Lawless Liberty Ch. 04

June 6, 1883

-Jessica Killian-

Jesus and those other two left several hours ago to take care of the problem they had gotten themselves in. Or, I should say the problem those two got Jesus involved in. Something about this gang has daddy riled up like I haven't seen him. The name of the man Hardgrave shook him more than he was willing to let the others notice.

Daddy is, was, and always will be a soldier. He fought in the great war, and he fought the Indians for decades until he finally couldn't do it anymore. That last war he brought my husband Abraham with him. He didn't come back with him though. It wasn't something he did, but he always felt responsible for it. Like he didn't try hard enough to keep him out of harms way. Where that would be in a war, eludes me.

After the war, we stayed west of the Mississippi, finally settling at Utopia in the spring of 1878. A year later he was the Sheriff when the previous one died from a freak horse kicking accident. Daddy did what he could, but he needed help. He needed someone he knew he could trust. That someone he could trust was Jesus Dominquez.

Jesus hung up the uniform after Little Bighorn and went back to Texas. He was a ranch hand and trapper until he received the letter from my father. They had been in correspondence, but this was the letter that made Jesus pack up his life and come to Nebraska. I knew of Jesus, but I hadn't met him.

Jesus arrived in the summer of 1880. I remember him riding the wagon down with daddy to the station to pick him up. All he had when he arrived was one bag, and a rifle. He was the sole person to depart the train that carried on into the Wyoming territory. He placed his bag on the ground and shook daddy's hand.

"Thanks for coming, Deputy," daddy said to him.

"Thanks for the job, Sheriff," Jesus replied.

"This is my daughter, Jessica. I'm sure I've mentioned her a few times," daddy said, and Jesus tipped his hat to me.

"Ma'am," he said politely. "I'm sorry about Abraham."

"I'm not the only widow," I said, though I did appreciate his condolences.

"Let's get you settled in," daddy says, taking his bag for him.

"I got it," Jesus says, after it was apparent daddy was struggling to lift it up into the wagon.

"Not a young man anymore," daddy said with a laugh, as he patted Jesus's shoulder.

"You weren't young during the war old man," Jesus teased, then stayed on the ground to make sure daddy could get into the wagon safely.

What I liked about Jesus from the start was his effortless charisma and courteousness. Jesus carried himself proudly, but not like a pompous self-important man who uses it to hide his real insecurity. He was kind, respectful, and polite to everyone. Even to those who weren't kind to him. He turned the other cheek. Always.

But I knew, deep down, he a had trigger. Something he could pull that made him the most dangerous man in the world. A killer instinct that if he was pushed, he would not hesitate. Not for a moment.

Daddy got lazy as the Sheriff, because Jesus was such a good deputy. I got to know him when he'd have dinner with us some nights. Jesus lived above the station, and after daddy and I left for Wyoming, we left him our home. Daddy would always fall asleep first, so we talked all night. We talked until the cows literally came home.

I learned Jesus had never married. He was engaged during the war, but when he got back, she was sleeping with men too cowardly to fight when called upon. That made his decision to come to Nebraska that much easier. I learned he could read and write in English, Spanish, and Portuguese. He admits he's not as good at the latter because he rarely uses it. He taught me a little Spanish, though none it ever really stuck.

Daddy asked me to drop something off to Jesus at the station one night, so I made the short journey to town. I climbed the stairs to his small home and knocked on the door with the parcel grasped in my hand. He opened the door a little to see who it was, then fully when he saw it was me.

"Hola Senorita," he said to me.

"Tenga certa?" I asked, in horrible Spanish, as I extend him the letter.

"I have certain?" he asked, and I laugh. "Tengo una carta. Letra would be more accurate, because that's a letter, not a card. Carta is card. They're interchangeable."

"Tengo una le letra," I said, and then hand him the letter.

"Close enough," he said, and graciously received the letter. I probably got the pronoun wrong.

"What's that about?" I asked.

"This? Nothing. Damon and I have been writing letters for years. Even though I live this close, we haven't stopped. It's dumb, but, it's our thing," he said, and I smiled. It'd be romantic in a different context.

"I think that's rather sweet. Daddy really trusts you. I haven't known of many people he's trusted without question," I said, and he nodded. "Was it the war?"

"Of course. We'd be dead without each other," he said, and I ask to come inside to hear about it. "I'm not sure that's appropriate."

"I'm not a naïve little girl Jesus. By most standards, I'm an old widow. No one will bat in eye if they saw us," I said, and he relented and invited me in. He asked me if I wanted a drink, which I said whiskey sounded great. He poured us two glasses and sat down across from me.

"What happened at Little Bighorn?" I asked, and he fidgeted in his seat. He had never once displayed discomfort around others. One question about the war cracks his poise.

"Reno happened," he said, and I asked him to explain who that was.

"Damon...your dad, and I were under the command of Major Reno. We were in G Company, and we made the initial attack on the village. Both him and Custer ignored the crow scouts who told them we had vastly underestimated their size, and their fighting spirit. Reno didn't realize it until he nearly walked us straight into a trap. Damn fool then put us into a skirmish formation and we opened fire into the village. These weren't just warriors. They were camped with their families. Women and children.

"They came out, in mass. Our left flank held out longer than we thought it would, but it buckled, and Reno ordered a retreat across the stream. It was a slaughter; they were routed crossing. Your dad got shot when we were crossing the timber, and instead of fleeing like the rest of them, I stayed with him. We hunkered down in the brush, prayed they'd didn't find us. They were too busy killing the men stuck crossing the stream.

"We waited it out, and when it died down, we managed to cross without getting spotted and reconnected with our company. What was left of it. Other elements reinforced us, instead of Custer. Abraham was with Custer. If Reno hadn't walked us into a trap, maybe those men could have helped him hold the line."

"Or, they'd just be dead with him," I said, and he shrugged, not sure either way.

"Probably. Either way, we were outnumbered three to one at least. They ran us through a meat grinder of for no god damn reason," he said, and I finished my whiskey, placing the glass on the table with a clink.

"I didn't know Daddy was shot during the war. Didn't know they had guns" I said.

"He was shot twice actually. Left calf," he said, slapping his leg to show the spot. "And the neck, right over the collar bone. He got lucky. If that was an inch closer he would have died. I pressed the wound until we could get out."

"No wonder Daddy always smiled when he talked about you," I said, and he grinned a little.

We talked more over another glass. Both of our senses were dulled, but it was still us and not the whiskey. It started with him teasing my bad Spanish, and I playfully slapped his shoulder. That drew me closer, and I kissed him. At first, he looked more nervous than I did. I'm not just a woman to him. I'm Damon's daughter. That was a boundary he didn't feel comfortable crossing. At least before two whiskies he didn't. After two whiskies, all bets were off.

Jesus returned the kiss, and we immediately back peddled to the bed. I turned him before we arrived, making him sit as I started untying my dress. Jesus reached around and helped, the dress collapsing to the floor and I climbed on top of him. I've been a widow for a long time. Women can miss dick as much as men could miss pussy.

I surprised him several times as he made love to me. My demeanor in public betrays what he expected in bed. The only things out of my mouth were harder and faster. When he said he was close, I told him he wouldn't dare until I had climaxed twice. I need to be dominate somewhere in my life. This is as good a place as any.

Daddy was asleep when I got home, so I had no one to ask me questions.

After Daddy retired, and we migrated to Wyoming, Jesus visited at least once a month. Him and Daddy would talk, drink, and hunt. Jesus and I would fuck somewhere quiet. And it went that way, until Jesus rode onto our property bloody with two other bloody people in tow.

After they left to handle it, I make supper for Daddy and myself. It is well after dark when we hear hooves approaching and our plates are clean.

"Sounds like they're back," I say and start walking to the door. Daddy gets there first and looks out into the darkness. They're carrying lanterns, and I don't recall them having them before.

"Get my coach gun," Daddy says, and I do as I'm told. The gun is in his bedroom leaning against the wall next to the door. I pick it up and carry it to him as the stomping of horses gets louder. Daddy is standing firm at the door, and I tap his shoulder to get his attention. I extend the gun in front of him, and he takes it without looking.

"Loaded?" he asks, and I say I didn't check. Daddy cracks open the breach, sees the shell, the closes it. "Get inside."

"I'm staying right here," I say. I'd grab a rifle myself if we didn't loan it to Liberty.

Three men on horses arrive. One man dismounts to approach us while the other two remain on their horses. His hand is on his weapon in the holster as he walks, trying his best to look intimidating. Doesn't scare Daddy at all. He's dealt with far worse.

"You best go back son, you're fixing to make a mistake you can't walk away from," Daddy says, but doesn't aim the gun.

"Not here for you old man. Looking for a woman," the man says, and rotates his palm around the handle of his gun.

"The only woman here is my daughter. You're in the wrong place," Daddy says calmly.

"I was told a real looker. You seem to have a real looker behind you," he says, and that's gets the gun put on him. "Easy way or hard way old man."

"She isn't who you are looking for. Get off my land. Now!" Daddy says, and the man laughs, looking down as he does. He quickly draws his gun to fire, but Daddy cuts him down before it's out of the holster.

"Dammit!" the two others say at the same time and start scrambling off their horses.

Daddy pushes me inside and slams the door shut. He slides the table against the door, and tells me to get the ammo from his drawer. I run to his bedroom and pull the draw open. Before I can grab rounds, I look in the mirror and see a man at the window, and dive to the floor as a bullet shatters his reflection.

"They're at the window!" I shout, and crawl to the drawer, and reach over the top to feel for the shells. Another round makes me flinch back down after I managed to secure one shell. I crawl back to the main room as thud comes from the front door.

I hand Daddy the shell, and he steps into his room and fires through his window to make him think twice. The door thuds again, and Daddy walks to it and breaches the shotgun, so the man hears it. We both hear feet peddling down the stairs.

"I got plenty more! Get off my land!" Daddy shouts.

It's eerily quiet, so I take that moment to quietly step back to his room to retrieve the rest of the shells. I don't see him at the window, so I grab them and step back toward Daddy who reloads.

"Last chance old man, hand the girl over!" one of them shouts from outside.

"I told you, this isn't the girl you're looking for!" Daddy shouts.

"I'm gonna count!"

"I'll do it for you! Five! Four! Three! Two!" Daddy replies, and I hear a crash from the bedroom. Fire engulfs the room instantly. They threw a lantern inside.

"How long can you last!" the man shouts. "We got all night!"

I close the door to the bedroom, but I hear another crash from my room. I can feel the heat from the flames as I close that door too.

"Daddy, you can only shoot once without reloading," I say.

"I know that, and you know that. They don't need to know that," Daddy says.

Smoke starts to billow from under the doors. We won't be able to stay in here for very long.

"Old man, we were told to bring her alive!" the man shouts. "Don't make us wait it out and collect a corpse."

"Daddy, they only want me," I say, and he shakes his head.

"Not happening," he says, then coughs from the smoke. I grab the edge of the table and start sliding it, but he pushes it back. "No!"

"You're not dying because of me!" I shout and push him back. Daddy stumbles to the floor, and I pull the table away. "I'm coming out!"

I step onto the porch with my hands up, and I see one of the men at the end of the small dirt path to the horses.

"Smart choice, keep walking," he says, and I take a deep breath and step.

"Jessica, don't..." is all Daddy manages to say before the man leans around me and shots him.

"Daddy!" I shout and start to run toward him, but the man catches me and drags me away as I kick and curse.

"You got her?" the second man asks, walking from the side of the house.

"Might need to tie her, she's feisty. Want to have a taste before we deliver her?" the man asks.

"Hardgrave wanted her intact. You'll get your turn," he says, and now I'm trying to scratch and bite my way out of his grip. It's useless, and I'm tied up, gagged, and thrown onto the back of a horse. I can only look back helplessly as I watch the house burn down.

-

June 7, 1883

-Liberty-

I stop riding at sunrise, and set up a small camp along a stream I find. It's a beautiful morning to be alive.

I go to my usual routine of making coffee and cleaning my weapons. I clean the Springfield first, then hold the Colt in my hand. I don't need to put bullets in it anymore. My vengeance is complete. I got revenge for my brother. Yet, I feel unsatisfied. I don't feel any better.

I finish the coffee and sip it between cleaning the Remington Rolling Block Damon gave me and staring at the Colt. My new horse makes a huffing sound, and I look at her. I then lean over a little to examine closer. Him. Definitely a him.

"What's your name?" I ask him, and he blinks at me. "How about, Saturninus?" He's a horse, so he approves of his name as well as a horse could. "No, Saturninus dies at the end. So did Andronicus. How about, Lucius. He survives."

Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves. One for your enemy, and one for yourself. I always assumed that meant it was a suicidal goal that would get you killed as well. I don't think that's what Confucius meant. I think what he really meant was that it kills your soul. Your spirit is fueled with rage, and when you finally extract your revenge your spirit is empty. Nothing can replace it.

"I'm alive, that's all that matters," I say, and look at the Colt again. "Fuck you."

The Colt is all I have left of Conrad. What would he think of me right now? That I used his weapon to kill people in his name. I imagine he'd be disappointed. Are there things worse than dying?

"Fuck you," I say to the Colt again.

You're a coward.

"Fuck you."

Conrad would do the right thing.

"Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!" I scream, pick up the gun, and throw it into the stream. I'm losing an argument with a pistol for fucks sake. I breathe hard, hissing through my teeth before reality hits me. "Conrad!"

I run toward the stream and trip as I'm close. I fall into the stream which isn't very deep, but I'm soaked and start searching around the murky water for the gun.

"Where is it, where is it!" I shout and start to panic when I can't find it. I'm splashing uncontrollably. Then I give up and start hammering my fists into the water.

I crawl out of the stream and cry on the shore. Avenging Conrad was like keeping him with me. Now that I have no one left to kill, it felt like he was truly gone. I feel like I'm reliving the news of his death all over again. I locked myself in my room and cried for days, and I might just do the same on this shore.

I remember all the things he taught me. Conrad taught me how to shoot. He taught me how to sail. He taught me Morse Code. He taught me so many things. What I really remember, were the life lessons and wisdom. Our father traveled, and our mother was a proper lady, so she didn't do much raising. Conrad raised me.

"How do I know when I can trust someone?" I ask the shore through my tears.

When you know they'd give you the shirt off their back.

"How do you know when to pull the trigger?"

When it's to protect someone or yourself.

I compose myself and sit on the edge of the stream. The murkiness begins to fall to the bottom, and the water becomes clear.

Sometimes, life makes you feel like you're drowning in shallow water. Stop splashing. The muck will drift to the bottom, and the water will clear up. Then you can see how deep the water truly is.

The water cleans up, and I see the Colt. I calmly step into the stream and retrieve it. "Still teaching me."

I walk back to my camp, wet from head to toe. Seeing no point for modesty, I undress and hang the shirt and pants off a branch to dry to in the sun. I sip my coffee in my underwear and look at the horse. Lucius looks disappointed.

"Not you too," I say, and he turns away from me. "Jackass." He looks insulted.

I look at the clothes hanging from the tree and examine the shirt. It's not mine. It's Justin's shirt. The one he gave me when I had nothing else to wear.

When you know they'd give you the shirt off their back.

When it's to protect someone or yourself.

I take the Colt, open the cylinder to dry it with a cloth. I load it, and test fire a round into the tree. Lucius doesn't panic, he seems to outright approve.

Some things are worse than dying. One of them is having to live with yourself.

I extinguish the fire and then put the wet clothes back on. I leave the camp where it is and start to ride back.

-

June 6, 1883

-Kennan Hardgrave-

That banker has more balls than any of my men. I was half tempted to just recruit him. Intelligent, resourceful, and just the right amount of lucky. Ultimately, I decided not to, because he's no killer. That boy couldn't pull the trigger if ordered. He can throw a mean punch, but he can't coil his finger back. I can't use a man who won't kill on my crew. Dammed shame.

After our meeting, I decide it's time to start our contingency plans. That trunk weighed a good amount, so I don't think they could have transported it very far without a wagon. That means it's not far from where we found the stagecoach. Especially if it was just him and that girl.

I'll order the men to start a line and walk the path they left at first light. I imagine we'll find the money by noon tomorrow. I don't think Justin retrieved it all. I think he got enough to let me know he could.

"I can't believe you just let him walk out of here," Calvin says as he walks into the tent. "We could have gotten it out of him."

"We don't need to. Besides, Bonaparte tried, and he's dead," I say, and Calvin closes the flap as he steps in.

"You don't think that boy did that by himself? Eight men?" he asks.