Mother Lode

  He wouldn’t walk tonight. He’d take the buggy, just in case he could pull off his scheme. Bigot would just have to put up with it.

  When he arrived, the usual props were in place—‘Matilda’ and the cards and chips, though no one seemed eager to begin. He could hear the argument in force.

  Boyce sat with his arms crossed, still miffed by the way the hearing had turned out. The judge was blowing halos above his head.

  “I was hoping you’d have calmed down during our little hiatus. Cheer up, Buck, there’ll be other cases. Maybe some actual trials, for you to win.” He smiled at Boyce. “Or lose.”

  “This one was hot, and you let it slip away.”

  Doc Johnson looked uncomfortable.

  George asked, “Anyone like some beer? Iva’s special brew.”

  “I’m talking to you, McKinney! I think you let this one get away!”

  “I’ll have one,” the doctor said.

  “Comin’ up.” George left the room.

  Buck Boyce couldn’t contain himself. “Holy shit! The old man’s retiring, doesn’t want to bother with another trial.”

  “Calm yourself,” the doctor advised. “You’ll have your asthma trouble back.”

  Turning his wrath on Earl, Buck said, “I blame you, Foster. You had it in the palm of your hand.” He was pacing back and forth. “I know you had enough on the boy to bring him to justice. Then you just spread your fingers and let it all slip through. What the hell’s going on?”

  “It was never more than a notion in the first place, Buck. A sort of feeling. As I said in court—”

  “I don’t give a damn what you said in court. What the hell happened to make you do an about face?”

  “Just didn’t hold up. Wasn’t enough to go on.”

  “Bullshit!”

  George came back with a pitcher and glasses in time to quip, “Buck, you’d kick if you were hanged with a new rope.”

  As Arthur picked up his beer, Buck picked up the deck of cards, shuffling them crazily.

  Earl was itching to get on with his real business. He wiped his mouth, in preparation of what he had to say.

  “This pot of gold, we have here—”

  “Gold?” the judge laughed.

  “All right. Guess they’re mostly coppers. This pot of copper — Matilda, is getting mighty heavy. I was wondering if we couldn’t put her to some use.”

  “What are you getting at?” Buck wanted to know.

  “Are you saying what I think you are?” George asked.

  “I’d like to see the Radcliff boy get out of town, make a new start.”

  “Well, if that don’t beat all,” Boyce tossed the deck of cards in the air.

  “What are we saving her for? The Second Coming?” Earl wet his lips. “I realize Jorie will get his inheritance,” Earl said. “But it will have to go through probate, and that will take time.”

  “Up to six months,” the judge said.

  “He can’t survive in this town that long. Well, boys, what do you say?” Earl held his breath.

  With clenched teeth Buck spat, “Not on your life.”

  “I think it’s time we gave the little lady up for a good cause,” George said.

  “I would like that very much,” Arthur concurred.

  Best thing for all of us, Earl thought.

  The judge said, “Three ‘yeas’ and one ‘nay’.” He looked at the sheriff.

  Earl spoke slowly, and with an authority he didn’t feel. “The way I figure, if someone doesn’t want to support this cause, he could withdraw his share of the winnings from the pot.”

  “We don’t even know how much that would be! Never kept track,” Buck said.

  Earl was prepared for this. “True. That might pose a problem. Guess he’d have to estimate what he’d won over ten years or so. Of course, some of us did better than others.”

  “Jesus, Foster.”

  “And don’t forget, a good deal of Matilda came from young Radcliff’s father.” Earl stopped to let this sink in. “But the rest of us would accept a fair estimate, wouldn’t we? A matter of honor.”

  “Right.”

  Earl looked at the others. “So, if you’re with me—”

  “Hold on here.” Buck leaned forward. “I say whoever wins the game can do whatever he wants with Matilda.”

  “All of her?” the doctor asked.

  “All of her,” Buck said.

  Earl felt the perspiration pop. That wasn’t the pact he’d hoped to get. But at least it gave him a fighting chance.

  George pushed a little smoke in Buck’s direction. “Our prosecuting attorney here, would probably use it to finance his campaign. Am I right?”

  Buck waved the smoke away.

  “All right. Fair enough,” the judge said.

  The doctor agreed.

  “It’s a deal.”

  “Ante up.” The doctor dealt the first hand. “You betting, George?”

  “One.” The judge pushed a chip toward the middle of the table.

  “Earl?”

  “I’m in.”

  Arthur turned to Buck. “What are you going to do?”

  “Submit a petition for another hearing.” The prosecuting attorney was still bristling. ”And I’ll give my reasons to the paper.”

  “And what might they be?”

  Buck straightened his tie. “You’ll see.”

  “You had your hour in court. It’s a little late to be thinking about doing your homework.”

  “It would look mighty strange if you refused to grant a hearing on the request of the prosecuting attorney, George.”

  George blew another halo of smoke. “And it might look peculiar if the outgoing judge didn’t support you in your upcoming campaign, boy.” The judge bestowed a benevolent smile on the prosecuting attorney.

  Earl reveled in a moment of victory, hearing Boyce called by the name usually reserved for him.

  After Earl and Arthur folded, Buck and George were head to head; Buck won the hand with a flush. Pleased with his win, he seemed pacified for the moment.

  It was ten minutes to ten, only time for one more hand, and Earl didn’t know if he was ahead or behind. He studied the loose pile of chips in Buck’s corner, and tried once again to figure the amount. He knew they had to be pretty close, but he wasn’t sure how close. He wished for once he wasn’t so orderly, hadn’t stacked his up in neat piles of ten for everyone to calculate so easily.

  The win seemed to improve Buck’s mood. He gathered in the cards, started shuffling the deck, “I’ve got a proposal of my own.”

  “Put it on the table,” said George.

  “Since this is a farewell party for Matilda here, what do you say we raise the stakes for the last hand?”

  “To what?” Earl asked.

  “A nickel.” Buck slapped the deck down on the table.

  Earl knew he couldn’t afford it, and he suspected Boyce knew it, too. All these years they’d played for a penny. He hadn’t even been able to buy Cora the new stove she wanted. He broke out in a sweat, which he was sure gave Buck immense satisfaction.

  “Maybe not everyone can manage the increase,” offered the doctor, not looking at anyone in particular.

  “Let’s do it,” Earl said finally, with an unaccustomed recklessness.

  The others agreed. Buck pursed his lips and studied Earl. He picked up the cards and began shuffling again, his eyes still on the sheriff.

  Earl felt uncomfortable, couldn’t resist scratching his elbow. “Well, let’s get on with it.”

  “That’s just fine with me,” said Buck. “Cut, Arthur. Let’s keep the game honest.”

  Earl was dealt almost nothing of value — one king and little else. Nevertheless when it was his turn, he matched George’s bet of one.

  Even before the draw, Buck bet two.

  He’s trying to squeeze me out, Earl told himself.

  “How many cards?” Buck turned to Arthur.

  “Two.”

  “Same here,
” said George.

  Earl could feel the perspiration trickling down his back. “Three.”

  “Three it is.”

  Buck took one. “Let the betting begin,” he said.

  Earl picked up his cards. Another king. Well, at least he had a pair! He’d had better; he couldn’t take the pot with what he held if Buck wasn’t bluffing. It didn’t help, either, having to bet before Buck.

  Arthur bet one. George matched him.

  Earl could feel his sphincter muscles tighten. “Two,” he said.

  “Here’s your two and one to raise,” Buck said.

  Arthur and George both folded. That left Earl head to head with Buck, and it was his turn.

  Earl couldn’t forget how high the stakes were: Five times what they usually were! He was doing some other figuring. How much did he have in his bank account? Would he be able to cover the losses and pay the rent? What would Cora say if he landed on his ass?

  “Quit stalling, Foster.”

  Earl pushed a chip forward, looked at Buck, and added a second.

  “Whew!” called out George.

  “I’ll see your bluff,” called Buck.

  Earl raised one bushy eyebrow. “That’ll cost you.”

  Buck pushed his chip forward. Earl held his breath as he turned up his kings.

  A brief shake of Buck’s head told Earl his opponent had nothing better. With a poker player’s discipline, he resisted an urge to cry out in elation.

  But it was only the hand. The pot would go to who had the highest winnings for the night. He watched as Buck finally stacked his chips in piles of ten. It was going to be close. But even before the last of the prosecutor’s chips were stacked, it was plain to see Earl had won.

  “I couldn’t be happier,” the doctor added.

  “Well done, boy,” George beamed at him.

  This time the ‘boy’ didn’t bother him. He’d won! He’d won Matilda!

  Buck rose. “Can’t help wondering what nefarious plot you’ve cooked up — involving the Radcliff kid.”

  Without further ado, Buck Boyce took his leave.

  “Poor loser,” Arthur said.

  “He’ll get over it. He can’t afford not to.” George laughed heartily. As he began to scoop the cards in, the ash from his cigar dropped on them. Earl reached for the ashtray, picked up the cards that held the ashes and dumped them in the tray. As he did, he saw their faces—the ones George had folded with. Two deuces and three eights. A full house!

  He looked at George, who only held his eye briefly. George could have taken the hand, but not the night. He’d tossed it in to throw the game to Earl. Without that last winning hand, Earl would surely have lost to Buck.

  He could say nothing, nor would George want him to.

  When he left the McKinney home that night, the doctor helped him heave the heavy load into the buggy, and gave him a handshake he wouldn’t soon forget. Earl climbed into the buggy. Well worth hitching up that night. He wouldn’t have been able to waltz Matilda all the way home in his arms.

  Chapter 39

  The next morning Jorie could hear Mr. Foster scurrying around. The sheriff seemed excited, said he had some errands to run, and told Jorie to be there when he got back. At noon, he’d returned, went out again, coming home about two. By three o’clock, the sheriff was pacing the floor.

  Finally Mr. Foster said, “I want to show you something. Get your coat.”

  They bundled in wool jackets and mufflers. As they stepped outside Jorie took a deep breath. It was not yet dark. If he did decide to live how in the world would he fit back into the community? Gossip was rampant and everybody seemed to know him now. The thought of being watched daily by judging eyes was unbearable.

  They walked several blocks through downtown Hancock. It was about four o’clock, already darkening; lights from the shops provided the only cheer in the quiet streets. Earl led him through the back streets, then down toward the lake. Jorie wondered again where they were going, but it didn’t matter.

  Descending the steep grade of Tezcuco Street was a challenge. During the last two days, the snow had started to melt, and descending temperatures had caused it to freeze. Frozen boot prints, like fossils, were imbedded in the solid surface, making it difficult and dangerous to navigate.

  Just then the sheriff lost his balance on the ice and started to fall. Jorie caught him, righting him just in time.

  “Thanks, thanks. I would have gone down for sure.” He laughed, embarrassed. “Mrs. Foster would not take kindly to nursing me through broken bones.”

  They reached the train station. The sheriff opened the door and ushered Jorie in.

  “What are we doing here?”

  “Good a place as any to warm ourselves. Let’s get some hot tea.”

  They walked toward the empty end of the station where refreshments were sold.

  The tea came. Jorie sat with his hands in his lap. Earl wiped his spoon carefully with his napkin and added milk and sugar. He stirred the contents of his cup slowly.

  Jorie picked up his cup and blew on the tea.

  Earl finally began. “Listen to me, son. I know how guilty you feel. But you can’t afford to indulge in penance. Not that kind. I know all about the sort of education you got at your mother’s knee—large doses of suffering leading to absolution. Well, this time, you’re just going to have to live with what you did.” He took a gulp of his tea. “And find a way to forgive yourself.” He looked down at his cup. “I think you’ll discover more than enough suffering on that road to satisfy the heartiest of appetites.”

  Jorie recognized for the first time that Mr. Foster must be suffering too. The sheriff knew everything, and had kept it all out of the courts to protect him. This gentle man had worked unstintingly in his behalf.

  He wet his own lips. “I, I want to thank you, and Mrs. Foster too, for everything — I don’t deserve it.”

  “Let’s have none of that, boy.”

  Jorie picked up his cup, drank the tea. He wished the sheriff would change the subject. He couldn’t help thinking there was something else up his sleeve.

  He asked again, “What are we doing here?”

  “I was just getting to that.” Earl cleared his throat. “Your friends have taken up a collection for you—”

  Jorie started to object, and Earl put up a hand to stop him.

  “Rather, one we have accumulated over the years — we didn’t actually know to what purpose.” Earl smiled. “Now we know.”

  He pulled a money bag from his coat and placed it on the table. Jorie stared in amazement.

  “This was not decided on a sudden impulse. Careful thought went into it.”

  “I can’t take it.”

  “It’s a loan.”

  The word ‘Who?’ formed on Jorie’s lips.

  “You don’t need to know who the involved parties are. Just that there are people in this town who want to help you, Jorie. They ask only that you stay alive. If not for your sake, then for your sister’s.”

  A lump started to form in Jorie’s throat. Everyone didn’t despise him.

  “We have a ticket for you to go out west. To grow up a little, and allow this thing die down. Let the land heal you. Give your pain to the mountains and the rivers. Then, in time, when you’re ready, you can come back, see your sister again.”

  Jorie started to say again, “I can’t—”

  The sheriff almost rose out of his seat. “How long will you allow folly to hold you from your dreams? Besides,” he added, calming himself, “this money is an investment in you, Jorie, We know you’re clever, and you can make something of yourself. So we expect you to come back here one day and pay off your debt.” Mr. Foster folded his hands. “It’s a matter of honor.”

  Overcome with emotion, Jorie managed to say, “What’s to become of Eliza—now?”

  “Mrs. O’Laerty petitioned the court for custody of the child. I see no reason why her request would be denied. I trust this meets with your approval?”


  Jorie could only nod. The feelings that churned and tumbled inside him were too complex to understand. They were rolling over him, intermingling in convergent waves. At least he was feeling again.