Now Playing: The Darkness
Bart McRae stared through the train
window at the darkness outside. He should have felt happy. A terrible ordeal
was over. But he only felt empty and, he admitted to himself, a bit scared.
“You best
be movin’.”
Bart looked
startled as he turned to face the train conductor. “What?”
“You best
be movin’!” The conductor’s voice was loud and Bart wondered if the old man was
hard of hearing. “This here is Jameson, Texas, your destination. We’ve dropped
off a mail bag and picked one up. We’ll be pullin’ out soon. Your ticket is
only good fer this far. You wanna stay on the train, you gotta pay more.”
“I’m
leaving,” McRae said. The conductor stomped off, appearing disappointed that
Bart hadn’t argued with him.
As he
stepped off the train with only a small valise in his hand, Bart McRae realized
his clothes were hanging loose on his five foot eight frame. He had lost weight
during his four years in jail. Bart remembered reading that some prisons in the
East give a prisoner a new suit of clothes when he is released.
“Guess the
West ain’t quite so civilized,” he whispered to himself.
As the
train pulled out, Bart began to walk toward the weak light coming from the
depot and then abruptly stopped. No one was waiting for him there. He might as
well be on his way.
Six shadows
were outlined by the faint yellow emanating from the depot. They meandered
about, looking like lost phantoms seeking passage back to the netherworld. Bart
began to walk toward town.
“McRae! Bart
McRae!”
McRae
stopped as a figure swayed toward him. “Thought it was you.” The voice was
familiar. The figure moved closer, advancing with the uncertain gait of one who
had consumed more than a couple of drinks.
The light
from the depot and a partial moon combined to give Bart a decent look at the
man’s face. “Wyatt Cummings! Good to see a friendly face!”
Bart was
polishing the truth. Wyatt’s face was more sullen than friendly. His skin
looked doughy and his beard unkempt.
Wyatt
Cummings had always been a proud man who took care of his appearance and drank
wisely. Something was wrong.
Bart
maintained his friendly greeting. “So, what is the best stage coach driver in
these parts doing at the train depot?”
Wyatt gave
a bitter laugh. “Nothin’. Just watchin’ the train come and go like those other worthless barflies.
Sometimes I feel like runnin’ in front of it. Let the train kill me. It already
has.”
“What do
you mean?”
“I mean
there is no more stage coach line. The best stage coach driver in these parts,
as you put it, is outta a job.”
“That’s
impossible!”
“They don’t
call these parts the flatlands for nothin’. Some places still need a stagecoach
to go where the train can’t. Not the flatlands. The train does jus’ fine.”
An array of
angry thoughts assaulted Bart McRae. Someone was lying to him. But who? It sure
didn’t appear to be Wyatt Cummings. McRae’s voice remained calm; he really was
concerned for his friend. “Why didn’t you move, go to where they still need a
good jehu?”
“Don’t matter
no more.” Wyatt looked back at the shadows still wandering about the depot as
if they were ghosts from his past. “A day or two after losin’ my job, I got
drunk. Went home and beat Annie, beat little Caleb too. The next morning, Annie
took Caleb and went back East. On the train, ‘course.”
“I’m sorry,
Wyatt. If there’s anything I can do…”
“There’s
somethin’ you can do, all right! Come back here tomorrow night when I’ll be
good and liquored up! Push me in front of the danged train!”
“Wyatt,
don’t talk like that! Look, I don’t know
exactly what has happened since I’ve…been gone. But I got a letter from Adrian
Monahan, the owner of the stage line, promising me--”
Wyatt
Cummings began to laugh hysterically. “Maybe we both should jump in front of
the train.” Cummings continued his harsh laugh. “When did you get this here
letter?”
“About
three weeks ago.”
“Is that
so?” Sobs mixed in with Wyatt’s laughter. “Well, Mr. Adrian Monahan has been
dead for over two years. He shot hisself in the head.”
Tomorrow: Episode Two
of The Darkness