk Monroe. Some folks call me 'Slowpoke,' but mostly it's just 'Monroe.'"
The priest took his hand in a firm grasp. "Matthew Tiberius Stone. Most people just end up calling me 'Father Stone,' but something tells me you're not going to end up being part of my congregation," he smiled mirthlessly.
Monroe shook his head. "It's not likely," he agreed.
"So what takes you to Carver's Landing, then?" Stone asked, sucking on the stem of his pipe and gazing out over the choppy water as the small pier at the bottom of the mesa drew closer.
"I'm meeting an old friend there," Monroe replied. "I haven't seen her in a few months, now." He hesitated, then fell silent.
"Sounds like you don't know what to expect."
Monroe shrugged. "Not really. She's been ill for a long time. I don't know in what condition I'm going to find her."
Stone threw him what might have passed for a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry to hear that."
"So'm I."
It wasn't the only thing that was worrying him, although he wasn't about to admit that to Stone. He'd expected to find Vicky in Wailing Walls, and all he had found instead was a secretive J. B. Taft, who'd seemed reluctant even to talk to him, let alone fill him in on what he'd missed since he'd left them in December. It had taken a lot more time than he'd thought to secure passage to the Maze, and there had been countless delays due to the weather, and now it was nearly the end of February. It made him wonder just what had happened to his friends in all that time.
Jolin was dead. Taft had told him that, and Annabel had been taken off to Lost Angels to the sanatorium there by her brother. He'd found the gunslinger at the Wailing Walls saloon, nursing a bullet wound to the leg that he'd sustained during a duel. Taft had seemed profoundly uncomfortable telling him about how the young missionary had succumbed to fits of madness, screaming at people and crying and pulling out her hair and tearing at her own skin with her fingernails until they'd had to restrain her to prevent her harming herself. Even stranger, Taft was reluctant to say anything about Vicky, who had left Wailing Walls a few weeks earlier, shortly after Annabel's departure. Something had happened, but when he questioned Taft, the gunslinger only muttered darkly about not wanting to get involved with that sort of thing anymore, and had stalked off to go find a young local girl he'd apparently fallen for, with the unlikely name of Pepita, who'd been nursing him back to health since his injury.
The only explanation that Monroe could come up with was that Taft and Vicky had had some sort of disagreement, perhaps over Pepita, but that seemed unlikely, and that Vicky had preferred to continue on without Taft. Eventually young Pepita had revealed to him that Taft had not been shot during the quickdraw contest which had gotten Jolin killed, but in a duel afterward. He'd taken exception to a comment made about Vicky, and had gotten into a duel with one of the miners there, a grimy old thing who went by the name of Wall-Eyed Pete. That was shortly after Victoria had left, Pepita confessed, although she wasn't entirely sure why Taft had chosen to remain behind. Perhaps, she suggested diffidently, he had seen too many of his friends die already.
Monroe wasn't convinced, but upon learning that Vicky was now in Carver's Landing, he'd taken passage on the first boat he could find. He waited patiently while the captain piloted the boat to the dock, then disembarked along with the Reverend Stone and a handful of other passengers and waited patiently for the large basket to be hauled up by the steam winch. He stepped out onto the red earth of the mesa, and looked up to see Vicky standing there, her hands in her pockets.
She smiled at him, looking, he thought to his surprise, a little nervous.
"Hey, Marshal. Welcome to Carver's Landing."
*****
Just writing "BTP" like that makes it sound vaguely like a sandwich you'd find at a truck stop, doesn't it?
Okay, so. New story arc! Isn't this exciting? I know I'm excited. I hope you are too.
Carver's Landing
Winslow Monroe was not a man who prided himself on being faster and better than others. He liked to take things at his own pace, consider all his options before acting, and even then it often took extreme circumstances to galvanize him into action. Not that he was incapable of making decisions, not by a long stretch: he'd proved that in his years as a scout for the Union forces, up until a Confederate bullet had put an end to that career. The wound was completely mended now –he didn't have so much as a limp to speak of– and he was seriously considering re-enlisting. He hadn't thought of it before, but now that he had had the time to visit his parents and see just how proud they were of their son the soldier, the idea was growing in his mind. However, Slowpoke was also nothing if not loyal to his friends, and there were a few loose ends he needed to tie up before he could seriously consider going back to his old life.
One of those loose ends was Victoria James, and she was the main reason that Slowpoke now found himself on a boat, bumping queasily over the waves in the narrow channels of the Great Maze. He wasn't sure how he felt about Vicky, unless he used the word "confused," and that didn't help much. Vicky was a prickly animal at best, quick to take offence, and quicker with her pistols. In fact, other than Taft, Monroe had never met anyone faster than the frail-looking girl with the tough demeanour. She was a contradiction wrapped in a paradox wrapped in an enigma, he was fond of thinking. She pretended to be a simple gunslinger, but she let slip things that hinted at a more educated, perhaps even genteel life. She had never spoken of her past, except to mention a younger brother in passing who was studying to take the cloth. Vicky kept her personal life close to herself, and Monroe had never tried to pry into her past, as much because he liked his skin intact as because he respected her privacy.
The truth was that he was worried about her. She'd proved to be a good friend since that day she'd nearly shot Taft in the saloon, and he'd found himself admiring her decisiveness, the obvious confidence with which she performed her duty. He'd half-fallen in love with her that first day, but the feeling had quickly become one of almost fraternal attachment. He wanted more than anything in the world for her to trust him, and in a way she had, more than anyone else in any event. Now, leaning on the railing and watching the murky waters churn underneath the prow of the boat, he could only think of her as he'd last seen her, unconscious and fighting desperately for each breath. It occurred to him that he'd been watching her die since the moment he'd met her, and the thought saddened him. Death seemed to follow her around. He'd seen her dispatch men without hesitation, had seen her bullets open up a man's skull like a flower.
The townsfolk of Coldwater Springs had thought her cold-hearted, even though they respected her skill and integrity, and they had treated her with circumspection at best, and fear at worst. But Monroe thought he knew better. He'd seen her looking at the men she'd killed, had seen the expression in her eyes, the same expression he'd seen on countless battlefields in the past. She wasn't beyond caring; she was just at the end of her rope, and yet she felt as though there was no end in sight. He'd seen men like her, walking as though they were already dead (now that he'd seen the real thing, the comparison struck him as inaccurate, but he had found no better way to describe it). Like the soldiers he'd seen, he knew it was only a matter of time before she gave up completely, and that was why he'd postponed re-enlisting and had found passage on a ship heading out to the Maze. For some reason, he found that he wanted to see things through to the end with her, especially now that the end seemed so near. He was amazed that she hadn't died in New Orleans, after their ordeal on the Mississippi, but she was a fighter: he'd known that for a long time. Still, there was only so long that she could fight, sick as she was, and he wanted to be there for her, in the end.
He broke out of his reverie as another passenger came to lean on the rails beside, him, a pipe clamped between his teeth. He was a tall, thin man with a dour look on his face, dressed in a black suit and a long black duster, his expression belying the very white clerical collar that peeked out over his black shirt. He had very dark hair that fell raggedly over his ears, as though he was accustomed to wearing it shorter but hadn't been to a barber in some months, and a small moustache and beard that had been carefully trimmed to a point. Monroe observed him for a few moments as he took the pipe out of his mouth and carefully tamped some tobacco into the bowl with long, sensitive fingers that looked as though they had never done a day's worth of hard labour. The priest then began fishing in the pockets of his duster for a match, with apparently little success.
Monroe pulled his own matchbook out of his shirt pocket. "Need a light?" he asked, unnecessarily.
The priest looked at him, then nodded. "Much obliged, sir." He took the matchbook and puffed carefully at the pipe until it was lit to his satisfaction, then handed the matches back to Monroe.
"You heading to Lost Angels?" Monroe asked, suddenly and inexplicably curious about this priest who looked nothing like a priest.
The man shook his head. "No. Carver's Landing. I'm supposed to meet someone there and accompany them back to Denver."
"That's where I'm headed too," Monroe said cheerfully, even more curious now. He extended his hand for the priest to shake. "Winslow Polk Monroe. Some folks call me 'Slowpoke,' but mostly it's just 'Monroe.'"
The priest took his hand in a firm grasp. "Matthew Tiberius Stone. Most people just end up calling me 'Father Stone,' but something tells me you're not going to end up being part of my congregation," he smiled mirthlessly.
Monroe shook his head. "It's not likely," he agreed.
"So what takes you to Carver's Landing, then?" Stone asked, sucking on the stem of his pipe and gazing out over the choppy water as the small pier at the bottom of the mesa drew closer.
"I'm meeting an old friend there," Monroe replied. "I haven't seen her in a few months, now." He hesitated, then fell silent.
"Sounds like you don't know what to expect."
Monroe shrugged. "Not really. She's been ill for a long time. I don't know in what condition I'm going to find her."
Stone threw him what might have passed for a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry to hear that."
"So'm I."
It wasn't the only thing that was worrying him, although he wasn't about to admit that to Stone. He'd expected to find Vicky in Wailing Walls, and all he had found instead was a secretive J. B. Taft, who'd seemed reluctant even to talk to him, let alone fill him in on what he'd missed since he'd left them in December. It had taken a lot more time than he'd thought to secure passage to the Maze, and there had been countless delays due to the weather, and now it was nearly the end of February. It made him wonder just what had happened to his friends in all that time.
Jolin was dead. Taft had told him that, and Annabel had been taken off to Lost Angels to the sanatorium there by her brother. He'd found the gunslinger at the Wailing Walls saloon, nursing a bullet wound to the leg that he'd sustained during a duel. Taft had seemed profoundly uncomfortable telling him about how the young missionary had succumbed to fits of madness, screaming at people and crying and pulling out her hair and tearing at her own skin with her fingernails until they'd had to restrain her to prevent her harming herself. Even stranger, Taft was reluctant to say anything about Vicky, who had left Wailing Walls a few weeks earlier, shortly after Annabel's departure. Something had happened, but when he questioned Taft, the gunslinger only muttered darkly about not wanting to get involved with that sort of thing anymore, and had stalked off to go find a young local girl he'd apparently fallen for, with the unlikely name of Pepita, who'd been nursing him back to health since his injury.
The only explanation that Monroe could come up with was that Taft and Vicky had had some sort of disagreement, perhaps over Pepita, but that seemed unlikely, and that Vicky had preferred to continue on without Taft. Eventually young Pepita had revealed to him that Taft had not been shot during the quickdraw contest which had gotten Jolin killed, but in a duel afterward. He'd taken exception to a comment made about Vicky, and had gotten into a duel with one of the miners there, a grimy old thing who went by the name of Wall-Eyed Pete. That was shortly after Victoria had left, Pepita confessed, although she wasn't entirely sure why Taft had chosen to remain behind. Perhaps, she suggested diffidently, he had seen too many of his friends die already.
Monroe wasn't convinced, but upon learning that Vicky was now in Carver's Landing, he'd taken passage on the first boat he could find. He waited patiently while the captain piloted the boat to the dock, then disembarked along with the Reverend Stone and a handful of other passengers and waited patiently for the large basket to be hauled up by the steam winch. He stepped out onto the red earth of the mesa, and looked up to see Vicky standing there, her hands in her pockets.
She smiled at him, looking, he thought to his surprise, a little nervous.
"Hey, Marshal. Welcome to Carver's Landing."
