“Austin . . .”
“Well, actually it was that night, after you and Davy went to sleep. He said him and the Indian had rifles and cartridges to hunt food with and since we didn’t . . . have any rifles and cartridges, that is . . . he give me the potato and . . .”
“Austin . . .”
“Well, he would’ve . . . if he’d thought about it. Here. Eat.” Austin had finished peeling and had cut the potato into three slices. He gave a slice each to Peg and Davy and took a bite out of the third slice. “It’s good. Eat.”
Peg and Davy took tentative bites from their share of the potato. The potato was cold and crisp and didn’t taste bad at all.
“You know,” Austin added as he chewed, “when it comes right down to it you can eat the peels, too . . . sometimes Pa used to do that . . . eat the peels and all. You bet.”
Peg took another bite from her slice of the potato and said nothing further on the subject.
* * *
Shad Parker’s rifle leaned against a rock. Shad swung the pickax sure and deep into the hard brown earth near a large, sharp-cornered stone. He pulled the blade loose from the clinging ground, raised up the pickax in a smooth, powerful motion over the arches of his shoulders, and sliced down again near the half-buried rock.
From the field he intended to cultivate, he had, for days and weeks, and for almost two hours this day, unearthed a great many rocks, varying in size from cantaloupes to boulders. He swung the pickax again and again. Then took up the shovel stuck in the ground nearby and dug around the rock.
Shad stooped, reached out his oversize hands, grasped at the stone, his fingers clinging like claws, pulling at it with brute strength, until the rock was torn loose from the earth, and rolled it over, exposing in the gaping ground a community of hundreds of worms, crawling crazily all over one another, seeking shelter from the menace of the naked light.
Shad Parker picked up the shovel and the pickax and moved on to the next half-buried rock. He stabbed the shovel into the ground and started swinging the pickax near the base of the rock. Then abruptly he stopped his work and listened. The sound came from a nearby tree. The plaintive song of a male and female dove.
Shad stood motionless for just a moment. He reached down, picked up a stone, and hurled it at the tree in a single, continuous motion. The stone whistled through the branches, terrifying the doves and sending them flying into the somber sky.
Shad Parker went back to his task.
Concealed from Shad’s view, just inside the cave, Austin watched as the man worked below. Austin had been watching for the better part of an hour, trying to make up his mind what to do. A couple of times he had made up his mind to approach the stranger, but there was something about the way that the man wielded the pickax, even the shovel, that scared Austin.
“Austin.”
He turned toward Peg’s voice. She and Davy stood just behind him.
“Austin, are we going to stay up here all day?”
“No, we’re not. But you two are.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you two stay up here till I get back.”
“Where you going?”
“I’m going out to see what I can find.”
“Find something to eat,” said Davy. “’Cause I’m not going to eat them peels.”
“You won’t have to. And I’ll get us some matches so we can build a fire.”
“You going to talk to the man who owns the farm?” Peg asked.
“Nope. Goin’ in a different direction. Keep outta his sight. When he goes inside, gather up some branches, anything that’ll burn. I’ll be back soon as I can.”
Chapter 8
At midmorning Tom and Bart were on the porch of the Eden Hotel, Tom sitting on the rail and Bart leaning against a post, as Deek, stuffing tobacco from a pouch into his pipe, walked out through the lobby door.
“Morning, boys,” Deek greeted his brothers, struck a match against a post, and lit up.
The “boys” just continued to look across the street. They were looking at Sheriff Elwood Hinge, who sat on a Douglas chair, carving the small Christmas tree out of a chunk of wood, with the shotgun lying across his lap.
Somehow all three Keeshaws had the feeling that even though the sheriff wasn’t looking in their direction, he was aware of their presence. It appeared that Sheriff Elwood Hinge was aware of just about everything and everybody that fell under his jurisdiction. That had become even more apparent after last night.
When Hooter had finished his four-drink story about Sheriff Hinge, Yellow Rose and the four strangers—two living and two deceased—the Keeshaws checked into the Eden Hotel. As Deek was signing the registry on behalf of his brothers and himself, a woman walked across the lobby and up the stairs. All three Keeshaws stared at the woman from the time she entered the door until she was out of sight at the top of the stairway.
“Is that who I think it is?” Deek Keeshaw inquired of the man behind the counter.
“Depends, Mr. . . .” The man looked at the names on the registry. “. . . Keeshaw.”
“Depends on what?” Deek smiled.
“Depends on just who you think it is. By the way, my name’s Mr. Peevy. I’m the owner of Eden.” From a distance Mr. Peevy had the appearance of a well-dressed scarecrow. From closer up his appearance didn’t change much.
“Glad to know you, Mr. Peevy—nice place you’ve got here. I thought from Hooter’s description, that might be Yellow Rose.”
“Might be.”
“She’s a mighty fine-lookin’ . . . woman.”
“Not much doubt about that.”
“Works over at the Appaloosa, ol’ Hooter said.”
“That’s right, too.”
“I was just wonderin’ . . .”
“What?” Mr. Peevy arched a pencil-thin eyebrow.
“Well, if you could arrange . . . you know . . . for me to go up and . . .”
“And what?”
“And pay her a visit up to her room.”
“In the first place I ain’t in that business. In the second place Miss Rosalind DuPree lives here, Yellow Rose works at the Appaloosa. You’ll have to make your arrangements over there. When she’s receiving. But Miss DuPree don’t receive no visitors at Eden.”
“I didn’t know the rules, Mr. Peevy.”
“You do now, Mr. Keeshaw.” Mr. Peevy shoved a set of keys at Deek. “Room 216. I hope the three of you’ll be comfortable.”
Deek Keeshaw smiled again and took the keys, started to walk away, but turned back.
“Mr. Peevy. They say that for every rule there’s an exception.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
Deek Keeshaw shrugged and walked toward the stairs. Tom and Bart followed.
After dark the Keeshaws had gone back to the Appaloosa. It was Deek’s intention to visit Yellow Rose during working hours. He stopped by the barbershop, had a haircut and shave, and told Tony the barber to pour on the toilet water. Tony did. Then Deek walked over to the Appaloosa and joined his brothers, who were at a table, sharing a bottle of rye.
It was still relatively early. Francine Needle and Stella Bright stood at separate tables doing the best they could to display their visible means of support, while watching separate poker games. As Deek swallowed his second shot of rye, Yellow Rose walked down the stairs.
She had done the same, for many, many nights at just about the same time, and the reaction all those nights, and tonight, was the same. Everyone in the Appaloosa turned away from his drink or his cards or his conversation and watched as Yellow Rose walked.
Yellow Rose didn’t exactly walk. It was almost a sort of flotation. She seemed to glide, from her narrow waist downward to the swelling of her hips and upward to the canopies of her breasts and the broad, clean curves of her naked shoulders. She had deep, dark dovelike eyes, scarlet-ribboned lips, though not much makeup, a straight, classic nose, and an expressionless face that defied anyone to guess what she was really thinking.
Her skin was a warm, cream color and her soft hair dark as a raven’s wing.
Her eyes swept the silent room. Defiance. Disdain. Then the slight trace of a smile, the sort of smile a royal feels obliged to bestow. A nod acknowledging their adulation, but telling them it was time to go back to their common business.
They did. Drinks, cards, and conversation.
All except Deek Keeshaw. He had never seen a woman as compelling as this. He was about to rise when two gunshots rang out just in front of the Appaloosa and glass shattered.
Now all eyes including Deek’s were fixed on the batwings. Two men slammed through. The first was big, bearded, and dirty. The second was almost as big, beardless, and almost as dirty. Both were just about as drunk.
The first man, Pete Tillashut, held a gun in his hand. The second man, Willard Krantz, held an almost-empty whiskey bottle.
“Evenin’, folks,” Tillashut boomed, waving the .44. “Name’s Tillashut, Pete Tillashut. This here’s ol’ Willard Krantz. Me and ol’ Will just spent three months up on a line shack for the Bar 9. Ain’t seen nothin’ human in more’n ninety days and nights. Got three months’ pay and a powerful cravin’ for whiskey, and . . . well, well, well . . .”
Tillashut was looking at Yellow Rose. Up and down.
“You want to stay in here,” Hooter barked from behind the bar, “put that gun away, Tillashut.”
“Sure, sure, sure,” Tillashut grinned, “just havin’ a little fun.” But the gun stayed in his hand. “Speakin’ of fun,” he walked closer to Yellow Rose, “you got to be Yellow Rose. Some of the boys at the Bar 9 was singin’ your praises.”
Yellow Rose looked at the dirty man and said nothing.
“I’ll say this,” Tillashut pointed at her with his left hand, “they didn’t exaggerate none. You’re prime cut if I ever seen it.”
“Tillashut!” Hooter called from the bar.
“Bring out a bottle there, bartender,” Tillashut kept looking at Yellow Rose, “me and ol’ Yellow Rose is goin’ to have a drink . . . for openers.”
“No, we’re not.” She spoke softly, but everyone heard. There was a moment of silence. Then Tillashut laughed.
“Sure, we are, honey. You know how much money I got in my pocket?”
“Not enough,” said Yellow Rose.
No one had seen him come in, but Elwood Hinge stood inside the batwings.
“You,” said Hinge. “Loudmouth.”
Both Tillashut and Krantz turned toward the voice at the entrance.
“Leather that gun. For openers.”
“Who’re you?” Tillashut grimaced.
“Name’s Hinge. Elwood Hinge.”
“That don’t mean nothin’.” Tillashut looked at his companion. “Does it, Krantz?”
Krantz emptied the whiskey bottle and set it on a table.
“It will,” said Hinge.
Silence.
“Now, first off, you’re going to holster that hogleg. Then you’re going to pay for the damage outside. Then you and that donkey next to you are going to mount up and ride in any direction you choose. But ride out, you will.”
“Maybe I got a different mind.”
“Change it.” Hinge walked, not fast, not slow, closer to Tillashut.
Almost imperceptibly, Tillashut’s gun hand began to rise.
“Lift that hand another inch and I’ll kill you.”
“With what?” Tillashut grinned.
The sheriff’s gun was still in its holster as Tillashut’s right hand started to rise. It never got above his belt.
Hinge had drawn and he slammed the barrel in one sure stroke across Tillashut’s forehead, then the gun was pointing at Krantz before Tillashut hit the floor.
“All right, donkey. Left hand. Lift it out and put it on that table.”
Krantz followed instructions.
Hinge stooped, rolled Tillashut on his back, took a wad of money out of his pocket, selected a couple of bills, and handed the rest to Krantz.
“Now, drag him out, mount him on his animal, and ride in any direction you choose. You hear?”
“Ye-yess,” Krantz stammered. “Yes, sir.”
Again, Krantz followed instructions, much to the amusement of the saloon spectators. Then they went back to their drinks and cards and conversation.
Hinge walked close to Yellow Rose.
“Evening, Rose.”
Rose nodded and smiled. Her right hand held a pearl-handled derringer.
“Care for a drink?” Hinge inquired.
“No, thanks,” she said. “But you can walk me home. Think I’ll call it a night.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
After Hinge and Yellow Rose left the Appaloosa, Deek Keeshaw had to be content with the companionship of Francine Needle, but as he looked across the street this midmorning, he couldn’t help wondering about Yellow Rose and Hinge and the old saying about “an exception to every rule.” Deek’s thought was interrupted by the sound of Tom’s voice.
“I don’t like it.”
“You don’t like what, Tom?”
“The setup.”
“You like money, don’t you?”
“Sure, but . . .”
“But what? You didn’t think they were just going to hand it to us like a Christmas present, did you?”
“No, but . . .”
“You’re full up with ‘buts’ this morning. We’ll get what we come for.”
“Sure, but . . . I mean . . . all day long either him or his deputy sitting there cradling a scattergun. And you seen how he can handle himself.”
“I seen.”
“Deek,” Bart spoke for the first time.
“What? You got some ‘buts,’ too?”
“Hell no. You’re the boss.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“I was just wondering,” Bart said, “what do you think we ought to do? Can’t just stand around all day long. People, specially that there sheriff, will go to wondering what we’re here for.”
“You’re right, Bart. We’re going to take care of that right now.”
“How?” Bart asked.
“We’re going to walk over and talk to Amos Bush.” Deek strolled off the porch of the Eden Hotel. Tom and Bart followed.
The foot and horse traffic in Gilead was about the same as it had been yesterday and so was the weather. The same chill and the same remnants of snow scattered along the streets, signs, and rooftops. As nearly as the Keeshaws could tell, the same people as the day before, no strangers. Not since the two last night.
Deek nodded and smiled at several of the townspeople as they passed, even greeted some with a “merry Christmas” and they greeted him back. Tom and Bart also nodded and smiled but let Deek do all the verbal greeting.
These were the good citizens who had put their trust and money in Amos Bush’s bank. If the Keeshaws had their way it wouldn’t be a very happy New Year for Bush or his depositors after the three brothers left town.
Deek had heard about Amos Bush’s bank from a former resident of Gilead whom he had met in prison. The former resident, Gotch Hill, had planned to return to Gilead, either when he had served his sentence or managed to escape, and relieve the bank of all its liquid assets. Gotch had sought to enlist Deek in the scheme, because of Deek’s self-proclaimed ability with dynamite. Deek had listened and agreed to participate. But Gotch Hill neither served his sentence nor did he escape. He died from a knife wound in his liver. His murder was never solved and not much mourned.
When Deek rejoined his brothers he decided to dedicate the campaign to the memory of Gotch Hill as they drank a toast to the enterprise.
And now here they stood, directly in front of the bank, whose door was adorned with a Christmas wreath.
Just when it seemed Deek was about to reach for the knob, he paused, glanced toward Elwood Hinge as if he had noticed him for the first time that day, and beamed a broad, friendly smile and walked toward the lawman. Tom and Bart followed.
“Howdy, Sherif
f.”
“Howdy.” Hinge looked up from his carving as if he had noticed the Keeshaw brothers for the first time that day.
“Chill in the air,” said Deek.
“Not unusual this time of year.”
“Uh-huh,” Deek responded, then glanced toward Inghram’s General Store, where two workmen were replacing the window. “Had a little excitement around here yesterday.”
“A little.”
“I see they’re patching up the place.”
“Yep.”
“How’re them two fellas,” Deek pointed toward the livery stable, which was closed, “feeling?”
“Poorly.”
“Yeah, I expect they are.”
Silence.
“Had some excitement last night, too,” said Deek.
“Some.”
“You surely laid one on that Tillashut.”
“Just as hard as I could.”
“Could’ve been worse, I guess. You could’ve shot him.”
“No need to.”
It was evident that the sheriff didn’t have anything else to say. He went back to his carving.
Deek looked at his brothers a moment, then back to Elwood Hinge.
“We need to talk to Amos Bush.” Deek pointed toward the entrance to the bank. “Know if he’s in?”
“He’s in.”
“Much obliged.” Deek started a step back but paused. “Deek Keeshaw. My brothers, Tom and Bart.”
“Yep.”
“And you’re Mr. Hinge. Elwood Hinge.”
The sheriff nodded.
“Been sheriff here long?”
“Not too long.”
“We’re thinkin’ on settling here, me and my brothers.”
Deputy Homer Keeler, carrying his sawed-off scattergun, came out of the office door.
“There’s worse places,” Hinge replied to Deek.
Deek Keeshaw smiled and walked toward the bank. Tom and Bart followed.
Elwood Hinge rose and brushed the shavings from his pants. Deputy Keeler assumed possession of the chair.
“Worse places than where?” Keeler asked.
“Gilead,” Hinge replied.
Deputy Keeler seemed like he was thinking that over.
“Prisoners et?”
“They et.”
The sheriff removed a kerchief from his rear pocket and blew his nose.
The Christmas Trespassers Page 5