Last Will (The Lockes)

by Ron Schwab

  I replied, “I’m special administrator for Ralph's estate, which makes me responsible for collecting all of his assets and paying his bills until a will’s probated and an executor takes over. The problem I have here is that Ralph owned one hundred per cent of the bank’s stock, so the only shareholder he would be liable to would be himself. Since the bank was incorporated, individual shareholders are not ordinarily liable for a bank’s debt. Arguably, Ralph improperly managed the depositors’ funds, but this would likely require lawsuits against the estate by individual depositors to recover any shortfalls . . . that’s after the bank’s already gone under. That also assumes there are funds to recover from the estate.”

  “You telling us Ralph had empty pockets?” Thornton asked.

  “That’s a distinct possibility. It seems probable, in any event, the estate wouldn’t come close to covering any shortage.”

  “Who all is aware of this?” asked Dr. Mason.

  “As near as I know, just the men in this room. But I’ll have to file an inventory with the court soon, and then it will be a public record.”

  “And an hour later, there will be a run on the bank,” Mason said softly.

  Junker shook his head in disbelief. For a man who had scrimped and worked his way to financial success, he likely could not comprehend the idea that a man would play as loose with his money as Ralph had. He said, “Well, Ian, what do you want us to do?”

  I looked around the room, trying to read the somber faces of the board members. George’s face was impassive, revealing nothing. The others could not hide their worry and bewilderment. “One option is to close the bank immediately . . . before a run. If the bank’s going to fail, it would be fairest to all the customers if we just locked up. This way, nobody would have an advantage over anybody else. We’d pro-rate the cash among the depositors and hope to collect on some of the notes and throw that into the pot eventually . . . but there would be no more bank.”

  Mason said, “You seem to be implying there’s another option.”

  “There is. Put together some investors to buy the bank stock from the estate. I’d have to get court approval, but I’d propose to sell Ralph's 50,000 shares to the investors for a dollar a share, with an agreement they would pay the $50,000 into the bank to restore the equity account and another $35,000 to the surplus account to cover any bad notes . . . and they’d have to agree to release the estate from further liability. This would save the bank and clean up a nasty problem for the estate.”

  Thornton twisted his face and focused his eyes on rolling a cigarette. “Why would any damn fool want to buy in to this game?”

  “Profit.”

  “Profit? You’re telling us the goddamn bank’s near busted, and there’s still money to be made here?”

  “Absolutely. It’s fairly simple actually. Ralph was pulling out $25,000 a year in salary and profits besides raiding the capital accounts. That’s one hell of a lot of money. If investors put $84,000 into the stock and surplus account, most of it’s not seriously at risk. Some of the surplus is going to slip away on bad notes, maybe a bunch if it doesn’t rain. That’s where the risk is. But the new shareholders and directors can hire a good man to run the bank . . . be the president . . . for $10,000. That leaves the other $15,000 for dividends or increased surplus for expansion. This assumes the bank doesn’t grow. With the right kind of management, I think this bank could double or triple in size. Tilson had some excellent ideas that would encourage large depositors. A lot of the money around here goes out of county. How many of you have all of your funds in Wainwright Savings Bank?”

  There was no response. I continued. “This county has some wealthy men who don’t drop a dime here. The bank needs to be able to assure those folks their money’s safe and somebody needs to ask for their deposits. Ralph never made any effort to round up business.”

  Dr. Mason folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Ian, it sounds to me like you’ve been giving this a lot of thought. Your enthusiasm doesn’t seem to be with the closing option.”

  “I won’t deny it. I don’t want to see the bank fail. I don’t want to be a part of that. But if the investors can’t make a profit, the bank will go under sooner or later anyway. Some dimwitted folks cuss profit, but I’ve never seen anybody stay in business and provide jobs or merchandise or services without profits. I wouldn’t want my funds in a bank that lost money.”

  Mason said, “I’m not a wealthy man, but I could raise enough to put up ten percent . . . $8,500.”

  Junker nodded. “I could do that, but I would risk no more.”

  “Count me in for $8,500,” said Thornton.

  I still owed on the ranch mortgage, but I could borrow more on the place. Also, it occurred to me Cam might find the proposition interesting. Anyway, I had brought up the idea. Time to put my money with my mouth. “I’d go for ten percent, but I might need to let my brother, Cam, in on my share. Also, I’d have to ask the court to approve my participation, because I have a potential conflict of interest with my responsibility to the estate.”

  All eyes turned to George Washington, who had yet to offer a single word. “I’ll take the rest of it,” he said, “with one condition.”

  “What’s the condition?” I asked.

  “That you will serve as president of the bank for at least one year.”

  I was taken aback. George’s condition had not been a part of my calculations.

  “I don’t know if I can do that. I’m not sure I can just abandon my law practice.”

  I turned to the other board members. “What do the rest of you think about my running the bank?”

  Dr. Mason said, “Ian, it doesn’t really matter. As I understand it, each share has one vote. George will have sixty percent of the votes. He’s going to have the say-so about how the bank is run. But for what it’s worth, I think it’s an excellent idea.”

  “Ja,” said Junker.

  “Yep,” said Thornton.

  21

  Ian

  I SEARCHED THE horizon for some sign of Mandy and Casey. Over my protests, Casey had insisted upon saddling Hemlock and joining Mandy for a ride to the Little Blue River some three miles east of the Lazy Key. Somewhat to my annoyance, Hemlock had been docile as a child’s pony under Casey’s tutelage and given total lie to his reputation as a tyrant. I was beginning to take the gelding’s contrary behavior personally.

  Mandy and Casey had galloped out of the ranch yard faster than good sense dictated, and this had been cause for some apprehension on my part. Casey had shown a daring, wild side since her arrival with Emily in the rented buggy. She had presented herself ready for a day outdoors, attired in a yellow cotton shirt and blue dungarees, boys’ garments she had purchased at Carpenter’s Dry Goods Emporium. Her well-worn boots had evidently traveled with her from a past that did not involve the courtroom. All in all, I had to admit she was every bit as striking, if not more so, in her outdoor garb, as in the quality, tailored gowns and dresses she usually wore. Her feminine curves stretched the boys’ garments a bit, and lecher that I am, I duly noted the press of small, firm, and apparently unencumbered, breasts against the soft fabric of her shirt.

  The farmstead had come alive at Casey’s appearance. Mandy had rushed out to greet the visitors, Wolf warmed to Casey instantly, and even TJ plumped into her lap as soon as she took a seat on the porch step. After watering and graining the buggy horse, I returned to my domestic tasks, laying logs in the outdoor fire pit to prepare a bed of coals for the Dutch ovens—too damned hot to cook indoors. Emily had found a spot in the shade of a nearby oak with Whitman’s Leaves of Grass for companionship, while Mandy introduced Casey to the horses and critters. The camaraderie between the two appeared genuine, and that somehow pleased me. Their interaction was relaxed and natural, and from a distance they looked like two girls engaged in animated conversation, although in this instance the true girl was an inch or two taller than the woman.

  I pulled out my pocket watch and observed
that the riders had been out nearly two hours. I had told them the chuck wagon opened at one o’clock, which was a half hour away. I hoped Casey’s reversion to childhood did not include obliviousness to time. The clock and I are rarely parted, and I am inclined to be unforgiving about unexcused tardiness. I checked the stew simmering in the oven, shards of beef, large chunks of potatoes, a healthy contribution of green beans and carrots, and a smaller contingent of diced tomatoes and peppers. I had raspberry cobbler baking in one of the ovens and had another ready to receive biscuits as soon all of the guests returned.

  “Smells scrumptious.”

  I started at the sound of Emily’s voice, so absorbed had I been in my cooking chores. I got up from my knees and gave her a hug. “Yes, if the taste rises up to the aroma, we’ll eat quite well today, if I may say so myself.”

  “I wasn’t aware you had such culinary talents.”

  I smiled. “Culinary. Mandy’s favorite new word. Yes, I’ve had to hone my cooking skills since Mandy came here. She’s getting quite handy in the kitchen herself.”

  “She seems happy.”

  “Most of the time. But sometimes she descends into dark moods and long periods of silence. As if she’s been overwhelmed by a deep sadness.”

  “It could just be she’s growing up. At a certain age girls become prone to moodiness . . . or she could just be her father’s child.” She nudged me gently in the ribs.

  “It’s more than that,” I insisted.

  “Be patient. She seems quite smitten by Casey. I think that’s a good thing.”

  “I hope so. Casey’s something of an enigma to me.”

  “Interesting.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “On our way out, Casey said the same thing about you. Exact same words.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, that’s so. I highly recommend you both quit trying to appraise each other like a couple of law wranglers readying to do battle in the courtroom. Forget you’re lawyers. I told her the same thing.”

  I pulled out my watch again. “It’s fifteen minutes till one. I hope they haven’t run into trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble could they possibly encounter? You worry too much, Ian.”

  I had not told Emily about the recent visitor. There seemed no point. But I had been keeping a close eye on Mandy’s whereabouts, and I did worry when she was out of sight for long.

  “Besides,” Emily said, “Mandy couldn’t be under better care. Casey McGlaun can take care of both of them quite handily. She was raised in west Texas before civilization even came close. She lived with the Comanche for nearly two years, you know.”

  Emily’s remark got my attention. “I didn’t know.”

  “She was a captive. She and her mother were traveling in a small wagon train without military escort on their way to Fort Bliss to join her father when they were attacked by a Comanche war party. Casey was the only survivor. She was twelve at the time, and the Comanche occasionally took white children and raised them as their own. Quanah Parker, the chief of this particular band, himself was the son of a white woman who had been taken captive. Anyway, one of the braves was especially taken with her red hair, according to Casey, and he claimed her for himself. She lived with his family until she was nearly fourteen.” She hesitated. “I don’t know if I should be saying this. Casey doesn’t talk about her experience much, but she doesn’t treat it as a deep, dark secret, either. The past is relevant to Casey only for its lessons, I’d guess.”

  I left it to Emily to decide whether to continue.

  “Shortly before her fourteenth birthday, the brave who had saved her took her as his third wife. During the third week of their marriage, Casey made herself a widow when she cut the brave’s throat while he slept and then she escaped into the night.”

  “Jesus.”

  “A day later she stumbled upon a cavalry patrol and was eventually reunited with her father at Fort Bliss. She lived on post there for three years until her father was transferred to Fort Sill in Oklahoma Territory. He died there a year or so later, and Casey moved on to Colorado. Believe me, her life story would make quite a book. But so would yours.”

  “I suspect there’s a book in each person’s life . . . even yours, Emily Stanton.”

  Emily pointed to the knoll some one hundred yards distant that sloped toward the ranch yard. “You can put on your biscuits, Ian, the wayward riders are returning . . . right on schedule, I should say.”

  We had dinner at a table I set up on the veranda, and healthy appetites cleaned up most of the contents of the Dutch ovens. My guests seemed to genuinely appreciate the simple fare, and I accepted compliments graciously, and with some pride, I should add. Everybody pitched in with the cleanup, and I savored the good-natured banter that made the chore so pleasant. Solitude was most of my incentive for living on the ranch, but I did not mind the female companionship a bit. A man could get accustomed to it.

  We lazed on the porch and chatted for a while after the dishes were put away. Then Emily suggested she and Mandy play dominoes while Casey and I take a walk. “Show Casey the weeping springs,” Emily said.

  Casey and I looked at each other. Casey rolled her eyes and I shrugged and lifted myself from the comfortable rocker. “If Casey’s not too tired.”

  Rising quickly to the challenge, Casey said, “I need to stretch my legs after a morning in the saddle.”

  We strolled leisurely away from the ranch house and made our way into the arroyo behind the barn, following the cow trail there toward the far southwest corner of the pasture. “You had a good ride this morning?” I asked, trying to make conversation.

  “Perfect. I hadn’t ridden since spring, and I loved it. Hemlock’s a magnificent animal. Wherever did you find him?”

  “My brother, Cam, gave him to me. Cam raises Appaloosas. Frankly, Hemlock and I don’t get along so well, and I was never sure that Cam didn’t just shuck one of his troublemakers off on me. You seemed to have him charmed, though.”

  “I’ve always been able to handle most horses . . . and then I spent some time with the Comanche. Did Emily mention that?”

  “She did, in passing.”

  “They’re the greatest horsemen who ever lived, and the horses were the best of my experience there.”

  “It must have been terrifying.”

  “At first. But I decided I wanted to live, so I adapted and learned their ways, their language. When I quit trying to run away and stopped crying every time someone came near, they began to treat me as one of their own. I never gave up the idea of escaping, but I also made up my mind to be happy if I ended up living out my life there. I came to love many of the people, and I still wonder what has become of some of them. I know Quanah lives near Fort Sill with his seven or eight wives and is said to be taking up the white man’s ways. He is a charismatic leader, and he will survive. I might have stayed for many years if the brave who had taken me as a wife had not beaten me to within an inch of my life. I chose not to give him a second opportunity.”

  “You were very brave, I’d say.”

  “I did what I had to do.”

  “I understand that.”

  “Yes, you were in the war. I suppose you do. I think living with the Comanche would be greatly preferable to Gettysburg.”

  I changed the subject. “Did you and Mandy get as far as the Little Blue?”

  “Oh yes. It’s a lovely river. I see the source of its name. The water runs so clear over the sandy riverbed it looks like a huge blue ribbon. While we were there, something happened I thought I should mention.”

  “What’s that?”

  “While we rode along the river bank, I had a feeling we were being watched. I can’t explain it. The hair just bristled on the back of my neck. I didn’t say anything to Mandy but gradually let her get out ahead of me some distance. Then I dismounted and watched and waited. In a few minutes I heard movement in the woods and drew my pistol. He must have thought I had spotted him, because whoever
it was took off like a fresh branded calf. I would have gone after him, but I didn’t want to leave Mandy alone . . . especially if things didn’t go my way.”

  “You had a gun?”

  “Smith & Wesson Russian model, six inch barrel. It’s very accurate, not terribly heavy. I carry it in my possible sack or hand bag. Why would someone be following us?”

  “I honestly don’t know.” I told her about the prowler at the ranch. “Can you describe the man?”

  “Not close enough to get a good look. Smaller than average. Wide brimmed hat. Green shirt and gray trousers. Dressed a bit nicely for a stroll in the countryside. Ian, if he is the same man that was at your place last week, he wasn’t following me.”

  “I know.”

  As the arroyo faded into the flatter grasslands, we came to a translucent stream that tumbled over the sandstone sluice it had carved in a twisted path through the once lush meadows of my pasture. A few cows with calves at side were drinking at the stream and looked at us curiously.

  “Herefords,” Casey remarked. “They’re taking over cow country, aren’t they?”

  “Yes. But if it doesn’t rain soon, I’ll have to cull the herd mercilessly.” I gestured toward the dry, brown carpet that lined the stream. “They’ve about grubbed the grass to its roots.”

  “At least you’ve got water.”

  “Yes, that’s why I bought this place. Water. The windmill near the house pumps from a well that’s never been close to dry. And this stream is spring fed from a source on my land. This way.” I motioned her to head upstream.

  In a matter of minutes our trek turned up a steep slope, at the top of which was an enormous outcropping of sandstone, the most prominent of which was shaped like a giant mushroom. A scattering of oak and cottonwood furnished an oasis of shade for the area. As we reached the outcropping, the stream dead-ended into a wide clear pool, at the far end of which was a sandstone wall. Water trickled from the porous rock as though passing through a sieve, but most prominent on the wall were two parallel holes some three feet apart from which slowly poured rivulets of spring water.