by Pamela Morsi
Stanley Honnebuzz huffed angrily. "I, for one, sir, have invested too much in this year's crop to be satisfied with last year's success."
The old man stopped jawing his tobacco long enough to give the young lawyer a disdainful frown.
"Don't you be talking down to me, young feller," Plug said. "I done forgot more about cotton than a knothead like you'll ever know."
With a smoothness acquired from working with hair-triggered cowboys, Gidry effectively separated he two with soft spoken words.
"I'm sure everyone wants a successful year," he laid. "But farming has always been a risky pursuit."
His memories of dealing with the men of Chavistown had not been good ones. At twenty-one Gidry tad been routinely treated with dismissive and even casual derision. He was a spoiled rich boy for whom no one had any real respect. He had anticipated this morning to have to win them over. But clearly today it was not needed. The gentlemen of Chavistown were far too concerned with local problems to see the arrival of the heir to the community's wealthiest citizen as anything but welcome.
"How has Chavistown managed to prosper continually while other cotton towns suffer good years and bad?" he asked.
"'Cause we had your father," Conrad Peterson explained. "The old man never let us down, not once. Not even when your mama left him or when you ... hell, he always kept his eye on the good of the community."
The words were spoken almost as a challenge. As if the men expected him to disagree with their interpretation of his father's life. Perhaps at twenty-one he might have, but not now.
"I am certain that my father still wants what is best for Chavistown. Unfortunately, he can no longer tell us what he thinks that is," Gidry replied.
The long moment of quiet thoughtfulness in the well appointed meeting room above Champion's Tin & Hardware was almost a silent prayer.
"Peer Chavis can't tell us what to do," Gidry said evenly. "So we must figure it out for ourselves."
The men around him raised their eyes to look at Gidry, hopefully. They wanted the answer simply to be given to them. And they wanted him to be the one to hand it out. In a way, it was almost too easy. Gidry should not, to his own mind, have been allowed to come home with no questions asked, no reprimand given. He had walked away almost carelessly, without looking back to see what trouble he left in his wake. Now he was being allowed to return not as the errant troublemaker he had been, but as the prodigal son, for whom they were dutifully killing the fatted calf.
"Tell me how you operate," Gidry said. "What exactly does the Commercial Club do for Chavistown.'
"We are Chavistown," Stanley Honnebuzz declared with some self importance.
"Mayor Paxton is our only elected official," old Mr. Crane explained. "And he's a mere figurehead."
"Judge Ramey oversees our dealings with the big boys in Austin. It's the Commercial Club that has the constable on its payroll," Albert Fenton said.
The judge spoke for himself. "I preside over our County Council, but all the councilmen are current or former members of the Commercial Club. We pretty much do what we like here in Chavistown. Your father liked it that way, and the folks that live here do also."
"Them council fellers take care of the official business," Plug told him. "But we, the Commercial Club, we're the ones what always takes care of Chavistown."
"Good business makes for good towns," Elmer Corsen piped up.
There were murmurs of agreement and approval all around. Gidry nodded and managed to look noncommittal. In his travels, he'd seen dozens of Texas towns like this one. Run exclusively by a small group of men as if it were a medieval fiefdom. It was not a very representative form of government, but it was a very efficient one.
"How have you and my father managed to keep business so good?" Gidry asked.
"We've always managed to top the commodity price for cotton by selling the whole county cooperatively," Corsen said.
"Your father would deal directly with the mills," Fenton went on. "By selling every bale in a hundred mile radius at one time, he could command a higher price."
"And when the production of the whole county is headed for one destination," Conrad Peterson added, "Peer could negotiate for a sweet shipping price by rail."
"And your old papa weren't against slipping the railroad men a dollar or two under the table now and then," Plug pointed out.
That declaration produced a room full of knowing chuckles.
"The railroad men get twice the joy out of a dollar under the table than they do a tenspot above board," Albert Fenton joked.
Reverend Hathaway cleared his throat meaningfully, and the jocularity subsided.
"Well," Gidry said, "I don't see any reason why we can't continue in just the way my father would."
The men looked around sheepishly at each other, each one seemingly hesitant to speak.
"Is there something else I don't know?" Gidry asked.
Judge Ramey spoke up.
“There are upfront costs in this cooperative," he said. “The fuel for operation of the gin, the shares paid to farmers, the baling costs, all of that was regularly taken care of by your father."
"He always took the risks," Peterson explained. "That's why he took the largest share."
Gidry was silent and thoughtful for a long moment. They needed money. Of course that was why he was so easily taken into the fold; finances, not friendship, forged this renewed respect.
"I haven't even been to the bank," Gidry told them "Elmer, I assume my father had money set aside for this."
"He did indeed," Corsen assured him. "And as you're the next of kin, I'm sure the judge can set up the paperwork for you to have access to it."
Slowly Gidry nodded. They needed him. But strangely, he needed them as well. This community was his father's greatest achievement. He had let the old man down eight years ago and lived to regret it. It was not a mistake that he would make again.
"If I'm risking my father's money, I would prefer handling the business arrangements myself," he told them. "But I could certainly use some help. Perhaps you already have among you someone who is adept at driving a hard bargain."
"Albert Fenton has the first nickel he ever saw," Elmer Corsen said.
Fenton looked momentarily taken aback, and sat up in a more defensive posture as if the words were a criticism. Before he could reply, Gidry smiled at him.
"Then perhaps you are our man, Mr. Fenton," he said. "Driving a hard bargain is a skill as worthy and in need of constant practice as throwing a lariat."
"Well I don't know I..."
"What was it you said, Mr. Corsen?" Gidry asked rhetorically. "Good business makes for good towns. Your own business, Mr. Fenton, has been extremely successful. If you are willing to use some of what you've learned to help the community, I'm sure we'd all be appreciative."
"I... well of course I'd be willing to help," Fenton conceded. "But I know absolutely nothing about cotton mills or shipping. Your father always did that."
"And I'm sure he kept good records," Gidry replied. "I'll go over the books at the gin. I'm sure all of the places we've sold to and the prices we've paid will be noted right there in my father's hand."
"But that won't tell us where to sell to this year," Honnebuzz said.
"No," Gidry agreed, "but it will give us an idea of where to start."
Men nodded to each other; murmurs of approval could be heard among those gathered.
"Mr. Wilburn," Gidry suggested, "if you could get the word out to the farmers, we can start ginning day after tomorrow. Have them bring their crops to town as soon as they are ready."
"I'll let them all know," he said.
Gidry turned to Main Avenue's most prosperous merchant. "Mr. Fenton, why don't you begin tentative talks with the railroad men about shipping costs and destinations."
The man nodded agreeably.
"Elmer, if you and Mr. Peterson would keep an eye on the current commodity prices and report regularly to us, that would be helpful," Gidry sai
d.
"Yes, sir," Elmer replied.
The respectful form of address hung in the room for a long moment. Gidry felt himself go cold and still inside. He was a young, rootless cowboy who'd thrown away his life here for wild ways and fast women. The men in this room were mostly older and surely wiser than he himself. He was undeserving of their trust or their deference. Calling Goodtime Gidry Chavis sir was certainly only a slip of the tongue. Yet no one remarked upon it, and no attempt was made to retract it.
Plug Whitstone chuckled. "It appears you've turned out to be more like your daddy than we thought."
Gidry was genuinely humbled by the old man's words.
"I intend to try to live up to my father's example," he said.
"I suspect that's all we can ask," Plug replied.
Gidry nodded acceptance.
"Then is that all the business we need to take care of?" he asked the group.
“That ain't even the half of it." Henry Tatum spoke up with a troubled sigh.
"The town's major concern right now is the crime troubles," Reverend Hathaway explained.
"Crime troubles?" Gidry's brow furrowed in curiosity.
The reverend nodded. "We have a thieving sinner in our midst."
Hathaway's dramatic biblical reference was very much to the point and earned nods of approval all around the room.
"I heard Ollie Larson on his soapbox yesterday," Gidry said. "But I thought he was exaggerating."
"I wish he was," Stanley Honnebuzz complained. "My house has been broken into a half dozen times. We've got a burglar or a gang of burglars in this town. And the sooner we figure out a way to stop them, the better."
"What were they after?" Gidry asked.
Honnebuzz looked momentarily uncomfortable.
"I done been burgled twice," Oscar Tatum said. "And somebody's got to do something about it."
“Twice?" Gidry was astounded. "Who would rob a livery stable?"
"These thieves'll rob near anybody for nearly anything," Plug told him.
"They stole Gimp Watkin's wooden leg," Silas Crane added. "I told his widow she should have buried him with it."
"It's almost as if they know us," Reverend Hathaway said. "As if they are familiar with when we are at home and when we are not."
"You've been robbed, Pastor?" Gidry questioned.
He nodded. "On a sunny Sabbath afternoon," he answered. "Mrs. Hathaway and I always take a Sunday stroll, weather permitting. They took a lovely inlaid mother-of-pearl hairbrush and a photo-gram of my wife's uncle Lucius in his Confederate uniform." The reverend sighed sadly. "He was killed at Manassas in '61. It was the only image ever taken of him."
Gidry was very puzzled. "They didn't take your silverware?"
The reverend shook his head. "No, nor any of my wife's jewelry either. It is a modest collection, but certainly worth more than the hairbrush or poor, dear Uncle Lucius."
"Why would a thief steal a photogram and leave jewels?" Gidry asked, almost to himself.
"It doesn't matter what they steal," Stanley Honnebuzz said. "What matters is that they steal, and it must stop."
Plug Whitstone looked at Gidry assessingly. "I heard you come into town carrying a Winchester. Did your life out in the Pecos teach you how to use it?"
Gidry stared back at the old man evenly. "I can protect myself and what's mine. I wouldn't willingly take on the task of protecting a whole town."
"Well, somebody's got to do it," Oscar Tatum said. "If not you, then one of them Rangers or peacemakers."
Amos Wilburn shook his head stubbornly. "I'm not voting to bring in no stranger. Especially one with a gunman's reputation. I got daughters to think of."
"Don't be a knothead, Wilburn," Plug ordered.
The meeting erupted in pandemonium as simultaneously every member of the Commercial Club decided to voice his opinion.
Gidry allowed the shouting match to proceed unchecked. He was thinking about his father. He was thinking about his duty to the town. He was thinking about a thief who passed over the valuables to take souvenirs.
He was thinking about the woman who lived next door to him who used to love him and now carried on discreet liaisons in her aunt's milking shed.
Chapter Eight
Henrietta Pauling raised the window shades in the sickroom to let the morning sunlight shine in. It was still hot as summer outside, but the beginnings of the fall season could already be seen. The twittering birds were mostly sparrows and barn swallows. The plants still blooming, were latecomers and hangers-on, periwinkle and lantanas. The last of the crepe myrtle blossoms lay like bits of confetti beneath the bushes. Though the trees still had full foliage, here and there they had begun to turn the bright colors of autumn.
Across the wide lawn she could see her own neat little house and the garden that she had spent so many long years tending. It was Pru's garden now, of course. Henrietta worked in the soil there from time to time, but she was glad to give up the responsibility of it to her niece. She had other concerns now. Other troubles to fill her days and disturb her nights.
"It's a beautiful day, Peer," she announced to the man who lay still and silent in his sickbed. "A beautiful, fine day. It always puzzled me why folks make so much of spring, when the fall can be just as lovely.
It doesn't rain nearly as much. And the first cool breeze after a grueling summer can be more invigorating to a tired heart than the warmth of April."
She turned to face Chavis. His eyes followed her, but the frozen side of his face made his expression unreadable.
"I know what you're thinking," she said. "You're thinking how can a woman who's spent the better part of her life tending to flowers not prefer blossoming time over the browning of autumn."
The old man remained silent.
"Well, I didn't say I preferred the autumn," she told him. "Only that it has a beauty of its own that I'm clear thinking enough to appreciate."
She stepped closer to the bed and his right hand, trembling, reached out for her own.
They entwined their fingers as Henrietta seated herself on the edge of the bed. The contact eased him somehow as if the very touch of her skin had the power to heal. It tugged upon Henrietta's heart.
"When we have a beautiful fall day like this," she told him softly, "I often think about the sweet old days when I was a girl."
He looked up at her. His smiling eyes could not quite be matched by the crooked, half downturned curve of his lips.
"Yes sir, I do know what a long time ago that was," she said, feigning offense. "But it's easy to forget. Except for these tired old bones and this face in the mirror, I'm still that same young gal. Willing and able to pick cotton all day on my hands and knees and then dance all night like I hadn't a care in the world."
She laughed softly and shook her head.
"I guess back then I really didn't have a care in the world," she said. "I just thought things would always be as they were."
Her expression sobered.
"Change," she said. "That's a thing that's hard to get your mind around. We rail against it and try to hold it back, but it's inevitable. And it's as natural to life as breathing."
She was staring down at the flowered pattern in the chenille rug at her feet.
"Change was something I'd never expected," she said. "And even after all these years I still find myself fighting against it."
She felt the pressure of his grasp tighten and turned her attention to Peer's face. His gaze was solemn now, solemn but full of strength. They stared at each other for a long moment. Henrietta finally smiled.
"Here I am supposedly nursing you to health and you have to waste your energy keeping me from drifting off into old maid's melancholy," she said. "Peer Chavis, how did a smart fellow like you get your life in such a tangle with mine?"
He didn't answer, but a gleam of fine humor could be detected in his eyes.
"I'll bet it was those pigtails of mine," she postulated. "I remember how you couldn't keep your hands off of
them. Sticking the ends in your inkwell and jerking on them pretending they were bell ropes. I must have complained to my mama a million times, 'Peer Chavis is pulling on my pigtails.' I can't even guess how many switchings you took for torturing me.”
She smiled and shook her head.
"And all that complaining didn't do a lick of good," she admitted. "You just kept on teasing me until I finally got mad enough to tease back. Now that was a fortunate turn of events. It was fine enough that I could call you names and giggle at you behind your back. But once I started getting my girlish curves, you were one dumbstruck fool."
She put her hands on her hips and glared at him, pretending superiority.
"I know you'd deny it if you could," she said. "Fortunately for me we've finally reached a place in life when you, Mr. Chavis, do not always get the last word."
Slowly she allowed her mouth to widen into a teasing grin.
"We were quite a team, two peas in a pod," she told him. "You could begin a sentence, and I'd be able to finish it off. Both of us always knew what the other was thinking. Now I have to do the whole sentence by myself with you just lying there being waited on hand and foot."
She looked down at him, laughing, but her heart in her eyes.
"I know what you are thinking now," she whispered.
A melancholy silence lingered between them. Henrietta deliberately threw if off.
"Do you recall that dance at Krueger's barn?" she asked him.
His mood seemed to lighten with her words.
"We must have paired up for every tune that night," she said. "I'll bet the whole town was talking about it. That was some of the finest fiddle playing that I can ever recall. And in my new party dress, I thought I was about the prettiest thing that ever waltzed in Texas."
The expression in his eyes seemed to admit agreement.
"You were liquored up tighter than a clock spring," she said, tutting at him disapprovingly. "And sneaking me away into the darkness like that. You should have been ashamed!"
Her disapproval was mostly feigned.