Forty-Four Caliber Justice (7 page)

The last thing he remembered was the coyote sitting on his haunches, watching him, waiting.

*

“Boy, can you hear me? If you can hear me, don
’
t try to talk, just blink.”

Who was talking? Was he in heaven? No, if he was in heaven, they’d know his name. His eyelids were so heavy. He worked hard to open them. They wouldn’t move.

“Son, open your eyes. I know you’re in there. I know you can hear me. Open your eyes and blink.”

Clay could feel himself getting mad. How does he know I can hear him? But I can. Wait, I can hear him! Clay gradually came back to consciousness. His first sight was the captain he had run into when he tried to get into the infirmary, the doctor. He was sitting next to him, in a chair.

“Good. I knew you could do it. You’re way too determined to die from a little knife cut. You had us worried, but you’re doing better. You lost quite a bit of blood, so you’ll be weak for a while.”

Clay tried to ask how long he’d been there, but all that came out was a croak.

“Listen to me. Don’t try to talk. You’re very lucky. The knife missed everything vital. It went all the way through your neck, and one side of the blade lodged in your jawbone. You’ll be sore for a while, but you’ll recover. Even your voice should return to normal. You’re one lucky young man.”

Clay could feel reality returning. He looked around. He was in a bed in the infirmary. There were two or three soldiers scattered in the other beds. The bed felt good. It felt so good he thought he’d close his eyes for a moment. Just a moment, then he’d talk to the doctor again.

He was alive.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I
t was still
daylight when he awoke. He looked around. Only two soldiers were in the other beds. He felt stronger. Gripping the sides of the bed, he pushed himself up against the wall. It felt good to sit up. His right hand went to his throat. He was bandaged from his chin to his chest. His neck hurt like the dickens. He tried to yawn, but his jaw was almighty stiff. The jawbone just below his ear felt like he
’
d been kicked by a mule, and he had a major earache.

Clay gradually remembered what had happened. Hayes had stashed another knife in a scabbard behind his neck. What an idiot. Jake had said to be careful. He needed to learn, to build experience. I guess this is building experience the hard way, he thought.

The door opened at the end of the infirmary and the captain walked in. He was carrying a pad and pencil, and was accompanied by Colonel Mackenzie.

“Looks like my patient is feeling better,” the doctor said. “You shouldn’t be talking, but you can write. You can read and write, can’t you?”

Clay nodded.

“Mr. Barlow, I’m glad you are alive,” Colonel Mackenzie said. “Hayes knifed and killed one of our orderlies and escaped. At least, he escaped until he got to his horse.”

Clay’s eyebrows went up.

“Oh, yes, our Indian scouts were able to tell us exactly what happened. You can correct me if I’m wrong. Although, I doubt that my account will be anything less than accurate.

“You captured Hayes and went west with him. When you reached Maverick Creek, you stopped and interrogated him. I would be grateful if, when you feel up to it, you would write down everything he told you. But having a kind heart, you cut him down from where he was tied. Tying him as you did was an excellent idea. However, cutting him down was your second mistake and led to your undoing. The first was not thoroughly searching him. He was able to stick a throwing knife into your throat, and with more luck than anyone deserves, the knife missed anything vital. Hayes made away with your horse and guns and left you to die. That was your second great piece of luck. He didn’t outright kill you. Your third piece of luck arrived in the form of our patrol. Again, thanks to our Seminole scouts. Your fourth piece of luck was our having Captain Dixon with the patrol. He would not have normally been there. But he successfully presented his case to me that he should be allowed on some of the patrols to provide him with more experience. Had he not been there, you would probably have died. So, young man, I take my hat off to you. With all these coincidences, I feel you were meant to stay on this Earth.”

Clay couldn’t help but agree. He should have died. Thanks to everyone who was involved, he thought, I am still here today, listening to Colonel Mackenzie tell me how lucky I am. He started to swing his feet out of bed and stand up.

Captain Dixon stopped him. “No, no, no. You cannot be up by yourself for several more days. You’ve lost too much blood, and you’re extremely weak.”

Clay settled back down and picked up the writing pad and pencil.
How long?
he wrote.

Captain Dixon picked up Clay’s legs and swung them back on the bed. “At least a week, maybe more. You can stay here until you’re well enough to leave.”

“That’s right, Clay,” Colonel Mackenzie said. “You’re welcome to stay here until you’re fit enough to move out.”

Clay wrote again.
What about my horses and
gear?

The colonel spoke up, “The gear and horse you had with you are gone, but if you’re talking about the two you stabled, they’re fine, and so is your gear. I sent someone to check on it with the hostler. You’re paid up for quite a while.”

He didn’t happen to throw my books out of the
saddlebags?

“What books?” the colonel asked.

I had three books,
Clay wrote,
Robinson Crusoe, Gulliver’s Travels, and Blackstone’s
Commentaries.

The colonel tossed a surprised glance at the captain, and said, “Who taught you to read such books?”

Clay wrote
,
Ma, mainly, but Pa read Blackstone’s to me, when I was
older.

“You liked
it?”

Yes, sir, I did. I like the law,
Clay wrote.

“You can be proud of your parents,” the colonel said. “They were truly bringing you up right. When this is over, I hope you’re able to pursue your education.” the colonel said.

Thank you. I am proud of my parents,
he continued to write.
Two more things. What about Hayes and when can I start
talking?

“Hayes is in the wind, I’m afraid,” the colonel said. “Our priority was getting you back to the infirmary as quickly as possible. We’ll keep an eye out for him, but he is gone for now. However, he is now wanted for murder of a member of the military. That will be turned over to the federal marshal, and when caught, Hayes will be tried in a federal court and hanged by a federal hangman.”

Doctor Dixon spoke up. “Clay, you’ve had some damage to your vocal chords. I can’t tell you how long it will take to heal.”

Clay felt panic rising in his chest. Would it be possible that he would never be able to speak? How could he go about his life without his voice? How could he communicate? How could he catch the killers? He scribbled quickly:
Will my voice
return?

The doctor looked down and then up at him and hesitated. “Clay, I can’t say. There is a lot of swelling in your neck from the injury. To complicate matters, Hayes either struck you in the throat or braced his foot against your throat to pull the knife out. In doing so, he applied quite a bit of pressure to your larynx—sorry, your voice box.”

I’m only seventeen.
Clay could feel pressure building in his ears, and his breathing became rapid. He hadn’t felt this kind of fear since the steer had him cornered in the draw. If he hadn’t shot that steer, both he and Blue would be dead.
But this isn’t something I can shoot or whip. This is out of my control.
He felt tightness behind his eyes, and his ears started ringing.
Wait. Hold on. Remember, Pa said that panic takes away your mind.
His heart was beating like a Tonkawa drum.

“With the swelling,” the doctor continued, “we won’t know anything for a while.”

Clay scribbled,
How long is a
while?

The doctor shook his head. “We just don’t know. It could take a week for your voice to return—or more.”

I’ve got to get control of myself. Take a deep breath. Pa always said that when you were afraid, a few deep breaths would help calm you down.
Clay started breathing deeply. He could feel the panic receding and control returning. The pressure in his head was decreasing.

“Clay, you have youth going for you. What is needed now is for you to rest. Don’t try to use your voice until I give the okay.

“Colonel, if you are through, my patient needs his rest.”

“Yes, yes, of course, Doctor.” The colonel nodded to Clay and started to leave, then turned. “Mr. Barlow, I need that report as soon as you feel up to it.”

Clay nodded to the colonel’s back as he strode out the door. The ringing in his ears was subsiding.

“He’s a good man. Strict, but good, and for some reason, he’s taken an interest in you. He was a highly decorated general in the war.”

Clay was feeling tired. The momentary panic had exhausted him. He could tell that he had little strength. His eyelids were getting heavy.

The doctor immediately noticed. “You’re tired. Get some rest, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

*

The week had passed slowly. For two more days he had remained in bed. Then, with some protest from the doctor, he started walking in the infirmary. By the end of the week he was jogging around the parade ground, taking care not to interfere with the soldiers
’
activity. It was almost the middle of May, and the fort was buzzing with excitement. The men were preparing for what appeared to be a large patrol.

His voice had not returned. The swelling in his neck was slowly disappearing. The pad and pencil went with him everywhere. Each time he thought about his voice not returning, panic began to rise. But, with practice, he was able to send it back to that dark place it came from.

Today, Captain Dixon had cleared him to walk into Brackett. He needed to purchase some new weapons and wanted to check on his horses and gear at the stable. His strength was returning quickly. His throat still hurt, especially his jaw, when he ate, but it was getting better.

Clay stepped out across the footbridge that crossed the stream from the Las Moras Springs. At the sound of his steps on the wooden bridge, a fox squirrel ran out on the oak tree limb and started barking at him. It felt good to be out. The army had kept the money for him that he had stashed in his boots. It came to about a hundred dollars. He had another seventy-five squirreled away in his panniers. He’d need to get some more money sent over from the Uvalde bank. Buying another complete set of gear was costly.

The first place he came to was the Brackett General Store. He’d already made a list of the things he needed. The bell over the door tinkled when he stepped in.

“What can I do you for?” a brittle voice asked from the back of the store.

Clay walked to the counter in the rear of the store and slid his list across the top.

The wizened old man stepped around the end of the counter and came toward Clay. “How you doing, young feller?”

Clay nodded to him and pointed to the bandages around his throat. He saw the pity in the man’s eyes, and felt a burning shame.
This is what it’
ll be like my whole life if I don’t get my voice
back.

“Knowed a man back in ’42 got attacked by a bear. Old boy killed the bear, but not before that there bear took a swipe at his throat. Lucky he lived. But he weren’t never able to say another word. Terrible hard on him. Died just a few years later. I suppose it was just grief from not being able to talk.”

Clay tapped hard on the list. The man looked down at the list and then up into Clay’s hard eyes. He cleared his throat and got busy picking out the items on the list. I can live with this if I have to, Clay thought. It won’t be easy, but I can do it.

When the old man came to the guns on the list, he stopped. Clay had written down a pair of .36 caliber Remington Navy revolvers. The old man turned to Clay, and, in an overly loud voice, said, “I’ve got the Navy Remingtons, but you might want to look at the Smith & Wesson Model 3. It’s—”

Clay motioned the storekeeper over to him. While he walked over, Clay wrote,
I can’t talk. My hearing is not
affected.

The old man looked up at him for a moment, then took a rag from his pocket, removed his spectacles from his face, and started cleaning them. He looked back up at Clay through rheumy old eyes, wisps of matted gray hair hanging out of place. “You’ll have to forgive me, Son. Sometimes I talk too much, and often I’m just blamed inconsiderate. If my granddaughter was here, she wouldn’t hesitate to set me straight.

“Can I show you the Smith & Wesson?”

Clay nodded yes. He wanted to see the gun. He’d heard about it, but had never seen one.

The old man pulled it from inside the case and laid it on top of the counter. Clay picked it up and felt the balance. Then he snapped it a couple of times. He didn’t like snapping an empty gun, but he had to check the trigger pull. It was crisp and light. He liked it. He looked for the loading lever, realizing he did not know how to load this weapon.

“This here’s a different kind of six-shooter.” The old man set a box of .44 American cartridges on the counter. “This is what it shoots. It’s a hefty .44 load. Mind if I have it for a moment?”

Clay handed over the Smith & Wesson.

“This here is how you load it.” The man pushed back the latch in front of the hammer, and the cylinder rotated up as the barrel was pushed down. “Now, when you open it fast, like this, the ejector pops out all six cartridges. Or you can do it slow and the ejector comes up slowly, so you can select the empty cartridges you’ve already shot.”

Clay looked it over. It would sure speed up reloading. He loved the Remington Navy, but it took time to reload the chambers, even if you were just switching cylinders. He liked the looks of this weapon. It felt a little heavier than the Remington, but not much. The revolver had a half-ring, facing forward, just beneath the trigger guard. It looked like they intended it to be a separate finger grip. He didn’t like that. He pointed to the half-ring and shook his head.

“Don’t like it either,” the old man said. “We’ve got a fine gunsmith in town. You buy the gun and I’ll foot the bill for having the ring removed. He’ll smooth it out so you never knew it was there.”

Clay jotted on the pad,
I need to shoot
it.

“Yessiree, I imagine so. We’ll just step out the back of the store. I’ve got a couple of peach cans that you’re welcome to try it on.”

Clay took the revolver, opened it, and loaded five rounds, leaving the cylinder under the hammer empty. Pa had always said to never let the hammer ride on a charged cylinder. A single jolt and you could have a hole in your leg. He snapped it closed. The old man brought a gunbelt with two holsters and the ammunition outside with them.

“Try this gunbelt, Son. It fits the Smith & Wesson.”

Clay buckled the gunbelt and slid the revolver into the holster. It went in smooth. He adjusted the belt and tied the leather string, hanging from the holster, around his leg. The old man had set up two peach cans. When the man was out of the way, Clay drew the revolver and fired. One dead peach can. He slid the revolver back into the holster.

This time he tried for speed. The muzzle cleared the leather and lifted in a straight line to the second can. As soon as it leveled, Clay fired, thumbed the hammer back, and fired again—three more times. The can danced across the ground, never coming to rest until the last shot. He slid the gun back into the holster. This gun was a real shooter.