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Sinclair and PL Gold Rush |
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This Story Started in July 1998 PART 3 Steadily the rigors of the river crossing and prairie fire faded. All talk was of Fort Laramie and reprovisioning for the harsher journey through the mountains beyond. Except on one particular wagon. "Sinclair is driving Claire to distraction with his attention." Dana commented. "He has refused to ride out, an never seems to be further than a pace away." "Do you think it is any of our business?" PL, privately lamenting the absence of the nightly card school, flicked a lazy whip above the oxen team. "Wondered if he had said anything about --" Sensing O'Hara was not in an expansive mood she made to put away her sewing and drop down to walk with the women. PL stayed her by the arm. "He thought she had died you know -- " trailing away seemingly in thought. "You never said how you found them. It was all lost in the bustle of the river crossing -- most assumed an accident as their team came across. Odd really -- considering --" "Yes?" he smiled. The moment of slipping inside Sinclair's nightmare passed. "What happened to all their clothes?" PL let out a long chuckle, put his arm across her shoulder, drawing her head towards his. "Can't you guess!" 24.9.98 -------------- The gunshot repeated again -- again -- again. Echoing away down the bluffs until silence. Gold rock. Blood red stone. Once more the crack broke the air, a tiny puff shattered the marker gouged into the rock. Sinclair broke the rifle. One -- two -- the cartridges slung at his belt. Reloading quickly snapping closed the gunsmith's creation. Moistening his thumb, touching the tip of the barrel, shouldering the butt he lined up the sight through half closed eyes. Claire watched his forefinger curl at the trigger and an involuntary muscle tic in the outstretched arm supporting the barrel, forcing an extra seconds delay. Feather light caress of the worn steel, no tremor of anticipation. They held breath in unison. Squeeze. Exhale. Sound explosion. And flinched together at the retort. Lowering the rifle Sinclair reversed the barrel. "Your turn now Claire." She gulped. 29.9.98 ----------- "A Da-nce?" Disappointment wept within the words. Sinclair had envisioned other sport at the Fort. He read the notice once more on the Sulter Store door. "I’m sure there will be time enough for you to clean them out at cards." She read him well. "Now the rest of the list is yours -- I have dealt with the essentials. Here carry these please." Sinclair allowed himself to be loaded up with the bags of dry goods that would sustain them until the next outpost. He was expecting a more military look to Fort Laramie; not the wide-open parade ground and the few buildings scattered at its periphery. It stationed two Calvary and an Infantry regiment, largely in the numerous neat rows of tents. Stark comparison to the disorder of wagon trains encampment by the river. Coughing as the flour sack landed. "Those don’t look like essentials -- and they won’t fit me." Claire ignored him and had the trousers wrapped in brown paper. "Wallet Sinclair." He motioned with an elbow to his side pocket. "Doesn’t say anything about Fancy Dress -- at -- the -- dance." Sinclair melted to silence under the unspoken rebuke of a warning glance. -------- 30.9.98
"Ex-cus-e me " Sinclair deftly positioned his body so that the Lieutenant could only defer. Claire relinquished the gloved hand, smiling an apology in reply to the short bow. "That was rather rude." Uncertain whether to be cross, until she felt the slow travel of his fingers through the thin taffeta. There were no other hands like these. "Because I have hardly seen you all evening." He raised his voice against the shriek of violins that seemed to have multiplied as the evening drew on. Competing for virtuosity. "Is it my fault you choose to play cards in the Lt.Colonel’s private rooms?" No, she was too distracted to be more than argumentative. The arm had drawn her closer than decorum allowed. "Claire you have been working your way through all the most handsome officers -- I have been watching." Mock seriousness. Sympathetic in body they were an elegant couple. She giggled. "Are you jealous?" "I was -- I am." An admission, formerly vehemently denied, slid easily off the tongue. Truth felt good. He swept her up and they spun this way and that in the fast reel. "Actually Sinclair --" She faltered as her feet finally touched the ground. "I think I feel a bit faint." "Don’t tell me -- the Root Beer, Claire you never learn." And he caught her gracefully as she passed out. 1.10.98 ------ She woke in semidarkness, to the feel of a gentle touch. "Feeling better? Didn't want to take you back to the Wagon -- You know what clucking hens they are as soon as a woman faints." "Hmmm." Adjusting to the light, orientating by touches and sound. Rich brocades. Silken furnishing. Baize table. "So this is where you played cards?" Claire lay comfortably on the chaise longue, sipping at the glass of water. "Yes -- these are the private quarters." Sinclair made room for himself at her side. "The guard know me as a guest." One hand began tracing the tiny curves of the wooden surround of the upholstered chair back. Sliding closer. "This is beautiful --" The other exploring the layering of taffeta, on its way to removing the glass. "-- French you know." She knew. So smooth. Skilful. Sweet surrender. Broken by the sharpness forcing its way through the thin walls. "I tell you NOW he is an impostor." Muffled voices soothed and calmed. "I INSIST you do something --" Chairs scraped against the wooden floorboards. Seconds later the partitions vibrated to the violent slamming of a door. They had frozen at the first voice. Heartbeats raised. Questioning discovery. But the moment was too good to waste. Sweet surrender. 2.9.98 ------ Dana joined the line, plate in hand and looked round for PL. So much for completing her dance card, he had vanished abruptly at the Wagon Masters call. Polished buttons gleamed against the Navy jackets; pale blue pressed trousers slipped into burnished black riding boots. All the Cavalry officers looked splendid. Rivalry between the regiments as to dancing prowess had once more monopolised her time. She had enjoyed every minute but now guiltily looked around for O’Hara once more. It was unimaginable that he would miss supper, for the smell of the split roasts had tempted and tantalised since early afternoon. "Mrs Jacks?" She failed to recognise the child from their wagon train, but theirs was one of many camped on the banks of the River Laramie. "Mr Jacks -- He asks you to bring supper to the card table." Before Dana had time to ask details the boy vanished into the swirl of revelry. Card Table indeed. She would have words with Sinclair Bryant. ---------- 3.10.98
Hovering between a smack and a punch, the blow had come from, and bestowed, darkness. As though the assailant had hesitated, drawn back from the brink, in the last fraction of a second. Deed done, he bent over his handy work. Faintly cursing the lifeless form. Stepping over the body he loosened the attacking fist, flexing the clenched fingers. Nervously running the very tip of the index along a livid scar. He had dreamed of this moment and the ones to come. Vivid, violent nightmares. Arousing, passionate dreams. Ultimate submission. At the faint moan he was on his knees. His was to be the first face, the only face. The eyes fluttered. He pressed closer. Hand ready to strangle the impending scream. "Whore" he spat. "You are my wife ... I have every right." 6.10.98 ----------- "Get Up." Low, hard and menacing. Each syllable so clearly enunciated as to mainline into the recipient's brain. Feeling the cold touch of the steel barrels below his ear, Simon withdrew slowly. Unable to turn and view the intruder. Bluster simmered below the surface, but he needed the measure of his opponent. Crab-like he backed off the body, shielding her identity. No sound issued. He was too slow. "I said Get Up." The rifle butt swung hard between his legs. Nothing could prevent the high pitched squeal of agony escaping Jacks' lips, as he fell back clutching the fire. "Remember --I want to see both hands all the time." Simon rolled to his back grimacing, cursing. Back-lit by the door, the man had no identity. The barrel removed the hands, and rested there. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t pull the trigger now." Came the voice out of darkness. --------------
Increasing the pressure of the rifle barrel, pinning the man squirming against the wall, Sinclair turned his attention to the victim. Boots echoed in the distance. Beating a tattoo on the wooden staircase. "Come young lady --" carefully lifting the wayward strands, brushing the hair to reveal the wheals. "DANA! God NO." On his feet, trembling with rage. Sinclair’s second hand flew to the rifle stock. Tightening the forefinger on the trigger. Jacks screamed, an animal cry of primal fear. Glinting in the corridor light the metal casing spun in slow motion towards him. The butt connecting solidly as Sinclair Bryant laid out Simon Jacks. ---------- "Don’t do it PL." Sinclair held him tightly by the sleeve. "He’s locked in the guardhouse." "Should have finished him --" O’Hara tried to draw away. Torn between anger and tears. "When I had the chance." His coat, mud splattered and smelling heavily of oxen from the reshoeing that had demanded his attention, stretched in Sinclair’s grasp. "Think PL -- you have too much to lose." "It doesn’t matter anymore." He thrust Sinclair aside, shrugging off the restraining hand. "He will never have the chance to do that to her again." Sinclair bounded forward, positioning himself in O’Hara’s path. "Listen -- Listen. She needs you. Getting yourself imprisoned helps no one." Calming, soothing. "If you hadn’t --" O’Hara’s distress rose closer to the surface. "If I had found them ---" touching the unclipped holster. Sinclair saw the movement, and misread the implication. "It’s not Dana’s fault -- she thought you had asked for supper." "Of course IT’S NOT HER FAULT -- it's mine." He glared at his friend, sniffed and wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. Wrinkling his nose at the odour. "Want a change of clothes first?" Sinclair asked helpfully. --------
"Sinclair you are going to get into such trouble vouching for PL." Thoughts had kept Claire awake. "Hmmm?" But not so Sinclair. "If it came out you knew he isn't *Jacks* -- isn't that perjury or something?" "The *or something* I expect Claire -- do we have to talk about this now?" Pulling the blanket over his shoulder to ward off the chilled night air. "Don't you care?" "What about lying? Not in the least - the man deserves everything he gets." Sinclair stretched and yawned. "So the end justifies the means?" "Would you have me deny PL, after what he's done for us. Have Dana shackled to Simon Jacks, you didn't see it Claire -- he's an animal." Slight exasperation began to surface; after all it could be no more than 4am in the morning. "No -- but --" "There is no room for *buts* in this conversation. I have done it, the matter is at an end." He really must get sleep for the long day ahead, turning he rolled within the folds of the cover trying to disappear. "BUT Sinclair, would you, -- have you lied to me?" Silence deafened. He lay completely hidden under the blanket contemplating which answer would ensure a few more hours sleep. "Yes." 17.10.98 ---------------- As Colossus the rock pierced the sky. Magnetising the eye from many miles, drawing travellers to its majesty. Reeling in the wagon trails as skeins of wool. Independence Rock. Sinclair had seen many sights on his travels but this took his breath away. Reining in waiting for her to reach them, he studied the form and cast of the shadows. "Very phallic" muttered O'Hara. "Hush PL, we've company." Sinclair swivelled in his saddle, stretched out reaching for the leather head collar, guiding her sweating mount alongside. "Impressive, isn't it?" Following her gaze toward the rock. "So, Claire. Want to mark our names together?" As the animals fidgeted, their thighs brushed. Raising an eyebrow, Sinclair gave a half smile. "Of course." Her look dared him to utter one word about her trousers. --------- 28.10.98
"What yo’ do that for? -- Thought we were gonna have some fun." Disappointment evident in the tone. Glares forced the perpetrator into a sheepish admission of error. PL lay in the dust, clutching just above his right knee, watching the blood slowly ooze between his fingers. Knowing that his hands were within reach of the small knife at his boot, but that the odds were impossible. Horse and rifle were gone. "He’s a weak man, for all the bravado -- " Their attention turned to O’Hara struggling to talk and think coherently above the pain. These men were possibly husbands, but all were sons. "Would you work for a man who beats his wife and mother?" PL hazarded wildly. "His mother!" An audible gasp made O’Hara wonder if he had overplayed a weak hand. "Lying -- the man’s lying, he’ll say anything. Let’s get this over with." Levelling the rifle at PL’s belly. Flapping at his open coat O'Hara sought to gain a meagre advantage. "Proof" he gasped.
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Far from being able to grab a body to shield his own, O’Hara’s pocket had been picked before he could raise himself seated. The gamble seemed doomed. Watching them gather round, unfolding the *Independence News* cutting, PL waited. Relaxing hold on the throbbing leg, running his hand across the dust, he continued to wait. What kept them? The sketch was recognisably accurate, but detail announcing Simon Jacks appointment as the Government Legal representative in the California region, would not prove anything to O’Hara’s advantage. In the latent heat of the day, he felt all strength drain away. He was going to die here. No one would ever know. Looking around, only endless scrubland met the eye. Inwardly PL cursed the decision to return alone that had cost him everything. Who would fire first? He searched each face. Seconds ebbed away, only perplexion registered on each visage. O’Hara detected the odd sly glance at companions. As the leader coughed and took charge, O’Hara knew for certain. None of them could read. ------------ 24.11.98 With the curtain of dust falling, the rhythmic pace of the animal lulled the slouched figure into the limbo. Knotted reins hung loose at a wrist, the other hand rested high on the pommel, Sinclair’s whole body tilted forward, head resting on at his chest, swaying from the hip with each alternate foreleg stride. Guided forward by the darting firefly array of lamps indicating the bustle of the wagon train’s overnight camp. Many hands reached out. Catching the bridle, easing dusty boots from the stirrup irons, unstrapping the saddle roll. Sinclair, vaguely aware of the flurry of activity, fought to keep his eyes open and dismount with dignity. So many hours in the saddle, almost two days without proper sleep. Gathering the reins in his left hand, he swung over sliding easily to the ground. Saved only by strong arms from crumpling into a heap as his legs refused the weight, Sinclair allowed himself to be carried to the fireside. 6.1.99 ------ He knew the question. Amazed by the self control that it must have taken to watch him ease off the boots, wriggle life into his toes, peel off the jacket before drinking deeply of the proffered water bottle. "I’m sorry Dana." Holding steady the pleading gaze, Sinclair wiped stray drops slowly away with the back of his hand. "No sign of him. I’ll take a scout and leave again at first light." "PL’s tough, resourceful, and --" he could see the faint quiver of her bottom lip "-- and a survivor." He glanced up to a familiar face before taking the warm bowl. Anything was going to taste good tonight; even Claire’s cooking. 8.1.99 ---- Over the gentle wave of stalks, only the ripple of the moon's reflection told him it was water. Sinclair's nostrils flared at the acrid tang in the air. "Definitely rotten eggs" he muttered. This was not the assignation he had in mind. "Where are you taking me?" Her grasp was urgent. He stumbled at the course knots at his bare feet, as they rode the tide of waist high grass. "What was wrong with me wearing boots? They can't smell worse than it does round here." There was no reply, but he could have sworn he heard a stifled giggle. Out of the darkness a leafless tree beckoned, as they slipped on the wet mud down to the waters edge. "Right Sinclair -- we're here. You can take off your clothes now!" 11.1.98 ------- "Take my clothes off!" Apprehension was undisguised by the hearty laugh. "Look where that led last early morning at a rivers edge. We were almost swept away -- I'm not sure swimming is a good idea --- in the dark ---" Sinclair paused in word and motion. "Really Claire." Sensing his hesitancy at the water's edge, reassuring words cajoled a step further into the warm waters. "Don't worry, there are no raging torrents here. They call this place Soda Springs this is just one of about a hundred mineral spring pools." "Minerals -- so that is that terrible sulphurous smell. I saw water by the camp, I thought it a lake of some kind." Sinclair fancied he saw, in the inky blackness, a landscape of faintly steaming puddles. "I thought you would appreciate a bath to ease away the time in the saddle now you are well rested. We have a short time until daybreak." Ankle deep in water she turned to undo the topmost button of his shirt. "The scout told me these waters are famed amongst the Indians for their medicinal qualities and they come here with their sick to worship the Great Spirit of the healing waters -- I-DAN-HA." Sinclair closed his eyes feeling the warm water at his feet, the crisp morning breath creep against his skin. He didn't care about medicinal properties, Indians worshipping and the like, for his whole being concentrated on what she was doing with her hands. 15.1.99 -------- But not for long. Whooping through the morning stillness came the steamer's call. Sinclair stayed the fingers at the buttons. "I don't believe that. We must be hundreds of miles from the nearest Riverboat, yet I swear I heard the whistle." Dropping an octave the sound died as a hiss. "Unmistakable. No wild creature can imitate that call -- at least I don't think so. But I did meet a man once with a bird that could --" Although he could not actually see, Sinclair was sure from what was visible, the slow crinkle at the edge of her eyes, that Claire was smiling. "You know what it is -- yet you let me prattle on?" "Steamboat Springs. It erupts every few hours with that loud whistle. Aren't you glad we're not standing closer?" Stamping the water to imitate the water spray. But Sinclair was lost. "Riverboats -- they seem a lifetime away." Dropping her hand, he flexed the work hardened skin of his own. "Hope I haven't lost the knack -- fingers should be kept supple with constant practise." Turning open his palms uppermost, she ran her fingers lightly over the taught skin. It was true, outdoor life of the wagon train had robbed them of their particular softness. 19.1.98 -------- Reflecting up from below the horizon the harbingers of dawn drew the stark outline of the leafless tree. Hung with drapes that would, on close inspection, be identified as clothing. Sinking to his knees, the warm waters swirled beyond the waist. "Time is slipping away, Sinclair -- these waters will surely help." From nowhere a cloth appeared streaming water. "These are my fortune Claire." Drawing them before his eyes where he could count the tiny callus. "I'm not a vain man, but these are not the hands of *A Man of Cards* -- PL always calls me that." Momentarily his thoughts strayed back to the trail until the rasp of the cloth reopened familiar vistas. "Aaahhh" Only the missing rattle of the tin bath betrayed their location, as he waited for the familiar touch to play the spinal chords. The rhythm of his heartbeat. 21.1.98 -------
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