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 a
nd 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.
“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
Clay 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.”
Forty-Four Caliber Justice Page 7
