The Man from Shenandoah by Marsha Ward Page A

Mr. Flaherty stopped to pull some cans from the shelf. “Indians favor sneaking up on a body when they attack. It’s almost like they’re invisible until they’re on top of you.” The clerk scratched his chin.

    “Dangerous fellows,” said Rod.

    “Yes sir. I see you’re not wearing handguns. Handguns are right handy to have when an Indian is five feet away and swinging a hatchet at your head. I expect you’re a rifle man, yourself. Well, a rifle’d just get in the way with an enemy so close and set on revenge. Some of them don’t care if they lives or dies, just so their kinfolks is avenged.”

    “You don’t say.”

    “But I do say. If I was you, I would outfit my entire party with handguns, belts, and holsters. That’s if I was you and going out to the Colorado Territory.” Mr. Flaherty folded his arms and leaned forward on the counter.

    Rod looked at the clerk, waiting there for a sale. He said nothing, but tucked his chin into his chest for a moment, then moved over to the dry goods section of the store.

    Carl had spent his time admiring the clothes on display on the counter. There was a pair of blue jean trousers, waist overalls, that would suit him fine. He wished he had a couple of coins to rub together, or better yet, to spend on new trousers.

    His father looked around for Clay, who had moved over to examine the candy counter. He saw Carl looking at the trousers, and approached him.

    “They would look mighty nice, son, and you surely do need them, but I can’t spare the cash right now. If what the clerk says is right, looks like we’ll be needing handguns worse than a change of clothes.” Rod looked chagrined. “I was hoping to get a little keepsake for your ma, but I reckon our safety comes before trinkets.”

    “Trouble on the trail, Pa? Outlaw?”

    “Indians. Somebody broke a treaty, and the whole east part of Colorado Territory is running with blood. We might have to fight our way in.” Rod grinned and winked. “Don’t mention it to Rand Hilbrands. He’s not much for fighting.”

    “Now, Pa,” Carl responded. “Mr. Hilbrands ain’t so bad. I don’t reckon he’s a cowardly sort. He just spent the whole war behind a store counter, and didn’t get the chance to harden up like we did.”

    “That’s so. And he saw a right smart lot of Yankees going up and down the Valley, but he sometimes wears my patience mighty thin.”

    “Pa, speaking of the Hilbrands, don’t you think we could rustle up a preacher in this town so Ida ‘n me can get married?”

    Rod looked sharply at Carl. “Are you sparking on that wagon seat, boy?”

    “I’m driving. Ida does the sparking.” Carl grinned. “It’s time I got wed, Pa.”

    “I’ll see what I can do. It’s surely a shame that preacher never came around back home. He put a bad crimp in my plan.” Rod gripped Carl’s shoulder and turned away toward the counter where Flaherty was loading his order into a couple of emptied grain sacks. “What are you asking for a handgun set?” he asked the clerk. “I might be persuaded that I’m interested if the price is right.”

    “Well now, we’ve got a mighty nice piece of goods for twenty-five dollars, complete with belt and holster. It’s an Army model 1860 by Colt, .44 caliber with six shots. It’s your standard percussion cap revolver, ain’t been used much. Twenty-five dollars, ammunition extra.” He brought out a big revolver for Rod to examine.

    “If it saw action in the war, it’s been used more than a mite.” Rod looked it over, checking the cylinder and the heft of the nearly three pound gun in his hand. “You got any more like this?”

    “Some. The Army dumped them on the market a while back, and they’ve been selling good.”

    “Let me have my pick of six pistols, you throw in the belts, holsters, and a thousand rounds of shot, with caps and powder enough to shoot them, and I’ll give you a hundred dollars, Federal cash.”

    “Done!” said Mr.