Power in the Blood by Greg Matthews Page B

almost daily; his chest, although still painfully narrow, was now layered with enough lean meat to hide the washboard bones there before. Edwin’s plan was not producing the desired results, but he would not call a halt just yet; something could still happen.
    The horseman came on Sunday, while the Delaneys were at church in town. Returning home, they saw a sorrel mare hitched outside the cabin Chaffey lived in. “That’ll be the brother,” said Delaney, and drove on by to the barn. “Clayton, you’ll tend to the buggy and team.”
    Clay got down, unharnessed the horses and curried them in their stalls, then pushed the buggy deeper into the barn to its appointed place. Everything had a special place on the Delaney farm, even the simplest of tools; nothing ever went astray.
    He was wiping the buggy’s painted bodywork with a damp cloth to remove the dust of the road, when a shadow fell across him. A man stood in the barn doorway, a short man wearing a striped vest.
    “You the boy?” asked the man in the vest.
    “I suppose,” Clay said.
    “You suppose? Ain’t you the boy around here, then?”
    The man’s voice was similar to Chaffey’s, but deeper, with more of a drawl. To Clay’s ears the man sounded lazy and insolent, so he chose not to reply.
    “Someone don’t know who he is,” the man went on, “I don’t know as I’d want to trust my horse to him. Likely he’d forget all about the horse and do nothing. That what you’d do?”
    Again, Clay said nothing.
    “Well, are you the boy or not?”
    “I’m him.”
    “Glad you remembered. I expect you seen my mount. Needs taking care of bad. I rode a long way getting here. Bring her over, boy, she’s gentle.”
    “Bring her yourself.”
    “Say what now?”
    “Bring your own horse, I said.”
    The man paused before laughing. “Had a banty rooster like you,” he said. “Stood tall for what he was, but skinny. Strutted considerable, but he was no scrapper. Had to wring his chicken neck one day when he pecked me. Never drew blood, but I twisted his head clean off for it.”
    Clay turned his back and resumed work on the buggy. When he glanced over his shoulder the man was gone.
    Some time later, his chores completed, Clay left the barn and went to the house. The sorrel mare stood as before, dusty and untended. Chaffey’s brother hadn’t even bothered to loosen the cinch. Conscientious by nature and training, Clay had to make himself ignore the horse and go inside.
    Edwin was not happy about the new arrival. “Not once since we arrived home has Chaffey brought the other fellow over. Common politeness would have him do that. The man has no sense of what’s right.”
    His wife asked, “Do you really wish to meet Mr. Chaffey’s brother?”
    “That is neither here nor there, Mrs. Delaney. Common politeness brings the guest before the host. Chaffey is not the host here, even if the fellow is his brother!”
    Clay said, “I talked to him.”
    “You?”
    “He came into the barn and said to take care of his horse. I said no.”
    “Did you now. Well done. Does he think we’re here to wait on him? Damn that Chaffey for bringing him here!”
    Mrs. Delaney hurried away before further profanity could reach her. Edwin was angrier than she’d seen him since the day he found the sow had rolled on her litter, killing eight of the ten. She couldn’t see why the hidden guest should arouse his temper so, and was secretly glad the Chaffey brothers had seen fit to isolate themselves. Mrs. Delaney had always found Chaffey peculiarly repugnant, even though Mr. Delaney swore he was a better than average worker. She occupied herself with embroidery.
    When evening came, Edwin’s mood darkened. “This has lasted long enough.” He left the house and went to Chaffey’s cabin. Clay watched from the window as his father knocked and was let inside. The grandfather clock beside him ticked away less than two minutes before Edwin reappeared and stamped across the yard to the