Chapter 3

The next day I was on the road, heading for Butte. Getting Margarite and Jughead loaded in the trailer presented its usual issues. Jughead was never a problem with the trailer. He’s such a food whore that a handful of oats is enough to get him settled down.

Don’t get me wrong. Jughead’s one of the smartest mules I’ve ever seen. He’s saved my butt more times than I care to remember. I swear he can smell good water from a mile away. He’s also the best judge around on the stability of the trail ahead. Over the years, I’ve learned when he’s just being stubborn, or if there really is a problem.

Margarite, on the other hand, is just like me. Neither of us can stand closed in spaces. It took 45 minutes and half a dozen butterscotch candies to coax her into the trailer. That was one of the first things I learned about Margarite. She would take sugar cubes, carrots, and apples. But she was crazy for butterscotch hard candies. I could probably bribe her into hell with them.

However, the trailer lay on the other side of hell as far as she was concerned. Every time she would get close to the ramp, she’d start acting up. But between sweet-talking her and the candy, I finally got her loaded and settled down.

By 9:00, we were on the road. Shadow riding shotgun and taking full advantage of the open window. I’ve never figured out why dogs hate somebody blowing in their face. But love hanging their head out of a car window. At noon the next day, we arrived at Mr. Jeffords’s place.

Pete had told me to look up Hans Jeffords when I got to Butte. Pete and Hans had ridden together in their earlier days. Pete had called Hans and asked if I could board the animals at his place while I took care of my business. After taking care of Margarite and Jughead. Hans and I spent the rest of the day sipping homemade shine, swapping lies, and telling war stories. I learned a lot more about Pete than he’d ever let on.

The next morning at 8:00 am I was at the lawyer’s office. Dressed in my best Levi’s, Carhart jacket, and my newest stetson, I thought I looked pretty good. But it was quite apparent that the receptionist didn’t agree.

After first looking me up and down, she asked. “May I help you, sir?” She obviously was hoping not. I don’t have a lot of love for lawyers. But Lil Missy’s attitude and a grade 3 hangover left me short of patience. Putting on my best country, bumpkin imitation, I replied: “Why ya sure can, sweetheart, I’m here to see Mr. Esquire.”

I was somewhat satisfied to see a look of confusion cross Ms. Attitude’s face. “Excuse me, Mr. Esquire?”

“Shur thing babycakes, I’s got me a letter here from a Gerald Esquire. Saying he needs ta see me bout an inheritance.” As she started stuttering for a response, I decided to lighten up a bit. Pulling out the letter, I said, “Here it is, honey, see if you can rustle him up. I’m gonna need to git back fore Saturday. Cousin Amy’s getting married, and I’s got to be there lessen her beau tries to take off again.” Looking at the letter, I watched the comprehension cross her face.

“Oh, you mean Mr. Fitzpatrick. Esquire is his title. Do you have an appointment?” The thought that lightening up on her might have been premature crossed my mind. But I decided to carry on and see what developed.

“Don’t know bout no a-pointment. Letter says he wanted ta see me, and here I is.” When she scowled and sniffed, I knew that she deserved what she’d gotten and more.

Lil Missy picked up the phone and called Fitzpatrick. “Mr. Fitzpatrick, there is a Matt Reynolds here to see you. He doesn’t have an appointment.”

After a couple of yes sir’s and no sir’s, she hung up. Turning to me, she said, “If you would have a seat, Mr. Fitzpatrick will be with you as soon as he’s free.”

Using my best goat herder grin, I sat down on the couch. The horrified look that crossed her face when I put my boots on the coffee table was almost satisfying enough to bring her attitude account back to balance. After sitting there for 10 minutes, I realized that two things were going on. First, Mr. Fitzpatrick Esquire was letting me wait. Probably to impress me that he was an important, busy man. This had the opposite effect. Second was Lil Missy. As soon as I sat down, she started typing on her computer. She would go full blast for a minute or two then stop for a couple of minutes. Then start up again. It dawned on me that she was letting her boss know about me by e-mail.

After 45 minutes, the phone rang, and Lil Missy announced that Mr. Fitzpatrick was ready to see me.

Stepping into Fitzpatrick’s office felt like I was walking into the lion’s den. I had once read that the first thing to avoid a trap is to know that it was there. My mental alarm was going off like crazy. I hadn’t felt like that since I was in Saddam’s sandbox, playing with Iraq’s finest.