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“Billy, you there!”
I spun around at the sound of my name, broken from my trudging through the bone-dry, yellow grass. A wiry man and a burly Indian were galloping up to me from the west, dust from the dried land swirling around them. I squinted my way toward the two to confirm it – It was the Ute pair; my bank’s newest customers.
“Billy,” demanded the bank’s new owner. I nodded silently to him, then trudged down quickly into town, letting the two chase me down without a word. We had a lot to talk about from now on.
We walked in on their contract talks and signed papers the minute they gave them to us. I knew if we could open a bank in time, we would be blessed for generations. I knew the risk. I was a trained lawyer and a banker from Chicago. I was used to risk.
But I wasn’t used to riches – and a new life such as the one I was about to indulge in.
“Billy,” I heard Mrs. Lacey call.
I looked up at my father. “Huh?”
“Can you help me carry a few things? I need to get to the store.”
“Sure, dad,” I replied, hopping from the porch. The two of us carried the dry goods from the back of the wagon into the wooden store. The smooth-grain wood caught my eye as a long-dead nail poked through the roof. My father grunted and wiped the sweat from his forehead, then turned to me.
“Billy, you’re eighteen now. It’s time to learn a trade.”
“What’s a trade?” I asked playfully.
“A trade’s what you’re good at.”
“Oh.”
“You can be a carpenter, or even a blacksmith, but my parents both told me there’s always a better choice. Eventually, you’ll work for yourself and be very rich. No carpenter, for instance, drives a fancy wagon like this, or carries the dry goods to sell in town. Not any more, anyways,” he said with a hushed tone. “Blacksmiths make tools. Farmers make things – things like gold.”
With that, he stepped into the back of the wagon and said a few quick prayers. With a loud whistle and a shake of his head to loosen the horses, he whipped the reins and the team lurched forward.
An hour later, the horses dragged my father into the blacksmith’s shop.
“New blacksmith, here!” announced the Ute as we approached. Our eyes met the Ute’s, but I noticed the man’s eyes looked different than the last time we encountered him. More tired than before, he wore a long leather vest strapped tightly around his protruding stomach. He took off his hat and wiped his brow before he nodded at me. “Howdy, pard.”
I offered him a curt nod in return.
My father remained silent, but I could hear him recite a prayer to the wood god in his mind.
“Fill ‘er up,” my father said to the Ute with a cough.
The Ute nodded and leaned over the fire with a short chisel and tongs, then stirred the burning wood to make a coal. After a few moments, he placed the coal in the fire with a grunt and a puff of smoke.
“Let me see what you got,” my father said. The man reached into a small satchel at his hip and offered my father five pieces of gold as a first payment. “Pard, I trust you’ll get to work on these the first thing Monday morning.”
My father took them, then tried to conceal the lump in his throat. “I’ll get on it as soon as this is done.”
“Why don’t you leave it now?” my father suggested. “I can do this. I’ve seen you myself. I’ve seen you work.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. But I thank you for the offer.”
My father collected the gold and then handed it to me. “This should buy some food. You’ll want to go into town with ours and get the supplies you need for the day.”
“Thanks,” I said, my voice cracking.
“You’re getting so big, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Sun’s gone. It’s dark now,” my father said with a look to the sky. “You get these done and get home before your mother gets worried.”
So I was on my own now.
I hoisted the heavy bags onto my shoulders, then turned and looked at my father. He was taller than me, but it still looked weird. “Thank you, dad,” I said, wishing I had more to say than that.
Without a word, he turned his head toward the door, but then stopped as if he felt he needed something else. My father simply stood there, covering his face with his hands and blinking slowly. After a minute like that, he lowered his hands and walked outside.
I hurried outside after my father. “What is it, dad?” I asked.
He stopped and turned to me once more. “You need to know why I did all this,” he said. “You need to ask me one question.”
“I’m not quite sure what you mean.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Then… what is it?”
“What happened that time?”
I nodded.
“Your mess was very small. Very small. It’s my fault it happened. But I’m glad we did.”
“Thanks, dad.”
My father nodded to me one final time before he walked away through the town. I just stood there with my bags, watching him. “Good luck,” I said under my breath, then trudged through the town in the night. The only sounds were the howling of the wind around me, and the whooping of the Ute – who had the cutest laugh. I didn’t remember that person looking so happy before.
A bell sounded throughout the town square. It was the bell for all the shops, and the bell for everyone to gather to pray. I hurried to my little old church that had been brought up from the deep American Midwest, where I had been born.
A few folks in their Sunday’s finest stood in the corner of the square.
I moved over to the children’s row and made my way down to the last empty pew: my spot. My father went to the back of the church and looked inside the Bible at the last dry section of the dry goods we had brought to town. “We’ll need to put some fancy leather on these books,” he said to himself aloud. “And I don’t even know where to start,” he sighed.
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