Lawless Liberty Ch. 01

This man has the advantage on me, and god forbid a citizen is willing to get involved. The longer this drags on, the more certain I am to not survive it. I put my back to the wall, fire a blind shot to keep him still, and think. I lean out just enough to see four horses and a wagon parked at the saloon across the street. I'd have to run right in front of the sheriff's and be exposed, but I'm out of options.

"Put the gun down missy! You can still get out of this!" the man shouts to me. Don't call me missy. I fire another round and step out to start running, but I'm greeted with a second man with a shotgun. "Hilbert, get out of the..."

I dive back to cover as the shotgun explodes where I was just standing. The man had stepped out of the tailors. Son of a bitch.

"Hilbert get back inside!" the first man shouts.

I hear the breach of the shotgun, so scramble to my feet and lean out. Before another shell can be loaded, I fire a round into his lower leg and spring toward the wagon. When I'm at the other side of the Sheriff's, I jump back to cover as a round misses. I take a wide path and cut back to the wagon. As I'm running, I throw my cargo on top and run between the wagon and the saloon.

I climb into the seat and snap the reins to get them moving. I lay down to my side to keep low. I hear several people in the saloon come running out, so lean over the top and fire a round to make them jump back inside.

--

I ride for several hours west, and I know I'm clear into the Wyoming territory. No one followed me than I can immediately see, but that is only a matter of time. I need to search the wagon, take what's valuable, send all but one of the horses free, and get my distance.

I pull my own cargo from the wagon and jump off. There is nothing of value in the cab of the wagon, so I turn my attention to the steamer trunks on the back. There are four trunks in total in stacks of two, and the first is so heavy I can hardly move it. The lock is not very sturdy, so I look away and shoot it off.

Inside of the trunk are stacks of paper money and bars of gold.

"What in the world?" I ask. The trunk beneath it thuds and I flinch back from the shock. "What in the fucking world?" I hear muffled shouts, and it thuds more.

I secure the first trunk and drag it to the ground. I dig my heels to pull it a few feet away. It catches on a rock, making me fall to my ass. The second trunk is knocked from the inside again. I shoot the lock off and fling it open.

Inside the trunk, bound and gagged, is a young man. He looks up at my puzzled face, before he panics again and begins rocking his shoulders into the sides. I have to jump back to avoid it landing on me when it falls over. The man rolls out and tries to get to his feet, but his ankles are bound so he tumbles to his face.

"Stop, stop," I say to him, putting my boot to his chest. I pull the knife from my belt and show him it, and he reels a little. "I'm not the one who put you in that trunk. I don't care who did, but I have a feeling I know how that was going to end. It's your lucky day."

I see the fear leave his eyes, and he nods to me.

"I'm going to cut your binds. Try anything funny, and I will stab you, before I shoot you. Do you understand?" I ask, and he nods again.

I squat down to his ankles and cut the ropes, then cut his wrists. He pulls the gag out himself.

"You gonna tell me why you're in a trunk?" I ask, and he rubs his wrist. "Or why the other trunk is full of money?" The man doesn't answer. He gets to his feet slaps the dust off his pants. "Let's start with your name."

"Justin," he says, standing upright and twisting his neck until it cracks. "You?"

"Best you don't know who I am," I say, and point at the trunk full of money. "Explain."

"That's a long story."

--

June 5, 1883

-Justin Ivey-

I remember receiving the telegram. Nadine had taken the westbound train to Albany to prepare for our wedding. The rehearsal was in a week, and I was going to take the next train to meet her after work. Right before I was to depart, I received word that the trestle of the bridge over the Meredosia River have gave way. The train fell into the river, and Nadine was amongst the eight who drowned.

I missed my train.

Nadine and I had discussed traveling out west and staking out some land. The bank was advertising positions for employees willing to travel west, and I had signed up. I was going to work in a bank, and she was going to seam dresses.

Then that telegram arrived.

I drank my way through Chicago for months. I got into pub fights where I always bit off more than I can chew. I woke up in jail more than my own bed. Soon, I didn't even have a bed.

The last time I woke up in jail, Nadine's father was there. Before it was my supervisor at the bank, but that ended once I was no longer employed. Patrick had come to pull me out of the gutter for the sake of his daughter.

"Get up, look like a respectable man," Patrick said to me sternly, and I shoved my way past him. "Justin."

I leave the police station, and I heard him shouting me down over the sound of the carriages and crowds.

"Justin! Where do you think you're going?!" Patrick said as he jumped in front of me.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"What am I...who the hell are you? The man standing in front of me isn't the man who asked to marry my daughter," Patrick said, and I stopped walking. He grabbed my arm, dragged me into the alley, and shoved me against the wall. "Look at yourself."

I hate to imagine how I looked. Unshaven, ragged clothing, with the potent scent of cheap liquor.

"Would Nadine be proud of this?" Patrick asked.

"Nadine is dead," I said, and finally made eye contact.

"Then why am I not in the gutter with you? I lost the same thing you did, and I'm the one trying to pull you out," Patrick said, and I looked down again. "Look at me son."

"I don't know what to do," I said, and start crying. Patrick grabs my head and puts it into his shoulder.

"Here's how you start. Find yourself a pair of boots and use those straps. Pull yourself back up with them. Get a bath, shave your face, put on a respectable suit, and get on your hands and knees and beg for your job back. Maybe even go west," Patrick said, and I sniff.

"I can't do that without Nadine," I said.

"Yes, you can. That's what the west is. New beginnings. A fresh start. I'm not saying the pain goes away, it won't. Not ever. It's how you move past that pain that makes the man. Get yourself cleaned up and make my daughter proud. Be the man I said she could marry."

I sobered up and Patrick made sure I had a clean suit and a shaved face. I went to the bank I was once a loan analyst for and begged for my job back. It took some convincing.

"Justin, I wish I could help you. This isn't your second chance, it's not even your fifth," Mr. Douglas said to me when I arrived in front of his desk. He has better things to do than give a drunkard a job.

"I understand I have no right to be here," I said, and he sighs, pulling his glasses off his nose and putting them on some papers.

"A shave and a suit do not wipe away the last six months," Mr. Douglas said.

"Sir, my fiancé died..." I begin.

"...That's why I gave you so many chances," Mr. Douglas interrupted. "Why is this time different?" he asked.

"Because I want to come back this time. Before I just wanted to wallow in my misery," I said, and he paused for ten full seconds. "Whatever you need me to do, I'll do it. I'll start from the bottom again. I'll do what it takes."

"Your old position has already been filled," Mr. Douglas says, and I start to plead for a lower position. "...but there is another. The one we had discussed before. It's still available. How do you feel about Nebraska?"

"I feel like it's a fresh start," I say, and his face slowly forms a smile. "I'll take it."

"There is an assistant manager position out in a town called..." he said, shuffling some documents around until he found the one he was looking for. "...Utopia. There is talk in Washington on the Wyoming Territory becoming a state, and we're staging more banks along the border with Nebraska in preparation for that inevitability. We are talking long term, by the end of the decade. By that time, you could very well be manager of a bourgeoning community."

"I'd pack if I wasn't wearing everything I own," I said, and he chuckles, but returns to his pensive demeanor.

"Don't make me regret this," he said, and I shake my head.

"I won't sir."

Mr. Douglas gave me one last penetrating gaze, nodded, and said he would arrange my travel for me. That is how I arrived in Utopia. I exited the train in Bushnell and arrived in Utopia on the first of February, 1882

I had been in Chicago for most of my life. The towering buildings, the crowds, the culture. Nothing here was at risk of coming close to that. Less than two dozen single- and two-story buildings. Thirty people, most living on the outskirts. The people have an acute politeness punctuated by abrasive suspicion of outsiders. To their credit, once you stay a month the suspicion dissipates.

I take the job as the assistant manager to Hal Primrose, the manager of the Wells Fargo in Utopia. Hal Primrose resembles a goat if I had to say. His limbs have an exaggerated length, his suit wears him, and I imagine his hat is hiding a pair of horns. He is more bald than not, and his facial hair in keeping with his goatish appearance is a pencil thin mustache with a long and thin beard hanging off his chin like a spiky icicle.

Besides Hal and I, the only other employee is Eugene Schneider, the teller. Assistant manager really means manager, with none of the pay. Primrose was still reeling from the depression we were currently in. All of his money was tied into steel and railroads. I would have advised him to pull out as soon as the last stake was hammered into the earth.

In the year I have lived here, I have integrated into the community with success. More people trust the bank. I teach basic arithmetic at the Church after Sunday mass. I tip my hat and say 'good morning' to all I pass when I'm out and about around town. Usually I'm just between my small one room home a mile from town and the bank or the Church on Sunday.

My presence has not gone unnoticed. Two sets of parents have approached me to marry their daughters. I politely declined. One of the women would have been a good prospect for any other man, the other was fifteen. Not too young by most traditional standards, but Nadine graduated college and this girl likely couldn't spell the word.

The woman who piqued my interest was Rosaline Culligan.

An Irish immigrant with the accent and everything. Older than me, certainly over thirty. Light red hair she tied into a single braid that swayed across her midback. Freckles sprinkled along her pale cheeks and permanently sunburnt nose. Svelte body always concealed in long dresses to her ankles. An uneven smile that I feel is hiding a similar pain to mine.

Unlike me, she teaches every day except for Saturday and Sunday. The class is held in the Church because of the available seating. The four school aged children in the town learn proper English grammar on Mondays. On Tuesday she teaches History. Wednesday, she teaches literature. The Bible is taught on Thursday. The week ends with basic Science.

One Sunday Rosaline sat in the back quietly watching me teach. Occasionally a few of the adults come for the lesson too. That day was fractions and percentages. I conclude the lesson, and the children are eager to leave to go play. Or their parents are eager for the help with chores. I cleaned the blackboard and put it behind the alter. When I came back, Rosaline had walked to the front.

"You got a gift," Rosaline said with a smile. "Keeping these rascals still longer than a minute is a challenge."

"Just put it in terms they understand. If I break a bar of chocolate in half," I said, and she giggled with a nod.

"It's all about the approach," she said. "You are puzzling to me."

I tried to determine where that change of conversational direction came from.

"Puzzling?"

"Young. Handsome. Educated," she said. "And bachelor."

"Haven't found a woman," I said.

"You're not looking is the reason," Rosaline said. She is right. I've turned down two legitimate offers since I arrived. "Why, is the puzzle piece I don't have."

"I can say the same for you. Young, educated," I said. I wanted to say beautiful, but I resist. That might be too much, too soon.

"Same reason. I'm not looking. Technically I'm married," she said.

"How is a woman, technically married?" I asked.

"My husband is likely in a drunken state somewhere in Milwaukee. Couldn't stand the beatings, so I came here. Two years ago, haven't looked back," Rosaline explained, and I saw the source of that pain I presumed to see. "You run away too?"

"In a way," I said, and sat on the pew. A moment later she sat next to me. "I was engaged, in Chicago. My fiancé died."

"I'm sorry," Rosaline said, and put her head on my shoulder.

Rosaline invited me for diner, but we didn't eat that night. Nadine and I were waiting until we got married, so my lack of experience displayed itself in an embarrassing release after two penetrations. Rosaline was lighthearted and cheery about it. She only teased me a little. Thankfully I have always been a fast learner. The second was nothing like the first.

When I unleashed inside of her, Rosaline was sweaty and exhausted. She had undone her braid, her hair now frizzled and sticking to her glistening pale skin. Her nipples and breasts were pink from my mouth. The sheets were moist from our bodies.

"That was unexpected," Rosaline said, still trying to find air in the stuffy room.

"Had to make up for the first time," I said, and she giggles.

"That you did," Rosaline said, running her finger up my chest before playing her head on it. "I aint been fucked like that for a long time."

"I've never fucked like that," I said, and she giggles again.

"Didn't expect that from a banker."

Only a few days later Rosaline packed up and moved on. I came by her home to see it empty, except for a note on the table she left for me. Some of her family had moved to Omaha, and she had a job offer to teach. It was too good of an offer to pass up, and I understood. Rosaline also said she wanted a night with me, it was amazing, and that if I was ever in Omaha and still a bachelor, to find her.

--

Mr. Primrose and I received a surprise inspection from Mr. Pumpernickel, the regional manager of Wells Fargo. An older, clean and dapper gentlemen with a top hat and cane. He even has a monocle attached to a string in the outer breast pocket of his jacket.

It was time to replace the locks on the safes and create the new combinations. Standard policy was that the manager knew the codes. Mr. Pumpernickel thought that was too obvious, so gave me the pleasure of being the code keeper. I saw this aggravated Mr. Primrose a great deal.

It took a few days, but the safes were installed and bolted to the floor and ceiling. Three safes in total, collectively holding roughly sixty thousand dollars' worth of paper currency and gold bars. The safes are behind iron bars with a key around Mr. Primrose's neck. That led down a hall to another set of bars. The most a teller has is two hundred.

"The interesting things with these locks, is they're time locks," Mr. Pumpernickel explained once they were installed. "What time of the day do you normally open the safe?"

"We open the safe at around six in the morning before opening at seven. Retrieve the money for the teller, and secure after closing at around six in the evening," I replied, and he nodded. I say we, but I mean I. Mr. Primrose isn't here until around noon. Some days I don't even see him.

"These are the new Sargent and Greenleaf locks. At the end of the day, check the time, and set the timer for the hours of difference. Close up at say seven, set the timer for roughly twelve hours. Until that time has expired, this lock will not open, even with the correct code."

"Ingenious," I said. looking at the lock with amazement.

"Time for your codes. I'd recommend a different code for every lock. We'll set the locks, you'll provide me the codes I will keep in a sealed envelope until we change the codes in six months, you forget, or other another incident indisposes you." In plainer English, he means if I get killed.

I think for a moment after seeing I have up to the number sixty.

"It's a two-input lock, so two numbers," Mr. Pumpernickel explained.

After another moment, I have my first combination. Eight and Twenty. I first met Nadine on the twentieth of August 1879. I was starting my last year at Lincoln College and she was starting her first. We were engaged by the end of the year. I asked her father, then asked her to marry me on the sixteenth of June 1880. My next combination was six then seventeen. I wanted to use the date I arrived in Utopia as the last combination, but two then one does not sound very secure. I decided twenty-one then twelve.

I wrote the numbers for Mr. Pumpernickel who seals it and places it into his coat. The locks were set with my combinations and secured. He wished us a good day and took a stagecoach out of town with the safe installation crew.

"What combinations did you use?" Mr. Primrose asked shortly after Mr. Pumpernickel departed.

"Sir, I believe I was under strict orders that only I know," I said, and his face flashed an anger he quickly hid from me.

"Testing you, good work," he deflected and left the room.

--

On the morning of the fifth of June, I am awoken by several men barging into my small home. Three in total, they all aim their weapons on me, and tell me get out of bed and put on my best dress like I was going to work. When I try to talk, I am threatened with violence.

For the time being, I will do as told. I have a feeling this is bank robbery. Once dressed I am dragged from my home and thrown against a four-horse stagecoach. Three more men are outside waiting for me.

"Here what's about to happen. We're robbing your bank," a man says to me. Old enough to have fought in the war. Greying dark hair and a horseshoe mustache. "We know you have the combinations."

"Doesn't matter," I say, and I'm hit from the side by one of his cohorts.

"The hell it don't," he says, and I lean against the wheel of the wagon.

"Do you know what a time lock is?" I ask. I'm about to get hit but the man in charge holds up his hand. "I set a timer when I departed the bank last evening. The lock won't open until that timer has ran its course. I set it for fourteen hours."

That is a half-bluff. I set it for eleven hours, to open at six. It is not a minute past four right now, so they would still have to wait two more hours, and by then someone in town will notice something.

"Did you, set the timer?" he asks, like he knows what the lock is. Did I? Come to think of it, I did not. Mr. Primrose did. For the first time in his miserable life, he said I could leave early, and he would close. He needed to stay late for some of the insurance claims around town. The Twenty-Two Bust Gang was raiding wagons. Why do I have a feeling I am in their company?

Also, how would he know Mr. Primrose stayed late and I was not the one who set the timer on the locks?

"Took a good beating, but we got it out of him. And his key too," the man says, holding up the key around his neck. "I got a few guys still with him. Good thing no one expects to see him til round noon."

I say nothing as he put the gun straight under my chin and pushes up.

"You got any more bluffs boy?"

"Do you know the biggest mistake people make with guns?" I ask.

"What mistake is that?"

I slap the gun away and punch him flush in the face. I hear revolver hammers drop and him start holding back curses. When he looks back up at me, his face his bloodied. Blood has already filled his mustache and is dripping off the ends of his horseshoe.