Not a breath of air moved on the Texas prairie. Black clouds blocked the sun and spread a chill across the plains. Clayton gazed across the small valley of springtime grass at his horse, Flicker, grazing with the longhorns. He and Hoppy had tended the herd without incident all winter. Trouble, in the guise of Pete Blacky’s gang, had been absent. Now he saw faraway specs change trails, angling down to the draw leading to the valley.
Clayton knew Blacky would challenge them for the two hundred longhorns that had survived of the blizzard of 1830. His riding companion Hopalong Cassidy lay stricken with fever, his six-shooters silenced before the looming threat.
Hopalong rolled on his side to look at Clayton. His eyes cleared for a lucid moment against the fever binding him to the bedroll. “Clayton,” he said, “Blacky is coming. I can smell him. Buckle on my gun belt and brace him. If he takes our herd, we’ll lose the Bar 20. I’ve seen you draw. I know you can take him.”
Clayton grasped Hopalong’s hand as the illness regained control of his friend. Hoppy’s eyes lost fire as Clayton gently laid him back to stare at the open sky.
“Well,” Clayton thought, “a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.” He picked up Hoppy’s matched forty-fours and checked their actions. The well-oiled guns were loaded and deadly. Wooden grips with scratches, not notches, showed they belonged to a working cowhand, not a braggart. He strapped the belt around his lean waist.
The scent of wildflowers fought with the musky smells of the horses, cattle and leather. A slight breeze came up and brought the smoke from the campfire of mesquite branches. His eyes watered. Clayton paced a few yards closer to the unwelcome visitors.
The breeze chilled his spine as he faced the outlaws. Blacky had killed horses and men. Wide leather chaps, worn boots, checkered flannel shirt, red kerchief, an old ten gallon hat — Blacky looked like a regular cowboy until you stared into the mean eyes under the black scar on his forehead.
Blacky and five desperados dismounted and fanned out to brace him. In a few seconds Clayton would fill his hands and spout flame and thunder and death upon the Devils’s Disciples.
Blacky growled, “Clayton.”
Blacky’s men retreated toward their mounts. Clayton and Blacky locked gazes. Blacky flinched and looked away. Clayton heard a distant voice, feminine but strident: “Clayton.”
“Clayton, stop fussing with your tool belt and finish the lawn,” Millie demanded. “Then bring me the sheet music for the quartet. It’s on the piano.”
The first wave of thunder threatened their impending lawn party. Clayton smelled the fresh grass cut only minutes ago blending with the odors of smoldering barbeque briquettes and unfired starter fluid. “Yes, Dear,” he said.
Clayton entered the mudroom off the garage and unbuckled his tool belt. He rubbed the name “CLAYTON” carved in one-inch letters in the spaces between the tool loops. He hung it on its peg. The neat row of pegs carried labels for his tool belt, engraved leather shop apron, prescription safety goggles, monogrammed windbreaker and beret. Clayton passed through the kitchen into the oversized family room. The recently-polished piano rested dustless in the far corner. He sat on the bench to sort the sheet music.
Clayton rose from the piano, and the ovation from the audience saturated his senses. His third curtain call at Carnegie Hall had followed a flawless and exhilarating performance. He stepped a deliberate two paces to the front of the stage and bowed from the waist. He acknowledged again his fans who stood as one. The critics cheered from their isolated box. Some wept.
He returned to the piano, sat and raised his hands. “Those who thought I couldn’t come back from the accident believe in me tonight,” he mused. “Now what do I play?”
The silence permeating the hall sounded thunderous. Clayton’s hands remained poised over the keys for ten long seconds while he teased the room. The Master pulled away and bowed a final time, acknowledging even HE could not top his performance.
“Clayton,” he heard through the cheers, “did you find the music?”
“Yes, Dear,” he muttered through the window. He took the sheet music to the gazebo and passed it to Millie.
“It’s time to change for the guests, Clayton,” Millie said.
Clayton marched to the house and stopped for a moment in his den. He closed the door behind him with a small snick. His private room possessed the serenity of a bank office an hour before opening.
A young woman dressed in tan shorts and a red-and-white striped polo shirt pulled vainly on the massive vault door. Unable to brace her feet on the shiny floor, she threw her insignificant weight fruitlessly against the door. “Help! Please help!” the woman screamed. “Sara’s locked inside. MY BABY!”
A man walked in the front door. He wore charcoal slacks, an off-white short-sleeved shirt and a button that read, “Ask me about Hawaii.” He carried five take-out bags from McDonalds.
“I’m the manager,” he said. “May I help you?”
“Open the door!” she demanded.
The manager distributed the bags to coworkers and kept one for himself. “Our network’s down,” he said. “This safe can only be opened via the link with our office in Brussels.”
The manager might as well have spoken in Latin. The woman threw him a wild look and resumed her attack on the door.
Clayton stepped forward and studied the lock. “The computer connects to this lock through an infra-red signal,” he said. “We can intercept it and substitute our own program.”
He asked the room, “Does anyone have an IR device?”
A tow-headed young boy handed his toy to Clayton. “Will my Gameboy work, Mister?”
Clayton was stunned the child knew about IR devices, another sign he should retire from safecracking. He brought the Gameboy to the IR port on the remote console, and feverishly worked the controls with his thumbs. Five minutes of intense binary programming brought life to the mainframe. The vault door chimed and opened. Mother and child embraced while the bank manager and two security men surrounded Clayton.
“We wish to know if you’ve done that before,” the manager said. Clayton prepared for battle and retreat, but someone called his name.
“Clayton,” Millie called. “Can’t you hear me? Our first guests are here.”
“Yes, Dear,” he called back and went to answer the front door.
He opened the door, and Don Miguel, patriarch of the Seattle Family stepped inside and bent to kiss the ring of Clayton, Godfather of All and Capo de Capos.
