Clawson threw some papers onto his desk and sat down in his chair, studying the papers a moment, as though deliberately wanting to put Hafer on edge. The man’s dark blonde but now graying hair was slicked back neatly with something greasy. Finally Clawson raised steely gray eyes to meet Hafer’s brown ones.
“Good morning, Mister Hafer,” he said slowly.
Hafer nodded. “What can I do for you, Mister Clawson?”
Clawson studied him closely, making Hafer uncomfortable. “The question is, what can I do for you?” he finally replied.
Hafer’s eyebrows arched. “I don’t understand. I really have to get back to my farm, so I wish you would tell me why I’m here.”
Clawson leaned back in his chair, rubbing at his smoothly shaved chin. His gray suit seemed to match his eyes exactly, eyes that narrowed as he sighed deeply.
“Mister Hafer, you took a loan from this bank several months ago, quite a large one.”
Hafer nodded, his heart tightening. “My farm wasn’t doing so well—the drought—and my wife got very sick. It cost a lot of money to take care of her. She has since died. My son was killed in a fight with drunken Indians. He was my right arm. Times have been bad for me, Mister Clawson.”
Clawson nodded. “And you seem to be having a lot of trouble paying back our loan. In fact, you recently asked for more. We, of course, had to turn you down.”
“I’m paying as regularly as possible,” Hafer added.
“I am aware of that. I am also aware that you have talked about leaving the St. Louis area for this wild new land called Texas, where you can get free land and start over.” His eyes bore into Hafer. “You wouldn’t consider leaving here and not paying back your loan, now, would you, Mister Hafer?”
The words were spoken with a definite threat, and Hafer swallowed. “I’m not that kind of man, Mister Clawson. Even if I left, I’d use the money from the sale of my farm toward the loan, and I’d send money whenever I could.”
Clawson eyed him with smoldering gray eyes. “That would not be good enough, Hafer. If you left here under such circumstances, I would have little choice but to have you hunted down and arrested and thrown in prison for your debts. After all, that land isn’t worth as much as it once was. Even if we took it over ourselves, we would never get enough to cover the loan.” The gray eyes grew colder. “Hafer, I want all the money. Now.”
Hafer straightened. “Mister Clawson, I have a daughter. She’s barely eighteen and has no mother now, no other relatives. Throwing me in jail and taking me away from her would be like throwing her to the dogs. You can’t do that. I’ve been faithfully paying on that loan.”
“A loan can be called in any time, especially one that is delinquent. You could try to fight it in court, but that would cost you more than you can afford.”
Hafer gripped the arms of his chair in anger and near panic. “Why are you doing this?”
Clawson suddenly grinned, his teeth seeming too big for his mouth. “Relax, Mister Hafer. I was just testing you out—trying to decide just how desperate you really are. Be honest now. Have you seriously contemplated Texas?”
Hafer watched him carefully. “Yes,” he answered boldly. “Why not? A lot of people are going there, in spite of the problems with the Comanche and the Mexican government. Maybe there I could get rich, pay off my loan, and start over.” His eyes saddened. “Part of the reason I considered it is my wife and son. Everything is too familiar on the old farm. I need to get away from there.”
“And your daughter?”
“She doesn’t mind. She thinks it sounds exciting.”
Clawson leaned forward, taking a pipe from a desk drawer. He took out a can of tobacco and began stuffing the pipe. “Tell me, Mister Hafer, how do you feel about Indians?”
“You mean the Comanche?”
Clawson shook his head. “No. I mean the civilized ones, if you can call them that. Ones like the Cherokee who are being booted out of Georgia and other places. The ones who claim to be peaceful and civilized now. How do you feel about Indians in general—the local ones?” His eyes narrowed. “Like the ones who killed your son?”
Hafer felt the rage he always felt at the memory. “They hung for it.” He almost growled. “I’ll be blunt, Mister Clawson. I have no use for Indians of any tribe. Those drunken Osage killed my son and burned my barn two years ago. That’s what finally killed my wife, and ruined me. Far as I’m concerned, we’re right to rid Missouri of all its Indians, and I’d gladly go murder them one by one if I could get away with it!”
Clawson slowly lit his pipe and puffed it for a few quiet minutes, while Hafer sat, actually shaking with anger. Clawson finally pulled the pipe from his mouth and eyed Hafer again. “I have a proposition for you, Mister Hafer. If you accept it, you will be a rich man, and your debt will be considered paid as well.”
Hafer frowned, but his heart quickened at the thought of being completely out of debt. The only drawback was that Byron Clawson expected something of him, and Clawson could be ruthless. Hafer knew that in his bones. “I’m listening,” he answered, in spite of his doubts.
Clawson kept his gray eyes fixed on Hafer, as though trying to detect any duplicity, any doubt, any thoughts of betrayal.
“I want you to go to Texas,” he finally said. “I have already made arrangements with one of my investors, who has claimed a considerable amount of land there for me. But you will tell your neighbors there, as well as your daughter and friends here, that you have claimed the land yourself. You will settle the land, work it. Hire some good men to help you. You will be given the finances to build a home for yourself and your daughter, to buy some cattle, farm supplies, whatever you need. You will live there just as though you owned it, be paid by me, and your debt here with the bank will be erased. We will sell your old farm and send you the money.”
“Send?”
“Yes. Part of the deal will be that you leave right away. You may tell others, if you wish, that you have acquired another loan from this bank pending the sale of your farm, to be handled by us. Tell them how generous this bank has been to you.” Clawson grinned almost wickedly.
Hafer smiled nervously in response. “Pardon my bluntness, Mr. Clawson, but I can’t believe you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart.”
Clawson laughed. “Of course there is a catch, but it has no real effect on you. It’s quite simple, Mister Hafer. The land is yours for as long as you want to live there. Even if I were to come there, you could stay. But I really have no desire to go to such an uncivilized, dangerous country at the moment. I simply want you to live there, settle the place … and do everything in your power to make trouble for one of your neighbors.”
Hafer ran a hand through his hair. “Sir?”
“His name is Caleb Sax. He’s a half-breed Indian, living with a white woman. My guess is they’re married by now.” Clawson rubbed at his nose self-consciously. “For personal reasons, I hate the man. For one thing, he’s responsible for disfiguring me. The rest of the reasons for my hating him are none of your business. Your only concern is to give the man trouble: spy on him and let me know what he’s up to, get him in trouble with your other neighbors if possible. I’m told if a man gets arrested down there he can languish in jail for months. And since he’s part Indian, perhaps even longer, or perhaps even hang. I know there isn’t much law down there yet, but see what you can do. Personally, I’d love to see him dead. I would sleep better at night.”
Hafer shifted in his chair. “You afraid of him for some reason?”
Clawson began nervously shuffling through his papers. “He’d likely kill me if he had the chance. That’s why I’m not going down there myself, and why it is important he doesn’t know who sent you. He has to believe you own the land.”
“You aren’t suggesting I kill the man, are you?”
Clawson grinned. “When you meet him, you’ll know how difficult that could prove to be. He doesn’t go down easily. I learned that myself a long time ago.
I just want you to make trouble for him and to keep an eye on him. Keep him busy down there so he doesn’t have time to contemplate coming to St. Louis to pay me a visit. I never worried about it until the woman he lives with went down there a year or so ago. She’ll stir up old hatreds and it’s got me worried.”
“Who’s the woman, if I may ask?”
“You may not ask. The fewer who know, the better. I plan to run for governor of this state in a couple more years. She would love to ruin that. The whole Sax family would. That’s why I want to be sure they’re kept occupied and that you keep them so upset that they don’t have time to think about me.”
“From what I hear, trouble with the wilder Indians and with the Mexicans should take care of that for you.”
“Well then, this will give me that much more protection, won’t it? It’s worth twenty thousand dollars to me—as well as freeing you of your debt. The land here and in Texas will, of course, belong to the bank. You won’t actually own any land, but you’ll live like a king.”
Hafer sat up straighter. He let out a little gasp and rubbed at the back of his neck. “You must hate this man very much—or be awfully afraid of him.”
Clawson’s eyes flashed. “Don’t think me a coward, Mister Hafer! It’s simply that the man is half Indian, and being so, he is a sneaking, bloodthirsty savage at heart and cannot be trusted! You know how Indians are. And yes, I hate him very much. Will you do it?”
Hafer sighed and leaned back again. “Twenty thousand dollars is a hell of a lot of money. I’ve never had that much at once in my whole life and probably never would the way I’m going. But if this man is as dangerous as you say, I’ll need protection.”
“Hire all the men you want. There are plenty down there roaming around looking for work. Not all of them make it at farming or whatever, and plenty of volunteers are going there just for the adventure, thinking war will break out any time. Most of them are from the Southern states and are Indian haters anyway. You won’t have any trouble finding men who will gladly help you.”
“You have any suggestions as to just what I should do?”
Clawson shrugged. “Claim some of his land. Find a way to rob him of water. I hear that’s pretty precious stuff down there. Kill off some of his stock. Steal some of his horses and sell them to the Indians. I don’t care. Just think of things that can hurt a man in his position—and remember that he’s Indian. The best thing you can do is keep sentiment stirred up against him. If Texas ever does become independent, they’ll step up efforts to rid the place of all its Indians, not just the wild ones like the Comanche, but the settled ones, like Caleb Sax. You can use that, whatever it takes. I’d love to see him dead, but I’d love even more to simply see him fail. I want him bankrupt, Hafer. I want Caleb Sax to suffer—him and his wife both. I want him in a weakened position so that perhaps one day I can come down there myself and squash him under my foot!” The words were sneered bitterly.
Hafer ran a hand through his hair. “Well, sir, I guess I can accomplish that for you. I’m not in the best position to turn you down. And I’ve got no love for any Indian. But what if I don’t succeed at what you’re asking?”
Their eyes held, each man greedy in his own way. “You’ll succeed. It’s worth a lot of money to you. Twenty thousand now and ten thousand for each year you stay and keep Sax out of my hair and in trouble. If he ends up being chased completely out of Texas, there will be an additional ten thousand dollar bonus. I’ll hire someone to go check out the situation now and then, to make sure you’re doing your job. And I never, I repeat—never—want my name brought into the picture. If Caleb Sax finds out I’m behind it, my life won’t be worth much—and neither will yours, Mister Hafer, if you get my meaning. If Sax doesn’t kill you, I might find a way to do it myself. That should be inspiration enough for you to succeed.”
Hafer silently clenched his fists. He didn’t like being threatened. But if he did not agree to this, he would lose everything he had. The farm wasn’t worth much, but it was his. And what about Bess? It was like choosing the lesser of two evils, for he was sure that taking Clawson up on his offer would be dangerous. Worse, he would be the man’s puppet. But he would be free of debt, a rich man; better yet, he would be an important man. He had never been truly rich and important in his life.
And he could persecute Indians. Hafer liked the feeling of power that gave him. After all, they were an inferior race. The Osage men who had been accused of killing his son had said someone else had done it; that they were not there; and that his son was drunk that night and had started the fight and the barn fire. Bess foolishly believed that crazy story. But she had always hated her brother’s drinking, and she was too naive to understand. Hafer did not believe the Indians were innocent, and neither did the neighbors, who tried and hung three young Osage men, who proclaimed their innocence until the ropes around their necks finally silenced them.
Hafer nodded then. “I’m tired of trying to make something out of that used-up land I’m farming, Mister Clawson; tired of always wondering where the next dollar will come from. I don’t have a wife anymore, and my son is dead.” He stood up and put out his hand, a big, rough hand, callused from years of hard labor. Clawson took it with his smooth, slender, cool hand. “I’ll do it,” Hafer told the man, afraid to squeeze too hard for fear of hurting him.
Clawson grinned, his eyes glittering with triumph. “Good. And surely you know that what has transpired between us here today must be told to no one, not even your daughter. Make up whatever story you want to give her. Come here at ten o’clock tomorrow morning and I will have a paper for you to sign. I will also give you a list of what you will need. I’m getting it from some men who have been to Texas. They’ll help you find a good, sturdy wagon to take you there. They’ll follow with supplies to build you a home right away. The extra men should be enough protection for your journey there, and you can quickly build a fine home for your lovely daughter.”
Hafer studied the man carefully. Hafer was a man who liked to make his own decisions, but he would be far away in Texas. Clawson wouldn’t be able to order him around. He would do what the man wanted, but in his own way and in his own time, and enjoy a good life while he was at it. Why should he be in any hurry to kill Caleb Sax? The longer the man lived, the longer Hafer could live like a king. Harassing the man, destroying him financially, that would be the slower method and the best one for Hafer himself.
“Well, you seem to think of everything,” he said aloud to Clawson. “Wagons, supplies—”
“It’s my business to stay ahead of the game, Mister Hafer. I should tell you, the men I have hired simply think I am helping out an already-wealthy man who is going to Texas to do some investing for my bank.” He opened a drawer and took out a small bottle of brandy. “A drink to close the deal, Hafer?”
Hafer grinned. “Don’t mind if I do.”
Clawson laughed lightly, pouring some of the alcohol into a small glass. He handed it to Hafer, then took his own drink straight from the bottle. Hafer sipped his shot, watching as Clawson drank with gusto. He had heard Byron Clawson was a heavy drinker and that was part of the reason he never got anywhere politically. From the way the man guzzled the brandy, he guessed the rumors must be true. But it mattered little to him, as long as Clawson stuck to his side of deal.
Clawson set the bottle down. “Have a good day, Mister Hafer. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Hafer nodded, downing the rest of his drink. “I’ll do right by you, Mister Clawson.”
“We’re doing each other a good turn, eh, Hafer?” The man laughed wickedly, and a chill moved through Hafer. Clawson had an almost insane look in his gray eyes at times. He bid the man good-bye and left, quickly setting aside his concerns over Byron Clawson. He was going to be a rich man. And he had no moral qualms about destroying Caleb Sax. He didn’t like Indians, civilized or wild.
Inside his office Clawson walked to a window, watching the busy street below. He took another swallow of br
andy, thinking of Sarah Sax. He hated her for the power she had to expose him for what he really was, and how he’d treated her. Clawson had never received what he considered to be his proper due from that marriage. He had not seen one penny of Sarah’s father’s money when the man died; and that had been Byron’s primary reason for marrying Sarah, who had first belonged to and, he found out later, would always belong to Caleb Sax.
“You won’t win this one, Sax,” he muttered, taking another swallow of whiskey. “You think you’re so high and mighty now, married to Sarah, owning all that land. When I’m through with you, you won’t even be able to step foot in Texas. Maybe you and your fine, prized sons will even die, and your precious Sarah will be alone again. She and that daughter you fathered would make lovely gifts for the Comanche or Mexicans!”
Chapter
Three
* * *
The Comanche were good at hiding. The war party that had taken John had ridden deep into Indian country, heading for a red-rock canyon near the Colorado River, where their women and tipis waited.
The Comanche stopped in the canyon to celebrate the theft of the fine horses and a strong boy from the ranch they had attacked. John’s captor was especially eager to have a victory dance, for the boy’s father had been a warrior himself and had fought well to keep his son. Soon they would join a much larger village, but first they would rest and drink the firewater they had stolen from a supply wagon. The wagon had been left to burn, its driver tied to one of the wheels.
John’s captor shoved him off his horse and laughed when the boy hit the ground hard. John refused to cry or show fear, remembering his father’s warnings about the Comanche.
John shuddered with the memory of these men hitting and stabbing Caleb. Was his father still alive? The memory of the awful blows made the boy want to cry much more than the abuse he suffered from the Comanche now.
Frontier Fires Page 4