The Fugitive

It was hot, damned hot. And it was going to get hotter. The late morning sun bore down upon his back. He cursed the thought of it beating on his face in the afternoon. His saddle creaked as he swayed side to side in rhythm with the plodding steps of his horse. The stinging alkali dust flew straight at him carried by a relentless hot wind. The flats he rode over stretched before him into the distance where a band of gray mountains met the horizon. He might be safe if he could make it to the mountains.

He had to shoot the cowboy that accused him of cheating, the damned sore loser. It was either that or be shot. He could not stay to defend his actions; he was wanted in too many places. He had to run. He left his belongings and ran for the flats. The posse would not follow him onto the cursed plain he now traveled. They knew it meant death to them as well as him. Now he rode slowly, the horizon no closer than it had been the day before.

His horse needed water or there would not be any more riding. He pulled the horse up and got wearily out of the saddle, almost falling down. He had not been off the horse since the day before. He retrieved the canteen and emptied half of what remained into his hat. The horse drank greedily when he put it under her nose. He put the canteen back and mounted the horse. He almost didn’t make it. His legs would not lift him. He pulled himself up to the saddle hand over hand. The effort left him drained. The sun was trying to drive him out of the saddle. He hung onto the saddle horn for dear life.

He had too much time to think. Too much time to reflect on his wasted life. A life of drinking, gambling, whoring, there was no debasement beneath him. To think he was once a simple farm boy in love with the beautiful daughter of the town’s banker.

“James,” she had said with swollen eyes, “I can’t see you any more. My papa forbids it.” She clutched a lace handkerchief to her chest. Her immaculate blue dress surpassed the Sunday best of any woman that attended his church. Her white bonnet could not contain the cascade of blonde curls that fell from its openings. Her blue eyes were swollen from the tears she had shed at her father’s announcement.

“Mary, say you’ll run away with me,” he pleaded. “We can go to St. Louis. I will find work. We can make a life there.” He pleaded in desperation for the love of his life. His heart would wither and die without her.

“You must speak with him. Please convince him you can be a good husband.” She turned and ran from him crying into her arm.

He resolved to speak with Mr. Carlson. Mr. Carlson was an imposing man with an imperious bearing who was given to judgments of finality. There was no dissuading him if he declared a ranch forfeit. James waited for Mr. Carlson to return from work. James stepped out from a doorway and addressed Mr. Carlson as he passed. Mary’s father was having none of it. He brushed James aside without slowing down. James ran ahead of the man saying, “Mr. Carlson, I wish to speak for you daughter.”

Mr. Carlson brought himself up to full stature and roared, “I’ll not have my daughter collecting buffalo dung while you scrape a meager living from some piece of sod.”

“But Mr. Carlson, I am going to St. Louis to find work. I shall provide a good home for her,” James pleaded.

“Go to St. Louis, find this job. I will entertain your proposal then.”

That was better than he had expected. He told Mary about the conversation. She had cried for the loss of him but he vowed to return at first opportunity. His parents would be sorely put out running the farm without him, but if moving away would win Mary, then all was worthwhile.

St. Louis was a thriving town with work aplenty, but it was also full of many temptations. He had fallen prey to many of them while struggling for the success he required. His struggle was difficult and the effort changed him. He left the innocent farm boy he had been behind. The day finally came whereby he believed he had attained a measure of success. He had been away eighteen months but now he was ready to return. He sped to the Kansas Territory with great haste. He ran directly to Mary’s house, as he greatly desired seeing her again. When no one answered the door, he ran to the back. There was Mary, nestled in the arms of a dapper young man. The cad leaned in to press his advantage. A sudden horror filled James’ veins with a fiery rage. The man stood as James roared in anger, withdrawing his revolver from his vest without a thought other than murderous hate. He shot the man through the head.

“Allistor!” Mary cried in horror. She spun on James screeching, “Murderer. You will die for this, you vile beast.”

He suddenly realized what he had done. His Mary stood before him condemning him to the death he surely deserved. He ran blindly down the street until he spotted an unguarded horse. He stole the horse and fled to the west with only the clothes on his back. He had the good fortune to have stolen a fast horse. He narrowly escaped capture a dozen times. When finally as he crossed a wild prairie, Indians massacred the posse that chased him. He disappeared into the city of Denver where he earned money as a saloon bouncer. He crossed the Rockies where peaceful Indians shared their food with him. From there he rode to Salt Lake City where a fateful card game had sent him to the hellish flats he now crossed.

He dropped the reins. It no longer mattered which direction they went, the destination would be the same. A cruel end to the life of mortal sin he had made. He felt himself fading. His eyes swam and then he knew no more.

A ferocious jolt brought him to consciousness. He struggled to lift his head. He saw his horse drinking from a small pool. He had fallen off the horse when she had lowered her head to drink. He crawled to the edge of the pond smelling the water for signs of corruption. He drank slowly once he was satisfied of its purity. He knew from experience that drinking too quickly from great thirst would cause painful injury. He washed his face. His cracked lips began to bleed.

They camped there over night drinking and resting and continued the next morning refreshed. The mountains loomed closer, he was going to make it. A hard choice faced him. Over the mountains to the settlement of Ely, and a wagon train to the west coast; or down the edge of the alkali flats heading south to Mexico. A stark but safe existence in a foreign land; or a life of comfortable debauchery in San Francisco? When put that way, the choice was obvious. He turned the horse to the west and headed into the mountains.