“A letter? Who from?” Ben asked. “Does it say?”
“Yeah, there’s a name on it.” He reached into his drawer and looked at the return address before tossing it on the desk in front of Ben. “Here it is. Attorney at Law Robert T. Spencer. You know him?”
“Nope, never heard of him. Wonder what he wants?”
“You got any relatives that mighta been sick, maybe passed away or something?”
“Hell, Cap, you know I ain’t got no family a-tall,” Ben said, “least none I know about.” He opened the letter and read it, then explained to Mitchell, who was every bit as curious as he was. “Says he needs to meet with me in the settlement of a will. He’s right here in Austin.” He looked up at Mitchell and shook his head. “There wouldn’t be anybody leavin’ me anything. I think this came to the wrong person. I don’t know how he wound up with my name.”
“Go by and see if he’s really wantin’ to talk to you,” Mitchell advised. “If it ain’t you he’s lookin’ for, at least you can let him know that.”
* * *
Attorney Robert Spencer opened the door to his office, which was located in a little white frame house near the edge of town. He looked the tall, broad-shouldered man up and down before asking, “Can I help you?”
“You Mr. Spencer?” Ben asked.
“I am.”
“You sent me this letter. Said you wanted to talk to me ’bout something.” He handed the letter to Spencer.
“Of course,” Spencer said when he glanced at the envelope and saw Ben’s name. “Ben Savage. Come on in.”
Ben didn’t go in right away. “What’s this about?”
Spencer smiled. “You’ve been named as an heir in a will. Come on inside and we’ll go over it.”
“I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Spencer, I’m pretty sure you’ve got the wrong person. I don’t know of any relatives I’ve got anywhere.”
“You are Benjamin, no middle name, Savage, right?”
“Yes, sir, I am,” Ben answered. Then Spencer asked if he could prove it, and Ben was stuck for a moment. “No, I reckon not. I ain’t got any papers or anything that says I’m Ben Savage. I expect you could ask Captain Mitchell if I’m Ben Savage. He’s the captain of the Ranger company I work for.”
“Have you got a Ranger badge?” Spencer asked, unable to think of anything else.
Ben pulled his coat open to reveal the badge on his vest. “It ain’t got my name on it,” he said.
“Where is the Ranger headquarters?” Spencer asked and when Ben told him it was behind the courthouse, Spencer said, “Fine, when we get through here, we can walk over there and let someone identify you. Is that all right with you?” Ben shrugged and said that it was. “Do you know a man named James Howard Vickers?”
“I can’t say as I do,” Ben declared, then caught himself. “Wait a minute, are you talkin’ about Jim Vickers?” Spencer nodded. “Of course, I know Jim Vickers,” Ben said. “Jim’s an old friend of mine. He was a Ranger. We rode many a trail together till he got a little too long in the tooth to keep at it.” He had to chuckle when he thought about it. “James Howard Vickers,” he announced grandly. “I never knew him by any name but Jim—ain’t seen him in years, and now you’re tellin’ me Jim’s dead?”
“That’s right, he’s passed on, and without any family or other heirs, you were the only one he named in his will.”
“Jim’s gone,” Ben stated. “That’s sad news, I reckon, but knowin’ Jim, I expect he’s more’n ready for whatever was waitin’ for him. So you say this letter was what this was all about? Jim left me something in his will?” He paused to wonder what it could be. “I used to admire a saddle he used to have pretty much, maybe he remembered that. What did he leave me?”
“A saloon,” Spencer said.
Ben hesitated, not sure he had heard correctly. A long moment passed while he waited for Spencer to explain. “I thought you said a saloon,” he said.
“I did,” Spencer replied. “You are the new owner of the Lost Coyote Saloon in Buzzard’s Bluff, Texas. I’ve got the deed right here to prove you are the owner. Do you know where Buzzard’s Bluff is?”
“Well, sure, I know where Buzzard’s Bluff is, but I ain’t been there since they grew up a town there. It’s right where Buzzard’s Bluff strikes the Navasota River. The last time I was there, there wasn’t nothin’ but a tradin’ post and a fellow with a blacksmith shop.” He paused while he pictured it. “But that was four, maybe five years ago.”
“Evidently, it’s a lot bigger than that now,” Spencer said, as he pulled a legal folder from a desk drawer. It contained some papers for Ben to sign. “According to what I’ve seen, the saloon is operating at a profit.”
Just beginning to realize what was about to transpire, Ben balked. “I don’t know anything about runnin’ a saloon. I’m ridin’ with a Ranger company. That’s what I know how to do. Can I sell it, if I want to?”
“You can do whatever you want with it,” Spencer answered. “It’s yours. But if you want my advice, you might want to take a ride to Buzzard’s Bluff to see what you’ve got. I know that Mr. Vickers had been ill for quite some time, and the saloon is still doing well. So there’s evidently someone managing it.”
“I don’t know.” Ben was still very much against owning a saloon. “Maybe whoever that is that’s managing it would wanna buy it.”
“You do yourself a favor, go there, and look it over. Then decide. We’ll just sign these papers and you’ll be all set.”
“You want me to sign before we go over and let Captain Mitchell tell you I’m Ben Savage?”
“Yes,” Spencer said. “Hell, I believe you’re Ben Savage.”
* * *
It was going to take a while before he could realize that he had just walked into a lawyer’s office and a saloon literally fell on him. When he left Spencer’s office, he felt the need to visit just such an establishment as the one he had inherited. He thought about Jim Vickers, an older, experienced Ranger who had taken raw recruit Ben Savage under his wing. He had no idea that Jim had built a saloon after he retired from the Rangers. Now, he felt remiss for not keeping in touch. He had always thought a lot of Jim, but he was astonished to find that Jim thought so much of him that he would leave him an operating business. As soon as that thought entered his mind, another one struck him. How in the world could I manage a business? He stopped in the first saloon he came to.
“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked when Ben stepped up to the bar, while looking the barroom over. It was a small saloon and empty except for one customer sitting slumped over at a table.
His attention returning to the bartender then, Ben ordered a shot of corn whiskey. Nodding toward the man slumped in the chair, he said to the bartender, “Looks like you ain’t too busy this time of day.”
“We never are,” the bartender said. “Ol’ Charlie, there, is the only customer I’ve had before you this mornin’. He’s got a couple of pals that usually show up, but I ain’t seen ’em today. It’s got to where it don’t take but three or four shots before Charlie passes out. He’s had three this mornin’ and his head’s almost down all the way. When his chin rests on his chest, I usually wake him up and tell him it’s time to go home.”
“Don’t seem like you can make much money with business as slow as this,” Ben speculated aloud.
“I reckon not, if