In the last part Ben left Keystone heading for Ophir. Months before, Salinger who was bound for Montrose, only made it as far as Ophir. He sent Max and Jones to kidnap Livvy, setting a trap for Ben.

“You didn’t …” Salinger looked Max up and down.

Max understood. “No Sir, Boss. Stupid, we ain’t. That boy comin’ ta get her be after you, not us.”

Jones nodded.

“Wait until an hour before dawn to bring her in. I don’t want anybody to see how she got here. Come tomorrow night, I’ll have her dazzling like the bawdiest floozy I’ve ever had.”

“Tell ‘er your gonna make a tart of her baby,” Max suggested.

Salinger nodded, the idea far-fetched, but likely effective.

+++

“Look here, Missy. You are going to act the part. That, or I’ll, well, just be sure that there is no lack of drunken men I can run through your beehive. You are going to do exactly as I say if you want a chance to ever see your husband again, if you want to have that baby.”

Livvy knew full well, understood perfectly that she was bait in a trap set for Ben. There was no question that he would try to save her. And there was no question that he alone of all men could do it. Salinger could, and would, kill her baby, and bring ruin to her life. She saw no alternative to doing as he bid, dressing the part, making herself up, even putting on the act should it come to that. The gown was humiliating, the make-up, embarrassing. The only man to have seen as much of her as the dress exposed loved her soul more than her skin. The man now ogling her, hated her soul.

Livvy thought hard, and prayed harder the entire trip to Ophir. She saw no opportunity for escape. And after the first day, it was likely that escape from the two ruffians might put into more peril than being captive. She despised putting her own life, and that of her baby ahead of Ben’s or her husband’s.

It took a week, but Salinger had Ben’s timing figured. His initial thought of some sort of public, self-defense play in the street had never made it as far as a plan. Once the girl was secured, Salinger could never work out how he could be certain that Ben would force a fight rather than simply somehow rescue the girl.

Salinger’s plan to force Livvy to become a saloon girl never materialized. He imagined her befriending or beguiling someone to warn Ben, or to at least organize her rescue with locals. The only option was to secure her in a room, the threat of sending Max and Jones to her apparently sufficient.

Livvy considered a thousand options, even attempting to chew through the rope bindings at night and escaping through the second-floor window. What held her back was the clear direction from God. On the trail over Ophir Pass she heard a loud and distinct voice. It was so loud and clear that she snapped her head toward her two kidnappers, briefly considering whether either of them spoke, but knowing they hadn’t. “Stand. When the evil day comes, stand.”

The Sunday previous to Livvy’s kidnapping, she took note of the preacher’s comments. He was in the middle of a series based on Christ’s Sermon on the Mount, but after announcing the title of that Sunday’s message, he caught himself. Gazing to the rafters, he declared in as clear a voice as Livvy had just heard: “That ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand.” Without notes, he went on to preach Ephesians chapter six, emphasizing that when a person has armed themselves with God’s armor, they were to stand fast and watch as God delivered them. Stand.

Livvy knew that her rescue would come, and when the evil day was to come, what she would do.

“Come over here to the window.” They were in a room with a view to the street in Salinger’s saloon. Her hands were securely tied behind her back, her feet hobbled loosely enough to allow short steps. “Now lean out the window and look up the street to the left. Do you see him? Well make sure he sees you,” Salinger demanded. “Real good,” he added.

Livvy knew what he meant, wearing the harlot’s garb.

“Ben! Get help. There’s three of them! Don’t come alone!”

The last she screamed out as Salinger pulled her back in, slamming the window shut. He’d expected her to yell to him for help, but hadn’t expected her to detail the situation as she had. In his fantasy, he imagined only Ben charging headlong into his trap, murder on his mind. Serious mistake was in transferring his sordid thoughts onto the minds of people who were not sordid – always had been his weakness, though he didn’t know it.

Pitching her onto the bed, he straddled her backwards, her head behind him. With a rope that was tucked into his waistband, he had her wrist bindings tied to her leg hobble in seconds. With a little force, he was able to get a sock into her mouth, securing it with a scarf around her head.

“He busted into the room and tried to shoot me, but he hit the girl, and I had no choice but to shoot him. I tried to wing him, but I’m no gunman.” Salinger had rehearsed the lines he would tell the first to appear. He was ready for Mr. Ben Persons. His plan was to immediately shoot Persons before the first word was spoken. Too often he’d heard about long-winded idiots shot as they went about explaining themselves. He would then shoot the girl and then untie her. After trading guns with the dead Ben, he would place himself where Livvy would be between him and the door before anyone entered the room. Max and Jones were at the base of the stairs and would see to it that only Persons would go up. They were to allow time for the untying before letting anyone pass.

The town had no lawman, but any of several might likely assume the role. Salinger merely required impartial witnesses to Ben’s charging up the stairs, and the scene he would set in the room. Livvy would be buried under a different name before anyone from anywhere came asking. His shot to her face would hasten the decomposing. Burying her without a covering would help, as well. He had a foolproof plan.

+++

Ben lit off Red much as he had some years past, in front of a saloon in aid of the very same girl. This time, he stumbled to his knees, holding his head to keep from passing out. Slowly, he gained his feet, wobbling to the walkway.

As he entered the saloon with a stagger, those inside gave him space. “Sit down before you fall down, Stranger,” one man said to sniggers around the room. Jones and Max exchanged smirks.

Ben took in the twelve-by-thirty narrow bar room. It was late afternoon. Too early for serious socializing, the bar was only half full of patrons. A barkeeper stood behind his bar, a note of un-natural trepidation in his stance, but both hands on the bar. Three miners played cards at a table. Two drifters stood at the bar, each holding beer glasses, one of Salinger’s ladies between them. Both Salinger’s men stood at the base of the stairs. Ben’s eyes, beginning to focus, held them in place. Though they were following orders to do that very thing, Ben’s glare kept them from blinking, or even closing their gaping jaws.

Nearing the card table, Ben asked the closest man for the loan of his gun.

“Yer drunk. Go sleep it off.” Everyone in the room laughed except the barkeeper, who used the opportunity to escape.

Ben approached Salinger’s men unarmed, unconcerned that he would pass through them, knowing though, that either could stop him. But they stepped aside, allowing unobstructed passing. Both noticed that he was indeed unarmed but for the knife on his belt. “Take one a’ mine,” Jones said. Ben ignored him, not giving him the dignity of acknowledgment, but took the gun. It wasn’t hard to determine which door led to Livvy, even had he not sensed her presence.

The toughs behind him, Salinger no doubt inside with a gun, and Livvy in serious danger, Ben forced himself to calm. Opening the door could mean death, Livvy, as well as himself. He knew it. Bursting down the door could mean passing out. Then probable death for them both. His hand on the doorknob, Ben stopped himself and closed his eyes. Under his breath, he prayed. Not a long prayer, Ben got right to the point: “Jesus, what would you have me do?” Ben released the door handle and knocked.

Max and Jones looked to one another. Salinger hadn’t covered that scenario. Instead of the rescuer barging into the room as Salinger detailed, he stood outside the door knocking. They were bewildered.

Ben knocked again. Hearing nothing, the noise below drowning out Livvy’s tepid attempts of warning, Ben waited. Salinger’s hand jerked Livvy’s bindings, keeping her from anything more than squirming.

Stepping back from the doorway, Ben motioned to Max. “He wants you,” Ben said.

Max paled, not moving.

Ben’s glare burrowed into Max’s depths, commanding obedience. Almost as if against his will and fighting every step, Max inched his way up the stairs and down the short landing to the room’s door. He drew his pistol.

Jones held his spot at the base of the stairs, following his last order.

Ben motioned for Max to open the door.

“Comin’ in, Boss,” Max announced.

Salinger assumed Ben had changed his mind and lowered his gun.

Ben followed Max as if glued to his back. He was safe enough, but could not see Salinger, who immediately began firing at Max’s edges, hoping to wing Ben. Salinger’s plan ruined; self-preservation became the goal. Max, in an effort to avoid being shot any more than he already had been, fell to the floor, spinning to get his gun pointed at Ben, who was no longer behind him, but behind Jones, who’d bounded up the stairs and approached the doorway, his gun drawn.

Livvy managed to swing her feet to the floor on the side of the bed where Salinger stood just as Ben fell to the floor.