“Homer, you should’ve thought of that before you put your poker in the fire. Look, Homer, there’s worse things than getting married. Sometimes I wish I would’ve got married myself.”
“You do?”
“Sure I do. Kathy’s a nice girl. She’ll make a nice wife, particularly since she’s already on her way to being a mother. You’ve got a job. You make enough money.”
“But she don’t like me being a lawman.”
“Well, that’s too bad because you’re both gonna have to do a little compromising.”
“I guess so.”
“Well, then, you tell her so. And, ’sides, I won’t be around forever. You’ll be steppin’ up in the law business, maybe sooner than you think.”
“You make it sound smooth and easy.”
“No, Homer, it ain’t all that smooth, nor all that easy—nothing is. You’ll have your share of lumps and bumps but you’ve both got a lot going for you. You’re young and healthy and . . . well, I was going to say ‘bright,’ but make that reasonably bright. So you’ll be all right. And I’ll toss in a share of that reward as a wedding present. Now, go home.”
“Yes, sir, thank you. Good night, Elwood.”
As Homer Keeler left, Elwood Hinge reflected on the irony of their situations, his and Homer’s. Kathy Lewis wanted to get married and Homer didn’t. At least he said he wasn’t geared for it. Elwood Hinge had proposed to Rosalind DuPree and she sure as hell didn’t say yes.
From inside the window of the Appaloosa Deek watched as Homer came out the office door, closed it behind him, looked up at the blue ball of the moon, pulled up his collar, and walked away. Deek turned toward Tom and Bart, who were still sitting in the poker game.
“All right, Bart, Tom, that’s enough for tonight. Let’s turn in.”
“Hold on,” Bart said, looking at his hand. “I got a . . .”
“I said, that’s enough. Play your hand and cash in.”
“Cash in is right,” Chris Perkins said, not in good humor. “I’m out twenty. What’s the big rush to cut out all of a sudden?”
“Got to get going.” Deek tried out his charm.
“What’s the matter? They afraid of the dark?” Chris said. His humor hadn’t improved any. “I’ll walk ’em home, when I get some of my money back.”
“You’ll get it back tomorrow.” Deek smiled. “We got to get an early start. Business.”
“Two pair!” Chris slammed his cards on the table, spilling the small stack of chips in front of him. “Kings over.”
“Beats me,” Tom said.
“Me, too.” Bart threw in his cards.
“You see, Chris,” Deek pointed at the pot, “you got some of it back already. You’ll get the rest tomorrow.”
Chris Perkins raked in his pot with both gnarly hands.
“I had him beat, you know,” Bart said as the brothers walked across the street. “Three deuces.”
“I know.” Deek nodded. “You used your head . . . for once.”
* * *
Elwood Hinge was trying to pry off a boot as the door opened. At the sound the sheriff instantly unbent and reached toward the shotgun.
“Take her easy, Sheriff.” Deek smiled as they entered.
“What do you want?” The sheriff did not smile.
“Just a little information if you don’t mind. Bart, give the sheriff a hand with his boots.”
“Sure. Glad to.” Bart walked over to the sheriff, who held up his right leg. Bart straddled it as Hinge shoved Bart in the butt with his left boot.
“Told you the other day we’re looking to settle around here, buy ourselves a spread . . .”
“So you said.”
“Well, Amos Bush, seems like a nice fellow, Mr. Bush, he gave us the names of some people who might be interested in selling. Drew us a map. Rode out to see Mr. Davis today but he’s not selling . . .”
The sheriff’s right boot came loose from his foot. Bart dropped the boot and assumed the position again in order to remove the other boot.
“. . . we’re riding out to talk to Sam Allen in the morning.” Deek withdrew the map from his pocket. “Now, this map Amos drawed us—once we get off the road here, I don’t recollect what he said—turn to the left or to the right?”
Off came the second boot. Bart dropped it on the floor next to the first one.
“To the right.”
“Uh-huh, much obliged.” Deek looked around. “Say, Sheriff, you sleep here?”
“Just when the county’s got guests. Part of our hospitality.”
“Yes, we heard about them. What’re they wanted for?”
“Busted out of jail back in Arkansas. Murder and robbery, to boot. This is as far as they got.”
“What’s going to happen to ’em?”
“Marshal be by to pick ’em up before Christmas. Thought he’d be here by now.”
“See, there’s a reward.” Deek pointed to the dodgers.
“Yep.”
“Congratulations. From what we heard you earned it.”
“That’s my job.”
“From what we’ve seen and heard, you’re good at it. Right, boys?”
Tom and Bart both nodded.
“Well, thanks and good night, Sheriff.” Deek started for the door. Tom and Bart followed. Deek opened the door.
“You boys . . .”
Deek and the others paused and looked back.
“. . . ever been to Arkansas?”
“Never have.”
The door closed behind them.
* * *
Amos Bush sat on the edge of the bed, lacing up his shoes, with his back to Hannah Brown, who still lay on the bed covered only by a thin sheet that failed to disguise the attractive mold of her outstretched body. She faced the ceiling but her eyes were closed. The bedroom was lit by a single kerosene lamp on the dresser.
“Hannah.”
“Yes?”
“I’m going to ask you to do something.”
“What is it?” Hannah’s eyes opened slowly but she did not look at him.
“That picture.” Amos Bush pointed to a large photograph that hung on the wall. It was of a handsome young man in a Confederate uniform. The handsome young man held a rifle with a bayonet attached, pointing straight ahead.
The photographer had shot the picture so that no matter where the viewer stood or sat or lay looking at the picture the sharp point of the bayonet followed the viewer.
“What about it?” Hannah said.
“I’m going to ask you to take it down.”
“Why?”
“You know why. I don’t want to come here again and have him . . . well, I just don’t. You can understand that.”
“Yes, I can.”
“Good.” Bush had finished with both shoes. He leaned across the bed and kissed Hannah Brown. She did not respond.
“Mr. Bush, we made an agreement, you and I. I intend to live up to it. There was nothing in that agreement about the picture. The picture stays. If you want to break the agreement, Mr. Bush, then that’s up to you.”
“Will you stop calling me ‘Mr. Bush.’ And don’t tell me there was an agreement about that, either!” He rose and picked up his jacket from a chair. “Hannah . . .”
“Yes, Mr. Bush.”
“Never mind.” Amos Bush walked to the bedroom door, stopped, and looked back. “I’ll see you next week.”
Chapter 17
The frosted dew, scented with the mysterious fragrances of dawn, clung failingly to the field, rocks, and hillside around the cabin until the sun reached over the eastern rim, then surrendered.
Shad Parker felt no better, no worse, than after most of the other nights he had lived through since coming to Texas. He ate the same morning meal, drank the same number of cups of coffee, and went about the same chores with the horses, hogs, and hens, although this morning there were fewer hens to feed than yesterday and fewer eggs to pick up.
All of his life he had been either a farmer or a soldier
and both endeavors entailed getting up early, except being a soldier sometimes meant getting no sleep at all while wondering through the night if the next day sleep would be eternal.
Shad Parker looked up from his chores. There was movement near the opening of the small cave. The older boy was taking leave of his sister and brother. His silhouette, backlit against the sun, made its way along the crest of the hill. Satisfied that the silhouette wasn’t coming down in his direction, Shad glanced toward the sister and brother standing near the cave. He doubted that from this distance she had caught his glance but she did wave at him. Once, then again.
Shad went back to his work without acknowledgment. He had no intention of encouraging any further encounter or even communication with the pint-sized intruders. He was content to spend the day in the society of the horses, hogs, and hens.
Even after he turned away the little girl waved again. Then she put her arm around the small boy’s shoulder and they went back into the cave.
* * *
They had not shared a marriage bed since the accident. Still, every morning, with the help of her housekeeper, Candida Guzman, Laureen would come to the breakfast table in the wheelchair while Amos Bush ate, drank his coffee, then left for the bank.
Her seraphic face was magnolia pink and delicately structured, much more delicately than her body had been structured before the accident. Since the fall, Laureen had lost weight, her former well-knit figure now a minimal framework for a wasteyard body, sustained mostly by soup and tea.
The conversation, sparse but civilized, was always even sparser on the morning after his weekly visit to Hannah Brown. Laureen always brought her Bible to the table. But this was one of the few times during the day or during the night when she wasn’t asleep, that she did not open it.
Located on the southeastern outskirts of town, the Bush house—the townspeople called it the Bush Mansion—was the biggest and best dwelling in or around Gilead. It was two full stories, three-quarters surrounded by a filigreed porch wide enough to accommodate a two-up horse and carriage. Amos Bush had it built for his bride from Louisville a dozen years ago, half a dozen years before the start of the War for the Confederacy.
They had shared the huge master bedroom upstairs until the accident in the winter of ’63. After that the drawing room on the first floor was converted into a sleeping room, a room in which Amos Bush had never spent a night with his wife.
Those who saw her astride the stallion that night said she was galloping as if riding into hell—or away from it. There was frost on the ground. The stallion slipped, fell, and broke its leg. Laureen broke her back. The stallion was, of course, shot and put out of its suffering.
A doctor from Dallas said an operation by a specialist in Chicago might enable Laureen to walk again, but Laureen never went to see the specialist, never left the house. There was a war going on, and after the war Laureen never mentioned Chicago or the specialist. She seemed resigned to her fate: the house, the husband, and the Bible.
There were some who said, again in whispers only, that Laureen and Amos’s troubles began when they quarreled because she felt that his sympathies and financial resources were not as strong for the cause as they should have been. There were rumors that Amos Bush had personally invested his money in enterprises that supplied the needs of the Northern armies.
The rumors were never substantiated, but Bush was one of the few in Texas whose funds flourished in the battlefield of Southern defeat.
There were other rumors, in even more subdued whispers, that Laureen was not a “warm” woman. But, of course, Amos Bush did not know that before the marriage. What he did know, was that she came from a rich Southern family and that she also came with a considerable dowry, money Bush needed to infuse into the lifeblood of his hemorrhaging bank.
That was why he had gone to Louisville, to secure a loan from Claude Kingsly, president of the Louisville Trust. Bush succeeded in procuring the loan as well as a bride, who happened to be Kingsly’s daughter, and the dowry, to boot. Ironically the Louisville Trust went bust during the war. Kingsly inserted the barrel of a shotgun into his mouth and proceeded to blow his brains out against the back of his banker’s chair.
“Did you enjoy your . . . breakfast this morning, Amos?” Laureen asked while she sipped her tea.
“Yes, thank you, Laureen. Just as I do every morning.”
“One morning a week more than the others, I dare say.”
“Laureen, please . . .”
“Oh, it’s all right, Amos. I’m quite past caring.”
“It seems you were past caring a long time ago.”
“Since I discovered that we had a different set of values about several things.”
“All right, Laureen, since you see fit to bring up the subject from time to time . . .”
“I think you know the times, and somehow you didn’t manage to slip out early today . . .”
“Nor do I intend to slip out early ever again. Let’s talk about the value you put on being a wife,” he pointed to the book on her lap, “in the biblical sense.” The grip of her left hand tightened on the Bible as he spoke. “The Bible, which you read and study and sleep with. ‘And Ruth said, “Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee, for whither thou goest I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge . . . ”’ For how long did you place a value on being a wife, if ever? From that first time in our marriage bed did you ever try to be a wife? Was I that repugnant to you, Laureen?”
“Not you, Amos. It. The act. The act itself. Unclean. Debasing. I tried . . .”
“Did you? So did I, Laureen, as gently and patiently as any man ever tried.”
“As you do with your whore?”
“She’s not that . . .”
“Then, what is she? Do you love her, Amos?”
“I need her. Or someone. Every man does. And so should every woman. Every woman but you, Laureen. I’m sorry. The accident, if that’s what it was, is just an excuse, a convenience, so now you don’t have to turn away from me. That’s why you won’t consider that operation, because now you’re afraid—not afraid that you might die, or that it might fail—you’re afraid it might succeed. That wheelchair is your escape—from me, from life. You can change that anytime you want, Laureen, but you won’t. So, I’ll keep going to her as long as she’ll let me.”
Amos Bush rose and left his wife in the wheelchair with the Bible still gripped in her hand.
* * *
Raymond Osgood had been instructed by Amos Bush to be in front of the bank every workday at 9:25 A.M. If Bush hadn’t arrived by precisely 9:30 A.M. Osgood was to use his own key, let himself and the clerk Henry Wordsly into the bank, and open for business.
That’s exactly what Raymond Osgood did that morning. While Osgood had told everyone in Gilead that he had a key to the bank, he didn’t tell anyone that he did not have the combination to the safe.
Only Amos Bush and the company in Chicago had that.
Since Bush had not arrived by precisely 9:30 A.M. Raymond Osgood looked around and with as much ceremony as possible withdrew his key chain from a pocket after returning his silver watch into another pocket and carried out instructions while Henry Wordsly didn’t even try not to look bored even before the business day began.
Osgood and Wordsly could accomplish only a restricted amount of business until the safe was opened, but it didn’t matter much because nobody came in to do any business.
Only the Keeshaws came in, and when they were told by Osgood that Mr. Bush had been unavoidably detained that morning, the Keeshaws, actually Deek, made a point of letting Raymond Osgood know that they were on their way to see Sam Allen, using the map that Amos Bush had so kindly drawn for them.
* * *
Elwood Hinge and Homer Keeler were both at the sheriff’s headquarters. They had verified the fact that both Charlie Reno and Red Borden were both still alive and still incarcerated.
When Hinge went to make the daily pot of coffee
he discovered that their supply of ground beans was dangerously low.
“Use what’s left of them beans and brew up some tar, Homer. I’ll go over to Inghram’s and have Pete grind us up some more.”
“Sure thing, Elwood.”
“Homer.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t give them two back there any hot coffee till I get back.”
“Yes, sir.”
“As a matter of fact don’t even go back there till I get back.”
“All right, Sheriff. But . . .”
“But what?”
“Suppose there’s some kind of emergency?”
“Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know . . . Suppose one of ’em manages to hang himself or something . . .”
“Let him hang.”
“Sure thing.”
“If you have to go back for some reason, take that scattergun with you but don’t get too close.”
“I understand.”
Hinge put on his jacket and started out but stopped at the door. Keeler had started to make the coffee.
“Oh, Homer.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you had that talk with Kathy Lewis yet?”
“No, sir, not yet.”
“I told you to quit that sir’n’. Well, talk to her today. You’ll both feel better.”
“Yes . . . I will, Elwood.”
“Five hundred.”
“What?”
“That’s your share when we get the reward, five hundred.”
“Thank you.”
* * *
As Elwood Hinge, without his shotgun, walked along the boardwalk toward Inghram’s General Store he was “merry Christmas’d” by close to a dozen of the citizens of Gilead, and the sheriff responded sometimes vocally, sometimes with a nod.
He paused on the corner and looked up at the second story of the Eden Hotel. He didn’t really expect that Rosalind DuPree would be looking out of her window, and she wasn’t. Elwood Hinge figured if he was lucky and didn’t lean into a bullet, he had another dozen or so years left of reasonably good health. The time was close by—maybe he was already stepping on it—when he’d have to decide how, where, and with whom he was going to spend those years. The pause was barely perceptible, then Elwood Hinge walked on, across the street.
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