Senator Martins spared no expenses with his gathering, bringing in crates of fine wine from France and whiskeys from across the land. Indeed, he was so lavish that it became a Party requirement to attend; it would be rude to turn down such expensive generosity. That meant Papa was expected to go even before being invited. And with Missouri only a few days away on the Katy, he could not excuse himself.
Then the invites had come through. Against expectations, Mama had been invited too, even though Mama had some awful problems with the demon drink… And because Papa had to go, so did Mama. Mama had promised to stay sober for Papa’s sake and he’d believed her. As a man should believe his wife.
At the time, Penelope had been grateful she was at the Chalmers’ ranch with the Badlands between her and a trip north. Now, oh now…
Not that she could have made much difference. Penelope imagined that Papa had given the help specific instructions not to serve Mama but, well, you can’t trust blacks and Indians with instructions. Penelope being there would not have changed things if Mama had been weak, had determined that she would drink.
And so it came to be. The next day Penelope had received a telegram; Mama had gotten drunk and fallen down Senator Martin’s pompous staircase. It warned that she might not survive more than a few days, that she had… had snapped her neck during the fall and was fading…
With her eyes closed, Penelope couldn’t help but imagine Mama falling down carpeted stairs, bouncing like a rubber ball. With no sound, no light, she could almost see it. The imagined snap when she landed echoed around her prison.
All because Martins wanted to get ahead in the world.
Penelope pictured him, a weasel, a little man with too much ambition. Her bile rose. Why invite Mama when everyone knew she had problems with drink? It was an unwritten rule that Party members didn’t invite Mama Chalmers to evening occasions… and that oaf had broken it. And therefore he’d broken Mama.
“Damn Martins,” she whispered. “Damn him, damn him.”
Penelope wouldn’t be surprised if he’d ignored social protocol. Maybe he’d even arranged for Mama to get some drink. Papa’s regard in the party made him a target and Martins was the kind to go for people; she’d once sat next to him at one of those awful Republican conferences and he’d made it very clear in inappropriate dinner conversation that he viewed Dead Men’s Boots as a good thing. Social Darwinism, he’d called it. God’s will.
Penelope named it what it was; greed.
There was only one thing Papa could’ve done to get his family together one last time; pay soldiers around the old Fort Mason to pick up Penelope from their ranch and march her across the Badlands to ride the Katy to Missouri.
Even with what had happened, Penelope would jump at the chance again. It was worth the risk to see her Mama one last time.
She hadn’t been aware how much of a risk the order was though, mainly because the Badlands had always seemed like a myth. It was all heroes and villains, monsters and shamen. The Dixie Problem and the Solution… they just couldn’t be real. Not to someone like Penelope. How could she take it seriously when the likes of the Wanted Man abounded? It was like fearing the Count of Monte Cristo! Yes, Eleanor Naismith had taken a shine to the grandeur of it all but that made it seem even more like a wild fancy, like some silly worry that gave men an excuse to look and feel important.
That notion had quickly been dispelled. Within ten minutes of entering the Badlands, they’d been attacked by… well, as a swarm of small demons; horned and clawed, scaled and red, they were less than two inches high but full of horrible malevolence. They darted around on all fours like mice and viciously bit chunks out of every man they neared. The soldiers had seen them off with their rifles and those queer bottles filled with fire but sitting in her caravan with her hands over her ears, hearing the demons mewl and roar, had put Penelope in her place.
Then, hours later, they’d met him; the man in the dark mask. If the vile little things had been demons then he was the Morning Star himself, Lucifer in dark leather.
Penelope stopped. She rubbed her chilled eyes to stop her thinking about what had happened. Not again. It would only upset her further, perhaps more so than imagining her Mama dying. All that mattered was that he’d killed every solider, each horse, and taken her hostage.
But, with no distractions and no stimulus, the memory kept trying to resurface. Eventually she was forced to relive it. Penelope had been peeking from the caravan when the old Lieutenant, a decent walrus of a man with the most finely-tended moustache she’d ever seen, had picked him out on the horizon. Immediately, he’d ordered a full barrage.
“Better to be sorry than dead,” he’d joked.
Bullets exploded around her as Penelope had hunkered down in the caravan again like a cowardly stowaway. Sergeants had yelled at their men until they were hoarse, chastising them for missing their target. That was, until it dawned on them that their soldiers had been hitting him but he was shrugging them off like mosquito bites.
