The Boss's Boy

by Roy F. Chandler

  Settled, he said, "We will hold the sheriff off for a short spell, Mister Donovan. I have a proposition to offer my uncle. If he is wise, he will take it and shortly be on his way home. If he does not like what I offer, then we will call in Sheriff Cameron."

  Donovan nodded to Sheriff Cameron who stepped outside, closing the door behind him.

  The Irish prizefighter called The Hurricane placed a pair of heavy, wrought iron shackles on the desktop. He said, "I brought these leg irons up for the sheriff in case we needed them."

  Brascomb Miller stared at the shackles in poorly concealed horror. He had seen criminal wretches confined in such devices, but for himself? It was beyond comprehension and far exceeded a person of dignity's toleration.

  Matt ignored the leg irons and spoke as clearly as he could. This was the heart of their effort, and he wished to do it right.

  "Uncle Brascomb, I have no interest in anything you are doing east of the Susquehanna. I repeat—no interest at all.

  "When I gain control of the businesses, I will liquidate all that you have developed back there, much as you intended to do out here.

  "As you know, that will occur in the fall on my next birthday. When those businesses are closed, you will have nothing with which to earn a living. You are a clever and diligent man, and I am sure that you can reestablish yourself within a year or two—or three. I doubt, however, that you will ever again prosper as you have until this moment.

  "I do not wish you harm, and beyond disappointment in your attitudes and efforts to wound me, I can wish you well. Therefore, I have prepared an offer that will require immediate acceptance or rejection.

  "Accept, and you go your way. Reject and you will reside with us for as long as we can manage. I expect that I will be near my birthday by the time you will again encounter fresh air and sunlight. In the meantime, I will assume control of all business ventures and begin dissolving yours immediately."

  Matt reached below his knees and recovered two of the ledgers Scribner had brought from Philadelphia. He placed them on the desk, and Brascomb's gasp was obvious to all present. Then, Matt seemed to ignore them and their contents.

  Closely in front of his uncle, Matt placed three carefully drawn documents. He explained as his uncle read.

  "Mister Lukey Bates and Mister Roger Scribner have worked diligently preparing these agreements so that escaping from any of their requirements would prove difficult. As you will see, however, each is fair, and the result will allow you to continue much as you have been—although your personal coffers will be seriously depleted."

  The Boss's Boy waited as his uncle's eyes roamed the pages. Satisfied that Brascomb had the gist of his proposal he clarified.

  "This paper releases you of responsibility for me and, until I am twenty-one years of age, assigns guardianship of my person and all that I possess or may possess to Mister "China" Smith.

  "The second document grants you immediate and irrefutable ownership of all Miller businesses and possessions in and around Philadelphia. It will be signed by me.

  "In the final agreement, you pay me fifteen thousand dollars in gold for your purchase of those businesses and properties—and," Matt made his pause significant, "in return I will deliver to you the ledgers now on this table."

  Brascomb's mind had weighed all of the possibilities before Matt stopped speaking. He could manage it all, but the defeat was stultifying and the immense payout approached pauperizing. He would not simply succumb.

  His voice distant and strange to his ears, Brascomb said, "How could anyone manage a sum of fifteen thousand dollars? No one in our circles possesses that kind of wealth. Men retire on less than fifteen thousand dollars—and in gold? To raise that sum would beggar the businesses and me. I would have nothing."

  Matt was unbending. He tapped the ledgers on the desk suggestively.

  "Uncle Brascomb. Let me remind you of what these records contain. This is your secret set of books. They show clearly, in your handwriting, the amounts you have withheld from the Miller companies over the past twenty years. You secreted the ledgers in your safe, but you also underpaid, overworked, and demeaned your best clerk, so that he was willing to bring them with him when he left your service."

  Matt seemed to weigh the amount of money involved. "It is no secret that you spend little and hoard what you make. My father often joked that you, the bookkeeper, could probably buy him out.

  "Of course, the Captain did not know of the serious amounts you skimmed from company profits. If he had, you would have been disowned and shown the door."

  Matt again tapped the damning ledgers.

  "You have been a thief, Uncle Brascomb, and this evidence, shown to proper authorities, can put you in a state penitentiary for many miserable years.

  "You have my proposition. If you accept, you can put all of this behind.

  "You will meet with me in Harrisburg one month from now with payment in full, all fifteen thousand dollars in gold, or I will immediately thereafter deliver these ledgers to the proper magistrate in your city."

  Matt paused, and then quietly added, "Uncle Brascomb. You must sign my person and property over to China right now. Those present will witness your signature.

  "I will sign the eastern businesses and properties over to you, as witnessed by the same individuals, but that paper will remain in my possession until I receive full payment.

  "Decide now, Uncle, or immediately go to jail."

  Matt added a clincher. "If you do not comply, my next stop—while you languish in our jail—will be to Philadelphia with these ledgers in hand to report that the culprit is even now imprisoned in Duncannon awaiting higher authority's actions."

  Matt accepted an inkwell and pen from Lukey Bates and placed them on the desk within Brascomb's reach.

  His voice a snarl, Brascomb Miller took up the pen and dipped it in preparation for signing.

  "You are still a minor, young Matt. Your signature means little on anything."

  Matt remained cold. "That is all you will get, Uncle, but you have one solace. My word, unlike yours, is my bond. Deliver the money, and you will have the businesses and the ledgers."

  Brascomb signed, and three men witnessed. Wilhelm Brado held the door, and the uncle entered his carriage and was gone.

  China watched the carriage out of sight. "He might change his mind, Matt. Fifteen thousand dollars is a pile of money. And he is right. He can claim he was coerced, and your signature would not hold if it was challenged."

  "Correct, China, but if he even flickers, I will hold the ledgers over his head. Thanks to Scribner, we have him. He will scheme, and he will squirm, but there is no escape. If he signs, he has something. If he does not, he really will go to prison."

  The participants grouped within the office to exchange congratulations.

  Matt said, "Building a wall in front of the safe was nice, Lukey. If that big iron thing had been there for my uncle to wonder about, he might have put up a lot more resistance. The less he saw to like or be curious about, the better off we were."

  Bates shook his head in wonder. "Your uncle came prepared to destroy everything out here and fire us all, Matt. Then, he folded up and melted away as if all of his bones had been pulled from his body. He didn't even argue."

  "Brascomb Miller is cunning and clever, but he is no fighter, Lukey. His mind is quick, and he realized he was helpless and in a very bad position. My uncle would never be one to fight for principle. There was no profit in continuing, so he gave up. But, he will be planning and scheming. Do not doubt that for an instant.

  "Until I get the money, we cannot be certain, and when I go to Harrisburg to collect, I intend to be surrounded by a dozen or more Miller Men. I would not put it above Uncle Brascomb to appear with officers of the law planning to jail me until I gave up—or even have highwaymen waylay me somewhere on the road or even in the city streets."

  Matt smiled grimly, "Put these ledgers in the safe, Lukey. They are as valuable as gold."


  Matt shook Cameron's massive paw and enjoyed the man's huge Scottish grin. "You make a magnificent sheriff, Tim. Our enemy never thought to question that you might not be the real thing."

  Matt fingered the shiny star. "Where did you get this badge, anyway?"

  Clearly proud of his wordless performance, Cameron said, "I made it down at the shop. We cut the star out of iron and silver-coated it at the furnace. I soldered a pin on the back and hung it on my coat."

  Cameron admired the result before adding, "I like being sheriff. I think I will run for the office."

  All present agreed to vote for him, and Cameron left to resume his blacksmithing work.

  Matt returned the leg irons to Mickey McFee. "Where on earth did those come from, Mickey? I could hardly believe it when you dropped them on the desk, and they about took my uncle's breath away."

  "Klubber has had them for years. They are so rusted they won't open, but Tim Cameron thought they might be a good idea, and he was right. I figure they punched another hole in your uncle's scheming."

  There was more shared laughter before the meeting ended. Matt, China, and McFee went out the back door into the boxing yard. Mickey hammered a series of hard right hands into the heavy bag.

  Matt grumbled, "Don't think you have the day off or something, McFee," but his mind was already moving on.

  He needed time to digest his father's death and the fact that everything now rested on his shoulders. He believed he could handle it, especially with the help he had at hand, and the Irish Hurricane was one of them.

  Chapter 22

  China had brought Matt a gift from the city. The old sailor presented it almost shyly. Young Matt Miller was now the boss, and that made things a touch different.

  The gift was a pair of leather gloves. China held them out, but Mickey McFee, who had come by on business, grabbed them. China growled, but Mickey ignored the threat. McFee was obviously not overly intimidated by China's minor irritation or by Matt's new authority.

  McFee tried the gloves for size, but his fist was too large. Mickey said, "I have heard about these, China. These are just what I need."

  His words died in his throat, and he fumbled to restate. "What I meant was, these would be perfect if I was going to be a fighter again."

  Matt extended a palm, and McFee handed over the gloves.

  The gloves had no fingertips, but they fit snuggly, and they could be laced tightly high on the wrists. Matt could feel how they would tighten and protect his knuckles in a fistfight. There was a row of very rough stitching using hide thong across the knuckles. Another crossed the back of each glove, and a roughly whip-stitched line was included on the heel of the palm. The gloves were not pretty to look at, but it was no wonder that Mickey McFee had snatched at them. Matt had heard about gloves like this, but he had never seen a pair as finely made.

  China said, "You'll recall that Bootsy Van Horn wore tight gloves instead of hand wraps. I don't believe much in gloves for formal fighting. Wraps are better, but where a man can't walk around with his hands wrapped, he can usually pull on a pair of gloves without much comment.

  "I hope you have given up on the bare fist fighting, Matt, but the time might come when you will want to paste someone squarely in the chops. Then you slip on these gloves, which will offer some knuckle protection and cause a lot of damage.

  "If a fist is twisted just as it strikes, the hide stitching across the knuckles will rip skin like a flail. The hide across the back is handy when you are separating or throwing a backhand. The palm stitching is for scrubbing into a man's face when you clinch."

  McFee said, "I want a pair, China, where do I get them?"

  China glowered at him. "You are through fighting, McFee. You gave me, and Matt, your word."

  Mickey glared back. "And I keep my word, but I might run into someone just like Matt might. Then I could need a helper like these gloves."

  China had to admit that could happen. "I'll measure your fist and wrist, and get a pair made for you. I know the man who makes them, but I doubt you would ever encounter him."

  China warned, "I'm not buying them for you, McFee. Have your money ready, and they aren't cheap."

  The gloves provided a respite from the problems of the day, but Matt had to get back to the worries. He was now the decider. The livelihood of many lay on his shoulders, and he felt burdened by the responsibility.

  He had to find the work that employed his Miller Men, and times were changing. Brascomb Miller might consider Perry County a frontier, but civilization had arrived. Matt's association with Horace Thorpe, based on their successful bridge repair, would reap benefits, but with the canals completed, Commonwealth work was drying up in the area, and large contracts were fewer.

  Miller Men expected to work, and young Matt Miller had to be up to the task of providing those jobs. Right now, there was work at hand, but Matt knew he had to plan far ahead or he would come up short.

  Because their work had been steady, Miller Men were bringing their families from the cities. A few were building homes. Alex Donovan was one of them, and Matt had examined his foreman's house plans. His father had promised to sell Alex a five-acre plot separated from the section on which the hotels stood. When Donovan was ready, Matt would, of course, honor that promise.

  There was the matter of not enough water to properly spin his sawmill, and his creek dam was far behind schedule. They had done nothing about iron furnaces, and he had never gotten around to having tree stump pullers built.

  Matt was positive that he could permanently employ a number of stump pulling crews. Matt judged that the county would never run out of tree stumps, and as the communities grew and the population burgeoned, farmers and townsfolk alike would want the pestiferous stumps gone from their fields and streets. Matt made a mental note to go up the Little Buffalo Creek and speak to Mister Shatto who had the only iron stump puller he had seen.

  China had gone down to the restaurant, probably to court Mrs. Black, who, Matt judged, was about to announce her betrothal to Mister China Smith.

  He and McFee had punched the bags a little because they liked doing it. Mickey was still loitering as if he had something on his mind. Matt walked them through the office where Lukey and Scribner worked on books with Willy Brado leaning close to learn and out the front door to examine the river and the town laid out before them.

  Out front, Matt sat on a ladder-back rocker that China had positioned for river watching. McFee still stood around, so this might be the right time to approach him about courting his sister.

  Before he could begin, Mickey said, "Do you know Alex Donovan's daughter, Matt?"

  Surprised by the subject, Matt said, "I've seen her off and on. Her name is Bridgett, isn't it?"

  Mickey's nod was deep, and his sigh was long. "Matt, I'm planning on asking for her hand in marriage, and, well, I've run aground right there."

  Matt thought—Perfect! I'll have my say on his problem; then he will have to consider my request."

  Matt urged McFee ahead. "You would make a good husband and father, Mickey. Why are you hesitating?"

  "Because of Alex, Matt. I can't guess how he will react." Mickey laughed ruefully. "I don't want him to throw me in the canal again."

  Matt joined the laughter. "He would find it harder these days, Mick." Then he became serious.

  "Look at it another way, Mickey. You are a responsible man that he knows and has known since you were small. That has to mean something to a father who will be worrying about some Fancy Dan soap salesman coming to town and spiriting his daughter away."

  McFee was nodding, so Matt went on. "You have steady work with pay as good as his own, and he will recognize that if he can raise a family on what he makes, so can you. You go to the same church, and that is important."

  Matt winced mentally at his own comment. Unlike the McFees and the Donovans, he rarely attended church services—and when he did, he varied his denominations, so that his men would not suspect he was partial to one group over
another.

  Mickey's thoughts were moving on. "I've got a mother and sister to support, Matt. Alex won't like that part much."

  "Everybody brings along some baggage, Mickey. Seeing Alex hasn't gotten tired of that punched-up Irish mug of yours over the last dozen years, I think he will look kindly on you—assuming Bridgett and her mother see it the same.

  "Just go ahead and ask him, Mickey. You are a grown man by any measure, and most would say that you are already late in settling down."

  McFee snorted. "I'm no slower than you are Boss's Boy. I haven't heard your excuse for camping all alone up here in that drafty barracks we shared during the flood. I've just been waiting for the right girl."

  Now was the moment, and Matt seized it. He would have to hurry because China was coming back up the path.

  Matt said, "It happens, Mickey, that I've been meaning to speak to you—speak with you as the man of your house, that is."

  McFee looked suspicious, and Matt felt his head turning red with embarrassment. Over what? He didn't know, but it was always this way when he tried to speak about personal things.

  Across the river, a steam whistle screeched wildly and black smoke rose skyward in an almost vertical pillar of soot. The George Washington was coming, and the salesman skipper was throwing fat and green straw into the furnace to create an eye-catching column of smoke.

  Everyone's attention would be on the steamboat, and . . . Matt saw China pick up his walking pace. God, at just the moment he was trying to talk seriously to Mickey McFee. Matt plowed doggedly ahead.

  "The fact is, Mickey, I am asking your permission to court your sister Erin, and I have no more idea how to proceed than you do with Bridgett."

  McFee shifted his feet, squaring his body as if he were about to begin swinging. He did not ball his fists, so Matt did not raise his, but . . .?

  Mickey McFee said, "Well, it's about time! Erin has been brooding over you for more than a year. It is terrible around our house with worrying over the right head scarf or if her nose is shiny. I told her that men didn't even notice such things and that you were just slow and dopey, but she has been irritable about it just the same.