Clay could see the momentary lightening of her features. He continued before she could say anything. “It’s not true, because I killed six men and was responsible for another’s death.”
He watched the shock gather at her eyes, then her lips tensed and thinned. “Six?”
“Yes, ma’am. Now could I see Lynn?”
For a moment, he thought she was going to refuse his request, but she turned and walked up the steps, not inviting him in. “Lynn, Clay is here.”
Time slowed down as he waited. Then, as beautiful as ever, she appeared in the doorway. “Hello, Clay.” There was no welcome, no lilting laughter in her voice, only a cool, “Hello, Clay.”
“Can I talk to you for a moment?” he asked.
She floated down the steps. Her violet eyes were set off by the dusky light.
“I wanted to see you, before I went back home.”
“Yes,” she said.
She wasn’t looking at him. She was staring at his chest.
“You know I had to kill some bad men. They were the ones who killed my ma and pa.”
“Yes. I’ve heard.”
Bright, tinkling, laughing Lynn was gone. In her place was this cold beauty, with no use for him, but it had to be said. It had to be brought out into the open.
“It’s over, isn’t it?” Clay said.
At last, she looked up at him. He could see sadness in her young eyes, maybe something else.
“Yes, Clay, it’s over.”
“Because I killed those men.”
“Yes, because you killed men. I thought it was three, but I heard you tell Mother, seven. How could you kill seven men, Clay?”
“Lynn, it was them or me. They all had a chance to come in peacefully. They chose not to.”
“But, Clay, seven men.”
“Maybe you’ll understand someday.”
He looked at her a moment longer. He could smell her lilac perfume surrounding him, but it made no sense to draw this out.
“Goodbye, Lynn.”
“Goodbye, Clay.”
He watched her walk up onto the porch, and her steps seemed heavier. Then she was through the door and gone from his life. He turned to leave and thought he could hear a sob from inside the home. Clay closed the gate behind him. Darkness was almost on Brackett. It’s appropriate, he thought. His heart heavy, he made his way back to the stable.
The man had just finished saddling the buckskin when he walked up.
“Get your business taken care of?”
“Yes, sir, I surely did.”
Clay mounted the buckskin and turned the horses out of town. If he got tired, or his side started hurting, he’d stop, maybe along a creek, and sleep under the stars. The buckskin shied to his left as a man stepped out of the shadows. It was JT.
“Howdy, Clay.”
Clay pulled the sorrel up. “How’re you doing, Mr. Brennan?”
“A darn sight better than you are, I reckon. You’ve seen Lynn?”
“Yes, sir, I sure have. Seen her mother too.”
“I just imagine that didn’t go well. Listen, Son, that girl still cares about you. She’s been lambasted by her father since they heard you’d killed three men. He told her he didn’t want no killer in his house or his family.”
“I understand. But it’s not three, it’s seven.”
“You don’t understand a danged thing. You say seven? Seven men who burned your pa and killed your ma? Seven men who were dead set on killing you? Son, you do what you have to do. Sometimes it ain’t nice. But you live with it. Did those Smith & Wessons work good for you?”
“Yes, sir, they sure did. I’m much obliged to you. Although I got myself shot. Not bad, but if I’d listened to you and started working on that left-hand draw, I’d maybe not been.”
“You all right?”
“I’m fine. It went through my side.”
“Listen, give Lynn time. She’ll come around. She’s still going off to school at that Addran College in Thorp Springs. I’d make it a point to meet up with her, was I you. She’ll be leaving here in August.”
“Thank you, Mr. Brennan, I’ll keep that in mind. I’ve got to be going. You take care of yourself.”
“You too, Clay, you too.”
Clay rode out of town toward Uvalde with a heavy heart. He hadn’t expected Lynn to react like she had. But, who wants to have anything to do with a gunfighter? Gunfighter, is that what I am now?
He wasn’t going to push the horses. He had all night. The buckskin stepped out in a ground-covering, long-legged walk. Clay took his mind off Lynn.
How do I handle the banker? He thought about what he would do in Uvalde. The moon had come up and was bathing the road with a pale, somber light. I’ll go to the sheriff. We can see Houston together.
*
It was still dark when Clay rode into Uvalde. He rode through town to the livery. The barn door was open, and there was a light in the office at the back of the barn. He rubbed the buckskin’s neck, dismounted, and looped the horses’ reins around the hitching post at the watering trough, leaving them enough slack to drink.
“Who’s there?”
Clay could just make out Gabby Johnson standing inside the barn with his shotgun in the crook of his arm.
“Howdy, Mr. Johnson. It’s Clay Barlow.”
Gabby walked out of the stables. “Clay, you’ve created quite a stir since I seen you last. Sheriff tells me you been busy cleaning up the Pinder Gang. Heard you got knifed pretty bad. How you doing?”
“Doing fine. I need to put up the horses. Probably won’t be a full day, but they deserve some special treatment. They’ve taken good care of me.”
Gabby ambled over and scratched Blue between the ears. “That’s what I do, Clay. I’ll make these fellers think they’re kings. I’ll rub ’em down good. They’ll like that.”
The horses finished drinking. Clay and Gabby led them into the stable and stripped off the saddles and gear. Gabby lit two lanterns in the stable, and took a good look at Clay. The old man squinted in the dim light. “You look different, Clay. You’re looking more like your pa every time I see you. You look older.”
“Reckon there comes a time to grow up,” Clay said. He bent over, picked up a brush off the bench, and started working on the sorrel.
“You don’t have to do that. I can take care of it.”
“Mr. Johnson, I’m waiting for the sheriff to get up, so I might as well help take care of my horses.” He continued brushing down the sorrel. “What time does the sheriff usually start moving around?”
“He should be up right now. He’s an early riser, and it’ll be daylight most any time. He’ll be fixin’ coffee pretty soon, then head over to the Hash House to put the feed bag on.”
“You mind keeping my things here? I won’t be long.”
“Heck no. You leave everything. I’ll take good care of it.”
“How much I owe you for the day?”
“Make it four bits and we’ll call it even. I’ll take good care of your horses.”
Clay finished on the sorrel, slapped him on the rump, and walked over to Blue. He scratched the horse behind his ears, and patted his muscular neck, then started with the brush. Daylight was just breaking, bringing light in through the open back doors of the stable. “Think I’ll go check on the sheriff,” Clay said.
He passed the bank and his thoughts darkened. How could a man they’d known for years do such a dirty deed? Clay could feel the start of the dark rage within him. He took a deep breath and pushed it back down. He could see a light in the sheriff’s office. His boots clunked on the dried wood of the boardwalk, as he stepped up to the sheriff’s office door. It was early. He knocked.
“Come on in, it ain’t locked.”
Clay stepped into the sheriff’s office. The sheriff was standing at the blackened, potbellied stove, pouring himself a cup of coffee. A look of surprise crossed his face as he recognized Clay. “Coffee?” he asked, indicating the pot of coffee.
“Don’t drink it, Sheriff, but thanks.”
“I reckon I knew that.”
The sheriff put down the pot. Holding his cup in his left hand, he extended his right. “It’s good to see you, Clay. Didn’t expect you back here this soon. I got a wire from the marshal that you’d killed the Pinder brothers and had been shot in the process. Figured you’d be recovering in San Felipe.” Careful with his hot coffee, the sheriff sat down behind his desk. “Have a seat,” he said to Clay, indicating the chair in front of his desk. He took a sip of his coffee, then tossed a thumb toward the jail. “Got an acquaintance of yours here in my hotel, Milo Reese. Had a deputy pick him up a few days ago. We’re holding him for the Tarrant County Sheriff. Seems Milo shot a city councilman.”
Clay looked at the man lying on the bunk in the cell. It seemed like a long time since he had seen him. So much had happened. “You’re not going to try him here for the murder of my folks and Slim?”
“No, they have first claim on him. He’ll hang for that killing. But rest your mind. If for some reason he gets off, we’ll bring him back here, and after a fair trial, we’ll hang him. He ain’t gettin’ out of this.”
“Sheriff, have you had much dealing with Houston, the banker?”
The sheriff gave Clay a questioning look. “Not much, other than seeing him around town. We travel in different circles. Why do you ask?”
Clay told the sheriff about Gideon Pinder’s dying words.
“You have any idea who he could be talking about?”
“Yes, sir, I surely do. I talked to Zeke Martin. He told me that when Pinder had been drinking, he let slip about his good friend the Uvalde banker.”
The sheriff was taking a sip of his coffee when Clay told him. He set the cup down, astonishment across his face. “You sure he said, ‘Uvalde banker’?”
“I am.”
The sheriff stood up. “Let’s go. We can talk on the way.” He pulled his gunbelt off the hat rack and strapped it on, adjusting it and removing the hammer thong from the Colt, then grabbed his hat.
Clay followed Sheriff Haskins out the door. The sheriff continued talking. “I know that he’s foreclosed a little too quick on several pieces of prime land, when folks found themselves on tough times. One rancher south of here was murdered. I never found out who did it. But Houston bought out the widow for way less than the property was worth. I’ve been wondering about him, but never had any proof.”
“Sheriff, we’ve got proof now,” Clay said.
The sheriff turned down the alley next to the bank. There were stairs going up to an apartment above the bank. “Houston lives over the bank. He’s alone. His wife left him a while back. They never had any kids.”
The boots of the two men rang hollow in the predawn stillness. The stairway planks groaned and creaked under their weight, as they climbed to banker Houston’s apartment. There was a faint light slipping around the curtains of the single side window.
Sheriff Haskins banged on the door. “Open up, Houston, it’s the sheriff.”
Clay caught a glimpse of Houston when he pulled back a corner of the curtain to look out.
“What do you want, Sheriff? It’s awfully early.”
“Open the door, Houston. Now.”
The door cracked open, but Houston had a chain on it. “What can I do for you, Sheriff?” he said through the crack.
“Houston, if you don’t open the door right now, I’m coming through it,” the sheriff said.
The door was pushed closed again. Clay could hear the chain being unfastened and the door opened. The sheriff drew his gun, shoved the door hard, and stepped into the room. Clay hadn’t drawn, but was ready. The sheriff had shoved the door so hard that it had propelled Houston across the room and slammed him against the wall. He must have just gotten out of bed. He was standing there, against the wall, his pants on, but no shirt to cover up his scrawny, little body. He was pasty-white from working inside his entire life, and his body trembled like he was having a chill.
“What’s the meaning of this, Sheriff? I’ll have your job for this. You can’t barge into an upstanding citizen’s house.” He looked at Clay, desperation flooding his face.
“Sit down, Houston. You’ve been mighty hard-hearted, foreclosing on a bunch of folks.”
“That’s the banking business, Sheriff. If I didn’t do it, the bank would go out of business.”
“Why’d you hire Pinder to kill the Barlows?”
What little bit of color that remained in Alfonse Houston’s face drained away. It reminded Clay of when he had caught the skunk in Ma’s henhouse. The only difference was the skunk wanted to fight. This man looked like he was going to throw up.
“I never. Why, I would never have anyone k-killed. I’m not feeling good, Sheriff. I’ve been ill. Maybe you could come back later?”
The sheriff gave a harsh laugh. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Not happening, Mister. We’ve got a witness who says you paid him to kill the Barlows. I’ve got you, Houston. I’m going to enjoy seeing you dance at the end of a rope. You killed some fine people. You killed a woman. You know what they do to people who harm women in this country? I don’t know if I can keep the lynch mob away from you.”
The little man’s head turned from the sheriff to Clay, back and forth. He was loosing control of his body. His eyes had dilated and were as wide as an owls. A thin stream of drool slipped from the right side of his mouth and slowly made its way down his chin. His whole body was vibrating like a tuning fork. His hands came up to his face. He wiped the drool from his chin.
Clay watched the man disintegrate in front of his eyes. He had never seen anything like this in his short life. How could such a weak, miserable excuse of a man cause the death of my family? He felt no anger, no rage, only disgust. He felt unclean just being in this man’s presence.
The shell of a man turned to Clay. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean for your mother to get killed. I really didn’t. They were supposed to kill your pa and leave. I didn’t tell them to hurt your mother.”
“You piece of trash,” Clay said. He shook his head. “You did this and you didn’t know. You didn’t know you could never have the ranch.” Clay reached into his vest pocket and pulled out the paper that had been in his pa’s safe with the money. “You’d never have gotten our ranch. When my grandpa gave the land grant to Pa, he put a clause in the contract that he couldn’t sell the ranch. He also set it up so that if all of the family died, it would revert back to Grandpa, if he was still alive, and he is. It would never have been yours.” Clay, like his pa, never raised his voice, but now he leaned down till his face was inches from Houston’s and yelled, “You killed them for nothing!”
The man was trying to read the contract. Clay reached down and yanked it out of his hand. He turned to the sheriff. “I’m done, Sheriff. I can’t stand to be around him. My only question is, what will happen to the bank? A lot of folks have money in it, including me.”
“Don’t worry about it, Clay. The Grahams have been trying to buy Houston out for over a year. They’ll jump at the chance. We couldn’t ask for better folks to be running the bank.”
“Thanks, Sheriff. Mr. and Mrs. Graham are folks I’d trust with my life. In that case, I’m headin’ home.”
“I’ll take care of it, Son. Rest assured, the bank will be fine, and this sorry excuse for a man will hang.”
Clay closed the door and headed down the stairs, two at a time. He could hear Houston sobbing behind him. This job was done. He turned to the livery.
Ten minutes later he was mounted on Blue, the sorrel and the buckskin trailing behind. Clay rode north out of Uvalde. The warm morning sun felt good. It melted the fatigue and worry from his young mind and body. The farther away from the banker he got, the cleaner he felt, lighter.
The hill country rose in front of him. In his mind he could hear the swift, cold, rushing water of the Frio. He’d be home soon. Mr. Hewitt wouldn’t mind him staying at the homeplace for a while.
Now was the time to rest up and get his strength back. He’d make markers for his folks and Slim, and visit his grandparents. There were decisions to make. Would he go to school to become a lawyer, like Ma and Pa wanted? Or would he take Major Jones up on his offer and join the Rangers? He could even become a bounty hunter. That paid pretty well, and put the criminals behind bars.
What about Lynn, or even Diana? Maybe those chapters were closed—maybe not. All thoughts, all possibilities. For now, decisions could wait until later. He nudged Blue to pick up the pace. I made you a promise Ma, and like you and Pa taught me, I kept my word.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Thank you for reading Forty-Four Caliber Justice. If you enjoyed this book, you’ll enjoy the Western Novel, Logan’s Word. It is available in both ebook and paperback on Amazon.
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If you would like to read a sample of Logan's Word, please turn the page.
Sample of
LOGAN’S WORD
PROLOGUE
October 19, 1864
YOUNG LIEUTENANT RORY Nance lay dying in the fertile Shenandoah Valley. Moments before he had sat astride his cavalry mount, a striking figure—Lieutenant in the United States Cavalry. Now he looked up at men and horses of the Sixth Michigan Volunteer Cavalry as they milled about him. The river valley breeze cleared the air and pushed the stinging smell of gun smoke and blood from the battle scene. Dead and dying men, both blue and gray, and horses littered the normally tranquil forest floor with the carnage of war.
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