Forty-Four Caliber Justice

by Donald L. Robertson

  Copyright © 2016 Donald L. Robertson

  CM Publishing

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, or events, is completely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Damonza

  Editing by Melissa Gray

  Formatting by Damonza

  FORTY-FOUR CALIBER JUSTICE

  ISBN print: 978-0-9909139-4-8

  ISBN ebook: 978-0-9909139-3-1

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  LOGAN'S WORD

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  BOOK LIST

  CHAPTER ONE

  The sweet, putrid stench of death and burned flesh, wafting on the soft spring breeze, slammed into Clay when he topped the hill just north of home. The ranch house rested quietly in the valley below, surrounded by a sea of bluebonnets.

  Clay kicked Blue in the flanks. The surprised roan, tired from three days of chasing cattle, raced down the hill, dodging the prickly pear and cedars. Like his pa had always taught him, Clay slipped the hammer thongs off both the Remington Navy revolvers as he leaned over Blue’s neck. His hat blew off, but he didn’t slow.

  The body was hanging from a massive limb on the big, old oak next to the ranch house, the oak he used to climb and daydream among its cool branches, always soothing during the hot summers. The oak that had provided shade and respite now held a body—a body shot, hanged, and burned. Turkey buzzards, their red heads glistening in the sun, sat in the tree and on the ground.

  He yanked Blue to a sliding halt and leaped from the saddle, his eyes riveted on the burned remains. Tears filled his eyes as he recognized the body. The fire had burned his pa, and the bullet hole in the side of his head had disfigured him, but he was still recognizable.

  “Pa, you can’t be dead, you just can’t.” Clay’s tears streamed down his sun-browned cheeks and fell in the dust, making miniature volcanoes as they hit. His father’s body swung lightly in the breeze.

  Movement near the barn caught his eye. In one smooth motion, he wheeled around and palmed the Remington. Buzzards pecked and pulled at another body. The Remington bucked twice, the shots coming so fast they sounded as one. An explosion of black feathers erupted, and two buzzards became food for their kin. Clay wheeled back at the sound of wingbeats, the shots chasing the other buzzards out of the tree and into the air, where they circled slowly, patiently waiting.

  He trotted over to the body at the barn. It was Slim, riddled with holes. An empty .44 Henry case lay near his body. It was a wonder Slim had managed to get off even one shot with all the bullet holes in him. Slim had been with them as long as Clay could remember. His pa and Slim had been good friends long before the war.

  Ma. The thought hit him like a sledgehammer. He raced to the house, dreading what he might find.

  A cool wind moaned softly through the breezeway. He opened the door into the kitchen and study. Ma must’ve been cooking. The fire in the stove had burned out. Flour was in a mixing bowl on the table, and the churn was nearby with a chair pulled up to it, but no Ma. Dishes and pots and pans were scattered across the kitchen. Books from the shelves in the study were lying about the room.

  Clay had so many good memories here. Memories of laughter around the table with Pa and Ma and Slim, crowded together with the smell of fresh-baked biscuits, of Ma making peach preserves. Ma was so pretty. Everybody said so. At the barn dances, all the men danced with her. Pa just stood back with his confident smile. He sure loved Ma, and she him.

  Clay looked into Slim’s room behind the kitchen. Empty. Slim’s makeshift chest had been torn open, and all of his things were strewn about the room. The mattress had been thrown back and ripped open with a knife. Ticking was everywhere. His pillow had been sliced, and feathers covered the ripped mattress.

  Clay stepped out of Slim’s room onto the breezeway. He glanced to the right, barely noticing the blooms of the peach trees and grapevines his ma had planted. She loved her orchard. Nothing moved behind the house except the leaves on the trees.

  Three quick steps took him across the breezeway to the door into his room. He pushed it open. His room had also been torn apart. Everything lay scattered. The drawers of his bureau were on the floor, and clothes were tossed about. His bed had been sliced open, along with his pillow. These weren’t Indians. This was the work of white devils. Thieves. Killers. He turned to his left and opened the door into his ma and pa’s bedroom, always so neat and clean.

  She lay silent on the bed. Her neck was black from bruising, where two big hands had choked the last breath of life from her. Clay’s tears flowed freely, cutting little rivers through his dusty face. A sob escaped him. He grabbed a sheet from the floor where they had been scattered and covered his mother’s tiny, bloody body. Her face was calm and peaceful in death, as if the ravaging and raping of her body had not reached her soul. Clay stood silent, looking at her. Gabrielle Amalina Chevalier had brought him into this world, had brought laughter and happiness into this house and made it a home. She lit up any room with her smile. Her smile was gone forever.

  He had no idea how long he stood there, but, in time, the tears stopped. His soft gray eyes took a steely shade, and the promise of laughter that constantly played around the corners of his eyes and mouth disappeared. The softness of the seventeen-year-old hardened, and his heart turned cold.

  “I promise you, Ma. They’ll pay. Whoever did this to you will pay. I’ll not rest until every one of these men is dead. I promise you that.”

  Clay picked up a quilt, walked out of the bedroom, and turned right onto the porch. There was gruesome work to do. He walked over to Blue, mounted him, and eased up to his pa. He wrapped the quilt around his pa and hugged him, for the last time, with a muscular arm. Reaching up with the bowie knife that Slim had given him, he sliced the rope. He hardly noticed the weight of his father. Clay laid him gently across the saddle and rode a few yards to the field of bluebonnets that his ma loved. He stepped down from the saddle and gently placed his father on the ground.

  Holding Blue’s reins, he walked over to Slim. Slim had grown up with Pa. They’d gone to war together. When Pa started this ranch, Slim had pitched in. Pa always said that Slim was more than a brother could ever be. They had seen the elephant together and survived. Ma had liked Slim. He was just an all-around likable guy. But crossing him could be a fatal mistake. He had been deadly with a gun, a knife, or his fists. To Clay, Slim was like an uncle. What Pa hadn’t taught him, Slim had.

  Cl
ay took Blue into the corral, stripped the saddle and blanket from his back, and rubbed him down. He checked to make sure the trough was full of water and put some hay out. Blue watched him, his ears forward, as if he too felt the pain. Clay picked up the saddle and carried it into the barn. He pulled his Winchester out of the scabbard, a gift from Slim, and carried it with him.

  He went to the house. He tried not to look at his ma, but then told himself: look and remember. This is what those monsters had done to his family. He picked up another quilt and went out to Slim. He wrapped Slim in the quilt and carried him to where his father lay, gently placing him on the ground.

  He had grabbed the shovel when he went after Slim. He started digging. Clay was digging the third grave when he heard the horses approaching. He picked up the Winchester and waited.

  Adam Hewitt rode up, followed by his oldest son, Toby, and two of his ranch hands, Bo Nelson and Luke Jones.

  “Clay, what’s going on?” Hewitt took in the graves and the wrapped bodies lying on the ground. “By all the things that’s holy, who did this? Where’s your ma?” He stepped from his horse, handing the reins to Bo.

  “I don’t know, Mr. Hewitt. I’ve been pushing cows out of the canyons. Been gone for three days. When I got back, this is what I found. They killed Slim and Pa out here. Ma’s inside on the bed. She’s dead too.”

  “They killed your ma?” Hewitt pulled his hat off and swept his hair back with a gloved hand. “Boys, get down and give Clay a hand. You’re looking plumb tuckered out, Son.”

  The cowboys climbed down. This was hard country. Death wasn’t new to them, but these folks were friends, and killing a woman in this country was about the worst sin a man could commit. Bo walked over to the bodies and turned to Clay. “You mind?”

  Clay just shook his head, and Bo gently pulled the blankets back from the two men.

  “Mr. Hewitt, looka here. Why, they’ve shot Mr. Barlow, and it looks like he was hanged and burned. What kind of low-down cusses would do such a thing? And look at Slim. My gosh, they shot him up so bad, there ain’t no room for another bullet.”

  “Son, you mind if I take a look at your ma?”

  Clay looked long at Hewitt. “I’ve wrapped her in a sheet. I’d be much obliged if you’d leave her covered. She was a modest woman.”

  Hewitt laid his hand on Clay’s shoulder. “We all loved her, Son. I’ll treat her with great respect.”

  They all heard a whimper and turned toward Toby. Tears ran freely down the boy’s face.

  “Toby, Son, why don’t you take the horses for some water?” Hewitt said in a soft voice.

  Luke watched his boss walk to the house, then picked up the shovel. “I’ll finish diggin’ here, if it’s okay with you.”

  Clay nodded and walked over to the front porch. He stood there for a moment, staring into the house that had been a happy home, then slowly sat on the front porch steps. He gazed out across the hillside, where, only hours ago, he had raced down to the house, maybe for the last time. His eyes spotted his hat a short distance from the yard. He could remember the day his pa had given him that black hat. He had grown so much he could look his pa in the eyes. “You’re gettin’ on to being a man, Son. You need a man’s hat.” He remembered how Pa’s face had split in that big smile. That same day, Pa had given him the set of Remington .36 Navy revolvers and the old holsters to go with them. “These are a mite old, Son, but they’ve done right by me for a long time. You’ve practiced with them quite a bit with me and Slim. You’ve got about the quickest hands I think I’ve ever seen. Just remember, never draw on another man unless you have to, and don’t try to get fancy. Make the first shot count. If you have to shoot, put that bullet in the third button, and don’t stop shootin’ until the threat’s gone.”

  A smile ghosted across Clay’s face as he remembered how excited he had been. Slim was standing there with a big ole grin on his face. “You deserve ’em, boy. You’re right good with those irons. Just remember, don’t be loose with ’em. Last thing you want to do is kill a man. Ain’t somethin’ you can forget once you done it. It’ll stick with you for your whole durn life.”

  Clay was yanked out of his reverie by the jingle of Hewitt’s spurs as he stepped back onto the porch. Clay stood and looked up at the big man.

  “Son, this ain’t nothing but evil. Any man that’d do what’s been done here deserves what’s coming to him. I’ll get a posse together and be after those gents in the morning. First, though, we’ll give your family a proper burial. Reckon they deserve that. Then you need to come over and live with us. We’ve got the room, and I know Sarah will be glad to see you.”

  “Mr. Hewitt, you can forget the posse. Those killers are long gone.”

  “But, Clay, they need to pay.”

  “Yes, sir. They’ll pay. I’ll get ’em no matter how long it takes. Will you walk with me?” Clay pointed to his hat on the hill and started toward it. Hewitt came down from the porch and joined him. “I’ve been thinking about what needs to be done. Pa had planned to join up with your drive to Kansas. We have about five hundred head that are ready for market. I know you’ve always liked our ranch, what with it sitting on so much water. Pa told Ma and me that you’d made him a fair offer. But they both loved this place. They’d never have sold it. If you still want it, I have an idea that might work for both of us.”

  Hewitt look stunned. “Clay, I won’t dispute that I’ve always wanted this piece of land. But I’m not comfortable buying this from you now—not with what’s just happened.”

  “Mr. Hewitt, I figure to make you a deal on the ranch. Not the cattle we were planning on selling. I’m thinking the five hundred head can be worked in with your cattle and sold in Kansas. I’ll pay you a fee out of the sales price. I trust you. I know you’ll be fair. Then you can just deposit the money in the bank in my name.”

  “Clay, what are you planning on doing?”

  Clay’s face was stern and set as he turned to Hewitt. “Like I said, I’m going after those killers. Those are men who don’t deserve to be breathing the same air regular folks breathe. So, I reckon I’ll do something about that.”

  Hewitt’s eyes tightened, and his mouth drew into a straight line. “Son, you’re not a killer. Why, you just turned seventeen in January. How can you even think about going after those men? They’re hardened killers. You’ve filled out in these last two years, and you’ll be a big man, but right now, you’re only one boy.”

  “Mr. Hewitt, I’ve been doing a man’s work since I was fifteen. Pa and Slim taught me how to shoot. I’m pretty good with a gun, whether a rifle or a handgun. I can use a bow and follow a trail as good as any Comanche. I figure I’ll find those killers and read to ’em from the good book. They can’t do what they’ve done and ride away scot-free.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?” Hewitt asked.

  They had reached Clay’s hat. He picked it up, dusted it off, and set it on the back of his head, his black hair hanging down over his forehead. “Never been more serious about anything in my life. Ma loved this country. Why, she planted those peach trees right after we moved here. I’ve loved this place, Mr. Hewitt. But I can’t stay here. I just can’t. Now, I know you like it. I reckon I’ve an idea that’ll work for both of us.”

  “Talk to me about it tomorrow, when you come over to the ranch. I’m not happy about you chasing those killers, but I’ll discuss the ranch.”

  The two men shook hands and started back to the graves. Luke had finished the digging. He and Bo were standing by the two bodies, waiting for Clay’s return. Toby had brought their horses back and had gotten himself under control.

  “I’ll get Ma.” Clay walked to the house and went into the bedroom. He wrapped the sheet tight around her and gently lifted her into his arms.

  She’s so tiny and light. Clay’s face looked as if it had turned to stone. No tears flowed down his cheeks. He carried her to the grave and gently laid her in the hole. Bo and Luke picked up Clay’s pa and laid him in the g
rave next to his wife and put Slim in his final resting place, next to Clay’s pa.

  Clay slipped off his hat. “Mr. Hewitt, can you say a few words?”

  Hewitt nodded, as he and the cowhands pulled their hats off. “Lord, these fine folks have come to a troubling end. This is rough country. Folks die in some mighty harsh ways. But these good folks were sent to you by evil men. We ask you to welcome them and let ’em know we’ll be seeing ’em. We’d also like to ask that you watch over this boy as he heads out in search of these killers and keep him safe. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.”

  Clay put his hat back on, and the other men followed suit. Bo had the shovel. He looked at Clay, and Clay nodded. “Start with Ma.” Bo stepped over to her grave and started shoveling dirt into the hole. The rattle of the West Texas dirt striking his ma’s body tore at Clay. With each shovelful, it felt like he was being stabbed. He wanted to walk away. But he stayed, forcing himself to hear and commit to memory every painful moment. He stood stone-still as the other two graves were filled.

  It didn’t take long. The burying was done, and the other men were standing around awkwardly waiting for Clay. He looked up and realized it was finished. “Thank you,” he said. He brushed his hair back with one hand and put his hat back on, pulling it level on his head. “Mr. Hewitt, Bo, Luke, Toby, I appreciate all your help. Mr. Hewitt, it’s getting late. You folks might as well head back home.”

  Hewitt said, “Clay, why don’t you come on over to the house tonight, and stay as long as you want.”

  “No, thanks. I’ll spend the night here. I’ll be over tomorrow, and we can close the deal on the ranch and cattle.”

  Hewitt shook his head and waited for a moment. Finally, he said, “Come on, boys, let’s get home.” He turned his horse out of the yard with Toby alongside, Bo and Luke following.

  It was twilight in the hill country. The sun had set over the western hills. Shadows were slipping across the yard as darkness overcame daylight. Clay walked over to Blue and rubbed his neck, scratching him between the ears. The western light cast an eerie pall over Clay’s face. A face too grim to be so young. “We got a long trail ahead of us, Blue, boy. But we’ll see those devils dead before we quit. Every last one of them.”