Incident at Twenty-Mile

by Треваньян

  He eased open the back door of the hotel kitchen and crept across to peek into the barroom. Tiny, Bobby-My-Boy, and Chinky were not there. Upstairs, probably. Frenchy was sitting at a table by the wall, her head down on her arms. Mr. Delanny was near her, his back to Matthew, but there was something strange in his stiff, awkward posture. Lieder was in a chair tipped back against the wall, facing the bat-winged doors, a rifle cradled across his lap. Matthew could only see his profile, but his chin was down on his chest, and his breathing was deep and regular.

  If only Coots was here right now with his pistol. He could get the drop on him and…!

  But Coots wasn't there, so Matthew tiptoed back into the kitchen to light the stove and begin making breakfast, doing everything as quietly as he could, but each little unavoidable noise he made caused him to pull in his neck and suck air through bared teeth.

  After carefully sliding the first batch of biscuits into the oven, Matthew sliced bacon and put it into a big two-handled frying pan on the middling-warm part of the stove, then he filled the tin pot with water, dumped in a good handful of coffee, and put it on the hot center ring. When the first batch of biscuits was done, he put them under the warming hood and started a second.

  "Hey there!"

  Matthew gasped and almost dropped the bag of flour he was pouring into the mixing bowl.

  "Colder'n a witch's tit this morning!" Lieder said from the doorway to the barroom.

  "I thought you were asleep!"

  "I never sleep, boy. Just quick little catnaps. I don't seem to need sleep, like ordinary men do. And I never drink liquor. I require neither rest nor stimulation."

  "I don't like liquor either," Matthew said. "Just the smell makes me want to urp."

  "Speaking of stuff to make a body urp, please don't tell me you dipped your wick into that old whore I threw into the street last night! You can do better'n that, boy! Hell, even Old Lady Fist is better than that sorry old worn-out hole. And a hell of a lot cleaner, too."

  The coffee boiled over, sending drops hissing and dancing over the surface of the Dayton Imperial. Matthew grabbed up a rag and dragged the big pot over to the edge of the stove. "You want a cup, sir?"

  "A cup of coffee'd go down real good on a cold morning like this. The air smells like there's a storm brewing."

  Matthew poured and passed it over, and Lieder sat down on the kitchen steps and took a noisy sip. Matthew put a couple of biscuits onto a plate along with an open tin of corn syrup and set them on the step beside Lieder, then he returned to mixing up the second batch of biscuits.

  "So!" Lieder said, warming his hands on the speckled enamel cup. "You say you didn't ream old… whatshername?"

  "No. I just brought her to my place so she wouldn't have to sit out in the cold."

  "There you go! I told them you were just doing a good deed and not meaning to go against me. I admire kindness more than any other quality… except for patriotism. The only reason I threw that old hole out into the street was because I could see right off that she was nothing but dregs." Lieder dunked a biscuit into his coffee. "And I don't let my apostles accept dregs. You want to know why?" He held the dripping biscuit up and ate half of it from beneath to catch the drips.

  "Why?"

  "Because once a man starts accepting dregs, that's all he ever gets. For the rest of his life, it's nothing but dregs and leftovers that other people don't want! Shoot, even Tiny and Bobby-My-Boy didn't want to stick that jiggling pile of lard! And they've been inside so long that they'll stick 'most anything that's warm… even one another! Now ain't that a picture to gag a maggot!" He laughed and finished his biscuit.

  Matthew concentrated intensely on dropping spoonfuls of biscuit dough onto the tray.

  "Lord, that bacon smells good!" Lieder continued. "I been smelling it for a quarter of an hour, and do you wonder if my mouth's been watering? It's been watering."

  Matthew slid the second tray of biscuits into the oven and closed it. "You really think you've been awake since I started the bacon?"

  "Like I told you, boy. I don't need sleep like an ordinary man."

  Matthew shrugged.

  "I ain't lying to you, boy!"

  "I didn't say you're lying, but people sometimes think they're awake when they ain't.

  "I was awake! Don't you contradict-I heard you come into the kitchen, pussyfooting it. Then you stood at the door, looking around the barroom."

  "But… how could you see me? You had your back to me."

  "I can feel when people are looking at me. It's a gift been bestowed on me as a sign of favor. A kind of armor to protect me against my enemies so's I can fulfil my mission. Shoot, I can even see through closed eyes! You don't believe me, but it's true! Sometimes when I'm reading late at night, I get so sleepy that I can't keep my eyes open, but I can still read. Right through my closed eyelids! I spend a lot of time on one page, that's true, but I'm reading! I'm reading!" His eyes softened, and his tone shifted to one of gentle wonder. "Did you ever notice how a mess of bacon frying sounds like rain on a tin roof?"

  "No, sir," Matthew said, his mouth suddenly dry, because if this man could see through closed eyes, it was a good thing Coots hadn't been standing there with him in the doorway of the barroom.

  "Me, I notice things. Like how bacon frying sounds like rain on a tin roof. Poetic things like that. It don't hurt a man to be sensitive to the beauties around him."

  "Have you thought about what you're going to do, sir?"

  "What do you mean, do?"

  "When the train comes and you find yourself facing all those miners."

  Lieder leaned back on his elbows and blew out a long jet of breath. "Yeah, I been giving it some thought. And I've decided that maybe those miners ain't a threat. Maybe they're an opportunity."

  "Opportunity?"

  "I'll talk to them. Tell them about what's happening to this country of ours. Chances are they'll want to join my cause! Something brought me to Twenty-Mile. Maybe it was the opportunity to enlist those miners into my militia. Hey, wait a minute. Those miners are of Aryan blood, ain't they?"

  "What's that?"

  "People who come from healthy northern European stock. You can tell just by looking. Those Mediterraneans, they're mostly small and dark and shifty-eyed. And those slavs, they're mostly flat-faced, and their nostrils point right at you, like a shotgun."

  "I don't know what kind of people the miners are. Just people."

  "There ain't any Chinee among 'em, is there?"

  "Not as I've seen."

  "That's good, 'cause The Warrior has prophesied that the Chinaman is this nation's final enemy. The Yellow Peril. There's millions of them over there, all waiting to come swarming over in search of white women, 'cause they've killed so many of their own girl babies to keep from having to feed them that they're running out of women. Did you know that Chinamen cripple their girls by binding up their feet, so's they can't run away when they're raping them? It's true! And rich old Chinamen pay big money to have rhinoceros and tigers killed so's they can eat the horns and balls to make their withered old peckers strong enough to screw a few more times before they die. And if there's anything this poor old world doesn't need, it's more goddamned Chinamen! Well! Let's get to that breakfast!" Lieder turned back into the barroom and shouted, "Everyone up! Breakfast!" He pounded on the bar with the flat of his hand. "Everyone awake! Reveille! Reveille! Up and out!"

  Mr. Delanny's neck muscles twitched with each shout, but he did not turn toward Lieder. Frenchy shuddered and lifted her head from her arms, blinking as though uncertain of where she was. Then she saw Mr. Delanny tied to his chair, and she knew that her bad dreams had not been dreams.

  Lieder went to the bottom of the stairs and shouted up in the taunting, brassy tones of a sergeant who enjoys tearing men from the temporary haven of sleep. "All right, men, get down here! Breakfast! Breakfast! The last one down gets nothing to eat!"

  Jeff Calder crawled stiffly out from behind the bar, where he had bedded
down on the floor, dead drunk. He was suffering from a hangover so bad that the roots of his hair hurt.

  When Matthew came in from the kitchen carrying the coffee pot, its hot handle swathed in a rag, and a bouquet of tin cups threaded through the fingers of his other hand, Tiny and Bobby-My-Boy were coming down the stairs, their eyelids raw and sticky and their slept-in clothes smelling of sweat, whiskey, and sex. Tiny drew Chinky behind him by her wrist, like a pull toy. She followed numbly, barefooted and shivering in her chemisette and pantaloons. Her face was ashen and her mouth puffy and bruised. They had used her often and roughly during the night.

  "Well, looky there!" Lieder said. "The blushing bride and her two tuckered-out bridegrooms. Now, ain't that a picture?"

  After refilling Lieder's cup, Matthew served the table where Chinky sat between Tiny and Bobby-My-Boy. She didn't lift her eyes when he set her cup before her, so he pushed it toward her and said, "Here you go, Miss Chinky. It'll do you good." She didn't respond. Dropping Jeff Calder's cup off on the counter, he served Frenchy, who drew a long, thirsty sip off the surface of the coffee, despite its heat. It was not until he turned to serve Mr. Delanny that he saw what a terrible state he was in. Because his arms were tied to the arms of his chair he had been unable to use his handkerchief throughout the night, and there were crusts of blood on his chin and down his usually snow-white frilled shirtfront. His fingers were fat and purple because, in his eagerness to show himself obedient and willing, Jeff Calder had cinched the rope up as tightly as he could. Matthew could feel how those blood-bloated fingers must have throbbed with pain before they became numb, and he empathetically splayed his own fingers wide apart as he said, "I could hold the cup for you, Mr. Delanny. Or maybe you'd like a glass of water?"

  "No, Mr. Pimp here won't be having any coffee this morning," Lieder said from his chair tipped back against the wall. "He's doing penance for having overindulged himself last night. Not with whiskey like my choir members did. Drunk as pigs, they were! A disgrace to the good name of Twenty-Mile! No, Mr. Delanny overindulged himself in sassy uppityness and snotty-nosed finer-than-thou-ness. But I'll grant him one thing. He sure can hold his piss. Lord-love-us, his bladder must be stretched tighter'n a virgin's hole! I am impressed. Mr. Delanny. Truly impressed."

  Matthew couldn't help glancing down. In fact, Mr. Delanny had not been able to hold his piss. When he looked up, Mr. Delanny's eyes caught his and held them in an intense glare that dared him to say a word.

  Matthew gave Mr. Delanny a little helpless shrug and went back into the kitchen. After he had distributed plates of bacon and biscuits, he returned to Mr. Delanny's chair and used a wet cloth from his tray to wipe away the scabs of blood on his mouth and chin. The muscles of Mr. Delanny's chin worked, and his mouth tightened to a thin line. He stared at Matthew, his eyes almost spitting hate at this witness to his helplessness and humiliation. He started to say something, but he coughed and began to raise blood, so Matthew held the rag to his lips, looking away so as not to embarrass him. His glance intersected Frenchy's. Her yellow eyes were brittle, and her jaw was set tight. Matthew wondered if she had seen the dark stain of piss. He hoped not.

  "Hey! Hey! What do you think you're doing there, boy?" Lieder asked.

  "I'm tending to Mr. Delanny," Matthew said quietly.

  "Did I say you could do that?"

  "No, sir, you didn't." He continued wiping away the water-softened scabs of blood.

  Lieder scowled at Matthew. Tiny nudged Bobby-My-Boy in anticipation. After a silence charged with menace, Lieder said, "Well… you just get on with it, boy. You have my permission to follow your Christian impulses. Caring about other people is one of the differences between natural-born Americans and these immigrants that don't give a frog's fart about nobody but themselves and their own spawn. But be careful, boy, less'n they take advantage of your kindness."

  Bobby-My-Boy and Tiny were disappointed… and jealous.

  Lieder turned to them and spoke with mock gruffness. "Now I hope you two treated your bride with the same Christian charity that this boy is showing toward our sassy-mouthed pimp."

  They blinked in confusion.

  "What I mean is, I hope you gave her plenty of opportunities to turn her other cheek."

  After a moment of baffled incomprehension, they both spluttered with biscuit-clogged laughter. Turn her other cheek!

  His eyes glittering with pleasure at the effect of his wit, Lieder dipped a biscuit into the bowl of corn syrup and turned it back and forth adroitly until the syrup had coated most of the surface before putting it whole into his mouth. Chewing and swallowing around his words, he explained for Matthew's benefit, "Now me? I seldom require the pleasures of the flesh. I save my strength for the crusade I have been chosen to lead. But I am a mere mortal, a son of man, and I admit that I sometimes feel a powerful urge for that spiritual relief that only a chunk of poontang can bring. But I would never, never permit myself to use that Chinee or that nigger gal." He washed down the biscuit with the last of his coffee and held out his cup for Matthew to refill. "I could never be a party to the mongrel mixing of the races. Did you ever see a dog mount a cat? Of course not! And why? 'Cause the mixing of races is both unnatural and unholy. Don't you agree, Mr. Delanny?"

  The gambler didn't respond.

  "No, boy," Lieder continued, "I would never let my good American seed fall upon alien ground, but pretty soon I'm going to have to let it fall somewhere. What I'm looking for is a beautiful young virgin to serve as a vessel for my seed. Upon her body I shall produce a manchild to complete my work on this earth, and she will be accounted blessed among women. But in the meantime… " He cocked a mischievous eye and grinned as Matthew felt a wave of relief that Ruth Lillian was safely out of town. "… while I'm waiting for my virgin vessel, I sure could use a piece of standard, all-purpose poontang. It's been a long, long time! And it ain't healthy for a man to go dry too long 'cause all that pent-up sap clogs his mind and messes up his thinking. I've been considering that Swede girl that brings the food from the boardinghouse. Now, she ain't no oil painting, that's for damn sure, but she's got nice thick hair to get your fingers into, and big udders to rest your weary head on. All in all, I believe she'd make pretty fair utility-grade poontang. Tell me, boy, have you ever stuck that Swede girl? What's she like?"

  Matthew shrugged his shoulders and muttered negatively as he busied himself with filling cups around.

  "Yes, I better look into that. Just a little something to hold me over until Fate delivers unto me the immaculate virgin destined to carry my seed. Hey, how about some more biscuits? Come on, everybody! Eat, drink, and make merry. Hey, wouldn't it be funny if that Chink's name was Mary? Eh? Eh?"

  "You already cracked that one," Tiny said.

  Lieder wheeled on him. "Don't tell me what I already cracked and what I ain't! Don't you ever do that again! You hear me?"

  Matthew was washing dishes in the kitchen when Frenchy slipped in without a word and took a drying rag to help. He began to speak to her, but she shook her head curtly, so he continued swishing the cold water with the wooden-handled wire basket filled with left-over slivers of soap. Frenchy reached through the meager froth he had raised and drew out the slim boning knife he had used to slice the bacon. She slipped it into the waistband of her camisole, then settled her yellow eyes on him with icy calm. He didn't say a word.

  From the barroom, they heard Lieder's voice. "Well, as I live and breathe! The schoolmaster's come to pay his respects!"

  Matthew followed Frenchy into the barroom, feeling a quickening excitement because B. J.'s arrival meant that he had spotted Coots coming around Shinbone Cut, and had come to occupy Lieder's attention while Coots worked his way down to the donkey meadow.

  Lieder was sitting with his chair tipped back against the wall, smiling brightly at B. J., who stood in the doorway, holding the bat-winged doors open. "Come on in, schoolmaster! Boy, fetch our guest a cup of coffee."

  "I don't want any coffee," B. J. said
curtly.

  "Well, if you haven't come to be neighborly, then to what do I owe the honor of your august presence? Or maybe I should put it this way-what the hell you want?"

  Tiny and Bobby-My-Boy grinned to their gums. Ain't he a card, though!

  "I've come to talk a little sense into you."

  "Have you, now? Well, so long as it's only a little sense, go ahead. Give her a try."

  "There's no way in the world you're going to get that silver."

  "And who's going to stop me? You? That Jew storekeeper? Everybody else in town seems happy to have me here. I bring color into their drab lives."

  "But sixty armed miners might slow you down some. And the train doesn't come down until Saturday. That's five days away."

  "I'm a patient man. And if I get bored, well, don't you worry. I'll find something to amuse myself."

  "But why just sit here for five days, when you know perfectly well that the law's on your trail and has probably found that prospector by now? You could get down the track to Destiny in half a day."

  "Half a day, eh? I see. So you're advising us to walk down the railroad track, right into the arms of a whole townful of men with guns." He rocked back on the legs of his chair and looked up at the ceiling, as though he were giving this option serious consideration. "Well now, I suppose we might do that. On the other hand, we might just stay right here having our meals served regular, drinking free whiskey from Mr. Delanny's hospitality, and ripping off a chunk of poontang whenever we feel the urge. Gee Whitakers, it's hard to choose between getting shot by a whole townful of angry men, and sitting around here loafing and having fun. Tell me, schoolmaster. Which would you choose, if you were in my place?"