Forty-Four Caliber Justice by Donald L. Robertson

tomorrow.”
    *
    The week had passed slowly. For two more days he had remained in bed. Then, with some protest from the doctor, he started walking in the infirmary. By the end of the week he was jogging around the parade ground, taking care not to interfere with the soldiers ’ activity. It was almost the middle of May, and the fort was buzzing with excitement. The men were preparing for what appeared to be a large patrol.
    His voice had not returned. The swelling in his neck was slowly disappearing. The pad and pencil went with him everywhere. Each time he thought about his voice not returning, panic began to rise. But, with practice, he was able to send it back to that dark place it came from.
    Today, Captain Dixon had cleared him to walk into Brackett. He needed to purchase some new weapons and wanted to check on his horses and gear at the stable. His strength was returning quickly. His throat still hurt, especially his jaw, when he ate, but it was getting better.
    Clay stepped out across the footbridge that crossed the stream from the Las Moras Springs. At the sound of his steps on the wooden bridge, a fox squirrel ran out on the oak tree limb and started barking at him. It felt good to be out. The army had kept the money for him that he had stashed in his boots. It came to about a hundred dollars. He had another seventy-five squirreled away in his panniers. He’d need to get some more money sent over from the Uvalde bank. Buying another complete set of gear was costly.
    The first place he came to was the Brackett General Store. He’d already made a list of the things he needed. The bell over the door tinkled when he stepped in.
    “What can I do you for?” a brittle voice asked from the back of the store.
    Clay walked to the counter in the rear of the store and slid his list across the top.
    The wizened old man stepped around the end of the counter and came toward Clay. “How you doing, young feller?”
    Clay nodded to him and pointed to the bandages around his throat. He saw the pity in the man’s eyes, and felt a burning shame. This is what it’ ll be like my whole life if I don’t get my voice back.
    “Knowed a man back in ’42 got attacked by a bear. Old boy killed the bear, but not before that there bear took a swipe at his throat. Lucky he lived. But he weren’t never able to say another word. Terrible hard on him. Died just a few years later. I suppose it was just grief from not being able to talk.”
    Clay tapped hard on the list. The man looked down at the list and then up into Clay’s hard eyes. He cleared his throat and got busy picking out the items on the list. I can live with this if I have to, Clay thought. It won’t be easy, but I can do it.
    When the old man came to the guns on the list, he stopped. Clay had written down a pair of .36 caliber Remington Navy revolvers. The old man turned to Clay, and, in an overly loud voice, said, “I’ve got the Navy Remingtons, but you might want to look at the Smith & Wesson Model 3. It’s—”
    Clay motioned the storekeeper over to him. While he walked over, Clay wrote, I can’t talk. My hearing is not affected.
    The old man looked up at him for a moment, then took a rag from his pocket, removed his spectacles from his face, and started cleaning them. He looked back up at Clay through rheumy old eyes, wisps of matted gray hair hanging out of place. “You’ll have to forgive me, Son. Sometimes I talk too much, and often I’m just blamed inconsiderate. If my granddaughter was here, she wouldn’t hesitate to set me straight.
    “Can I show you the Smith & Wesson?”
    Clay nodded yes. He wanted to see the gun. He’d heard about it, but had never seen one.
    The old man pulled it from inside the case and laid it on top of the counter. Clay picked it up and felt the balance. Then he snapped it a couple of times. He didn’t like snapping an empty gun, but he had to check the trigger pull. It was crisp and light. He liked it. He looked for the loading