Magnificent Guns of Seneca 6 (12 page)

Bob stepped out of the wagon and said, “I appreciate that, sir.
 
I also want you to know I appreciate you rescuing me from certain death and that I understand your hesitation about my intentions.”

The preacher grabbed the forward carriage’s hand rail and hoisted himself up.
 
“You always talk this much?”

“Only when I’m nervous, sir.”

“I put the gun away, son.”

Bob climbed up into the seat beside him and said, “Guns I’m used to.
 
I meant about being around a preacher.”

***

Bob reached up and clutched his throat, trying to force himself to swallow dry.
 
There was nothing to swallow.
 
He looked down at the cantina on the seat between him and the preacher and dreamed about the sea of refreshment within.
 
He wanted to lick the beads of sweat puddling on the seat’s wooden board.
 
He thought about grabbing for his gun.
 

“What are you doing?”

Bob turned back to face front and said, “Nothing.”

“Why you grabbing your throat?”

“Because I can’t swallow.”

“Swallow what?”

Bob shrugged and looked away.
 
The preacher picked up the cantina and tossed it into Bob’s lap.
 
“You waiting for a special invite, boy?
 
Drink the whole thing.
 
We’re not too far from Seneca 6, plus I got more in the back.”

“You sure, sir?”

The preacher looked at him sideways, trying to assess the young man’s tone.
 
“You’re either sassing me or you haven’t run into many kind people during the course of your life, son.”

“Not particularly, no sir.”

“Maybe it’s just that there aren’t too many to run into, Mister Ford.
 
The way I see it, there’s the types that are born good.
 
Graceful people from the ground up.
 
They come into this world like a cool breeze on a hot day.
 
Mainly, I reckon they’re womenfolk.”

 
Bob nodded while he thought about the Alvarez sisters, working girls who preyed on men at the Dalewood Saloon in the Filthy Five.
 
Beautiful and treacherous.
 
They could drain a man in more ways than fifteen.
 
Probably not the kind of cool breeze the preacher means,
he thought.
 

“The other types are ones making up for the wrongs they done.
 
Trying to buy back their souls a little piece at a time.”

Bob turned to look at the man’s hard, weather-beaten features and said, “Is that you, sir?”

The preacher grunted and said, “There’s not enough good I could do to pay off what I got coming, Mister Ford.
 
Let’s just say I’m trying to purchase some leniency.”

Chapter 9: Treat 'Em Like a Million Bucks

Betsy rocked the baby back and forth and hushed her but Claire shoved her hands away and wailed in protest.
 
Betsy tried sitting with her, standing with her, bouncing her.
 
Nothing worked.
 
She felt herself getting angry and knew it was time to put the child down and walk away.
 
She laid her back down in the crib and closed her eyes.
 
She took a deep breath and counted to ten.
 

“Everything all right?”

She looked up to see her husband leaning against the doorframe.
 
“No, not really.”

“I’ll take over.”

Betsy snorted in contempt, “Oh really?
 
Since when?”

“Since right now.
 
Since I saw you sitting there looking so tired.”

“Sure.
 
Go for it.”

Sam walked over to the crib and picked up his little girl.
 
His hands were bigger than the back of her head.
 
“What’s the matter, baby girl?
 
You cutting some teeth?” he said.
 
“I know that’s no fun.
 
When your daddy was a baby, grandpa would rub whiskey on his gums.
 
Worked like a charm.”

“You put whiskey in my child’s mouth and I will personally shoot you, Samuel Clayton,” Betsy said.
 

Sam smiled and bounced Claire up and down in his arms.
 
She stopped wailing and played with his face, sticking wet fingers in his mouth and talking in soft, high-pitched gurgles.
 
“See that?” Sam said.
 
“She’s a Clayton all right.
 
One talk of whiskey and she’s happy as a clam.”

Betsy sighed and stood up from the rocking chair.
 
“If you don’t mind, I’m gonna go lay down.
 
Hopefully she stays quiet long enough for me to actually fall asleep.”
 
She made it as far as the bedroom door when Claire threw back her head and started screaming again.
 
Betsy whimpered and dropped her head in defeat.
 
“Here.
 
Give her back to me.”

“Nope.
 
I’ve got a better idea.
 
You go on and lay down.
 
I’ll handle this.”

She looked at him skeptically.
 
“You're serious?”

“Absolutely.”
 
He carried Claire past her and said, “Come on, you.
 
Daddy’s gonna show you something.”
 
Sam pushed the front door open and walked out onto the porch, looking up at the glittering sky in the clear expanse beyond the mountain peaks.
 
He bounced Claire against his chest as he hurried down the steps and went around the side of the house.
 
“You want to see the ponies?” he said.
 

He walked over to the barn and Claire stared at his massive destrier.
 
He patted the animal on the side and said, “Be nice now.
 
Feel how soft he is.”
 
He took her tiny fingers and stroked the animal’s fur.
 
Claire laughed in wonder as she patted and pulled.
 
Sam grabbed his saddle horn and in one swift movement swung himself up onto the animal’s back.
 
He clicked his teeth and they backed out of the stall and started to walk.
 

Sam turned Claire around and sat her face forward in the saddle, keeping his arm around her small chest as they gently rocked side to side.
 
She played with the destrier’s mane and cooed softly as the cool evening breeze blew through her golden hair.
 
Sam looked up at the twin moons and said, “I wasn’t much older than your brother when we came here.
 
I spent my early years on a freighter where my daddy worked in the furnace room.
 
He hired on with the mining company and off we went.
 
I’d never seen a skyline before.
 
Couldn’t believe how big it was.
 
Sometimes I’d just sit on the porch look up at it, watching it change from day to night.”
 

He picked Claire back up and she laid her head against his chest and grew still.
 
“Guess I bored you back to sleep, huh?”

He kissed the top of her head and guided the destrier back to its stall.
 
He kept Claire tight to his chest as he lowered himself down and headed for the house.
 
He knew it wouldn’t always be so easy to make her content.
 
Knew it wouldn’t always be so easy to keep her safe.
 
But for right now, it was, and he took a deep breath of her fine, soft hair and locked the door behind him.
 

He put Claire down in her crib and checked the windows in her room.
 
Locked.
 
He shut her door and looked into his own bedroom.
 
Betsy lay on top of the covers, sound asleep.
 
He covered her up and walked around in the dark, inspecting the windows and the yard outside.
 
All silent.
 
All safe.
 
Sam unholstered his Colt Defender and laid it on the nightstand next to his pillow.
 
He stopped suddenly and lowered his head to listen.

Someone else was awake in the house.
 

He walked over to Jem’s door and pushed it open quietly, hearing the crickets singing through the open bedroom window.
 
Dual moonlight filled the room up with pale blue.
 
Jem’s eyes were clenched shut.
 
A little too clenched.
 
“What are you doing up so late?” Sam said.
 

“I couldn’t sleep cause you and Claire were outside.”

The boy’s pocketknife was laying on the nightstand next to him with the blade open, at the ready.
 
“What’s that for?” Sam said.

“Nothing.
 
I was just listening to make sure you were both okay.
 
In case he came back.”

“Oh,” Sam said softly.
 
He walked over to the nightstand and picked the knife up.
 
“What were you gonna do with this?
 
Whittle him to death?”

Jem grunted in protest, “You’re the one who told me anything could be a weapon.”

Sam nodded, “You’re right.
 
So what’s the matter, you don’t think the old man has what it takes to protect the family anymore?”

“No, I didn’t say that.
 
I just thought, you know, what if?”

“What if,” Sam whispered.
 
“Let me tell you about what if.
 
When I first hired on as a deputy sheriff I was greener than the grass in a rainforest.
 
I didn’t know how to talk to anyone.
 
I thought yelling at them was the only way to get them to listen to me.
 
I was mean, because I thought it made me sound tough.
 
But you know what it made me sound instead?
 
Stupid.”
 
He closed Jem’s knife and put it back on the nightstand, making sure it was out of the boy’s reach.
 
“Anyways, Lyle says to me one day—”

“Who’s Lyle?”

“The old sheriff. So anyway, Lyle says to me one day, ‘Boy, you ain’t gonna last long around here yelling at folks like that.
 
One day, you gonna need help and won’t nobody be around.
 
Plenty a’ lawmen got their lives saved by townsfolk who jumped in.
 
So always remember this here.
 
Treat everybody you meet like they was a million bucks.
 
And no matter what, always have a plan to kill `em.’”