Storm's Thunder

by Brandon Boyce

  “If it’s all the same, I’ll take the ten dollars an acre you promised and be on my way.”

  “Now, just one minute, Mister Two-Trees, ten dollars an acre was simply an estimate, drawn off the top of my head, before I had had a chance to personally reconnoiter the parcel.”

  “If you couldn’t unload it, you ought just come out and say it straight.”

  “Please understand the economic climate in the Bend is hardly robust. Granted, your bravery helped avert complete financial disaster, but still, the parcel remains too pricey—even at seven or six an acre—for most of the folks up there. And it is not as though there’s been an influx of new blood. Word back East is that the frontier is closed.”

  “I’ve heard enough,” rising from my chair. “I’ll take my deed back now.”

  Garber presses his hands together and lets out a breath. “That would be impossible, Mister Two-Trees. I don’t have it.”

  “Step away from the window.”

  “Why?”

  I reach into my pocket and pull out the thirty-two. “Because I don’t want the bullet to go through the glass and hurt nobody.”

  “I don’t have your deed because your property’s been sold.” Garber backs against the wall, hands pleading. “But not at ten an acre.”

  “Then how much?” He hesitates and I pull back the hammer.

  “Seventeen dollars and fifty cents per acre. Cash.” His words fill the air like a fat thunderhead.

  “But, that’s more,” I say.

  Only then does the face of Milton J. Garber bloom into a smile. “Oh, yes it is. Mister Two-Trees, I am very good at what I do.”

  “I reckon so. Who bought it?”

  “Your old neighbor, Bennett Whitlock, the rancher.”

  “Whitlock.” It makes sense, now that I think of it. Richest man in the Bend. His two hundred acres just grew by nearly half. I look down at the gun in my hands and stash it away. “Apologies.”

  “No need to apologize. I should know better than to take a roundabout explanation with a straight-shooter like yourself. Now, how would you like your money, gold or paper?”

  “Gold’ll work.”

  And with that, Garber closes the curtain over the window, leaving the room in a muted amber light. He turns to a wardrobe and opens it, revealing a squat iron safe at the bottom. Bending down, he stops and straightens again.

  “Oh, what the hell are we drinking coffee for? Xenia! Bring the bottle!” The girl’s footsteps patter atop the stairs—where she has been eavesdropping—and retreat to some place directly above me. Clinking glass echoes through the floorboards and a moment later she is moving down the steps—more sure-footed this time—clutching a pair of small glasses. A brown whiskey bottle sits tucked under an arm, her free hand sliding along the banister as she reaches the landing. She passes by me, trailing a scent of lavender powder not worn in her earlier visit. She has also found occasion to fix her hair and address the alignment of her buttons. “Take a look-see, Xenia,” Garber kneeling over the safe as he rotates the dial left and then back a few inches to the right. “That is one wealthy gentleman.”

  She nods, a shy little move that brings a smile when I meet her eye. “You want I should pour, Mister Garber?” Her soft, high drawl roots her in Southern cotton country.

  “Go ahead.” Garber cranks the handle and opens the safe, revealing a stack of paper money, bound tight with string. A Derringer rests on top, the barrel no longer than a thumb, but the wide-bore muzzle assures at least a forty-caliber response to any irregular business. Next to the currency sits a clutch of little cloth bags—gold dust, most likely. He reaches deep into the safe, both arms straining as he removes a small black box, far heavier than its size would reckon. It clanks and jangles as Garber labors to his feet and lugs the box to his desk, where Xenia pours whiskey for what appears to be the first time in her life. She doles a tiny splash into one glass, then tops the other off with a few drops to even it level with the first.

  Garber sits down at his desk and flips his notebook to a clean sheet. “Now let’s see,” dipping his pen into the black goo of the inkwell. “Eighty acres and seventeen-fifty comes to . . .”

  “It’s eighty-five acres,” I say.

  A thoughtful smile spreads across his face. “Well, there is that one knoll on your property that’s not really suitable for grazing. I thought it best not to give Mister Whitlock any point of leverage in the negotiation, so I exempted that particular five-acre parcel from the sale. And while it might be too steep for heifers, it sure would be a lovely spot for a house—perhaps a little garden, maybe even a barn.”

  “You saying you want it?”

  “No, Mister Two-Trees. I’m saying it’s still yours. Should you ever decide to return to Caliche Bend, you have a prime little spread waiting, which you own, legally and outright.”

  “Why . . . would you do that?” I feel the words form in my throat, but hardly hear them pass my mouth.

  “Because I am a man of my word,” Garber says. “There is a place for you in the Bend. A place as sheriff. And also a home.”

  “You drive a stubborn mule awful hard, Mister Garber. But my mind’s made up. I am heading off to California soon as I figure how best to get there.”

  “I know better than to try changing a young man’s mind,” Garber opening the little box. “When I decided to move West, not a pack of wolves could’ve stopped me. That will be all, Xenia.” The girl curtsies and starts back toward the stairs.

  “Miss, you make a fine cup of coffee,” my voice stopping her. She tries not to smile, which only makes her smile harder. I hold my gaze and give a little nod, and then she crumbles and giggles her way upstairs. The sound of clinking metal spins me back toward the desk, where he has the box open and is counting out a golden pillar of twenty-dollar double-eagles. I have seen men kill for less coin; Garber puts too much faith in that tiny Derringer. If word got out what riches reside in that safe, the floor grooves from his wheeled chair would run red with the blood of a dead estate agent and his bullet-ridden negro girl. But as much as this man likes to tell me my business, I opt not to tell him his. Instead I ease over to my chair and pick up my satchel.

  “Eighty acres at seventeen-fifty comes to fourteen hundred dollars,” Garber says. “My commission of three percent—that’s forty-two dollars—leaving a total of . . .”

  “Make sure you minus off that hundred what you paid the clerk.”

  Garber dips his head in gratitude. “Very well. Thank you very much.” He scribbles a few more numbers and looks up. “That leaves you with a grand total of twelve hundred and fifty-eight dollars.” He divides the pile of double-eagles into two stacks of thirty, like a dealer counting out poker chips. Reaching back into the metal box, he thumbs out four ten-dollar eagles, two half-eagles, and eight dollar coins, which he stacks on top of the gold. He slides both piles across the desk.

  I scoop up the money. The weight of the gold—a heft like nothing else—sits heavy in my hands. After a long moment, I deposit the lode into my trouser pocket. Garber withdraws a document from a file and lays it in front of me.

  “And this is your deed for the five acres you still own. Keep it safe, Mister Two-Trees.” I gaze down at the gibberish on the page, but I know enough to spot my name and the number 5—the acreage—and can see that the words, a half-page worth, are printed in Garber’s careful hand. Still, an uneasy feeling dips my heart at the site of the document.

  “I ain’t wearing my spectacles,” I say.

  Garber peers though his wire frames, reading. “A parcel of five acres commencing at the southern bank of Merriwether Creek and extending south to latitude thirty-six degrees, five minutes, twenty-point-two seconds North.”

  “Maybe you ought make a copy of this and keep it here with you,” I say.

  Garber smiles. “I took the liberty of doing that very thing.” He produces a second paper from the folder and lays it next to the first. They look the same to me, but I pretend to give it a ha
rd look. I draw back the flap of my satchel and drop a bundle rolled up in muslin on his desk. Garber’s eyes go wide with surprise.

  “What is that?” he asks.

  “Pronghorn.”

  Garber removes the muslin covering and unfurls the roll across his blotter. “My goodness,” he says, running his fingers over the yearling’s soft hide. “It’s marvelous.”

  “Worth good money too.”

  “I should never sell it. In fact, I’ll have it mounted here in the office.” Garber stands and hands me a whiskey. “They say in a good business deal, no one goes away happy. Here’s to proving them wrong.”

  “Hear hear,” clinking my glass into his. The whiskey goes down smooth and warm in a single slug.

  “How are you getting to California?” Garber refilling our glasses.

  “I figure we’d make easy stages, maybe get a second horse, take some of the burden off.”

  Garber’s eyes narrow. “You mean ride to California, on horseback?”

  “Folks been doing it for years.”

  “And for every man who’s made it, there’s a dozen who never got past the mountains. And then you have an entire desert to deal with.”

  “Well,” I shrug. “Maybe we head down Galveston and book a steamer.”

  “Around the Horn? Sir, you’re talking about months. Nauseating months. With your horse in a black, airless hold. The poor beast would wither to bone.”

  “I’m not selling Storm. He goes where I go.”

  “Well, then, why not go aboard the finest mode of transportation ever created, the majestic road of the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe. The ticket agent is just down the street here.”

  “Well, I can’t damn well put a horse on a train.”

  “Mister Two-Trees, you have twelve-hundred dollars in your pocket. You are a man of means now. Money solves problems. Surely one of the stock cars can by outfitted to keep the animal comfortable for three days.”

  The train. It never occurred to me. My only train ride of my life has been on top of a coal car, and that was to kill a man. I have never stepped foot in one of the coaches—Pullmans, they call them. I flop open the satchel and—drawing my knife—slice off a chunk of carne seca and hand it to him. Garber pops it into his mouth without quarrel, his eyes brightening at the taste.

  “What is that?”

  “Pronghorn again.”

  “Delicious.”

  “How much you think they’re asking for a ticket on the Santa Fe?”

  “I don’t know exactly. But I know you can afford it.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The door of Garber’s house has barely closed behind me when I look out to the street and find a pair of men expressing an untoward interest in Storm. The stallion, left to his usual disposition, would nip at a harmless child just for sport, so for him to allow two meddling adults into such proximity can only attest to the depths to which our rigorous adventure has depleted him. He lets out a blow at the sight of me, but the strangers fail to make the connection. The tallest of the two, wide of shoulder and sporting a thick, rust-colored beard that flowers from nose to chest like an unruly shrub, runs a lingering eye along the stallion’s flank, whistling approval in a covetous whine that does nothing to quell the animal’s irritation.

  The second man, a full head shorter and cobbled together from an afterthought of undernourished body parts, fixates on the saddlebags and the possible treasures therein. The Spencer, scabbarded behind the left fender where I now regret leaving it, juts straight up, its varnished stock catching a streak of sunlight. The rifle may be older than I am, and due for a good smith, but we have been through too much together for me to see it lain across another man’s saddle, or worse, aimed at my head. I slip down from the porch onto the stone path and push my hands deep into my front pockets. My left knuckles bump against the weight of loose gold while the fingers of my right hand find the handle of the thirty-two.

  “I’ll be damned if this stud don’t got a set of balls like a grizzly bear,” the big man says. I float in behind them with only the low gate separating us.

  “Got a bite like one too,” I say, flipping the latch on the gate and stepping through. The big man turns, a mass of weathered buckskin rotating in my direction. His movement is slow, but his eyes are cruel and alive. He makes no effort to step aside. I continue on toward the saddlebag. One of the buckles seems to have unclasped itself since I left it—a victim, no doubt, of probing curiosity. His friend inhales a snort of air, coming around Storm’s front for a better look. I am not concerned about the little one. But the big man is worthy of attention, although I pretend not give it, deciding instead to proceed as if nothing is the matter. The buck-skinned mountain holds his ground—close enough to feel his breath on my neck. The air between us bristles with tension.

  “Who the hell’s this, Kirby?” the little one says, switching his weight from one twig of a leg to the next. From the corner of my eye, I see Storm bare his teeth. The man called Kirby—still unable to shake his surprise at my arrival, or the perceived audacity with which I have administered it—offers, by way of response, a deep, rumbling belch. To punctuate the act—a foul regurgitation of his breakfast: eggs, coffee and whiskey—he exhales the unpleasant air pointedly in my direction.

  “Dunno.” Kirby’s voice is graveled and spiked with a riptide of hostility. “But he seems partial to sneaking up on a man, ’stead of walking in regular.”

  “That sure ain’t a recipe for long livin’.”

  “That it is not, Lem. That it is not.” I refasten the buckle on the saddlebag and feel his eyes roll over me like cold rain. “Good looking horse.”

  “Thank you,” I say, reeling in Storm’s rope.

  “The compliment was to the horse, not to you,” Kirby says, bringing forth from Lem a piercing cackle that leaves him spitting and winded. I reach into the bag and pull out the holster belt and my pearl-handled Colts. The sight of the pistols, shining in the rising sun, ends the laughter.

  “Well,” I say. “I’ll be sure to pass it along.”

  “I guess I’d give you twenty bucks for him,” Kirby says.

  “Thanks anyway.”

  “Fifty, then.”

  “He’s not for sale.”

  “Shit, everything’s for sale.” Kirby balls his meaty paws into fists and rests them against his hip. “Fine, damn it. Make it a hundred. Got me haggling like a Jew diamond peddler.”

  “My answer is no. Not for a hundred, not a thousand.”

  “Hell, no fella turn his nose up to that kind of coin,” Lem jabbing a finger in the air. “Now you’re just being rude.”

  “Just tired of repeating myself.”

  Kirby edges closer, his gaze inspecting me head to toe. “You know, Lem. I think I’m picking up a whiff of red meat around here.” Kirby’s eyes shrink into slits, his nose crinkling. “Oh, yeah. Sure as I’m breathin’. No wonder he comes sidling up like a snake. It’s in his blood.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned. Injun all trimmed up, trying to pass off as white.”

  I grab the horn to swing up and feel Kirby’s paddle of a hand clamp my shoulder.

  “How about I just take your horse?”

  “Then you’d be a horse thief,” I say. “Horse thieves get hanged.”

  “Ain’t that a kick?” Kirby forcing a smile. “A red-blooded rustler sermonizing ’bout horse-thieving.”

  “Maybe next he’ll be preaching the Gospel,” Lem slapping his knee. He takes a rickety step backward and that is when Storm goes for him. The stallion snaps his head forward, teeth bared, and catches a bit of pale flesh behind Lem’s right ear, leaving a deep, red gash where the skin had been. The man’s face stares in disbelief at the speed of the attack and then contorts as the pain takes hold. Blood seeps through his fingers as he presses his hand against the wound, doubling over in rage-filled agony.

  “He bit me. Bastard bit me!” Lem springs upright again, his eyes narrowed in focused anger. Lunging forward, he throws a sw
eeping left hook that misses Storm’s head entirely. As the stallion dances clear, Lem’s momentum carries him for another wobbly stride before stumbling him to the ground. Kirby stifles a chuckle behind me, and farther on, a few far-off voices let their laughter fly.

  “Lem, just you set there a spell and catch a breath,” Kirby says.

  “Hell I will,” Lem reaching inside his vest. I close the distance in two steps.

  “Draw and I’ll kill you.” The steel of my tone freezes him cold. A glint of metal emerges from within his vest and lingers there a brief moment before a bloodied fist returns it to its place of concealment. Kirby’s shadow fills the ground at my feet as he moves in.

  “That horse needs to learn some manners and so do you.” I turn back and meet his eye.

  “Let me pass and we will have no trouble.”

  “Trouble has already pitched a tent. Now what you gonna do about my friend?”

  “His own fault,” I say. “You don’t move like that near a stallion’s head. Everyone knows that.”

  “You calling him stupid?”

  “He provoked him,” I say. “Like you’re provoking me now.” Kirby slams both his hands into my chest, knocking me back a step.

  “What if I am?” He shoves me again, only now there is a crowd gathering, and I have not yet learned where I stand in the eyes of this town or its people. But when Kirby approaches a third time, he cocks his arm across his chest, aiming to back-hand me. I curl my fingers around the row of coins in my pocket. “Hell, I’ve raped squaws that put up more tussle than this one.”