by Треваньян
"Yes sir. Maybe first I'd better go up and see if there's anything Ruth Lillian wants me to tell her pa."
"If you want."
When Matthew lifted the trapdoor to the loft, he found Ruth Lillian and Frenchy staring down at him, each holding her side of a back issue of Harper's Illustrated. They had been paging through it to pass the time, carefully peeling apart pages that had been stuck together by the damp, when the sound of Matthew climbing the steep loft ladder made them catch their breaths and freeze.
"I'm just… going down to the Mercantile," he said half-apologetically. He felt he ought to have something to tell Ruth Lillian to justify startling them, but the only thing he could think of was, "Is there anything you want me to tell your pa?"
"Just tell him I'll be back after nightfall. And not to worry. Coots is going to take care of everything."
"All right." He felt stupid, standing there on the ladder, with half of his body sticking up into the loft, and them sitting side by side on the iron cot that occupied most of the space, looking down at him. "Anything else you want me to tell him?"
"Just that I'm fine."
"All right." He started to descend. Then he pushed the trapdoor back up. "Looks like we're in for one of your rip-snorters."
"Yes."
Matthew nodded. "Well, then… I guess I'll be getting."
"All right."
He started to descend, then: "You okay, Frenchy?"
"Yeah, I'm all right."
"Anything I can do for you?"
"No, I don't think-Well, you could tell them downstairs that I could use something to eat… and some shoes."
"Shoes?"
"Yeah. Any kind of shoes. I don't care."
"Oh. Well then… I'll tell them about the shoes and… well, I guess I better be going."
"All right," both women said at once, and before he had closed the loft trapdoor over his head, they were paging through the magazine again, their hair touching.
He stood for a moment at the bottom of the ladder, feeling swamped by reality vertigo. It seemed so strange, those two sitting together up in that close space smelling of dust and old things. Small white girl, tall black woman. Virgin and whore, smooth cheek next to scarred cheek, both looking at pictures of smiling, urbane young men and women parading their fashionable clothes in last year's Easter Parade down New York's Fifth Avenue. Just a short time ago, one had been prepared to risk her life in a storm; and less than an hour ago, the other had slipped a knife between a man's ribs.
MATTHEW FOUND MR. KANE sitting at his table, where he had been the night before, and he had the odd feeling that he hadn't moved since then. But that couldn't be, because he had seen Mrs. Bjorkvist leaving as he arrived, and she was carrying some purchase.
"Ruth Lillian must be almost up to the Lode by now," Mr. Kane said before the spring bell over the door had stopped jangling. "I hope she doesn't get caught in the rain."
"Well, no, sir. You see, she-"
"What's wrong? What happened?"
"Now don't worry, sir! She's fine. Fine. She met up with Coots and warned him, but there's a terrible storm on its way in, and Coots thought it would be too dangerous for her to try to make it up the trail. So he brought her back with him-But don't worry. She's hidden away up in B. J. 's loft. She said you're not to worry one bit, and she'll be here as soon as it gets dark. B. J., he said her going up there to warn Coots was just about the bravest thing he'd seen in all his born days, and that she was safe and… everything. So you're not to worry."
"Do you know how many times you've said 'Don't worry'? When you're told that often not to worry… there's reason to worry." Mr. Kane lowered his eyes to his ledger book and blinked. "So… she's back. Back, with those men in town." He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head slowly.
Matthew noticed that Mr. Kane hadn't shaved. He always shaved, even when his heart was playing him up. "What did Mrs. Bjorkvist want? She hardly ever buys anything."
"… Hm-m? What?" It was almost as though Mr. Kane had dropped off for a second. "Oh… bicarbonate of soda and headache powders. Her men drank too much last night, and they have to go again tonight."
"Oh. Well, I guess I better close up for dinner, huh?"
"What? Oh… yes, I suppose so. But I… I haven't… " He didn't finish. He closed his account book and lightly rubbed his palm over the cover, frowning as though he were puzzled by something. Then he looked up at Matthew, blinking. "… ah… I haven't made anything for dinner."
"I'll do it, sir!" Matthew locked the front door and turned the Open at One sign so it could be seen from outside. "I'll just open us a can of tomatoes and fry up some… whatever there is. Don't worry, we'll make do." Mr. Kane dully followed him upstairs to the living quarters, where Matthew started putting a scratch meal together, like he used to when he got home from school and found his mother too beaten up to cook… or just too down in the dumps to care. As he bustled around the kitchen, he ransacked his imagination for something to talk about so he could avoid mentioning Mr. Delanny's death. And he certainly wasn't going to tell Mr. Kane that Lieder was looking for a virgin beauty to carry his seed! "Boy-o-boy, the weather sure feels eerie."
"What do you mean, eerie?"
"Well, it's sort of like holding its breath. There's no breeze at all. One minute the air feels warm, and the next it's sort of clammy. And you can taste it… the air, I mean. I guess one of your rip-snorters is coming in. Ruth Lillian told me about the time the Pair o' Dice Social Club got hit by lightning, and how you wrapped her in a blanket and brought her out on the porch to watch it burn down, and how the rain was pelting down so hard that you couldn't hear the flames roaring and crackling. Boy, that must of been one heck of a-"
"What is it, Matthew?" Mr. Kane said irritably.
"Sir?"
"Why are you babbling on like this? You're trying to avoid telling me-Something's wrong with Ruth Lillian! I know it!"
"No, sir! No, she's fine. She's sitting up there, reading a magazine, just as pert as can be. No, it's just…" He spooned their dinner from the frying pan into two plates.
"It's just what?"
Matthew carried to the table the "stew" he had made from canned beans mixed with canned tomatoes into which he had chopped an onion, to give it "crunch."
"There you go, sir! It's not much but, like my pa used to say, it's better'n a poke in the eye with a sharp stick!"
"Tell me what's happening!"
"All right, sir, I'll tell you. B. J. and Coots wanted me to explain our plan to you, so you'd know how we're going to protect Ruth Lillian. What we're going to do is this. When it gets good'n dark, and the storm's ripping and snorting, Coots is going to sneak across to the hotel and slip into the kitchen. And while they're all singing and drinking, he's going to keep back in the shadows and take careful aim and drop that boss. Then he'll have to do the best he can with the other two, what with all the confusion and scrambling around. B. J. wanted to back him up, but we decided he wasn't cut out for gunplay. And anyways, they don't have but one gun. There was some talk about using my pa's gun, but I don't believe a big old double-load shotgun like that is the right thing for close-in work. Especially in the dark. What I've got to do is figure out how to tote that old cannon across the street in broad daylight without them starting to blaze away at me. I haven't thought up a way yet, but I'm working on it."
Mr. Kane took up his spoon and dully pushed the beans and tomatoes around in his plate, then he put his spoon down. "I suppose there's no other way? No other way than killing?"
"No, sir, there ain't. With rattlesnakes, you got to keep them out of your bedroll, and that's all there is to it."
Mr. Kane blinked. "What?"
"After all, it ain't us that started the killing." Having made this slip, Matthew decided he'd better tell Mr. Kane about Delanny. "There's something you ought to know, sir. Mr. Delanny is dead."
"They killed Mr. Delanny?"
"Well… yes… well… " and he told what had happened
in the Traveller's Welcome, omitting the nastier details of Lieder's taunting and baiting, and winding up with: "… and B. J. said it wasn't really Frenchy that killed him, she had just put him out of Lieder's reach, so's he couldn't torment him anymore and… well, that's pretty much what happened."
Mr. Kane shut his eyes. "Oh, God." He scrubbed his face hard with his palms. "So, what did they do to Frenchy?"
"Mr. Lieder said that if he ever saw her ugly face again, he'd kill her, so we got her out of there, B. J. and me, and now she's hiding out. I wish you'd try to eat something, sir. I know my cooking ain't much compared to yours, but…"
"THIS IS THE BEST cup of tea I've had in all my born days, ma'am," Lieder said, carefully setting Mrs. Bjorkvist's cup back on its blue-and-white saucer, the only two pieces of family china that survived the trip from Sweden to provide testimony to her respectability. The fragile wicker armchair was too tight at his hips, but he was perfectly at ease as he smiled and told her that it wasn't every day that a traveling man like himself was greeted with such hospitality, and he appreciated it.
Mrs. Bjorkvist was sitting nervously on the edge of her chair; Kersti stood by the window twisting the hem of the curtain insensibly; and the Bjorkvist men hovered in the archway with a blend of sulky menace and cowed diffidence. Lieder sipped his tea.
Unable to stand the tension any longer, Mrs. Bjorkvist asked if he was satisfied with the food she'd sent over to the hotel for their dinner. It was just fine. She knew it wasn't fancy, just everyday cooking, but-he preferred everyday cooking. Well, that's good. But if there hadn't been enough to satisfy everybody, she could make more come sup-No, it was just fine! If there was one thing she liked to see, it was men tucking in hearty, and no one could say she was stingy or-"Mrs. Bjorkvist? I think I'd better explain why I've come calling. First, I wanted to invite your husband and son to participate in fellowship over to the hotel again tonight."
"Vell, I don't tink dey feel-"
"And second, I wanted to tell you how bad I feel about the way my followers punished them yesterday. Oh, it's true that your menfolk were disobedient and disrespectful, but having their faces banged together like that… well, I wanted to apologize and tell you that I'll do everything in my power to see it doesn't happen again."
"Vell, dat's-"
"But I got to be honest with you, ma'am. Those boys of mine aren't what you'd call civilized. They tend to hold grudges something fierce. Of course, I'll do what I can to keep them from coming over here and busting things up, but-"
"Busting tings-!"
"Into smithereens, ma'am. Smithe-r-reens. Lord love us, I remember when they took a grudge against this one family? You'd think they'd be satisfied with smashing up the menfolk and making a bonfire with the furniture. But no! No, those animals had to grab the womenfolk and drag them out into the barn, where they… well, I won't describe how they used those poor women every-which-a-way a woman can be used, but…" He sucked his teeth and shook his head.
"But… but… why us? We ain't done notting."
"It doesn't seem fair, does it? But then, life is seldom fair, and justice is rarer than virtue in a brothel, as Paul told the Iowans in 7, 13. Well, ma'am…" He stood up. "I better be getting back. The good Lord only knows what those savages are up to at this very minute." He started toward the door; both the Bjorkvist men backed up clumsily to make room for him, treading on one another's toes. At the archway he stopped and touched his fingertips to his forehead. "What's wrong with me? I am getting so forgetful!" He turned to her and smiled. "I declare, I'd forget my own head, if it wasn't screwed on tight. There was something else I wanted to ask you, Mrs. Bjorkvist. My men, they've been relieving their needs with the help of that Chinee girl over at the hotel. You know the one? Now me, I can't do that, because I don't think it's right for a white man to give his sap to women of the lower races. Don't you agree, Mrs. Bjorkvist?"
She pursed her lips and puffed. "Dose girls over dere! But, no, it ain't right for white men to-"
"But I'm a man. Mrs. Bjorkvist. A frail thing of flesh, bone, and gristle. And I too have needs that must be relieved. So here's what I've been thinking, ma'am. I've been thinking that-with your permission-I might give my sap to young Kersti here, because she's a strong, healthy, well-brought-up girl, and a credit to her family. But of course I'd only take her if she was willing, and if her family agreed, 'cause I am not a man to force himself on a girl, and I know you wouldn't let your daughter have anything to do with the sort of man who would. I'm pretty sure those animals of mine wouldn't dare come over here and hurt your men and bust things up, if they knew that Kersti and me were upstairs in the hotel comforting one another. Now, I want you folks to talk things over and do whatever you think is right. Just follow your consciences. A body never goes wrong following the dictates of his conscience, that's my view of it." He put on his hat, tugged the brim to Mrs. Bjorkvist, and turned again to go. At the front door he stopped and said over his shoulder, "I'll be wanting her in about an hour."
MATTHEW LAY ON HIS bed with his fingers laced behind his head, listening to the wind that had begun to moan in his stovepipe. While walking back from the Mercantile, he had seen the first dark-bellied cloud come pressing over the mountain, its leading edge churning wrathfully.
… How could he get close to those men carrying that gun, without them…?
He took the shotgun down from above the door and held it. But his grip went limp with disgust, so he hung it back up and sat on the edge of his bed for a time, staring defocused at the floor. In time, he shook himself and reached far under his bed to pull out the canvas sack and spill its contents over his bed… his treasures. Twelve oversized handmade shells, the six-pointed star Ruth Lillian had given him, the small blue glass bottle somebody had buried (why?), the marble with an American flag suspended in the middle (how?), the rock crusted with glittering flakes that his pa had scoffed at and called fool's gold (but who knows?… maybe not).
… How to get that shotgun over to…?
He took one of the Ringo Kid books from the neat row on his table and hefted it in his hand, as though it might inspire him osmotically, then he put it back and pressed his thumb along the spines of the books, lining them up exactly.
Twice he went to the window and looked across to the Traveller's Welcome. Then he threw himself across his bed and examined the ceiling, his eyes narrowed, searching for inspiration.
The rising wind fluted in the stovepipe and wuthered at the corners of the marshal's office, pleading for entrance.
… How would the Ringo Kid…?
TINY WAS BORED. HE leaned against the sill of the hotel's front window, watching the wind scurry dust swirls down me street. Bored… bored… bored. Lieder had taken that Swede girl upstairs more than an hour ago, and Bobby-My-Boy was sitting in the corner with Chinky, making her play with his pecker. Bored! He aimed the hunting rifle he had taken from Sven Bjorkvist at the heart of a dust swirl and squinted down the sights, tracking it until it got momentarily caught in the corner of a building, then he tightened his finger on the trigger and made a keesh sound in his cheek. A movement to the left of his sights caught his attention, and he lifted his cheek from the stock.
"Well, I'll be damned!"
It was that kid, the one the boss had taken a shine to. He was coming across the street carrying one huge sonofabitch of a gun! He had it over his shoulder with the barrel in his fist and the butt sticking up in the air, like it was a club.
Tiny cocked his rifle and moved to the bat-winged bar doors, over which he shouted, "You can stop right there, kid!"
Bobby-My-Boy left his table, his flies unbuttoned, and came over to the door. He pulled the pistol from his belt. "You can stop right there, kid!"
Tiny gave him a weary glance.
Matthew smiled and waved and said something that the wind snatched away as he continued to walk toward them.
"I said you better stop right there!" Tiny shouted.
Bobby-My-Boy cocked his pistol
.
Lieder called down from above, asking what the hell was going on? Tiny shouted up that the kid was coming across the street lugging a gun! And he wouldn't stop when he was told to!
Lieder pulled Kersti up from her knees by her hair and pushed her aside. He was just about fed up with her whimpering and whining, anyway. Pressing against the wall, he peeked around the edge of the window, down to the street where Matthew was standing with his weight on one leg and his pa's shotgun over his shoulder. The wind billowed out his jacket and snapped the collar against his neck. Matthew shaded his eyes, looked up at Lieder, and shouted something into the wind. Then he shrugged in broad pantomime and grinned foolishly. Lieder laughed and called down the stairs for them to let the kid come on ahead.
"But what about his gun?" Tiny wanted to know.
"I guess you boys are going to have to figure this one out for yourselves." He chuckled, and returned to Kersti.
Tiny waved for Matthew to come into the hotel, but he shouted into the wind that he'd better keep his finger away from the trigger of that gun!
Matthew cupped his hand behind his ear and shrugged. "Can't hear!" he shouted. "Are you saying it's okay for me…?" He pointed to himself, "… to come there?" He pointed to the hotel.
"Come on ahead!" Tiny shouted. "But don't try nothin'!"
"Don't try nothing!" Bobby-My-Boy said.
Tiny gave Bobby-My-Boy a withering look.
Matthew approached the hotel doors, smiling easily, one fist gripping the barrel of the shotgun, the other hand splayed wide open in front of him to show there was nothing in it. As soon as he crossed the threshold, Tiny snatched his shotgun away.
"What do you think of her?" Matthew asked. "She's handmade. Only one like it in the world. To make ammunition for it, my pa had to use the powder and shot from two ordinary double-ought shells. And do you wonder if it can kick? It can kick." He hadn't expected Lieder to be upstairs, away from the other two. That was a disappointment.
Bobby-My-Boy took the gun from Tiny and hefted it. "Heavy."
Tiny snatched it back. "Is this thing loaded?"