Pearl River Junction

by Robert J. Randisi

“Uh, Daniel Shaye.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  Before the clerk could move or say a word, Griffiths had grabbed the telegram from his hand.

  “Hey…well, uh, you’ll give it to him?”

  “No,” Griffiths said. “You go inside and tell him I have it. Tell him he’ll have to come out and get it.”

  “Um…if I do that, he’ll be mad.”

  “I’m countin’ on it.”

  The other men moved out of his way and the confused clerk entered the saloon.

  “What’s the telegram say?” Paul asked.

  “Who cares?” Griffiths said and put it in his shirt pocket, unread.

  “Finally,” Shaye said as the telegraph clerk entered the saloon. The man stopped just inside, looked around, spotted their table, and hesitated. “Something’s wrong. James, get him.”

  James reacted immediately, got to the clerk before the man could make a move. He grabbed his arm and walked him across the room to the table. The other patrons and Abner all watched, but Shaye didn’t care anymore that they were the center of attention.

  “Do you have my telegram?” Shaye asked.

  “Well…”

  “Come on, man, speak up!”

  “Some men outside took it from me,” the clerk said. “They told me to tell you that if you want it you have to go and get it.” Hurriedly, he added, “It wasn’t my fault, Mr. Shaye—”

  “I know that,” Shaye said. He took some money out and handed it to the man without looking to see how much it was. “You can go.”

  “I—I don’t wanna go back out there…”

  “Go to the bar and have a drink.”

  “Yessir.”

  As the man left, James sat back down.

  “Now what?”

  “They’re not leaving us any choice,” Shaye said. “I want that telegram.”

  “Well,” Thomas said, “I guess we better just go out and get it.”

  12

  As they stepped outside, Shaye said to his sons, “Thomas, I want you to stand to my right and James, you stand to his right.”

  “There’s four of ’em, Pa,” James reminded him.

  “You’re right,” Shaye said. “Thomas, you’re the fastest. You stand center and take the two in the middle. Remember, son, pick out the leader and kill him first.”

  “I got you, Pa.”

  “Are we gonna try to do this first without guns, Pa?” James asked.

  “We are, James,” Shaye said. “I’ll do the talking, but keep an eye on their hands and their eyes. Remember, use all of your vision. We’ll know real quick if we’re gonna need our guns.”

  “Okay, Pa.”

  Shaye looked at his sons. Thomas looked rock steady, James nervous. That was only natural. James was the youngest, Thomas—bigger, older, more confident—he had gunplay in his blood. Shaye wasn’t proud of that fact, but he had to admit it had come in handy in the past—and would come in handy now.

  “Okay,” Shaye said, “Thomas goes out the door first and we follow right close behind. Are we ready?”

  “Ready, Pa,” James said.

  Thomas just nodded and stepped through the batwing doors.

  When Giffiths saw Thomas Shaye exit the saloon, followed by his father and brother, he pushed his partners and said, “Spread out. I’ll take the middle one, Thomas Shaye.”

  “Who do I take?” Paul hissed.

  “Shut up and spread out!”

  The other three men obeyed. Shaye, Thomas, and James remained on the boardwalk in front of the saloon.

  “One of you has something of mine,” Shaye said.

  Griffiths reached into his pocket with his left hand and came out with the telegram.

  “Do you mean this?” ’

  “That’s it,” Shaye said. “Hand it over and you and your friends can leave.”

  Griffiths laughed and put it back in his pocket.

  “If you want it, you’re gonna have to take it…if you can.”

  “Oh, I can,” Shaye said. “My only problem will be taking it without getting blood on it. Thomas?”

  “Yes, Pa?”

  “When you kill that man, make sure you don’t shoot him in the heart,” Shaye instructed. “That would soak the telegram with his blood.”

  “Yes, Pa.”

  “You’re Thomas Shaye?” Griffiths asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “You killed Seth Langer?”

  Thomas flinched. It was a sore point between him and his father that he had not killed Seth Langer.

  “I brought him to justice,” Thomas said. “He’s in prison…and a cripple.”

  “My name is Griffiths, George Griffiths.”

  “Never heard of you.”

  “Some people have,” Griffiths said. “More will, after I kill you.”

  Thomas laughed.

  “You think killing me will give you a big rep?”

  “We’ve heard of you—and your father,” Griffiths said.

  “I feel insulted,” James said.

  “And your brother,” Griffiths added.

  “Gee, thanks,” James muttered.

  “Enough talking,” Shaye said. “Hand over the telegram or we’ll take it.”

  “Take it, the—”

  Before Griffiths could finish his sentence, Thomas drew his weapon and fired. George Griffiths never knew what hit him. The bullet plowed into his chest dead center, missing the telegram. Griffiths was knocked off his feet and onto his back in the street.

  The other men, stunned by Thomas’s speed, turned out to be easy pickings for Shaye and James, who both drew very deliberately—not sharing the speed Thomas possessed—and fired accurately. Only one of the other men even cleared leather and his gun ended up in the street next to his body.

  All three of the Shaye men ejected the spent shells from their guns, replaced them with live loads, and holstered their weapons. Even though he knew they were dead, Shaye stepped down into the street and walked among the fallen men to make sure. He nudged each one with his boot, then picked up their weapons and tossed them away from him.

  “Hold it!”

  He turned and saw Sheriff Adam Kennedy approaching him, gun in hand.

  “Take it easy, Sheriff,” Shaye said. “It’s all over.”

  “What the hell happened here?” Kennedy asked, looking down at the dead men.

  “We didn’t have a choice,” Thomas said, stepping down into the street.

  Kennedy turned, trained his gun on Thomas. Shaye took two quick steps and placed his hand on the lawman’s gun.

  “Holster it,” he said.

  Kennedy hesitated, looked around, and then obeyed. Slowly, men began to leave the saloon to have a look. People came from other directions as well and stared.

  “We stayed in town too long,” Shaye said. “That’s what happened.”

  “And are you staying any longer?” Kennedy asked.

  “I don’t know. I guess that depends on what my telegram says.”

  “What telegram?”

  Shaye leaned over the dead Griffiths, reached into his pocket, and removed the telegram. There was a bit of blood on one corner, but that was it.

  “This one.”

  “What does it say?” Kennedy asked.

  Shaye unfolded it, read it, and looked at the lawman.

  “It says we’re leaving town tomorrow.”

  13

  The guard opened the door to allow Jeb Collier to leave Yuma Prison.

  “Thanks,” Jeb said.

  “I got three months,” the guard said.

  “What?”

  “The guards are all bettin’ on when we’ll see you in here again. I got three months. I mean, I figure you gotta get caught, then tried, and then they’ll ship you over here…yeah, three months is about right.”

  “You got it wrong, Lane,” Jeb said. “I ain’t never comin’ back here.”

  “Well,” Lane said, “don’t tell me you’re goin’ straight?”

&nb
sp; “Straight?” Jeb frowned, as if he didn’t know what that word meant.

  “Yeah,” Lane said, scratching his grizzled gray cheek, “like I figured. I been a prison guard for a lot of years…nigh on to thirty, I think, here and other prisons, and you’re the worst I’ve seen.”

  Jeb looked back at the prison, and then at Lane. “I been in worse places, Lane.”

  “You got this place wired, that’s for sure,” Lane said. “Everybody doin’ your work for you…guards workin’ for you…”

  “Not you, though, huh?”

  “No,” Lane said, “not me. Like I tol’ you. I been at this too long. You’ll be back, Jeb.”

  “I don’t think so, Lane.”

  Lane laughed.

  “I’ll keep your cell clean.”

  Jeb tried to think of a good response, but then decided that the best response would simply be to never return there.

  He walked out the door.

  Ben Collier watched as his brother walked out the front gate of Yuma Prison, a free man after two years.

  “There he is,” Clark Wilson said.

  “I see him,” Ben said.

  Wilson and Dave Roberts exchanged a glance, but remained silent. They were both glad to see Jeb Collier leaving Yuma Prison. The past two years had been lean ones under Ben Collier. Jeb was always the brains of the two brothers.

  However, Ben was the mean one, so they kept quiet.

  Ben Collier moved forward to meet his brother with open arms.

  “Hey, Ben!”

  Jeb grabbed his larger, though younger, brother and hugged him tightly. Ben put his older brother in a bear hug and lifted him off his feet.

  “Jesus, you’re killin’ me!” Jeb shouted. “Put me down, you big ox.”

  Ben put Jeb back on his feet and backed away.

  “I’m just so damn glad to see you, Jeb.”

  Jeb looked past his brother to where Roberts and Wilson were standing with four horses.

  “Boys,” he said.

  “Boss,” Wilson said. Roberts nodded.

  “You got my gun?”

  “Right here.” Ben turned. “Dave.”

  Roberts moved to one of the horse and fetched a gun belt from the saddlebags. He handed it to Ben, who turned and presented it to his brother.

  Jeb took the gun belt and strapped it on.

  “You don’t know how naked I’ve felt without this,” he said, adjusting it on his hip.

  “You think you should be puttin’ that on right in front of the prison?” Ben asked.

  “Why not?” Jeb asked. “I’m out, ain’t I? I’m a free man.”

  “Why don’t we get away from here before they change their minds?” Ben asked.

  Jeb smiled and patted Ben on the shoulder.

  “That’s not such a bad idea, brother,” he said. “I’ve also been itchin’ to be on a horse again.”

  Wilson walked the fourth horse over to Jeb.

  “This horse any good?” he asked.

  “I picked it out myself,” Ben said.

  “Clark?” Jeb asked, looking at Wilson.

  “It’s a good animal, boss.”

  Jeb nodded. Wilson was a much better judge of horseflesh than his brother Ben was.

  “Okay, then,” Jeb said. “Let’s ride.”

  They rode for half a day and then camped, still in Arizona.

  “Sorry we don’t got better than beans for ya, Jeb,” Ben said.

  “Hey,” Jeb said, “I’m eatin’ them under the open sky. This is the best meal I’ve had in two years.”

  “Well,” Clark Wilson said, reaching into his saddlebag, “you probably ain’t had none of this in two years.”

  He came out with a bottle of whiskey.

  Jeb’s eyes lit up. “Give that here.”

  “It ain’t the best stuff—” Wilson started, handing it over.

  “It’s whiskey,” Jeb said. “That’s all that matters.”

  He uncorked the bottle, lifted it to his lips, and took several big swallows. The rotgut burned its way down to his stomach, where it started a fire.

  “Goddamn!” he said, lowering the bottle, his eyes watering. “That was good. So was them beans.”

  He stoppered the bottle and passed it back to Wilson.

  “Now,” he said, “tell me about Belinda.”

  “Aw, Jeb,” Ben said, “why you wanna bother with her—”

  “You know where she is, don’t you?” Jeb asked. “Ben, you’re supposed to know where she is.”

  “We know where she is, Jeb,” Wilson said.

  “And the kid?” Jeb asked. “She’s got the kid?”

  “She’s got ’im,” Ben said.

  “Him? It’s a boy, right?”

  “It’s a boy.”

  “What’d she name him?”

  “We don’t know that,” Ben said.

  “That’s okay,” Jeb said. “We’ll find out.”

  “How we gonna do that, Jeb?” Ben asked.

  “Easy,” Jeb said. “We’re gonna ask her.”

  Later, when Ben and Dave Roberts were asleep, Jeb and Clark Wilson sat around the fire together.

  “We’re sure glad you’re out, Jeb,” Wilson said.

  “You been givin’ Ben a hard time, Clark?” Jeb asked.

  “No,” Wilson said. “We did like you wanted, made him think he was in charge, but Jeb…he was always makin’ the wrong decision, ya know?”

  “I know, Clark,” Jeb said, “but I knew I could count on you to keep him from gettin’ killed.”

  “Believe me, there were times we all almost got killed.”

  “Well, things’ll change now that I’m out.”

  “Maybe we can make some money?”

  “We’re gonna make plenty of money.”

  “You been makin’ plans while you was inside?”

  “Plenty of plans.”

  “What’re we gonna hit first? A bank? A train?”

  “First,” Jeb said, “we’re gonna go and see Belinda.”

  Wilson shook his head. “Jeb.”

  “This is somethin’ I gotta do, Clark,” Jeb said. “Where is she?”

  “A town called Pearl River Junction,” Wilson said, “in Texas.”

  “So that’s where we’re headed,” Jeb said. “Pearl River Junction.”

  Wilson poured himself another cup of coffee and leaned back.

  “What?”

  “We need money, Jeb,” Wilson said. “We’re broke.”

  “Broke?”

  “All we got,” Wilson said, “is what you got in your pocket.”

  Which wasn’t much. They’d given him a few coins when he left Yuma and the clothes he’d been wearing when he first arrived.

  “Okay, Clark,” Jeb said. “Okay. Does Pearl River Junction have a bank?”

  “It does.”

  “Then we’ll kill two birds with one stone,” Jeb said. “We’ll go there and see Belinda and we’ll hit the bank.”

  “That’s okay,” Wilson said, “but we’re gonna need some money to get there.”

  “Clark,” Jeb asked. “you got somethin’ in mind, don’t ya?”

  “Yep,” Wilson said, “I got somethin’ in mind.”

  “Okay, then,” Jeb said, “pour me some more coffee and tell me what you got.”

  14

  By the time Dan, Thomas, and James Shaye rode into Pearl River Junction, it had been almost four months since the letter had been sent from Belinda Davis.

  Pearl River Junction was a good-sized town, one that was still growing. As they rode down the main street, the Shayes could see that many of the buildings were newly erected. In fact, they could still smell the new wood that had been used to build them. In the center of town was a new two-story building built of brick that was the town’s City Hall.

  The streets were bustling with traffic at midday: horses and buckboards in the street and a lot of pedestrian traffic on the boardwalks.

  “Looks like a lively town,” James said.


  “Yeah,” Dan said, “the kind that harvests trouble.”

  Thomas remained silent, but his eyes took in everything. He noticed that he, his father, and his brother were attracting some curious looks, most notably from a group of men in front of one of the saloons and from a deputy as they rode past the new brick sheriff’s office, which was right next to City Hall.

  “Pa…”

  “I see ’em, Thomas.”

  “See who?” James asked, looking around.

  “Lawman, givin’ us the eye,” Thomas said.

  “So what? We ain’t doin’ anything wrong.”

  “We’re strangers,” Shaye said. “That’s enough to make people curious. Wait a minute.”

  Thomas and James reined in their horses while Shaye turned his horse and rode over to where the deputy was standing, watching them.

  “Hello, Deputy.”

  “Howdy,” the young badge toter said. “Just passin’ through?”

  “Actually, no,” Shaye said. “We’re looking for a livery that’ll take our horses for a few days.”

  “All the way to the end of the street, then go left, not right,” the deputy said. “You’ll see it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “When you’re done, come by the office,” the man added. “The sheriff’s gonna want to talk to you.”

  “We’ll do it,” Shaye said. “Thanks.”

  He turned his horse and rode back to his sons.

  “He didn’t ask many questions,” he told them. “I guess he’s going to leave that to his boss. Come on, we’ll take care of the horses and then talk to the sheriff.”

  “We’re not gonna get a hotel first?” James asked.

  “After,” Shaye said.

  “Why are we so eager to report to the local law?” James asked.

  “Sheriff might be able to tell us where to find Belinda Davis,” Shaye said. “Besides, it’s better than having him come looking for us.”

  They found the livery with no problem and arranged for their mounts to be taken care of. That done they grabbed their rifles and saddlebags and walked back to the sheriff’s office. Walking together, the Shayes continued to attract attention from the citizens on the boardwalks.

  Dan Shaye knocked on the door to the sheriff’s office and then walked in. A wooden shingle next to the door said: SHERIFF RILEY COTTON.

  When they walked in Shaye was immediately struck by the fact that the office had two stories. Glancing up, he saw that the cell block was on the second level. Downstairs was filled with furniture—several desks—the sheriff’s and, presumably, one each for two or more deputies to share. There were also chairs, filing cabinets, a pot-bellied stove, and two gun racks on opposite walls. In one corner was a safe worthy of a bank.