Sabrina's Man

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Part Two

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Part Three

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Part Four

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

About the Author

Little Rock, Arkansas, 1864

T
he late summer sun, which had been hiding behind a silver cumulus cloud, illuminated the face of Waco Smith as he stood staring up at a large sign glistening with fresh paint. Here at the north end of Little Rock, the businesses framing Main Street were, for the most part, framed structures, but others made a more permanent statement with their façade of brick and marble. Waco turned and looked down to his left to the Arkansas River that dissected the town and lent its own dark odors to the sense of the southern part of Arkansas.

Waco noticed with a degree of sadness that many of the men walking the street to his right wore parts of the Confederate uniform. Many of them were missing arms, and others hobbled along on crutches or on one leg.
This war is going to ruin the South
. The thought was bitter in his mouth, for he was tired of the war as were most people in the South.

He thought with bitterness of the year that he had served in the Confederate Army. He had joined up in a fit of patriotism when Fort Sumter had fallen but had signed up for only one year. He had fought at Bull Run, but when his year was up, he had left the army and determined never to fight in the Civil War again.

Waco's train of thought about the war was broken when a voice behind him said, “That's a right nice sign you got there, Waco.”

Waco turned and smiled at the speaker, Micah Satterfield, and paused, studying the police chief.

Satterfield was a heavyset individual with a square face, a pair of sharp blue eyes, and a neatly trimmed mustache. He had served Little Rock as police chief for three terms and kept a tight lid on the city. “You're getting to be a respectable citizen.”

Shaking his head, Waco gave Satterfield a brief grin. “Never thought I'd be one of your taxpayers, did you, Chief?” He was six feet two inches tall and had to look down on Satterfield, as he did on most men.

Satterfield glanced up at the large sign that announced S
MITH
& B
ARTON
H
ARDWARE
. “Hope to get rich, do you, son?”

“I doubt that. All I've ever done is raise horses.” He shrugged his broad shoulders, adding, “Will—he's the smart one.”

“So I understand. You two must have been friends for a long time.”

“Nope.” Waco studied the sign and murmured, “I worked on my grandparents' horse ranch most of my life. My grandfather died, so I ran the ranch for Grandma. Last December she died. Since I was the only kin, she left the ranch to me. I sold out and made straight for the big city. I was tired of cleaning up after horses and aimed to waste all that money I got on wild women and whiskey.”

Sheriff Satterfield studied the tall man. “Well, you didn't do that as I thought you might. What stopped you, Waco?”

Smith took off his hat and ran his hand through his stiff black hair. “Well, I would have, but when I went into the bank to deposit the money I got from the sale of the horse farm, I met Will Barton. I guess I was boasting about what a fool I was going to make of myself, and he talked me into putting off such foolishness. We got to know each other, and somehow he convinced me to go into business with him.” He stuck the hat on his head, pushed it back, and said, “I still don't know how it all happened, but the first thing I knew we took my money, Will quit his job at the bank, and for the next six months we just about killed ourselves working twenty hours a day getting that hardware business started.”

“You put up all the money?” Satterfield had some doubt in his voice. “That's unusual.”

“Oh, Will had a little money. Mostly he took care of the finances of the business. He knew how to keep books, and he knew hardware. I just turned out to be a strong back and a weak mind. You know, Sheriff, I thought breaking horses was hard, but running a business. . .that's worse. Sometimes I wish I was back there in the simple life.”

Suddenly a voice called out, “Well, are you going to stand and stare at that sign all day, or are you going to come in and give me a hand?” Both men turned and saw that Will Barton, Waco's partner, had emerged from the store. He was wearing an apron and shook his head. “I can't pick up those kegs of nails. That's your job.”

“My master's voice.” Waco nodded toward Satterfield, bid him good-bye, and with a rolling gait moved to the front door. “When are we going to hire somebody to do all my work, Will?”

“Not anytime soon.” Will Barton smiled then and added, “If you think handling stock is hard, you ought to try balancing a set of books for a new business that's out of money. Put those nail kegs over by the wall, will you?”

“Sure.” Waco moved over where six nail kegs were stacked, picked one of them up, and carried it easily with a strength that surprised most people. He moved the rest of the kegs then leaned against the counter and sighed. He opened one barrel and pulled out a cracker and then reached into another and pulled out a pickle. He took a bite of the pickle, made a face, and said, “These things are sure sour.”

“Well, stop eating them. That's my profit.”

“I wish I had never run into you, Will. If I had gone right down to having my fun, I could be living it up with the hostesses down at the Golden Nugget.”

“Hostesses! That's a nice word for 'em.”

“Well, it doesn't do any good to be nasty. That's what they call themselves.”

“If you had done that, you'd be broke and probably in jail.”

Suddenly Waco grinned, which he'd been told by several ladies made him look much younger, and reached out and put his hand on Will's shoulders.

The man was his opposite in almost every way. Barton was only five feet eight and was almost fragile. He had blond hair and hazel eyes, and his face was composed of delicate features. Waco's hair lay thick and black and ragged against his temple. He had high cheekbones, and minute weather lines slanted out from his eyes across smooth bronze skin. His mouth was broad below an aqualine nose, and his eyes were a shade of gray that was almost blue.

Will had been to college for a year when his father had died. There had been no inheritance. Will had found a job as a clerk at the bank and had done well enough.

“I was just kidding, Will,” Waco said. The feelings of his partner were easily hurt, so he had to be careful.

Instantly Will gave Waco a smile. “Take the cash from the sales to the bank, will you? I don't like to keep it at the store.”

“Sure.”

“And take the pistol. You might get held up.”

“I'll be right careful.” Waco moved to the drawer behind one of the counters, pulled out a. 44, checked the load, stuck it in his waistband, and sighed. “Do you reckon business will pick up after this war's over, Will?”

“Bound to, and it can't last much longer,” Will declared. “Grant's got Lee penned up in Richmond.”

“I wish it would end today. I lost some good friends in that fracas.” Waco turned and called out as he left, “I shouldn't be long.”

“Sounds good.”

Waco left the building, but not before hearing Will turn back to the books with a sigh.

As Waco left the bank, he was greeted by a blond woman who grinned at him. “When you coming down to visit me, Waco?”

“Oh, I'll be there. You just hang on, Rosie.”

Stepping outside, he looked up and studied the sky, then muttered, “There's some rain in those clouds.” He walked down the street to the train station. When he got there, he stopped to talk to Oscar Riggs.

“You still aim to go hunting after a deer with me this weekend?” Oscar asked. He was a muscular man with a pair of sharp black eyes.

“Yep, we need some venison at our place.”

“We'll go on Sunday morning.”

Oscar shook his head violently. “I'm plum nervous about hunting on the Sabbath.”

Waco was amused. “Well, you're a sinner just like I am, aren't you, Oscar?”

“Yes, but I don't want to make it any worse.” He took a match out of his pocket, stuck it in his mouth, and began chewing on it. “Don't it scare you to think about what's gonna happen to us when we die?”