A Job In Whitepost - Fiction Book Award

Prologue

George was meticulous in his duties within his employer’s home. He had many responsibilities as the House Steward in Mr Lewis’ household and Mr Lewis trusted him with such. Each day he woke, washed, dressed, made his bed, conferred with the housekeeping staff to ensure his employer’s assigned dwellings were near perfection on any given day. He also attended to the management of minor administrative tasks for the benefit of Mr Lewis’ office.

George took pride in his role; it wasn’t easy to come by a position such as this when his background was that of severe poverty and underprivilege – but he was driven and worked hard to get where he was. Mr Lewis was a seemingly cold man but George could see through that, from the 2 years he had known him, he came to feel that perhaps this wasn’t a cold man after all, simply a determined one, someone resolute in achieving his goals.

You could almost say George Clarke admired him.

This impression would soon change, however, on a particularly cold evening in 1868, when George entered the private study of Mr Lewis. He had poked his head in simply to enquire whether Mr Lewis required any further assistance, only to find the room empty.

Mr Lewis must have stepped out, but there was crockery left on his desk from earlier – George decided to bring it down to the kitchen before the staff had completely retired for the night. As he stepped over to the desk, leaned across to pick up the cup, saucer, and plate – his eyes became fixed on a letter the master of the house had been reading on his desk, presumably received that day. He wouldn’t normally have classified himself as prying but something about the letter seemed strangely curious and he was drawn by some unknown feeling to read it.

He began to read. Dear Jesus.. no.. Oh god what was this!? George could feel his heart quicken with furious speed; his stomach sank below the foundations.. No this wasn’t right. Could this man, this honourable man.. Could he be capable of such things? George couldn’t think, his head in a spin. This is bad.. God almighty a man of government? to scheme in such ways and seem unburdened with guilt..

George could hear the footsteps of Mr Lewis returning through the second door, he knew instinctively he could not let Mr Lewis realise he had any knowledge whatsoever of what he had just seen. He left with the crockery immediately and headed straight for his own room to think on what he has just read and what, if anything, he should do about it.

A name. A name from George’s past, written in that letter. They are going to drag her down too.. This letter is about death.

Chapter 1

Harrison James – US Marshall

Whitepost, in the newly formed Arizona Territory, in the Marshall’s opinion, was certainly nothing like what he had pictured. His Grandmother had a friend or pen pal of sorts she would write to, who apparently lived here when he and his brother (and Deputy) Morgan were very young boys. Their grandmother had told them stories about this beautiful little town with the sweetest, god-fearing people and a large white lamp post, from which it procured its name. It was positioned outside the church in the centre of town. Although a part of the West, it was portrayed as an oasis of respectable living surrounded by a practically lawless land. The town was situated amongst the more luscious and green forests of the territory, far enough out from the dry and dusty, cactus filled plains one normally imagines in this part of the world. His grandmother mentioned a river or creek than ran through the forest with crystal, brisk waters and tranquil sounds of babbling and rippling as the brook ran over rocks and fallen branches.

The picturesque-type town he was expecting was nowhere to be found. The smell of horse manure and piss in the air could make your eyes water. It was only the later side of the day, but many of the townsfolk appeared inebriated and stumbling about in the sludge towards the gambling house. They were staggering out of the saloon or what he believed to be a large brothel at the end of town. The once white church looked dilapidated and possibly abandoned – was there even a minister here? Each breath in the hot, sweaty air was heavy. There were of course some of the usual establishments you’d expect in any town of this size – a General Store, a doctor’s office, a butcher peddling various meats in his stall, a stable and, surprisingly, a small gunsmith but the majority of business seemed to be centred about the less-than-reputable enterprises. These wooden buildings and their protruding verandas were old, they were creaking, and they were filthy. The town looked and felt rough.

He and the Deputy needed to find the Sheriff first and foremost. They needed to establish what was known so far regarding the stagecoach robbery they had been sent to investigate. Upon arriving to the door of the sheriff’s office, a reasonably sized place with a glass-panelled front door, they found it to be empty. Morgan turned to enquire with a local woman passing by, “Pardon me ma’am, my brother and I are looking to find your Sheriff, would you happen to know whereabouts here we might find him?”

“The Sheriff? Why he’s more ‘n likely reposing in his second home”

The woman could see Morgan and Harrison’s visible confusion. She indicated over to the Saloon and chuckled “He’s practically a part o’ the furniture over there sir – good day”.

Harrison gave his brother a nod and they made their way to the Bar. They were surprised to find half the town in there, the commotion was unanticipated at this time of the day. The saloon was impressive on the inside. The establishment boasted a nice, high ceiling with an Interior balcony wrapping around the room on the upper floor. A grand old staircase centred the room and led up to the balcony, along with what seemed to be a hallway towards, possibly, some bedrooms. They made their way over to the bar through the crowd to speak with the barkeep, Morgan piped up immediately, “Hey there, what exactly’s going on in here, crowds a little thick for early evening?” The barkeep leaned across the bar,

“Lenora’s back in town, she don’t normally perform as early but these folks, with myself included, just love the sound of her voice - shame you just missed her last song of the evenin’! She’s goddamn great for business I’ll tell you that. What can I get you boys?”

Harrison interjected before Morgan got the chance, “Two whiskeys and if you wouldn’t mind pointing out which of these fine folks you have elected as your Sheriff, I’d appreciate it.” The barkeep pointed to the sweaty, slightly sunburned, overweight man sitting on the last stool. Harrison downed his shot and moved to walk over, dragging Morgan away before he could order another drink.

Morgan was a good deputy, but he had a predisposition towards the more enjoyable aspects of life and the job. Harrison himself was more serious, straight to the point. Just as they were about to engage the lawman, Morgan’s eye appeared to catch something of interest. He turned and suggested to his brother that it might be worthwhile for him to sit in on a poker game happening on one of the tables at the other side of the room. Morgan indicated it might be an opportunity to learn of any information or gossip the townsfolk have about the crime and about the area in general. Harrison merely grunted at the idea, but his brother knew that meant a ‘reluctant yes’.

Harrison tapped the shoulder of the Sheriff, slumped on his barstool, clutching his warm beer and staring off into the distance – he was startled.

“I apologise, it was not my intention to disconcert you. I was told you are the Sheriff? My name is Harrison James, I am a US Marshall and I have come along here with my Deputy. We are here by the appointment of the Governor of New Mexico Territory to personally investigate the stagecoach robbery that happened outside of this town. I was hoping to speak somewhere quieter to..”

Harrison noticed at this point the supposed Sheriff’s head was drooping lower, his eyes rolled ever so slightly, and the faintest string of drool had appeared to depart from the corner of his mouth.. the man was drunk.

After a moment's pause, since Harrison stopped speaking, the Sheriff struggled to slur his way through a sentence, “Did you say Marshall or Marsha? I don’t know no Marsha.. is Len singin’ yet? She got a sweet set of pipes on her”.

He stumbled off the stool and towards Harrison who reluctantly steadied his balance. The man’s breath was foul as he leaned in to mumble at Harrison,

“You married? I need t’ find me a wife I reckon.. I need a whiskey”. Harrison rolled his eyes and planted the drunkard back onto the stool to collapse across the bar. The place was lively, so nobody seemed to notice or really care that the town’s elected official of the law was passed out. As he turned away to search for his brother his eye suddenly caught on someone. A woman.

She was standing across the room, laughing at something one of the two men she was conversing with must have said. She was smoking a slim cigar and as she exhaled a small cloud of smoke, his view of her was blocked for moment until it cleared, and her eyes met his.

She was striking. Not, perhaps, in a stereotypical way.. but she had an intriguing look. She was quite slim around the waist but not petite overall, slightly curvaceous, and slightly tall for a woman – a strangely strong frame. Her face wasn’t that of a doe-eyed young girl but of a woman grown.. maybe mid-twenties or so. Dark hair, fair skin.. her eyes were that which caught him most – sultry and piercing. She was looking at him with confidence beaming from her, as if she knew she could hold his gaze as long as she wanted.

As she excused herself from the company of the two gentlemen, she began walking towards him. Harrison turned back towards the bar, but not before she came close enough for him to see that those almost seductive eyes, were a chilling, wintery blue.

“Two whiskeys please Calvin, maybe a double for my timid new friend here”, She smirked at Harrison as he calmly, but firmly, protested her statement, “I would hardly say timid, Madam?”

“It’s Lenora Taylor”, she downs her whiskey, “and it’s Miss by the way”.

“Miss Taylor, so you’re the one who performs here. Do you always distract half the town away from their work to get intoxicated during the day?”

“Do you always jump down a lady’s throat before you’ve even introduced yourself? Harrison paused for a moment before responding, evaluating her in a way.

“Apologies miss, my name is Harrison James. I’m a..”

She cuts him off, “Wait! Don’t say another word – let me take a stab at guessin’.. let me see, decent clothes, somewhat groomed, stiff as a goddamn board and.. tired behind the eyes.. an 1862 Colt holstered under your jacket there and.. Oh! Yes indeed, there it is – the badge of a US Marshall pinned right there on your shirt. Why am I not surprised?” She flipped the lapel of his jacket back to hide his badge once again.

Harrison quietly grunted. “You got a problem with lawmen?”

She scoffed, “Ha! No Mr. James, I just got a problem with any man who don’t show no manners – next time a lady buys you a drink, try starting off with a thank you. Enjoy your evenin’, Marshall”. She sized him up once more before making her way up the stairs of the saloon.

He had never met such an audacious woman.

Harrison hadn’t had too much interaction with women on a personal level, not for any reason other than choice. His profession often had him on the road so settling down with someone was impractical at the time, in his opinion. He was handsome in a rugged sort of way, but it was Morgan who usually caught the eye of the Ladies, (and loved it too to be honest), a dandy of sorts who could not resist womanising.

Harrison had enough for the night; they weren’t going to get anything out of the practically poisoned Sheriff that evening. They were better off starting fresh in the morning. He enquired with the bar staff about lodgings for he and Morgan while they stayed in town, The saloon actually did rent rooms upstairs, but they were full – he was redirected to a boarding house just a couple of paces out from the town.

Harrison approached Morgan at the card table, one of the older gents was teasing him as he pulled the pile of poker chips away from his clearly losing brother.

“Christ boy I coulda’ sworn you was old man Laudergill risen from the dead playin’ like that!” He laughs.

Morgan looked determined and smiled, “Ain’t nothin’ but a run of bad luck old timer, I still got all evenin’ to win my money back! Evenin’ Harry, you fancy joinin’ us at the table here? Seeing as that lovely thing you was chatting with at the bar appears to have up and left you high and dry?” The other men at the table laugh.

“Don’t call me Harry, how many goddamn times.. I’m turning in for the night, I suggest you do the same before you lose more’n you have”.

Harrison instructed his brother where to find his accommodation and left him to his merriment in the saloon. He was walking in the now dark street, then suddenly stopped and pondered to himself – what kind of a woman would ever know the specific make and model of a handgun at one single glance?

Chapter 2

Sam Walker – Notorious Outlaw

The law across the entire West had never encountered criminals like Sam ‘The Phantom’ Walker and the ‘Spector’ Gang. In just 4 years, they had racked up a significant list of offences including train robbery, murder and horse theft (to name a few), but stagecoach robbery was never really their thing. Sam Walker knew better than draw down the wrath of Mr Wells and Mr Fargo. Those fine gentlemen did not take kindly to disruptions to their enterprises and were well known for retribution. That is of course until Sam Walker met with ‘the woman’. Normally, Sam would have nothing to do with outsiders nor be inclined to trust them. But Sam had it on good authority that ‘the woman’ meant business, real business and that the payment for the job she was proposing would be most rewarding. And so, Sam agreed to meet with her to discuss her proposal. The woman advised she was representing an ‘anonymous benefactor’ who wanted them to rob the stage. A particular stagecoach, at a particular time, for a particular reason. The woman outlined they could have everything they find in the coach plus six thousand American Dollars. All they had to do, was find one sealed yellow letter, marked private and addressed for New Mexico Territory which must be delivered directly to her.

Now normally, the gang must abide by certain rules, this ensured their success in the past – they rarely, if ever, hit the same town twice, each time a job was done they’d split up and immediately ride to a camp set up before hand, always hidden, always out of sight. A different member would be tasked with burying the loot each time. They would then ride into town one by one to seek employment as weary travellers in the various local businesses. They would effectively hide in plain sight until the heat was off, then dig up the loot and make their way off to the next target.

The jobs were always scoped out in advance, no robbery was ever done on impulse and above all – there was never to be any witnesses left alive. With that being said, the woman should have been killed, but somehow Sam instinctively knew there was more to this story than met the eye. So they would need to be patient for now and bide their time.