Chapter 16
The next week was a bit of a blur for Righty. He went to the ranch every day after his morning sword practice, and once there he rolled up his sleeves, donned his work boots, and labored feverishly in the fields.
Righty was ecstatic that the barrels of seed managed to supply far more than the five acres he had originally envisioned. Well before the week had passed, a full twelve acres were planted, and Righty would have watered them every day if not for the fact it rained at least two to three times per day there. He was no farmer yet, but this seemed to be about the best terrain he could have hoped for. It was warm, but not scorching hot, and while the rain was regular and kept the ground moist, so far there were no merciless torrents threatening to wash away his nascent crop.
He had decided firmly within just a couple of meetings with these ranch hands that they held infinitely more potential for being a future fighting force than the junkyard gang in case things were ever to get really ugly in this business. They were a lot like him: not criminals through and through, but men that realized sometimes you had to break a rule now and again to get ahead. But more importantly they were hard workers and weren’t used to chasing the quick falon, which he had concluded was the vice of the typical street criminal and the source of his fickle loyalty.
In order to strengthen his bond with the men, he began spending a couple hours each evening engaging in archery contests and sword practice. He was finding the sword practice to be particularly helpful. Although he enjoyed practicing the sword sequences that Pitkins taught him by himself, he felt his physical and mental faculties uniquely challenged in the friendly, yet vigorous, sparring matches. They used wooden swords and donned helmets and other protective gear, which enabled them to spar with enthusiasm yet without injury.
He found the ranchers surprisingly skilled with their swords. He could beat half of them but only with maximum effort. Of the half that could beat him, there were ten who did so barely, and five who did so easily. He intended to request Pitkins that they begin some sort of similar sparring practice in order that he could continue advancing as soon as possible. He also intended to request their training sessions be increased to two per week, rather than the two per month he had been having thus far.
But he didn’t feel his loss to these ranch hands was ignominious. They moved the swords about with the same fluidity as their lassos, which was saying a great deal. It was clear to him that they practiced obsessively, so sharp were their skills.
With the crossbow, he was certainly starting from scratch. His aim was terrible, and there was not a man there who was not many times over his superior, but he was finding even by the end of this first week that his aim was becoming better.
In order to promote goodwill, he paid out of his own pocket for the slaughter of one of the fattest cows, and this provided for some excellent bonfire-cooked steaks to replenish the men after their vigorous sparring sessions.
Righty asked to see each of their swords, and while he was no expert, he could see that they were likely medium quality at best. He told them that if the agricultural part of the business went well for at least six months as a bonus he would get each of them a sword crafted by a master sword smith.
Although no one had the meanness or audacity to laugh at this offer, Righty sensed their skepticism. That led to him brandishing his own hidden sword and then passing it around for their inspection. Both its cunning concealment and masterful design seemed to impress them. Their eyes widened like teenagers ogling an attractive woman as they surveyed the exquisite instrument of death.
As for the junkyard gang, Righty managed only with great effort to sound convincing when he inquired into the Chalky’s absence. He was told he had been killed by some unknown assailant, who had probably been hidden on the roof.
Given that Righty was starting to take a liking to Slim, he surprised the gang by not suggesting him as the most likely culprit, even though they were initially convinced Slim had set the whole thing up.
“I wouldn’t worry about Slim,” Righty advised. “My sources tell me he’s surrounded on all sides by traitors right now, and our departed Chalky most likely fell victim to one of Slim’s ambitious rivals, who felt that by killing one of my men right after he met with Slim I would then take out Slim for him. I don’t fool that easy. We’ll avenge Chalky in due time.”
He had then gone on to explain that it would probably be prudent for them to just stick to doing business with their retailers for now. After all, even if it was speedier to sell the twenty pounds Righty could provide daily to a single wholesaler, they ought to take into account that these retailers had been loyal customers while Slim was still the employee of Heavy Sam. While they should be prepared to forgive Slim’s past association to Sam, they should not turn their back on those who had been clients beforehand. Soon enough, he would have plenty for all, Righty assured them.
Secretly, they were a bit relieved. While it was faster selling to Slim—in fact, it took them the better part of a night to move twenty pounds amongst their retailers—they ended up making far more money when they sold the product in smaller quantities amongst a larger number of people, as they could more thoroughly take advantage of the bulk discount Mr. Brass was giving them.
“I also want to make it clear,” Right told them, “that we never cut our product. I’m not unaware that our product is starting to get a name for itself, and in the long run that means we can have some bloodless victories. We’ll let the quality speak for itself and the customers come to us. Anyone who dilutes the product with coffee or anything else will be betraying all of us,” he said sternly, not needing to explain the consequences.
To Righty’s relief, all of his associates seemed sincere when expressing their agreement with this new rule.
It was October 10, around 7:00 p.m. Righty had begun making the junkyard meetings earlier, as he saw no reason to put his marriage at risk by coming home late even when it was completely unnecessary, and since the junkyard gang had reported no problems with any of the retailers, he hadn’t felt his presence on the streets was needed.
As Righty was about to leave the junkyard and ride Harold home, he saw a lone horseman approaching. Suspecting it might be Tats, he told Harold in a calm voice—who was hundreds of feet above—not to come down yet. Minutes later, Tats arrived, looking thoroughly exhausted.
He seemed happy though when he looked at Righty.
“Tats! How are you?” Righty asked sincerely.
“Good!” Tats replied. “And I’ve got even better news.”