PUBLISHED BY RANDOM HOUSE CANADA
Copyright © 2015 by Clifford Jackman
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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Jackman, Cliff, 1980–, author
The Winter family / Clifford Jackman.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-0-345-81479-1
eBook ISBN 978-0-345-81481-4
I. Title.
PS8619.A224W56 2015 C813'.6 C2014-906390-3
Jacket design by Michael J. Windsor
Jacket illustrations © Shutterstock
v3.1
For James Thompson and Joan Jackman,
my literary antecedents.
Death is swallowed up in victory.
Without justice, what are kingdoms but bands of robbers? Indeed, what are bands of robbers, but little kingdoms? Such bands are made of men, ruled by the authority of a prince, knit together by the pact of the confederacy, and share their plunder according to their own law. If a band grows strong enough to take possession of cities and subdue peoples, it will assume the name and form of a kingdom, not because of any reduction of greed, but because of the addition of impunity. And this is why when Alexander asked a pirate upon what authority the pirate took hostile possession of the sea, the pirate answered with bold pride: “The same authority by which you have seized the whole earth; but because I do it with a petty ship, I am called a robber, while you do it with a great fleet and are called an emperor.”
SAINT AUGUSTINE
If it were not for the prophetic character, the philosophic and experimental would soon be at the ratio of all things, and stand still unable to do other than repeat the same dull round over again. The same dull round even of a universe would soon become a mill with complicated wheels. Reason, or the ratio of all we have already known, is not the same that it shall be when we know more. He who sees the Infinite in all things sees God. He who sees the Ratio only sees himself only. Therefore God becomes as we are, that we may be as he is.
WILLIAM BLAKE
I tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just.
THOMAS JEFFERSON
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue: Oklahoma 1889
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Georgia 1864
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chicago 1872
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Phoenix 1881
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Oklahoma 1891
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Epilogue: California 1900
Acknowledgments
About the Author
1
High summer night in Oklahoma. Warm winds that smelled of apple blossoms. Now and then a lightning bug winked on and drifted through the air. Quentin Ross caught one in his fist and held it there, with its radiance leaking between his fingers and reflecting in his shallow eyes. For a moment he rolled the lightning bug between his thumb and forefinger, and then he crushed it, smearing himself with its luminescence, and he smiled, wide and empty.
The Winter Family was camped in a stand of blackjack oaks. There was no fire but the moon was up, pushing the stars back into the darkness of the sky. Charlie and Johnny Empire lay on their sides, playing cards and bickering. Fred Johnson wrote in his little book and drank whiskey from a cup not much bigger than a thimble. Quentin wandered from tree to tree, humming to himself, soft and tuneless. The others tried to sleep, tucked between tree roots or curled in bedrolls like pill bugs. All of them, except for Augustus Winter.
He sat astride a pale horse, like Death, leaning back in his heavy saddle and smoking a cigarette in an ivory holder. The suit he wore was well tailored but growing threadbare. His straw-white hair was cropped short and he had an extravagantly waxed mustache. His eyes were very light amber, almost yellow, the eyes of an eagle or a cat. Occasionally he would remove a watch from his pocket and turn it in the pale moonlight, watching as the second hand marched around, and around, and around.
It is often observed that murderers do not look like murderers. No one said that of Augustus Winter.
A little after midnight Winter cocked his head. “They’re coming.”
“I don’t hear anything,” Quentin said.
But soon they all did. The sleepers were kicked into wakefulness, the lantern shuttered, weapons drawn, instructions whispered.
O’Shea and two of his hands came around the bend and rode up to the camp. Everyone relaxed. O’Shea pulled up his horse, unstrapped a bag tied to his saddle, and tossed it to Quentin.
“I’d be grateful if you count it now,” O’Shea said.
Quentin knelt down,
opened the sack, and rifled through the bills quickly. Then he stood, his knees creaking.
“Yes, it’s all there, as we agreed.”
“Good,” O’Shea said and began to wheel his horse around.
“Now just a moment, Mister O’Shea,” Quentin called out. “Please, just a moment more.” Quentin’s voice was very deep, melodious. He spoke slowly, as if he were thinking very carefully, or reciting poetry.
O’Shea turned back to him, reluctantly. Both men were around fifty, but O’Shea was a tall man with a healthy mane of gray hair, while Quentin was small and fine boned.
“We’ve run into some unexpected expenses …,” Quentin began.
“Oh god damn you,” O’Shea said.
Quentin continued as if O’Shea had not spoken.
“… which were not included in the initial estimate of our—”
“Estimate?” O’Shea shouted. “We had a deal, you thieves.”
“Yeah,” Winter said. He did not speak loudly but all the men fell silent, and the bugs too, and the wind seemed to die down to nothing. “Yeah. Thieves, Mister O’Shea. And worse.”
O’Shea looked at Winter and bore his gaze. That was something not every man could do. O’Shea was not like every man. Willpower radiated from him. And he was angry now. He looked at the dirty mob of killers under the trees, white trash and blacks and Mexicans, in their muddy boots and sweat-stiff dusters, thin and poor and dumb as nails. One of them was using baler twine as a rifle strap. He thought: Am I to let these men get the better of me? But then, it was only money.
“How much?” O’Shea asked. Quentin told him. O’Shea nodded and said, “The money will be ready when you get back. I trust that is all.” Not a question.
But Quentin said, “Just one more thing, Mister O’Shea! Please! One more thing. A member of our band has taken ill. He needs a doctor. We would be grateful if you could bring him back to town.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake,” O’Shea snapped, but they were already bringing the sick man forward, surprisingly small, wrapped up tightly in a stinking bedroll. O’Shea stood up in his stirrups and looked down. He frowned. The man was an Indian, but his skin had gone gray and seemed thin, as if his bones were likely to poke through at any moment. Greasy foam flecked around his lips and nose and the whites of his eyes were jaundiced, the color of egg yolk.
The little Indian regarded O’Shea with piteous weakness. O’Shea frowned in disgust.
“One of you take him,” O’Shea said to his hands.
“Farewell, Mister O’Shea,” Quentin called, and tipped his hat. “Take good care of Mister Bread!”
The Winter Family laughed as the hands threw Bill Bread over the neck of one of their sturdy ponies and rode off, holding their noses. They all laughed, except for Augustus Winter, who watched O’Shea’s horse in the dim moonlight, until it was lost in the trees.
2
The next morning, Bill Bread was awoken by a strange, high laugh like the call of an asthmatic loon. When he opened his eyes he did not know where he was. A small, clean room with a glass window and wallpaper printed with rocking horses and flowers. The bed was high off the ground and soft.
A crippled boy stood in the doorframe, wearing short pants and suspenders and a shirt with a collar. Large, thick spectacles were strapped to his face with a black cord. When Bill looked at the boy, the boy averted his gaze to the ground, then the window, the foot of the bed, anywhere but Bill.
“Where am I?” Bill tried to say, but his throat was dry.
The boy let out that distinctive laugh again then limped away, leaning on a pair of canes.
“He’s awake! Yes! He’s awake now. Awake!” the boy said.
Heavy footsteps. A tall man appeared in the door, bald, with shaggy white sideburns.
“Mister Bread, was it?” the man said.
Bill nodded.
“I’m Doctor Simpson. Do you pretend not to know what has made you ill?”
Bill closed his eyes.
“If it is a lecture you fear, let me set your mind at ease. I don’t waste them on men like you. I will only urge you to stay away from the Keeley Institute. Their ‘gold cure’ for drunkenness is fraudulent. You will be dead in six months anyway; in the meantime, stay away from them.”
“Six months?”
“If you want to live, you know what to do.”
“Yeah,” Bill said. “I just don’t know how.”
“Oh, you know how,” the doctor said. “If you’ll pardon me for saying so, there is nothing complicated about how to stop pouring whiskey down your throat. You know how, of course you do, but you don’t know why. Do you, Mister Bread?” The doctor regarded Bill as if he did not entirely consider the question to be rhetorical, or perhaps simply to admire the effect of his own words. Either way he was disappointed. Bill said nothing.
“Sleep and water,” the doctor said. “Mister Bread, good morning.”
The doctor tromped out of the room. Bill heard that queer laugh one more time, and then the house was quiet.
He lay still but he could not sleep. Despite the pounding in his head and the terrible painful nausea radiating through his stomach, a strange energy, a lightness, was swimming through his limbs. He swung his feet around and pulled himself out of bed. At first he thought he might be sick, but it passed.
It was darker in the hallway without the dim light from the window. Bill made his way down the corridor, taking small steps and leaning against the wall. The rug felt good on his stocking-clad feet. Small bedrooms lined each side of the corridor; he was in the servants’ wing.
When he reached the end of the hall he went down the stairs through the foyer to the parlor, where he sat down in a rocking chair. He rocked back and forth and watched the early morning light come in through the window.
Perhaps it was only light-headedness from the walk down the stairs, or dehydration. Perhaps he was still drunk, but it seemed to him that everything was beautiful here. How long had it been since he had slept in a grand house like this? As a guest? Instead of in dirty hotels, hasty camps, dark sheds. Life on the run, as an outlaw, hunted by the army and the police and, worst of all, the Pinkerton National Detective Agency. Now here he was, in a nice house, with lace on the tables and family portraits on the walls, the smell of furniture polish and warm wood. It was nice. It felt right.
Six months, he thought. It wasn’t so long.
3
The Winter Family crouched on the top of a hill about two hundred yards to the west of the Indian camp. They were all low to the ground, their dirty greatcoats pooled around them like skirts, speaking in whispered tones.
A fine mist hung in the morning air. The rising sun was poking through the trees, dimly illuminating the little lean-tos and sheds. One skinny mule paced restlessly back and forth. Otherwise the camp was still.
“They are a ragged bunch, aren’t they?” Hugh said, pushing his spectacles higher on the bridge of his nose. “I kind of thought old O’Shea might have been laying it on a bit thick, but they look more like the Sioux or Cheyenne rather than a civilized tribe.”
“What do you think, Augustus?” Quentin said. “If we come up on them with knives, we could kill some without awakening the others. Perhaps Charlie and Johnny could—”
“We’re not going to do this,” Winter said.
Quentin blinked. “Pardon me?”
“We’re going to go back to town,” Winter said. “And kill them instead.”
Johnny Empire laughed, honking, and his brother shushed him. The other men simply stared. It sounded like a joke, but everyone knew Winter never joked.
“Did you lose your damn mind?” Fred Johnson said. He was tall and broad across the shoulders, a fifty-year-old ex-slave with silver streaks running through his dark, curly beard.
“When Quentin asked for more money O’Shea didn’t even blink,” Winter said. “That means he don’t have to go to no bank for it. He’s got it in hi
s house somewhere. And that shitsplat of a town don’t got any more people in it than that little Indian camp. Why should we kill Indians when we can kill white men for twice the price?”
The men were silent. They tried to think of something to say. None of them had the courage, except for Fred Johnson.
“Winter,” Johnson said. “You done lost your goddamn mind. We can’t just go kill a whole town full of white folks. It’s—”
Winter exhaled, sharply, and his eyes caught fire and turned to gold in the dawn light. Johnson’s words all dried up.
“You’ve come with me this far,” Winter said. “You’ve come all this way, and now you’re going to start to tell me there’s some things that just ain’t done? That what you’re telling me, Freddy?”
“They’ll hunt us down,” Johnson said.
“In case you ain’t noticed, they’re already hunting us,” Winter said. “We got a whole fucking army of Pinkertons combing the woods for us, led by the same son of a whore that killed Dusty and Chris Neville and Manny and the Old Battle Ax. And he’s not going to quit till he kills us too.”
“You think that’s as bad as it can get?” Johnson asked.
At this, Winter smiled, hard and tight.
“You’re the one that don’t get it, Freddy. This ain’t nothing compared to how bad it’s gonna get. Ten years ago if the law was on you, why, you’d just run into the woods. There was always more country. Wasn’t there, Freddy? You remember that feeling right after the war? Like you could just keep moving forever? Now it’s just Oklahoma. And after the big land run in April, Oklahoma’s not even Oklahoma anymore. Nothing but towns and railways and asshole Sooners like O’Shea. We’re fucking done. We need to cash out. And this is it. Right now.”
Winter stood up. A woman, a girl really, had come out of one of the shanties. She looked up and saw Winter silhouetted against the bruised sky. They looked at each other. She was unafraid.
Winter turned his head and spat.
“Do what you like,” he said to them. “I’m going with or without you.”
As he always would. But as always, they did not put him to the test.