Dust --Chapter 6 PG-13

[librarian_7]

Usual disclaimers…I don’t own Josef. All the plot and the other characters, though, are mine.

See, I promised you I’d update pretty quickly. This time.

Dust

Chapter 6

Slade was at a bit of a loss, as he watched Roberts march the prisoner away. This was his first visit to the camp, although he’d been told about it, of course. He wondered where the rest of the small group he’d arrived with had vanished to; Roberts had ordered them to take the horses, but it was too dark to see the remuda from where they stood. He motioned to Sally, who was regarding him from the shadows of her bonnet. “Let’s go find something to eat,” he said.

Sally almost stepped forward at the idea of something to quiet the rumbling in her belly. It had been a long, traumatic day, and she thought she couldn’t even remember what it felt like not to be hungry. Still, wandering around this camp seemed dangerous. She wanted to drop a hand to her skirt pocket to touch the little gun hidden there for reassurance, and to avoid drawing attention to it, she folded her arms under her short cape. “Perhaps you’d be so kind as to bring me something. I promise I won’t stir a step from here.”

Weston scowled, exasperated. “Mrs.—Mrs. Watkins, isn’t it? Mrs. Watkins, I’m new to this camp, but I do know this. There are a hundred men out there. More. And you. If you think it’s a good idea to leave a woman unprotected in a place like this, all I can say is, you’re still very young.” He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but her spine appeared to straighten even more, and could he have seen it, her mouth took on a more determined set.

“I understand, Mr. Weston. But I don’t think Mr. Constantine would want me to go off and leave Miss Beaumont alone, either.

Slade frowned. “I thought she was dead.”

Sally nodded. “And Mr. Constantine is going to see to it she gets a proper burial.”

“I wouldn’t count on that,” Slade said drily. “I think you put a little more faith in your Mr. Constantine than you should.”

“Maybe. But he got you to promise to take care of me, didn’t he?”

It was an impasse. They stared at each other, and Slade almost thought he could hear the pocket watch he’d taken from the gambler ticking away inside his vest pocket. How was this little slip of a girl defying him? For that matter, how was it that Constantine had buffaloed him into this situation? He had a gun, and he was standing here honoring the whims of two prisoners, one a bound man who’d probably be dead within the hour, and a girl who barely came to his shoulder. It had been a very long day.

“Look,” he said “why don’t we step over to the nearest campfire, and see what we can get? We won’t even be out of sight of the stage,” he paused, uneasy, “and, uh, Miss Beaumont will be safe for a few minutes without your help.”

Sally considered. The sky was almost completely dark, now, and there’d been no great rush to do anything with the stagecoach, after the first hubbub of the horses being unhitched and led away, and the strongbox taken off to heaven knew where. Perhaps it would be all right. She nodded.

“All right,” Weston growled, “stay damn close to me. And keep your mouth shut.”

When he walked away, she was close at his left elbow, and he’d have thrown her an approving smile if he hadn’t been busy. She knew enough to leave him room to use his gun to protect her.

The evening was getting chilly, fast, as the lingering warmth of the sunny October day was dissipated by the rising night wind. The fires of the camp danced with it, their light fitful and flaring as the resinous, fragrant piñon burned. The aroma was pleasant, masking much of the necessary stench of the large camp.

True to his word, Slade headed for the closest fire, greeting the men who lounged around it.

“Evening, boys,” he said. “Got any grub left?”

Conversation died. A large man in grimy buckskins looked up from the fire, his eyes sleepy in a way that Slade suspected masked his real alertness. “Ain’t you got a billet assigned?” he asked, his tone unfriendly. “And who’s the skirt?”

The few heads that hadn’t turned their way did so now, and Slade disliked the avid gleam he saw in every eye. He cursed inwardly. Maybe Mrs. Watkins would have been safer in the company of the corpse. “None of your affair,” he snapped, adding, “Colonel’s orders.” It was vague, but what he remembered from his time in military service suggested it would suffice to shut down any further comment.

From somewhere, a pair of greasy plates appeared, and were filled with a mixture of beef and beans from the dutch oven sitting in the midst of the fire. Mostly beans. Sally thought wistfully of the stew at the stop the night before. From what she could see, this slop would have been nauseating if she weren’t so hungry. They weren’t sitting at the fire to eat, though. Weston let her carry both plates, garnished with a couple of blackened pieces of what might be called biscuit, provided one was blessed with more of a sense of humor than Sally possessed at the moment.

When they reached the stagecoach, which was looking black and bereft without horses, standing alone in the night, Weston took one of the plates.

“Guess I can trust you not to make trouble while we eat,” he said, folding down gracefully into a cross-legged seat.

“I thought you were meant to be protecting me from the rest of the camp, not them from me,” Sally said as she sank down, with less grace. The only other choice she had was to sit in the door of the stage, and she didn’t really fancy the departed Miss Beaumont looking over her shoulder as she ate. The ground was rocky, the scant grass trampled, but it was still preferable. Weston handed her a spoon, and they began to eat.

“You know,” Weston said after he’d ploughed through half of what was on his plate, “this stuff takes me back to army days. About as bad as any we had.”

Sally forced out a little laugh and picked up a biscuit to gnaw on, hoping it would cut the taste of salt in her mouth from the beef and beans. “My Uncle Ethan always tells stories. I believe it. He said it was so bad, it kept them ready to fight.”

Slade twisted a smile. “Yeah, that’s about right. Of course, toward the end, we were lucky to get anything at all.” He stared off into the night, and Sally kept silent. She recognized the look. Her uncle looked that way a lot; it was better not to disturb him then. Slade didn’t come back to the present until his plate began to slip from his hand, and the slight movement jerked him out of his reverie. He gave Sally a rueful smile. “Some guard I am, huh?” He put aside his plate, and pulled a blade of the wiry grass.

“Mr. Weston,” Sally said on impulse, “what are you doing here?”

“You mean, how’d I get dragged into this mess?”

Sally blushed, hoping he couldn’t see. “I don’t mean to pry. But this—“ she gestured “—doesn’t seem like you, somehow.”

“I can understand how you’d be curious.” Slade twisted the piece of grass in his hand. For the product of a long summer in the sun, and a dry autumn, it was remarkably resilient. He had no real wish to go into the thirty-four years of bad decisions and lousy luck that had brought him to where—to what—he was now. “The long story isn’t very pretty. Short version, I got into it pretty much the same way I’ve gotten into everything. I drift. And when you drift, you don’t have much control over what you drift into.”

Sally looked around her at the sprawling camp. “Mr. Weston,” she said softly, “maybe it’s time for you to start making some choices for yourself.”

Slade frowned even as he nodded, his weathered face bleak. “That may be easier said than done, ma’am.”

Sally covered her thoughts by renewing her assault on the unpalatable biscuit. If only they’d used a little of the salt from the beans in the dough, she thought. She knew it was always better not to push, but she was afraid time was short. With Mr. Constantine vanished, her faith in his continued protection was waning. What if he never came back? What if they killed him? She’d be alone with only Weston to watch over her. And he was a little—changeable—for her taste. As he said, drifting.

She pondered where to take the conversation next, looking around her at the camp. From the slight rise where they sat, she could see the tents and fires around her, the sounds of the evening camp dying into the night. The sighing of the wind, the low voices of the men, as the quiet descended. From across the way, she could hear the horses shift and snort, and somewhere a guitar played and a few voices sang a sad camp song. She watched the smoke drifting into the air, scenting the night air. It was pleasant, peaceful. Deceptively so. She wondered where Roberts had taken Mr. Constantine. There were enough shadows moving around, that she couldn’t tell if anyone was coming this way or not.

Her biscuit was gone, and she had no idea what would happen next. Surely they wouldn’t be left in the open for the night. Then the shadows coalesced into several figures moving their way, and Josef appeared out of the gloom, followed by Roberts and Cassidy. The weedy young blond had a shovel over one shoulder and a look of unholy glee on his face. Sally felt her stomach lurch. This couldn’t be good. She tried to read Mr. Constantine’s expression, but couldn’t see him quite well enough. She scrambled to her feet, and heard Weston, beside her, do the same.

“Mr.—Mr. Constantine, is everything all right?” she asked.

His answering smile was bleak, but somehow reassuring. “For now, yes. I have leave to bury Miss Beaumont. Provided I do it myself.”

Roberts laughed. “You think you made a deal, but you got a lot of work to do, gambler. Gonna be hard, with your hands bound.”

“I don’t suppose you’d be good enough to untie them? While I dig?”

“Hardly likely.” Roberts spat on the ground. “You’re lucky I don’t make you do it blindfolded.”

Josef was almost at the end of his patience. He flexed his wrists, and the leather binding dropped away. Sally noticed Cassidy’s eyes bulge out.

“What the hell?” Roberts said. “I thought I told you to tie him good, Weston.”

Slade blanched. “The—the leather must’ve been rotten. Those knots were good.” He stepped forward and grabbed the rein off the ground. “He couldn’t have broken….” Running his fingers over the strap, he was more perplexed. There was no way the gambler could have done what he’d done. He flicked his eyes up to Constantine’s face, but the prisoner was giving nothing away.

“Yeah, sure.” Roberts paused. “Tell you what, Weston, for that, you’re part of the burial detail there.”

Josef gave a curt nod of assent. “He can help.” And he turned his back carelessly to go to the dark stage. He reached inside and gathered Iris into his arms. She had stiffened, but the rigor was beginning to pass, and her dead weight was difficult to manage, her head lolling limply... He tightened his grip, and pulled her close to his chest. When he turned back to face his captors, Sally was staring, her hand over her mouth, and he could see tears shining in her eyes. “It’s all right, Mrs. Watkins. We’ll take good care of her.”
Searching for a suitable spot, Josef led the way, with the others trailing behind. Sally hurried to keep up with him, stooping to retrieve a bit of lace that had fallen free, a handkerchief that fluttered free of the dead woman’s sleeve. It wasn’t a long walk, just a few yards away from camp, to the top of the next rise. Cassidy shoved the handle of the spade into Weston’s arms, but kept the lantern swinging from one hand. Josef stopped, and decided that spot was the best he’d find.

He went down on one knee, and laid Iris down in the grass. Only Sally was close enough to see him brush a tendril of hair away from her face, before he arose to take the shovel from Weston. He spent a few moments deciding where to begin, then set his foot to the blade and cut through the tough tangle of grassroots with a hard push.

He worked in silence, first outlining the grave, the thrust of his foot sending the shovel blade through the tough sod like a knife through fresh, new bread. Sally, who had taken a seat near Iris’s body, trying to stay out of the way, thought that for a rich man with soft, well-kept hands, he was very strong, and very handy with the tool. He paused once, to shrug his broad shoulders free of his jacket and hand it into Sally’s keeping, but never spoke.

Once the sod had been cut in squares and laid aside, the digging began in earnest. Weston stood by, collecting the rocks into a small pile apart from the growing mound of soil beside the hole. They fell into a rhythm, trading off the shovel every half-hour or so.

Roberts continued to watch, but he settled himself on a convenient stone and relaxed far enough to light his pipe. Cassidy was disappointed. He’d expected a little more drama, perhaps some whining about the pain of the forced labor. This grim, quiet industry was very dull.

As the grave grew deeper, there came a point when Slade had to make a hard scramble to get out, and his strength was fading. Josef, aware that dawn was coming eventually, reached a hand out to pull him up. He knew it was a calculated risk, especially when he saw Weston’s eyes widen as Josef’s chill hand took his.

Bracing a foot on the edge of the pit, Slade let Josef pull him up, and as he stood face to face with the broad-shouldered prisoner, he whispered, “I never wanted any part of this, you know?”

Josef nodded. “Thought so.”

“Then why—“

Roberts broke in, growling from his rock. “Enough with the talking. This is taking too long as it is.”

Josef only smiled at Weston in reply to the unfinished question, and over the next half hour, as Weston watched the shoulders of the other man moving beneath his white linen shirt in the darkness, he thought he knew the answer. Because it was always better, in uncertain times, to know where the weak link was. He guessed Constantine had him figured out about right. Not a very pleasing thought. He was almost thirty-five now, and the war he’d been using as an excuse for his wanderings had been over for eight years. Maybe if he could get himself out of this disaster waiting to happen, he’d go somewhere new, see if he could find steady work. It was time. Josef handed him another rock, this one bigger than his head, and he staggered from the weight.

“That should do it,” Josef said. He put his hand on the edge to vault up, then noticed that Weston was reaching out to help him. He clasped his hand around the other man’s forearm, and let it appear Weston was pulling him.

Sally rose, and helped them arrange Iris’s body decently to lower into the grave. She expected Mr. Constantine would stop to say a few words, but he only stood, looking down at the dead woman’s face for the last time. Then he looked up, and Sally could see his eyes shining. He took the shovel in hand again.

“Mr. Constantine,” Sally said shyly, “shouldn’t we cover her face? Before—well. Before.” She held out the scrap of lace handkerchief she’d picked up earlier, and extended it to him.

Josef twisted the fabric in his hands. “Yes. She’d—she’d appreciate that kindness, Mrs. Watkins.” And he dropped one last time into the grave, to spread the lace over Iris Beaumont’s still face. No one heard him breathe to her, “Goodbye, sweetheart. Rest well.” This time he ignored Weston’s hand, and regained his place by the grave alone.

The first shovelful of dirt to hit the body was always the hardest, Josef thought. It had to be done. This time, and the multitude of other times he’d performed this task. He almost wished he were the heartless monster he’d been accused of being, so many times and places. If he could have walked away and left this body to be tossed out like garbage, perhaps he would have. But he’d been taught in a hard school that there were obligations to be carried out. And if nothing else, six feet of earth and stone would surely keep anyone from finding telltale marks on a body. That’s it. It was practical, just practical. The memory of that white skin, those beautiful china blue eyes, had nothing to do with it.

Josef tossed the shovelful of dirt, on her feet. No reason you had to start with the face, after all.

After a few dozen casts, Weston took the spade from his hand, and continued the job. Sally thought of all the sentimental songs she’d heard about lonely graves, and how she’d once thought them sad and beautiful. Now she knew there was everything sad about a solitary burial place, but very little beautiful. As the mound of dirt above Iris’s remains took shape, she came forward and began to help the men pave the spot with stones. Josef tried to wave her back, but she set her mouth stubbornly and picked up another rock.

“I want to do this,” she told him. “For her. And for you.”

His answering smile was crooked. “I might have known.”

When they had finished, the sun was about to throw an edge above the horizon. Josef turned from the grave, almost sagging with weariness, and took Sally’s elbow. “Come along,” he said. “We’ve done all we can, here.”

[allegrita]

Heh. I knew you'd give Slade dimension. I love finding out little bits about him. I love the way Slade watches over Sally, and lets her in a little. She does have a way of getting in through the chinks in a man's armor, doesn't she?

You bring the camp to life, with sights, scents (and stenches), and sounds. I can almost feel the blade of grass in Slade's hands, and the rocky ground beneath the blade of the shovel.

The grave-digging scene is really great. Sally's kindness in offering the handkerchief to cover Iris's face is so touching, as is the way she pitches in to cover the grave with rocks. Josef's thoughts as he arranges the hankie over her face... well...

I loved this--it portrays Josef's many layers so well:

But he’d been taught in a hard school that there were obligations to be carried out. And if nothing else, six feet of earth and stone would surely keep anyone from finding telltale marks on a body. That’s it. It was practical, just practical. The memory of that white skin, those beautiful china blue eyes, had nothing to do with it.

Josef tossed the shovelful of dirt, on her feet. No reason you had to start with the face, after all.

Josef and Slade are coming to an understanding--one of those wonderful, unspoken, alpha-male understandings that seem to originate someplace way down deep. Slade's half on Josef's side by now. Maybe three-quarters of the way. And Sally has a lot to do with that, too.

Sally reminds me of Beth in some ways. A practical woman who isn't daunted by a hard situation. Someone who's suffered and hasn't broken. Someone who kind of makes you look at the situation squarely...whether you want to or not.

I'm worried, though--they've worked all night, they're exhausted, and the sun is about to rise. What's going to happen?!

Evil cliffie, Lucky... very evil cliffie!

[jenstc2003]

What a great chapter! Sad, but a necessary courtesy. Beautifully done!

[cassysj]

I really like this development of Slade. I never thought too much of him one way or the other in La Posada

A proper burial just practical Josef? Keep telling yourself that.

I'm with Alle sunrise has me very concerned.


Edited to add. Just read your post on Adoring J. Carol only got two hours of sleep last night so the manual labor in shirt sleeves went over my head. Must get more sleep tonight.

[mitzie]

Very sad chapter! We learn a bit more about Slade and Sally's strength still continues to amaze me!! In this time era women weren't always so strong or as brave as Sally. I love this story so much and can't wait for more...

mitzie

[moonlight_vixen]

I love how with each and every segment we see more of Slade's "personality" coming through. He is turning out to be quite the character.

The burial scene for Iris was done beautifully. You know that Josef would let just the tiniest bit of his "guard" drop for her.

Great chapter!

[eris]

Awee, poor J's had to outlive his number of ladies, but I wonder how many he's actually had to bury with his own hands. Nicely done.

[tucutecats]

Excellent story, the suns coming up and poor joseph will have to take shelter. Can't wait to see what's next. Hurry please! ! We love your writing.
s
s

[RangerCM]

It amazes me how you can so easily go from modern dialogue rhythm in others stories, to 19th century rhythm in this one with such ease! Very nice. It really adds to the atmosphere of the storytelling.

Love this bit of Slade's backstory. Beginning to see why he might be a worthy candidate in Josef's eyes after all.

But I'm getting worried about Josef. The sun is one thing, but after a night of labor, our vamp has got to be hungry!

[wpgrace]

Oh Iris!!! We hardly knew you!!!!!!

So how's J gonna get out of this... this is looking more difficult than I had expected...

[LadyAilith]

I wonder how many times Josef's had to bury his ladies...this time he did it with his usual grace. It was a lovely idea to have Sally pick up the handkerchief and provide it to cover Iris' face.

You do have such a way with words, creating worlds past and present. I find myself being envious of the magic that you wield.

Thank you so much Lucky.

[librarian_7]

Wow. Thanks for all the lovely comments.

Alle, you are fast becoming one of my favorite readers! Yes, I've been meaning to get more of Slade "out in the open" since I first introduced him, and I think he's shaping up nicely.

Jen, thanks...I like to think Josef does come to care about those who feed him, even if it's not a grand passion.

Carol, well, digging a grave in a suit coat isn't very practical. What can I say? It was a little too cool out for him to go shirtless...And I do hope Slade is growing on you. He has important things yet to do, you know.

mitzie, I think women may have been circumscribed then, but many of them had to be enormously strong of character, just to survive on the frontier. Sally is a survivor.

M_V, thanks!

eris, I guessing not many, these last hundred years or so. Before that, though, probably from time to time.

tucute...working hard. Working hard, I promise.

Ranger--well, let's just say I've read a lot of historical novels, and 19th century lit, in my day. But thanks very much for the compliment. I do try to find as authentic a voice as I can for my historical stories.

Ah, grace...you know I have a few tricks up my sleeve. Glad I'm keeping your interest!

And Ailith, aw, shucks. It's funny, but some of the details like the handkerchief were just spur of the moment. It seemed to fit.

Again, thanks everyone who has read this. I hope you'll look for the next chapter!

Lucky

[one.zebra]

Lucky, what a pickle Josef has gotten himself into....I started thinking of all the modern conveniences we take for granted...long living vamps must really love modern life!

Very touching, Josef burying is Freshie in such a tender way, the handkerchief a poignant touch....

Now, however are you going to get these two out of this mess?
Morning is coming.....Josef's got to be hungry....Mrs. Watkins and the baby..(loved that he could hear the heartbeat)

Your rich descriptions make us feel like we're there.

[Penina Spinka]

Thanks for the alert. I will be waiting. Josef had the acting part down, to pretend to need help, but now he's really weary. He showed more respect for Iris dead than Iris alive. Yes, he must be hungry. Slade is more real and 3-D in this chapter. I wonder if Slade will feed him in this story. Penina

[MoonShadow]

I have so much to say about this chapter that I barely know where to begin. These last two years has been ones filled with funerals for me and I feel as if I have just been to another. There is a poetry to the ceremony of death, the motions we subscribe to it, the sounds that we embrace it's grief with, even the scents we associate with it. Lucky, you have taken each of them into account woven them together and brilliantly wrought literature. I am so drawn into this story that I feel as if I have participated in the scenery, I love that I can feel the dust, the rocks, the grit and the grief.

Thank you,
MS