Chapter Four—The Good Samaritan

     The general store was next door. I was going to get some supplies and then head out of town. I wasn’t going to go to Gail Sanders’ place. I had no desire to see her, her ranch, or anything else in this valley. I went into the store and walked up to the counter.
     “Help you, feller?” the clerk asked.
     I gave him a piece of paper. “Yeah, fill this order, if you can.”
     He read the paper. “No problem. Be just a few minutes.”
     I nodded and started aimlessly walking around the store, inspecting stuff. I heard a voice behind me. “I’ve…got to buy a new gun. Would you help me pick it out?”
     I looked. It was Kelly. I nodded. “What do you want?”
     “A rifle, I think. The shotgun was good, but only for shooting birds. We can get better meat with a rifle.”
     “You’re right, and I’ll bet there is plenty of game in these hills.” We walked over to where the guns were on display. I pointed. “That Winchester ’73 is what you want. Holds 15 shots, accurate, good range. I’ve got one myself and it’s never let me down.”
     She looked around for the proprietor. He was still filling my order. “Dave, can I look at this Winchester when you get a minute?”
     “Sure thing, Miss Atkins. Be right with you.”
     Then she asked me softly, “You aren’t going to help us?”
     I exhaled audibly. “It doesn’t sound like you and your pa are going to be here much longer anyway.”
     I saw tears come to her eyes. “It was a perfect for us. A quarter section, a little mountain meadow. You didn’t see that. We’ve got some beef. We won’t get rich, but that doesn’t matter. It’s just perfect for us.” She dropped her head. “It will be all over in a couple of weeks because we don’t have $500 to pay off what we owe. Dad and I both have begged Kragan for some time, but Jim Perry owns him, too. There’s just nothing we can do.”
     I didn’t know what to say, but Dave, the owner, came over right then. “Here’s your order, mister,” he said, and handed me a bag. I paid him, and then he took down the Winchester and handed it to Kelly. “Great gun, Miss Atkins. I’ve got a lot of shells for it, too.”
     Kelly fiddled with the rifle for awhile. She handled it with ease, indicating a familiarity with firearms, something I already knew. “How good are you with a rifle?” I asked her.
     “I’ll need some practice,” she said. She read the price tag. $25. She grimaced, then looked at me. “I really can’t take this, you know.”
     “You’ve got to have it,” I said to her, “because you’ve got some killing to do.”
     She gave me a puzzled look. I smiled, reached behind her, and gave her a sharp swat on the behind.
     “Oh!” she said, surprised, bouncing a bit when my hand struck her. She gave me a dirty look but her eyes were laughing. “Yeah. I guess I do need this.” She looked at Dave. “How much are the shells?”
     “Box o’ 50 for 50 cents.”
     “Do you have 20 boxes?”
     Dave made a face. “What are you planning on doing, startin’ a war?”
     “I need to learn how to use this thing.”
     He nodded. “’K.” He started pulling out the boxes and sticking them in a canvas sack. “$35,” he said.
     Kelly gave him the money and said to me, “Thank you.”
     “The least I could do for blowing your shotgun to bits.”
     We walked out of the store and stood on the sidewalk. “Are you still going over to Gail Sanders’ today?”
     “I don’t know.” She didn’t need to know my plans.
     “You can…come up to our place if you want. I’d like for my pa to meet you.”
     Some fellow came by just then and slapped me on the shoulder. “Mister, you did two things this mornin’ that this whole town has been wantin’ to do for a long time. I’d like to shake your hand.” He stuck his paw out. I smiled wryly and shook it.
     “Sometimes all you can do with a snake is stomp it,” I replied. “And I should have slapped the woman. She needed it.”
     “We’d be burnin’ you a medal right now if you had,” and he walked away.
     I looked back at Kelly. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, Kelly. This place reminds me too much of what I went through.”
     “We need your help, Robert.”
     “I’m not a gun for hire, Kelly.”
     She dropped her head again. “I’m sorry. I’m just desperate.” And with tears in her eyes, she turned and ran away.
     I stood there with my hands on my hips, watching her run off, feeling like a first class jerk, for some reason. I sighed and shook my head. Another man, an older fellow who hadn’t shaved in a week and had maybe three yellow teeth left in his head, spoke to me. “Fred Atkins an’ that girl are right good folks. All them settlers up in them hills is. The kind o’ folks we need here, not the Jim Perrys and Gail Sanders. If’n we could divide up that valley, there’d be enough land for 100 families and this town’d boom.” He shook his head. “But Perry and Sanders won’t let go. Wish you’d go drill both of ‘em.”
     “I don’t fancy a rope, fella.”
     “We’d elect you mayor for life, mister.” And he limped off.
     I watched him a moment, then walked away. I had one more thing I wanted to do before I left town. I saw the bank across the street and headed that way.
     I went inside and went up to the teller. “I’d like to see Mr. Kragan, please.”
     “May I tell him who is calling on him, sir?”
     “My name is Robert Constance. He doesn’t know me.”
     “Just a moment.” He was gone for about a minute, then came back and said, “Mr. Kragan will see you now.”
     I walked into Kragan’s office and immediately disliked the fellow. Fat, greasy, wisps of gray hair that he combed back over a balding red skull, bushy gray eyebrows. And did I say fat? His jowls had jowls. He was also smoking the most obnoxious smelling cigar that had ever assaulted my nose.
     He didn’t even bother to stand up, but he did hold out his hand. “Mr. Constant,” he said.
     I shook his hand, and immediately wanted to wipe mine on my pants. “Constance,” I said and sat down. I went right to business. “I understand that Fred Atkins owes you $500 for the rest of his land.”
     His narrow beady eyes got narrower. “I think that’s privileged information, Mr. Constance.”
     “His daughter told me, so she must not think it is.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out my wad of money. I still had a little over $800 left. I counted out $500 and put it on his desk. “That will pay off what they owe. I want the notarized title to their land, please.”
     Kragan didn’t pick up the money. He didn’t want it. “Who are you, mister? Did Fred Atkins authorize you to do this?”
     “I’m the Good Samaritan, Mr. Kragan, and it doesn’t matter if Atkins did or not. I can do what I want to with my money and I want to pay off the Atkins’ note. And you have no legal means to stop me. Don’t you want the money?”
     “Well, yes, but this is pretty peculiar. Why are you doing this?”
     “My reasons are my own, and have nothing to do with this transaction. I want the loan note and the notarized title.”
     Kragan clearly was not pleased, but he had no recourse. “Just a moment,” he said.
     He waddled out and waddled back in a few minutes later. He took the $500, counted it twice, then handed me the loan note. I immediately took it, lit a match, and set fire to it. It burned down to nothing. I looked at Kragan and smiled. “That’s that. Now the title.”
     “I’ll need to get it notarized.”
     “I’ll wait.”
     “I can’t do it until tomorrow.”
     “Then I’ll wait right here until tomorrow. So why don’t you just go do it right now, unless you want me sleeping in your office tonight.”
     Kragan was actually a notary—that didn’t surprise me—so, mumbling, he stamped the title, signed it, and then gave me a receipt for $500. I read it, then said, “Please make a note on the receipt what it is for.”
     Kragan was disgusted, scratched something on the receipt and gave it back to me. I read it, was satisfied, picked up the title, and said, “Nice doing business with you, Mr. Kragan.”
     “Mister, whoever you are, you might be better off getting out of town.”
     I raised my eyebrows at him. “Why, Mr. Kragan. I might could construe that as a threat. You should be happy that a man and his daughter now own outright their land and home. Kelly tells me she loves it there.”
     “Jim Perry might not be so happy.”
     I smiled at him. “But you can handle Mr. Perry, can’t you, Mr. Kragan.”
     It was pretty clear that he didn’t think he could.
     “Good day, sir,” is all he said. I left the bank and went to the post office. “Do you have an envelope?” I asked the clerk.
     He gave me one. I wrote “Fred and Kelly Atkins” on it, stuck the title inside, sealed it, and said, “Could you special deliver this to Fred Atkins?”
     He nodded. “Got a boy I can send. Cost a dime, though.”
     I gave him one. “And here’s a nickel for the boy.”
     “Sure thing,” he said. “I’ll get him on it right away.”
     “Thanks.”
     I left the post office. Stopped and thought for a minute. Took a couple more thanks for running Jake Barton out of town and putting Gail Sanders in her place, then decided there wasn’t anything else I could do, so I went and got Ol’ Paint, mounted, and headed out of town.
     Do I want to go see Gail Sanders? I think I’d rather see Kelly Atkins.
     I sighed. No, I’d rather see Robin Morrow…

     Let’s go back a few weeks, and end a thread or two. Colonel Benjamin Ratliff returned to Fort Tyler after the battle outside Whitewater, weary, and with an even wearier contingent of troops. The dead and wounded counted more than 400; the number on the Indian side was at least twice as great. Who had won the battle? It was hard to really say. It just…ended when the Indians went home. They had obtained what they desired—the cessation of mining activity. So I guess they won, Colonel Ratliff thought. But my troops fought bravely. Indeed they had, and he had much reason to be proud of them.
     Most of the U.S. soldiers had camped outside Ft. Tyler before the battle and they would do so again, until ready to return to their own regiments. Colonel Ratliff’s men, those who remained healthy—a figure barely over 100—resumed their normal posts and duties. And had a big surprise waiting for them upon their homecoming.
     “Where did all these women—,” Ratliff started to say, then remembered the 24 who had been kidnapped by the Nipita.
     A Sergeant Hildebrand saluted. “They arrived very early yesterday morning, sir. It seems that some man went to the Indian camp and was able to obtain their release.”
     Ratliff nodded. He had little doubt who that “some man” was. He spoke to one of the women, Rita Carver as it happened. “Robert Constance, I presume.”
     She nodded. “There was no trouble. I think the Nipita were ready to release us anyway. Mr. Constance asked them for 24 horses, and they gave them to us.”
     Ratliff responded, “Well, we’re all glad you’re safe. Please give my men a day or two to rest and we will escort you home.”
     “Thank you, Colonel, but please don’t delay too long. As you can imagine, we are all very anxious to return to our homes.”
     “Father!” Benjamin Ratliff looked and his lovely daughter Julie came running towards him. She grasped him tightly and he held her the same way. “Oh, Father! I was so worried. I prayed so hard that you would return. Are you all right?”
     “Yes, child, I’m fine. I’m glad you are safe.” He held her away from him and looked down at her, smiling. “As beautiful as ever.”
     She blushed. “Thank you, Father.”
     “Did your Mr. Constance stop and see you when he brought these 24 lovelies to the fort?”
     Julie dropped her head. “No. No, he didn’t, but…that was just as well. He was headed north and I…couldn’t go with him. And he couldn’t stay.”
     “Why not?” Ratliff had a secret hope that maybe Julie would marry Constance and remain in the area.
     Julie looked up at her father. “Don’t you know who he was…is…Father?”
     Ratliff was perplexed. “Well, Robert Constance. One of the best scouts I’ve ever seen and a good man to boot.”
     Julie smiled and shook her head. “Robert, yes. Constance, no.”
     “Then who?”
     “Robert Conners.”
     The colonel’s expression went from perplexity to amazement. “Conners? The outlaw? But he’s dead.”
     “Very much alive, Father.” Very much, Julie thought.
     “But…how? What…?” Ratliff didn’t really know what to ask.
     Julie told him what she knew. Conners never had explained why he was still alive when everyone thought he was dead. But then, he didn’t know himself. He knew nothing of the man who had posed as Rob Conners, robbed a stage, shot a woman, and was subsequently killed by a sheriff’s posse.
     Julie’s father listened to the tale with interest and a bit of sadness. He shook his head. “I really liked that fellow and he was an ace of a scout. You don’t know where he went? I think, given his assistance to us in this matter, I could get him a governor’s pardon.”
     “He just said…’north.’”
     “Miss Carver,” Ratliff called for Rita who had walked away. She came over. “Did Mr. Conn…Constance tell you where he was going?”
     She shook her head. “North was all he said.”
     “Thank you.” Then he looked at his daughter. “He will be in my report. And I will explain the circumstances and ask for a full pardon for him. He’s not an outlaw and should be allowed to go back to his home. And by thunder, he’ll do it, if I can ever find him.”
     Julie smiled. “Good luck finding him, Father.”
     Ratliff grunted. “Yes. I think that’s going to be the catch….”