by Треваньян
They heard the back door of the store bang open, snatched from Ruth Lillian's grasp by the wind. "Pa?"
As his daughter rushed up the stairs, Mr. Kane stood to take her in his arms, but the table was in the way, so the embrace was clumsy, as were most gestures of affection for this essentially verbal and rational man. The awkwardness was increased by the voluminous, dripping-wet parka she had borrowed from Coots.
"I've been… so worried…" Mr. Kane said brokenly. "I imagined… all sorts of… terrible…"
"I'm all right, Pa," she assured him as she took off the parka and put it over in the corner. "I'm just fine."
"She is nor just fine. She's splendid!" B. J. said, coming up the stairs, having had a struggle trying to close the door against the wind. He had decided to come with her because he couldn't abide waiting around for Coots to go out to face… Christ only knew what dangers. "She saved Coots's hide by alerting him. But it's a good thing he made her turn back. This rain would have turned that trail into a death trap."
"Yes, I suppose so. But still… " Mr. Kane returned to his place at the table, while Matthew found a plate for B. J. and served up his stew. Ruth Lillian ate with appetite, B. J. with caution, and Mr. Kane not at all.
"Does this substance have a name?" B. J. asked, gingerly prodding a lump with the tip of his spoon.
"Yes, sir," Matthew said, reading B. J.'s intention to distract Mr. Kane from his worries, "I call it Twenty-Mile Stew.' "
"Hm-m. Well, perhaps twenty miles is a sufficient distance. Provided you're upwind of it."
"I think it's delicious," Ruth Lillian averred loyally, offering her plate to be refilled by Matthew.
"Well, de gustibus non disputandum est, or so those who lack taste are constantly telling us." He turned to Matthew. "Kersti Bjorkvist came up to the Livery just as I was leaving. She said she'd been at your place."
"Did she tell you about… anything else?"
"Just that her mother threw her out. I wonder why?"
"Oh… some sort of fight." Matthew knew that Mr. Kane mustn't find out what had happened to Kersti over at the hotel.
"She and Frenchy are keeping the lamps lit and the fire going in the Livery office, in case those men look across."
"When is Coots-"
"Any time now!" B. J. snapped. Then he tightened rein on his nerves. "He'll go pretty soon, I guess. He said he'd wait until the storm breaks over the town. He figured it would cover any noise he might make."
"He's very brave, your friend," Mr. Kane said.
"Yes. " B. J. said simply.
"There's no alternative, I suppose? No way other than…?"
"Not with those men. Matthew told you about what they did to Mr. Delanny?"
Mr. Kane nodded and glanced apprehensively at his daughter, who looked down at her plate. Frenchy had told her what she'd done. And why.
"No," B. J. said. "With men like that, there's no other way."
"I suppose you're right, but…"
"But what?"
"It's all so complicated. I know that man is vicious and dangerous, but on the other hand, Matthew told me how he let Frenchy go. Just let her walk away, after she had deprived him of his prey. Why would he do that?"
"I don't know," B. J. said. "Maybe like dogs can smell fear on people, some men can sense panic on their victims, and it sends them into a frenzy of violence. But if you're not afraid-if they can't see it in your eyes-then they won't attack, because all bullies are cowards down deep. I remember an Indian tale about a young buck off alone on a purification fast. He emerged up from his meditation to find himself surrounded by hungry wolves, but he survived by locking his concentration on a mental image of his beloved mother, and he was able to walk slowly through the wolves, who couldn't smell fear on him. Maybe the fact that Frenchy stood up to Lieder… looked him straight in the eye and defied him… " B. J. shrugged. "While poor Chinky is shy and submissive… the perfect victim. Her terror excites her tormentors."
"Maybe you're right," Mr. Kane said. "But what about Matthew here? That leader seems to have taken a shine to him. Why?"
"No idea," B. J. admitted. Then to Matthew: "What happened when he came over to your place? Did you stand up to him? Refuse to back down?"
"Not as I remember. We just talked about… oh, yes! He made some remark about Mr. Anthony Bradford Chumms-the man who writes the Ringo Kid books? — and I told him that I wouldn't stand for any bad-mouthing of Mr. Chumms. I guess that was standing up to him… sort of."
"And maybe he sees something of himself in you," Mr. Kane suggested. "There's more vanity in our affections than we like to admit."
"I don't see that we're anything alike," Matthew replied testily. "He said that his pa used to beat him. And kids probably razzed and ragged him at school."
"Like you?" B. J. asked, glancing quickly at Ruth Lillian, with whom he had spent an hour that afternoon discussing Matthew.
"Like me? My pa never beat me. And you can bet that no kids ever razzed me at school. I wouldn't of stood for it!" He felt Ruth Lillian's eyes on him, and he recalled telling her about how the Benson boys had ridiculed him because his pa was a drunk and beat his ma. He kept his gaze averted, not wanting her eyes to touch his. He felt betrayed by her. He couldn't see anything he and Lieder had in common! He didn't know why Lieder had said they were both "damaged boys"! It didn't seem to him that they- Blinding light leapt from the windows. A deafening peal of thunder shook the walls of the Mercantile. Two flash-cracks in close succession left the acrid, nose-tingling smell of ozone in the room, while the imprinted shapes of the windows lingered on their eyes, but with lights and darks reversed.
At the flash, a gasp escaped Mr. Kane, who now sat rigid in his chair, drawing short quick breaths through his open mouth, not daring to exhale completely for fear of chest pains. Ruth Lillian reached over and grasped his hand, but his breathing was already beginning to slow, and soon he was able to smile weakly and say, "God enjoys His little jokes, scaring people like that. What next, I wonder? A little buzzer that gives you a shock when you reach out for His helping hand?" Everyone laughed a little, but Mr. Kane's face" was still ashen and beads of cold sweat stood on his forehead.
"There's no reason for you to sit up any longer, Mr. Kane," B. J. said. "God can scare you just as well in your bed."
"That's true," Mr. Kane said with a half chuckle. "Even better. He'll be able to mix his little jokes into our nightmares."
Everyone laughed a little again. Mr. Kane squeezed his daughter's hand to say he was all right now, then he rose and went to his room.
THE STORM WAS AT its height, and Coots estimated that the party over at the hotel was probably thoroughly lubricated by now. The time had come. He slipped a sixth cartridge into his revolver. Like most experienced gunmen, he always left the chamber under the hammer empty when he was doing physical work because, as he had once explained to Matthew, if the hammer should snag on something, a man could shoot off a toe… or something worse. He put a handful of cartridges into his jacket pocket as a matter of habit, but he knew that if he didn't do the job with the first six shots, he'd be unlikely to get a chance to reload. Frenchy stood at the bottom of the loft steps, watching these simple preparations. "You be careful, y'hear?"
He nodded.
"You're pretty old for this business."
"God knows that's true."
"Why you doing it then?"
"Beats my two pair." He pulled his hat down tight and went out into the storm.
THE THREE OF THEM sat around the lamp in tense silence, anticipating the next volley of thunder and lightning.
"It's getting late," B. J. said for something to say.
"What time you figure it is?" Ruth Lillian asked.
"Near midnight. I don't know exactly. My watch broke three-four years ago but, considering how slow things are in Twenty-Mile, I didn't bother to-"
"Ruth Lillian?" Matthew interrupted. "I think you better start getting your truck together, in case you have to leave to
wn."
"What are you talking about?"
"I've thought it all out. You can follow the railroad track down to Destiny. It'll be tricky, what with the rain and slippery rails and all, but you've got to go, storm or no storm."
"I can't leave Pa! Not sick like he is, and weak."
"You gotta go, Ruth Lillian. There's things you don't understand. Mr. Lieder, he…" Matthew swallowed. "He wants a virgin girl. To carry his seed. He wants a son to continue the battle after he's gone."
"Continue what battle?" B. J. asked.
"Some kind of battle against foreigners and Washington D. C. and-I don't know-something about Jews not being lumberjacks, and other stuff he got out of that book of his. The point is, Ruth Lillian, he's meaning to have a virgin girl."
"But he doesn't even know I'm in town."
"He does now."
"How'd he find out?" B. J. snapped.
"Kersti told him… but it wasn't her fault! It just slipped out. She was being slapped around and treated rough. I mean real rough. And he'll be looking for you next, Ruth Lillian. I just know it. Probably not tonight what with the storm and all, but tomorrow for sure. That's why you got to get out of here. You understand?"
She was silent for a beat. "Yes. Yes. I understand. But Mr. Coots means to get him tonight."
"Yeah but… what if something happens?" Matthew said. "What if Coots don't get him? You got to be ready to go!"
"What do you mean, if Coots doesn't get him?" B. J. asked with offense. "Coots will get him! And if something happens that he can't… Well then, we'll just have to protect Ruth Lillian. You and me."
"How?"
"I don't know, Matthew! We'll find some-What about that gun of your father's?"
"That ain't no good! I can't use it! I tried to load it just a while ago, but I couldn't! I couldn't even touch the… shells! My hands wouldn't…!" Matthew's eyes began to flicker back and forth.
"Whoa there, son! Take it easy."
"But I can't even… touch… can't even… can't even…"
"Matthew? Matthew!"
His breathing calmed; his eyes softened; he released a long sigh and gazed past them toward the rain-streaked window on which the lamps of the hotel made smudgy glows. The storm slackened for a second, and the sound of men singing along with the player piano emerged through the moan of the wind.
"… Matthew?" B. J. said again.
Ruth Lillian laid her hand on his sleeve. "Matthew?"
Matthew blinked and swallowed, then he settled his eyes on her. "What is it? What's wrong?"
She forced a little laugh. "You just went off."
He frowned, perplexed. "Went off?"
"That 'someplace else' you told me about? I think you just went there."
He looked from her to B. J. Stone and back in confusion. "What are you trying to…? I don't understand what you're…"
"Matthew?" B. J. said.
"Sir?"
"I'm concerned about how you're going to bear up, if things get tough."
"What do you mean?"
"Well… when a person has gone through bad things, sometimes it's hard for him to… to keep himself together under pressure."
Matthew looked from B. J. to Ruth Lillian with a blend of confusion and wariness. What was this all about?
"This afternoon while we were over at the Livery," B. J. pursued, "Ruth Lillian and I passed the time talking about things."
"What sort of things?"
"You mostly."
"Me?"
"Well, it's something we have in common. We both like you. And we're both worried about you, and we wonder… if…"
"Worried about me?"
Ruth Lillian took up the task of explaining. "Mr. Stone told me about what happened in Nebraska. He showed me a newspaper. And he thought-we both thought-that maybe, you know, sometimes people need to talk about things to get them off their minds. And because we're friends, you and me, and we've talked about everything under the sun-about Cracker-Jacks and infinity and everything- I thought maybe…"
"You thought maybe what?"
"Well, it must have been awful when you were a kid. With your pa always beating on your ma and all."
"But it wasn't his fault!"
"Whose fault was it?" B. J. asked, sitting back in his chair so as to take himself out of the lamplight.
"It wasn't nobody's fault. It was just bad luck. Pa was always full of ideas and. plans, but he never had any luck. People saw him like he was at the end, staggering around, drunk and sick. They never thought about what he might have been, if he'd only had a little luck. One night when Ma was sick, I sat up to change her mustard plasters, so I was still awake when Pa came home crying-drunk… which was a heck of a lot better than mean-drunk. We sat by the fire, him and me, and he started talking about how it was when he was young. I guess he wanted someone to understand why he was like he was. Like you said, sometimes people need to talk about things to get them off their-"
A flash-crack of thunder was followed by a strange splitting sound from lower down on the mountain, as though the lightning had blown something off its flank. For a moment, the drilling din of rain on the roof abated as the storm seemed to inhale. Then it came back with redoubled force, the wind sucking at the windows, rattling them in their loose frames as it alternately moaned and shrieked.
COOTS'S NECK MUSCLES FLINCHED when the flash-crack of thunder was followed by the splitting, sound from lower on the mountain. He pressed against the back wall of the Traveller's Welcome, avoiding the gush of rainwater that fell from a broken downspout, but was snatched by the wind into spume before it reached the ground.
Teeth bared in a wincing grimace, he eased open the kitchen window just as-bad luck-the covering sound of the rain and wind abated, as though the storm had inhaled, and for a moment he could hear the thumping rhythm of the player piano from the barroom beyond. As he waited for the storm to regain its fury, Coots took off his boots and left them there beside the wall. Then, with the feline sinuosity of the Cherokee, he slowly hoisted himself up and disappeared into the pitch-black kitchen, carefully pressing the window closed behind him.
"PA JUST SAT THERE staring at the fire, tears running down his cheeks. He told me how he'd meant to bring me back a book, but somebody had cheated him out of his money. It was Pa that brought back my very first Ringo Kid book after he'd been away on a long binge. He started talking about how someday he was going to strike it rich and everybody would respect him. But he never had any luck, not a single drop! Chasing after luck was why Pa came to America in the first place. He met a what they call a 'labor-broker' back in the old country, a man who would pay Pa's way to America and find him a job in return for so much a month until the debt was paid off. Well, Pa was only seventeen years old, but things were sort of hot for him in his village because of some girl, so he jumped at the chance. When he got to America, they took him right from the dock and put him on a train-forty men to a boxcar-and the train brought him to the job the labor-broker had found for him. A slate quarry up in Vermont. It was hard work, and dangerous… the kind of work native-born Americans wouldn't touch. After he'd slaved for a whole winter, getting only a few dollars a month over and above his room and board, he found out that he had only worked off seventeen dollars of what he owed the labor-broker. All the rest had gone for interest and 'special charges.' At that rate he would have to work at the quarry for six years before he was free to look for another job. Well, Pa wasn't going to put up with that. He ran off, and for the next few years he drifted west, roaming from place to place, but never finding that one little nugget of luck he was looking for. People would lie to him and cheat him and underpay him, so he'd steal from them, just to get even. Every business deal he ever figured out turned sour through no fault of his own. Just no luck!"
Matthew went on to tell how his father met a girl at a charity social in Tarkio, Missouri; a plain, religious girl. She was not at all the "easy" sort he usually chased after, but someone told him the girl's f
ather was old, and she would inherit the farm. Young Dubchek immediately envisioned himself as a farmer. He would plant corn-or whatever-and bugs-or something-would come along and wipe out everybody's crop but his, and they'd all go bust while he made a bundle, so he'd buy up their farms for a song, and become a big landowner. He'd hire others to plant and harvest for him, then he'd expand, go into the grain and feed business, not just your paltry little feed store in some whistle-stop tank town, but big-time. He'd corner the market! That's the way to do it! Work out the percentages, then corner the market! All you need is that first little bit of luck.
He joined the Bible circle of this girl's church, and the very first day he asked her if she'd have the kindness to help him with passages he couldn't quite make out, what with his English not being so good.
The farmer didn't like the look of this Dubchek-to say nothing of his slick ways and his funny-sounding name. He ordered him to stop hanging around his daughter. During their last meeting out in the barn, Dubchek pleaded for a parting proof of her love, and the weeping daughter was unable to refuse him. After that, he hung around doing odd jobs until, a couple of months later, the farmer came to town in his trap with a horsewhip, and ordered him to marry his daughter, or else!
When the farmer died a year later, Dubchek discovered that his wife's inheritance consisted of a web of mortgages and re-mortgages. Once again, he felt cheated, this time by a woman who had dangled a useless, debt-riddled farm in front of him to lure him into marriage. The child was born; the farm was repossessed; and the three of them pushed on west, drifting from job to job, each ending with Matthew's pa being accused of loafing or stealing or drinking or sassing back. Between jobs, there were wild schemes for getting rich quick. One time, Dubchek had a chance to get in on the ground floor with a red fox farm. Red fox furs that were all the rage among rich woman back East, who would pay a hundred dollars to hang one pelt around their necks, its tail in its mouth. A hundred dollars! You multiply that by a thousand, and you've got a hundred thousand dollars. And that's just for starters!