by Треваньян
MR. DELANNY HAD BEEN sitting at his table, laying out his usual game of solitaire, when he was interrupted by the young man's apologetic request to have a few words with him. The gambler looked slowly up from beneath the brim of the carefully brushed black hat he wore level on his head, and surveyed the boy with heavy-lidded, cynical eyes. But he listened, wryly amused, as the boy "played out his trumps," describing how everybody in town was doing their best to scrape up some chores for him to do. Behind the deserted bar, Jeff Calder stumped around on his peg leg, shifting bottles and glasses that didn't need shifting, his every gesture radiating irritation at the presence of this outsider begging for work. Just barely audible from somewhere above, a woman was humming in a husky contralto: a Negro spiritual. Matthew interrupted his pitch to tell Mr. Delanny that the song reminded him of the time his mother brought him to a traveling revivalist's tent, a "Cathedral of Canvas," where a man dressed all in yellow silk preached and sobbed and begged God to come down to heal those who believed, and punish those who didn't, while three Negro women stood behind him in white gowns, swaying and humming that very song. His ma had given a two-dollar bill (a lucky one, with the corner torn off) into the collection plate, and his pa had been so mad when he learned about it that he had slapped her around some. That was only last year, and now both his ma and pa were… gone.
"That was pretty slick," Mr. Delanny said in his soft, phlegm-burred voice.
"Sir?"
"You know what you are, young man? You're a natural-born con. That was pretty slick, the way you picked up on one of my girls singing upstairs and parlayed it into telling me that your ma was religious, that your folks were dead, and that you were all alone in this cruel, cruel world."
"Gee, sir, I don't understand what you're saying. I mean… My folks are dead!"
Mr. Delanny chuckled-and this brought on a bout of coughing that ended with his spitting into a large white handkerchief, then looking into it with clinical curiosity before folding it to conceal the blood. "Oh, I don't doubt that your folks are dead. Nor that your ma was religious. It's the way you use those facts that reveals you to be a natural con." Mr. Delanny's speech was slow and his diction precise. Everything about him, his gestures, his dress, his speech, had a precious theatricality. "The successful con doesn't risk lying, except as a last resort. He uses the truth-selected bits of it- cleverly. It's a sleight of mind that can't be learned. You've got to be born with it. This world's divided into two kinds of people: the marks and the cons. And every human relationship-politics, business, romance-can be described in terms of who are the marks and who are the cons. And you, boy? You're one of Nature's own cons."
"Well, ah… thank you, sir-I guess."
"But there's one thing you better remember."
"Sir?"
"Never try to con a con."
"I don't understand, sir."
"Oh, I think you do. Now, I don't mind your coming in here and trying out your line of patter. Matter of fact, it's amusing to see how you lay out your cards. But I wouldn't want you to think you were scoring on me. Professional pride, you know."
"Yes, sir. I know all about pride. That's why I can't let people take care of me, and I've got to find ways to support myself."
Mr. Delanny laughed again-and coughed. When he got his breath back, he said, "You are some piece of work. You know perfectly well I've got you pegged, but you're still trying to score on me. Trying to con a job out of me."
Matthew grinned. "Well, sir, I really do need it."
For a long moment, Mr. Delanny looked at him from beneath the rim of his black hat, a glint of wry amusement in the feverish eyes deep in their sunken sockets. He nodded. "All right. I'll try you out. What's your name?"
"My name is… " Matthew covered his hesitation with a clearing of his throat. "… Dubchek, sir. Matthew Dubchek."
"That's your real name?"
"Yes, sir."
Mr. Delanny's eyes narrowed in evaluation. Then: "You know, I think Dubchek just might be your real name. It isn't one that a natural-born con would make up. Too foreign. Well then, Matthew Dubchek, why don't you start tomorrow morning? You can give Calder there a hand."
"I don't need no hand!"
Mr. Delanny ignored this and told Matthew he could help Jeff Calder make breakfast for the girls and…
"But I don't need no help."
… then he could do whatever other chores Calder set for him. Might be washing the dishes, or making the girls' beds, or doing the laundry up at the spring, or throwing garbage over the cliff. Whatever Calder said needed being done.
Matthew rose from the table and went to the bar. "Well then, Mr. Calder, I guess you're to be my boss."
"Yeah, but I don't need-"
"I gotta be honest with you, Mr. Calder. I ain't any great shakes at cooking. But I'm a quick learner!"
Matthew smiled, and the peg-legged veteran grunted and muttered that he'd damn well better be a quick learner, because he didn't have time to tell somebody how to do something more'n once!
"I understand that, sir. And I'll see you tomorrow morning, bright and early."
"Not too bright and early," Jeff Calder said, making it clear right from the beginning who was boss.
Matthew nodded and put on the hat he had been holding by its rim. His broad smile concealed the nausea that the barroom medley of stale cigar smoke and whiskey brought to the back of his throat. Particularly the whiskey. He hated that smell! He had turned to leave when Mr. Delanny's beckoning flick of a forefinger brought him back to the card table, where he took off his hat and sat.
"Tell me, young Dubchek, how did you happen to come-"
"Excuse me, sir. I'm sorry to interrupt you, but I'd just as soon you didn't call me Dubchek because… well, you see, somehow Mr. Kane got the idea that my name was Matthew Bradford Chumms- same as the book-writer? — and I didn't bother to set him straight because, well, because I didn't know I was going to stay in Twenty-Mile long enough for it to matter one way or the other. But now if I tell him that Chumms isn't my name, he'll think I was lying to him, and-" Matthew stopped short and looked into Mr. Delanny's amused eyes. He lowered his own eyes to his lap. "All I been saying is a lie, sir. Fact is, I told Mr. Kane my name was Chumms."
Mr. Delanny chuckled through his nose without smiling. "That's a well-worn, but nevertheless effective, ploy: confessing that you've been lying when you realize the other fellow's got you cold to rights, in the hope that you'll end up seeming honest because you've admitted to being a liar."
Matthew didn't look up. "I don't lie, Mr. Delanny. Not really what you'd call lie. I just… I tell people what I think will please them, or interest them, or make them respect me."
"Is that what you want from people? Respect?"
"More'n anything, sir. But it's hard to get respect if your name's Dubchek, and everybody knows who your pa is. And what he is."
"I see. So you're not to be called Dubchek."
"No, sir. Just plain Matthew will do. Well, you could call me Ringo, if you want. That's what Professor Murphy calls me."
Mr. Delanny didn't laugh because he couldn't afford to trigger another cough, but his eyes glittered. "It would be a pity for you to waste such a natural gift for duplicity on Twenty-Mile. There's nothing for you here, boy. Not even any respect worth having. The people in this town, they're just driftwood carried here on the crest of the silver boom, then left beached when that flood subsided, and they hadn't the strength or the courage to get back into the current."
Matthew smiled crookedly. "Even you, sir?"
"Even me."
"Why do you stay here, if it's all that bad?"
Delanny's mouth creased in an ironic smile that did not illuminate his eyes. "I'm here for the mountain air. It's good for my lungs. Keeps me alive-if moving cards around on a table and watching the days sift away can be called living. All right then! You can start tomorrow morning. The girls eat and sleep here in the hotel because Mrs. Bjorkvist wouldn't have them at the boardin
g house. She'll take money from the miners who use them, but she won't have the girls. A typical Godfearing Bible-pounder who believes that money in the bank is a sign of God's approval."
"She's certainly that, all right!" Matthew agreed with a knowing chuckle.
"Oh? You know Mrs. Bjorkvist, do you?"
"Well, no, not exactly. But if you say she's Godfearing, your word is good enough for me, sir."
Mr. Delanny sniffed and shook his head. "You're a real chameleon, boy."
Matthew rose. "Well, I promised I'd get back to Mr. Kane's so we could figure out what sort of chores I'll be doing for him." He raised his voice. "Good-bye, Mr. Calder. I'll be back in the morning — but not too bright and early, like you said."
Mr. Delanny, who had returned to his solitaire layout, glanced up when Matthew asked, "Sir? Excuse me, but just what exactly is a kameel-keemel-what you said?"
"A chameleon is a lizard that protects itself by changing its coloring to match its surroundings."
"I see." The boy nodded slowly. "Well, then!" He waved and went out into the glaring sunlight.
MATTHEW HAD NO LUCK with the Bjorkvists, even though he found a way to mention right off that his ma, who had passed over into Glory only the week before, used to read every night from the Bible, which he, for one, reckoned was the finest book in the world, even better than those Ringo Kid books written by Mr. Anthony Bradford Chumms, after whom he was named-except for his first name, which was Matthew… like the Matthew who helped write the Bible?
He stood in the doorway to the big dining room, further penetration into the boarding house being blocked by Mrs. Bjorkvist, whose arms were folded over her chest. Her husband sat at one of the back tables, sullen and silent in a long-sleeved red undershirt that was sweat-bleached under the arms. Curiosity had drawn the thick-featured Kersti Bjorkvist to the doorway of the steamy kitchen, where she stood dabbing at her glistening neck with a cool dish cloth, while her slack-eyed brother, Oskar, stood against the wall, sizing Matthew up, wondering who'd win in a fight.
No, Mrs. Bjorkvist did not have any work she needed done-particularly by somebody who'd come to her directly from Delanny's den of vice, after spending time up at the Livery with that B. J. Stone and that Coots of his! Didn't he know that this Coots used to be a gunman in wicked river towns, protecting gamblers and Jezebels from being strung up by righteous citizens, like they deserved? No, she didn't need any help, but if Matthew wanted to stay at her boarding house, it'd be a dollar a day for two meals and a bed. Matthew said that he was sure that was a fair price, but to tell the tru-he wasn't even sure he'd be making a dollar each and every day, but maybe he could work off his bed and board by doing odd jobs around the-Didn't he hear her say that she didn't need no odd jobs done!? She had her own men to do odd jobs. And it was a dollar a day, take it or leave it.
"Well, ma'am, I guess I'll have to think about it. Nothing would please me more than to be a regular guest with a family that lives by the Good Book, but at a dollar a day… Well, ma'am, I want to thank you for your help and advice, and I… well, I guess I'll just be on my way."
"DON'T SAY I DIDN'T warn you," B. J. Stone said, looking up from the month-old Laramie newspaper he had been picking clean, down to the social announcements and "for sale" notices. He had devoured the paper that came up with the train, and now he was reduced to rummaging through his stack of back issues for something he hadn't read to the bone. "I told you there wasn't any work in town."
"Yes, sir, you did. But, you know, it's amazing how helpful people can be. Everyone found some little job that I could do. Everyone except for Mrs. Bjorkvist."
"That doesn't surprise me none," Coots said as he continued sharpening a knife on a whetting wheel that was no longer round and had to be "chased" to keep the blade in contact. "That woman wouldn't give you the time of day. She might sell you the time of day at so much the minute, but give it? Not hardly."
"She said you used to be a gunman in river towns."
"Did she, now?"
"Yes, and she said you used to shoot people and break up lynching parties and all."
"Well now, how about that? Sounds like I was a real heller."
"Why don't you get our young guest here a cup of coffee, Mr. Heller?" B. J. said.
"Your legs broke?" Coots wondered, continuing his work.
B. J. sighed deeply, pushed himself up from his chair with a grunt, and went off to the kitchen.
Coots tested the edge of the knife with his thumb and, satisfied that it was sharp, stopped the wheel and turned off its water drip. "Yes, you'd play hell getting any work from that tight-fisted Bjorkvist woman. She squeezes every nickel so hard the buffalo shits itself."
"Mr. Coots?"
"Hm?"
"How'd you come to be a gunfighter?"
"How does any fool start doing stupid things? After the war I was like lots of men: nowhere to go, nothing to do, didn't know anything but fighting. I was young, and I had a lot of anger in me."
"You fought in the Civil War?"
"That's right. I signed up with an Arkansas regiment."
"You fought for the South?"
"Most of the Five Tribes were with the Confederacy. After all, most of us owned slaves, too. The South promised us tribal rights and better land after the war was over. And you know how Indians are about white promises. They just keep swallowing the bait and swallowing the bait and swallowing the bait."
"I didn't know Indians had slaves."
"Could be there's lots of things you don't know."
"And were you one of them? A slave, I mean?"
"No. I was never a slave. Indians don't make good slaves. Either they rise up and kill their master, or they just pine away and die."
"But you're…"
"Black? Yes. There were two kinds of Negroes with the Cherokee. There were field slaves that the Indians bought and used just like white people did. Then there were blacks who'd run away to live with the Indians… mostly because they'd done something to a white man, and they knew what'd happen if they got caught. Now, my father-Hey, why the hell am I talking about all this when there's work wants being done!"
"Oh, go on, Mr. Coots. Your father was a runaway, was he?"
"That's right. Most Indians will accept you if you're willing to live their way. They don't think about race the same way as whites do. Or blacks either, for that matter. My mother was a breed. So I'm three-quarters Black… and at the same time all Cherokee."
"What is war really like, Mr. Coots? Must of been a real adventure."
"War? Mostly war's boring. You're always cold and wet. And you're tired. And itchy with bugs. Then all of a sudden everyone's shooting and shouting and running around, and you're so goddamned scared you can't swallow. Then it's all over, and some of you are dead or wounded, and the rest are back to scratching and being bored. That's war."
"And after all that, your side lost."
"N-not exactly. By the end I was fighting for the North. After the way Choctaw and Chickasaw troops got blooded at Pea Ridge and Wilson's Creek, Chief John Ross decided we were goddamned fools to fight for the Carolinians and Georgians who had driven us off our land, so he led the Upper Creeks and a bunch of us Cherokee mixed-bloods to join the North, and next thing I knew, I was wearing the blue of the 2nd Cherokee Rifles."
"You fought on both sides? And to think I didn't know that Indians had fought in the war at all!"
"The Five Tribes suffered greater losses in the war than any American state, North or South."
"Gee, they never told us about that in school."
"There's lots of stuff they don't tell you in school about Indians, boy. And about whites, too."
"I guess so." Matthew digested all this. Then: "Can I ask you something else?"
"No, you can't!"
"All right."
"My mouth's worn out with talking!"
"I understand… but if I could ask something else, Mr. Coots, I'd ask how come you and Mr. Stone haven't given me any work. I
mean, I understand why Mrs. Bjorkvist hasn't. She's bone stingy, but you two… But I guess it's not up to you to decide. You'd have to ask Mr. Stone before giving out work, and he'd probably-"
"I wouldn't ask B. J. nothing. I'd just tell him."
"Tell me what?" B. J. asked, returning with the coffee pot and Matthew's cup from earlier that morning. He flipped it empty.
"We're going to give the boy some jobs of work to do."
"We are?"
"Yes. A few hours here and there. And we're going to pay him fifteen cents an hour. He's not afraid of hard work. Unlike some people I could mention."
B. J. Stone passed Matthew his cup. "Well, I guess you're part of my staff. Though God knows why a healthy, bright young man would want to stay in this godforsaken excuse for a town."
"Thank you, sir." Matthew accepted the scalding coffee and drew in a long, air-filled sip. It was even stronger than before, but he didn't make a face. "I don't know why you bad-mouth Twenty-Mile so much, Mr. Stone. It seems to me a nice town full of helpful people."
"You're mistaken, boy! Twenty-Mile is moribund! And its citizens are the lees and dregs of this world: the lost, the lonely, the losers, the lazy, the luckless, the low-minded. And that's only the L's for Christ's sake!"
Matthew's mouth had slowly opened in awe at this flow of words. He looked over at Coots, who shrugged and said, "He used to be a schoolteacher. Some trades leave their marks on a man, like those little burn-scars on the arms of a blacksmith, or the black spit of a coal miner. School-teaching leaves a man with incurable mouth-flap."
"I'd give anything to be able to talk as smooth and slick as that, Mr. Stone. You use words almost as good as Mr. Anthony Bradford Chumms."
"Who? Oh, that British hack you're so fond of. The one who-how did it go? '… lends a cultured richness of expression to exciting tales of the American West'?"
Stung by this mocking of the man who created the Ringo Kid, Matthew said, "No matter what you say, Mr. Stone, I don't agree that everybody in Twenty-Mile is losers and lonely and low-minded, and all that. Take Mr. Kane, for instance. Him and his daughter seem to be good people."