The Last Handful of Clover - Book 2: Gifts Both Light and Dark

2.02 The Pure Gold of Revenge

August 25, 1857

Trudging south from Round Valley in the pouring rain, Billy was more forlorn than he had been at any point in his life, or even in the months since his death. Everything in the world had turned gray the moment the old man with the knife had killed his beloved wife.

No, Frances wasn't my wife. I have to stop pretending that she was.

Billy knew he had to fight the despair, the loneliness, and the desire to retreat into fantasy. If he didn't his mind would likely snap, and then what would happen to him? He would become just an empty shell, wandering the earth forever, unable to bear his life, and yet also unable to die. The prospect of living forever in such a damned state was enough to force him to hang on to the shreds of his sanity.

As he walked, rain poured down on the world. It was gray, roaring, and relentless. All he could see as they departed Round Valley were the ghostly images of the horses, cows, and wagons in the downpour, drained of all color like an underexposed daguerreotype. The cowboys hunched miserably over their horses, and the settlers peered out at the torrent from within the shelter of their wagons.

The rain.

It took a moment for Billy to realize it, but he was standing in the rain. And that knowledge crashed in upon him with such force that he stopped dead in his tracks.

The rain!

He had only experienced rain once since he had died. It had been a dry summer in Utah, but one day, shortly after they had arrived in Round Valley, a storm had rolled through. Laughing, Frances had retreated to the wagon. He had joined her there, while her father and the work crew from Salt Lake City continued to work on the cabin, despite the storm. Mattie had been in the wagon as well, and the two girls had laughed and talked as the rain pounded relentlessly upon the canvas.

Without thinking, Billy had extended his hand out the back of the wagon, wanting to feel the rain on his skin.

Instead, it felt like he had placed his hand into a meat grinder.

With a scream he had pulled his hand inside, expecting to see it mangled and torn. And although it looked just fine in the dim light of the overcast day, it took many long minutes of agony before the pain quieted enough for him to stop screaming.

Ever since that day, he had avoided the rain in terror. But now, in his anger and despair, he had forgotten about what rain could do. Now, as he stared at his hand, he realized the drops were passing through him as if they were no more substantial than light. His hand was shimmery and tingly with the sensation, and his entire body was vibrating with the feeling.

Something in me has... shifted, he thought.

As the Fancher train crept slowly south, his despair ebbed—transmuting itself into something else. Like the alchemists who claimed to turn lead into gold, Billy's hopelessness boiled down, concentrating and transforming into something new. It was as if the rain was sluicing the silt away, the way it would when panning for gold. What was left behind was the distilled essence of his fury.

It was the pure gold of revenge.

Grain by grain, he stowed that gold away, feeling the weight of it grow in his chest.

That evening, after the rains had stopped, they made camp in a broad plain. The air felt washed and renewed, revealing a sunset that lit up the sky in fiery towers of red and orange. The Sowersbys and their ranch were far behind them, and as the evening glow faded, Billy realized it had been less than a day since Dutch and Stauffer had murdered his family.