by Patrick West
Clayton Weston dismounted and slowly walked down the rows of headstones until he came to the three he hated to see: his sister Valerie would have been twenty-one, his mother Lillian would have been fifty-three, and his Uncle Jake was fifty-seven when he died. It was nearly ten years since Clay was last here. It took him four of them to find the monsters who put his sister and mother here. Still, it was good to be back in Kansas.
His thoughts went back to when he left home at sixteen and began practicing with an old Smith and Wesson revolver. At eighteen he was a force to reckon with. By the time he was twenty, his draw and accuracy were next to none. During that time he carried the three handbills of the wanted men. As he stared at the gravestones, vivid thoughts came back to a saloon in a town called Flat Rock, and the three faces on the handbills.
He recalled giving the bills to the grey-haired sheriff who entered the saloon, and as luck would have it, the three men wanted for rape and murder were also in the saloon, hanging around at the bar. Catching sight of the exchange between Clay and the sheriff, one of the men stood up, swiftly followed by the other two. The lawman slowly drew his sidearm to make the arrest, but the three men had very different ideas. It was over in a heartbeat. The three monsters that haunted Clay's nightmares lay dead on the floor. From that day forward, Clay Weston became a name people whispered in every town he rode in to.
Shooting the three men in self defense didn't make him wanted by the law, but months later he found himself wanted by their kin or those who would make a name for themselves. Every town seemed to have a saddle tramp who wanted to prove they could do something better than him. The body count went up to sixteen. The American dime novels became the answer to the British Penny Dreadful, and portrayed him as a sociopathic killer. Around his thin waist was a gun belt with a holster set low on his thigh. A pearl-handled revolver rested squarely in it.
No one knew the real reason, and no one really cared. Clay Weston wasn't a vicious gunfighter. As a kid, he had walked into his home to find his mother and sister brutally raped and murdered, subsequently becoming a young man with a heavy heart, a young man who chose to dress in black as he rode from place to place trying to stay one step ahead of the grim reaper. But his reputation preceded him, and over time his notoriety grew.
"Clay?"
Clay turned and drew. His father, Will Weston, threw up his hands. "Whoa, boy! Now, I consider those dime store novels and a Penny Dreadful a bunch of cow pies, but they weren't talking nonsense when it came to being damn quick. I should have known better than to come up from behind you like that. I'm just damn glad to see you again, son. Your Uncle Jake asked for you in his final moments. I heard you were in Dodge City and sent a wire."
"Hello, dad." He took his father's hand and pulled him in close. "I'm sorry it's been so long. I wish I would have gotten here sooner. You look good. As for me, I'd like to change my name and start a new life, but I'm told a man's shadow will follow him no matter where he goes."
"The ranch is always here, son." His father looked at the three graves. "It's gonna be hard leaving them behind. I have a good thing going for me in San Francisco. Your Uncle Jake and I would have done well together. I guess it just wasn't meant to be with the both of us."
Clay nodded. "Back in Dodge, I had just enough time to pick your message up before I was invited on a trip out of town. Clay Weston isn't a name most loved by lawmen. So, a new restaurant in San Francisco? It's a long way from here."
His father smiled. "When you've lived on a ranch most of your life, you tend to learn how to cook quite well, son. Jake and I felt we'd do real well there. I have the paperwork all drawn up and ready for your signature. What do you say we head on back? I'll only be here for a few more days, and then it's all yours."
At the ranch, Clay brought his appaloosa paint up to the horse trough just as another man walked up and stood beside his father. Clay climbed down as the man reached out his hand.
"Hello, Clay. I'm Brad Rosalini, your father's foreman. Good to finally meet you. I've certainly heard a lot about you. All good since it came from your dad." Brad eyed the paint. "Beautiful animal. Silver gray and white are rarely seen in a paint."
Clay reached out his hand. "Brad. Nice to meet you, too. That's Jack. He's been my only friend so far. We've been through quite a bit together."
Brad nodded. "They say a dog is man's best friend, but you can't climb on a dog's back."
Clay laid his Stetson on the well's pump. "Keeping a low profile these days isn't easy."
Brad shrugged. "I don't pay much attention to the papers or those other silly publications, Clay. The papers are a bunch of propaganda, and those dime store books are more like a bunch of lies." He saw a tall young cowboy with broad shoulders. His dark hair was matted down with the exception of a few curls on his forehead. His blue eyes were clear and piercing. He saw what his boss did - a man dressed in black, including the Stetson he wore. Around his waist was a gun belt that held Smith and Wesson's latest sidearm, a forty-four model three with a pearl-style handle. The only other color was a red bandana with black circles. Brad saw the image of a gunfighter he often heard so much about, and it chilled him to the bone.
Clay's smile was genuine when he found the need to use it. Shallow dimples dug into his cheeks when he did. Around his mouth on both sides were two ripples. He was young at twenty-six, but his face showed the weathered years of a life that was trying to keep one step ahead of an early grave.
His father joined in the conversation. "Let's get the horses put away and fed. Then we can go inside and get ourselves the same. We can talk everything over, son. The lawyer, Bob Jenkins, has everything ready. You can take a ride into Saddlebrook and get that business done in the morning. I can also use a good drink for starters."
Clay grew silent when he once again stepped into the beautiful home his father had built with his own two hands. He could picture scenes from the past: his mother fixing dinner with his sister running around arranging things. Lillian Weston always wore her hair pulled back tightly into a bun that never quite reached the top of her head. She always had a smile for friends and family whenever they walked through the door. His sister
Valerie was a budding beauty back then with her auburn hair and big doe-like eyes that lit up when she smiled. He was the big brother. The young boys who often called on her knew their place when he was around. He suddenly felt his eyes go moist and turned away from the two men. It had been one day in both their lives that he couldn't protect her. It was then that he made them a sullen promise: to turn that lack of security into vengeance.
That night when he closed his eyes, he once again saw the stubble faces of the wanted men and their smiles with rotted and tobacco coated teeth. He once again heard the shots ring out and remembered the three bodies twisting and falling over chairs and tables, and the old sheriff holding a silent firearm and staring at him in total awe. Patrons backed up against walls, several of them whispering that they never even saw his hand move.
Not one of the publications mentioned anything about the thousand dollar reward for each man being donated to the Red River Orphanage. Then again, how could they build up the reputation and sell stories of a gunslinger who gave gifts? Each bathhouse he went to he held a gun at the ready, not knowing who would be on the other side of the door.
Food was already prepared, and the three men talked mostly about the ranch. Will talked about how he and his brother, Jake, came up with the idea of starting a new business. The conversation turned to friends and neighbors helping one another. No one brought up any of the dead men Clay left behind him. At the end of the day, a hot bath without worrying about who was on the other side of the door set Clay's mind at ease. For the first time in a long time he prayed it was over.
It was a cool morning when he and Jack set out for Saddlebrook. He needed time to think about becoming a rancher. His father still kept six ranch hands. By ten o'clock he was already half way to Saddlebrook. It was then that he saw the buckboard in the distance. The closer he looked, the more he realized something was wrong... the two horses pulling it were totally out of control.
Kicking Jack's flanks, it only took him several minutes to catch up with it. A young woman pulled on the reins without satisfaction. Clay reached the animal to the right of Jack. Leaning over, he grabbed for the harness and was on its back with a quick jump to the side. The horse to the right slowed with the other. He finally brought it to a complete stop and looked back at a young woman, her eyes wide with fright.
Jack was back at his side a moment later. Clay noticed the young lady was a bit younger than he thought. "Are you all right?"
She quickly got her breathing under control. "Yes, sir. Thank you. They got spooked for some reason. They just wouldn't slow down no matter what I did."
Clay guessed the young lady to be in her early twenties. Her strawberry blonde hair and blue eyes caught his attention immediately. Her off-white pants and slightly open blouse painted a picture of a heavenly body. She was beautiful. It was a long time since he'd actually looked at a woman that way.
"Sometimes they see a rattler or a cougar. Even at a distance they're not going to wait around to see how close it can get. Horses are all for themselves in that case. Where are you headed?" he asked her.
"Saddlebrook. I'm running an errand for Kitty Hawk. Well, her name is really Katrina Hawkins. She owns and runs the Kitty Hawk Saloon. I'm hoping the bottles aren't all broken back there. Everything was really being bounced around."
Clay stepped up on the cart and checked several boxes. "None that I can see. If you like, I'd be glad to hitch Jack to the back and take over the reins. I'm headed to Saddlebrook myself. What's your name?"
"Amanda. Amanda Dalton. I work for Kitty. Yes, I'm a saloon girl, but not the kind you're probably thinking. Don't get any ideas. Besides, I believe I thanked you already for helping me out."
Clay laughed openly. "I wasn't thinking anything. Everyone has to make some kind of a living. So, what do you say to my offer?"
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