Walter

Walter Gibbs had been employed up in Topeka as a clerk when he was abruptly cut for no good reason, as he would later express to Cotton. Needing work quickly, Walter would migrate south for the growing industry in Dallas, quietly settling soon after out west in Cotton’s ranch, some miles away from Amarillo.

The ranch was five hundred acres in total, with farming done here and over yonder, and the skinny dirt roads cutting in every few miles in no direction, it seemed. The town wasn’t too lively, as far as the ranch hands heard. The automobiles would rattle, the buggies would click, and the train would wake them every morning around 5:05 a.m. and give out a good farewell at sunset. The land was flat and dry, and the two rooms the four men accompanied were adequate, with two bunks procured from an oak of a most powerful grain, a well out back, a tub, outhouse, and even a root cellar. Often, the men would carry jerky or loaves, the root cellar was not too often accompanied. Cotton took care of the men well. He was good but he was not much to mingle. Walter had spoken with him four times in total, Samuel six, Jose and Mateo much more often, as they had been acquainted longer. Cotton was a graying man, and the oldest ranch hand, Walter, was only a child during the war. Samuel was even younger. He was a burly Irishman, standing just over six feet tall with a full head of golden hair. His father had served after coming over the pond, believing in the cause, and died quickly. Raised by his mother, he had a tempered tone and calm and quiet demeanor. He’d been working at the ranch eight months. Just a couple longer than Walter. The other two, Mateo and Jose, were hired together. Cotton knew them from previous jobs they had conducted for him. Mateo’s English was worse than Jose’s, so they always needed to converse as a couple, for translation. They joked often, mainly in Spanish.

It wasn’t yet noon when a buggy that had “WELLS FARGO” painted garishly over it clicked passed the barbed wire borders of the Cotton Combs Ranch and hastily obtruded on such a normal day. Walter and Mateo were lining the border with posts on the East side. Walter would hold a post firmly in the earth upright as Mateo drove his maul down. Five good swings and they would move on to the next hole. On the adjacent competed side, Samuel and Jose were spooling barbed wire over the completed posts. At first no one had noticed the colorful visitors until Mateo casually asked,

“Quienes son ellos?”

Walter squinted. The coachman hadn’t moved. The curtain inside the cab was shuffling and some hands were visible.

“I got no idea.”

“Se parecen a mis nuevos choferes.”

Samuel and Jose had already noticed and were headed over.

Mateo looked over at Walter.

“Shoul’ we... go?”

Walter ignored Mateo and kept his eyes on the meeting across the field in the center of the road. Samuel was talking to the two men inside that had yet to open their doors. He was still holding the barbed wire spool in one hand, and every time he spoke his arm waved, making the wire glisten and reflect across the waves of heat under the August sun. One of the men finally opened the cab and stepped out. He was old. Older than Cotton, but still healthy. The other man that remained seated in the cab was rather sloven underneath his three-piece suit. Both men had large hats and the one outside handed Samuel a small black notebook. In an instant Jose jerked away and snapped his head toward Samuel, then it seemed, his eyes alone darted directly at Walter then away. There was a moment of stillness. Clouds came over the sun. A wind came through, dissipating the heat, and the fields of yellow turned grey. Jose’s eyes were locked on Samuel as he finished his conversation with the man and parted. The clicking of the buggy riding away snapped Walter’s wits back instantly.

“Well?!”

Samuel darted his eyes across the field, spool in hand and Jose by his side. Walter was squatting down, one hand still on the upright post, the other readjusting his burnt Stetson hat from the indomitable light in the sky that had returned.

“What did the man tell ya??”

Samuel said something to Jose, handed him the spool and notebook, and then waved off at Walter.

“Just.. Some nonsense.”

Samuel walked back toward the house, and Jose called Mateo over.

Walter picked up the maul left by Mateo and balanced the post upright. He heard Mateo whisper, “Que paso??” to Jose as his friend gestured him over, carrying the conversation away. Walter raised the sledge over his head, focusing with one eye shut, and with one forceful plunge, sent the post heaving into the ground, sending off an echoing “CLACK”.

Walter’s hands were becoming stiff. His fingers were losing the dexterity to grip onto the bobbin and uncoil the wire without shaking. He had just sixty yards left when he saw Cotton step out of his house with Samuel. Samuel was doing most of the talking while Cotton would nod in agreement every other moment.

“The hell are they talkin’ about..”

Walter stopped uncoiling at his post and clipped off the remaining wire, carrying the empty spool with him as he walked toward the two men. Walter approached, feeling quite uninvited. He stole a glance at Samuel, then took off his hat and wiped his brow.

“Afternoon, Mr. Combs.”

Cotton Combs turned quickly to Walter, surprised the man had suddenly appeared so close.

“Hello, Walt. How are you?”

“I’m doin’ fine, sir. Just fine.”

Samuel looked at Walter then glanced back at Cotton.

“The fence out there is coming along just fine now, I’d say.”

“Oh, yes sir, not a problem... Say, Sam, did 'Ya tell Mr. Combs about them men that came by just a while ago?”

Both Samuel and Mr. Combs gave their feet a quick glance before Samuel replied.

“Yes Walter, that’s what he and I have been discussing just now.”

Mr. Combs interjected.

“They came to discuss personal matters with Samuel, Walter. That’s all.”

Walter glanced back and forth at each man for a moment, then chuckled.

“Well, okay. I guess- I’ll head back out to my business, then.”

Samuel nodded to Walter.

“Mhm..”

Mr. Combs waited until Samuel stepped out of sight, then shut his eyes closed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Samuel. I can’t have him stay her-”

“I’ll talk to him.”

Mr. Combs took a deep breath and started walking away before he cocked his head to the side.

“If you need it,” he called sharply,

“there’s a rifle in the root cellar. Among other things...”

Samuel had to squeeze his shoulders together and stoop his head to step into the root cellar, Walter just had to step in sideways. The room descended a few yards before stopping at a twelve by ten-foot room with each three of the walls lined with shelves topped with jars of various goods. The top of each shelf had tools and pieces of iron sticking out, leftovers from construction. On the shelf roof just behind Samuel, where Walters eyes fixated, was the butt of a rifle, coated with a few months' worth of dust. There wasn’t much light that had passed through, the high hanging sun outside seemed only like twilight in the cellar.

Samuel started up when Walter interjected.

“-Samuel,”

“...”

“You gonna tell me what’s goin’ on, or am I thinking too hard over-”

“Why are you still carrying that empty bobbin around?”

Walter took a big breath.

“I have never seen you talk that amount for nothing with Mr. Combs.”

“Walt, whatever you did... I don’t care, okay? You’ve been respectful of me and the others and Mr. Combs and you do just as much work as the rest of us, never botherin’ nothin.. But those lawmen are lookin’ for you. A lot of people are looking for you.”

Walter’s throat knotted up, and his jaw clenched.

“They asked about me.”

“Yeah.”

Samuel stared at Walter.

It wasn’t Samuel's silence nor the damp cool air that was causing Walter's hand to shake and slip at the bobbin, but an immediate feeling of hostility that took him by the arms.

Samuel quickly stepped forward, squeezing Walter’s wrist with the bobbin, making him release it immediately, and pushed him against the shelf with his forearm at Walters neck. Walter raised his to meet Samuel’s throat. The jars behind Walter shook, softly spreading multiple clinks in the small room.

“They’re offerin’ a twenny thousand-dollar reward to any man that turns you in. I told them I hadn’t seen or heard of you. You ought to thank that Stetson for hiding you in plain sight.”

Walter’s tensity relaxed.

“You ain’t lying.”

“No.”

Samuel released Walter.

“I told you. I don’t care. Combs though...”

“I can’t stay.”

“Yeah.”

Walter brushed his shirt off and pulled his hair back.

“Thank you, Samuel. I’ll tell you one thing; I have done nothing wrong. They mixed me up back in Dallas with this man who was-”

“I don’t care. I don’t wanna know. You’re welcome. That’s all I have to say.”

Samuel was waiting at a lone bench at the train station in the early evening when he saw the men approaching. He had two bags filled with his clothes and personals. He was bathed and dressed well. He didn’t argue or fight. There was no point. He surmised that Samuel lied to him, or Combs couldn’t bear to have employed a man with such accusations as him. Neither man would be responsible for Walter’s apprehension.

Soon after sunset, the two lawmen that visited earlier would arrive at Cotton’s and Samuels surprise, both asking for the ranch hand named Jose. Jose was waiting near the roof shed almost counting the minutes. The well-dressed men rewarded him a check for twenty thousand dollars, gave him a handshake, salute, and farewell. He packed his bags and left with Mateo before the day was done. In his personals, he packed the little black notebook Samuel had handed to him earlier. It was filled with dots and dashes; codes as they were, and supplied contact information to the authorities.

Samuel didn’t acknowledge Jose or Mateo when they left. Mr. Combs shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn’t know what to make of it.