Chapter 8

More than three weeks later, on a warm Tuesday morning in early July, Robert Harley Smith, Chairman and Managing Partner, Jackson County Agricultural and Mercantile Bank—so it said on the narrow brass placard resting on his suitably impressive desk—rose from his chair behind that desk and reached across to shake Malik’s hand. “Thanks for coming in, Mister Malik, I am sure this will be of interest to you.” Smith was in a dark gray business suit and wore a knotted black silk necktie. In his late thirties, he stood several inches shorter than Malik, and some pounds heavier. His round, clean-shaven face was serious in aspect but not unpleasant, with a smile of genuine warmth.

“It’s no trouble, Mister Smith. Your note had me intrigued.”

“How is your brother?”

“Still a bit sore, but up and about, back in the saddle, for a fact.”

“Good, good. I am pleased that the situation was resolved in the court.”

“And your wife, Mister Smith, and Clara? She still at school?”

“Both are fine, thank you for asking. Clara will complete her courses in December. She plans to return home, possibly with a beau, if her mother is not reading too much between the lines.”

“Then good for her. She seems like a fine young woman.”

“Thank you. And I thank the lord in heaven, too, especially when I think of what befell Mister Lestly’s unfortunate niece. What a terrible tragedy. I understand you were with the marshals when they found her body. I hate to think about my own Clara ... Excuse me, Mister Malik. A father’s lot, I suppose.”

“It’s understandable, Mister Smith.”

“Speaking of Granger Lestly, however, brings me to the reason for this conference,” Smith began. “Mister Lestly has asked the bank to represent his interests in the sale of certain real properties, specifically, two lots and improvements, here in Waypoint, whereat are located Jacob Baylor’s store and Olin Wisser’s gun smithy. Here are the property details.” He handed Malik a sheet of paper.

“Now that is interesting, Mister Smith. I had made an offer to Mister Lestly about two months ago for these very properties, and he told me he wasn’t at all predisposed to sell.”

“I cannot speak of another customer’s standing, of course, but it would seem likely to me that the exemplary damages awarded you by the state court, last month, may have had some effect on circumstances here in Jackson County. But that is purely conjecture on my part.”

“Of course, and I didn’t mean that as a question, simply a comment on the peculiarity of it. In any case, what is his price?”

“After obtaining county tax appraisals, Mister Lestly has placed a price of eight thousand two hundred and fifty dollars on the Baylor store property and four thousand eight hundred dollars on the gun smith property.”

Malik wrote the figures on the paper Smith had handed him. “Hm. Considerably higher than I was prepared to offer in May. I’m going to have to think this over, Mister Smith. Can I get back to you on, say, Thursday?”

“Mm, of course, Mister Malik.” But Smith had hesitated the barest second before accepting the delay.

That evening found Malik relaxing with a cigar at the round training corral behind Francine Kuiper’s boarding house, on the south edge of Waypoint.

A former ranch compound, Kuiper’s Boarding Home was owned and operated by Francine Kuiper, a fifty-seven year old widow. In 1872, three years after Adolph Kuiper’s death, the Kansas & Arizona Southern Railroad had approached Francine Kuiper with an offer to buy the Kuiper ranch. That land included twelve sections that ran for six miles from the Rio Isabella north along the lower slopes of Sunset Ridge. Though the ranch was operating in the black, there was a significant mortgage, and Kuiper, with three daughters, chose to sell to the railroad, though she retained a quarter section on the Rio Isabelle near the mouth of Isabella Canyon. The one hundred sixty acres she held onto encompassed the buildings of the ranch compound: a two-story, five-bedroom, wood-frame house, a bunkhouse, barn, stable, horse-training ring, corrals, equipment sheds, privy outhouses, and various other improvements, along with substantial pasturage along a half mile of river frontage. The quarter section also included nearly thirty acres of river bottom land, now mostly in hay and pasture grasses, but also two acres of vegetable garden.

Francine Kuiper had invested the cash equity from the sale in further improvements: six more bedrooms for the main house, allowing for nine guest rooms, after her two daughters still at home doubled-up in one of the original bedrooms. Other improvements included converting the bunkhouse to five private guest rooms, each with its own entrance; adding a shed to act as both a bath house and, in the summer, as an outdoor kitchen; and a covered, lattice-screened open-air urinal trough to the back of the existing three-seat privy, for the use of the male boarders. Some yards distant, she had a separate privy built for the ladies, with two pairs of back-to-back, one-seat, fully-enclosed stalls. She’d also added a dozen “transient” bunks to a roughly-finished, heated room in the barn loft, primarily for the occasional use of herdsmen, harvesters, shearing crews, or railroad construction gangs.

She and her helpers could feed fifteen at a sitting at a long, L-shaped counter that faced the kitchen from an enclosed porch on the rear and south sides of the house. Perhaps not as homey as a big, family-style table, its efficiency helped to keep costs down for her guests while still retaining socially-inclusive features. On average, Kuiper kept twelve rooms rented. All of the boarders also chose to pay the extra fee for meal service, as she and her two younger daughters were renowned for their hearty good cooking. A third daughter, another good cook, lived in town, married to a railroad man. She’d help out when things got busy with work crews or other special demands.

Malik kept one of the bunkhouse rooms, even though he had his own furnished rooms above his offices on the courthouse square. The convenience of housekeeping and the good cooking were more than he could pass up. Besides a bed, his room held a small stove, a low, overstuffed armchair and footstool, an armoire with drawers, and plenty of hooks on the walls. He had added a small table with two straight-backed chairs, and a small book shelf. Along the face of the bunkhouse there was a low, covered porch that invited sitting and watching the swirling waters of the Isabella, just a couple dozen yards down a grassy slope.

Other than the family ranch, some twenty-seven miles northeast of Waypoint, the former Kuiper ranch served as Malik’s second home.

He was joined this evening by Jacob Baylor and Olin Wisser, men who were younger contemporaries and former friends of Valerian Malik, his own recently deceased father. Both men lived alone above their own shops and sometimes came to the boarding home for supper. Each was clean-shaven and they were both energetic men with generally similar values, but they cut distinctly different figures. Baylor, a widower, was a tall, robust man, with ruddy skin and graying blond hair. Wisser, who spoke with the hint of a German accent, was short and thin, pale-skinned and dark-haired, and was, by his telling, a lifelong bachelor. All three men stood with folded arms resting upon the training ring’s top board, facing into the empty ring, one foot propped on the lowest board rail. While Malik enjoyed his cigar, Baylor was smoking a pipe. Wisser, on the other hand, used chewing tobacco, the smokeless product preferred by those who worked with explosive materials.

Wisser spat into the ring. “Damn sure he’s overpriced it. He only owns the buildin’, not my gunsmith business.” He turned his head toward Malik, on the other side of Baylor. “I could equal-partner with you at two thousand, or just be a lesser partner if he wants more ‘n that, makes me no never mind. That be up to you. I got no problem partnerin’ with ya at any share.”

“Well, tell me this, Olin, just on speculation: If I could get it for less than four, would you want to be the senior partner?”

After a moment’s thought, the gunsmith said, “If’n I owned that building, I’d want a’ make some changes, add a shed on the back for a small forge. Reckon I’d spend the money on that and just settle as equal or lesser partner for the terms you’re offerin’.”

“Jacob, what’s your druthers?”

Knocking some of the ash from his pipe, the storekeeper said, “I’m with Olin. Lestly’s dreamin’ with that price. That county appraisal is horse-shit. Lestly, the sheriff, or somebody’s got the county appraiser in their pocket. If they’d bring in an appraiser from somewhere else, price’d be two thousand dollars lower, maybe more. I’ve talked to bankers in Fort Birney and down to Junction City. Six thousand’s more the neighborhood a’ the price they’d back.”

“How much can you throw in, if you’re interested in partnerin’, Jacob?”

“Sure I’d partner with you. I’ve got nearly two thousand in the bank, but I’d like to make some improvements, too, cost me maybe five, six hundred or so. It comes down to it, I could go a thousand seven-fifty, but would rather just a thousand, all’s the same to you. Your buy-out terms suit me even if I’m a junior partner. What I’d really like is to expand onto that corner lot, but that would clean me out an’ then some.”

“Maybe I could sell you an option.”

“I’d have to think about it.”