Forty-Four Caliber Justice

by Donald L. Robertson

  She returned quickly and seated herself. “Did I miss anything?”

  “Andrea, you’re as sweet as your mama, and just as controlling,” JT said.

  Mrs. Killganan turned to JT with feigned shock. “Papa, why would you say such a mean thing to your only daughter?”

  He lifted an old, wrinkled hand and affectionately patted her arm.

  She smiled into his eyes, and then turned to Lynn. “Did I miss anything?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m waiting for Clay’s answer.”

  Clay wrote on his pad, I’d like to come to your birthday party and go to church with you tomorrow. He slid the pad over to Lynn.

  She read it and said to no one in particular, “He said yes, to both.” She then turned to him. “The party will be at three in the afternoon, on the front porch and under the big oak in the front yard. I’ll plan on you being here. Church will be at nine tomorrow morning.”

  “Papa,” Mrs. Killganan said, “isn’t it time for you to be headed home?”

  “Now don’t you be trying to manage your old papa, girl. But yep, it is getting late. Thanks for a mighty fine dinner. Elmer, I enjoyed it, which don’t happen too often.”

  Lynn jumped up and ran around the table to give her grandpa a kiss. “Goodnight, Grandpa. Love you.”

  He hugged her and cleared his throat. “It’s good that you do. Night, Clay. Reckon you can find your way to Fort Clark.”

  Clay smiled at the old man and saluted with a forefinger. He turned the page on his pad and wrote, I should be going. Thank you folks for a fine dinner and great company. I’ll see you all in the morning.

  He handed the pad to Mr. Killganan. “It was our pleasure, Clay. Tomorrow it is.”

  “Not so fast, young man,” Mrs. Killganan said. “Why don’t you two young people go out to the swing? It’s a beautiful night. I’ll bring you both a piece of cobbler.”

  Clay and Mr. Killganan looked around with surprise. Clay didn’t need much urging. He stood up and held the chair for Lynn. She took his arm, smiled up at him, and they walked outside to the swing.

  Clay could hear Mr. Killganan say to his wife, “What the blazes are you doing?”

  A soft voice answered, “Nothing, dear.”

  Lynn sat first in the swing. The swing was built for two people, but Clay was a big man. Because of his size, their arms touched as they sat.

  Clay could think of nothing to say. Then he laughed to himself—he couldn’t say anything even if he could think of something. He lightly propelled the swing, and it drifted forward and back in the nighttime breeze. The fragrance of the honeysuckle floated in the night air. He could smell her hair, the lilac scent intoxicating.

  “Isn’t this lovely?” she said. “I think this is the best birthday present I’ve ever had.”

  He got out his pad. In the faint light escaping through the front windows, he wrote, Your birthday is Monday.

  She read it and laughed, the sound like tinkling bells, then said, “It doesn’t matter, silly. It’s still my best birthday present.”

  Mrs. Killganan brought out two bowls of her peach cobbler. “Don’t stay out too late, Lynn. Your father expects you at the bank in the morning.”

  Clay took the cobbler in one hand. Mrs. Killganan took his other hand. “It was very nice meeting you, Clay. Don’t be a stranger.” With that, she walked back into the house.

  Clay found himself hoping this evening would never end. He was happier than he had been since his folks died. He couldn’t describe it, but he felt like he’d found another home. Mr. Killganan hadn’t been as bad as he had expected.

  The peach cobbler was delicious, but it couldn’t take his mind from the girl sitting next to him. He reminded himself that he had plans that couldn’t involve her, shouldn’t involve her. If things were different, he might even think about taking her back to the homeplace. But there was too much death ahead of him. If she really knew what he planned, she would probably have nothing to do with him.

  He turned to look at her, and she gazed up into his eyes. She leaned toward him expectantly. He stood up.

  A surprised look crossed Lynn’s face. “Is something wrong? Did I do something wrong?” Tears were welling up in her eyes.

  He set the bowl on the swing and took out his pad. Sorry, Lynn. I’ve got to be going. I’ve really enjoyed this evening. I’ll see you tomorrow at nine. Clay reached out and touched her cheek, then spun around and marched out of the yard. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he had some pretty rough things to do, and she was going off to college. She had a bright future ahead of her. His future could include a six-foot plot of real estate. He couldn’t ruin her life.

  He was halfway back to the fort when he realized he had left his rifle. He shook his head with disgust. If this was what happened when you got to thinking about a girl, then he was going to be a dead man. He had to keep his focus, keep his mind on the work ahead. He couldn’t let anything, not even a lovely, smart, sweet-smelling girl—

  The rapid footsteps closed on him quickly. He spun, just in time to count three attackers, and Clay wasn’t armed. He was even without a knife. He had left the Boker at the general store. As the three closed on him, he could see they wore sacks over their heads with cutouts for their eyes. He felt the rush of anger flowing over him. He’d done nothing to these men. He’d give them what they were looking to dish out.

  The three men were running at full tilt, intent on tackling him and then beating him to death. When they were almost on top of him, he knelt and drove his fist, with all the might of his massive shoulders and arm, into the first man’s groin. He felt the contact and knew from this point on he would be fighting only two men. As the second one came in and jumped at him, he ducked lower, until the man’s hips were sliding over his left shoulder. Grasping the man’s thighs, he stood and thrust upward as high as he could, lifting his assailant to over eight feet. The man’s momentum carried him over, then he fell almost straight down, landing on the point of his right shoulder. There was an audible snap. The man screamed and lay writhing on the ground.

  The third man had slowed and was circling him, now cautious, realizing that he was alone. Clay saw the glint of steel in the man’s right hand. Surprised, he saw how the man was holding the knife, like he was going to make an overhand stab. This was no knife fighter. Clay circled him, watching and waiting. The man raised the knife over his head and lunged forward. Clay thought back to all the lessons that Pa and Slim had given him. He remembered them telling him that if he was ever in a knife fight to make up his mind he was going to get cut, so it wouldn’t be a surprise. He also remembered how he had been taught to handle an attack such as this. But his opponent gave him such an opportunity, he couldn’t resist. As the man’s momentum carried him forward, Clay aimed a kick right between the man’s legs, striking with all of the stored power in his body.

  The man cried out. His hand released the knife as he fell to the ground, moaning and crying in pain. “I think you’ve killed me,” the man said between moans.

  “Isn’t that what you planned to do to me?” Clay picked up the big bowie knife, reached down, and yanked Cotton’s sack from his head.

  “I think I’m dying,” Cotton said.

  “You’ll live, although you and your friend might walk a little funny for a while.”

  Clay walked over to the one he had hit in the groin with his fist. He yanked the man’s mask off. It was the same one who had been with Cotton in Ma Nelson’s. He was doubled over in pain. He looked up at Clay. “Mister, please don’t hurt me no more. I swear, I think you’ve ruined me for life.”

  Clay stepped to the remaining man of the trio. He pulled the sack from his head. He didn’t recognize him. The young man was holding his right arm. He was obviously in excruciating pain. “You broke my shoulder. That’s my right shoulder, my ropin’ shoulder.” The man’s arm was just hanging in the grip of his left hand.

  Running steps could be heard from Fort Clark and from Brackett. Clay waited for the a
rrivals. The guards from Fort Clark showed up first. They both knew Clay. The corporal spoke up. “Looks like you were a mite busy, Clay. Thought you could use our help, but guess I was wrong. Is this all of them? I count three.”

  “That’s all,” Clay said.

  “You want I should hold them till the marshal gets here? I can toss ’em in the stockade.”

  “No, I don’t need them arrested. Thanks, though.”

  “Okay, looks like they all might need to see a doctor. ’Specially this one, appears he has a broken shoulder.”

  The people of Brackett came running up. Of all people, JT was in the lead. “Thought you might’ve been jumped. Had a good idea who might be behind it. Cotton.” He gave the three a disgusted look, then turned back to Clay. “You all right, Son?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m just fine.”

  JT laughed and said, “Boy, I guess you are. You realize you’re talking?”

  The question stopped Clay for a moment. He felt his throat as if it could give him an answer. “Well, sir, I guess I am.” He grinned at JT in the starlight. “I should thank these boys.”

  The town marshal showed up next with some of the townspeople. “What’s going on here?”

  JT responded to the marshal’s inquiry. “Marshal, I’ll tell you what’s going on. Your son, Cotton, and these two other no accounts decided they’d jump a wounded man. They got their comeuppance, I’d say.”

  Great, Clay thought, I’ve just beat up the marshal’s son.

  “Here’s his knife, Marshal.” Clay handed over Cotton’s bowie knife. The marshal looked at it for a moment, then looked over at his son holding himself and moaning.

  “What’s your name, Son?”

  “Clay Barlow, Marshal.”

  “You any kin to Bill Barlow of New Braunfels?”

  “My pa.”

  “A good man. Sorry to hear about your ma and pa. Good folks.”

  “Thank you. I think the one over there has a broken shoulder. He’ll be needing a doctor.”

  “They can wait. You want to press charges?”

  “No, sir. To be honest, I’ve more important things to do than wait around for court.”

  “Understand. You’re free to go about your business.” The marshal turned to the other three. “Get up, you bushwhackers. Consider yourself lucky I don’t throw all three of you in jail. Cotton, you get home right now. Shad, you know where the doctor is. Go see him. Maybe he can fix up your arm.”

  Several of the townspeople had gathered around. Clay could see Mr. Killganan there, his face hard, his arm around Lynn.

  Shock enveloped Lynn’s face, made more stark by the starlight. Her wide eyes looked black as she stared at him. Seeing me for the first time, Clay thought. Guess that mean’s no birthday party.

  JT threw his arm around Clay’s shoulders. “Rest up, Son. You’ve earned it. Glad you’re talking. When you can think about it, that’ll be a big relief for you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Clay nodded, took one last look at Lynn and walked back to Fort Clark.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Clay rolled out of bed early. The sun was just starting to peek over the eastern horizon. He washed up, shaved with the straight razor he had picked up at the general store, and got dressed. His neck and jaw were feeling better, but still sore. His throat felt raw. Must be from the talking last night, he thought.

  He stomped his boots on and walked out on the porch. The infirmary faced east, toward the parade ground. He sat in one of the chairs to watch the sunrise. Ma always loved to watch the sunrise. He couldn’t think of his ma without the picture of the way he had last seen her returning to his mind. When that happened, he could feel the bile rising in his throat, accompanied by anger. How could anyone be so brutal to a woman?

  “Howdy, Son.”

  Clay jerked with surprise. The marshal was standing in front of the porch, looking up at him. I didn’t even hear him. I’ve got to stop this, or I’ll be left dead somewhere.

  “Morning, Marshal. What brings you out here?”

  “Mind if I join you?” The marshal stepped up on the porch and pulled up a chair next to Clay.

  The fort was coming to life. Clay could see activity across the parade ground at the stables. He could hear the boot steps echoing on the plank floors of the infirmary.

  “Welcome, Marshal. Have a seat. Mighty impressive sunrise this morning.”

  “Clay, I’ll get right to the point. You did what you had to do last night. Those boys, including my son, were intent on doing you harm. I realize that.

  “I heard murmuring last night from some of the parents about getting even. I put a damper on it, but I can’t be around to protect you all the time.”

  “Marshal, I can take care of myself.”

  “I know, Clay. But we’ve had enough excitement in Brackett for a while.”

  “Marshal, you just need to control your town. That’s what they pay you for.”

  “Boy, I know you’re Bill Barlow’s son, but don’t tell me what I need to do. I know my duty. Now, I know you’re headed west, after the killers. I’m just asking you leave now, today.”

  Clay looked down at his boots—they could use some polish. He looked directly at the marshal, the muscles in his face tight. “Marshal, I’ve never been posted out of town. I know my pa never was. I’m law-abiding. I didn’t start that fight, and I have no wish to be in another, here. I think you’re being mighty unfair.

  Now it was the marshal’s turn to look away. For a moment, he watched the cavalry men exercising their horses. He turned back to Clay. “You’re not being posted out of town. Understand, I like you, boy. You come from good stock. I’m just asking. I don’t do much asking, Son.”

  “Captain Dixon told me to stay here until the troops get back so he can examine my neck. He said they’ll be back either Monday or Tuesday. I’ve got business at the bank, but it’s closed today. I’ll take care of that tomorrow. I do have to pick up some things at the general store, but I think Mr. Brennan will open it for me.”

  “When’s your business with the bank?”

  “I’m supposed to be there at two on Monday. But I’ve also been invited to the Killganans’ for Lynn’s birthday and to church today. Don’t know if I’m still invited to either, but if I am, I’d like to attend.”

  “Two days. I’m afraid trouble might erupt in that time. You need to leave today.”

  “Tell me again, Marshal. Are you posting me out of town?”

  “I told you, no.”

  “Are you arresting me?”

  “I’m not arresting you, right now.”

  “Then, Marshal, I have plans. Those plans require me to remain in Brackett for two more days. If you’re not posting me out of town or arresting me, I’m staying until after the party.”

  The marshal stood and walked around Clay to the porch steps. He took off his hat and wiped the sweat band. He wiped his graying hair back with his other hand and put his hat back on. He walked down the porch steps and moved toward town until he was even with Clay, where he turned to look at him. “I’ve asked you nicely, boy. That’s something I don’t usually do. The doctor said that Shad will never have full use of his right arm, and I don’t know if those other two boys will ever have kids. Don’t hurt any more of my citizens, or I’ll be coming for you, and I won’t be asking.”

  Clay watched the marshal amble back to Brackett. I don’t want any trouble with the law, but I’m in the right here. Anyway, I’ve got to stay for the bank. I wish Pa was here to tell me what to do. He stood and walked back into the infirmary to get his coat. He had time to get something to eat before church. Maybe he could wake Mr. Brennan and take him to breakfast.

  He slipped his black suit coat on. With his black pants and black hat, he couldn’t decide whether he looked more like a preacher, a gunfighter, or an undertaker. He just hoped that Lynn would still want him to go to church with her. But most of all, he hoped no one started anything. He sure didn’t want trouble, not with the law.
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  The walk from Fort Clark to Brackett was uneventful. This early, there weren’t many people on the street. The fort was busier than Brackett. He knocked on the door of the general store. No answer. I know Mr. Brennan said he lived behind the store. He knocked louder this time. He waited. He was about to knock again when he heard rustling from inside the store.

  “Hold your blasted horses. Ain’t you got the sense God gave a mule? This here is Sunday. I ain’t open on Sunday.”

  “Mr. Brennan, it’s Clay Barlow.”

  Now footsteps approached the door, and he could hear a key being inserted into the lock. Brennan unlocked and opened the door. “Come on in, Son. Don’t just stand there. I want to lock this place up so nobody else has a dad-blamed idea to knock.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Brennan. I just thought that you might have my supplies ready.”

  “I do, I do. I think you’ll like your guns. The gunsmith fixed ’em up real good. He said he even worked the triggers a bit. Hope you like ’em.”

  Brennan pulled the gunbelt out from under the counter. The two Model 3s were in the holsters. Clay slipped his coat off, laid it on the counter, and swung the gunbelt around his waist. It felt good to have guns on again. His rifle was fine, but the gunbelt was comfortable. It felt like an old friend. He slipped the Model 3 from his right holster. It slid out smoothly. The gun felt natural. Without the finger ring on the trigger guard, it fit perfectly into his hand. He dropped it back into the holster, waited a moment, and drew.

  “Whew. Clay, like I said yesterday, you are fast. Don’t know if I’ve ever seen a man that fast. Just a word of caution. Be careful. There’re some men that if they find out how fast you are, they’ll be looking for you.”

  “Mr. Brennan, I’m not looking for trouble, except with those killers.”

  “I know, Son. But with that speed, I have a feelin’ it’ll be lookin’ for you. Now try the crossdraw.”

  Clay pulled the Model 3 from the crossdraw holster with his right hand. It felt just as natural as the first one. He tried the trigger a couple of times, being careful not to let the hammer fall on an empty chamber. “These are mighty nice, Mr. Brennan. I hate to lose my Remingtons, but these two feel even better.”