Chapter Text
To call Tarheel, Oklahoma a sleepy town would be to imply a restful, peaceful atmosphere. No, Jon Jensen would not call it sleepy. He could sense the anxiety of the place as soon as he rode in. It was quiet, to be sure, but it was a tense, paranoid silence of shuttered windows and empty streets; save for the occasional drunk or scurrying citizen moving from the general store and back again.
The tavern, Midge’s, was the only evidence that Tarheel was even fully inhabited. When Jon stepped inside and allowed his eyes to adjust to the dimness (his nose would never adjust to the head-turning sulfuric smell of crude oil), he saw a gathering of men all turn to eye him at once. They gave him the once-over, and judging him a predictable sort of traveler and not terribly interesting, returned to their drinks and cards.
Jon took a stool at the bar and asked for a whiskey when he would have preferred water. But, his mouth was parched from riding, and he didn’t suppose water was on the menu. The tavern owner, Midge herself, poured him two fingers, and then asked him if he wanted the bottle.
“No thanks.”
“You ain’t that teacher are you?” she asked, fully realizing before and after her question that it was pretty ridiculous.
“Teacher?” Jon scoffed. “No I’m just passing through.”
“I thought not, but word is we’re getting one any day now. Mr. Queensbury up and died, about ten years after one might expect, but still that schoolhouse has been empty for some time now,” She barely took a breath before continuing. “Not that there be many children ‘round here, nor do they have much use for book-learnin’. They’ll be tending oil fields one way or the other.”
The woman was certainly chatty, but Jon just let her talk, half-listening as he knocked back his whiskey.
“I could use a place to bed,” he mentioned.
“We have two rooms, if you’re interested. We take credit from the general store, they take greenbacks, but if you don’t got that they also take gold. Money ain’t standard here, but nor is it anywhere these parts, not since the war.”
Jon only nodded.
“Where you from?” she asked. Other patrons were moving away from the bar to treasured silence.
“Texas,” Jon replied. She raised an eyebrow and he added, “Originally Denmark.”
“Well that’s mighty nice,” she told him. “I hear the teacher is from Europe somewhere too. Name Copperfield, David Copperfield.”
She paused and asked, “You know him?”
Jon smirked but only answered, “No.”
He stood and said, “Jon Jensen. I guess I’ll set up that credit then. Where’s the stable?”
“Edge of town, to the east. Ollie’ll get your horse seen to.”
“Ollie?”
“The boy. We let him bed in the stable in exchange for his services.”
Jon tipped his head at her and walked out. The blinding light outdoors made him squint once more. As he untied his horse from the outside fence, he looked up to see a stage coach pulling into town. A few folks stopped to watch it arrive, and Midge stepped out, wiping her hands on her skirt.
The coach door opened and out climbed the dandiest man Jon had ever seen.
“Well I’ll be,” Midge laughed.
The man could not be more inappropriately clothed for the region. He wore a prim jacket and waistcoat in the blistering heat, adorned with a short top hat and a full ascot.
More people gathered when they glanced at him through their shutters. They murmured about land barons and speculators. Jon wandered closer, giving in to the compulsion for rubber-necking. As he neared, he saw the man’s face. He was little more than a boy. His face was smooth and pretty, with rosy lips and thick eyelashes that fluttered in the sun. His hands were delicate, fingernails clean. Jon chuckled and pretended to be more interested in leading his horse.
“Good day, Madam,” he greeted Midge. “My name is David Copperfield. I am the new headmaster at the school.”
“Head… master?” she asked. She was stunned by his appearance and she looked quite enchanted with a face that was out of place in a town full of sun-leathered, rough-spun men.
“Teacher,” he clarified, trying to assist as the coachman carelessly dumped his heavy wood chest and leather trunk.
“Good heavens,” Midge said, and Jon stopped and looked equally stunned. At a loss for more words, Midge simply restated, “Good heavens.”
The coachman climbed back into his seat and pulled off, leaving the luggage in the dirt.
“I…” she did her best to imitate what she thought he might appreciate, dipping in what couldn’t rightly be qualified as a curtsy, “I quite thought you might be one of those gentlemen from St. Louis.”
“I am from England, my dear,” he answered, and she blushed at the term, looking around to see if the townspeople heard. They had already started to shamble off. “I am very glad to be here.”
Jon observed the way he nodded emphatically as he spoke. He had a shining naivety in his blue eyes.
“If you could direct me to the school, I would be most appreciative.”
She gestured toward the schoolhouse without tearing her eyes off of him. He followed the line of her hand to a tiny, slightly leaning outpost of a building many yards away from the edge of town. It stuck out from the flat, barren terrain like a prairie dog.
“Oh,” he whispered, “Oh dear.”
Jon shook his head and stifled another laugh as he brought his horse to stable. He looked around the straw laden stalls until he came to a little boy curled up in one corner. He coughed and the boy leapt to his feet as if expecting a blow.
“You must be Ollie,” Jon said. “I have a horse that could benefit from some water, rub-down, feed.”
“Y… yes, s-sir,” Ollie responded, not looking in his eyes. The way he mouthed the words and stiffened his jaw hinted at a severe speech impediment.
Jon looked him up and down. It was impossible to guess the boy’s age. He was quite small and under-nourished, a willowy stalk of elbows and knees.
“Need help with her?” he asked. The boy shook his head, saving the effort of words. Jon gave him a nod and left for the general store.
When he emerged from the stable, he watched as Mr. Copperfield attempted to drag his wooden chest through the dirt toward the schoolhouse. He was gritting his white teeth, a look of staunch determination on his youthful face. His fancy hat looked ready to topple off.
“He’s in for some trouble,” a grizzled old man commented from the bench outside Midge’s.
“I’ll say,” Jon responded. “I doubt that boy has lifted anything over ten pounds in his life.”
“True,” the old man replied, “But that ain’t what I meant.”
He took a drag on his pipe and continued, “Bloomfield be wantin’ that land. He been waitin’ for old Queensbury to kick the bucket for years. He threw a right fit when he found out he’d passed it on in his will.”
Jon felt a twinge of sympathy for the greenhorn as he bent at the waist and tugged at his wooden chest. Land barons were no minor obstacle even to the toughest sort. This pretty young thing was a goner.
“I give him a month,” the old-timer said with a tap of his pipe.
“If you wanna make a wager,” a nearby oil worker grunted, “I’ll put a gold dollar on two weeks.”
“You got it, Frank.”
Midge clucked her tongue at them and hurried back into her tavern.
“The womenfolk’ll be sorry to see him go,” the old man commented when she’d left. They both laughed heartily.
Jon winced and sighed, then strode toward the hapless Copperfield.
“Here, let me give you a hand,” he offered.
“Oh, thank you, sir,” David told him. “That is very kind.”
Jon crouched and lifted the massive chest with a grunt.
“Oh… oh, you seem to have it,” David said, impressed. He went back for the trunk. It was light enough for him to lift from the ground, but he leaned backward with it as he trudged along. Jon returned after leaving the chest on the schoolhouse stoop. He took the trunk from David who stammered his thanks and followed him with the keys.
“David Copperfield,” he chirped when Jon set the trunk down. He extended a hand and Jon accepted the light shake. It was then that he noticed that David’s hands were not quite as delicate as he thought. There was an over-all toughness to the skin, somewhat like a first-degree burn, but long smoothed over.
“Jon Jensen,” he responded and then stood awkwardly, glancing over the school.
“You have my gratitude, Mr. Jensen.”
“Got your work cut out for you,” Jon commented, eyes wandering over the peeling paint and dilapidated roof.
“I certainly do,” David agreed, “But it is very much worth it, is it not? The children so benefit from a positive education.”
The young man looked so hopeful. Jon was touched by his sweet face and cheery energy. He felt even more awkward lingering net to him in his dusty clothes. He became very aware of his own odor. Copperfield was either too excited by his less-than-enviable position, or too polite to let on that he’d noticed.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it, then,” Jon murmured and started to leave.
“Feel free to stop by,” David said to him. “I would be glad for the company.”
Jon nodded warmly. As he walked away he considered his own loneliness, but pushed the thought away.
When he’d secured his tab and credit at the general, he returned to the tavern for some much-needed sleep.
“How long will you be staying with us, Mr. Jensen?” Midge asked.
Jensen turned to say a few days, but stopped himself.
“I’ll just play it by ear,” he answered, thought for a moment then nodded. “We’ll see.”
After a week of sweeping and setting up a makeshift tarp under the spotty roof, David opened the school to students. All three of them. So be it, he thought. Every child who learns is an adult with a better chance at life. He knew very well how important a kind voice and guiding hand were to a young person. Where would he be without the aid of compassionate souls willing to give their time to one needy little boy?
He gave them books only to find they couldn’t read.
“Well,” he breathed, still maintaining his optimism, “We shall begin with the fundamentals, then.”
Within two weeks, David had them memorizing the alphabet, writing their own names, spelling simple three-letter words, and, without his knowledge, transferring a gold dollar from Frank’s pocket to that of the old man.
Jon found himself lounging far too much. He had enough gold in his own pack to keep him for years, but the idle hours were making him twitch. Eventually he’d hoped to get far enough away from where he came to avoid any pursuers and set up his own farm, but the drifting had him feeling dried out and lifeless. He wandered frequently near the edge of town, watching as David led the kids outside in a game of kickball.
He was using the rousing activity to teach them basic math. Each type of score was worth a certain amount of points, and penalties negative points, instructing them to perform addition and subtraction. The teacher still wore waistcoats with no jacket or ascot, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. When he ran back and forth, a rosy blush appeared at his cheeks and collar. Jon would light a cigarette and pretend he was merely curious, pretend he wasn’t touched by thoughts of how lovely this young thing was. In everything dusty, brown, and stinking in this area, he was beautiful and pure.
David noticed that there were, in fact, other children in Tarheel who still hadn’t stepped foot inside his school. He put together friendly gift-baskets with apples, candy, picture-books, and shoes. He knocked on doors that opened to a crack as hesitant hands claimed the baskets. When the doors didn’t open, he left them on the stoops.
After one particularly frustrating venture, David walked out of the general store, grasping his parcels as he stuffed his coin purse into his pocket. When he stopped to glance up at Jon leaning against the tavern wall, he smiled at him. Jon tipped his hat and quickly looked away.
David considered walking toward him, but just then he felt a very light touch on his hip. He looked to his right in time to see a small boy scampering off. He patted for his purse and, finding it missing, dropped his parcels and darted after him.
He gripped the kid by the collar and wrapped his arms around him, lifting his kicking feet from the ground. Jon straightened and watched.
“Steady on,” David told the boy, “Let’s have it.”
The boy tossed the purse and struggled to get away. David whirled him around and crouched to look him in the face.
“I haven’t seen you in my school.”
The boy stared at the ground. He was rail-thin and very dirty.
“What’s your name?”
The boy opened his mouth. His chest was heaving like a frightened rabbit.
“Well, go on,” David coaxes. “I will not do you any harm.”
The boy’s mouth stretched, his tongue straining in his mouth.
“Ollie,” he finally spat out.
David looked at his filthy clothes and gaunt face.
“Where do you live, Ollie?”
The boy pointed at the stable.
“You live with the horses?”
Ollie nodded. David sighed.
“Come along, Ollie,” he said. “I’ll get you something to eat.”
The boy hung back, considering another escape attempt. Eventually he stooped toward the purse on the ground and picked it up. David watched to see what he would do. He smiled when Ollie handed the purse back to him, eyes still downcast.
“Thank you,” David said.
Ollie followed him to the schoolhouse and Jon watched them, a small smile creeping over his lips.
Once inside the school, David pulled together some bread, a hunk of wrapped cheese and some preserved meat.
“I haven’t any milk,” David apologized, but Ollie didn’t register the sentiment. He grabbed the food and started tearing away hunks with his teeth and hands, mixing the foods in his mouth, stuffing his cheeks, and swallowing with barely a chew.
“Slow down,” David laughed. “You will choke at that rate.”
Ollie focused and tried to slow his eating, but ultimately resumed his famished pace.
“Can you read, Ollie?”
The boy looked at him like he was mad.
“No, I suppose not. Would you like to learn?”
Ollie glanced up at the chalkboard, at the mysterious shapes in chalk. He nodded.
“You can sleep here, if you wish,” David told him, patting a bench. “I have extra blankets. Five days a week, you can attend classes.”
Ollie’s eyes widened, but he didn’t answer.
“Of course, three meals a day.”
The boy looked like he would cry if it weren’t for the dirt in the corners of his eyes. David put a hand through Ollie’s matted hair.
“A bath would be advisable,” he murmured.
Ollie cringed at the touch, but relaxed when David took his hand back.
“Are your parents alive?”
Ollie shook his head.
“I am sorry,” David told him.
“Fff…” Ollie held out the “F” for a few seconds before he managed the word, “Fire.”
“They died in a fire?”
He nodded, and David sighed. It was no wonder the boy had a stutter. He seemed to be in a constant state of shock. That was something else they could work on.
“As long as you need,” David told the boy, “You can stay here.”
Ollie sniffed and looked around the schoolhouse. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“I’ll get you some water to wash up,” David said softly. He cast the boy one last warm look before going to the back bedroom.
Outside, Jon’s heartfelt glances at the schoolhouse were distracted by the sound of horses beating the path into town. The two riders didn’t slow for the residential streets, but barged on thoughtlessly until they reached the tavern. They grumbled between themselves and nodded toward the school. Jon’s eyes narrowed.
After a few moments of inaudible chatter, they pushed their way into the tavern. Jon swallowed, trying to calm the uneasy feeling in his gut.
Chapter Text
The new guests brought with them an ill wind, it seemed. There was a fresher scent in the air, breathing through the stagnant sulfur that hung over Tarheel. The change was more foreboding than pleasant. Through the sound of loose shutters banging and the squeaking of the tarnished bull’s-eye and arrow atop Midge’s Tavern whirling every which way, Jon noticed an underlying silence. No birds, no insects. He sniffed and looked to the distance. The horizon was packed with gray-brown haze. He could see it when he looked at the outlines of the buildings; a slight smudge at their edges hinting at tainted atmosphere.
“Dust storm,” he said aloud, and the old man on his bench stood suddenly and hurried indoors.
The townspeople took note and began stuffing their windows with cloth, bringing in pails of water, and covering the horse’s faces with eerie dampened masks.
Jon hurried to the schoolhouse. Inside, David sat with Ollie and the other boys as he read aloud over the noisy wind and the flapping of burlap over holes in the ceiling.
“Dust storm coming,” he announced.
The kids grew anxious and started to evacuate, but Jon caught them.
“No,” he said sternly. “We gotta work. This place will be a wreck in a few hours.”
He glanced around.
“Or more so.”
David stood in one spot with a quizzical look.
“Dust storm?” he finally asked, a little ashamed of his ignorance.
“High winds and a thick cloud of dirt filling the air,” Jon warned. He went to the windows to see how secure they were. “You can’t be goin’ out in it, you’ll suffocate.”
“This building is not fit to withstand…”
“Damn near anything,” Jon grumbled. “Get all the rags, sack, leather; anything you can gather.”
David nodded and led Ollie to his room. He dug through his belongings for blankets and linens.
“You help them stuff the gaps in the windows,” Jon told one child. “You two, help me up on the roof.”
“Have you experienced a dust storm before?” David asked his assistants.
Ollie nodded, eyes widening.
“Andrew?”
The other boy answered, “My granpappy died of pneumonia on account of one.”
David followed the boys’ lead and began lining the windows with rags.
“He went out in the storm?”
“No, sir,” Andrew told him. “We sealed everything up, but still it got in. Got into his lungs.”
David paused for a second, staring at the pitiful cloth in his hands. He shuddered and continued.
Jon and the other boys returned from the general with yards of burlap and tools. They soaked the burlap in the pump water and climbed the attached ladder to the roof. One of them caught a gust of wind just as he stood up, and was nearly knocked off before Jon grabbed him by a suspender.
“Keep low,” he called.
The wet burlap was heavy and presented another obstacle as it continuously flew upward in their faces. They held the corners down over the largest hole and Jon nailed it into place.
“Why didn’t I fix this damn roof sooner?” he wondered aloud.
“You work for Mr. Copperfield?”
Jon looked up at the boy.
“Hammer these nails down,” he ordered.
Jon moved over the roof in a hunched squat. The horizon seemed to draw closer, the world around them shrinking as the haze in the air began to blot out the sun. He slapped down more burlap.
David felt helpless and completely unqualified for this situation, but he was relieved to see how Ollie took the initiative. The small boy gripped the mobile segment of the chalkboard and motioned the other two to help him move it in front of the windows. When the schoolhouse was quite dark, he grabbed the large canteen and thrust it into Andrew’s hand before disappearing into David’s room. David gathered as much of the open food as he could and pushed it inside of chests, leaving some in the middle of the room. When he followed Ollie, he realized the back door hadn’t been sealed and he asked for help covering it.
Ollie grabbed his hand.
“W… wait,” he said.
He led his teacher outside to the shed and grabbed a large sheet of thin wood. David took his lead and helped him carry it around front. When he had the chance to look at the oncoming storm, his stomach lurched. If the four horsemen of the apocalypse were bearing down on him there would be little difference. The skyline in the distance was a roiling, twisting mass as solid as a wall. The sense of claustrophobia nearly made him dizzy.
Ollie brought him to the front door where they leaned the board against it at an angle. David didn’t know why, but didn’t argue. This was one area of knowledge in which the boy thoroughly trumped him.
He stared up at Jon nailing down reinforcements. The wind tousled his silver blonde hair, his face set and determined. Against the backdrop of a greenish overhead and monstrous dark tidal wave approaching, he quite looked like he belonged inside the American frontier’s answer to paintings of Géricault, Delacroix, and Friedrich. He was lost in the sublimity of the image until Ollie pushed against his lower back and they returned to work indoors.
Andrew followed them with the full sloshing canteen he carried with two hands. Inside, Andrew poured water into a basin and Ollie disappeared into David’s bedroom again. He returned with his fists full.
“What have you there?” David asked.
His question was answered when Ollie dropped them into the basin water. They were David’s fine silk ascots. He wrung one out and brought it to the teacher, opening the damp silk in front of his face.
“Br…” he stammered, “Brea-the.”
David allowed him to cover his mouth and nose and tie the ascot around the back of his head like a bandit mask. The boys put theirs on just as Jon and the other two came banging in the back door.
When Ollie handed them the wet silk, Jon opened his with a curious expression. He lifted his eyes to David and smirked. The young man shrugged, the lower half of his face covered in green, but his pretty eyes flashing and crinkling at the corners.
“This… fabric,” Jon murmured, applying his exceptionally posh bandana, “Is pert near perfect for this sort of thing.”
The silent David’s eyes gleamed once more and he gave Jon a wink. The older man was glad for the cover over his bashful, toothsome grin.
The boys pulled the last chalkboard over the front door, and Jon and David stuffed the bottom of the back door and nailed a blanket over it. Already, puffs of dust were breathing in through every crack like the place was on fire and smoking.
The five of them draped a blanket tent over two benches, and huddled together underneath with the food and water. The schoolhouse began to shudder, and the sound was so loud that David’s ears went numb to it. He could barely make out the shape of Jon lounging next to him, but he could imagine his face: squinting amber eyes, sun-tanned skin, and high cheek bones glinting with sweat. He felt comforted by his presence even as it felt like the whole building would come crashing down on their heads.
David felt a rocking motion like he was on the boat toward America once more, salty scent in his nose and the invigorating sound of waves breaking. He then realized that it was small hands pushing his shoulder back and forth. He’d fallen asleep and their blanket tent lay heavily on top of them. Next he realized that his arm was draped over Jon’s belly and his face was pressed into his side. He stared up at him, eyes wide.
Jon lifted the blanket and peered down at the young man. David couldn’t make out his expression, but he hoped it was an understanding one.
All of them grappled with their blanket prison, which was layered with dirt. When they synchronized their directive and got it off, they saw that the schoolhouse was completely coated. The floors, benches, desks, every surface and nook was softened and uniform brown as a tintype photograph. One of the chalkboards had fallen and cracked. The window behind was caked.
As they stood and stretched their legs, Ollie hurried to the front door. They assisted him with the chalkboard and he twisted the doorknob. With a few hard shoves, it opened.
Now David could see why Ollie had slanted the board against the door. It toppled backward and landed on a veritable bank. Without it, there would be a windswept dune against their exit and they would be trapped. David patted his back and nodded proudly.
The town was a mess. Little by little, folks emerged from their homes like cautious critters. Jon rushed to the stable to check on his horse. When he arrived, he found her very dirty, but the walls and roof of the stable were superior to those of the school’s, and her muddy mask kept her breathing as though through a cheesecloth. She shivered, lean muscles shaking off clouds of dust. He led her out, and noticed that the other stalls were empty. The riders, whoever they were, whatever their purpose, had high-tailed it out of there before the storm hit. Perhaps they wouldn’t be back.
In the days that followed, David made up for his lack of experience with a helpful spirit and brimming optimism. As the people of Tarheel swept and mended their buildings, he brought water and rationed out the fresh food he had managed to save. Even the general store had been contaminated save for the dusty jars and sealed containers that survived breakage. He ingratiated himself to the townsfolk then, far more than any gift basket could.
Jon set to work on the schoolhouse. First order: reinforcing those sagging beams and then patching up the holes in the roof.
“You do not need to burden yourself on my behalf,” David said from below, almost too softly for Jon to hear.
“I know,” was his simple response, but it carried a certain weight. He didn’t look at him but kept working, knowing the teacher was watching up until he rang the clanging school bell and the children ran up in clusters. There were a dozen of them now, and David beamed as he followed them inside.
The sun had baked the settling dirt into cracked clay and now bore down on Jon’s back. He had pulled off his shirt and the bandana around his neck was soaked through. As he worked on the roof, he would occasionally take a moment to watch David with his new school of children.
It had now been just over a month since David’s arrival, which meant the old man on the bench would be losing a dollar too, had anyone raised his wager. Not that he would have minded. Even he would tip his hat to the school teacher as he passed through town.
David had taken to dressing more like the locals; wearing thin breathable cotton shirts and trousers with suspenders. He even trimmed his hair. Were it not for his fine hard shoes and soft features, he might be mistaken for a westerner. Until he started speaking, of course.
Their games were noisy and accompanied by the sound of bubbling laughter that was uncommon before now. Even Ollie was lifting his head to look at his classmates and smiling brightly. His cheeks were not so gaunt anymore, his belly no longer distended. He couldn’t play the game exactly like the other children. When they were caught and tagged by David, they could escape elimination by answering some question from the week’s lessons. For Ollie, he would ask questions that the boy could answer by holding up fingers. In the evenings, David gave him linguistic exercises and practiced plosive consonants. When Jon heard a hiccupping, happy laugh emerge from the tiny child’s throat, he nearly jumped. It was more sound than he’d ever heard from him.
The boy wore short pants and Jon noticed the brutal red blotchy scars up both his legs. He had seen the somber gray omen when he’d gone riding, about a mile out from where the school stood. It was the charred remains of the foundation of an old homestead. No one in Tarheel spoke of it. Even Midge would clam up, suddenly pretending that she was far too busy to chat.
After school was let out, Jon saw the top of the attached ladder tremble a bit, heard the sound of shoes on the rungs. He watched as David’s pleasant face peeked over the edge. Jon smiled and extended his hand. The young man carried a lunch pail. He sat beside Jon, only glancing momentarily at his bare chest and arms.
“I’ll put on a shirt,” Jon offered, reaching for his.
“It’s no bother,” David assured him, laying out cold ham, peeled eggs, pickles, cheese, and bread. “Dreadfully warm.”
“Still, I’ll be a gentleman.”
David paused over the food and watched as Jon flapped his shirt in the breeze and pulled it over his tanned arms.
“You are still boarding at the tavern?” he asked.
Jon nodded and dug in. He looked at David’s thoughtful face and wondered what was in his mind. The food tasted very good after a long day of work. It felt good being attended to, cared for by a gentle spirit. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to live in this way, sharing a home with someone young and sweet. Someone to keep him occupied with chores, bring him lunch, and lie next to him at night. It struck him that he didn’t rightly care what was under skirt or trousers. This was the greatest good feeling he’d had in a long while.
It was no small bonus that the teacher was pretty, though. Jon looked closer into his eyes. In the bright sun he realized that they were speckled with all shades of heather; even a touch of violet. No… he was breathtaking. He certainly noticed the way David looked at him day in and day out, with admiration and tenderness. He felt his face grow unbearably hot and removed his bandana to wipe his face. The gaze could simply be gratitude.
“How long are you staying with us?” David asked, dropping his eyes down Jon’s bared neck and collar. He added, “With Tarheel?”
With Tarheel, Jon thought. You mean with you? Most of him hoped that’s what he meant, but there was a pestering spirit below that warned him against settling down here, where there was already a sense of unrest. It warned him against undertaking a burden, having another person whose well-being he had to worry about, the loss of whom would be another hard blow.
“As long as I feel inclined,” was his answer.
David shifted.
“To where are you traveling?”
Jon shrugged. It was the best he could give.
“From where did you come?”
David dipped his head and said, “I apologize. I am asking too many questions.”
“It’s fine,” Jon told him. “I was traveling for a ways with a woman.”
“Oh, your…?”
“She wasn’t my lover,” Jon stated. “She was my… business partner. She split ways with me a while back, took half of our earnings with her to Chicago.”
“Earnings?”
Jon raised a brow and said, “Now you are asking too many questions.”
David looked stunned, and Jon gave him a hoarse laugh to ease him.
“It was an amicable separation,” he added. “Fair’s fair.”
In truth, the woman had slipped away in the night, leaving a note. Possibly as a gesture of good faith, she not only left his 20 grand behind but also let him know where she would be. Perhaps that was just her way of telling him that they were on peaceful terms but it was time to kindly let her be.
Jon wanted to return the questions. He wanted to ask him why his hands were tougher than the rest of his skin. Instead, he chewed silently.
“Mr. Copperfield!” a call came from below.
David peered over the edge of the roof to see Sheriff Lance standing there, thumbs hooked into his belt.
“Good afternoon!” David replied.
“Might I have a word?”
David excused himself to Jon and climbed down. Still noshing on his lunch, Jon watched the two out of the corner of his eyes. They were speaking too quietly to make out all of what they said. There was something about potential mines just barely breaching city ordinance with David’s land in the way; fertile oil fields that couldn’t be tapped. David was progressing from friendly to agitated very quickly. Jon leaned a bit and listened.
“If they require the land, they can purchase it, but they simply must compensate me for the purchase of another plot as well as the construction of a new school.”
“That dung heap and the outhouse on top of it ain’t worth that.”
“It is not the intrinsic value of the property; it is the necessity for its function.”
“What in hell are you on about?” the sheriff asked, huffing and pacing. “You can’t be asking folks to give you too much just ‘cause you need it.”
“Then it is not for sale, Mr. Lance.”
David walked away, nodding his head vigorously as he spoke.
“Furthermore,” David adding, waving a flattened hand in the sheriff’s direction, “I would appreciate it if Mr. Bloomfield offered me the dignity of speaking with me himself.”
The sheriff called after him in a voice that was less frustrated now, more desperate, “You don’t get it, Mr. Copperfield. You don’t know I’m doin’ you a right favor here.”
He grimaced at David before turning to leave.
The siren of the road was calling for Jon. Every nerve ending his body was throbbing with the compulsion to move on, to keep himself out of the rotten business of David and Goliath battles, most of which never ended like the one in the Good Book.
He groaned and wiped his face again. He gathered the food, covered his equipment, and climbed down. He had just about made up his mind. In the night he could leave a note for David like Madelaine had. Then he would ramble on; out of sight, out of mind.
When he opened the schoolhouse to return the pail, he spotted David crouching down next to Ollie. The teacher was smiling again, looking into Ollie’s eyes. The boy’s mouth was struggling with words, but he was trying.
“I w… wrote…”
David didn’t interrupt him, but patiently allowed him to say a full sentence.
I wrote my name, Mr. Copperfield.
David took the slate in his hands. In shaky scribbles it read, “Oliver James Leeford.”
David praised and hugged the boy and Jon slipped out again, trying not to let the stinging in his throat overwhelm him.
He marched toward the tavern and burst through the door. The sheriff was sitting at a table, accompanied by the returned horsemen. The two strangers didn’t even glance at him but the sheriff looked up and attempted to cover the bag of gold in front of him with a hand. It was too late, and he pulled back, seeming to shrink in his seat under Jon’s passing figure.
Jon went to his room, grabbed his two rifles, and his pistol in its holster. When he stalked through the tavern again, Lance kicked back his chair a little with a wooden squeak. His companions scowled and watched the man exit.
He could hear them mocking the sheriff for being jumpy as the tavern door slammed behind him. He was rather stiff in the joints and cold in the eyes when he returned to the schoolhouse.
David’s jaw dropped when he saw the weapons.
Jon lifted his chin and stated in a gruff voice, “High time you learned how to shoot.”
Chapter Text
The rifle had felt heavier in his hands than it looked. The slender barrel was well-oiled to prevent a blinding glint from the sun. At first David held it up with the unsure grip of someone carrying an infant for the first time, as though it would fall apart.
“Here.”
Jon placed David’s hands in the correct positions, dragging his fingers over his shiny pinkish skin before pulling them away. The differing texture ended halfway up his lower arms and became soft and peachy like that of an upper-class academic.
“Press that crescent flush between your shoulder and chest, right there.”
He patted the area in question.
“Keep it tight,” he instructed, “Or that recoil will kick back into you like a mule.”
David bit his lip and obeyed. There was something enticing to Jon about this young man holding a gun, as clumsy as he was in the process of learning. His cherubic lips opening slightly, his dark eyelashes lowered in a squint.
“You don’t want loose elbows flying everywhere. Keep them low and sturdy.”
He came up behind him and moved his arms in place. He hadn’t touched him like this before, his torso pressed gently against him. He felt the urge to place his hands on his hips and pull him by the buckle into the enclave of his body.
“Keep your finger away from the trigger until you intend to shoot,” he murmured into his ear. “Then you squeeze it, don’t pull it.”
When David had the hang of the basics, Jon set up a firing range with bags of dirt lined up on crates. Ollie liked to watch them, and today he sat on the fence, peeling an apple while they practiced. Jon stood a few feet away and lifted his own rifle. He focused for a moment as David observed his stance. When he squeezed the trigger, one of the bags ripped open in a puff.
David aimed his own rifle. He squeezed, and the rifle cracked and jumped a bit. He scowled when nothing in the distance reacted.
“I cannot even tell you where that went.”
“A little to the left and above. Hold her steady.”
“I thought I had,” David mumbled.
“Don’t get discouraged already,” Jon said. “If you were a sharpshooter already, I’d be picking my jaw off the ground.”
David smiled and looked at his targets.
“I intend to surprise you eventually.”
David had already surprised him, many times over. Kids who had never seen a book that wasn’t the Bible were reading voraciously, and a bitter drifter was feeling affection stirring in a dead place; both remarkable achievements.
“Anyway,” he said, “At least it’s not hitting the ground anymore.”
“Oh, how I’ve improved,” David laughed.
“’73 is a good rifle,” Jon commented, “But each gun is gonna be a little different.”
“I must learn how to use every individual gun?”
Jon nodded at Ollie.
“Like you have to learn how to teach every different child.”
Understanding gleamed in David’s eyes. He smiled.
“Guns have personalities, abilities, shortcomings,” he mused. “I rather like that.”
When David wasn’t teaching, eating, or sleeping, he was shooting. Meanwhile, the school was coming together nicely. Jon even decided to apply a fresh coat of paint while classes were in session. David requested a symbol on the roof above the door of a cattle-brand style connected TH.
When he painted, Jon listened to David’s chatty voice from inside. It was a comfort to him. Ollie’s stutter was becoming less prominent, especially when he read aloud. The letters on the page were like instructions for how to hold his mouth and tongue.
His favorite books were Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience by William Blake. The poems were accompanied by beautiful chalk pictures. He loved those books so much he slept with them under his pillow.
David was in town when Jon heard soft crying coming from inside the shed. He opened the door and peered inside. Ollie quickly wiped his eyes. Jon crouched next to him.
“This poem,” Ollie told him, showing him the page for “The Chimney Sweeper”, “It… h… it hurts.”
“Why do you keep reading it?” Jon reached for the book but Ollie pulled away.
“I like it,” he told him. “Missster Copperfield… says poems should make us fffeel things.”
Jon knew David’s fondness for the boy. He was growing attached to him as well, even as he tried to keep him at a bit of a distance. At that moment, he felt an urge to, if not rise to David’s involvement, at least give what he could.
“You’re a natural with horses,” he said. “You a good rider, too?”
“I’ve never tried. Only c-cleaned, fffed.”
“Well, let’s take Paula out, yeah?”
Ollie looked surprised and got to his feet.
“Come on, we can share a saddle, for now.”
Jon lifted the boy up and placed his small hands on the horn. He slid behind him and wrapped one arm around his belly as he took up the reins with the other. Ollie smiled and gripped the saddle horn, bouncing and leaning forward as Paula picked up speed.
David returned just as they were riding away. Jon gave him a wave and the teacher smiled brightly. The smile remained on his face as he put away his new purchases, up until he saw the two horsemen tromping in the front door without so much as a knock. He’d seen them around, watching him with unsettling smirks. They looked around the place with disdain.
“May I help you gentlemen?”
One of them had a foggy eye and the other a mustache. Aside from that, they were quite similar. Brothers, no doubt.
“Ya’ll fixin’ this shack up, I s’pose?” the mustached one sneered. “Tryin’ anyhow.”
“We do our utmost.”
“Don’t seem like much purpose,” he responded. “Nothin’ out here but oil and dirt.”
The foggy-eyed man lifted a book from on the desks, sniffed, and dropped it to the floor.
“Be better if this land could be bought up by someone else. Give these poor sons o’ bitches a closer place to do the work that needs doin’.”
“Tarheel benefits from this school,” David insisted, bending over to pick up the book. The man who dropped it came close, nearly kicking his hand with scuffed black boots. David stood, and he could smell his tobacco juice breath.
“You kidding yerself, Copperfield,” he said, chewing as he spoke. “Ain’t no one need you here, ain’t no one want you here.”
“The children want me here,” David retorted, placing the book back on the desk. The man spat gritty brown juice on the cover.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Mustache said. “They want peace. They don’t want trouble-makers.”
“Why should there be trouble?” David asked.
“You takin’ up valuable, useful space with this bullshit.”
“If this land is so valuable, I am certain Mr. Bloomfield can pay for another school closer to town.”
“You got some mean sense of humor, Copperfield.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Takin’ away folks’ livelihood, somethin’ they can live on, just to teach their brats poetry. What they gon’ do with that, out here?”
“They could learn the value of virtue,” David replied through grit teeth. “I doubt that even occurs to men such as yourselves.”
“You’re a goddamn smartass,” Foggy-Eye snarled. He grabbed David by the collar and yanked him toward him. Specks of tobacco juice struck his face as he spoke. “You want me to teach you the virtue of keeping your mouth shut?”
David turned away, squeezing his eyes closed. The man shoved him and he stumbled backward.
“This is a warning, you mincing school marm,” the calmer man with the mustache stated. “Whoever wants this land is gonna pay whatever he feels like for it, and you’re gonna thank him and go back to where you came from.”
His brother spat again and they proceeded to leave.
“Tarheel don’t want you here,” Mustache continued. “No amount of silly gift baskets gonna change that.”
David sighed when they left. He sat down on the bench, legs shaking.
Jon and Ollie were riding around and past the school when Jon spotted the horsemen. He reared Paula around and headed back to the schoolyard. Ollie leaned into him, his head lifted to see the expression on his face. When the horsemen noticed him, they stopped and Jon prepared for the necessity to run the child somewhere safe.
The brothers only tipped their hats and mounted their horses.
“You tell your lily-ass little friend,” one of them shouted at him, “He’ll fuck off now if he knows what’s good for him.”
Jon glared at them as they galloped away. He slid off his horse and helped Ollie dismount. The boy began to panic.
“If Mister Copperfield goes,” he stammered. “I c-can’t… I c-can’t…”
“Stable Paula,” Jon told him. “Mr. Copperfield won’t abandon you, even if he can’t stay here. I promise you that.”
Jon marched into the school to find the teacher sitting and staring ahead at nothing.
“They threaten you?” Jon asked.
David nodded.
Jon kicked at the floor. He thought for a minute then sucked his teeth and muttered, “You should probably do what they say.”
“What?” David gasped.
“It’s not worth it,” Jon replied. “Take the money, take Ollie, find another school needs you somewhere else. I’ll even ride along with you, keep you safe.”
“Out of the question,” David snapped, eyes growing wet with hurt and betrayal.
“Then you should prolly start practicing with that pistol,” Jon told him, running his hands through sweat-damp hair before turning out. “You’re gonna need it.”
“Aw, Midge,” Frank gushed. “Be a doll and fill me up all the way.”
The woman looked over her shoulder at him, eyebrow raised.
“That’s a full glass, Frank.”
“Look at this,” he argued. “Two fingers there at the top.”
He grinned mischievously and said, “Pretend I’m that handsome schoolteacher and get me drunk like I know you wanna.”
Midge walked back to him with the bottle. She smiled and poured, locking eyes with him flirtatiously as she let the glass overflow onto the table.
The other men at the bar laughed.
“Midge, you’re breaking my heart!” He wrapped his arms around her hefty curves and cried, “When you gonna forget him and go for a man who can take care o’ ya?”
She gave him a look of mock indignation and pulled away. Then she winked and left him the bottle. The men cheered and Frank lifted his glass with an open smile.
Their laughter stopped when the brothers walked in. Suddenly the insides of their glasses became more interesting.
The two men sauntered to a table and took a seat. Mustache leaned his chair back and kicked his feet up on the table. Frank shook his head and Mustache looked around as though confused.
“Do I offend you, friend?” he called.
Frank didn’t answer.
“Ya’ll seem like decent folk,” he continued. “Reckon you like to keep things clean and quiet ‘round here.”
“That’s right, sirs,” Midge said, shooting Frank a glance before bringing them their usual. “No one wants trouble.”
“There some who do, Miss,” he answered, wide-eyed and sarcastically perplexed. He dropped the effect and said loudly, “That Mr. Copperfield is a burr under Mr. Bloomfield’s saddle, I hear. Mr. Bloomfield ain’t happy.”
He raised his bottle at the nervous patrons.
“And when Mr. Bloomfield ain’t happy, Tarheel… no Tarheel ain’t happy neither.”
He lit a cigar, puffed in the smoke, and blew it into Midge’s face. Frank tensed.
“Any of you folks got kids that go to Copperfield’s academy of frolicking and poetry?”
Several men dropped their heads.
“Seems they be better off at home, with they mommas.”
Foggy-Eye snickered and his brother clicked his tongue as he scanned the room.
“But that’s none of my business.”
He pulled his boots off the table and took another gulp of his drink. The two men stood. Mustache strode over by Frank and leaned into him.
“Just showin’ my concern.”
He dropped his cigar with a hiss into Frank’s glass and they ambled out.
The heavy, hollow clang of the schoolbell drifted on the wind as solemn as a funeral toll. It was followed by silence. It had been the same way every morning for several days. David’s worried face pointed toward the town, eyes still flitting over the empty streets. Jon watched the lean figure from afar, turning with poise in spite of defeat. The teacher cast a final crestfallen look before entering the building.
He’ll keep that school open, Jon thought as he lit a cigarette and drew in slowly. Even if Ollie is his only student, he’ll ring the bell and hold class.
The tobacco tasted sour in his mouth. He hated this; the silence of the town and the complicity of the so-called law. Most of all, he hated the tightness in his chest when he saw David’s face.
He tried to occupy himself with running Paula, polishing his guns; any busy work that didn’t involve thinking about that stubborn boy teacher. There remained a sick feeling in his throat like a piece of bone he couldn’t swallow.
Finally he broke down and asked Midge for her largest bottle of whiskey. She stared at him in surprise, having not seen him drink more than a shot. She obliged, and Jon grunted his thanks and absconded with it up to his room.
By nightfall the whiskey bottle was drained, and Midge had long gone to bed. Jon put the bottle back on his room table, clumsily, and it tipped over and rolled onto the floor. He ran his fingers over his eyelids, stretching them tight. Behind them all he could see was the heather blue of David’s eyes. He coughed and stumbled to bed.
Was he a little resentful? He hadn’t asked for this. All he wanted was to keep moving and moving until it was as though he didn’t exist anymore. He didn’t want to be haunted by sad angel eyes, no more soft skin that he imagined brushing velvety against his lips. He pressed his face into his pillow and groaned. Unconsciousness was a blessing that he begged for with arms open over his mattress. Mercifully, it came quickly.
In the tavern below, the front door closed softly. The patrons hadn’t even heard it open, nor did they notice someone had entered at first. David stood with his hand on the knob, eyes lifted timidly. Sheriff Lance watched him, eyes sliding with the teacher as he walked slowly, back straight, toward the bar. When he took a seat on one of the stools, Lance rotated his jaw and tongued his cheek.
“What can I get ya hon?” Midge asked gently.
“I…” he furrowed his brow.
“We have some gin, if you like.”
David nodded.
She poured him a glass and he gulped it down with a boyish cringe and a cough.
The silence was excruciating. Finally, David pulled out some coin and put it on the counter.
“Thank you, Midge,” he said. He turned on the stool and stood. Frank took a breath as if to say something, but dropped it.
The young man reached for the door then bit his lip and faced the room once more.
“Starting tomorrow,” he said, his fists opening and closing nervously, “The school will be implementing a free lunch program.”
All eyes were on him now.
“Any children who attend classes will be fed a square meal before returning home.”
The sheriff leaned back in his chair, shaking his head in exasperation.
“Thank you, good night.”
David walked out leaving the bar patrons at a loss.
“Well,” Midge sighed. She dropped her rag on the bar.
“That sounds mighty fine, wouldn’t you say, Sheriff?” someone called.
The sheriff tapped his glass on the table.
“Anyone who gives two shits about Tarheel would say that’s worth somethin’.”
Lance kicked back his chair.
“Shut the fuck up, Garrison.”
Chapter Text
The throbbing whine of cicadas from the field was like a lullaby. David’s eyes fluttered only a moment when he heard a different sound, but instantly their prairie siren pulled him back into sleep. He didn’t wake again until the hands were upon him.
“Up you go, fancy man,” he heard one of them growl in his ear. “We goin’ for a ride!”
“Let me go!” he cried out, wrestling against the man who pinned down his arms. Another grabbed his ankles and they carried him outside.
“Help!” he screamed into the night. The town a few hundred yards away slumbered indifferently.
They threw him into the dust and one straddled him, roping his hands together, while another tied his feet.
“You been told, Mr. Copperfield,” the man pressing down on his chest drawled. “Now you gotta be told again, in a more persuasive sort of way, don’tcha?”
“You can’t,” David gasped. “You can’t do this.”
“There’s some part of this you missing, boy,” the brute responded. David could feel the rope tugging back on his ankles. “We do what we want.”
“Mr. Bloomfield is going to face legal action, I assure you!”
“Mr. Who?” Foggy-Eye shouted from the distance. David strained his neck to see him climbing atop his horse. “We don’t know no Mr. Bloomfield, fancy man. We answer to Mr. Greenback and Miz Lady Liberty.”
The mustached brother hopped to his feet and strode toward his own horse.
David wriggled until he was half-sitting. He reached out for his feet with bound hands. That’s when he saw the trailing rope. He was tied to the saddle of one of the horses. His face paled.
“No, please… wait!” he pleaded.
“Too late, pretty boy. We said you goin’ for a ride.”
“He ain’t gon’ be so soft and smooth come mornin’!”
David desperately pulled at the ropes, but they were tightly knotted.
“Geeyap!” the cry rang out like a starter’s pistol. The rope darted like a frightened snake away from him, quickly losing slack. He stared, wide-eyed in terror.
The painful yank shot up his legs into his hips. He fell back, arms over his head as his body flopped like a rag doll. His thin undergarments did little to shield his skin from the rough ground.
He felt his back burn like fire as he was dragged behind the two horsemen. The hooves kicked up dirt and pebbles that rained onto his face, into his mouth. He clenched it shut and tried to lift his head from the hard bumps of the terrain. His knees buckled and he cried out in blinding pain. He feared that his legs would be torn completely out of their sockets.
His attempts to spare his skull caused him to flip over. Now his legs bent backward, but he ate dirt and grime, coughing and choking.
He managed to roll to his side, and he tasted gritty blood in his mouth as he struggled to breathe. Fear of death had passed. Now all he knew was pain.
The drink wasn’t sitting right with Jon as he slipped in and out of sleep. His head was pounding. So hard, in fact, that he could hear it.
Thump, thump, thump, thump.
He rubbed his temples.
Thump, thump, thump!
No, that was not in his head.
“Help!”
He heard the small, frightened bleat like a lamb beneath his window. His eyes snapped open and he scowled.
Something hit the window blinds with a crack. He lifted his head.
“Mr. Jensen!” he heard the tiny shriek.
He bolted from the bed and stumbled toward the window. When he’d opened it, he looked down upon the young boy. His scrawny arm was raised, ready to fling another rock.
“Mr. Jensen, sir!” Ollie yelped.
Jon didn’t say anything, merely stared at him, bewildered. They boy looked like he had witnessed the end of days.
“They… t… took…”
Jon sighed and disappeared from the window.
“No! Mister…. Mr. Jensen!”
Ollie screamed in frustration and threw the rock at the building. Tears welled in his eyes. He started to stagger away when he heard the screen door bang. He turned to see Jon marching toward him carrying his rifle and pulling on a shirt.
“Sir!” he exclaimed, rushing to him.
“What is it Ollie?” he grunted. “Who took what?”
“Th… they took…” he struggled with the words.
Jon placed his hands on both of the boy’s shoulders.
“Where’s Mr. Copperfield?”
He saw the tear streaks down Ollie’s face.
He repeated more urgently this time, “Where’s Mr. Copperfield?”
Ollie pointed toward the horizon. Jon’s eyes scanned over the distant schoolyard. The front door hung open.
“They took him!” Ollie blurted.
Jon’s face grew taut, his eyes focused on a pair of hoof-prints and the winding groove that accompanied them. He uttered a Danish curse and dashed toward the stable.
David quivered in the dirt stained with his blood. One of his eyes was swelled shut, but the other watched as Mustache stalked toward him.
“Still with us, Copperfield?” he called.
David only shuddered.
The man brandished a knife and David shut his eye tight, waiting for the sting of the blade. He felt instead a tug on his legs and the sensation of his bonds falling away. He turned his head to the side as to not drown on the blood draining from his nose down his throat. When his hands were cut free, he didn’t move. He felt a gloved pat against his face and his bare feet kicked in the dirt.
“You’re gonna sell your shit-heap school and the land beneath it,” the man whispered. “And then you’re gonna get the fuck out of this town.”
David heard the sound of boots receding. He didn’t open his eye again until he heard the hoof-beats moving on.
His breath escaped from his throat in a wheeze. Cringing, he rolled to his side. Everything hurt, but he didn’t think any bones were broken. He tried to push himself up on his elbows, bloody fingers curling. The early morning sun was breaking over the horizon, casting his shadow across the patchy ground.
He lifted himself very slowly to his feet, crying out when he put weight on his left leg. His knee was twisted. He surveyed the land, unsure of where he was, how long he’d been dragged. There was no use in waiting; he had to get back to town. He followed his own groove in the dirt, limping and panting from the pain. His long-john underwear was in tatters, hanging open at the chest and torso, the right sleeve detached entirely. He lifted a hand to his nose, trying to stop the pouring blood as he struggled to keep walking.
He attempted to clear the coarse grit from his mouth and throat. He desperately needed water, and as soon as that sun rose, he would need it even more.
He looked out on the wavy mirage between land and sky. He saw a blurry spot moving in the distance. It grew closer, clouded in dust. It was a man on horseback, headed straight for him. He whimpered and shook his head. Overcome with exhaustion, he fell to his knees.
The hoof-beats drew close and the horse whinnied as it came to a stop. Boots tromped in the gravel. David looked up at the silhouette that blocked the lifting sun.
The figure crouched and slid his arms under David’s armpits, lifting him up.
“David,” a warm voice said.
David blinked his bloodshot eyes and looked upon the face of Jon Jensen. He shook with relief until he nearly cried.
“Come on,” the man murmured, and led him to his horse. He did most of the lifting to get him into his saddle.
Jon climbed up behind him and wrapped his arms around the young teacher as they rode back into town.
When they reached the school, Ollie darted around the horse like a pup. John got down and David practically fell off into his arms.
“I have a medical bag inside,” he whispered.
“Put her in the stable, Ollie,” Jon ordered and the boy nodded and took the reins.
Jon supported David with his arm slung across his broad shoulders. They made it into the schoolhouse and he gently lowered him onto a bench.
“Where’s the bag?”
“In my desk.”
Jon went to retrieve it, and the large canteen for water. He dropped the bag beside David and went to the pump. As the water filled the canteen, he looked up to see the sheriff standing on the porch outside his office. Jon narrowed his eyes. The sheriff dropped his head and went inside.
“What did I fucking tell you?” he scolded when he returned to David. He poured the water from the canteen into the cup topper and handed it to him. “I told you to move on, yeah?”
He didn’t wait for a response and David didn’t give him one. He went into David’s back room and brought back a basin and some linens. He filled the basin and dropped the rags in.
“You think this is some English hamlet?” he continued to mutter, taking a pocket knife and cutting away David’s undergarments.
“No one out here gives a shit about knowledge and books, no one gives a shit about decency, and no one gives a shit about you.”
Jon stopped when he saw David’s shoulders trembling. He looked up into his face. It was cast down and to the side.
“Hey,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”
David shook his head.
“None of this is your fault.”
Jon lifted his hands to the young man’s face, but stopped short of touching him. They hovered in mid-air uselessly until he set back to work again. When he had stripped the torn fabric of David’s garments down to his hips, he wrung out a rag and started to dab away at the bloody grime caking David’s body. The young man winced and hissed through his teeth.
“You’re a good man, David,” Jon said, softening his touch. “This isn’t a place for good men.”
Ollie entered and hung in the doorway.
“Go sleep in my tavern room, Ollie,” Jon told him. “I’ll get Mr. Copperfield patched up.”
Ollie hesitated for a moment then slunk away. Jon continued to clean David off, running the wet cloth over his pronounced collarbones, over his arms. As he swept it over his chest, the red burn seeped beads of fresh blood.
“Any good men come out to the edge of civilization, they don’t stay that way,” Jon muttered bitterly.
David turned his gaze toward him. His blue eyes wandered over the man’s face. Even through his swelling and bruises, he looked angelic.
“Goddammit, say something,” Jon demanded.
“I’m not leaving,” David whispered.
Jon locked eyes with his. He stared speechlessly for a moment before getting to his feet, saying, “I’ll change the water.”
He took the basin outside and dumped the murky water to one side. When he came back, David was standing with his weight on his good leg, slowly wrapping a bandage soaked in carbolic acid across the worse area of his chest like an admiral’s sash.
“Let me,” Jon said, putting the basin on the bench. He attempted to take the roll from his hands.
“I have it,” David snapped and stepped back. His leg gave out and he nearly toppled. Jon steadied him.
“Come on,” Jon insisted. His voice was softer now, kinder.
“I know you think me weak,” David said, “And maybe I am. But I’m not going to turn and run.”
Jon coaxed the bandage roll away and wrapped him up, securing it in place with a clip.
“I know very well how cruel people like this are. If you have anything to live for, you gotta just walk away. Otherwise, you’ll be fighting… forever.”
Jon went to pull the rest of David’s clothes off and the young man’s hands stopped him. Jon gave him an exasperated look and David moved his hands away.
Jon lowered the undergarments, slipping them down David’s hips and sturdy thighs. His left knee was very swollen. He straightened to help him step out of the clothing. David’s lithe frame leaned against his. His hands rested on his naked belly, his fingers just grazing his pelvic muscle line. The soft flesh moved beneath his fingertips. For a moment the only sound was their combined breathing.
“We’ll need to wrap that knee,” Jon finally said, and looked at David’s face.
His large eyes blinked at him, his fleshy lips parting.
The older man dipped a fresh linen into the basin and began washing the road burned area of David’s leg.
“I’ve had my own experience with people who throw their weight around. I’m not just spouting casual advice here.”
“Did you run?” David asked, his voice heaving when John cleaned the dirt away from a raw and bleeding patch of skin.
Jon’s jaw stiffened and he murmured, “No.”
David nodded with a burning flash in his eyes.
“But you expect me to?”
“I wouldn’t wish my experience on you,” Jon answered. “I’m a ghost now, David. I don’t stay in one spot for more than a month.”
“You’ve been here for two months,” David pointed out.
“Yeah, well,” Jon replied, then trailed off.
He reached for another bandage roll and began to wrap David’s knee.
“Why are you still here?”
Jon sighed and kept working. The silence was tense.
Finally he said, “I couldn’t really leave you here to fend for yourself.”
David sniffed.
“So someone in this town gives a shit about me.”
“Don’t get used to it,” Jon retorted. “I’m not gonna help you if you don’t listen to me.”
Jon stood and placed his hand against David’s hip, observing his work.
“How does that feel?”
David didn’t answer and Jon looked at him. The young teacher’s eyes were focused on his lips, drifting down his damp neck.
“Get some sleep,” Jon mumbled, removing his hand and glancing away.
David nodded.
“I’ll sleep on the bench here,” he continued. “Make sure…”
He could feel David leaning toward him. Jon couldn’t help but think of how good the young man would feel in his arms, pressed against him, those lips…
“Anyway, we’ll worry about it after a good rest.”
He urged David toward his room and the young man hung on his shoulders as he limped to his bed.
“Good night, Jon,” he said.
“Night,” Jon replied as the sun beamed through the slats of the windows. He turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.
“Thank you,” David added. Jon glanced at him through the half-open door. He nodded, and pushed it shut.
In his dreams Jon staggered, injured, over a dirt road, feet weaving between two wagon tracks. He saw her up ahead, lying on the ground. He fell down next to her, her ravaged and broken body dead before him. He cradled her in his arms; everything that was good and innocent in this world violated and crushed under heel.
Why did he bring her here? She didn’t belong here. Nothing beautiful grew in this god-forsaken place. And, as he held her face against his chest and screamed at the heartless emptiness around him, he felt whatever was good in him shrivel into black charcoal.
He awoke suddenly, and exhaled a shaky breath. He was on a bench in a schoolhouse, covered with a spare blanket. The dream was gone, but his muscles still ached from the rage and anguish that he’d felt.
Chapter Text
The quaking bleat was soft, but David roused from barely immersed sleep. He opened his eyes, instantly reminded of the burning sensation in his skin as it brushed against the sheets. He hadn’t slept long but the sun was already hot.
His first thought was that Ollie had made the noise from his cot on the floor of David’s room, but he remembered the boy was in Jon’s room at the tavern. He sat up and listened to Jon’s heavy breathing, followed by a muffled creak on the bench and silence.
After he’d dressed very slowly and carefully, wincing as he pulled on his underthings and tried to put on his trousers without stumbling from his twisted knee. He carried his shoes to put on outside so that he could step quietly past Jon in his socks.
He looked down upon the man, who was lying on his side with his face toward the backrest, his shoulders hunched with arms wrapped around his chest as though searching for comfort in his sleep. David wondered why he had cried out. What dreams could possibly bring out that kind of vulnerable, hurt sound in a strong and hardened man.
He brushed a strand of his silver blond hair back from his forehead, fingers tracing the sweat along his temple. He admired the lines of his cheekbones, the architectural angles of his face, and the crinkles at the corners of his heavy eyes. Jon had been the most unlikely of guardian angels. Without him, he would surely be dead right now. He thought of how he’d tended his wounds, his rough hands becoming gentler. He wanted to care for his hurts as well. A pleasant twitch spread through his belly.
David realized that he had unconsciously touched the front of his own throat while watching him sleep and brushed the fingers wet with Jon’s sweat against his Adam’s apple. He dropped his hand and clenched his fist, embarrassed despite no one watching.
Finally he sighed and went outside to struggle putting on shoes with a knee that was still swollen and resisted bending. The air outside was moving but he could still smell Jon’s sweat on his own throat. It gave him a bit of courage, a sense of security. He wished he could carry the scent of the man with him always; be marked by him in that way. It was a strange thought to him, and he swallowed and admonished himself internally.
Deputy Halloran sat on the edge of the sheriff’s desk with his arms crossed, chatting nonchalantly with him. He stood when David entered. His eyes drifted up and down over the beaten man.
“I have come to report an attack on my person,” David told them.
Sheriff Lance sighed and asked, “Who attacked you?”
“The two men who I have seen you converse with on several occasions…”
“Now, hold on,” Lance interjected, “I… converse… with many folks who pass through here because this is a friendly community.”
“Of course,” David replied. “I did not mean to imply any complicity on your part.”
His intense stare spoke words that the lack of irony in his tone did not.
“Those men are not from here. Sometimes those bad apples, they just come blowing through here and then they leave. Best thing’s to keep your doors locked because there’s not so much the law can do about them.”
“I believe they are under the pay of Mr. Bloomfield, the man who owns the oil fields beyond my school; the man who sees to purchase my land.”
Halloran sniffed and headed back to his desk in the back room.
“Don’t be accusin’ nobody here of such a thing,” Lance warned him. “There’s no trouble in Tarheel. If you got troubles, that’s because of your own choices.”
“Where does Mr. Bloomfield reside?” David asked. “I would like to speak to him personally.”
Lance pointed a clubbed finger at the teacher.
“Don’t you be harassing your betters now,” he snapped. “I will not allow it. If I hear one word from him or anyone else around here that you are causing unrest or being a nuisance, I will slap you with a fine or some time in that cell back there, ya hear?”
David limped toward the schoolhouse, staring at the ground. His face was screwed in quiet despair. As he approached, he could hear the sound of people chatting.
“Is he gone?” Someone said.
He looked up to see a group of people standing outside the school. They were mostly women and children, but a couple of men accompanied them.
“There he is!” Mrs. Garrison exclaimed. She was carrying something covered in a towel. Her husband stood at her elbow.
David halted in surprise and looked back and forth between them. He felt a twinge of anxiety as the crowd moved toward him. He walked forward as they parted; gasping at his bruises and cuts.
“Did you mean what you said?” Mr. Garrison finally asked.
David looked at him, momentarily confused. Garrison seemed bashful.
“About… about school lunch for students?”
He breathed and then smiled.
“Yes, yes, of course.”
The people started chatting happily.
“I know you said it were for children,” Garrison continued, “But I thought maybe if some grown folks want to learn…”
“Absolutely!” David told him.
“I brought a pie,” Mrs. Garrison offered.
“We brought some of our milk,” another woman said.
David’s eyes grew wet as his mouth shrugged into an overwhelmed smile. He unlocked the door and the group shuffled after him.
“We, ah…” he looked around. Jon was against the wall, and had the appearance of someone who had just fallen off of a moving carriage. His head shot up when he saw the crowd. “We don’t have enough desk space in here for everyone, so I suppose we can hold classes outside.”
“A picnic?” someone suggested.
“Yes! Wonderful idea!” David crowed.
At the post office, Sheriff Lance dropped his hat on the counter. The attendant was printing out a telegram for him. When he handed him the slip it read “Office of Edward Bloomfield.”
David began pulling together blankets to lay down outside. They helped him carry out food, but in truth everyone who had something to bring did. There was sweet corn from one farm, salt-boiled potatoes, eggs, preserves, someone even brought cured venison. The more people sat outside, the more people showed up.
Jon went to get Ollie from his room, but kept himself away from the picnic, monitoring the horizon from side to side. He climbed on the roof with his rifle and perched, keeping his eyes on alert. David occasionally glanced over at him, sight moving over his lean but sturdy frame, the attentiveness in his golden eyes.
“This appears to be a good day for some of your children to show you what they have been learning!” David announced. He put his hand on the shoulder of Ollie who looked around nervously before taking one of his books. He stood beside his beaming teacher and lifted the pages.
The folks fell quiet. Many had never even heard Ollie speak, not since he was very young. He cleared his throat and looked down at the illustrated poem even though he had read it over and over so many times that he virtually had it memorized.
“Tiger, tiger, burning bright…”
Midge clapped her hand over her mouth.
“What im-mortal hand or eye… could frame they fffearful… sssymetry.”
Jaws hung open as Ollie continued to read, stammering less and less as he went on. When he finished, he looked up at them meekly.
“Very good, Ollie! Excellent!” David applauded, and everyone followed suit.
The boy broke into a wide smile and dropped down on his bottom on the food-laden blanket. He folded his hands in his lap and soaked in the praise.
After that, the kids didn’t need coaxing. They leapt up to show the different things they had only recently discovered they had a talent for. One girl, Julie, knew her 5 times table all the way to 100. Her mother nodded at the others proudly.
Sheriff Lance strolled out of the post office, placing his hat back on his head. As he returned to his own office, he looked up at the sound of cheering and laughing.
Almost half of the town’s population was sitting on blankets outside of Copperfield’s school. The man himself stood among them, beckoning a child to recite Bible verses. He could smell the good food from there, but most of all, he could make out the admiration on the folks’ faces and the irremovable smile of David Copperfield.
“Smug little shit!” he cursed and spat. He looked back at the post office and sighed. He grimaced and scratched the side of his neck. The strained reluctance pulled at him.
“Goddammit,” he finally muttered. He set his jaw and returned from where he came. “Be it on your head.”
He entered the post office and told the attendant, “I need to send a return telegram to Mr. Bloomfield.”
Ollie was curled up in David’s bed instead of his own cot, worn out from running and playing all day with the other children.
David sat out in the classroom at his desk, writing a new curriculum that could incorporate adult students. His kerosene lamp flickered when the front door opened. He dropped his pen and looked up. Jon was pacing the floor in front of him, running his hands through his hair.
“Jon,” David said.
The man stopped pacing and nodded, sucking at his teeth.
“I s’pose you’re pretty proud of yourself.”
David leaned back in his chair.
“I am, actually.”
“Well, you have a right to be!” Jon blurted. “You’ve done a good thing. You brought people together, made their town a better place.”
David furrowed his brow.
“Then why do you sound agitated?”
“They’re gonna kill you, you know that, right?”
David’s lips parted.
“They’re gonna string you up by your very fine neck outside your own goddamn school!”
He began to pace again, fists clenching.
David glanced at the door to his bedroom and whispered, “Please, keep your voice down.”
“You keep your voice… your head down!” he coughed, tripping over a desk leg. He pushed the desk out of the way and cursed.
“You’ve been drinking.”
“Yeah, I never did before,” Jon muttered. “So thanks for that.”
David stood and walked toward him. He placed a hand on Jon’s back and it seemed to calm him like a restless horse.
“Let’s go for a walk,” David suggested softly.
Jon nodded.
They walked side by side, not speaking a word until they were nearing the crop fields on the opposite side of town. Early autumn corn bristled in the wind, eerily alive.
Jon stopped suddenly and turned to face the young man.
“You can’t,” he said, struggling to steer his rage back to the source: a profound and painful concern, even love. “You can’t keep provoking people.”
“I am not provoking anyone,” David defended himself. “I am doing my job, and well, I should think.”
His complete denial of the situation stirred Jon to anger again.
“It don’t matter that you’re a good teacher,” he groaned, reaching his hands out to him. “It only matters that you have something they want.”
“You saw those parents!” David insisted. “They support me now. They are going to stand with me.”
“Not at the risk of their lives and livelihoods!”
“I believe that they will,” he responded. His voice took on the tone of a visionary. “If every one of them demanded…”
He raised his hand in dignified self-empowerment.
Jon growled and grabbed David by the suspenders, shoving him into the cornfield with his face close to his.
“You foolish, stubborn…”
David’s eyes grew wide as he clutched Jon’s strong hands. If he’d released him he would have fallen backward, but Jon gripped him tightly, shaking him.
“You’ll be blindly believing in people until they drop the gallows out beneath you!”
“Jon,” David quavered.
Jon stared into his eyes. The younger man was afraid of him. He slowly let go of his suspenders and moved his hands up over his neck and into his brown curls. His grasp was still tense, but gentler now, trembling with confused emotions.
“I don’t know what to do with you,” he croaked. “You make me feel so damn helpless. I hate it.”
“I am so sorry, Jon,” David whispered, his voice creaking as he held back shameful tears. “I never intended to cause you any suffering.”
Jon watched David’s soft lips as he spoke.
“Please, do not burden yourself with me any longer. It is not your responsibility.”
Jon shuddered and suddenly pressed his mouth against David’s, hard and desperate. When he pulled back, David was blinking dark eyelashes in stunned silence.
“God, you’re fucking beautiful,” Jon breathed, his nostrils twitching as he passed his hooded eyes over him.
David released a soft, sweet whimper and it was the breaking point for Jon. He wrapped his arms around the slender young man and pulled him against his hips, gripping his backside as he kissed him again.
David gave into the whims of the forceful, frustrated man. He lifted on his toes as Jon hoisted upward, squeezing his flesh. With an abrupt, smooth motion, Jon swept him down and laid him on the ground between rows of corn.
David panted nervously through his wetted, stubble-raw mouth. He lifted his chin and stretched his neck as Jon moved his mouth downward, kissing frantically, pushing rough hands down his cotton shirt, over the carved lines of his collarbone.
“Fuck,” Jon growled, pulling at the buttons.
“I hadn’t realized,” David gasped, staring up at the tops of the corn, lying still as Jon tugged down his suspenders and tore open his undershirt. The man’s face lowered again and he ran his teeth and tongue over David’s exposed chest and belly.
His skin was every bit as wonderful to feel and taste as Jon had imagined. He lifted David’s hips and sucked at his belly as he slid his trousers down. He stopped when he felt a gentle hand in his hair. It occurred to him that David had been babbling softly and he hadn’t even heard a word he said.
“I have had such affection… such love for you,” the young man continued.
Jon lifted his face and gazed at him with more trepidation than he cared to let on. David licked his lips and lolled his head to the side to view Jon better.
“I understand if you do not feel the same way, but if I could be of some comfort to you… I am happy for that.”
Jon pushed up to his knees and looked at the night sky. He winced and chewed his lower lip. David lifted on his hands, sitting straddled beneath him. He moved an unsure hand to Jon’s belt buckle.
The older man looked down and stroked his loving face. Those wondrous blue eyes gazed back at him and he felt his breath catch in his throat.
“I can’t,” he murmured. “I can’t always… say things…”
He swallowed and glanced away.
“Certain things.”
He felt David holding his hand in place near his mouth; felt him kissing his fingers.
“You…” Jon continued, sitting back on his haunches and pressing his forehead against David’s. “You can comfort me.”
“Show me how.”
David traced his fingers over the outline of Jon’s swollen cock through his trousers. Jon groaned through his nose and leaned into the touch, moving his hips. He rose to his knees against and brought David’s face against him. The young man mouthed and kissed the bulge through the fabric.
“I want to look at you,” Jon told him. “And this time, be able to touch you.”
David pulled his shirt and undershirt off his shoulders. Jon assisted him with the rest of his clothing and shoes. Soon he was sitting in the moonlight on top of his discarded clothes, leaning back on his hands. Jon drifted his fingers over the ridges of his rib muscles, his pubic lines and curving hips. He took him all in with appreciative huffs and hungry eyes.
With a grunt, Jon took David’s lithe body in his hands and flipped him over on his belly. David gasped and lay his head down on crossed arms. He watched over his shoulder as Jon fumbled with his belt and fly and pulled out his erect cock. David’s eyelids drifted almost sleepily as he stretched and lifted his bottom. Jon squeezed the tender muscles of David’s ass, massaging him and spreading him open. He dipped his head and bit one cheek and then kissed.
David made a cooing noise, and Jon continued, moving his mouth of the spread cleft and running his tongue over his hole. David’s body tensed and he heard him whimper. His warm tongue pressed harder until he had him moaning, “Jon… Jon…”
The young man’s fingers clutched at the clothing beneath him.
“Please,” he begged.
Jon straightened and lifted David’s hips, bringing him to his knees. His head and chest rested on the ground as he arched his back like a cat. Jon spat between spread cheeks and then probed him with his fingers gently.
The quivering, pleasured sounds David made invited him further. He pushed a finger inside, slowly stretching him. As his body relaxed, Jon worked his fingers in and out of him, admiring how David pushed back into him, urging him to take him. He stroked his own cock and ran the dripping head in place of his fingers. David held his breath, his pinks lips open and eyelashes fluttering.
A crack rang out in the distance.
It startled them both so that Jon straightened and looked off as David collapsed underneath him.
Another crack. A rifle. Jon stood and tucked himself away.
“What is it? David asked.
Jon shook his head. There was a light glowing in the distance. Screen doors slammed and they heard people exclaiming. David scrambled to pull his clothes on. He tripped after Jon, who was pushing his way to the edge of the cornfield. When they emerged, David shook.
“No,” he whispered.
Beyond the town, a pillar of smoke rose to the sky and the rooftops were outlined with orange.
“No!” David screamed and ran toward the blaze; as fast as he could with his bum leg.
Jon chased after him. They raced through the small town and David nearly fell over when he saw…
His school, freshly mended and painted, everything he had in this world that wasn’t on his body; engulfed in flames. His head darted around at the gathering people, eyes desperately searching.
Frank emerged from his house in half-draped overalls.
“Water!” he screamed. “Get some buckets!”
The people raced to help him, as David ran toward the building. He pulled open the door, his shirt sleeves singing as the flames leapt out, heat burning his face and hands.
“David!” Jon yelled, grabbing him and pulling him back. “It’s gone!”
“No!” David dipped in his arms, wrestling away from him. He whirled around, eyes wild as he cried, “Ollie’s in there!”
Jon’s face went pale. He looked up to see the burning roof crack and fall in, and the school collapsed in on itself in complete incineration.
The townsfolk had rushed forward with water, but it was clearly too late. There was nothing to do but let itself burn out. David dropped to the ground; face red and teeth bared as he screamed through his tears.
Jon looked around at the people. Their heads were lowered. Some simply dropped their buckets and returned to their homes. His eyes seethed with contempt. Behind him, Midge wept softly.
Chapter Text
Jon rolled over in his bed. The morning light cast a hazy glow on the figure in the corner. He had stretched his arm out to him, beckoning him into bed, but David had recoiled and sank to a sitting position with his knees pulled up. He was still there now, eyes glazed over, face ashen. He looked like he hadn’t slept or even moved.
Jon crouched next to him and nudged him with a hand on his arm. David rocked with the motion, only blinking.
“We’re going,” Jon murmured. “I’ll ready the horses.”
When he left the room, David raised his head and looked forward with a dark glower. He stood, arms straight at his sides and fingers outstretched.
Jon secured a young horse for David and began to saddle and pack them with necessities. He cast a glance at the empty stall where he’d first found Ollie. The boy would have been better off sleeping here, dirty and hungry, but alive. He bent his head to the side and cracked his neck. There wasn’t even anything left in him for pain. His soul was exhausted.
Hard, English shoes stepped down the stairs into the empty tavern. Midge hadn’t even opened for breakfast. The quiet, slender man strode through the dark room.
When he emerged, the old man turned his head but didn’t raise his eyes. He would remember only seeing legs and feet pass him by. He would say they moved with purpose, but wouldn’t be able to explain the pressure in his ears that an old man sometimes gets before a bad storm. The day would be clear and sunny.
Sheriff Lance didn’t look up either when the former schoolteacher entered.
“What are you going to do?” the young man asked in an unsettlingly calm voice.
“What is there to do?”
David approached his desk and the sheriff finally gave him the dignity of his eyes.
“I am sorry, Mr. Copperfield,” he said. “But the will states that the land requires a functioning school. Without that, ownership returns to the town.”
“A boy is dead,” David whispered.
“Accidents happen, I’m afraid. Lamps fall over, cigarettes get left lying about. I noticed that friend of yours smokes.”
“Accidents… happen…”
The sheriff gave him a pained look.
“I don’t have control over these things,” he said.
David’s expression was empty, unsympathetic.
“That boy had a lifelong habit of being in wrong places at the wrong times.”
He watched as blue gray irises lined with white. Lance shook his head and muttered, “I never thought it would turn out that way. God’s truth.”
“But they have done it before,” David stated. “The Leefords.”
David’s accusations and glaring face shook him into frustration.
“Look here,” he told him, “I tried to help. I’m not a part of what they do; I just keep out of the way.”
“So, you are not heartless,” David nodded, words hissing through his teeth. “You are just a coward.”
Lance’s face twisted with indignation.
“No, I’m smart,” he snapped. “I keep myself alive. If you were smart, that boy would be alive too.”
The sheriff stopped when he saw the silver of the pistol. He didn’t go for his own gun, only scoffed at the lack of threat this soft-featured young man carried.
“What’s done is done, Copperfield,” he said. “Now’s the time to go. Move along, don’t make a fuss.”
David felt a rolling panic rise in his chest, sweeping over him like foaming waves. Lance saw it in his face, a smack of the unhinged.
“Get the fuck out of here!” Lance bellowed, slamming his hand on the desk. “Go on, git!”
Deputy Halloran’s chair squeaked in the room over. The young man didn’t move. He seemed vacant.
The sheriff cried out in exasperated anger and grabbed his revolver.
“Fuck you then!”
He lifted it at David.
The gunshot made the old man’s head dart in the direction of the sheriff’s office. He pushed up slowly on his arthritic knees. Frank was headed out to the oil fields, gloves tucked in his belt and lunch pail in tow. He froze in place.
The deputy burst into the main room and made a strange gulping yell when he saw his sheriff still upright in his chair, his wounded head thrown back and staring blindly at the ceiling.
He grappled for his gun but saw Copperfield click back the hammer and point at him. He put his hands up in a steadying motion.
“Hey now, teacher,” he croaked. “I never heard nothin’ bad ‘bout you. They say you a man of peace.”
“I am,” David said, emotionless. His eyes were wide and unblinking.
Deputy Halloran nodded, hands still raised, palms out in front of him.
“Don’t do nothin’ more foolish than what’s already been done.”
“Those men who work for Mr. Bloomfield; where are they?”
“They left town,” he answered.
“I know you know where they stay.”
“I’m not privy to that information,” Halloran insisted.
The gun fired and the bullet struck him in the right shoulder.
“Jesus Christ, Copperfield!” he screamed, clutching his bleeding arm.
He saw the man hadn’t released the hammer.
“Tell me.”
“At the old Bluth homestead, to the North!” he gasped. “About ten miles.”
“Thank you, Deputy…” David said. He nodded at Lance and corrected himself with an unsteady breath. “…Sheriff Halloran.”
He rushed out and tucked the pistol away. Jon was leading the horses. His brow furrowed and mouth opened when he saw David emerging. The young man hurriedly mounted his horse.
“We’re going,” he told him urgently.
Jon swung up on Paula and they started to ride. David took off through the town like a rush of wind. When Jon looked back he saw a bloody Halloran stumbling out and trying to steady his gun with his left hand. Jon kicked and galloped after David. Shots fired and missed.
Halloran roared and whirled toward the townsfolk who had begun to gather. David’s departure proved to be even more of a spectacle than his arrival had been.
The new sheriff turned on the men, including Frank, who still stood with his pail.
“What are you all skulking ‘round for?” he shouted. “That man murdered the sheriff!”
Silence was his reply. Their faces were cold and bitter. Frank leaned forward and spat on the ground at Halloran’s feet, then continued on his way to work.
“Where’s the nearest town?” David called to Jon.
“Bishop!” he answered. “What the hell did you do?”
“I need to stop for supplies,” David replied; then, addressing the question in a shuddering voice Jon almost couldn’t make out, “I don’t… I don’t know…”
“Will you learn to fuckin’ aim?” Mustache growled. He kept his eyes on his cards.
Foggy-Eye sat up, tobacco juice trickling down his chin. He’d spat toward his coffee can, but hit the floor instead.
“What fuckin’ difference does it make?” he slurred. “This ain’t no palace.”
The abandoned homestead sagged on the darkened plains. The windows were boarded so that only the faintest flicker of kerosene lamp seeped out.
“It disgusts me,” Mustache snarled.
Foggy-Eye sucked at the juice in his mouth.
“You a real ornery bastard when you’re drunk.”
His brother gave him a grin.
“And you’re shit at poker,” he chided. He dropped his cards.
“Goddammit,” Foggy-Eye exclaimed when he saw the hand.
Mustache took another swig of his whiskey and belched, “’Nother round or have I cleaned you out yet?”
Foggy-Eye shook his head and rubbed his eyes.
“I’m fadin’ fast,” he said.
“Yeah, I’m sure that’s it,” his brother laughed.
“Gonna be hungover like a bitch tomorrow.”
“Well, hit the sack,” Mustache told him. “We gotta talk to Bloomfield.”
“Pompous bastard,” he sneered. “You do the talkin’. That man rubs me all the wrong ways.”
“Nothin’ worse than a rich cheapskate,” Mustache agreed.
“We… you… gon’ tell him ‘bout that boy?”
“Fuck no, he don’t need to know ‘bout that.”
“Welp,” Foggy-Eye grunted, standing and wobbling from the rush to his head, “Give me a good kick if you can’t get me up.”
Mustache nodded and sniffed. He nearly toppled over when came a knock at the door. They stared at each other in confusion.
“Who the fuck is that?” Foggy-Eye whispered.
“Lance, maybe?”
“Why would that shit-nose be out here?”
“Fuck if I know!”
They both turned to look at the door. After some silence, Mustache said, “Answer it!”
His brother picked up his rifle and staggered drunkenly to the door. He opened it a crack and peered into the black night. There was no one there. His eyes dropped and he noticed something sitting on the doorstep.
“What in the hell is that?” he asked.
“What?” Mustache asked.
Foggy-Eye crouched and picked it up. It was a lovely gift basket, stuffed with linen. He burst out laughing.
“What you got there?”
“It’s… it’s…” Foggy-Eye couldn’t contain his laughter. He reached into the basket and pulled out a jar of liquid. A piece of cord led from a hole in the lid down into the basket.
“I don’t know,” he continued, giving it a bewildered look. His bleary eyes struggled to focus.
“Throw it out!” Mustache shouted suddenly, leaping to his feet.
The cord shrank into the jar like a rat tail through a hole. With a tremendous pop the liquid ignited, shattering glass everywhere and spraying the man. He erupted into flames, shrieking and whirling. He flew out the door; a human torch lighting up the night. Fluid on the floorboards burned.
Mustache grabbed his pistol and covered his mouth and nose with a bandana. His brother fell over in the dirt, no longer moving.
As the fire spread, the man inside coughed and squinted in the heat. He ran out, choking and blind as he tripped to his knees. When he could open his eyes he saw a pair of fine shoes standing in front of him. He lifted his face to see the barrel of a shotgun and finally, the face of David Copperfield.
He sneered up at him. Jon Jensen approached David’s side, rifle raised.
“You got no idea what you just done,” Mustache choked.
“What were Bloomfield’s instructions?” David asked.
“Burn the school and everyone inside. Make sure no one sees,” he said with a mock dramatic flair. “Guessin’ Lance gave you some information.”
“Where does Mr. Bloomfield send his blood oil?”
“St. Louis,” he answered. “There’s a rich oil baron there. I don’t know past that… except he is a ruthless son of a bitch and you will both be dead within the week.”
“Then it seems we’re short on time,” David told him, lifting his shotgun to the kneeling man’s head.
“He sends it by train. The 9:00 a.m. to Wichita. And the gold returns same way. You leave me be and I’ll get you a piece of that.”
David looked unaffected.
“I gotta say,” Mustache continued with a chuckle, “Never guessed you had it in you.”
He slid his eyes toward Jon.
“Neither did I,” Jon mused.
“I will be taking it all anyhow,” David told him.
Mustache laughed.
“For a teacher, you’re pretty stupid,” he spat. “You ain’t takin’ nothin’ from Bloomfield nor his benefactor.”
“It is not wise to insult a man with a gun to your face.”
“You killed my brother,” Mustache growled, tossing his head at the burned corpse.
“You murdered a little boy,” David retorted.
“What, that tongue-tied little shit?” he said. He chuckled and continued, “I got somethin’ to say about him…”
David squeezed the trigger and the bullet ripped out the back of the man’s skull. He fell over like his brother.
Jon lowered his gun and gazed at David. The young man’s face was no longer sweet and gentle. His eyes blazed and his white teeth were bared in a menacing snarl. He noticed that his canines were sharp and prominent behind those soft rosy lips.
“It starts,” Jon muttered.
David gave him a knowing tilt of his head.
“It never ends,” Jon added.
Chapter Text
The tavern in Neodesha was busier than Midge’s. In a town this size with the local oil refinery, there were a couple others, but this one looked least sketchy. A man with rolled and banded sleeves and a bowler hat played the piano and the matron wore what David could only call an exposed petticoat. She popped down two bowls of lukewarm soup and hunks of rye bread. David used the dry bread to soak the top layer of grease from his soup then left it to the side. Jon, however, ate his without complaint.
“Why are you asking about oil and gold?” he asked.
They sat at a table near the back, the noisy ballroom of a saloon providing them with a little privacy.
“Bloomfield’s oil and gold, specifically,” David responded.
Jon sniffed. They grayish unidentified meat left a gritty texture in his mouth.
“You did away with the man who killed Ollie,” he reminded him. “I doubt Bloomfield is weeping for easily replaceable thugs.”
“Precisely,” David said, digging through his soup to find potatoes and carrots, a less repulsive alternative to the meat. “He has little reason to care, and thus little reason to regret what he has done.”
“You can’t shame the shameless,” Jon told him.
“No, but I can give them something to think about.”
“If you’re smart,” Jon muttered, dipping his head when the matron passed by, “You’ll be glad he isn’t thinking about you and be satisfied with the justice already been served.”
“That was not justice; that was petty revenge. Bloomfield and his patron have been terrorizing small communities for years and will continue to do so.”
He watched Jon mop up the last of his soup with his bread.
“If a man sent his dogs to tear out your throat, would you put the beasts down and consider the world safer?”
“So you take his gold and the world is safer?”
“At the very least he will feel a sting.”
“Robbing a train takes some effort, especially one loaded with oil; probably guarded well.”
“A miser prefers not to count his gold publicly,” David explained. “I imagine Bloomfield transports his with some secrecy. I also doubt that he pays his taxes.”
“You may be right about that,” Jon conceded, “But I still don’t recommend it.”
David sat back in his chair and stared at his barely eaten meal. He had no appetite. Lack of food and sleep over the past few days was taking its toll. He looked weary, a bit mad in the eyes. He had cut his hair even shorter; a choppy boyish style with feathered tufts at his neck.
“I keep thinking,” he said, still focusing ahead like the watery soup was a witch’s brew in which he could see his fortune foretold. “Did Ollie wake in the fire? Did the smoke take him in his sleep before the heat…?”
“Stop.”
David looked up at him. The rims of his eyes were red, too inflamed from tears to produce any more.
“He had scars on his legs,” he continued absentmindedly, then leaned forward with sudden conviction. “But he did not know those men. The dogs that burned him and murdered his parents were different. They only shared the same leash.”
Jon took David’s hands in his, chewing his lip as though to say something. He ran his thumbs over his wrists, turning them over and observing the pale pink skin. David watched him.
“When I was a young boy,” he murmured, “My stepfather lent me to a brewery. I washed bottles. Hours a day, I had my hands and arms submerged in boiling water.”
“You’ve known cruelty,” Jon said. “I wonder why you seemed so naïve to me… once.”
David’s voice grew whimsical when he answered, “I have always believed, despite everything, that most people are kind.”
“I can’t agree,” Jon grimaced. “There ain’t enough bullets in the world to shoot every evil man out there. Give it up, and let it go.”
“I tried that once,” David confessed. “I thought that if I could move on, survive, improve my own life, everything would fade from thought.”
“It’s what I wish I could do.”
“There is no comfort in that either. I learned that every innocent soul snuffed out by my cowardice was on my head.”
“You take too much responsibility for other people.”
David shook his head.
“We are all endowed with responsibility. We are each other’s wardens.”
Jon smirked.
“You still think me naïve,” David sighed, pulling his hands back. “But I know people better than you assume.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Where I come from, in the social class in which I resided, there is nothing more valuable than reputation. Destroy a man’s name, and one destroys everything he has.”
“You burned a man’s name down?”
“I did,” David said. “My stepfather’s wealth means nothing now that he cannot show his face in polite society. I may as well have robbed him.”
“That was there.”
“This is here,” David finished. “Men with reputations for cruelty and disgraceful conduct are feared. Fear… in this place… is tantamount to respect.”
“It is exactly that.”
“This isn’t about gold, Jon,” David said, leaning forward. He had a new enthusiasm, despite his frailty. “I want to rob these men of their power. I want to make them appear weak.”
“They’ll kill you before you get the chance.”
“Then we must act quickly. Help me, Jon.”
David’s quicksilver eyes caught his. As he gazed back, he realized David’s capacity to render a man powerless. He knew now that he could refuse him nothing.
The freight locomotive rumbled along at a languid pace. The cargo was heavy, after all. A combination of sulfuric stench, the rocking motion, and the lack of windows to peer out of was putting Garrett’s bowels to a boil. He attempted to burp, but it did little to help.
He glowered at the support crew sitting at crates and silently playing dominoes.
“Can’t this beast move any faster?”
The crew barely acknowledged him as they continued playing.
“I can’t take it,” Garrett croaked, standing from his seat. “I need air.”
He staggered for balance as he exited onto the caboose platform. Swallowing his own saliva repeatedly, he focused his eyes on the Wichita Mountains in the distance. Suddenly the train slowed and he swayed forward, bumping against the back rail.
“What in hell?” he called.
The train lurched to a full stop and the motion caused his belly to revolt. He leaned over the rail and vomited onto the tracks below. He gagged for a couple of minutes, sour ale and stomach acid coating his mouth. When he’d coughed it up and wiped his lips on the back of his hands he replaced the awful taste in his mouth with another pull from his flask. His gut shuddered but there was a bit of relief. He tucked the flask away and returned to the cabin.
“We got a schedule to keep!” he reminded the crew before noticing that their hands were raised. A tall, fair-haired man held a shotgun to them. The engineer and fireman shuffled in through the front. Behind him, a young man with a pale face and blue eyes guided them forward with his own gun.
“Do you gentlemen have any idea who owns this freight?” Garret snarled.
“Bloomfield,” David responded coolly. “I am Copperfield. Be sure to give him my regards. Would you like me to spell it for you?”
“You’re a goddamn fool,” Garret replied.
“Unload the cargo,” the tall man ordered.
“Or what?” he retorted. “This here is crude oil. A shootout could blow us all to hell.”
David shrugged.
“We are not afraid of fire. You can tell Bloomfield that as well, if you are wise enough to keep yourself alive.”
The young man had a posh accent. He was taking note of that as well as a mental image of both of their features. He nodded at the crew and they filed out.
The cargo holds were opened and hundreds of dollars in oil were placed on the ground beside the tracks. Garret looked around and saw no wagons.
“You idiots,” he sniped. “How are you gonna transport all this?”
“We aren’t,” the tall man answered.
He gestured his rifle toward the entrance to the train.
“Crazy,” Garret gasped. He climbed back on board with the crewmen.
“We’ll be waiting right here while you haul off,” Tall Man told them. “I wouldn’t recommend firing on us or you’ll have to tell Bloomfield that you blew up his resources.”
The train lumbered on, slowly picking up speed. Garret stood on the back platform and watched quizzically as Copperfield placed objects on various barrels. When the train had achieved some distance, the two walked away from their loot. He squinted at them.
“What in God’s name are they doing?” he asked aloud.
Jon lit the fuse on the first package of dynamite and the two dashed away to get cover behind some rocks. David tossed Jon a grin.
“Now to prove what I have learned from you,” he said.
He steadied his shotgun atop the rock and pointed it at one of the oil barrels. Jon watched him with a touch of pride on his face. When David squeezed the trigger, his shot struck the barrel, puncturing it and leaking oil out onto the dirt.
“Very nice,” Jon told him. “Still could use a little work though.”
David scoffed and shot again, puncturing another barrel just as the dynamite fuse shrank away. They watched as the first barrel erupted, followed by the thunderous explosion of dynamite. A chain reaction of fire and splintering wood blew the lot to burning waste.
“Mother of God,” Garret whispered when he saw the chaos on the horizon. “Bloomfield’ll have our heads.”
Over in St. Louis, the post office attendant held up the ticker tape as it spat out of the telegraph machine. When he read it, his jaw dropped. He quickly sat at his typewriter and filled out the message.
When Copeland received the telegram, he placed it on a tray with gloved hands and carried it like a gourmet dish to his employer’s office. He knew the contents of the message, but displayed nothing but propriety as he lowered the tray to the wealthy man’s reach.
The oil baron was a juxtaposition of physically intimidating, and effete. Sturdy muscles under fat gave him a very dense appearance. His rotund face was highlighted with soft, seemingly gentle hazel eyes. When he was in his home, he preferred to wear a sumptuous jacquard silk dressing gown lined with an otter fur shawl.
Copeland stood to one side watching as the man’s full pursing lips turned downward at the corners. His eyes darted to the burning cigar that he tapped against an ivory ash tray and he tensed.
“I assume Bloomfield has some knowledge of who this Copperfield fellow is, as he appears to have a vendetta of some sort against him.”
“It would seem that way, Sir,” Copeland answered.
“Message him a reply,” the man ordered. “He will receive nothing for what he could not manage to ship to me, and he will send out an equal complementary shipment for my troubles. Otherwise, I will be forced to place a more capable manager in his stead.”
“Sir,” Copeland bowed.
“Say nothing of this Copperfield,” he added. “Let him solve his own problems with the locals.”
“They’ll be a lot more people in there,” Jon stated. “We should cover our faces this time. Make traveling easier if most don’t recognize us.”
David agreed and pulled his bandana up over his nose and mouth. He glanced over at Jon and then steadied his gaze when he noticed the man looking at him intently, his mouth open and tongue held in a pre-click.
For a moment, Jon saw the teacher in his schoolhouse, green ascot pulled up like a mask, gleaming eyes winking at him before the storm.
“Well?” David asked in cheek, bringing Jon back to the moment, “How do I look?”
“You look gorgeous,” he murmured, and meant it.
David’s brow furrowed questioningly and Jon pulled his own bandana up.
When they entered the bank, the townspeople gasped and parted out of the way. Jon blocked the door, aiming at the lawman who had previously been near-dozing in his chair. He claimed his gun and tucked it into his belt.
“I apologize for the inconvenience,” David said to the manager. He presented his pistol but didn’t point it. “My name is Copperfield. I am here to relieve you of Mr. Bloomfield’s assets.”
“Mr. Bloomfield?” the manager sputtered.
“Only Mr. Bloomfield; no one else,” he turned to the citizens. “The rest of you have no need to worry. Your money is safe.”
They whispered amongst themselves.
The manager hurriedly opened the safe reserved for Bloomfield and began stuffing gold bars and Legal Tender Notes into gunny sacks.
“Thank you, Sir,” David said. His pleasant voice was muffled through the bandana.
“I, ah…” the manager was flustered. “You’re welcome?”
David turned to go and locked eyes with a woman in a flower bonnet.
“Madam,” he greeted her with a bow and tipped his hat. She gasped and placed a hand on her brooch.
The two men clutched the bags as they rushed to their waiting horses. As soon as they rode off, the lawman ran out the door, alerting the others. Before they could even realize what had happened, the bandits were gone.
The sheriff and several others rode out, but their attempt was unsuccessful. Later he would question the witnesses. They would say that the bandit was oddly polite, with a fancy accent. They would say that he only wanted Bloomfield’s money and made a point of it. One woman in a flowered bonnet would say that he had the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen.
The two outlaws made their shelter amidst Rock City, a nature-hewn fortress on the Kansas prairie guarded by ramparts of sandstone clusters.
“Bloomfield will be in a panic right about now,” Jon remarked. He watched as David burned the greenbacks in their campfire.
“Good.”
“You need to sleep,” he said gently.
David only nodded, mesmerized by the hungry flames as they lapped at the money, devouring it into ashes.
Jon moved up behind him and dragged his fingers up David’s arm, watching goose bumps raise fine hairs. He breathed through his nose against his ear. David shivered. When Jon pressed his groin up against him, he felt his body tense. He bit his lip, pulling back the flesh in a self-admonishing snarl before heading back to his bedroll.
“I am sorry,” David told him, shaking his head over his shoulder. “I do not intend to fail your expectations.”
“No expectations,” Jon muttered, lying back and putting his hat over his eyes.
David turned his attention back to the fire. The paper money was gone and only glowing and blackened wood remained. He though he had smelled something else; a nightmare stench from within his sinuses. He waited until Jon was asleep before reaching out to the flames and immersing his hands in their ephemeral spires. He gritted his teeth and hissed in an out, eyes welling up. Finally he could bear it no more and recoiled, rubbing the painful skin.
He felt dizzy. As the sound of crackling wood buzzed in his ears like flies, he crawled into his bedroll and made himself small.
Chapter Text
The mail coach didn’t often make stops in Tarheel. There was no need. All of their manufactured goods were picked up at the train stopping by the Bloomfield pit station, entirely at the authorization of Mr. Bloomfield himself. Without that, they would be quite cut off from the rest of civilization.
When the coach rolled in, practically sagging in its thorough-brace, folks assumed it was news that someone’s kin had died.
“Midge Dawson?” the postmaster called.
The old man stood slowly and lifted a white-haired hand. He shuffled inside the tavern. Midge returned with him, face lined with concern. It smoothed in surprise as she watched the postmaster heave three trunks onto the ground. They landed with heavy thuds.
The coach pulled out and Midge walked slowly toward the trunks.
“Well, they ain’t gonna bite ya, Midge,” the old man coaxed.
A few people peered out their windows, straining their necks in their curiosity. She crouched in the dirt and lifted one of the luggage tags.
“I trust you to distribute this evenly. – D.C. and J.J.” it read.
She gasped and looked up. Housewives and children were leaving their homes. She glanced at Sheriff Halloran’s house, but he hadn’t been seen since getting shot.
Finally, she took a breath and unbuckled one of the trunks.
“Good merciful Lord,” she whispered.
Inside were stacks of gleaming, unstamped bars of gold.
“Bloomfied’ll be a hard man to get a hold of,” Jon said. He was pulling on his boots and trying not to stare at David.
The young man had stripped to his drawers and waded into the stream. His hands spread out over the water as he looked at his own reflected image.
“I hope this is dirt and will wash off,” he remarked.
“It’s sun tan, my friend,” Jon called.
David dropped into the water and sprang up again, tossing his hair back.
“Maybe it won’t be noticeable.”
“You’re still too pretty to be a Westerner. You’ll pass, ‘specially once we get you all dandied up.”
David smirked at him over his bare shoulder and Jon felt it like a poke in the ribs. It couldn’t be said that he was back to his cheery self again by any means, but it was good to see him smile with both lips and eyes. It was the nights that were the worst. They were getting colder and still he patiently waited for David to climb into his bedroll with him.
The young man scrubbed at his arms and neck, as though he could bring his porcelain skin back. When he lay back and floated on the surface his lean but outwardly jutting torso rose. Jon’s eyes flitted over his belly button filled with water, the line trailing downward, and the bulge between his legs where his wet drawers clung to him.
“We might not be able to get our hands on Bloomfield,” David said, “But we are steadily chipping away at his daunting image.”
He flipped over, lithe as a fish, and stooped so that he could scrub his hair and back of neck. Jon cleared his throat, lowered his eyes, and tried to focus on the conversation.
“Wichita is a big job. We pull it off and I imagine he won’t be banking anymore.”
David trod waist-deep until he leaned against the river bank, statuesque shoulders curving inward as he whipped shaving cream with a brush.
“He may not even be in the oil business anymore.”
“I don’t know ‘bout that,” Jon muttered. He lifted his eyes again to watch David stretch his neck and apply the cream. When he opened the razor and steadied it to his face, he squinted at the little pocket mirror. He raised it and then hopped up on his bottom on the bank, facing away from the sun.
Jon stood and walked toward him.
“Then what?” he asked.
David dragged the razor over his lip then said, “What do you mean?”
“Well, let’s say that we run him out of town,” Jon continued. “What will you do then?”
David shaved along the side of his cheek, his eyes narrowing in the mirror.
“We follow him.”
He winced when the razor slipped and nicked his skin.
Jon knelt behind him, knees on either side of his bottom. He gently pulled the razor from his hand and brought him back to lean against him. He cradled his body as he began to shave him. David closed his eyes and let his head relax on Jon’s chest.
“And after that?” Jon murmured into his ear.
David swallowed and Jon paused before dragging the razor over his Adam’s apple.
“Justice.”
Bean pulled his gold pocket watch out of his vest and checked the time. Rather, he appeared to be interested in the time in order to telegraph to those still in the bank that they were about to close. He stepped out from behind the desk to politely nod at the woman who was chatting with the teller more than she was filling out her receipt. The door opened and he sighed. When he looked at the late arrival, his eyebrows raised.
A very fine young gentleman in a plumed tie and waistcoat removed his top hat and dipped his head.
“Dreadfully sorry,” he said in a stately English accent. “I’m afraid I was rather held up. I do hope you are able to assist me?”
“Of course Sir,” Bean replied. “How do you do?”
“How do you do?” David acknowledged. “My name is Kirkland and I have come on behalf of one, Mr. Bloomfield.”
The chatty woman was no longer chatting nor filling out a receipt. She was looking the elegant chap up and down with a gloved finger twirling in a loose strand of her hair.
“I apologize, Mr. Kirkland,” Bean said. “I was not aware that a representative for Mr. Bloomfield would be arriving today.”
“Oh dear,” David sniffed. He glanced around at the bank interior. Bean shot a glare at his secretary, whose eyes widened.
“Of course,” he quickly recovered. “I would be happy to assist you in any way I can.”
“That is very gracious of you,” David said dryly. He guided the man aside and lowered his voice. “I am sure you are aware that several banks protecting Mr. Bloomfield’s assets have been burglarized?”
“I had heard that, but I assure you, those banks were low-rate establishments.”
“You mean to say that you offer a higher standard of security?”
“Yes, Sir. Mr. Bloomfield has my personal guarantee.”
David offered him a condescending smile.
“Perhaps it would be best if I was able to give him my guarantee.”
Bean nodded.
David continued, “You see, Mr. Bloomfield is considering the removal of all of his assets from all banking establishments.”
The manager paled.
“I have advised him against this, as you can imagine. I will continue to advise accordingly, once I am able to gauge the quality of your facilities.”
“Certainly,” Bean declared. “How my I satisfy your expectations?”
“I assume that a vault of some sort is in use?”
“Mr. Bloomfield has his own special vault,” Bean told him, ushering him behind the teller counter. “It is behind a lead door, for which only I have the key, and of course only Mr. Bloomfield himself has the combination.”
“Shall we see it then?”
Bean looked flustered, and then nodded at the security official.
“Good evening, Mrs. Blake,” he told the gawking woman.
“Good evening,” she responded, then curtsied at David and added, “Good evening.”
“My gratitude, Madam,” he told her with a bow. She blushed and hurried out.
“Right this way, Mr. Kirkland.”
Bean brought him to a solid lead door, which he then unlocked. The vault inside was imposing.
“As you can see, this is top of the line equipment…” he prattled, gesturing at the various features.
The security official proceeded to lock the front door, but was interrupted by an abrupt thrust from the outside. Jon barged in with his bandana mask up and pistols aimed high.
“Hands in the air!” he growled.
Bean made a yelping sound and pulled the lead door shut, safeguarding him and his valuable client in the vault room. From inside, they could hear the bandit yelling.
“I say, Bean,” David scoffed. “Is this a common occurrence?”
Bean looked sick.
“What did I say?” Jon shouted. “Give me every bit of money you got from Bloomfield!”
“I… I’m sorry…” the teller stammered. “Mr. Bloomfield’s money is locked in a private vault. I don’t have access.”
Jon slumped and looked around, nodding his head and gesturing with his gun in irritation.
“Well, goddamn it,” he said. He turned and ran out of the bank.
The security official scrambled after him and soon every lawman in the vicinity was riding out.
There was silence in the vault room as Bean pressed his ear against the door.
“He seems to have fled,” he whispered. “At the very least, Sir, you have witnessed firsthand how impenetrable…”
He heard a click and turned to face David. The young man held a pistol to him.
“Please unlock the door,” he instructed. “And I suggest you stand on the other side of that lead wall.”
Bean grimaced but obeyed. David quickly pulled out a supply of putty explosives and lined the door of the vault. He lit the fuse and joined the manager.
When a great boom and shudder erupted from the bank, passersby cried out and scurried away. David and an accosted Bean hauled out bags of money and stuffed them into a waiting carriage. When David climbed into the driver’s seat, Bean huffed impotently.
“I had mistaken you for a decent gentleman!” he called.
“Decency and lawfulness are disparate entities, Bean,” David responded. “Please inform Mr. Bloomfield that David Copperfield paid him a visit.”
He snapped the reins and pulled off, without a lawman in sight.
The hapless manager stood on the cobblestone street, arms limp at his sides. Mrs. Dawson approached, fanning herself.
“That was David Copperfield?” she exclaimed.
Bean nodded glumly.
“I imagined him differently,” she whispered.
“Isn’t this entertaining?” the portly man from St. Louis mused. He read the paper as he dipped fingers of toast into his soft-boiled egg. He didn’t lift it to his mouth to eat, only plunged up and down in a repetitive motion. He lounged in his bed against a mountain of damask pillows, a silver and ivory serving table over his lap.
Copeland’s hands clasped at the small of his back.
“He has become a bit of a folk hero, if you will, sir.”
“The transcontinental Jesse James,” the man lilted. “I’ve heard he comes from good breeding stock.”
“Some say he is a disgraced Lord,” Copeland stated in monotone, “Others say he’s the bastard son of a Duke. All rumors, no substance.”
The man issued a soft hum from between pursed lips.
“Most of these rumors are about how terribly handsome he is.”
He released his toast, folded the paper over, and clucked his tongue.
“These drawings are a travesty. How many fingers did this artist have?”
Copeland chuckled. The baron tilted his head at the paper.
“What do you suppose drives him?”
“Money, Sir?” Copeland droned.
The baron lifted tiresome eyes at him.
“He only has use for Bloomfield’s money,” he pointed out.
“Not your money, Sir.”
“Even so, I would like to meet this Copperfield.” His voice was almost affectionate.
The sheets next to him moved and a bare arm dropped off the mattress. The shape made a snuffling noise.
“Copeland,” the baron said gently, “Please show my friend the door.”
He nonchalantly flipped to the next page.
“See that he is paid.”
“As you wish, Sir.”
Copeland strode toward the other side of the bed and threw back the sheets. A supple, naked young man squirmed against the mattress, shielding his face. He was covered in welts over his thighs, buttocks, and back. Between his shoulder blades was a round cigar burn.
Copeland grasped him under the arms and yanked him off the bed. The young man groaned and struggled to find his footing. His eyes were unfocused and red with opium.
“Come along,” Copeland ordered, jostling him out of his stupor. He grabbed his clothes and wadded them up into his arms. The youth stumbled as he pushed him through the door.
The baron sniffed and tossed the newspaper aside.
“God knows we could use a bit of excitement,” he muttered.
Chapter Text
“It’s true,” Midge told the hungry travelers who ate their breakfast in captive attention. “I knew Davey Copperfield. We all did.”
The Tarheel natives all turned to her in their seats. She had told her story to strangers a dozen times at least, but still they loved hearing it.
“What was he like?” one of the visitors asked.
“Oh, he was a saint!” she crowed, “An angel! You never met a man more good, more honest.”
The citizens agreed and the new patrons shook their heads in disbelief.
“And that face, my god,” she gushed, “Such a beauty.”
Frank coughed loudly and she grinned cheekily at him.
“But that cursed, greedy Bloomfield,” she kicked up the dramatic presence, leaning on the bar with both hands. “He sent his villains to torment him.”
Regulars groaned and booed after every statement as she went on.
“They beat him!”
They bullied him!”
“They burned his school to the ground!” She paused and said softly, “With an innocent boy trapped inside.”
“Good god,” a traveler muttered.
“Then young Davey Copperfield,” she continued, "One of God’s angels… he knew what he had to do.”
She waited as the anticipation mounted, then she slapped the counter top, rattling the glasses.
“He became a devil!”
The room erupted.
“He swore his vengeance on those murdering, gold hoarding swine, and struck terror into their hearts!”
“But is he ever gonna stop, Midge?” Frank called, adding his own melodrama.
“No, he ain’t gonna stop!” she preached. “He ain’t never gonna stop! Not until he drags every wicked soul in this country down into hell with him!”
They all cheered and thumped their glasses. Frank stuffed one last bite of flapjacks into his mouth.
“Well, I gotta head out.”
He stood and grabbed his gloves and lunch pail.
Midge waved and said, “Have a good day, Shoog.”
The oil field was no pleasant crop to tend. The machinery plunged in and out of the earth in a vulgar representation of entrepreneurial dominion. Frank and a few other men filled barrels and rolled them toward the station pit.
The foreman called out to one of the lower supervisors above the rumbling noise, “We’re not shipping to Neodesha! No! We’re sending this directly to Missouri!”
“Missouri?”
“Mr. Bloomfield has put a rush on it!” the foreman replied. “He’s gonna take a fast trip by coach to speak with ‘Him’ directly!”
“Sounds like Bloomfield is on thin ice.”
“Ain’t that the truth?”
Frank lowered his head and continued pushing barrels.
“Look at this,” David snickered. He held up the newspaper so Jon could see. Two very amateurish drawing stared back at him.
Jim Jonson and David Copperfield, the caption read.
“I don’t wear an eye-patch,” Jon grumbled.
“That is your complaint?” David laughed. “They didn’t even get your name right.”
“The benefits of being generally unsociable.” He took a bite of his meat pie. “And also not announcing my name at every opportunity.”
“Bloomfield and company should know the source of their struggles.”
He shook his head at his sketch.
“Why do I look like I am wearing cosmetics?”
Jon sniffed and grinned. David began to read the article.
“Some are saying I have a French accent.”
“You can’t expect people out here to know the difference.”
David’s eyes scanned over the page.
He read aloud, “Copperfield and his cohort serve as a violent eulogy to the death of the American Dream. Through their criminal acts they sing the mournful song of the impoverished many crushed beneath the heel of the corrupt and privileged few. They are all rising up in revolt, their burning rage fueled by the stinking oil that pollutes our great nation.”
Jon shrugged his mouth good-humoredly and said, “Tell us what you really think, Mr. Journalist.”
“Good heavens,” David remarked. “I do hope he wasn’t terminated on our behalf.”
Jon raised an eyebrow and studied David affectionately. What an odd friend he had, who killed three men and sat here fretting that some scribbler got sacked.
David’s attention drifted downward. Suddenly, he reached out and gripped Jon’s wrist. He looked up at him in surprise and handed him the folded paper, pointing with bent thumb at the editorial response section below the article.
I, for one, embrace our industrial expansion. For example, the road from Wichita eastward is no longer a shadowed valley of death, but rather a gold-paved trail where affluent merchants may travel in peace all the way to St. Louis. – Frank, Oklahoma.
Jon bit his lip.
“Well I’ll be damned,” he whispered.
Edward Bloomfield was a small, beady-eyed man with unfortunate posture and far too much pomade in his hair. He had very little chin to speak of and a long, narrow nose with a knobby tip. He kept his face shaved to avoid the issue that any presence of whiskers gave him the uncanny resemblance to that of an oversized rat.
His clothes were fine enough to suit his social class, but they were a poor fit on account of his reluctance to pay for a tailor. Being the type of man to gripe at the expenditure over a private carriage, let alone being robbed and threatened with loss of income, he was now in a perpetual state of fidgety panic. The life of a true-blue miser was rife with such hardships.
He had ordered the drive to travel at top-speed to St. Louis without stopping for any reason other than to switch out horses as rarely as possible, and opted to use an empty jar when he needed to urinate.
The man he was going to see was no miser. Far from it, he flaunted his wealth in gaudy opulence. Bloomfield despised him for it, and prided himself on what he dubbed “noble Protestant austerity.” Due to that same noble austerity, he had amassed quite a fortune which he hardly spent and had no heirs to pass down to. It pleased him greatly.
Now he sat, cracking his knuckles inside of his overpriced coach. He had found the time to haggle the driver down to what he still considered highway robbery. His irritation mounted exponentially when the carriage slowed to a stop in the middle of nowhere. He thumped at the roof with his cane and, receiving no response, pulled the shade of the window and leaned out. An oiled shotgun and pair of contemptuous blue eyes glared back at him.
Bloomfield chewed at the inside of his cheek.
“I told you not to stop for any reason!” he still shouted at the driver. He and the shotgun messenger had climbed down from their perch with their hands aloft. They blinked at him in astonishment. “What good is a six-team thorough-brace when it can’t out-move two fools on horseback?”
“Mr. Bloomfield, I presume?” David interrupted.
“Mr. Copperfield, I presume?” he shot back. “If your plan is to plunder my cargo, you’ve miscalculated. I don’t carry anything of value with me when I travel.”
“You are the cargo,” David answered.
Bloomfield glanced over at Jon whose shotgun was trained on the driver.
“You can head on,” Jon told the two terrified men. They slowly lowered their hands and looked back and forth between the two bandits.
“Pack up some provisions and take two of the horses. Hell, take three.”
The men overcame their incredulity and bolted into action. Bloomfield shook his head in disgust as the grateful men loaded up a saddle with bags and took off.
“Whatever happened to good work ethic?” he asked David with a dry smirk.
Jon approached the carriage door and slapped a chain and padlock on the handle, attaching it to the rail.
“Let us discuss ethics, Mr. Bloomfield,” David replied. “First off, tell me about your employer.”
“A frivolous fop with too much credit,” he retorted.
“Do all orders regarding the accumulation of land and the suppression of local resistance stem from his authority?”
“I run my own business,” Bloomfield answered defensively. “In fact, he is not my employer; he is merely the primary clientele for my goods.”
“Are you admitting that he is absolved of all guilt when it comes to illicit activities?”
Bloomfield settled and considered his words.
“As part of our business arrangement, he insists upon certain forms of disciplinary action.”
“Ah,” David nodded. “Did he suggest disciplinary action for me?”
“His exact words were, ‘just smoke him out, Bloomfield. Don’t trouble me with the details.’”
“So you are, in fact, co-conspirators?”
“You will find it difficult proving any of this in a court of law. Feel free to speak to my attorney.”
“We’re not interested in the law,” Jon remarked.
“No, I suppose not.” He twitched impatiently. “Let me move this rotten business along. What compensation do you require for your school and land?”
“I am not seeking compensation,” David answered. “I seek justice.”
“How can I give you justice?”
“Not for me.”
“Who?”
David set his jaw and stated, “Oliver Leeford.”
Bloomfield’s eyes focused ahead of him in thought.
“Leeford… I recall that name. Man and wife owned a farm outside of Tarheel.”
David shot a glance at Jon.
“They were burned alive,” he told him.
“They were warned,” Bloomfield snipped.
“You ordered their deaths.”
“I didn’t say that, for the record,” he claimed, “As with my clients, vagueness of language is our utility.”
David gestured around at the empty plains.
“There is no one here to witness our conversation, Mr. Bloomfield; and we lack the capacity to pursue criminal charges considering our own warrants. You may as well speak plainly.”
“I ordered their deaths and yours as well,” he confessed without a trace of remorse. “I don’t relish that bloody resolution. My client, on the other hand, is quite the sadist. He takes great pride and joy in the fact that his power brings fear and suffering.”
“Were either of you aware that my school was also residence to a young boy, who fell victim to my intended execution?”
Bloomfield tossed his head.
“What a weight that must be on your shoulders,” he sneered. “Your stubbornness resulted in death, just like it will lead to more deaths if you continue. That obsequious sheriff wasn’t the first blood on your hands.”
Jon aimed the shotgun at him.
“Take care,” he warned.
“I was told I could speak plainly,” the miser grumbled.
“Tell me who your client is and any other information you possess,” David ordered.
“I don’t respond to threats,” Bloomfield said. “And I don’t share personal information with thieves.”
Jon strode toward his horse and unbuckled two small kegs hanging from either side.
“Do you know what that is?” David asked as Jon opened the kegs. “That is crude oil pumped right out of Tarheel.”
Jon took one keg in his hands and heaved it at the carriage, splashing oil over the sides and roof.
“He is a frivolous fop, Mr. Bloomfield,” David reminded him. “The reason you are in this predicament.”
Bloomfield rattled the locked door of the carriage.
Jon wandered back around and lifted the second keg. He splashed the oil all over Bloomfield’s side.
“Stop! Stop!” he pleaded, “Let me out!”
“Confess,” David urged gently. “You are a Christian man; or so I have heard. Absolve yourself.”
“Doemling!” Bloomfield screamed as Jon lit a torch and held it above his head. “His name is Cordell Doemling.”
“What else?”
“I, ah…” Bloomfield’s eyes darted back and forth from Jon to David. He strained himself, flustered.
“Well?”
“He’s a queer!” the frightened man blurted. “He… he likes men. I’m told that his hedonistic practices include whore-mongering.”
Jon grimaced.
“How is that important?”
David turned his head toward Jon, not taking his eyes off of Bloomfield.
“Everything is important.”
“That’s all I know,” Bloomfield insisted.
“Thank you,” David sighed, closing his eyes.
“Release me.”
“I release you,” David said in a magnanimous tone. “May your impending purgatory save you from ultimate damnation.”
“Purgatory?” he shrieked. “What?”
“Take upon yourself the pain of your victims.”
Jon stepped forward.
“No!” Bloomfield gasped. “No! I’ll leave. I’ll flee the country. Stop!”
David’s eyes were pitiless. He locked them with his enemy’s as Jon tossed the torch onto the roof. The carriage ignited with a whoosh of rapidly spreading flames.
Bloomfield screamed, stretching his arm out the small window to fumble at the locked chain in vain. He fell back when his sleeve caught fire. The carriage rocked as his shrill cries evolved into something like a dying animal.
David retreated backward. His face smoothed over in revulsion. The screams of agonizing pain triggered his repressed imagination. Hands slipped over campfires were nothing compared to roasting alive; nothing to the excruciating death of someone locked inside of a massive oven, trapped in earthly hell.
He turned away, eyes wet and open wide. He covered his ears with his hands and bent over. Jon rushed to his side and held him, pressing David’s horrified face into his chest.
“I can’t bear it, Jon!” he cried. “I can’t bear knowing he died like this.”
The screaming ended mercifully and Jon watched over David’s head as the carriage crackled and smoked.
“I left him,” David sobbed, huddling into Jon’s embrace like a child. “He died alone. I should have been there, burning with him.”
The small boy had run.
He ran like the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels. His heart pounded painfully in his chest and his legs felt like they couldn’t keep up with his racing mind, as in a nightmare.
He feared nothing in this world greater than fire; not even the booming shotguns behind him. He’d heard one horseman shout as he’d nearly disappeared on the horizon. The hoof-beats were muffled in the distance, but they were steadily advancing.
When he raced downhill, he spotted a burrow with dry tumbleweeds still attached to the soil beside it. He scampered toward the opening, dropping on hands and knees and crawling inside backward. Anything could be making its nest there, but he couldn’t care about that now. His upper body still poking out from the burrow, he yanked the bramble from its roots and pulled it in front of the hole as he receded.
Minutes later, the horses galloped down the hill and past him. There he cowered until daylight.
When he heard the buzzing of morning insects, he pushed the tumbleweed away and climbed out. Then he walked. He walked and walked until he thought that his swollen feet would burst out of the shoes David had given him.
Ollie was too terrified to return to the town that had burned him twice. He kept moving, cruel sun punishing him as he wandered. His tongue grew sticky and sore in his mouth, beginning to protrude when he panted. He nearly vomited, dizzy with heat stroke and dehydration.
Finally, he fell over.
Tiger, tiger, burning bright…
He closed his eyes and waited for death. He barely stirred when he heard voices. Perhaps they weren’t even real.
“He’s still alive!” a man called.
He felt his head lift and water sting his cracked lips. He coughed as it trickled down his throat.
“Get him on the horse,” another man said. “If he survives he’ll make good labor. Maybe get a couple of years out of him before he keels over.”
The man threw him over the horse’s back like a saddle bag. He lost consciousness as the animal broke into movement.
Chapter Text
Halloran stood on the front porch of the sheriff’s office with his arm hanging in a sling. He attempted to look authoritative.
“All right now, listen here,” he announced to the people he had called to gather for a meeting. “Two of our temporary citizens here in Tarheel have been terrorizing Oklahoma and Kansas. I reckon that makes them our responsibility.”
The folks grumbled to each other. Several were carrying their own weapons. From the sidelines, the children leaned on railings and sat on stoops. Their faces were placid.
“So I’m about to gather up a posse of some able-bodied men who want to show their community their courage and accountability.”
Halloran took a breath and shifted his weight awkwardly.
“So, yeah; who here wants to join up to track down these criminals and bring them to justice?”
Frank stepped forward. He was carrying his long rifle like a staff. Halloran looked at him in surprise.
“This isn’t a posse, Sheriff,” Frank told him. “It’s a mutiny.”
Several others stepped up with their weapons. Halloran winced, bit his lip, and turned to one side.
“Goddammit, Frank!” he said, slapping his hat against his leg. “Mutinies are for ships and military!”
“A revolt then,” Frank called. The rest nodded.
“You can’t…” Halloran sighed in exasperation. “You can’t do that.”
“Bloomfield’s dead,” Garrison said. “We can do whatever we want.”
The sheriff glanced over the crowd. There wasn’t even a reason to fight.
“Tarheel is ours now,” Frank stated. “We’ll give you two days. And then you best be gone.”
Cordell Doemling was acutely aware of his own reputation among upper-class circles. He had made his money quickly and was spending it just as quickly. It was so easy to get; the world’s supply of riches and acquisitions seemingly endless. Fortunately, etiquette generally prevented nosy aristocrats from outright asking a man where his wealth came from.
He wandered around his ballroom, mingling with the guests, making sure that they were kept happy and their glasses full. He frequently stepped aside and discreetly informed his servants on how they should adapt to varying situations. It wasn’t unknown to him that such actions were considered gauche. True upper-class didn’t speak to the help at all unless they were high-ranking, and even then, not in the midst of a social gathering. It was a compulsion for him, the desire to control every minute detail while other hosts would ignore their presence and scold the butler afterward if there had been any problems with the lower staff.
But, Cordell was recognizably middle-class. Even though his wealth exceeded theirs, the old money would always consider him as such. They loved his parties regardless, feasting on fine delicacies and lounging in luxurious amenities. Cordell would arrange for outlandish touches, such as roaming exotic wildlife at garden formals, acrobats from Thailand, small orchestras from Germany, grandiose ice sculptures, and fountains of champagne. They flocked to the sensationally entertaining spectacles while murmuring later about the affectatious and desperate behavior of new money.
Begrudgingly they may admit that he was charming, and envied his presence and popularity. Like parrots, they began to imitate some of his haughty epicene mannerisms; the way he carried himself in small steps so as to glide without bobbing across the floor and the way his voice purred when he spoke. They even kept their eyes on the make of cigars he smoked and which vineyards from abroad imported wine directly to him. No harm, they convinced themselves, in picking up a suggestion here and there as long as they maintained their general sensibilities.
The oil baron allowed them their sense of superiority as they enjoyed his generosity. He had learned to find them amusing. “It is absurd to divide people into good and bad. People are either charming or tedious,” he thought to himself often. Cordell had heard that from a man who was traveling across the United States from Great Britain. He was fascinated by his audacious sense of humor, his unabashed peacocking and effeminate quirks, and especially his philosophies of aesthetics. He was inspired by the way he shrugged off social conventions while simultaneously demanding respect with his confidence. He said what he thought, wore what he liked, ate what he craved, and as Cordell spied him effortlessly guiding a very young valet to his room, he could see that he fucked who he wanted as well.
The upper-class was mostly tedious, to be sure, but Cordell was a people-watcher and could tolerate them easily. He always had been a fly on the wall, even before the money rolled in. In fact, it played a major factor in his ability to become rich. While moving about the room, his ears piqued when he heard mention the name David Copperfield.
“How dreadful,” one woman in red lamented. “What a gruesome way to die.”
“Ah yes, Mr. Bloomfield,” Cordell invited himself into the conversation, “Burned alive in his coach, his own crude oil and substantial hair pomade providing fuel for the fire. It’s all so ironic.”
The woman brought her glass from her lips and told him, “I apologize, Doemling, I believe he was an associate of yours?”
“Yes, qu'il repose en paix,” he remarked dispassionately. “In fact, he was on his way to meet me.”
He took a puff of his cigar and added, “Copperfield spared me that unpleasant affair.”
The woman took a sharp breath, but wasn’t entirely displeased to realize that there was no need for false sobriety.
“You aren’t the only one expressing gratitude,” she replied. “The provincials and laborers have been singing his praises.”
“Inconceivable,” a man responded.
“Isn’t it?” Cordell raised an eyebrow at him. “An outlaw will always inspire the imaginations of the poor, huddled masses.”
“Especially considering what had been done to him,” the woman pointed out.
Cordell looked directly at her, something he was not in the habit of doing. It made her drink jostle.
“What was that?” he asked, flippancy eroded.
“You haven’t heard the story?”
“Apparently not, my dear.”
“Now, I have no true reliable source for this,” she prefaced.
Cordell attempted to mask his impatience.
“What my lady’s maid has been saying is that David Copperfield was once a schoolteacher. Bloomfield burned down his school and murdered his son in front of his very eyes.”
Cordell’s eyes widened. Bloomfield had omitted that particular detail.
“My word,” the other man commented.
“I heard,” another woman said, “That he burned it down with all of the children inside.”
“Now he roams the West, fighting for justice for brutalized children.” The red woman took a sip and then added, “And votes for women, I believe.”
Cordell smiled.
“Remarkable.”
With Halloran gone, the people of Tarheel were no longer afraid to enter the ruins of the schoolyard. Midge had insisted they find Ollie’s remains and give him a proper burial. With the gold Jon and David had sent them, they were also talking of building a new school.
They trod over the ash and crumbling wreckage, salvaging what they could. The interior of one of David’s trunks contained books that were still in reading condition. There wasn’t much else. The fire had burned for hours and smoldered for two days.
Midge was on edge. She didn’t savor the prospect of finding the blackened bones of a small child. As she scraped a rake over the ashes and loose debris, she hoped it would be someone else who must make the terrible discovery.
“Anything yet?” Frank called, heaving away a fallen beam.
“Nothing, Sheriff,” Garrison answered.
Midge thought he looked very smart in his shiny badge and gun-loaded holster. Smarter still with the sulfur smell and smudges of oil on his hands and face washed away.
Frank scowled and put his hands on his hips as he looked over the rubble. The pieces of bed and desks had been hauled to the side.
“We’re almost down to the foundation,” he stated.
“Could the body have burned away completely?” Midge asked.
“Bones and all?” Frank answered, “Very unlikely.”
Midge dropped her rake and looked around.
“He might have run away in the night?” she gasped.
Frank bit his lip and squinted at the horizon. He nodded.
“We’ll get a search party together,” he decided. “Comb the surrounding area.”
Midge gazed out at the wide desolate terrain going on for miles. She gripped her skirt and carefully stepped over the collapsed façade. Her eyes scanned the rocks and hills, brimming with cautious hope.
The outlaws arrived in St. Louis just as the days began to chill. David had swapped his nice shoes, now worn down at the toes, for stirrup-appropriate boots. The cool humidity of late-autumn Missouri was comparatively pleasant for a man accustomed to the English climate.
Jon, on the other hand, had grown used to dry, warm Texas and grumbled when David urged him out of his cozy bed roll in the mornings. The young man had taken to making a pot of hot coffee before finally grabbing hold of the edge of the bed roll and tumbling Jon out of it. He found that planting a kiss on his cheek helped matters.
They were dressed in vests and white shirts, the finest clothing of Western fashion, when they entered the grand bank. This was no smash-and-grab place, but they weren’t here for a smash-and-grab job.
“Afternoon,” Jon said to the assistant manager, leaning on her desk.
She smiled at him and replied, “Good afternoon, Sir, how may I help you?”
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Darby, please,” he told her.
Her smile faded.
“Is there a problem, Sir?”
“Not at all; I’m an apple farmer.”
He had picked up the phrase at a gaudy-themed “Oriental Parlor” outside of the city when he slipped a painted lady of dubious authenticity a bag of coin.
The assistant lifted her chin in recognition and said, “Please wait in the alternate lobby, Sir.”
She gestured at a smaller room to the side and headed through to the manager’s adjoining office.
Jon and David took a seat in the lounge. It had the appearance of a posh gentleman’s club or smoking room, with overstuffed chairs, mahogany tables, wet bar and sidebar, and a bison head mounted on the wall. A telegraph stood in the corner near the couch.
“This is very nice,” Jon whispered, crossing his legs and leaning toward David. He put his hand on his knee, and the young man grinned.
“Gentlemen,” the manager greeted, entering the room along with his assistant. The two stood and shook his hand.
“I understand you would like to place some bets.”
“That we do,” Jon replied.
“I assume you realize our club is exclusively for high-rollers,” his eyes drifted approvingly over their attire. “Please don’t be offended by that disclaimer. Management insists that we make sure all of our clientele can afford to lose.”
“That is not a problem,” Jon chuckled. David remained silent.
“Very good. Do you have favored horses, or would you prefer my personal recommendation?”
“How does Mr. Doemling wager?” Jon asked.
Darby’s smile froze on his face.
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
Jon dropped his head in a tilt, giving him a knowing smirk.
“At ease, my friend,” he assured him. “Cordell and I are colleagues.”
Darby tongued his back teeth and then smiled broadly.
“Management,” he emphasized, “Owns a thoroughbred stallion called Wilde… with an ‘e.’”
David raised his brow.
“Ah…” Jon said. “Wilde it is.”
“Wonderful. If you’ll follow me, please.”
He led them into his office. As soon as he removed his ledger from the safe, both Jon and David pulled out their pistols.
Darby glowered at them as his assistant raised her hands.
“We will be claiming all of the winnings,” David stated. “I do not suggest sounding an alarm or alerting the police, considering the nature of your side-business here.”
Darby heard his accent and asked, “Copperfield, is it?”
David nodded slowly.
“Mr. Doemling is only loosely affiliated with the late Bloomfield. His business with that man has come to an end.”
“We have focused our attention on Doemling,” David told him. “Now give us what we came for and do it as discreetly as this transaction dictates.”
“Put your hands down,” the manager snapped at his assistant before removing the money from his safe.
David clicked his tongue and gently scolded, “That’s no way to speak to a lady, Mr. Darby. Courtesy is the mark of a gentleman.”
Darby glared and shoved the money into a briefcase. The assistant lowered her hands and stifled a smile.
“You’re really ‘Kissing’ Davey Copperfield?” she mustered the courage to ask.
David looked at her questioningly.
“They call me ‘Kissing’… Copperfield?”
“They say,” she told him, “That your modus operandi includes kissing one woman before leaving each robbery.”
He glanced over at Jon who was twisting his mouth to avoid laughing.
“Is that… not true?” she asked, embarrassed.
Darby thrust the briefcase at Jon.
“I may not call the police,” he snarled, “But that’s no benefit to you. Cordell…”
“Ruthless? Sadistic? Yes, thank you, I am aware.”
They started to leave, but then David stopped and turned back to the assistant.
“I almost forgot,” he said, taking her into his arms.
Her eyes were like saucers when she let herself half-swoon in his embrace. He gave her his best dashing smile and kissed her lips. She emitted a pleased whimper and watched the outlaw make off with the cash.
The moment they left the bank, Jon burst into cascades of laughter.
“All right,” David sighed, mounting his horse.
Jon could barely get a foot in his stirrup with his sides splitting. When he finally made it into his saddle and moved forward, Paula weaved from his erratic grip on the reins.
“Stop laughing and ride straight!” David snapped, but grinned as he rode ahead of him.
“Whatever you say, Kissin’ Copperfield!” he hollered after him.
They took the risk of leaving their campfire embers burning in the cold night. Even so, David shivered inside of his bed roll. Jon rolled over and watched him. Finally, he climbed out from under his blankets and dragged them over to him.
“I’m fine,” David maintained.
“Your teeth are chattering,” Jon told him, and then added, “How do you expect me to sleep with all that noise?”
He crawled into bed with him and pulled the blankets over them both. David’s shivering muscles relaxes as Jon’s warm body pressed against him. He shut his eyes and sighed. After a moment, he reached back for Jon’s arm and wrapped it around him.
Jon nuzzled his neck.
“Do I get a kiss from Davey Copperfield?” he whispered.
David chuckled. He turned around in the bed and placed his hand on his partner’s cheek. Golden brown eyes gazed back at him, softening from his touch. They fluttered shut in relief when David grazed his lips over Jon’s. He pressed into him and kissed, slipping his tongue into his mouth and nudging gently.
“I am sorry,” David whispered. “You have done so much for me and I have not been… as physical as you may have needed.”
“Sssh…” Jon said, “You don’t owe me anything.”
David kissed him again and moved his hands over his torso to his hips. He slipped down and began to unbutton Jon’s fly. The older man lay back and let him reach in and pull out his stiffening cock. David wet it with his mouth and stroked him as he sucked the tip. Jon’s hands ran through his hair.
“Is this what you need?” David murmured between licks, “Or would you rather… have me from behind?”
Jon grunted and his lips tightened over his teeth.
“Is that what you want?” he asked.
“I want to make you happy,” David said.
Jon lifted David’s chin and looked into his eyes.
“I am happy,” he said. “Come here.”
David crawled up and their foreheads touched.
“Please,” Jon murmured, “Let me comfort you now. Tell me what you need.”
David’s eyes closed as he exhaled. His belly twitched with longing.
“I want you inside of me,” he whispered. “Do it like you did before: aggressive, hungry…”
Jon’s nostrils flared with his heavy breathing. He clutched David’s shoulders and rolled him on his back.
“Don’t be gentle,” David pleaded. “Take me, make me yours.”
Jon’s cock was already hard. He quickly unbuttoned David’s underwear top and pulled it down so that the sleeves restrained his arms at his sides. He pressed his lips against his chest and sucked a nipple between his teeth. David moaned and arched into him. He gasped when Jon bit harder, marking him.
“Fucking beautiful boy,” he growled.
He lifted David’s knees to his chest and held them in place with his shoulder and crook of his arm. He pulled open the flap on the back of David’s underwear and reached under the fabric to stroke his cock. David squirmed, pressed down and immobilized. He rocked his bare lifted ass against him.
Jon spat in his hand and ran his fingers between David’s spread open legs. He worked his fingers over his hole, and heeding David’s please for roughness, pushed them inside.
David bleated and tossed his head back.
“Ungh…”
He moved his fingers in and out, faster, deeper, watching with satisfaction as David writhed and spread himself further. His fleshy lips were parted, tongue darting over them as he squeezed his eyes shut. Every movement of Jon’s fingers sent a shock through his whole body. He couldn’t hold back the eager moans that broke the silence of the empty night.
“Please,” he begged, pumping his hips. “Take me. Fuck me.”
Jon’s head shot up hearing the curse from David’s sweet mouth. He climbed over him, pushing the young man’s knees up and apart as far as possible, lifting his ass upward. He planted one foot on the ground, aimed his cock downward, and ran the head of it over his hole.
He enjoyed seeing him like this, curled up tight and bound by his clothing, ass open and ready for him. The way he was still clothed from the upper waist down with only the flap pulled away to expose him, gave him a special kind of thrill. He wanted to thrill him too, make him lose control and cry out his name. He’d wanted it so badly that it was making him shake.
He pushed down into him, right thigh parallel to the ground as he pumped his hips. He kept his eyes locked on David’s face, whose mouth opened and lovely neck stretched as he made the sounds Jon loved to hear. His broken moans tumbled out, louder and louder with each thrust.
“Yes,” he whimpered. “Yes, Jon… like that. Don’t stop.”
Jon groaned and gave him what he needed, pushing deep inside of him.
“Open your eyes,” he told him. “Let me see those gorgeous eyes.”
David obeyed and gazed into his. Jon slipped his hand under David’s clothes again and stroked his cock as it strained and leaked into the fabric.
“You’re mine,” Jon said, his voice gravelly and deep, “My boy.”
“Yes,” David nodded, never taking his heather blue and green eyes away. “Yes…”
When he gave him a deeper, harder thrust David cried out, “… Jon!”
“I’m going to come inside you,” Jon growled, “And you’re going to hold it inside of you. You’re going to fall asleep tonight with my scent on you and my come in your ass.”
David’s eyes widened and then snapped shut as his mouth opened in a silent cry. His body broke into spasms, his voice returned to him in a shuddering, guttural moan. Jon’s hand squeezed over David’s cock as he dragged his own against his prostrate. He felt the warm wetness pour out over his hand and soak into his underwear.
Now David’s groans were deeper, heaving as Jon fucked him faster. He felt the overwhelming waves roll over him. He dropped his knee and pressed down onto him, shaking with the release he’d desperately needed.
“I love you,” he gasped, his come flowing into David. “God, I fucking love you.”
He stretched up on his arms as the last throes of orgasm shuddered through him. He dropped to his side and tried to catch his breath. David uncurled himself, feeling the come trickling between his legs. He pulled his sleeves up so he could wrap an arm around Jon and laid his head on his chest.
The older man sighed and chewed his lip, a bit insecure over his outburst.
“I love you too,” David whispered, squeezing him and nuzzling his chest.
Jon draped his arm over the young man’s shoulder, running his fingers through his curls. David smiled contentedly and drifted into the most restful sleep he’d had in weeks, swathed in the comforting smell of the man he adored.
Chapter Text
The man in white was offered a seat, but he did not take it. He meandered around the lobby with his hands in his pockets, leaning too close to the paintings on the wall and occasionally uttering a bemused “Huh…,” particularly at a rendering of Narcissus who was gratuitously nude and facing the viewers as if they were the reflective pool that he had been cursed to stare into for infinity.
He had heard that Cordell Doemling was an obscenely wealthy man, and came to the assumption that he would be speaking to a peer. Coming from a long line of wealth himself, he had used his privilege to advance in politics. Now in middle age, pointed beard and handlebar mustache growing white as the rest of him, he had only managed to become the mayor of St. Louis. His attempts to reach beyond that were unsuccessful.
He turned his attention to a small statue of Byron on a pedestal. He was clad in Turkish attire, legs spread and eyes lidded in an inviting leer. A monkey perched on the arm of his chair, handing him a fig. The mayor reached out and poked its face.
The sound of a man clearing his throat reproachfully caused him to straighten and pull his hand back like a child caught shoplifting.
“Mr. Vaughn,” Copeland announced. “Mr. Doemling will see you now.”
Vaughn returned his hands to his pockets and casually strolled through the open door.
“Good afternoon, Mayor,” Cordell greeted, standing and shaking the man’s hand.
“Pleasure,” he returned, finally accepting the offer of a seat. He opened his jacket buttons and sank back into the upholstery with a cross of his legs.
“What have we to discuss today?” Cordell inquired.
“I heard you have a Copperfield problem.”
“To my surprise, I do; but seeing as it’s my problem I have to reiterate my question.”
“I’m a gambling man, Mr. Doemling,” Vaughn explained. “I like to know that when I bring my tickets in at the end of a fortuitous race, I can see my returns immediately.”
“You were ultimately compensated, were you not?”
“Some time later,” he said. He confessed, “I like to be able to lay another wager down with my winnings. I guess you could say I’m a chain gambler.”
Cordell understood the implication that the mayor of St. Louis must win back his cash before being able to lay down again.
“I see,” he replied. “I am very sorry for your inconvenience. Mr. Copperfield never robs the same establishment twice, so you can be certain that your tickets will be fulfilled from now on.”
“Your bank isn’t the only establishment in town that I patronize.”
Cordell considered reports he’d been given from his valued informants that St. Louis had experienced a deficit mysteriously unaccounted for. The treasury was in the process of calculating again to assure state officials that they had made an error. Vaughn fidgeted nervously.
“Word is you’re a proactive sort of man; a resourceful sort of man.”
“That I am,” Cordell agreed. “I’m spending significantly more than I’ve lost to track him and his accomplice down and bring them to me… to face justice in the court of law, of course.”
“Of course,” Vaughn smirked.
“What further action did you have in mind?”
Vaughn took a breath.
“Copperfield has acquired a certain appreciation from the people most likely to notice suspicious behavior: countryside encampments, shifty-eyed tenants in cheap hotels, that sort of thing. They’ve become loyal to him. Even patrons at the scenes of robberies have admitted that they were carrying firearms and did nothing during the ordeal.”
“I’m aware,” Cordell answered.
“I believe that if his loyalty were to run dry, he’d find himself in a bad position pretty quickly.”
Cordell smiled and folded his hands. The mayor may be a squandering embezzler, but he wasn’t without a trace of cleverness.
“I’m listening.”
“I read a rather lengthy editorial in the paper the other day,” Vaughn continued, “Postulating that these outlaws were sent by God to punish St. Louis for the segment of the population who supported the Civil War and resisted the abolishment of slavery. Many of the wealthiest of the city either were, or have parents who were, selling slaves on the very streets.”
“Copperfield is quite the political sort, adapting his motivations to each population’s most prevalent social concerns.”
“You and I both know that’s bullshit.”
Cordell closed his eyes and nodded.
“I have certain journalists in my pocket,” Vaughn pointed out, “So let’s turn those reports around, claim that he has vocalized support for another secession.”
“Not a bad idea. You seem to be on top of things, Mayor. Why do you require my assistance?”
“Money is an object,” Vaughn told him, “And time is of the essence when it comes to replenishing funds.”
“You need my money.”
“You cover for those inadequacies that have been plaguing me and I’ll be sure the law enforcement turns Copperfield over to you when we catch him. I’m sure that their cooperation with you will be helpful in a variety of other situations.”
“It would. I will pay for your journalists and your ability to keep officers on retainer. In addition, those accountants of yours will discover a surplus in the budget that they didn’t recognize, rather than a deficit.”
Vaughn broke into a crooked grin.
“So Copperfield is a Confederate, despite his foreign status; what else has he been up to? Perhaps helpless farmers have found that their innocent, impressionable daughters have been impregnated by his careless, widespread fornication?”
“I would avoid further associating him with sexual notoriety. The last thing we need is him taking on the image of some sort of Don Juan.”
“Very well,” Vaughn conceded.
“Also, keep assertions of his villainy to a minimum. If you push your luck the public will catch on, reject the claims, and become suspicious of any further news reports.”
“It’s difficult to combat the iconography of a Robin Hood. Even the rich will tolerate being robbed to enjoy a romantic bit of folklore.”
“Let’s deflate that romanticism,” Cordell suggested. “This is real life, not mythology. The labor class has experienced enough disappointment to accept that as truth.”
“In reality, vigilantism is more harmful than beneficial.”
Cordell nodded and said, “Tarheel.”
Vaughn grimaced.
“I’ve been told that they’ve appointed a good, honest sheriff to replace the corrupt predecessor. Their dire economy has flourished… somehow… and reconstruction is in place.”
“No, it isn’t,” Cordell told him. “According to articles that will be published by your journalists in the near future, poor Tarheel has been left in chaos. Lawlessness is rampant. Sheriff Lance was the only thing keeping it together. The people are starving, Bloomfield’s labor opportunities have left a void, and the citizens shake their fists at the rogue who abandoned them. He was not wicked, no, that would be too obviously libel. He was only misguided and careless as all real world vigilantes.”
“Tarheel will discount those reports.”
“From Oklahoma?” Cordell argued. “This is St. Louis. All these people have is word of mouth.”
Cordell shrugged his mouth and nodded.
“I’ll inform the papers,” he decided. “And advertise a $5,000 bounty.”
“I will double that bounty,” Cordell offered, “On the condition that David Copperfield is brought in alive… and kicking.”
There were certain tasks on the oil fields best suited for children. The worst of these was the coating of refinement tanks by ones small enough to climb inside the viciously hot interiors. Due to the inherent dangers, only the most expendable of human life was appointed. Small hands reached inside of gears, sometimes never to return intact.
Ollie splashed the sides of the tank, skin too heated and caked with coal dust to accumulate sweat. He wore hobbling chains on his ankles on account of his previous escape attempts. It was for his own good, his captors assured him. This place was remote and if he were to stray, he’d be food for carrion before he could reach an outpost. Even if he survived the cold nights, dehydration, or starvation, he’d only be sent right back to them to endure a sound thrashing for his troubles.
At night as he huddled in his threadbare blankets, his lips would move as he softly recited his favorite poem:
Little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head
That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved, so I said,
"Hush, Tom! Never mind it, for when your head's bare,
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.”
The other children sometimes rolled over and stared at him, soothed by the melodic whisper. They mostly didn’t understand the words, speaking only Mandarin.
Bernice was a bleak old maid, broad across the shoulders and suited for carrying yoked buckets of drinking water for the workers and gruel for those who could not leave the grounds.
She passed the line of unfortunates with their bowls outstretched, slopping with her ladle and trying her best not to make eye contact. Compassion fatigue had long set in and anyway, sentimentality was a pitfall.
“Please… p-please, Ma’am,” the weak voice called.
She ignored it, as she did every day. That voice echoed in her thoughts even after returning home, until she managed to drown it in booze.
Today it grew louder, too desperate to ignore. Hands clutched her skirt and she yanked it away, still not looking at the boy.
“Put out your bowl or you’ll get nothing today,” she threatened.
“Please… it’s not much. Only pass on this note for me.”
He lifted a scrap of paper scrawled with charcoal.
“Give it to Mr. Copperfield in Tarheel. I’m sure he’ll pay you. I’m… I’m sure he will.”
Bernice grunted and placed her foot on Ollie’s shoulder, shoving him back into line. She trudged on for a moment before halting and turning over her shoulder.
“Copperfield?” she asked. “Davey Copperfield?”
Ollie stared in surprise for a moment. They were all cut off from the world, and he had no expectation that anyone would recognize the name of a random, small-town schoolteacher.
“Y-yes Ma’am,” he finally said.
She walked back to him cautiously, looking around for supervisors. No one stood by save for the beleaguered children wise enough to keep their voices to themselves, even if they spoke the language.
She snatched the note from him and hurried away.
“Thank you!” he called and she winced away that cry of gratitude.
Jon awakened to find that David was not boiling hot water for coffee, nor was he shoving him rudely out of bed. The morning was late and still he nestled up against him, bottom pushed against his hips. He rumbled happily and wrapped his arms around the young man, nuzzling and kissing his neck.
“Have we finally earned a day off?” he whispered.
David smiled and wriggled into him, rubbing his ass against Jon’s groin. The older man responded with a pleased groan and a stiffening cock.
“This is nice,” he told him. “No amount of gold can buy the joy of waking up to a beautiful companion.”
David stilled and stared ahead in thoughtful silence. Jon lifted on an elbow and looked down on him.
“If I had to pay a toll for every time I wanted to dig thoughts out of that brain of yours, I would have nothing left to my name.”
“I know how to reach Doemling,” David uttered.
Jon sat up.
“How?”
“Bloomfield said he likes whores; male whores.”
Jon sighed and dropped to his back.
“I know what you’re scheming and I don’t care for it.”
David rose and straddled Jon.
“What better way to get close to him while he’s in a vulnerable state without the presence of bodyguards?”
“I don’t… care for it,” Jon restated in a stern tone.
David worked his hips, rubbing against Jon to stir him again.
“Stop that,” Jon groaned, gripping David’s waist. “How am I supposed to keep my head on straight?”
“When he’s dead, we’ll be done,” David coaxed. “Then we can retire, find a nice plot of land, build a home…”
“You are Lucifer himself,” Jon complained. “You are the serpent in the garden.”
David grinned and arched his back, stretching his neck and biting his lip. He began to peel off his clothing.
“He’ll make you right away,” Jon told him, feasting his eyes on his naked partner. “Handsome young stranger with an English accent; whoever could that be?”
David leaned forward coyly and unbuckled Jon’s belt.
“I have a knack for imitation,” he said in a dulcet Southern drawl.
Jon’s eyes widened.
“That’s… that’s actually pretty good.”
David freed the man’s cock and began stroking.
“Let’s hear more of it,” Jon requested with a smile.
“What would you like me to say, Mr. Jensen?” David continued, lifting his ass and lowering it onto Jon’s erection. He gasped as he guided the head against his opening. “I am at your disposal, and I aim to please.”
Jon sat up and cradled his lover in his arms.
“Tell me about our home,” he murmured, kissing his collarbone.
“Good, green land,” David purred, “A garden, chickens, a big soft bed, and no one around for miles.”
“Promise me,” Jon creaked.
David took his face in his hands and gazed into his worried eyes. He returned to his authentic voice.
“I promise.”
Chapter Text
Copeland marched out to the front gate of Cordell’s mansion, where a commotion was mounting between the security guards and a stocky woman in worn and dour Sunday clothes.
“What is this?” Copeland snapped.
The guards watched his brisk arrival nervously.
“Mr. Copeland, Sir,” one of them spoke, “This woman was about to be removed from the property.”
The lady looked flustered and shouted, “I spent all my money on a train ticket here to speak to Mr. Doemling and I’m not leaving until I am compensated.”
Copeland looked her up and down.
“Why, exactly, should we be expected to compensate you?”
“I have information,” she stated, “Concerning Davey Copperfield.”
Copeland waved the guards aside.
“What information is that?”
“Now why would I tell you that out here? I need to know I will be paid for my trouble.”
“Give me some hint that it is worth anything and then we can negotiate.”
She drew close to the gate and chewed her lip.
“I run into someone of value to Copperfield,” she whispered, eyeing the guards. “Someone he would want to get back.”
The butler gestured to the men to open the gate and she stepped inside, loosening her stained bonnet and lowering it to her shoulders.
“Come inside, Miss…?”
“Bernice,” she responded, “No need for formalities.”
“No, of course not,” Copeland sniffed and led her into the lobby.
“My,” she gasped, observing her surroundings, “I heard tell Doemling was a rich man, but this…”
“Speak your mind, Bernice,” Copeland interrupted.
She pulled the charcoal-scrawled note from her bosom.
“There’s a boy named Ollie ‘sposedly died in a fire. ‘Sposedly the whole reason Copperfield got so stirred up. Well, turns out he ain’t dead, but he’s near it. I figure Mr. Doemling will want to seize him up fast before Copperfield or the grim reaper find him first.”
Copeland reached for the note but she snatched it away.
“Like I said,” she told him, “I paid money just to get here on the assumption that I be paid for this information.”
Cordell stepped into the lobby at the sound of her loud voice. He held his cigar aloft, smoke curling near his face.
“Pay her, Copeland,” he instructed.
“Sir,” he bowed and went to retrieve the funds.
Bernice fidgeted.
“You…” she stopped herself and greeted with a dip of her head, “Mr. Doemling.”
He nodded and asked, “Bernice, is it?”
“Yes, Sir,” she answered. She clutched the note with both hands. “You’re not gonna hurt the boy, right, Mr. Doemling? You just gonna use him for ransom?”
Copeland returned and showed him the cash. Cordell waved it off, not caring about the amount.
“I assure you, my dear,” he told her gently. “The boy will be safe with me.”
She reached out to give him the note with a shaky hand. Copeland stepped forward to take it.
“He’s at Neiermeier Oil Field and Refinery, South of Arkansas City. They got him workin’.”
Copeland gave her the money with a disdainful look. She lowered her head.
“You did the right thing, Bernice,” Cordell said. She nodded with no conviction.
He took the note from his butler.
“Copeland, if you would please escort the lady from the premises.”
“At once, Sir,” he replied.
As they exited, Cordell returned to his office, spread out the wrinkled letter on his desk and read:
Dear Mr. Copperfield
Please help. I am at an oil dig but I don’t know where I am. I am sorry I ran away. I was so scared of the fire. Please help me.
Love, Ollie
Cordell sighed. Some of the legend of Copperfield was true, then. He lay the letter across his ash tray and set it ablaze with a match. He watched as it curled, red at the corners, until he poked it into ash with his cigar.
The Silver Tear Saloon was the only two-story building in a shanty town a few miles from St. Louis. It was a spiritless place, watered down ale a half-assed cover for a brothel.
Jon took a drink and immediately pushed his mug away. David raised a brow.
“It is a particularly bad review,” he commented, “When you turn up your nose at the refreshments.”
“I do have some standards,” Jon coughed. “They’re low, but there is a limit.”
A lady with hiked skirts dropped by their table.
“Hey there, I’m Dolly. You gentlemen need a friend or two?” she asked. She wagged her head at Jon and leaned over the table to amplify her cleavage. “Not often we lonely gals get lookers like you in here.”
Jon chuckled and pulled out a coin.
“Now, honey,” she purred, placing her hand on his, “You don’t gotta pay until we get upstairs. You rent the room, not us. We just happen to stop by for a visit, you see. Long as you like.”
Jon reclined and Dolly took a seat on his lap. She brushed his silvery hair back from his eyes.
“You got a kind soul,” she said. “I can tell these things.”
“Well, thank you Ma’am,” Jon replied, “But we are just looking for information.”
“What kind of information?”
David cleared his throat and she looked at him.
“Where do we find male companionship?” he asked.
She leaned away from Jon and looked him up and down.
“You don’t like girls?”
“Sometimes,” he answered. “I guess you could say I’m pickier when it comes to boys. Where can we find the particularly fine ones? We are gentlemen of means, you see.”
He tucked a gold coin into her cleavage.
“There is a house in St. Louis, Dogtown that caters to folks who like both,” she said. She tongued her cheek and cast a glance at the bar matron who was scolding her with her eyes.
“Here’s a little for your handler if you set us in the right direction.”
Jon tucked another coin in her palm.
“The boys at that house are a bit worn out,” she whispered, “Worse for wear. They end up there when they trickle out of a more demanding establishment.”
“Which is…?” David prompted.
“The Lafayette,” she told them. “It’s a lounge, but you need their business card to get in the door.”
“Do they make house calls?” David asked.
She replied, “They supply parties with entertainment. Of course you have to be in good standing to get something like that arranged.”
She swallowed and added, “My brother went up to one of them parties once.”
“Your brother?”
“He came back with burns,” Dolly muttered, her voice tightening as she spoke. “That’s how I know… they trickle out. When their bodies ain’t so pristine anymore.”
Jon narrowed his eyes at David.
“Thank you,” he answered.
Dolly looked back at Jon, drawing her eyes over his open collar.
“You sure you don’t want nothin’? No extra charge now.”
Jon shook his head and smiled at her.
“Can’t say I’m not disappointed,” she shrugged and headed back to the bar.
They stood and David grabbed his hat.
“One more thing,” Jon murmured. He walked toward Dolly behind the bar. He leaned against her and whispered into her ear as he discreetly passed her the entire bag of coin. She stared at him in shock.
David smiled.
“Leavin’ so soon, honey?” another lady asked him as she sidled up.
“Ah,” he nodded at her, placing his hat on his head, “Yes, Madam. Thank you for your hospitality.”
He started for the exit when one of the nearby patrons shoved his chair out, blocking his path.
“That there is some fancy way of talkin’,” he drawled.
David side-stepped him, but another man moved in front of him.
“You Davey Copperfield, ain’t ya?” the first man sneered, standing to his feet.
David’s eyes slid from one to the other.
“You wanna know somethin’?” the man in front of him asked. “My pa lost a leg in the war, fightin’ to keep the Union together.”
David gave him a thoroughly bewildered scowl. The men crowded him.
“You think you can just come over here from your country and tear ours apart?”
“I assure you,” David said slowly, “The thought never crossed my mind.”
“But you is Copperfield, ain’t ya?” one said, pulling out a tanning knife.
David looked at the knife, then at the man. He took off his hat.
“At your service,” he said, bowing low with an exaggerated flourish.
Suddenly he lurched forward and head-butted the knife-wielder right in the ribs, pushing forward until he tumbled out through the swinging doors and onto his back. The other man swung at David and he ducked.
“Jon!” he called out, “I need my face!”
Jon leapt over the bar and tackled the man to the floor. He socked him in the jaw but his opponent got leverage and rolled over on top of him. David grabbed a chair and lifted it just as a knife flew at him and stuck into the wood. He stared at it wide-eyed for a second before breaking the chair over the man on the floor’s back.
He grabbed one of the broken legs and jabbed the end of it hard into the oncoming knife-thrower’s teeth, knocking him senseless. He crawled on the floor, clutching his bloody mouth. Jon punched his man twice in the face and he rolled off, wailing about his broken nose.
Jon and David stood side by side and drew their attention toward the bar. A gigantic man with a beard had stood to his feet, pistol drawn.
“I don’t know what you heard,” Jon told him, raising his palms, “We’re not Confederates. We’re just innocent outlaws like yourselves.”
“I don’t care,” the large man said. “You got a ten grand bounty on your heads, and you’re comin’ with me.”
“Bloody hell, ten grand?” a breathless David muttered to Jon.
Jon’s mouth shrugged and he raised his eyebrows, impressed.
Dolly rose from her crouching place behind the bar. She lifted a big square whiskey bottle and smacked the armed man over the head. His eyes rolled back and he flopped forward on the floor with a heavy thud.
Jon gave her a wide toothy grin.
“Much obliged, Dolly,” he told her, “We will be going now.”
They tipped their hats and ran to their waiting horses.
“Stop by any time!” she called after them. She glanced over at the matron, who was shaking her head at her.
Cordell took the train through Kansas under the name Copeland. He didn’t ride first class, although he was accompanied by two inconspicuous bodyguards.
With him on the train car were women with sniffling babies on their laps, men with dung caked on their boots, people coughing and sneezing. He could hear and smell everything. It had been years, over a decade in fact, since he’d been in this sort of company. A couple decades before that, a ride on a train seemed like a luxury experience. He remembered it more clearly now that he was here, rocking gently across the way from a woman who was staring out the window with tear stains on her cheeks. She smelled of ammonia that hurt the cavities of the nose.
He remembered staring in disbelief as the land and trees whizzed by his view. Someone told him before he had boarded as a small child, barely able to lift the suitcase half his size, that a steam locomotive can move up to 60 miles per hour on a good track. He thought the older boy was lying. His father’s favored horse to bet on clocked at 45 in a given race, and his father told him she was the fastest thing on earth. Everything seemed so impressive; the speed, the cushions on the wooden seats, the carpet on the floor.
Oddly enough, though Cordell had now ridden many times on private trains with crystal chandeliers and a grand piano and a bed that filled an entire cabin, being here with the sights and smells of a typical passenger car made him feel curious and enchanted once more.
The train pulled up at the oil field near the Oklahoma border. Neiermeier was a competitor of Bloomfield of whom Cordell knew nothing. Rather, he knew he was an oil man and that was enough. Perhaps Bloomfield’s demise was a sign that he should abandon the oil business; steel, coal, or oil mining was a dirty thing he didn’t want to touch with his own hands. For a compulsive micro-manager that presented a problem. He liked these new contraptions that were coming out every day: electric locomotives and lamps, telephones, and internal combustion automobiles. They were a risky venture, but risks had always panned out for him in the past.
He had dressed down for the occasion of stealthy travel, but he was still in fine enough wear not to belong on an oil field. The foreman saw him walking and glancing around at the equipment and labor and headed straight for him.
“Can I help you, Sir?”
“Yes, my name is Copeland and I am here for Oliver Leeford.”
The foreman stiffened.
“Oliver? No one here by that name.”
“He’s a small boy; local.”
Cordell spied a group of Mandarin children maintaining refinement machinery. They were smeared in sweat and grease, heads lowered every time the supervisor strolled by.
“We only got Chinese boys. All of them Chinese names.”
Cordell sighed and pulled out his pocketbook. The foreman saw his substantial cash and shifted his weight.
“Oh, that’s right. We got one white boy: Ollie,” he chuckled. “Never heard him called Oliver, you see.”
“I understand the confusion,” Cordell remarked. “Naturally I will pay for his custody.”
The foreman called to the supervisor, “Darryl! Bring Ollie over here!”
The man nodded and headed toward the back lot. Cordell followed slowly. As he passed the machinery, an adult worker brought a bucket of water for the children. They crowded around, getting only a couple of sips each and a salt tablet, just enough to keep from passing out. Then they were set back to work again.
Cordell pursed his lips, the gustatory hallucination of salt on his tongue. Sometimes he woke with that taste, combined with metallic water. Other times it was coagulated grease from leftover boiled meat.
When he approached the furnace area, he saw the supervisor pulling Ollie out by the scruff of his collar.
“That boy is a good worker,” the foreman pointed out. “Take two… maybe three boys to replace him.”
Cordell dug into his pocketbook and grasped a wad of cash. He stopped and sniffed, oil saturating his nose and pores. It would take several hours in a perfumed bath to recover.
“I will give you all of this,” he said, “$100… for all of these children.”
The foreman’s mouth practically watered, and then he shook the man’s hand. He took the money and counted it right in front of Cordell, which made the corner of the baron’s mouth twitch.
“All right, Darryl,” the foreman ordered, “Load ‘em up, all of ‘em.”
Ollie looked at the strange man curiously, but was hurried along with the other kids toward the huffing train.
“We’ll take them to Father Christopher’s boys’ home in St. Louis,” Cordell told his bodyguard. “They don’t sell them there.”
“Sir.”
As they strolled back to the train, he overheard the foreman muttering to the supervisor, “$100 will replace the kids and then some. $20 is yours and don’t mention it to Neiermeier.”
Cordell’s lip twitched again and he whispered something into his bodyguard’s ear.
“Sir,” he replied and he and his partner strode back to the man.
Cordell turned away and kept walking toward the train as his guards grabbed the foreman by his clothing and shoved him toward the vat of bubbling oil.
“What the hell are you doing?” he shouted.
They tipped him over the edge, cash and all. He fell with a plop into the muck. He screamed and thrashed for a moment before sinking back down again. The supervisor was nowhere to be seen.
One of the guards wrinkled his nose at the spot of oil that had splashed on his tie. They grimaced and rejoined their employer.
As Ollie boarded the train, he cast one last glance, mouth agape, at the vat where the foreman had been forcibly drowned.
“Come along, dear boy,” Cordell coaxed softly, placing an easy hand on his shoulder.
Chapter Text
The stable was immaculate, with a wide grassy enclosure for the horses to run as they pleased. Ollie stood on the lower rung of the fence, watching them as they romped. He reached out as one sleek stallion investigated the visitor. He passed his hand over the soft nose that flared and sniffed.
“You like horses?” Cordell asked, coming up behind him.
Ollie jumped and brought his hand back.
“It’s all right,” the man assured him. “You can pet him. His name is Wilde.”
“Wilde,” Ollie whispered, stroking the horse’s mane. He answered the question, “I do like horses.”
He recalled the one and only time he had ridden. He felt the exhilaration of a large animal beneath him, galloping though the prairie wind and yet safe inside the strong arms of Jon Jensen.
“I do too,” Cordell answered, running his hand over Wilde’s loin. “My father taught me all about them.”
He thought for a moment and went on, “He was a good man, my father. He was always living life for the moment. We never had anything, but he would tell me, again and again, that someday I would. Someday he would win big at the races and I would go to school and become a doctor or lawyer.”
“Did he win big?” Ollie asked and then reproached himself. “I mean… now you have so much.”
“No, dear boy,” Cordell said softly, gazing into Wilde’s eye, “He did not. Everything he had was spent on horses like this one. He died with his dreams in his head.”
“He’d be proud of you,” Ollie remarked.
Cordell swallowed away the sting in his throat.
“You can have one of these horses,” he said. “Anyone you like, aside from Wilde.”
Ollie’s brow furrowed. He stepped down from the fence.
“Thank you” he told him, “But when can I go back to Mr. Copperfield?”
“You want to go back to Tarheel?” Cordell asked. “You don’t want to stay here with me?”
Ollie lowered his head.
“You’ve been real kind to me and the other boys, Mr. Doemling,” he replied, “But I miss Mr. Copperfield very much.”
“He was like a father to you, wasn’t he?”
Ollie nodded. Cordell crouched to his eye level.
“I’m so sorry, Ollie,” he whispered. “I’m afraid Mr. Copperfield is dead.”
Ollie began to tremble, tears welling up in his eyes.
“N-no…”
“They killed him. He would have wanted you to be happy, just as my father wanted me to be happy.”
“Mr. Jensen?” the boy croaked.
“He is gone as well. You have me now.”
Ollie broke into sobs and Cordell took him into his arms and held him tightly against his chest.
“There, there,” he comforted him. “It’s going to be all right.”
He lifted the crying child and carried him back to the house. He set him down next to Copeland, who was waiting by the door. The butler looked down at Ollie and then back at Cordell, whose face was drawn and tense. His eyes seemed drained of spirit. Copeland looked atypically concerned.
“Sir?” he asked quietly.
Cordell was stiff as he whispered to the man.
“See that he has everything he needs,” he instructed, “Clothes, food, toys, anything his heart desires.”
He turned to march through the door as he uttered, “I don’t wish to see him from here on.”
The young men gathered behind The Lafayette, dressed in formal jackets as they waited for their coach. They were a pretty sight, aside from the nervous atmosphere they exuded. They were headed to a Doemling affair, and they each knew that was a roll of the dice.
“Don’t make eye contact with him,” one said. “Flirt with Virgil or Drew. They like them young and docile. Don’t be too cheeky or bratty. That’s what He likes.”
“I call dibs on Greenwich,” another remarked. “He’s old and needs work getting it up. A nice suck is all he asks for.”
“I need a smoke,” Allan sighed, stepping away from the group.
“Don’t stink yourself up!”
He lifted his hand and ducked around the corner. His fingers shook as he tried to light a match. A figure approached and lit one for him.
“Thanks,” he muttered around the cigarette and puffed. He pulled it away from his lips and exhaled a stream of smoke. Before him stood another handsome young man in a suit.
“I don’t recognize you,” he stated.
“I’m new,” David told him in a deep Southern accent. He looked the kid up and down. “You seem anxious.”
“Fuck,” Allan swore, “Aren’t you?”
David shrugged.
“I’m on standby. I probably won’t be going at all.”
“Count your blessings,” he responded. “I’d rather not have to go, but it’s my turn.”
“That bad, eh?”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Why don’t we switch places?” David suggested. “You be on standby.”
“You’re sure?” Allan asked, nearly coughing.
“Yeah,” David insisted. “I always wanted to go to a ball.”
He flashed his eyes with a smirk at the grateful boy.
Allan didn’t risk warning him.
“Thanks, fella,” he exhaled.
“What’s your name?”
“Allan, Allan MacEvoy.”
He shook David’s hand.
“I’ll just tell the footman that I’m you,” David replied. He put his hands in his pockets and strolled back to the group.
“I appreciate it!” Allan said.
From a distance, in a darkened spot between lamps, Jon waited on his horse. He watched David climb onto the coach with the others. His jaw shifted and his chest heaved. As nervous as the boys were, he had them trumped. Paula sensed it and shivered.
“Ssh…” He petted her.
When the coach pulled out, Jon rode a distance behind. He stopped far enough from the gate to not be noticed. He climbed off of Paula and leaned against a tree. There was nothing to do now but wait.
David moved around the party in a flippant swagger with loose hips and torso-jutting posture. Cheeky, bratty. He kept his nose up, eyelashes lowered in haughty ennui. The guests leered at him, beckoning him with their eyes, but he ignored them.
He helped himself to some steak tartare on toasted bread, which he stuffed into his mouth indelicately. When he scanned the room, his attention fell on the host chatting with an older gentleman who kept one hand tucked into his waistcoat. He sauntered closer, snatching up a tiny profiterole.
Greenwich was a fusty bore, but Cordell was nothing if not courteous.
“These young rich have taken up listening to that ridiculous ragtime music and this rubbish from Tin Pan Alley; god help us all,” the old man complained. “Perhaps they do it to pain their fathers. I can’t imagine any other purpose. It’s hardly music.”
Cordell chuckled politely and glanced to the side. He noticed David and raised a brow.
David grinned at him and rolled his eyes. Cordell returned the smile. He watched him in his periphery as Greenwich droned on. The young man sidled up behind the old man and listened with an air of detached irony. He popped the pastry into his mouth and licked the small dab of cream on his lips. Cordell’s eyes drifted over him, a pleased rumble growing in his chest.
“That’s the issue, Doemling,” Greenwich kept going, “The class distinctions are disintegrating. It’s all falling to disorder.”
David chewed and brought his hand to his collar as if clutching pearls. Greenwich looked over his shoulder to find the source of Cordell’s amusement.
“Well, hello,” the old man greeted. He admired him for a moment and said, “Be a good lad and fetch me a cocktail.”
David turned and gestured to a waiter. He grabbed two glasses from the tray and returned. Greenwich reached toward him but David stepped back.
“I’m sorry, my hands were full.”
Greenwich scoffed and walked away in a huff. David winked at Cordell and handed him a glass.
“That was rude,” the baron scolded.
“I don’t play fetch,” David murmured into his glass. He lifted his chin and told him, “Allan.”
“Aren’t you from Lafayette?”
David swallowed a mouth of mint julep and shrugged.
“Yes, but I’m not just a rentboy, you see. I have ambition.”
“Greenwich is a rich man.”
“Not as rich as you,” David chided with a wag of his head. He flashed Cordell a flirtatious smile and held his glass against his chest. “Anyway, I’m bored by the minds of old money. The future belongs to people who can take the world for themselves.”
Cordell raised his glass in agreement. He watched as David cast an impudent look over at Greenwich, who was courting a much more receptive young man.
He snorted and grumbled, “You see? There’s someone for everyone I suppose.”
Cordell’s eyes narrowed. The boy was obnoxious. He wanted to tug him by the hair, bend him over the table, and fuck him until he bled.
“Where are you from, Allan?”
“New Orleans,” he answered, “You?”
“Chicago,” Cordell replied, “By way of… somewhere else.”
David laughed, open-mouthed, too loud for this party.
“You see?” he said enthusiastically, “That’s what I like. Who gives a shit where you’re from? You are who you are…”
He reached out and played with Cordell’s collar.
“…Right here, right now.”
Cordell was imagining that incorrigible mouth stretched around his cock, tears running down his slap-reddened cheeks and beading his thick eyelashes, hands bound behind his back.
“What brought you to be a rentboy with part-time ambitions?”
“I ran away from home,” he confessed with a conspiratorial lean. “I decided I was too clever and pretty to be a store clerk like my father. I may as well get by doing what I do best. See where that takes me.”
David sighed and tossed his head at the mingling guests.
“We’re all whores in the end.”
“What you do best?” Cordell asked.
“Why don’t I demonstrate?” David purred.
Cordell led David into his bedroom with a firm hand on the back of his neck. The man picked up a voicepipe and said “Send up some strawberries.”
David moved toward him, pulling off his jacket and laying it over a chair. He smiled coyly and grazed his fingertips up Cordell’s arm. He helped him out of his jacket and then began to untie his tie and remove his waistcoat, pressing against him and locking eyes. Cordell brushed his hand over David’s wrists and observed his skin.
“Scalding scars,” he murmured.
David paused, taken off guard.
“That’s right,” he replied. He demurred and said, “Most don’t notice. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” Cordell told him. He kissed the back of David’s hand. “I was a dishwasher for a tavern as a child.”
He stepped away to pull a bottle of champagne from the chiller.
“I never developed thick skin,” he continued casually. He popped the cork and poured two flutes. David quickly slipped his knife behind the couch pillow.
“I moved up very quickly. Soon I was in a nice hotel as a porter, then a concierge, then a maître d’. He handed David one of the flutes.
“A rolling stone,” he said, clinking Cordell’s glass.
Cordell cocked his head thoughtfully and said, “I always wondered what that meant. Is it good to roll or is it good to gather moss?”
David sipped.
“I suppose that depends upon who is saying it.”
“Agenda-adaptable proverb.”
“Aren’t they all?” David asked.
He pulled away Cordell’s tie and slowly unbuttoned his shirt, sliding his hand under the fabric. He coaxed him onto the couch. Cordell lounged back and looked up at him.
“You are very lovely,” he groaned. “Strip for me.”
David opened his own shirt and pulled it off his shoulders. He flung it at the chair. Cordell made a sound of approval at the sight of his bare upper body. Then, David slipped off his shoes and socks. He straightened and stood with his hip swayed to one side. He grinned down at the man, eyes alluring. He turned his back to him and lowered his trousers. The curving shadow of his ass glimpsed through sheer drawers. He alternated the weight of his body, swaying his hips once more and stood contrapposto with his elbows lifted and his hands clasped behind his shoulders.
Cordell rubbed his thighs and watched. He wondered what that soft young body would look like covered in bruises.
David turned around again, arms still raised. He lowered them, running his hands over his lissome frame and pulling the waist of his drawers down his hips to reveal the lines of his pelvis and the top of his pubic hair. He moved closer to Cordell and straddled his lap, placing his hands on the baron’s neck and arching his back to press his belly against him.
Cordell’s hands smoothed over David’s legs and cupped the underside of his ass. He sank his teeth into David’s shoulder and the young man gasped and then laughed.
“I heard you like it rough.”
“You could say that.”
He pulled a cigar and match out of his waistband pocket. David took the cigar from him and held it between his teeth. Cordell clucked his tongue and lit it. The young man puffed at it until the cherry glowed and put it back in Cordell’s mouth. The baron slid his hands down the posterior of David’s drawers and squeezed hard.
A knock came at the door and Cordell placed his cigar on the edge of the table ash tray.
“Enter.”
David sat back on his haunches as a man brought in a trolley. He prepared the tray and hovered it between the two of them. David glanced only at the strawberries and plucked one from the tray, gently touching it to Cordell’s lips.
The baron raised a quizzical eyebrow at him and then took a bite.
“Thank you, Copeland,” he said.
“Sir.”
Copeland set the tray on the table.
“Send the boy up… when he’s ready for bed,” he added, not breaking eye-contact with David. “I want to say good night.”
There was a moment of silence and Copeland responded, “Sir.”
“You have a son?” David asked when the butler was gone.
“Yes,” Cordell answered.
The young man appeared concerned, but he finished the strawberry and ran his tongue over his lips. He began to work his hips, rubbing against Cordell’s groin. He opened his shirt and caressed his chest. Cordell’s mouth parted and a click emerged from the back of his throat as he looked over David’s face with heavy-lidded eyes.
“I mentioned I worked in service,” he said. “At one point I was the maître d’ at the same very fine hotel that Copeland used to work for; serving very fine people.”
“And now you are one of them,” David cooed.
“Not really,” Cordell admitted, tilting his head. “I only learned to imitate them. It took quite a lot of practice.”
“You could have fooled me,” David chuckled, massaging Cordell’s thighs and rocking on them.
“I worked in service for all levels of classes, throughout my years. You want to hear something I noticed?”
“Mm hmm…” David hummed, leaning forward and kissing his neck.
“The working classes are always on alert,” Cordell told him. “They take careful note of everyone near them. When I brought them food or liquor they would look me up and down, observe my presence.”
David’s hands moved to his waistband.
“When I served the upper-class, do you know…?”
The young man sat back and shook his head.
“They wouldn’t look at me. Not even a glance. It was as though I didn’t exist.”
David bit his lip. He unbuttoned the man’s fly. Cordell gripped David’s thighs, head nodding as he spoke.
“I hated them for that,” he continued bitterly, “Until Copeland explained to me that looking at wait staff as they work is considered very rude.”
He gestured around him as though pointing at imaginary guests.
“It is rude to the other people at the table and it is rude to the servers. It’s thought to be an act of intimidation, you see. Every now and then I forget and I see how it makes them uncomfortable.”
David cleared his throat. Cordell’s fingers were digging into his flesh.
“I received so much help from Copeland,” he continued, “Teaching me how to behave in front of the rich, and eventually, how to behave as one of them. As soon as I was in business I hired him from the hotel and he’s been a blessing ever since.”
“Smart,” David said, “Repay your debts on the way up.”
Cordell nodded.
“It is funny though,” he mused, “How one’s environment can snap a person back into their native behavior; sometimes, without even realizing.”
David curved his shoulders and pressed seductively against him, slipping his hand beneath the pillow.
“I’ve spent years in the shoes of a blue-blood, but when it comes down to it,” he whispered in David’s ear, “My blood will always be red.”
David looked into his hazel eyes as his fingers clutched the knife.
“I wanted to thank Copeland for his service, so I bought him a cravat pin. What did you think of it?”
David swallowed and laughed weakly, “I’m envious.”
“Describe it to me.”
The young man’s jaw tensed.
“Describe anything about Copeland’s face; anything at all.”
David retrieved the knife when the door opened. Copeland and two bodyguards walked in, leading a small boy.
David’s face paled, his mouth falling open.
“Mr. Copperfield!” Ollie cried out in shock. He stepped forward, but was pulled back by Copeland. David grasped the knife and lifted it to Cordell’s neck. The guards knocked it out of his hand and yanked him off Cordell’s lap.
“What are you doing?” Ollie shouted, wrestling away. “Let him go!”
Copeland pulled him out of the room and dragged him kicking and screaming down the hall.
“Mr. Copperfield!”
The guards shoved David down onto his knees. He glowered up at Cordell.
“That’s what I learned, Copperfield,” he gloated, lifting his chin with a finger. “No matter what you gain in this life, no matter what you lose; you can’t change the color of your blood.”
He patted him on the cheek and his guards hoisted David up and led him away.
Chapter Text
Jon lowered to a seated position at the base of the tree. He pulled on his gloves and wrapped his jacket tighter around himself. He had smoked his last cigarette as the party guests filed out of the estate, chatting drunkenly; some with a friendly rentboy at hand. When he didn’t see David among them he knew he must have seduced Doemling. Of course he did. The handsome young man was probably in his bedroom right now doing… god knows what.
“Fuck sake,” Jon muttered as he clutched his jacket. He rocked a bit.
David didn’t need to do much, he told himself. He just needed to get the baron alone, put him in a vulnerable state, and then slice his throat. They had talked about it. David would take off his clothes first, so he could casually walk out without anyone seeing blood on him.
He peered along the wall, wondering which window was Doemling’s. There was one upper balcony with French doors obscured by gossamer curtains through which an electric light filtered. That must be the one. He stared at it as time crawled by.
He saw another light out of the corner of his eye. It wobbled with the movement of the man carrying it. Then another, and another; men in uniform passing briskly over the grounds with lanterns lifted.
Jon’s face drained of blood. They were looking for him. He leapt to his feet and glanced back up at the lit balcony.
“David,” he whispered.
The warning glare of the lights drew closer and they spread out. A couple headed for the front gate. Jon mounted his horse and backed up, looking desperately between the hunters and the French doors. Finally, he growled and rode away. He would have to formulate a plan. Until then, he had to keep from getting caught. He’d be no use to David shot or behind bars.
Steel handcuffs rattled against the hardwood arms of the chair. They were too sturdy to break. David looked around the strange room that he’d been brought into. It was decorated as nicely as the rest of the house, with art on the walls and elegant French-Colonial furniture. Unusual were the beams and dowels in the ceiling, chains, and attachments on the polished marble floor and wall. It was morning now and he was still in his drawers, bare knees spread in the chair and shoulders hunched.
The door opened and two stern, hefty men walked in. A moment later, Cordell entered.
“What have you done with Ollie?” David asked immediately.
“He’s been taken back to his room. This is his home, you see. He was doing just fine until you showed up.”
Cordell drew a chair across from David and sat. The two bodyguards stood on either side of him, hands clasped in front.
“That boy has been given a great opportunity,” he continued. “I never had this kind of head start in life.”
“Opportunity at what, exactly?”
Cordell gestured around and said, “A fine education, privilege, security; certainly you understand the difference that makes.”
“So that’s what you’re planning to do?” David asked dryly, “Raise him as though he was your son?”
Cordell issued a wistful sigh, “I’ve never been terribly good with children.”
“Inconceivable,” David remarked.
“Now, what is this?” Cordell defended. “Why such resentment for me? What is that I’ve done?”
“The orders to murder me and burn down my school came from you.”
“I’ll have you know that I wasn’t aware a young boy was involved.”
“Were you aware that a young boy was involved when you told Bloomfield to burn down the Leeford homestead?”
“That was Ollie too, wasn’t it?” Cordell asked. “My god, he has some rotten luck. Or, very good luck, depending on how you view things.”
“You orphaned him.”
“Every person either dies early or lives to be an orphan. Sometimes that event is the great catalyst for change. Self-reliance is more valuable than a parent’s hand.”
“If you are Ollie’s new father, are you prepared to die to let him come into his own?”
“When the time is right,” Cordell answered. He paused in thought and continued, “Losing a parent is like emerging from blazing flames. It hurts like hellfire, but one can come out on the other side victorious. I found my father in an alleyway near our home.”
He focused on the middle distance.
“He had been beaten to a bloody pulp. I remember… staring at him; staring at his… face. It took time to truly register that it was him. He was barely recognizable.”
Cordell wiped a tear forming along his eyelid. He looked at the moisture on his fingers and rubbed them together with a dismissive toss of his head.
“He was murdered,” David said.
“Gambling debts,” Cordell explained. “He couldn’t afford to lose.”
“Was that your catalyst?” David inquired.
“Not yet,” he replied. “I had to work for many years. When I bought my first plot of land in the West I felt as though my struggles were not in vain. With my initial bit of wealth I hunted down the men who killed him. I had them flayed.”
He smiled fondly at the memory.
“That was the moment I became my own man. And so it goes on and on; the father dies and the son avenges.”
“So you don’t condemn revenge?”
“Not at all.”
He stood and approached David. He brushed his cheek with the back of his knuckles.
“Tell me something, Mr. Copperfield. Your crusade was inspired by the death of a beloved child. Now that you see he is alive and well, do you wish to end your vendetta against me and return to a new schoolhouse in Tarheel?”
David’s eyes burned. Cordell leaned down to observe his face closely.
“No, of course not,” he hummed. “You’ve taken your iconography upon yourself by now. You can’t stop until you’ve saved the West.”
He rose.
“You’ll never be a peaceful, unassuming young teacher again. Some of us can move forward, but none can ever move back.”
“It doesn’t matter,” David muttered. “The law will hang me for what I have done, whether I promise to stop or not.”
“The law will never touch you my dear,” Cordell informed him. He nodded at his guards and they marched toward David. “You belong to me.”
David’s chest heaved as they unlocked his cuffs and lifted him to his feet. The men pulled down an attachment on a ceiling beam and fastened his handcuffs to it. They secured the chain, hoisting him up by the arms until his body was stretched tight.
“Beautiful,” Cordell whispered. He watched David’s belly quiver, his ribcage defined through taut skin. Then he clicked at his guards and they left him alone with his captive.
Cordell drew close and ran his fingers over David’s collar and chest. He dragged a thumb over a nipple and tut-tutted.
“Am I to be flayed?” David grunted.
“I would enjoy that very much,” Cordell told him. He petted his belly and then pinched at his skin. David squirmed, clanking his chains, “But it would be a terrible shame to destroy such beauty; like throwing a stone at a stained glass window just for the pleasure of hearing it shatter.”
He moved his hand over David’s hip bones and licked his lips.
“No,” he went on, “I think I will keep you in pristine condition for as long as I am able.”
He stared into David’s blue eyes for a moment before abruptly yanking down his drawers. He smiled when the young man grimaced and looked away.
“I hadn’t taken you for the bashful sort,” Cordell mocked, “Not after your recent performance.”
He listened to his erratic breathing when his hand dropped to grasp him by the cock and testicles. He pulled, gently at first, then harder; moving back as he stretched the flaccid skin with him. David was forced to carefully step forward until he was on his toes, hips jutted out. He hissed as Cordell pulled him tight.
“Where is your friend?” he asked. “Jon, is it?”
David shook his head and tried to cope with the pain.
“I’ve heard he has a particular sort of handsomeness as well. Tall, reserved; noble face, they say. I can’t say that’s my type, but definitely the ideal if one is taken by older men.”
He released his grip and David stumbled back.
“Are you?” Cordell asked.
David’s head hung. He lifted his eyes at the baron.
“Taken by older men?”
“Are you still trying to flirt with me?” David huffed.
Cordell chuckled, “Of course.”
He sniffed and dragged his hand between the young man’s legs, lifting his testicles and letting them drop.
“I have been wondering,” he said, “About the nature of your relationship.”
“He is a hired gun,” David explained. “He will be in the wind as soon as he realizes his salary has dried up.”
Cordell gave him a wall-eye. He considered him for a moment then whispered, “No…”
He scraped his fingernails across David’s torso as he passed around behind him.
“Let’s just see how receptive you are.”
He moistened an index finger in his mouth and then shoved it up David’s ass. The captive jolted, lifting to his toes with a startled bleat.
“Oh yes,” Cordell decided, “You have definitely had a cock inside of you.”
David gritted his teeth and growled.
“It’s lonely on the lam,” Cordell murmured into his ear. He yanked up with his finger, keeping the young man’s ass lifted and causing him to cry out with each hard upward tug. “That manly hired gun, with all of the urges that entails, no one around but a pretty little dandy who is all too eager to bend over and take whatever he has for him.”
David whined as Cordell hooked his finger and pulled his ass toward him.
“Am I right?”
He removed his finger and David shuddered.
“No, I’m not,” Cordell corrected himself as he watched David’s anxious face. “It’s a bit more romantic than that, isn’t it?”
The young man squeezed his blue eyes shut.
“In that case,” Cordell lilted, “I suppose I’ll be seeing him soon. Surely the outlaw knight will rescue his true love.”
David issued a weak laugh and shook his head. Cordell grabbed his jaw with a firm hand and forced him to face him.
“Don’t… lie to me,” he snarled. He let go of his face and David rotated his jaw.
“Whether your friend comes for you or runs away, I will find him. If I find him with your direction, I will have my men put a quick, painless bullet between his eyes.”
David’s breath quavered.
“But,” Cordell added, “If… when I find him, if it’s without any help from you, I will have him brought to this very room and peel every scrap of skin off of him while you watch.”
David’s face hung low. Cordell gave his backside a hard slap and strode toward a large curio. He pulled out a rod with a cuff on each end and another ominous contraption that looked like a vice with jagged teeth. He knelt at David’s feet and forced them far apart, attaching each ankle to the rod and making it impossible for him to lower to his heels. Cordell gazed up, running an appreciative hand over his strained thigh muscles.
“Oh, the fun I will have with you,” he cooed.
He lifted the vice and gripped David’s cock and balls. He clamped the thing shut on them and smiled at the whimpering sounds David made as he screwed it tight around his genitals. The metal teeth dug into his tender flesh. When he released it, it dangled heavy between his spread legs. The device pulled and bit into him like the mouth of a terrible beast about to dismember him.
Cordell stood and patted David’s face, which had grown flushed and sweaty. He pushed damp curls out of his eyes and kissed him on the lips. David couldn’t help but snivel from the terrible pain.
“This is how I will leave you, for now,” Cordell whispered.
David’s eyes grew wide and glassy. His whole body shook, and the horrific device with it. He watched helplessly as Cordell exited the room, leaving him to his torment.
The baron returned to his office and sat with a contented sigh as he lit a cigar. He straightened when he heard a commotion in the outside hall.
“Get back here!” the sound of Copeland’s voice echoed.
His door opened and Ollie burst in. Cordell dropped his cigar in the ash tray. Copeland rushed after him and grabbed the child by the arm.
“Let go!” Ollie screamed, “I want to see Mr. Copperfield!”
“I apologize, Sir,” Copeland said, trying to restrain the struggling child. “He picked the locked on his bedroom door.”
Cordell smirked.
“Resourceful boy,” he murmured. “Leave him.”
Copeland hesitated for a moment, but released his hold on him. Ollie dashed toward the desk.
“Where is he?”
Cordell leaned forward and folded his hands. He looked at Ollie compassionately.
“Mr. Copperfield is in custody,” he stated. “He’s being questioned by the police.”
“You told me he was dead.”
Cordell nodded and replied, “Your teacher has been causing a lot of trouble. He’s very angry and he’s hurt a lot of people. I thought it would be better for you not to know that.”
Ollie fidgeted.
“Why was he trying to kill you?”
“He thought I was responsible for your death.”
He gestured at him.
“As you can see, that’s not true.”
Realization dawned on Ollie’s face.
“You’re the man Mr. Bloomfield works for. Everyone in Tarheel is afraid of you.”
“Mr. Copperfield murdered Mr. Bloomfield,” Cordell told him softly.
Ollie set his jaw and muttered, “Good.”
Cordell’s brow rose.
“Good?”
“Mr. Bloomfield had my ma and pa burned to death.”
He lifted his trouser legs, showing his scars.
“You told him to do it, didn’t you?”
The baron tilted his head.
“I didn’t know them, Ollie. You’ll find it’s easier to hurt people if you don’t know who they are, how they live, who they love. That’s why Mr. Copperfield could roast a poor man alive in his carriage, and that’s why you can so easily claim that it was good he did it.”
Ollie swallowed.
“I know you,” he hissed, “And I hope he kills you too.”
Cordell’s face fell.
“No,” he said quietly, “You don’t know me, Ollie.”
“What are they gonna do to him?”
Cordell lifted his cigar and lit it again.
“I imagine they will give him a fair trial,” he said.
“If he killed someone,” Ollie replied, “They will hang him.”
“That’s true, dear boy. It’s just the way it is.”
Ollie looked around the room desperately.
“You can help him,” he finally said.
“Ollie.”
“I know you can. You’re rich and powerful. You can make them let him go.”
“That wouldn’t be very fair, would it?”
“What do I have to do?” Ollie pleaded. “I can work. I can tell everyone that you are a good, kind man.”
“He wants to kill me, child.”
“I’ll tell him not to. Please, just let me talk to him.”
“Maybe later,” Cordell told him, “The police are still trying to find Mr. Jensen.”
“Mr. Jensen is alive too?”
“Yes. Would you like to see him again?”
Ollie nodded.
“We have to find him first,” Cordell said. “Do you know where he may have gone?”
The boy shook his head.
“Did Mr. Copperfield hire Mr. Jensen?” he asked, “To protect him?”
“Mr. Jensen doesn’t work for Mr. Copperfield,” Ollie answered, “But he does protect him. He helped him fix up the school.”
“For free?”
Ollie nodded.
“All right,” Cordell said. He tossed his head at Copeland, who drew closer.
“You go back to your bedroom now, Ollie, and be a good boy. Then we can see about letting you talk to Mr. Copperfield.”
Copeland put his hand on Ollie’s shoulder. The boy resigned to be led back to his room.
Cordell drew a puff from his cigar and chewed it.
“A dashing, daring rescue is imminent,” he mused, “How romantic.”
Chapter Text
David bit his tongue and lifted his chin toward the ceiling. He didn’t know how much longer he could bear this. He had the same thought what may have been hours ago, but there was no other choice. It was unending. He occasionally relieved his sore toes by lifting his knees and hanging by his wrists. The cuffs scraped his skin so he tried to grab the chains. He alternated, searching for any reprieve. His entire body ached, not the least between his legs. The heavy vice tugged and dug into him, jostling painfully with every movement.
The door unlocked and opened and he whimpered at the sight of Cordell.
“You’ve had a lot to consider now, haven’t you?” the baron asked.
David didn’t look at him. He approached and brushed his finger along his prisoner’s trembling belly slicked with sweat. He brought back the moistened fingers and sucked them in his mouth, tasting the salt.
“Please,” David whispered, “Please, take it off.”
Cordell dropped his hand and fondled David’s throbbing genitals. He batted at them playfully and grinned while David wriggled and mewled.
“I suppose,” he decided. “It’s more fun to vary things anyhow.”
He grasped the screw and loosened the vice. As blood flowed into David’s organs he keened so hard his voice caught in his throat creating a dry wheezing sound. Any numbness he had was eliminated and he thrashed against his chains and lifted his spread knees as Cordell fondled him again, massaging the red teeth marks on his cock and scrotum.
The sadist admired how his legs lifted, exposing his underside and asshole as if asking to be fucked as he hung midair. He wondered if he could hurt him enough to beg his abuser to fuck him instead. The thought of it made his ears ring.
“Please, stop,” David pleaded. Cordell’s stroking was causing him to swell, stretching the tender bruises.
“What do you think?” he replied. “Should I give you variety?”
David held off for as long as he could, but Cordell’s soft hands seemed like the worst possible torture.
“Yes!” he bleated. “Please, anything else. Please stop.”
“Would you like me to beat you?” Cordell asked, pumping his fist.
Tears streamed down David’s face.
“Yes.”
“Ask me.”
“Please,” he sobbed as he twisted and moved his hips erratically, “Beat me.”
“Sir.”
“Beat me, Sir!”
He released his grip and David moaned, “Thank you.”
Cordell closed his eyes. He inhaled deeply through his nose and then walked toward his cabinet. When he retrieved a flogger and two straps he returned to stoop and uncuff David’s ankles. The young man sighed and closed his legs, finally able to lower on his heels.
“I don’t want to cause too much damage to that beautiful creamy skin of yours,” he told him. “I’ll just mark you up nice and pretty.”
He passed around to his back and rotated the flogger with his wrist and then released it to land across David’s backside. He flinched and rattled his chains. Cordell struck him over and over, excitement increasing as pink stripes appeared on David’s pale flesh.
“Have you ever asked Jon to do this to you?” he asked, raining blows.
David only yelped, squirming and dancing from one foot to the other.
“Has Jon ever asked to do this to you?”
“No-oo,” David’s voice hiccupped.
“Well then, I’m giving you a whole new sort of decadent pleasure.”
Cordell moved to his front and set the flogger down on the chair. David shuddered. He gasped when the man wrapped a strap around his knee and lifted it up, attaching it to a chain from the ceiling beam. He pulled on the chain until David was hovering with one leg pressed against the side of his torso and the other dangling. Cordell applied the second strap to his other knee and lifted that one as well. David hung in the sling, legs open and ass jutted out.
Cordell ran a thumb over his prisoner’s prone hole. He enjoyed his distressed whimpers for a bit before drawing his attention to his delicate, high-arched feet. Cordell took one in his hand and massaged the sore ball and toes, spreading them with his fingers.
David bit his lip and hung his head. He had experienced humiliation in his short life, but nothing like this. His vulnerable asshole twitched as the baron pressed harder against it, rubbing the arch of his foot and kissing and sucking his toes. Goosebumps ran up David’s arms and legs. His face burned with shame when he felt his cock slightly jump against his wishes.
Cordell stepped back and took the flogger in hand again. He twirled it and then struck it underhanded along David’s spread crevice. He repeated as David bounced in the harness, his ass pushing in and out in an attempt to avoid the sting. It appeared inviting and lustful to the baron. The strips of the flogger landed in biting snaps over sensitive sin, reddening it very quickly.
David hissed and gnashed his teeth. When Cordell ended his assault, the young man still clenched and unclenched his backside, bearing through the burn that he couldn’t rub away.
Cordell tossed the flogger and walked toward a closet. He opened it and disappeared inside, emerging again as he dragged another wicked-looking device from within. It was like a heavy end-table, but with a metal pyramid atop it.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked.
David stared, blinking and sucking air between his teeth.
“It’s called a Judas cradle,” Cordell explained. “If Jon’s cock hasn’t gaped you open enough, this will.”
He positioned the disturbing instrument beneath David.
“No,” the victim whispered.
Cordell gave slack to the chains that held David’s limbs aloft, until he very slowly lowered onto the pyramid. The baron stopped to situate David’s body so that the top point strategically penetrated his opening. Cordell lowered him further and David moaned pitifully as it bore into him.
“That’s good for now,” Cordell decided. “I’ll return periodically to weigh you down, more and more.”
David shivered and tore at his bottom lip with his teeth. He tried to pull up on his handcuffs to alleviate the vicious penetration, but he knew he couldn’t keep that up for long with his weakened arms. Soon he would sink back down, letting himself be violated and stretched open.
Cordell murmured, “I suppose I should use this as some opportunity to interrogate you. Not that it’s the point. Tell me, Copperfield, where is Jon Jensen hiding? Where would he go?”
David pressed his face into his arm. Cordell shrugged.
“Oh well.”
He reached out and flicked him hard against his testicles, causing his arms to give and his ass to drop suddenly. He cried out, eyes wide, irises bold blue against bloodshot whites.
“You’ve never looked more delicious,” Cordell smiled.
A broken whimper escaped David’s parted, rosy lips. His toes curled and his legs shook.
“If you’re lucky, I will tire of you as I do all of my playthings,” he continued, “But I don’t expect that to happen anytime soon.”
He left David in the room to bear with a new torture. When the door shut behind him and locked, David dropped his head and cried.
Jon scoured the papers to find notice that Davey Copperfield had been captured. When he found none, he believed that he remained prisoner in Cordell’s mansion. He wasn’t sure which would prove more difficult: a jail break or a home invasion on a veritable fortress.
He hadn’t slept or eaten the night before, despite knowing that he needed his strength. He was driven mad with terrifying imaginings. As much as he deplored the thought, he realized it was fortuitous that Doemling was a sadistic pervert. At least in that case, David would be kept alive long enough for him to break him out. He couldn’t stand this, but he fought the urge to run in guns blazing like a goddamn fool.
He rode to a nearby town to purchase several ammunition belts, a magazine-fed rifle, rope, and a sharper hunting knife. The dealer raised an eyebrow at the mad and disheveled customer, but said nothing.
Jon didn’t know what David was enduring at that very moment, but he sent him his thoughts; the promise that it would be short-lived.
At the mansion, Ollie would hear every hour or so a bell toll of muffled screams through the walls. He tried the lock, but it had since been securely barred from the outside. He released a barrage of thumps upon the door with small clenched fists and cried out for Mr. Copperfield. He knew the police weren’t the cause of those screams. Eventually he retreated from the door and curled up on the carpet in fetal position, plugging his ears with his fingers.
It wasn’t long before David was pleading for another torture to escape from the one he was currently experiencing. Cordell gladly obliged.
Jon crouched along the bushes outside of the Doemling estate. So far he’d counted a dozen hired guns at different posts along the front gate and brick walls and patrolling the grounds. Cordell’s paranoia was serving him well.
He found an area behind the back wall that was a bit of a blind spot. A guard passed by every ten minutes. Jon timed his departure at roughly three to ensure that by the time he finished his task he was at the furthest distance.
Quickly he gathered together tinder and oil and built a fire. As soon as the fire was stable, he draped his bullet belts over it and dashed away. He figured he had seconds to get to the spot along the wall lined with a branched cottonwood tree. That area was rightly guarded by a stationary sentinel.
He arrived and pressed his back against the bricks as he squatted. He tried to still his panting breath. A moment later the bullets began to fire off like the sound of a shotgun. Guards shouted at the apparent assault on the premises. They rushed toward the source, guns ready.
As soon as his man abandoned his post, Jon leapt at the low branch and heaved himself up. He scaled over the wall and landed on the other side. The belt continued to shoot off as the guards frantically searched for a gunman. Jon sprinted for a servant entry and applied their safe-cracking explosive putty to the lock. The bang of it going off was subdued by the bullets. The door opened to him and he stepped inside.
Copeland raced toward the window at the commotion. He saw the men darting about like confused squirrels.
“Idiots,” he muttered. He hurried to Cordell’s office.
“The gallant knight has arrived,” Cordell lilted upon his entry. His personal bodyguards drew their weapons and peeked through the curtains, standing carefully to one side.
“Random gunfire with no target,” Copeland pointed out. “It’s a distraction. He may already be inside, Sir.”
Cordell pursed his lips and exhaled through crinkled nose. He nodded at his guards.
“Go find him. Alert the others that they’re looking in the wrong direction.”
“Shouldn’t one of us stay with you, Sir?”
Cordell nodded and stiffly answered, “Probably, but I want him alive and I don’t think that’s possible with only one of you.”
He paused when the clamor of bullets ceased.
“I don’t trust those men to follow my orders in a pinch.”
The personal guards took off down the hall.
“Copeland, go fetch Ollie. Bring him in here with me.”
“Sir,” Copeland answered.
The two men faced opposite directions, guns steady, as they made their way to the atrium. It had grown rather quiet.
“Should we split up?” one whispered. “It would be easier to comb the place if we brought in the others.”
“Let’s just…” the other responded, turning about and peering along the massive statues that adorned the atrium, “Secure the perimeter, before we do anything stupid.”
In the center of the huge room stood an imposing sculpture of the crucified Christ on a broad platform. The artist had foregone the usual modesty loin cloth. The presence, along with the other cold and silent marble statues gave the room the appearance of a barren graveyard.
One man eyed a lowered statue that was an impressive recreation of Rodin’s The Burghers of Calais, with beleaguered and oppressed coal miners in place of the aristocrats. They studied their own tools and injuries, bemoaning their lots in life.
He clicked at his partner and gestured with his head at the ideal hiding spot. The other nodded and stood in place in front of Christ, pistol raised as the first guard investigated.
Suddenly and silently, a rope dropped around his neck from above. Before he could cry out, his windpipe was squeezed with a great force from behind him on the platform.
Jon threw the rope over one arm of the cross and hoisted the man up as he kicked and struggled for air. He looped it around as the guard was strangled. The man reached for his throat to dig at the rope crushing his airway. His gun fell to the floor with a sharp clatter.
The investigating guard whirled around at the noise and Jon shot him in the skull. He hopped down from the platform and left the hanging man to knock against the body of Christ before finally slumping, arms at his sides.
Copeland pushed Ollie along, jumping at the nearby gunshot. He brought the boy into Cordell’s office and hurried to lock and barricade the door. There was silence again save for the shouting out in the yard.
“They’re dead,” Cordell guessed somberly.
“One man can’t kill all of these gunmen,” Copeland assured him. “I have to send them inside.”
“I can’t ask you to venture through there.”
Copeland looked over his employer. His usual stoic face was riddled with concern and finally, determination. He marched toward the French doors and opened them.
“Lock these after me,” he instructed. “I will stay on the grounds.”
Cordell nodded and said softly, “Thank you, Copeland.”
The butler walked out on the balcony and climbed over the railing. He steadied himself before lowering by his arms, nearing the distance between himself and the yard. He took a breath and released, falling with a pop of his ankle. He growled and winced, then limped toward the back wall.
“What’s going on?” Ollie asked.
Cordell stayed in his seat, chest heaving and fingers tapping the arms of his chair. His eyes darted as he stared ahead at nothing.
“It’s Mr. Jensen, isn’t it?” Ollie answered his own question. “He’s come to get me and Mr. Copperfield.”
Cordell pushed himself up and moved toward Ollie. He crouched down to him and placed his hands on his shoulders.
“I know you don’t think of me as a father figure,” he said, “Maybe you never will even with time and care and affection. But, there is a part of me that hopes you will know I played a role in your life.”
His hands shook and Ollie rocked with the movement.
“I…” he croaked, “I had an impact… on who you might become. Do you understand?”
Ollie nodded. He allowed himself to be brought into Cordell’s arms in an embrace.
Cordell stood once more and walked to the French doors. He peered out at the grounds, anxiously watching the figure of Copeland limp the far distance to the wall. He didn’t hear the boy move on soft feet; grasp the object on his desk with nimble thief’s fingers.
Copeland made it closer to the guards and waved his arms over his head. The men ran toward him and Cordell relaxed.
The small hand grabbed him by the back of the hair. His head reared back and he felt a cold sharp blade sink in this throat. It pulled out and entered again with shallow, repetitive strikes.
He stumbled and grabbed his wounds. When he turned he saw Ollie standing on his chair, holding a bloody letter opener in his hand, his eyes glowering and fiery.
Cordell’s mouth gaped open in broken gasps. He toppled and fell against the door, sinking to the floor. Ollie towered over him, breathing hard and clutching his weapon in triumph.
Cordell stared up at him. A slow, trembling smile spread over his lips.
“There’s a good lad,” he whispered. The blood soaked his collar, draining from him rapidly. He dropped his hand and breathed his last.
Jon moved down the hall, turning his rifle left and right at each open doorway. The place was empty save for the servants who huddled terrified in the kitchen. It wouldn’t be empty for long. It would be minutes, he knew, before the exterior guards flooded inside and made escape nearly impossible.
He rounded the corner and came face to face with a figure. He put his finger on the trigger, then immediately pulled it away. His gun lowered, revealing his stunned face.
“Ollie?”
“Mr. Jensen!” the boy cried. He ran into the man’s arms.
“How…?” Jon stammered. There was no time for those kinds of questions. He held the boy for only a few seconds, kissed the top of his head, and asked, “Where’s Mr. Copperfield?”
Ollie pointed down the hall, past the office.
“I’ve heard,” he swallowed, “I’ve heard s-screams.”
He couldn’t finish. Jon scowled at the reinforced door.
“Stay by my side,” he ordered and made his way toward it.
Ollie pulled out the ring of keys he’d removed from Cordell’s body. He chose the one that seemed the right size and pushed it into the keyhole. The lock clacked and they opened the door.
“God,” Jon uttered when he saw the naked and beaten young man, “David!”
He bolted toward him. David lifted his hanging head.
“Jon…” he breathed.
He was chained securely to the wall by wrists and collar around his neck. He looked down at Ollie. The boy’s hands were bloody and he still clutched the letter opener.
“Cordell?” he asked.
“Dead,” Ollie answered.
Sounds of guards barging down the halls spurred Jon into action. He took the keys from Ollie and began trying them one by one in the lock to David’s collar. The shouting and tramping feet grew closer.
“You have to go!” David told him.
“Absolutely not.”
Jon continued searching through the keys.
“Jon!” David snapped, “Ollie has blood on his hands. He just killed a wealthy man. They will hang him alongside us.”
Jon fought back his panic.
“I can’t…” he creaked, “I can’t abandon you.”
David locked eyes with him, leaning forward as far as he could.
“If you love me, save him. Run far away and keep him safe.”
Tears welled in Jon’s eyes and he gritted his teeth.
“Go!”
Jon grabbed Ollie and they ran down the hall in the opposite direction of the noise. They ducked into a servant’s stairwell and flew down into the kitchen. The help reacted like frightened chickens, scurrying into a corner. He ignored them and burst through the side door. First he lifted Ollie up over the gate, and then he scrambled up and over himself. By the time the guards fell upon David’s prison, they were riding away on horseback.
They rode without stopping, without speaking, for miles; both of them knowing they may never see the schoolteacher again.
Copeland entered the room where David was currently kept. He had been taken from his former prison and clothed to protect any remaining secrecy as to Cordell’s sexual sadism. He was cuffed again to a chair. Guards stood beside him, unsettled but not entirely surprised by the evidence of torture. The butler’s shirt and hands were now stained with the baron’s blood. His face was icy.
“The police are here,” he muttered with contempt on his lips.
“I’m astonished that you have called for them,” David groaned. “I thought for certain that I was a dead man.”
“You are a dead man,” Copeland spat. “The only reason I don’t kill you right now is because I want your execution to be a matter of record. I want every friend and relative of yours back home to know you were found guilty of your heinous crimes and hung in a crowded square.”
“So be it.”
The angry man drew close, glaring into David’s eyes.
“I will watch them do it,” he growled. “I will slip them ample payment to make sure the noose is placed poorly and the drop is short, so I can look at your purple face as you slowly choke and shit yourself. I hope in your last moments you see me smiling.”
The police entered and Copeland passed them the keys to David’s cuffs before walking away.
Chapter 16
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Copeland sat in an officious room before the officious desk of Cordell’s attorney.
“As I’m sure you know,” the attorney droned, “Mr. Doemling had no apparent heirs.”
“I’m aware,” Copeland answered.
“He did, however, leave a will and testament.”
The butler nodded absent-mindedly. The attorney clasped his hands on the desk.
“Mr. Copeland,” he articulated, “Mr. Doemling’s possessions, his wealth and businesses, his entire estate… were left to you.”
Copeland’s face drew blank. He stared at the man in stunned silence. Finally, he broke into a somber chuckle. He ran a finger over his wet eyelid.
“It seems he trusts you, and only you, to manage all of his affairs.”
Copeland could only nod. He knew in his muted thoughts that neither Jensen nor the chained Copperfield had murdered his employer. The barricade had been removed from the inside and only a small boy had been in the room with him. He said nothing of this, despite his rage. Doemling would have wanted it this way.
David Copperfield, he thought, on the other hand, May he burn in hell.
Jon’s arrival in Tarheel was a surprise to the townsfolk. The clean white schoolhouse was newly built on the opposite side.
Midge ran out to greet him, followed by Frank.
“We heard they have him,” Frank muttered bitterly as Midge hugged the traveler and Ollie.
Jon nodded as Ollie slid down from the saddle. He looked at Midge.
“I need you to watch the boy for me,” he told her. “Keep him safe until I return.”
She agreed.
“What are you planning?” Frank asked.
“Something stupid,” Jon answered in a low voice. He backed his horse and turned around.
Frank headed for the sheriff’s office. He returned with two shotguns in his hands and stopped Jon just as he was about to ride.
“I’m coming with you,” he insisted.
Midge smiled at him proudly.
“You’re stupid too, then?” Jon asked.
“That’s right,” Frank told him.
Jon tossed his head in a yielding sign. Frank packed the guns on his saddle and turned to Midge.
“Just in case,” he said to her. He took her in his arms and kissed her hard on the mouth. She opened her eyes wide and then wrapped her arms around his neck. When he released her she gasped and patted her hair.
As they left the town together Frank asked, “Straight to St. Louis?”
“I need to stop in Chicago,” Jon replied. “I have a favor to ask of a friend.”
“Why did you board up the window?”
Mayor Vaughn squinted into the dark cell at the young man who huddled in the corner of his cot. He could barely make out his face. “Even if he could climb up there, it’s not as though he could squeeze through the bars.”
The St. Louis sheriff leaned to the side toward him and muttered, “Folks kept passing him things: love letters, even weapons.”
“Ingrates,” the mayor sneered. “Cordell Doemling was a pillar of this community.”
The sheriff raised an eyebrow at him but covered for it with a nod.
“You know he rescued a group of orphans?” Vaughn pointed out. He glared at David, who didn’t raise his head.
The deputy wandered in and cleared his throat.
“He has a visitor.”
“No more looky-loos,” the sheriff barked.
“She says she’s his sister,” he replied. “Or, rather, she passed me a note. She can’t speak. Look like her tongue been cut out.”
“He probably did that too,” Vaughn claimed with a nod at David, “Wouldn’t put it past him.”
“Go ahead and let her in,” the sheriff ordered.
The mayor tipped his hat at the woman as he departed.
David approached the bars. He didn’t recognize this woman. She wore a very prim black dress fastened around her long neck and reaching the top of her boots. Her hair was pulled back tight. The only parts of her uncovered were her hands and pale, gaunt face. She had a stern, severe look with dark lined eyes and a straight, hard mouth. She looked David up and down, observing him with an intense, fiery expression. The silent woman nodded and extended her hand.
The sheriff craned his neck, but seeing nothing in her flattened hand he relaxed. David furrowed his brow and questioned her with his eyes in matched silence. Finally, he returned her gesture and she gripped him in a very firm handshake. Then she turned and left.
David returned to his cot and sat on the edge. He flipped his hand over and found that it was marked with wet black ink. Printed on his palm was a connected TH, the sigil of Tarheel that David had painted above the door of his old schoolhouse. He looked up and clenched his fist shut.
The mayor had insisted they try and hang him quickly. The whole ordeal was a kangaroo court. The judge had a verdict before he arrived. It was early morning when they yanked him out of bed, roped his hands, and hustled him out to the gallows.
“What a turnout,” the mayor remarked as he stood on the platform. The police had to hold back the crowd that David passed through. They threatened them with raised batons.
David’s back was straight and his blue eyes steady on the ominous noose. He climbed the steps to the platform and looked out at the restless crowd. They eventually silenced when the sheriff rose his hand.
“David Copperfield,” he announced, “You have been found guilty in the court of law for murder and thievery. You are sentenced to hang by your neck until dead.”
The people erupted into roars and wails of outrage.
“You’re hangin’ a hero, Sheriff!” someone called.
“He’s a murderer!” someone else replied and the crowd jostled with shoving and quarreling.
“We love you, Davey!” a female voice shouted.
The condemned scanned the crowd with his eyes. They landed on Copeland, standing nearly front and center, still except for the occasional sway from being bumped. He glared into Copperfield’s eyes, seemingly unaffected by the alternating cries for leniency, for medals, for burning him at the stake.
“By the power vested in me by the state of Missouri…” the sheriff continued. His voice was barely audible above the commotion. He shook in frustration.
“What’s wrong with you people?” he yelled. “Don’t you have any respect for the course of justice?”
“It ain’t justice to burn down schoolhouses!” another citizen cried to the raucous agreement of the crowd. “It ain’t justice to steal people’s land and murder the innocent!”
“We better get this over with, they gonna riot,” the deputy said.
“Any last words?” the sheriff asked David.
The young man stepped forward with poise, despite his bound hands. They silenced again to hear him speak.
“I am sorry that I resorted to violence, an act I do not condone under normal circumstances,” he told them, his voice cracking. “I will face my fate, but with the hope that all of you will hold in your hearts and minds the power you have to fight against corruption and demand fair and just treatment for yourselves.”
“And votes for women!” a voice rang out.
David looked at the person, a bit confused.
“And… votes for women!” he called.
The mayor rolled his eyes. The executioner pulled David back, standing him over the trap door. He lowered the noose around his neck, and David swallowed repeatedly, growing lightheaded.
The anxious, sick feeling in his gut rose to his throat. He could feel the noose pulled too tight and positioned below his Adam’s apple rather than beneath his jaw where his neck would snap and kill him instantly. The rope was short, as Copeland promised. He would hang at the void left by the trap door and he wondered how long it would take for him to suffocate. He tried not to think of the minutes that would pass as he strangled while St. Louis watched. He was grateful that Jon was not there to see it; especially grateful that Ollie was with Jon, hopefully never knowing how he kicked and drooled as blood poured into his eyes.
The priest performed his last rites. David glanced to the side and noticed the woman in black, standing at the far edge, very near the gallows. Perhaps she was here for Jon’s sake, to tell him it was done. Maybe she would lie in vain that his death had been quick. The woman’s face never wavered in sternness, her eyes never losing their penetrating burn.
The sheriff nodded at the executioner and the hooded man reached for the lever. As sniffling could be heard in the square, he pulled it and David dropped very slightly. The crowd gasped and booed, knowing what had been done. For mere seconds, David felt the rope squeezing his jugular, his spine popping. He dangled stiff by his neck.
The woman in black darted forward and slashed the rope with a concealed knife. It stretched to bare strings and then snapped. David fell through the platform and hit the dirt.
Screams emerged before members of the crowd burst forth. Others grabbed them, and a fist-fight broke out, punches landing and people being nearly trampled. The mayor froze, stunned as the sheriff leapt from the platform.
David caught his breath and then rolled toward the back of the gallows. He pushed himself up and whirled, bewildered as a carriage rushed through the borders of the square. He looked up to see Frank in the seat, holding the reins. The door flew open and Jon Jensen thrust his gun out and shot the sheriff in the leg.
Copeland stared in shock before gnashing his teeth and shoving people out of his way. He grabbed the trailing rope of the noose and yanked. He pulled hand over hand, dragging David toward him like a dog on a leash.
The woman in black was at him in a blink, thrusting her knife below his ribcage and upward. Copeland fell back into the distracted crowd, where he was crushed under their feet. David stumbled into the carriage and the woman bolted as it began to move, racing alongside and hoisted up by Jon.
That was the day St. Louis gained a new story to pass onto their children and their children’s children. Some historians decades later would claim it didn’t happen at all. The records never filed it and a full grave was marked with the name Copperfield. Who else could be buried there? Although, others would say it was suspicious that around that time a butler named Copeland, who never claimed his inherited wealth, went missing without a trace.
As the carriage sped westward, Jon carefully loosened the noose around David’s throat. He stroked the angry bruise and kissed his open lips. He then turned to the woman whose face showed the very subtle trace of a smirk.
“Thank you, Madelaine,” he told her. She nodded.
They arrived at a camp far away from St. Louis and Madelaine mounted her waiting horse.
“I owe you one!” Jon called. She shook her head and rode off.
“Are you ready, Ollie?” David asked. He wore an ascot that covered the marks around his neck.
“Never been on a boat before,” the boy said. His eyes were gleaming and wide as he leaned over the boarding dock to view the side of the ship. He tugged at his comparatively tight pants.
Jon looked equally uncomfortable in his waistcoat and bow tie. David had told him he looked dashing and Jon grimaced until David assured him that he wouldn’t be wearing them very long.
“What’s England like?” Ollie asked.
“It’s cool and green,” David answered fondly, “Lots of rain. The buildings are old; bigger than you have ever seen.”
Ollie took an excited breath.
“There are wonderful schools,” David continued. He put his hand on Ollie’s shoulder. “We can take you to see the birthplace of William Blake.”
The boy gasped and smiled broadly.
“It’s a shame we have to miss the wedding,” David sighed as they boarded, flashing forged papers.
“I’m sure Frank and Midge will understand,” Jon replied. “Besides, they’ll hit the ceiling when they open our wedding gift.”
As the ship slowly pulled away from the dock, Ollie waved at the people who had come from the continent to which he was headed. They flooded Ellis Island, each of them ready to venture west and find their place in an open and unsettled land.
Notes:
The End!
Thank you for reading, my lovelies. This was my first western and I had a blast with it. I hope you enjoyed.
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