He said, “So long, Buck. Going for a walk. Walk. Tell Boss.”
“Shoh-rrrong!” acknowledged the mule. “Pye!”
Gibbons turned left and headed out of town while considering how big a loan to offer Clyde Leamer with Buck as security. A good-tempered, smart stallion mule was a prize—and about the only unmortgaged asset Clyde had left. Gibbons had no doubt that a loan on Buck would put Clyde back on his feet—literally—as soon as the loan was due. Gibbons felt no pity. A man who couldn’t cut the mustard on New Beginnings was worthless, no sense in propping him up.
No, don’t lend Clyde a dollar! Offer to buy outright—at 10 percent over a fair price. A decent hardworking animal should not belong to a lazy bum. Gibbons had no need for a saddle mule—but it would do him good to ride an hour or so each day. Man got flabby sitting in a bank.
Marry again and give Buck to his bride as a wedding present—A pleasant thought, but the only Howards on planet were married couples and not one with a husband-high daughter—as well as all being in masquerade until the place grew populous enough that the Families would set up a clinic here. Safer. Once burned, forever shy. He avoided Howards, and they avoided each other, on the surface. Be nice to be married again, though. The Magee family—actually Barstows—had two or three girls growing up. Maybe he should pay them a call someday.
In the meantime—He felt gusty and good, stuffed with scrambled eggs and wicked thoughts, and wondered where there was a female who felt the same way and could duck out and share their interest. Ernie knew several who shared his enthusiasm—but not available at this time of day, not for a casual romp. Which was all he was wanted; it was not fair to engage in anything serious with an ephemeral no matter how sweet she was—especially if she was truly sweet.
Banker Gibbons was at the edge of town and about to turn back when he noticed smoke from a house farther out —the Harper place. What had been the Harper place, he amended, before they homesteaded outback, but now occupied by, uh, Bud Brandon and his wife, Marje—nice young couple from the second shipload. One child? He thought so.
Running a fireplace on a day like this? Possibly burning trash—
Hey, that smoke is not from the chimney!
Gibbons broke into a run.
As he reached the Harper place, the entire roof was burning. Lazarus skidded to a stop and tried to judge the situation. Like most older houses, the Harper place had no ground-floor windows and but a single door that fit tightly and opened outward—a design for a time when lopers and dragons were ubiquitous.
Opening that door would be opening the damper on a burning fire.
He did not waste an instant debating it; that door must stay closed. He ran around the house, spotting windows of the upper floor and looking for means to reach one—a ladder or anything. Was anyone inside? Didn’t the Brandons even have knotted-rope fire escapes? Probably not; good rope came from Earth and retailed at ninety dollars a meter—the Harpers would not have left any behind.
A window with its shutters open and smoke pouring out—
He yelled, “Hey! Anybody home!” A figure showed at the window, and something was thrown out to him.
Automatically he made a good catch, spotting what it was while in the air, going to the ground with it to soften the impact. A small child—
He looked up, saw an arm hanging over the windowsill. The roof fell in, the arm disappeared.
Gibbons scrambled up fast, holding the little boy—no, little girl, he corrected—and moved hastily back from the holocaust. He did not consider the possibility that someone might be alive in that raging fire; he simply hoped that they had died quickly and gave it no more thought. He cradled the child in his arms. “Are you all right, honey?”
“I guess so,” she answered, then added gravely, “but Mama’s awful sick.”
“Mama is all right now, dear,” he said gently, “and so is Papa.”
“You’re sure?” The child twisted in his arms, tried to see the burning house.
He interposed his shoulder. “I’m sure.” He held her more firmly and started walking.
Halfway back to town they encountered Clyde Leamer, mounted on Buck. Clyde reined up. “Oh, there you are! Banker, I want to talk to you.”
“Stow it, Clyde.”
“Huh? But you don’t understand. I’ve got to have some money. Nothing but bad luck the whole season. Seems like everything I touch—”
“Clyde-shut your yap!”
“What?” Leamer seemed to notice for the first time that the banker was carrying something. “Hey! ain’t that the Brandon kid?”
“Yes.”
“Thought so. Now about this loan—”
“I told you to shut up. The bank won’t lend you another dollar.”
“But you’ve got to listen. Seems to me the community ought to help a farmer who’s had bad luck. If it weren’t for the farmers—”
“You listen. If you spent as much time working as you do talking, you wouldn’t need to talk about ‘bad luck.’ Even your stable is dirty. Mm . . what price do you want for that stud brute?”
“Buck? Why, I wouldn’t sell Buck. But here’s what I had in mind, Banker. You’re a kindly man even if you do talk rough and I know you won’t see my kids starve. Now Buck is a valuable property, and I figure he ought to be security for about—well, about, say—”
“Clyde, the best thing you can do for your kids is to cut your throat. Then people would adopt them. No loan, Clyde —not a dollar, not a dime. But I’ll buy Buck myself, right now. Name a price.”
Leamer gulped and hesitated. “Twenty-five thousand.”
Gibbons started walking toward town. Leamer said hastily, “Twenty thousand!” Gibbons did not answer.
Leamer reined the mule around, turned in front of the banker, and stopped. “Banker, you’ve got me by the short hairs. Eighteen thousand and you’re stealing him.”
“Leamer, I won’t steal from you. Put him up for auction, and I might bid. Or might not. How much do you think he’ll bring at auction?”
“Uh . . fifteen thousand.”
“You think so? I don’t. I know how old he is without looking at his teeth, and just what you paid for him, off the ship. I know what people around here can afford and will pay. But go ahead; he’s yours. Bear in mind that if you put a low-bid price against him, you owe the auctioneer ten percent even if he doesn’t sell. But it’s your business, Clyde. Now get out of my way; I want to get this child into town and lying down; she’s had a bad time.”
“Uh . . what will you pay?”
“Twelve thousand.”
“Why, that’s robbery!”
“You don’t have to take it. Suppose an auction brings fifteen thousand dollars—as you hope. Your net is thirteen five. But suppose an auction brings only ten thousand, which I find more likely. You net nine thousand. G’bye, Clyde; I’m in a hurry.”
“Well—thirteen thousand?”
“Clyde, I named my top price. You’ve dealt with me often enough to know that when I say it’s top dollar, then it’s top dollar. But—throw in that saddle and bridle and answer one question and I’ll sweeten it by five hundred dollars.”
“What question?”
“How did you happen to migrate?”
Leamer looked startled, then laughed unmirthfully. “Because I was crazy, if you want to know the truth.”
“Aren’t we all? That’s hardly an answer, Clyde.”
“Well . . my old man is a banker—and as hard-nosed as you are! I was doing all right, I had a proper, respectable job, teaching. College. But the pay wasn’t much, and my old man was always snotty about it when I ran a little short. Snoopy. Disparaging. Finally I got so sick of it that I asked him what he would think of paying Yvonne’s fare and mine in the ‘Andy J.’? Migrate. Be rid of us.
“To my surprise he agreed. But I didn’t back out; I knew that a man with a fine education like mine could get ahead anywhere . . and it wasn’t like we was being dumped on some wild planet; we
were second wave, you may remember.
“Only it was a wild planet and I’ve had to do things that no gentleman ought to have to touch. But you just wait, Banker; kids around here are growing up, and there will be a place for higher education, not the trivia Mrs. Mayberry teaches in that so-called school of hers. That’s where I come in—you’ll be calling me ‘Professor’ yet, and speaking respectfully. You’ll see.”
“Good luck to you. Are you accepting my offer? Twelve thousand five hundred, net, including bridle and saddle.”
“Uh . . I said I was, didn’t I?”
“You didn’t say. You still have not.”
“I accept.”
The girl child had listened quietly, face serious. Gibbons said to her, “Can you stand up a moment, dear?”
“Yes.”
He put her down; she trembled and held onto his kilt. Gibbons dug into his sporran, then using Buck’s broad rump as a desk, wrote a draft and a bill of sale. He handed them to Leamer. “Take that to Hilda at the bank. Sign the bill of sale and give it back to me.”
Silently Leamer signed, looked at the draft and pocketed it, handed over the bill of sale. “Thanks, Banker—you old skinflint. Where do you want him delivered?”
“You’ve delivered him. Dismount.”
“Huh? How do I get to the bank? How am I supposed to get home?”
“You walk.”
“What? Well, of all the sneaky, underhanded tricks! You get the mule when I get the cash. At the bank.”
“Leamer, I paid top dollar for that mule because I need him now. But I see that we did not have a meeting of minds. Okay, hand back my draft and here’s your bill of sale.”
Leamer looked startled. “Oh, no, you don’t! You made a deal.”
“Then get off my mule at once”—Gibbons just happened to rest his hand on the handle of the all-purpose knife every man carried—“and dogtrot into town and you’ll be there before Hilda closes. Now move.” His eyes, cold and blank, held Leamer’s.
“Can’t you take a joke?” Leamer grumbled as he swung down. He started walking rather fast toward town.
“Oh, Clyde!”
Leamer stopped. “What do you want now?”
“If you see the Volunteer Fire Team headed this way, tell them it’s too late; the Harper place is gone. But tell McCarthy I said it wouldn’t hurt to send a couple of men to check.”
“Okay, okay!”
“And, Clyde—what was it you used to teach?”
“ ‘Teach’? I taught ‘Creative Writing.’ I told you I had a good education.”
“So you did. Better hurry; Hilda closes promptly, she has to pick up her kids at Mrs. Mayberry’s school.”
Gibbons ignored Leamer’s answer, picked up the little girl, then said, “Steady, Buck. Stand still, old fellow.” He swung the child high, settled her gently astride the mule’s withers. “Hang onto his mane.” He toed the left stirrup, swung up behind her, scooted back in the saddle, then lifted her again and placed her somewhat in his lap but mostly in the saddle just back of the pommel. “Hang onto the horn, dear. Both hands. Comfortable?”
“This is fun!”
“Lots of fun, baby girl. Buck! Hear me, boy?”
The mule nodded.
“Walk. Walk back to town. Slow walk. Steady. Don’t stub your feet. Get me? I’m not going to use the reins.”
“Shrrow . . Rrrawk!”
“Right, Buck.” Gibbons took a hitch in the reins, let them fall loosely on Buck’s neck—squeezed the mule with his knees, let him go. Buck ambled toward town.
After a few minutes the little girl said gravely, “What about Mama and Daddy?”
“Mama and Daddy are all right. They know I’m taking care of you. What’s your name, dear?”
“Dora.”
“That’s a nice name, Dora. A pretty name. Do you want to know my name?”
“That man called you ‘Banker.’ ”
“That’s not my name, Dora; that’s just something I do sometimes. My name is . . ‘Uncle Gibbie.’ Can you say that?”
“ ‘Uncle Gibbie.’ That’s a funny name.”
“So it is, Dora. And this is Buck we are riding. He is a friend of mine, and he’ll be your friend, too, now—so say hello to Buck.”
“Hello, Buck.”
“Hayrrroh . . Jorrrah!”
“Say, he talks lots plainer than most mules! Doesn’t he?”
“Buck is the best mule on New Beginnings, Dora. And the smartest. When we get rid of this bridle—Buck doesn’t need a bit in his mouth—he’ll be able to talk plainer still . . and you can each him more words. Would you like that?”
“Oh, yes!” Dora added, “If Mama lets me.”
“It’s all right with Mama. Do you like to sing, Dora?”
“Oh, sure! I know a clapping song. But we can’t clap right now. Can we?”
“Right now I think we had better hang on tight.” Gibbons rapidly reviewed in his mind his repertoire of happy songs, rejected a round dozen as unsuitable for young ladies. “How about this one?
“There’s a pawnshop
On the corner
Where I usually keep my overcoat.
“Can you sing that, Dora?”
“Oh, that’s easy!” The baby girl sang it in a voice so high that Gibbons was reminded of a canary. “Is that all, Uncle Gibbie? And what’s a ‘paunshot’?”
“It’s a place to keep overcoats when you don’t need them. Lots more, Dora. Thousands and thousands of verses.”
“ ‘Thousands and thousands—’ Why, that’s almost as much as a hundred. Isn’t it?”
“Almost, Dora. Here’s another verse:
“There’s a trading post
By the pawnshop
Where my sister sells candy.
“Do you like candy, Dora?”
“Oh, yes! But Mama says its ’spensive.”
“Won’t be so expensive next year, Dora; there’ll be more sugar beets cropped. But . . ‘Open your mouth and close your eyes, and I’ll give you something for a s’prise!’ ” He felt around in his shirt pocket, then said, “Oh, sorry, Dora; the surprise will have to wait until I can get to the trading post; Buck got the last one. Buck likes candy, too.”
“He does?”
“Yes and I’ll teach you how to give it to him without losing a finger by mistake. But candy isn’t too good for him, so he gets it only as a special surprise. For being a good boy. Okay, Buck?”
“Oh-gay! . . Pawsss!”
Mrs. Mayberry’s school was letting out as Gibbons halted Buck in front of it. When he lifted Dora down, she seemed very tired, so he picked her up again. “Wait, Buck.” The stragglers among the pupils stared but separated and let him through.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Mayberry.” Gibbons had gone there almost by instinct. The schoolmistress was a gray-haired widow, fifty or more, who had outlasted two husbands, and was coping sensibly with her meager chance of finding a third, preferring to support herself rather than live with one of her daughters, stepdaughters, or daughters-in-law. She was one who shared Ernest Gibbons’ enthusiasm for the hearty pleasures in life but was as circumspect about it as he was. He considered her sensible in every way—a prime prospect for marriage were it not for the unfortunate fact that they ran on different time rates.
Not that he let her know this. He had not been a disclosed Howard when they both had arrived in the first shipload, and, although freshly rejuvenated on Secundus when he had reappeared on Earth and organized the migration, he had elected to be thirty-five or so (cosmetically). Since that time he had carefully aged himself each year; Helen Mayberry thought of him as a contemporary, returned his friendship, shared mutual pleasure with him from time to time without trying to own him. He respected her highly.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Gibbons. Why, it’s Dora! We missed you, dear; what happened! And—Is that a bruise?” She looked closely, said nothing about the fact that the little girl was filthy dirty.
She straightened up. “Seems to be
just a smudge. I’m glad to see her; I fretted a little this morning when she didn’t show up with the Parkinson children. It’s almost Marjorie Brandon’s time—perhaps you knew?”
“Vaguely. Where can I put Dora down for a few minutes? Conference. Private.”
Mrs. Mayberry’s eyes widened slightly, but she answered at once. “The couch—No, put her on my bed.” She led the way, said nothing about getting her white coverlet dirty, went back into the schoolroom with him after he assured Dora that they would be gone only a few moments.
Gibbons explained what had happened. “Dora doesn’t know that her parents are dead, Helen—nor do I think it’s time to tell her.”
Mrs. Mayberry considered it. “Ernest, are you sure they both died? Bud would have seen the fire if he had been working his own fields, but he sometimes works for Mr. Parkinson.”
“Helen, that was not a woman’s hand I saw. Unless Marje Brandon has thick black hair on the back of her hands.”
“No. No, that would be Bud.” She sighed. “Then she’s an orphan. Poor little Dora! A nice child. Bright, too.”
“Helen, can you take care of her a few days? Will you?”
“Ernest, the way you phrase that is almost offensive. I will take care of Dora as long as I am needed.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to phrase it unpleasingly. I don’t expect it to be long: some family will adopt her. In the meantime keep track of your expense, then we’ll work out what her room and board should, be.”
“Ernest, that will come to exactly zero. The only cost will be about enough food to feed a bird. Which I can certainly do for Marjorie Brandon’s little girl.”
“So? Well, I can find some family to board her. The Learners. Someone.”
“Ernest!”
“Get your feathers down, Helen. That child was placed in my hands, her father’s last dying act. And don’t be a dumb fool; I know to the penny how much you manage to save. As well as how often you have to take tuition in food rather than cash. This is a cash deal. The Learners would jump at it—as well as several others. I don’t have to leave Dora here—and won’t, unless you are sensible.”
Time Enough for Love Page 32