CHAPTER TWO
IT WAS NEARING midday when Clay arrived in Aberdene and pulled his wagon to a stop in front of the marshal’s office. Behind him, Cal Breckenridge’s body lay beneath a blanket. Sarge had ridden along, standing sentry on the journey into town.
Dodge Rankin, a short, portly man with a salt-and-pepper beard and a warm smile for any and all who did not violate the law, had served as marshal for over a decade. Tamping his pipe against the hitching rail, he acknowledged the arrival of his visitor. “Your timing’s perfect,” he said. “I just got back from Ralph Giddens’ place, where some of his cattle got rustled during the night. Indians from up in the Territory, be my guess. Been some time since I’ve seen you.”
The somber look from Clay made it obvious to the marshal that small talk was not in order. Stepping from the board sidewalk, he approached the wagon bed and lifted the blanket to view the swollen face of the young man, who was barely recognizable.
“This who I’m thinking it is?” Rankin said.
Clay nodded.
“Best come into my office, where we can talk. I’ll send someone to fetch Doc Franklin so he can begin tending to the necessary matters.”
Inside, Clay was recounting the morning’s events when the doctor arrived, short of breath, his round face flushed. Darwin Franklin was Aberdene’s only doctor, undertaker, and veterinarian. On any given day, he might deliver a baby, treat a cow whose milk had mysteriously turned sour, or help a grieving resident select a coffin.
“I’m sorry for you misery, Mr. Breckenridge,” the doctor said. “Rest assured I’ll fix him up properly. Have you given any thought to funeral plans?”
“No,” Clay replied. “No funeral.” In truth, he could not think of anyone who might attend. Too, his brother had never cared for preaching and hymn singing. “Once you’ve tended him and seen to a sturdy coffin, I’ll be putting him to rest back on the farm, alongside our folks.” Then, as an afterthought: “Soon as possible I’d appreciate you coming out to check on his horse that arrived lame and in some degree of pain. I’d prefer to avoid putting him down if at all possible.”
“I can be there early tomorrow morning,” Dr. Franklin said. “Meanwhile, it might be of use for you to start putting some warm rags on the horse’s leg to reduce the swelling.”
Rankin watched the doctor leave before returning the conversation to the death of Cal Breckenridge. “I can’t recall seeing young Cal since you boys were getting ready to go off and fight against the Union,” he said. “You seen or heard from him much lately?”
Clay shook his head.
“Got any thoughts on who might be responsible for this?”
Though Clay didn’t immediately answer, the marshal was already certain that the list of suspects might well be lengthy. A close friend of the boys’ father from the time his children were young, Rankin knew many of the troubles Cal had caused his old friend. Ed Breckenridge had occasionally shared his worries with the marshal when they were fishing together and drinking persimmon beer. The father could never understand what caused the anger and rebellion that so darkened the soul of one son while the other was kindhearted and loving.
There was a troubling meanness in Cal. He picked fights, drunk or sober, and had no friends aside from his older brother. He wasn’t above stealing now and then, rarely pulled his weight at chore time, and showed little respect for his elders.
When he joined the Confederate Army along with Clay, Ed allowed himself hope that the discipline of military service might provide the maturity his son so badly needed. Instead, his heart was broken when he learned that Cal had deserted.
Thereafter, Ed Breckenridge never again spoke his younger son’s name.
“Bein’ as we don’t know from which direction his horse might have come or how far he traveled,” the marshal said, “it’s likely to be difficult determining responsibility for your brother’s killing. But you’ve got my God-honest word I’ll be asking questions. And if you think of anyone I might need to speak to, just let me know.”
Clay stared at the floor as the marshal spoke. “Somebody will pay for what’s been done,” he said, his voice barely a whisper yet filled with a resolve Marshal Rankin had never before heard from the man seated across from him.
A GRAVE HAD been dug in the grove near the creek by the time the hearse arrived. Clay was in the barn, applying heat packs to the leg of his brother’s horse when Dr. Franklin called out.
Joining him on the trip to the farm was Jonesy Pate.
“Just so you know,” Pate said, “I invited myself to ride along after Doc here told me what has taken place. Figured you fellas might could use a hand with the lifting and burying.” A rancher and Breckenridge’s nearest neighbor, he and Clay had been friends since boyhood days. He’d been in town, having breakfast in the hotel dining room, when he’d overheard the doctor talking about Cal’s death.
Silently and with little ceremony, the men lifted the wooden casket from the hearse and lowered it into the grave. While Clay and Jonesy shoveled dirt, the doctor headed to the barn to examine the lame horse.
Once the burial was complete, Jonesy leaned against a tree trunk, studying his friend. Clay had read no scripture nor said a prayer once his brother had been laid to rest.
“What are you thinking?” Jonesy asked. “You’ve been mighty quiet.”
As they walked toward the barn, Clay reached into his pocket and withdrew a folded two-dollar note he’d removed from his brother’s body before taking it to town. He handed it to Jonesy, who unfolded and read the message scrawled on it.
Will Darby was a no-good coward. . . .
“Who do you reckon Will Darby might be?” Jonesy asked.
“My brother. It’s a name he took after he left the Confederates. He wrote me about it sometime back so I’d know the name he was using and his whereabouts. I wrote him a letter, telling him of Pa’s failing health and urging him to pay a visit. But he never showed.”
“Got any notion what this note’s about?”
Clay shook his head. “Only that somebody had a powerful grudge against him and appears to want the world to know about it.”
“You tell Marshal Rankin about it?”
“I got no reason to think the note was for the marshal’s benefit.”
Doc Franklin was rubbing liniment onto the horse’s leg when they entered the barn. “The heat you’ve been applying has helped with the swelling enough so that we can put on a splint,” he said. “I’m guessing he done damage to ligaments, most likely stepping in a gopher hole.
“I think there’s a good chance the leg will heal to a point that he’ll be able to walk without a problem, but should you choose to keep him, he’ll not be of much use for anything except eating and keeping the mares company.”
Clay stepped forward and stroked the animal’s neck. “Then I reckon that’s the future he’s got to look ahead to,” he said. “My brother thought highly of this horse. Raised him from a colt. And I figure the horse loved him back. When the need came, it was him who brought my brother home.”
After the doctor left, Clay and Jonesy sat on a bench outside the barn, silently facing the warm sunlight as it peeked through the limbs of the distant pecan trees.
It was Clay who finally spoke. “I’m wondering,” he said, “if you might consider doing me a favor.”
“Whatever you need.”
“I might be away for a spell and was wondering if you could spare one of your hands to come over and see to things here on the farm—keep doctoring Cal’s horse, feed the stock, keep my dog company, things of that nature. I’ve got calf money set aside, so I can afford to pay a fair wage.”
“I expect I could spare old Ruben. He’s a hard worker and honest, just not much at cowboying anymore, truth be known. When do you think you’ll be needing him?”
“Soon,” Clay said. “Maybe a couple of days from now.”
“Then I’ll bring him over day after tomorrow so you can tell him what it is you’ll be wanting him to see to,” Jonesy said as he rose to leave.
Clay walked with him to where he’d tethered his horse. As his friend climbed into the saddle, he buried his hands into his hip pockets.
“You know,” he said, “my brother wasn’t near as bad as most folks believe.”