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?”
She hadn’t missed the animosity that had passed between the two young men.
“I reckon. Though I’d rather hear about Lynn’s day.”
Lynn laughed and said, “Cotton, my days are so much alike, I’m sure it wouldn’t be near as interesting as Clayton’s.” She laid her hand on Clay’s arm. “We’d love to hear about you.”
Though she left her hand on his arm only momentarily, Clay could still feel the warmth through his suit jacket. He marveled at the feeling. It was as if her hand were still there.
Between eating and writing, the evening passed quickly. Cotton spoke seldom, obviously irritated that Clay was receiving all of the attention from those at the table.
Sadness, tears, and occasional gasps from the ladies, accompanied Clay’s writing out of his story. He left out the gruesome details of his parents’ murder for the sake of the ladies. Though they were genteel women, they were familiar with this country and easily pieced together the awfulness that he had discovered. Mr. Killganan sat quietly, eating slowly, listening as Mrs. Killganan read, out loud, each of Clay’s descriptions.
Clay was thankful that she was reading his notes. Some of the questions he could answer with just a nod or the shake of his head. It allowed him to enjoy the food that had been set before him.
Mr. Killganan directed an appreciative glance at Clay when he explained his arrangement with Adam Hewitt for the running of the ranch.
Clay also explained how Mr. Tropf had allowed him to accompany the freight train.
Mr. Killganan commented that Mr. Tropf was a good businessman.
When he explained how he had received his neck injury, Cotton barked a harsh laugh. “Reckon he sure fooled you. You’re lucky to be alive.”
Clay turned his icy gaze to Cotton, whom he had ignored through most of the evening. He held Cotton’s stare, until Cotton coughed and looked away.
“Cotton, that is an awful thing to say,” Lynn snapped, coming quickly to Clay’s defense.
JT winked at Clay, turned to Cotton, and said, “You reckon you could’ve done better?”
Cotton turned red. “I woulda sure searched him better. I wouldn’t have missed that knife.”
JT laughed. “Cotton, yore bones would be out there feedin’ the buzzards right now. Hayes is a known man. He’d a had you when he first saw you.” JT laughed again and went back to eating.
Cotton’s face turned a more brilliant red.
Mrs. Killganan broke the tension quickly. “Clay, what does Dr. Dixon say about your throat?”
Clay hated not being able to talk. Everything took longer when he had to write it down. He wrote, Dr. Dixon says that he doesn’t know if I will get my voice back, but he thinks there’s a good chance when all of the swelling goes down. He handed the pad to Mrs. Killganan.
As she read it, Lynn’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Clay, I do hope you get it back. It must be so frustrating to you, having to write everything down.” She picked up her napkin and dabbed at the corners of her eyes.
He turned to her. He wished he could tell her how much her understanding meant to him. It was, for a moment, as if they were the only two in the room. Then Mr. Killganan cleared his throat. Clay felt embarrassed for Lynn. He glanced at Cotton. The young man’s face was filled with hurt and jealousy. Reckon I’d better be on the lookout for him, Clay thought. He wanted to turn the attention from himself and Lynn. He wrote on his pad, How long have you folks lived in Brackett?
“We moved here to start the bank,” Mr. Killganan said. “It’s been five years now. September, and Lynn will be off to Macon, Georgia, for school.”
“Father, you know I don’t want to go to school back East. I want to stay in Texas. I can learn just as much here as I can in Georgia.”
“Lynn,” her father said, “we have spoken of this before. There are no girl schools here that I would deem appropriate for you to attend. I want you to broaden your education and return to help me run the bank.”
“Father, you know I enjoy working with you in the bank. But I will not go so far away for my schooling. There is a new school starting this year in Thorp Springs. I believe it is the Addran College. It is a christian school that will allow both men and women to attend. That is where I want to go.”
Mrs. Killganan, with her soft, persuasive voice, brought calm back to the dining table. “My dears, can’t we discuss this later? There is sufficient time to work this out before school starts.”
Mr. Killganan smiled at his wife. “Of course, my dear. Shall we have coffee?”
Lynn smiled at her mother’s peace-keeping efforts as well and said, “Yes, Mother.”
Clay laughed inside. Mr. Killganan, you don’t stand a chance. He glanced around the table. Lynn was smiling as if only she knew what the results of this argument would be. Her father looked as if he felt he had won another argument. Cotton looked lost, but JT appeared supremely pleased. Mrs. Killganan was in complete control.
Mrs.
Killganan and Lynn served the coffee. Clay had lemonade. Every so often, Clay would steal a glance at the black-haired girl. He had never seen such a beauty.
Clay had a rest from writing as Mr. Killganan discussed his day. Killganan talked about how good Lynn was with numbers, not Clay’s strongest suit. It said a lot that Killganan wanted to bring her into his business to work at the bank. He even mentioned her taking it over in the future. Clay enjoyed being a part of this family conversation. It reminded him of home. With the thought of home, his demeanor darkened, thrusting his immediate goal back to mind. He would bring those men to justice, or die trying.
“Clay,” he heard Lynn saying, “are you all right?” Again, her hand was resting on his left forearm.
He came back from the dark place and smiled at her. He wrote, I’ve really enjoyed this evening.
She smiled back at him. “I have too. Maybe we can do it again.”
Mrs. Killganan said softly, “Lynn, would you like to invite Clay to your birthday party?”
Lynn smiled, and her violet eyes shimmered in the lamplight. “Would you come, Clay? It’ll be great fun. You could meet my friends.”
Clay tore his eyes from her face and wrote on his pad, When is it? I’ll be leaving soon.
“It’s day after tomorrow, May nineteenth. I’ll be seventeen. Oh, and maybe you’d like to go to church with us tomorrow?”
Clay thought for a moment. He should stay in Brackett until Colonel Mackenzie and Doctor Dixon returned. Colonel Mackenzie had said that they should be back either the nineteenth or the twentieth, so he would still be here.
Before he could answer, Mrs. Killganan said, “Oh my, look at the time. Cotton, shouldn’t you be getting home? Your folks will be wondering where you are.”
Cotton Davis jumped like he had been stung by a scorpion and stood up. “Why, uh, I guess, ma’am.” He looked at Mr. Killganan as if he might get a reprieve.
No reprieve came. Mr. Killganan glanced up at Cotton. “Goodnight, Cotton.”
Mrs. Killganan rose from her chair. “Let me show you out, Cotton. It was so nice to have you visit for supper. Please tell your mother that we must get together soon.” She continued talking, guiding the young man to the front door, out and down the porch steps.
Forty-Four Caliber Justice Page 8
