Chapter 8

One of the things about living in a small town is that calendars tend to lose significance. Not only can you lose track of the days of the month, but the days of the week can also become vague. Having a church, preferably with a bell, helps. Folks then have a reminder of when Sunday comes around. Other events that required a church bell, like weddings and funerals, are widely known, but the weekly call to services on Sunday is easily recognized. It was Sunday when Obie usually picked up his messages at the Western Union. And shortly after that, all hell broke loose.

The week after Joshua received the news of his purchase, Stanley was scrupulous in following Western Union rules. Partly from a sense of quilt over, including the second message to Mr. Anderson. But mostly from a fear that he would be caught out in his first step over the line into breaking the rules, any rules.

On almost an hourly basis, Stanley received demands for Obie’s attention concerning the Anderson land purchases. But because the Western Union rules concerning delivery didn’t include a messenger riding 15 miles to a ranch, these messages piled up in Stanley’s outgoing mailbox for the Jackson ranch.

During that week, No one from the Jackson Ranch came into town. And subsequently, none of Obie’s messages were delivered. But, when Sunday rolled around, and Obie’s wife demanded that she be escorted to church, as usual. It was after that obligation had been satisfied, That Obie stopped by the Western Union office on his way to the Saloon. Gathering the substantial stack of messages, he proceeded to the saloon. To read his mail, while enjoying a beer and a shot. While his wife gossiped with the other influential ladies of the community.

It didn’t take long before it became evident that Obie was unhappy. Shocked and enraged were probably more accurate emotions. Jumping to his feet and upsetting his drink, he exclaimed, “That Son of a Bitch.” Looking wildly around the saloon, He targeted Bart. “YOU, Bartender. Where is that son of a bitch, Anderson?”

Bart, in the middle of tossing a deadbeat drunk out the door, wasn’t impressed with Obie’s anger. “Hell if I know Obie. It ain’t my job to keep track of him.”

The drunk was fairly new on the scene in Wilkins. The rumor was that he was a drummer for some eastern notions outfit. That he had gotten hooked onto the various nostrums and narcotics that his company offered. But when the company fired him, He had quickly switched to booze. Working his way down the quality ladder to where he would guzzle anything to hide reality.

Next, Obie approached Stanley, “YOU, why in the hell haven’t I gotten these messages?” Jackson was waving a handful of yellow western union forms at Stanley.

Stanley was eating his breakfast before going to bed. He usually tried to get to sleep before the heat of the day made that difficult.

“Sorry, Mr. Jackson. I haven’t seen you or any of your hands in a couple of days. If I had, I would have said something about them.”

Obie wasn’t satisfied with that answer. “Why didn’t you bring them out to the ranch?”

“Like I’ve told you before Mr. Jackson, Unless you or the sender pays extra, delivery outside of town is extra. And besides, the last time I brought your mail, your son started shoving me around. And I still haven’t been paid for that delivery. I talked to the line supervisor, and he told me that it was payment upfront as far as you’re concerned.”

As Obie took a step towards Stanley, “Why you little punk, I ought to teach you some manners.”

At that moment, Sheriff Quigley spoke up from the shadows in the back of the room where he had been watching Bart toss the drunk. “Hold it right there, Obie. If there’s any teaching going on, it’ll be me doing it.”

Glaring over at Pete, “Sheriff, You and that Anderson bastard are thick as thieves. Where is He? He’s stole my land. I’m gonna kill him.”

“I’d think twice about that, Obie. I’m pretty sure that better folks have tried that over the years and failed. Maybe you should calm down and think this over.”

From the table to the right of the entrance, a new voice joined in. “That’s probably good advice there boss. It’s always best to be calm when you go a gunning for a man.”

Seated at the table were two men, obvious saddle tramps. Dusty and worn. They were eating the standard breakfast at the saloon. The only breakfast, which wasn’t any different from lunch, dinner, or any other meal. The only difference was the name. It consisted of beans, bacon, and an egg on top. And you could order whatever kind of eggs you wanted. Over easy, over hard, scrambled. What you got though depended on the cook. An ancient Mexican lady out back who had a huge pot of beans and a skillet. Sometimes, if you were early enough and lucky, she also had tortillas for extra.

Obie whirled to the new contribution to the conversation. “If I want anything from you, smartass, I’ll ask for it.”

Both of the saddle tramps pushed their seats back, freeing up their sidearms. The older of the two spoke up. “Your call, Boss. But it looks like you might be hiring on sometime soon. Think you might need some trigger fingers? Me and Clem here ain’t cheap, But we’re good.”

Obie stared at them for a moment, then turned and stomped out of the saloon.

Sheriff Quigley spoke up, “Boys, This here’s a quiet town, with quiet people. I’m hoping that you two aren’t here trying to start trouble. That would bother me to no end.”

The older rider chuckled when he replied, “No worries, Sheriff. I’m Sam Jeffords, Clem, and I ain’t really looking to sign on with Mr. Jackson. In fact, Clem here is going to be heading out to the Hacienda as soon as he finishes his breakfast. We figure Obie will be about two hours behind him and headed to the Hacienda. More than enough time to get the party started.”

Sheriff Quigley stood there for a moment. “You’re part of Andersons family? But you two have been hanging around for a week or two already. I had you pegged as out of work ranch hands.”

“Well, we are sort of out of work. But that’s changing right now.”

The one called Clem finished with the last of his beans and tortillas. “Well, Sam, I’m off. Anything for the Colonel?”

“Nope, just let him know that Jackson’s on the way. I’ll be heading out in a minute to keep an eye on him. I’ll report into the Colonel when we get close.”

All of this was watched, open-mouthed, by the Sheriff. The one called Sam continued, “We were kind of the bodyguards for the Colonel. We’ve been in Wilkins, some of us, for six months. Clem and I, well, we’re what we call watchers. We keep an eye open and let the Regiment know what’s going on.”

“Regiment? You’re military? Who’s this, Colonel?”

“Oops, let that one slip. Force of habit. No sheriff, we’re not military, in the strictest sense that is. It would be best to let the Colonel explain it to you. I can tell you that nobody in Wilkins has anything to worry about us. That is, IF they don’t bother us. Again, Talk to the Colonel.”

With that, Sam stood, wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Glancing at what he had done. “I’m going to have to break that habit. Not quite parade ground behavior, is it?” Smiling at the Sheriff, he turned and walked out the door.

As he got closer to the Door, Sheriff Quigley repeated himself, “Who is the Colonel? You didn’t say?”

Speaking over his shoulder as he walked out the doors. “Oh, you know him, Sheriff. He’s your good Friend Joshua Anderson. A finer man never sat a horse or wielded a saber.”

Sheriff Pete Quigley, law and order for the city of Wilkins, Nevada Territory, stood there dumbfounded.

After services, pastor Crump called for a meeting with the ladies of the town. These were the self-appointed leaders of Wilkins moral climate. Obie’s wife, Clara, considered herself a member of excellent and superior standing and participated in every Sunday meeting.

They had been trying to decide what should be done for the newest member of their group. A lady of unmistakable Grace, Style, and Breeding, who had met with misfortune when her property was stolen, and she had been abandoned, penniless in Wilkins. She had found temporary quarters with the Pastor and his wife for the time being, but a more permanent solution was needed. It had been suggested that a collection be taken up to provide her with operating funds.

“Elizabeth, “ The mayor’s wife asked, “Have you any idea of what you are going to do? I mean, a single woman has limited resources here in the wastelands.”

Taking a sip of her tea, Miss Utley considered for a moment, “Well, Victoria, I had considered opening a tea room. Someplace of refinement and class. Serving as an alternative to the Majestic’s so-called restaurant. I am sure that given time, an establishment like that will improve the social and moral atmosphere of the town. Something that I am sure we can all agree is badly needed here in Wilkins.”

Nods and murmurs of agreement came from all 10 of the participants.

Mrs. Macvley spoke up, “A capital idea. However, I don’t think that taking up a collection or a raffle will do much to accumulate the needed funds. I, however, have a suggestion. Let me speak to my husband. I’m sure that I can convince him that a loan could be made to Elizabeth. Something sufficient to get her started and on her way.”