With three months until the election Henry Scarborough was spending a little more time in Denver than he had been previously. He already had a few friends in Buffalo Creek promising to ride the train down to Denver and vote for him on November twenty-third. Mary even said she would try and make it just to be there, even though she couldn’t vote for him she would be there. Sam, who had not left Buffalo Creek in about seven years, would board the train and punch his ticket as well. Davion and Cyrus were backing him and Rusty just thought the whole thing was silly, “Ain’t you happy enough? Wife, kids, a bank, ranch, vinery, restaurant, a store . . . now you’re runnin for City Treasurer? I think it’s a bad idea.” since William Clayton had stepped down as major a few months back, Baxter Stiles had picked up the position and invited Henry to a possible party nomination to a spot on the council. The banker had been floored, reeling at even the idea of the mayor tracking him down and bothering to speak to him. It had happened in June, the man approached him in his store as he was stocking shelves and Heck had recognized him right away, extended a hand and apologized for the mess, explaining that his new shipment had just arrived. Mayor Stiles waved off his apology and laughed, quickly getting to the point and asking Henry about his bank, how long had he been running it and what his job required.
“Do you think you could handle something a little more involved, something much bigger, like say . . . an entire city?” never being one to solve riddles too well, which made talking to his wife a little on the difficult side at times, Henry asked the older gent what it was he was driving at.

Henry had initially declined the mayor’s offer, having miniscule confidence that he could pull something like a government position off successfully. He was already pretty busy as it was and couldn’t afford any more time away from his family than he already had. But as the benefits began to pile up the banker found the job opportunity more and more enticing until he finally headed to the courthouse one day and accepted the nomination after talking to Bella about it. There was going to be an invitational ball in a month and he and his wife would now be added to the list as he was running for a spot on the council now, considered a very important person. But he just had one question for the old mayor, why would he choose someone that lived over sixty miles away to serve on a council for Denver? Not to mention the current treasurer had occupied that spot for going on ten years now, was the mayor looking to replace the man?
“We want someone who can come to the city unbiased as to how the finances are run and operated, to be perfectly honest I think our current sitting treasurer may be compromised, money has been syphoned from our budgets for years.” so there was suspicion that the current man was trouble, that perhaps he was dirty?
“No, no I just think maybe Mister MacDermott isn’t paying as close attention as he should to the city’s budget.” but he had said syphoned, not mysteriously vanishing . . . “Ah, yes, figure of speech I suppose but I just think the council needs a fresh face, you’re the man for the job, Henry.” MacDermott had been on the council for nine years, handling the city’s finances, taxes and budget plans and it all sounded like work to Henry, more work than he was really willing to do especially when he didn’t even live here. Call him stupid, call him crazy but Henry finally extended his hand and accepted the nomination, the first man to run against MacDermott in four years when Clyde Freeman dropped out unexpectedly just a month before the election and moved to California a week after.

Walking down the street shuffling through some paperwork Henry pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and lifted his eyes every so often to be sure he was not about to run into anyone. It would be a shame too, papers flying everywhere but after a few years of experience it was something he could honestly say he was good at. He smiled to himself, remembered when he had lived in New York and “accidently” bumped into people, apologized and walked away, into a dark alley where he opened up the stranger’s billfold and pocketed his ill-gotten gains. That had been something he had been very good at. If Christopher ever did that Henry would skin him alive, if the boy’s she-devil mother didn’t beat him to it. A few people had stopped him on the boardwalk today, saying they recognized him from the paper, wanted to shake his hand and offer advice, tell him about his competition, one even offered to be his campaign manager. So it had begun. Naturally as Henry left Wells Fargo and headed toward the Denver County Courthouse he had his head low, wanting to get everything done today and get home and out of this pestering city. Stopping at a bulletin post outside the courthouse Henry hung a few fliers announcing his candidacy and turned on his heel to enter the brick building, “Mister Scarboruh!” quickly replacing his annoyance with a friendlier face he turned to the man addressing him from the boardwalk behind him. The sight that greeted him was a tall fellow, maybe about Davion Murphy’s height with thinning light blonde hair and bright steely blue eyes in a very nice suit, “Uh, feel free t’call me Henry, sir, how can I help ya?” the gent cocked his head and approached looking a little quizzical, “The paper says yer fr’m New York . . . ye don’ soun’ like yer from aroun’ thar, I would know I lived there fer a long time.” well this guy certainly sounded like he was from Ireland or perhaps Scotland, Henry could never tell, “I haven’t lived there since I was seventeen . . . I didn’ catch your name though.” decorative trees up and down the street swayed in the summer breeze and for a moment Henry thought that was all he was going to hear as the man hesitated before finally smiling and extending a hand, “Lachlan MacDermott, an’ before New York I lived in Dublin fer a while, I’m the man yer runnin against, Henreh.” the banker brightened at that information, “Oh! Well then Mister MacDermott it’s a pleasure making your acquaintance.” he replied earnestly as they stood there, Henry’s hand still firmly in Lachlan’s grasp as it appeared the borderline albino was sizing him up. Releasing Henry’s hand he tweaked him that little grin again, “Same t’you Bud, believe it or not I’ll wish ye luck.” they both had their laughs, “Have a good day Mister MacDermott.” the Irishman nodded and watched as Henry left the boardwalk, entering the courthouse and out of earshot, “Whut a chipper lad.” he smiled bemusedly to himself and looked over the flyer on the corkboard, “Oh, n’he’s made cute little fliers too? Aww.” he could have taken them down but MacDermott didn’t see Henry Scarborough as anything more than another young gun here to try and make a name for himself that ended up backing out when he changed his mind. Looking the lad over he couldn’t have been more than thirty years old, nearly twenty years younger than Lachlan, “Aye, e’s a wee lamb e’is.” sticking his hands back into his pockets Lachlan MacDermott walked on, to the telegraph office next to the courthouse to wire his uncle in Boston with the news that he had met his adversary, but didn’t think much of him.

While the banker from two and a half hours up the tracks worked on putting up his fliers and putting ads in the paper, everyone was asking Lachlan when he would mount the challenge. To most he just said that scrawny New Yorker was of no concern of his, to the public he would smile and earnestly admit that he was simply doing the sporting thing and giving Scarborough a head start. MacDermott had held office since he was thirty-seven and had only been challenged once by a young fella from Greely who backed out “mysteriously” with just a month until the election leaving the older Irishman to run unopposed. The mayor later asked him what he thought had happened to Freeman and MacDermott just shrugged with a cheesy grin, “Must’a got cold feet, t’is ain’t a game fer t’faint o’heart.” nope not at all and when Lachlan’s uncle sent two thugs to Colorado to discourage Freeman from continuing his campaign the man finally dropped out when they threatened his life. Of course no one knew about this but Lachlan, the thugs, the man who sent them and Clyde Freeman who wasn’t about to talk about it out of fear of them returning and finishing the job.

This morning the defending Treasurer donned his best suit and favorite tie that his wife had picked for him, buttoned his cuffs and went on his way before his son was even out of bed. Lachlan had been married to Erin for eleven years, their son Seamus was nine and showing promise of becoming a bit of an historian and he loved to read. But, being a boy he seemed best when he was outside playing with his friends. Seamus was not out here today though and Erin had decided that since she did not particularly need a job and her husband raked in enough to sustain them she could sleep all day if she wanted. The same went for Seamus who thoroughly enjoyed his beauty sleep. Lachlan’s wife, whom he had picked out like a pig at slaughter when she stepped off the boats at New York Harbor, had no idea of the dealings of her husband. The steely eyed councilman was in the pocket of the Irish mob out of Boston. The micks had flooded New York during the great potato famine and were still coming in numbers estimated to be close to fifteen-thousand a day, spreading across the eastern seaboard like a plague. The “natives” were waiting for them however, throwing bricks and stones and shouting insulting slurs that the Irish really had no knowledge of, it took them a good week to realize that they should take it into offence when someone called them a potato eater, a mick or a nigger. The pikers were great fun though, the big fellas that would brawl it out in bloody bareknuckle boxing matches in the street until gambling was made illegal, then the fights just went underground into the many catacombs under the thoroughfares of New York. Sometimes the matches were held on a barge in the harbor as it was considered to be outside the city limits where gambling was not permitted and what fun was a fight if you couldn’t bet? Two sprats could get into it in a saloon and before they had even shed their jackets money was being exchanged on one or the other.

The first polls were due out next week and so far Lachlan was feeling confident even if his uncle in Boston was not. That old man nagged about everything and the councilman could see him now foaming at the mouth when his nephew telegraphed him saying he saw no need in surmounting a challenge when Scarborough was anything but, “E’s jus’ some shit-kicker from up t’tracks, not’in ta worreh about Uncle.” of course he hadn’t said that directly to his face, just sent it to him via wire over the telegraph, popping out Morse code. But the senator was not so sure, “It is nothing to worry about I assure you STOP I am here you are not I can beat him fair STOP” Lachlan took a seat at his telegraph booth in the office next door to the Denver Courthouse and looked down at the contraption with its brass hammer. He had known how to use a Morse key for a long while now, since coming to New York in 1839 he had studied the code so he could keep in touch with his Uncle and the rest of his relatives in Massachusetts. Checking his silver time piece just as the hand indicated nine o’clock Lachlan tapped out CHECK and sent it on, not but a minute later he received his response, how technology amazed him, “Are you still sitting on your thumbs expecting to win by doing nothing STOP” grumbling to himself Lachlan would have quickly let any man know not to speak to him like that but since he and his Uncle were a good two-thousand miles apart there wasn’t much he could do, “For lack of a better answer yes STOP”
“For all this effort you put into your campaign do not be surprised when the polls come out next week and Scarborough is wiping up the floor with your taig ass STOP” the bright blue eyes went rolling with that one and Lachlan waited a moment before pressing his finger to the telegraph key, “Keep up that kind of talk and I will drop out myself STOP” he wanted to say he would board a train and ride all the way to Boston and then gouge out his uncle’s eyes with his mickey, but that wouldn’t have been very nice, or respectful. Nevertheless there was a bit of an awkward wait for the next message but when the paper ribbon started spinning out again he didn’t much care to read it anyways, “If you lose this position I will come down there and you will not like it STOP the stakes are far too high for you to be pissing about STOP lose your place and it will be the last thing you ever do drop out and I will not be so kind when I make you wish it was the last thing you ever did STOP” Lachlan scoffed, two-thousand miles . . . he wouldn’t dare say that shit to his face and they were family for Christ’s sake, honestly this was no way to speak to one’s nephew, “You will see STOP when the polls are out next week I will have gained everything for nothing STOP I repeat with utmost confidence Scarborough will not be a problem STOP” the tape ran out of the machine a few moments later with his uncle’s short reply, “This Scarborough better hope he is not a problem or I will make him regret it STOP I will talk to you this same time in one week STOP” gathering up the ribbon Lachlan stuffed it into the pocket of his suit coat and prepared to leave, “There’s a trash barrel right there, MacDermott.” a husky voice rattled in his chest and gave him a bit of a fright, “Oh dear, fer such a big fella ye sure can be a quiet one . . . like a cat yer Honor.” Cyrus Savage laughed along with his company, “You uh, you know you have to file those?” of course he knew he had been working in the courthouse for going on ten years now, “O’course, o’course! I make copies, I set it so it spits out two, ‘stead o’one I’m sure ye knew that alreadeh?” Savage nodded and seemed satisfied though he didn’t pry any further and ask for confirmation on the second stream of ribbon, but he would certainly make sure the courthouse had records of the telegraphs.Lachlan got to his feet and slipped back into his jacket, “If ye don’ min’ meh askin . . . who is it ye plan t’vote fer? Me ur the Scarboruh boy?” Savage slowly lowered himself into another booth with a stack of papers to send wherever and looked MacDermott over carefully, “He’s asked me to vote for him, but if you run a better campaign I can’t see why I wouldn’t consider otherwise . . . of course you haven’t really, done much which baffles some and makes others suspicious.” he tilted his head in that usual playful banter, indicating he meant nothing offensive by what he had just said and the ever charming MacDermott smiled again, “Well, I’s jus’ given the boyo a wee bit of a head start is all, bein a gent is in me nature . . . lassies first ye know?” he laughed at the last part and Cyrus smiled but looked somewhat nervous about the mildly insulting nature of the man’s comment. MacDermott gave him an innocent wink and went on his way.

Compared to the normal healthy flow of people on the street this afternoon it was not even a fraction of the chaos that had ensued the day before when the first polls came out for the November election. Mayor Stiles still held a strong lead over his two contenders, taking half the votes as opposed to the fourteen and thirty-six percent going to the young fellas campaigning against him. Edward McCook the territorial governor appointed by Grant, was there that day and a certain New Yorker running for a spot on the council got to shake the man’s hand. It was just as good as meeting the president he later quoted to the local Rocky Mountain Times who published that day’s events in the paper. Colorado was still not a state but McCook took it into serious consideration that they gain statehood soon to enjoy the benefits of being a part of the nation. The governor had been a lawyer and then a legislator serving in the House of Representatives in Kansas about the time Henry became a teacher in North Carolina. McCook was now thirty-six, ten years younger than the tall blonde watching the proceedings with a smile on his face, knowing that little shit from Buffalo Creek stood no chance against him. Shortly after meeting Mister Scarborough the banker had given a speech and received mostly positive reviews from the crowd but most on the council agreed it was not difficult to tell he was new to the game but he was surprisingly good with the public. MacDermott had not bothered with a speech, once more feeling Scarborough was no more important to this run for office than the cow dung stuck to his boots. He had given his speech in full cowboy garb, citing that he was nothing more than a good country boy that just so happened to be good with money and numbers.

Lachlan MacDermott was the complete opposite this day, but as was his adversary. The current treasurer donned a fine suit and tie and his nice shoes, not his nicest but no one would have been able to tell unless they too owned close to fifty pairs of leather shoes and were up to date with the current fashion in San Francisco where MacDermott special ordered his clothes. Henry was at the courthouse furthering his bid for the seat on the council and Lachlan had yet to contact his uncle as he was instructed to. Sure the poll results would reach the likes of Boston, New York and Philadelphia in the next day or so, but the old man wanted to know right away but his nephew had gotten a bit on the flustered side with the unexpected results. Henry Scarborough’s backers voted him up to forty-six percent, not enough to win but far more than the fifteen percent Lachlan had been predicting. His face had fallen flat at the numbers but the cheers from the crowd had startled him, this f***er had the admiration of the goddamn crowd, the voters loved this guy. Perhaps MacDermott had underestimated him, perhaps it was time he start taking this a bit more seriously.

“Your uncle wired me, he wants to know what the hell’s goin on.” Bernard Riddick had been Lachlan’s campaign manager for five years now, after getting word that Freeman was running against his source in Denver, Lachlan’s uncle had sent Bernie out here to “assist” the man in his political career. What Riddick really did was instill the fear of the mob into the campaigner, if Lachlan lost this spot he was as good as dead, or just gone as people seemed to mysteriously vanish when the mafia or mob was involved, “Tell ‘im t’truth.” he quipped with a grin, “And what is that exactly?” the Ohioan asked with a downward inflection, looking over his thick spectacles at Lachlan, “That I’m winnin o’course . . . which I am.”
“But not by much and the people of this city, love that kid. I have a feelin in two weeks, you won’t be ‘winnin’ Lachlan.”
“Fine, fine I’ll do a speech than, t’won’t be hard ur not’in, jus one speech, t’public mind is like a mold, right now it’s soft, Bud, I c’n twist it any way I like.”
“I hope so, otherwise we’ll be forced into dirty politics like with Freeman.”
“I don’t want no dirt if t’at’s what yer drivin at Bernie . . . not yet.”
“He was convicted of murder last year, walked a free man after the plaintiff was paid off at the last second. Used t’be a drunk too, beat a man real bad then killed ‘im not too long ago in his own house.” well Lachlan hadn’t wanted any dirt but now he had it and was looking very intrigued, “Well, t’would seem Mister Scarboruh has had a intrestin year, eh?” but said nothing more which only flustered his assigned campaign manager further.
“If his followers aren’t down to at least thirty percent by the next polls I will take action . . . and so will you.” Lachlan scoffed, looking around the little café he and Bernie were seated in holding this hushed conversation over a few cups of tea, “Ack, leave t’laddie alone, he’ll screw up ur drop out on ‘is own.” the fact he was not taking this at all seriously made Riddick red in the face and his next words, though whispered, seethed with vehemence, “If you don’t get your shit together, Boy and act like this is important I will send your body parts back to your uncle, as he has instructed. You lose this seat the family loses money and influence in Colorado, it is not something to be taken this lightly.” Lachlan laughed and stood from his chair, knocked back the rest of his tea before turning that grin back to Riddick, “Always a pleasure Bernie, always a pleasure.” goddamn the thickheaded Irishmen.

Lachlan didn’t want to take any sort of action against his adversary, as he had told the judge before he was a sporting man with a gentlemanly nature and dirty politics was not his game. He saw Scarborough as just a lad in a bit too deep in things he did not fully understand, comprehend or respect. Once it became clearer that he was biting off more than he could chew he would back out, just give the cowboy time to figure it all out, it would happen. The last thing MacDermott wanted was his uncle’s men to come and sink the banker in the Colorado River, the man had a wife and kids much like himself and Lachlan honestly didn’t want to see that happen.

In the quiet of his office the sitting city treasurer did just that, he sat in silent musing. Staring off into space with a million wanderings in his head Lachlan worried most for the lives of his wife and only child, their only child because Erin had never been very fertile, several whores from nearby brothels knew very well that Lachlan had no such issues. However some rephrasing was in order as they weren’t whores anymore, paid off to keep their mouths shut they now lived in little apartments with their bastard child, or children and did maid service for extra income. He was never sure if they were really his kids since the women were whores but when a man such as himself was at risk of losing everything including his reputation, it didn’t really matter. At the moment there were three women in Denver he was paying, two in New York and one in Philadelphia.

Fanny, Marilia, Anna, Josie and Sophia were not on his mind at the moment but rather the repercussions of the poll results a few days ago. Riddick had warned him and Lachlan had taken action, written and given a compelling speech or at least a speech he felt was compelling. As of a few days ago he had been fairly confident he had some of his supporters back and had beaten Scarborough’s back a bit but when the results were out the next day, he was shocked to say the least. Slapping the paper down on the breakfast table his wife had startled seated at the other end, his son going a little wide eyed before his father’s meek but reassuring smile settled him some. He and Henry had switched places and Lachlan now held forty-six percent of the voters’ approval while the “good ol’ country boy” had a strengthening fifty-four. He would have to do something else and this time he didn’t have the luxury of awaiting the results of the next polls, by then it could be too late.

“It’s b’cause I’m Irish, I know it is.” the councilman fumed when Bernie finally came in from telegraphing his boss in Boston, the same man Lachlan refused to wire, fearing the man’s threats which a true Irishman never made. No, a true member of the mob never threatened.
“Listen to you Lachlan, you sound like a child, it’s not because you’re Irish it’s because these f***in simpletons like that cowboy better.”
“E’s not realleh a cowboy, e’s from New York, e’s no better’n me . . . fook I was practically from New York, lived there fer tirteen years. I c’n do the accent too . . . I sarw da guy, e was wa’kin ovah deh wid a gal, I tink she was a whorah.” he chuckled blithely to himself but Riddick failed to see the humor and the smile fell from Lachlan’s face.
“See it’s that, right there. You hafta take this seriously, you should’ve taken it seriously, the fact that some mutt from New York is beating you at the polls is not normal, Lachlan. He used to be the town drunk for Christ’s sake, he is married to some Guinea nigger whore he knocked up, but he just so happens to be a lovable character that owns a bank.” clearing his throat as he drew his cup of tea to his lips MacDermott spoke through the steam in that silky voice that had always made him so charismatic, “Ehem, I’ve seen ‘is wife, she’s lovleh.”
“Is that all you have to say?” squinting at the ceiling as if in a short spat of deep thought Lachlan shook his head and took a sip from his china cup.
“Your uncle is getting increasingly antsy about this whole thing, I honestly don’t think that anything you do now will win you this election. Him sending someone down here to take care of this is looking incredibly likely unless you can pull a fifty percent out of your ass on the twenty-fourth. He will send someone, maybe more than one, and he will do something about Scarborough . . . he’ll be back on the telegraph in thirty minutes, he is awaiting your course of action.” Lachlan lilted his head and pointed to himself as if he were not sure whose course of action Riddick was speaking of, “Just so you know, telling him you’re gonna give another half assed speech in the hopes of miraculously winning your voters back won’t cut it, you need to DO something.” Bernie leaned onto the wooden desk at his final few words, implying the importance of them incase his client had slipped back into lala land.
“It seems t’me that . . . yer implyin that I, spak t’Scarboruh, but I don’ wanna spak to ‘im, ye got meh?” Bernie shrugged, crossing his arms in annoyance, “I don’t give two shits what you WANT to do Lachlan, you have to do something.”
“Fine, de limey git, Scarboruh . . . dat’s an English name ain’t it? I hate da English. E seems like a good fella though.” Bernie set his jaw and all the councilman could think was, damn my campaign manager is old as hell, I want a bright, new, shiny one,
“You tell him to drop out or he’ll be worm food.” Lachlan reeled at the harsh demand.
“No, no, no e’ may be o’English blood but e’s American through n’through.”
“So, you’re saying?”
“Fook man, e’ll dig ‘is ‘eels in, won’t budge, lemme deal wit ‘im. Americans, they’re stoobern fookers, but they’re lazeh.”



Lachlan didn’t go to the telegraph office to converse his plans with his uncle, instead sending Bernie to handle it for him with simple enough instructions, that he was going to try and talk Henry out of continuing his run. His rival just so happened to be in Denver at the moment, arriving on the train right on schedule two hours after opening his bank in Buffalo Creek. Well he may have painted the portrait of a country boy at his first speech but today as Henry strode down the boardwalk to the Wells Fargo Lachlan spotted those high dollar lace up Italian leather boots from all the way across the bustling intersection. The fashionable Irishman never missed a good quality shoe, especially when they were that shiny, and it appeared they had russet stitching and polished mahogany wooden heels, custom made no doubt and MacDermott had to wonder if they were perhaps a gift from the man’s Italian wife. He was also carrying his little briefcase today and that made Lachlan smile, as if he were looking at a little boy toting Daddy’s bag around trying to be a big boy, how adorable.

Slipping his glasses from his face as he exited the bank Henry went to check his timepiece when he heard someone address him by his first name, believing it to be a friend he wasted no time in turning around but was surprised to find Lachlan MacDermott standing on the porch with that cheesy grin, “Lachlan.” he breathed a little tentatively, finding it strange they were now on a first name basis even if Henry had no familiarity with his foe.
“Top o’the mornin to ya, I was hopin dat maybeh ye’d like t’perhaps . . . get some coffeh? leaning into his words Henry looked more than surprised, “Coffee?” then cast a sideways glance across the street, but a playful smirk told MacDermott he was going to say yes, “Hmm . . . sure why not, I got time.”
“Aye, ye got time, have ye evar been t’that wee little diner on Cherry Street?”
“Dizzy’s?”
“Aye, that’s the one.” Henry shook his head and MacDermott assured him that since living in Denver he had never had a better coffee than Dizzy’s, “So, ye come t’da Wells Fargo evereh Frid’y?” he inquired as they made their way to Cherry Street,
“Yeah, payday and all, I have t’pay people, people pay me, other people are getting paid and cashing checks, it’s a big day for the money market.”
“Aye so yer extra busy.” the banker nodded.

“I take it ye got invited t’the ball?” MacDermott instigated the conversation as they both took their seats at a little table in the café. It wasn’t much of a diner but Henry could already tell this coffee would be amazing from the way it smelled. If the smell was not a precursor to the superior flavor, the price for the damn thing should have been. It was odd how the most expensive places in town could have the shittiest food while little diners like the Bella Luna had cooks that put their hearts and souls into the food and had the best cuisine in Denver. Henry’s diner was already nicked as the place to eat for out-of-towners, locals pointed out the place to new comers looking for a spot to eat all the time.

Adding his usual two spoonfuls of sugar to his drink Henry looked up at Lachlan and seemed somewhat unsure of his answer, “Ugh, I got invited, I dunno if I really wanted t’go but my wife was originally from a pretty high social class in New York, she really wants t’go, show off a little.” Henry laughed but Lachlan was now very intrigued by the history of his adversary’s wife, “Oh, a high class lass? Musta been da family, eh?”
“Yeah, her father is Giovanni Clair, she’s probably been t’more dances than I have states.” he replied nonchalantly. Well, so much for Riddick calling her that awful moniker, he wondered how a woman like that had met a man like . . . this, or how she came to be a whore. Perhaps Riddick had not meant that literally? But one thing was for certain, if his uncle decided to do anything about Henry, he needed to be made aware that the man’s wife was under the protection of the Sicilians.
“Well, s’in two days so I bet she’s excited, huh?” ah that beaming smile, Henry loved to talk about his wife, well there was nothing wrong with that. He admitted that Bella was very particular with how she looked, they would have to get someone to watch the kids, Henry did not want to dress like some English nobleman, “Aye, ye could put yer hair in a ponytail it’s so long, an’ then realleh look like one.” they both laughed and Henry assured Lachlan that he would be getting a haircut before then. It seemed he tended to get a haircut before most special occasions; Bella’s birthday, coming home after nearly being hanged, his son’s birthday although he hadn’t shaved his mustache.
“Ye t’ink ye c’n pull this off Henreh? It’s a lotta work, bein the treasurer.” Henry shrugged taking his fist sip of coffee and Lachlan smiled seeing the look on the banker’s face, knowing he thoroughly enjoyed it, “Mmm, yeah I think I can.”
“That’s all? Ye t’ink ye can . . . well ye hafta propose a budget fer the whole citeh, a citeh dat’s growin more n’more evereh year. Taxes are a bitch, audits c’n get ye some scareh customers, people that hate ya.” he laughed good naturedly, “It’s a lotta work . . . I know ye got a business alreadeh, how does yer wife feel knowin yer gonna be spendin even more time away from home?” Henry looked a little uncertain with the question, but also somewhat stunned with the flavor of his coffee still, “Uh, well I’m gonna hafta hire people t’look after stuff I guess, t’give me more time t’do other stuff.”
“Or, ye might hafta sell everythin. Sell the diner, the store, maybeh even move t’Denver, ye live over two hours aweh, sixteh miles . . . from the citeh ye work for.” maybe he had him now, maybe he would reconsider but he kept pushing for good measure, “There’s so much bloodeh paper work too, sometimes I work into the night at me own home, tryin t’get done, no time fer the wife if ya know what I mean.” he winked with that toothy grin, “She always wanted another kid, but I jus’ don’ave da time.” not exactly a lie, in fact nothing Lachlan had said was a lie, nothing at all. So this was not dirty politics, at least not yet because although Henry now looked very apprehensive he was not deterred.
“Changed yer mind yet?” Lachlan asked playfully, not implying he was trying to scare Henry off when they both knew, he was.
“Well, I’ll admit I gave it some thought, but hearing it straight from you puts it in a much brighter light, thank you Lachlan, oh and thanks for the coffee but . . .” he checked his watch and MacDermott seemed to remember that the banker had said he had nothing important to do today, now suddenly something had come up? Or maybe he was reconsidering his run, hopefully, “I really should be going.”
“Aye, s’no problem I enjoyed it, have a nice day, Henreh.” seeing no need to thank Lachlan again, Henry nodded politely and took his leave.

Any hopes of Henry getting cold feet and backing out were dashed a week and a half after he and Lachlan had coffee at Dizzy’s. Since then the Irishman had made it a daily routine to seek out his adversary on the street and smile and wave to him to the point that many would have found them to be acting rather chummy. But soon the flyers were up again, eager locals scanning them over and then reading about it in the papers, Scarborough was to be giving another speech on September twenty-second, a few days before poll voting. MacDermott’s campaign of course picked up its feet after the undesirable numbers of the latest surveys. He and several managers and assistants stood on street corners with signs, handing out flyers, pamphlets and buttons, that smile on Lachlan’s face the whole time. But it faded and soon twisted into a scowl of disappointment yesterday when the crowds milled about, waiting with baited breath for the most recent polls. Stiles was still leading his campaign for re-election but when the time came for the council members the Scarborough party was more than pleased with a sixty-two percent, Lachlan’s followers dwindling in the thirties.

“I could be a la’yer again, eh?” he suggested to his wife who sat quietly at the dinner table that night, but her continued silence spoke words, she was not happy that this time next year they may not be making enough money to keep such a lovely home, might have to move further downtown into one of those dreaded apartments. They were spacious, sparing no expense on luxury but for Erin MacDermott it would feel nothing less than being poor. But that night, his comment told his wife that he was not expecting to win this election, even if his manager assured him that polls sometimes meant nothing, when it came to real voting, when it really mattered, he could still win it. Lachlan was not worried about the money, his job, he always liked being a lawyer, an attorney was what he had gone to school for. It wasn’t that, it was the fear for his life, even when he played it off in front of Riddick, hearing that his uncle was displeased scared the holy hell out of him but he would put up that front of laughter and antics like it was nothing. Part of the reason was because it was funny to see Riddick get so flustered.

That little snippet of a comment was the only thing he had said to his wife in more than twelve hours, she hadn’t even looked at him this morning when he left the house. She was preparing for a life of shopping, folding her own laundry, having to get up before noon, making up her own bed, keeping house and hiding her face when she had to take her son to public school. They probably wouldn’t even be able to afford the tutor anymore, she hated the life of a house wife but never stepped back to look at what her life may have been if MacDermott had not taken a fancy to her that day in her rags stepping off the ferry at New York Harbor. He had been in a cheap brown wool suit, a tall hat but crisp white cuffs and shiny shoes, she was quick to point out that his scarf was the ugliest thing she had ever seen, promising to knit him a nicer one if their relationship went farther than the dinner he had offered her that evening. Erin doubted she could even stitch a single thread of yarn anymore, it had been a decade since she had last crocheted.

Sixty-two percent. He had been ducking Bernie since the results, knowing he had an earful for him as he had more than likely been conversing with Lachlan’s uncle in Boston. It was Saturday and normally Scarborough wasn’t around so Lachlan didn’t have to put on that fake smile and wave to him, one less person to avoid but when the whole city knew he was losing his campaign it was difficult not to feel the eyes on him as he walked to the office this morning. The weather was mild, mid-morning temperatures hovering around the sixty-degree mark but Lachlan kept his head low and headed for his office at the courthouse, hoping no one would be waiting for him. It was only a matter of time, his uncle would be sending someone down here eventually.

Henry had stopped by to say hello to Cyrus, now that he was in the building more often he liked to come tip his hat to the judge once in a while, maybe get some advice on his campaign and the older gent was always happy to help, or at least he appeared to be happy, he certainly didn’t tell Henry to ever leave. The man’s significant other, Lila Fletcher from First Chance Saloon, was none too fond of the banker after the stunt he pulled a few years back when he ran off to Nevada. She may not have been thrilled to know Cyrus was speaking to him. But the banker couldn’t have been happier, hell his polls could be in the single digits and he would have been the happiest man in the world. Bella was still a little down since she was still not pregnant but trying every night was fun and the man had just about everything he could ever want. He had gotten pretty friendly with the mayor, Stiles had bought him coffee at least once a week now, even went out of his way to bring it by Henry’s office at Wells Fargo on Fridays. He had his animals, that new donkey was in love with Bella, or maybe just her perfume, Chris had asked him why Jack had five legs one day and was jumping on Gander. Yolanda had come to pick Chris up back in August and Henry missed him the very next day when he left for work, not having to go upstairs and wake the boy like he did every morning since June.

Pulling on the silver chain around his neck, Henry produced the Saint Christopher pendant his son had given him before he left, it matched his own and the boy had bought it with a coin he’d found on the street. Henry was not a religious man but it had been the thought that counted. Tucking the silver charm away into his shirt he turned the corner just in time to see Lachlan unlocking the door to his office, “Lachlan!” the key slipped its lock when the fair Irishman startled at the sound of his name being called. Already jumpy enough as it was the bumbling Scarborough hadn’t helped his nerves, “Oh aye, ye gave meh a fright Henreh.” still smiling, the man had no idea that he may soon find himself in hot water for just doing what he was supposed to do, campaigning for a spot on the City Council. Henry was not committing a crime, he was not bribing anyone, asking or begging for votes, he was honest and truthful and professional, it just wasn’t fair. Looking at him now Lachlan had that feeling he got when looking into the shiny oil-spot eyes of one of those bull calves running around a feed lot. Butting heads with his friends, eating and having a good time, but destined for slaughter, born to die and the poor dumb creature hadn’t a clue of what awaited him on the horizon. His ill-fate a mystery to him until the knife cut into his soft yielding throat and the life left those innocent, vibrant eyes.

Giving Henry a reluctant smile as the banker tried to strike up a friendly conversation Lachlan quickly cut him off, god he didn’t want to talk to him knowing what may happen to him, knowing and unable to say anything, “Oh Henreh, I’d love t’stay an’ babble on endlessleh but I got some work t’do, Boyo. I’ll see ye aroun’ I’m sure.” he smiled and closed the door as Henry nodded, opened it again and complimented the haircut then closed it a second time and heard the banker’s laughter dying off in the hall as he departed the wing for the stairwell.
“Nice haircut?” the light blonde hair on the nape of MacDermott’s neck stiffened at the Northern Irish accent of his cousin, Cullen Callaghan. His nick name was “The Cue Ball” as Cullen was prematurely bald and went ahead and shaved his head, polished it once in a while until Lachlan could have sworn he could examine his pearly whites in it. He was his cousin though and as much as Cullen was an annoyance Lachlan had to respect him as the son of the dreaded uncle that kept pestering him, “Did Daddeh send ya, Cullen?” the treasurer inquired with a snide tone. Cullen was maybe pushing five and a half feet tall but when he had his father to hide behind, well it didn’t really matter how tall he was. Cue Ball was the son of Killian MacDermott, the Massachusetts State Senator out of Boston where he ran the mob under the noses of his supporters and others in office. Killian had a son out of wedlock in 1835 with the maid his late wife Helen had hired to keep the place up while they were living in Belfast, County Down, Northern Ireland. She went a bit insane after finding out her husband was not only unfaithful but had a child with another woman behind her back. He had Helen committed to an asylum in London and she died not but three months later, childless. Not surprisingly Killian kept his house servant and she didn’t clean the house anymore, she had after all given him his only child, “Yeah, sent meh t’clean up dis mess you made, now I’m stuck in dis shit town in da middle o’nowhere!” his cousin seethed and Lachlan laughed, aloud at him and watched his face turn red like a baby’s when he was trying to pass a turd, “Whoa now big fella, I won’t be changin yer diapers now, ye jus stop that whatever yer doin.”

Cullen Callaghan was not used to the street side markets, the fields of cattle on the outskirts of town, the cowboys, good lord the damn cowboys and so many horses. In New York there was really no need to own a horse when one could just hail a cab on a whim so today he was stopping by a track that boarded racehorses for the winter season. With racing over for a few months the concentration now was breeding the next generation of runners or keeping the current ones in shape for the upcoming season. This was a training track and nothing more but with the shed rows lined with the refined heads of top quality Thoroughbreds hanging over the doors, it was like Christmas for Cullen. His daddy would buy him a horse if he really wanted one, it wasn’t like running the ponies was unheard of in New England with copious tracks to choose from up and down the east coast in Jersey, New York, and Maryland. Saratoga was the place to be, opened in sixty-three it was the home of champions and Cullen could see himself up there with the champs already, “Not wit a hoss from Colorado . . .” his body guard informed him as Callaghan stroked the velvety nose of a big bay standing outside the stables, speaking of how he would one day be up in the owners box. He was a docile animal, perfectly content to act as though no one was around, he was almost daydreaming, and aptly named.

“A Quiet Moment, intrestin name fer a harse.” Cullen quipped, “Me daughter, she loves harses, I tink maybeh I should get one, or two . . . what says ye t’two?” Mickey McCarthy shrugged his square shoulders, hands clasped in front of him, “Dunno, but it’s twice da hoss shit ye gotta shovel.” Mickey was from Kent in southeast England, complete opposite of where Cullen and his family hailed from but he held nothing against his longtime friend for that as he was from Irish blood. Standing an imposing six foot two, the former bareknuckle boxer was getting on in years and had traded his taped knuckles for a concealed derringer at his hip when Cullen offered to pay him for protection. It got Mick off the streets and out of petty crime, a line of living that just involved him following his friend around, no more having to fight for money, literally.

Running his thumb over the engraved bridal plate, A Quiet Moment was just what Cullen had needed after his cousin blew up on him this morning, “Oye, Lachlan won’t too happeh bout what we had t’say was ‘e?” Cullen chuckled. Killian MacDermott had sent his son and bodyguard out to Colorado to clean up Lachlan’s mess, just as The Cue Ball had told his cousin. At the moment the senator was sure his searching for someone to replace Lachlan on the ballots, since he was clearly not going to win, was over. All they had to do now was be rid of the man that had started all the goddamn trouble. About this time next month the final plans of eradicating themselves of Henry Scarborough would be complete if today’s plan failed, then it was only a matter of finding the proper time and place to strike. Lachlan was still in play, he had pretty much lost the seat on the City Council but the senator had agreed to let him off easy if he would help them out with the banker.
“’Scuse meh, sir. Whut was the poll result this marnin?” Cullen asked a passerby reading the morning paper, “Mayor Stiles is still-”
“Aye, fergive meh, sir but the run fer the treasury seat, that one?”
“Oh, hmm . . . Scarborough, leads with seventy percent.” Cullen smiled and thanked him, the gent bid them a good day and moved on, “Killian’s makin the right decision, taken Lachlan outta play.” Mick observed.



Meanwhile the very incompetent politician in question roved the halls of the courthouse with a sense of urgency until he located the man he was searching for, “Henreh!” taking full advantage of the two inch height advantage he had on his adversary Lachlan stood well within the man’s personal space, “This is gonna soun’ crazeh but . . . could we step in here?” the younger gent didn’t budge, not even a flinch or change in his stubborn expression, just planted himself there with his briefcase in hand, “Henreh please, I hafta tell ye somethin.”
“Lachlan, I’m busy and uh . . . that’s the privy, I don’t really hafta go.” MacDermott groaned, dropping his shoulders and rolling his eyes in exasperation, “Henreh, congrats on the marnin polls by da way, but I realleh need ya to-”
“Okay, okay, but just a minute.” MacDermott thanked him for his time and followed him into the privy, opening his mouth to speak Lachlan suddenly walked away to check the whole room, “Lachlan-”
“Just a second.” now Henry was the one sighing in frustration but then looking a little wide eyed when the Irishman locked the door and then dug through the trash barrel, “Lachlan, what the f***?” did he have a gun in there, was he going to waste him in the damn courthouse? The banker’s hand went to his hip but it was bare, the perpetually paranoid man didn’t carry a gun anymore, but he probably should have.

The city treasurer produced a black leather bag from the trash bin, drawing a confused look from Henry, “Henreh . . . I need ye t’drop outta da race . . .” the confusion deepened until it materialized into a broad grin and then nervous laughter, “You can’t be serious.”
“I can’t explain et right now Henreh but, ye jus’ hafta trust meh . . . somethin, might happen I have people backin meh that’re-”
“Are you threatening me?” confusion and humor were quickly replaced by anger as the banker suddenly got that cornered animal look in his eyes. Lachlan immediately in response tried to look as harmless as possible, “The people backin meh are very powerful, they want meh t’stay in office but if I can’t they’ll get rid o’me competition, that’s you, Henreh . . . yer fam’leh too.”
“Let me stop ya there, you can threaten me all ya want I don’t care and I don’t fall for lies, but whether you’re blowin smoke up my ass or not, you will NOT drag my family into this.”
“Henreh, I jus’ need ya t’trust me, fer your sake Henreh I’m askin ye as, a man of honor . . . I mean no ill-will I promise.” silence fell over the two men in the washroom, their reflections in the polished marble floor just as still as if they too were cast in stone. The banker took a deep breath, his eyes dropping to the black bag and before he could say anything Lachlan spoke up, “It’s fifteh-t’ousant . . . for you t’drop outta da race, an’ if I was you, I’d leave da state too, take yer famleh wit ya.” well now Henry just looked horrified, standing there like a deer in the sights of a hunter, too afraid to move or think about moving, “ . . . Henreh, say somethin. another short moment of silence before the banker spoke up, still a bit red in the face, “I don’t believe you.”
“That don’t matter, jus’ take the moneh, take yer wife, yer kids, git da hell outta here.”
“Why, so you can win the seat again, is this what happened to Clyde Freeman? Did you pay him off an’ give ‘im some elaborate little story about your ‘backers?’ because I’m not Freeman, I don’t roll over.” Lachlan looked very flustered all of a sudden, much like he would if he had a headache, speaking slowly as if Henry were a child, “Henreh . . . I paid Freeman, t’save his life, now let meh help ya. Yer a good man, I don’ want not’in happenin to ya.” the banker narrowed his eyes, “I’m . . . gonna go now, I won’t tell anyone about your ploy t’get me t’drop out, you deserve your dignity and honor I guess, but I don’t wanna see you again, Lochlan . . . but I’ll throw in a f*** you for good measure.” the Irishman opened his mouth to call Henry back but the banker was well on his way out, and walked out on his last chance. He never considered the consequences. What? Did he think that money would just disappear? No, he had turned down a huge sum of cash; it wouldn’t simply vanish because he said no. It would still go toward its original goal, of making Henry Scarborough vanish off the face of the earth.

The treasurer stood alone in the washroom, his square jaw set and the cords standing out on his neck, as Henry’s footsteps died off in the hall, new ones replaced them until Cue Ball and McCarthy came through the door, “He didn’ take da moneh, eh?” he asked, leaning out the doorway to watch Henry round the corner.
“No . . . little fooker, spat in meh face.” Lachlan growled. Cullen drew his lips into a tight line, “Nice little speech though, I t’ought ‘e was gonna bite there fer a second.” Lachlan shook his head in clear defeat, “Well, I’ll let me pa know, he’ll get everythin’ readeh . . . we gotta lotta people t’wire, lotta people t’pay off wit dat fifty-t’ousand.” Lachlan still appeared to be fuming, his white knuckle grasp on the bag a clear sign of his frustration, “Don’ worreh Lachlan, you’ll be fine, ye put in da effort but after Scarborough’s taken care of, ye get yer arse back t’Boston ye hear?”
“Who’s gonna get me seat?”
“Me pa’s sendin somebody, Sean O’Neil, a crooked attorney from Curry.” Lachlan nodded, for him, this marked the end of an era. They had told him this morning he was being replaced and he had trashed his office in a fit of rage. The side of MacDermott not many often witnessed.

---

$50,000 in 1869 = ~$800,000 in 2012

The sun sank into the belly of the western horizon, settling down for the night and stealing the light from the world in a dull display of colors that could not even begin to rival the vibrant leaves on the trees outside the city. Approaching late autumn in Colorado temperatures at night hovered in the lower fifties, sometimes less and this evening was no different as three silhouetted figures entered the stables of the Denver Livery, on the same grounds as the stallion station where Cullen had been a few weeks prior. Tomorrow the polls would come out, but it was already expected that the underdog, Scarborough would be leaps and bounds ahead of his adversary, maybe even as far ahead as the eightieth percentile.

“’E said e’d be here at half past eight.” a soft voice spoke up in the dark of the stables as they turned a corner onto the shed row illuminated by lantern light.
“E’s not too reliable Cully.” Lachlan pointed out.
“’E is reliable, an’ don’ call me Cully . . . I hate that.” the shortest of the three whined, passing his hand over the smooth surface of his shaved head a few times, a bit of a nervous gesture. Henry had refused fifty-thousand dollars, surprising the hell out of them all, that was a shitload of a lot of money, enough for a man to live comfortably for a good long while. Or he could put it in the bank and draw interest, if anyone should realize that it should be a man that ran a bank. He was a hell of a man turning that down, or just completely off his rocker, or maybe just stupid. Lachlan wondered if Henry had known what the future held for him, would he have turned that money down? It was the easier way to go, even if it was cowardly. But when it was fifty-thousand dollars, how much shame was there in that?

The three men halted at the sight of a long shadow at the end of the row of sheds, someone walking down the breezeway would stop and ask them what they were doing here so late and they would have to make something up on the spot. The shadow grew darker as it drew closer, the sound of heavy footfalls nearing them until Quinlan Gallagher turned the corner, “Where d’fook were ye? I been up’n down da damn barn fer da last ten minutes.” the dark haired Irishman slurred in his thick accent.
“When ye set up a meetin at a stables that takes up half a citeh block . . maybeh ye should meet somewhere specific.” Lachlan pointed out and just received scowls, “No wonder Killian never let ye handle yer own shite, gotta have yer big man over there wipin yer arse.” wishing to no longer speak on the subject Cullen got to the point of their meeting here tonight, “Quinlan, s’been a while Boyo, how ye been?” Quin and Cue Ball had known one another for some time now but hadn’t seen hide nor hair of each other for the past five years, “Agh, ye know, in n’outta prison mostleh, but readeh t’make some damn moneh, t’ree t’ousant t’be exact . . .” he added with a grin of surprisingly clean teeth that did not reflect the gritty mop of dark hair on his head. But his mentioning of money got the ball rolling on their plot that would leave Buffalo Creek reeling for the length of a few months when the atrocities against the banker, Henry Scarborough, were committed in three weeks.
“Well this is where we plan on it goin down.” Cullen informed his criminal friend who looked around the place as Cue Ball walked past him and everyone fell into line and headed for shed D. This stable was at the rear of the property and as Lachlan had been watching Scarborough for the past several weeks, he knew the man brought his horse with him on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, coming to fetch the paint stud at four o’clock on the dot every time. But this Sunday the man planned on working on his campaign and then heading back to Buffalo Creek for a birthday party for his two friends.
“Ye know what ‘e tol’ meh when I tried t’pay ‘im off? Fook you . . . that pissed meh off.” he growled after the humor of the man’s brazenness wore off, “Made meh wanna kill ‘im right there, but Killian wants ‘im alive fer whatever reason.” Quin lengthened stride at that remark and sidled up beside Cullen, “Why does ‘e want ‘im alive? Seems trouble, we should jus’ kill ‘im, sink ‘im in da river, be done wit it.” Lachlan listened carefully, wanting to know the answer to this conundrum as well.
“Don’ worreh yerself wit et, ye don’ need t’know okay, jus’ don’ kill ‘im, Killian’s orders.” the squat Cullen demanded, the tone of his voice impending that no more questions were to be asked on the matter as the four men reached the D stable.

The empty stall at the end of the stable was dark and forlorn this evening. Three weeks from today Wabash would be standing there waiting for Henry to come and fetch him. He would witness the whole thing and for weeks people would stare at the horse like he would start talking, telling them everything, but he wouldn’t utter a word.
“Plenteh o’room t’pull a wagon up back der.” Lachlan pointed out and stuffed his hands back into his pockets to keep them warm. Through the open doors just beyond the vacant stall was a back alley running along the rear of a brick apartment building.
“Yea, that was th’idea.” Cullen quipped, “I even have a wagon on standby, measured it too t’make sure it c’n go under da fire escapes down da alleh.” he commented proudly and got a collective nod from his partners in crime, “Ye said I couldn’ handle meh own shite, eh?” he cast a sideways glance to Lachlan who had nothing more to say. Cullen Callaghan would make money off this, so would Gallagher but Lachlan would get none because he f***ed the whole thing up anyways. Would he be going to Boston after Henry was taken? No, he wouldn’t live if he did, he was getting the hell out of here though, good luck finding him.

“So ye want me I should come up be’ind ‘im, whack ‘im over da head wit a shovel?” Quin asked, gesturing with his hands and arms, the expression on his face giving the impression that he would enjoy it a bit too much. Cullen shrugged and said he guessed that would be alright,
“Are ye fookin kiddin meh? Dat giant of an arse’ll kill ‘im wit one lick.” Lachlan protested. Mickey McCarthy was not here to negotiate the plan of attack, just to watch the back of his client and friend, so he stood at the rear, quiet with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Fine, I’ll bring meh chloroform”
“Ye bes be careful, don’ fook it up an’ kill ‘im wit it.” Gallagher assured everyone he knew how to use chloroform and no harm would come to Scarborough.
“After ‘e’s out . . . Quin you an’ meh c’n load ‘im in da back o’the pris’ner wagon, take ‘im outta town so nobody sees ‘im bein put on da train.”
“ . . . the train’ll jus’ stop in da middle o’nowhere an’ let ye load a pris’ner?” Lachlan questioned.
“Not narmally no, we got moneh, I c’n make the train go from here t’Boston . . . backwards if I wanted.” Cullen assured.
“Well I’m in, we ridin the train back t’Boston? I need a ride t’the eas’ coast, they got so tired o’me in New York they sent meh out west hopin I wouldn’ come back.” Gallagher laughed and his much shorter friend nodded in confirmation, said the train would head to Boston and then they could ride south into New York and spend a few weeks blowing money on liquor, gambling and whores. Quinlan Gallagher was more than okay with that, but had one more question, “Why da hell are weh waitin t’ree fookin weeks t’do dis?” he inquired, screwing up his face in confusion.
“We need more time . . . t’set up, prospective buyers.” Cullen mentioned and despite everyone asking what he meant by that, he wouldn’t tell them, “Le’s jus’ say that, we found a way t’do dis, practicalleh fer free.”

This evening friends and family of Daniel Helm and Davion Murphy would gather in the First Chance Saloon to celebrate the twenty-seventh birthday of the highly esteemed rancher, and the forty-second for the district marshal who had just welcomed his second born into the world three days prior. But one expected guest would never show up. He promised his daughter Elizabeth before he left for work that morning, that he would bring her home a treat from her favorite bakery, cookies she would never get. The sun would sink into the western horizon and still no one would see nor hear from Henry Scarborough, nor the next day, next week either. He would simply vanish, without a trace.

It was early when he left for the train station this Sunday morning, no going to see Daniel Helm today as he had told him he would be seeing him this evening instead, an oddball day for the banker. Everything was closed but he was still working despite the fact it was his day off. He had come into the bedroom and knelt by his bed, promising the wife he would be home for the birthday celebration of his two friends at the saloon and that he would meet her there at about six o’clock. He was always on time, never late for a damn thing so she could expect him at six on the dot. Just as he had promised the little girl, he woke her up this morning just before dawn so she could see him before he left for Denver. He promised to bring her home some chocolate chip cookies from Mimi’s Bakery, kissed her good bye and tucked her back in. It was chilly this morning, Henry tightened a scarf around his neck and rode Wabash to the station, boarding him into a train car and they both headed for the big city. Scarborough hadn’t a care in the world, but he needed to write a speech because at this point it was a given that he had the election in the bag with the latest polls showing he had an eighty-one percent approval from the voters.

He stayed at the courthouse for hours, working from multiple rooms, familiarizing himself with everything that his new job would require. He was happy, Isabella was not the happiest person in the world and Henry felt that having him around would soothe the sting she felt from not having conceived a child yet. To compensate for his wife’s depression Henry felt he had to be twice as happy, going home every day to hold her close and talk to her in an effort to cheer her up. Nothing seemed to help but he hoped eventually, with time she would feel a little bit better. He was trying to be a good husband and he was supportive and he was there for her. Not just some physical entity either he was there emotionally as well.

At four in the afternoon, like clockwork Henry gathered his things and departed the courthouse with a brown paper bag of cookies for Ellie, walking just a quarter mile to the winter training track where the Thoroughbreds were housed. Sometimes one could hear the excited whinnies of the stallions in the breeding shed, ‘twas the season. Weaving through shed rows Henry picked his way toward the rear of the property to stable D where Wabash stood in his stall at the very end of the shed. Tossing his black and white head over the door the tulip shaped ears were pinned back tight against his skull until he realized it was Henry coming to get him and he perked right up. From demon to angel in just a second. Come winter the horse would be nine years old, he was also scheduled to cover two mares next week, he would be a happy fella then. The banker’s smiling eyes drifted away from the stud and caught sight of a derelict looking wagon just outside the doors. A look of suspicious curiosity came over him as the tattered tarp thrown over the wagon gently fluttered in the cold breeze and a puff of steam wisped from the man in the doorway as he let out a shuttered breath. Movement of a dark shadow cascading over the floor turned him quickly on his heel, and Henry let out a bark of startled laughter, “Corey!” the beaming banker greeted the stable boy and an exchange of smiles and handshakes was in order. He had always liked Corey Blaylock, he was a young fella maybe twenty-one, as tall as Henry’s buddy Danny and even had the same hair and eyes and maybe that was what made the lad so amiable to him, he looked like Daniel Helm. Henry had to get home and see Mister Hellfire here in a few hours, call the man old because until December twenty-first they would just be one year apart when Henry turned twenty-f***in-nine. That was a good moniker though, he should use that and see if Danny liked it, Mister Hellfire,
“Mister Scarborough, s’good t’see ya.” Corey gave him that warm smile as Wabash watched, switching his tail but also flaring his nostrils at the smell of warm chocolate from that bag in his rider’s hand, the paper mottled with spots of cooking oil.
“You too Corey, what brings ya, shouldn’ you be trainin the horses?” it was odd seeing his buddy in here so late.
“Yeah, but it’s Wabby here, I was muckin the stalls earlier an’ I heard ‘im kick his stall when somebody led another stallion through here.” concern came over Henry for a moment, “Is he alright?” a bit of a dumb question because Corey immediately cracked another grin, “Well that’s just it man, I can’t really get in there, I also wanted t’congratulate you.” leaning over the stall door just a bit Henry looked over his animal’s legs but stepped away at Corey’s well wishes, “I appreciate that but I-” all he saw was the blur of a white cloth and the widening of Blaylock’s eyes as a crushing arm tightened around his throat and the suffocating bitter odor of chloroform burned his throat and chest. Henry dropped the bag of cookies and reached up with both hands in an attempt to pry the arms of his assailant loose but to no avail as the infuriated scream of his horse resounded in the barn, the banker’s own cries for help muffled by the stifling white rag. Corey protested, reaching out to assist the man he had known for about a year now but Cullen stepped around the pair struggling in the breezeway and shoved a gun in the stable boy’s face. In one last attempt to help someone Henry leaned back against his attacker and curled himself upward, lashing out at the bald Irishman with his Italian boots, sending him crashing against the door of Wabash’s stall. The stallion sank his teeth into Cullen’s shoulder as Quin fought to hold onto Henry who was getting weaker and weaker by the second. The sounds of the scuffle were too loud for Quinlan’s liking and he dropped the gagging banker to the floor of the barn, took up a shovel and struck the paint horse so hard he released Callaghan and staggered against the back wall, splaying his legs in an effort to stay upright, reeling from the blow to the head. The son of the Massachusetts State Senator nursed his wounded shoulder, watching Henry crawl almost drunkenly toward Blaylock before Gallagher flattened him with another lick from the shovel.
“Fooken Christ man.” the winded Quinlan groaned, “E’s a hell of a fighter, fer a little guy.” nervous laughter and he turned to Corey, “T’anks fer yer help Boyo, come wit us, we’ll pay ye like we promised.” Cullen was still as silent as the stunned stable boy. The two Irish fellas had approached him thirty minutes ago, saying they wanted to surprise Henry in the barn and congratulate him on all his success, assuring him they were friends. They would even pay the lad for his troubles since he would be missing work, they would pay him twice as much in fact. Wabash stood wide eyed at the rear of his stall, trembling all over in a fear Blaylock had never seen from the stoic horse, the black coat was darkened all the more behind his left ear as blood ran down his neck and shoulder, matting his mane and lengthening winter pelt.

Corey didn’t respond to Gallagher’s appreciation, just felt hot bile crawling up his throat, sick to his stomach not knowing what the hell was happening other than Scarborough was laid out on the ground. The sound he had made when the metallic clang of that shovel hit him kept replaying in Blaylock’s mind, “Look alive Boyo.” the dark headed man addressed him and snapped out of his morbid ponderings as Cullen too came to and helped his accomplice roll Scarborough over and they lifted him from the ground, “Where’re y’all takin him?” no answer from either henchman as they carried the unconscious man out to the wagon, unlocked the cage and roughly tossed him in, “Yer comin wit us.” Cullen finally spoke up to the boy who wanted to say no, but he couldn’t when this same man had just pulled a gun on him. If it hadn’t been for the man he had just helped to kidnap, he may be dead anyways. So he didn’t complain and climbed aboard, “Ye hafta take the wagon back, we gotta go wit him,” Callaghan thumbed back to the rear of the wagon as Gallagher mounted and took up the reins, slapping them across the back of a greying gelding, taking the wagon up the alley to join the traffic on Cherry Street. Leaving the scene of the crime with nothing but a frightened horse, bloody shovel and a torn bag of cookies in the straw, their contents littering the floor of the breezeway. They passed by posters and fliers of the candidates for next week’s election, a few them Henry’s, “Ye take it to de burnt out livery on third, keep it covered, leave it there, I gotta man comin t’get it, say not’in t’nobody ye hear, or you’re a dead man.” Corey nodded as the grey plodded along with his sad load, no one looked, in a way he felt no one cared what happened to Henry, but they didn’t look because they didn’t know. All he had to do was stand up and yell it, tell everyone but the nudge of cold steel in his side hindered him as Cullen reminded him he had a gun on him, “No funneh business, aye?”

The wagon continued on its way, to the edge of the city and beyond, entering the virgin prairie on an old cattle road with the distant water tower dead in their sights. In the late fall season the sun was already well on its way to a decent to the horizon that would bathe the landscape in darkness. The wagon rumbled on, not a sound coming from the back as Gallagher and Callaghan rode on with the silent stable boy between them. Corey was quiet but his mind was running a million miles a minute. For whatever reason he was worried about the man’s horse, fearing they would kill Henry anyways Corey now felt the injured stallion was his priority. He couldn’t say a word to anyone either, death threats from an Irishman were meant to be taken as seriously as a heart attack, he had always known that since he was boy.

The travelers came to rest in the shadow of the water tower an hour later and the wait began. The train Henry normally boarded on the way home would stop here and they would load him into the prisoner car, from there it was a long ride to Massachusetts. By the time Henry was missed in Buffalo Creek he would be in Nebraska, a long way from home.

Corey focused all his attention on the swishing tail of the grey gelding hitched in front of him as Quin lit up a rollup and sat in silence. About a quarter mile across the dry prairie a group of horsemen were riding past, slowly after a day’s work on a nearby ranch they were ready to head back to the city for a little fun. Just as the distant whistle of the approaching train drifted on the westerly wind, there came a stirring from the back of the wagon. A good dose of chloroform could knock a man out for hours, but Gallagher had walloped the banker over the head instead and now he was coming to. Blaylock shifted his eyes over his shoulder a time or two, hoping Henry would stay quiet and not give these men a reason to hurt him, or worse. Corey didn’t know how much more abuse he could witness without rebelling and getting the both of them killed.

Scuffles of boots turned to a slight rocking of the wagon as Henry rolled over, taking in his surroundings from what he could see of the cage from the light coming in from the holes in the tarp. A soft keening moan and it was clear Henry was awake, Quin reached into the pocket of his old jacket and pulled out the dark bottle of chloroform and rag again. A groggy but indiscernible string of words slurred from the dazed banker and the stable boy tensed, “I’ll take care of ‘im.” Gallagher assured and stepped down off the wagon.
“Help me . . . somebody help me please!” the banker had caught sight of the passersby and called out to them in a raspy voice, roughened by the scalding chloroform. Quinlan told him to be quiet and Cullen watched the group of riders as Henry unleashed another cry for help before Quinlan could get the door open, “Christ ol’ mighteh Quin, shut ‘im up!” he hissed and the wagon rocked on its axels as Gallagher snatched the door ajar.

The banker surprised his adversary when he came barreling out the door at him, hands closing on the Irishman’s coat lapels fully prepared to grapple with him, “Goddammit!” Corey gipped the bench with both hands as the carriage pitched back and forth and nothing but expletives were uttered from the back as Quinlan fought with Henry. Something crashed hard into the steel cage, spooking the horse who jerked the paddy wagon forward a few feet, “Dammit Quin, da fook are ye doin?” Corey couldn’t take it anymore as the sickening sound of Quin beating the shit out of the banker got harder and harder to listen to. Cullen leapt from the bench as well, shoving the much taller stable boy against the wagon before rounding the corner as Gallagher was slamming Henry’s head into the floorboards, “Quin! Stop et, yer gonna kill ‘im, Christ!”
“It’d be better if e’ was dead’n ye know et, Cullen!”
“Me fat’er wants ‘im alive! Ye leave ‘im be!” the wagon grew still, everything got too quiet as the two men looked at the battered campaigner in the rear of the wagon, “Well, don’ matter now anyways do et?” Quin commented softly as he stepped back from the covered cart, his hands and face spattered with blood, “Oye, Quin ye realleh done et this time.”
“Agh, we’ll jus’ bury ‘im out here, nobody’ll ever find ‘im.” Corey listened to the conversation, his heart pounding in his throat, not believing he had just witnessed and even been an accessory to murder. Gingerly lifting the tarp he peeked inside at a man he had considered more than an acquaintance, his head lolled to the side, one eye swollen shut and the other open and unblinking. Corey watched for more than long enough to see Henry draw a breath, and he saw nothing stir the man’s chest, “Oh god.” he whimpered just loud enough to alert Cullen and Quinlan he was still there. Before they could drag him away Blaylock reached through the bars and attempted to show the banker one last shred of compassion in taking his hand in his. Stars were speckling the darkening skies as the train stopped in Denver, preparing to pull up another half mile or so and fill the boiler with water, and take on three more passengers. Cullen couldn’t break the grasp of the distraught stable boy so Gallagher jerked him away, “Aye! Listen Boyo, listen good, yer gonna take this,” Callaghan stuffed a hundred dollar bank note into the lad’s shirt pocket, “then yer gonna take this wagon, park et where I tol’ ye, an’ ye won’t say a word . . . ye was a part o’dis . . . ye say anythin’ they’ll hang ye, oh aye?”

Blaylock stood by for the next twenty-minutes, watching the black steamer as it drew closer in the waning hours of Sunday, November eleventh, 1869. His hands were in his pockets, one with the fingers drawn around a gold band he had accidently pulled from Henry’s hand when Quin yanked him off. He would have to find a way to send it to Henry’s wife, Bella. He didn’t know what she looked like, didn’t know where she lived but Henry talked about her all the time. He was still in too much shock to do anything other than stand there on numbed legs, wondering how in the hell he was still upright, “Me fat’er’ll wanna see the bodeh . . .” Cullen informed Quin, “As fer you. Well e’ won’t be too happeh wit you . . .ye weren’t s’pposed t’touch ‘im.”

By the time festivities were underway at the saloon back in Buffalo Creek, Blaylock was parking the covered wagon where he had been told to, trying to erase the image of Henry’s limp body being loaded into the train car. Mickey McCarthy opened the sliding door and immediately looked quite stunned at the man’s condition, “Jesus . . . I t’ought ya was bringin ‘im back alive.” Corey tried to coax Wabash to the front of the stall when he got back to the barn but the stallion was terrified and the lad gave up and went to stand outside in the cold air, praying to god he had just dreamt the whole thing.

Drowning was a beautiful thing, tossing and turning, pitching in the black turbulent waters until he didn’t know which was up, down, left or right. Just clawing for the surface for days as his brain swelled in his beaten head, a fever ran rampant through his abused body and Cullen tried to keep him alive, but not for Henry’s sake. For the banker, his hell had only begun. The onboard doctor was concerned for him but Cullen assured him he was alright, they just needed to keep him alive, icing him down to lessen the burning in the man’s swollen cranium. To Henry the waters he struggled to keep his head above just grew colder when they packed ice around him, when it melted the churning brackish waves just transformed into an ocean of fire, beating him down under the rolling scalding surface. He wished he could just die but every time he slipped below the waters he couldn’t stay, fearing death he would always flail his way back to life, back to the light.

“E’ better live, or you’re a dead man . . .” Cullen warned his partner in crime as the doctor palpated Henry for a pulse. Within the last few days Doctor Swan had searched frantically for that pulse, just a hare’s breath from pronouncing the banker dead a couple of times. It was touch and go at best and just a few hours into the ride after Gallagher beat the hell out of him, Henry stopped breathing though it was difficult to tell since he had barely been breathing to begin with. Doc Swan was a young guy, fresh out of school and panicked immediately when he realized he could not find a pulse, admitting he had never done chest compressions before and was too disconcerted to remember how to do it. Callaghan shoved the barrel of a .38 in the good doctor’s face and he remembered real quick how to do those chest compressions, “It’s just a prisoner, why are you trying so hard to keep him alive, he’ll die in prison in a few months.” Cue Ball quickly let Swan know that it was none of his business as he propped Henry’s feet up, tilted his head back and placed the ball of one hand over his sternum. After two minutes Swan halted his efforts, putting an ear to the man’s chest he stood up and tried to rush past Callaghan, “There’s nothing else I can do, he’s gone, there is nothing I can do for him, he’s dead! I am sorry, let him be!” Gallagher threw the black leather bag at Swan, “Yer gonna help ‘im or so help ME, I’m gonna t’row yer arse off da fooken train!” Swan’s gears started turning and finally something clicked, “Okay, okay . . . I think maybe,” he turned back to Scarborough and placed his hands on either side of his face, “he’s too cold, we hafta warm him up, carry him to the boiler room.” at first they were going to decline but they had no other choice. Carrying the would-be dead man through a car and into the boiler room the doctor explained to the engineer that it was a life or death situation. Even in the open air engine room traveling through Nebraska at twenty-five miles per hour the boiler burned hot and it wasn’t long before the two Irishmen were wiping at their brows, “I can feel a pulse . . . I think it was just very weak, I dunno maybe he was fine but I’m not sure . . . but I can feel it now. When you take him back, keep blankets on him.”

He was still unconscious before beginning to stir about the time they crossed into New York, a sighing moan when he exhaled were the only sounds he made, anyone passing through the prison car knew instantly he was hurting. They hoped he was a mean son of a bitch that had deserved everyone one of those bleeding wounds, but they couldn’t be sure. Gallagher would poke fun once in a while, wondering if Henry was awake, calling out his name and teasing him hoping to get a rise out of the banker, but he got nothing, “I dunno what Cue Ball’s fader wants wit ye, but I doubt it’ll be a picnic, he’s gonna kill ya either weh though, I hear yer wife’s a pretteh lass, too bad she’ll never see ye again.” nothing, he just laid there barely breathing those shallow raspy gasps against the gritty floorboards.

The steamer stopped off in Boston having reached a point in their destination about twenty minutes ago and now Henry was shackled to a bench on a ferry, sitting up for the first time in a few days. The pounding in his head, pressure on his eyes and soreness of his chest from the compressions were not of his main concern at the moment. His left ring finger was vacant and naked, the necklace his son had given him still hung around his neck and his throat tightened as reality hit him. He didn’t know where he was, just that he was in a harbor and had been on the train long enough that it was not the pacific ocean they were floating in, he was back on the east coast, a place he said he would never go again. It was not New York Harbor he was sure, it had been more than ten years since he had seen New York, but he knew where he was not. A light on the horizon caught his attention, staring out of his unswollen left eye Henry watched in the fuzzy black as the outline of an island came into view, the ferry chugging onward and the fortified walls of an army base materialized, the boat making a beeline for the fire illuminating the coastline where she would dock.
“No.” he whispered in the dark, his next utterance taking on a more pathetic note as he shook his head in denial, “No, no, no . . .” a sharp clang of metal on metal roused him from his lunatic rant, ringing in his ears he jerked away from the side of the boat Gallagher had struck with a wrench, “Scarborugh, shut de fook up befer I kill ye, again.” maniacal laughter took what strength he had from his legs and he collapsed onto the deck of the ferry next to the bench, arms outstretched holding his chains taut. What did they want from him and why the hell was he here, where was here? Closing his trembling fingers on the thick black chains binding him to the bench, Henry watched his knuckles turn white through the vapor of his breath on the cold night air.

At this point back in Buffalo Creek the realization that the banker had been missing for three full days was sending those that worried for him into a mild panic. At the discovery by Davion, Danny and Cyrus of the bloodied wagon it was assumed Henry Scarborough was no more, but they sought justice all the same. There was nothing left of the man but his wedding band, spotted with dried blood the marshal had retrieved from a very distraught stable boy who finally admitted to having witnessed the whole thing. According to Corey Blaylock, the banker had been beaten to death because Henry Scarborough was not just some mangy dog that would roll over and give in so easily. During the process of abducting him he had been beaten so badly Corey testified that the man was not breathing, or moving, not even a twitch of a finger nor the bat of an eye as it stared vacantly at him, the life seemingly extinguished. He couldn’t forget that outstretched left hand, as if Henry had been pleading with some unknown force to help him but by then it was too little too late and all Blaylock could do was hold onto him in the hopes that if he was still alive he could die knowing someone cared about him.

The cold November waves lapped at the shoreline of the North Atlantic Island, seven miles off the coast of Massachusetts where the seaside city of Boston slept soundly completely unaware and probably uncaring as to the plight of the man being dragged ashore. The open mouth of the entrance into the side of the mountain beckoned him forth like the black opening into hell. Stinging granules of half frozen sand bit into his feet as the ill-fated man came to the realization that those Italian leather shoes were gone, probably on someone else’s feet at this point. Curling his numbed toes into the sandy wash he tensed his shoulders against the tug of the two guards that had taken hold of his arms, pulling back and away from that gate, like a mouth hanging agape ready to swallow him into oblivion where no one would ever find him. A mind previously ravaged by fever now ran in a million different directions, one of which told him that someone would come for him, maybe not now but eventually he would be taken away from this place. He held onto that hope as the two guards struggled to pull the stubborn man into the underground stockades before resorting to the hickory clubs at their sides.

Grit and grime passed under his nose, the muffled but eerily echoing resonances of something being dragged across loose soil pounded in his aching head as fresh blood wept from new and reopened wounds. It took him a few moments to realize that the dragging noises were coming from him, his arms cold and numb now as the guards cut off circulation whilst manhandling him up the corridor to an open room. All at once they halted, jerked him into an upright position and a shocking splash of ice cold water was thrown in his face, nearly giving him the idea that he was still outside in the rumbling surf, maybe running away into the ocean trying to escape. Mumbling voices danced tantalizingly in his head, just out of reach of conscious thought, remaining scrambled like some sort of code he could not decipher as the heavy grasps took hold of him again, lugging him the rest of the way toward the voices.
“Right dere’s fine, lads . . . tank ya.” they released the beaten and dazed banker and he collapsed onto his face. Pushing one of his arms out away from his body seeming to marvel in the smooth surface of the cold and wet concrete floor, maybe in an attempt to figure out where he was, or a vain effort to get up. Gallagher walked over to him, taking his ripped shirt in one hand, a fistful of bloody matted hair in the other and lifted the limp body from the puddle of blood and water, presenting him like a trophy to a man Henry had never seen before.

Killian MacDermott snapped open a Colorado paper, the Rocky Mountain Times and scanned an article, “Henreh Scarboruh, a candidate runnin fer Citeh Council dis Saturd’y . . . missin since Sund’y, is tought t’be deceased and possibleh murdered by an unknown group o’men witnessed assaultin’ ‘im shortleh before d’evenin o’November eleventh. Da case is bein reviewed by a US Marshal who is optimistic he c’n find d’culprits responsible but Scarboruh’s case is now considered missin persons in conjunction with possibility of murder.” blinking away the blurry vision Henry found himself looking at an Irishman who was maybe in his late sixties, white in the hair but dressed nicely, he didn’t know who he was though, “Dey’ll onleh look fer so long Boyo, dey’ll come t’terms wit yer death soon enough. ‘twon’t be easy, specially fer yer wife an’ kids but I seen it happen many times. Give ‘er a year, maybeh more, she’ll move on, find ‘erself a new man, it’ll be like ye never existed, she’ll be happeh again . . . you on da ot’er hand . . . are a pain in meh arse!” the anguished tightening of his throat made it nearly impossible to breathe and Henry didn’t even feel any tears brimming in his eyes and suddenly remembered he hadn’t drank any water in a long time, “Fer all d’trouble ye caused me . . . I won’t lie to ya, I’m gonna kill ya . . . but not yet. I spent so much money t’get ya here, in me home state, wasted the lot of it on Lachlan too, but ‘e pissed it away. Yer gonna pay meh back Scarboruh, first financially then wit yer life, b’cause nobodeh fooks wit meh!” Killian saw the fear swilling in those trembling dark eyes, in the dim of the stockades he would never know what color Henry’s eyes were, not that he cared but the poor bastard was never going to see the light of day again anyways, not even when he killed him. The senator would have the body taken further down into the prison and left in the catacombs, home to hundreds of other deceased prisoners. Within months it would look like any other pile of bones.

“Yer a banker . . . I know I’ve had people watchin ya, you know da combinations to at least t’ree Wells Fargo safes.” fear had turned to cognizance as Henry slowly absorbed what he was being told, processed it and mulled it over in disbelief. Killian paced back and forth in front of the banker, too weak to even lift his head to watch his captor circle him like a shark, “I don’ care how long it takes ye, I will get dose numbers . . . dere will be a point where you’ll wanna die so bad, you’ll jus’ give em to meh. Den, but only Den, will I allow ya t’die, the pain will be over though . . . since ye won’t ever leave dis place again, dere’s no point in ye takin ferever t’tell meh what I wanna know, so Henreh, don’ keep meh waitin.” nothing from the stricken man but a rasping shutter of a breath through his constricted throat, “I won’t tell ye t’day how I plan on gettin me answers, but you’ll learn soon enough . . . do we un’erstand one anot’er?” a deadened expression came over the bloodied man whose life had been damned to this place for god only knows how long, maybe forever. Cullen Callaghan stood off to the side, arms crossed and watching the fruits of his labor. If Scarborough came through, well he got to die and be free of a life living in this hell hole but it also meant close to half a million dollars for the MacDermott family. Perhaps his father was being greedy, but this was a great opportunity and he was killing two birds with one stone, “I hope ye decide t’cooperate sooner rat’er dan later . . . life in here, well it c’n get unpleasant, but if ye take too long I can’t guarantee yer wife an’ kids won’t suffer too.” the first of many threats but Killian had struck a chord, the muscles of Henry’s jaw stood out and he vehemently spat out a mouthful of blood at the senator. Scarborough got one look at the last thing he would see for a few days as MacDermott drew his lips into a thin line, gave Gallagher a quick glance and the dark headed Irishman smashed his charge’s head into the concrete.

Just when the pain subsided from that fateful day by the Denver Pacific Railroad Henry found himself huddled on his crude cot in the dark cell of his prison being awakened by a shock of ice cold seawater to the face. As the gagging coughs began to die off he was already being dragged from his soaked mattress, hauled to the center of the floor and bound by the wrists to a steel grate in the ceiling of the chamber before he could fully comprehend what was going on. That lattice had looked awfully friendly yesterday as the banker contemplated on how he could somehow fashion his blankets and clothing into a noose to hang himself from it. Now it would seem he had gotten his wish as the ropes bit into his wrists, creaking at the strain of his weight and of course Killian MacDermott showed up,
“Top o’the mornin to ye Henreh . . . how bout dem numbers, eh?” the silence was deafening as MacDermott only received the cold hatred of his prisoner’s narrowed eyes, “No, okaeh den . . . you’ll change yer mind I’m sure, just . . . holler.” the lump that swelled in Henry’s throat wouldn’t go away no matter how many times he tried to swallow it down.

To further his embarrassment he was not just stripped of his freedom but his clothes as well in the subterranean chamber where it got so frigid he could see his breath. No amount of binding his thin blanket around his feet could chase away the numbness he felt in his extremities at night. Tucking his hands under his arms worked well but he was painfully stiff in the mornings when he had spent the whole night curled into a tight shivering ball on the straw mattress. Breakfast was a bowl of white rice, lunch was bread if he was lucky, dinner was a combination of the two with a few pieces of ambiguous meat, probably nothing anyone else would eat and it was undercooked but it was all he had. At this point he could only hope he would die of intestinal parasites before the brutality his captors were about to subjugate him to killed him.

The muffled screams from all the way down the corridor could not be heard from the door, but as Killian watched with that stone faced expression Henry just glared at him when his tormenters backed off to give him the opportunity to spill his guts, “Numbers Henreh . . . is the first one a . . . two . . . a nine maybeh?” the banker clamped his teeth onto the bamboo gag forcibly shoved between his teeth and didn’t utter so much as a f*** you.
“I had an expert take a look at that vault at da Wells Fargo in Denver, says it’s a seven digit combination safe . . . seven numbers Henreh . . . just seven little words.” nothing and MacDermott had ordered the men to continue. Located next to the crashing waves of the unforgiving north Atlantic, the Boston Harbor supplied an endless resource of cold briny water and they had no reservations in utilizing it. The stinging lashes of a whip where exacerbated by a splash of the salt water until Henry thought he would break his teeth on that short length of bamboo chute. Even after the guards had backed off of him those whimpering wails continued and Killian knew his adversary had quite possibly reached a breaking point as every muscle in his body shuddered violently at the pain, “Henreh, Henreh . . . no sense in makin this harder than it alreadeh is,” lifting his gaze to the senator all the banker could think of was how joyous it would be to watch Daniel Helm beat this man to death with his bare hands, because he would if he saw how his friend was being treated, “got anythin t’say?” when Scarborough still remained silent, his body rotating at the end of that creaking rope, the older man did not look angry, frustrated, disappointed or even expectant. He was accepting, knowing he needed to push harder and Henry felt his heart skip a beat as it raced in his chest. God why couldn’t the infamous Scarborough family ticker do what it did best and just f***ing give out!? The cold steel blue eyes of the senator turned to his men and he stepped away again leaving them to their jobs.

Hanging his wet clothes over the edge of the metal frame bed Henry bundled up in his blanket and pressed his ravaged back to the cold wall for a bit of relief, at least until he had to pull the blanket away from the weeping wounds. Salt water was a cruel twist of the knife in more ways than one, it stung like no other but also sanitized so there was no way Henry could be spared by a merciful death from infection. His chest seized up in the grips of his pain, shivering not just from the cold now but the seething burning sensation crawling across the tender places on his skin. The smell of his own flesh burning had caused him to vomit, nearly suffocating when it filled his mouth necessitating the removal of his gag. His head lolled forward onto his chest and no amount of prodding could stir him from unconsciousness. That was his only escape, his body having enough of the torment opted to shut down and block the pain from the mind. But Killian would not offer him such luxuries and demanded ammonia and smelling salts be swiped under the nose of the belligerent banker. Awaking violently he had struggled against the restraints but to no avail, “Welcome back Henreh . . . nap time’s over, could I get me numbers now?” an exhausted sigh and Henry’s head rocked back like he hadn’t the strength to hold it up, “ . . . aye, ‘at’s enough fer t’day boys, let ‘im down.” it had lasted an hour and a half.

“I’m gonna die here . . .” after that thought he didn’t know what to add. A husband and father of three could only think of one thing couldn’t he? Bella was probably distraught, beside herself with grief in mourning her husband’s untimely death, or anger that no one had found him yet. Ellie, oh god they were so close, what would happen to her now, would Bella finally tell her Henry was not even her father? Those cookies he had promised her, she would be so disappointed, seeing the excitement in her face that morning when he promised to bring some home, made his heart ache now. Christopher had just found him, just gotten to know his father after ten long years without one and now . . . he would never see him again, just had his one photo to remember him by, the pendant he had given his father was now gone as well. His youngest wouldn’t even remember him. Sam would lapse into silence he was sure, spend a lot of time locked up in his room, mourning in private. Mary, Rusty, Davion, Cyrus would they miss him? He was good friends with Mary and Rusty was family. Danny . . . god just when it seemed he was getting over the loss of his child and was ready to move on with his life. What would he do now? Would they look for him, for how long, could they possibly find him? Hugging his knees to his chest Henry rested his chin on the bends of his legs, eyes searching the starry darkness, that silence was so damn loud until he filled the void with the suppressed sobs of a hopeless man.

The efforts of the marshal and his colleague, the district judge known to some as Cyrus the Savage, to find the ones responsible for the death of Henry Scarborough, were not to be discounted. While some at home questioned the loyalty and even the way the two men ever felt about the missing banker, they were trying their damnedest to get to the bottom of this whole shit fest. They had gone to the stables that day with Danny, looking for clues after no one seemed to know what had happened to Mister Scarborough on the evening of November eleventh. By the time the rancher, marshal and judge made it to Denver, Henry had been gone for going on five hours and it took the trio another hour to track him down to the last place anyone had seen him. They started at the Bella Luna where Cyrus and Davion had lunch earlier that day and the ill-fated owner had stopped by and sat with them a while as they ate and shot the breeze about Henry’s campaign and life in general. They noted nothing out of the ordinary about Scarborough, he was all smiles as usual as he also updated Murphy and Savage on the progress of their collective friend Daniel Helm and the banker had nothing but good news to share about the man that he planned on seeing at the saloon later that evening for his twenty-seventh birthday. No mention was made about working late, possibly missing the party, he wasn’t nervous or on edge about anything, he was neat and clean with his pressed shirt and suit, those damn shiny Italian leather boots.

After the Bella Luna they checked out Henry’s store, his manager mentioned seeing Heck earlier that day but also reported nothing out of the ordinary, however Henry had said something about stopping by Mimi’s to buy cookies for his little girl. Mimi Troxler was a very amiable older redhead and greeted the three men with a broad grin, “Oh yes, that man is so sweet, bought a dozen chocolate chip cookies for his daughter, Elizabeth at . . . I think it was about half past three, then went t’the livery t’fetch his horse.” it was nine o’clock by the time the trio made their way to the rear of the livery, bringing a lantern to stable block D they soon found what they had been looking for. Henry’s horse was nothing short of panic stricken and wouldn’t let anyone near him, but the cookies scattered on the floor and in the straw made Davion Murphy’s heart sink. Cyrus called out for the missing man and mounted a periphery search that revealed a bloodied shovel propped in the corner, the edge of the blade speckled with fine ebony hair from Wabash’s coat. When Corey Blaylock showed up after night training they had questioned him until it was apparent he was very fractious and finally spilled his guts, but it had not been what the two wanted to hear, “He wasn’t breathing.” and their hearts shuddered in their chests. Whether Davion and Cyrus gave a damn about Henry or not, informing friends and relatives that the man was quite possibly dead, vexed them until they were arguing over who would tell who on the ride home. But they had two names, Cullen and Quin as Corey had heard them call one another.

These two screwballs that had abducted their friend, they had Irish accents according to the stable boy, one had also said something about taking Henry to his father. It all sounded very strange and certainly reeked of foul play. Who could be Irish, and not want Henry around? Before dawn that next morning, after a sleepless night, Davion and Cyrus went to visit Lachlan MacDermott who was busily . . . packing his stuff as if he were planning to flee the country. After some questions, then some threats, Lachlan finally told the men he knew something, but wouldn’t tell them unless he got something in return. It was a hard bargain, but in the end Cyrus promised that none of this would implement Lachlan in the kidnapping and subsequent murder of the banker, he would not be labeled as a suspect, nothing. But Murphy knew if Isabella’s father got wind of Lachlan, no amount of forgiveness from the court would spare the man from the wrath of the Sicilians anyways. He may just have to drop a hint.

Cullen Callaghan and Quinlan Gallagher, were supposedly headed for New York City after taking Henry where ever it was they were taking him, Lachlan claimed he did not know the final destination for the banker. But since he was dead, Murphy and Savage weren’t exactly looking for him. From the amount of blood they found in the back of that wagon parked behind the Cherry Creek stables, no man could have survived that. The marshal quickly let his companion know that he did not want to go to f***in New York, or anywhere on the east coast for that matter. He had a wife and two kids, one of which had just been born not but a few days ago, but Mary insisted he go and do his job. So Murphy had entrusted Daniel Helm with his marshal’s badge, boarded the train and left on November twelfth on a three day ride to New York.

It had been four days since they arrived in this shit hole, the marshal was completely out of his element here and got the strangest looks when on the street. People asked him where he got his shoes and that hat, what was up with the cowboy look? Savage had talked him into blending in more, if word got around that the western marshal was here looking for Henry, the culprits may scatter to the wind and they would never find them.
“I’ve spent years chasin one outlaw before, years . . . but I’ll be damned if I’m lookin for these sons o’bitches for that long, we been here four goddamn days.” Murphy complained, flicking the switch on the wall and marveling in the light bulb of the desk lamp. Electricity was something entirely new to him and had widened his eyes when he got here, making people laugh at him but he was simply intrigued, wanting to know how the hell it worked. He also had to adapt to Cyrus constantly saying, “You’ll get used t’that.” whores following them down the street shouting at them with dirty ass mouths when the men ignored them, random street brawls, fights between fire departments when they arrived to the same fire, letting the house go up in flames as they drunkenly duked it out and people not only raided the flaming building but adjacent ones as well, “This is nuts!” Davion had said on more than one occasion now.

“Give it time Davion.” the judge assured his friend in the gloom of their musty ramshackle apartment as he sat on one of the beds folding a shirt.
“Were ya not listenin just now, I don’t have that kinda time anymore. I ain’t goin home to a son that’s three years old an’ ain’t never met me. What about Lila, you gonna look for these men for that long, leave ‘er home alone?” he inquired about the judge’s girlfriend. Savage was quiet for a while, which was never easy on the talkative marshal, how could someone go so long without saying a single word?
“I came t’find Cullen Callaghan and Quinlan Gallagher, and I won’t be leaving until I do.” he spoke slowly and snapped a shirt in the air and folded it across his lap. The marshal raked his fingers through his long hair, saying something about needing a haircut after a few more moments of awkward silence between them, as the street below was never quiet. Not even at night when the prostitutes strutted around, men got into drunken brawls, people shot at each other, raced horses down the road, it was nuts. For a man born and raised in the quiet countryside, sleeping was nearly impossible.
“Don’t cut it, we may be able t’use it.” Murphy looked confused as he took a seat on his own bed, making note of the time and knowing he should have gone to bed hours ago, “Use it? That sounds . . . weird, Savage.” goddammit, he had gone quiet again as Murphy sat there on the edge of his mattress about to jump out of his skin if the judge didn’t say something soon, he was doing this shit on purpose, “What I mean is, you’re Irish, maybe not first generation like the men we’re looking for but, we’ll use that to our advantage, earn the trust of a few people that’ll be hiding them.” a spark of interest ignited in the Montana lawman’s eye,
“What, you mean undercover? I dunno if I could pull that off . . . somebody asked me for timber t’day, I had no idea what he meant.”
“You don’t hafta be convincing, you don’t even hafta lie, tell em you’re from Montana but your last name IS Murphy.” he had also married a McCarty so he had that going for him.
“But why can’t I cut my hair?” Savage didn’t hesitate this time, packing his clothes into a drawer and setting his hat on the dresser, “You see an Irishman around here looking clean shaven, combed hair, clean at all?”
“Well then, by all means let me sleep in a pig pen t’night.” Cyrus perked up, as if he had heard the best idea ever, “Now you’re thinkin.”
“Are you bein funny?”
“No, but you should try t’blend in, keep that in mind . . . you’ve been a marshal for twenty years, put it t’good use . . . oh and timber is matches, for smokes.” and with that Savage scooted up the bed and laid back for the night, the majority of his legs hanging off the end of the mattress as the marshal continued to sit with that sour look on his face, clearly not at all excited about what the judge was asking of him.
“I don’t like it here,” he whined and looked around the room before it was plunged into darkness when Cy shut off the lights, “it smells like shit.”

“Again.” was all he heard over and over through that foggy haze clouding over his thoughts as the sharp and bitter bite of whatever it was they were hitting him with now beat him into a daze. A jerk on the chin once in a while by a rough hand brought his gaze up to meet Killian MacDermott’s and he would demand the combinations to the safes again, to which Henry would just glare at him, not a word, not even a sound, “Again.” they only stopped so MacDermott could question him or if the sickening gags from the man’s throat threatened to cut the interrogations short for fear he would vomit and asphyxiate. As the minutes rolled on and the only sounds coming from Henry were those pained animalistic groans, Killian’s tone of voice got more and more of an edge of frustration and exhaustion until it seemed this was wearing the both of them down, “Ugh . . . c’mon Henreh . . . again.” moments later he was calling his boys off again, stepping forward to try and keep Henry with him as the man’s eyes started to roll back again, “Henreh . . . stay wit meh Boyo . . . fook et let ‘im down.” the senator finally gave in, checking his time piece as the guards lowered a listless Scarborough from the grate in the ceiling, removed the gag from his mouth and threw his grimy clothes at him. The banker had already figured out that if he didn’t fold his clothes up and sleep with him against the warmth of his body they would freeze at night, making them impossible to wear the next day.

Almost two hours of grilling had revealed nothing and today Killian had even cut back on the punishment in not allowing any sort of cauterizing as it tended to make Henry sick. Two days ago he had reopened those wounds and there Scarborough stood, bleeding down his back and once more never uttered a single discernible syllable, but yesterday had been a day off, “Ye keep dis silence up you’ll convince meh ye like bein tore up like dis, Henreh.” as far as MacDermott knew, his prisoner hadn’t spoken a single word since his arrival. He even sent a guard down once in a while to talk civilly to him, act like a man that cared about him in an effort to get him to speak, but he only sat huddled in the corner quietly with that faraway look in his eyes, “I’ll never talk! F*** you! I’ll die before I tell you anything!” would have been what the senator expected, but the fact Henry was saying nothing at all concerned him and he had already wired his son in New York asking if he was absolutely sure Scarborough could even speak. Maybe he would give Henry a goddamn pad and pen, maybe he would be more willing to write his confessions, or perhaps he could get him drunk, a truth serum of sorts.

“You keep this up it’ll just drive ‘im mad, he’ll be more animal than human, then he’ll never talk. I’ve seen it happen, you need t’try somethin else.” the warden informed him as Killian came down the hall after making sure Henry had nothing to say, again. The guards had doused him in ice water, that familiar sharp cry of shock and agony echoing down the corridor as Henry curled up in his corner in an effort to make himself smaller. For the next several hours as he recovered that dark and lonely hall would sound like it was haunted with the eerie groans of a restless spirit.
“I know what I’m doin, Pierce.” MacDermott informed the younger man as the doors closed behind them, reverberating down the stone passageway as they turned onto the main cell block, hands and arms outstretched reaching for them, maybe wanting extra food.
“These men, they don’t tend t’live real long once they get in here, if they do . . . the humanity in ‘em don’t live real long either.” the senator and warden he was paying off to keep Henry in his prison, departed the stockades for the quieter seclusion of the upstairs office where MacDermott wasted no time in pouring himself a stiff Irish whisky, “I’ll get ‘im t’break, never once had a man dat didn’t.” the warden sighed,
“Oh, you’ll break ‘im alright, but as the warden of a stockade that once prided itself on the humane treatment of its prisoners of war I don’t appreciate bein lied to, Senator.”
“An’ how exactleh did I lie to ye?”
“You told me you just wanted t’keep ‘im here, I just saw what you’re doin to ‘im, nobody should ever be treated like that.”
“Da way I treat dat man is of no concern o’yers, ye seem t’ferget who owns dis prison Mister Pierce. I’ll get what I need from ‘im, shoot ‘im in da head, pay you an’ it’ll be done. Until den, jus’ keep quiet, let meh do meh job.”

Word Count: 759<BR>
Tagged:NA<BR>
Lyrics:NA<BR>
Notes:Wow this is horribly written, I want to delete it lol<BR>
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LISS AT CAUTION 2.0 LOVES ME.

Word Count: 1619<BR>
Tagged:NA<BR>
Lyrics:NA<BR>
Notes:NA<BR>
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LISS AT CAUTION 2.0 LOVES ME.

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November 22nd, 1869<BR>
Lower Manhattan, New York City, NY<BR>
About 9:30pm<BR><BR>


Well Davion hadn’t cut his hair as the judge had asked, to be honest it was really beginning to annoy but not long after that night of his griping and complaining he had awoken a new man with an outlook on this situation that had grown in acceptance. The two lawmen now had a common goal and as they both sought to achieve it circumstances were much more bearable. The Montana lawman was still finding life here difficult to adapt to but now knew to just relax and hide his shock and surprise when he saw something out of the ordinary, like walking down an alley and seeing a prostitute with one of her clients, just going at it in the back doorway of some ill-fated establishment, not giving any mind that people could see and hear them. The tall hats really threw him, standing over a foot above a man’s head, what was the point of all that empty space, did they keep things in there, was it to imply a certain status symbol or just to make a man appear taller? He now knew what timber was and for the past few days had been getting chummy with the local Irishmen. It seemed there was a bit of discrimination among the Irish just like there was discrimination anywhere else. Some said screw it, what did it matter? Don’t matter where a man is from in Ireland, whether he was rich or poor, a farmer’s boy or the daughter of a banker. Now that they had crossed the pond, they were all one in the same here, they were all hated by the ones that had called New York home before them. Davion and Cyrus had already been to the harbor, watching the immigrants leaving their boats only to get pummeled by bricks, rocks and even shoes. A sweet hearted country boy found it hard to understand, and even harder not to intervene. A woman would cry out at the stinging bite of a stone to the face, her husband would be wise not to seek out her tormentor, if he did he would be beaten within an inch of his life if the boys in blue were slow to respond. Rushing into the masses, a crowd of angry “natives” was never a bright idea. So they gritted their teeth and had to bear it or else risk widowing their wives after just arriving, if they managed to survive the journey at all. On the other side of the loading docks, apart from the arriving immigrants, shipmates unloaded one pine box after the other of those that had contracted the plague, pneumonia, syphilis, cholera or dysentery on the way over. Thus was the life of an Irishman coming to America.<BR><BR>

Spotting a regular hang out at an Irish pub last week Cyrus and Davion had waited outside, looking over everyone within the establishment. According to Corey Blaylock they were looking for a tall, lanky dark headed fella and a very short, bald guy who was probably now wearing a hat much like every other loudmouthed, drunken Irish Mick in this damn ass pimple of a city. It rained too damn much, the rats were f***in scary, looked like they could drag a newborn child from a crib, the dogs weren’t friendly and the people weren’t much better always wanting to know who the hell Davion was looking at, why was he smiling like that, who da fack was he wavin at? The marshal had never been accused of being too personable. Apparently everyone here was expected to go on about their business, no eye contact unless they were conducting business with someone else, whether that be bartering for wares or starting some meaningless scuffle. But they didn’t see their men in the pub that day but the judge was not about to scrap this stakeout too, it was clearly time to change their tactics. Firstly Davion looked far too pretty to be a roughneck, Irish boy and so Cyrus took the liberties of dunking his head into a rain barrel, quite by surprise at that. The soiled marshal glowered at his counterpart, reminding him that he knew where the notorious judge slept at night, then swept his mop of mangled dirty hair back out of his face. Murphy had more than a bit of five o’clock shadow going on as well, scruff didn’t really define it either and the prim and proper lawman was quite unsettled by his reflection, “I look like a f***in drunk . . . a gutter rat, my mother would roll over in her goddamn grave.” but the goal of the operation had been achieved as the marshal had acquainted himself with a few Irish lads.<BR><BR>

There was Mickey Walsh, Sean Cunningham, David Fitzpatrick and a colored boy they simply called Laddie. Either the boy came off the boats with no name or his original name was too complicated or too long to bother with. Of course there was Fitz’s ratting terrier Riley, a champ in the pits. Well at least Davion didn’t have to worry about those big ass rats in that run down pub, which from the looks of it from the outside . . . and hell even the inside, looked like more souls within were those of vermin than human. It was so dirty here and the lawman could almost feel the disease lingering in the air, “THIS is where Henry was from? Damn no wonder he was so f*cked in the head. Makes me regret ever thinkin bad of ‘im.” Murphy pondered regretfully as they waited in the alley for his usual crew to show up, “Henry grew up in Brooklyn, not quite this bad, the middle class, this is lower than lower class. Bella came from upper class, in beautiful upper Manhattan.” Davion rolled his eyes and mumbled that these boys should drink there rather than here.<BR><BR>

Finally, one by one the boys popped up and went on in, sat at the very back and settled in for the evening, “Best go in, start talking before they get too hammered.” the boys greeted him in the usual Irish way, loudly with lots of rough handshakes and claps on the back, kicking a chair out for him and ruffling his already disheveled hair. It was so much wavier than he remembered when it was this long back in the war, when he was too busy killing Mexicans to bother with personal appearance, or hygiene for that matter, “AYE! Davo, how ye been?” as the marshal situated himself he wondered what Mickey had meant by that, looking across the table at him, “ . . . since yesterday?” he lilted his head and roused a boisterous laugh from the boys, all younger than thirty he could tell, making him wonder how he had gotten in with them, “Uh, yeah, since yersterd’y Country Boy.” cocking a fake half grin Davion pretended to join the mockery and finally nodded, “Fine, doin just fine.” the laughing stopped and everyone got a bit still as if he had just insulted the queen, “Yer fine? . . . Fine? As opposed ta coarse?” they laughed again.<BR>
“No, fine as in well, I’m doing well, I’m okay I’m . . . fine.” he enunciated. Those cheesy Irish grins popped up all around and all was well again,<BR>
“Oooooh, fine . . . okaeh! Drinks all around!”<BR><BR>

An hour later Davion slipped out of the bar, or rather stumbled out, colliding with a trash barrel he righted the container laughing at himself and then raked his hair back out of his eyes in the gloom of the musty street. There was a ruckus across the way where he had left his colleague to await his return, the hell was going on? Pushing his way through the crowd, smelling no better than the brewery up the street, he found a fat and happy judge seated at a . . . beer keg playing cards, and playing them well it would seem, “Uh . . . Cy, Cyrus we uh, we gotta . . . go.” he managed to garble out in his inebriated state, hadn’t drank like that in a while and he felt like a light weight again but he was getting his kick back. Smiling triumphantly from around a fat Cuban in his teeth, Savage gathered his winnings, tipped his hat and bid everyone a fine evening.<BR><BR>

“You have . . . you make more money’n . . . me an’ you’re in an alley in the slums o’New York playin poker with Pikers, you sir are a sick man.” Davion staggered into the dimly lit apartment, shedding his coat and shoes then collapsing on the bed as Cy laughed at him, still chewing on that cigar.<BR>
“You’re just jealous.” rolling over a bit, Murphy gave him that disapproving look,<BR>
“I’m workin . . . foregoin baths, a haircut an’ a shave for this shit, while you’re playin . . . no I ain’t jealous, I’m pissed. You c’n kiss my ass if you plan on f***in around anymore an’ expectin my help, I’ll go the f*** home Cyrus.” tilting his head at his friend Cy had that sympathetic look about him, stubbed out his cigar and crossed his arms,<BR>
“Davi needs a nap, he’s grouchy.” a muffled ‘f*** you’ into the pillow was all he got in return, “Did you find anything?” and at that, the marshal rolled over and sat up, wavering on the edge of the bed,<BR>
“Yep, Cullen Callaghan an’ Quinlan Gallagher hang out in a pub at the Five Points called the Chatham Square Tavern, every weekend.” peeking over at Savage he noted the floored expression,<BR>
“You shittin me? You better not be shittin me . . . you just . . . ASKED?” Davion shrugged,
“They wanted t’know what I had t’do with somebody like that, like Cullen since he’s the son of a Senator.” Cy tilted his head, “But I made sure they were drunk, they finally gave em away, they hang out t’gether too . . . easy.” almost too easy.<BR>
“Wait, the son of a senator? A United States senator?” Murphy looked at the judge like he was a moron.<BR>
“Yeah, a senator . . . I dunno what senator, ever heard o’Senator Callaghan?” Savage lapsed into a moment of deep thought before shaking his head, rubbing at the thick stubble on his jawline, “We could always, ask Cullen.” but unfortunately for a very much alive Henry Scarborough, today was Monday, putting their investigation on hold until Friday night.<BR><BR>
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Word Count: 1771<BR>
Tagged:NA<BR>
Lyrics:Eminem<BR>
Notes:NA<BR>
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LISS AT CAUTION 2.0 LOVES ME.

Word Count: 1205<BR>
Tagged:NA<BR>
Lyrics:NA<BR>
Notes:NA<BR>
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LISS AT CAUTION 2.0 LOVES ME.

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November 26th, 1869<BR>
Chatham Square Tavern, the Five Points, Lower East Side Manhattan, New York<BR>
About 10:45pm<BR>
<BR><BR>

It was well past closing time in the Chatham Square Tavern, situated on the infamous streets of the lower east side of Manhattan in what was known as The Five Points. It was more so just barely on the outskirts but still crawling with the filthy, disease-ridden vermin that infested this part of town. The muddied streets were far more shit than cobblestone or dirt, a man could relieve himself anywhere around here especially when he hadn’t a pot to piss in nor a window to toss it out of. The Montana lawman had to wonder if the piles of excrement he happened upon were crawling with worms before or after it plopped to the street. He had suppressed his gag reflex on several occasions and now it took a whole hell of a lot to make him feel sick around here.<BR><BR>

They had helped themselves through the back of the tavern after Davion had covertly staked the place out for the past four days and was once again pretty chummy with the regulars, particularly the owner. Murphy had convinced the man that two of his regular customers owed him a great deal of money and if he did not interfere he would be getting a share and Tommy Walsh humbly agreed. He was a greedy Mick, why not?<BR><BR>

They sat in the back and waited, Cyrus insisted on playing cards and smoking a rather odiferous Cuban the owner had given him, fogging up the little room that would soon be the scene of a bloodbath. Neither man planned on taking it that far when they set up for the meeting. Mimicking a well-practiced Irish accent Davion sidled up to Cullen Callaghan, his body guard and Quinlan Gallagher. He invited the gents to a friendly private game of poker in the back where the pot was already rather sizable and the boys were betting big. Once again it was easy to con a drunken greedy Irishman and they willingly followed. The tavern was empty when the shot rang out. Mickey McCarthy reached for the Derringer in his jacket but only found a spreading crimson stain coating the front of his shirt from a double dose of crippling buckshot before his knees went weak. And there he stayed, slumped against the wall tainted with that red smear blackening as the minutes turned to hours and Davion and Cyrus continued to ask their questions, mostly waiting for the two men to sober up and become a bit more intelligible. The darker haired Quinlan was in for it and there would be no escaping, but Cullen was the son of the senator and may be getting off a bit easier, at the expense of his friends of course.<BR><BR>

“I can’t believe ya kilt ‘im, ya kilt me best friend ye spudless fooker!” Cullen spat at the big fella that had shot and killed his body guard. He had been begging for the past hour for one of them to cover the body and show a little respect but they refused, saying he needed to see it and know they were not f***ing around, “It’s funny you say that.” Davion spoke in a normal voice, looking at the beaten faces of both men, “Because Henry Scarborough had friends, good friends, and a wife, a daughter and two sons that’ll never see him again.” as he spoke he pulled his Smith & Wesson, the gun he had been leaving in the apartment because it was too difficult to conceal, because apparently one hid their firearms in the east whereas they had them out for all the world to see out west but whatever, “Daniel Helm was Henry’s best friend, and he is consumed with a wrath that would rival a scorned Greek God, sir.” he spoke slowly, removing the cartridges from the cylinder of his break-action revolver one by one, agonizingly slow and setting them up on their ends in a row on the card table. Quin looked less than impressed, sitting in his chair with his hands bound behind him. His bald colleague however was very much on edge, watching every movement of the marshal, “So, what’s yer point, why ain’t he here?” pausing as he set up that last bullet Davion held his breath much like Cyrus did when he allowed that insanity inducing silence to pass between them, Murphy knew how damn crazy it made him and utilized the tactic accordingly,<BR>
“Busy, but he wanted me t’send y’all a message.” Quin perked up with a scoff, tilting his head back to flex his stiffened neck a bit. Producing a bullet from his pocket Murphy slipped it into one of the six chambers in the cylinder, “He gave me this bullet, I plan t’use it too . . . on which one of ya now . . . that depends on you.” Savage kept an eye on the window, the sawed off ten gauge loaded with two rounds of buckshot resting across his knees, pointing toward the door just in case. The marshal snapped the action of the revolver closed and gave the cylinder a good spin, “One in six chances fellas . . . now, who was responsible for the hit on Henry Scarborough?” the dark haired fella just stared at his adversary, Cullen only had eyes for the gun, “Cullen? . . . I know you’re dyin t’say somethin.” Jesus Christ why did he have to smile when he said that? Too panic stricken to speak Cullen couldn’t find his voice until the hammer of that cannon cocked back, “Okay! Okay, okay it was . . . me fadder, me fadder da senator o’Massachusetts.” he garbled and the marshal sat back some, lowing the hammer and buying both men a few extra minutes, “Does he have a name?”<BR>
“Killian, Killian MacDermott.”<BR>
“MacDermott? . . . he any relation t’Lachlan MacDermott?” that slippery son of a bitch!<BR>
“Yeah, e’s ‘is uncle, Lachlan’s me cousin.” Davion gave Cyrus that heavy look, knowing they couldn’t go all the way back to Colorado to question Lachlan, hell he was in San Francisco by now he was willing to bet, “Which one of ya killed ‘im.” <BR>
“Who?” Cullen winced and refused to open his eyes as the marshal jumped to his feet, the chair clattered to the floor and the cold barrel of that damn gun was flush with his forehead, “HENRY! WHO F***IN KILLED ‘IM!?” well this was not what the owner thought would be going down but he had already been paid and was busily wiping down his counters in the next room without a care in the world.<BR><BR>

Completely at a loss for words was the poor lad until his friend spoke up, “I did.” the lawmen turned to the man that hadn’t spoken a word up until now, “I beat ‘im so bad e’ died on da train.” which he technically did, so he wasn’t lying was he? The pearl handle grip of that revolver came across his face so hard it rocked the chair onto two legs, threatening to topple over. After settling his friend down Cyrus looked around and there was no suspicion yet, “Why did MacDermott want ‘im, what did he want with ‘im?” no response and the marshal was already fed up with Gallagher so he pointed the gun at him, and cocked the hammer, “Why didn’ ya just kill ‘im, why put ‘im on a train goddammit!?” still nothing and the hammer clapped down but there was no resounding gunfire, “Ya got lucky that time, what the f*** did the senator want with Henry?” Quin could only sit and flinched again as the hammer struck the firing pin, still nothing, “You’re runnin outta chances son, answer me or I swear t’god you will die right here, right now.” repeating his question he still got nothing, saw the shining gold sliver of brass peeking at him from the next chamber as it rotated into position at the cocking of the hammer, “You remember the name Daniel Helm, he’s the one that sent ya t’hell, boy.”<BR><BR>

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Word Count: 1347<BR>
Tagged:NAME<BR>
Lyrics:Eminem<BR>
Notes:LASNOTAS<BR>
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LISS AT CAUTION 2.0 LOVES ME.

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November 27th, 1869<BR>
Chatham Square Tavern, the Five Points, Lower East Side Manhattan, New York <BR>
About 12:45am
<BR><BR>

The marshal’s bedraggled, overgrown hair and scruff made him look like a ragamuffin and it was driving him crazy, so crazy in fact that as he stood outside the tavern he held a smoldering cigarette between his fingers, shivering in the cold. It was nearly December and they finally had their lead, but Cullen had revealed some very interesting information. <BR><BR>

“E’ ain’t dead.” Cyrus had looked down at the very much deceased Quinlan Gallagher with his brains strewn across the floor and assured Cullen that his friend was very much dead as a bag of shit, “No, no, no Scarboruh . . . e’ ain’t dead, e’ was alive when I handed ‘im off t’me fadder.” going on to explain that MacDermott wanted Henry for something and was keeping him alive somewhere Cullen also claimed that he did not know where Henry was, just that his father was holding him some place.<BR><BR>

“It’s been a while since Cullen saw his father or Henry . . . he’s probably killed him by now.” Cyrus gave his two cents very somberly, drawing off his own rollup when what he really wanted was a drink. They had cleaned up their mess and thanked the owner for his cooperation, paid off a madam in a local brothel to keep Cullen chained to a bed in one of her spare rooms until Gio got word of him. Cyrus had been keeping Giovanni Clair in the loop in hopes that the Sicilians could help them out here and there, essentially pitting the Italian Mafia against the Irish Mob. After a lengthy silence Davion ran his fingers through his dirty, wavy hair, “Cullen specifically said he’s not dead, he could be anywhere . . . where would you keep a man like that?” the judge looked across the street at a flickering street lamp, his breath visible on the cold night air, “I would keep a prisoner in a prison, it’s the most logical choice. With as much political power as Killian’s got he could put Henry anywhere so that nobody can find ‘im.” <BR>
“You mean imprisoning ‘im illegally, without records . . . Jesus it’d be like a needle in a haystack.” Cyrus nodded and they stood there quietly for another few moments. The bodies of Mickey McCarthy and Quinlan Gallagher had already been chained and sunk in the New York Harbor not far from here. So now the lawmen gathered their thoughts.<BR>
“Well . . . you know this place better’n I do . . . how many prisons’re in Massachusetts?” Cy looked thoughtful for a moment before sighing, “There are two big state prisons but I imagine he’ll choose a more discrete one, something smaller, maybe even an asylum.” he flicked his cigarette to the gritty curb and crushed it under his boot heel.
“But we can’t assume that so those two big ones hafta be checked too.”<BR>
“And by checked you mean going in and looking in every single cell at every single inmate, shit if we don’t find ‘im they better not say we didn’ f***in try, man.” tomorrow they would set off for a twelve hour train ride to Massachusetts and then head for the Charlestown State Prison for a day, then on to Bridgewater Hospital for the criminally insane. From there it would be hit and miss. <BR><BR>
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Word Count: 527<BR>
Tagged:NA<BR>
Lyrics:NA<BR>
Notes:NA<BR>
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LISS AT CAUTION 2.0 LOVES ME.

Word Count: 1891<BR>
Tagged:NA<BR>
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Notes:NA<BR>
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LISS AT CAUTION 2.0 LOVES ME.

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December 5th, 1869<BR>
Fort Warren Stockades, Georges Island, MA<BR>
About 9:30pm
<BR><BR>

The goings on at the mighty fort sitting atop the rise in the Boston Harbor seven miles off the mainland, were fairly normal what with rounds going accordingly; breakfast, lunch and dinner, visitations, and then lights out. Over the past few days the work load had increased slightly out on the yard as snow continually fell to the ground and accumulated so much so that the strain on the roofs of some outlying buildings became a concern. Shackled and more trustworthy, predictable inmates were given the duties of clearing the wintery mix from the buildings under the watchful eye of armed guards. It was one of few privileges for prisoners, which were slim enough in winter as the summer and spring months were committed to rock busting with those heavy mallets on the chain gangs. Clearing brush from the rear of the island fort had also become a season chore and the warden himself dragged the limbs into the basement to burn them in the furnace. He could have burned them elsewhere but the furnace brought the frigid temperature of the lower floor to a tepid but reasonable fifty-five degrees. Another outdoor activity that had recently seen an unusual and perhaps unsettling influx was grave digging. On average a stockade of the size of Fort Warren saw to the burial of three or four inmates a week at most; be it old age, sickness, murder or an “accident.” In the last week prisoners had buried thirteen of their own as the temperatures dropped. But the guards were also on edge, just two days ago Nelson Thurman had been killed in the lower floor of the prison stockades where everyone had heard a commotion a few days prior. To say the poor bastard had been killed was putting it lightly.<BR><BR>

Thurman and his fellow watchman, Joey Baker slipped into the lower stockade where they were actually not permitted to go but it was the quickest way out the back onto the sandy cliffs overlooking the ocean where they liked to take their smoke breaks. Like every other guard on the premises Thurman and Baker had been assured that the noises downstairs on the morning of December first was due to furniture being moved around in the storage rooms and were not aware of any prisoners being kept on the lower floors but habitually walked down the center of the corridor anyways on their way out the back, unimpeded. But something did lurk in the shadows of that subterranean prison, the monster of their nightmares and the reason why they left for work every day with that impending, sickening wave of foreboding that they may not ever come home again. Their jobs were dangerous, unpredictable and not for the faint of heart and certainly no job for a couple of young men screwing around like they were on their way back through the pitch black corridor. In a series of events that led up to the perfect timing for a horrible incident that would be labeled ‘misjudgment of a violent inmate’, the pieces fell into place and just as Baker pushed his friend into the bars of a nearby cell when he jokingly said something vulgar about his wife, it sealed Thurman’s fate. In his confusion he thought it was a steel bar that had lain across his throat, nothing he did could break the grip even clawing into the arm robbing him of the ability to breathe. Lifting his lantern to the sound of two bodies colliding with the iron bars, Baker saw his friend struggling in the grips of an unknown prisoner, the only sounds Thurman emitted were strangled gags, his eyes already popping as he looked to his friend for help. This floor was off limits for the very reason it was built, to house the insane and violent prisoners and he knew his fellow guard was in deep trouble. Joey cried for the assistance of the man standing guard at the top of the stairs but he couldn’t be heard through the thick oak doors. Moments later a pained scream did manage to penetrate those doors, rousing the suspicion of Hugh Page who had not heard the last of troubling sounds from the other side of that damn door. Pulling the iron reinforced entry open he caught sight of the grisly condition of a dazed Joey Baker as he crawled up the steps, a hand clasped over the right side of his bleeding face and mumbling incoherently, “You gotta go find it, you gotta help me find it and put it back, help me find it please.”<BR><BR>

A smear of blood just outside the now empty prison cell still stained the floor, no matter how many times they had scrubbed it, no one could cleanse Thurman’s blood from the pitted concrete, nor the walls for that matter. Most of Baker’s gory trail up the corridor had come off fairly easily, but the right eye he pined for like a child was never to be recovered and in coming hours it would be rumored that the crazed prisoner had eaten it. Coming to the aid of his friend the ill-fated Baker had struck the mystery inmate over the head with his billy club and the man’s other hand had lashed out so quickly and latched onto his face he hadn’t the time to react. He had felt the thumb curl into the corner of his eye, after that he didn’t care to remember. Thurman had to be identified only by the fact that Baker said that was who he was. After abandoning his club in a state of shock, staggering up the hall he had left Thurman to the unadulterated fury of Henry Scarborough. It wasn’t all blind rage though, after his adversary had blacked out and crumpled to the floor, Henry pulled his body up to the bars, parallel with the cell door and had searched him for sets of keys, finding nothing he took out his frustrations with the club Baker had left behind. Nelson’s mauled corpse had to be retrieved with the warden’s walking cane as no one was brave enough to venture within arm’s length of the silently fuming prisoner who hovered over the body like a lion would a fresh kill. <BR><BR>

Henry had crawled out of his bed on the evening of December second, taken the piece of stone he had found on day one to mark his days on the wall behind his cot, and scratched out seven digits on the floor of his cell, stretching out as far as his shackles would allow and as best he could under the numbing effects of the sedatives he was on. Nine, nineteen, one, two, five, twenty-four, and one. Killian MacDermott had been rather ecstatic and should have just stopped it there and given Henry what he promised, a pen and paper to write a letter to his wife before he was walked out for one last look at the sky and executed. But of course there were two more safes, so maybe he could persuade Henry to give those up too. The various drugs being laced into his food to keep him in an utterly harmless dazed and drooling stupor, were neglected as MacDermott and his men readied a wire to Denver for his men awaiting the numbers to the Wells Fargo safe. On the evening of December third as the last of the disorienting sedatives wore off and Henry became much more lucid, he folded his thumbs into his palms and easily slipped free of his shackles. From there he had lain in wait.<BR><BR>

Sullivan Pierce was an easy going guy, surprisingly soft hearted in certain ways, like the lighting of the downstairs furnace so Henry wouldn’t freeze to death. The morning after the man had brutally slain one and badly disfigured another of his guards, the warden lit the furnace anyways and sat outside Scarborough’s new cell to talk to him and keep him company through the slot in the thick solid metal door. He was heavily anesthetized again and could hardly manage to hold his eyes open for more than a few seconds at a time but in the pitch black of his nine by five prison aptly designated as “the hole” it didn’t much matter if his eyes were open or closed, but he appreciated the warden’s efforts. Not only had he been moved across the corridor to this tiny room, but he was also chained to the wall in a system that could be controlled from the outside, giving anyone wishing to open his door the ability to pull the shackles taut and restrict the man’s movements so they could better come in and clean up or give him a crude version of what they called a bath. There was no more chamber pot, Henry curled into one corner, his waste in the other a mere four or five feet away filling the tiny void with its rancid stench that soaked into the floor and walls no matter how many times the cell was cleaned. But he was too heavily sedated to really mind or care at all. They had put whatever cocktail of “medications” they chose in his fish, an Atlantic cod caught just off the coast of Maine north of here. Fish was cheaper than beef and in the winter to cut back on food cost and make room for means of heating the facilities, the warden brought in white fish from the fisheries up north. The banker had to eat it and submit to being sedated, borderline poisoned out of his mind, or starve. Of course what little food he had been given over the course of his stay here had him looking rather gaunt as it was after dropping about twenty pounds. His skin had not seen the light of day in weeks and was ashen and pale under the grime he had been stained with in the filthy state of his living conditions, particularly on his wrists where the metal of his shackles had oxidized and turned it a dark green. Deep purple bruising down his sides explained the wheezing, shallow and painful gasps he took, trying to breathe with cracked ribs, the scars across the majority of the trunk of his body was old news. All he had was the soiled clothes on his back and one thin, tattered blanket that appeared to predate the war.<BR><BR>

It was late now, not that he would know, all he knew was the radiating pangs in his arms and ribs, a sharp twinge in his chest when he breathed, a numbed but oddly throbbing face and that dizzying feeling of nausea and of course the omnipresent darkness he was so afraid of. His stomach pitched and rolled as he lay there curled in a ball in his corner where Pierce had wrestled his battered body to a few hours ago. He didn’t remember much, a forceful awakening as he was dragged from his cell into the spacious corridor, a blow to the face and he had instinctively wrapped both arms around his head and pulled his knees to his chest. The guards were angry, this man had not been tried and hanged for the murder of Nelson Thurman and so they sought to right the wrong themselves. The authoritative bark of the warden had broken through the haze and the barrage of boot heels to his ribs had subsided. That was two hours ago and he was still balled up with his head cradled by the nook in the corner of his chamber, dearly missing that straw mattress and damning himself for ever thinking it was uncomfortable, chained to the wall and having no idea what had happened to him or why, under the watchful eye of the only man that Pierce trusted to keep guard over him, the warden himself. Tomorrow Pierce would find that watching a single prisoner was too time consuming and would wire the locksmith to come and swap out the locks to the doors at the top of the staircase, the back door and the cubicle that housed the much reviled but understandably slightly insane Scarborough. The grate above this chamber would not be closed and locked until several days later when someone dumped a bucket of horse shit on him again and Marshal Helm would show up after Pierce was done shoveling out the cell with the same spade he had used to scrape Nelson off the floor ten days prior. It would not seem strange for a marshal to pop up either since Pierce would have sent for one to move Henry for his own safety, all under Killian’s nose. But the senator would be wise to the move and intercept the wire, but that wouldn’t stop Daniel Helm. But until the arrival of Henry’s rescuers he would only have the company of the benevolent warden who would sit outside Henry’s cell and talk to him once in a while through the opening for his food tray. The senator would still come once in a while, shining a bright lantern in Scarborough’s sensitive eyes or banging a metal pipe against the door to shock his senses, demanding the combinations to the safes, but that was as intimidating as he got. It was clear his prisoner was on his last leg and couldn’t handle much more than that as just simply an hour of torturing what was left of the man’s sanity was enough to leave him screaming in the fetid cubical for an hour or two afterward. Pierce would sit there in the dim glow of an oil lamp and read, sometimes aloud unless it was clear his mute companion was asleep. Some did not condone their superior being in such close quarters with an inmate that had brutally slain a guard, but with Scarborough chained to the wall and deeply sedated Warden Sullivan Pierce saw no real danger of him reaching through a small opening to grab him. Something told him Henry had probably been a sweet natured fella before all of this transpired, a man that wouldn’t harm a fly but sadly it appeared that Henry was gone. However he still held faith that the man would not harm another intentionally, especially if Pierce treated him civilly but then again Henry had killed a man he had never even met just days prior. Looking in on him once in a while Sullivan saw no grey in the inmate’s thick beard or unkempt hair, a few lines around the eyes so he guessed him to be nearing his thirties. His eyes were as close to dead as he had ever seen, non-reactive to light the pupils were distended under the effects of his sedatives, what life had been there before was gone. He would sleep for hours only to be awoken by a nightmare that jarred him back into the cold, dark cell, pressing his palms to the walls trying to figure out where he was. If Pierce was there he would say something to let Henry know he was not alone and that was usually enough to keep him semi-calm and reduce his hysterics to a comforting slow rocking motion he would take up in his corner, hugging his knees to his chest. If not he seemed to draw great security in the shiny ticking pocket watch Pierce gave him. Shortly after arriving to the stockade Henry’s personal effects including his shoes, jacket, glasses and timepiece had been plundered. Pierce had gotten his hands on the watch when he found it in the man’s jacket and had held onto it until now. To avoid having it stolen he of course couldn’t let Henry keep it when he left to go home in the evening and had to take it back, stoke the furnace and then catch the ferry back to Boston. It was an act of kindness for an ill-fated and, in the warden’s opinion, dying man he took great pity on, that lasted for more than a week until Helm, Murphy and Savage came to fetch him.<BR><BR>

On the morning of December tenth Russell Scarborough would head to the Wells Fargo in Denver to take care of some business after unofficially inheriting Scarborough Enterprises on November eleventh as a result of the disappearance of his cousin. The boys in blue would be there investigating an attempted break-in where one of the clerks managed to grab a potential robber by his jacket forcing the perpetrator to leave it behind. A quick search of the pockets would reveal a seven digit code on a piece of telegraph tape. Rusty, being forever clever, inventive and of course eccentric would take up pencil and paper and match the numbers up with letters and spell out ISABEXA. It was almost a word, maybe a coincidence? Well a combination didn’t make sense if two of the same numbers came one after the other, so he divided twenty-four in half and got two twelves to spell ISABELLA, “I’ll be damned . . . he’s alive.” back tracing the source of the telegraph Rusty ran the trace back to a fort on Georges Island off the coast of Massachusetts. Unable to reach Cyrus and Davion as they hopped about the state from prison to prison searching blindly, Rusty instead relayed the information to newly appointed Marshal Daniel Helm, who would head out that day, and prayed that heaven help anyone in his path while secretly hoping Helm would kill every one of the motherf***ers involved in the abduction of his cousin.<BR><BR>

Henry's Rescue<br><br>
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Word Count: 2937<BR>
Tagged:NA<BR>
Lyrics:NA<BR>
Notes:NA<BR>
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LISS AT CAUTION 2.0 LOVES ME.