Chapter Ten—The Good Samaritan Strikes Again

     I moseyed into Whitewater in the early afternoon of Thursday, March 16. It was about 90 miles from Rogersville to Whitewater via the stagecoach road, but I meandered a bit and probably did it in 150. The weather was overcast and blustery on the 16th and it looked like a rain squall might be brewing. That’s one reason I figured I’d better hit town—to get a roof over my head. Plus, I had to know…I had to. What’s Robin doing?
     Adam had told me that the Whitewater Bank was near collapse. “Not sure I’d put my money in there—not that you intended to, but then again, that’s what that bank needs. A huge deposit to give the people there some confidence that the bank is sound. What I heard last time I was up there is that they are operating on a shoe string, taking in just enough in deposits to keep their head above water. Another run and that bank is finished.”
     I knew what would happen then. The bank would have to foreclose on any property for which it carried the notes. Most people, obviously, wouldn’t be able to pay and so they would be evicted from their homes, ranches, businesses, whatever, and some rich fellow would come up and offer the bank 10 cents on the dollar for all that property and, in desperation, the bank would take it. Mr. Rich Fellow would then proceed to start selling the land at market prices and become Mr. Even Richer Fellow. Oh, he’d buy the bank, too, so he’d own all the new notes as well, and foreclose on them whenever he wanted to—usually when a poor farmer or rancher fell about a month behind in his payments—so he could sell them again. Not a good situation for any town to give one man that much money and power but it had been known to happen more than once.
     As I rode into Whitewater, I decided that the bank might be a good place to surreptitiously find out something about Robin. I reckoned I could stop someplace and ask, but folks tend to be a little suspicious of strangers coming in asking about the local female population, even if they said, “I’m an old friend.” Anybody could, and had, used that line. So, with $60,000 burning a hole in my pocket, I thought I’d go to the bank. Might even be able to do a good deed along the lines of what I had done for Fred and Kelly Atkins up in River Bend.
     A few people glanced as me as I rode down the street, but nobody recognized me. I didn’t expect they would. It had been quite a few years since I had been in Whitewater; the last time was long before the mining/lumber operations started. And besides, I had only been passing through then, so I didn’t know anybody here. Or at least not very many people. A few ranchers was all.
     Anyway, I saw the bank, stopped and hitched Ol’ Paint. I still had the money belt around my waist—under my shirt, of course—but I picked up my saddle bags, too; I didn’t particularly want to leave all that money on the street, though I didn’t really figure anybody would steal my bags in broad daylight, especially when they didn’t know what was in them. But no use being careless.
     I walked into the bank and up to the teller. “My name is Conners. Is the bank president in? I’d like to visit with him, perhaps discuss opening an account and making a deposit.”
     The teller smiled briefly and nodded. “Yes, Eric Wilcox is his name. I’ll tell him you’re here.”
     I waited for about a minute and the teller came back out. “Mr. Wilcox will be happy to see you, Mr. Conners. Right through that door there.” The one that said “Eric Wilcox, President.” I never would have figured it out without the teller’s help….
     I went into Wilcox’s office. We eyeballed each other for a few moments, then I smiled and held out my hand. “Conners.”
     He took it and we shook. “Eric Wilcox. Have a seat, Mr. Conners. Can I get you something to drink?”
     “I wouldn’t mind having some water if you have any.”
     “Sure, hang on.” I sat down in a chair in front of his desk, while he poured me a glass of water. Nice office…Lovely view of the alley through that window…Other than that, it was a fairly typical office, with a few bookshelves, tables, chairs, and mainly Wilcox’s desk with a lot of clutter on it and a nice leather chair behind it for him to sit in. We peon depositors got a hard wooden chair to squirm on.
     He sat down after he handed me the water and I thanked him. “What can I do for you, Mr. Conners? A deposit?”
     “Well….maybe. I just sold some land down south and I’m thinking about settling around here, but I’m not sure yet. I do have a lot of money here and I’d like to have a place for safe keeping while I look around.”
     When I said a lot of money, I could tell Wilcox’s interest was pricked, and right quick. “How much money are we talking about, Mr. Conners?”
     “$60,000.” Wilcox started drooling. Figuratively, of course. That much money could save his bank. “But,” I continued, “before we discuss that, I have another matter that I’d like to talk with you about. A number of years ago, a man and his wife, rancher in the area named Morrow, helped me out in a situation when I really needed assistance. It doesn’t matter what it was. It wasn’t a major thing, at least it wasn’t to the Morrows and I seriously doubt they’d even remember it. But it was huge for me, I’ve never forgotten it, and I’d like to repay them in some way. But it has to be done in a way that they don’t know about it, or they would never, never accept it. Do you know who I’m talking about? The Morrows. Frankly, I can’t recall for sure their first names, Ben and Martha, I believe.”
     “Oh, yes, of course, long time residents of Whitewater. Very good people, and I’m not surprised they helped you out. Unfortunately, Ben died about a year ago. His widow is living in town now with her niece.”
     My blood started pumping a little at the “with her niece” comment, but I don’t think I showed any reaction. “Well, I’m really sorry to hear about Mr. Morrow. He was a good man, from what I could tell.”
     “One of the best, believe me.”
     “I’m sure.” Then I hesitated. “How is his widow doing? Is there any way I might be able to help her, or the niece? Something I can do for them? I really would like to repay them in some way.” I had no way of knowing, of course, about Robin’s business or Aunt Martha’s house. I was shooting in the dark, but I did know the bank was hurting, and that meant they might be, too.
     Wilcox hesitated, and he was thoughtful. “Well, let me see…” He wanted my money, but it was NOT a good idea to tell a potential huge depositor that the bank was gasping for breath. “Perhaps you can. Miss Morrow, the niece, has recently started a business in town and owes some on it. And Mrs. Morrow, Martha, has run into a bit of a financial crisis as well. You could perhaps help them out a little.”
     I studied him closely. “Ok, Mr. Wilcox, let’s put some cards on the table. I don’t walk into a town and dump $60,000 in a bank unless I know a little about that bank. And I know that, for the last couple of months, you’ve barely been keeping your head above water and that my money could save you. That’s fine, I don’t mind helping out, although it’s a risk. The rest of your depositors might decide they want their money as well and the run will start again and I’ll lose everything. But probably not. They just want to know you have it in case they need it.”
     Eric didn’t say anything, he was just looking at me. His face was a bit hard, though.
     “How much do the Morrows owe you?”
     He leaned back and scrutinized me a little more before he answered. “You seem to know our circumstances fairly well, Mr. Connors. I’m not necessarily pleased about it, but I guess it’s not news that the bank here had a run on it recently. Technically, the Morrows owe about $14,500. I had to take $7,000 of their deposit money to pay off those who demanded their money during the run, so they owe about $7,500. But it’s 14,500 if I am to return what they had on deposit.”
     I digested that for a few moments, then came to a decision. “Mr. Wilcox, I’ll give you $10,000 for the two Morrow notes. You give them back what you took from them that helped check your bank run, and then I’ll deposit the rest of my money in your bank. If that stabilizes you, and you start getting your depositors back, I’ll want my money back—the $50,000 left—if I decide not to stay in this area. Oh, and you never tell the Morrows who paid off their notes.”
     He stared at me again, his handsome face very thoughtful. I had him over a barrel and he knew it. And I did, too. “Why are you doing this, Mr. Conners?”
     “I told you. Ben and Martha Morrow did me a huge favor one time. Frankly, I wouldn’t have this $60,000 if not for them. So I feel that part of this money could actually be considered theirs.” That, of course, was high cholesterol pig slop, I had never met Ben and Martha Morrow, never even heard of them before I had met Robin. But, well, I wanted to do something for Robin, whether I could ever have her or not. And, given the bank problems in Whitewater, it didn’t really surprise me that she and her aunt had a tough financial situation to deal with. So, I asked Wilcox, “Do we have a deal?”
     He paused, but only for effect. There was absolutely, positively no way he could pass this deal up. $60,000 was just what he needed to put a solid foundation under his bank, and it was most probable that many people who had withdrawn their money would re-deposit it when they knew the bank was on firm ground again. “Yes, Mr. Conners. I will accept your offer. $10,000 to clear the Morrow notes, their moneys returned to their accounts, and you deposit $60,000 in my bank. And the Morrows never know who cleared their notes.”
     “Agreed.” We shook.
     “I’ll get started on the paperwork immediately,” Wilcox said.
     It didn’t take all that long. Back then, there weren’t 10,000 government forms to fill out every time you wanted to blow your nose, with another 10,000 saying you signed the form that said you wanted to blow your nose. I put the $60,000 on his desk, and Eric had one of his clerks come in, take it away, and count it while the banker filled out what little paperwork there needed to be done. He got out the Morrow notes, signed them, wrote “Paid in Full” on them, stamped and notarized them, and then put them in an envelope.
     “I’ll make sure the Morrows get this no later than tomorrow.” He smiled. “Won’t they be surprised.”
     He then completed the proper forms to return the Morrows’ funds to their accounts, and then opened me an account for $60,000—the clerk came in and said that was the exact amount. $10,000 would be subtracted to pay the Morrows’ debt, but they could handle that without me. I had to sign some papers, of course, but I wrote “R. C. Conners,” and said, “Put the deposit in that name, please.” The “C” stood for “Charles,” my middle name. If Wilcox had ever heard of Rob Conners, which he probably had, he gave no indication that he recognized “R. C. Conners” as “Rob Conners.” Of course, word had it that I was dead anyway, so there would have been no reason for him to make a connection. And since everything had happened several months prior, it was long out of everybody’s minds. But no sense in stirring up memories if I could help it.
     When it was all done, Wilcox was beaming. “Thank you, Mr. Conners. You’ve helped out this community, and the Morrows, greatly, and I do hope you will stay in this area. There is a lot of good ranch land available, and your credit is certainly good at this bank.”
     “Thank you. I’ll take a look around.” We shook again, and I started to leave, then stopped. “Oh. You said that Martha Morrow’s niece had started a business in town. What sort of business? And where is it? I might at least want to meet her.”
     Eric pulled a face. “Well, it’s a shop, just down the street on the other side of the grocery store.” He pointed. “It’s called ‘For Ladies Only,” so unless you have a sweetheart, it might not be the most interesting place for you to go. But she’s there almost all the time if you’d like to meet her.” He smiled. “Quite a looker.”
     “Her name?”
     "Robin.”
     That’s her. Though I had had no doubt. “Thanks. I may run over there and buy some new underwear.” He laughed. “What time does she close?”
     “5.”
     “Ok. I’m sure I’ll see you again soon, Mr. Wilcox.”
     “I hope so. And thanks for your business.”
     I left the bank. It was a little after three o’clock. I was hungry, and I wanted a shave, and a haircut, and a bath. I might as well look my best when I went to see Robin. Apparently, she wasn’t married, because Wilcox had called her “Miss Morrow,” but that didn’t mean she didn’t have a 6’6”, 300 pound jealous boyfriend who ate nails for lunch and was ready to squash any living organism that looked at her. Plus, I didn’t want to put her on the spot. I had little doubt she would remember me, but…would she want to see me again? Would it make her uncomfortable? I decided that, rather than go into her shop, I’d wait until she left and catch her then. It was Thursday, and she may have had plans that night, but I could at least say hi, see how she reacted to me, and if I got negative vibes, I could head out of town tomorrow. Wilcox would have my money, but I could always get it through another bank via a wire. I just…had to know about Robin.
     So I went and got a hotel room, fed my belly, and got a shave, haircut, and had a nice warm bath. And my clothes laundered. It was right at 4:30 now. Wilcox had said Robin closed the shop at 5. She probably wouldn’t leave immediately, I figured; there would be some cleaning up and such to do. I rode towards her shop, but stopped two doors short and tethered Ol’ Paint across the street. I couldn’t see inside the shop, it was a little too dark, but I didn’t want her to see me—yet. I’d pick the time.
     I scouted around a little bit. Robin’s shop was the second store in from a side street. She was between the grocer’s and a book store. I walked around to the side street—Oak Street—and saw the alley and the stables behind her store. I figured she probably had her horse in the stable—I didn’t go check, though I would have remembered the Palomino—and thus I suspected she’d come out the back door of her building. But I wasn’t sure. I went and got Ol’ Paint and rode to the side street where I could see both her front and back doors. If I watch only the front, she’ll come out the back. If I watch the back, she’ll come out the front. Well, I solved that by leaning back in the shadows of a building at a place where I could watch both front and back. She’ll probably come out the roof…
     Just before 5 o’clock, I saw four men ride into the alley and tie their horses to a railing by the stable. They then walked around front and went inside Robin’s store. I made a face, not quite able to figure out what four big, burly men would want in a store “for ladies only,” but perhaps they were going to buy something for their wives, though they were cutting closing time awfully close. A couple of minutes after five, I saw two women come out of the shop. They stood on the edge of the sidewalk for a few minutes, and then a buggy pulled up, they both got in, and it drove off. I heard a gust of wind whistle through some rafters over my head, and I checked the sky. Low, billowing, gray clouds. Starting to get dark because of it. But still plenty of light to see by. I saw a couple of people leave and lock up stores across Main Street. I couldn’t help but wondering what Robin was doing inside her store with those four men.
     I frowned. Could be harmless. But I didn’t like it. My spider sense was tingling.