Forty-Four Caliber Justice

by Donald L. Robertson

  “Sorry, Clay. I guess Sarah’s still upset. She’ll get over it.”

  “Mr. Hewitt, Sarah needs to forget me. I don’t know how long I’ll be. This could take years, and I might not even make it back. She needs to get on with her life.”

  “Son, that’ll be hard for her. She had big plans for you two.”

  Clay patted his vest pocket, where the new contract lay. It had been more than fair. “Thanks for everything, Mr. Hewitt.

  “Bo, Luke, thanks for all you’ve done. You’re good friends.”

  “Take care of yourself, boy,” Luke said as he shook Clay’s hand.

  “Good huntin’,” Bo said, and patted the sorrel on the rump.

  Clay looked around at the ranch house and yard where he and Sarah had played since they were children. He leaned over and shook Hewitt’s hand. “Thank you. Tell Sarah I’m sorry. Adios.” He wheeled the sorrel to the south, and with Blue and the buckskin in tow, trotted out of the yard.

  *

  Clay rode out of the hills, north of Uvalde, around noon. He pulled up the horses for a moment, watching the small town. The county seat was bustling with activity. There was a caravan of freight wagons bound for San Felipe del Rio. He watched the town for a few minutes, then trotted forward. He rode through town to the south end, pulled up at the stables, dismounted, and tied his horses. He pulled off his hat and beat the dust from his chaps.

  “Howdy, Clay. Whatcha doin’ with Hewitt’s horses.”

  Clay looked over the grizzled little man. His skin looked like it had been fried in the sun and tanned by the wind. He was so wrinkled it was hard to tell his age. But he still had a spring in his step a young man might envy.

  “Hi, Mr. Johnson. Mr. Hewitt sold me a couple of horses. I’ve got the bill of sale if you need to see it.”

  “No, Son, don’t need to see nothin’. But why in blue blazes are you buyin’ Hewitt stock? Your pa’s got plenty to choose from.”

  Clay walked the three horses to the water trough. “Pa’s dead. Ma and Slim too. Killers hit our place five days ago. I was out working cattle and didn’t find them till day before yesterday.”

  The old man was stunned into silence for a moment. Then, “I’m danged sorry, Son. Your folks were fine people. So was Slim. You have any idea who done it?”

  “No, sir, but I aim to find out. There was six of them. One of them was hit pretty hard, bled a lot in the yard. There’s also a mighty big man with them. They headed south when they left the ranch.”

  “You best tell the sheriff. He’ll see ’bout getting a posse together and git after that scum. You say they killed your ma too?”

  “Yep, killed Ma. But I’ll tell you, Mr. Johnson, I don’t need a posse. I just need to catch ’em.”

  “Boy, what’er you goin’ to do when you catch ’em?”

  Clay turned to Johnson. “Why, Mr. Johnson, I’m gonna kill ’em, every one. Now, would you look after my horses? I’ve got some business to take care of. I’ll be leavin’ town shortly.”

  The tall young man pulled his saddlebags from the sorrel and tossed them over his left shoulder, leaving his gun hand free. Then he turned and headed up the street toward the bank.

  Clay stepped into the bank and paused to let his eyes adjust to the light. The building had few windows, mostly on the front. Only moderate light filtered inside.

  The banker stepped out of his office and saw Clay. “Clay? Uh… how are you doing today? How’s your folks?”

  “My folks are dead.”

  Besides the gasps of the two ladies at the teller’s window, a pin dropping would have been heard by all.

  The banker took his handkerchief from his pocket and, with a trembling hand, wiped his forehead. “How did it happen, Clay?”

  “Mr. Houston, I’ve got some business to transact. Can we go into your office?” Clay could feel all eyes on him as he followed Houston into his office and closed the door.

  “Have a seat, Clay,” Houston offered as he moved to sit behind his desk. “Now tell me, what in the world happened?”

  Clay stated, again, the gruesome details. When he had finished, Houston took off his spectacles and began to clean them on his shirt front. “Really sorry, Clay. Really sorry. Your folks were good people.”

  “Yes, sir, thank you. But I’ve got some business to take care of. Pa has an account in the bank?”

  “Yes, Clay, he does. He doesn’t keep much in it, but he does have an account.”

  “Then I’d like to get it changed into my name and make a deposit.”

  The banker looked at him for a moment. “Yes, that will be no problem. We’ll need to fill out some papers, but that can be done right now.” He reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a form, and started filling it out. “How much do you want to deposit?”

  Clay started taking the gold and silver out of his saddlebags and stacking it on the desk. “The way I count it, Mr. Houston, there should be three thousand dollars.”

  “My goodness, Clay, where did you get that kind of money?” Houston asked, patting the perspiration off his upper lip with his handkerchief.

  “Ma and Pa were good savers.”

  “Indeed. They must have been.” Houston moved his scales to a more advantageous position and began weighing the gold and silver.

  “Yes, sir. I’d like to get three hundred back.”

  Houston looked up from the scales. “Clay, what do you need with three hundred dollars?”

  Clay locked Houston in an icy gaze. “I don’t ask what you’re going to do with your money. I don’t expect you to be askin’ me.”

  Houston cleared his throat. “Yes, well—I see—yes, I see. Certainly, you’re right.” He quickly looked down and focused his attention on the scales.

  “You’ll be givin’ me a receipt for that money?”

  “Yes, surely I will.” Houston regained his composure. “Of course I will. That’s just the proper way of doing business. Would you like to come back to pick it up?”

  “No, sir, I’ll just wait right here until you have it, and my three hundred dollars.”

  “Yes, well, uh, excuse me. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

  Houston returned, counted out Clay’s money, and gave him his receipt. “I’ll be able to get the money I’ve left here from anywhere in the country, won’t I?”

  “Yes, Clay. Just have the other bank notify us and we’ll wire the money right away.”

  Clay stood, towering over the banker. He had never realized until now how small the man was. “Thank you.” He shook the limp, sweaty hand the banker extended and walked out, glad to be leaving.

  He waited for a moment and turned right for the sheriff’s office. He noticed people whispering and looking at him as he walked north up the street. Sure didn’t take long for bad news to get around town. He could see through the sheriff’s office window. The sheriff was behind his desk, going over wanted posters. Clay opened the door and walked in. “Hello, Sheriff Haskins.”

  The sheriff stood as Clay entered the small office that fronted the jail. “Come in, Clay. Have a seat. I was just going over some wanted posters.”

  “I guess you’ve heard.”

  “Bad news travels fast in a small town, Clay. Tell me everything from the beginning.”

  Clay started the story again, but this time, he shared every detail he could remember with the sheriff.

  After he had finished, Sheriff Haskins sat silently at his desk, leaning forward. His elbows rested on the desk, and his big, sun-burned hands were steepled in front of him. His brow was wrinkled, and he was far away in thought.

  A few more seconds passed. The sheriff took a deep breath, blew it out through his hands, and leaned back in his chair. “Clay, bad things come to good people. Not much sense in trying to get a posse after ’em. They’re long gone by now. But I’m pretty danged sure I know who did this. It’s a long story. You want some coffee?”

  “No, thank you.”

  The sheriff walked over to the coffee pot sitti
ng on the potbellied stove. He picked up a towel and grabbed the coffee pot by the handle. “I hate burning this danged stove. The office gets hotter than the hinges of Hades, but I’ve got to have my coffee.” He poured himself a cup.

  “Clay, you’ve grown mighty big. You look a lot like your father. How tall are you now?”

  “Just under six feet, Sheriff Haskins. Pa said I’ll probably make it a couple more inches.”

  “Well, Son, you’re big now, but when you finish filling out, I figure whoever ties you on is gonna have to bring a lunch.” The sheriff took a sip of his coffee, grimaced, and set the mug down. “Clay, I’ve got a story for you. You were born in ’56, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your pa’s about four years younger than me. In 1854, I was sheriff of Comal County. Office was located in New Braunfels. I was looking for a deputy, and your pa was recommended by Senator John O. Meusebach. I met with your pa, and we hit it right off. I hired him as a deputy, and he never looked back. Your Grandpa Barlow was an attorney in Austin. He’d been in Texas nigh on to twenty years, at that time.

  “Anyway, your pa had to pick up a prisoner in D’Hanis later in the year. That’s when he met your ma. She was a real looker, and just as sweet a little French girl as you could ever find. But let me tell you, her pa was none too thrilled about a deputy sheriff sparking her. I think he felt a little better when he found out who your pa’s pa was.”

  Sheriff Haskins stopped for a moment and watched a wagon roll north toward the freight caravan. He took a long sip of his coffee and sighed.

  “In ’57, when you were a year old, I had to go to San Antonio. I’d no sooner left, when your pa got word the Pinder Gang was headed to New Braunfels to rob the city bank. He deputized some of the citizens. Let me tell you, those old German military men were some tough cookies. The Pinder Gang didn’t know what they were in for.”

  Clay moved to the edge of his seat. He’d never heard this story. Pa didn’t talk much about his days as sheriff or in the war.

  Sheriff Haskins continued. “So your pa stations his deputies around the bank, and he puts himself inside as a teller. He carried a couple of 1848 Colt Baby Dragoons. They were only five shot, .31 caliber weapons. But in your pa’s hands those Baby Dragoons were deadly. He also had a sawed-off shotgun leaning next to him behind the counter.

  “Well…” The sheriff paused and took a long sip of his coffee. “The Pinders rode in big as you please. There were five of them. Gideon’s the oldest. He’s a big son of a gun. He must have weighed two fifty.”

  Clay had not been able to figure the point of the sheriff’s story until he mentioned Gideon’s size. Immediately, he thought back to the heavy weight that horse had been carrying at the ranch.

  “They left Harly and Quint with the horses. Gideon, Emmett, and Micah went into the bank. Only Gideon made it out, and he had a bullet in his chest. Your pa killed Emmett and Micah. When those boys pulled their guns they signed their death warrants. Hear tell, it sounded like a young war in the bank. Your pa drew those two Baby Dragoons and put two shots right in the hearts of Emmett and Micah. He got one shot into Gideon as he was backing out the door. Gideon was lucky he lived.

  “That was all the shooting. The boys outside tried to get onto their horses, but those Germans had ’em surrounded and just dared ’em to go for their guns.

  “What beat all was that Bill, your pa, came out of it without a scratch. I think he scared those Pinder boys so bad they couldn’t shoot straight.”

  Clay stared silently out the window for a moment. He turned his head and looked directly at the sheriff. “Pa never told me any of that.”

  “Your pa weren’t no braggart. And, Son, you’ve got to know, he was much of a man.

  “Anyway, at the trial, Gideon Pinder swore he’d get your pa. They were all sentenced to fifteen years. That means they would have gotten out the end of last year.”

  Clay got up and walked to the window. He stared at nothing for a moment, then turned back to the sheriff. “You think it was them, Sheriff? There were tracks of six men, not three.”

  “Son, I don’t know it for a fact, but were I a bettin’ man, I’d sure bet on it. The word is that they’ve picked up some other lowlife to ride with ’em. There’s Birch Hays. He’s slick, some say mighty handsome, and smooth with the ladies. But he’s a fast gun. A real killer. I know of three men he’s killed in Texas. There’s also Milo Reese. He’s supposed to be a dead-eye with the rifle. He was a sniper in the war and got to where he liked killing. But, like they all do, he made a mistake. He killed a councilman in Fort Worth. There were witnesses.

  “Now, in my opinion, the worst of the new men is Zeke Martin. People call him Mad Dog. The name fits. For some reason this sick coyote likes to burn people. He burned a whole family down in Goliad. There’s a dead-or-alive poster out on him, with a reward of two hundred and fifty dollars.”

  Clay returned to the chair and sat down. I’ve sure got my hands full. But Pa taught me how to shoot and how to fight. I reckon I can be just as good at killin’ as they are.

  Clay realized the sheriff was looking at him. “Son, you still want to go after these killers?”

  “Yes, sir. I’d be obliged if you have any pictures or likenesses of ’em. I’d like to know who I’m looking for.”

  “Just so happens I do. That’s what I was doing when you came in. Here are some old posters of Gideon, Quint, and Harly. They’re pretty good likenesses—course, they’re fifteen years old. Up until now, they weren’t wanted for anything new. These other three are current and show the posted rewards.”

  Clay picked up the posters. “You mind if I take these, Sheriff?”

  Haskins took another sip of his coffee. It was cold. He turned and spit it out on the floor. “I hate cold coffee. Go right ahead, Son.”

  Clay stood up. “Much obliged, Sheriff. I’ve got to pick up some supplies. Has anyone mentioned seeing the Pinders around here?”

  “There was a fella came through from San Felipe a couple of days ago. He mentioned dust from riders coming out of the hills heading west. Now that could’ve been Comanches, Apaches, the Pinder Gang, or just some riders. That’s all I’ve heard. Not much to go on.”

  “That’s more than I had. I’ll head for San Felipe del Rio.”

  The two men shook hands, and the sheriff walked outside with Clay. The southeast wind lifted the dust in the street, spreading the grit over the town. Clay pulled his hat tight on his head. “Thanks, Sheriff.”

  “If you’re leaving today, you might check with the freighters. They’d probably welcome an extra gun. There’s safety in numbers, what with all the Apaches west of here.”

  “Appreciate your help.” Clay stepped off the boardwalk and walked across the dusty street to the general store. When he opened the door, he could see Mrs. Graham behind the counter. She was putting cans on the back shelf. She glanced over her shoulder to see who it was. When she recognized him, she immediately yelled to the back. “Mr. Graham, Clayton Barlow is here.” She came out from behind the counter, then ran to Clay and gave him a big hug, the top of her head coming just under his chin. “Clayton, I am so sorry to hear about your folks. They were such good friends and good people.”

  She held him by the arms and looked up into his face. “It’s so good to see you. You’ve grown so big. You’re not the little boy I used to slip candy to when your father wasn’t looking.”

  Clay grinned. “I still like candy, Mrs. Graham.”

  She let out a tinkling laugh. “I bet you do, I just bet you do. How long are you going to be here? Of course, you can stay with us while you’re here.”

  Mr. Graham had walked in from the back while his wife was talking. “Sorry about your folks, Clay. They were mighty good friends.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Graham. I’ve got a list of supplies here that I’d like to get filled as soon as you can. Mrs. Graham, I’ll not be staying. I’ll be headin’ out as soon as I’ve got the supplies. In fact, while you’re
filling the list, I’ll go down to the stable and bring up my horses.”

  Mr. Graham took the list and looked it over. “You’ve got quite a list here, Son. You planning on doing a lot of traveling?”

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  The Grahams paused for a moment.

  Finally, Mrs. Graham said, “Clayton, are you going after those killers?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The Grahams looked at each other for a moment, then Mr. Graham turned and said, “Well, we best be getting your supplies. We wouldn’t want you to go hungry out there. Mrs. Graham, come on and give me a hand.”

  Mrs. Graham patted Clay on the arm and scurried about the store, picking out supplies.

  Clay walked out of the store and turned down the street to the stables. He’d miss folks like the Grahams. Pa had even helped Mr. Graham get his store going in Uvalde. They had been close friends.

  Clay could see Gabby saddling Blue. He had the gear tied on and ready when Clay got there. “Mr. Johnson, I need an extra saddle and a couple of cloth panniers to hang across the saddle. You have something like that?”

  “I’ve got that, boy, but I got a pack saddle back there that would carry a lot more load.”

  “No, sir. I’ll have more weight than I can carry in my saddlebags, but not so much I need a pack saddle. In fact, the panniers don’t need to be real big.”

  Gabby came out with an old saddle. “This is old, but it’s in good shape. I’ve also got a nice clean blanket for it. These are well-made panniers that should ride well and not rub at all.”

  Clay looked them over. They would work for what he needed. He tossed the blanket across the buckskin’s back, smoothed it out, and saddled the horse. He and Gabby fastened the panniers across the saddle. Clay checked for rubbing, but the panniers were short enough to rest mostly on the side of the saddle and the stirrup leather. “This seems fine, Mr. Johnson. What do I owe you?”

  Gabby rubbed the stubble on his chin with his thumb as he mentally calculated the price. “The saddle’s old but good, I’d say twenty-five, two bucks for the blanket, five dollars apiece for the panniers. You planning on hobbling or picketing these animals?”