Patrick E. McLean

Squatting on the bank of the river, Archie offered one word of description for the wooden ship that was bearing down upon the Town of Grantham, “Trireme.”

Sheriff Dance paid no attention to Archie. His eyes were locked on an imposing figure at the rail, who was looking down on the town and the people frolicking in the water. Even at a distance Dance could see that this man was not smiling.

In the shallows, Mack stared at the ship in wonder. On the bank, his sister turned a cartwheel in the mud.

The figure on the deck of the ship raised his hand and uttered a guttural command. The oars closest to the shore stopped moving and the boat turned in the wide river and headed for the shore. The townspeople scrambled and stumbled back up the muddy bank, retreating before the ship.

The hollow drumbeat stopped and the prow of the ship came to rest on the mud with the craft stopped 30 yards offshore. The imposing figure at the rail made a speech that Dance could not understand. But as the man gnashed out the words, he could see the white teeth flashing amid the man’s thick, black beard.

This man, surely the Captain of this vessel, finished his speech by raising his open hand and making a downward motion in conjunction with his last word. Which sounded like “Klahpheem!”

When no one on the bank moved, the Captain raised his hand and repeated this command,

This time Penelope shouted back, “Klahpheem!”

Embarrassed, Mack said, “Hush up.”

Archie said, “We don’t understand you!”

The Captain turn his head sharply with a bird-like motion and fixed Archie with his gaze. He smiled and then barked another command, “Ekidst!” Archers filled the rails around him.

Archie began shouting. First in one language and then another. But he got no response from the ship. The townspeople stared on in confusion and disbelief.

*Don't you do it*, thought Dance as he cocked his rifle and brought it to his shoulder.

In desperation, Archie asked, “You don’t think they’re going to?”

"Yeahp," said Dance.

“Well, don’t provoke them!”

“I think we’re past that.”

“What should I do?" asked Archie.

"You could try running,” said Dance.

On deck the Captain let his arm fall. Dance fired before the first arrow was released. As the Winchester roared, the Captain fell back onto the deck almost in time with the dropping of his own arm.

Further down the bank, Speedy Pete drew slow and opened fire with his pistol. At that range, even a good shot would have a hard time hitting anything with a pistol. And Pete wasn’t a good shot.

Archie looked up at the cloud of arrows, considered the futility of running, then muttered, “Never a phalanx when you need one.”

The townspeople screamed and ran, some slipping in the mud of the river bank. But there was no outrunning the arrows.

Penelope, oblivious as she always was, prepared to turn another cartwheel on the bank. Mack tried to run to protect his sister, but the mud sucked at his feet, and he stumbled, crawling on his hands and knees through the water.

As the arrows flew, Dance’s rifle boomed out again and again. And Archers fell at the rail like targets in a shooting gallery. He caught one of them low in the belly, and the archer slumped forward and fell into the slow-moving river.

Instead of running, Archie straightened his waistcoat and stood tall, ready to receive fire as bravely as any soldier in any line.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement. There was the little blond girl, tresses flying wildly, throwing herself into a cartwheel.

Everything slowed. The arrows flew. The girl turned. A noble fear grew in Archie and he started to run towards the girl. She spun upright, landing on her feet again, holding her arms up in triumph.

An arrow on a high trajectory punched through the left side of her chest, knocking her from her feet.

Archie slogged through the impossible mud and came to the girl’s aid. The arrow had gone right through and pinned her to the ground. Her mouth opened and closed as if she was trying to scream, but the pain made it impossible. She gasped infinitesimally small breaths as tears rolled down her cheeks.

She grabbed the shaft of the arrow that protruded from her chest and stared down at it. Archie whispered that it would be all right and that she should be brave, that she should not look at it.

She called out for her mother in a voice that was barely a whisper.

Mack was at her side. He said, “Is she okay?”

Archie looked up at the boy’s face and had to look away before he could say, “No. Get a doctor.”

Mack hovered above his sister, unable to move. Archie said, very gently, “Do you love your sister?”

Mack nodded as tears streamed down his face.

“Then run.”

Dance kept firing until his rifle was empty. The rail of the ship was clear, and the rowers had started backing water. Dance realized that many of the townspeople were now firing from the bank. He even saw a gambler, giving the attackers both barrels of his tiny derringer. It wasn’t worth a damn, but he grinned at the man’s spirit.

As the ship made speed upriver, he saw the bearded face of the Captain appear at the rail, holding a cloth to the right side of his head. Dance brandished his rifle above his head, sideways, showing it to the man and thought, I’ll see you again, you son-of-a-b***h. And next time I won’t miss.

He turned back to the townspeople to see how badly they had fared and then saw that Penelope had been shot. *God, not the child. *

As Archie held Penelope in his arms, Her head lolled backwards and she drifted into unconsciousness. Archie said, "No, no, dear girl, you mustn't go to sleep. You mustn't." She tried to speak but was unable to move enough air through her lungs to manage it. Then she was asleep. As Archie tried to revive her he saw that her lips were blue. This was a terrible sign and he was terrified by what it might mean. "Where is the damn doctor!" He yelled.

"He only went to bed a couple hours ago,” said one of the townspeople, waving his empty pistol back towards the town, a staggeringly fine example of a three–day drunk.

Archie turned Penelope over and found the tip of the arrowhead poking through the back of her blood-soaked dress. The tip was steel and had cruel, flaring barbs. It was impossible to think of yanking such an arrow back out the way it had gone in. Archie wracked his brain. Surely there was something he could do to prevent this little girl from dying in his arms. Before he was conscious of thinking it, he heard his voice saying, “Knife! does anyone have a knife?" He was surprised to hear that he sounded like he knew what he was doing.

A rough-looking man slid a Bowie knife from his belt sheath and handed it to Archie without a word. He heard a woman saying, “Don't you cut her!" Archie ignored her and took a notch out of the arrow shaft just beneath the fletching. He worked as gently as he could, trying not to move the shaft in the wound.

When he had cut a significant notch in the shaft he lay the knife on the ground and snapped the fletching off the arrow. Then he turned the girl sideways on his hip and pulled the arrow completely through her. Penelope's eyes fluttered and she came back to consciousness. Archie said, “There now. Isn't that better?”

She coughed blood on his suit and started screaming. As she convulsed each new movement brought new pain and the more Archie tried to calm her, the more she was overcome by terror.

In desperation, Archie looked around for a doctor or the girl’s mother. Even that vile-tempered nurse of Jean Dumont’s would have been a welcome sight. But all he saw was the snake oil salesman from the saloon. He stood holding a bottle of his ridiculous "medicine" in his hand, opening and closing his mouth, trying to work up the courage to give his sales pitch. What a loathsome fiend thought Archie. And just look at him, he knew it. He dare not give his "remedy" for the certainty that it would be proved fake on the spot.

As Dr. Krupp moved to put the bottle back in his jacket pocket one of the gullible miners in the crowd cried out, “H…

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit patrickemclean.substack.com

Chapter 10 — Ethan Burdock

To the Northwest of Grantham was the Bar-D ranch, owned by Ethan Burdock. Burdock had carved a 28,000-acre ranch out of Indian territory long before anyone had thought to look for silver in this rough land. More than five thousand head of Longhorn cattle toughed it out across his range which stretched far north of the main house.

Ethan had done well enough for himself that his house was made of stout logs instead of mud, a luxury in this dry land. But after he had almost drowned in the mud of his own house in the freak rainstorm of ’58 he decided he had lived in adobe houses for long enough.

Ethan had outlasted or outfought everything that had tried to remove him from this place. He fought rustlers, Apaches, Comanche, flood, drought, and everything else Mother Nature had thrown at him. Along the way, he had buried his wife, son and a daughter, and a lot of good ranch hands.

In addition to the main house, there were three barns, four large corrals, and two bunkhouses; one large, one small. All of the buildings formed up in a circle around a kind of dirt plaza in the center of which was a deep and steady well. It was a solid, durable place. And when he sat on the porch at the end of a day, Ethan found beauty in it.

But the ranch he had sacrificed so much for didn’t hold much more comfort than that. It seemed like there was always something to do and always someone to fight. He was an angry man, rarely at ease. But tonight was different. Both his boys were away and Lupita had served supper just for him. After dinner, he threw another log on the fire and sipped a glass of mescal thinking of old feuds he had won the way some men thought of women that had once loved.

He was old and his bones hurt at night and he needed glasses for reading, but his ears were still good. He heard the rider making hard for the house when he was still a long way off.

Ethan took the hurricane lamp in hand and went to see what was the matter. He crossed the yard and went to the figure standing between the two bunkhouses. Most of the men were asleep, but a few had come out in long underwear in various states of undress. Ethan didn’t recognize the horse, but it sure was in a lather.

Joseph, his oldest son, detached himself from the group of hands and met him halfway to the house.

“What’s the commotion?” asked Ethan.

“Charlie. He’s been arrested for murder.”

Ethan gritted his teeth and stared off into the distance, thinking *damn that boy.*

Ethan looked back at Joe. Joe continued, “He shot a man in a saloon in Grantham about three hours ago.”

“You let him go to town?”

Joe, a serious young man, saddle-wise and hard as a coffin nail, said, “He’s a grown man.”

A grown man, thought Ethan. Grown maybe, Charlie was forever a boy, and forever getting in trouble. “Who brought the news?”

“Mayhew.”

“He one of ours?”

“Rode with us for a couple of seasons, now breaks horses for Dumont.”

“Hate to see a good hand go to town,” said Ethan, saying the word ‘town’ like a curse.

“He came to be a friend to Charlie and us.”

“I know.” Ethan nodded once, making up his mind. “Pay him something, feed him and we ride in the morning.”

“You and me?”

“Everyone.”

“Everyone?”

“What else are we gonna do? Hire a lawyer?” Ethan said in a loud voice and the hands noticed and stepped closer to hear what their boss would do.

“That’s a start. He’s gonna stand trial,’ said Joe.

“We don’t know what Charlie did. And maybe he did gun somebody down. I’ll tell you what I do know. Right now Dumont and the rest of those parasites from back east are trying to figure out how they can use Charlie’s scrape to cause us pain. And sure, they’ll call it justice. But they’ll use it for everything else. For profit, for revenge, for enjoyment. ‘Cause what they want is our land. They want to take these wide-open spaces and the sky at night. They want to fence it in and charge rent for it. Ruin it by digging holes in it looking for silver.

“I’m not arguing with you, sir,” said Joe, “but the town’s got laws.”

“They don’t get to come here on my land and speak the law to me. Just like they don’t get to come here and take our cattle.” Ethan turned and paced in front of all of the men, raising his voice to address the crowd.

“Tomorrow, I’m gonna ride into town, collect my boy just like I’d collect any other wayward steer. Now I’m not telling any man to come with me. Could be this turns to a disagreement of a more hostile nature. I mean, not if they’re smart, ‘cause there’s only the sheriff and that dipshit Deputy between us and our boy.

“And I’m not gonna lie to you, Charlie ain’t no angel. Hell, after his poor mother passed, I practical let these bunkhouses raise him until he could ride a horse. So you know what he is what is capable of. Hell, you boys taught him.”

A chuckle went through the crowd. It was a rough, unlikely bunch of Uncles, but they were Uncles all the same. Ethan had spoken the truth and it had kicked many of his men like a horse. That was one of the secrets of these wild, often broken men called cowboys. They had no families of their own. No place else to go. If you gave them a place to be, a tribe of their own, they could be the most loyal men on earth.

“He’s our son, boys, for better and for worse. And if he’s done wrong we will deal with him. A trial by of a jury of his peers, cause a ranchin’ man don’t have no equal anywhere but the ranch.

“So turn in if you want to come with me. I ride at dawn to bring Charlie home.”

A ragged cheer went up. And Ethan waved them down, turning away so they wouldn’t see the emotion that came to his eye.

Joe caught up with him on the porch. “Pa, you know I’m coming with you, goes without saying…”

“It goes without saying."

"then why do you have to say it?”

Joseph looked hard at this, but before he could speak to the wrong of his father’s words Ethan said, “It’s a bad idea. That what you say?”

“Going up against the law…” Joe shook his head, “Sheriff Dance is honest, but the Judge is reasonable for sure. We get Charlie out with lawyers and a bribe. This way seems like a lotta risk for…”

“For Charlie. It’s okay, boy you can say it. I love him, but I don’t like him any more than you do.”

Joseph hung his head in shame.

“He ain’t much good, and that’s the fact of it. A constant thorn in my side since he was born. And if I didn’t think your dead mother was watching over us from heaven…”

“You’d do what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe this whole thing is my fault. I was too soft on him after your mother died. Should’ve spent more time with him. But that doesn’t matter.”

“Pa, I can handle this without any trouble.”

“If you’re wrong, he hangs. And hell, maybe deserves it.” Ethan kicked at a loose board on the porch. “He gets a fair trial, maybe hangs for what he done. But that’s not the point. They stole from us. Same as if they came and rustled a calf.

“That’s nothing you negotiate about. Politicking is just another kind of rustling. It’s just another way to take what belongs to somebody else. And if you let somebody steal from you once...”

Joseph finished the thought “You teach them it’s okay to steal from you all the time.”

“They're after our land. Your birthright. They’re just using your brother to get it.”

True to his word Burdock was up before dawn. His old bones creaked and popped as he shuffled around the room collecting his things. By the time he came downstairs Lupita had lit the fire in the cookstove and had coffee on. He took a sip of coffee and sighed. Then he said, “Pretty soon it’s gonna be just you and me rattling around this old house, Lupita.”

She didn’t look him in the eye when she asked “¿Vas a volver con Charlie?”

He said, “Si, Senora,” in no kind of Mexican accent. Then he asked, “Where’s Joe?”

“Durmiendo,”

He said, “Well, wake him up,” but he said it gently. Then he took his coffee and his coat and stepped outside.

The lights in the bunkhouse on the left were clearly lit. That was a good sign, but when he looked over to the other bunkhouse, he saw nothing but darkness. Damn that Prescott and the rest o…

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit patrickemclean.substack.com

Just catching up? Here’s the story so far in ebook and audiobook format

If you’re already on board, take a minute to leave a review on Part I on Amazon.

—

Sheriff John Dance hadn’t slept much. When the night started, they didn’t have any customers, so he sat outside on the porch waiting for the heat to die down. About eleven he took a quick turn around the town. There were few drunks, but everything was quiet enough. Those goddamn cowboys from Burdock’s place weren’t in town, so nobody was expecting trouble.

He thought it was safe to go to bed. So he kicked the dust over to the Cavalier, Grantham’s third-finest rooming house, and had just about closed his eyes when Speedy Pete had come a-hammering on his door. Pete was out of breath and that was a bad sign. Speedy Pete’s nickname was ironical in nature, and he wasn’t one for hurry.

Turns out Dance had been wrong about Burdock’s boys. Well the worst of them at least. Earlier in the evening, the youngest son, Charlie Burdock, had installed himself at Saloon #3. What the name of the establishment lacked in originality it made up for in accuracy, being the third saloon built on the spot. The first one had been blown over and the second had burned down. Dance didn’t want to speculate about what Act of God or gross negligence would result in Grantham receiving saloon number #4.

He sent Pete in through the front and had him pretend to be staggering drunk. Pete was all but worthless in a fight, what with speed being of the essence, and smarts of a bonus. But Pete did have the virtue of being so non-threatening that he was liked by everybody. He was sort of the mascot of Grantham. Which came in handy.

Dance slid in through the back and found the place empty but for Charlie, Pete, a dead man on the floor, and Oscar, bartender and unlucky owner of saloons one through three. Old Oscar’s eyes went wide and he almost gave the play away.

Charlie didn’t notice. He was loaded to the gills and regaling Pete with the story of how the dead man got that way.

Spit flew from Charlie’s mouth as he said, “And Pete, hand to God, he went for his pistol and… well, I HAD to shoot him. You wouldn’t arrest a man for defended hisself would you?”

“No sir,” said Pete nice and slow, “that sure enough… ain’t no crime… that I know of.”

Charlie slammed his palm on the counter and turned to Oscar Brace behind the bar.” See, Oscar — I told you. I TOLD YOU! Was self-defense, the law even says so!” Charlie said, putting a swerve on the word ‘says’.

It was a convincing performance. Hell, even Dance wanted to believe him. Except for one problem. The poor b*****d on the floor wasn’t heeled. No evidence of a gun whatsoever. In fact, from what Dance could see, the rough lookin’ Polack on the floor had a surprised look on his face. Hell of a way to go. Dance hoped he’d live at least long enough to see Saloon #5.

He eased his pistol out of the holster and carefully pointed it at the back of Charlie Burdock’s head. He put his thumb on the hammer but didn’t cock it, wary of the click.

Dance stepped forward as quietly as he could. Part of him hoped Charlie Burdock would spin and try for his gun. He wouldn’t feel bad about putting this man down. Hell, he wondered if he shouldn’t just let fly now. He had done worse to better for less. But the damnable thing was, Dance liked Charlie. Hell, everybody did. Even if he weren’t no damn good.

Another step. Charlie poured Pete a drink from his own bottle.

Maybe he didn’t shoot because he knew that Pete would be flat rattled and never trust him again. And poor Oscar would be cleaning blood and brains off the bottles behind the bar. But it wouldn’t be the first bullet hole in the mirror behind the bar.

Another step. Speedy Pete threw his drink back and looked to Dance as he brought his head down. Dance shook his head, *not yet.*

It’d be better for the Sheriff’s office, in general, to have it done with right here, that was sure. Take Charlie in, he’d have to hold him until the Marshall came to fetch him. Three days at least, maybe a week. And Burdock was going to come for his boy. And he’s got thirty-some-odd hands at the Bar-D and the money to hire more. Most of whom feel a special attachment to Charlie.

He took another step, this one over the dead man’s leg. Pete was slapping Charlie on the shoulder, they were both laughing about now. Oscar found a reason to head to the other end of the bar.

All-in-all, it might also be better for Charlie if Dance had gunned him down. Likable though he may be, it was hard for Dance to see how there could be a happy ending for him. He’s a poor citizen and he’d make an even worse outlaw. Dance knew something about both.

All Charlie’s good for is spending money and making trouble for his father. And everybody knows it, including Charlie. But the thing of it is, he’s a *good-time* Charlie. Everybody likes him. Including Dance.

So Dance took one final step and brought the butt of the pistol down on Charlie’s head. Charlie slumped over the bar, then slid onto the floor. Sheriff Dance said, “You’re under arrest.”

He had looked down at Charlie. And thought he didn’t look like a peaceful sleeper. He had an ugly, sorta pushed-in face. Like somebody had let a horse kick him when he was a baby.

Dance took a swig from the bottle on the bar and said, “Deputy, let’s get him to the jail.”

Pete heaved Charlie Burdock over his shoulder and off they went. Pete wasn’t fast and he wasn’t smart, but he was loyal and strong and that was enough for Sheriff Dance.

They put Charlie in one of the cells, then Pete and Dance took the other one and tried to sleep. Charlie snored so loud Dance almost changed his mind, got up and shot him in the middle of the night.

When he saw rosy-fingered dawn poking around the windows, Dance climbed down from the bunk, went out into the office and rolled himself a cigarette more from feel than sight. He lit it with a match but left the oil lamp on his desk dark.

With the cherry of his cigarette bobbing in the half-light, he threw a couple of logs into the stove on top of the coals leftover from the night before. He belted his pistol on and stepped outside, happy to leave Charlie’s snoring and his liquor-sweat smell behind.

Outside, Johnson’s Livery Stable was still across the street but was somehow obscured and shifting, as if it had become a ghost ship of a stable. The air was thick, filled with moisture. He exhaled cigarette smoke and it hung together almost like it had mass. Like... fog.

By God, it was FOG he was seeing!

There was no fog in this part of the Territories. Hell, Grantham barely ever even saw rain. The closest they came to water was when the wash at the other end of town formed a trickle in the spring as the snow melted somewhere on the far off-mountains.

He turned his head to the right and looked down Main Street and gasped. He stood there, mouth open with a confused look on his face. He couldn’t make sense of what he saw. At first, he thought it might have been a mirage, but it wasn’t hot. The sun was barely up. He waited for his brain and his eyes to come to some kind of agreement about what he saw and what it actually was, but it didn’t come. So he stood there as the sun came up, watching it distrustfully and hoping that the full light of day show him what was real.

What Dance had expected to see on the other end of town was the road to Bisbee cutting through a collection of dusty rocks and creosote bushes. But instead, the road stopped at full river. A river at least 300 yards across and God knew how deep. A river that didn’t look fordable, or even swimmable. And on the other side, a lush, green grassland dotted with trees likes of which he had never seen before. This was a totally different terrain, a different climate than what had been there when he’d gone to sleep the night before.

He started at it until the cigarette burned down between his fingers. With a curse, he threw the wad of burning paper and tobacco into the street.

Speedy Pete stumbled out onto t…

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit patrickemclean.substack.com

The Apache rode until sunset. Then they rode until sunrise. They felt the wind through their hair and the horses pounding the earth, but all they heard was *the song*.

In the beginning, they had thought Goyaate had sung the song and they had only kept pace with it. Then they opened their throats and came to believe that they too sang the song. But after many hours, when exhaustion had stripped away all illusion, they realized that the song was singing all of them, and they were carried by the magic of it, out of themselves, across the land, without hunger, thirst, or fatigue.

They came to the middle of the emptiness where the color had leached away from the grass and the wind had forgotten its name. There in the center was nothing. And in the center of nothing was No One.

No One saw Goyaate and jumped with the surprise of seeing something in the emptiness. Then he remembered being human and raised his hand in greeting. The men and the horses fell exhausted and into a deep, dreamless sleep. All but Goyaate. He approached No One and sat with him by the fire that No One did not have. Goyaate told No One of all the things that the Apache did not have. Lands of their own, horses, great herds of beef. He spoke of the loved ones who had been murdered by the white man, and the children who had not been born because there had been no mothers to bear them. He spoke of the stories that had not been told and the laughter that had not been laughed. And with each of these things that weren’t No One nodded in understanding.

And when he was done listing the things that had been taken, the things that had been lost, and the things that would never be, Goyaate named Hope and he named The Future. No One looked away, because Goyaate had listed all of the things the Apache did not have and there was only nothing left to say.

Only then in that empty place did the mighty Goyaate dare to speak of the thing he had a vision of — of peering through a hole in the nothing that led to another world. One where the white man could not follow and would never come. He said that, if it existed, then No One must surely know about it. And if there was a place for an emptiness that contained another world then surely it would be here.

No One smiled and shook his head slowly. No One knew of such a hole. He told Goyaate of the dangers of such a passage. Of how it could be like one of the lines that the white man used to catch fish from the water. A hook dangling on the end, hidden by bait, floating its way through Goyaate’s dreams. No One could know for sure that it was a trap, but he knew that such a passage across the borders between worlds couldn't be opened just from one side. Someone was calling to this world and even with greatest of visions and the strongest of magics it would be dangerous to answer.

Goyaate laughed bitterly and said, "dying there can only be as bad as dying here.

No One said nothing. Then he said one thing. From that one thing Goyaate was able to understand how the ceremony was to be performed and where and how he might find the place for such a rite.

Goyaate smiled and said, “That is strange, I…"

No One asked him to finish his sentence.

"It is easier than I thought."

"Most things are when you know how."

Goyaate nodded and turned and looked at his men and their horses, lying on the ground as if dead. No One said, “You have come a long way, you should rest." Then No One touched Goyaate on the shoulder and the emptiness rose up within him and fell into a deep sleep.

Who could say how long they slept, or if time even passed in that lack of a place. But after what seemed like a long time, the creatures rose from their slumber. Man and horse alike were amazed to find that they were not thirsty or hungry or even sore after the ride.

When several of them started wondering from where they might find something to make a fire, Goyaate said, “We should not waste this gift." Then he mounted his horse and rode on.

The next day, Goyaate’s magic deserted him. Fatigue fell on the men and horses as if all the miles they had traveled had been saved up for them until now. No man would stay stop, but in their hearts, they longed for rest. Soon they thought, one of the horses would drop dead and they would be forced to stop.

They finally came to a place they recognized. Off to the right was the Gila forest and in front of them were the Chiricahua mountains and a place called Apache Spring where most of them had once surrendered. Red Sleeve, the oldest and the worst for wear among all of them, spurred his tired horse next to Goyaate. The War Chief looked not at his men, but only had eyes for the horizon. Before Red Sleeve could speak, Goyaate said, “We will rest here until nightfall. Then we will ride on by the light of the moon. We are in the death grounds and there will be no more rest after this.

That night they entered the mountains When the way became steep, they dismounted and led the animals. The horses were sure of foot but the Apache wanted no chance of dislodging a rock and having its rattle down the mountainside, betray them to distant scouts.

Goyaate was certain that Fort Bowie knew nothing of their escape from the Fort Sill reservation. What scout could ride faster than they had ridden, hypnotized by the sacred trance of War? But he was mistaken. The telegraph was faster than any trance.

At first light, they were spotted by scouts from the garrison at Fort Bowie. They heard a bugle echoing throughout the mountains and knew that the fight was coming to them. Now they made brave noises, speaking boastful words they hoped would distract them from fear.

Among the chatter, Red Sleeve spoke the truth of his heart to Goaayte. “I do not want to be twice defeated in the same place." Goyaate looked up sharply as one whose mind was far away, thinking of something else. He shook his head and said, “We will not be defeated. Our place is further on. You will see."

And they rode on.

Goyaate put out no scouts and made no effort to hide their tracks in the Apache way. He just rode. This time there was no song. No surge of hope and possibility. They rode through the mountains driven by the threat of the cavalry behind them.

A dark muttering went through the men. Perhaps Goyaate had spent the last of his power back on the plain and now they followed an old man to their deaths.

It did not matter. There was nowhere else to go. The trail they were on took but one path through the mountains. A few young strong Braves might climb the cliffs here, hold off the army with rifles for hours, maybe days in this narrow pass. But they had no young strong Braves anymore.

They came out from the cliffs. And in front of them opened up all of the Arizona territory. From this height, it seemed that they could see all the way to Mexico. There was nowhere to run. And nowhere to hide.

"We should turn and fight," said one of the men more from fear than from thirst for blood.

"This would be a stupid death," muttered another.

Red Sleeve said, “What say you War Chief?"

But Goyaate did not answer.

"We should fight them in the narrow place, back there, better odds that way,” said Red Sleeve.

A pistol shot sounded from the right. There, a scout, atop the ridge. The scout fired his pistol into the air again and again in excitement. He could see the outcome. Any man could see they had nowhere to run. All eyes turned to Goyaate. What was the great War Chief’s plan? He opened his mouth, and all were eager for the order, but what came out was a noise that was so like a sob, no one knew what to do. Was the War Chief crying?

The sound from Goyaate’s throat did not stop. He sang it on the exhale and he sang it on the inhale. The men all looked to Red Sleeve and he moved to speak to Goyaate once again. To tell him what they all felt in their hearts. That this death would be enough. Here would trap the cavalry in the pass. Here they would sell their lives dearly. He opened his mouth to tell his old friend that this was a good day to die.

But when …

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit patrickemclean.substack.com

The saloon was a shoddy-looking two story box of building, made from unfinished boards that had not fared well in the desert sun. Above the awning was a sign, painted directly on the wood that read, “Morning Star Saloon. Jethro Earp, Proprietor.” Jethro was happy to tell all the patrons that he was related to the famous law man and saloon-keeper with whom he shared a last name, but in point of fact, Earp was not his real last name. Nor was Jethro his real first name. But other than that, he was a reasonably honest man for a saloon-keeper.

In his travels, Archie had become familiar with uniquely American institution of saloons. But the Morning Star was something unexpected. While no expense had been wasted on the outside of the building, the inside was lavishly decorated. And open two stories to the rafters. Around the top of the room were what appeared to be opera boxes, most with curtains drawn and some with painted ladies hanging over the rail. A heavy red-faced girl with strawberry blonde hair, called out to Archie and waved, and the others joined in.

Archie didn’t know how to take this, so he looked down at the floor. It was unfinished planks heavily stained with tobacco juice around the spittoons and here and there with what could be liquor or just as easily blood.

The saloon was crowded, and a large man in a fancy suit was addressing patrons who were not otherwise occupied playing faro or poker or in one case, sleeping on the floor.

“And you may well ask how I survived the the onslaught of those unspeakable savages and subsequent crash, to find myself alive here among you, my fellow men of the West, no worse for wear. And friends, I have an explanation.”

“You was jes’ lucky!” called out a tired miner, who was leaning against the bar to avoid falling down.

“Lucky I am, indeed, my good man. Indeed, some say blessed! But not in matters relating to highwaymen of any race, breed or nationality. No sir, I was fortunate to have made the acquaintance of a true genius of our age, the modern Hippocrates, to whom the secrets of the ages are known. Dr. Amadeus Bartoleermeer the 2nd who has rediscovered the sacred well-spring of Pancea for our troubled modern age…” and here he produced a small bottle of patent medicine from his jacket pocket, “A marvelous elixir, which restored me from my broken state to the hale and hearty creature you see before you.”

“Did it give you all them extra words,” cried a voice from the back.

A sweet whisper in Archie’s ear said, “Don’t believe a word of it. I was on that stage and I am perfectly fine.”

Archie turned and saw a lovely woman dressed in nothing more than a corset and petticoat. She smiled hungrily and said, “I escaped with nothing more than a bruise on my leg. Would you like to see it?”

Archie was flustered by this and, at a loss, blurted out, “Archimedes Croryton, at your service.”

“There’s a thought,” she said, “why don’t you come upstairs with me, Mr. Croryton.”

“I… uh… You are very forward aren’t you. Miss?”

“Alice, just Alice,” she said, wrapping her arms around him. “But if you want, you can call me yours.”

Archie looked around desperately, not sure what to do. From across the room, Archie saw MacAllister plowing through the crowd towards him. Grinning from ear-to-ear, he clapped Archie on the shoulder and said, “They’ve only Irish whiskey in this godforsaken place, but I’ll buy you one anyway.” He tipped his hat at Alice, “Ma’am.”

As they bellied up to the bar, Jethro dragged Dr. Krupp out by his ear. Not to be silenced by this rough treatment, the good Doctor bellowed, “Look for my wagon! Discounts for quantities! Perfect for hangovers…” Jethro hurled him through the door of the saloon and he was heard no more.

Archie watched Alice lead another man up the stairs and said, “Are they all so… mercenary here?”

MacAllister laughed heartily and said, “She’s in the business making money, lad. And business is good.”

“The mercantile finds it’s way into everything in America, doesn’t it?”

MacAllister said, “Are ye not getting paid?”

“Well, of course, but.”

“Then there’s your answer!”

They toasted and drank. It was awful stuff, really, but after a long and dusty ride and even in spite of the strange, paranoid reception of Monsieur DuMont, Archie found himself excited to be on an adventure. Even if nothing came of it. Even if, in the end, broken and penniless, he was forced to go crawling back to — best not to think of it — at least he would have seen something of the world. And besides, there were fortunes to be made here in the West. And with a fortune would come the power required to spit in his brother Reginald’s eye. They tossed back another whiskey and Archie’s spirits rose even more.

And then he turned and saw Jane Siskin at the entrance. Gone were the rough leathers of her traveling garb and battered gray hat. She wore a simple blue dress, and her hair was down, still damp from the bath, but already winding with natural curls.

In spite of himself, Archie said, “My word, she’s… quite…”

MacAllister leaned and said, “Ye may be a Prince where you’re from, yer excellency. But lad, she’s a Queen in this land. Mule Queen, but a Queen nonetheless.” Then MacAllister walked into the back. Archie called after him, “I’m not a bloody Prince!”

From over his shoulder, he heard Jane said, “You *are* a prince. I knew it!”

The bartender slid a glass and a bottle of light brown liqour across the bar to Jane and she raised the empty glass in salute. Archie thought her smile was the prettiest thing he’d seen in months. What a transformation had come over this hard-driving woman.

As Jane poured, Archie protested, “I told you am a second son, exactly nothing. Usually someone in my position has power, influence and employment – and is a man, in some measure to be reckoned with, but I have been disowned, for you see, my brother hates me.”

“What did you do to him?”

“Nothing that brothers have not been doing to brothers since the dawn of time. It was our father, you see. He loved me best. And he never let my brother forget it. To be sure, he wasn’t as bright or as diligent as I, but that was no cause for such abuse. I cannot imagine what my father was thinking, or how he thought it might turn out when he was gone. Perhaps he thought he would live forever.”

“That’s not a thought much entertained in this part of the world.”

“I would imagine not. Have you dispatched a team to recover my freight?”

“Sir, despite the best of intentions, I am unable to do so, said Jane suddenly becoming formal.

Archie grew stiff. “What do you mean?”

“My men, such as they are,” she said as swept her hand around indicating the general debauchery in which Archie recognized some of the Teamsters from the journey into town. At least one was catatonic, several others weren’t far off. MacAllister was now engaged in an arm-wrestling contest in the corner around which men were gambling and shouting. Another teamster was sitting next to the piano, singing along as loud as he could with a song he didn’t know the words to. Another two of the teamsters, followed proxy-looking women upstairs to the boxes.

Archie frowned. Jane snagged an empty, if not exactly clean, glass from the bar and poured him a shot of the light brown liquor she was drinking.” Come on my sweet prince, let your hair down from that funny hat a yours and relax a little. Your hunk of metal will still be there in the morning.”

Archie drank the shot and winced. “Good Lord, what is that?”

“Tequila. Mexicans make it from a cactus I hear tell.”

“Yes, that would explain the spiky taste.”

“See,” said Jane, slapping him on the shoulder and pouring him another, “I knew you was all right. Settle in and let’s get down to making bad choices with the rest of this night.”

In the back of the room, MacAllister slammed his opponent’s fist on the table and cheers erupted.

Archie paused a moment, considering his situation with a sad smile. Then, resolved, he picked his pith helmet up off the bar and said, “Sadly, Mademoiselle, my day is not done, so…

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit patrickemclean.substack.com

Virgil got into Bisbee late in the afternoon. Outside of Fetterman’s a drunk cowboy was staggering around the street running his mouth at passer-bys. He was young, dumb and mostly harmless, with spurs set low so they would jingle to announce his swagger. From time to time, his friends would hand him a liquor bottle and egg him on to greater stupidity.

Virgil didn’t like him, mostly because he was jealous of carefree youth. He was sure whatever ranch or cattle drive this cowboy had been on had been hard. He was even willing to believe that this kid was brave and diligent on the job. But Virgil had never had a chance to be that young and foolish; to drink without care. If he had let his guard down when he was that age, he wouldn’t have gotten any older.

“And he’s right to walk away,” the young cowboy barked as a scared man in a town suit skittered away from him. The Young Buck strutted in the street in front of the ramshackle bar across the street way Fetterman’s.“Few men, and none in these parts, can tangle with the likes of me without regretting it.” He wheeled and stared at Virgil, “Ain’t that right, mister?”

He gave the Young Buck a tight smile and said what the kid wanted to hear, “When I see you coming, sir, I step aside.” Virgil made a show of stepping out of the Young Buck’s gaze. The kid turned his head to follow Virgil, staggered a little and recovered.

“See, Bill? Man’s got good sense,” said the Young Buck. And by the time the kid turned back, Virgil was already in Fetterman’s. As the door closed behind him he heard Bill say, “Don’t you get it kid? He’s toying with you.”

Ezra Fetterman looked up from behind his desk of fat pine boards on a trestle stand. “Virgil Miller! Well sir, what can I do for you?”

“Release the seven tons of flour you owe me and I’ll be on my way.”

“About that…”

“Fetterman, they were due at my store two weeks ago.”

“Well sir,” said Fetterman, pulling on the bottom of his vest, “As my note made clear, there has been an increase in price since last we conferred. And I’ll be needin’ more for that flour.”

“Mr. Fetterman, we have a contract. So many tons of flour at such a price, and I expect you to honor it.”

“Well, of course, Virgil,” said Ezra, “I wouldn’t dream of breaking a contract with you. You just show me where it’s written and I’ll honor it.”

It had been a handshake agreement. Up ’til now Virgil thought a handshake was good with this man. He thought about pistol-whipping the man and taking what was his. But he didn’t need trouble. What he needed was flour.

Fetterman saw the dark look on his face, and started speaking quickly, “We had a contract, yes. But the market broke it. Douglas is booming. Yes sir, just booming. They got hungry miners there too. And the Phelps-Dodge company has outbid you.”

“I thought I had your word.”

Ezra smiled and flinched like a hand shy dog. “I’m sorry. I don’t control the prices. It’ll be weeks before we could bring this before a judge. Be my word against yours. I expect you need flour to sell now, so seems to me best thing for you to do is pay the overage and be done with it.”

“What’s this overage?” Virgil asked through his teeth.

“Well on 5 1/2 tons of flour –“

“Seven. The contract was for seven.”

“Now, Virgil, just calm down. All I got is 5 1/2 tons and that the God’s honest truth. I see you looking at me like that, and I wish I’d done things different. But I didn’t, and I’m sorry, and that’s that.”

Through a red haze, Virgil saw the faces of the men he had killed earlier in the day. How many years had it been since the last time? He didn’t like to think of it. Who was the last man he killed before those “Indians?” Crawford? No. He had killed more since him. But he was the last one who had meant something.

It scared him how easy it had been to kill those men. He would have thought that skill would have gotten rusty. But it hadn’t. Mostly nerve, he guessed. For all their bluster, most men were afeard of killing, deep down. With Virgil, it hadn’t made a dent. He was ashamed to have enjoyed it. Not with the cruel satisfaction of a sadist or a murderer, but with the quiet satisfaction that comes from a job well-done.

He remembered a time when he would have gunned this Fetterman down for less than this. Then taken all he could carry of the man’s property and left the building in flames behind him. But that had been back East. Where there were trees to hide in and mountains to escape to. Where he knew the secret ways and the safe places like the back of his hand. Most of all there had been water.

He thought about where he could run. Where there would be water and safe haven here in the desert. Mexico maybe.

“Virgil,” said Fetterman, with fear in his eyes, “Are you okay?”

“Some trouble on the road,” said Virgil. Then he thought of Laura and Mack and Penelope. If he went to Mexico, there’d be no going back home to them. They’d be ashamed to know their father was a murderer. And when he’d married and come West, he’d promised Laura and himself that he’d put all behind him.

Virgil buried his rage, swallowed his pride, and paid Fetterman what he asked. When the transaction was complete, Fetterman said, “Thank you very much. We’ll see you next time.”

“I expect not,” said Virgil.

He walked through Fetterman’s warehouse to the back lot where he had parked his wagon. He found the bags of flour stacked in the middle of the room. As he threw the first bag over his shoulder, one of the stock boys said, “You’re not pullin’ out tonight are you?”

Virgil carried the flour to his wagon without answering. The stock boy fell in and the wagon filled quickly. Still, by the time they were done, it was almost dark and Virgil was ready to be gone. As he heaved the last bag into the wagon, he heard a voice say, “Well there he is!”

Framed in the alleyway was Young Buck and Bill, drunker than before. The Young Buck kicked his boots so his spurs would jangle extra loud as he came down the alley.

This was trouble Virgil didn’t need. He ignored the kid and cinched the canvas cover tight over his wagon bed.

“Mister! I’m talking to you!”

Virgil turned to get onto the wagon, but the kid blocked his path and jammed a finger into his chest. “My friend over there says you’re making fun of me,” slurred the kid, reeking of liquor, “And I said that can’t be because there’s no man in this town foolish enough to make fun of me to my face.”

“I’m not making fun of you, sir. I’m just about my business,” Virgil said. Then tried to step around the Young Buck, but the kid was having none of it. He staggered to the side and blocked Virgil’s path.

Virgil said, “I’m taking that flour to the hungry people of Grantham, that’s all.”

“Who, you hear that Bill? He’s haulin’ flour! What are you some kind of Baker?”

“I keep a store,” said Virgil, seeing Penelope’s face from that morning as she had bounded out of the back of the wagon. He’d be no good to his family in jail. Best to take the abuse, he told himself, not quite believing it. He shook as he tried to contain his pride and his rage, and the anger at Fetterman came rushing back, this time twice as hot.

“Look at that Bill, he’s terrified!” said the Young Buck in mock concern. “It’s okay shopkeep. I never do you no harm. But let me show you what a daisy like me can do when I get riled.” The kid put his hand on his pistol and then Virgil moved fast. He stepped forward and grabbed the kid’s wrist before he could clear the pistol from his holster. Virgil slammed his forehead into the kid’s nose and the Young Buck cried out in pain as blood gushed down his chin.

Virgil jerked the kid’s gun hand, spinning the Young Buck around 180 degrees and pointing the firearm down the alley at his friend Bill. Virgil slammed his palm into the back of Young Buck’s hand, folding the kid’s wrist over on itself and causing his fingers to pop open and release the gun. In one smooth motion, Virgil seized the gun, pointed it at Bill and cocked the trigger, still holding the kid by his wrist with his left hand.

It had all happened so fast …

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit patrickemclean.substack.com

I wrote this essay 12 years ago. And there are a lot of things that I used to believe that I don’t believe anymore. But the substance of this essay has become more and more true for me with each passing year. Longhand has become the most productive way for me to write. And in the increasing noise and hysteria of our digital age, it has become, for me, a blessing.

Once again I find myself about 50,000 words into a substantial work. And now more than ever, I feel that my best drafts are written with a pen and paper. So here it is again, my Defense of Writing Longhand.

I like technology. A lot. But I'm not too sure how technology feels about me. It may be my faithful friend and boon companion — then again, it may just be pretending to be my friend so it can date my sister. Especially when it comes to writing.

I'm writing a book. And for all the romance and immensity that phrase can contain, writing a book is also simply a production process. I am in the process of assembling 75,000 to 100,000 words. And, after writing 50,000 of them, I've become convinced that the first draft is the hardest part. Hemingway famously said that the first draft of everything is s**t. For what it's worth, I agree. So, my question, becomes: What's the easiest way to get through the hardest part.

And to my surprise, the easiest way turns out to be writing longhand. Not printing, mind you, but composing with a long, flowing, and delightfully irregular script that fills the page like a river of words. I sit down with a pen and a piece of paper and a thousand words roll out in a flash. And not only does it often take less time than typing, I think I write better longhand.

Now realize, I am not a hunt and peck typist. I type very fast. And when I type on one of those thin little laptop keyboards that have about 3 millimeters of travel, my typing speed approaches the absurd—like Glenn Gould, the wonderfully talented and eccentric pianist who remanufactured his piano, shortening the action on his keys so that he could play Bach faster. Beautiful, yet a little insane.

But there is obviously more to writing than typing. What I'm really doing is composing. Composition requires focus. It is, like most acts of creation, monotasking. And as much as I love technology, it drives us to distraction.

A pen and paper has but one functionality. It captures the marks I make so that they can be referred to at a later time. It doesn't ring, it doesn't bother me with an incoming chat or IM. It never asks me to plug it in so it can get more power. It doesn't crash, it never needs an upgrade, and it is unlikely that someone will snatch my pad and bolt from a coffee shop with it when I turn my back.

Sure paper is perishable. But it is predictably perishable. Data turns to noise in all kinds of unpredictable ways. Like hard drive crashes. And if an IT person tells you that there is a way to archive a digital file, not touch it for 500 years, and guarantee that it will remain usable—that person is lying to you. If you think I'm wrong, I'll email you some WordStar and AppleWorks documents just as soon as I can figure out how to get them off my five and a quarter inch floppies.

But I can go the National Archives right now and read a copy of the Magna Carta that was handwritten 793 years ago. No format or version issues here. (It's fitting for this essay that Magna Carta literally means "Great Paper".)

But, to paraphrase Emerson, all of this is small account compared to what lies within us. And that is the struggle to organize and communicate our thoughts clearly with the beautiful, yet horribly imprecise instrument of language. And it is in this struggle, I believe, that the beauty and power of writing longhand is discovered.

In a way, the problem with writing is the same problem of hitting a golf ball. Both the page and the ball just sit there. And when you write you have (theoretically) a lifetime to rewrite it until you get it right.

But all that time is simply a field day for the critical part of your brain. Just the time it needs to jump in and muck everything up. This part of the brain needs something to criticize. After all, that's its job. But the critical function is not creative. Be critical about anything. No matter how absurd you are being, you will find ammo to support you. Try running Hamlet through a Microsoft Grammar check. Try running Hamlet and leaving all the scenes in.

The point is, there's no possible way to get it right if you don't first get it down. And as much as I know this—I mean know it in my bones, as a carpenter knows his measuring tape—it still doesn't help.The critical part of my brain is telling me, right now, that this sentence is horrible. That the entire device of anthropomorphizing the critcal side of my nature in this essay is a bad idea. And that I just misspelled critical. And I shouldn't have started two sentences in a row with "and".

But when I write longhand, the experience is different. I think it is because that critical part of my brain is busy picking apart my handwriting (which truly is horrible) instead of my prose. It tells me that my handwriting is atrocious. And it gets the satisfaction of being right. But who cares? While it's busy with that, the words are just rushing out. And they're not henpecked or second-guessed before they've had time to cool. They exist in a flawed, but pure state. This kind of prose has a feral power that seems to be lacking from the things I type. Maybe that's not it; maybe it's just harder to get my head in that effortless writing space when I use a keyboard. But whatever the case is, writing longhand makes it easier for me to reach a writer's high.

And if you're still not sold on the idea that writing longhand might help you write better, consider this: Until the 20th century, books were written by hand. I would argue that the best writing in history was composed by hand. The entire process is much easier now. But, would you like to argue that the increase in the power of our technology has led to a corresponding increase in the quality of our writing? Not me. I'm too busy scribing away.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit patrickemclean.substack.com

Archie rode uphill through the town, towards the elegant, yet out-of-place Victorian house on the hill. When those in the street and on the porches gawked at his unusual appearance he took pleasure in tipping his pith helmet to them.

He passed the Morning Star Saloon on his right, and tucked in behind it, found the mine. Convenient for the miners, thought Archie. And if he knew the breed, he doubted they would have any pay left over after drinking. The mine entrance was sunk into an unusual mound, perhaps thirty-five feet tall. Men were using mules to haul a heavy ore cart from the timber-framed opening in the hill.

Archie decided that his first step would be to survey the composition of the mound. If it was stable enough the engine could be installed on top, otherwise, the earth would have to be removed and a platform constructed. What a magnificent sight it would be if his engine was the tallest thing in town!

300 yards up the hill, he hitched his horse to the wrought iron fence that surrounded Jean DuMont’s house. Wrought iron? Ye gods, what expense in this wasteland.

By the glass in the front door, Archie could see that he was covered with the dust and grime of travel. He removed his helmet and could see a sharp line where the relatively clean skin began. He attempted to brush some of the dirt from his forehead, then realized the foolishness of it. He stood tall and knocked on the door.

His rap on the door was answered with frantic steps. The speed at which someone was approaching confused Archie. It had been a simple knock.

The door swung open quickly and a severe-looking woman in a nurse’s uniform whispered. “Who are you? What are you doing! Don’t you know that the Monsieur isn’t to have visitors?”

Taken aback, Archie asked, “Which one of those would you like me to answer first?”

“None of them. Go away.”

“My name is Archimedes Croryton and at Monsieur DuMont’s request I have spent some $30,000 of his dollars and traveled the better part of 2,500 miles to bring him pumps and an engine to clear his mine of groundwater.”

“The mine? The mine!” She said, “Why didn’t you say so? You must see Mr. Pulaski, the Foreman!” then she started closing the door. Archie placed his boot against the jamb, and said, “I really think he will want to see me.”

“Monsieur is not well!”

From inside the house came an angry bark. “Esther! Who is it?” This was followed by a phlegmy coughing fit.

“Go away,” Esther said, the anger in her eyes now replaced with pleading.

Archie was unmoved. “His letter was quite clear. I am to present myself immediately upon arrival.”

“Who is it!” Came the old voice again. “Is there something wrong at the mine?”

Reluctantly, Esther opened the door, glaring at Archie as he entered. To the right of the door, Jean DuMont was getting up from a chair with some difficulty. He clutched a handkerchief to his mouth and coughed loudly, angrily as if he were yelling at disease itself. But in his manner, he attempted to play it off as if it were nothing.

Archie had heard the rattling death sentence of that cough before. Tuberculosis. With the spirit of a true gentleman, Archie ignored the unpleasant noise, bowed his head and said, “Archimedes Croryton, at your service, sir.”

The older man’s eyes twinkled and his grey face lifted in a smile. He asked “have you brought it? The means to drain my sump of a mine?”

“Indeed sir, I have,” said Archie, and DuMont shook his hand heartily.

DuMont said to Esther, “This is him! The boy wonder that Stevens found in Boston!” Esther shook her head and walked away.

“Nevermind her. She’s professionally nasty. Keeps the riff-raff away. Come, sit. Refresh yourself.”

They talked for the better part of a half an hour. DuMont had real enthusiasm, but he tired quickly, coughing and wheezing as he struggled to breathe. Esther hovered behind the old man, flitting in and out of the room, attending to his needs, but always, always, glaring at Archie. As if her glare alone could drive him from the house.

As Archie sketched a diagram of the pumping mechanism he had designed, DuMont beckoned Esther for his medicine. She decanted him a glass of grain alcohol which had opium poppies floating in it. When he saw Archie’s curious glance he explained, “for my cough.” After he swallowed it, he did breathe easier and coughed less. But his energy quickly deserted him, and he collapsed into his wicker chair by the window.

“You must forgive me, Mr. Croryton. I no longer have the vigor I enjoyed in my youth. I am not well man, but I caution you, my mind is as sharp as ever. And I can see that my agent’s confidence in you was not misplaced.” He rose and went to his desk where he wrote a note, blotted it, and folded it. “Take this to Mr. Pulaski and he will give you everything you need to complete your work. But a word of caution. Trust in him, not a whit. Nor any of those other,” he paused for a coughing fit, “those other jackals in my employ. They are cheating me. Attempting to rob me blind. They think my mind and my eyes have gone because of the weakness in my lungs. But I know. Do you understand, *I know*. And I will have my revenge on all of them in the end.”

Uneasily, Archie said, “I know not what to make of your troubles, sir. But I will build your pumping engine. I will clear your mine. And if I can be of service in any other way…”

DuMont was wracked by a coughing fit, but his eyes never left Archie’s. The stare was an accusation Archie did not quite understand. When he had recovered himself, he said, “Welcome to the Morning Star Mine.”

As Archie exited, DuMont collapsed into his chair and Esther hurried to him with another glass of laudanum, hissing at Archie, “show yourself out.”

~ ~ ~

Beside the Morning Star Mine men were cutting timbers with a horse-powered sawmill. Four teams of horses walked a well-trampled circle around a central spindle. Archie followed the main drive belt as it came off the top of the spindle, then through several transfer spindles across the top of the barely roofed pavilion and then around the smallest wheel. The smallest wheel turned a spindle that led to a cage and peg gear that turned a horizontal shaft. Around that shaft, a circular saw blade now spun with blinding speed. As two men rolled a log onto a cast iron sled, Archie estimated the efficiency and effectiveness of the gearing.

While the blade was turning with great speed, Archie wondered if it had enough torque to get its job done. As the men pushed the carry sled forward, the log touched the blade and sawdust fountained through the air. The word parted easily enough at first, but halfway through the saw bound and the leather belt slipped and screeched hideously against the wooden spindle. The men stopped the horses and heaved against the heavy sled trying to back the log off the blade so that the mill could be restarted.

“You. What want?” Set a voice with an Eastern European accent.

Archie turned to see a man in filthy denim, wearing a mine lamp on his forehead that was still burning. Behind him, men were unloading an ore cart.

“Are you Mr. Pulaski?"

"He's down mine, come back later."

"I rather think you should go fetch him. Mr. DuMont sent me."

“Old snake, what new?”

“A curious term for your employer. I have 30 wagons of equipment due any moment and I need a place to put them.”

“Who are you?”

Archie turned and saw that the men with the sawmill were preparing to make the same mistake with greater vigor. With impatience, he said, “A man who makes improvements. Now, fetch Mister Pulaski while I repair your saw mill.”

With all the command and disdain of someone born to the aristocracy, Archie turned and strode to his work.

He held a hand up to stop the man about to set the horses into motion again. The man looked confused, but Archie offered him no explanation. He handed him his pith helmet as he walked by and the man took it and said nothing.

The men on the sled turned to see why the mill hadn’t restarted and watched Archie walk up and pull a l…

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit patrickemclean.substack.com

Somewhere, out there, a story is searching for you.

It fumbles, faceless through the dark. Unknowable, unformed. Newt pads for hands, it whispers questions in the dreams of people you know.

Is this nascent thing a love story, a family drama, a gritty crime thriller?

It doesn't know yet, so how can we?

At this point, it is not much more than a stubborn collection of related longings.

Unless you are very sensitive (or very wise) you probably don't believe that this ur-story is real because it hasn't happened to you yet.

You are practical and level-headed about such things. Good for you, you think. But you are wrong.

Fiction, my friend, is the realest thing of all.

So real that even when you don't believe in it, it believes in you.

All of the mundane facts of life were once just stories. And EVERYTHING was a crazy idea at first.

From: "Whattyamean? You're going to live on land? Life has always lived in the ocean?"

To: "We could never go to the moon, that's a story for kids!”

And on and on.

Never forget that nations and causes are just stories. And nations and causes have murdered a lot of people.

They take you seriously, ESPECIALLY when you don't take them seriously.

And this story that is searching for you begins with a choice.

It could be a choice to say a thing or leave words unspoken. To move towards or away from or to just stand still.

Doing nothing is still a choice.

Ah look, the story has found you. It crept up on you while you were wasting time on social media.

Here it is to seize your life and make itself real.

Be brave, good luck and don't give up hope at the beginning of the third act. It only looks like all is lost. But if you trust in yourself and what you have learned and let your loved ones help you, you will triumph in the end.

I promise.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit patrickemclean.substack.com

The Swing Station was a pile of mud bricks with a thatched roof on the east side of the Mule Mountains. The windows had no glass, only torn curtains that would flutter in their mud sockets on the rare occasions that there was a breeze. But there was no breeze today, and the Bisbee-Grantham station baked in the sun. Give it another hundred years of days like, thought Miguel, and the Bisbee-Grantham station would turn into a proper brick building.

The only things that separated the building from a ruin were the large corral of strong horses out back and the telegraph line running through the station and on to Grantham.

Miguel’s job as Station Agent was to mind the horses, see that the place had plenty of water, and operate the telegraph. Which meant that most of the time, he sat in the heat of the station waiting for that angry piece of metal to clack to life. All day long, he would listen to it tell tales of coaches traveling up and down the line. Two hours ago it had told him that a stagecoach with four passengers had left Bisbee headed this way. He has spent those two hours staring at the fat flies chasing the smell of the morning’s fried beans. They flew in slow clockwise arcs around the room while Miguel and the mestizo kid who helped with the horses endured the heat. There was a book open next to him on the desk, but in the heat of the day, the thought of turning the pages was ridiculous. It was all he could do to sit at the desk, chin propped in his hand, and breathe through his mouth.

When one of the flies dropped dead on his desk with a fat plop, Miguel nudged the mestizo boy, who was asleep next to the desk. The boy rubbed his face and looked at Miguel. Miguel said, “Sais” and the boy nodded and went outside.

There were twenty-three horses in the corral. The boy cut six out and formed them up into a team, moving the huge animals, and rigging the harness and yoke with ease and skill. When he was done he took the long reins and walked behind the animals as he moved them around to the front of the station. The stage would be here soon, and if it was to keep the schedule, it would need this fresh team of horses.

As the horses stood waiting, the boy walked around with a bag of oats giving each of them a handful in turn. It was a long run from here to Grantham. This was the last station on the line.

Inside, Miguel closed his eyes and drifted somewhere just on this side of consciousness. Even as he dozed, he was aware that something was wrong. The stage should’ve been here by now. He struggled to open his eyes and check his timepiece, but he told himself it didn’t matter. There was nothing he could do about it anyway. If something was wrong, he should be rested for when trouble came.

At the first sound of the far-off stagecoach, his cheek slipped from his palm and his face dropped onto the desk, causing the dead fly to bounce. In a minor miracle, the fly came back to life long enough to buzz off the desk and drop dead on the dirt floor. Miguel jumped bolt upright and rubbed his chin. That sound wasn’t the stage. It was coming from the wrong direction and was two horses at most. He could hear the boards of an empty wagon ringing from the jolts from the road. He walked to the doorway and fought to shove it open against the accumulated dirt.

On the road from Grantham, he saw a man in a broad hat driving an empty wagon. The man waved hello as he pulled into the yard and Miguel waved back. The mestizo boy only had eyes for the horses.

Miguel recognized him as the owner of the Miller general store. What was his name again, Virgil? He remembered Virgil’s pretty wife and son working with him and his even prettier daughter that argued with all the customers with the innocent mayhem of a six-year-old girl.

“Mr. Miller!” said Miguel.

Virgil opened his mouth to return the greeting but just then, they heard the rumble of the stage coming down the hill from Bisbee. The first blast of the horn might have been mistaken for a trick of the wind. But the horn kept sounding and sounding its urgent call.

Everyone stared uphill in anticipation of the stage’s appearance on the road down out of the mountains. The mestizo boy cinched one of the horses tighter. The stage always blew the horn for fresh horses. The boy and the animals were both well-conditioned.

The horn and the clattering of the stagecoach grew louder and louder. Just over the next rise now. Then the boom of a shotgun echoed off the hills. The horses' heads jerked up. Miguel stepped back through the door and grabbed his rifle, cocking it as he re-emerged. “Get inside,” he said to the mestizo boy who hitched the team to the rail and did as he was told.

“Mr. Miller, I do not know what we are about to receive,” Miguel called from the doorway, “but I think you should step inside.”

As Virgil ran to the building, the horn fell silent. The stagecoach burst over the rise with a thunderous clatter. It came down the grade at a hideous speed, lurching wildly, tottering on the left wheels and then the right, in danger of tipping over at any moment. They saw the driver fighting to control the panicked animals, but no one was riding shotgun. Behind the stage were three Mescaleros, ragged–looking, but on fast horses and riding as if they had been born in the saddle.

As the stagecoach roared passed, the driver looked to Miguel with fear-filled eyes, the silent plea of a man who has seen death gaining on him. The Stage hit the flat in front of the station and bounced hard before settling back to earth with a crash.

Miguel put the rifle to his shoulder and fired at one of the Mescalero’s. A miss. Before he could fire again the lead Indian shot the driver from the top of the stage. As the driver’s body pinwheeled into the dust and scrub, the stagecoach hurled, driverless, downhill towards the plain. Miguel fired three more shots out of frustration. None of them had a chance of hitting.

Miguel heard a clatter from the corral and saw Virgil riding after the stagecoach on Miguel’s horse. As Virgil disappeared down the road, Miguel yelled at the boy, “Goddammit, saddle me another horse!”

~ ~ ~

Virgil lashed the horse with the reins, shouting encouragement to the animal as he rode. he hadn’t had much experience with chasing people. In his old life, he had been the one being chased. As he rode through the dust kicked up by the stagecoach, he had time to feel the fool. Of course, a stagecoach getting robbed was bad for all business, general stores included, but stopping robberies was the stage line’s business first, the Law's business second and none of Virgil’s business at all.

But Virgil could do no other. He had seen a glimpse of terrified faces in the window of the out-of-control stage as it roared by. Lost souls if ever he had seen them. His heart had gone out to them. It wouldn’t have happened when he was younger, but now that he had a family, he looked at strangers and instead of seeing threats and opportunities, he saw sons and daughters, fathers and mothers, each a patch in the quilt of humanity.

Them as he used to ride with, would have said he had gone soft, and mark him for a shopkeeper. But that wasn’t true. When he was younger, he had been driven by anger and by fear. Now he was surprised to find he was driven by love. If desperate men were allowed to do this to strangers, one day they might do it to someone he cared about.

Besides, that station agent didn’t stand a chance. Playing with that rifle, wasting shots. A rifle was an honest man’s weapon and no good at a gallop. A man should only fire a shot that had a chance of hitting, especially with a fancy repeating rifle like that. When things went bad, ammo was always scarce. Miguel was a sportsman; a hunter, no killer of men.

The Mescalero’s had pistols, but now there was no one left on the stage for them to shoot. They thought they had won their prize, and just needed to run it to ground.

As Virgil came over the next r…

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit patrickemclean.substack.com