Chapter 7: The Ramrod

The morning before the big day had Clint up early. The sun’s rays woke him. He tapped on the bedroom door with a soft touch. Clint waited and then knocked again. The door opened, and a vision greeted him. Her disheveled hair captured his gaze. Her eyes melted his heart once more. She responded to his soft touch and the light kiss he gave her.

He told her he would ride back to the campsite to check on it before anything got started. Janie agreed it would be a good idea but asked him to leave her some money so that she could pick up whatever she needed at the mercantile. He handed her a one hundred dollar banknote from the loot. It was overkill though. He could have given her a Double Eagle and been fine (a Double Eagle is a $20 gold coin). A last kiss, and he was off on his errand. He stopped by the store himself and purchased a canteen and a half pound of jerky.

He reached the stable and Smitty met him at the big door.

“Well met, Smitty. How goes the progress with my mare?”

Smitty replied, “It should be any time now. Her demeanor is telling. See how she breathes?”

“That’s great! I want to surprise Janie with her ‘twofer’ as you call it.” He responded with a good-natured clap on Smitty’s back.

Clint saddled up the stallion and headed out of town. Scanning the woods as he rode, he checked the timbers as he passed by. He finally came to the spot and found the marks on the trees. His stallion turned on to the faint trace at the junction. The surefooted steed followed the trail until they came across the clearing.

He pulled up just short of the open space where Janie and he had first discovered the change. A cursory glance showed no change in the looks of the clearing. Something was odd. He heard faint noises not part of the forest sounds. Clint cautiously dismounted and tied the horse to a small sapling near the entrance to the glade. Edging around the first structure, he drew his pistol and stealthily entered his tent. He found nothing was amiss after carefully examining the interior of his tent.

Clint just as quietly moved over to Janie’s tent. A tingle up his spine caused him to stop short. He returned to the back of the tent. Using caution, he moved the bottom part of the flap aside and peeked in. He slipped into Janie’s tent as quietly as he could. Crouched to the side of the door was a shady-looking character with his revolver drawn. The man brushed up against the tent which masked the movement caused by Clint as he entered through the rear of the tent. There was a pile of cases between Clint and the tent opening, so the man couldn’t see him. Once set, Clint cocked his revolver. The man froze at the sound.

“Slowly, and I mean slowly, drop your gun and stand up,” Clint demanded.

The intruder complied, taking care to place his gun on the ground and stand up, his hands raised over his head.

“Don’t shoot, Mister,” the grubby soul pleaded. “I didn’t mean no harm. I thought someone abandoned these here tents.”

“Do me a favor,” Clint drawled. “Move your sorry ass over to that other corner and sit quiet like.”

“Yes, Sir. I will.”

Clint took the man’s pistol and studied it. It was a .32-40 Colt that had seen much better days. Clint even wondered if it would fire. He still flipped the loading cover open and extracted all the shells. Even they looked old, and neither man doubted that they would misfire 3 times out of 5. At least the fellow had sense enough to keep that one cylinder empty for safe carrying.

Clint tossed the revolver onto a sack nearby and holstered his own weapon. “Look and learn.” Clint said guessing what the guy was thinking.

He showed his skill as he drew the shiny silver-plated Colt and returned it before the dude could blink twice.

The man watched the action and just sat back, a resigned look spread across his countenance and he bought his wrists up for Clint to tie. Once secure, Clint made him stand again, and they both marched out of the canvas edifice. Taking seats on a handy log, Clint did the questioning. He convinced himself after half an hour of interrogation that the stranger was only a vagrant who stumbled upon the campground and was seeking to claim squatter’s rights.

“OK, Mr. Van Horn. I will untie you. You have seen me draw. You know that you wouldn’t have a chance if you crossed me. I’ll release you if you give me your word.”

Van Horn quickly agreed.

“Look, I can’t help but believe you’re an honest man deep down. I have this feeling. So here is what I need to do,” Clint decided. “Let’s get something to eat first off. Then we’ll think about outfitting you and maybe even get you a grubstake so you can pull yourself back on your feet.”

“You mean it?” Van Horn asked in wonder. “You’d do that for a stranger? Even for one who sought to steal your stuff? Why?”

“Let’s say that I’m a real softy at heart. So we should see about some clothes. Stand up for a second.”

They stood side by side and Clint eyeballed the man. He even placed his foot beside Van Horn’s. Clint decided that the man was almost the same size right down to the boots and he knew there were spare clothes and boots that would fit.

“Here, let’s see about getting you cleaned up and you can try on these extra clothes I have.”

Clint got the bucket of rainwater and filled a basin. He brought them out and set the basin on the end of the log. He also brought out a bar of soap, a towel, a mug of shaving soap with a brush, a strop, and a straight razor that he’d gotten from the Cumberland General Store catalog. It was a sharp, finely honed blade of German steel. He stropped the razor and then handed it to Van Horn.

“Wash up and get your face shaved. There’s more water in that jug behind you. Use it. I will get you some better clothes while you do that.”

Clint left him to clean up while he re-entered Janie’s tent to straighten things up from Van Horn’s search of their belongings. That task didn’t take long and Clint emerged from the tent to find a totally different man there.

“You clean up real good” Clint remarked. His appearance wasn’t too bad.

“My first name’s Bruce, and you kin call me that.” He told Clint about how he had lost everything in the post-war depression. His wife had died of the fever, and then Indians had raided and killed his son. Bruce was a broken man. He had resorted to stealing to survive.

Clint retrieved his horse from the path and climbed up. He held his hand out. Bruce accepted it and swung up behind his new benefactor. The short trip to town turned out to be uneventful. Clint rode up to the hotel and tied his horse to the hitch.

“Come with me,” Clint suggested, “I have something for you in my room.”

Clint knocked on the door when they reached the room at the head of the stairs.

“Well, hello sweethea ... erk!” Janie squeaked and hid behind the door when she saw Bruce.

“You should put something on, Dear. We have company. You might give him a heart attack dressed like that.”

Janie had answered the door wearing a smile and her birthday suit. The scarlet-faced blonde opened the door a minute later. She covered herself with a robe that concealed her form from head to toe. The two men entered the room and Clint motioned for Bruce to follow as he led the man to the chair where the excess weaponry was being stored.

“This is Bruce Van Horn, Sweetheart. I met him over at the tents. He was protecting them from vandals when I came upon him,” he said with a wink. Janie could see it, but Bruce couldn’t.

“Ain’t no such thing, Ma’am,” Bruce offered. “I found yur stuff and was fixin’ to make off with whatever I could carry. I’m just a scoundrel, a no-good low-down unsuccessful one at that. Yur man there done made me clean up an’ gives me these here clothes. I’m powerful sorry for my actions, Ma’am. I truly are.”

“Well, if Clint thinks you’re worth saving, so do I,” she replied. “If you’ll excuse me for a minute, I’ll make myself more presentable.”

Janie entered the bedroom and shut the door.

“Look through this bag and tell me if there’s anything in there that you’d want,” Clint motioned to the bag as he spoke. “I picked up extra firearms the other day and you ‘might’ find something to your liking there.”

Bruce examined the contents of the bag for a minute and then replied, “This here holster rig sure is nice. I’ll take that iff’n it’s all right with you. As fer them there guns, well, I’ll just have to wait on that. Not one of them worth a plug nickel and I’d most likely end up dead of a misfire iff’n I took one. Thanks anyway. We might use them fer parts. Same goes fer them long guns too.”

Clint gave him a knowing nod. “Well, how about these?”

He produced the good Colt and the Henry rifle, salvaged from the loot. Bruce’s eyes opened wide in amazement. He recognized the rifle and the gleam of the gunmetal on the Colt impressed him.