by David Miller
But the information had made such an obvious cleft in every skull in the room that the drummer was obliged to see its importance. All had become instantly solemn. “Say,” said he, mystified, “what is this?” His three companions made the introductory gesture of eloquent speech, but the young man at the door forestalled them.
“It means, my friend,” he answered, as he came into the saloon, “that for the next two hours this town won’t be a health resort.”
The barkeeper went to the door and locked and barred it. Reaching out of the window, he pulled in heavy wooden shutters and barred them. Immediately a solemn, chapel-like gloom was upon the place. The drummer was looking from one to another.
“But, say,” he cried, “what is this, anyhow? You don’t mean there is going to be a gun-fight?”
“Don’t know whether there’ll be a fight or not,” answered one man grimly. “But there’ll be some shootin’ – some good shootin’.”
The young man who had warned them waved his hand. “Oh, there’ll be a fight fast enough if anyone wants it. Anybody can get a fight out there in the street. There’s a fight just waiting.”
The drummer seemed to be swayed between the interest of a foreigner and a perception of personal danger.
“What did you say his name was?” he asked.
“Scratchy Wilson,” they answered in chorus.
“And will he kill anybody? What are you going to do? Does this happen often? Does he rampage around like this once a week or so? Can he break in that door?”
“No, he can’t break down that door,” replied the barkeeper. “He’s tried it three times. But when he comes you’d better lay down on the floor, stranger. He’s dead sure to shoot at it, and a bullet may come through.”
Thereafter the drummer kept a strict eye upon the door. The time had not yet been called for him to hug the floor, but, as a minor precaution, he sidled near to the wall. “Will he kill anybody?” he said again.
The men laughed low and scornfully at the question.
“He’s out to shoot, and he’s out for trouble. Don’t see any good in experimentin’ with him.”
“But what do you do in a case like this? What do you do?”
A man responded: “Why, he and Jack Potter—”
“But,” in chorus, the other men interrupted, “Jack Potter’s in San Anton’.”
“Well, who is he? What’s he got to do with it?”
“Oh, he’s the town marshal. He goes out and fights Scratchy when he gets on one of these tears.”
“Wow,” said the drummer, mopping his brow. “Nice job he’s got.”
The voices had toned away to mere whisperings. The drummer wished to ask further questions which were born of an increasing anxiety and bewilderment; but when he attempted them, the men merely looked at him in irritation and motioned him to remain silent. A tense waiting hush was upon them. In the deep shadows of the room their eyes shone as they listened for sounds from the street. One man made three gestures at the barkeeper, and the latter, moving like a ghost, handed him a glass and a bottle. The man poured a full glass of whisky, and set down the bottle noiselessly. He gulped the whisky in a swallow, and turned again toward the door in immovable silence. The drummer saw that the barkeeper, without a sound, had taken a Winchester from beneath the bar. Later he saw this individual beckoning to him, so he tiptoed across the room.
“You better come with me back of the bar.”
“No, thanks,” said the drummer, perspiring. “I’d rather be where I can make a break for the back door.”
Whereupon the man of bottles made a kindly but peremptory gesture. The drummer obeyed it, and finding himself seated on a box with his head below the level of the bar, balm was laid upon his soul at sight of various zinc and copper fittings that bore a resemblance to armor-plate. The barkeeper took a seat comfortably upon an adjacent box.
“You see,” he whispered, “this here Scratchy Wilson is a wonder with a gun – a perfect wonder – and when he goes on the war trail, we hunt our holes – naturally. He’s about the last one of the old gang that used to hang out along the river here. He’s a terror when he’s drunk. When he’s sober he’s all right – kind of simple – wouldn’t hurt a fly – nicest fellow in town. But when he’s drunk – whoo!”
There were periods of stillness. “I wish Jack Potter was back from San Anton’,” said the barkeeper. “He shot Wilson up once – in the leg – and he would sail in and pull out the kinks in this thing.”
Presently they heard from a distance the sound of a shot, followed by three wild yowls. It instantly removed a bond from the men in the darkened saloon. There was a shuffling of feet. They looked at each other. “Here he comes,” they said.
III
A man in a maroon-colored flannel shirt, which had been purchased for purposes of decoration and made, principally, by some Jewish women on the east side of New York, rounded a corner and walked into the middle of the main street of Yellow Sky. In either hand the man held a long, heavy, blue-black revolver. Often he yelled, and these cries rang through a semblance of a deserted village, shrilly flying over the roofs in a volume that seemed to have no relation to the ordinary vocal strength of a man. It was as if the surrounding stillness formed the arch of a tomb over him. These cries of ferocious challenge rang against walls of silence. And his boots had red tops with gilded imprints, of the kind beloved in winter by little sledding boys on the hillsides of New England.
The man’s face flamed in a rage begot of whisky. His eyes, rolling and yet keen for ambush, hunted the still doorways and windows. He walked with the creeping movement of the midnight cat. As it occurred to him, he roared menacing information. The long revolvers in his hands were as easy as straws; they were moved with an electric swiftness. The little fingers of each hand played sometimes in a musician’s way. Plain from the low collar of the shirt, the cords of his neck straightened and sank, straightened and sank, as passion moved him. The only sounds were his terrible invitations. The calm adobes preserved their demeanor at the passing of this small thing in the middle of the street.
There was no offer of fight; no offer of fight. The man called to the sky. There were no attractions. He bellowed and fumed and swayed his revolvers here and everywhere.
The dog of the barkeeper of the “Weary Gentleman” saloon had not appreciated the advance of events. He yet lay dozing in front of his master’s door. At sight of the dog, the man paused and raised his revolver humorously. At sight of the man, the dog sprang up and walked diagonally away, with a sullen head, and growling. The man yelled, and the dog broke into a gallop. As it was about to enter an alley, there was a loud noise, a whistling, and something spat the ground directly before it. The dog screamed, and, wheeling in terror, galloped headlong in a new direction. Again there was a noise, a whistling, and sand was kicked viciously before it. Fear-stricken, the dog turned and flurried like an animal in a pen. The man stood laughing, his weapons at his hips.
Ultimately the man was attracted by the closed door of the “Weary Gentleman” saloon. He went to it, and hammering with a revolver, demanded drink.
The door remaining imperturbable, he picked a bit of paper from the walk and nailed it to the framework with a knife. He then turned his back contemptuously upon this popular resort, and walking to the opposite side of the street, and spinning there on his heel quickly and lithely, fired at the bit of paper. He missed it by a half inch. He swore at himself, and went away. Later, he comfortably fusilladed the windows of his most intimate friend. The man was playing with this town. It was a toy for him.
But still there was no offer of fight. The name of Jack Potter, his ancient antagonist, entered his mind, and he concluded that it would be a glad thing if he should go to Potter’s house and by bombardment induce him to come out and fight. He moved in the direction of his desire, chanting Apache scalp-music.
When he arrived at it, Potter’s house presented the same still front as had the other adobes. Taking up a strategic
position, the man howled a challenge. But this house regarded him as might a great stone god. It gave no sign. After a decent wait, the man howled further challenges, mingling with them wonderful epithets.
Presently there came the spectacle of a man churning himself into deepest rage over the immobility of a house. He fumed at it as the winter wind attacks a prairie cabin in the North. To the distance there should have gone the sound of a tumult like the fighting of 200 Mexicans. As necessity bade him, he paused for breath or to reload his revolvers.
IV
Potter and his bride walked sheepishly and with speed. Sometimes they laughed together shamefacedly and low.
“Next corner, dear,” he said finally.
They put forth the efforts of a pair walking bowed against a strong wind. Potter was about to raise a finger to point the first appearance of the new home when, as they circled the corner, they came face to face with a man in a maroon-colored shirt who was feverishly pushing cartridges into a large revolver. Upon the instant the man dropped his revolver to the ground, and, like lightning, whipped another from its holster. The second weapon was aimed at the bridegroom’s chest.
There was silence. Potter’s mouth seemed to be merely a grave for his tongue. He exhibited an instinct to at once loosen his arm from the woman’s grip, and he dropped the bag to the sand. As for the bride, her face had gone as yellow as old cloth. She was a slave to hideous rites gazing at the apparitional snake.
The two men faced each other at a distance of three paces. He of the revolver smiled with a new and quiet ferocity.
“Tried to sneak up on me,” he said. “Tried to sneak up on me!” His eyes grew more baleful. As Potter made a slight movement, the man thrust his revolver venomously forward. “No, don’t you do it, Jack Potter. Don’t you move a finger toward a gun just yet. Don’t you move an eyelash. The time has come for me to settle with you, and I’m goin’ to do it my own way and loaf along with no interferin’. So if you don’t want a gun bent on you, just mind what I tell you.”
Potter looked at his enemy. “I ain’t got a gun on me, Scratchy,” he said. “Honest, I ain’t.” He was stiffening and steadying, but yet somewhere at the back of his mind a vision of the Pullman floated, the sea-green figured velvet, the shining brass, silver, and glass, the wood that gleamed as darkly brilliant as the surface of a pool of oil – all the glory of the marriage, the environment of the new estate. “You know I fight when it comes to fighting, Scratchy Wilson, but I ain’t got a gun on me. You’ll have to do all the shootin’ yourself.”
His enemy’s face went livid. He stepped forward and lashed his weapon to and fro before Potter’s chest. “Don’t you tell me you ain’t got no gun on you, you whelp. Don’t tell me no lie like that. There ain’t a man in Texas ever seen you without no gun. Don’t take me for no kid.” His eyes blazed with light, and his throat worked like a pump.
“I ain’t takin’ you for no kid,” answered Potter. His heels had not moved an inch backward. “I’m takin’ you for a damn fool. I tell you I ain’t got a gun, and I ain’t. If you’re goin’ to shoot me up, you better begin now. You’ll never get a chance like this again.”
So much enforced reasoning had told on Wilson’s rage. He was calmer. “If you ain’t got a gun, why ain’t you got a gun?” he sneered. “Been to Sunday-school?”
“I ain’t got a gun because I’ve just come from San Anton’ with my wife. I’m married,” said Potter. “And if I’d thought there was going to be any galoots like you prowling around when I brought my wife home, I’d had a gun, and don’t you forget it.”
“Married!” said Scratchy, not at all comprehending.
“Yes, married. I’m married,” said Potter distinctly.
“Married?” said Scratchy. Seemingly for the first time he saw the drooping, drowning woman at the other man’s side. “No!” he said. He was like a creature allowed a glimpse of another world. He moved a pace backward, and his arm with the revolver dropped to his side. “Is this the lady?” he asked.
“Yes, this is the lady,” answered Potter.
There was another period of silence.
“Well,” said Wilson at last, slowly, “I s’pose it’s all off now.”
“It’s all off if you say so, Scratchy. You know I didn’t make the trouble.” Potter lifted his valise.
“Well, I ‘low it’s off, Jack,” said Wilson. He was looking at the ground. “Married!” He was not a student of chivalry; it was merely that in the presence of this foreign condition he was a simple child of the earlier plains. He picked up his starboard revolver, and placing both weapons in their holsters, he went away. His feet made funnel-shaped tracks in the heavy sand.
LIVE BAIT
Frank Tuohy
Frank Tuohy (1925–1999) is an astonishingly under-rated writer who left a perfectly formed backlist, now utterly out of print. Born in East Sussex, he worked as an academic for most of his life, often working abroad for the British Council, perhaps a reason for his being over-looked. His work in Poland inspired his first novel The Ice Saints. He won a number of awards, including the James Tait Black Memorial Prize, the Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize and the E.M. Forster Award. He suffered a heart attack in Cyprus and returned to die in Somerset, having begun work on a novel. On his death Francis King, in the Independent, wrote “Even at his second best he was better than most of his contemporaries at their best.”
I
You travel southward toward the channel shore: there are petrol stations at intervals, council estates, a builder’s yard, a used-tire depot, industrialized farmland. In patches of woodland, signposts at the ends of drives point to special schools, private nursing homes. Some show the headquarters of dubious-sounding companies or institutes: the large ugly mansions resound with the rattle of typewriters and the slow scythe-like rhythms of photocopying machines.
Long ago a house like this would shelter a different life, a life which was undergone in heavily furnished drawing rooms, bathrooms where taps poured out scalding niagaras, kitchens where food was fiercely boiled on enormous ranges. In the dining room, the mahogany sideboard smelled of pepper and Harvey’s sauce, and contained a blue-glass bottle of indigestion mixture: “The Hon. Mrs. Peverill, to be taken as required.”
Even then, families were getting smaller, visitors from outside were fewer. Daughters and sons-in-law were likely to be in India, in Bermuda, in Hong Kong. Grandchildren appeared for school holidays, but for them there were fewer suitable friendships available – the wrong sort of child might quite easily get invited to a children’s party.
Of two boys bicycling one morning to Braxby Place, one belonged to this category. Andrew, small for his age, which was thirteen, was snub-nosed, crooked, and guilty. Jeremy, his companion, was altogether easier to commend, a handsome boy with blond hair and a milky complexion. The Peverills were distant connections of his mother; this was sufficient to allow him to approach the house without apprehension.
The drive was nearly half a mile long. For the first part the boys rode between cliffs of rhododendrons and conifers, where it was still damp and chill in the early morning. Then they came out into parkland. Oaks and horse chestnuts stood at intervals, and between them there was the flash of water.
The lake, which must long ago have been a stone quarry, was hidden among woods and outcrops of rock. They lost sight of it again as the drive went uphill. Neither of the boys liked to be the first to get off and walk. Andrew’s bike was a woman’s, which belonged to his mother. He was careful to mount and dismount in the masculine fashion, even though this sometimes hurt. Standing upright on the pedals, he zigzagged to and fro, dodging away from the trimmed edges, until he got to the top of the slope. There he waited for Jeremy who, in spite of his low-curved handlebars and three-speed gear, was usually first to start walking. They saw pergolas covered with climbing roses, clumps of pampas grass, a monkey-puzzle tree, and then the house, of glazed brick, turreted, and with mullioned windows. There was a line of plate-glass wind
ows to a winter garden, where blinds were already pulled down against the morning sunlight.
“Shouldn’t we go around to the back?” Andrew asked.
“Of course not.” Jeremy pulled the bell handle. They were still a bit winded by the ascent, and against the noise of their breathing they could hear the bell ringing far away and then the muffled opening and closing of doors, the slow approach of heavy feet.
“I’ve come about fishing in the lake.”
“Mr. Jeremy Cathcart is it, sir? Yes, we’re expecting you.” The butler turned a large, purplish face toward the other.
“I’m his friend.”
The butler switched back to Jeremy: “Mrs. Peverill asked you to come up for tea at half past four, sir.”
“Please thank her and say I’ll come. By the way, which is the best way to the lake?”
The butler pointed out the path. “You can leave your bicycle in the stables.”
“Thank you.” Jeremy’s voice to people like that was taut and high-pitched.
While Andrew listened he realized that, against the excitement of fishing in the lake, there would be the dull anxiety about what he should do at teatime. Should he bicycle home by himself, or slope off into the shrubbery and wait for Jeremy to emerge? He knew he was saddled with some intangible burden that people like Jeremy did not possess.
In the stable yard, the boys leaned their bicycles against a wall and unstrapped the rods and fishing bags. A man who had been hammering something came to a doorway and pointed the way down to the lake.
“Good luck,” he said. “There’s a big jack down there.”
“How big?” Andrew asked.
“Must be all of twenty pounds.”
Jeremy thanked the man in the same high voice he had used to the butler. He led the way down a cart track.
Andrew followed him. He felt deaf. Twenty pounds: the man’s words had caused a sort of minor explosion in his head. Suddenly the sky was lower and the air had grown darker. The smell of crushed vegetation was strong and heavy, and some gilded flies were buzzing upward from a dead bird. The track went downhill sharply and under some beech trees it opened out at the shore of the lake. The big pike was waiting like something in time rather than place: it was a sort of dread, like the anticipation of being swished at school, or the holidays approaching their end, only there was wild pleasure in it as well.