Joseph's Charge

Chapter 1

The dream had been received as a two-act play with a brief intermission between acts, during which he was totally awake, and able to review Act I with perfect clarity. He had considered getting out of bed and going to his desk to make note of specific details, but somehow sensed that the curtain was rising on Act II, and so, returned to the theater in order to watch himself perform.

    In the opening scene, he is standing in the basement of a house, which he apparently owns. The house is somewhere in the west, probably in Wyoming, he thinks, but could as easily be in Colorado or Montana.

    He is not alone. There is another player in the scene who can only be described as "enigmatic", because, from the vantage point of the dreamer, only the character's back is visible, and it seems as much a shadow as an actual physical presence.

    The two are examining an object that they have just discovered. It is a wooden shipping crate containing a coffin that, in turn, contains a body.

    The shipping crate is not opened, much less the coffin, but it does contain a body, or, at least, the remains of a body. Of how he knows that, he is unsure, but he does know it, and has a curious feeling that the body is his own, although he doesn't even attempt to explain that phenomenon to himself.

    There is no conversation or, as far as he can tell, even a visual exchange between the two characters. The play has become a silent movie.

    The predominant feature of the scene is the shipping label affixed to the end of the unopened crate, the details of which he is sure, three years later, hold the key to the latent insinuations of the dream, if only he could remember them.

    The label indicates that the shipment originated from an embalming parlor somewhere in France. The name of the town has five letters, which, during intermission, he recalls perfectly, along with the other information on the label.

    However, the morning after, although the general theme of the dream is still in his consciousness, he can only remember the first three letters of the town's name, and can no longer remember at all the other pertinent information on the label, which included:

    The curtain opens on Act II, and he and a young woman are in a small town in France. Except for the two of them, the town appears abandoned, and has the eerie feel of an old west gold mining ghost town, but is, more likely, a bombed-out post World War II village. There is, in fact, rubble and other evidence suggesting that is the case.

    The village is the one with the five-letter name on the shipping label, and he and the young woman are searching for something.

    As in the first act, the scene is played in silence. Communication between the two seems to be telepathic, and the signals that are sent and received are more feelings than thoughts or words.

    The woman is young and beautiful, slender with a smooth complexion, and long, dark hair. The two are obviously lovers, but more. He senses that they are partners, of sorts, but in the strongest sense of the word. It is a solidly built, long-term, successful partnership. Beyond that, he is unable to describe the feelings between them except to say that they are powerful.

    Suddenly, gunfire erupts. They are being shot at. They run, and find cover behind a trough used for watering horses. It doesn't register with the dreamer that a horse trough is out of place in this setting. They both have handguns and are returning fire. His is a Colt Government Model, hers a nine-millimeter Browning.

    Who are these men, and why are they shooting at us? There are five of them, all wearing dark suits. Two wear hats. One by one, the dreamer and his partner dispatch the shooters. As each villain is shot, he falls to the ground, is transformed into smoke and vapor, and disappears with the wind.

    The scene ends with the two of them once again searching, calmly but deliberately, for whatever it is they are searching for.

    It was the intensity of the dream that he most remembered and reflected upon the next morning - particularly the intensity of the feelings between the young woman and himself. He sat at his desk and wondered who she was. He considered the possibilities that she could be from his past, present, or future . . . . or, all three.

    For all he knew, he might have met her without realizing who she was. No, that couldn't be possible; he was sure that he would know her.

    At the moment, though, the only other thing he knew for sure was that she was real; he also had a strong, intuitive feeling that the two of them were supposed to accomplish something together, although he had no idea what that something might be.

    It had been a peculiar dream, unlike any he had experienced before, and he was more than casually interested in it.

    There had been a period earlier in his life when he had gone dreamless, and had not even realized it until he had gotten off the booze, consequently going to sleep each night instead of passing out.

    He had, on occasion, upon coming to in the morning, thought he had dreamt, but comparing those episodes to actual dreams since drying out, he now knew that they had been out-of-body experiences, and that he had, at times, had them only because he was so toxic that he had been nearer death than life.

    His dream life now, he supposed, was normal, and had been for a while. If he considered his dreams at all, he considered them to be pleasant enough experiences, even though, up until now he had given little, if any, thought to them. He had experienced a typically varied assortment of nocturnal activities, including various scenarios in which he was irregularly frightened, angry, confused, or sexually aroused, among other things, and, usually, if he remembered them at all the next morning, they were forgotten by noon.

    But this dream had been different, and he found that he was giving it a great deal of thought. He wanted to be sure that he remembered the details, and reached for a pencil to write down . . . . . ?

    What was the name of the town? . . . . the name of the embalming parlor?

    He leaned back in his chair, crossed his bare feet on the corner of the desktop, and closed his eyes. He tried to picture the shipping label, and its form began to come into focus.

    The portion of the printed matter on the left side of the top of the label was blurred, but the words on the right side were legible:

& Sons Embalming Parlor

, France

    The type that had been used when the label was printed was flourishing in character with plenty of serifs. It suddenly seemed queer that the name of a French firm would be printed in English, particularly as far back as the 19th Century. Perhaps auto-translation was one of the functions that our minds could perform in the dream state. He would have to give some more thought to that.

    He closed his eyes again and scanned down the display screen inside his head, and found that the handwritten shipping instructions that had been so clear in the dream were also blurred, as if the label had been rained on in the night and the ink had run.

    He opened his eyes, wishing that he had arisen during the night and written down the information that had been so clear. He was sure that the information was important. He did not know why.

    Suddenly, he recalled that he did know the first three letters of the town's name, which meant that he had sixty percent of it, and all of the country. That would, at least, be a place to start, he thought.

    Later in the day, he managed to find a map of France with some detail, but was unable to locate a town on it with five letters in its name, the first three of which corresponded with the three letters written in red ink on the small scrap of paper in his shirt pocket. A current map of France, it seemed, would not supply any answers.

    His mind returned to the partner he had been assigned the night before, and, for a long time afterward, whenever he recalled the powerfully vivid dream, he mostly thought in terms of the intensity of the feelings they had shared.

*  *  *  *  *

It was nearly three years later when the second dream came, and, although its impact was not as dramatic as that of the first, he knew that the two were somehow connected, and that, therefore, it was significant.

    During the first year or so following the two-part dream, he had tried many times to induce its repetition by mentally reviewing the details he remembered just before falling asleep, but had experienced no success, and had stopped trying, and gradually thought less and less about it until, finally, he had stopped thinking about it at all.

    He had been sleeping soundly for hours, but in an instant he was sitting bolt upright in bed wondering, then knowing why he had awakened so suddenly. Yes, that was it! This dream had something to do with the one he no longer thought of, but still remembered having had.

    He had awakened because, in some way, subconsciously, he supposed, he had made the connection between the two, and needed to review the earlier dream in the light of this latter revelation. But he did wish, if only briefly, that he could have stayed with it for a few more moments in order to know its conclusion.

    The scene is straight from a typical western movie, set in a saloon full of people, and he is seated at a round table, his back to the camera, playing poker with four other men. All are in period dress.

    He seems to have just won a large pot when, suddenly, the man seated across from him accuses him of having cheated. Mildly indignant, he tries to assure the man that he has not. It's not that he has never cheated at cards, the dreamer knows, but, on this particular occasion, he has not.

    His opponent is unconvinced, and is pointing a handgun at his chest, threatening to shoot him unless he confesses, and relinquishes the pot. There is particular visual emphasis on the gun; it is, waking research later confirms, a Colt Lightening double-action revolver, elaborately engraved and with pearl grips.

    The dreamer is somehow privy to the thoughts of the accused: Why is this dolt doing this? . . . . I don't need any more complications in my life . . . . . he's probably just drunk enough to shoot me.

    Then, with no more thoughts or words, he squeezes the trigger of his own gun, which has appeared in his hand without explanation, and the man across the table from him falls backward, taking his chair with him, and lands sprawled on the floor, a hole about half the size of a dime appearing in the center of his forehead, and a puddle of blood spreading on the wooden floor beneath his head.

    Immediately, the town lawman, complete with tin star and handlebar mustache, materializes, and informs the shooter that he'll have to stay in jail until the facts of the altercation are sorted out and it is determined whether or not charges are to be filed against him.

    The weapon, also a Colt's, but much larger than the dead man's, is a .45 caliber Single Action Army, and is surrendered without incident or objection.

    He then finds himself in jail, talking through the bars to the lawman who is, it seems, satisfied that he acted in self-defense, and is considering his release, when the dreamer's attention is drawn outside the jail to an assembly of the dead gambler's cronies. They are bent on taking the jailed shooter, who, with the help of a few more drinks, they have convinced themselves, has murdered their friend, out of jail and hanging him.

    It was a dreamscaped replay of dozens of TV westerns that he'd seen, and he would have been satisfied that it had been nothing more than the result of the subconscious influence of that exposure had it not been for the unexplainable but certain feeling that the man in the jail cell, the unseen body in the earlier dream, and the dreamer himself were one.

    The mustachioed man, now identified in the dream as the town Marshall, rather than just an anonymously generic lawman, goes through the front door of the jail house intent on quieting the disturbance and sending the fevered friends of the corpse on their way, but is at once blown back through the doorway by a shotgun blast, and is followed by the determined, angry-eyed group, one of whom stops to search the dead Marshall for his keys while the others head toward the cell.

    The dream ends.

Chapter 2

Eddie was determined not to make the same mistake twice, and, purposefully looking through squinted eyes at the digital clock on the table beside his bed while his feet searched the floor for his slippers, and finally deciding that it was, after all, 3:45, and not 8:45 - not because he could see the numbers clearly, but because it occurred to him that it was still dark, he got up. He found his way to the kitchen, and flipped the switch on the coffeemaker that he had prepared before turning in the night before.

    Then habitually, though a couple of hours earlier than usual, he went into the bathroom, urinated, brushed his teeth, washed out his eyes, and walked back into the main room. He sat at the table, put on his bifocals, lit his first cigarette of the day, and waited for the coffeemaker to complete its gurgling morning ritual as he started trying to bring the details of the two dreams into his consciousness.

    It seemed to Eddie, at least at first, that the wild bunch that had stormed the jail must have killed the jailed man. The corpse had then somehow wound up in the coffin that had been discovered in the earlier dream. As he continued to reflect on the details that he remembered, however, it became increasingly obvious to him that the unseen ending of the dream must have included an escape by the wrongly accused shooter. After all, he thought, the coffin had been shipped from somewhere in France, and this latest glimpse into what he had by now convinced himself must be the past had unquestionably taken place somewhere in the American west.

    As he had done three years earlier, Eddie put his feet up, leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and began to still his mind in an effort to replay the dream in his head.

    It had begun with the poker game, and, as that scene came into view and began to slowly repeat itself, he looked closely at the five cards he was holding. It felt unnatural playing these cards with a twentieth century mind. He had never seen cards quite like them. There were hearts, and clubs, and diamonds and spades, all right; as well as pictures of kings and queens and knaves, but there were no numbers or letters in the corners, and it took him a few seconds of adjusting his perspective to determine just which cards he was holding.

    The cards he saw himself holding with a hand that did not resemble his own were the six of spades, the eight of spades, the ten of spades, the king of spades, and the three of clubs. The player to his left had dealt; the bet was to the man who was about to die.

    He looked directly at the player sitting across from him, right into his eyes. Tiny beads of sweat had formed on the man's forehead and on his upper lip as he tried to decide on his bet.

    He looked at the money piled in the center of the table; there appeared to be about twelve or fifteen hundred dollars in the pot. No wonder the guy's sweating. He looked back at the bettor. The bettor checked.

    The next two players, it seemed, had folded on the fourth card. The bet was to him. Without hesitation, he tossed five Double Eagles into the center of the table. The dealer folded; the man who was about to accuse him of cheating looked at his cards again as though he thought they might have changed, thought them over for a moment, and threw them in.

    He hadn't cheated at all; having failed to fill his flush, he had bought the pot. He had bluffed, and he had won!

    Nevertheless, as before, he found himself looking at the muzzle of the revolver that was pointed at his chest. He held that picture in his mind until he had absorbed the details of the gun. Then, once again, he saw the larger gun in his own hand, heard its loud report, and saw the hole in the other man's forehead.

    Eddie opened his eyes, went to the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee, returned to the table, sipped the coffee, and lit another cigarette. Eddie made the best coffee in south Texas; there was no one to ratify that proclamation, though, as there had never been a single visitor in his small apartment, but he was sure of it, just the same.

    What could the details he had just reviewed establish? He'd start, he decided, by trying to date the firearms that had been used. He wondered what time the library opened. It was barely four-fifteen.

    By now, Digger was stirring. Digger, the companion he'd rescued from the animal shelter the year before, walked to the door and signaled, by simply standing there still and silent, that it was time for him to go outside. Digger's parentage was uncertain, but the lady at the animal shelter said that she thought his mother had been a peek-a-poo terrier cross and that his father had probably been an only slightly larger anonymous and rakish gadabout. Digger looked like a downsized version of Benji of motion picture fame, and he was a delight.

    Having opened the door for Digger's exit, Eddie poured himself a second cup of coffee, then sat sipping it as he continued to ponder the dreams . . . . what they meant, how they were connected, and what, if anything, they had to do with him.

    He let Digger back in, showered, shaved, put on a pair of jeans and a clean T-shirt, and stepped out the door to size up the day. It was like hundreds which had preceded it, but, at least, he thought, it's Saturday, then, thinking further, it occurred to him that his Saturdays were no different than his Tuesdays now, or any other day of the week, for that matter.

    He took the library card out of his billfold, and verified the library's nine o'clock opening time. In his case, the word "billfold" was a misnomer, because he'd never used one for carrying currency, opting instead to use his left front pants pocket for folding money knowing that it was more secure there.

    And the well-worn billfold that he slipped back into the hip pocket of his jeans no longer held American Express, MasterCard, Diner's Club, Visa, et al. Nor did it contain, as it once had, any of the specially engraved business cards with the name "Edward L. Lassiter" in raised gold print.

    Aside from the library card, its entire contents consisted of a Texas Driver's License which had his picture but an imaginary name on it, a Social Security card with the same concocted name as the driver's license and the library card, a tattered picture of a young girl who had been about six or seven when the photograph was taken, and a small square of yellow paper folded in half and with the handwritten words: "In case of death, please notify Miss Jennifer Albrighton - McLean, Virginia" on it.

    Jenny was the only person from his past with whom he'd stayed in contact. She was, as far as he knew, the only person who knew for sure that he was alive. Eddie would call her from a pay phone once a month, or so, and find out if she'd heard anything. She was also the only way he had of keeping up with Lisa's life, although any information she might have in that regard was always at least third hand.

    Eddie looked at his wristwatch: only a few minutes past seven. He'd drive down to the park, he decided, and sit on one of the benches beneath the live oak trees until time for the library to open.

    He slid behind the steering wheel of the faded blue pickup, started the engine, and headed toward town.

    The humidity was high, as it always was in that part of south Texas, but it wasn't too hot yet. About 75 degrees, he thought. By the time the library opened, it would probably be close to ninety, but for now at least, it was pleasant enough.

    Eddie arrived at the park in the center of the square, parked the old truck at the curb, walked to the bench that he had selected both because of its position in the shade and because it would afford him a view of anyone approaching, and sat down. Except for the squirrels that alternately scurried across the grass or up a tree, and stood as still as the statue of the war hero positioned at the southwest corner of the square as if on guard against another Mexican invasion, he was alone. The old downtown section did not start stirring with much activity until at least eight, and usually closer to nine, and, this being a Saturday, it might not start stirring at all.

    Sitting there, and watching one squirrel chase another up the trunk of one of the ancient trees, he began to think about the past, more matter-of-factly than with remorse or self-pity, but thinking about it nonetheless. He was simply replaying scenes from his life on the screen of his mind; he had stopped thinking about the future some time ago, and there was nothing in the present that held any interest for him, so, he regularly reflected upon the past, rather like paging through an old photograph album.

    Eddie often reminded himself that he had caught the gold ring once, but had dropped it, and that, after all, it was probably better to be a "has been" than a "never was".

    He had discovered that it was best for him to begin these reminicential periods by remembering himself as he had been that morning in Minneapolis. That practice always seemed to assure him that, despite his loneliness, his present life wasn't so bad.

    One early January morning in 1981, the founder, Chairman, and Chief Executive Officer of GTM, Inc. came to, and, after picking up the receiver of the undialable phone, and ascertaining from a foul-mouthed desk clerk that he was a registered guest at an eight-dollar-a-night flophouse on Hennepin Avenue in Minneapolis, he lay back across the dingy chenille bedspread wondering how he'd wound up in Minneapolis, how long he'd been there, and why he'd come in the first place.

    He looked around the dismal room. No sign of luggage, not even a shaving kit. No matter - his accommodations didn't seem to include a bathroom anyway. He noticed his jacket draped across the single wooden straight chair, picked it up, and, in the breast pocket, found several airline receipts and boarding pass stubs. From the information they contained, he pieced together a rough-hewn idea of where he'd been, although he had no idea why he'd gone or, once there, what he'd done.

    The receiver, when he picked it up, automatically connected him again to Mr. Personality. "Yea?"

    "When did I check in?"

    "You don't remember?"

    "Just tell me when I checked in, please."

    "The third."

    "And what's today?"

    "The sixth, you boozed-out jerk." The clerk hung up.

    The third coincided with the date on one of the airline tickets. That was three days ago, he mused; what the hell have I been doing here for three days?

    He returned to his examination of the tickets. Apparently, he'd come to Minneapolis from Chicago, where he'd spent two more unremembered days. He also, according to the evidence, had been in Memphis and Shreveport, leaving the latter for the former on the twenty-second. There was nothing that indicated how he'd gotten to Shreveport; for all he knew, he'd arrived there by riverboat.

    The last thing that Edward Lassiter had been able to remember clearly on that cold Minnesota morning was sitting at a bar at Dulles a few days before Christmas . . . . Oh God, he had thought, how will I ever explain missing Christmas to Lisa? . . . . it was the twentieth, and he had been waiting to take a flight to Houston to wrap up the project he'd been working on since the first of November. He had planned to be home by the twenty-third, at the latest, to enjoy the holidays with his family.

    Some answers would come, much later, but he might never know for sure everything that had happened during that seventeen-day period.

    Lassiter looked in the smudged mirror, and saw a stranger looking back at him, a crack running diagonally across his face. The disheveled, badly hungover man looking back at him must have been at least twenty pounds lighter than he was, and his face was pale and drawn. It looked like it had been a week since he had shaved. He wondered when he had last eaten.

    He emptied the contents of his pockets out on the bed, and began to go through them. Nothing seemed to be missing, although he couldn't be sure what he'd had with him the last time he'd looked.

    He counted the money in the gold money clip that had been engraved "E.L.L", and given to him by Caroline the year before on his thirty-eighth birthday. It contained $950. Wads of crumpled bills from other pockets totaled $132; there was no loose change.

    He looked at the airline tickets again, his befogged mind having trouble concentrating. They had all been purchased by credit card. Of course they had; he always used plastic when he was traveling. Credit card statements were much simpler for expensing than trying to keep up with all those receipts. He checked his wallet. All of the cards were there. But wait . . . . the project he had been working on was black; nothing was to have been documented . . . . he wouldn't have left a trail like that for some investigative committee to follow.

    He wondered why, with all those credit cards and a pocket full of cash, he'd decided to check into a dump like this.

    The next thing he was aware of was his need for a drink. He really needed a drink. He considered sending out for a bottle, but decided against it, knowing what he really needed was a bath and a shave, and then, maybe, something to eat, though he wasn't as committed to eating as he was to cleaning up.

    Down the hall, he located the communal bath, sans soap or towels, and decided that he really wouldn't feel clean anyway until he was in more sanitary surroundings. Besides, he thought, I need shaving gear and a change of clothes, so he returned to his room and, once again, picked up the phone.

    Mr. Personality laughed some obscenities into the phone when he was asked to call for a taxi, and told the rummy that there was a cabstand a mere three blocks down the street.

    Lassiter had been to the Twin Cities a couple of times previously and had liked the place, but, as he stepped out onto Hennepin Avenue, he recalled that both of his prior trips had been during summer months, and, if he had not quite sobered up yet, that was taken care of the moment Minneapolis' January weather bid him good morning.

    The sidewalk was a sheet of ice layered thinly with sullied snow, and the sport coat he was wearing was no match for the wind. As he hurried toward the cabstand, his smooth-soled loafers flew out from under him, and he fell hard, thinking for a few moments as he lay there that he had broken his hip. Finally, he got up, and then slowly made his way the remaining two blocks to the queue of idling machines at the curb.

    Those particular three blocks of Hennepin Avenue were home to a peculiar mix of prostitutes, winos, and petty crooks, as well as other assorted misfits, ne'er-do-wells, and down-and-outers, and he detected a particularly offensive odor in the air . . . . or, he wondered, was that him?

    He went to the head of the queue, got in the back seat of an ancient Marathon, and instructed the driver to take him to the nearest hotel that had private baths, and that might be expected to be reasonably clean.

    "You got cash, buddy?" the cabby asked, eyeballing him in the mirror.

    "What?" then remembering his appearance, "Oh . . . yes, I have more cash than you'll ever see, pal. I need to make a couple of other stops along the way, too, if you'd be so kind," he said, immediately chastising himself for talking down to the man. "If there's a convenience store of some sort . . . . then some place to buy some clothes . . . . it'll only take a few minutes . . . I just need to pick up some things."

    "No hurry, mister. The meter's running."

    He procured a new set of clothes, including a coat more suited to the circumstances in which he found himself, and the toiletries required to re-humanize himself. He wondered what had happened to the carry-on he remembered having had with him at Dulles. He spotted a McDonalds, and asked the cabby to pull through the drive-thru and order an Egg McMuffin and a cup of coffee.

    When he unwrapped the breakfast sandwich, he almost threw up on it, but, by the time the cab pulled up in front of a Holiday Inn, he'd managed to get about half of it down along with all of the coffee.

    Lassiter got out, tipping the driver almost as much as the fare, then handed him an additional twenty and asked the man to locate a Washington Post and leave it at the desk for him.

    Edward felt better just being clean and shaved, but he did not feel good. He was weak, slightly nauseous, his head was pounding, and his hands visibly trembled. The mirror image was reasonably presentable, but, on the inside, he felt as if he were coming apart at the seams.

    Room service arrived, as had been requested, with a pot of coffee and half a dozen donuts. His body was crying out for sugar.

    The delivery had helped, and, as the combination of caffeine and sugar began to clear the cobwebs from his head, his mind returned to the last thing he remembered: sipping on a scotch and water in a cocktail lounge at Dulles.

    And that was it. That's all he remembered . . . . just sitting there having a drink, waiting for the mysterious Ramon, and for departure time.

    He walked to the restaurant, sat at a table in the far corner, ordered more coffee along with a large glass of orange juice, and began to scan the copy of The Post that the cabby had left for him, looking for some news about himself or his company or anything that might give a clue as to what had happened. There was nothing. He looked through it again, this time more slowly. Nothing.

    There was nothing for him to do except catch the next flight home. Lassiter wondered what would be waiting for him when he got there.

Chapter 3

Morgan Shipman arrived in Fort Smith ten years to the  day before the artillery barrage fell on Fort Sumter.

    Thomas Earl Shipman had arrived two years earlier, migrating west from Savannah with his young bride, Sally, to become a storekeeper. He aspired to supplying a goodly portion of the needs of the goldseekers on their way to California.

    Sally Parnell Shipman did not survive Morgan's birth.

    And, although he continued to function, indeed to prosper, Tom never really seemed to recover from the shock of losing her, and, though he truly did not want to, there was something inside of him that always blamed his only child for her death.

    Tom had rapidly established a good business by earning a reputation for square-dealing, an almost unique trait among the community's businessmen, but, after Sally's death, his heart was simply no longer in it, and, with each year that passed, he became more and more depressed. So, well before the divisiveness that preceded Pea Ridge had begun, he sold the store to a well-healed friend of Governor Conway's, and, himself, prepared to head west.

    Red Simpson, the tobacco-chewing manager that the new owner had sent up from Arkansas Post, arrived, and Tom turned the store over to him without fanfare. Morgan had never seen a man who could get as much tobacco into his mouth as Red Simpson could and he was truly impressed. Two days later, father and son crossed over into the Indian Nations, and began to follow the Arkansas along its meandering route toward Kansas Territory.

    When he had first determined to sell out and go west, Tom had considered following the Butterfield route to California, but, after the news of new finds in the Rockies reached Fort Smith, he decided instead to follow the Arkansas as far as it would lead him, and not make up his mind as to where to go from there until he ran out of river.

    He knew that the trip would be more difficult with a nine year old boy in tow, and had considered sending Morgan to Savannah to live with his older brother, Alfred, and his family, but - mostly because of the guilt he experienced over his unspoken feelings toward his son, had finally decided against separating himself from the boy.

    Morgan was excited about being a part of the adventure he had heard others so enthusiastically talking about in his father's store as they purchased provisions for their various westward treks, and he was especially happy about being partnered in this undertaking with his father.

    They reached Fort Gibson without incident, and then, following a full day's rest, continued on their way, Morgan full of hopes and dreams and Tom simply wanting to get as far away from Fort Smith as he could, hopefully, overcoming some of his melancholia along the way.

    Tom had reckoned it would take them a couple of weeks worth of daylight-to-dark days to make it to Wichita, but a broken axle three days out of Fort Gibson refuted that estimate, and was the slowing agent needed to make him wonder what his hurry was, anyway. After all, it wasn't as if he knew their final destination, or, for that matter, what he was going to do when they got there.

    From that point on, they took their time, traveling no more than seven or eight hours a day, and stopping to spend a day or two here, or a week or two there, if it suited them.

    Aside from his father's reticence, Morgan loved everything about the trip, and spent most of his days marveling at the changing terrain, wondering what lay ahead, and fantasizing about standing shoulder-to-shoulder with his father to repel an attack by either Indians or robbers, as his imagination struck him on any particular day.

    For Morgan, who had never before been more than a few miles from Fort Smith, it was a grand adventure, and when they occasionally met fellow travelers along the way, he would always ask if they had seen any famous desperadoes or had to shoot any attacking savages, while his father would inquire into such mundane matters as the condition of the trail ahead or news of the growing schism between the slave and free states.

    As traveling companions, the two were a perfect compliment - Morgan wide-eyed with youthful enthusiasm, Tom convinced that life had it in for him.

    If the boy at all suspected his father's feelings toward him, he chose to ignore them, and, whether it was intentional or not, he provided an example of trust in the perfect order of the universe that, in itself, should have been enough to convince Tom to part with the resentment that he allowed to rob him of his joy.

    Morgan's favorite time of all was at night, between the time they finished supper and the time they fell asleep, Morgan always at least a full hour ahead of his father. It would have been Tom's favorite time, too, if only he could have admitted it to himself.

    During those hours, Morgan would relentlessly question Tom about all the things a man headed west needed to know, and would listen attentively as his father explained, stretching the truth only enough to make the explanation interesting to a nine year old.

    The transformation from storekeeper to adventurer was easier for Tom than one might have expected. He took well to his new lifestyle, and wondered to himself how he had managed to stay cooped up in that store for all those years.

    Considering Morgan's propensity for perpetual optimism, and the proximity to his father that their circumstances warranted, given time, Tom Shipman might have overcome his depression. But Tom's time ran out before the Arkansas did. Somewhere between Wichita and the Rockies - Morgan would never know exactly where - they had stopped and made camp. Morgan gathered wood for a fire while Tom unhitched the wagon and tended the mules. The father and son had gone about things that had, by then, become routine, eaten supper, and settled by the fire for Morgan's nightly round of questions.

    There was no slipping up on a camp in this terrain, and Tom had spotted the silhouette of the lone rider heading toward the light of the fire while it was still some distance away.

    No need in taking chances, he thought. "Morgan get up in the back of the wagon and cover yourself with that tarp 'til we see what this fellow's about."

    Morgan did as he was told, his young heart racing at even the hint of excitement; Tom pulled the rifle a little closer to his side, and watched the rider slowly approach.

    "Hello in the camp!"

    "Hello yourself, friend."

    "Saw your fire. That coffee sure smells good."

    "Come on in and have a cup."

    "Mighty kind of you, friend." The rider dismounted, led his horse over and tied it with the mules, and finally got close enough to the fire for Tom to make out what he looked like.

    Coarse lookin' fellow, he thought, as he handed the man a tin cup.

    "Thank you kindly, sir," the man said, as Tom poured. "My name's Fly, Ned Fly." He removed the glove from his free hand by taking it, finger by finger, between his front teeth and gently tugging at it, then held out the naked hand for Tom to shake.

    "Tom Shipman, Mr. Fly," Tom said, extending his own.

    Fly sat down, beating the dust off of himself with his hat as he did, then blowing on the coffee and taking a sip. "What's got you out here in the middle of nowhere, Mr. Shipman?"

    "On my way to the mountains," Tom said, still trying to size his guest up. "Thought I'd try my hand at some prospectin', maybe. What about you?"

    Fly smiled, placing the tin cup on the ground beside his boot. "Well, I'll tell you, sir. I'm a robber by profession, and I figured you might have something in that wagon there that I wanted."

    Morgan, wide-eyed in the dark, wet himself.

    Tom reached for the rifle too late; before he could bring it up, Fly, still sitting, still smiling, had drawn his handgun from his belt and fired, shooting him in the chest. Tom Shipman lay in the dirt beside the fire, his dead eyes staring at the man who had so casually taken his life.

    It was suddenly so quiet. Morgan was sure the man could hear him shaking beneath the tarp or at least smell his pee. Sure that his father was dead, knowing he was next, he bit into his lip to keep from screaming. As cold as it was, his hands were sweating, and he found them gripping the handle of a shovel or something. Why doesn't he just get it over with? Tears ran down his face. Why did he have to kill him?

    Fly poured himself another cup of Tom's coffee, lacing it with whiskey from a bottle he had retrieved from the kit strapped to his saddle, rolled Tom over with his boot to curiously examine the exit wound in his back, and sat back down with the cup. "Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Shipman, sir."

    "Well", he said to himself out loud when he had finished the coffee, "guess I oughta inspect my property."

    Morgan, tense, gripping the wooden handle so tightly that the circulation was leaving his hands, heard the footsteps as they approached the wagon. Somebody help me! he screamed inside his head.

    The tarp came back suddenly. Morgan lunged at the dark form with everything his young muscles could muster.

    "What the hell? Awwgg! My eye! You little shit! You've put my eye out! You miserable little shit! My eye!" Fly staggered, his hands covering his face, blood running out beneath them.

    It was only then that Morgan realized that what he'd been clutching under the tarp was a pitchfork's handle, and that, when he'd lunged, one of the tines had, indeed, jabbed the killer in the eye, and that the blood from the wound had impaired this vision of the other eye. He jumped down from the wagon, still wielding his unorthodox weapon. "You killed my pa, you murderer! You killed him!" He jabbed at the man again, this time puncturing his right shoulder.

    Fly yelled in agony, stumbling through the fire, unable to see, flailing out with his uninjured arm. "I'm gonna kill you, boy! You're dead, you little shit! You hear me? You're dead!"

    Morgan looked around. The rifle barrel protruded from beneath his father's body. Crying uncontrollably, he rolled Tom's body off the rifle, freezing momentarily at the sight of his father's still opened eyes.

    Fly was still yelling, kicking out at the air, and then, holding his revolver in his left hand, began shooting wildly all around him. One of the bullets struck Tom's dead leg only inches away form Morgan. The revolver was empty, but Fly kept on pulling back the hammer, then releasing it by squeezing the trigger, kept yelling. "Where are you, you miserable little shit? Where are you?"

    Morgan picked up the rifle, chambered a round, "Right here, mister," he said, squeezing the trigger. The shot was low and wide to the right, hitting the overturned coffeepot about two feet from Fly's left boot.

    The killer stopped, stood still and quiet, wiping the blood from the uninjured eye, trying to make out the boy's shape. "Now hold on there, boy. I didn't want to kill your daddy . . . he made me. He was gonna shoot me with that very rifle you're holdin' there. Now calm down boy. I'm hurt bad. Put the rifle down. Don't shoot!"

    Morgan had chambered another round. He wanted to shoot Fly . . . to kill him, and keep on shooting bullets into his dead flesh. He was pointing the muzzle at the monster, crying, shaking, wanting to pull the trigger, but . . . . he couldn't. As much as he wanted to, needed to, he just couldn't. "Git yer horse, mister, and git out of here!"

    Fly stumbled to his horse, looking over his shoulder all the while at the boy with the rifle, pulled himself up into the saddle, still holding a hand over the bloody eye socket, faced the horse toward the boy, and asked, "What's your name, boy?"

    "Morgan Shipman," Morgan said defiantly.

    "I won't forget you, Morgan Shipman. I won't forget you."

    "Just git."

    Ned Fly slowly rode away, filled with pain, self-pity, and hatred. No, I won't forget you, Morgan Shipman.

    Morgan covered his father's body with the tarp from the wagon, then sat down beside it, rifle across his lap, and cried.

    It was early October, and morning arrived cold and windy across the plain. Morgan had not slept; had not moved from the spot of his silent vigil.

    It had not even registered that the fire had gone out, and he had been staring at it all the while. But, with the dawn, came the realization that now he must move, must do something, and so he began by first rekindling the fire, then setting right the mess that had been made by Fly's thrashing about.

    There'd be no coffee this day; he picked up the coffeepot he'd murdered the night before and examined its .44 caliber wound. Morgan didn't want to bury his father there . . . didn't want to have to leave him there alone - out in the middle of nowhere, as his killer had described the place, but knew that he had no choice, so fetched the shovel from the wagon and started digging.

    The ground was rock hard, and by midday he'd only managed a hole about two feet deep. He decided that a shallow grave would have to do. Tom's body lay maybe fifty or sixty feet away from the spot where he had chosen to dig. Morgan suddenly realized that he hadn't considered the problem it'd be for a boy of his size to move 190 pounds that distance.

    He pulled the tarp back, grabbed the collar of Tom's coat and pulled. No luck. He removed his father's belt, looped it around the corpse's feet, and pulled, and jerked, and pulled again. It was too much weight. He fell to his knees beside his father's body and wept.

    Finally, wondering why it hadn't occurred to him sooner, he tied a length of rope around Tom's feet, secured the other end to one of the mules, and led it along beside the grave, stopping it when the body was positioned where he wanted it. Then, with much effort and many tears, he rolled the father he had needed so much to love him into the hole, and began to shovel dirt in on top of him.

    "What do I do now, Pa?" he asked the grave when he was done. I'm all alone now, he thought. Should I try to make it back to Fort Smith? At least there are folks there who know me. Maybe Mr. Simpson would let me work in Pa's old store. "Pa!" he yelled, "I'm only nine years old. What do I do now?"

    He spent the afternoon gathering rocks and placing them on top of the grave. By dusk, he was exhausted. He hadn't eaten since . . . . he hadn't eaten since just before his pa had noticed the man riding toward their camp. Tom had done all the cooking. Morgan supped on strips of dried beef and water from the canteen.

    He couldn't sleep. He spent the night sitting by the fire wrapped in a blanket, holding his father's rifle across his lap.

    He figured that rifle had been his father's most prized possession. It had been the first of the new Henry's to arrive at the store, and Tom just hadn't been able to part with it, even though he'd been offered more than twice its value.

    Since their journey had begun, Tom had spent time teaching his son to shoot the .44 caliber lever action, and the boy had become reasonably proficient with it - especially proficient for a nine-year-old, Tom had thought.

    Sometime during the night, huddled in the blanket, staring into the fire, Morgan realized that, come morning, he'd have to do something. And, as upset as he was by the thought of leaving his father there alone in the cold ground, he knew he had no choice.

    If the thought of starving out on the plains did not provide the impetus to get moving, the possibility of Ned Fly returning did; one of the reasons he'd been unable to sleep was seeing Fly's snarling face every time he closed his eyes.

    Once again, the morning arrived cold and windy. Morgan had decided in the hours before dawn that he'd stick to his father's plan and continue to follow the river. At least until something else occurred to him.

    He hitched the mules to the wagon, took a last long look at the rock-covered grave and around the periphery of the campsite, and headed the team west along the river. It was all he knew to do.

    His supplies were running low, and he had no idea of how far it was to the next town, or, when he thought about it, even what the next town was. The trip that had begun as a glorious adventure had become an ordeal, and he would have given anything to be back in Fort Smith in his father's store, providing, of course, that his father was there, too.

    Earlier in the trip, Tom had let Morgan handle the team for a few miles at a time, and he had done well, when the terrain had been smooth. Driving the wagon in daylong stretches exhausted him, though, but he kept at it with determination until dusk each day, always hoping that this would be the day when he came to a town.

    Had it not been for remembering his father's plan to follow the Arkansas, Morgan's brave determination would probably, at best, have served to keep him alive only a few days. As it was, though, staying with the river, he had a chance.

    On the afternoon of the third day alone in the wagon, it seemed to Morgan that the sun would never set. He had dozed more than slept since the trouble, and he kept nodding off, as the wagon slowly rolled along, only to be awakened with a jolt as one or another of the wheels would hit a rock or a hole.

    By the time he finally did stop to make camp that night, he was too exhausted to even eat, so he saw to the animals, stretched out in back of the wagon, covered himself up, and immediately went to sleep, his arms wrapped tightly around the prized Henry which was now, he supposed, his.

    Morgan slept. He really slept. And, when dawn came, he woke slowly. He thought he must be dreaming in that half sleep that precedes waking consciousness, because he could smell smoke, and he was sure he hadn't taken the time to make a fire before climbing into the wagon the night before.

    There are other smells, too, he thought. Coffee, and . . . . bacon.

    Slowly, he opened his eyes, and, as he did, saw the smoke rising in the early morning light. He sat up quickly; thinking that Fly must have come during the night and found him, and was just waiting to have his breakfast before killing him.

    He jumped from the wagon, rifle in hand, drawing a circle in the air around him with the muzzle. It's not Fly, he realized. Who is it? he wondered, as he warily approached the figure sitting cross-legged on the other side of the fire.

    The rifle was pointed at the stranger. Morgan chambered a cartridge with the lever. "Who are you?" he blurted out.

    The man had not moved; hadn't flinched a muscle or even blinked. "Why, I am me, of course, just as you are you, Morgan Shipman."

    "Don't humbug me, mister; I'll shoot ya for sure! Now, what's yer name, and how'd you know who I was?"

    "You may call me 'Joseph', Morgan. And now that you have a name for me, you have a decision to make. You must either shoot me or lay your rifle down. Your breakfast is ready."

    Morgan looked at the skillet, which was still on the fire, and then back at the man, and made his decision.

    Fresh eggs and bacon. How could that be out here? Who cares? If the stranger planned to kill him, at least he'd die with a full stomach. He leaned the rifle against the side of the wagon, cautiously helped himself to the food, and sat on the ground to eat, leaving the fire between the peculiar man and himself.

    As he ate, watching all the while the puzzle who still sat across the fire from him smiling, more with his eyes than with his mouth, he wondered. He wondered many things, not the least of which was how this man had managed fresh eggs and bacon way out here.

    He pondered the facts, trying to decide what was going on, and, at the same time, trying not to let on how much he was enjoying his breakfast. Wherever he had come from, he had walked, Morgan concluded, since there was not a horse or a mule or a wagon accompanying him.

    The boy also noticed that the man was apparently unarmed except for the short-bladed knife that hung in its scabbard from his belt, and that couldn't be good for much except slicing mysteriously appearing bacon. Whoever he is, Morgan thought, he must be loco to be out here alone without a gun.

    Where did he come from? Why is he here? And how does he know my name?

    "Okay", Morgan said, making sure before he spoke that the Henry was within reach, "where'd you come from, mister?"

    "The other side," Joseph said simply, and, though his answer had explained nothing, Morgan assumed that he meant the other side of the river, and left it at that.

    "What do you want?"

    "I have no wants. I'm here to help you."

    "Why?"

    "It's what I was sent to do."

    "Sent? Whatcha mean 'sent'?"

    "Just sent."

    Morgan sensed that he was getting nowhere with his questions. He knew no more now than before he'd asked them. "How do you know me? And how'd you know I was here?"

    "It's enough that I know, Morgan. Now, you have another decision to make. Will you accept my help, or shall I go on my way?"

   "You sure don't talk like no darkie."

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