Forty-Four Caliber Justice (8 page)

“Woo-wee. You make that six-gun sing. Reckon I’ve never seen anyone that fast, except maybe Bill Barlow from up New Braunfels way. He was mighty fast. Good man too.”

The old man’s statement startled Clay. He turned, walked back into the store and jotted down a note.
How
much?

“Fifteen dollars for one. You can have two for twenty-five, and, if you’ll leave them with me tonight, I’ll get the gunsmith to smooth down that trigger guard.”

Could I see another one?
Clay wrote on his pad.

“Surely,” the old man said and pulled a second Model 3 out of the gun case. He handed it over to Clay.

Clay tried it, and it felt as good or even better than the first one.
I’ll take it, but I still need a knife and a rifle, and can you make the left holster a crossdraw?
he wrote.

“I sure can set up that gunbelt and holster for you,” the old man said. He reached up to the gun rack and pulled down a Yellow Boy. “Here you go, Son. This 1866 Winchester Yellow Boy has a little age on it, but it shoots straight and fires every time you pull the trigger.”

Clay worked the action. It was smooth and solid. He looked it over, noticed a few light dings in the wood, then wrote on his pad,
How
much?

“Well, seeing it’s been used some, I’ll let you have it for twenty dollars, and I’ll toss in this Boker single blade knife for free.”

Clay scribbled quickly on his writing pad,
Make it fifteen and I’
ll take it, plus two hundred fifty rounds for the six-guns and two hundred for the
rifle.

“You drive a hard bargain, Son, but you got yourself a deal,” the old man said.

The bell on the door tinkled. Clay turned slightly to see who had just entered the store, and his breath caught when a vision came floating into the dusty old general store. He guessed she was about his age, maybe a year younger. Her black hair cascaded about her shoulders, setting off her soft, tanned skin. Her eyes were dark, maybe blue, but, in this light, they looked a deep violet. He’d never seen eyes that striking.

The girl’s cheeks turned pinker under his gaze.

“Do you make a habit of staring at women, young man?”

Her voice was musical, with a happy lilt, slightly teasing.

“What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?”

At that, he came out of his reverie. His cheeks turned red with embarrassment and shame. A frown settled on his face. Turning, he wrote on his pad,
I can’t talk
,
and handed it to her.

“I’m-I’m sorry,” she stuttered. Her face was flaming with embarrassment. “I-I didn’t know.”

Clay took back his pad and turned to the counter, leaving her to stare at his broad back. His neck, though covered with bandages, burned under her gaze.

“Son, this here is my granddaughter,” the old man said. “She ain’t meant no harm. She’s about as sweet as honey and would never have a cross word for nobody what didn’t deserve it.”

Clay turned, took off his hat, and nodded. The girl’s face, if it was possible, turned even brighter red after her grandfather’s speech.

“Grandpa, why do you insist on embarrassing me? Mister, I am truly sorry for my verbal indiscretion. Please accept my apology.” She smiled and it was like all the lanterns in the store lit up.

Ma had taught him to treat women with respect and kindness, and her smile was melting his heart in a way he had never felt before. He wrote on his pad,
apology accepted,
and a smile that hadn’t crossed his face for many days exposed strong, white teeth.

He wrote again on his pad,
I don’t know your
name.

She smiled again and said, “My name is Andrea Lynn Killganan. You may call me Lynn.”

The old man laughed and said, “Yessir, her ma’s named Andrea, and danged if every time someone said Andrea, they both answered. So when she wuz about five years old, she says, ‘I want everyone to call me Lynn—my name is Lynn.’ So since then, she’s been Lynn.”

“Please don’t tell my grandpa anything you don’t want everyone to know,” Lynn said, but her smile took the bite out of the words. “Now it’s your turn, sir. What is your name?”

Clay didn’t know why he did it, but he wrote his full name for her.
Clayton Joseph Barlow, but you can call me
Clay.

“Clayton, that’s a nice name. Well, Mr. Clayton Joseph Barlow, I feel I must do more than just apologize. Would you like to come to supper this evening?”

The old man’s eyebrows rose at the invitation. Then he shook his head and chuckled. “Yeah, boy, why don’t you do that. I’m sure the whole family would love to meet you.”

Clay felt surrounded. He wanted to see this girl again, but he couldn’t talk. He couldn’t carry on a conversation. Would he ever be able to? He thought a moment more. Would he ever get rid of this pad? Coming to a decision, he wrote,
I’d be pleased
to.

Lynn smiled and said, “Good. Supper is usually at six. Please be on time. Father doesn’t like to start dinner late. I shall see you then. Oh, I almost forgot.” Lynn spoke to her grandfather now: “Your daughter would like for you to bring home some coal oil.”

The old man chuckled, turned his head slightly, and said, “I’ll tell you he doesn’t.” Then he said to his granddaughter, “Tell your ma, I’ll be bringin’ it when I close up.”

She looked at her grandfather with mock seriousness for a moment, then leaned over the counter and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Be on time. Don’t upset Father again. I feel you are often late on purpose.” She gave a small curtsy to Clay, then whirled around and left the store, an enticing smell of lilacs lingering in the air. The tinkling of the bell trailed behind her, as if sad she had left.

“She’s a pistol, ain’t she?” the old man said, pride in his voice. “She got her humor from her ma. It sure didn’t come from her pa. Reckon I never figured what my girl saw in that man. Don’t get me wrong. He loves her and provides a good life for them, but I reckon he’d make a lemon taste sweet. Anyway, like she said, if you want to make a good impression with him, be on time.” The old man’s eyes twinkled as he said, “And I reckon you aim to make a good impression on at least one person in that house.”

This had all happened too fast for Clay. One minute he was buying supplies, and the next minute, a beautiful young woman had entered his life and temporarily dimmed his mission. But dinner wouldn’t hurt… would it?

Clay felt a smile playing at his mouth. He wrote on his pad,
I’ll need a
suit.

CHAPTER EIGHT

C
lay stepped out
of the general store into the bright afternoon sun. It was almost mid-May, and the temperature was warming up.

His arms were full. He carried the rifle with a few extra rounds of ammunition in his vest pockets. Under his left arm he had a wrapped package—his suit. He’d never bought himself clothes before.

On the building across the street, a sign was fastened above the door: Ma Nelson’s Home Cooking. A couple of horses stood three-legged at the hitchin’ rail. His stomach was letting him know it was dinnertime. His neck was itching under the bandage. His red bandana covered most of the white bandage.

Clay crossed the street and walked into Ma Nelson’s place. There were five tables with four chairs each. The tables were covered with red-and-white checkered cotton tablecloths. Though they had been washed clean, faint stains from past meals dotted the tablecloths. Two cowboys sat at one table, and a couple of townies, one in a suit, sat at another. He picked a corner table facing the room and the front door, and placed his Winchester on the table and his package of clothes in a chair.

A middle-aged lady came from the back. Her graying hair, pulled back in a bun, framed a full red face. “Coffee?”

He shook his head, pointed to his throat, and wrote on his pad,
Sorry ma’am, can’t talk, water and whatever you’ve got for
lunch.

“Sure thing, that’ll be meatloaf, potatoes, and beans. I guess you figured by now, I’m Ma Nelson. You need anything, you just wave at me.”

The cowboys had paid him little mind. They were busy reducing their steak to dog bones, but the townies were glancing at him and talking, occasionally giggling. Finally, the one in the suit looked over at him, grinned, then said, “Howdy.”

Clay ignored him. He’d been around enough to know when a town tough was set on making himself look good by demeaning someone else.

Suit repeated, “I said howdy.”

The other townie laughed. The two cowboys turned to look at Suit, then at Clay. They both shook their heads and went back to eating.

Suit stood and started walking over to Clay’s table. “I don’t like it when I’m not answered.”

Clay looked him up and down, then reached out to the Winchester and eared the hammer back. The metallic clicking of the hammer as it went into full cock stopped Suit in his tracks. Clay rested his hand on the Winchester, but didn’t pick it up.

Suit said, “Another time.” He turned and went back to his seat. No more giggling came from the townies’ table. Each flipped two bits on the table and walked out.

After they left, Clay lowered the hammer on the Winchester as Ma Nelson was bringing his food and water into the dining room.

“I swear. Those boys are going to get themselves killed yet. Enjoy your dinner.” She smiled, leaned over, and said, “Thanks for running them out of here. They’re bad for business.”

Clay smiled back and dug into his lunch. It was nice to be eating solid food. His neck was still sore and his jaw hurt some. It hurt when he swallowed, but not enough to stop him from enjoying the meatloaf and potatoes. He washed them down with water and placed two bits on the table. It was nice to see a friendly face. He picked up his rifle and package and headed for the door.

The cowboys had finished eating and were sipping their coffee as he went out. They looked up and nodded.

Clay went to the stable to check on his horses and gear. He pulled his last seventy-five dollars out of the panniers and headed for the bank.

Brackett Bank was not a large building. When you walked in, you almost ran into the teller’s cage. There was barely enough room to open and close the door. Two teller windows greeted the customers, and a gate allowed access to the back office. The safe sat just behind the teller’s cage. There was an office door to the right of the safe.

Clay went to the teller’s window, laid his writing pad on the counter, and wrote,
I would like to transfer five hundred dollars here from the Uvalde Bank. My name is Clayton Joseph Barlow. I can’t
talk.

The teller read the note. “Just a moment, sir. I’ll have to request this through Mr. Killganan. I’ll be right back.” He turned and entered the back office.

Moments later, a man in his mid-years, of average height, and with no hair came walking from the office.

“Mr. Barlow? I’m Elmer Killganan. I’ll be happy to take care of this for you. When will you need the money?”

Clay wrote on his pad,
How soon can the transfer be
done?

“Well,” Killganan said and cleared his throat, “transfers are normally done within two or three business days.”

I’d like it Monday,
Clay wrote.

“That might be a bit soon.”

What is your transfer fee?
Clay wrote. It is so frustrating not to be able to talk, Clay thought.

“Well, uh, the fee is our standard five percent.”

I would think for a twenty-five-dollar profit, you could have the transfer by Monday, especially if you send the wire now,
he wrote.

“I think you misunderstand me. We can do it in one day, but it is just normal business to take two to three business days.”

Will it be here Monday?
Clay wrote again.

“Well, yes. I think we can do that. Would Monday afternoon, say around two o’clock, be satisfactory?”

Yes, thank you,
Clay wrote for the final time. He shook hands with the banker, then turned and left the bank. Are all bankers pompous? he thought. He’ll be surprised when I show up for dinner tonight. With the thought of dinner with Lynn, a smile broke across his face. For a moment, his duty slipped into a distant second. Slowly, it pushed back to the forefront. I’ve got to get my voice back, he thought. Writing everything down on a pad of paper takes much too long.

He looked around, realized that he was just standing in front of the bank, and turned back down the street to Fort Clark.

When he arrived, the fort was a beehive. A large contingent of cavalry was preparing to depart. Captain Dixon walked out of the infirmary.

“Good,” Captain Dixon said, “I wanted to see you before we left. The Apaches have made several strikes between here and the border. Colonel Mackenzie is going after them. We shouldn’t be gone more than a few days. I want you to stay in the infirmary until we get back. I’ll check your throat then. Got to go.” Dixon walked over to the orderly who was holding his horse, mounted, and moved to his position in the troop.

Clay doffed his hat to Dixon and, seeing the colonel, to him as well. The men were impressive. Clay had heard a great deal about the Buffalo Soldiers. These men looked like they could take on any number of Apaches who might be for them. He looked around at those seeing the soldiers off. He could plainly see the worry on the faces of the wives. Must be hard for them to have to wait, he thought.

*

Clay looked at himself in the half-mirror. He
’
d never worn a suit before. The gray eyes staring back at him looked older than he remembered. He could see some worry lines around his mouth. He combed his black hair back with his fingers and rubbed the pronounced dimple in his chin. His ma loved his dimple. He didn
’
t mind it until he started shaving. It had become difficult to shave. He rubbed his square jaw where the knife had lodged. It wasn
’
t nearly as sore as it had been. His face still looked young, though he already towered over most folks. Many still considered him a boy. He felt like a boy in a man
’
s body, but he had a man
’
s job to do and he was prepared to do it.

He adjusted his tie and wiped his boots on the back of his black pants. Time to go. He should have gotten some type of hideout gun like Hayes had. That would at least give him a bit of comfort. For now, he had no weapon except the rifle. Clay considered for a moment whether or not he should take it. Of course he should. This was still Indian and bandit country. He slipped some extra cartridges in his coat pocket, picked up the Winchester, and walked outside. Shadows were growing as the sun drifted lower in the west. The green of the oak leaves took on a purple cast from the red sunset. When he crossed the creek, no squirrel came out to bark at him. The squirrels were already in their holes with their tails wrapped around their noses, not taking any chance of becoming roaming owl fodder.

The old man from the store was waiting for him as he entered Brackett. “Reckon no one told you where to go. Thought I’d just be your guide. By the by, don’t think I ever introduced myself. My name’s Jeremiah T. Brennan. Most folks call me JT.”

Clay stopped, handed JT his rifle, and pulled out his pad and pencil. He wrote,
How about if I call you Mr. Brennan?

The old man chuckled and said, “That’s just fine.”

Clay put his pad and pencil up and took back his rifle. The house they were approaching was near the creek. It was made from limestone with a cedar shake roof. Nice house, Clay thought. It faced toward the north, toward town. A wide, tall covered porch extended the full length of the front of the house. A two-person swing hung on the east end of the porch. A short, glistening white picket fence circled the house.

“I’ve got to warn you, Clay,” Brennan said, “Lynn’s pa is a real stuffed shirt. I will say he loves and takes care of his family, but he is truly a pain to be around. I have yet to see what my daughter sees in the man. But she loves him, so I put up with him.” Brennan laughed again and said, “Or he puts up with me. Here we are, can’t put it off any longer.”

Clay smiled as he opened the gate for Brennan. He followed him across the walk to the house and up the three steps to the porch. The old man pulled the door open and called into the house, “I’m here. We can start eating.” He turned, winked at Clay and whispered, “Drives Elmer crazy.”

Lynn and her mother, looking like sisters, came to the door. They both bestowed a kiss on JT’s cheek. “Hello, Papa,” Andrea said.

“Hi, Grandpa, are you trying to upset Father? It doesn’t take much from you.”

“Lynn!” her mother said.

JT looked his daughter over. “Andrea, you’re looking as beautiful as your ma. You look mighty nice too, Lynn. Expectin’ someone special?”

“Grandpa, shame on you!” Lynn said, her cheeks coloring. She turned her attention to Clay. “Clayton, I’d like to introduce my mother, Andrea Killganan. Mother, this is Clayton Joseph Barlow.”

Clay had removed his hat when he entered the house. He handed his rifle to JT and bowed slightly, taking the extended hand in his huge right hand, his smile apologetic.

“It is very nice to meet you, Mr. Barlow. I am happy Lynn invited you to supper. It is always nice to entertain new guests.”

Clay nodded and smiled again. With his hat under his arm, he pulled out his notepad.
It is my pleasure, ma’am. Thank you for having me. Please call me Clay.
He extended the pad to Mrs. Killganan.

She read it and, with a tender smile, said, “Thank you, Clay. I hope you’re prepared to write a lot tonight, for I have many questions. May I take your hat?” She took Clay and JT’s hats and hung them on the hat tree next to the front door.

Lynn took the Winchester from JT. “Clayton, is it all right if I leave your rifle here next to the hats?”

Clay nodded.

“Please, Clay, let me show you to the dining room,” Lynn’s mother said. She took Clay’s arm and walked with him into the dining room.

Lynn and JT moved ahead.

Clay was momentarily startled, but quickly returned the smile to his face. The Suit he’d had trouble with at Ma Nelson’s was sitting comfortably to Mr. Killganan’s left. JT moved quickly to sit next to the Suit, causing Mr. Killganan’s obvious consternation.

Mrs. Killganan smiled. “Clay, may I introduce you to my husband, Elmer Killganan.”

Killganan rose and extended his hand, and with a tight smile, said, “Yes, Andrea, Mr. Barlow and I met in the bank today.”

Clay shook the hand, smiled, and nodded to Killganan.

“And this gentlemen”—the word gentleman was pronounced cooly by Mrs. Killganan, because the Suit did not stand—“is James Davis. Everyone calls him Cotton. I’m sure you can see why.”

The man’s hair was so blonde it was almost white. Clay put out his hand, and Davis reluctantly took it. “Come, Clay, you’ll sit over here, next to me and Lynn.” She guided him behind Davis and JT.

They reached the end of the table, and Clay pulled the chair out for her and gave her a small nod.

She looked somewhat surprised, but appreciative. “Why, thank you, Clay.”

He then stepped around to the side of the table where Lynn was about to pull out her own chair. He placed a firm hand on the chair, looked into those deep purple eyes, and slowly pulled the chair out for her. She smiled straight into his eyes, then gave a small curtsy and sat down. Clay slid Lynn to the table, moved to his chair, and sat.

None of the other three men had missed the show. JT was grinning. Both Killganan and Davis were frowning. Davis had remained seated throughout the episode. As his daughter was seated, Killganan sat down, his chair dragging noisily across the wooden floor when he pulled up to the table.

I’m sure glad Ma taught me manners. She told me they’d come in handy someday.

Clay picked up his pencil and started to write.
I’m sorry this is necessary. I want to thank you for the supper invitation. You have a beautiful home.
He first passed the pad to Mrs. Killganan, and then to Lynn. She read it and passed it to her father.

Killganan read the note. “Mr. Barlow, may I call you Clay?”

Clay nodded.

“Clay, it’s our pleasure. What you see around you is Mrs. Killganan’s doing. She has a talent for decorating.”

Mrs. Killganan beamed at her husband. “Thank you, Elmer. Clay, I’m glad you like it. I enjoy the effort and the results. Now, tell me about yourself. How is it that you come to be here?”

Clay wrote on the pad.
It’s a long
story.

Mrs. Killganan looked at his note. “Why, Clay, we have all evening. I’m sure we are all interested. Isn’t that right, Cotton?”