Redemption Blues

When Luke Concord’s horse was shot down by the stagecoach driver as his gang rode hell for leather out of Virginia City, ­Wyatt Newcomb didn’t have a moment to think about how he’d have been better off just letting the man fall. Luke Concord was the source of all his problems, the charismatic devil Wyatt had long ago signed his soul away to, and maybe some part of him knew that leaving the man to die just as Wyatt was taking steps to turn his life around would attest to how impossible it was to become the better man he wanted to be. Wyatt thought none of this. He merely reached out his hand, and Luke took it.

Virginia City’s wealth came from the silver mines in western Nevada Territory. Money flowed from beneath Mount Davidson to the banks in San Francisco, but the ­richest city in the region was a little less so after the Concord Gang took their cut. Wyatt saw old Silas Scarberry nod and turn his horse back, snugging the creased brim of his hat farther down his creased brow, satisfied in the moment that someone had rescued Luke, even though Wyatt wasn’t sure whether the frown he saw across old Scarberry’s face was because Wyatt was the one who rescued him, or from the silver coins which sat uselessly in the saddlebags of Luke’s fallen horse.

Old Scarberry whistled, and Wyatt joined in the call, the whoops like birdsong ringing out across the valley — the signal to keep going. The stagecoach couldn’t follow them into the hills. The last two in their gang, young Scarberry and the newcomer Lonnie Allison, were already pulling ahead.

Wyatt knew they’d all considered going back for the man, not the money. That was the truth of the Concord Gang. The promise of silver could bring out a person’s worst impulses, make men turn on each other and abandon their principles — he’d seen it happen, in other gangs. But it didn’t happen to them. And Luke Concord was why. Without their leader, they had only themselves, and Wyatt was sure they’d all reckoned with that at some point and come to the same realization that it wasn’t enough.

Wyatt soothed his mare, Penny, who was griping in her familiar way about the extra rider. Behind him, Luke shook his head as they rode away. “It’s too late,” Wyatt said, knowing what Luke was thinking without him having to say a word. “Ginger was a good horse.”

“That horse was the only woman I’ve ever loved,” was Luke’s response. Wyatt had heard him say it often enough, when they were trading off watches in the foothills of the Virginia Range or laying low at their gang’s hideaway. “Ginger was a good horse.” He repeated the words, almost to himself.

Wyatt urged his own horse forward, riding for the abandoned prospector’s cabin that served as their base of operations. There were countless places just like this up in the hills; people came and went according to the prosperity of the mines in Virginia City. The gossip in town was that the Comstock Lode was on its way out, that the bonanza years of the mines were fast coming to an end. Wyatt could listen to talk like that all day and night, but he didn’t believe it for himself. There would always be people who couldn’t hold a claim, like whoever had lived in that cabin before it became their hideaway. But the rich stayed with their money, and as long as they remained in Virginia City, then so would he.

Lonnie Allison was just starting to tend to the horses hitched outside the cabin when they rode up; Wyatt directed Penny to a place beside the others. Luke climbed off the horse and clapped Lonnie on the shoulder as he went inside.

“How’s he doing?” Lonnie asked. He had a wild mess of hair on the top of his head, and no beard to speak of. “I swear, when I heard his horse cry out like that, my blood ran cold. It was like the hand of God himself had wrapped around my heart and squeezed. I’m sure glad you were able to get Mr. Concord.”

“Aren’t we all, Alonzo.”

Wyatt took a moment to stroke Penny’s flank, thanking his partner for getting them both out of trouble, before retrieving his saddlebags and heading inside after Luke.

The cabin was simple and sparse, filled with some furniture the previous claimants had left behind and whatever the others cared enough to have around. There was a table pushed into one corner, and atop it rested a half-dozen mismatched bags filled with silver coins. Wyatt added his bags to the heap.

The floorboards creaked beneath old Scarberry’s boots as he paced. “That was too close.”

“We all made it out,” his son piped up. Young Scarberry wasn’t quite the spitting image of his father, but it was in his mannerisms and personality, most notably a bullheaded stubbornness, that showed how alike the two of them were. “And we got a handsome bounty. Surely one horse is a small price to pay.”

“And all that money wouldn’t buy you a lick of sense,” old Scarberry said. “You don’t know anything.”

“How’s that, if you taught me everything you know?”

Luke pulled up a chair and sat down in it wearily. “Count the money,” he instructed young Scarberry, who went over to the table and began rummaging inside the first of the bags.

“Boss, I think we do need to talk about what happened.” Old Scarberry resumed his pacing. “They were prepared for us.”

“We robbed the Bank of California, Scarberry; they’ve got to at least try to protect their money,” Luke responded, and closed his eyes. Wyatt wondered if Luke was trying to imagine he were somewhere else; he often made that same face when he was outside, riding Ginger into the hills, when he thought nobody else was looking. Then young Scarberry dropped a handful of coins back into the bag and the corner of his mouth twitched with every bright and hollow plink as the coins bounced against one another.

“I’m telling you, boss, it’s like they knew we were ­coming.”

The plinks abruptly stopped. Luke opened his eyes. “Are you calling one of us a traitor?”

“I’ve just got a bad feeling,” Scarberry said. “The men transporting that money to the train seemed to home right in on you, like they were looking out for one person in particular. It could’ve been you on the ground just as easily as your horse. That doesn’t sit right with me.”

“Well, it wasn’t me.” Young Scarberry pulled another handful of silver out of the bag and began lining up the coins into several even stacks. “I don’t know anything.”

Wyatt felt old Scarberry’s contemptuous gaze pass over his son and arrive at him, and he matched it with a mean expression of his own. Scarberry had nothing to feel threatened over; Wyatt had no interest in usurping his position within the group. Still, the old man liked to make trouble. Luke would usually rein him in, but Wyatt suspected his mind was far away at the moment.

“Wyatt Newcomb saved my life,” Luke said instead. “I don’t want to hear any more accusations.”

That shut Scarberry up, and when Lonnie came in from watering the horses they counted up the money and divided it six ways: one for each of them, and an extra share for emergencies. Wyatt was thinking the whole time that he should say something to Luke, that he hardly did anything so noble, though selfishly he appreciated the gesture, but what came out was, “You can ride Penny if you want.” Luke nodded and went outside, and they heard Penny nickering at him before they rode off, the sounds of her hooves against the ground as comforting and familiar as rain.

 

Wyatt was sitting in front of the cabin when they came back, worrying a toothpick in between his molars. He watched Luke swing off of Penny and tie her to one of the trees that sheltered the cabin. The sun was taking its good time slipping down across the horizon, and Wyatt would’ve guessed Luke rode as long as he dared before it got too dark, and Penny’s eyes became better than his on the trail.

“Everybody else scatter?” Luke asked.

“Alonzo’s out behind the house, practicing his sharp-shooting,” Wyatt answered. “Young Scarberry took his share and left, but he promised to lie low.”

Luke joined him on the porch. “You believe that?”

“Not for a second.”

They heard the echoing crash of a bottle breaking, and a jubilant whoop from somewhere beyond the cabin.

“Got plans for the next few weeks?” Luke asked.

Wyatt sawed his toothpick in between his teeth. “Thought I’d ride up to the Donner Summit to see the railroad being built with my own two eyes. There’s a new explosive that’s been invented to blast through the mountains, and I’d like to say I saw that, too.”

“You don’t say. Better than black powder?”

“It’s called nitro-glycerin.” He drew out the middle of the word, just how the merchants at the International Hotel said it. “They’ve got to mix it right there, since the slightest movement can set it off. Like it wants to blow up. Some things are just like that, I guess.”

Luke nodded like he understood that some things weren’t meant to last. “I’ve got to buy a new horse.”

The silence that followed was broken by Lonnie’s rifle, two shots going wide before the third found its mark and shattered another bottle.

“Get old Scar to help you. I swear the man’s part horse.”

“I don’t have to ask Scarberry.”

Luke could see Penny pulling gently against her ties. He wondered just where she would go if she had the choice. Would she wander, never spending more than a few nights in any one place? Or if, confronted with the enormity of the world around her, instead do nothing at all and refuse to move? He felt diametric compulsions to roam and stay.

He took the toothpick out of his mouth and returned it to the pocket of his shirt. “You better get a fast horse,” he said. “When I get back from the railroad, we’ll race.”

 

The next morning he loaded up Penny and rode for the Carson range. Alone atop the promontories of the Sierra Nevada, he watched crews lay down mile after mile of track. The ground beneath his feet shook with each blast. Wyatt sat down on the ground and thought about what he was going to do.

He had always considered himself to be a decent man, despite the bank-robbing — including the bank robbing. Plenty of gangs took more money and left more destruction in their wake than the Concord Gang. Experience and observation had taught him that life was no more than people taking from each other and ascribing value to their actions. Every stage of the process, from the metal mined out of the ground to the silver coins in his pocket, involved forcible exchange. But as the months went by, Wyatt was finding it harder to square his idea of himself with his actions. He wanted to leave the gang, but didn’t know how to do it. Luke probably sensed his hesitation. Old Scarberry certainly did. Still, he continued to do what he was told without complaints, figuring out when the Bank of California was sending more stagecoaches back and forth from Virginia City, until one day when he was approached by a U.S. marshal appointed to the newly formed state of Nevada.

The marshal, a man with all the occupational fervor of a religious convert, gave Wyatt a deceptively simple offer: If he wanted out of the Concord gang, if he truly wanted a fresh start, he could have it as long as he gave up Luke Concord. If he worked with the authorities and gave them enough time to plan an ambush, then once Luke was in custody, Wyatt would be free to live his life however he wanted. Wyatt didn’t accept the offer, but he said he would consider it. Besides, he’d told the marshal, they weren’t planning any runs on the bank right then, so there’d be nothing to ambush. That was two weeks before Luke lost his horse.

Perhaps going to the railroad was a test of sorts, to see what living without the gang looked like. He was ­comfortable with his thoughts for small stretches of time, when there was something to occupy his attention. He enjoyed watching the railroad track magnificently unroll across the land, but when he had nothing else to think about except the decision hanging over his head, he found it near intolerable to be alone. He went into the towns that sprung up in the shadow of the railroad, drank plenty of whiskey, got into fights. He did everything he could to avoid thinking about what was waiting for him back in Virginia City. He didn’t know what he dreaded more, leaving the gang or staying. He just couldn’t square the man he wanted to be with the actions that he’d need to take to become him.

Eventually he rode back to town, but he didn’t go straight to the prospector’s cabin. Wyatt rode to see the marshal, and told him he wanted out. He agreed to give up Luke Concord.

 

Weeks passed before he would get the chance.

Making the decision was different from living with it. He saw Lonnie first, facing off against a stranger in a cleared-away bull pen on the outskirts of town. Lonnie was the challenger in a quick-draw competition; men crowded around the enclosure, shouting and heckling. Wyatt bet a dollar and promptly turned it into two. After receiving his winnings from the arbitrator, he shook their hand and waited for Lonnie to duck back underneath the fence.

“Look at you! Did a new man come back from the railroad?”

Wyatt shrugged, counting his bills and shoving them in his pocket. “How’s everyone been?”

“I swear, people get itchy when you’re not around. Scarberry keeps going out and getting into trouble, and his dad’s no better, sitting at home grumbling about the state of the world. I think he’s decided to hate the railroad just because you wanted to see it. The man’s a storm that doesn’t know how to break, so he just thunders and expects the rest of us to fall in line.”

“I’ve known him a long time. Old Scarberry just likes an easy target. Point him at somebody else and let him thunder at them for a while. Did Luke get a new horse?”

“He did! A black mare with a white star on her forehead, the prettiest horse I ever saw.”

“Did he name her Star?”

“The horse was already named Star. What are you gonna buy with your quick-draw money?”

“Bottle of whiskey, a peace offering to the storm. Sound like a good idea?”

“I’d forgive you and you’ve done nothing wrong to me.”

Wyatt climbed back up onto Penny and rode away, leaving Lonnie turning eagerly back toward the enclosure.

He took his time getting to the cabin. There were three horses tied up outside — he saw the black mare, and guided Penny to a spot some distance away so they could get used to the idea of each other. He noticed Penny’s nostrils widening and stroked her neck for a minute before going inside.

Luke had several maps spread out across the table, and looked to be comparing them for inaccuracies. “And you’re sure they intend to cross the Truckee River here?”

Old Scarberry looked up when Wyatt came in, then returned his attention to the paper. “That’s what I heard. And after the heavy snows last winter, that’s where it would make the most sense to cross.”

“And there’s no reason to believe they’re headed to Washoe City first?”

“Washoe City don’t got a bank.”

“Wyatt! What do you think of this?” Luke waved him over, pointing to several of the places on the creased, faded map. A vertical line had been inked across the land, stitching Reno to Virginia City. “News broke while you were gone. A new railroad line is going to be built, eventually connecting the Central Pacific track all the way down here. The Consolidated Virginia mine’s going to be able to move supplies like never before.”

Wyatt watched Luke’s calloused fingers follow the path of the railroad, making the trip in a matter of seconds. “What does that mean for us?”

“Nothing good, I’ll tell you that much,” said old ­Scarberry.

“That true?” Wyatt asked Luke.

“Sadly so. When that line is completed, the bank won’t need stagecoaches to move their money, not when iron horses can run it all the way to San Francisco.”

Visions of the Pacific railroad were still fresh in Wyatt’s mind. “Could take months for the line to be built. Maybe a year.”

“With so much money at stake, they won’t waste time building it,” Luke answered. “If we want to plan one more raid on their supply lines before the railroad is finished, we need to prepare for that now. The Bank of California is sending out another stagecoach next month. We won’t get a better opportunity than this.”

They planned for the day that the coach was set to travel through northwestern Nevada, coming down from Reno and skirting the edge of the Virginia mountain range. There were plenty of places along the trail where they could perch in the hills, able to watch the wagon’s approach without being seen themselves, and far enough away from either city where, by the time word spread of what they had done, the Concord Gang would be only a memory in the Nevada valley. Wyatt planned, and he drank, and he helped Lonnie with his fast-draw, and he told the marshal where to plan their ambush so that they could capture the outlaw who rode a black horse with a white star. The marshal told him he was a good man, and he almost believed it.

 

The night before the stagecoach robbery, they made camp beside several ancient Utah junipers, their twisted pale trunks like the fingers of an enormous skeleton hand half-buried beneath the earth. One by one the group fell asleep until only Wyatt and Luke remained awake.

When he was very sure of the solid rise and fall of both Scarberrys’ chests, Wyatt admitted that he was too nervous to sleep.

“You’re not the only one.” Luke had his hat resting over the top half of his face; it made his voice sound muffled and gentle. “I’ve been thinking about what will happen, when there aren’t any more stagecoaches. Or even when the silver dries up. You ever feel like you’re old before your time?”

Wyatt shook his head, then remembered it was dark and so he answered that he didn’t.

“I’ve got to think of something that’ll hold us five together. We’re the Concord Gang, and that makes it my responsibility. How does it make sense that I feel like I’ve failed you all, when the railroads would be built regardless of anything I do?” His voice got even quieter. “How did you feel, when you went to the Sierras? Were you awe-struck just looking at the tracks, or was it so big that it just made you feel small?”

Wyatt swallowed. “It made me want to jump on a train and just ride it, as far as it went.”

“But you came back.”

“I did.”

Old Scarberry’s snoring abruptly cut off, and Luke didn’t say anything further, and Wyatt was glad that he didn’t. He felt feverish, and his brow was damp. When morning came, it was like he hadn’t slept at all.

 

Young Scarberry was keeping an eagle eye on the valley, and when he spotted the stagecoach’s trail on the horizon, dust kicked up by the horses like the tail of a faraway comet, they each guided their horses into position in a place where the hills pinched together and the path narrowed. They waited patiently for almost an hour, hidden, as the coach came ever closer.

The sunlight glinted off of the coach’s metallic gilding, the words Bank of California visible above the stagecoach windows. It was drawn by four horses, and two men sat at the driver’s box. Penny made a soft nickering noise and he placed his palm against her neck.

Luke crouched on the other side of Penny. “You ready?” he asked.

“We’ll all follow you,” Wyatt answered.

Luke gave a sharp whistle, mounted his horse, and rode fearlessly out into the path of the stagecoach. The rest of them followed suit. The coach’s driver initially slowed; then, seeing the number of riders, began to drive their horses faster.

Young Scarberry saw this, and positioned his own horse at the narrowest point of the trail, raised his rifle, and fired at the ground in front of the horses’ hooves. They squealed, turned, and eventually brought the carriage to a stop. The men seated on the driver’s box began to reach for their weapons, but Luke was already there, leveling his rifle in their direction.

The inside of the carriage had no passengers. Instead the space was stuffed with bags and packages nearly to the roof. Lonnie rode up and wrenched open the door. He began to rifle through the contents, passing bags first to Old Scarberry. A single parcel, silver coins rustling, was tossed to Wyatt.

It was then that the first gunshot rang out across the valley. A posse of men rode out from the other side of the hills; Wyatt recognized their leader as the U.S. marshal.

Young Scarberry, so often in trouble with the law, recognized the others. “Those men are deputy marshals!” he shouted out, immediately starting to retreat. “They catch us and we’ll hang! Boss, we’ve got to get out of here!”

Luke, who had taken both stagecoach-driver’s weapons, dodged low in his saddle as another shot echoed from the marshal. He whistled again, high and sharp, signaling to the group to begin their escape. Lonnie hesitated for a moment, reaching for one last bag, when Luke shouted, “Leave the silver!”

Wyatt drew back, using the stagecoach as cover. The marshal had promised that he’d let him escape, though Wyatt hardly felt able to try, huddled beside the others, and the marshal’s word felt like it was worth a lot less when delivered from the end of a rifle. A bead of sweat trickled down from the nape of his neck.

Young Scarberry, the farthest away, urged his horse down the valley, but with no cover in the basin, he was the obvious target to draw their fire. One of the deputies shouted; they turned and fired in unison. There was one interminable moment between when Scarberry was hit and when he fell; watching, Wyatt at first believed that Scarberry somehow miraculously dodged them all, or the bullet had struck his pocket flask and spared the man, but then his body jerked, lifted from its saddle and fell back down, ragdoll-limp.

Old Scarberry, perhaps for the first time in his life, ignored Luke’s call to retreat. He rode with fury directly ­toward the deputies, as if he could offer the great redeemer an exchange of one life for his son. They fired at each other and missed.

A bullet struck one of his coin-stuffed saddlebags, sending a kaleidoscope of silver into the air. Still he rode forward, yelling with all the life inside him, until his voice abruptly strangled and fell silent. His horse collapsed beneath him. His hat flew backward, joining the coins as they fell to the ground.

Cowering in the stagecoach box, the drivers urged their horses to move. The carriage began to roll forward. Wyatt could see Lonnie’s arm hovering above his holster, his eyes shining, the weeks of quick-draw practice taking over, and Wyatt knew nothing he could say would stop him. As the coach pulled away Lonnie spun, aimed, fired. With his other hand he fanned the trigger.

Two of the lawmen fell. Scrambling for better cover, the marshal returned fire, and the bullet struck Lonnie square in the chest. Wyatt caught him, lowered his body to the ground. His blood looked unnaturally bright in the overhead sun, and his chest rose and fell with fitful determination. “I was fast, wasn’t I?” Lonnie rasped. “Fast as ­lightning.”

“Fastest there ever was,” Wyatt answered. He tilted Lonnie’s head gently toward the sky, so that he was looking at something beautiful.

There was only him and Luke. Wyatt’s horse Penny, anxious to leave, pulled at her lead until it went taut. With great courage Wyatt looked at him, half-expecting every guilty, desperate thought to be given away on his own face. What honor there was in this valley would not be found with him.

Luke wasn’t trying to hide his devastation, though he had mustered it somewhat into a grim determination. Astride his horse, he pulled up beside Wyatt, his shadow spilling over Lonnie’s still form.

“Get on your horse!” he ordered. “Don’t you give up on me now.”

Wyatt obeyed and swung up onto Penny, squeezing with his calves to get her moving. Together they fled the valley. The thought came to him suddenly that he’d promised Luke a race, back before he’d gone to the railroad. He pulled ahead, Penny’s hooves flying across the trail. Behind them, he could hear the marshal giving chase.

A crack like thunder shot across the basin, and Luke swerved his horse at the last second to take the bullet that wasn’t meant for him. He made a sound so terrible that Wyatt was sure he’d bitten clear across his tongue. From his saddle Wyatt turned to see him sway, grip the reins so tightly his knuckles went white, then as the last of his strength faded he slipped from his horse and fell onto the ground.

In this moment, Wyatt had time to think. He’d had weeks to replay the moment in his mind when he decided he wouldn’t leave Luke Concord to die, and when Wyatt saw him stagger to his feet for the second time, he knew in the pit of his stomach that whatever trouble he’d be in for, from the law, from Luke Concord, or from the devil himself, this was where he drew the line. He reached down and lifted Luke onto the back of his horse.

He pressed against Penny with his legs, signaling for her to run with everything she had. Behind him, Luke swayed again, and for a moment Wyatt was afraid he would fall off, but then he felt Luke’s fingers gripping the back of the cantle, and he knew that they were both equally as determined to get out of the valley alive. They rode until the sounds of their pursuers faded, and then Wyatt directed Penny into the hills, toward where one of the old Comstock mines, now empty, would provide them shelter. He walked alongside Penny the rest of the way, Luke clinging to the horse, bleeding from one shoulder.

He tied Penny’s lead to a juniper tree and helped Luke into the mouth of the cave. The air inside was immediately cooler, and as Luke settled against the wall, he retrieved a flask from his pocket and took several long pulls from it. “Bullet went clean through,” he said after a moment. “But I think if I saw a doctor in Virginia City, we’d find those deputies waiting for us.”

“Reno, then,” Wyatt answered. “It’s not much farther north. Once you’ve rested up, and Penny’s gotten some water, we’ll continue on. There’s got to be a well around here somewhere.”

Luke closed his eyes. “It’d be easy to just ride for Reno yourself.”

Wyatt kicked at some of the gravel left behind at the entrance to the mine. Easy was leaving him back when his first horse fell. It would have been so easy to ride the train all the way to the Pacific, trade this desert for some blue. He had decided, time after time, to ignore what was easy and he didn’t have it in him to explain why.

“I’ll be right back with some water,” he said.

Wyatt found a well a-ways out from the mine; after getting Penny some to drink, he filled his canteen for Luke. Luke’s eyelids flickered when he came back in, but didn’t open. Standing there, the wild thought filled him that Luke was responsible for all his misfortune. This would not have happened if Luke had died weeks ago. If he were dead now, surely all the trouble would be over. Even after everything, once Luke learned the truth, he’d surely kill Wyatt himself. He had a blanket in his bedroll, tied to Penny’s saddle. It would be easy to smother him, as injured as he was, and then Wyatt would be free.

Then Luke came to, coughing, and Wyatt rushed to his side with the canteen. After Luke drank, Wyatt wet his bandana and began to clean the blood from his shoulder.

“You have to live.” Wyatt didn’t know what he was saying. “You have to hold on. We’re going to make it to Reno.”

He imagined Luke with him at the Sierra Nevada. By now the railroad crews would be well on their way to Utah, the tracks left behind, brand new. What use would a failed outlaw be in San Francisco? Wyatt thought about the prospectors, how when one mine dried up they picked another place to dig. There was often no rhyme or reason behind the site, just a man looking at the world spread out around him, pointing to one spot on the map, and saying, there. There’s good.

 

Jennifer Slee studied archaeology and creative writing at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. She was a runner-up in the 2021 Great American Fiction Contest. For more about the author, visit SleeSquared.com.

This article is featured in the May/June 2025 issue of The Saturday Evening Post. Subscribe to the magazine for more art, inspiring stories, fiction, humor, and features from our archives.