Incident at Twenty-Mile

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Incident at Twenty-Mile Page 23

by Треваньян


  Something occurred to B. J. for the first time. "How do you see the silver that's coming on that train? The silver you mean to finance your 'struggle' with?"

  "How do I see it?"

  "Are you envisioning bars of silver? Bags of coins? Well, it's nothing like that. It's just ore. Ore that's been crushed and dressed for smelting down in Destiny. There's no treasure of silver for you on that train. There's only sixty miners with guns."

  The darkening of Lieder's face revealed his disappointment at learning that his treasure of precious metal was just… crushed rock! He glared at B. J. as his mind ransacked the possibilities. "All right! All right! But… but maybe the treasure I seek is the miners themselves! Eh? You didn't think about that, did you, schoolteacher? No! Maybe I'll talk to those miners. Make them see the Light and the Way. And they'll join me in driving the foreigners back to where they came from!"

  "And if you can't convince them?"

  "Well, then… then there'll be one hell of a battle! It'll be Armageddon with spurs on! Just picture it! On one side, there's me and my apostles, the defenders of everything that made these United States great. And on the other side, those miners of yours, men who make their livings raping this country of ours, ripping the gold and silver out of her womb to line the pockets of Wall Street bankers! If I win, I get a whole trainload of silver ore!"

  "And if you lose?"

  "Lose? Lose? Well then… just think of the stories they'll tell about me! And the songs they'll sing! They'll be slapping up three-color posters about my martyrdom from Maine to California! Generations yet unborn will glorify my struggle against a corrupt government!" His eyes narrowed, and he asked, "You're a book man, Mr. Stone. What do you know about a book called The Revelation of the Forbidden Truth?"

  "Never heard of it."

  "No? Well, The Revelation of the Forbidden Truth was written by a man who only dared call himself The Warrior, because The International Conspiracy was trying to assassinate him for turning the spotlight of truth onto their plans. He had to print his book privately because all the publishers are in on The Conspiracy. And clever? He even misspelled some words to throw his enemies off the track by making them think his book was nothing but ignorant trash. By the time I'd read half a dozen pages I knew-I could feel in the marrow of my bones-that this book had been destined to come into my hands. I read it till the words flowed in my blood and echoed in my brain. It wasn't always easy to understand what The Warrior was trying to tell me. There were mysteries. Some things didn't seem to make sense although I read them over and over. But then one night… one night I was lying on the floor of my prison cell, reading by the light that came in under the door, and suddenly… there was this… " His voice softened with awe. "… it was like a blaze of blue light in my brain! All at once I understood everything. Everything. I saw how The International Conspiracy was jealous because America has become the greatest Aryan nation on earth, and so they've all gotten together to destroy us, not by facing us on the battlefield! No! They're too cowardly for that! Instead, they're sending the scum of their gutters and ghettos to weaken our national spirit, to dilute our pure stock with their diseased blood! With every immigrant those countries send, they grow stronger and richer by ridding themselves of their vermin, while we grow weaker and poorer with every one we take! You see how it works? You see how it works?"

  B. J. closed his eyes and shook his head, as though in pity.

  "The Revelation of the Forbidden Truth tells how the majority of stupid, trusting Americans have never even heard of The International Conspiracy, because all the newspapers are being blackmailed and don't dare print the truth. Why, most Americans don't even know that the pope in Rome has given instructions to the Irish and the Jews and the Mexicans and all the rest of them, ordering them to breed hard and fast. Multiply! And do you wonder if they're out there multiplying? They're multiplying. Pretty soon they'll outnumber us, and they'll vote one of their own kind to become president of these United States! Think of that! White Protestant Americans will find themselves in the minority because we're being outfucked!"

  Bobby-My-Boy and Tiny exchanged appreciative nudges. They loved it when Lieder was in a preaching frenzy like this, the words just gushing from him like music.

  B. J. Stone controlled his impulse to walk away from this rancorous blend of hatred and ignorance, but it was his task to hold Lieder's attention while Coots got into town, so he continued to argue, "But everyone in America is an immigrant, even the Indians, if you go back far enough."

  "Oh, that old song! 'We're all immigrants! We're all immigrants!' That's what The Conspiracy wants us to believe, but it ain't true. Our forefathers were colonists, not immigrants! And there's a world of difference between a colonist and an immigrant. The Warrior explains how colonists came to clear the forests and seed the wide prairies. They mingled their blood and sweat with the rich earth to create the greatest nation on earth. But the immigrants? They come to reap what we have planted. To prey on hard-working men! To steal our jobs by working for nigger wages. To drive us out of business by conniving amongst themselves and underbidding us. They attach themselves like leeches to the breast of our country and suck all the goodness out of her. The Warrior gives the example of the Jews. You listen up, boy," he said, glancing sharply at Matthew, who was making himself small beside the kitchen door. "You listen up, because you got to know about these things if you're going to be my apostle. " He turned back to B. J. "Tell me something, schoolmaster. How many Jew farmers have you met? How many Jew miners? Or Jew fishermen? Or Jew lumberjacks? None, that's how many! And why? Because miners and farmers and fishermen and lumberjacks, they create the wealth of the nation. But the Jews are here to feed on that wealth! Now I have to admit that before reading The Revelation of the Forbidden Truth I had lived man and boy without ever noticing that simple fact."

  "Simple?" B. J. said. "Simple-minded, you mean. All this 'international conspiracy' is nonsense! It's a fiction created by the envious and the lazy to justify their failures. It would be laughable if it weren't so pitiably ignorant. And dangerous."

  "You better believe it's dangerous!" Lieder snarled, rising to stand face to face with B. J. "Dangerous to all enemies of my country!" He drew back his fist, and B. J. raised his elbow to protect himself.

  Lieder laughed. "Still all mouth and no balls, eh? But we know that, don't we? Otherwise, you would have shot me when you had the chance. " He winked at Matthew and sat down again, chuckling. "Actually, you couldn't have shot me, no matter how hard you'd tried. And you know why? Because I can't be killed. Not until I've accomplished my mission. The Warrior prophesied that a leader would rise and free the common people from the threat of the foreigners and the oppression of the government Washington D. C. And as I read those words I suddenly… knew that I was that leader! Suddenly I saw everything. I looked about me and I could see what was right and what was wrong, what was true and what was false. All was revealed to me. Everything was illuminated."

  "By that blue light in your head?"

  Lieder's mouth closed and his lips compressed. He stared at B. J. for a long moment before saying very slowly, very clearly, "You really shouldn't take that tone with me, schoolmaster, because there is nothing-nothing! — on God's green earth more dangerous than ridiculing me."

  B. J. unflinchingly held Lieder's eyes with his own, although his mouth was dry with fear.

  "Oh, I know what you're saying inside your head, schoolteacher! You're saying, this man is insane." He sniffed. "The Warrior warned us that the unenlightened and the cowardly would call us patriots insane. All right, maybe I am a little bit insane. I'm what they call an enthusiast! Do you know what that word really means, schoolteacher? Ever look it up in the dictionary? An enthusiast is somebody who has God inside him."

  "And you think God's inside you?"

  "Well, there's sure as hell something inside me, old man. Something gnawing at my guts!" His eyes flicked from B. J. to Matthew and back again. He smiled. "Maybe it's ju
st something spicy I ate." He winked at Matthew. "You think maybe that's it, boy?" He laughed. "Come on! Can't anyone take a joke?"

  B. J. turned away, and noticed for the first time how stiffly Mr. Delanny was sitting at his cards. He had been so intent on distracting Lieder's attention that he had no more than glanced at the other people in the room. "You all right, Mr. Delanny?" he asked. The gambler didn't speak. "Mr. Delanny?" Still the gambler didn't answer. "What's going on here?"

  "Now, now, schoolteacher," Lieder said, wagging his finger in warning, "you mustn't tempt our pimp to talk. I've ordered him to keep quiet, and if he disobeys me, I'll have to punish him. And it'll be all your fault. Remember those poor mules? That was your fault, too."

  B. J. crossed to Mr. Delanny, who turned his head aside to hide the blood-froth on his lips. He looked down at the rope that bound Delanny's arms to the chair so tightly that his fingers were plump and the skin taut and shiny. "His circulation's been cut off. He could get gangrene."

  "Gangrene, eh?" Lieder asked in a tone ripe with concern.

  "I'm going to untie him."

  "Whoa, there, schoolteacher, not so fast! Maybe Mr. Tone-of-Voice doesn't want to be set free, because he knows that if he stirs from that chair, I am going to hurt him bad. Now, you can free him if you're willing to take the consequences. But maybe you better ask Mr. Delanny. He isn't permitted to talk to you, but he can nod his head. Go on. Ask him."

  Tiny and Bobby-My-Boy glanced from Lieder to B. J. Stone to Mr. Delanny, mischievous anticipation in their eyes.

  B. J. lifted his eyebrows at Mr. Delanny. The gambler's eyes flickered, then he closed them and lowered his head.

  "There, you see?" Lieder said. "Mr. Delanny doesn't want to be free. Freedom imposes certain responsibilities and risks, as The Warrior tells us. Maybe those ropes pain Mr. Delanny and corrupt his flesh, but at least he's alive. Most men will suffer any amount of humiliation just to keep on breathing. Oh, not superior, book-reading men like you and me. We'd rather die than be degraded and humiliated. But pimps and other sorts of bottom-feeders, they cling to life for all they're worth… however little that might be. I can see in your eyes you don't believe me. You think Man is a noble creature, occasionally brought low by misfortune. But the fact is, Man is essentially evil, sniveling, whining, cringing, disgusting, and unworthy of the good Lord's mercy… nor mine either, for that matter." Lieder rose from his chair with sudden energy. "You know what? I think it's time the teacher was taught a lesson, for a change. I'm going to show you what a disgusting, cringing thing a man can be. You watch this too, boy. It's your first lesson as my apostle. Listen up, Delanny! I am giving you permission to speak. In fact, I am commanding you to answer the question I'm going to put to you. Watch carefully, schoolteacher. Tiny, take out your gun and put the barrel into Mr. Delanny's ear. Now cock it. Oh, now don't you worry about the noise, Mr. Delanny. You won't hear a thing. The bullet will get to your brain before the sound does. Now! We're going to play a little game. Here's how it goes. You have two choices, Mr. Delanny. If you want to… and only if you really and truly want to… you can ask Bobby-My-Boy to punch you in the face as hard as he can. Chances are he'll break that fine-boned nose of yours, but every game has its penalties and forfeits. Your other choice is this. You can manfully refuse to ask Bobby-My-Boy to punch you as hard as he can. If you do that, then Tiny will shoot you in one ear and out the other. It's your choice. But there's one thing I'd better make very, very clear. Don't make the mistake of thinking that I wouldn't go through with this. I've told the schoolteacher that I'm going to teach him a lesson, and you know I'm not going to accept the humiliation of backing down. All righty, everybody! Lesson time! I'm going to count to twenty inside my head, Mr. Delanny. And when I get to twenty. I'm going to nod, and Tiny will pull the trigger, and you will be instantly dispatched to the great whorehouse up yonder- but… but… you'll have the consolation of knowing that you've proved me wrong and proved that mankind is basically dignified and noble. On the other hand, if you can say 'Mr. Bobby-My-Boy, please hit me in the face as hard as you can.' And if you say those exact words-loud enough for me to hear them over here! — then Bobby-My-Boy will do what you ask, and I'll stop my count, and the lesson will be taught and learned. Is that all clear, Mr. Delanny? Say yes or no."

  Mr. Delanny's voice was hoarse from lack of use for he hadn't uttered a word since he was ordered not to. He made a thin, clogged sound.

  "Speak up! Do you understand or don't you?"

  "… Yes…"

  "Now just a minute-!" B. J. began.

  But Lieder cut him off. "I'm already counting. Don't waste his time, schoolteacher. He ain't got all that much left… four… five… six…"

  Mr. Delanny muttered something.

  "I can't hear you!" Lieder chanted in a school-yard singsong. "… eight… nine…"

  Over behind the bar, Jeff Calder stopped wiping the glasses and watched, his mouth agape, fascination and fear in perfect stasis.

  "Yes," Mr. Delanny said in a half-whimper.

  "Are you saying that you want Bobby-My-Boy to hit you?"

  "Yes!"

  "Hard?"

  "Yes!"

  "Well then, you better tell him. Say it in words. Say, 'Bobby-My-Boy…' "

  "… Bobby-My-Boy…"

  "Will you hit me in the face as hard as you can, please?"

  "… hit me in the face… as hard as you can…"

  "Please!"

  "… please… please!"

  "Come on now, don't make the man beg and grovel, Bobby. Give him what he's asking for."

  The blow would have knocked Mr. Delanny out of his chair if he hadn't been tied in. He slumped against his ropes swooning with the pain and shock of having half his upper teeth loosened and the cartilage of his nose crushed against his cheekbone. Blood gushed from the corner of his mouth and oozed from his nose and his ear.

  "For the love of God!" B. J. cried.

  Matthew felt himself rushing toward the Other Place… then he was gazing soft-eyed out through the bat-winged doors into the glaring brightness of the street… deep into, and beyond, the blurry glare.

  "That's enough!" B. J. said.

  "I'll say when enough's enough," Lieder told him. "You just tell me who was right, you or me? Do you see now what a low, cringing thing your ordinary human being is? Now you and me, we wouldn't have acted like that. We'd of spit in their eye and let them do their damnedest. But then, we're superior beings. We read books and have ideas-Hey! I just got one of those ideas. And it's a honey. Listen up, Mr. Delanny. Maybe tonight I'll treat the townsfolk to a little show for their entertainment and edification. And you will be the star of the show. I'm going to have Bobby-My-Boy and Tiny bugger you, taking turns, one doing the buggering while the other holds the gun to your ear, and you'll be sobbing and whimpering and begging them to bugger as hard as they want, but please, please, please don't shoot me! For the love of God, don't shoot me! I think that will make an enlightening demonstration of human frailty. What do you think, schoolmaster?" He grinned.

  "I think you're insane."

  "You reckon? Well, maybe it ain't my fault." His eyes twinkled. "Don't be hard on me, mister. I been made into a monster by a cruel childhood! Nobody ever loved me or praised me, and they made me sit at the table until I'd downed all my greens!" He grinned. "Anyway, schoolteacher, I don't give a big rat's ass what you think one way or the-Hey! Get away from him, girl!"

  But Frenchy had already slipped the boning knife between Delanny's ribs. He made a slight, almost apologetic grunt, and slumped against the restraining ropes. There wasn't much blood. Only a spreading stain on his ruffled shirtfront.

  "Take that knife away from her!"

  She dropped it at Bobby-My-Boy's feet and settled her eyes on Lieder's with insolent calm.

  "Look what you have done, girl!" he said, approaching her with menace. "You've killed a white man! I'd be in my rights to string you up!"

  "She didn't kill him," B. J. said. "She ju
st put him out of your reach."

  Lieder dismissed this with an irritated snap of his head. His pulse throbbing in his temples, he searched the depths of Frenchy's arrogant stare, his pupils flicking from one yellow eye to the other. Without looking toward it, he gestured at the corpse. "Tiny, you and Bobby take that thing out of here!"

  "Take it where?"

  "I don't care! Dump it over the cliff! Just get it out of here! Peggy!"

  Jeff Calder tried to swallow and speak at the same time. "Sir?"

  "Get a bucket and clean up this blood and… everything. This is no way for things to be!"

  Calder sprang into rheumatic, stump-legged action.

  Tiny and Bobby-My-Boy waddled out the front door with Mr. Delanny's slack body between them, Tiny backing out with the feet, and Bobby-My-Boy following with the bulk of the weight. They crossed the line of Matthew's vision without altering the soft intensity of his gaze out the barroom door into the glare of the street. He was aware that Frenchy had killed Mr. Delanny as one is aware of a fact of history. Nathan Hale had only one life to give for his country, and Frenchy killed Mr. Delanny. Frenchy… Mr. Delanny… Nathan Hale. He drew a sigh and settled deeper into the cosseting void.

  Lieder continued to search Frenchy's eyes with a blend of revulsion and admiration. "I said you were a different kettle of fish, and you certainly are! You are something special, girl. Slip a knife into a man just as cool as well water." His eyes chilled. "You better get out of my sight. And for as long as I'm in town, you'd better make yourself scarce, 'cause if I catch one glimpse of that ugly face of yours, I will kill you. And not in any fast way, neither."

  She didn't move.

  B. J. stepped forward. "Come with me, girl. Matthew, there are chores to be done up at the Livery…. Matthew!"

  Matthew blinked and returned, smoothly and simply. "Sir?"

  "You have chores to do!" B. J. said with false severity.

  "Wait a minute," Lieder said. "Maybe he ain't finished his work here."

  B. J. detected a tone of rivalry for Matthew's allegiance. He avoided a confrontation by asking Matthew, "Are you done here?"

 

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