The interior of the Rock Creek Pony Express bunkhouse was snug and warm against the turbulent weather outside. Rain pelted the slanted roof in a steady staccato, and was sporadically joined by clapping thunder. Firelight from the wood stove in one corner of the large room danced across the walls and onto the sleeping forms of the tired riders as all but one of them, slept. James Butler Hickok had been awakened a few moments earlier by a particularly loud crash of thunder that roared across the night sky, and chased the dream he had been lost in away. He ran a hand through his tousled, long dark hair as he tried to shake off the vestiges of the familiar, troubling dream. It was a dream he had had many times before, and one that was not so easy to disperse. The dream was about that fateful day nine years ago when his mother, Polly, had been killed. He remembered the tragic events of the day as if it had only happened the day before. He had only been seven years old. The family was supposed to have gone on a weekend trip together to an abolitionist rally in a nearby town but because he had been sick with a cold, his mother had stayed home to tend to him. His father, William, had wanted to cancel the trip, but his mother convinced him to make the trip anyways. Not only was he one of the leading members of the abolitionist movement around, the trip had been planned for some time and all of the children had been looking forward to it. As his father, older brothers, and two younger sisters drove out of the yard in the wagon, he could not help wishing that he had been able to go as well. Two scraggly-looking men had ridden into the yard a short time after the rest of the family had left, begging for food. His kind-hearted mother had not been able to turn them away. There had been many times when their family had relied on the kindness of strangers to aide them in their time of need, and she could do less for someone else in need. She had willingly agreed to make something for the two men to eat in exchange for them doing a few chores around the farm for her. They had readily agreed. It was not until they had finished eating and she had told them that they had best be heading off, when things turned ugly. One of the men had grabbed his mother by the arm and dragged her kicking and screaming toward the woodshed. Jimmy had tried to help his mother, shoving and hitting at her attacker, but he had been no match for the man. He had caught a hard blow against the head that had sent him reeling against the corral fence, and onto the ground where he had passed out. When he came to, the men were gone. He had climbed dizzily to his feet, his head aching fiercely in the spot where he had been hit, and had begun crying out for his mother. Only silence had answered him. Jimmy had been filled with panic then, and had started a frantic search for his mother. He had found her lying in a pool of her own blood, her dress in tatters, her beautiful face arrayed with bruises, and her sightless blue eyes staring up at the darkening sky. He remembered closing her eyes with one of his shaking hands, and then falling onto the ground beside her, his small body wracked with grief. He had waited beside her during the long dark night until the rest of the family returned home the next day. Life in the Hickok household had never been the same again. His father had taken to drinking a lot, and spending more and more time away on his abolitionist work. While he had never said it aloud, Jimmy had always felt that his father blamed him for his mother being killed. If he had not gotten sick, all of them would have been gone from the farm when the men arrived, and his mother would be still alive. It was that feeling that had propelled Jimmy into leaving home in the first place when he was old enough to do so. A couple of years after he had left home, he had found a job and a family with the Pony Express. He had hoped that in leaving home, that the dream would not come again, but he had been sadly mistaken. Every year the nightmare resurfaced a few days prior to the actual anniversary date, and lasted for a night or two afterwards. So it had begun this time as well. Knowing that he would not be able to go back to sleep again, Jimmy climbed out of his bunk and dressed quietly. Slipping on his boots, gun belt, coat, and hat, he let himself out of the bunkhouse and strolled across the way station yard to the barn. He saddled Sundancer and headed into town. He knew he would catch hell from Teaspoon Hunter, the Pony Express stationmaster and his employer, for what he was about to do, but he did not really care. He needed a whiskey to chase the dream away, and whiskey was what he was going to get. By the time that he arrived at the Aces High saloon, he was soaked clean through from the rain, and eager to get inside to warm up. He walked up to the bar and ordered a bottle of whiskey, ignoring the surprised look on the bartender’s face. A bottle of whiskey and a glass was placed in front of him. Jimmy flipped a coin onto the bar, picked up the bottle of whiskey and the shot glass, and strolled over to a corner table closest to the wood burning stove. He settled into a chair with his back facing the wall and poured himself a drink. Halfway through the bottle of whiskey, a tall man with graying dark hair, green eyes, and a kind smile approached Hickok’s table. He was dressed in clothes worn by an itinerant preacher. “You won’t find the answers you seek in that bottle.” Reverend Elias Timmons told the dark haired young man softly. “I don’t recall asking any questions.” Hickok replied glaring up at the man. “My name is Reverend Elias Timmons, and I have been where you are now. The man said as he pulled out a chair across the table from him and sat down. “Perhaps I can be of some assistance to you, Mr…?” “Hickok…I don’t need any assistance,” Jimmy said, “Nor do I remember inviting you to join me.” “No, you didn’t to both of those statements.” Reverend Timmons acknowledged, not the least bit deterred by the young man’s hostile words. “I was enjoying a bit of repast at one of the other tables, when I saw you make your entrance. I could tell that your heart was heavy and your mind working overtime, and thought maybe I could be of some assistance to you in your time of need.” “You’re wasting your time, preacher.” Jimmy told him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me I’d like to get back to my drinking in peace.” “I think I’ll sit here just a bit longer if it’s all right with you.” Reverend Timmons said.” It’s warmer over here by the stove than it is in the rest of the saloon, and my old bones gets to aching something fierce when it’s wet outside.” “Suit yourself.” Hickok downed the last of the whiskey in his glass, and then poured himself another drink. Several moments of silence passed, as Hickok continued to imbibe in the amber-colored liquid in hopes that it would free him from the remnants of his dream, the preacher quietly observed the tormented young man before him. “Don’t you have something better to be doing than sitting there annoying the hell out of me?” Hickok demanded suddenly, his gray eyes lifting to gaze across the table at Reverend Timmons. “No…my stage doesn’t leave until later this afternoon.” Reverend Timmons answered. “I wasn’t aware that I was doing anything other than sitting here warming myself by the stove.” “You are biding your time in trying to get me to talk about whatever is troubling me and it isn’t going to work, preacher.” Hickok told him angrily. “My business is my business, and no one is going to make me talk or do anything that I don’t want to do.” “I understand that you are reluctant to discuss what is bothering you, but maybe you should get it off of your chest once and for all.” Hickok glared at the preacher for a long moment before blurting out, “I’m responsible for my mother being dead.” “Why do you think that?” “If I hadn’t been sick, my mother and I would have accompanied the rest of the family on an over night trip, and we wouldn’t have been home when the drifters came.” “You were a child?” “Yes. I was seven years old. “ “Perhaps you should explain to me the events leading up to your mother’s death, so that I can better understand what your involvement might or might not have been in her death.” Reluctantly Jimmy filled him in on the details of the day that his mother had died. “You have to relieve yourself of the guilt associated with your mother’s death, Hickok. The men, who killed your mother, hold all the responsibility for her death, not you.” “Then why am I plagued with dreams about that day?” Hickok asked quietly. “You witnessed a brutal act against someone you loved dearly, at a very young age, and have felt guilty about it ever since. Learn to forgive yourself, and I assure you that the dreams will eventually fade away.” Jimmy was quiet for several more moments as he pondered what Reverend Timmons had told him. He drained the last of the whiskey in his glass and rose shakily to his feet. “I expect I’ll have to ponder on what you’ve told me for a bit preacher.” “You do that.” Reverend Timmons said as he watched the young man walk, somewhat unsteadily out of the saloon. Jimmy mounted Sundancer, and headed the palomino back in the direction of the way station. Upon arrival back at the station, he cared for his horse’s needs, and then headed for the bunkhouse. His fellow riders were still sleeping soundly when he entered the bunkhouse and undressed. He crawled back into his bunk and lay staring up at the bottom of Cody’s bunk. The preacher’s words replayed themselves in his mind and he hoped fervently that what Reverend Timmons had said was true. Forgiving himself for the wrongs that he had committed had never been an easy thing for him to do. He supposed that now was the time that he needed to learn how to let go. Drop me a note and let me know what you thought!