Chapter 5 - The Man on the Black Stallion
By Tuesday morning, the Broken Spur kitchen resembled a military camp.
Before sunrise, Clementine had three fires going.
Biscuits filled one oven.
Beans simmered.
Bacon fried.
Coffee boiled in an iron pot large enough to wash a child.
Sadi kneaded dough.
Mave sliced apples.
Pearl wrapped biscuits in clean cloth.
Cole and Jasper carried firewood.
Wyatt harnessed the wagon.
Josiah stood near the door holding an empty crate.
Clementine looked at him.
"What are you doing?"
"Waiting for instructions."
The children stopped.
Every head turned.
Josiah realized what he had said.
Clementine lifted one eyebrow.
"Put the beans in the wagon."
He obeyed.
Cole whispered, "She got Pa too."
Jasper nodded gravely.
"Nobody's safe."
The first railroad breakfast was delivered before seven.
The workers devoured everything.
One man ate four biscuits and offered to marry Clementine himself.
Josiah did not enjoy that joke nearly as much as everyone else.
By ten, Clementine had another idea.
The rail foreman needed leather harness repaired.
Josiah could do it.
By noon, he had six pieces lined beside the barn.
Payment: twelve dollars.
Wyatt took two young horses into the round pen.
A neighboring farmer agreed to pay five dollars each if Wyatt could gentle them enough for harness.
Clementine added numbers to a sheet.
Their fifty-three dollars became ninety-eight.
Then one hundred twelve.
Still far from eight hundred.
But money was moving.
"Can't cook our way to eight hundred in three days," Josiah said that evening.
"No."
"So?"
"We continue."
"Clementine."
She looked up.
He sat across the table after the children went to bed.
"You need to tell me about Chicago."
She remained still.
"Why?"
"Because every time you make a plan, you look like you've done it before."
"I have."
"What kind of business?"
Clementine folded the paper in front of her.
"My father died when I was nineteen."
Josiah waited.
"He left debts."
"How much?"
"More than we could pay."
Something passed through his expression.
Recognition.
"My mother took sewing. My brothers worked docks. I cooked."
"For your family?"
"For anyone with ten cents."
He leaned closer.
Clementine continued.
"I started with a pot of stew near the stockyards."
"You sold food on the street?"
"Yes."
"Alone?"
"At first."
She smiled faintly.
"Within a year I had two carts. Then four. Then a rented kitchen. Then boarding rooms above it."
Josiah stared.
"You owned a business."
"I ran one."
"What happened?"
The smile disappeared.
"Men noticed."
He understood from her tone that the story had changed.
"Protection money?"
Clementine looked surprised.
"You do know cities."
"I've met men."
"Then yes."
She explained.
A local businessman named Patrick Doyle had controlled deliveries, gambling rooms, and several saloons near the stockyards. He expected small merchants to pay for the privilege of being left alone.
Clementine refused.
At first.
Then a window broke.
Then flour disappeared from a warehouse.
Then one brother came home bruised.
Clementine paid.
For six months.
Then she began keeping records.
Every payment.
Every threat.
Every business affected.
Names.
Dates.
Witnesses.
"Why?"
"Because angry people shout. Prepared people win."
Josiah said nothing.
"I found an attorney willing to listen. Then a newspaper editor."
"What happened?"
"Investigation."
"Doyle?"
"Prison."
Josiah leaned back.
"You did that?"
"No."
"I thought—"
"Evidence did."
She met his eyes.
"That is why I want the county copy of your loan."
The next morning they rode into Cheyenne.
Virgil's demand was based on a debt that had originally been five hundred dollars, with an $800 accelerated payoff he claimed was due by Friday. Clementine had already noticed the written agreement did not appear to match his verbal claims, making the county records crucial.
At the courthouse, the clerk searched old filing books.
Josiah paced.
Clementine waited.
Finally the clerk returned with a document.
"This is what was recorded."
Clementine read.
Then again.
Her stomach tightened.
It matched their copy.
Thirty-day notice.
Not four.
"This helps," Josiah whispered.
"It helps enormously."
The clerk tapped the page.
"Though there is an amendment."
Clementine looked up.
"What amendment?"
Another document appeared.
Dated six months earlier.
Signed by Josiah Caldwell.
It granted the lender immediate acceleration if two consecutive payments were late.
Josiah stared.
"I never signed that."
The clerk looked uncomfortable.
"Your name's there."
"That ain't my signature."
Clementine studied it.
Similar.
Very similar.
But the J was wrong.
She had watched Josiah sign three supply orders that week.
His J curled left.
This one curled right.
"Who witnessed it?" she asked.
The clerk looked.
"Virgil Tatum."
Of course.
"Any second witness?"
"No requirement."
"Who filed it?"
The clerk checked.
"Harlan Webb."
Dead.
Clementine exhaled.
Virgil had not merely pressured Josiah.
He had prepared.
"Can we challenge it?" Josiah asked.
The clerk raised both hands.
"I ain't a lawyer."
"Who is?"
"Mr. Belling, two streets over."
Mr. Belling was seventy-two years old, smelled strongly of peppermint, and listened without interrupting.
When Clementine finished, he removed his glasses.
"If the amendment is forged, it's worthless."
Josiah leaned forward.
"Then we're safe."
"No."
Hope vanished.
"Mr. Tatum possesses a recorded instrument presumed valid until challenged."
"How long?"
"A hearing could take weeks."
"We have two days."
Belling nodded.
"You need either payment or proof strong enough that the sheriff refuses enforcement."
"What proof?"
"Evidence Caldwell could not have signed it. Evidence Webb couldn't have filed it. Another handwriting sample from that date. Anything showing fraud."
Josiah rubbed his face.
Clementine asked, "When was it filed?"
Belling told her.
March 17.
Josiah froze.
Clementine noticed.
"What?"
"March seventeenth?"
"Yes."
"I wasn't in Cheyenne."
"Where were you?"
"Laramie."
"Can you prove it?"
He stood suddenly.
"The cattle auction."
Belling leaned forward.
"You bought or sold?"
"Sold twelve steers."
"Receipt?"
"Maybe."
"Where?"
Josiah closed his eyes.
"Abigail kept everything."
Silence.
Then Clementine asked, "Where are her papers?"
"Trunk."
"Where?"
"Attic."
They rode home hard.
For two hours, the family searched.
Old letters.
Church receipts.
School papers.
Abigail's recipes.
A dried flower.
Birth records.
Josiah found one of her scarves and had to sit down.
Clementine quietly moved the children away.
Finally Sadi called from the corner.
"What's this?"
A folded receipt.
Laramie Stock Association.
March 17.
Twelve steers sold by Josiah Caldwell.
Signed by an auction clerk.
Josiah grabbed it.
"I was there."
Clementine smiled.
"Good."
Wyatt looked confused.
"Does that save us?"
"Not yet."
"Why not?"
"Because Virgil may say your father returned."
"Laramie's far."
"Exactly."
They needed the auction clerk.
Or hotel register.
Or witness.
Josiah looked at the date again.
"I stayed overnight."
"Where?"
"The Eagle House."
Clementine stood.
"Tomorrow someone goes to Laramie."
Josiah shook his head.
"That's hours each way."
"We don't have another choice."
"I'll go."
"No."
He frowned.
"We need you here earning money."
"So who?"
Clementine thought.
Wyatt stepped forward.
"I can ride."
Everyone turned.
"No," Josiah said.
"I'm the fastest."
"No."
"Pa—"
"No."
Clementine watched them.
Wyatt was fourteen.
Still a child.
But frontier children learned roads early.
She did not like it.
Yet she also knew desperation did not care what people liked.
"We decide tomorrow," she said.
That night, after everyone slept, a rider stopped on the hill overlooking the Broken Spur.
Moonlight caught the red cloth around his neck.
Virgil's man.
He watched the lights in the ranch house.
Then turned his horse toward Cheyenne.
By sunrise, Virgil Tatum would know Clementine had visited the courthouse.
May you like
And the game would change.
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