S.R. Sotolongo

  The Ballad of Abigail Lambert

  Copyright © 2022 by S.R. Sotolongo

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  S.R. Sotolongo asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  First edition

  ISBN: 979-8-9851162-1-2

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

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  Contents

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  1

  It can’t be much further, she assured herself. The soles of Abigail’s feet were screaming at her. She’d gotten turned around but she was on the right track now. At least, she was fairly certain she was. It had been an hours long trek in the dark through this dense thicket, led by nothing other than the light of her lantern. A cool breeze sent a chill down to her toes. She wrapped her duster around herself as tightly as she could. The cold had sprung up on her tonight but Abigail Lambert prayed she wouldn’t have to endure it for much longer. The Eastwood train line she was hoping to find buried somewhere behind these trees was due to have a train roll over its rails any minute now and she needed to beat the iron beast there. She couldn’t afford to mess this one up.

  Not again.

  The beauty of tonight’s plan was in its simplicity. All it would demand of her was, ostensibly, to do absolutely nothing. The train would take care of everything; she just had to make sure she arrived early enough to meet it. Once she got to the tracks, she figured, there was almost nothing she could do to ruin this attempt as she’d done all the others. It wasn’t that she couldn’t go through with it; she’d seen every attempt through to its conclusion & somehow, she’d still managed to fail every time. Ropes that could wrangle the strongest mare would snap under the weight of her thrashing. Rifles that could shoot the scales off a snake from a hundred yards away would jam the moment they were aimed in her direction. She blamed herself in the aftermath of each attempt and by now, she’d simply lost count of how many times she’d even tried. It’s not like that fact mattered much to her, not much did these days. She only needed to be successful once and tonight would be that night.

  She arrived at a break in the tree line to discover the tracks. She laid her lantern down beside the tracks and laid down with her back to the planks. She stared at the night sky, filled with stars but seeing only the darkness between them, when it occurred to her that in this orientation, the train was liable to roll right over her and this entire trek would have been for naught. She laid herself perpendicular to the tracks, the frigid steel rail sending a shiver through her whole body when she laid her neck down upon it. She looked to her left, and then to her right, wondering if she wanted to face the train once it arrived.

  It was to her right she spotted one of nature’s curiosities: a lone flower, stalk standing tall as it stretched toward the sky. It grew out from beneath a crack in a pile of rocks just beside the tracks. Her attention drifted to the caterpillar as it slithered up the stalk. Just beyond it, she could see light from the train cutting through the trees up ahead. The rails tickled her from underneath, vibrating with the promise of her coming absolution.

  The train sped forward as plumes of smoke billowed out into the night air. A sense of peace washed over her as she closed her eyes, the distance between her and the iron beast closing by the second. Everything she’d been forced to endure up to this point would soon be washed away and she could finally rest. She could finally confront God or fate or whatever force kept air in her lungs and blood pumping through her veins to demand answers for what she’d been forced to suffer in the fifteen years since she had to leave home and the downward spiral that ensued. That meeting though, much to her dismay, would be delayed.

  The steam engine burst in a brilliant display of raging flames, its brakes crying the shrill scream of metal grinding on metal. The rails quaked beneath her. She prayed for anyone that might be listening to please let this be it, but it could not be so. The train ground to a halt mere inches from Abigail’s body. The warmth of the flames pinched her cheeks and she opened her eyes.

  Still here.

  She sat up and witnessed the train, the metal that once shrouded the engine, curled and stretched like the petals of a flower, flames burning out from within. She refused to forgive herself for not picking a spot a few feet closer to where it ultimately stopped, but the more thought she gave it; the quicker she realized had she chosen a spot ten, twenty or even a hundred feet in either direction—the train would’ve ground to a halt inches from her just the same. Her problem was not the method; it was what motivated those methods in the first place. She found that most times she wanted something in life, it was only after she’d abandoned those desires that what she initially wanted finally arrived. There would be no way to cheat this, however—as her yearning for death was likely her deepest.

  People poured out of the train to see what had brought their late night journey to a sudden stop. It was then that Abigail grabbed her lantern and followed the tracks further into the woods and deeper into the darkness. About a half a mile down the tracks, she came upon a deserted train station. She spotted a Stranger, dressed in his Sunday best and a top hat, sitting by his lonesome on a bench.

  “Whoever you’re waiting for is liable to be delayed,” she told him.

  “I sincerely doubt it!” He replied.

  “Train’s engine blew about half a mile up the tracks.”

  “Is everyone alright?”

  “Can’t say I stopped to check.” Abigail stepped up onto the platform.

  “Something troubling you?”

  “I’m beginning to think I may be cursed to this life for the rest of eternity.”

  “Do you talk to most strangers this way?”

  She thought it over. For whatever reason, she felt an odd sense of comfort and familiarity around him, like he’d been with her for longer than she might’ve ever realized.

  “No, I suppose I don’t.”

  “You know, some people might be inclined to call a life eternal a blessing.”

  “I ain’t some people.”

  “Then who are you?”

  “Just a woman who’s ready to die.”

  “Ready to die?” He scoffed at the suggestion. “Nonsense! You have so much life ahead of you. God will call upon you when it’s your time and not a moment sooner.”

  “I’d be hard pressed to believe a world as full of pain and suffering such as this would have someone looking after it.”

  “How can you deny God’s will when we live its consequences?”

  “With what I’ve seen? Quite easily.”

  “Even if we cannot appreciate it immediately, there is always a reason to God’s will.” He said.

  “Reason? For what reason must the raped divine from their suffering? What do the families of the unjustly murdered have to learn from what was taken from them? There is no such thing as reason in a universe as unreasonable as this one.”

  “To imply a lack of reason is to imply a lack of God.”

  “I ain’t implying.”

  “You don’t believe God is watching over you?” He asked.

  “He very well may be. But if all he does is watch, when so many could be spared sorrow with his intervention, what’s that say about God?”

  The Stranger considered her question.

  “Sorrow is an important emotion,” he said, “as is its sister, suffering. You might even say suffering is the default mode of being. It’s in choosing to face the cruelty of being that allows us to cultivate the strength to bear it. It’s the only way God knew we would measure up to the task.”

  “If you’re the type to believe light can be found in darkness.”

  “Wherever there is darkness, there is light to counter it. You just have to be willing to uncover it.”

  “If telling yourself this makes bearing life easier on you, then more power to you. But I’ve searched high and low for that light and I’m convinced it ain’t nowhere to be found.”

  She stepped onto the edge of the platform, out toward what little of the forest she could see. The Stranger took to his feet and stood beside her.

  “That’s a hard place to be,” he told her. “But if you accept God’s mission, if you carry hope home, well I reckon light must be waiting for you at the end of that road.”

  “I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think God has a mission for any of us.”

  “Then we agree to disagree.”

  “Seems so.” She stepped off the platform and left the Stranger behind at the station. She crossed the tracks and wa

ndered back into the trees.

  2

  Night had given way to day as light pierced in through the cover of trees overhead. Abigail continued to roam in search of her next opportunity to greet Death at its door. After spending so long wandering in search of an end that would never manifest, time had become an irrelevant structure. Each day had become colored by the same shade of gray, obscuring the difference between weeks and months and ultimately making it impossible to tell whether she’d been wandering for two weeks or two years. Either way, the only constant throughout it all was an overriding sense that she’d been alive too long and there was some force refusing to let her change that.

  Every moment blood continued to course through her veins presented another opportunity to dwell on mistakes made, moments of opportunity missed and memories of better times long past. She typically found herself struck by the pang of yearning for a time that no longer was as waves of inadequacy and regret washed over her. Every so often, however, a familiar voice carried by a comforting breeze would whisk her away into the embrace of a warming memory. Back to a time before the world lost so much of its color. Today, this wind shared a name with her older brother, Benjamin.

  ~ ◦ ~

  “Here,” he whispered to her as he handed her the rifle. Abigail was all of 12 years old when her brother decided to teach her how to handle a weapon. Pa and Benji always made it look so easy, but her arms dropped as soon as she got a grip on it.

  “You know what Pa’ll do when he finds out about this?” she asked him.

  “Don’t you worry about Pa.” It wasn’t out of turn for Benjamin to intervene when their father got carried away with his disciplining of Abigail, a process that often amounted to a belt whipping. He could take it, and if he had to accept a few extra lashings to spare her—he’d do so without a second thought.

  Benjamin directed Abigail’s attention to the deer, grazing on a bit of grass about a half a dozen yards ahead of them. “First thing’s first—you’ve gotta have proper form. You don’t want to rest that finger on the trig—“ Abigail accidentally popped off a shot, frightening the deer as it scurried away.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t you worry, now.” He took the lead as they picked up the trail & ventured deeper into the woods. Benjamin noticed a spider in the midst of repairing its web, and he pointed it out to her.

  “Do you know what this means?”

  She shook her head.

  “She’s been through here.” They continued in that direction until they spotted the creature just up ahead. They stopped and, without a word, Benjamin signaled Abigail to raise her rifle. She did just that.

  “You might wanna take a deep breath when lining up your shot. Try not to get too excited this time.”

  “I’ll do my best,” she said with a wry smile. She raised her weapon & filled her lungs before pulling the trigger. She clipped the deer, but it staggered away.

  “God damn my aim!” She shouted and she proceeded to smack herself across the head. Benjamin was quick to grab her arm and stop her.

  “That ain’t no way to treat yourself.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Go on,” he said as he let go of her arm.

  “I’ll just ruin it again.” She couldn’t look him in the eye.

  “With that attitude, you certainly will.” He picked her chin up to meet her gaze. “Your only hope of getting any better rests on you keepin’ to try, you hear?”

  She nodded.

  “Now finish what you started.”

  She took the lead and approached where the deer had just been standing. There they found splotches of blood on the dirt forming a crimson trail due east. They followed it for some time before they spotted the wounded deer once again. At least fifty yards away, it was a long shot for someone as green as Abigail but she rose her rifle to take aim regardless. Her brother lowered the rifle for her before she could line up her shot.

  “What’s the probl—“ He quickly pressed a finger to her lips. With his other hand, he pointed to a bear cub to their left, much closer to them than the deer.

  ~ ◦ ~

  And with another soft breeze, Abigail found herself whisked away from her memory to her present, where a bear cub scratched its back on the bark of a nearby tree. Momma bear couldn’t be far off which, to Abigail, meant another opportunity had presented itself. She approached the cub.

  “Hey there, little one,” she whispered. The cub made eye contact with her and quickly rounded behind the tree for cover. It cried out. She crouched down to its level. “It’s okay,” she said as she inched closer. “I ain’t gonna hurt ya.” The cub cried out once more and the roar of its mother boomed from behind. Abigail turned around to spot Momma Bear in all her fury, staring her down. The bear huffed with enough force to shake the fallen leaves beneath her. Abigail closed her eyes and threw up her arms as if to welcome the beast with a hug.

  The bear charged straight at her, the distance between them closing with incredible speed. Abigail could feel the wind shift as the animal brought its mammoth paw up to strike, but just before it could knock Abigail to the ground, a gunshot echoed through the forest and Momma Bear slid to a dead stop at Abigail’s feet. She opened her eyes, equal parts amazed and disappointed providence had once again intervened and spared her from death. The innards of the bear’s recently vacated skull coated Abigail’s boots. She looked up from the gory sight to the Good Samaritan on horseback who saved her life.

  “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am.” She shook the chunks of brain off her boots.

  “You have a funny way of saying thank you, Miss.”

  “I wasn’t trying to.”

  “To hell with you, then.” He packed up his rifle and continued riding on. Abigail looked down at the body of the bear, the cub whining as it nuzzled its mother’s lifeless corpse.

  She wandered further south and happened upon the town of Valentine, a sleepy little outpost that was all that remained of a once boom town whose best days were firmly behind it. Just off the main street one would find a path to the silver mine that was once Valentine’s central draw. When the prospect of silver dried up however, most folk took that as a sign to move on. For those that remained, a couple of families and handful of folks that traded with the occasional passersby, Valentine was now a perfect spot for those who preferred quiet over the excitement of new folks pouring in looking to stake their claim.

  Abigail travelled up the main street with its general store, undertaker and pelt trader to one side. A blacksmith kept shop across the street beside the sheriff’s station. At the end of the road, she spotted what became Valentine’s crown jewel after the silver dried up: Jackson’s Saloon.

  She entered to see a handful of patrons scattered about at the tables. Most drinking by their lonesome, the laughter of a trio of rabble-rousers bounced up and down the walls of the place. Inconsistent with the sleepier quality of the rest of the patrons, their conversation which was liable to be heard all the way down the street was proof enough that they’d drifted into Valentine from elsewhere; much the same as Abigail. She paid them no mind, despite how difficult they were making such a task, and approached the bar.

  “Whaddaya got?” She asked the bartender.

  “Here,” he turned to the wall of bottles behind him and placed a bottle of Payne Whiskey on the bar. “We serve whiskey.” He placed an empty glass in front of her.

  “You got anything that actually tastes good?”

  “You’re aware this is a bar, right miss?”

  “I can give you something you’ll like the taste of, honey!” The rabble-rouser who reeked of alcohol even from three yards away stood up from the table and gyrated his hips in her direction. Whatever hope of avoiding a confrontation Abigail had beforehand was now dashed. She turned toward him and he waltzed over to her, leaving his buddies behind back at the table.

  “I’ll pass,” she said.

  “What’s the matter? Don’t think you can handle all this?” As he leaned on the bar beside her, the combination of alcohol and cigarettes on his breath was enough to singe the hairs in Abigail’s nostrils.

  “Are you sure you can handle all this?”

  “What’s it take to get in with you, missy?” He furled his brow.

 

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