“Truth, Hank,” Sully spoke abruptly.  His blue eyes had turned to slate, as gray and cold as the rain falling past the windows.  “Was Clarice coverin’ up for you?  Did you raise your fists to her?”

     “Thought you’d already made yer mind up ‘bout that.”

     “I thought I had too.”  He leaned forward, his hands clasped loosely between his knees.  “But then I started thinkin’ back to what she said.  But even more important, how she said it.  And now I ain’t so sure.  ‘Sides, I wanna be fair.”

     “Fair?” Hank said acidly.

     “Not what you were expectin’, I know.  But it ain’t unheard of.”

     Hank continued to look skeptical.  “And if I said I never touched her—you’d believe it?”

     Sully considered the question.  “Let’s just say that I’d be more inclined to believe it now, than I mighta been when we started this trip.”

     “Why?”

     “Gettin’ to know you.”  He smiled faintly at the irony of his statement.  “Funny sayin’ that after nearly twenty years,” he mused.  “But I feel like after all this time, and all we been through, that I’m really only gettin’ to know you now.”

     “So what do ya think?”

    “Jury’s still out.  But at least I feel like I’m startin’ to understand you a little.”

     “I ain’t sure if that’s good or bad,” the barkeep observed wryly.

     “Me neither.  But I’m willin’ to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

     The barkeep remained suspicious.  “Why are you changin’ yer tune all of a sudden?”

     “Like I said, I been remembering things.”  His tone was thoughtful.  “Like the look in her eyes and the sound of her voice when she talked about you.  Back then I was sure she was coverin’ for you—that you musta hurt or threatened her in some way.  I couldn’t accept that she might really mean what she was sayin’.  But maybe it was me who wasn’t really listenin’,” he confessed.

    “Let me get this straight.  Yer admittin’ that you mighta—just mighta—made a mistake?”  The barkeep actually sounded impressed.

     “Rare, but it’s been known to happen,” Sully replied.  There was a trace of a twinkle in his eyes.

     “I oughta write this down,” Hank said lightly.  “Could be a historic moment.”

     “Well don’t let it go to your head.  I ain’t convinced yet.  I’m still waitin’ to hear your version of what happened.”

     “Just so ya know, I ain’t obliged to tell ya nothin’—I don’t owe ya no explanations.”

     “True.  But if you didn’t do nothin’ wrong, then you ain’t got nothin’ to hide.”

     There was a pause as Hank appeared to turn this idea over in his mind.  “All right,” he suddenly agreed.  “For what it’s worth . . .  She told the truth.  It wasn’t me that hit her.  But you can bet I punished the man who did!”

     “Clarice claimed it was a customer.”  Sully watched Hank for his reaction.

      “Yeah.  Buncha drovers came inta town a few days—a few days later.  They was just comin’ off a couple months on the trail, rowdy and lookin’ fer trouble.  Hadn’t seen or been with a woman in weeks, and they was fixin’ ta make up for lost time.  One of 'em had his hands all over Clarice from the moment he saw her.  When she tried to get away from him, he belted her ‘cross the face.”

     “So you threw him out?” Sully said, still testing the barkeep.

     “Did worse than that,” Hank boasted.  “I fixed it so’s he’d never use that hand again.”

     Hank’s casual reference to violence was unnerving, but Sully couldn’t fault the man for what he’d done.  He probably would have done the same himself back then, if it had fallen to him to defend Clarice.  “I guess he had it comin’.”

     “Damn right he had it comin’!”

     “Did . . . he do anythin’ else to her?”  He was shaken to realize how much the answer still mattered to him after all this time, Clarice thirteen years in her grave.

     “No.  Didn’t have a chance ‘fore I hauled him outside and wiped up the ground with him.”

     The men’s glances met, and Sully knew that just this once, they were in total agreement.  “I’m relieved it wasn’t worse," he said after a moment.  "But if she wasn’t hurt that bad, then why’d she drop outta sight like she done?  Flora said she spent most of her time in her tent, and wouldn’t see no one.”

     “Weren’t serious, but she was shook up—he smacked her pretty good.”  Hank’s face darkened at the memory.  “Took a coupla days for the swellin’ to go down and the soreness to ease.  After that, she stayed cooped up by herself so’s she wouldn’t have to see nobody.  She couldn’t stand the thought o’ folks gawkin’ at her with that bruise on her face—pointin’, whisperin’. . .”

    “She was still tryin’ to hide it weeks later, though it was nearly faded by then,” Sully agreed.  Compassion for what she must have endured welled within him.  But he had still another question for Hank, and this one was not so easy to ask.  Nevertheless he needed to bring it out into the open, even though he was strangely certain of the answer.

    “When I saw Clarice that last time . . . she knew, didn’t she?”

    Hank didn’t ask what he meant.  “She suspected.  No—it was more’n that,” he corrected himself.  “She just felt it somehow, deep inside.  But she had to wait a few weeks more till Charlotte could tell her fer sure.”

    “And that story ‘bout visitin’ her aunt?  That was a lie, wasn’t it, to cover up the real reason she was leavin’.”  Hank was silent, but his expression confirmed Sully’s suspicion.  He opened his mouth to ask where she’d gone, but then the realization burst upon him and he marveled that he hadn’t figured it out before.  It explained so much.  “Ruby’s,” he answered his own question.  Again Hank’s silence was an assent.  “Did you send her away, Hank?”

     “No.  And that’s the truth.  It was her idea.”

     The edge returned to Sully’s voice.  “But you didn’t exactly mind, did you?”  He expected to provoke Hank’s anger, but the saloon keeper was oddly restrained.

     “I figured it was fer the best—but not ‘cause o’ what yer thinkin’,”  he retorted, reading Sully’s skepticism.  “Ya think I wanted to see her go through the shame, and the gossip?  She had it bad enough with folks lookin’ down on her ‘cause she worked fer me.  If they’d found out she was havin’ a kid, they woulda made her life a livin’ hell.  I thought I could at least protect her from that.”

     “But folks were bound to find out sooner or later.”

     “Maybe so, but I figured once the kid was born, there’d be ways of keepin’ it quiet.  I had a lotta girls workin’ fer me, and they were loyal to Clarice.  I knew if I asked ‘em, they’d help keep the secret.  ’Sides, when ya got right down to it, who coulda said fer sure who Zack’s ma was?”  He eyed Sully significantly.  “Look how long it was ‘fore folks knew I was his pa.  Or that I thought I was his pa,” he amended.

     “Hank, you’re his pa.”  He wondered how many more times he had to say it before the saloon owner was convinced.  “Clarice said it and she wouldn’t lie.”

    “What makes you such an expert on anythin’ she’d say?”

     Sully was fuming again.  When would the man finally drop the antagonism and distrust?  When would he finally believe?

    “’Cause I got to know her!” he snapped.  “And ‘cause she swore to me that nothin’ hap—“  He broke off, aghast, as it dawned on him what he’d said.  Hank’s eyes burned with renewed rage, and it was like getting a glimpse into the fires of Hell.

     “What did you say?”

     There was no sense in denying it, no point in trying to take it back.  Earlier Hank had claimed that all this time the truth had been hiding, just waiting to come out—and that now it was choking them to death.  However Sully felt more like a man condemned to burn at the stake.  Trapped, helpless—with no way to escape the inevitable conflagration.  And he’d done it to himself, as surely as if he’d lit the match.  He’d manipulated the facts and distorted the truth for Hank’s benefit—and he’d been caught.  All the time and effort he’d invested in trying to convince Hank that he and Clarice were innocent—that her affection and loyalty had always remained with the mercurial saloon keeper—were ashes now in the inferno of Hank’s fury.

     What had he done?

     “Speak up!”

     “All right, it’s true.”  Sully spoke with a boldness he was far from feeling.  “I don’t . . . completely remember everythin’ that happened that night.  Told you I was drunk.  That’s the truth.  Clarice said I . . . passed out.  I ain’t proud of it, but there it is.

     “But this don’t change anythin’,” he said rapidly.  “I mighta lied about what I remember of that night—but Clarice told me the same thing she told you—that nothin’ happened.  She wouldn’t have lied—I know it.”

    “You son of a bitch—ya almost had me fooled!  I oughta kill ya fer that alone.”  Hank armed his coat aside to reveal the metallic gleam of the gun on his hip.

     Sully took note of the gun, then raised his head and looked into the searing blue eyes of the man opposite.  “What are you gonna do with that, Hank?  Shoot me?  For somethin’ you think I did to you almost twenty years ago?”

* * * * * * * * * *

    “Her betrayin’ me with you ain’t all.”  Hank’s fingers toyed with the ivory grip of the weapon.  “It ain’t even the worst.”  He leaned forward, his eyes scorching in their intensity.  “You could still be his pa.  Just like I always suspected.  Like I always knew!”

    More than likely it was a trick of the light, yet Sully thought he could actually see the glint of tears in the man’s eyes.  “Hank—“

     But the barkeep’s hand rose in a savage gesture.  “Don’t . . . even try.  Ya said enough.”

     “No—I ain’t.  Not till we settle this.”

     “Fine.  We’ll settle it.”  Hank drew his gun.

     Sully kept his voice steady.  “Hank, don’t be a fool.  You ain’t never murdered a man in cold blood that I know of, and I don’t think you wanna start now.  Even to kill somebody you hate as much as me.  What’ll it get you?”

     “Try revenge.”

     “Yeah—and life in prison or a hangin’!  Are you willin’ to ruin your life—maybe even forfeit it completely—over me?  You got a witness out there too,” he added, nodding toward the window, and the coach driver up on his box.  “Gonna kill an innocent man to cover up your crime?"

    He tried another tack.  “What about your son?  What would this do to him?  He’d have nobody.  You wanna ruin his life along with your own?”

     “He don’t want no part o’ me.  Or weren’t ya listenin’ before?  And in case ya still ain’t got the message, he ain’t mine.”

     “Why do you got to be so stubborn?  Think about it, Hank.  Even if things had been different—even if I had been with Clarice that one time—it’s still way more likely that you’re Zack’s pa.  ‘Sides, I can’t understand why you won’t believe that Clarice was tellin’ the truth.  How could you love her without trustin’ her?  Why can’t you just accept that you’re the one she wanted?”

     Hank glowered at him, and Sully girded himself for another onslaught of the man’s anger.  But then abruptly the barkeep’s manner altered, the fight appearing to go out of him.  He returned the pistol to its holster and leaned back in his seat.  “What the hell—ain’t no secrets left ‘tween us, right?

     “I can’t accept it . . . ‘cause I ain’t sure it was me she wanted.”  Hank’s tone didn’t quite mask the pain the admission cost him.  “’Cause when I asked her ta marry me . . . she said no.”

     Sully gaped at him.

     “Yeah, ya heard right.  All this time, ya thought it was me that wasn’t willin’ ta be tied down—me that didn’t wanna get married.  But it was her.”

     “But . . . you told Zack . . . you let him think—“

     “Yeah, I took the blame!”  Again tears were visible in his eyes.  “Told ya—I didn’t want him thinkin’ ill of his ma.  Better fer him ta think I didn’t love her enough, than the other way around.”

     Sully tried to absorb Hank’s stunning confession.  After a pause he said carefully, “Sparin’ Zack was part of it, I’m sure.”  His eyes were compassionate as he studied the saloon owner’s ravaged face.  “But the real reason you said it was outta love, Hank.  You couldn’t tarnish Zack’s memories of his ma ‘cause you loved her too much.”

     “It was never a question o’ me lovin’ her!” Hank erupted.  “Don’t ya understand?  It was her not lovin’ me—not wantin’ me—“  He choked over this last and couldn’t finish.

     “But that ain’t true, Hank,” Sully said gently.  “She did love you.  It’s why she told me there couldn’t be anythin’ between us.  It’s why she said that even if she were tempted, she’d never go through with it.  ‘Cause she loved you too much to ever betray you.”

    “Then why wouldn’t she marry me?” Hank asked, his defenses deserting him.

     “I don’t know.  Maybe she was scared of marriage.  Or maybe she thought that bein’ married and runnin’ a brothel wouldn’t mix.  We’ll never know for sure.  But it wasn’t ‘cause she didn’t love you.

     “It’s what she told me the last time I saw her, ‘fore she went away, Hank.  And it ain’t like I just accepted it.  Fact is, I offered her a way out,” he said honestly.  “I said if she wanted to leave you she could come stay with me, and I’d protect her.  But she made it clear that she was with you ‘cause she wanted to be—and that when she came back, she’d be comin’ back to you.

    “It’s the truth, Hank.  I swear on the lives of Michaela and my kids—it’s the truth.”

    The saloon owner was silent, staring out at the dreary curtain of rain shrouding the darkness.  Minutes crawled by.  Sully could almost sense the struggle going on inside Hank—between what he desperately wanted to believe about Clarice, and the resentment and distrust he’d been nursing for so many bitter years.  But finally he spoke.

    “After Zack was born . . . when she came back to town . . . did ya ever wonder?  Ever think that Zack might be . . .”  His voice dwindled away.

    Shame flickered in Sully’s eyes, followed quickly by remorse.

    “Truth is, I didn’t know about Zack right away,” he confessed.  “I’d given up drinkin’ after—everythin’ that happened—so I never set foot in the saloon in town.  I didn’t even know Clarice had come back till I saw her on the street one day.  Then, maybe a month or two later, I overheard some gossip outside the church one Sunday, ‘bout the girls at the saloon keepin’ a baby.  But if anybody suspected he was Clarice’s, I never heard.  General talk seemed to be that all the girls were sharin’ in the care of him.  I guess you were right about them keepin’ the secret.

    “I’m ashamed to say it, but I still didn’t make the connection—leastways not then,” he went on.  “But that night, I was lyin’ awake in bed, and it suddenly hit me.  I counted the months she’d been gone, and then I thought back to that last talk we’d had, and how mysterious she’d sounded—and I finally understood why she’d left.”

    “Did ya wonder then?”

    “No,” he said truthfully.  “I didn’t.  I just figured—the baby must be yours.”

    “Ya figured that, did ya?”

    It was Sully’s turn now to feel as if he’d been judged and found wanting.  He knew that any justification he could offer Hank for his ignorance of Clarice’s situation—and worse, his apparent lack of concern—would sound lame, at best.  However it was still vitally important to him to try to make Hank understand.  “A lot had happened while Clarice was away all them months," he said.  "There was the cave-in at Cripple Creek.  I barely made it out alive.  And for a whole lotta days, trapped in that wet, foul-smellin’ blackness, I was sure I was gonna die.  I guess Abagail was sure of it too—‘cause when they finally brought me up, she was there waitin’.  She begged me to forgive her for lettin’ her pa come between us, and said she didn’t care anymore what Loren thought.  Said she’d come too close to losin’ me in the cave-in to ever risk losin’ me again.  And if I was still willin’, all she wanted was to be my wife.

    “By the time Clarice came back to town, we were married.”

    “And so once ya got the woman ya really wanted, ya forgot about everythin’ else—or that Clarice even existed!”

    “I didn’t forget,” Sully said quietly.  “I never could.  But it seemed like she was the one who wanted to put it behind us.  ‘Fore she went away, she told me not to let Loren stand in the way of Abagail and me bein’ together.  By the time I saw her on the street after she’d come back, she’d heard about Abagail and me gettin’ married.  She seemed pleased to see me, and glad to hear about the weddin’, but she didn’t linger.  All I could figure was that she thought it would be easier to let the past stay in the past.

    “It was what she wanted.  For each of us to be with the one we truly loved.  That’s the whole truth, Hank.  I ain’t holdin’ nothin’ else back from you.”

    “And what about when she died?” Hank said in a low, harsh voice.  “Did ya feel anythin’ then?”

    “I wasn’t around when she died,” Sully admitted, his eyes sober.  “By then I’d lost Abagail and I was in a bad way.  When Clarice passed on I was out in the woods, close to dyin’ myself.  If Cloud Dancin’ and the Cheyenne hadn’t taken me in and cared for me, I woulda been dead—as sure as I’m lookin’ at you now.

    “It was a long time ‘fore I felt like my life was worth livin’,” he went on.  “It was almost as if I really had died out there in the woods, and been reborn as somebody else.  By the time I took an interest in the town again, I was a different man—and everythin’ about my old life seemed like no more than a dream.

    “I never forgot Clarice,” he repeated.  “And when I learned that she’d died I grieved—for her, and for you.  But everythin’ that happened between us five years earlier seemed like a story that was long over—a closed book.  And I guess I felt it was best to let her rest in peace, and never open that book again.  When Ruby died, and you admitted to bein’ Zack’s pa—I figured my instincts had been right.

    ”I believe with every fiber of my bein’ that Zack is your son, Hank.  But even if I had ‘cause to suspect otherwise, I’d never try to claim him, or come between the two of you.  ‘Cause you are his pa—the only one he’s ever known—and it don’t matter whether it’s your blood he carries in his veins or not.  You’re the one that loved him and provided for him and raised him to a man.  But even more than that, Clarice believed you were his pa.  I could never dishonor her memory by gettin’ in the way of that.

     “We were both wrong back then.  We both got regrets.  There ain’t no way now to change the past—but we don’t gotta let our past mistakes affect the present or the future.  Be honest, Hank.  You know that Clarice wouldn’t wanna see us at each other’s throats after all these years.  ‘Specially if Zack might be hurt as a result.

     “So what do you say?” he concluded.  “Do you think we could finally put paid to the past?  For Zack’s sake—and Clarice’s?  I think that’s the best memorial we could ever give her, and the kindest thing we could do for her son.  Your son—“

    A sudden intense pressure in his ears choked off his words.  Simultaneously he heard a distant, high-pitched ringing, and he became aware that it was difficult to breathe.  For a moment he couldn’t grasp what was happening, and his eyes darted toward Hank in panic.  One look told him that he was not alone—Hank was clearly in the same fix, his expression equally stunned.

    Then it came to them—an ominous rumbling from outside the coach that was escalating by the moment.

    “Earthquake?” he gasped, but the saloon keeper had no chance to reply before the stagecoach shifted sharply, throwing both of them violently to one side.  At the same moment they heard a chilling scream from the driver above, and then all was chaos as the coach began to roll, tossing them about as if they were no more than rag dolls.  There was no time to grab hold of anything in the lurching cabin, no time to protect themselves before the coach hurtled downward with a shattering crack of wood and screech of metal.

    Seconds later, the wreck of the stagecoach rested at the bottom of a ravine, mired in mud and debris—while flames from the exploded oil lanterns licked eagerly at the splintered wood and illuminated the bodies of the men crumpled inside.