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[Pt. 1 Contd.] A Chance Encounter[Pt. 1 Contd.] A Chance Encounter
Thoughts of the rapidness of industrial growth since the publication of his father’s book flashed on the screen of Garrett’s mind like a moving picture. How much since had changed in the world since that achievement, thought he, and how much of that landscape had transformed? He moved along the countryside, bobbing along to the rhythm of the steam powered locomotive, meditating in its rancorous silence.
“Say, Meester, you don’t mind, do you?” Garrett was nonplussed when the young lady sitting across from him posed this curious question. He responded in kind.
“I beg your pardon, miss?” Quite the picture of youthful elegance, thought he, her thick dark hair tied up in a neat coiffure. Her lips small and showing something of a knowing playfulness as she puckered them at his response.
“I mean -- some might be not a bit bothered by my wretched habit.”
“Not at all, dear,” he responded, but knew not of what habit she had been referring. There were some potential candidates that he could imagine, but nothing quite so wretched. He made something up. “In fact, I had taken it to be most enchanting.”
“You are a gentleman.” She blushed. “My father is not quite so. He despises reading fiction, says it is like smoking -- even worse for those whom you subject it to.”
“A man must behave according to the expectations of the society he keeps. Patrick Garrett’s the name.”
“Pleasure Mr. Garrett.”
“-- Patrick.”
“I couldn’t agree agree more -- Patrick. It is in a man’s nature to survey the field and adapt to his circumstances, but is so for the fairer sex?”
“Oh, don’t be coy.”
“I am quite serious.”
“Truthfully? Well, I do not presume to know very much at all about their nature, except that I am prepared to say it is different from a man’s. For example, a man most likely wouldn’t have bothered to account for his neighbour on the train, which you have done. Therefore, I would say, yes, it is so. Women too must adapt to their circumstances. Unless you are different from all the rest.”
“I am indeed, and I agree with you. Both of the sexes must adapt. Who should adapt more is another matter completely.”
“I for one will gladly adapt to your reading habit, for a publisher could not remain in good conscience otherwise. It would be unbecoming and bad for business. Besides, I believe women of good-breeding should behave exactly as they wish.”
“Women of good-breeding.”
“Erm -- women of society.”
“Ought we --women of good-breeding-- to follow any of our wildest passions? You let me down, Patrick Garrett.” Her face darkened.
“I didn’t mean that.” He tried to apologize, but she was done listening as she returned to her book.
*
Hours passed, and the two passengers carried on in their silence, Lucinda sometimes dozing off without prying her eyes from the pages of Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein. She perked up a bit as the train neared its Toronto stop, which worried Garrett that she would dismount with a tarnished impression of him. He made one last attempt.
“Please, forgive me. I did not even ask your name. Or shall I remember you as that lady with the vile habit.” He saw a slight smirk alight on her thin lips.
“Wretched. And, no. If you must remember me at all, then I prefer I am remembered by my christening name, Lucinda.”
“A pretty name. Allow me to help you with your bags, Lucinda. You are getting off at the next stop, aren’t you?”
“Indeed. And you may.” She blushed again. “What is it you said you publish?”
“I am not a publisher, exactly, but a publishing agent for my late father.”
“I am sorry for your loss. What did your father write.”
“Thank you, it is alright. He wrote non-fiction. Stories, history, biography. He lived an eventful life and needed to chronicle it.”
“How exciting! You must find it rewarding.”
“Not quite. You see, I am looking to get out of it. It is tiresome for me. Let me tell you before you go fading into the city on the other side of that glass.
“My father lived an extraordinary life, no doubt, but attracted much scrutiny, so much that his enemies mowed him down in cold blood. That was years ago now, and it is not so important. He lived a good life, indeed, but in spite of it all, his soul has not found rest.
“His book, the one that I’ve published, is his life’s work. He lived and died in order to tell its story. But that book. It keeps his soul from finding peace. His critics continue to chase his ghost. They kick up dust around his grave, harangue his shapeless body. In life, his actions were never taken as they were intended and for all he did, still he is little understood. His story has been published, but it is not complete, and I cannot rest until he rests. That is why I am in publishing. For him. To finish his story, and to find a someone who will publish it. He attracted drama in life and in death, like a flywheel that just won’t stop after gaining momentum. I’ve worked tirelessly, wondering what kind of force it will take to stop it."
***
It was simply a question of $8000 or $10 000 between McSween and Dolan & Co. The former collected it and claimed to hold it in trust for the heirs and administrators of the estate of Emil Fritz. The latter claim to be creditors of the Fritz Estate. The charge of embezzlement against one and fraud against the other have been freely made.
The Las Vegas Gazette April 13, 1878
Dolan’s boot heels clinked as he waded through the tavern, advanced past the bar, plucked a tumbler and poured himself a generous shot of Overholt's Old Rye. He stopped, lifted his gaze toward the lawyer whose careless tirade of speculating about recent dramas in Lincoln had been replaced by a heavy silence.
“Drink?” Dolan asked McSween between an incomplete smile, shaking the bottle beside his tilted head.
“Ain’t no reason two men cannae be civilized over a pint o’ whiskey,” McSween’s voiced drawled as he was already succumbing to the affects of the last five hours spent in the Saloon.
“Finnnnne ev' -- ning.” Dolan was also drunk. He threw back the Overholt's and poured another. It warmed his insides as it fell passed his throat on its way down to his stomach. "DAMN, Overholt!"
“My boys are angry with yours, Dolan. This don’t end well.”
Dolan threw back another.
They’re coming after Evans and his gang, it’s gonna happen, one way or another. Up to you. You see, I’m here merely as a practitioner o’ the law, and I like yer here county – verily, is a swell place. Have even made it my home. Why, you may ask. I see growth, decades and decades of it. But that edifice is crumbling, and I think you, sir -- I think you know it. The choice -- do you want to go down with it? The choice is yours, Dolan.