Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: BRAG (04/20/17)
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TITLE: Striking it Richer | Previous Challenge Entry
By LINDA GERMAIN
04/27/17 -
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The sudden appearance of a clean, pleasant, no-trouble stranger in town fueled all kinds of speculation. Was he a lawman? A gunslinger? Perhaps he was an employee of the railroad scoping out new paths for those magnificent iron horses. He wasn’t talking.
Clem had staked out a table in the corner by the window weeks ago. He was pleasant enough but most inscrutable. He seemed to be waiting for something. Curiosity eventually overcame the motley bunch. Finally, Jeremiah Jenkins sat down across from the newcomer.
“Where you hail from, Stranger?”
Ever polite, Clem smiled.
“Oh, you know, here and there.”
“You fixin’ to settle down hereabouts?”
“Well, “he replied, as if considering such a thing for the first time, “maybe yes, and maybe no. I don’t have my orders just yet.”
Every evening, he would mosey back over to Miss Caroline’s boarding house. The word was that he had paid in advance for a private room with a key. Something certainly seemed afoot as the town continued to feed on the puzzle and engage in gossip.
One thing Jeremiah had noticed was the exquisite gun Clem wore in the beautifully embossed leather holster. The pearl handle was all he could see. What remained hidden were the notches--lots of them.
Hmm…
One day, just as Clem took his seat by the window, a man galloped up on a horse, jumped off and crashed through the swinging doors. He seemed nearly apoplectic with some important news.
“Hey! It’s Jimmy Joe,” several of the still-sober men shouted.
After one quick jigger of firewater, he wiped his mouth with a dirty shirt sleeve.
“It’s finally happened! Dry Gulch number thirteen has done sprung up. Oil is spurtin’ like crazy in ever’ direction. We’re rich!”
Stunned silence hung heavy over the room.
Jimmy Joe restated his news with more emphasis.
“Remember fellers, we wuz sold shares by that fancy looking man from back east who said when the drillers hit oil we’d be fixed for life?”
No one moved or blinked.
“We put in all the money we could scrape up ‘cause he said it was the surest thing he’d ever seen. One of yous took what we collected straight over to Miz Caroline’s to that oil man.”
Sam, the rinky-tink piano player, was the first to speak. The rest of the red-faced men seemed interested in studying their pointy-toed boots.
”Uh, er, Jimmy Joe,” Sam stammered, “we decided to keep that money in the bank. That slick visitor was way too braggadocios about the prospects.”
Jimmy Joe turned a whiter shade of chalk dust and stumbled over to an empty chair at Clem’s corner table. He squinted at the newcomer, trying to place a face he kind of remembered, but not exactly.
“Well, he sighed. I never…I just NEVER!”
Mr. Jones set down his Sarsaparilla, stood up, and took off his impressive looking hat. Every eye was on the stranger, almost hoping he was going to save them from themselves.
“Gentlemen, you were correct in your assessment of the situation. That man was my brother. He did intend to abscond with your funds. However, I intend to make you richer than Solomon if you’ll listen to me.”
They nodded their heads as one; a pretty funny sight, but no one laughed.
“Please sit,” Clem suggested.
After one and all had plopped down, Clem reached into his pocket and pulled out a small leather bound book.
“I have plenty because of wise investments in the right kind of oil. I promise that what’s on these pages is worth more than all the riches in the universe.”
A few months later, a beautiful church building was completed and full to overflowing every Sabbath. Pastor Jones continued to share the wealth, and for each one who responded to the message, he added a notch.
The famous number thirteen, highly touted by the boasting of an evil man, dried up in a week. The new well of grace and mercy spread over the whole county and is producing even to this day.
(And, for the record, the straight-shooting, pearl-handled gun remains a metaphorical mystery).
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