The crowd of men from the saloon had all thrown themselves to the ground or dived back into the Luck of the Draw when the shooting started. As soon as it seemed to have ended, they picked themselves up, dusted themselves down and wandered casually over in the direction of the corn chandler’s to see what had happened. Most had expected to see their new sheriff laying face down in the dirt and it came as no little surprise to find that he was moodily surveying the aftermath of the gun battle.
‘Lord a-mighty,’ said one awestruck individual, ‘You kill all four of ’em yourself, Mr Brown?’
‘No, I had some help.’
At that moment, young Andy came running up, eager to examine his handiwork. Jack Brady came over more slowly. He had killed men before and the novelty of the experience had long ago worn off. He wasn’t particularly proud of shooting a man, and it was only his deep-rooted conviction that it had been right to revenge the needless death of a woman which had persuaded him to participate in such a bloodbath. Mark Brown noticed the sober expression on the old man’s face and said quietly, ‘I know how you feel, Mr Brady. It’s the deuce of a thing to take a fellow being’s life in this way.’
Brady shrugged and said, ‘It ain’t pleasant, but it’s needful. You get a mad dog running round, the only thing to do is shoot it.’
Miss Clayton’s nephew put the teacher in mind of a puppy who wishes to be praised. The youth said, ‘Did I do all right, sir? I waited ’til they fired, just like you said.’
‘You did just fine, Andy. I couldn’t have wished for a better man to have up on that rooftop.’
On hearing himself described as a man, Andy Porter visibly swelled and threw out his chest like a bantam cock strutting around the farmyard.
All four of the men from Parker’s ranch had died swiftly, which was another mercy. There are few things worse than dealing with a man who has had his belly blown open by a shotgun blast and trying not to let him see by any word or look that you know him to be doomed. Much better to die cleanly and immediately by a bullet through the head or heart; the fate which had befallen all these men.
One of the men from the saloon said, ‘What happens next? I reckon Randolph Parker’s going to be mighty vexed about this.’
Brown turned a cold eye upon the speaker. ‘You reckon that, do you?’ he asked. ‘You want to help me do anything about it?’
The man mumbled and if it had not been pitch dark, the others would have seen him flush a deep red. He said nothing more.
‘What became of the other fellow?’ asked Brown, ‘Him as I ran into earlier?’
‘Man with the broken arm? He came by the saloon just a few minutes back. It was on account of him that these rascals come looking for you. He said you’d be waiting for them.’
At that precise instant, Stuart Singer, the man whose arm Brown had broken, joined the group standing around the bodies of his former friends. He was holding his injured arm carefully, cradling it with his left hand like a makeshift sling. When he saw the four bodies, he looked as though he felt like swooning dead away in the street. He swayed unsteadily and a man standing next to him reached out a hand and placed it comfortingly on his shoulder. Singer shook it off angrily. He walked closer to the corpses and peered at their faces. These were all men who were closer to him than brothers; fellows that he had fought alongside, travelled with, drank with, gone whoring with and lived with for years. Now their lives had been snuffed out. He looked around for Mark Brown and when he saw him, he walked up to him and said, ‘Don’t you think this is over. It’ll be blood for blood, you hear what I tell you now?’
‘How well d’you shoot with your left hand?’ said the teacher.
‘Don’t you bother ’bout which hand I shoot with,’ said Singer. ‘There’s another twenty-odd men back at the ranch as’ll take care of you. You’re a dead man.’
‘If there was a gaol in this town,’ said Brown, ‘I’d see you locked in it this night and then make enquiries to see what part you played in the murder of Aggie McDermott and Linton Avery. As it is, you’re free to go, for now.’
‘Give me back my gun, then.’
Brown couldn’t help smiling at the impudence of the fellow. He said, ‘I’ve been in towns that woulda lynched you for what you and your partners have been doing. Don’t try my patience any further. Just leave.’
After Singer had gone off, presumably to see if he would be able to mount his horse and ride back to Parker’s place with only one hand working, Brown said to his two deputies, ‘You fellows want to take a turn up the road with me? I got one or two things need saying.’
When the three of them were out of earshot of the little crowd clustered round the four dead men, the teacher said, ‘You two did better than I could have hoped tonight. I owe you both my life. It will not be forgot.’
Andy Porter looked a little embarrassed to receive such a compliment, but old Jack Brady merely nodded in acknowledgement. He knew that what Brown said was no more than the literal truth and took the thanks as his due. Brady said, ‘That’s the job only half done. Their friends will be lookin’ for revenge. It ain’t over yet, not by a long sight.’
‘That’s the truth,’ said Mark Brown, ‘But still and all, I won’t ask you men to do any more. If you want to walk away from this now, I’ll not think any the less of you.’
Brady snorted in derision. ‘I ain’t a man to leave a job unfinished,’ he said. ‘I mean to end what we begun this night. What about you, Andy?’
‘You bet,’ said the boy, ‘You can count me in.’
‘Andy,’ said the teacher gently, ‘You done right good tonight and I’m more grateful than you can know. But the next fight’ll be a deal harder to win. I wouldn’t feel easy in my mind about drawin’ you into something which could be the death of you. You think carefully afore you say you’ll stay with me.’
‘I don’t need to think on it much,’ the boy replied, ‘I’ve wanted to be a lawman since as far back as I can recall. This looks to be a good beginning. I reckon as you could help me along in that line, if I make out good now?’
‘I’ll surely do what I am able to help you, yes. Well, it looks like the three of us will have to see if we can settle the rest of those scallywags up at Randolph Parker’s spread.’
Jake Brady scratched his head thoughtfully. ‘You think they’ll come tonight? Or you figure we can sleep now and be ready in the morning?’
‘I don’t look for them to be riding out here this night. They’re probably busy terrorizing some poor sodbusters right this minute. But they will want revenge for the death of their friends, that’s for sure. I say you two fellows should go home to your beds and if you still want to help me tomorrow, we’ll set off and see what we can do.’
Andy left the other two and went home, presumably to face his mother’s wrath. As he walked down Main Street with the owner of the livery stable, Brown said, ‘You were quick to offer your services to me, Mr Brady. How’s that?’
‘Fellow gets tired of tacking up horses and polishing leather all the live-long day. I was in the army when I was younger and after that, I was mixed up in some high jinks. Being an old-timer don’t always suit a man, no matter his age. Just thought it might be fun to let rip again and see if I could still hold my own. ’Sides which, my health ain’t what you’d describe as robust. I’d like to do what I can, while I’m still able.’
Mark Brown stopped walking and turned to face the other man. He said, ‘You did better than hold your own. You and that boy are the only real men in this whole entire town. I don’t know how old you are, but I’d sooner have you by my side than any of the younger men round here.’
The old man shook his head, saying, ‘People in this town are all right. They just got a little soft is all. Things is easier than when I was young. Goodnight to you, Mr Brown.’
‘Goodnight, Mr Brady.’
He would have to make some provision for the men that he and the others had slain that night, but suddenly the teacher felt bone-weary. Let those who lived in the town make arrangements. He was done for the night. Brown had a suspicion that the next day was apt to be a trying one, with him and the other two facing odds of around seven to one.
Mrs Clayton was sitting in the parlour, with only one lamp alight, reading a newspaper. When he entered the house, she called out to him. ‘Come and set here with me for a moment if you will, Mr Brown. You might care for a cup of coffee.’
‘That would be truly welcome, ma’am.’
As the old woman poured out the coffee, she said, ‘Well, I heard some shooting. Not just pistols either, ’less my hearing is failing. I hope only the bad men were hurt?’
‘Your nephew and Mr Brady from the livery stable are just fine. Not so much as a scratch.’
‘What about you? You all right as well?’
‘By God’s mercy, I am.’
‘Amen to that, say I. How many killed?’
‘We shot four of the men who I think killed your brother-in-law. Another one is out of action.’
‘Well, you do get things done, I will allow. Are you hungry?’
Brown thought about this for a second or two, before answering, ‘Truth to tell, I have not eaten at all today.’
‘Lord, that won’t answer. I’d best rustle up something for you. You sit here with the newspaper for a spell.’
Now that he thought about it, Brown was tired and hungry and the idea of sitting down and having a bite to eat was a tempting one. He settled into one of the comfortable armchairs, while the old woman bustled around in the kitchen.
She returned with a plate of sandwiches, which she handed to him. The teacher stood up, intending to take them through to eat at the table, but Miss Clayton stopped him, saying, ‘You rest yourself there, now.’
As he munched the bread and cheese, Brown said, ‘How’s young Patrick bearing up?’
‘Not so good. He’s been sobbing a lot to himself.’
‘Poor young devil. I wonder if I shouldn’t take him to stay somewhere else tonight, ma’am.’
‘Take him somewhere else? What, at this time of night? Why, you must have taken leave of your senses. He’s snuggled safe in bed.’
Brown said, ‘Miss Clayton, you are a good woman, but maybe you don’t fully understand the danger. That boy is the only witness to the murder of his mother and your brother-in-law. Those murdering sons of . . I mean, devils, might want to silence him for good. Then again, they won’t have any especial love for me after this night’s work. If they come looking for me and find me here, then you could get hurt. I can’t allow that.’
‘Pig-headed young fool,’ said the old woman fondly, ‘You don’t think you’re the only one who knows his duty, I suppose? I want to see those men brought to account as well. I can’t use a gun, but I can surely offer shelter to you and Aggie McDermott’s boy. No, not another word. You stop right here until this business is over and done with.’
***
At about the same time that Mark Brown and Miss Clayton were having this conversation, Stuart Singer was arriving back at Randolph Parker’s ranch. Riding with a broken arm was pure hell and the injured man had hoped to find his comrades in arms waiting to sympathise and help him plan his vengeance upon the man who had maimed him. He had forgotten that they had all drawn straws to see which five would get to go drinking in town that night. The other members of his party would be raising Cain around the nearby homesteads. So it was that when he eventually got back, there were none of his friends to greet him. A few of Parker’s regular hands were around, but they all despised the newcomers as being little better than bandits. Not only that, none of the men who had worked at the ranch for years were any too keen on rebels and could not understand why their boss had chosen to engage such a set of bloodthirsty rascals.
Singer somehow managed to slither from his horse, losing his footing at the last moment and ending up on his backside. The jolt as he hit the ground was exquisitely painful for his injured arm. The men who heard his grunt of agony, sniggered.
‘What are you laughing at, you bastards?’ snarled Singer, ‘I’ll kill any of you who so much as smiles.’
The men shrugged and turned away, one of them muttering audibly, ‘Rebel scum.’ Singer glared at their retreating backs. He picked himself up and made his way to the bunkhouses that had been allocated to their group; two log cabins, each containing half a dozen cots.
There were no lights showing in either cabin, and so Singer was forced to lift off the glass chimney of a lamp and strike a Lucifer with one hand. Then he lay down on his bunk and brooded of vengeance. His friends, meanwhile, were doing their best to persuade the stubborn settlers that the time had come to up sticks and move on.
Parker had told them that he didn’t want anybody else killed now. The last thing he wanted was a bunch of federal marshals turning up on his doorstep, investigating a murder. The deaths of Aggie McDermott and her lover could perhaps be smoothed over as a bit of frontier justice. Any more killings would invite explanation. What he needed to do now was make conditions so unpleasant for those living hereabouts on his land that they would actually want to leave.
The eighteen Southerners who had not gone to town that night were busily trampling over sown fields and uprooting fences. When they had caused enough damage in one field, they rode on for a mile or two and hit someone else’s farm. Two of the men carried stoneware flagons of lamp oil and this they sprinkled liberally over a cart and wooden shed. Then they applied a light and galloped off into the night.
This sort of hit-and-run attack was meat and drink to these men, who had employed such tactics many times, both against freed slaves in the Deep South and then later on in the Mexican wars. They had no doubt that they would be able to clear this land and then pull down all the soddies and fences erected by these dirtgrubbing squatters.
Some time after midnight, the troop of horsemen rode back to their temporary quarters and were astounded to find Stuart Singer, lying on his bed with his arm broken. ‘What the hell happened, man?’ said one of the raiders. ‘And where are the others?’
‘They’re dead,’ Singer told them.
‘Dead? What all of them? How?’
‘You mind that milksop teacher who came by here a couple o’ times? Him as was dressed like a parson?’ asked Singer.
‘God almighty, you ain’t saying he did for ’em?’
‘That he did. Him and two others. He beat the shit out of me, busted my arm and then killed Mathers, Thomas, O’Connell and Grant.’
***
Mark Brown woke before dawn the next morning and instead of leaping from his bed to start making preparations, he lay there quietly for a minute or two, getting matters straight in his mind. Action had always been more attractive to the teacher than deep thinking, which was another reason that he had taken up the post at Barker’s Crossing elementary school. He had been sure that it would provide him with a calm year; and plenty of time to consider the serious commitment which he was about to make. A year of inaction! Four weeks was all it had taken for him to drift back into law enforcement. He was still as deeply religious as ever he had been, but it was beginning to strike him that Miss Clayton had been right and that he would not make any sort of a priest. He was a good lawman, but perhaps he would only make a second rate man of the cloth. Mayhap he should stick to what he knew he was good at.
The sun was just peeping above the horizon when Brown rose quietly and dressed himself. It promised to be a fine day and he felt a twinge of sadness to reflect that one way or another, there would certainly be some violent deaths in or around Barker’s Crossing before the sun next sank below the horizon. Still, he thought, that’s none of my doing. I haven’t set out to look for bloodshed. If those boys had just taken my advice and laid down their weapons when they was asked, there need not have been any killing last night. I don’t see that it can be laid at my door. With this comforting thought, he made his way downstairs.
To Brown’s amazement, Jemima Clayton was already up and at work in the kitchen. ‘You must move as quiet as a mouse, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I’ve sharper ears than most, but I didn’t hear you stir. Surely you’ve no occasion to be up at this hour?’
‘You’re likely to have a lively time of it today, Mr Brown, from all that I am able to collect. You don’t think I’d let you venture forth with just a hunk of dry bread in your belly, did you?’
As she spoke, the old woman was frying eggs on the range which, despite the hour, was already warming the room. The good Lord alone knew what time she must have got up to light the thing and have the kitchen ready for a cheerful breakfast for him. Brown felt touched and said, ‘I’m mighty grateful, but you didn’t need to go to all this trouble.’
The meal which Miss Clayton set before him was most welcome and exceedingly delicious. Fried eggs, toasted bread, porridge with honey and glasses of fresh milk. When he had finished eating and was sipping a cup of black coffee, Brown said, ‘Truly, that was the best breakfast I’ve had since the war ended. I feel ready for anything now.’
‘Well, be sure to come back by six this evening. I’ll have a good evening meal waiting for you then. Mind you’re not late, now.’
***
Randolph Parker was up earlier than he had been for at least ten years. He had fallen into the habit of allowing others to do most of the hard physical work about the ranch and saw no reason to stir from his bed before eight or nine on most days. Today was different, though. His foreman had knocked on the door late last night, to tip him the wink that there was trouble in the wind. The man didn’t exactly know the nature of the problem, but he had heard the Southerners talking of riding into Barker’s Crossing in the morning and killing somebody. This was the last thing that Parker wished to happen. Once he had disposed of the homesteaders, his aim was to live in peaceful co-existence with the nearby town. As long as they acknowledged him as the important local figure that he was and allowed him some say in the running of the town, he saw no need for any friction between his interests and those of the town.
The truth was, Parker had had about enough of the two dozen men who had travelled here on his invitation. They had been well-paid and had done what was required of them. After the three deaths and the damage wrought last night, he couldn’t see that any of those sodbusters would want to hang about much longer. Parker’s intention now was to give his hired guns a handsome bonus and send them packing; back to the south where they belonged. The idea of them rampaging through the town was not an enticing one. They would queer his pitch if they got up to tricks of that sort. Already, he had heard from his men that the new boys were leaning on storekeepers and demanding their drinks for free in the saloon.
When he got up that morning, Parker simply threw on his clothes and snatched a quick bite of bread and butter; quite different to his usual leisurely and extensive breakfast. He decided to go over and fetch a few of the men who had been with him for some time, in the hope that they would be able to persuade Singer’s friends to stay their hands and not make ructions in town. As he was leaving the house, Parker saw the Winchester hanging on its hooks in the hallway and brought it down. Then he went back into the kitchen and rummaged around until he found a box of shells for it. He loaded the rifle and walked over to the bunkhouse where his oldest and most loyal men slept.
There were only four beds in this particular bunkhouse, it being more like a cosy home than a barrack-room. The men who lived there were already awake and dressed when Parker knocked on the door in a cursory fashion and immediately walked in. He was greeted with murmurs of ‘Hey, boss!’ and ‘Morning, sir.’
‘One of you men scoot over to Fraser’s cabin and tell him to arm himself and come straight over here,’ said Parker, not wasting any time on the usual social niceties. ‘You men get yourselves ready as well.’
‘Ready for what, sir?’
‘Ready to stop those hot-headed fools from Texas. They have it in mind to ride on the town this day and engage in a little bloodletting.’
The men exchanged uneasy glances. The idea of stopping those Southerners from doing anything upon which they had set their hearts was not an attractive one.
Jack Fraser, Parker’s trusted foreman, arrived; he was armed to the teeth with two pistols at his hips and a rifle in his hand. ‘What’s to do?’ he asked.
‘I don’t want those new men of mine going to town and shooting the place up in search of that damned teacher,’ said Parker ‘I wouldn’t mind seeing him killed, but I don’t want a whole heap of blood being shed in Barker’s Crossing. I want that we should hold them here and then offer to lure Brown up this way, so they can shoot him on the road.’
Fraser looked dubious. ‘I don’t see them buying that, boss. Once those boys set their sights on something, nothing’ll hold ’em back.’
‘I’m paying their damned wages. They’ll hold back if I say so.’ He looked round the room and said, ‘You’re none o’ you yellow, I hope? You men work for me, or had you forget? Get your guns and come out now.’
With every sign of great reluctance, the foreman and four hands followed their employer out of the cabin and towards the two bunkhouses where the Texans were staying. All well and good for their boss to tell them that he was going to order those wild customers to stay here and bide his orders, but none of the other five could see that end being achieved without a considerable amount of violence. When all was said and done, they were cowboys, not gunfighters. Still and all, the mood the boss was in this morning, he looked quite willing to give any one of them who hesitated to help him, their marching orders. Others had been thrown off the ranch before for crossing Randolph Parker at the wrong moment. It struck the five of them that it was now a case of either going along with the boss now, or packing their bags and leaving at once.
It was clear at once that this entire enterprise was not going to end well. When they walked across to the two bunkhouses occupied by the Southerners, it was to encounter a hive of activity. Two of the men were leading horses towards the cabins, while others were coming and going, bringing out saddlebags and so on. It looked for all the world as though the whole boiling lot of them were preparing to leave for good. Parker felt betrayed. He had wired funds to a bank in Texas to pay for these rogues to come up here and had then paid them good money in advance. Now it looked like they were about to dig up and leave. True, he had more or less decided to pay them off himself, either this day or the next, but that didn’t mean that they could choose the hour of their going. That was for him to say. It was time for some straight-talking.
‘The hell are you men up to?’ bawled Parker angrily. ‘You ain’t about to leave, I hope?’
‘You hope what you want, cap’n,’ said one of the men jauntily. ‘We done what you asked. I reckon we’re all square here.’
‘Just you put those bags back in the bunkhouse,’ said Parker curtly. ‘I’ll be the one to say when your work here is finished. You go when I tell you and not before.’
The man who had called him ‘cap’n’ smiled at that and then spat deliberately in the dirt. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said and, turning his back on Randolph Parker, he went back into the bunkhouse to fetch out some more of his gear.
Now when a man has been in the habit for manyyears of being obeyed promptly and without further debate, it can be irksome in the extreme to have a man speak so; particularly when the conversation is taking place on his own land, just a stone’s throw from his house. Parker stared, speechless, as the Texans ignored him and continued to clear out their things from the cabins. His foreman sneaked an anxious look at his boss, hoping against hope that Parker wouldn’t precipitate a direct confrontation with these men. It was a vain hope, because the ranch owner strode forward and picked up a saddle-roll that was laying on the ground. Quick as a rattlesnake, one of the men whirled round and said, ‘You set that right back where you found it, friend. Else you and me are goin’ to be fallin’ out.’
‘I’m not your friend,’ said Parker heavily, ‘I’m your boss and you are my hired men. All of you, stow that gear back in the bunkhouses and happen we’ll say no more about this insubordination.’
It was a poor choice of words, the expression ‘insubordination’ putting them all in mind of various snot-nosed officers who had tried to push them around in the past. The men stopped shifting stuff and turned to face Parker.
‘Best do as he says, sir,’ said Jack Fraser uneasily, ‘This ain’t worth fighting over.’
‘Yeah,’ said one of the Texan’s mockingly, ‘You do as your lapdog tells you and set that roll down.’
In an absolute paroxysm of fury, Randolph Parker hurled the saddle-roll to the ground and turned his back, stalking across to his regular hands, who were standing in a nervous huddle. When he reached them, he whirled round, working a cartridge into the breech of his rifle and raising it to his shoulder, saying to his men, ‘All of you, help me now to set these fellows straight and get them to put their things back in their cabins.’
None of the Southerners took to having the Winchester pointed in their direction. Even then, bloodshed might have been averted, if Fraser had not begun to raise his own rifle. As he did so, the other men at his side reached down to draw their pistols. It was enough.
The fellow who had addressed Parker as ‘cap’n’ drew his pistol with practised ease and shot Fraser dead on the spot. Parker then shot at this man, missing him, but killing the man standing next to him. Seeing that the shooting had now begun and thinking that they had no other choice but to fight, Parker’s remaining four companions now commenced to fire at the Southerners, who returned the fire with devastating effect. The most that the four cowboys had ever shot at before this day were bottles balanced on a fence-post. The Texans and Georgians were all seasoned soldiers who had been living by the use of their guns for more than ten years.
The end result of the brief gun battle was never in doubt for a moment. Randolph Parker, who was none too popular with the men he had recently hired, was the next to die after Jack Fraser. Two of the Texans were killed and another two received trifling flesh wounds, before the shooting died down and all the cowboys lay dead, next to their foreman and boss.
‘Son of a bitch!’ exclaimed one of the wounded men, who had caught a ball on the outer, fleshy part of his shoulder. ‘Did you see that bastard? It was like he wanted to die.’
Stuart Singer came out of his cabin and said, ‘You killed ’em all? You get that Parker, I hope?’
‘Yeah, he’s dead as you like,’ said one of the men, strolling over to where Randolph Parker lay stretched out, with half his head blown away. The man aimed a casual kick at the undamaged side of the ranch owner’s head. Then he said, ‘What say we see if there’s aught worth takin’ from that whore’s son’s house?’
This idea was met with general approval and the seventeen men sauntered briskly across to the big house and then set to ransacking it. They took silver coffee pots, gold cufflinks, ornate snuffboxes, framed miniatures, cash money and anything else that took their fancy. They were on the point of leaving when one man found the strongbox from which Parker had been wont to dispense wages each week. This proved to contain almost two thousand dollars, which meant that each of them received a little bonus of over a hundred dollars.
The gunfire had attracted the attention of the other men working on and around the ranch, but none of them were inclined to come and investigate. From the large number of shots, it was thought likely that the Southerners had cut loose and there was no percentage in going up against those boys. The cowboys just kept on working, although at a somewhat slower pace. They had a suspicion that nobody would be harassing them today and asking them what the Sam Hill they had been doing all morning.
Having thoroughly looted the ranch-house, it looked as though there was little more to keep them there. This wasn’t the first time by any means that these men had turned savagely on somebody naïve or foolish enough to think that he had bought their loyalty. They knew very well that there was no sort of law within several days’ ride of this corner of the Wyoming Territory, and calculated that by the time anybody got round to looking into the matter, they would be long gone.
***
Mrs Porter was most decidedly not pleased to find Mark Brown knocking on her door an hour after sunup. She said, ‘Mr Brown, Andy is my only child. Could you not leave him out of whatever plans you have for this day? Mother of God, didn’t he do enough yesterday, from all that I hear?’
‘Your son tells me as he wants to be a lawman, Mrs Porter. I can help him in that ambition. I’ve been a US Marshal for almost ten years.’
‘Last I heard,’ she replied tartly, ‘You’re supposed to be a teacher.’
Andy Porter had perhaps heard this disputing, because he came ambling down the hallway, carrying his rifle. He put his arm around his mother’s shoulders and kissed the top of her head, saying, ‘Don’t fret, Ma. I can take care of my own self. I ain’t a little kid now, you know.’
As they walked towards the livery stable, Brown said to the boy, ‘You sure you want to finish this off? I’d not think any the worse of you if you felt you’d done your share. You done a sight more than the other so-called men in this here town.’
For answer, Andy Porter said, ‘Can you really help me to become a proper lawman? Or were you just saying so to stop my ma from fussing?’
‘I can help you. Once I tell some folk I know about how you handled yourself in this affair, I make no doubt that I can find you a post as a deputy in some town. Might be a long way from here though.’
‘I’m getting to a time when I want to live a little way from my ma,’ said the youth. ‘She loves me dearly, but that kind o’ love can choke you if you have it day in, day out. You understand me, Mr Brown?’
The teacher chuckled. ‘Yes, I understand you well enough. Felt much the same when I was about your age. That’s when I left my own ma to go to war.’
There was no sign of old Mr Brady at the livery stable so Andy suggested that they tried his house. Brown had no idea where the old man lived, but Andy volunteered to lead him there. They met Brady coming out of his front door. He was wrapped up warm against the chill morning air and seeing the warm coat and the scarf that was tucked round the man’s neck, the teacher had a twinge of guilt. Helping a young boy like Andy to cut free of his mother’s apron strings was one thing; leading an old man into hazard, just when he should be looking forward to a quieter life, was something else again. He said, ‘Mr Brady, why don’t you just stop at your stable this morning? Me and this young fellow can manage what’s needed.’
‘Huh,’ said Jack Brady, ‘Don’t bother with that foolishness. I’m coming with you all right.’
‘So be it,’ said Brown.
Brilliant, can’t wait for the next episode!