“Well, we’re goin’ to miss you around here, Brad, ’n that’s for sure,” Sheriff Peach said.
“Take me with you!” Rosemary shouted impulsively as the train approached.
“I can’t. I don’t know where I’m going, and I don’t have enough money to support the two of us. But I will get in touch with you as soon as I have settled somewhere.”
The train rattled to a stop, the arriving passengers disembarked, and the conductor stepped down from the train. Lifting his hand to cup it around his mouth, he called out, “All aboard!”
With a final wave of good-bye, Houser, who had never loosened his hold on the small valise he clutched to him, stepped onto the train and settled in one of the day coach cars.
As the train pulled away, he took a tighter grip on the valise, drew it closer, and smiled. His plan to leave the town had worked perfectly, and he was leaving with over $88,000 in cash. Though he had shared his destination with no one, he was going to Chugwater, Wyoming. He had chosen Chugwater as his destination by the simple act of closing his eyes over a map of Wyoming, circling his finger, then bringing it down. When he opened his eyes the town closest to his finger was Chugwater.
At the next stop after leaving Sulphur Springs, Houser upgraded his ticket and moved from the day coach to the Wagner Palace Car. Two days later, he was approaching his destination.
* * *
Practically the entire town of Chugwater, and many from the valley, turned out for Clifford Prescott’s funeral. Prescott, who had been a colonel in the Union army during the war, received the Medal of Honor at the battle of Davenport Bridge, Virginia, where, according to the citation, “By a gallant charge against a superior force of the enemy, he extricated his command from a perilous position in which it had been ordered.” He was being buried in his uniform, and he lay in an open coffin with the medal, a five-pointed star suspended from a small representation of the flag, pinned to his breast.
After the service in the church the coffin was closed and the pallbearers, Clyde Barnes from the Cross Fire Ranch, Dale Allen of the Pitchfork Ranch, David Lewis of Trail Back Ranch, Merlin Goodman of Mountain Shadows, Webb Dakota of Kensington Place, and Burt Rowe of North Ridge, carried the coffin out to the hearse. The pallbearers were made up of the largest ranch owners in the Valley of the Chug.
Because Duff’s ranch was the largest of them all, to him went the honor of offering his arm to Martha Prescott and walking with her as they followed her husband’s coffin out of the church.
By the time they reached the cemetery, puffed-up clouds filled the sky like a flock of grazing sheep, while gusts of wind moved leaves around and caused the black mourning ribbons to flutter in the breeze.
The townspeople gathered around the open grave as the Reverend E. D. Sweeny of the Chugwater Church of God’s Glory, gave the final prayer.
“Unto Almighty God we commend the soul of our brother Clifford Prescott departed, and we commit his body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the resurrection unto eternal life.”
Martha dropped a handful of dirt onto the coffin, as did Harlon, her son.
Duff and the other ranchers went directly from the cemetery to the depot to tell Martha and her son good-bye.
“Mrs. Prescott, are you sure you’re doing the right thing by selling the ranch?” Burt Rowe asked.
“It is my son’s idea,” Martha said.
“Have you given this a lot of thought, young man?” Burt asked.
“I’ve given it very little thought,” Harlon answered. “Mother is perfectly free to remain here in this”—Harlon looked around with an obvious expression of distaste on his face—“godforsaken desert, if she wishes. But, if she wants to live with me, and to see her grandchildren grow up, then she will come to Memphis. I’m sure we can find her someplace to live that is sufficient to her needs.”
The whistle of the southbound train interrupted any further conversation.
“Is there anything we can do for you? Look out for your ranch?” David Lewis asked.
“That isn’t necessary,” Harlon said. “I have made all the arrangements necessary for Twin Peaks to be sold.”
“We will miss you, Martha,” Mary Beth Lewis said.
“Oh, and I will miss you as well. I will miss all of you,” Martha said as tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Get ahold of yourself, Mother,” Harlon said. “You will make new friends in Memphis.”
* * *
On board the approaching train, Brad Houser was sipping a whiskey that had been delivered to him a few minutes earlier by the porter. He was getting special treatment because he was the only one in the car. The train was approaching the town of Chugwater, and he was enjoying the scenery through the window. The most noticeable feature was the Chugwater Foundation, which was a high-rising cliff that was mostly brick red, though the color was periodically interrupted by streaks and spots of a light bluish-gray shade.
Even before he left Texas, Houser had begun growing a well-trimmed Vandyke beard. He was wearing a three-piece suit of the highest quality and a gold chain that formed a loop across his chest. Removing the gold watch that was attached to the chain, he opened it and checked the time. It was three o’clock, almost the exact time that the railroad schedule said they would reach Chugwater.
“Mr. Houser,” the conductor said, approaching his chair.
“Yes?”
“We are in Chugwater, sir. Your destination.”
“Thank you.”
“I do hope that your trip has been satisfactory.”
“Oh, most satisfactory,” Houser said, reaching for the valise. The valise had not left his side from the time he left Sulphur Springs, Texas, though several times he had been offered the opportunity to “check it through.”
The entire trip, including buying new clothes and traveling and dining first class, had cost him less than $250, which meant
