Forty-Four Caliber Justice (4 page)

“That’s more than I had. I’ll head for San Felipe del Rio.”

The two men shook hands, and the sheriff walked outside with Clay. The southeast wind lifted the dust in the street, spreading the grit over the town. Clay pulled his hat tight on his head. “Thanks, Sheriff.”

“If you’re leaving today, you might check with the freighters. They’d probably welcome an extra gun. There’s safety in numbers, what with all the Apaches west of here.”

“Appreciate your help.” Clay stepped off the boardwalk and walked across the dusty street to the general store. When he opened the door, he could see Mrs. Graham behind the counter. She was putting cans on the back shelf. She glanced over her shoulder to see who it was. When she recognized him, she immediately yelled to the back. “Mr. Graham, Clayton Barlow is here.” She came out from behind the counter, then ran to Clay and gave him a big hug, the top of her head coming just under his chin. “Clayton, I am so sorry to hear about your folks. They were such good friends and good people.”

She held him by the arms and looked up into his face. “It’s so good to see you. You’ve grown so big. You’re not the little boy I used to slip candy to when your father wasn’t looking.”

Clay grinned. “I still like candy, Mrs. Graham.”

She let out a tinkling laugh. “I bet you do, I just bet you do. How long are you going to be here? Of course, you can stay with us while you’re here.”

Mr. Graham had walked in from the back while his wife was talking. “Sorry about your folks, Clay. They were mighty good friends.”

“Thanks, Mr. Graham. I’ve got a list of supplies here that I’d like to get filled as soon as you can. Mrs. Graham, I’ll not be staying. I’ll be headin’ out as soon as I’ve got the supplies. In fact, while you’re filling the list, I’ll go down to the stable and bring up my horses.”

Mr. Graham took the list and looked it over. “You’ve got quite a list here, Son. You planning on doing a lot of traveling?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

The Grahams paused for a moment.

Finally, Mrs. Graham said, “Clayton, are you going after those killers?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The Grahams looked at each other for a moment, then Mr. Graham turned and said, “Well, we best be getting your supplies. We wouldn’t want you to go hungry out there. Mrs. Graham, come on and give me a hand.”

Mrs. Graham patted Clay on the arm and scurried about the store, picking out supplies.

Clay walked out of the store and turned down the street to the stables. He’d miss folks like the Grahams. Pa had even helped Mr. Graham get his store going in Uvalde. They had been close friends.

Clay could see Gabby saddling Blue. He had the gear tied on and ready when Clay got there. “Mr. Johnson, I need an extra saddle and a couple of cloth panniers to hang across the saddle. You have something like that?”

“I’ve got that, boy, but I got a pack saddle back there that would carry a lot more load.”

“No, sir. I’ll have more weight than I can carry in my saddlebags, but not so much I need a pack saddle. In fact, the panniers don’t need to be real big.”

Gabby came out with an old saddle. “This is old, but it’s in good shape. I’ve also got a nice clean blanket for it. These are well-made panniers that should ride well and not rub at all.”

Clay looked them over. They would work for what he needed. He tossed the blanket across the buckskin’s back, smoothed it out, and saddled the horse. He and Gabby fastened the panniers across the saddle. Clay checked for rubbing, but the panniers were short enough to rest mostly on the side of the saddle and the stirrup leather. “This seems fine, Mr. Johnson. What do I owe you?”

Gabby rubbed the stubble on his chin with his thumb as he mentally calculated the price. “The saddle’s old but good, I’d say twenty-five, two bucks for the blanket, five dollars apiece for the panniers. You planning on hobbling or picketing these animals?”

“I reckon picket.”

“You don’t have enough rope for the three. I’ll toss in some good hemp for five dollars. Clay, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. It comes to forty-two dollars, but I’ll let you have the whole shootin’ match for forty bucks. How’s that sound to ya?”

“Mr. Johnson, that sounds more than fair.” He pulled out the wad of three hundred dollars and peeled off forty before slipping the remainder of the money back into his pocket.

Gabby took the money and slid his old, beat-up hat to the back of his head. “Clay, I’m gonna give you a piece of advice. I know fer sure, most advice is worth exactly what you pay for it. But, Son, you don’t want to be flashing that kind of money around. There’s plenty of folks who’d shoot you or knock you in the head for way less than what you’ve got there. Split it up. Put some in each boot. Slip a little in yore saddlebags. That way it ain’t in one pile. Understand what I’m saying?”

Clay immediately recognized the sense in what Gabby had told him. “Yes, sir, I do. I guess I’ve got a lot to learn. Thanks.”

“Nary important to mention it, boy. I’m just glad to help. You’ll learn. Your size’ll help you. But always be on the lookout. Just because you’re amongst a bunch of white men, don’t mean you’re safe. But I guess you already figgered that one out for yourself. Good luck to you.”

Clay mounted Blue and nodded to Gabby. “Be seeing you.”

He led the sorrel and the buckskin toward the general store. Puffs of dust from the horses’ hooves disappeared quickly in the afternoon breeze. He pulled up in front of the general store, tied the horses, and went in.

The Grahams had divided his supplies up into two potato sacks and set them on the counter. “Clayton,” Mrs. Graham said, “here’s your list. All your supplies are in these two bags. I also put you some lunch in there. Part of me wishes you weren’t going after those men. The other part wants you to catch them and kill them for what they’ve done. Please, be safe.”

“Yes, ma’am, thank you. I plan on it. By the way, do you have any of that hard lemon candy? I’ve had my mouth set for some.”

Her musical laugh filled the store. She filled a small bag with lemon candy and handed it to Clay, squeezing his big hands in hers. “You always did have a sweet tooth.”

Mr. Graham came from the back carrying a shotgun and a box of shells. “Son, you know your father helped us get this store started. We owe him more than you can ever know. I have long wondered how we could repay him. Now I know. We can contribute, in a small way, in keeping you safe. This is for you.”

“Mr. Graham, I can’t take that.” Clay eyed the single-barrel shotgun.

“You can and you will. This helps us pay our debt to your folks.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Clay, this is a Roper 12 gauge repeating shotgun. You lift this cover to load and fire. To load it—” Mr. Graham took four shells from the box, “—you press the shells down into the revolving cylinder. It holds four. To fire, just pull the hammer back. You’ll find it a little stiff, but just pull hard and let her rip. I planned on using it for protection around here, so I had the gunsmith shorten the barrel. It won’t be good for bird hunting, but it’ll danged sure stop anything up close. It fits perfectly in this scabbard.”

“Mr. Graham, I don’t know what to say.”

“Say nothing. Just pay me the fifteen dollars for the supplies, and you can be on your way.”

Clay paid for the supplies. Mrs. Graham began to tear up. He picked up the bags, took them outside, and loaded them into the panniers. He walked back into the store. Mrs. Graham hugged him, and Mr. Graham shook his hand. No other words were said. He picked up the scabbard with the Roper, nodded, and went through the door. He tied the scabbard on the buckskin’s saddle, walked around the horses checking the gear, and swung up onto Blue.

Mr. and Mrs. Graham stood quietly on the boardwalk. He tipped his hat to them and nudged Blue. Blue started walking north toward the freight outfit. Sheriff Haskins leaned against a post in front of his office. They nodded to each other as Clay passed.
Will I ever be here again?
Clay lifted his eyes to the freighters and clucked Blue into a trot.

CHAPTER FOUR

C
lay stopped at
the lead wagon. A solidly built man was checking a water barrel. “Howdy,” Clay said, “where can I find the boss?”

The man nodded at two men riding toward the wagons. They had come into view after topping a low rise to the west. Clay rode out to meet them. One of the men was older, gray hair showing out from under the hat that had once been white. The man was big, but now going to fat. The other man was wide-shouldered, slim in the waist, with long, wavy brown hair. He was sporting a well-trimmed mustache and goatee.

They pulled up as they reached Clay. “Howdy, young feller,” the older man said, “vhat is it ve can do for you?”

“My name’s Clay Barlow. I was wonderin’ if I could ride west with you? I’m headed for San Felipe del Rio.”

The other man appraised Clay. “You any kin to Bill Barlow? Used to be deputy sheriff in New Braunfels?”

“Yes, sir, that was my pa.”

“Was?”

“My ma and pa were murdered a few days ago.”

The older man shook his head. “It is a shame to have such a thing happen to one’s family. I am very sorry. My name is Helmutt Tropf. These are my vagons. We have irrigation supplies to drop off in San Felipe, and then ve’ll be going on to El Paso. You are most welcome to join us. We can always use another gun.”

The long-haired man said, “Name’s John Coleman. My friends call me Jake. Met your pa shortly after he caught the Pinder Gang. He was a man to reckon with. You say your ma was killed too?”

“Yes, sir, my ma, pa, and Slim, our friend. They shot, hanged, and burned Pa.”

Coleman spit a slug of tobacco juice and hit a prickly pear dead center. “Whoever did that needs killing, and soon, before they do it again. Any idea who might have done it?”

“I was talking to the sheriff. He figures it’s the Pinder Gang.”

Tropf nodded to Clay and Coleman. “I’ve got to get these wagons rolling. Ya, you’re velcome to tie your horses behind the first wagon. I’ll talk to you later.” He trotted his horse toward the lead wagon.

“Let’s move off the road,” Coleman said.

Clay walked Blue and the other two horses over to where Coleman sat.

“Where you headed?” Coleman said.

“Mr. Coleman, I’m after the men who killed my folks.”

“Call me Jake. You know how to use those Remingtons?”

“I do.”

“Ever shot a man?”

Clay could feel his face getting hot. “No, but I’ll be up to it when the time comes.”

Coleman studied the boy for a few moments. “You just might. Tie up those two horses and ride with me.”

Clay joined Jake Coleman after tying the sorrel and buckskin behind the first wagon. The wagons had started moving as he and Coleman topped out over the first hill. They rode along in silence, watching the countryside. Though it was dry, the rolling hills were lit with color. The light green of the mesquite trees was accented by purple thistle and yellow acacia tree blooms. This was rough country, but still provided colors that were easy on the eyes. The thick, tan bunches of buffalo grass spread as far as they could see.

Clay glanced over at Jake. He was examining the hills, keeping a close lookout for anything out of the ordinary. “You going all the way to El Paso?”

“Reckon,” Jake said. He shot a stream of tobacco juice at a jackrabbit in the shade of a prickly pear patch. The tobacco hit him on the left shoulder. The surprised rabbit leaped from under the prickly pear and dashed a few yards, stopped, and looked back.

Clay laughed. “You as good with a gun as you are with that tobacco juice?”

Jake leaned back in his saddle to stretch his back. His mustache moved in what could have been taken for a smile. “Maybe.”

Several miles were covered without a word being spoken. The sun was casting shadows from the mesquite and prickly pear. Jake pulled up at the crest of a low ridge. The west side of the ridge sloped down to the Nueces River. “You familiar with Injuns?”

“Yes, sir,” Clay said. “We had a tribe of Tonkawa who wintered near our ranch for years. I had a friend about my age. We spent a lot of time together. Ma schooled him some, along with me.”

“Is it true the Tonkawa eat their enemies?”

“I never saw it. They took me in like their own and helped us fight off Comanches. Pa always said they were good people. Those Tonkawa taught me a lot.”

“Son, my friends call me Jake. Not sir. I’d be beholden if’n you’d stop with the sirs.”

“Sorry, just the way I was raised.”

“I’m sure your ma was a fine lady and taught you right. For young folks, that’s good to learn. But you being in a man’s world, you best leave it behind. Some folks’ll take it as a sure sign of weakness. They’re like wolves, they smell weakness and they go for your throat.”

Jake headed down to the Nueces. Clay followed by his side. “We’ll ford and camp on t’other side,” Jake said. “By the time the wagons get here, it’ll be gettin’ close to dark. We’ll circle up and keep the animals inside the circle. Don’t want to tempt anyone.”

They crossed the ford and examined the west side of the river.

“Looks good,” Jake said. “Let’s head back.”

The wagons had circled up and campfires were burning. They had managed to get the stock unhitched and watered before dark, and now everyone was enclosed in the circle of wagons.

“Clay,” Jake said, “this is our wrangler, Arlo Paxton. Arlo, Clay Barlow, out of the hill country.”

“Howdy, boy. You goin’ to be ridin’ along with us?”

“Yes, sir, I’m headed for San Felipe del Rio.”

“Good, we can always use another gun. Why don’t you toss your extra gear in a wagon and run your horses with the remuda. Two more won’t make a heap of difference.”

“Ya, dat’s a goot idea, Clay,” Helmut Tropf said. “Put your things in the third wagon. There be extra space in that one.”

“Why, thank you both. That’ll make it some easier.”

Clay picked up his extra saddle and panniers and headed for the third wagon. He was just pulling the Roper out of its scabbard when a bearded, burly man walked around from the opposite side and placed his hands on his hips.

“Whatcha doin’ at my wagon, boy?”

Clay nodded. “Howdy. Mr. Tropf said it was okay for me to put my gear in this wagon.” He picked up the saddle and dropped it into the back of the wagon.

“Well, I sure as blazes didn’t. Now git that saddle out of there, and git it out right now.”

“Mister, I’m not looking for trouble here. Mr. Tropf owns this wagon, and I reckon what he says goes.” Clay picked up one of the panniers and dropped it into the wagon.

The big man’s face clouded over, and his little, beady eyes almost disappeared under thick eyebrows. He stepped forward, his hands clenched.

“Nestler! Leave the boy alone,” Tropf yelled from the fire. “I told him to put his tack in your vagon. If you have a problem with that, you can take it up with me.”

Nestler glared at Clay. “We ain’t done, boy.”

Clay said nothing as he picked up the remaining pannier with his left hand and dropped it into the wagon, his shotgun loosely gripped in his right hand.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Tropf,” Nestler said. “I just didn’t know he had permission, what with the weight and all. Just wanted to save your stock.”

Tropf nodded and turned back to the fire.

Nestler strode toward the second fire, his fists still clenched.

Clay walked over to where Jake and Arlo were standing, away from the fire. Darkness had settled on the countryside. A couple of coyotes on the north ridge, above the camp, were serenading the moon. Night animals were shuffling in the brush outside the wagons.

“You got a problem there, boy,” Jake said. “His name is Cain Nestler. Don’t know much about him, except I don’t like him.”

“Yep,” Arlo said. “I reckon he’s mean clear through. Always pickin’ on the other men. ’Specially those he thinks he can buffalo. He’s hard on the stock too. Never liked a man what didn’t treat his stock right.”

“Mr. Coleman, I’m not looking for a fight. But I won’t run from one either.”

“You’ll have it to do, Clay, I promise you,” Jake said. “Now, what kind of shotgun you got there?”

“This is a Roper. It shoots four shells just as fast as you can pull the hammer back.”

“You don’t say,” Arlo chimed in. “Never in my life seen a shotgun like that. What with that one, short barrel, I took it for a single shot, muzzle loader at that.”

“Let me show you how it works. You open up this gate on the top, and you can put the shells right in here. It’ll take four. Then, when you’re ready to shoot, just pull back the hammer.”

Both Jake and Arlo had leaned over, examining the Roper. “What’ll they think of next?” Arlo said. “Just imagine, four shots without reloading, coming out of a single-barrel shotgun. That’ll sure be a surprise for whoever’s on the receiving end.”

The three moved over to the fire and got some beans and venison, then moved back. Jake and Arlo leaned against a wagon wheel, and Clay sat cross-legged on the ground. Clay ate quickly, then got up and spooned out another plate of beans. “Mighty good,” he said.

The others looked up and laughed. “Don’t let Cookie hear that, it’ll go to his head.” Guffaws followed the man’s comment.

“You shut up, Wilson, or you’ll be sucking on rocks and eating loco weed.” Cookie grinned at Clay. “Eat up, boy. It’s good for you.”

Clay grinned back at the cook, nodded, and walked back to Jake and Arlo.

“You feel like taking the first watch tonight?” Jake asked Clay.

“Yes, si—Jake, sure do.”

“Good, there’s a knoll about twenty yards north. Make a good stand. If someone comes slipping into camp, they mean no good. You do what you have to do. Wake me in three hours. Arlo, you up to the last watch?”

“Yep.”

Clay finished his supper and sanded out his plate. “Reckon I’ll get on up there.”

He rolled out his bedroll next to a wagon, pulled his moccasins from the saddlebags, and slipped them on. They felt good on his feet. Running Wolf’s ma had taught him how to make them, and he always carried two pair with him. His feet had grown thickly calloused through the years. Unlike most cowmen, he was as handy on his feet as in the saddle. He and Running Wolf had run all over the hill country around the ranch. He could run for hours without slowing down. He missed those days, Running Wolf, Ma, Pa, Slim. Now they were gone, Running Wolf probably up near Fort Griffin. He’d like to see him.

Clay slipped out to the knoll and found a place screening his back with a huge bunch of prickly pear. He cleared the ground of spines and sharp rocks and sat down. The stars were sprinkled across the heavens like fireflies that frequented the Frio during the summertime. The waning moon was just peeking up in the east. Yellow, it was, like the butter that came out of Ma’s churn. The howling of the coyotes had disappeared into the night. They must be hunting. The only sound came from the cicadas singing their rough tune and the nighthawk’s rattle.

Time passed quickly. Two deer moved silently between the knoll and the wagons. Alert to danger, they walked slowly to the Nueces for water. Clay took one last look at the stars. It was time. He moved silently back into camp, moved up to Jake, and touched him on the leg.

“You move awfully quiet, Clay,” Jake said. “Anything?”

“Just a couple of deer moving to the river. You awake?”

“Yeah. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Clay moved over to his bedroll, slipped his moccasins off, and lay down.
Don’t know what lies ahead, but I plan on burying some men before I die.
He lay there for a moment more before sleep came.