Clifford Simak - The Ghost of a Model T - And Other Stories

Benton reached down his hand. “You remember me?” he asked. “Ned Benton.”

“Sure I do,” said Madox. “Sure, boy, I remember you. So you are home again.”

“Last night,” Benton told him.

“You must recall my daughter,” said Madox. “Name of Ellen. Take off that damn sunbonnet, Ellen, so a man can see your face.”

She slipped the sunbonnet off her head and it hung behind her by the ties. Blue eyes laughed at Benton.

“It’s nice,” she said, “to have a neighbor back.”

Benton raised a hand to his hat. “Last time I saw you, Ellen,” he said, “you were just a kid with freckles and your hair in pigtails.”

“Hell,” said old Madox, “she wears it in pigtails mostly now. Just put it up when she comes to town. About drives her mother mad, she does. Dressing up in her brother’s pants and acting like a boy all the blessed time.”

“Father!” said Ellen, sharply.

“Ought to been a boy,” her father said. “Can lick her weight in wildcats.”

“My father,” Ellen told Benton, “is getting old and he has lost his manners.”

“Come out and see us sometime,” said Madox. “Make it downright soon. We got a few things to talk over.”

“Like this foreclosure business?”

Madox spat across the wheel. “Damn right,” he said. “Figure we all got taken in.”

“How do the Lee boys feel?” asked Benton.

“Same as the rest of us,” said Madox.

He squinted at the black. “Riding an Anchor horse,” he said and the tone he used was matter-of-fact.

“Traded,” said Benton.

“Some of the Anchor boys are down at the Lone Star,” said Madox.

“Thanks,” said Benton.

Madox snapped his whip and the team moved on. Ellen waved to Benton and he waved back.

For a moment he sat in the street, watching the buckboard clatter away, then swung the horse around and headed for the Lone Star.

Except for the Anchor men and the bartender the place was empty. The bartender dozed, leaning on the bar. The others were gathered around a table, intent upon their cards.

Benton flicked his eyes from one to another of them. Jim Vest, the foreman, and Indian Joe and Snake McAfee across the table, facing toward him. Frank Hall and Earl Andrews and the one who had looked around. That one had changed, but not so much that Benton didn’t know him. Bill Watson was a younger portrait of his florid father.

As if someone had tapped him on the shoulder, Bill Watson looked around again, staring for a moment, then was rising from his chair, dropping his hand of cards face down upon the table.

“Hello, Bill,” said Benton.

Watson didn’t answer. Around him, back of him, the others were stirring, scraping back their chairs, throwing down their hands.

“I’m riding an Anchor horse,” said Benton. “I trust there’s no one who objects.”

Young Watson wet his lips. “What are you doing with an Anchor horse?”

“Got him off of Rollins.”

Vest, the foreman rose from his chair.

“Rollins didn’t show up last night,” he said.

“You’ll find him on the old cutoff trail straight north of where you live,” said Benton.

Bill Watson took a slow step forward.

“What happened, Ned?” he asked.

“He tried to shoot me in the back.”

“You must have give him cause,” charged Vest.

“Looks to me like someone might have given out the word I wasn’t to get back,” said Benton. “Got the idea that maybe the cutoff trail was watched.”

None of them stirred. There was no sound within the room. Benton ticked off the faces. Watson, scared. Vest, angry but afraid to go for his gun. Indian Joe was a face that one couldn’t read.

“I’ll buy the drinks,” said Watson, finally.

But no one stirred. No one started for the bar.

“I’m not drinking,” Benton told him sharply.

The silence held. The silence and the motionless group that stood around the table.

“I’m giving you coyotes a chance to shoot it out,” said Benton.

Watson stood so still that the rest of his face was stony when his lips moved to make the words he spoke.

“We ain’t got no call to go gunning for you, Benton.”

“If you feel a call to later on,” said Benton, “don’t blame me for anything that happens.”

For a long moment he stood there, just inside the door, and watched them. No one moved. The cards lay on the table, the men stood where they were.

Deliberately, Benton swung around, took a swift step toward the swinging door, shoulders crawling against the bullet that he knew might come.

Then he was on the street again, standing in the wash of sunlight. And there had been no bullet. The Anchor had backed down.

He untied the black, walked slowly up the street, leading the animal. In front of the bank he tied the horse again and went inside.

There were no customers and Coleman Gray was at his desk beyond the teller’s wicket.

The man looked up and saw him, slow recognition coming across his face.

“Young Benton,” he exclaimed. “Glad to see you, Ned. Didn’t know you were back.”

“I came to talk,” he said.

“Come on in,” said Gray. “Come in and have a chair.”

“What I have to say,” Benton told him, “I’ll say standing up.”

“If it’s about your father’s ranch,” said Gray, smoothly, “I’m afraid you don’t understand.”

“You and the Watsons engineered it.”

“Now don’t get your back up at the Watsons, son,” Gray advised. “Maybe it seems hard, but it was all pure business. After all, the Crazy H wasn’t the only one. There was the Madox place and the Lees. They lost their ranches, too.”

“Seems downright queer,” said Benton, “that all of this should happen just when beef began to amount to something besides hides and tallow.”

Gray blustered: “You’re accusing me of …”

“I’m accusing you of going broke,” snapped Benton, “and ruining a lot of folks, then starting up again.”

“It’s easily explained,” protested Gray, “once you understand the circumstances. We had so many loans out that we couldn’t meet our obligations. So we had to call them in and that gave us new capital.”

“So you’re standing pat,” he said.

Gray nodded. “If that’s what you want to call it,” he said, “I am standing pat.”

Benton’s hand snaked across the railing, caught the banker’s shirt and vest, twisting the fabric tightly around Gray’s chest, pulling him toward him.

“You stole those ranches, Gray,” he rasped, “and I’m getting them back. I’m serving notice on you now. I’m getting them back.”

Words bubbled from the banker’s lips, but fright turned them into gibberish.

With a snort of disgust, Benton hurled the banker backward, sent him crashing and tripping over a waste paper basket to smash against the wall.

Benton turned on his heel, headed for the door.

In front of the Lone Star the Anchor riders were swinging out into the street, heading out of town. Benton stood watching them.

“Ned,” said a quiet voice, almost at his elbow.

Benton spun around.

Sheriff Johnny Pike lounged against the bank front, nickel-plated star shining in the sun.

“Hello, Johnny,” said Benton.

“Ned,” said the sheriff, “you been raising too much hell.”

“Not half as much as I’m going to raise,” said Benton. “I come back from the war and I find a bunch of buzzards have euchered the old man out of the ranch. I’m getting that ranch…”

The sheriff interrupted. “Sorry about the ranch, Ned, but that ain’t no reason to raise all the ruckus that you have. I was looking through the window and I saw you heave that banker heels over teakettle.”