“You went for an evening walk with him, did you not? Without a chaperone?”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t tell me you weren’t doing anything wrong. I wouldn’t approve of that kind of behavior no matter who you were with. But this is much worse. Kathleen, this man is the son of Ike Clinton. Ike Clinton is our sworn enemy, you know that.”
“Billy isn’t like the others.”
“Darlin’, Billy is a Clinton,” Garrison said. “When it gets right down to it, it always comes out the same. He is a Clinton.”
“I love him, Papa.”
“What? What did you say?”
“I said I love him.”
“No, that can’t be.”
“Papa, I can’t help it. This isn’t something I can just turn on and off.”
“Let him go, child, let him go,” General Garrison said gently, putting her hand on her shoulder.
“It’s not fair, Papa,” Kathleen said. “It’s just not fair.”
“Life isn’t fair, darlin’,” Garrison replied. “It never was, and it never will be fair.”
Chapter Seventeen
From the Higbee Journal
DISRUPTION AT DANCE!
But One More Example of Clinton Mischief.
Saturday night last, nearly everyone in town repaired to the Morning Star Hotel for the fifth annual Higbee dance. The music was provided by a group of musicians headed by Edwin Mathias, who is regarded by many as the finest fiddle player in America. Beautifully decorated, the reception hall of the Morning Star Hotel was an ideal place for the festivities, and the dance was proceeding with high spirits and merriment.
But such was not to be for very long, for the Clinton brothers, Ray and Cletus, in keeping with their nature of troublemakers, did institute a fight.
Alas, the brothers Clinton did not consider the consequences of their plan, for the man with whom they picked the fight was none other than Falcon MacCallister. Having attended the dance, this reporter was there to witness the action, and it was a joy to behold the two thugs get their comeuppance. Falcon dispatched both Clinton brothers with little effort on his part.
If picking a fight and disturbing the peaceful pursuit of a pleasurable evening be the only offense of Ray and Cletus Clinton, this paper would have little to say of the issue. But there is strong evidence that the Clintons have been involved in dealings of a much more serious, and nefarious nature.
It is no secret that Ike Clinton wishes to prevent General Garrison from constructing a railroad that would benefit all. Would that he express his dissatisfaction with the railroad by peaceful petition, one might espouse some sympathy for his position. But his protest has already erupted into violence and bloodshed, costing, at last count, some five lives.
It is the strong opinion of this newspaper that the Clinton family in whole, and Ray and Cletus in particular, were directly involved in all five deaths. For that reason, this paper will institute a vigorous campaign to urge the sheriff to begin an investigation of the Clintons and all their activities.
It was noon on Wednesday, and Falcon was in the Golden Nugget, having a beer with Marshal Calhoun; Harold Denham, the newspaper editor; and Corey Hampton. The marshal was reading Denham’s article and, after finishing it, laid it down, nodded, then picked up his mug of beer.
“That’s it?” Denham asked. “All you are going to do is just nod? Aren’t you going to say anything about the article?”
“Well, what is there to say, Harold?” Calhoun replied. He shook his head. “I’ll give you this, that’s one hell of an article. It might be a bit overstated, but it is one hell of an article.”
“What do you mean it’s overstated? It’s true,” Denham insisted. “Every word of it is true.”
Calhoun sighed. “As far as the fight at the dance is concerned, there were more than one hundred witnesses, so I don’t think anyone is going to disagree with you. But as to the other, we have no direct proof that the Clintons were involved.”
“Come on, Titus, you know damn well they were. Hell, everyone in town knows that they were.”
“Knowing and proving are two different things,” Calhoun said. “You can’t prove something in a court of law simply by saying that you know it to be so. You have to have solid evidence and concrete proof, or it won’t make it past the judge and jury.”
Denham chuckled. “Well now, that’s where I’ve got you, Titus,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“In my profession, I don’t need to prove anything in a court of law. All I have to do is prove it in the court of public opinion, and that, my friend, I can do.”
“He’s got you there, Titus,” Falcon said. “There is nobody who is going to read this article without a sure and certain belief that the Clintons are as guilty as sin.”
“Let’s say that’s true. What good will it do to prove this in the court of public opinion? That has no bearing on the legal status.”
“The Clintons are a school of sharks,” Denham said. “And sharks need a friendly ocean in which to swim. In the case of the Clintons, the people of Higbee and the county of Bent make up their ocean. If the people aren’t friendly to them, they won’t last long.”
Calhoun chuckled. “You do believe in the power of the written word, don’t you?”
“It’s why I chose this profession, Marshal,” Denham replied.
“Marshal! Marshal Calhoun!” someone was shouting from outside. Falcon could hear the rapid approach of boots on the boardwalk; then the batwing doors slapped open and the grocer, Moore, ran inside, while the batwing doors swung back and forth behind him.
“Marshal Calhoun!” Moore called. “Is the marshal in here?”
“I’m back here, Mr. Moore,” Calhoun called out. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s the newspaper office, Marshal,” Moore said. “There are some fellas down there now, tearing the place up something fierce.”
“There are people in my office?” Denham shouted, standing up quickly. “What is it? What are they doing?”
“I don’t know what all they are doing,” Moore said. “But I can tell you for sure that it isn’t anything good. It’s probably best that you get down there and look for yourself.”
Denham started toward the door, but Calhoun called out to him.
“Hold on, Harold! Don’t you go gettin’ down there before the rest of us! If there are a bunch of people down there tearing up your office, it wouldn’t be too smart for you to confront them all by yourself.”
“All right, I’ll wait, but hurry, Titus. Please hurry,” Denham said.
As they got closer, Denham called out in anger and alarm. “My type!” he said. “That’s my type in the street!”
Two other trays of type came hurtling through the broken window and Calhoun, with his gun drawn, ran toward the newspaper office. He stepped in through the front door just as four men were trying to pick up the Washington Hand Press that Denham used to print his paper.
“Hold it!” Calhoun shouted. “Get your hands up!”
The four cowboys who had been trashing the newspaper office stopped and lifted their hands.
“Oh, now, Marshal,” one of them said, laughing. “You had to come along and spoil our fun.”
“Fun? You call this fun?” Denham yelled, barely able to control his anger. He looked around at the trashed office. “Why would you do such a thing?”
“We work for the Clintons, and we don’t like what you said about ’em.”
Denham waved his hand over the mess. “It’ll take me all day to put this together again.”
“No, it won’t,” Falcon said.
Denham shook his head. “I’m afraid it will.”
“No, these boys are going to pick it all up for you.”
“Ha! In a pig’s ass we will,” one of them said.
Suddenly Falcon drew his pistol. Then he brought it around hard alongside the head of the cowboy who had just spoken. The cowboy went down.