Page 9 of Brian and Cora
The man eyed Brian’s gun belt with a questioning look. “Clerk, are you?”
“God forbid!” The very idea horrified him. “Writer.”
“You don’t say,” the man said in a marveling tone. “What all do you write?”
“Dime novels.” He braced himself for the usual scoffing reaction to his choice to write lowly novels for common consumption—his father’s exact words.
The man’s eyes lit up. “You don’t say,” he repeated. “Which ones?”
“The Robber and the Robber Baron is my best seller.” Brian reeled off the other nine titles.
“Ho!” Light leaping into his faded-blue eyes, the man smacked his leg. “Well, gosh darn. You’re Brian Bly! Howard Hoover here.” He reached to shake Brian’s hand, vigorously pumping his arm up and down. “The Robber and the Robber Baron is my favorite. My copy’s so worn from reading it over andover that some of the pages are falling out. Wish I’d known to bring that book, so you could scratch your John Hancock on it.”
He released Brian’s hand and shoved the belt and holster across the counter toward him. “I’ll trade. Just send me a new copy of The Robber and the Robber Baron signed to me.” He pointed to his chest. “Howard Hoover.”
Brian couldn’t help but grin. “I remembered your name the first time.”
Hoover practically vibrated with excitement. “Whadya think?”
Brian reached out and clasped the man’s hand again. “Deal.”
His eyes glowing, he gave a boyish bounce that caused his stomach to wobble. “I’ll write out my address for you.” He looked around as if trying to conjure up paper, pen, and ink.
Suppressing a wry laugh, Brian pulled out his notebook and pencil. Not what I’d planned these for, but at least they’re coming in handy. He handed them over and waited while the man laboriously wrote his details in block letters.
With an expression as lighthearted as a child’s, Hoover gave back the notebook and pencil.
Oddly touched by the man’s enthusiasm for his novels, Brian made a mental note to include some of his other books in the package.
Hoover’s gaze swept the field of booths, and he made a circling gesture to indicate their surroundings. “You should have one of your own here. Sell your books. Sign ’em. I’d buy a copy of each title. Bet lots of people would.”
Not in a million years. Brian smiled politely, shook his head, and unclasped his worn gun belt, carefully setting it on the table. He reached to slide the matching holster onto the new belt. Then he took the bullets from the old one, ten in all, enough for two extra rounds—for a wise man left the first chamber of his pistolempty lest he accidently shoot himself in the leg—and slipped them into loops on the back.
A bullet pouch with similar tooling to the belt caught his eye. While he wouldn’t need to carry extra ammunition, he could see it being handy to stash other items in. He reached over to pick it up. “How ’bout this, I trade you a copy of my newest book when it comes out? Signed, of course.”
By George, I’d better keep my promise to him!
Hoover’s face turned red as if he was going to cry from happiness. All he could seem to do was nod.
Brian threaded the pouch onto the belt, and buckled the whole thing around his hips, fumbling a bit with the stiff leather. He slid the holster and pouch into place, and then removed his Colt and stuck it into the holster, giving it a pat of satisfaction.
In an unusual burst of playfulness, he struck the exaggerated pose of gunslinger. Careful to keep his finger off the trigger, Brian pulled out the gun but didn’t raise it as if to point and shoot. No sense frightening those around me. He grinned at Howard and tilted his head in the direction of the potato booth. “Can I stand you a spud?”
After having finishedhis potato and chat with Hoover, Brian continued meandering down the aisle. More folks crowded around the booths, the murmur of voices louder in the air. He frequently had to stop or weave around people.
Somehow, wearing the new gun belt, pouch, and holster made him walk with a taller, more confident gait. A kick to his gallop, as his granddaddy would have said. That thought made him falter, and slow, old sadness tightened his throat.
What is it with these memories today?
In a booth to the left, an older woman called out, “Taffy here, sweet as can be.”
He’d had saltwater taffy as a boy. Figuring Jewel would love the candy, heck he would love the treat, Brian headed for the booth. A few children crowded around, and he waited until each concluded their purchase, shoved a piece in their mouths, and ran off, their cheeks plump as chipmunks.
Stepping up, he surveyed the big bowl of whitish squares.
The woman tapped the side of the bowl. “Five for a penny. If you buy ten or more, I’ll throw in one of these to keep them clean.” She laid a hand on the stack of small muslin bags.
He fingered the bullet pouch, thinking he could probably fit in fifteen pieces, and then fished three pennies from his pocket and tossed them onto the table.
