Joe makes an instinctive, impulsive decision to help a widow and her family, bringing his own family along for the (bumpy) ride.

Rated: T (24,500 words)

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The Letter of the Law

XxXxX

1

When the stage arrived, Little Joe Cartwright gave no attention to the stranger who stepped out into the road. A gray man in a gray suit with no predominant features, he was the kind of man who was easily overlooked, and Joe wasn’t the only one to do so. No heads turned as the gray stranger dusted himself off with a scoff that fell just short of arrogance. If they had, they might have taken notice of the cold sheen in his gray eyes. Like the thin veil of clouds preceding a summer storm, it could be easily—regretfully—dismissed. It wasn’t until later, after Joe made his way to the Virginia City Bank, that the gray man stirred his interest.

“You can’t seriously expect me to give you every last dollar from Mrs. Hansen’s account.”

Hearing Floyd Whittaker’s startled yet soft complaint, Joe turned his attention away from the teller to find a stranger seated in front of the bank manager’s desk. Mr. Whittaker was holding a slip of paper, one that seemed far too small to cause the look of dismay he was giving back to his visitor.

“Mr. Cartwright?” the bank teller called out.

“Hmmm?” Joe did not bother turning.

“What can I do for you today, Mr. Cartwright?”

“Oh. Right. Sorry,” Joe apologized, suddenly realizing he was holding up the line. He tipped his hat to the scowling man behind him and then handed the teller his bank note. “Who is that talking to Mr. Whittaker?”

“I can’t say.”

Smiling, Joe prodded. “Sure you can. You can trust me.” He even winked, hoping the effect would help draw attention to his honest nature.

It didn’t seem to matter.

“I mean I really can’t,” the teller repeated. “I don’t know who he is.”

“Hmm.” Joe took his receipt and moved away, trying to appear casual as he approached Mr. Whittaker’s desk. The bank manager was starting to look pale.

“You can’t do this,” Mr. Whittaker said.

“Of course, I can,” the stranger countered. “I have every right—”

“By the letter of the law, perhaps,” Mr. Whittaker went on. “But for the sake of human decency, basic ethics and common morality—”

“The letter of the law, sir, is all that counts in this matter.”

“But this will ruin a fine woman who’s still mourning the loss of her husband. How will she eat? How will she feed her children?”

“Are you a preacher or a businessman, Mr. Whittaker?”

“Why, a businessman, of course.”

“Then hold yourself to doing business and let the preachers worry about feeding widows and orphans. Now that paper proves the money belongs to me. Tomorrow’s stage is scheduled to leave at noon. I intend to be on it. I also intend to have that money with me when I go.”

“But Mr. Gainsby, surely you can’t—”

“Do I need to involve the sheriff, Mr. Whittaker?”

“The sheriff?”

“Legally, that money is mine. Therefore any attempt you make to prevent me from taking it will be illegal.” The stranger stood up. “I’ll be by in the morning to collect it.”

The sadness reflecting from the bank manager’s eyes caught Joe’s attention and held it even more than the gray stranger who had caused it. Joe was oblivious to the stranger’s departure until he felt a bump at his shoulder.

“Get out of my way, you backwater cowpoke!”

Stunned less by the encounter than by the conversation he’d just overheard, Joe watched the stranger move past him. What kind of business could make a man believe he was justified in taking money from a widow like Mrs. Hansen? Little Joe could find no rational answers as he stared after the man Whittaker had called Mr. Gainsby. He stepped numbly to the door, finding himself both confused and disturbed to see how casually Mr. Gainsby moved down the street, as though he had no concerns—and no conscience. As though filling his pockets with a dead man’s life savings was nothing more than a day’s work for him.

“Close your mouth, Joseph,” Pa’s voice erupted beside him. “How many times do you have to be reminded it is impolite to stare?”

Joe glanced at his pa, but then swiveled his attention back inside the bank, to Mr. Whittaker. “Who was that man?” Joe asked.

The bank manager’s eyes were locked on a business card in his hand. “Mr.George Gerard Gainsby. He…he’s from a Philadelphia investment company.”

“And he can do that? He can just take that money?”

“He’s got legal papers, all signed up proper by Luther Hansen himself, before he died.”

“What’s this all about?” Pa asked.

“The widow Hansen,” Joe answered without looking away from the obviously troubled Mr. Whittaker. Then he did turn to his pa, half hoping Pa could help him make sense of the situation. “That man who just walked out of here. He claims he’s got the legal right to all the money she has in the bank.”

“He does have the right,” Mr. Whittaker corrected.

“That’s a terrible shame,” Pa said, his brows pulling down in consternation. “But,” he shook his head, “if he’s got the legal right to it, there’s nothing you or I or anyone else can do to stop it. Now, did you deposit that bank note like I asked you?”

“Yeah, Pa. But how can he do that? I mean, it didn’t bother him at all when Mr. Whittaker said the widow wouldn’t be able to feed her children without that money.”

Pa sighed as his gaze met Mr. Whittaker’s. After a moment he turned back to Joe and wrapped his arm around Joe’s shoulders. “There are many different kinds of people in the world, son. Not all of them share your sense of…of compassion. It might even be said that some can’t afford to. They have to attend to business matters that might not always be particularly pleasant. They can’t allow their personal feelings to get in the way of doing what they have to do.”

“I know, Pa. I suppose I knew that, anyway. But I just don’t understand it. I guess I just…I’ve never seen anyone be so…so callous about it.”

Pa patted his shoulder. “It’s time we went home, don’t you think?”

“What about the widow Hansen?”

Pa turned. “Floyd? Let her know we’ll help in any way we can.”

It bothered Joe to see his pa take the matter so lightly. Pa didn’t even wait for Mr. Whittaker’s reply. His hand at Joe’s back, he seemed in a hurry to push Joe out of the bank.

Joe could understand to some extent that Mr. Gainsby had the law on his side, and laws were there to protect all people, not just those you wanted to protect. Yet Joe felt sure he would never truly comprehend how anyone could accept that it was okay to bring about the financial ruin of a widow with children to feed.

Maybe that was why Pa was in such a hurry, because Pa couldn’t comprehend it either. If so, that was fine with Joe. It just proved Pa was nothing like Mr. Gainsby. Nothing at all.

XxXxX

“Legally, that money is mine. I’ll be by in the morning to collect it.”

Mr. Gainsby’s words haunted Joe through the night. Just by having been in that bank, just by having overheard Gainsby’s conversation with Mr. Whittaker, Joe found himself burdened with a sense of responsibility for Mrs. Hansen—as though he was the only person in the world who could help her, even if he had no idea how. Before night’s end, he knew he needed to be in town when Mr. Gainsby came to collect the money. He also knew his pa would disagree, which was why he left at the barest hint of dawn, well before his pa or brothers would give any thought to looking for him.

XxXxX

Mrs. Hansen arrived in town shortly after Joe. He had finished a light breakfast at the International House and was taking care of Cochise when she passed, driving a buckboard loaded up with her four children, all dressed in their Sunday best.

“Mr. Cartwright.” She smiled and nodded, sitting up straight as she could.

“Ma’am.” Joe tipped his hat to her. He wished he had some words to offer, but none seemed fitting.

It startled him to see a good sized trunk in the buckboard, along with a number of bags. Not even a full day had come and gone since Mr. Gainsby’s appearance at the bank, and already it appeared the widow Hansen was set to move out. Had she known Gainsby was coming?

Curious, Joe watched as she pulled in front of the Wells Fargo station.

“Tomorrow’s stage is scheduled to leave at noon.” Mr. Gainsby had said. “I intend to be on it.”

Had Joe misread the entire situation? Was the widow Hansen planning to run off with Gainsby? Was that all this was about?

Feeling like an absolute fool, Joe allowed his uncertainty to fade as he let in a more familiar and comfortable emotion: anger. His breaths coming harder and faster, he found himself clenching and unclenching his fists, more eager than ever to get a hold of Mr. Gainsby. But what would that accomplish? After all, Gainsby had done nothing more to Joe himself than toss out an insignificant insult about a backwater cowpoke. Besides, as Gainsby had proved yesterday, he was more likely to call in the sheriff than settle his own disputes.

No. Gainsby wasn’t worth the trouble. Instead, Joe decided to have a chat with Mrs. Hansen.

“But that trunk must go with them,” Mrs. Hansen was saying to the clerk when Joe reached her. “It’s their heritage. It’s all they have. And my brother—”

“There is simply no room!” The clerk hollered back. “We need room for the mail; and there’s plenty of it today. Besides, it’s twenty-five pounds per passenger. That’s a hard and fast rule, ma’am. I’m sorry.”

Unable to argue more, Mrs. Hansen turned from the clerk—and right toward Joe. Closer now than when he’d been on the street, Joe could see her eyes were red-rimmed, as though she had been crying for quite some time, and more tears were building. She raised a shaky hand to wipe them from her cheek as they started to fall.

“Mrs. Hansen?” Joe asked, his anger all but vanquished.

She tried to smile, but no longer seemed able to hold the posture she’d shown while driving the buckboard. “Oh, it’s alright. What do children need with history anyway? It’s just a bunch of useless heirlooms. This is the west, right? A place for new beginnings.”

“I’m sure we can find a way to get that trunk shipped to wherever you’re going.”

She shook her head. “That would cost money. Money I don’t have.”

“We could figure something out.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cartwright, but it’s just not worth it. Not anymore. The important thing now is to get my children out to San Francisco. It really is a whole different world there. They’ll get along just fine without all these…memories.”

“What about you?” Joe found himself asking.

“All I have are memories. I suppose it makes sense to leave them here with me.”

“Here with you? Aren’t you going?”

“My brother is in San Francisco. He and his wife have been eager to spend time with the children. I’m sure they’ll absolutely dote over them.”

“But what about you?” Joe asked again.

She glanced toward the buckboard where four young sets of wide, worried eyes were avidly watching the exchange. “I really must finish preparing the children for their trip. Thank you for your concern, Mr. Cartwright.”

Joe listened for a moment as the woman began to give instructions to her oldest son, a boy who couldn’t be more than eleven, about the care of his three, younger siblings.

“Remember, Martin, she’s barely four. You’ll need to keep an eye on her. Don’t let her wander off. And try to keep James from bothering the other passengers. It will be a very long trip. You must pay close attention to—”

Disgusted once more with Mr. Gainsby, Joe refocused his attention to the bank up the street. As he walked away, his anger grew with every step.

XxXxX

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