At the Lords Bequest

CW: Mature themes

1886

It is late in the afternoon in Longbend. A dust storm is coating the town with coarse dirt, dusting the settlement like a decorative cake. Travellers have settled down for the night, opting to avoid the weather. They’re treating themselves to the many sins of the town, booze, whores, gambling, the lot. They indulged in every vice under this unrelenting Western sun.

In the town’s small church, a group of men had gathered with Father Manchester, trying their best to avoid such temptations. These were troubled men, but men of faith. These men were there to help atone for their troubles. Some of them were delinquents, marauders and miscreants. Some had robbed, some had been unfaithful, some had taken a path away from God. Manchester was here to lead them towards decency.

He stood before them, as they’d gathered around in a semi-circle. They listened intently as he implored, ‘The path towards salvation isn’t lined with blood; it shouldn’t be built on betrayal, but on good, decent acts. My brothers, I implore you, seek to be men of worth. Seek to serve not only the lord, but your family. You owe them that.’ Father Manchester kneels before one member of the group, a pimply-faced young man who shouldn’t be here, ‘There is decency in all of you, there is worth…in all of you.’

The young man – a fresh-faced delinquent named Bertram Bryant – wore an introspective look in his eyes. An orphan from Texas, Bertram had a tale all too common in these parts. Having gotten involved with a whole cast of two-bit gangs, he’d fallen into ill favour with common society. He’d robbed and mugged his way through his teenage years. Growing weary of this lifestyle, he’d turned to Father Manchester for guidance. If he were to settle down to some form of normalcy, he needed a guiding figure.

As the night ended, Bertram bid his buddies farewell and ventured into the town. He didn’t have a home, but he’d intended to stay with his sister Rosie. She was waiting for him; he hadn’t seen her in a few days. He couldn’t wait.

A man was also waiting for him, however. He accosted him as he turned onto the main strip of this town, as if he were his own shadow. ‘I hope that you’re not buying that swindling son-of-a-bitches gobbledygook.’ He turned to his left. Leaning against a post was a man, somewhere in his early 40’s. His skin was leathery like an old pair of slacks, his eyes cold. He had a certain menace about him. Yet, he wore a charming smile which caused Bertram to stop in his tracks.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ he asked, looking around, weary of his surroundings.

‘No, I wanna help you.’ Bertram felt a bead of sweat roll down his neck, ice cold. This man had a certain menace about him. The kind of man you’d keep a wide berth from. He cleared his throat. ‘A kid like you could be of use to me.’

‘How?’ Bertram’s voice cracked, wavering ever so slightly.

‘I want to show you a few things, offer you a chance for salvation.’

‘I don’t need your salvation, sir.’

The man’s tone shifts ever so slightly, ‘I think you’d like it. I can make you a lot of money, if you’re interested?’ Bertram’s ears prick up. He was broke, often relying on the generosity of others. He had no real job, no fancy qualification, no future. Despite his faith, the reality of life was that he needed the means to put food on his table.

He indicates his interest with a raised eyebrow. The man places his arm around his shoulder. ‘Meet my boys tomorrow, down by Windsor Lake. I think you’d find interest in helping me. The benefits to you could be quite large.’ Bertram stewed on that thought as the man walked away. Who was this man? What wealth was he promising?

As he continued along, he noticed a dropped wallet. He picked it up to inspect it. It was the local sheriffs. He looks inside and sees five 10-dollar bills, a considerable amount of money. He thinks for a second before taking a note and putting it back down. He feels a little bit of guilt, a bit of remorse. But it’s only one ten-dollar bill, and nobody saw it. He needs it; nobody will notice, surely.

Windsor Lake

The lake sat still, almost like death. There is no wildlife lining this brook, no vibrancy, just a pack of bandits. Surreptitiously nestled in a cave off the bed are a band of five. Known to many as The Rankin Gang, they were a feared bunch. They raided their way across the states, leaving a trail of misery in their wake. Like untouched demons in the world, they spent their off days drinking, smoking and scheming, revelling in sin like they worshipped the devil himself.

Today, they’re joined by Bertram. He spent the morning in deep thought, wondering whether the previous night’s offer was good enough to investigate. He was trying to be a man of faith, to achieve some form of decency. But he needed money.

Amidst the laughing and drinking, a man named Hughes Rankin spoke up, ‘Winchester, introduce us to your friend here, feller.’

‘Certainly, young Bertram here has come down to earn himself a keep.’ Hughes and his fellow gang members whoop, their drunken states unsettling Bertram.

‘Is that so?’ Bertram nods. He feels uneasy, fidgeting with an unworn bolo tie he keeps in his pocket. He had ridden with bad folks before, but these men were a little bit worse. They smelled horrible; they looked repugnant, sounded menacing.

‘I just want to put food on my table.’ The gang let out a sarcastic naw, before guffawing quite boisterously. They sense his nerves, his general awkwardness.

‘We’ve got money for ya,’ says, but you have to earn it, feller.’ Hughes Rankin passed him a drawing of a bank. Bertram takes the drawing and inspects it. It depicts the Bank of France, a well-known establishment. It’s familiar to Bertram; he often rode past it when he was living in the orphanage in Louisiana. Hughes continues, ‘After next week, when we make our presence known … let’s just say we’ll be richer than an oil baron.’ The other gang members joined him in laughing, chinking their glasses and sculling their drinks. It seemed like one big joke.

Winchester didn’t laugh, however. His gaze remained fixed on Bertram. Like an allegation fixed on his prey, he was locked into the young man. He could sense how uncomfortable he was.

He offers him a drink; Bertram accepts it with a little hesitation. ‘I like you, fella,’ said Winchester, ‘You’ve got a lot of what it takes to pull off a job like this.’ Bertram didn’t like the sound of this.

His voice trembles, ‘What, what makes you think that?’

‘You showed up,’ Winchester bluntly replied, taking a sip of his drink. Bertram takes a sip too; it’s a bit strong for him. He begins coughing. Nevertheless, Winchester remains cold and steely, ‘That’s half the battle.’ Bertram doesn’t really know how to react. He had ridden in gangs before, but he was too young to realise the error of his ways. He’s a little older and wiser to these types. At least he thinks.

‘I want you there, as cover. You won’t be too involved; we’ll just get you looking out.’

‘I don’t know.’ Bertram spurts out, almost as a reflex. ‘I mean, I, I’ve got a good thing going on. I’m discovering my faith.’

‘That’s all bullshit.’ Winchester snaps, ‘This isn’t the country to find the lord in, young man.’ Bertram now feels his legs trembling, socks drenched with sweat.

‘Think about it for a few days. We’ll be here. If you want in, just say the word.’ Bertram had an offer. He had a lot to pontificate upon.

Rosie’s

Bertram sat on a couch in his sister’s home, drink in hand. She had made it clear this wasn’t a permanent arrangement. With a couple of pennies on his table –only enough to buy another case of beer – he had to get it together.

As he stared out the window on his left, Rosie came racing into the room, ‘Bertram, Father Manchester is here, he wants to have a word.’ Bertram pulled himself away from his listless staring. Father Manchester stood over him with a bible in hand. There was a look in his eye of dissatisfaction. Was this at Bertram? Could he sense something was up?

Father Manchester takes a seat next to him. With a certain sensitivity, he approached the young man, ‘Is there something you need to tell me, Bertie?’ Bertram stares at Father Manchester for a second, lip quivering as if he wanted to tell him what he did, but he couldn’t. Like a parent you didn’t want to lie to.

Father Manchester knew. ‘I’m worried about you; I don’t want you associating with that Rankin gang.’

‘The Rankin Gang?’ Rosie gasps, stumbling backwards before storming up towards her beleaguered brother. ‘You’re putting yourself at the mercy of those thugs?’

‘It’s not like that, Rosie.’ Bertram snapped back, springing to his feet. ‘I was invited down to talk to a few fellas.’

‘Those aren’t the fellas you wanna talk to, brother.’

‘Like you’re a saint, you used to invite half the O’Shaunessey gang into bed.’ Rosie slaps her brother. ‘Don’t you use that as some sort of half-baked excuse to justify your behaviour.’

‘Stop.’ Father Manchester intervenes, putting himself between the two siblings. ‘I don’t want you to mitigate old wounds, let’s try and see where we went wrong.’ After the two siblings take a moment to settle, they both sit. A bit of distance separates them on the couch. It’s a tenuous relationship, despite each sibling’s good intentions. Father lets the silence linger, hoping the two would speak on more level terms.

‘I only want the best for you me brother.’

‘Me too, Rose,’

‘Then why linger with the Rankins?’ Betram stutters, yet was unable to give her an answer. Father Manchester takes this moment to interject,

‘I don’t want siblings quibbling like this, you’re both good people. You’ve both taken steps to be closer to God. Let’s remember that.’ The two siblings nod along, ‘Bertram, do you remember Hebrews 10:23, we talked about it last week?’ Bertram nods, slowly looking up towards Father Manchester as he kneels to his eye level. He places his hands on Bertram’s.

‘Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering. For he who promised is faithful. You’ve done well to atone, son, don’t let these people lead you astray.’ Father lets that thought linger for a second. Bertram knows Father is right. He needs to stay on his path to salvation, to ward off his sinful instincts.

‘Father. I will try my best.’ He walks out. The father is left there with Rosie. They stare at each other, unsure what Bertram is thinking. They hope for the best.

Church

Father Manchester is in his rectory. He is reading a passage from his bible; his mind is still fixated on Bertram. Bertram has been a good young man in the time he’s known him, committed to faith, thoroughly decent. He needs guidance.

As he puts his bible away, he hears a knock on the door. He puts on his glasses, wipes himself off, and goes to greet whoever is at the door. As he turns the knob, he is greeted by a familiar face. They don’t know each other personally, but this man is well known to Father Manchester.

‘Forgive me, father,’ he says in a mocking tone, ‘for I have sinned. I am…’ the man breaks down in laughter, unable to put on the façade. Father Manchester is not impressed.

‘Mr Winchester, I’m not in the mood for jokes.’ James Winchester lets himself in before looking around the father’s home. ‘Nice place, I could see myself here.’

‘Why are you here?’ Winchester picks up a small toy from the shelf, inspecting it. It was given to Winchester by a former member of the church who’d since passed. Father Manchester wasn’t impressed.

Looking into the toy, Winchester’s motives become clear: ‘Did you tell young Bertram not to take me up on my offer?’

‘Please leave.’ Winchester places the toy down before storming up to the father. His laid-back demeanour turns sour, an air of menace permeating the room. ‘I just thought I’d pop by to let you know of my disapproval. Bertram is going to be a fine young lieutenant.’

‘He’s a good young man, too good to be with a scoundrel like you.’

Winchester gets up in his face, ‘Listen here, Father. I know you’re trying to be his daddy, but I would have to insist you stop that; it’s useless. I can be that matter of fact, I could even do what you do, wear the robe, give a fine speech, all that.’ James Winchester grabs the cross around his neck, ‘I can be that boy’s salvation.’

Father Manchester takes a big gulp. He was scared. James Winchester was known to be a brutal man. He was playing with danger.

‘I would hope you have it in your heart to find a shred of decency. Leave the boy alone.’

‘Or what, I’m gonna burn in hell. I’m fine with that. I’m trying to make the kid some money, there’s nothing wrong with that.’

‘By thieving?’

‘Asset alleviation is the new religion, father. I’m just honest about what I do. I don’t need to hide behind religion like you.’

‘Get out!’ The father starts shoving the man out of his home, and James Winchester puts up a lazy resistance, finding this whole thing quite amusing.

An irate Father Manchester shoves Winchester out and closes the door. He falls on his backside, rattled by his interaction with James Winchester. He’s done his part to help the young man avoid these people. He just hopes he won’t get lured by Winchester’s charm.

Somewhere Between Texas and Louisiana

On a desolate trail, Bertram is riding alone. He has spent quite a bit of time by himself, away from influence. He’s had a lot of time to think, to ponder, to wonder. He watches a vulture circling overhead, a passive experience. His mind is elsewhere.

After a while, he gets off his horse and walks over to an old tree. Hitching his horse, he grabs a bible out of his waistcoat. Taking a seat under this tree, he reads it to himself. He’ll begin a passage, then move to another. It was almost as if he were trying to find a justification for whatever decision he was going to make. He wanted to find something.

He looks ahead, and a sign was ahead of him. One led him to Louisiana, one to Longbend. It was a clear fork in the road, a clear choice. He stared at the sign for a good few minutes, wondering what to do. Does he do this job and set himself up for his future? Or does he stay on his path to decency?

He placed his bible under the tree and began riding down a path. He has a tear in his eye, yet wipes it away.

Bar

Rosie sits alone in the bar. She is wracked with worry about her brother. She hasn’t heard from him in a couple of days. He’d left his bolo tie on her kitchen table. He always kept it close, and she worried that his leaving it behind symbolised something more, something darker.

She understood the gravity of who he was dealing with. Feeling a great deal of stress, she’d gone to this bar to bury that in a glass of whiskey. A few men in the bar tried to take advantage of this and approach her. She rejected them with venom, remaining alone.

As she sat by herself, a voice rang out from behind her.

‘Rosie!’ It was Father Manchester. He is a mess. His shirt is crinkled, his eyes bloodshot. She pulls herself from her drink and races over to him.

‘What’s wrong, father?’ He pulls out a newspaper clipping and hands it to her. She looks down, horror slowly enrapturing her expression.

Gang Warfare at Bank of France, Five Dead. She is then pulled to a photo taken at the scene. It shows four men on the ground, a pool of blood around them. There is one man at the centre.

‘Bertie?’

‘He’s dead.’ Rosie faints, Father Manchester catching her. She’d hoped her brother would not be tempted by these people. She’d hoped Bertram would make the right decision, to put his faith before money.

He chose money.