Incident at Twenty-Mile

by Треваньян

  The wiry old Black-Cherokee didn't look up from scraping rot out of the hoof of the donkey whose foreleg was folded up onto the leather apron on his lap. "And piss-poor vittles they are," he muttered.

  "Sorry I can't help you, son. But you're welcome to a cup of coffee."

  "A cup of coffee'd do me nothing but good, sir." The boy grunted as he slipped off the straps that had dug into his shoulders during his all-night walk up the railroad track from Destiny.

  "Fetch our guest a cup of joe, Coots," B. J. Stone said grandly.

  "You want to take over scraping out this hoof?" Coots asked.

  "No, no, you're doing just fine."

  "Then you fetch the goddamned coffee. You ain't done nothing all morning but sit there with your nose in that paper, grumbling about imperialism and jingoism and Christ only knows whatotherism! While me, I been busier'n a one-legged man in a ass-kicking contest!"

  B. J. Stone leaned toward Matthew and whispered, "I'm afraid poor old Coots is a miserable excuse for a host. And as for his coffee…!"

  "If you don't like it, don't drink it!" Coots snapped.

  "Touchy old bastard, too," B. J. confided behind his hand.

  The young man smiled uncertainly; he'd never heard a black man sass a white man like that before. B. J. Stone stood up with a martyred sigh and disappeared into the kitchen, where a pot of coffee simmered on an iron stove, growing thicker and blacker since its grounds had been sunk with egg shells first thing that morning.

  The young man set his shotgun beside his pack and gently pressed his sore shoulder with his fingertips as he watched Coots's skilful, pale-palmed hands work at the donkey's hoof. He was intrigued by Coots's face: the blend of Negro features and Cherokee eyes.

  "Where'd you get that gun?" Coots asked without looking up from his task.

  "My pa's."

  "Hm! And he must've got it from his great-grandpa, who must've bought it off Methuselah! Where do you find ammunition for an old monster like that?"

  "Pa used to make it himself." He untied the thongs of his backpack and rummaged in it for a canvas bag containing the shells he had taken with him when he hit the road. "Here's one. Ain't she a dandy? Pa, he'd cut open two ordinary double-ought shells and leave the primer and powder in place in one, then he'd make a longer jacket with stiff paper and add the powder from the other shell and the shot from both, then he'd tamp everything down tight-that was always the spooky part, the tamping- then he'd crimp the paper and dip it into wax to make it stiff and waterproof. They came out real good. But I'll admit the gun has a pretty fair kick."

  Coots turned the waxy, double-size shell between his fingers and shook his head. "I'll bet! A man'd get tuckered out, having to pick himself up and walk back to the firing line each time he shot it!" Coots tossed the shell back. "Seems a waste of time, making shells for a gun that's no good for hunting. You hit an animal with that cannon and there'd be nothing left but a tuft of fur and a startled expression."

  The boy laughed. "Pa only shot it once in a blue moon. He'd blow old barrels apart, making the staves fly ever which-a-way. Showing off. He liked having a bigger gun than anybody else." He returned the shell to his bag. "To tell the truth, Pa didn't have all that much he could brag on."

  "But that antique's dangerous, boy! And with handmade ammunition… whoa there! And you lugged that old monster all the way from Nebraska?"

  "Yes, sir. I don't rightly know why I brung it along. I just didn't want to leave it behind. But heavy? A hundred times I thought about dropping it off along the trail."

  "But you didn't."

  "No, sir, I didn't."

  "Why not?"

  "I don't rightly know."

  "You must like it a lot."

  "No, sir, I don't like it. Fact is… I hate it."

  "I don't blame you. Sooner or later that old thing's going to blow somebody all to hell."

  "Yes, well… that's just what happened. It was this old gun that done for my pa."

  Coots's knife stopped moving in the donkey's hoof. "I'm sorry, boy. I never… I mean, I was just blathering. Sorry about your pa."

  The boy lifted his shoulders and said dully, "Things like that happen. They just… " He lowered his eyes and shook his head. "… happen." He idly picked up an old leather-bound book from the bench. It smelled like his mother's Bible, but he couldn't figure out the words.

  "That's Latin, son," B. J. Stone said, returning with a tin cup in one hand and the coffeepot in the other, its hot handle swathed in a clump of rags. "It's a collection of Roman satire from Lucilius to Juvenal. I don't suppose you read Latin." He gave Matthew his cup.

  "No, sir," the boy said, putting the book back gingerly, then holding out his cup to be filled.

  "Satire deals with our vices and our-whoops!" B. J. Stone absent-mindedly over-filled Matthew's cup. "… deals with our vices and our absurdities-in short with the bulk of human activity." He turned to Coots. "Well, do you want some of this miserable sludge, or are you just going to keep on fussing with that hoof?"

  "Somebody's got to do the work around here," Coots retorted, holding out his cup to be refilled.

  "You wouldn't be interested in the Romans by any chance, would you, boy?" B. J. Stone filled his own cup.

  "No, sir, I can't say I am. I know that one of them just washed his hands and let them kill Jesus, and… well, that's all I know about the Romans. To tell the truth, I don't read all that much."

  "That's too bad. A book's a good place to hide out in, when things get too bad. Or too dull." This last seemed to be directed at Coots, who ignored it.

  The tin cup was so hot that Matthew had to suck in a lot of air to keep from burning his lips, but the coffee felt good going down into his empty stomach. "What I said about not reading all that much? Fact is, we moved around a lot, and I was snatched from school to school so much that I can barely recognize my name."

  "And what is your name?"

  "Well, sir… they call me the Ringo Kid."

  Coots and B. J. Stone exchanged glances.

  "Do they, now?" B. J. Stone said. "The Ringo Kid, eh? So when your ma wants you for chores, she shouts out, 'Hey, Ringo Kid! Come here, and chop me some kindling!' Is that it?"

  "No, sir, she doesn't say that." He paused a moment before adding quietly, "My ma is dead."

  "And his pa's dead, too!" Coots hissed in a tone that accused his partner of lacking tact.

  "Oh. " The teasing tone leached out of B. J.'s voice. "Have you been on your own for long?"

  "About two weeks. After my folks died, I decided to pack up and go west and…" He shrugged.

  "I see. Hm-m. " B. J. Stone took a long sip of coffee to conceal his discomfort.

  After a silence, the boy volunteered, "My ma named me Matthew. She wanted to have four boys. Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John."

  "And what became of the other three evangelists?"

  "The fever took Luke when he was just a baby. And Mark, he ran off about two years ago."

  "And John?"

  "There never was a John. My ma stopped having kids after Luke died. I guess it didn't seem worth the trouble, if the fever was just going to come along and take them off." The boy drew a long breath and stared out toward the cliff that ended Twenty-Mile. Then his focus softened into a gentle eye-smile. "Truth is, I ain't really called the Ringo Kid. I just said that because… well, I don't rightly know why. It just seemed like a good name to start my new life with. I got it out of the books by Mr. Anthony Bradford Chumms. You know the ones? The Ringo Kid Meets His Match? Or The Ringo Kid Teaches a Lesson? Or The Ringo Kid Takes His Time? I've read every one of them over and over until the pages started falling out. On the back cover of The Ringo Kid Evens the Score, it says that Mr. Anthony Bradford Chumms is 'an English gentleman who lends a cultured richness of expression to exciting tales of the American West.' "

  "Well, now!" B. J. Stone said with mock respect. "Lends a cultured richness of expression, does he? My, my!"

  "Yes, sir. For my money,
Mr. Anthony Bradford Chumms is the best writer in the whole wide world!"

  "Me, I'll stick with old Lucilius. But I thought you said you could barely read your name?"

  Matthew lowered his eyes and was silent for fully three seconds. Then: "Yes, sir, I did say that. But it was a lie. I said I couldn't read because the Ringo Kid can't read, but everyone respects him anyway, because he's honest and fair. And I've always wanted to be like him."

  "Hm-m. You do a lot of lying, do you, Matthew?"

  "I'm afraid I do, sir. I know it's a sin, but…" He shrugged. Then he grinned. "But it sure saves a lot of trouble."

  "I see. Well, look here, Matthew-You don't mind me calling you Matthew, do you?"

  "No, sir. You can call me anything, so long as you don't call me late for dinner!" He forced a chuckle at his pa's tired old joke.

  B. J. Stone scrubbed his cheek stubble with his knuckles. "Uh-huh. Well, look, Matthew. If you're hungry-and boys usually are-you can get something to eat down at the Bjorkvists' place. I'm not saying their food's good, you understand. Matter of fact, the best that can be said for it is that a strong man can keep most of it down."

  "Oh, I'm all right. I'm not hungry." In fact, he hadn't eaten for a day and a half.

  "Suit yourself. But it would be a good idea to get something inside you before you push on up to the mine."

  "The mine?"

  "Aren't you on your way up to the Surprise Lode to look for work?"

  "Well, no, I… To tell the truth, this is the first I heard about there being any mine in these hills."

  "Didn't the people down in Destiny tell you about the Lode?"

  "I didn't ask. Everyone was running around, hooting and shouting about our glorious victory in Cuba."

  "Victory!" B. J. Stone snapped. "A strong young nation bashes a tired old one that has nothing but worn-out ships commanded by inbred aristocrats, and you call that glorious? Under the cover of spreading democracy, we snatch off the Philippines and Puerto Rico. And while we're at it, we just pocket the Hawaiian Islands too! Thomas Jefferson would be spinning in his grave if he knew we'd become imperialists!"

  Coots closed his eyes and shook his head. "You just had to bring Cuba up, didn't you?" he said to Matthew.

  "But, I-"

  "Victory?" Stone pursued. "Victory? William Randolph (I'm-so-rich-I-can-do-anything-I-goddamn-well-want) Hearst decides to boost the sales of his newspapers by whipping up a pack of mindless ruffians until their mouths foam with patriotic fury! And that publicity-hungry Roosevelt hires a bunch of polo players and a few out-of-work cowboys to charge up San Juan Hill-with plenty of reporters on hand, of course! But he quickly brings his Rough Riders back to Long Island to avoid the only real dangers in the whole war, malaria and yellow fever! Victory? You know how we won Guam Island, boy?"

  "Ah… well, no, sir. But I-"

  "I'll tell you how we won it. One of our ships pulled up and fired at the harbor, and the Spanish commander-who didn't even know there was a war on, for Christ's sake! — sent a messenger apologizing for not returning our salute, but he couldn't because there was no ammunition on the island. So we sent a rowboat ashore and claimed a valiant victory! Victory!"

  The force of this tirade made Matthew glance nervously at Coots, who shrugged and asked his partner, "You just about all through?"

  B. J. Stone growled and sniffed. Then he nodded. "Yes, I'm through. But… goddamn it, the idea of spilling young blood just so a few old men can-! Oh, don't get me started again." He drew a deep breath, then said, "So, Matthew. You say you didn't even know about the Surprise Lode? You just decided to walk all the way up the railroad cut on the outside chance that you might find work at the end of the line?"

  "Well… I figured there must be something at the end of the line. Else why would they have built it? And it seemed like it might be nice up here, tucked away from everything."

  "You took one hell of a chance," Coots told him. "That track's mighty narrow, and the train could of flatten you like a turd under a wagon wheel. Hey, wait a minute…!"

  "That's right! That train come near as nothing to killing me! I was walking up the track, fat and sassy, then all of a sudden I felt the rails shaking, and the next thing you know I heard the train coming up behind me. You better believe I started looking around for someplace to be, but it was all rock on one side, and nothing but air on the other! So I scrambled up-track as fast as I could, lugging my pack and gun, and just as the engine come round the bend, I found this crack in the wall and I squeezed into it with my face jammed up against the rock! And that train came roaring and sucking past my backside so close that every car knocked against the butt of my gun, click, click, click! I was sure something was going to catch on the strap and snatch me out to be killed. I was just certain that damn old gun was going to do for me, like it done for my pa."

  "Lord! That was a close shave!"

  "Close? After it passed, I set down right there on the tracks, limp as a rag, my heart pounding away. To tell you the truth, if I would of known-"

  "Let me give you some advice, boy," Mr. Stone said. "You should break that habit of saying 'to tell the truth' all the time, because people usually say that as a stall while they cook up a lie. And if you're hell-bent on being a liar, you might as well be a good one."

  The boy nodded thoughtfully. "Thank you, sir. I'll remember that."

  "So I suppose you'll be pushing on up to the mine?" Coots said.

  Matthew looked down and studied the ground. Then: "No, sir, I don't believe I will. I think I'll just stay around here for a while."

  "But I just told you there's no work in Twenty-Mile," Stone said with some exasperation.

  "Yes, sir, you did. But there's something about this place that suits me."

  "There is?"

  "Don't you worry, sir. I'll find work. Say, can I ask a favor?"

  "Anything that doesn't cost me worry, work, money, or time."

  "Can I leave my bindle and gun with you while I look around town?"

  "Suit yourself. But it's no use."

  The young man nodded and grinned. "You're probably right, sir." He stood up. "Well, I sure do thank you for the coffee. It truly hit the spot."

  As they watched the boy walk back down the rutted street, B. J. Stone sipped his coffee pensively. "What do you make of him, Coots?"

  "Beats my two pair."

  "Why would a bright kid like that want to stay here, at the end of the world?"

  "Could be he's hiding."

  "From what?"

  "Beats my two pair."

  "Well, one thing's sure. He's not going to find work in this played-out town."

  "I wouldn't bet on it."

  State Prison, Laramie

  WHEN HE ARRIVED TO take the midwatch, Guard Private John "B B" Tillman was sorely troubled.

  He had been surprised, but pleased, by the way Lieder had received the tracts his wife selected for his guidance. He had half-expected him to scoff and jeer, the way his fellow guards scoffed and called him a "Bible bug" when he sought to share with them the precious gift of faith. But Lieder didn't jeer. He drew the rolled-up pages of the tracts in through his spy-hole respectfully, almost tenderly. And when they quietly discussed these messages of hope through the door, Lieder's whispering voice always carried tones of sincere yearning… a man seeking his way. And several times Tillman had opened the spy-hole to find Lieder on his knees by his bunk, his face buried in his arms, praying fervently.

  Lieder's blasphemous habit of making up scripture and ascribing it to "Paul to the Mohegans," or "Paul to the Floridians," had caused Tillman heartache. But Lieder assured him that he didn't mean any disrespect, and he promised to pray for the strength to break all his bad habits. From that day on, his acceptance of Jesus as his personal savior seemed to lift a mighty burden from him. Tillman often heard him singing to himself in his cell, usually old-time revival songs, and he once declared that he willingly accepted the imprisonment of his body for the rest of his natural life, kn
owing that he could now hope for the liberation of his soul through all eternity!

  At first, Lieder's rapid progress was uplifting to witness and a tribute to the benevolence and power of the Lord. But lately…

  "I purely don't know what to do," Tillman had confessed to his wife. "He seems to have fallen into darkness. Sometimes he just breaks down and sobs like to make your heart break. He says his sins are so black and piled so high that he doesn't deserve the Lord's forgiveness. And sometimes he just lies there on his bunk, staring at the ceiling. The fact of it is, Mary, that man's soul is burdened down with sin."

  "But he mustn't despair, John. Despair is the greatest sin of all."

  "Don't I know it? But what am I to do?"

  "You must never, never relent in your efforts to save him, John. You must tell him that he's got to persist through this Slough of Despond, for the Lord's mercy is as vast as it is eternal."

  Tillman promised he wouldn't give up on Lieder. He would pray with him that very night. His wife agreed that prayer was the sovereign remedy for all Man's illness and woe, but she reminded him to be careful in dealing with this… what's that you call them?

  "Moonberries."

  "Well now, don't you take any chances."

  "You think I'm crazy, darlin'-heart? You think I want John Junior to grow up without a dad?"

  She blushed and pushed his chest with her fingertips, as she always did when he mentioned her "condition," a condition that they had celebrated with an exchange of presents. He gave her ribbons to braid into her hair, and she gave him a braided leather lanyard with a slide that he could wear in place of a tie. They laughed over the coincidence of both presents having to do with "braid," and she said it was a lucky omen.

  The first thing Tillman did when he came on watch was to check on Lieder, whom he found lying on his bunk, staring up at the ceiling, lost in misery and self-loathing. He greeted him in an encouraging tone, but Lieder muttered bitterly that there was nothing left for him in this life, and probably nothing in the next. So what's the use? What's the use?