Vance listened to Lillian's explanation with great interest. She was obviously an intelligent and well read woman, which only added to the beauty sitting before him.
"Often they are creatures or men, changed due to circumstances and just doing what they need to fight back, to survive as you put it.
His smile widened a bit at this. Lillian could have been talking directly to what and who Vance was: a man, changed to a creature, doing what he needed -- including fighting -- to survive.
When she spoke of Zeus bedding women with abandon, Vance saw red fill her face, even in the lower light of the parlour. The stories of mythology were often filled with scenes and tales that didn't set well with the Puritan values that continued to rule in much of American society, even now in the more
progressive times of the late 19th century.
"I just meant that it seems in their stories monster does not mean evil. Sometimes yes, though I would argue that often not. They are often the result of the wickedness of others and made to suffer."
"Indeed," Vance agreed with a softly murmur.
His own turning had been, as Lillian would describe it,
the wickedness of others, and Vance himself had been
made to suffer. Just as a human man raping a human woman was immoral and illegal, the way in which Vance -- then a human man -- had been
turned by his vampire
Sire had been immoral and, in a way, illegal within the vampire community, or
The Coterie. Vance hadn't asked to be turned: it had been forced upon him. But, that had been a long time ago. And Vance had gotten as much revenge for the act as had been available to him at the time.
"Where do you stand on monsters then? Are men monsters?"
"They can be, Lillian," he responded, taking a chance on using her given name once more. She didn't object, verbally or in her expressions, which led Vance to smile a bit with pleasure. Here in this setting, she may allow him such latitude, but once they were in the presence of her family...? In case Lillian had simply been too polite or shy to correct him, Vance offered her a face saving opportunity with, "Please forgive me, but ... I do not mean to sound too forward. I simply do not know whether you have returned to your family name of Stewart or retained your married name, of which I am unaware."
It wasn't universal that a widow of such a short marriage returned to her maiden name, but Vance had lived in a great many places and great many differing communities during his centuries. And the one thing that had been consistent in all those places and all those times had been the inconsistency between their cultures and customs.
"Concerning whether men are monsters," he began after getting his answer, "I believe that they often can be. But ... I would never condemn the gender as a whole for sometimes thinking or acting in evil. Often, I think they don't mean to do or think such things. And other times, as you have said, I believe they do so out of a need to survive ... and, afterward, search for a way to make things right for those upon whom their evil landed."
His thoughts, of course, were on the boy Bobby who had ridden with the casket from New Orleans to Willow Springs. He had been a general laborer, earning pennies a day in an effort to help his parents support themselves and their six children. He had expected to return to New Orleans with $50 in silver, likely the most money he would ever hold in his hands at one time. Instead, he was right at this moment being buried in the cemetery atop a bald nob south of Willow Springs. Mister Bowers, of course, had more than made up for the financial loss of the $50 with a wire transfer of $1,000. But while the money would allow the family to make changes that would aid their other five children in ways that would never have been available, young Bobby was lost to them forever.
There was a light knock at the door, causing Vance to stand quickly in surprise and lay his hand upon the butt of his Colt. He was immediately embarrassed at his move, a result of the daylight hours having lessened his senses, allowing the new arrival to
sneak up on him. His vulnerabilities during the light of day could sometimes frighten Vance. He'd seen a great deal of death during his time -- death caused by others, and death caused by himself -- and, to be honest, it had made him a bit paranoid and, as a result, unwilling to venture out by day unless absolutely necessary.
Having the discussion with the man currently at the door was something Vance had found necessary, of course. But, to be honest, he would have found a way to delay it until after sunset ... if he hadn't been so anxious to see Lillian once again.
"Forgive me, Mister Stewart," Vance said as he pulled his hand back from the weapon. He glanced to Lillian with an expression of shame at nearly drawing his weapon in her new residence, and as he began to speak he also began to unbuckle the gun belt. "I ... I should have left this at the door when I--"
"Please, Mister Hamilton, don't take it off just yet," Benjamin interrupted. When Vance looked back to the family's patriarch, Benjamin curled an index finger to him in invitation and asked, "Would you come with me? Lilly, you are welcome to join us if you wish."
Vance was sorry that his one on one with Lillian was at an end, but after nodding his respects to her and donning his hat again, he followed after her uncle. Benjamin led him through the big house and out a back entrance. The real workings of the ranch were on display on this side of the property: the barns, smaller outbuildings, bunk house, corrals, and more were spread out over five acres of beaten down earth; and beyond them were thousands of acres of mostly open ranchland and rolling hills, upon which milled hundreds of head of cattle that would soon be ready for shipping to the markets, as far east as Georgia and as far west as west got, to California.
"My boys and I have been wondering what kind of money you might be worth, Mister Hamilton," Benjamin said as he descended the steps. Vance caught sight of Johnathan and Maxwell standing near an outdoor eating area, and unlike the day before each of them was wearing a sidearm. Benjamin continued, "Now, I know that packing a gun doesn't make one a gun slinger ... and that your potentially being a gun slinger doesn't make you the man I need to protect my herd at night ...
however ... it doesn't
hurt either."
The pair of them had by now reached the younger pair of men, and as they did Benjamin nodded his head to Johnathan. The man who had lost a tidy sum of money to Vance the night before turned to face an array of targets arranged on hay bales or on the ground anywhere from 30 to 100 feet distant. The targets were mostly pieces of cut wood, seemingly left over from some recent construction and now jammed into the ground or tops of the hay bales. But there were also some glass bottles -- some obviously formerly filled with whiskey or beer -- and tin cans, which Vance had seen in great use in Europe in a previous existence but which were still rather uncommon here in the United States and, particularly, way out here in the Western Territories.
"Big chunk to the left, John," Benjamin said. "Put it down like one of them rustlers poaching the North Draw.
Johnathan pulled his weapon, a Colt Army Model 1860. The gun simply referred to by those who knew guns as
The Army had been a good gun during its time, revolutionizing up close and personal shooting during the Civil War. But its use of a paper cartridge shell, round projectile, and a separate percussion cap left it dramatically slow to use, open to misfires and clogging, and therefore far inferior to Vance's Colt Model 1873, well known by the name
The Peacemaker.
The Army fired, spitting out smoke not just from the end of the barrel but from all about the cartridge. The weapon kicked and rose in Johnathan's hands, and all about him the rest of the family flinched at the explosion of powder, not something Vance didn't expect from them because of the .44's powerful and noise. Yet with all the action happening at this end of the demonstration, little happened at the other end: the piece of board --
the rustler -- still stood as it was, awaiting a reason to discontinue its --
his -- criminal activities.
"Nice shootin', Tex," Maxwell joked, leading to some additional laughter to the shooter's left and right. Maxwell lifted a hand up over his face as if trying to block the sun from his eyes and feigned staring off into the distance as his brother turned to eye him. "I think ... yes, I see it ... our herd, heading over the hill top--"
"Yeah, yeah, like you could do better, brother," Johnathan cut in as he leveled his weapon again, aimed, and fired. Again, no positive result. He cocked the single action pistol again, aimed, and fired. The board split in half, each side leaning a bit away from the other. As Johnathan turned to smile to his brother, he said only, "Dead."
"You or him first?" Maxwell asked, laughing. He turned to look at Vance, asking with a bit of dare in his tone, "Care to give it a try, Mister Hamilton?"
"I would prefer you all called me Vance, if that's alright," the newcomer said, looking to Benjamin for his approval of the request. The patriarch nodded, then gestured Vance toward the position from which Johnathan was slowly walking as he ejected with some difficulty the spent and burnt refuse of his paper cartridge rounds. Looking out upon the target range, he asked almost timidly, "Just ... pick a target?"
"Why don't you see if you can do any more damage to my brother's rustler," Maxwell suggested. "I don't believe he's dead. Maybe just injured."
Vance hesitated a moment, looking to Benjamin yet again. He knew what was behind Maxwell's suggestion: showing that he was a better shot than Johnathan by splitting the now smaller target. But Benjamin nodded permission to Vance before looking off toward the pieces of wood. Vance pulled his weapon from the holster across the left front of his waist, eyed the target, lifted to aim, and fired. Then, seeing the two pieces of wood remaining still as they word, Vance laughed. "Well ... that there rustler is a bit skinnier now that Johnathan's cut him in two."
"Try again," Benjamin said quietly as the others were making their comments and jokes about the two shooters and the fleeing rustler.
Vance exchanged glances with the Stewart patriarch, looked to the others, then back to the target. He drew a deep breath, then released it slowly. He knew what the issue was, of course: he looked a bit higher into the sky at the light blue under which he rarely found himself. If it had been midnight and he'd been out on the range, surrounded by wanna-be cattle thieves, Vance could have gunned them all down with his eyes closed, simply listening for their locations by the inhalation and exhalation of their lungs. Hell, he probably could have located the ones up wind simply from the smell of whiskey, tobacco, and sweat.
But here under the bright of day, his abilities were no more keen than those of Johnathan, Maxwell, or Benjamin. Luckily for Vance, however, he didn't require his vampire abilities to accurately fire the Peacemaker. He raised it before his eyes again, pulled back the hammer, and fired. Then again, and again, and again, and finally again. Each half of the
rustler was split a second time, followed by the shattering of a bottle to their left, then the jumping off a hay bale by a can, which then jumped again with the final shot.
The reaction of the display was mixed: some were amazed, while others were ... what, jealous, envious, or maybe a bit concerned at what Benjamin had brought into their home. The Stewarts didn't know Vance well, and he wouldn't have been surprised to learn that one or more of them was now a bit concerned about having brought an obviously skilled gunman into their home so soon after first meeting him.
Benjamin, however, was thoroughly impressed. He crossed to Vance, stopped to study his face for a moment, then reached his hand out for the weapon, asking, "May I?"
Vance hesitated but offered the gun over. As he looked the still smoking gun over with awe, he asked, "You've used this against more than sticks, cans, and bottles?"
Vance didn't answer, but the expression in his face -- and particularly in his eyes -- gave Benjamin the answer he was afraid to hear and eager to hear both. The weapon was handed back to its owner, and as he turned to head back to the parlour Benjamin said to Vance, "Come join me for a drink ... and ... we'll talk about your wages."
Vance ejected the spent casings from his weapon into his palm, pocketing the still warm brass. He looked around to the others for a moment, then -- as he filled the empty chambers with fresh rounds -- fell in behind Benjamin. In the parlour, the patriarch offered Vance a tumbler full of whiskey, complimented him on his shooting, and began the negotiations.
"We've been losing 'bout ten head a month. Oh, not ever month. And not always ten at a time. Past November, we lost three dozen in one night, then went six weeks without a single brand missing. But ... it's significant enough to need help. Ain't getting it from the Sheriff. Or the Marshall either. The first is too busy with drunks and petty thieves. The latter too busy with bank robbers and Injuns.
"I'm not looking for someone who's gonna run off the rustlers, Mister Hamilton ... Vance," Benjamin continued. He conspicuously glanced to the Peacemaker now returned to its holster, then looked back up to continue, "Cattle price right now's at $30 a head. That means I'm losing $300 a month to poaching. I'll pay you $100 a head for every poacher you kill on my land."
Vance tried to hide his surprise at the man's request. He sipped at his drink as he studied Benjamin, then said, "You don't want the rustlers pushed off your land. You want'em buried below it."
"Exactly," Benjamin confirmed. The patriarch looked toward the door as some noise beyond it caught his attention, then looked back to Vance and continued, "I would prefer that my family believe you are being paid $50 a month to scare these lowlifes away, of course. I don't think the ladies of the Stewart family would understand my offer the way you and I do."
Vance turned and sipped at his drink as he wandered slowly toward the French style doors that looked out upon the ranch. While they'd been talking, the two brothers and a trio of ranch hands who'd joined them were taking turns shooting at the various targets and either laughing at or congratulating one another for their shooting.
"I would need to reside on the property," Vance said. He was actually thinking more about wanting to remain close to Lillian than he was the cattle thieves, but he was going to say that, of course. He got a quick, positive answer from Benjamin. Speaking of his
special circumstances, Vance added, "And I would only work at night. I, um ... I prefer the quiet and peace of the dark. Plus, your boys and hands are out and about during the day, so--"
"Of course," Benjamin said, eager to agree to any easily filled request. "There's a small cabin ... sets off in the trees to the west. Mabel and I lived in it our first year here, while this house was being built. You would have privacy ... your quiet and peace."
Vance turned to study Benjamin for a moment, then crossed slowly to him. "And after the rustlers are gone ... what then?"
"You mean how are you gonna make money if there's no one left to put in the ground?" Benjamin clarified the question. When Vance nodded, Benjamin told him, "I'll still pay you that $50 a month to wander about out there in the dark ... remind
new wanna-be poachers that the nights on the Stewart Ranch are a dangerous place."
Vance was tempted to tell the man just how dangerous the nights would in fact be here with a vampire patrolling them. But, it was such uncovered knowledge that had forced Vance to leave some of his previous locations of residence. The terms seemed acceptable, and Vance was about to offer out his hand. But Benjamin's next comment beat him to it.
"Besides, it won't be the money that keeps you living on the ranch anyway, am I right?"
It didn't take a genius to know that Benjamin's spreading lips were an indication that he, too, had noticed the attention Vance had been showing his niece. The patriarch didn't wait for any sort of response from Vance, instead offering out his hand, asking, "So, do you work for me?"
Vance hesitated, took Benjamin's hand, and confirmed, "I work for you."