Retribution

Retribution

 

 

Something justly deserved

 

Ron Lewis

 

 

© Copyright 2019/2021 by Ron Lewis

This is a work of fiction and not intended to be historically accurate, but merely a representation of the times. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to any person, living or dead, is merely coincidental and unintentional. Historical characters used are strictly for dramatic purposes. This story contains some violence.

Retribution

 

ret·ri·bu·tion (rtr-byshn) n. Something justly deserved; recompense.

 

From the diary of Serenity Lancaster

Friday, May 1^st, 1868

 

I start this new journal with the fervent hope that someday, my offspring, should I have any, may read my words and glean a better understanding of me. Should I have children in the future, I’d like them to understand their mother in a more profound way than one often appreciates another person. My mother named me Serenity, wishing only happiness in life for me. She raised me with love and affection in a comfortable home, a mansion, if truth be told, in Saint Louis. And, for the most part, I was a merry girl.

 

My father, Alfred Lancaster, was a mean, abusive drunkard. His only saving grace was the vast sums of money he built in a life filled with hard business decisions. He was a shrewd, hard-nosed businessman, who took immense pleasure from thrashing my mother, his wife. Her name was Winnifred. His inclination, after beating her, involved having his way with her, while snockered to the gills on brandy.

 

The war, the not-so-Civil War between the States, has been over for several years, and I have left Missouri, with all its terrible memories, behind as I sojourn west.

 

When I first boarded the train, in the dead of night, catching sight of my reflection in the window as we pulled out of the station, I spied father’s eyes, blinking, confused as he tried to understand what happened to him. The memory was disturbing. I shook the vision from my mind.

 

I found the Kansas Pacific Railroad ride exhilarating; we rambled down the tracks at a dizzying twenty-five or thirty miles an hour. The flat, featureless landscape rushed by at a befuddling speed.

 

Trees or grandiose boulders, a bush here, a gully or stream, and wild beast, hurled by so swiftly, one mightn’t wrap their brain around the images in a fast enough fashion to appreciate what they witnessed.

 

After my train ride, I traveled by stagecoach. The coach wasn’t as quick as the train, but the terrain moved past me slowly enough to appreciate the beauty in the landscape’s starkness.

 

I know what one would say, really, I do. The thought is silly to most, the beauty of the prairie. In its own unique way, I insist the plains are as beautiful as any forests or mountains. A rugged beauty, to be sure, nonetheless, a loveliness is here, a lonesome exquisiteness, to be appreciated and savored.

 

I spotted antelopes in abundance. The mighty buffalo moved in the most massive herd imaginable, and the lowly jackrabbit showed his stuff to me as he raced away from a foul dog of some sort. I was told the critter was a coyote. The jackrabbit outsmarted him, ducking into some burrow as the fearsome beastie came up with a mouth full of dirt.

 

I have arrived at Carterville, a collection of forty or so buildings, ranging from small dwellings to sizeable two- or three-story businesses. I counted two churches, one general store, one mercantile, a feed and grain, and four saloons, along with other assorted companies. One of the drinking institutions boasted of having the most elegant brothel west of Penny, though I know not where this Penny is situated.

 

The community itself, Carterville, was a new prairie rose bloomed from the dusty plains nine years ago. This wonderment happened when a former trapper estimated the railroad would eventually pass through this exact spot. He missed his judgment but never lived to see his error. About a year after he formed the town, he dropped dead in the middle of Front Street.

 

They say he is the victim of a curse placed on him by a medicine man of some tribe or other for camping in the wrong place. The locals believed an angry medicine man hexed him with an evil spirit when Carter pitched his tent among the elevated death scaffolds of some chieftain or another, from what they all tell me.

 

For my part, I think his only curse was the misfortune of poor judgment in his choosing to build his town fifteen miles south of the route taken by the railroad. If only they manufactured goggles to view the future with exactitude, allowing one to adjust important decisions to match the land’s forthcoming changes.

 

The men here appear quite rough and rugged. Most are unshaven, wearing grimy clothing, shouting of their working-class situations. After reading the previous sentence, would it surprise one to learn these men are polite, ruggedly handsome men respectful to womenfolk?

 

I was taken totally aback and am pleased with them about their turnings toward a manly gentility. These fine fellows, I believe, represent the real American male of the west, hardworking, hard-playing, honest fellows. Unlike my late father, these are real men who no more would harm a woman than I would harm another soul for as long as I live.

 

Not all of them are unwashed or unshaven. I met a most amicable man at the Larson’s restaurant this evening. He owns a gun shop, is a qualified gunsmith by trade, and I cannot imagine a more agreeable person.

 

I understand one’s first impressions of another can be mistaken. I shall have to keep my eye on him for any sign of falseness. No, I have not set my cap for him, but I want to ensure he is worthy of me if I decide to do so. Oh, does this sound pretentious or haughty? I surely hope it does not.

 

I had only finished unpacking and found myself, well, peckish. Consequently, as the Palace Hotel, which is not a’tall palatial, and has no restaurant, I ventured out. I found an eatery called Larson’s Café. Larson, of the name, is a mountainous Swede or Norwegian, with a thick accent, a huge smile, and reasonably tasty food. He is tall, blonde, and does the cooking whilst his wife waits on the customers, a short, well-proportioned woman with a big friendly smile.

 

I tried a beefsteak prepared from a locally grown cow, a variety of bovine called Hereford, and I must tell you this new arrival from England puts Texas longhorn to shame, in all honesty. I ate my food in much the same manner as always, a small bite of meat followed by a nibble of vegetable, potato in this instance.

 

The man at the table next to me smiled at me while waiting for his own food. While not gawking at me, he had every appearance of being amused at my expense. Thus, I stopped eating, glanced at him, stared into his eyes, and asked him a question.

 

“Whatever is so amusing?”

 

“Nothing, ma’am,” he said. “It is a pleasurable change from the norm. I mean, seeing a beautiful woman eating with table manners, rather than a dirty cowboy shoveling a steak into his mouth whole, with vast amounts of pinkish fluid running over his unwashed chin. Yes, sirree, the sight can put me off my feed. This, well, Miss, this is so incredibly enjoyable. My name is John Hatton.”

 

I suggested he join me. Once his own food came out, we ate together, conversed, and got along marvelously. I was somewhat brazen, but he knew nothing of me, nothing of my wealth or position, and therefore, I thought he had an interest in developing a friendship, nothing more.

 

For me, it has become vital to form friendships, or more, with an individual; the relationship must be a genuine friendship and not some means to an end concerning my money.

 

We visited for several hours after our meal. We talked about many things and learned something about one another amid the hubbub of a busy restaurant. I learned of John’s fondness for books, his desire, one day, to have a family. For his part, he listened to what I said.

 

He learned I was starting over and wanted to purchase a business in the community and, in so doing, become a part of something greater than myself. I did not confess my sin to him.

 

I do not think I would ever tell him what I did to my father. To be honest, this is a secret, scalding my soul. I would love to have a confidant I might talk to, but this is dangerous. For a murderess has no time when they can no longer be punished for their crime.

 

Eventually, he walked me to my hotel. Like a true gentleman, he stayed in the lobby as I walked up the stairs. When I reached the top, I waved at him before going around the corner to my room, which occupied the space directly above the office and counter area.

 

Well, the hour draws late, and my journey was long. When first I put my finger on this spot on the map, I had no idea how the adventure would unfold. So far, I’m pleased, for I think I have chosen well. This hotel would make an excellent investment for me. The current owner will be retained as manager, for he gives every appearance of being more than adequate for his duties. I perceive him to be friendly, and the old fellow might make an outstanding employee.

 

I want something new, fresh, and clean with as little as possible of the stain of Father’s interest to touch it. I want to sell off all those holdings he built up, armament companies, alcohol production businesses, carriage works, all his businesses.

That was a preview of Retribution. To read the rest purchase the book.

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