The Last Station
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Susan had been to a few train stations before. In fact, she’d never actually seen her father’s station in person. It was located at the edge of a small town on a branch line. But he hadn’t wanted to spend much time there and Susan didn’t think it would be too exciting anyway.
But this little outpost was quite an interesting place. At least from what she could see through the iron fence surrounding the tracks. There were some wooden buildings that seemed to house the railroad employees along with a large blacksmith shop and several other businesses.
A few men stood outside their shops watching as a small group of horses approached from behind one of the larger buildings. The animals moved up close to where they waited then pulled up short when another man emerged.
He held his hand out toward one of the riders who dismounted while the rest kept moving forward. When the rider got down, the others followed suit. They took off their hats and bowed low to show respect for this important figure.
“What is that?” Susan asked. “Are those Indians? I’ve heard about them.”
Her mother turned to look back at the men. “Those are Indians and yes you will find them here,” she said with a sigh. Then added in a whisper, “They’re all right. Don’t worry, Susan. These are good Indians.” She patted Susan’s arm before turning her attention back to the scene.
The Indian stepped closer and looked up at the rider with a raised brow. He wore a simple cotton shirt with trousers tucked into knee-high boots. His hair was shaggy brown, tied back by a leather thong around his head and chin. The only decoration he carried was a silver necklace that hung loosely over his chest.
The rider nodded in agreement with the question asked then reached into his pocket to pull something out. The man extended a hand and offered him the item. After looking it over for a moment, the Indian gave it back.
The rider tossed the object into the dirt. As soon as it landed, the Indian picked it up and examined it carefully. He turned it over and over before holding it up to catch the afternoon sunlight. Finally satisfied, he placed it inside his pocket again.
It was a knife. A very fine one indeed. Not just any knife but a rare knife made of gold. And the rider was proud to own such a thing because of its beauty and rarity. But most importantly, it was worth many times more than the sum total of everything the man owned.
It would have paid for a year or two of food, shelter, and clothing for himself and his family. If not longer. It would certainly help ease the pain of losing their land—their livelihood.
The rider looked up to thank the Indian for returning it to him, but the man was already gone. With a wave and smile, he left the rider standing there with nothing but a faint scent of perfume still lingering.
That had been three days ago. Since then, Susan and her mother had seen the Indian once more. This time when they rode up to town, the Indian greeted them. He walked toward the horses and stopped beside Susan. He stared down at her in silence for a moment. When he finally spoke, she thought he might speak again, but instead, he pointed to herself and then to him.
“Yes, we are husband and wife,” her mother answered after a brief hesitation. “You should have seen my face when he asked if you were married. It was priceless. I couldn’t tell whether or not he believed me.”
As they watched the Indians leave, Susan felt relieved and grateful that the man was so friendly to them.
“Why do they live here? Why don’t they stay with their own people?”
“Because they’re poor and alone,” her mother answered. “And like all other Indians, they want to be accepted by white men. Most of them have families back home but none of them wants to go back because the land they once called theirs has been taken away.
They came here for better opportunities, and in some cases, protection from the white settlers. So far, these towns haven’t let them down.”
Susan remembered what her mother told her about how her father first met the chief’s daughter. She had found him standing in front of one of the saloons on a street corner, waiting for someone. She’d noticed his resemblance to Indians she’d read about and asked him why he chose to dress that way.
To her surprise, he said his people were proud of their heritage and that was how they wanted to be recognized.
“But your father—”
“Yes, I’m sorry he died,” she interrupted. “I wish he could see me now.” Her voice sounded choked for a moment before she composed herself. “But I’m glad to know you didn’t marry him because of my father.”
She smiled and patted Susan’s cheek as she passed her to mount up. Susan watched as her mother rode off. For the rest of the day and part of the next, she kept wondering why the Indian had chosen to visit her, but she never knew the answer.
***
Susan’s eyes shot open to darkness and a low growl. Something cold brushed against her bare skin, followed by another touch—not the same animal. There was no doubt about it now. Someone had touched her without permission. In a panic, she tried to sit up in bed but found she had little room to move.
Someone’s arm was around her waist. That would have explained the tight embrace but not the presence of an unfamiliar smell in her nostrils.
A moment later, a familiar scent filled her nose again: mint, sage, and pine. It brought to mind images of the forest and the mountains. It was a fragrance she hadn’t smelled since her childhood. Then she remembered where she was—a strange bed in a strange house with strangers sleeping in the other rooms. She struggled with the arms holding her down, trying to free herself from this new threat to her personal space.
The arm tightened around her body, making it harder for her to breathe. A hand pressed against the side of her breast.
Her heart pounded hard and fast, sending jolts of heat throughout her body. She gasped for air and kicked at the attacker until she managed to break out of his grip. She rolled onto her side and grabbed the nearest weapon—a hairbrush with a wooden handle. Before throwing the brush aside, she gave the intruder a good look.
His face was hidden behind his beard, which hung to mid-chest on both sides. But she knew exactly who it belonged to because of her familiarity with his hands and shoulders.
It was him! The man who attacked her earlier.
When she tried to roll over, he moved quickly to block her. “I won’t let you hurt anyone else.”
“No one is going to get hurt.” Susan backed away from him as slowly as she could without letting him think she intended to run. His eyes remained fixed on hers. It made her feel even more uncomfortable. “Please let me go. We can work something out…”
He leaned closer to her and sniffed her hair, then licked her ear. “Let me explain—”
“Stop!”
She lunged toward him to knock his arm away from her. Instead, his hold increased. He lifted her up from the bed and threw her across the room.
“You don’t belong in this world anymore. You should have left when you had the chance, but you stayed and I took advantage of it. Now pay the consequences.”
A sharp blow from the side of his fist sent a burst of pain through her skull. She hit the floor and scrambled to push herself up. When his hand landed on her throat, she gasped for breath. She felt as if she were choking or suffocating.
She kicked at him again, but he ignored her kicks, only hitting harder until she stopped moving.
Then everything went dark…
***
For several minutes Susan lay motionless. The man was dead. And she had killed him.
Her mind raced through all the possible reasons why someone would attack her and end up dead for their actions. Could one of the men she overheard talking about Tom and Jake really want to kill her? Or did the woman who was murdered have something to do with her being here, and that was why they wanted her dead?
But why would they want to kill her? She certainly wasn’t connected to any of them. They couldn’t be angry with her. She didn’t know a single person among them except her husband and her father’s killer.
As her head cleared, she became aware of the stifling heat. How long had she been lying there unconscious? What time was it? Why hadn’t she woken up sooner? The last thing she remembered was the intruder attacking her.
After that, all she’d known was darkness. Her mother had told her not to use the light during the daytime hours unless absolutely necessary and to keep the door closed at night so they wouldn’t hear someone coming inside.
She crawled out of bed, wincing with every movement, and pulled open the door. No one was in sight. She hurried into the hallway. It was too quiet in here, but there was enough light coming from the kitchen to see clearly.
“Mom?” She called out but got no response. “Where are you?” She moved down the hallway, checking each room along the way. The second floor seemed completely empty; only the stairs and the bedrooms showed signs of life.
There was no sign of anyone downstairs either.
“Tom?”
The sound of a loud cough echoed down the hall as Tom came through the front door carrying his gun. “What’s going on?”
Susan turned back to him, realizing it was his voice. She had heard it before and remembered that he often used some variation of “what’s going on” to cover up for what was really happening.
“Someone attacked me upstairs.” Susan pointed toward the staircase. “Do you know who that might be?”
Tom nodded. “That must be your husband.” Then he looked directly into her eyes. “But I don’t think he had anything to do with this.”
Susan frowned at him, still confused by what happened to her. She shook her head as her gaze drifted to the dead man in the hallway. “How did he get into the house without waking us?”
“Your mother probably forgot to lock the door when she put you to bed.”
“Didn’t we have a visitor just last week? Maybe he got in and killed the old woman while we were gone.”
Tom shook his head again. “That man was already dead when I found him.”
She glanced back at the body in the hallway, noticing blood stains on the carpet. It didn’t appear to be fresh, though, because the color was almost gray.
“Is this what happens when you get caught in an ambush? People are murdered? Who would want to kill my husband and then come after me? There’s nothing I’m guilty of except trying to find out why he did it.”
“It has something to do with your father’s death,” said Tom. “They say he was working for a man named John Rafferty—or was he, Rafferty? Anyway, he was involved in criminal activities. That’s where you got the idea about the bank robbery. I don’t know much else. But maybe he didn’t tell you everything…”
Susan stared at him blankly. The thought of finding the truth about her father’s death had never crossed her mind, especially when she’d learned of the terrible things that had happened to Tom and her brother-in-law over the years.
“If you’re thinking about leaving town now, forget it,” said Tom. He looked away as if he didn’t want to see her expression.
“I’ve spent most of my adult life looking for the man who killed my family, and now it looks like I finally know where he is, yet here I am being threatened to stay away.”
“Why does anyone want to do that?”
“Because they have something to hide or fear someone will find out.”
“Well, you have nothing to worry about here.”
She walked toward her son, wanting to hold him, knowing this might be the last time she would ever touch him. “We’ll leave soon.”
“Not until tomorrow. We need to let things settle down and see how the day goes.”
Susan stopped beside her husband and took both of his hands in hers, squeezing his fingers gently. “Are you sure you won’t talk about what happened today? Not even to me?”
Tom smiled and patted her hand. “You’re not going to regret telling your mother what you saw?”
Susan shook her head, wishing she could remember more than just the image of the man standing next to Tom. All she could recall was his pale skin and the way he moved. “I know what’s right, but I’m so damn tired.”
She looked around at their home. “My life hasn’t always been easy, but it’s the only life I knew. I never had anyone to care for me. You were all I had, and that’s the way it should be. Now it’s too late… I can’t believe this happened. I wish I could wake up from this horrible nightmare.”
Tom stood silently for several moments, looking straight ahead as if seeing something Susan couldn’t see. She waited for him to look at her again, but he remained silent, so she went back to staring out the window. “Will you go out with me for dinner tonight? We haven’t done that in a long time.”
When he did look up, his expression was grim. “Let me think about it.”
“Please?”
“Okay, but not just yet.” Tom looked down at his watch, then he pulled his hat off and set it on a chair. “I guess I’ll see you later.”
He headed toward the front door, stopping before reaching it. His head turned sharply as if listening to something that made him stop and turn back.
Susan followed him into the hall, wondering if he heard something that alarmed him. She stopped at the top of the stairs and listened. Nothing. She tried to listen harder, but her heart started pounding louder. What if there was someone outside?
“What are you doing?” whispered a man’s voice.
Startled, Susan turned toward the voice and froze. The stranger had appeared behind them in a matter of seconds; she hadn’t seen him until now. He wore an ill-fitting suit, which was wrinkled and stained, suggesting it wasn’t new. A dark bandana covered his face, but she couldn’t tell if it was red or black.
“Who are you?” asked Tom.
The man reached up and removed the bandana, revealing his narrow nose and thin lips. “John B. Rafferty.”
Susan’s knees felt weak, and she leaned against the wall to steady herself. Her eyes focused on his scarred knuckles. They matched Tom’s knuckles. Then he held a pistol pointed at Tom’s chest. “Don’t make any sudden moves,” said the gunman. “Your wife is upstairs, and my men have already searched your house.”
***
“Where is Susan?” asked Tom, struggling not to panic.
Rafferty shrugged and put the barrel of the gun back into its holster. “Probably sleeping. She needs some rest after today’s excitement.”
A shiver ran down Tom’s spine, and his stomach dropped. It sounded like the voice of a man he’d known for years, and it was hard to think otherwise.
“What do you want?” asked Tom. “I don’t have anything worth stealing.”
“That depends. Did you ever hear of the Pawnee Kid?”
“No, but it doesn’t mean I know where he is.”
Rafferty smiled, and his teeth gleamed in the light that came from the front porch. “It does when the man who shot him was your friend, and you helped cover up his crimes for years.”
“You’re crazy!” Tom stepped forward. “I never knew anything about that. I only met him once, and we talked for a few minutes.”
“And did you ask him about the Pawnee Kid?”
“Yes, but—”
“Did you tell him why you wanted the outlaw dead?”
Tom nodded slowly. “But he didn’t seem to think it was strange.”
Rafferty laughed. “He didn’t know you were a member of the gang that murdered him. You’ve got no one to blame but yourself, Mr. Fletcher.”
Trying to hold her voice steady, Susan spoke out loud, but not in the voice she used inside their home. “I told you everything I knew about Tom’s past.”
“So you admit you’re part of his gang?”
“Of course not! That’s ridiculous!” Susan shook her head.
“Maybe not,” said Rafferty with a laugh. “I have a witness who says otherwise.”
“What witness?” asked Tom, stepping closer. “Who are you talking about?”
“Me,” answered Rafferty. “I’m John B. Rafferty, and you killed my brother.”
Shock rippled through Tom’s body. For a moment he thought Rafferty meant to kill them both right here. Tom reached for the revolver that hung at his waist, but he hesitated before taking it off, as if he might need to shoot someone first.
Rafferty laughed again as if this amused him greatly. Then he raised his pistol and fired three shots into the ceiling. One bullet ricocheted off the plaster and landed at his feet.
Susan grabbed the nearest chair and threw it at Rafferty, hitting him in the shoulder, but he ignored it and continued to fire. The sound echoed through the hallway, and the bullets ricocheted off walls. “Stop this!” screamed Tom, rushing toward the gunman, intending to push him aside and disarm him. But as he moved closer to Rafferty, the gunman turned toward Tom, his hands still aimed at the ceiling.
“You know what happened to my brother!” shouted Rafferty. “He was innocent, and you covered up his murder!”
Tom’s eyes widened. He knew Rafferty was angry; he’d seen him lose his temper over small things many times, including Tom’s gambling problems. What did Rafferry suspect? He took a step back, suddenly afraid of the answer to his question.
Had Rafferty suspected all along that Tom had known something about the Pawnee Kid’s death and didn’t want him to reveal it? And did that mean Tom’s name could be next on Rafferty’s hit list?
Then Tom remembered that Rafferty had never mentioned his brother’s name during their interview. Why would he? Was the real reason he sought revenge on Tom because he couldn’t bring himself to face his own guilt? That was possible.
Tom didn’t know the full story yet, but Rafferty’s anger seemed justified. If anyone should feel guilty, it was Tom—not Rafferty. It was Tom’s fault that his brother was dead, and Tom should take responsibility for it rather than blaming others.
Still, Tom found it difficult to believe Rafferty wasn’t lying about being Rafferty and wondered how much Susan knew. She hadn’t reacted to Rafferry’s words. Maybe she really believed Rafferty was his twin brother.
Or maybe they’d been separated when they were children and had only recently met. There was nothing wrong with believing someone else was your twin, and there might have been other reasons why Rafferty wanted to pretend to be another man, including getting revenge on someone he thought murdered his brother.
Either way, Tom didn’t want to risk losing his wife, so he stepped back and put away his gun. “If you say you’re John B. Rafferty, then prove it.”
“How?” Rafferty lowered his pistol and pointed it toward the open front door. “You can kill me just as easily outside.”
“There’s a horse tied near the stable,” said Tom. “Why don’t you ride out and show me you’re serious.”
Rafferty grinned. “That’s very smart of you. I’ll do exactly that.”
Rafferty left them alone in the sitting room while he went outside and mounted one of their horses. A moment later he came riding back inside. His dark hair looked longer today, but he wore the same clothes and rode in the same style as Tom, and he carried the same pistol. Only the scar on his cheek marked him as different from his brother-in-law.
The first thing that struck Tom about Rafferry’s appearance was how similar it was to his brother’s, although the two men couldn’t look more different otherwise. They shared the same long nose, narrow chin, and wide forehead, along with a deep brown complexion and dark brows over their piercing eyes.
But where Tom was tall and muscular, Rafferty appeared smaller, less bulky, almost frail. And where Tom had once resembled his twin brother, now he had a strong resemblance to Tom’s uncle Jim.
“So what do you think?” demanded Rafferty. He stood by the side table, watching the expression on Tom’s face. “Does my brother or I look more like you?”
“I’m sure both of you have the same mother.”
Rafferty chuckled as if this amused him greatly. “It isn’t funny,” said Tom. “My life is hanging in the balance here.”
“Your life? You’re a gambler, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” answered Tom. “And you’ve made your living by running people out of town, haven’t you? Is that why you killed your brother? To keep him from becoming a lawman?”
A muscle twitched in Rafferdy’s jaw before he spoke. “Maybe.”
“Or are you really my brother?”
Rafferty laughed again. “You don’t look like him! You’re too young!”
“But you know him. Don’t you? Then tell me why you killed him. Tell me who did it so we can get justice for him.”
“Justice?” The word rolled off Rafferdy’s tongue as if he hated the sound of it. He shook his head. “No, I wouldn’t want to see that. I’ve lived a long time without seeing justice done to anyone, and I don’t plan on starting now. My brother is dead. There will be no justice for him. No more pain inflicted on me. That is enough.”
Tom had heard Rafferty talk like this before. He often talked about getting rid of people. Once they ran out of money or luck, he’d turn their pockets inside out until there was nothing left but emptiness. Rafferty always felt cheated because the cards weren’t dealt the right way.
It was a weakness. And Tom realized Rafferty was trying to use that weakness against him—to play on Tom’s sympathies, to make him think that killing Rafferty would somehow free him from his past. But it wouldn’t work. This man wasn’t his brother. If anything happened to Tom, Rafferty would find a new mark, and Tom didn’t intend to let that happen.
“Don’t worry,” said Rafferty. “You’re not going to get hurt. We’re just talking.”
“Talking?” Tom asked.
“Yes, I’ve come to ask you an important question: What was your brother’s name? And what were the names of any of his partners?”
“He never mentioned them.”
“Then I guess I’ll need to get to the bottom of that soon enough.”
“Tell me the truth, Rafferty. You killed him, and you know who did it.”
“That’s a lie!” cried Rafferty. He stepped closer to Tom. “Do you even understand what you’re saying? I’m not your brother. I killed your brother, and you know that.”
“Then what do you want of me?”
“Just one thing: Just answer a few questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
“First, how old were you when you killed him?”
“I’m twenty-three now.”
“Where were you working at the time? And where did he die?”
“In San Francisco.”
“How did he die?”
“Shot twice. From behind. By a gun. He was shot in the heart. And then his head was smashed in by a club. I saw the whole thing.”
“Did he say anything before dying?”
“Not much,” answered Tom. “Only a word or two—”
“What did he say?” pressed Rafferty. “What words? Did your brother speak at all? Was he trying to escape? Did he beg for mercy?”
Tom shook his head. “No.”
“Did anyone else die during the attack?”
“I don’t know. Not that I could tell anyway.”
“What were you doing before the shooting?”
“I was in the saloon.”
Rafferty nodded, looking disappointed. “Was your brother gambling? Playing cards?”
Tom shrugged. “Why would he gamble? He had plenty of money.”
“You knew his habits?”
“I grew up with him.”
Rafferty’s face twisted in disgust. “That’s why I thought he might be your brother. But he didn’t seem like a gambler. He never struck me as a man who would run into someone’s arms after losing all his money.”
“So you don’t know why he died.”
Rafferty looked down at his hands as if searching for something in the folds of skin between his fingers. “No, I don’t. But I know who did.” His eyes met Tom’s. “Who do you think did it?”
“No one,” replied Tom. “We’ll go back to New York now.”
“No,” said Rafferty. “You won’t.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Tom.
“You don’t have any choice, Tom. You’ll stay here in town while I find out more about my brother.”
“Find out what?”
“The truth.” He glanced around at the empty street. “It’s too dangerous to talk about this here in front of other people. We’ll meet someplace where it’s safer.”
“Where are we going to meet?” asked Tom.
“I told you: Somewhere away from here. Someplace safe. A place where we can discuss this properly.”
“And what makes you think you should decide where it’s safe?”
“Because I am not asking you to trust me.”
“Trust?” Tom laughed bitterly. “This man has already lied to me, tried to kill me once. If I trusted him at all, why would I be so upset about seeing him again? Why wouldn’t I welcome him home?”
“Your anger is misplaced,” Rafferty said gently. “I never meant to startle you, nor to hurt you—I swear it.” He put a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “If I had known you would be so frightened of me, I never would have approached you today in the first place.”
“But now you will.”
“Yes, because I owe my life to you.”
Tom stood silent for a moment. Then he lowered his gaze to his feet. “All right,” he whispered, almost to himself. “I won’t ask anymore questions.”
“Good.” Rafferty took hold of Tom’s arm and led him across the street, away from the saloon.
The End