DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "Lonesome Dove: The Outlaw Years" are the creations of Rysher Television, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended. This story is not to be published on any ftp site, newsgroup, mailing list, fanzine or elsewhere without the express permission of the author.
"Maria Bennett," "George Harris," and "Henry Harris" and all original material included in this story are the creations of Darcie Daniels.
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
Well, I did make a vow never to write another cyberep again, and I SWEAR that this is my last effort. I promise!!! I really promise!!!
I wish to thank Linda B. and Debbie M. for helping me edit the Maria stories. Thanks, guys!
I also wish to thank the BYU Chorus for their excellent rendition of "How Can I Keep from Singing," from 1994's "A Thanksgiving of American Hymns." They make me cry every time I hear it. (Catch it on PBS next Thanksgiving. It is a great hour of entertainment.)
Here's a couple words about my other eps:
Ep 1: Maria Bennett, Austin's cousin, comes to town.
Ep 2: Two preachers arrive in CW.
Ep 3: Maria and Mosby's coach gets robbed.
Ep 4: Maria decides to match make for Mosby.
Ep 5: Thanksgiving, 1880.
Ep 6: Christmas, 1880.
Ep 7: Whew. New Years, 1881.
Ep 8: The return of the nefarious white wolf from TS.
AND FINALLY, the END, the FINALE, the season ender:
Setting: Early February.
Curtis Wells, Montana Territory, 1881.
"Gentlemen, place your bets," Mosby said smoothly and confidently as he held in his hands the key to his fortune. It had taken him all night to fleece the Harris brothers out of their claim, and, finally, vast riches were nearly in his grasp. This time there would be no fool like Bantry around to spoil it for him.
His predatory eyes watched as George and Henry Harris tossed their money into the pot.
When it was time to place his bet, Mosby drew a small and almost unnoticeable breath to steady himself.
"I'll see your bet, and raise you - " he paused, counting his money nonchalantly, "four hundred."
Mosby heard the intake of breath from the two brothers. George Harris would give into greed most assuredly, very much like the dumber Grisham brother.
Mosby judged correctly and watched as same scene played out before him yet again. Henry Harris told his brother not to throw in their claim, but George insisted and called Mosby.
Mosby looked toward his door, almost expecting some God- forsaken man to enter, but no one dared. Mosby took the precaution of posting his men at the door for another such occurrence.
"How unfortunate for you," Mosby repeated, smiling as he finally revealed his hand. There was always something to be said of the adage, "What goes around, comes around," Mosby thought ironically.
The Harris brothers stared in disbelief at the cards on the table. Mosby merely gathered up the money and the claim.
"You cheated, you son of a bitch!" George Harris exclaimed, staggering up from the table, reaching for his revolver. Henry Harris was not far behind, ready to defend his brother.
Mosby's men immediately cocked their weapons.
"Now, gentlemen," Mosby smiled with deadly intent, still sitting at the table, "I assure you that you were treated fairly. However, if you wish to press it, you should know that the odds are not in your favor."
Henry and George Harris regarded each other as Mosby's men drew closer to them. Wisely, they lowered their weapons.
George Harris exclaimed, "I'll get you for this, you bastard!"
His brother muttered, motioning towards the door, "Come on. Let's go. It's no use."
Mosby looked up to the ceiling, as if letting God in on the irony, "Amazing. Finally someone with intelligence in this town."
As the brothers left, Mosby gathered up his claim. At last, he had the means to bring the railroad to Curtis Wells, once and for all. No one - not Austin, Amanda, or anyone else - could stop him now.
His men looked at him for dismissal. It had been a long night, Mosby knew. Mosby could feel the soreness in his back even now. He waved them away. The men had completed their task. They should be able to go to sleep, even if Mosby could not. He did, after all, have a town to run.
"Anything else you need, Mr. Mosby?" Zeke asked him before he shut the doors of the Ambrosia.
"No," Mosby sighed in fatigue. "That will be all." As if in afterthought, he added, "Thank you." It was hard for Mosby to trust anyone. Zeke's intelligence was below average, but he always seemed a loyal man.
Zeke shut the doors dutifully as Mosby stood up and stretched his tired muscles, grasping his claim. He placed it immediately in his safe. He did not want to take any chances.
Everything seemed in order.
Somehow, it had been too easy getting that claim. Everything he wanted was nearly in his grasp.
Maybe it had been a little too easy.
Mosby's fingers combed through his hair. Perhaps he should trust his luck.
Being a gambler, Mosby knew that was the last thing he ought to do. Laughing sardonically, Mosby spun the roulette wheel. It was neither chance nor divine providence when the ball landed on 22. Mosby had seen to it that was his number, just as he had carefully fleeced the Harris brothers out of their claim.
No. Everything seemed in order. The railroad would be shortly his.
Mosby was in total control.
He carefully lit his cigar as he leaned in fatigue against the post. It was a brisk February morning. Soon the townspeople would be about, looking to him to settle petty differences and to bring some order to the town. Mosby wanted to enjoy his solitude, if only for a moment. He puffed on his cigar.
Then he heard a click.
He turned his head and saw a staggering George Harris aiming a Colt .45 directly at his chest.
"Give me back our claim, you son of a bitch," George Harris ordered, his voice slightly slurring.
Henry Harris ran from around a corner, looking concerned for his older brother.
"For God's sake, George, put that down," Henry told him desperately. "It ain't gonna do no good to shoot him. All you gonna get is hung. He ain't worth it, I tell you. He ain't worth it."
"Shut up. We are getting back our claim. That bastard stole it from us. He's gonna give it back to us, no matter what I have to do."
Mosby barely had time to calmly exhale his cigar smoke when Henry jumped on his brother, trying to wrestle the gun free. Mosby threw down his cigar and helped Henry disarm his older brother. A shot was fired before the gun was thrown free in the scuffle.
George Harris sobbed in his brother's arms as Mosby picked up the gun and aimed it at the brothers. "I lost it all. I failed you," George Harris cried.
Mosby sighed, lowering the gun. It was too early in the morning to deal with this.
"Get out of here. Both of you," he ordered both of them. He handed Henry Harris the gun. "See to it that your brother doesn't set foot in my town again."
Henry Harris only nodded, then helped his brother to his feet.
Mosby rubbed his eyes in fatigue. It was too early in the morning.
At least no harm was done.
Mosby did not see what tackled him. Suddenly, he was on the ground, and his attacker rolled on top of him. It was Newt Call. His pale blue eyes were ignited with fire.
"Call - what the hell - " he uttered angrily, but Call's fist plowed into his face.
"You son of a bitch. You son of a bitch," Call only spat out, continuing to flail away at Mosby.
It was too damn early to deal with that mad man Call. Mosby blocked his punches, rolled Call over, and gave him a few belts of his own, but Call only became wilder. He punched Mosby hard in the jaw, and then got from underneath him.
Call was on his feet, but before Mosby could react, Call's leg was in motion. Mosby braced himself for Call's boot to connect with his middle, but the blow never came.
It had been two years since Mosby had seen the old ranger, Captain Woodrow F. Call. Yet, there he was, holding back his only son.
He heard the old man tell Call, "It's not his fault, boy."
Call continued to struggle against the grip. Finally, Call snapped, "Everything is his fault."
Mosby stood up, wiping his bloody nose with his handkerchief. He was angry. It was too damn early in the morning to deal with Call's nonsense. "What the hell is wrong with you, Call? Did you wake up in some kind of sporting mood this morning? Or is this your normally charming way of a greeting?"
"You killed her," Call said, trying to break free of his father's grasp. "It's your fault, and we both know it."
Mosby shook his head. Call had gone truly mad this time. Call blamed him for a lot of things, some of which might be true, but Hannah Call's death was not his fault.
"Call, go back to your bench," he muttered.
He was about to turn to go inside the Ambrosia when Mosby noticed something on the walkway. It was a body. It was a wet and bloody body.
It was Maria Bennett.
He gasped. It could not be. She should be with her cousin and uncle right now in the newspaper office. It could not possibly be her.
"For God's sake," he ordered Call with urgency. "Go get a doctor."
Call finally stopped struggling with his father. Sadness sobered him. The old ranger let him go.
"It's no use. She's already dead." The finality in Call's voice hit like a bullet.
Mosby could see the truth of his words when he stooped down to examine her. Her body was still and lifeless and pale. Her dark blue eyes stared at something loved and cherished in the distance, yet her eyes were fixed, much like two gravestones on the horizon.
Mosby had seen it too often. He lost too many friends on the battlefield. He saw too many dead.
Her eyes were a slash of Yankee blue against her pale face. He could not bear to look any longer.
"Get away from her, Mosby," Call ordered. "You ain't gonna have anything more to do with her anymore. This is all your fault."
Call shoved him aside and tenderly picked up the body. He stood with her, not knowing what exactly to do.
Unbob, in worn trousers and an old long undershirt, ran up to him. He looked as if he had just woken up.
"What happened to Miss Maria?" he asked with rising panic. "Is she all right?"
Call desperately looked like he wanted to give the body to Unbob, but he thought better of it.
Captain Call did not say a word.
"Let's take her to the gun shop, Unbob. She wanted to be buried in pink."
By then, a small crowd had gathered around them, whispering and pointing. Mosby had seen too much of this on the battlefield, as well. The carrion birds and the pigs would gnaw at the dead bodies. It was sickening.
"Go away," Mosby ordered, shooing the crowd away with his hands. No one had any respect for the dead around here. "There's nothing to see here."
He watched as Call carried Maria's body over to the mortuary. Captain Call and a remorseful Unbob followed him.
Soon the whole town would know of her death.
It was not fair.
Mosby stalked inside the Ambrosia club and reached for his leather duster. George Harris would not get away with this. He had killed a prominent citizen in this town, and he should be hanged.
Someone had to tell Austin and Josiah.
It was not fair.
When he left, the sun sparkled on the roulette wheel. The ball was still on 22.
Call did not know what to do. His mind raced from one thought to the next, almost in a dazed and unstable state.
Damn Maria. He never should have promised her anything. All he wanted to do was leave Curtis Wells - at least for a little while. He had to get out. It was a funny thing about death - you just had to ride on from it - that was what his father taught him anyway.
Damn Maria for making her promise to bury her. Now he could not leave.
Call did not understand why the Captain was here. He had barely believed it when he saw his father holding a smoking gun near the skating pond. The Captain had said he killed the white wolf that attacked Maria. Now the wolf was dead. Now Maria was dead. Her corpse was placed unceremoniously on a table in the gun shop.
Unbob twisted his hat in grief. "First, Miss Mattie goes again, and now this.. Why, Call, why?"
Call shrugged. He looked at his father, but Captain Call only stared back at him.
"How in the hell should I know?" Call answered dejectedly when his father did not answer.
He looked at his father again. He had not seen him in two years. Nothing had changed much about the Captain. He was still the tallest man that Call knew.
"You staying for a spell, Captain?" Call asked stiffly. Dealing with his father was the last thing he needed now. Somehow he needed to see to Maria's funeral so he could get out of town.
"Just passing through," the Captain answered. "Got some business west of here with the cattle." He lowered his hat reverently for Maria. "It's a bad break with this girl here. I'm sorry about that."
Unbob had tears in his eyes.
Call gave a single nod, lowering his own hat. "She was my blood sister. She owned up to me on that bench right out there - she made a pact and everything. I guess she's the first person besides Hannah that really wanted to own up to me." Call knew his own father did not want to acknowledge him as a son. The Captain only did it because he promised Mr. Gus a long time ago that he would do it. Mr. Gus was gone now. His mother, Sean, Deets, Jake, Mr. Gus, Aaron, Little Wolf, Hannah - there were so many dead - too many to deal with. "Now even Maria's gone."
Call wanted to leave very much.
"I was sorry to hear about Hannah, Newt," the Captain said, his hat still lowered.
Call looked at him. The Captain rarely called him anything but "boy."
"Yeah," Call finally muttered. Then he shuffled out the door. He had a funeral to see to.
Josiah did not say a word. He stared at Hannah's portrait in his hands.
Austin thought his father was taking the news remarkably well, though he resented his father's constant fixation on his dead sister. He was angry for both himself and Maria. Maria deserved better than that.
"I assure you that her killers will be brought to justice," Mosby said at the door.
Austin did not know what Mosby wanted to prove. Mosby probably only wanted to make himself look good in front of the town.
"Just get out," Austin ordered, very tired. The nightmare that started three years ago never ceased.
He had just begun to trust his cousin, too. Then she had to get killed. The nightmare was never over.
Austin did not see Mosby leave.
He looked back at his father.
Josiah finally said after a long moment, "The West got her, too."
Austin shook his head. His father was crazy.
He gently closed the newspaper office door on his way out.
Creel looked at Call as if he were crazy. "You want a pink dress?"
"It's for Maria, damn it. She told me she wanted to be buried in pink," Call told him. By now the whole town knew of her death. He had felt the town's eyes upon him all day. Call always hated that feeling.
"We don't have any pink dresses, Call. We don't have any bolts of pink fabric, either. I can't help you. Didn't she have any pink dresses? I seem to recall her having one."
Call's mouth tightened in impatience. He had gone over to the newspaper office earlier, only to find Josiah babbling about something. Call felt strange going through Maria's clothes, but she did not have a pink dress. He wondered if Josiah had kept any of Hannah's dresses. He could not bear to ask.
"Maria didn't have none."
Creel looked at him apologetically.
"Can't you dye one of those white dresses?" Call asked.
Creel frowned. "I suppose so, but it might come out looking a little more red than pink. You don't bury people in pink anyway. You really ought to bury her in black. I do have a black dress in her size. She was a tall girl. She needed extra length in the skirt. I can even let you have it for a good price," he said, taking the dress off the display. "It's a shame she died that way," Creel added.
Creel began to fold the dress nicely for a proper sale.
"She wanted a pink dress," Call insisted, "and it'll be a pink dress she'll have. Dye one of those white ones." Call was not in the mood to argue, and Creel was not man enough to oppose him.
"It might be a little short for her," Creel warned him as Call walked out the door. "She was a really tall girl!"
Call did not want to hear it. He wanted to get this done as soon as possible.
He did not even know who to talk to about conducting her memorial service.
Damn Maria. She should not have died.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Austin demanded of his former brother-in-law as Call stepped out of the tent. He had heard that Call was trying to find a minister for Maria's service. Sometimes a few religious men would pass through tent town on their way to somewhere else, but Curtis Wells was too cursed for any sane minister to want to stay on a permanent basis.
Call merely looked past him. "Austin, just leave it alone."
"Damn it, Call. You have no business seeing to her funeral. You know nothing about funerals. You'll mess it up entirely. Think of Maria, Call. Think of Maria. Don't bury her in disgrace."
"Austin, you know nothing," Call tried to shrug him away.
"For God's sake. You can't bury her in pink. You don't bury people in pink. She'll be a laughingstock of the whole town."
"She wanted to be buried in pink."
"Yeah, well, Hannah would have wanted to just be buried. But you weren't around for that, either. Mosby had to see to it. You have no business attending to Maria's funeral. Let me do it. At least I have an idea of what I should be doing."
Austin saw his brother-in-law turn deathly white.
Austin did not understand Call. Call had left Curtis Wells before Hannah was even buried. He had left Austin all alone to deal with Josiah's grief and anger. He had left Austin to take the whole responsibility for Hannah's death. Call had no business at all seeing to the funeral of Austin's own cousin. Call was not even related to Maria, except by marriage. Call had no right.
"She's my cousin, Call," Austin told him.
"She's my blood sister," Call answered him in an almost inaudible voice. "I promised."
Call stalked off.
"Yeah, well, Hannah was your wife, and you promised her, too. You have no business, Call!" Austin called after him.
"Please, please, don't shoot!" begged George Harris as Mosby's men circled about him. Henry Harris was knocked unconscious when he tried to defend his brother. Together, the brothers looked as desolate as the badlands around them.
Mosby, in barely contained fury, dismounted his horse. He wanted George Harris alive for a trial - albeit, a very short one.
"No, Mr. Harris," Mosby said, smiling dangerously as he aimed his Remington at Harris' chest. "We are not going to shoot you. You are going to hang as soon as we take you back to Curtis Wells."
"But I didn't do nothing!" George protested. "You got our claim. What more do you want?"
"You killed a prominent citizen of the town, Mr. Harris. And you will pay."
"But I didn't shoot no one! I swear! Me and Henry left Curtis Wells right after you told us to. I didn't shoot no one!"
"On the contrary. It was your gun that shot Maria Bennett. It was your bullet that killed her this morning. There are witnesses. You will be hanged for murder."
"But I didn't shoot - " George repeated again, and then stopped. He remembered the wild shot out of his gun. "But that bullet was meant for you," he told Mosby. "I didn't know it hit anyone. If I did what I was supposed to do, you would be the one dead, not her."
Mosby's his face quickly twisted in hate. "You killed her, you son of a bitch. And you will pay." He knocked George's head with the butt of his gun. George fell unconscious into Mosby's men.
Mosby quickly mounted. "Bring him and the other one to back to Curtis Wells," he commanded to his men. His face twisted ominously as he circled his horse around to the direction of the town.
"There's going to be a hanging," he whispered before he urged his horse forward.
"Her killers have been brought to justice, Josiah," Mosby told him as the mayor looked upon the brothers in the jail cell.
George Harris did not say a word. He looked forlorn and resigned. Henry Harris moaned from his headache.
"Don't hang my brother," George pleaded. "He didn't do nothing."
"Your brother will be fine, but I don't want him causing a disturbance until your sentence is carried out," Mosby spat out in disgust. He wished tomorrow would be over soon. Maria would be buried, and George Harris would be hanged.
"Josiah, I can understand if you don't want to preside over the trial proceedings," Mosby sympathized.
Josiah sighed and shook his head. "What does it matter who killed who?" he questioned. "Everybody dies soon enough around here. If not now, then later. Go ahead. Hang him. Justice is yours anyway."
Mosby stared after him as the mayor left. He wondered what Josiah meant by that remark.
The Hellbitch was the best horse Captain Woodrow F. Call had ever broke, and the Captain knew what a valuable mare she really was. The boy had taken good care of her, the ranger thought as he stroked the horse's muzzle. He barely recognized the boy, though.
The last time he saw the boy was when he brought him back to Hannah three years ago. Now the boy and the whole town had changed so much that Woodrow could not believe the difference. Mud was everywhere, and the boy was filthy.
Woodrow had heard of Hannah's death years ago. It was sad. He liked Hannah. He thought the boy might come back to the ranch after her death, but Woodrow never saw him. During that time, Woodrow hoped that maybe he had gone down to Nebraska to see Clara. Clara was always taking in lost pups, and Clara had always liked the boy. Clara would have been good for him. It was only later that Woodrow heard that the boy took up bounty hunting. That was a fool thing to do. If he wanted to take in outlaws, the boy should have remained deputy.
Woodrow still kept the cattle ranch. When the boy left, Woodrow and Pea were the only ones left from the original Hat Creek company. Sometimes Woodrow did not feel like owning that ranch, but he kept it anyway. As long as the boy was alive, Woodrow would keep it. Besides, the Hellbitch was the best thing Woodrow had ever given the boy. His name was not worth anything, so the ranch would always be of better use. The ranch was far worth anything Woodrow ever had.
The boy had wanted to leave Curtis Wells, Woodrow knew. Woodrow could tell by how the boy moved and talked. But he had heard the boy promise the dying girl that he would bury her, and the boy could not leave until that was done.
Woodrow scratched his head. That girl had done it deliberately, just like Augustus did when he was dying. She made the boy give a fool promise to bury her in pink. That was a fool idea. No one was buried in pink. But then again, no fool would want his corpse dragged all the way back from Montana to Texas, either. Augustus told him that he wanted Woodrow to do that for Woodrow's own sake. Woodrow shook his head. Augustus half of the time never made any sense anyway.
Still, it was fool idea to want to be buried in pink. He wondered how the boy was going to do it.
"Call, you can't bury her in that," Austin protested as Call took the dress Creel had dyed for him. Maria's burial was tomorrow, and Call wanted to get the dress on her as soon as possible.
"It's pink enough," Call stated as he walked out of the general store.
"It's scandalous," Austin corrected him. "Besides, it's not long enough. I bet it is too short for you, let alone her. Here, put it up to you."
Austin stopped him and grabbed the dress. He put it up to Call's figure. Sure enough, it was too short for Call.
Call felt like a fool. At least it was nearly nightfall, and no one was there to see his embarrassment.
"I'll just put a blanket on her feet," Call replied.
"Maria wouldn't wear that if she was alive, and I don't think she'd want to wear it if she was dead."
Call ignored his brother-in-law. The dress would have to do.
Otherwise, it would mean that he failed.
Mosby looked upon Maria as she lay on the table. Unbob had been busy embalming her. The fluids filled her body even now.
"It's funny, Mr. Mosby. She don't look dead. She just looks a little pale. She looks like she's sleeping," Unbob stated. Unbob's eyes were red and swollen from crying.
A white cloth covered Maria up to her bare shoulders. Her full lips still were pink, though they had lost their vibrant rose color. Mosby was glad someone had closed her eyes.
"That she does, Unbob. That she does."
They did not speak. Remorse had overtaken them both.
"Unbob," Mosby finally uttered. "There's a shoe on my horse that needs fixing. It needs to be done as soon as possible. See to it, will you?" he commanded softly.
Unbob protested. "But I can't leave her, Mr. Mosby - "
"Take a break from this work, Unbob," Mosby soothed. "I'll look after her. Go on now. Go. It will be all right. I promise."
Unbob merely nodded, trusting the town proprietor. He did as Mosby commanded, leaving Mosby alone with Maria's body.
Mosby did not know what to say to her. There was so much he did not say, so much that he had never said. He did not know if he could find the words.
He had liked her. She was his friend. Perhaps she had been surly to him for the whole month, but Mosby knew that did not matter. She was still his friend. She never demanded that much from him, and she always was good for a conversation. He liked the way she was loyal to her family. He liked the way she blushed when he complimented her. He liked her intelligence and wit. He liked the way she teased Call by calling him "Newton." He liked the way she sang. He liked watching her little schemes hatch right on her face. He liked it when she stomped her foot in frustration. He liked being her friend. Mosby was saddened by her demise. Maria could have been so much, if given the chance. But everything had been taken away from her. Mosby had not expected life to deal him any more happiness, but he did expect some for Maria. He had not expected God to damn anyone else but him. It was not fair.
She looked so defenseless just lying on the table. Unbob was right. She was very pale.
His fingers brushed her lips. He remembered the livery. He had kissed her at Christmas months ago. Her lips were warm and giving then. Now they were soft and cold and unyielding. Her life was gone now. It was wasted. No man could ever feel her life again.
He brushed her cheek. She was so soft. She always had been.
He could not understand God. God should not have taken her.
It was a shame she did not have her glasses. Maria was always distressed when she did not have her glasses.
Mosby wanted to soothe her somehow for that, like he always did. It always made her feel better when he stroked the length of her back. Mosby wanted to soothe her very much. Now it was impossible.
She was so defenseless now just lying there. Mosby ached for her.
His lips could feel the cold as he kissed her forehead. It was as if he wanted to remember the very essence of her.
"I'm sorry, Maria," he whispered, his lips still against her skin. "I'm so sorry."
It was all he could say.
It meant everything.
"Get out of here," Call ordered as he saw Mosby sitting in the shadows of the gun shop. Call saw that Unbob had finished embalming his blood sister, and her body lay peacefully on the tabletop. Maria waited to be dressed for her funeral the following morning.
Mosby did not answer him. The shadows hovered on his face like a moving shroud.
That son of a bitch Mosby, Call thought. He had no right to be here. He had done enough already.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Call demanded when Mosby did not respond.
Call knew that this was all Mosby's fault. Call had seen what happened earlier that morning. He had seen the gun aimed for Mosby and the shot fired out of the gun. Helplessly, he had watched as Maria stepped right into the path of bullet. He had been too slow to push her out of the way. He could only catch her and watch the blood pour out of her chest. He had watched as her breath slowed. He could only nod as she desperately made him promise to bury her in pink. Then he had watched her die.
Even now, he wished he could take her place.
"What the hell are you doing?" Call repeated again.
Mosby stood and slowly put on his hat, as if his muscles were tired and sore. He did not say a word to Call, and he headed towards the door.
Call could not let him go. That would be too easy. "That bullet was meant for you, Mosby. You know that."
Mosby turned and looked directly at him. The moonlight revealed his face. His light brown eyes glistened.
Mosby looked suddenly haggard to Call.
Mosby knew that the bullet had been meant for him. He had known it all along.
Call felt a new anger. It was like a simmering fury at the base of a volcano. Call thought he was angry with Mosby, but he found that he could not say anything to the town proprietor.
"What time are you going to bury her tomorrow, Call?"
Call looked down. For some reason, he could not answer Mosby's question.
He wished Mosby had not reminded him about Maria's funeral. There was no preacher, and Call could only gather some whores to sing at her funeral. The town thought Maria was crazy at the end of her life, and they did not want to acknowledge her.
"They may not want me to, but I'm going to bury her next to Hannah anyways," Call thought aloud in determination. He looked at Mosby belligerently. Mosby had better not try to stop him.
Mosby was silent for a moment. "You do that, Call," he finally said.
He stepped out the doorway. Before he left, though, he looked at the dress in Call's hands, then back at Call.
Mosby did not comment. Then he left.
Call was all alone with Maria in the moonlight.
Damn Mosby. Damn him.
Call looked down at the dress in his hands. Austin was right. It looked terrible. Call knew it was more red that pink. It was also too short. It would be disgraceful for Maria.
He had failed her completely.
Her death was his really fault. He should have pushed her out of the way.
The boy ought to have more gumption than that, Woodrow thought. The boy promised he would bury the dying girl, yet before she was in the ground, the boy tore off on the Hellbitch. Woodrow saw it all from the window of his room at the Lonesome Dove Hotel. If the boy did not want to keep his promises, then he was no better than Jake Spoon.
Woodrow took what few belongings he had and descended the stairway and gave back the keys to his room. There was no point staying in Curtis Wells any longer.
Woodrow mounted his own mare. He followed the boy. He was going that direction anyway.
He gave a start when he saw the Hellbitch in the moonlight. The mare looked almost like a ghost.
She was in the cemetery.
She was riderless.
Call was furious. He wanted to kill. He wanted to shoot the whole town down to nothing. He wanted to see it burn.
He wanted to yell. He wanted to scream.
He felt so completely empty. His whole life was hopeless.
He kicked randomly at a headstone. It felt good to feel it shift in the dirt. He kicked at it and kicked at it again and shoved at it until the stone was completely uplifted from the ground. He fell on the ground slammed his fist into the stone. He slammed into it and punched at it. He needed some relief. He was in a boiling rage. He had to find relief.
It hurt so much. It hurt so much.
Her death was his fault. He should have stopped it. He should have stopped it.
He knew she was in that building. He knew she was struggling with that mad man. He had watched helplessly as the building exploded in front of him.
He had felt his soul shatter when he knew she was dead. He had never been able pick up the shards of his life.
Damn Hannah. Why did she have to die? Why did she have to die?
It was all his fault. It was all his fault. He wished he had died, too. He wanted to be buried. It was his right. He wanted it all to end.
Damn her. Damn her. Damn her.
"Newt?" he heard his father's bewildered voice say.
He looked up and found the Captain looking at him like he was crazy.
"Why'd she have to die, Captain?" Call asked earnestly. The Captain had all the answers. He would know.
Tears fell out of Call's eyes. The Captain would end all of this. He hoped his father would not fail him.
"Why'd she die?"
The Captain did not say anything. He just edged closer to Call, much like he would to a wild stallion.
It occurred to Call that his father knew even less than he did. His father had failed him again. He did not have the answers.
The dead knew, Call was certain. He looked down at the uprooted gravestone. It would tell him.
It read:
"In loving memory of Hannah Call, born September 9, 1854, died December 5, 1878."
Call could not believe what he had done. He uprooted his wife's own gravestone. He knew had done something awful to Hannah. He could see the tears in her beautiful brown eyes even now, as surely as he had kicked her in the flesh.
He had failed her. He had failed her completely. He was a horrible husband.
Call was nothing without Hannah. He knew that as surely as he knew that the moon was in the sky. He was nothing without her. Absolutely nothing.
He sobbed. The pain was unbearable.
Why'd she have to die? Why'd she have to die?
"Why'd she have to die, Captain?" he sobbed, knowing his father could not answer him.
The old ranger crouched next to his son. He took off his hat. His head bowed as his son caressed the gravestone. Call's body racked with horrible pain. The ranger did not say a word.
Call hugged the stone as if it was a delicate creature. It felt soft and cold and unyielding.
Hannah was dead. He could not bring her back. Her life was gone now.
His tears wet the white stone.
His lips could feel the cold as he kissed the gravestone. He wanted to remember the very essence of her.
"I'm sorry, Hannah," he whispered, his lips still against the stone. "I'm so sorry."
It was all he could say.
It meant everything.
The Harris brothers were long out of town by now, Austin knew. Mosby let them go for some reason. Maybe Mosby had a heart after all. However, it was more than likely that Ike let them bribe their way out of jail, Austin thought ironically.
It did not really matter anyway. He did not care. Maria's funeral was today.
Call had asked him to speak at her funeral earlier that morning. His brother-in-law looked tired, more tired than Austin had ever seen him.
Call was as tired as he was.
Yet, Austin saw him wear a gold deputy's badge. He was not the same deputy he had been three years ago. Call was different. He was aged. He was more mature. He was gripped by a terrible loss.
Austin felt even more hopeless than ever when he saw that badge.
Austin did feel better, though, when he finally persuaded Call to let Maria be buried in black. Maria had a nice black dress that she always wore to solemn occasions. Together, Call and Austin dressed her in it. They placed her in a coffin, and Call put a white conch shell in her hands. The inside was pink. Somehow the shell was appropriate in her hands. Call told him it was for luck.
Call also placed a Walt Whitman book in her hands.
He had never known Call to read, especially something like poetry. It was odd.
Hannah had always liked Walt Whitman, Austin remembered.
Austin stared at the cold white paper. He did not know what to write. He did not know what to say. It always seemed that way most times. He never really knew what to say.
Austin felt completely lost.
Josiah, dressed in black, came out from his room.
"Don't worry, son," Josiah soothed. "You couldn't be there for her. It's not your fault."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Austin snapped. His father could not possibly be blaming him for Maria's death, too.
Josiah looked taken aback. "You weren't there. You couldn't do anything. It's not your fault."
"Damn right it's not my fault," Austin told him.
Josiah was silent for a moment. He looked down at Austin's blank sheet of paper.
"I also know what it's like to have nothing to say," Josiah commented softly. Then he left the newspaper office.
Austin stared down at the paper. Then he looked at dusty printer in the middle of the room. His eyes dropped to the bible his father left on the side table.
His father was wrong. Austin had plenty to say.
First, Austin wrote in the bible. His fingers traced his mother's handwriting. Sarah Peale had written the family tree in the front of the bible. Hannah had resumed the job when her mother died. Hannah had recorded her mother's death in 1876. No one had recorded Hannah's death. Now it was Austin's turn. Next to Hannah's name he wrote, "1878." He also scribbled what little he knew of Maria's family tree and recorded her death, too.
The bible was complete. Austin knew he was the only one left to carry on the Peale name.
He stared at the newspaper printer.
He nodded at it in determination. It was his now.
Mosby watched Maria's few mourners straggle away from her grave site. He saw the old ranger, Woodrow F. Call, grip his son's hand in farewell, mount his horse, and then ride away. He saw Unbob walk away, shaking in grief. He saw Austin help Josiah back to the newspaper office, and finally, he saw Call place some spring crocus on both Hannah and Maria's graves.
He puffed on his cigar as he watched from his balcony.
It was a fine day. Some clouds drifted by, and the sky was finally a beautiful blue instead of overcast white.
Mosby wore black.
He could not bring himself to attend the funeral, for some reason. Part of it had been held in the church, and Mosby did not know how Call accomplished that. The whole town seemed opposed to Maria's funeral services in the church. Mosby had made sure that his men would be available to back up Call, if necessary. But their services were not needed. Mosby had watched as the mourners went in the church. They did not stay in the building long.
He had watched as they placed Maria's coffin in the ground, barely hearing the prostitutes sing some little hymn over her grave. Then he had watched it end.
Mosby shook his head. Maria once told him that she would like to sing at her own funeral. He laughed at her then. He could only smile now. She would have done a better job of it than Twyla's ladies.
He remembered Maria singing hymns a couple of times. She had not sung very often in public. She said her aunt Elinor did not approve of public singing. At least Maria was with her aunt now.
He wondered where Mary was.
He looked at the church against the blue sky. He could see the mountains and the trees framing his entire view.
It was not fair.
God had abandoned his world entirely.
Then he remembered what he heard Maria sing once:
I lift mine eyes; the cloud grows thin;
I see the blue above it.
And day by day, this pathway smoothes
Since first I learned to love it.
The peace of God makes fresh my heart,
A song of love is springing:
All things are mine since truth I found -
How can I keep from singing?
Mosby lowered his hat as he looked at the church.
He sighed. Then he placed on his hat.
He looked at the town. This was Montana.
It was time to build Curtis Wells.
FINALE
6/98
Darcie Daniels
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