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Sinclair and PL Gold Rush |
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This Story Started in July 1998 PART 1 O'Hara stared at the small gold hoop earrings, as they metamorphosed into identical circular rings within his hand. No commitments. No commitments, he reiterated the mantra under his breath. PL O'Hara, needed no one, not even --- not even Dana. The glint of the gold caught in the mirror spotlight. He was back, long ago, incense assailing his olfactory nerves, the liturgy lulling in the background. Chewing gum and paper pellets, a Saturday afternoon choirboy earning pocket money at another wedding. Snapping the box shut he sort to cleanse old and newer memories. Sun was over the yardarm, he reflected. There was no obligation to be sociable; the night was his to debauch as he so inclined. But as the evening wore on, such was the ache within, he perceived each dram a medical necessity. --------------- 15.7.98 An empty whisky bottle. Victory in a hard fought battle. O'Hara grinned, raised his arm in mock salute to a worthy opponent. But the liquor had the last laugh as PL keeled over and passed out on the bed. B*stard taking his woman. Gunslinger. Gold. Rings. Colours cascaded and floated beyond his eyes, the picture gradually focusing on the interior of a small wooden church. Whitewashed walls, new wooden supports. Unlike any church he had ever known, but he knew it was that place for he heard the voices from invisible participants. Voices he recognised. "With this ring I thee wed" Colours swirled once more, and he saw himself kissing the bride. Dana. A warm glow of satisfaction --- Shattered as the magic eye drew back. For he was not the groom. 15.7.98 ----------------------- Shrieking brake shoes showered sparks. Squealing metal tore against metal, burning grease. The engineer stopped shovelling and swung on the brake lever like a man possessed. Wailing in pain the Iron Horse shuddered to a halt. Crying in vain to an empty landscape. He tipped his hat further down, obscuring all but a weeks-bearded chin, pointedly ignoring the rising commotion outside the carriage. Long, hide clad legs took ownership of the bench seating. No apparent concessions to sartorial elegance, save one, neatly puffed in the opening of his shirt. A colourful cravat. PL braced himself for the final jolt, eyes still appraising the stranger opposite. Few words had passed. Private men on a common journey. ---------- 16.7.98 Missouri. O'Hara reached into the interior of his ill fitting suit jacket. Unfolding the telegraphic message he read it for the hundredth time. Travesties may be undone. That was it. No signature. Only the Independence Telegraphic Office providing the clue he needed. 16.7.98 ----------------- Independence, Missouri Simon had been so solicitous of her well being. But business was business, and his business was the law in California. There was no question of his journeying without her. The next wagon train would be the following month. If only she could postpone their journey East just a few more weeks. Perhaps the rains would come early and the trip be abandoned. Dana paced. Sick in heart. 17.7.98 ---------------- PL stood, stretched, and made to look out of the window. "I shouldn’t bother" the voice emanated from the hat. "Another steer on the line I expect. A stubborn brute or dead meat, either way, tomorrows lunch." O’Hara rubbed the glass. The throng of people using the temporary stop to stretch their legs had started to dissipate. Blasting out from the engine the whistle recalled all aboard. "You are probably right." The stranger lifted his hat and fixed PL in a calculating stare. "I am always right." Taken aback by the reply, PL offered his hand. "PL O’Hara late of New York City and points east." "Sinclair Bryant, Professional Forecaster, Citizen of the World." Despite outward appearances the man was no cowboy, The hands, long fingered and sensitive, gave a firm handshake. "What does that mean?" "It means I'm a Riverboat man " PL's blank expression forced further explanation. Sinclair with a sleight of hand produced a pack of cards and proceeded to zip them this way and that with a speed and dexterity that could only be admired. "Ah" PL smiled in recognition. "A man of cards." 17.7.98 ------ Three chairs. Strong cigar smoke plumed, curled towards the centre lamp then bloomed upwards ethereally. Easy laughter had long ago given way to deep suspicion. Liquor ceased to dull the senses of the combatants, sweated out in the airless den reserved for the high rollers game. Time was his friend. The room pregnant with suspense awaiting his move. Sinclair raised the glass slowly to his lips studying the cards. *Horn Rimmed* rolled a soft cloth over his lenses, smeared with sweat dripping from his brow. Winding the fabric in a circular hypnotic motion, attempting to charm the snake. "Fold" Slamming his hand down in annoyance *The Moustache* scraped back his chair. "Stakes too high for me" "Raise y-o-u." Sinclair smoothed the baize of the green table, unfolding his handkerchief. Hood eyes, the cobra gave away no secret to the snake charmer. The but end glowed brighter, the only outward sign that *Horn Rimmed* responded to the challenge. Every clink of glass, murmured word from the saloon magnified in the silence of the den. "Your call I believe." Sinclair's authority washed over the table, eyes fixed beyond the spectacles into the watery pupils of his opponent. He felt beneath the table, adjusting his waistband for eventualities. Coins spun from nowhere. Dull, metallic additions to the paper mountain. "See you Pretty Boy" A small cough from the background, Sinclair remained calm, breathing evenly. The snake pit. "Aces over Queens" One by one the cards peeled from his hand, reinforcing the words. A second later he was out of the chair as *Horn Rimmed* screamed "CHEAT." Sweeping the pot into the waiting handkerchief, Sinclair moving low and fast, ducking the abuse, aiming for the door, not waiting for the hard nosed reply. It came nevertheless, another second later, thudding into the woodwork. Blasting splinters across his face. A warm rush of air past his temple. This time was too close for comfort. A third bullet hit the guardrail as Sinclair somersaulted over and dropped down into the mud-churned river. SPLASH SPLASH. The soap leapt from his hands into the murky waters of the tin bath. He shivered involuntarily, walking over his own grave. He must find an easier line of work. "Sinclair, where were you?" she asked gently. "The snake pit." Came the reply.
2.8.98 ------- Assuming she would be waiting, it was arrogance born rather than cultivated. She loved this time, and he knew it. From the drum beat of the first droplets streaming, steaming from the newly boiled jug into the tin bath, to the lazy snaking of the towelling chasing the last bead of water from his chest. Poker-handed in crystal bedecked saloons, high-staked in a backroom glow or dust weary on the trail, Sinclair had only to close his eyes to feel the warm water and the fingers play the notches on his spine. The rhythm of his heartbeat. A sensual experience. Peeling each month away with a deft manoeuvre of the cloth ploughing the sinews of his back. Soap trails. Burnished ivory skin. Hair streaming, he let his body slide under the water. Gasping as she hauled him up to lather away the journey's riches. Alternating, massaging his scalp until it hurt, then running her fingers through the long strands, until he stilled the hand by the wrist. Drawing her round to share bitter alkaline. Tasting the foam exterior between them to find the interior sweetness. So hungry. 3.8.98 ----- O'Hara dropped the case at his feet beside the desk. "You have a room?" he queried. A curt nod. The hotel clerk was busy. Clients an imposition. "At the front?" Another assent. "I'll take it" PL turned to the open door. Travesties may be undone. Dust swirled outside but he was sure he had been seen. So white, she looked so white. Ill perhaps. He must find a way. The key slapping on the counter abruptly focused his attention. He laid the bill carefully down, there were too few in his wallet. 4.8.98 -------- The small wooden stool on the front porch waited his arrival. Sinclair nudged it into place with the side of his foot, then settling back he rubbed his beard. Ruefully. Beaver bristles foamed the soap cup. White linen crisp at his neck, Sinclair lay back against the rail and closed his eyes. As the foam hit his nose he knew not to smile too widely. Within seconds the lather whipped across his mouth and lower jaw. Filling his ears. Such professional attention was easily available in town, but this was part of the ritual of return. The blade rasping the leather strap made the hairs at the nape of his neck prickle with apprehension. Cold steel. A touch to tilt his chin. Slicing his beard the cutthroat was fast and deadly. He imagined the flash of the blade as it caught the evening sun. She worked quickly, swirling the water after each stroke. He could feel the evening breeze sweep across the fresh skin for seconds before the heat of the cloth covered his face. Luxuriating in its warmth, Sinclair listened to the clatter of tidying. He let his thoughts wander back to the train journey, wondering what became of Mr PL O'Hara. Not a man who would last long in these parts he surmised. At last he drew the cloth away.. cleaning the last vestiges of lather. A new man. She handed him the small glass bottle over his shoulder. Sinclair could never decide if it was the exquisite tingle of the cologne, or her cool hands tracing the line of his collarbone beneath the shirt, that made him shiver in delicious anticipation. 5.8.98 ----- "I don't understand what you want of me." He reached behind her and twisted the doorknob. Closing off the open hallway and prying eyes. "You made your decision when you married him." The last word spat out and hung in the air between them. Her eyes upturned towards him. You would never ask .. And I waited so long. "Travesties may be undone ... What did that mean?" Helplessness overwhelmed. All the pre planed words evaporated in a rush of anger. "Dana's made a mistake.." he mocked "PL will fix it ... " Bending forward, his face close to hers. "Well I can't, and I'm a fool to think I could." Grasping her by the arm. Feeling his grip tighten as he shook her gently, she yelped in pain, and tried to pull away. O'Hara's eyes narrowed. She said nothing. Wanting him to know, yet proud. Allowing him to loosen the button at her wrist. He held her defiant gaze, all the while searching for secrets, peeling the cuff carefully back up the pale forearm. Knowing the place when he felt the involuntary quiver. "He did this?" O'Hara surveyed the discoloured flesh. Anger rising. "Jacks .. He did this?" Shamed by the discovery, Dana turned away, tears stinging. -------- 11.8.98
Sinclair rattled the drawer gently in its slot. Shooting the occasional glance to the bed, as he pressured the recalcitrant wooden box open. Clean shirts, they were always kept there. He sighed as it refused to budge. If she hadn't been sleeping he would have delivered a well-aimed boot at the side of the chest. Clutching at the ring handles he jerked them towards him in unison. The chest wavered from it spot. Legs lifting. Small articles of toilette slid forward, stayed only by the quickness of his hand from crashing to the floor. Glowering at the drawer, banging it with the palm of his hand, he then turned to the rest of the room searching for other clean garments. Evening approached, business could not wait. He determined on a last effort before waking her. With a hesitant scrape the drawer surrendered -- bearing its contents. Nothing. Nothing save the newly scrawled auction ticket. Creased and crumpled. The culprit. Sinclair ignored it, and moved down. Searching. Four empty drawers later, he gave a puzzled look at the prostrate form on the bed, and moved on to other furniture. -------- 12.8.98
Sinclair graced the mirror, pressing the stud at his collar. Then slipping tortoiseshell through his hair, patting it just so, he smiled, pleased with his reflection. A collection of tickets lay on the table before him. He bent to examine them again, spreading them open, wondering whether to thrust them into the dying kitchen stove. The house was full, yet it was empty. All he had expected was in its place. But it was a facade. He flexed his fingers as he drew the chair to the table. Beautiful hands. Absentmindedly he pulled from a pocket, newly stowed for the evening, a pristine deck. Breaking open the pack, he sliced them parted and weaved them faster than the eye could see. All the while thinking numbers. Not the 10 of Diamonds following the 7 of Spades but auction numbers. New auction numbers. They reeled through his head. 27 the Cabinet; 36 the Dresser; 15 the Table; 43 ... he took a deep breath.. 43 the Bed. Snapping the cards to attention he determined to replace the tickets and say nothing. 12.8.98 ------------------ "Why hello Mr PL O'Hara." Sinclair, hand on the bar, dragged a tall wooden stool closer. Sensing a troubled companion, catching the bartender's eye, his fingers forked down to two tiny glasses. O'Hara, torn between ignoring the intrusion and a courteous nature, settled upon a rictus grimace. "It's that bad is it?" "Worse." Tilting his head. Warm liquor burning. "Thanks". Sinclair motioned again. Refills appeared. O'Hara groped for his wallet. Sinclair closed the leather case, opening PL's tweed jacket and replacing it firmly in the interior. "I can afford it." Starkly contrasting the gruff, dusty leather clad stranger on the train to the smooth diamond cut *gentleman*, in both senses of the term, PL momentarily banished his troubles and relaxed. "Why thank you again, *Man of Cards*." ----------- 13.8.98
*Patsy* was a word that sprang to mind. Here he was with the man's last dollars before him. Staked in *his* game. Sinclair shook his head and continued recalculating the cards. One of life's losers. Sinclair had O'Hara marked within minutes of their initial meeting. They peppered his world, clung to the edges refusing to bow to the inevitable. Woman trouble too. Man and wife he had counselled gravely Sacred ground, can't interfere there. However, he reflected, it had never stopped him. Fidelity did not rank highly as a personal asset. Sinclair had no qualms about of the hypocrisy of his stance. Silken words, polished lies his stock in trade. "Bryant. Are you in this game?" "Never anywhere else" he replied smoothly, laying down the Full House to a low murmur of surprise. 13.8.98 ----------------
Independence Hotel "Very creditable performance my dear" Jacks read the flushed cheeks. "For any particular audience?" "I was simply obeying your wishes Simon." Demurely allowing him to encompass her arm, as they took the stairs. "Of course." A smug sense of satisfaction at the way the evening had progressed. Wheels oiled, favours bestowed as befitted a man of his position. Wine fractionally dulling his ability to see through her manoeuvres. The key rattled on the out, then the inside of the door. Dana smiled, tilting her cheek for his kiss, breathing a small sigh of relief has he moved to the adjoining dressing room door. Turning away, she began to remove the pins from her hair.
13.8.98 ---------------- PL watched from the hallway. Was he played for a fool? How could she hang upon him so when he treated her that way? Memories of the livid skin. --------------- She was unaware of his approach in the dim light. Burnishing her deep brown hair with each stroke of the brush. Seeing in the mirror yesterday's memories. Lips parted to say PL as she closed her eyes feeling the hands travelling across her bare shoulders. The shock of blonde hair masked the face as it bent into the arch of her neck. Reaching out to the dream. Blindly feeling the thickness of his hair. Pulling him closer. Waiting for the caress on her skin. It came as a vipers kiss. She screamed as the hand masked her mouth. "We have unfinished business from this afternoon, my dear." 13.8.98 -------------- "No Simon" she whimpered, smelling the fire on his breath. "Not like this..." The knee across her torso pinned her to the bed. Arms that had pummelled his shoulders were captive together above her head. Every inch of her wanted to fight this invasion, but she knew that was his motive, and ceased to struggle. "You are my wife ... I have every right." His free hand reached down for the buttons. By the light of the candle, she saw the beads of sweat roll down his cheek. How could she mistake them? Seduced by the similar looks she had taken the animal to her bed. "The child.. " she cried out as the careless knee hit her abdomen. "Without this there is no child" he hissed in anger and frustration. Loosening the grip on her wrists as he fumbled the buttons below his belt. Pale with terror, certain of his intentions, her hands broke free. Wildly sweeping, reaching out, clutching. Finding Screaming "NOOOOOOO" as it bore down out of shadows. Smashing down on the side of his head, the candlestick took flight, somersaulting in the air, before hitting the floor then rasping, slithering under the bed. 14.8.98 -------------- PL stared at the blood on his hands. Sticky. He wiped them once -- twice ---three times. But they were the mark of Cain. 14.8.98 ------------ Fingers tapped his shoulder and the lips bent to his ear. "Man at the Bar asking for you." Sinclair cocked his head slightly, "Know who it is?" Eyes raised in surprise. "Small man, horn rimmed glasses, mean anything to you?" Warm breath on his face. "Says you owe him money." "No?" Cards quivered imperceptibly in his hand. Snake Pit. "Thought not." As a violent, uncontrollable shiver broke over his body, the hand resting on his shoulder squeezed it slightly. "Leave it with me Mr Bryant." Coins spun from nowhere. Dull, metallic additions to the paper mountain. "See you Pretty Boy" 16.8.98 -------------- Four of Clubs.. 43 ...The Bed. Sinclair shook his head. Not now. Concentrate. Four of Clubs.. 43 ...The Bed. She was leaving, but had said nothing. Damn the Woman -- he cared. Auction Tickets. Four of Clubs.. 43 ...The Bed. He wiped the handkerchief across his brow. Cold. Time to move on. Snake Pit. "Bryant you look sick." A mixture of concern and vexation. "If you weren't so far ahead we could call it a night." 16.8.98 ------------- The room began to spin, revolve around as he reached out in the bright light to halt the flight of death. Outstretched his hand obscured, but the bullet still sped towards him. Anchored in time and space, Sinclair watched from a far as his own body crumpled to the floor. So this is death? No searing pain, but white light. A hand grasped his shirt at the neck, lifting him from the sawdust. Another worked his pockets. Sinclair watched these events, felt these violations, but was powerless to protest. The hand dropped his shirt; his head bounced on the floor and Sinclair slipped back to corporal form. Arms pulled from their sockets as he was dragged back to the place of darkness. 17.8.98 -------------- "Thanks Irish. You did right bringing him here." Clear as crystal he heard her voice. Cool, overflowing streams that sliced into his consciousness. Breaking through the heat that now burned his brow and seared at his chest. "He should pull through if the fever breaks, the wound is clean." Odd words followed, options discussed. "Not the River. The Rail is too dangerous." Eyes closed, he strove to recollect the warm water, the cloth at his back and the fingers playing the notches on his spine. The rhythm of his heartbeat. Instead his body wracked feverous shivers and his heartbeat the irregular tune of a failing man. I am dying, he thought and nobody is noticing. 17.8.98 -------------- So much blood from such a small wound. He could not look upon the face without nausea. Without a trembling hatred for each moment of torment as her cries ripped at his very soul. Rolling the inert body inside the quilt towards the centre of the bed, O'Hara stooped to pick up the fallen wallet. Replacing it unopened on the side table. Taking a greater prize than mere dollars, the man's pride, his property, his wife. PL knew Simon Jacks would use his considerable power to find them. Perhaps he should finish the matter here and now. They would lynch him for certain, law or no law. Dropping down to the floor he reached for the weapon. Slippery with blood and sweat, his hand tightened on the metal shaft. Turning to the dressing room he could hear light scuffles as Dana collected the bag. She would never know the price of her safety. Could he kill a man for her? Raising the candlestick high in the air he let it arc down on the prostrate form. 18.8.98 --------------- |