Excerpt from "Horizon Dawn" book

 

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Her anger flared and she threw a crystal champagne glass at him; the vessel missed its mark but the liquid contents left a wet swath across the left shoulder and back of his perfectly tailored silk suit, sure to leave a detestable, and irremovable, stain when the missile sailed over his head, smashing against the massive stone fireplace behind him. Jasmine immediately ran up the ornate curved staircase to her “shared” room in abject fear for her life; Byrne made no effort to hide her hatred of the girl who believed the house mistress to be absolutely mad. Husbands and wives often argued and fought, sometimes to the point of blows, but Jasmine had done nothing to invoke such rage against herself; after all, she was simply a quiet, willing and compliant guest.

Hyatt slapped Byrne across the face with a wicked backhand; she was stunned; he had transgressed in nearly every possible manner against her sensibilities, but never had he struck her. Monetarily, Byrne blacked out from the intensity of the unexpected blow causing her to fall onto the wood pine flooring. Striking her temple against the edge of a marble table brought from France via New York through the handling of the task by the General Store in Van Gangenburg.

Byrne lay unconscious for two full days as Daisy, the household maid, nursed her; slowly, Byrne recovered.  Hyatt promised the concerned nurse-maid that he would send to Omaha for a doctor, but no such telegram-message ever left his town.

Things settled down noticeably after the “accidental” fall of Mistress Byrne, as the townsfolk came to hear of and understand the story as explained by “loving” husband, Hyatt. She barely spoke to anyone, refused to go out, remained in her nightgown throughout the day while staying in her room. She had become a recluse, even having to be often reminded to eat and drink.

A month passed; then, two. Hyatt had taken Jasmine on a trip to Denver to introduce her to the majestic Rocky Mountains; they were gone for a full month. Upon their return, Byrne refused to allow entry to her room to Hyatt, having Daisy inform him that she was not receiving guests. He replied to the maid that she might inform her mistress that it suited him just fine. When Daisy related the message to Byrne, the latter sat motionless, not acknowledging the affront; the maid wondered if Byrne had even heard the words but decided just to let it go, not wanting to upset her, further. Daisy loved Byrne, but, her mistress seemed to grow ever-more-strange by the day.

On a Saturday evening in early summer, Hyatt hosted a gala party including bar-b-que and a dance for the entire population of the town including the “elites”, the common folk, even the Albino Prairie Dog Saloon bar keep and the dance hall girls, even, the entire county citizens, all of whom owed everything to the banker; naturally, everyone accepted the generous invite.

He introduced the very beautiful Jasmine as his charge, an “adopted” niece from down New Orleans-way whose widowed mother, a distant cousin to Hyatt, no one dared inquire as to the genealogical lineage of the faux claim, had died and out of a generous heart and compassion for the dear unfortunate, he and his lovely bride, Byrne, had taken her under their protective wings and expert tutelage. The mistress Byrne, Jasmine’s “aunt”, would, of course, be such a delightful positive influence on the poor child. Indeed!

The day had been particularly hot for early summer; afternoon temperatures soared above the ninety degree mark while a stiff south breeze from the Gulf pumped copious amounts of humid air over the wide central plains. As with all such gatherings, the weather evolved as a common thread among the participants serving as the proverbial “ice-breaker” to allow a pretense of “commonness” between the guests. The “collective” agreed consensus foretold “rain by dawn”, probably a fierce thunderstorm, once all the ingredients assembled. Promised to be a real “Doosey!” in the colloquial jargon of the “elite”-sophisticate members of the assemblage.

As a strange array of several conscripted instruments pressed into service to comprise a “band”, of sorts, the two fiddles, single guitar, one weak accordion with a slight tear in the bellows and a “tinny”-sounding washboard rhythmically raked with an old pewter table spoon were thankfully, mostly drowned out by the large piano belonging to Hyatt, having been imported from New York City, played while the citizenry sashayed around the grand gathering room replete with two Italian-crystal chandeliers casting yellow candle light while dripping hot tallow upon the soiree below with black soot-shadowing the white-washed ceiling above with greyish-smoke cloud-stains, the “elite, erudite, sophisticates” of the quaint “metropolis” of Van Gangenburg, Nebraska, the participants sipping exquisite French champagne from crystal glasses each worth more than the drinkers earned in a full month of labor, all the while scrunching up their delicate noses at the acrid taste and annoying aeration of the tart bubbly “vinegar”, each “ooh!”-ed and “aah!”-ed an approving nod to the generosity personified by the “Royal” host of the delightful entertainment. And, of course, and, most certainly, condolences and best wishes for a full and complete recovery for the absent mistress, Miss Byrne, who, regretfully was suffering yet another of her migraine headaches and could not attend. What a shame! Hyatt’s “disappointment” palpable with his disclosure. What an actor! What an actor! Bravo! Bravo!

Ah! The hicks from the grass prairie made Washington green with envy on that auspicious occasion; the executives, Senators, legislators, judiciary, diplomats and other self-appointed “Royalty-Elite” might have taken lessons on faux aggrandizement that warm eve. Yes! Sir-ee!

By nine, as dark had eclipsed the purple dusk with pitch black while the wind from the south continued to howl its discontent, promising a fierce-some storm, and as the yellow wax candles had melted into oblivion darkening the immense hall to bumping shadows begging continuous “Pardon!”-apologies while the band faltered and fumbled through yet another tedious waltz, as the champagne, wine, cold beer, even, the corn whiskey ran slow, then, out, and as the participants wore themselves to a frazzle doing their very best to keep up a good thing, most of these party-going animals were generally well into their second hour of nighttime repose by this hour, people began exiting the “palace” to hunt for their horses or carriage conveyances in the dark. Very near the late ten o’clock mark of time, a final retreating hoof beat could be heard on the dusty Main Street of little Van Gangenburg, Nebraska. What a party! What a swell party!

Surely, the town would not visit such opulent notoriety any time soon, again. Nothing could outdo this event! Nothing! Save, perhaps, total destruction of a faux-empire and its crowning jewel of a prairie town at the insane purposeful-intent behavior of one of its very own.

Around the midnight hour, in the darkened hush of the vacated grand gathering room of the mansion, Byrne Van Gangen silently slithered across the polished pine board floor. She hardly noticed as a discarded empty champagne bottle spun end for end as it slid across the dance floor to clank against the grand piano ornate leg when her foot sent it sailing askance in the night.

Carrying a kerosene lantern brightly lighted so as to cast eerie wraithlike shadows in a harbinger of impending dread in her left hand, the house mistress approached the wide staircase leading to the second floor; in her “dainty” right hand she clutched a “dainty” two shot derringer which she had carefully loaded prior to her escape from a self-imposed exile in her upper floor bedroom while the festivities had unfolded to now foray in a visit to the abandoned and vacant first floor party room where she should have been celebrity rather than that prostitute, Jasmine.

Byrne loved parties and her absence at this soiree of all consequential events angered her to the breaking point---then…well beyond! And, to add insult to injury, that little tramp, Jasmine, Hyatt’s “niece”? Indeed! Had managed to usurp Byrne’s proper place as head mistress of the court of the mansion. An obfuscating fog within her deranged mind had disintegrated into complete madness: Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Indeed!

And, Mistress Byrne Van Gangen, heiress to a vast fortune, had been embarrassingly scorned!

Ascending the stairs brought her to the wide hallway servicing the second floor of the house; it also served as a viewing balcony to the grand room below. Miss Byrne silently, with great stealth, surreptitious purpose, clandestine approach and demonic intent born of hatred seeking revenge, came before the door to the “King’s” lair where he lay with the house mistress’s nemesis, child-Jasmine. Rage filled Byrne’s mind as spittle escaped her stretched-tight lips.

A flickering arc of yellow light sailed through vacant time like a meteor in the dark of space in a trail ending upon the raised lid of the giant piano in the grand room below where the vessel exploded in a fireball of ignited kerosene setting the heavily draped-windows aflame. Within seconds, blazing fabric fragments caught a sofa and upholstered chairs in their fiery grasp quickly engulfing the entire room’s contents while boiling bubbled-havoc with the polished pine wood floor. Several windows burst under the intense heat and violent wind from the approaching storm which had built throughout the day added oxygen causing a reaction like dynamite in an explosion. Flames from the conflagration leaped and licked at the walls and ceiling as the intensity of the rapidly expanding fire glared shadows on the upstairs hallway walls.

There, Byrne stood before the door to Hyatt’s bedroom, staring blankly at the blockade.

Feeling the intensity of the heat generated by the fire below, Byrne turned the door handle, pushed against the obstruction expecting it to be locked from the inside but finding it open. Somewhere in her deranged mind she found enough reason to curse Hyatt one last time for his flagrant audacity in leaving the door unsecured. Damn! His arrogance and blatant disrespect!

Stepping through the cavity, she spied Hyatt’s occupied large bed between two windows where the heavy drapes stood outward due to the ferocity of the wind, outside, brewing up a formidable storm; the room’s amorous occupants had apparently not noticed the weather-threat.

Byrne’s approach had been unnoticed, also, and surmising from the evident frolic taking place under the rumpled sheets, neither of the room’s otherwise preoccupied occupants had been interrupted in their passionate activities by her surreptitious breach of their perceived privacy.

Several steps brought the house mistress to the edge of the noisily squeaking springs of the bed where Byrne paused above the enraptured couple; she stood silent, watching for several seconds, her face ashen, her eyes wild, but blank, devoid of emotion.; almost like some futuristic preprogramed robot, pulling the hem of her dress waist-high, she reached into the top of her silk patterned-stocking where her hand found the shiny silver two barrel derringer sporting white pearl handled “muff-pistol” loaded with .41-short caliber Remington lead bullet cartridges.

Jasmine sensed an intrusion and opened her large brown eyes; she recoiled toward the headboard as her body went ridged in astonished surprise and abject fear. She whimpered, softly.

Hyatt, quickly realizing that something was amiss by his lover’s uncharacteristic halt in her amorous activity, usually unabated and totally uncontrolled, raised his head to meet the demonic eyes of---Byrne! Then, his focus abruptly slipped from the blazing hatred of a pair of accusing orbs to a Cyclops sporting a single black hole of an eye pointed directly between his own eyes. He recognized the weapon as the very one he had given Byrne for self-protection. A mistake!

Hyatt blinked in astonishment and then tightly squeezed close his blue crystals to shut out the inevitability of what he instinctively knew was about to happen. The vacant action did not help!

Byrne did not disappoint as the tiny derringer barked a yellow-white streak of death which sought Hyatt’s screaming brain-protest bringing instant death; he slumped onto Jasmine’s trapped body which quaked from fear and terror. Finally, the girl managed to scream. Too late!

Byrne cocked the hammer once more and squeezed the smallish trigger sending a second searing ball of leaded-death into the pretty head of her husband’s child-mistress. Byrne’s hand fell weakly to her side as she stared at the dead bodies. Rest in Peace!

Byrne turned and exited the room now filled with the result of her revenge; she did not look back upon the bloody carnage in the disgusting demonic-evil bed.

Flames had already reached the second floor hallway and Byrne shielded her face from the hellish heat. Making her way down the hall to her own bedroom, she entered, closed, and then, bolted the door behind her. Going to her imported French dressing table, the mistress of the mansion ejected the two spent shell casings from the double-barreled nickel-plated “lady” derringer and inserted live ammunition in their place. Laying the weapon on the polished table top, she gazed at the reflection in the shiny mirror before her. Gently, Byrne touched her cheek with a finger, taking in her imaged features, her demented mind seeing the “beauty” she once had been in the etched grotesque real image.

“Still a beautiful woman!!” She admired, aloud, smiling at the imagined reflection.

Caressing her hair with her left hand, in admiration, the right reached a scissors from a side drawer. Pulling tufts of hair away from her head, she began cutting sporadically at the thin strands while allowing the severed curls to fall onto the floor; grey smoke began to filter under and around the door opening and she could feel the intensity of the heat accelerating noticeably. No matter! She’d be finished---Soon!

Shortly, the reflected image of a once very beautiful woman stared from the mirror looking like an ancient doll long ago discarded, moth eaten with only scant tufts of hair remaining.

An awful image of a haggard, old wretch stared back at Byrne. Just---Pathetic!

With a final shudder at the disgusting creature captured within the mirror of her special French dressing table imported all the way from the continent just for her adoring pleasure, Byrne cocked the hammer of her white handled derringer one final time. Placing the tiny black hole of the muzzle to her temple, she exerted pressure on the trigger ending her life as flames breached the heavy door to her private domicile exploding the windows of the vacant room.

Wind howled a fury like Hell must endure on a day when Satan rages his temper. Fire spread quickly from tender-dry wood building to building quickly engulfing the entire town roasting unaware inhabitants with a ferocity giving no warning or chance for any escape; within two hours, the once prosperous town of Van Gangenburg, Nebraska, disappeared from the verdant grasslands of the proud prairie. A deluge arrived too late to save anything.

Citizens of the burg who managed to survive numbered only fourteen; that fast and ferocious had been the conflagration. Nursing wounds and salving horrendous burn injuries, those poor souls very soon vanished from the area to seek a new beginning somewhere---hopefully…better.

Nothing remained of the once grand Van Gangenburg, Nebraska, site save distorted bits and pieces of cracked, melted glass and any stubborn metal that refused to be destroyed by a mere firestorm conflagration!. To all! An end! Final!