Incident at Twenty-Mile Page 15

  B. J. spoke dryly. "If you're thinking of buying a fresh string, we don't have any mules. We only keep donkeys. And they're all on their way up to the mine."

  "I see. Well then, I guess we'll have to make do with horses."

  "We don't keep horses."

  "But wait a minute, here." He stepped back and squinted up at the weathered sign over the barn door. "Doesn't that say livery stable? And yet you stand there telling me you don't have any horses. I'm confused. I don't understand how a livery stable-You! Boy! Don't you hang back in the shadows where a man can't see you! Step out here!" Then his voice suddenly returned to its tone of honeyed menace. "Just be so kind as to step out here and tell me how come a livery stable doesn't have any horses. I seek to be enlightened upon this point." The two followers grinned; they had come to delight in their leader's slick flow of talk.

  Matthew stepped out into the autumn sunlight. "There's no use for horses up here. The only way in or out of town is by the mule track you come up."

  "And the railroad! You weren't going to forget to mention the railroad, were you, boy?" He turned to his followers. "I fear that this boy was not going to mention the railroad that brings a load of silver down to Destiny every week, regular as clockwork. Now, why do you imagine he'd try to baffle a weary traveler thataway? Is it not written: baffle not the weary traveler, nor seek to deceive the humble passerby?… Paul to the Georgians: 7, 13."

  The third stranger, a long-faced giant with a fleshy little bow of a mouth that was puckered into a permanent kiss, slid off his mule and pulled down the crotch of his trousers to ease the irritation of his long ride. "I'm hungry," he complained in an incongruously thin, high voice.

  "All things in their season, Bobby-My-Boy."

  "Those mules are finished," B. J. said. "You've ridden them too hard." Their backs had been rubbed raw; they suppurated at the edges of their saddles, and constant heel kicks had opened the skin along their rib cages. They stood with their heads low, long threads of saliva hanging from open jaws.

  "Do I detect recrimination in your tone, friend? You shouldn't be hard on us. We're just three poor sick boys doing the best we can in a cold, harsh world. Ain't we, Tiny?"

  The gnome with the smeared face showed a big yellow grin.

  "There's something strange about Tiny's name. Mostly people called Tiny are big strapping fellas, just like most men called Curly are bald. But our Tiny is… tiny. Now, ain't that fascinating? But you were right, friend, when you pointed out that these poor old mules are broke and useless. I guess there's no point wasting good feed on them, is there? Tell you what I'll do. I'll just leave them with you, and you can have them as a free and complimentary gift. A memento of our meeting."

  "I don't want them."

  "Oh-oh! Now look what you've done. I just got through telling you what I was going to do, and there you come sassing back, telling me that I can't do it. That's the kind of thing that just frustrates the living hell out of me. But I'm a reasonable man. You say you don't want them? Well then… " He drew the pistol out of his belt and shot first one mule, then the other. They both dropped onto their knees, snorting and blowing wetly in their agony. The leader turned to B. J. and raised his palms. "Now look what you done! Your bickering and contradiction has brought pain and suffering to these poor dumb beasts. But you have my permission to put them out of their misery, if that's your desire."

  B. J. stared at the man, his disgust undisguised. Then he turned to Matthew. "Go fetch Coots's old rifle."

  "You do that, boy," Lieder said. "You fetch this old coot's rifle. Say, I got an idea! It might be interesting to see if our new-found friend here has any guts. What's your name, new-found friend?"

  "Stone."

  "Stone, eh? I like to know a man's name. Permit me to introduce my followers. The little one's called Tiny, like I said. And the big one, that's Bobby-My-Boy. They're both pretty ugly, as you can see, but they try to make up for it by being mean and low-minded. Real mean. And real low-minded. Me? My name's Lieder. L-i-e-d-e-r. It's a Pennsylvania Dutch name. When I tell people my name, they sometimes think I'm claiming to be a leader. And you know what? Maybe there's something to that. I don't believe in coincidence. I think our lives are directed by forces 'beyond our ken'-as they say. Those forces chose to call me Leader for a good reason. And I'm pretty sure I know what that reason was. So your name is Stone, eh? Now, that is what I call interesting! Anyone can see you're a hard man, Mr. Stone, the way you talk so mean and harsh to strangers. You're a Stone who's hard. That's like Tiny being small, or like me being a leader, if you see what I mean. Funny old world. " He turned to his men. "You know, boys, I'm curious to find out just how hard Mr. Stone is. I wonder if he's hard enough to use his gun on me, rather than the mules, 'cause I can tell from the way he looks at me that he thinks he's an altogether higher and nobler example of mankind than this poor contemptible creature standing before him. " He turned back to B. J., still smiling. "I've got that right, haven't I, Mr. Stone? You do find me contemptible, don't you? Come on, fess up."

  Matthew emerged from the kitchen with Coots's rifle and a box of cartridges.

  "Well, look there, will you?" the leader said. "I haven't seen an old rimfire Henry in a coon's age. You cut a good deep cross on the nose of that Henry's. 44 slug, and you've got yourself a real stopper! It'll blow everything out of a man but his bad intentions!"

  The mules were still snorting in pain, but Lieder spoke comfortably and easily as his followers grinned along, spectators to the fun. "You know how to load that Henry, boy?" the leader asked, his eyes never leaving B. J.'s.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Do it, boy. Do it! We are about to learn something. We're going to find out how hard the stones on this barren old mountain are. Ain't that right, Mr. Stone?"

  B. J. didn't answer.

  While Matthew was loading the gun, the man with no neck and lips in a permanent pucker complained again that he was hungry.

  "Patience, Bobby-My-Boy, patience. First I got to sort out what's what in this town, and… " He turned to B. J. "… and who's who. Then we'll eat, drink, and make merry. Make merry! Hey, wouldn't it be something if in your den of vice-the Traveller's Welcome, if I'm not mistaken-one of the girls turned out to be named Mary? That'd make what I said about 'making Mary' pretty goddamn witty! And as the Book so truly tells us: Laughter colors our lives and lightens our burdens… Paul to the Virginians: 7, 13. Give that gun to Mr. Stone, boy!" he spat out, in a sudden rage. "Give it to him! Go on, give it to him!"

  As Matthew numbly passed the rifle to B. J., one of the mules died. Died with pathetic simplicity. It stretched its neck and looked back toward its wounded flank, its white eye huge with sorrow, then it lowered its head to the ground and, with a sound like a human sigh, died.

  The instant B. J.'s hands touched the rifle, the leader grabbed its muzzle and pulled it into his own stomach, burying more than an inch into his navel. "Now, Mr. Stone, all you got to do is pull the trigger! Just squee-e-e-eze the trigger, and I'll be dead and gone. What an opportunity for a noble and superior being like you to rid the world of low-down garbage like me… but!" He held up one finger in front of B. J.'s face. "But, but, but, just a second! Just one teeny little second before you shoot. It's only fair for me to tell you what will happen when you do." His face took on an expression of intense sincerity, and his voice dropped to a sober tone. "What will happen when you pull that trigger is this: I will shit." He grinned, and his followers sputtered with laughter. "Oh, I'll die, don't worry about that. A man shot point-blank in the gut has very little choice other than to die. But I will also shit. You see, when a fella gets gut-shot, he almost always shits. It's some kind of convulsion thing. Well, Mr. Stone? You going to pull that trigger and make me shit? I'll try to shit real good for you. Cross my heart and hope to… oh-oh. Maybe I shouldn't say that. Bad luck."

  B. J.'s jaw muscles tensed.

  The leader watched B. J. through a tight-eyed smile. "Oh, and there's one other thing that
will happen when you pull that trigger, Mr. Stone. My devoted followers here will shoot you dead. Who knows, you might get it in the gut, and you'll shit too. Just picture it! You and me, lying side by side on the ground, the righteous man and the low-down sinner, both all shitty-pants and shame, shame on us!" He grinned.

  B. J. swallowed.

  "So it looks like if you want to take my life, you've got to be willing to sacrifice yours. Nothing in this world comes free, Mr. Stone, for verily it is written that those who would attend the barn dance must pay at the door. I believe that's Paul to the Oklahomans: 7, 13, but I could be mistaken." The grin collapsed, the eyes hardened, and he pressed the muzzle deeper into his stomach. "Well? Shoot, if you're not yellow! Shoot! Shoot!"

  B. J. snatched the barrel out of the leader's grasp.

  Tiny and Bobby-My-Boy reached for their pistols.

  The gun roared.

  A glob of mule brain splattered onto one of Tiny's moccasins.

  Matthew noticed this disgusting detail with sharpedged clarity, but it didn't upset him, for he had slipped into the Other Place.

  The gnome with the twisted face made a retching sound as he tried frantically to wipe the glob of brain off on a clump of grass. "Look what you done! You ruin't my shoes! They're ruin't!"

  "Now, Tiny, don't you go getting mad at poor old Mr. Stone. He didn't mean to be disrespectful to your shoes. He's shown us that he doesn't have any guts. But still he's a lofty and noble sort of being, and not the kind to go around dirtying other people's shoes without due cause. Here, I'll just take that rifle, Mr. Stone. And the ammunition, if you please. You got any more guns hid away inside there somewhere?"

  "No."

  "You sure? I do hope you aren't trying to mislead a poor stranger. Bobby-My-Boy, maybe you'd better go look around. Just in case there's a gun or two in there that Mr. Stone's forgot all about."

  "I'm hungry."

  Lieder slowly swung his gaze to Bobby-My-Boy's face. "What did I just tell you to do?"

  With a whimpering growl, Bobby-My-Boy brushed past B. J. and went into the stable.

  "Lord love and bless us," Lieder said with a long intake of air between his teeth. "I do truly hope you aren't lying to me about there being no guns in there, Mr. Stone, because if there's anything that makes me mad, it's people lying to me, and there's just no limit on what I do when I get mad. I'm like a little kid that way, I guess. Tiny! Will you stop fiddling with that shoe!"

  From within the kitchen they could hear Bobby-My-Boy snatching drawers open and tipping things over in his search. Then he moved into the house proper, and there was the sound of boxes being thrown onto the floor and furniture being pushed over.

  "You know what else makes me mad, Mr. Stone? The sneaky way the government in Washington D. C. is taking away-I'm talking to you, Mr. Stone! Don't you look away when I'm talking to you!" Then he flashed a grin and continued with fatal calm, "… the way the government in Washington D. C. chips away at our constitutional rights, bit by bit… bit by bit. Take for instance my constitutional right to the pursuit of happiness. I once wrote a letter to the president of the United States, telling him how they'd locked me up and denied me my constitutional rights, and you know what the president replied? Not a word! He never even had the manners to answer my letter! And me a freeborn white citizen of these United States of America! Oh, sure, niggers can swank down the street, elbowing white women into the gutter, and foreigners can come swarming over in cattle ships to steal Americans' jobs, but a real American can't exercise his constitutional right to the pursuit of- What does that mean?"

  "What does what mean?" B. J. asked.

  "The way you're looking at me!"

  "I wasn't looking at you any special way."

  "The hell you weren't! I've seen that look before. You're thinking to yourself, this here man's crazy. Ain't ya. Ain't ya?"

  "I was only wondering why you've come to Twenty-Mile."

  "Is that what you were wondering, Mr. Stone? You're sure you don't have any idea at all? You can't think of anything around here that a person might want? Maybe something that comes down the mountain on the train every week? Something sort of shiny and valuable, hm-m? Bobby-My-Boy! Will you hurry up?"

  "I'm looking!" came the muffled response from the second floor of the house.

  "The train that brings the silver down from the mine also drops off about sixty miners," B. J. said calmly. "And most of them have guns."

  "I told you how I feel about people who lie to me."

  "Sixty of them," B. J. repeated. "With guns."

  Lieder measured him with a long look. Then he suddenly grinned. "Sixty, eh? And all of them with guns? Well, well! But, the Lord will provide the way, if I provide the will. And I got tons of will. I got enough will to put an end to the terrible things happening to these United States of-What the hell's wrong with you, boy? Why are you staring right through me with that silly-assed smile on your face?"

  Matthew blinked and pulled himself back from the Other Place. It took him only a second to run what Lieder had just said to him through his mind. "I didn't mean to stare, sir."

  Bobby-My-Boy burst out through the side door, slapping dust from his trousers and grumbling to himself. "No guns. Nothing but books."

  "Books? Well, now! I'm pleased to discover that you're a bookish man, Mr. Stone. During the long, weary years when I was unjustly deprived of my freedom, I read morning, noon, and night. That's how I developed a vocabulary that a warden once described as 'out of the ordinary.' Out of the ordinary! Would you believe that I have read more than a thousand books? More'n a thousand! Books on every subject. Even an interpretation of the Book of Revelations that nobody had ever read before me, because the pages were still uncut. Do you know what 'the Seventh Seal' really means? Bet not. And once I came across a dog-eared little pamphlet telling about what happens to juicy young novices in convents when a pack of horny old nuns get ahold of them. More'n a thousand books! How many books have you read, Mr. Stone? Nowhere near a thousand, I bet."

  "Mr. Stone used to be the teacher," Matthew offered in the hope that this would inspire some respect in a man who liked to read books. "He reads about Romans."

  Lieder sucked his teeth. "Well, well. A teacher, eh? I've always had a special place in my heart for teachers. There is no higher calling than the shaping of young minds. I had a teacher who helped to shape mine. And through the long and difficult years, I never forgot his contribution. Not for one minute. " He examined B. J.'s face with leisurely, amused eyes. "You know what I bet, teacher? I'll bet you're wondering how come I know all about this town, and the silver shipment, and the whores working at the Traveller's Welcome, and how there's only a handful of townsfolk living here. Well, I learned all about Twenty-Mile from an old prospector we met up with. A good Samaritan, he was. Not only eager to lend his mules to poor weary travelers, but he even gave us his guns and the little bit of gold dust he had ripped from the unwilling womb of Mother Nature-ain't that a colorful way to put it? I thought maybe this prospector had more gold stashed away somewhere, so while we were feasting on jackrabbit, I asked him about it in a conversational sort of way. He wasn't very forthcoming at first, but I managed to convince him to tell me everything he knew. I think it was the smell that convinced him. Did you ever smell feet roasting in a fire? It's an unpleasant aroma and there's no use trying to deny it. And when the skin starts to char and blister and burst…! Oh, my! But there's something about that smell that makes a man eager to tell you everything he knows. It turns out the poor fella didn't have any more dust stashed away after all, so he died for nothing. Just goes to show, doesn't it? Now, then!" He raised one finger, his eyes glittering. "The question is this: Why am I telling you all this? Why am I opening my heart to you? You're an educated man, Mr. Stone. Suppose you tell me why."

  B. J. unclenched his jaw to speak. "Because you want me to know what lengths you'll go to if you're crossed."

  Lieder turned to Bobby-My-Boy and Tiny, his eyes wide with admi
ration. "Did you hear that? Mr. Stone here has penetrated my devious intent to the very core! There's the advantage of dealing with educated people. " He turned back to B. J. "Well, I hate to lose the pleasure of your refined conversation, but I want to look around town a little. Get to know my neighbors. Maybe have a bite to eat. Just generally relax and pleasure ourselves after our many travails."

  Although both frightened and repulsed, Matthew couldn't take his eyes away from the man's face: the sharp nose, the feverish pale gray eyes, the network of fine lines that worked and wove in response to his rapid shifts of mood and intent. Suddenly Matthew realized that Lieder was looking directly into his eyes, a penetrating stare that seemed to scour his soul. Matthew returned the gaze, unable to unlock eyes. Then Lieder smiled and winked, as though all this were some kind of joke, and only the two of them were in on it. "I guess I better take this old Henry along with me, don't you think, boy? It is evil to leave temptation in the hands of the young. " He turned to B. J. "And the cowardly." With a little flip of his forefinger along the brim of his hat, he turned and walked diagonally across the yard toward the street, followed by his men.

  B. J. Stone and Matthew looked after them in silence.

  "Wha…" Matthew had to clear his throat. "What are we going to do?"

  His eyes still on the departing men, B. J. shook his head slightly and spoke in a lipless whisper. "I don't know."

  "I'll bet he made up all that about the prospector just to scare us. I mean, half the time he seemed to be sort of joshing."

  B. J. was still shaking his head. "No, he wasn't joshing. He did exactly what he said he did."

  "You think he's really that mean?"

  "He's worse than mean. He's insane." He watched the three men stop in the middle of the street and look up and down, before walking past the Traveller's Welcome, down toward Kane's Mercantile. "They're looking for guns and ammunition. They probably intend to collect all the guns in town."