The Blacksmith

by Bryan A. Salisbury

  “Sounds like something one of those dime novel writers would conjure up,” the sheriff muttered.

  “Would have worked, too,” Blake said sipping his coffee, “that is if I hadn’t recognized them.”

  “There’s the matter of the reward money for those men,” Ventosa said handing the sheriff three wanted posters. “Huxley and Bent were worth five hundred apiece and Pudney was worth two thousand.”

  Blake stood and put his hat on. “Why don’t we split it three ways, we all played a part in getting them.”

  “Mighty generous of you, Blake,” Mike said smiling.

  Blake turned to leave and Mike kicked the bottom of Johansson’s chair making the sheriff jump. He looked at his deputy and scowled. “Hey, Thorton,” he called.

  Blake stopped and turned, “Yeah, sheriff?”

  “Thanks, I guess,” he grumbled.

  “No problem, Johnny Reb,” Blake said laughing and he left.

  Chapter 12

  It took a couple weeks for people to stop talking about the holdup. Several of the townsfolk came over to the forge to thank Blake personally, and brought a lot of business. Caleb was doing well with his studies, according to Chrissy, and his skills in the forge improved every day. One thing Blake noticed was how fast Caleb was filling out. He walked with a sense of pride and was developing broad shoulders with a set of strong arms.

  Sam finished Sadie’s room at the house and she moved in. Every day she made sure Blake knew how comfortable it was and felt like a queen in her palace.

  Hap seemed to flourish in the hardware store and Josh Dooley had no problem keeping him on as a clerk. Little Madeline had taken to calling him Uncle Hap, making sure he toed the line.

  Avery stayed on at the livery, not because he was such a good worker, but more as a drinking buddy for Joe Bergman. Saturday night would find them staggering back to the livery leaning on each other, laughing and most likely singing a raunchy song.

  Big Man found himself work at the lumber yard and astonished everyone in town by presenting Michelle with flowers one night and expressed an interest in courting her. She was very reluctant at first because being a soiled dove was how she supported herself but agreed when Percival, as she called him, told her that she would be able to quit that life when he had saved enough money to make an honest woman of her.

  Blake had finally found peace. He hadn’t realized how much he missed a settled life and had gotten used to a soft bed and hot meals. He would slip down to the saloon occasionally and play cards with Dan LaClare who had yet to move on. Blake hadn’t seen much of Tom MacIntyre because his ranch was rounding up cattle for a drive. Every time they did happen to meet, there was always tension in the air. Once he came in with his two tough friends and joined a poker game with Blake and Dan. After drinking heavily and losing three pots in a row, he accused Dan of being a card sharp and demanded his money back. Blake backed Dan and Tom left the game angry. He came back a few minutes later with the sheriff in tow and tried to get Dan thrown out of town. Johansson would not budge and called the game fair. He told Tom and his two thugs to go sleep it off and suggested they lay off the whiskey when they played cards. Tom left the saloon humiliated and vowed to return things in town back to the way he liked them. The next morning he went to the bank to talk to Weatherby. Entering the bank he walked directly over to the banker’s desk and sat down.

  Weatherby looked up over his glasses. “How may I help you, Tom?” He was annoyed that Tom had sat down without being invited.

  “I need you to call in the loan on the blacksmith shop,” Tom said coldly.

  “Excuse me?” Weatherby asked confused.

  “The blacksmith shop that Thorton is in, I want you to foreclose on it and boot that jackass out,” Tom said in a mirthless tone.

  “I can’t,” the banker said flatly.

  “Why the hell not?” Tom said raising his voice. “You hold the paper on it, don’t you?

  “He purchased the property lock, stock and barrel.”

  “Bullshit,” Tom sputtered. “What about the house and that nigger cook?”

  “Same,” Weatherby said throwing his pen on the desk.

  Tom, unsure what to say next, stared at him, then said, “Where’d he get that kind of money?”

  “He did not make me privy to that information and even if he did I could not divulge it to you.”

  “Probably robbed a bank somewhere,” Tom said sitting back defeated.

  “Why do you want him out of here anyway?” asked Weatherby.

  “I don’t like him. He walks around here like he’s something special.”

  “He has proven to be an asset to the town,” stated the banker. “Many people like him being here.”

  “Well I don’t,” sneered Tom. He stood, straightening his gun belt and hat. “From now on you clear any land sales with me or my father.”

  Weatherby snorted, “Good day, Mr. MacIntyre.”

  Tom strode out of the bank onto the boardwalk cursing to himself.

  “How’d it go boss?” one of his men asked.

  “That son-of-a-bitch Thorton owns everything,” he grumbled. “Loosen one of the shoes on your horse, it’s time we pay the blacksmith a visit.”

  The two men argued who was going to loosen the shoe until they saw their boss growing impatient. The larger of the two conceded and took his knife out and worked his horses front shoe practically off.

  “Let’s go,” Tom groused.

  The three of them rode over to the forge and found Caleb busy with another horse; Blake was nowhere to be seen. Riding up very close to Caleb Tom said, “Hey boy, get yourself over here and fix my friend’s shoe. It’s come loose.”

  Caleb recognized Tom and his men. Staring at the ground he said, “B-be w-w-ith i-in a s-s-second.”

  “Now!” Tom ordered getting off his horse. Caleb kept working on the horse he had started.

  The man with the loose shoe dismounted. “I don’t think shit-for-brains heard you, boss,” and he grabbed Caleb and shoved toward his horse.

  “I-I h-hear j-j-just f-fine,” Caleb stammered. “W-wait y-your t-turn.”

  The same tough grabbed him by the front of his shirt bringing his nose an inch from Caleb’s. “My boss here don’t wait for no one,” he sneered.

  Blake emerged from the forge carrying a large set of tongs. His face was smudged with coal dust and his body glistened with sweat. “There’s easier ways to get your arm broken mister, but right now I can’t think of one. Turn him loose,” his voice sounded like distant thunder.

  The three men turned to face Blake. When they saw the look in his eyes it chilled them to their bones. Letting go of Caleb the one man said, “My horse has a loose shoe and this boy said I has to wait.”

  “He will tend to your horse at his earliest convenience,” Blake said coldly.

  “We’re in a rush to get back to the ranch,” Tom stated.

  Locking his eyes on Tom, Blake responded calmly, “A man died who was in a hurry once.”

  The other man riding with Tom moved his hand closer to the colt on his hip.

  Without taking his gaze from Tom, Blake said, “Tell your friend if he makes a grab for that shootin’ iron he’ll be picking teeth out of his shit.”

  “Not here,” Tom said out of the corner of his mouth, then back at Blake, “We’ll be at the saloon. Tell that stuttering fool to come fetch us when he’s done.”

  “Come back in an hour. He’s too busy to be chasing around after you,” an unwavering Blake replied.

  “You’ll have to explain why we were late to my father,” sneered Tom.

  “Looking forward to it.”

  Later that day when Caleb had gone to the café for school the man returned for his horse and did a considerable amount of complaining. Blake charged him a dollar for fixing his horse’s shoe. Blake explained fixing the shoe was two bits and roughing up the boy accounted for the rest. The tough slapped a silver d
ollar in Blake’s hand and mumbled something about “doin’ a hell of a lot more than that.” Blake smiled as the man rode off and thought to himself, “Damn, my first dissatisfied customer.”

  ******

  Blake went back to work in the forge. He needed a box of rivets to repair a tool he had just straightened and when he removed it from a high shelf, the box slipped and sent dirt, sawdust and assorted grime cascading down on his head and down the back of his shirt. Trying to clear the dirt from his eyes he made his way out to the horse trough to clean the grime off him. Feeling the sawdust trickle down his back he stripped off his leather apron and shirt. He slapped his shirt on his back and heard a gasp from behind him. Turning he saw Chrissy standing with a man in a long black coat and flat crowned hat. Chrissy had her hand placed over her mouth and her cheeks bore a rosy glow.

  “Sorry ma’am, I just dumped a whole bunch of sawdust down the back of my shirt and that’ll itch like crazy if I don’t clean it off.” Blake knew it was not polite to not have a shirt on, but then he remembered his tattoos. He quickly turned and pulled the garment back over his broad back. Tucking the tails into his pants he turned back. “Now what can I do for you?”

  Chrissy was still taken aback and could not seem to form words. The man in the black frockcoat waited for her to make the introduction but decided to start. “I am Father Grimm,” he said revealing a heavy German accent. “Pastor of Christ’s Episcopal Church here in town. Mrs. O’Bryan was kind enough to bring me over to meet you.”

  “It’s a pleasure, Padre,” Blake said shaking his hand. “Please forgive my state of undress, I was not expecting you.”

  “Good heavens, don’t give it another thought. You are a working man after all,” Grimm said smiling. “Please forgive my staring. I have seen tattoos on men before. Although that was when I was in Virginia fresh out of seminary and assigned to a church in Portsmouth. Many of my congregation were sailors. Were you in the navy?”

  “Merchant service mostly, spent some time in the South Pacific.”

  “You are aware that the church frowns on decorating one’s body in this sort of fashion?” the Father asked. Blake was aware how the church felt about tattoos and any other time he would have felt that this priest was looking down on him for it, but this one was different. He had an easy going way about him, and, although he commanded respect, Blake felt he left the judging to God. Blake liked him immediately.

  “Well, Padre, I didn’t exactly volunteer to get tattooed. An island chief thought I earned them. It’s a long story, but once they were put on I figured that he put some stained glass on my temple,” Blake said smiling broadly.

  “Indeed,” the Pastor laughed. “That is a story I would like to hear.”

  Chrissy had collected herself by now and joined the conversation. “Father Grimm is in need of your service, Mr. Thorton.”

  “Our bell in the steeple has a broken support and it cannot be rung. Sadly, we have not been able to call for mass for nearly a year,” the Padre said.

  “I’ll be over first thing in the morning with my man, and we’ll take a look at it for you, Padre.”

  “It’s quite high in the steeple. Is that a problem?” he asked.

  “It can’t be any worse than repairing a topsail in gale force winds. We’ll be fine.”

  “Splendid,” the priest said, grinning. “I’ll see you then.” He shook Blake’s hand and turned to leave. “Shall we go Mrs. O’Bryan?”

  Chrissy leaned toward Blake and whispered, “Stained glass?”

  “The cathedrals in New York are full of it,” Blake whispered back.

  Cocking her eyebrow and smiling she replied, “As are you, Mr. Thorton.”

  ******

  The next morning Blake and Caleb were over at the church after stopping by the forge to pick up some measuring tools. They were greeted by Father Grimm and his wife, Gretta, who was of German decent also and spoke with a thick accent. They appeared to be well suited for each other, both middle aged and portly. Gretta had prepared bear claws and coffee, and Blake and Caleb were invited into the kitchen. Gretta seemed quite fond of Caleb and chatted with him like an old friend. Caleb didn’t say much but, then again, his mouth was mostly full of the pastry she made. The bear claws were delicious and Blake made Gretta promise to share her recipe with Sadie. The Padre asked Blake about his life and was quite interested in his sea stories. Blake left out the rougher parts out of respect for Gretta.

  “Are you a man of God?” she asked in a pleasant manner.

  “I was born and raised attending an Episcopal church in Duanesburgh, New York, ma’am,” Blake replied sipping his coffee. “After I left, I had traveled some and seen a bunch of things that made my faith wavier. I still believe, and try to live my life right, but it bothers me when people who claim to be Christians do wrong during the week and they think going to church on Sunday makes everything all right.”

  The Padre considered that and scratched his chin. “The trick is, I think, that to concern yourself with what you can’t control is wasted time. Maybe you would become an example for others to follow.”

  “Maybe, Padre,” Blake said. “I don’t think I’m all that great of an example, though.”

  Gretta developed a mischievous grin and in a singsong voice said, “Mrs. O’Bryan thinks you are.”

  Blake choked on his coffee and his cheeks burned red. “Gretta!” the Padre scolded. “Forgive my wife, Mr. Thorton, she is an eternal matchmaker.”

  “Ach,” she said waving her hand. “Men are always the last to see.”

  “I think we should get to work,” Blake said, changing the subject. “Thank you for the pastry, ma’am.”

  They got up from the table and the Padre led them to the ladder in the steeple. Once they were up there the problem was immediately apparent. Blake showed Caleb how the bracing for the bell was grossly inadequate and when one side had broken, it cracked the bracket for the bell and the bell had wedged itself in the tower. “They’re damn lucky this two hundred pound monster didn’t crash down on them,” Blake said blowing out a deep breath. “We are going to have to pick up the bell and re-brace the whole thing. We’ll need a bunch of stuff from the forge to fix this.” He and Caleb descended the ladder and met the waiting Padre.

  “So can it be repaired?” he asked.

  “Caleb seems to think so,” Blake said winking at the Padre. “He recommends we need to go get some tools.”

  Laughing, he patted a confused Caleb on the back. “Thank you sir, I’m sure we have the right man for the job.”

  “Y-you’re w-w-welcome, I t-t-think,” Caleb replied.

  An hour later they returned with a horse and wagon they borrowed from Joe Bergman, loaded with tools and supplies. Blake was amazed how well Caleb had learned to read a measuring tape. Lifting the bell was no small project, and Blake needed to construct some temporary braces to support it. He stayed up in the steeple and called down measurements for Caleb to cut the wood and then pulled them up with a rope. Caleb never missed a cut and every board he sent up was perfect. When it came time to lift the bell, Blake brought up pulleys and several chains. Soon, the bell was up and out of the way. Blake showed Caleb how to secure it with some short chains so they could work without worrying about the pulley ropes breaking.

  They removed the metal brackets for the bell and lowered them down. When they were back on the ground, they were surprised to find Sadie setting the table under a large tree for lunch. Earlier that morning, Gretta had gone over and invited her to lunch at the church. Just as they were sitting down Satan come romping around the corner. Wagging his tail, he sat patiently waiting for scraps.

  “And who is this?” the Padre asked, looking at the dog.

  “T-that’s S-s-satan,” Caleb replied while chewing on a biscuit.

  “Pardon me,” the padre said in a shocked voice.

  Blake smiled and said, “It’s a long story, just don’t make him mad.”

 
“You gentlemen have a lot of long stories,” a skeptical Pastor replied.

  “You’s has no idea, Father,” chimed in Sadie. “They can’t tell no short one.”

  After lunch was finished Blake explained that they would be back tomorrow morning to finish the job because they had to make a new set of brackets for the bell. Blake and Caleb returned to the forge and started laying out the materials. “That was a good job you did cutting those timbers today. You seem to be learning a lot,” Blake told Caleb.

  “B-Bonnie says I-I’m g-good with n-numbers,” he said taking out his pocket watch. “B-better get g-going.”

  ******

  Blake spent the afternoon making new brackets for the bell. He wished Caleb had been there to work with him because making one of anything was not a problem but making an exact match was far more difficult. Being an experienced blacksmith, Blake didn’t have much difficulty with it, but a new blacksmith could have a lot of trouble. Schooling was far more important at this time and Caleb was making great strides. There was no sense in stopping now.

  Mike Ventosa appeared in the doorway. “Hey, Blake,” he said. “How’s it going?”

  “Fine, I’m making some new brackets for the church bell,” Blake said bringing the four-pound hammer down squarely on the bright orange metal. He checked the piece for straightness and set it next to the fire. “What can I do for you, Mike?”

  “My granpappy tried to teach me blacksmithing when I was a yonker,” he mused. “The only thing I managed to do was burn off my eyebrows.”

  “That’ll happen for sure,” Blake laughed.

  “Anyway,” Mike began, “the circuit judge is coming into town next week to try Wilson. We’ll need you to testify.”

  “Happy to do it. Is he enjoying his stay with you?”

  “He pisses and moans about his ear a lot; Doc Baker tried to sew it back on but infection set in and he had to cut most of it off.”

  “It’ll be hard to wear glasses I expect,” Blake laughed.

  “Never thought of that,” Mike smiled. “I’ll be glad to see him gone. He seems to have taken this whole thing right personal. Claims he’s gonna kill you, me and the sheriff if’n he gets a chance. He’s a mean cuss.”