The Law of the Trigger
Clifton Adams
The Law of the Trigger
Chapter One
Ben McKeever was the first to come.
Owen Toller and the two Stanley boys were chopping cotton in the bottomland below the Toller house when the first silver notes of the triangle came to them. Owen frowned, resting on his hoe. Now, why would Elizabeth be ringing the triangle this time of day?
He shouldered the hoe as though it were a rifle and walked up the gentle slope until he could see the house. A tall, big-boned man, he did not walk like a sodbuster. His was the toe-and-heel, almost mincing, stride of a horseman. Working the land had not yet rounded his big shoulders, and he walked erect, head back, with the unconscious pride of a soldier.
And yet there was something of the land about him, in the way he smiled at the green young cotton plants, as though they were children. A few years back, when he first moved to the farm, he had felt out of place at times, and not very comfortable. But that was in the past. His cotton was good. The corn was thriving. He had never been happier or more comfortable in his life.
Now, on reaching the crest of the slope, he could see the house and his wife waving to him from the back yard. Owen smiled and waved the hoe over his head. Then he frowned slightly, noticing the glistening black buggy drawn up beside the barn and recognizing the rig as Ben McKeever's.
What, he wondered, would bring a banker here all the way from Reunion?
“Bruce,” he called to the older Stanley boy, “looks like you and Bud will have to work on your own for a while. My wife wants me at the house.”
“Sure, Marshal,” the boy called. “Me and Bud can clean up here before sundown.”
A good many people still called him “Marshal,” although he had quit the job almost five years ago.
Five years... Strangely, he could remember very little beyond that time. A man in his early forties, he sometimes felt that his life had actually begun just five years ago, when he had stopped being a lawman and started being a husband and a father.
Elizabeth had gone into the house to see about their guest, but she came out again as Owen approached the barn. He left his hoe in the tool shed, methodical as always, grinning a bit at his wife's impatience. Elizabeth had been a schoolteacher in Reunion—the prettiest they'd ever had, to Owen's mind—and the miracle of their marriage was bright in his chest whenever he thought of it, which was often.
“Owen, it's Ben McKeever. He wants to see you.”
“I recognized the rig,” Owen said, kissing her lightly, marveling at the softness of her yellow hair, continually amazed that this frail, girllike woman could be the mother of his children. “What brought him all the way from Reunion?”
“He hasn't said.” Her eyes were anxious and faintly worried. “Owen, we're not in trouble at the bank, are we?”
“No more than any other farmer. We owe Ben money, but he knows he'll get it at harvest time.”
Lonnie Toller, age three, grabbed his father's legs the moment Owen stepped into the kitchen. From the day the boy first learned to crawl, this had been a ritual in the Toller house; Lonnie would cling laughing to his father's leg while Owen rode him about the kitchen on his instep. Elizabeth usually enjoyed this game as much as they did, but today was different, with Ben McKeever waiting impatiently in the parlor, listening.
“Owen,” she said anxiously, “you're keeping Mr. McKeever waiting.”
Owen speculated that most people wouldn't take a man from his work just to talk; they'd go down to the field. But not a banker, he guessed. They were used to having people come to them.
Nevertheless, Owen Toller was not a man to be hurried, even by his wife. He continued the game through to the very end, then lifted his son into the air with a sudden swing of his foot and caught him in his arms. Lonnie screamed with laughter.
“Owen!” Elizabeth said indignantly. “Mr. McKeever will think you're frivolous, carrying on this way!”
Owen grinned. “Maybe I am frivolous.” But he swung the boy to the floor, gave him a whack on the behind, and sent him scurrying. “How's the baby?” he asked.
“Asleep,” his wife said pointedly. “Though it's a wonder how he can sleep through the racket you and Lonnie make.”
Owen laughed and took her in one strong arm and hugged her quickly. “All right, honey, I'll go in and see what Ben wants. And I'll try to remember to act respectful, just in case we might want to borrow from him again.”
“Well, you'd better, Owen Toller!” But she was smiling as her husband left the kitchen.
In the small, neat parlor, Ben McKeever sat fat, breathless, and impatient on one of the horsehair chairs.
“Hello, Ben. What brings a Reunion banker out toward Lazy Creek?”
McKeever stood up with a great effort and shook Owen's big hand. “Had a little land out this way I wanted to look at,” the fat man wheezed. “Just thought I'd drop by.” He sank heavily into the groaning chair. “Nice place you got here,” he said. “You aimin' to clean up that place on the other side of the creek? Likely place for corn, if I'm any
