by Треваньян
B. J. let the silence soak into the darkness for a time. Then he nodded and stood up to leave.
Mr. Kane stood and shook his hand. "Good night, Mr. Stone."
"Good night, Mr. Kane."
THE LOW-HANGING FULL moon drenched the street with a pale but penetrating light, so to keep out of sight of anyone watching from the hotel, Matthew passed behind the rains of the Pair o' Dice Social Club on his way back to the marshal's office. Through a gap between two abandoned buildings, he glimpsed Queeny sitting on the steps of the hotel, naked in the moonlight, rocking herself in drunken misery.
He slipped in through the back door of the marshal's office, and took a moment to think out how he would deal with Queeny. He decided it would be best to go across the street boldly, so that if one of the men saw him, he could act irritated and say the noise and shouting had awakened him, and he'd come to see what the hell was going on. He lit his lamp and turned it up bright so no one could claim he was sneaking around in the dark, then he took the blanket Ruth Lillian had given him and was about to step out into the street when he remembered to pull his shirt out of his trousers and muss his hair up.
"Queeny?" he whispered hoarsely.
She half-sat, half-sprawled across the hotel steps, her flaccid, fish-belly-white legs splayed wide.
"Here. Put this around you." He draped the Hudson Bay blanket over her shoulders, looking aside to avoid seeing her glaucous flesh.
She shivered and drew the wool blanket around herself. "That wasn't no way for a gentleman to do," she muttered slushily. "No real gentleman would say those things to a lady!" Her right eye was almost closed with swelling.
"No, he surely wouldn't, Queeny." He tried to draw her to her feet, but she was too heavy, too limp. "It was mean and low-down of him to say those things," he said in the honeyed, agree-with-anything chant that his ma used to affect when his pa was drunk and balky. From somewhere in the lagan of his memory, he recalled a wet spot on the hearthstone where his pa had drooled while lying there in a stupor. "Come on now, Queeny. You got to help some. I can't heft you."
She heaved herself up and stood, unsteady. "Where we going, honeybun?" Her whiskey-sour breath and the smeared hint of coquetry in her voice tightened his throat.
He half-supported, half-herded her through the door of the marshal's office and over to his bed, onto which she collapsed as though her bones had suddenly melted. He cupped his hand over his lamp and blew it out. The sudden plunge into darkness seemed to alert the half-conscious Queeny, who rose up onto one elbow and said, "… I told them I didn't want any more to drink, thank you kindly, but the big one with the kissy lips pushed me back onto the table and poured it down my throat! Down my…!" She began to sob, great slobbery blubs shaking her body. "Then they made me dance. Tore off my clothes and made me dance! With everyone looking. And laughing! That ain't no right way to do a lady, is it?" '
"No, it surely ain't, Queeny. And I'm sorry."
"O-o-o-o, are you, honeybun? Are you really and truly sorry?"
"You said everyone was looking at you."
"And laughing. I used to be a real good dancer when I was on the stage. Light as a feather. Everybody used to clap and whistle and… But as a girl gets older…" Lush, hot tears swamped her voice.
"Who was this everyone that was looking at you, Queeny?"
"… light as a feather, I was. Ask anyone. I used to dance the Dance of the Seven Veils. But, you see, honeybun, when a gal gets older, she gets a little… well, a little hefty. No use denying it."
"I'll bet you were a real fine dancer, Queeny. Who'd you say was laughing at you?" He imitated his ma's gentle persistence, when she was trying to pry a bit of information out of his drunken pa.
"All of them! They was all laughing! And passing remarks! That barber, old Peg-leg, the preacher, those no-'count Bjorkvists. And drunk? The boss, he made them all down whiskey till they was stumblin' and giggling. But that ain't no excuse for them to… Honeybun? Poor old Queeny's just burning up with thirst. You got some nice cold water for your poor old Queeny?"
Matthew dippered up a mugful from his water pail and brought it to her. She sucked it down greedily, swallowing some air and coughing a spray back at him. "But that ain't no excuse, is it? Just 'cause they was drunk ain't no excuse for passing remarks about a person being… getting a little hef- hefty."
He sat on the edge of the bed. "What were all those men doing in the hotel?"
"I just told you! They were laughing and passing remarks!" And she began to blub again.
"Yes, but why did they come there in the first place?"
"He made them come!"
"Mr. Lieder?"
"Sure!"
"But why did he do that?"
"Don't ask me. I don't… I don't…" She fell silent and her breathing deepened.
"Queeny? Queeny! Tell me about Mr. Delanny."
"Wha…? Huh?"
"When those strangers came into the hotel, didn't Mr. Delanny do anything?"
"No, of course not! Mr. Delanny ain't the kind to laugh and pass personal remarks about a lady. He's a professional. Like me. Could you give old Queeny another little drink, honeybun? She's just parched."
Matthew refilled the tin mug, returned to the bed, and held it to her lips as she drank greedily. "Queeny, you've worked for Mr. Delanny for a long time. Tell me, does he have a gun?"
"He's a real professional," she said hollowly into the mug. "Firm but fair… like me."
"Yes, Queeny, but listen to me. Does… Mr… Delanny… have… a… gun?"
"Of course!" She threw the mug onto the floor. "I told you he was a professional! Can't you punks understand anything?"
He waited for her muddled fury to subside before asking patiently. "And what kind of gun does Mr. Delanny have?"
"A little teeny-tiny one. In his boot. A derringer with a little teeny-tiny barrel. No bigger'n a little boy's pecker." She giggled… and gagged. "Uh-oh! I'm afraid… the cold water… makes the whiskey come back up. I'm afraid I'm going to…" She dropped back onto the pillow.
"Queeny?"
"I just got to sleep, honeybun," she slurred. "I really got to, or I'll be sick."
"Queeny? Queeny? Do you think Mr. Delanny will use his gun on those men who laughed and passed remarks on you?"
"No, I don't… wha…? Can… get up…"
"What?"
"He's… can't… chair…"
"Queeny?"
"He can't get up, I'm telling ya!"
"What? Why can't he get up?"
"They made him sit on a chair. And he don't dare get up. They won't even let him talk, and he-Oh, honey-bun, I… I think I'm going to be sick. Why'd you make me drink that water?"
"You want to go outside to be sick?"
"Yeah, maybe I better. Help me up. Oh-oh. No, I… can't. I can't lift my head. I'm too…"
"You'll be all right, Queeny. Just sleep. You'll be just fine in the morning."
"Will I, honeybun? You think old Queeny's just fine, don't you? You wouldn't pass remarks about old Queeny, would you?"
"No, Queeny, I wouldn't pass remarks."
"O-o-o-o, ain't that sweet? I know you wouldn't pass remarks, 'cause you were good to your ma and helped her make… biscuits. I just… I can't…" A short, moist snore, and she was asleep.
Matthew tucked the blanket up around her, then he sat in his chair in a dim shaft of waning moonlight. A sudden chill ran up his spine. He scrubbed his goose-bumpy arms. And took his canvas jacket down from its nail and put it on backwards, the collar under his chin to keep his throat warm. He scrunched down in the chair and decided he'd just sit there and wait for morning.
Well, maybe he'd rest his eyes, then come morning, he'd…
… He snapped awake, his heart beating and the base of his spine sore from the hard chair. The smell of whiskey and sweat from Queeny was thick in his throat, like the smell of his pa when he came home late and collapsed on the floor. That whiskey stench had somehow filtered into his nightmare
about spongy red stuff… no, it was about his pa's face, all bloated with anger… no, about a roaring gun and… no, something about damaged boys and apostles and… no, he couldn't remember. The dream elements were rapidly dispersing and disguising themselves.
From down the street, came the sounds of laughter and splashing and shouting and…
… Splashing? He rose from his chair and, rubbing the base of his spine, went to the window. The moon had set, leaving the street matte black except for a dim glow of red-gold from behind Professor Murphy's Tonsorial Palace, where the wheezing old coal boiler was heating water. There came a loud whoop and another splash, then a snort, and a high-pitched yap. Someone had poured cold water on someone. Those men must be having baths in the wooden tubs out behind the barbershop. There was something weird, something repugnant about the thought of those men sitting up to their necks in wooden tubs of skin-scummy bathwater, splashing and horseplaying like kids in a swimming hole.
Matthew turned back from the window and decided to light his lamp and read until the clinging fragments of his nightmare withered and dropped away from his memory. He would seek calm in the uncomplicated, righteous world of Anthony Bradford Chumms, like he used to do when the sound of his parents fighting downstairs left his stomach all twisted.
So as not to waken Queeny, he drew the lucifer slowly along the bottom of his table until it hissed into a flat, puffing flame.
Just before dawn, his chin dropped into the collar of his jacket, and The Ringo Kid Plays His Last Ace slipped from his numb fingers into the pool of lamplight on the floor.
EARLIER THE PREVIOUS AFTERNOON, Mr. Delanny had been in the barroom playing two-hand solitaire with Frenchy when the three trail-stained strangers sauntered in. He had looked up, made an instantaneous evaluation, and told Jeff Calder to give them a drink. "One drink on the house, gentlemen, then I must ask you to be on your way."
Lieder blinked in a burlesque of befuddlement. "Well now, I am confused. The sign outside proclaims this to be the Traveller's Welcome. And here we are, three travelers on the weary road of life. But you don't seem to be offering us genuine and heartfelt welcome. How come that is, friend?"
Mr. Delanny arched a disdainful eyebrow and spoke in his tight, precise way. "This is a private hotel. I reserve the right to choose my clientele."
Lieder grinned. "Oh, I see. And we don't come up to snuff, is that it?"
"That is it exactly, friend. And furthermore-"
"Nope! No furthermore!" Still grinning, Lieder slipped his gun out of his belt and cocked it. "And please don't call me friend. Matter of fact, I don't think I want to hear another word from you of any kind. Not one more word! And you know why? Because I don't like your fancy shirt, nor your spindly wrists, nor your lily-white hands, nor your uppity-man-looking-down-upon-scum attitude. I purely hate it when people talk to me in a tone of voice! This place of yours ain't nothing but a low-class whorehouse. And you ain't nothing but a pimp. And I ain't going to take sass from any slimy clap-merchant. So here's what is going to happen. Listen up! You are going to sit right there in that chair and not say another word. Not… a… word! Because if you move your ass out of that chair, or if you so much as open your mouth just one time, I shall be obliged to punish you. And you had better believe that I am a most-vigorous and imaginative punisher. You understand what I'm saying to you? Just nod."
Mr. Delanny started to reply, but Lieder lifted his eyebrows and the barrel of his pistol warningly, so he lowered his eyes to the cards on the table.
"Now, that's more like it. You play your cards just right, and you might escape being punished. But to tell you the truth, Mr. Pimp, I don't think there's much chance of that. You remind me of somebody I loathe and detest. Someone who used to talk to me in a tone of voice. Hey! You, there! Stand up and step away from him, unless you want to share his punishment."
Frenchy's yellow eyes met Mr. Delanny's. He gestured with a lift of his chin for her to leave his table. She glanced at Lieder, then slowly rose from the table and moved back to against the wall, where she stood, her eyes on Lieder's face.
"You behind the bar! Peg-leg! Do you serve the drinks around here?"
Jeff Calder was caught swallowing nervously, so his voice squeaked when he said, "Yes, sir."
"Well then, get to serving!"
Jeff Calder reached down for glasses.
"Whoa there, old man! When your hands come up from under that bar, they better not have anything in them but a whiskey bottle. Or I'll blow your ass into next week, and that's a promise."
"I wasn't going to-"
"You keep any iron under there?"
"Just my old army rifle. But honest to God, I wasn't going to-"
"Tiny, you go upstairs and look around. Bring everybody down to join in the festivities. Bobby-My-Boy, I think you better take Peggy's old army rifle from him. Unless he objects, of course. Do you object, Peggy?"
"No, sir, I don't object."
"That's the kind of eager and cheerful cooperation I like to see. Where you keep your ammunition?"
"I ain't got but half a box. It's right here under the bar with the rifle."
"Get the ammunition too, Bobby-My-Boy." He slapped the bar top. "Now, let's have a little service here, Peggy! It's been a long time since last my followers was in a saloon."
After handing over his battered old rifle, balancing it on wide-splayed hands to show that he had no intention of trying anything, Jeff Calder set up three thick-bottomed glasses and started pouring rye, but he was shaking so hard that he chipped one of the glasses with the neck of the bottle. He reached under the bar for another glass, then froze and said, "Now, I'm just reaching down to get a glass, mister! That's all I'm doing! They ain't no other guns down there!"
"Calm yourself, friend. Just take it easy." Lieder's tone suggested that he was the only reasonable man in a panicked world. "You've got to learn to lean back and let things happen. Nobody's going to get hurt around here. Not so long as they do what they're told. And do it quickly. Don't you bother about getting another glass, Peggy. I can drink out of the broken one. I ain't no fragile dandy like that pimp sitting over there so nice and obedient. I've got what you call your 'common touch.' I'm a Man of the People, risen from the ranks of the downtrodden to-Why you staring at me like that, woman? I don't need no dime-a-go nigger whore staring at me!
Frenchy let her heavy-lidded gaze linger on him for a moment before dragging it lazily away to look out the window. For the rest of the evening she kept the scarred side of her face toward Lieder, in part as a punishment, and in part to deter any appetites he might develop.
As Tiny and Bobby-My-Boy slapped back their drinks. Lieder held his glass of rye up to the light, but he didn't drink. "You know what I'll bet you're wondering, Peggy?"
"I ain't wondering anything! Honest!"
"I'll bet you're wondering why I let your boss sit in that chair of his own accord, rather than tie him down to make sure he doesn't move."
"It ain't none of my affair, sir," Jeff Calder said.
"Are you telling me you don't want to know?"
"No, no, I'd be glad to know. I just meant… well, you know… I ain't one to poke my nose into other people's business."
"Well, since you're so eager to learn, I'll tell you. I spent some time in an institution for wayward boys, where there was this warden. And every time this warden he talked to me, he used a tone of voice-just like our pimp over there. When a kid acted up, this warden would have him brought to his office and tied into a chair that faced the corner, like a dunce stool in school-Hey, pour out another round here, Peggy! And have one yourself! Hell, it's on the house! This warden, he earned my respect, because he knew how to punish. He really knew how to punish. I found that out when the guards caught me being high-spirited like any normal American boy, and they brought me into the warden's office. He smiled at me and waved his hand toward the chair. I sidled over and sat down, smiling and sassy, the way a kid has to be to show the world he can take anythi
ng they can dish out. The guards came over to tie me into the chair, but the warden said no. 'No, don't tie young Master Lieder. I'm going to trust him to sit right there until nightfall of his own free will. There'll be no ropes to bind him. But to bolster Master Lieder's willpower, I'll give it a little support. If he says one word, or moves so much as a hair, I shall chastise him. Oh, and there's one other thing. Master Lieder. There won't be any going to the toilet. ' And he went back to doing his desk work while the guards sat by the door, grinning because they'd seen this punishment before. So I sat there facing the corner. And the time went by. And I could hear the scratch of the warden's pen on paper. But before long I had to piss something fierce. That was when it dawned on me that the real punishment wasn't being made to sit in the corner. It was being made to piss yourself, like a little baby, with guards looking on and snickering. Now pissing yourself because you're tied to a chair and can't do anything else is bad enough, but to piss yourself when you aren't bound by anything other than the warden's warning not to move… that's humiliating. Well, finally I couldn't stand it no longer, so I whipped it out and started to piss on the wall. And the guards grabbed me and pinned me against the wall with my pecker still hanging out, and this warden came over to me with a ruler in his hand, shaking his head sadly and saying, hadn't he asked Master Lieder nicely to sit in that chair and not move a muscle? And hadn't he been kind enough not to tie Master Lieder to the chair? And look how Master Lieder had disappointed him. And he brought that ruler down on the head of my pecker! Hard! Five times! He counted them out! And his face was all puffed up and purple with rage, and with a kind of… joy! After a while, he got control of himself and calmed down. He told me to tidy up my clothing, and not just stand there revealing myself like that. He had the guards put me back in the chair, and he told me that if I moved again from that chair, it would be ten strokes with the ruler, and I'd have to count them out. I sat there. And do you wonder if my pecker hurt? It hurt! All the way up to my belly, it hurt. But the funny thing was, I didn't have to piss anymore. That warden had scared the piss out of me. Scared the piss right out of me!" And Lieder roared with laughter.