Chapter 92: Cornwall Comes Calling
Land Farm.
Catherine’s reply arrived quickly—perhaps to save Davey a few dollars—just one short line.
“I’ll help you. Wait for my good news, Davey.”
A thrifty, practical girl.
Davey smiled. He missed Catherine’s handwriting, but a telegram clearly got the job done faster. He’d rather call her—platen telephones were already common across the country—but Valentine was still too small; the phone lines hadn’t reached it yet. To make a call he’d have to go to Saint Denis.
Catherine would need a few days. Davey planned to make a trip to Strawberry Town himself. Maybe in the meantime the greedy Sheriff Hanley would get the punishment he deserved.
...
At the shooting range, Mac wasn’t practicing marksmanship. He was grappling with several of his men—hand-to-hand. Big, strong Mac didn’t go down easily, even when three or four guys piled on him.
Davey watched the pile of bodies for a moment, then walked over to the old man leaning on the fence, drinking.
“Uncle, maybe you could be a bit more useful,” Davey said with a touch of exasperation.
The old man took a swig. “I’m not lazy, Davey. I just don’t like working. That’s different.”
Davey shook his head. “I don’t need you to do the work, Uncle. Could you just shower every day? Don’t you think the smell’s getting a bit much?”
Back in the gang days nobody bathed often, but times had changed. The old man was still perpetually drunk—he’d washed only once when he first came.
“Fine, Davey. You’re civilized now—all about appearances,” the old man said, indifferent, and drank again.
Davey sighed. “I’ll tell the maid to have a bath ready for you each night when you come home.”
“But—about teaching gunplay, Uncle—don’t just watch.”
Davey knew the uncle’s past and wanted him to teach Mac and the others.
“All right, Davey. I’ll teach them, but not right now,” the uncle said. “Mac doesn’t care about marksmanship, and those boys are nowhere near ready.”
Hearing that, Davey dropped it. After reminding him about the bath, he left—he had business in Valentine: buying a few shops. Trelawny’s barista and pastry chef should be about ready.
...
A policeman arrived at Land Farm.
“Mr. Callander, the sheriff asked me to pass along a message: railroad magnate Cornwall has arrived in Valentine.”
“He would like to meet you at Wells Restaurant during dinner.”
“If Mr. Callander agrees to the meeting, I’ll pass the word.”
Davey wasn’t surprised Cornwall had come looking for him—he was effectively out in the open now, and linked to the Van der Linde gang.
“Please do that, Officer. I’ll be there.”
The officer accepted a five-dollar tip with a grin; he’d known generous Mr. Callander wouldn’t disappoint. He’d beaten several colleagues to win this delivery.
“Thank you for your generosity, Mr. Callander. I’ll tell the sheriff.”
When the officer left, Davey’s smile calmed.
He knew Cornwall’s visit was trouble. That the message came through Sheriff Malloy signaled he couldn’t count on the Valentine Police to help—no surprise, given Cornwall’s influence with the military and the federal government. Malloy staying neutral was already as friendly a signal as Davey could expect; after all, Malloy wasn’t elected—he’d been appointed.
Back at the range, Davey called out, “Mac—fellows—take a break. Go shower. I need you on an errand with me later.”
Mac stopped sparring and came over. “Davey, we in some kind of trouble?”
Davey nodded. “Leviticus Cornwall—the railroad tycoon. Dutch robbed his train, and you once drank his brandy. He’s come looking in Valentine and, through the sheriff, has arranged to meet me at Wells Restaurant.”
“I doubt it’s a friendly chat. We should prepare for the worst.”
“Understood, Davey. If he tries anything, I’ll make him pay,” Mac said.
He took a few gunmen to wash up—green shooters, but they’d do for a show of force. Davey, however, wasn’t about to stroll into a possible trap.
He found the maid, Elisa. “Elisa, can I trust you? And your brother?”
Author's Note
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