Only the Stubborn Survive Page 2

  Mr. Reilly adjusted his spectacles, pushing them up onto the bridge of his nose. “If you’ve never been in a bank, I can see how all this may seem strange to you, but I can assure you it is quite routine. We have discussed depositing the gold and maintaining a bank account for the two of you. So we need some documents . . . papers . . . signed by the two of you.”

  “An account? What’s that mean exactly?” Red asked.

  Mr. Reilly chuckled. “Well, you certainly can’t go lugging that much gold around, so we are going to convert it to cash, according to government standards, and then we’ll keep the money safely guarded here for whenever or whatever you need it for.” The banker gestured toward the guard seated in the corner. “As you can see, we protect our customers’ money. Besides that man, there is another guard on the roof at all times, keeping watch on the only outside door we have.” He leaned over as if to whisper a secret. “And I pay another guard who is posted on a roof across the street. Anyone tries any crooked business here, he’ll end up dead or in the state penitentiary quicker than you can say Davy Crockett.”

  “Hold our money for us, you say,” Red said. “Well, what if we’s in another part of the territory or maybe another town and need money? How does your keeping it all here help us?”

  Jacob Reilly stifled a chuckle unsuccessfully. “Son, that’s where our checks come in. They’re a written promise from one bank to another bank, or even to a person or business. You just write down our information along with your information, including a private number that I will give you, and that paper will be as good as the gold you have in that safe.”

  Red shook his head. “A piece of paper can do all that? Just like gold?”

  The Old Man nodded. “It can. Them banks all got it worked out amongst themselves, Red. See, this way we’ll always have money, and we won’t have to worry none about getting held up out on the trail or not having enough on our persons.”

  “But we always did all right for ourselves up till now, didn’t we?” Red asked.

  “Sure did. But we never struck it big afore. Not like this. Not enough that anyone would want to take it from us.”

  The bank manager nodded, adding: “Look, son, if you are uncomfortable, well then, why don’t you keep a few gold nuggets and some coins with you just in case.”

  Red agreed. “Sure, I guess that would be all right, being that there ain’t nobody gonna argue with gold.”

  The two older men smiled at one another. “Right smart for a fourteen-year-old, ain’t he?” the prospector remarked.

  “Can I go back into that safe of yours and get me a few nuggets for my pockets like you suggested, Mr. Reilly?”

  “Certainly, it’s your money. Just sign the paper here and here,” he directed the two men.

  Red hesitated before signing the paper that showed him to be “Red Smith,” then he was taken back to the safe.

  Once Red was gone, the Old Man leaned over the desk. “One more thing, Mr. Reilly, iffen you don’t mind.”

  The banker shook his head. “Not at all, sir. What do you need?”

  The prospector reached inside his shirt and took out a piece of paper. He handed it to the bank manager. “Need you to keep this for me where it will be safe.”

  Mr. Reilly took the paper. “Of course. Might I ask what this is?”

  “My Last Will and Testament,” the Old Man told him. “I wrote it out when I came in the bank here. I want everything split fifty-fifty, right down the middle between us, you know . . . me and the boy.”

  “I understand,” Mr. Reilly replied.

  “And if anything should happen to me, I want the boy to get it all.” Pausing a moment to reflect, he then added: “I wrote down there that iffen something happens and I ain’t around, he has to wait till he’s twenty-five afore he can have my share. So iffen you have to take a small percentage out each year for handling the job of protecting and investing the rest of the money wisely for him, that’s all right by me. Just wanna make sure Red’s taken care of.”

  The bank manager nodded. “I understand completely.”

  “Also, it’s so’s he can’t waste it all or get swindled out of it. Once he’s twenty-five . . .” He paused a moment in thought. “Well, then he can have it all to do with as he pleases. You understand?”

  “Perfectly,” Mr. Reilly answered. “And well thought out, I might add. I am happy to help both of you, and I thank you for your confidence in our institution. I assure you, I will see to it your boy is properly protected.”

  Once Red returned from the safe, the pair left the bank, unhitched the horses and donkeys, and headed over to the livery stable.

  Chapter Two

  The following morning the old prospector and the boy walked out of the two-storied hotel where they had spent the night.

  “I’d almost forgot how good a clean bed and a bath can feel,” the Old Man said, taking in a deep breath of fresh air.

  Red yawned loudly. “The hotel bed was a little soft for my taste.”

  The prospector laughed. “You’re just not used to it is all. Been sleeping on the ground too long. So, my boy, how about breakfast?” The lad’s stomach growled. “Well, that answers that question,” the Old Man observed with a chuckle. “There’s an eatery down the street that’s supposed to be pretty good.”

  “Let’s go already,” Red said. “I’m so hungry my mouth is wrestling with my stomach for attention.”

  “Nothing some eggs and flapjacks won’t cure, I suspect,” the Old Man said, smiling. “Having breakfast every morning is something you haven’t experienced much. It’s a right pleasurable custom. You’ll get used to it right quick.”

  “Especially if you ain’t the one doing the cooking,” Red teased.

  The old prospector feigned indignation and tapped the boy on the head. “My cooking didn’t hurt you none, as far as I can see. Hell, they’s full grown men what ain’t so tall. And remember you got that way on my recipes.”

  “Like I always say,” Red replied, “sometimes you get lucky, I suppose.”

  The two found the restaurant, a small place with a large front window and a sign that said: Edith’s Eatery. They entered and found a table just off to the right of the door.

  After a moment or two, a rather heavyset lady came out from the back. Her graying hair was in a bun at the nape of her neck, and she wore a blue floral dress and an apron with white lacing on the edges.

  “Good morning, gentleman. My name is Edith, and I’ll be more than happy to serve you.” The pair had cleaned up at the hotel, but considering that they hadn’t had time to do any shopping and were still wearing their tattered trail clothes, calling them gentlemen seemed rather generous. “Can I start you off with some coffee?” she asked.

  “You’re in town now, boy,” the Old Man reminded him, “so remember to say please, especially to such an attractive lady.” The Old Man must have had his share of sweethearts in his younger days back East, the boy thought as Edith laughed.

  She tapped the Old Man on the shoulder. “Oh, go on now. And me at my age. I do swear.”

  The Old Man shook his head. “Don’t talk like that. True beauty is timeless.”

  Red squirmed and cleared his throat. “You gonna order, or am I gonna have to die of hunger here while you two jibber-jabber. I’d like eggs and flapjacks . . . and plenty of bacon.”

  Edith smiled. “We’ve got bacon aplenty. All you can eat.”

  “Might as well kill an extra hog then, ma’am, ’cause I ain’t had restaurant cooking in a heap of time,” Red said.

  All three laughed at this.

  “And for you, sir?” Edith asked.

  The prospector thought a moment. “Flapjacks with a mountain of butter and three . . . no, four eggs, sunny-side down.”

  “Coming right up.” As she walked away, the two could hear her chuckle. “Attractive? Hmm.”


  The meal was every bit as good as promised, and the two took their sweet time savoring every bite. When they were finished, the boy looked up from his plate and asked: “So what are the plans for the day?”

  The Old Man reached into his pocket and took out a few of the coins that he had gotten at the bank and placed them on the table. “I reckon we’ll get some new clothes, a haircut, and then we can go find out if there’s any ranches for sale around here. Sound good to you, boy?”

  Red nodded in agreement. “And some new boots.”

  Edith smiled at the pair when they rose from the table. As they were leaving, Red couldn’t help but notice that she winked at the prospector. Maybe he ain’t as old as I figured, the boy thought to himself.

  “Keep eating like this and I’m gonna need a bigger belt before long,” the prospector said, patting his belly.

  “That be so bad?” Red asked.

  The Old Man thought a moment and grinned. “No, I don’t reckon it would. Might just be I’ll end up enjoying this here newfound life of leisure.”

  The pair headed across the street toward a general sundries store they had noticed when they first rode into town. They were about halfway down the street when loud yelling and a shot rang out off to their right. Suddenly, the batwing doors of the gambling house burst open, and two men ran out.

  A loud yell came from inside the place. “Someone stop those two! We’ve been robbed by those cheaters!”

  Red stopped, fascinated by what he was seeing. He had heard about shootouts and walk-downs, but he had never witnessed one.

  A man suddenly came rushing past between them, yelling: “Out of the way! Get down!” As the man pulled his gun, his vest fell open, and Red saw the badge. The lawman shouted: “Hold it right there! I said stop in the name of the law!”

  The two outlaws had just reached a pair of horses tethered down the street. Then they both stopped, turned, and started firing their guns. There wasn’t a moment of hesitation from either one of them.

  The sheriff spun around and fell to the ground with blood spilling from his left shoulder. Before anyone could do anything to prevent it, the two men mounted their horses and rode out of town, firing a few random shots to keep everyone back.

  “Did you see that!” Red exclaimed to the Old Man, who was behind him. “The man, he . . .” The boy stopped short. There, face down on the ground, was the man who for the last fourteen years had raised him, protected him, and loved him like a father truly loves a son.

  Red dropped to his knees and turned the Old Man over. Blood had already begun seeping through his shirt. His eyes were lifeless. A bullet meant for the sheriff had hit him instead was all Red could think.

  “No, no, no, no, no!” the boy screamed. “Somebody do something! Please do something!”

  By this time people were gathering around the old fellow and the sheriff. One of the men put an arm on Red’s shoulder as he felt for a pulse on the old prospector, saying to Red: “Sorry, boy, but it looks like he’s gone.”

  Then someone called out: “Quick! Someone go tell Doc Burns to be ready while a couple of you men help me carry the sheriff over to his house.”

  “But the two killers, they’re getting away,” Red sobbed.

  “Son, they’s already got away, the dirty swines,” a bearded fellow told him as he bent over to help Red stand, which he refused to do. Shaking his head, the man added: “By the time we get the sheriff here patched up and try to gather up a posse, well, let’s face it, they’ll be long gone from here.”

  “Who were they? Anyone know?” Red asked, looking desperately into the faces of those who remained.

  A few of the men shook their heads, but one finally replied: “New to town. Just a pair of cardsharp crooks, I guess. Not very good, though. They got caught bottom dealing and that’s when the ruckus started. Took our money at gunpoint.”

  “But isn’t anyone going to do anything?” Red asked.

  “Nothing to do, son,” the bearded fellow said. “Not now anyway, except maybe try to help the sheriff here. Got to worry about the living ones first.”

  Red took one last look at the Old Man’s lifeless body, and in that instant he ceased being a boy. A fury arose deep within him such as he had never known. He stood up, wiped his tears on his sleeve, and quickly searched the plank walks for a specific sign. Then he found it. Painted in white block letters in the window of a store about a half a block away was the sign he was looking for. It read: ed farrell, gunsmith.

  The boy pushed through the crowd and made a quick beeline straight for the shop. He practically took the door off its hinges as he barged in.

  “Hey, what is this? Easy there, pardner,” the smithy said firmly.

  “I want the best pistol you have, two boxes of bullets for it, and the newest and best long rifle you have.”

  The gunsmith took one look at the sight before him and laughed out loud. He didn’t expect a boy the likes of him, wearing a hat with part of its brim torn, to be a potential customer. He shook his head at the thought of it.

  “Right, and I want to marry Lillie Langtry, but that ain’t happening, either. Now go away, boy, and on your way out, close the door gently this time.”

  His anger growing, Red walked up to the counter and glared at the man. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a large gold nugget. Ed Farrell’s eyes practically popped out of his head when he saw the size of it. “Mister, you don’t know me, and I don’t know you, but my Pa and I just rode into town after striking it rich. He just got shot down. You heard the shooting, I expect.”

  “Yes, I did,” the gunsmith said, recalling how he had run to the back room at the time.

  Red stared hard at the man. “Listen, if you don’t believe this is real gold, you can check with the banker. But by that time I’ll have taken what I want, one way or another. Or you can take this whole gold nugget here, give me what I asked for, and then we’ll both be satisfied.”

  The gunsmith knew he was looking at enough gold to equal at least six months’ worth of hard work, so he quickly changed his attitude.

  “Best pistol in the place, huh? Well, sir, that’d be this new Colt Forty-Five here, a Peacemaker. Smoothest action I ever saw, and these grips here are ivory for a better hold when yer hands is wet or slippery,” Farrell explained as he extended the pistol over the counter.

  After examining it, Red had to admit that just holding it in his hands seemed special.

  “I’ll throw in two full boxes of .45-caliber bullets,” the gunsmith added.

  “What about that rifle I mentioned?” Red reminded the man. “I want the best and surest one in the store, and I swear if you try to cheat me, I’ll be back . . .”

  Ed Farrell got a little angry himself. “Look, kid, like you said, I don’t know who you are, and you don’t know me, but you go and ask anyone around here. They’ll tell you if you do business in my shop, every gun I sell will work like a Swiss clock and shoot straight. If you don’t hit nothing, it’s your fault, not the gun’s.”

  “I’m in a hurry, mister,” Red said impatiently. “The rifle?”

  The gunsmith looked over at his rack of rifles, and after a moment’s hesitation pulled down a lever-action Winchester.

  “This one’s a Thirty-Thirty, so it has a bit of a kick,” he informed Red. “But I don’t imagine that’ll be a problem for a big lad like yourself. It’s brand new, and the action is as sweet as my wife’s pecan pie.”

  “Why is this barrel shorter than those others?” Red asked, studying the guns lined up on the rack.

  “It’s a carbine model,” he said. “I’ll admit it’s a mite shorter, but the firepower is still the same. The way I figure it, this model should fit your shoulder and arm reach better. Trust me on this one. After twenty years at it, I know what I’m talking about when it comes to matching guns with men. It comes with that sling thr
own in.”

  Satisfied, Red nodded in agreement. “Fine, and I’ll need two boxes of .30-30 bullets.”

  The man placed two boxes on the counter. “I don’t have a holster right now that will fit your waist size, but if you come back tomorrow, I can have one cut down and ready for you by then.”

  “Thanks, but no time for that,” Red said. After loading the Colt pistol, he stuck it through his belt and then tapped the nugget with his finger. “We good here?”

  The man stared at the boy and nodded. “For some reason I don’t expect I’m doing you any favors, but I’m not going to waste time arguing with a stubborn hombre like you. And yes, we are more than good here.” The gunsmith slid the gold nugget off the counter and quickly dropped it in his vest pocket.

  “Thanks. And rest assured, it’s a favor you’re doing me,” Red said as he loaded the rifle and slung it over his left shoulder. Then, grabbing up the boxes, he hurried out of the shop.

  Once outside, Red quickly got his bearings and then ran to the livery stable.

  The liveryman was using a pitchfork to clean up the loose straw around the outside corral when Red approached. He saw the pistol and the rifle and quickly sized up the situation.

  “Already heard the shots and heard about the old fellow that rode in with you. Your kin?”

  Impatient to get on the trail, Red merely dipped his head in a singular nod, saying: “Which is the fastest and strongest horse in the stable? And how much?”

  The liveryman stroked his beard and replied: “That’d be the chocolate roan back in the far stall. He’s still a mite young, but he’s strong as an ox, faster than a jackrabbit, and surefooted as a mountain goat. But he’s not for sale.”

  “Why not?” Red asked angrily.

  “Well, for one thing he’s my own horse,” the man replied. “Raised him from a foal.”

  “Mister, I was once told that everything has a price,” Red stated firmly, looking the liveryman in the eye.