Long Time Coming

Long Time Coming

 

Justice is a matter of perception

 

Ron Lewis

 

Copyright © 2021 Ron Lewis

Published by Lewis & Young Publishing

All Rights Reserved

 

 

This is a work of fiction and not intended to be historically accurate, but merely a representation of the times. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to any person, living or dead, is merely coincidental and unintentional. Historical characters used are strictly for dramatic purposes. This story contains some violence.

 

Long Time Coming

Thursday, May 31st, 1900

 

The old cat lay on Bertram Skinner’s lap. The yellow tabby was his fourth cat in the past 28 years. He stroked her fur, speaking to her in a soft voice. Understanding soon, Bertram would need to find another kitten.

“You been an excellent mouser,” Bertram said. “Yes, sirree, one of the best, old gal.”

Bertram Skinner picked up his coffee cup, drank the last, and returned the empty cup to the saucer. Picking up Lola, he sat her on the floor, and she slinked, on unsteady paws, to her fluffy pillow bed in the corner. Curling up, she let out a meow and drifted into a half-sleep.

Bertram picked up the cup and saucer, stood, and limped to the sink. Giving three hard jerks on the pump handle, he ran a small amount of water over the dishes, leaving the water in the cup, saucer, and plate.

“I’ll finish them when I return from my visit with Marshal Carter,” he said.

Moving to the tiny living room, which his wife had called the parlor, he retrieved his gun belt from the coat rack. Buckling the belt around his waist, he pulled his long frock coat from the rack, put it on, and then his flat-topped, flat-brimmed hat. Fishing his pipe from one pocket and tobacco pouch from the other, he filled the pipe and lit his first bowl of the day.

“Be back directly, Lola,” Bertram opened the door.

Stepping on the porch and into the warm May sunlight, he looked around the peaceful, small town with a measure of pride. He’d tamed the town in the old days. The old days, long-gone times of yesterday. As he walked, the men tipped their hats to him. The women called him Mister Bertram and wished him a fine day.

They remembered him as the law of the town. After five years of retirement, they still respected and treated him well.

“Top of the morning to you, Bertram,” Mrs. O’Kelly said.

“And the rest of the day to you, Kate. How’s Patrick?”

“Down with gout,” she said, with a sparkle in her eyes. “The bottle might be long gone, but I think all the booze gave him all his troubles.”

“He’s been sober for 20 years, Kate.”

“Thank goodness.” She hustled off down the street.

Chuckling to himself, Bertram ambled the three blocks to Main Street, turned right. Walking down the gnarled sidewalks, he wondered when concrete would replace the wooden ones. Men worked on the road, laying cobblestones. The red brick would soon cover the avenue. Bertram was sure they would modernize the sidewalks in short order.

Too bad, really. Bertram enjoyed the sound his boots made on the wood and the give of board over the unforgiving solidity of cement.

When he arrived at the City Marshal’s office, he removed his hat and opened the door. The pipe hung from his mouth. With his teeth clenched to hold the curled mouthpiece, he spoke to the marshal.

“Jeb, how you doing?”

“I’m good, Bert, and yourself?”

“Can’t complain,” Bertram said, pulling his pipe from his mouth. “I got something to tell you?”

“I been expecting you today. Made us a fresh pot. How about a cup full?”

“Sounds inviting,” the older man said, making himself comfortable on the visitor side of the marshal’s desk.

That was a preview of Long Time Coming. To read the rest purchase the book.

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