Incident at Twenty-Mile Read online

  "So… what should we do?" Matthew asked.

  B. J. drew a long breath and pressed his fingertips into his eye sockets. "Wait for Coots to come back. He'll know what to do. You and I have to get rid of these mules. We don't have time to bury them. We'll take them across and push them into the ravine. Fetch the barrow."

  "Yes, sir, but then what are we going to do?"

  "Just fetch the barrow, boy! I need time to think."

  While Matthew was pulling the barrow out of the shed, B. J. sat on the bench beside the wall and tried to clear his mind so he could work out some plan of action. His eyes fell on the two-month-old copy of the Nebraska Plainsman. Just a few minutes ago, he had been pondering what-if anything — he should say to Matthew about the killing of that man and his wife in Bushnell, Nebraska, and about the mysterious disappearance of their son… possibly kidnapped, the reporter had suggested.

  But there were more-immediate problems and dangers.

  ABOUT AN HOUR LATER, Matthew eased open the back door of the Mercantile and tiptoed into the storeroom, where he paused to listen for voices.

  Silence.

  He called in a strained whisper. "Ruth Lillian?" Then: "Mr. Kane?"

  No answer.

  His pulse throbbed in his ears as he tiptoed toward the door to the shop and pushed it open slowly. "Mr. Kane?"

  The old man gasped and pressed his hand against his chest. "What's the matter with you, boy! Sneaking up on a man when he's working!" Actually, his nib had long ago stopped scratching in the account book he had opened automatically, seeking to calm himself by returning to numbing routine after his encounter with the three strangers. But he had been staring through the columns of numbers, so totally absorbed in worry that he hadn't heard Matthew's soft calls.

  "Sorry if I gave you a start, sir. Where's Ruth Lillian?"

  "Up taking a nap. She's got a sore throat. Wore herself out, minding the store over the weekend."

  "I saw those men head down this way. What did they want?"

  "They asked-"

  "They didn't see Ruth Lillian, I hope!"

  "No. She was up in her bedroom."

  "That was lucky."

  Mr. Kane nodded vaguely, as though stunned. "Yes… lucky. They asked if I had guns for sale. I told them no, I didn't keep guns in stock, but I could order anything they wanted from Destiny. But the boss, the one with the strange eyes, he said he didn't plan to be in town long enough, but thanks all the same. And he smiled at me. That smile of his was…" He shook his head.

  "They're real nasty men, Mr. Kane. B. J. Stone thinks they're lunatics, maybe broke out of prison."

  "Yes." Mr. Kane agreed in a gray note. "Yes, that's possible. There was cruelty in his eyes. And… amusement."

  "What did he say when you told him you didn't sell guns?"

  "He asked if I kept a gun for my own protection. I told him no, I hated guns. All I had was a few boxes of ammunition I stock for the miners. Then he said something strange."

  "What was that?"

  "He asked what kind of accent I had. I made some joke about the Lower East Side. But he didn't laugh. He looked at me with those pale eyes and started talking about immigrant hordes descending on the United States to batten on our riches. I'm afraid we're in for trouble, Matthew."

  "Yes, sir, that's for sure. That boss told B. J. and me about an awful-I mean really awful thing he did to a prospector. They're killers, Mr. Kane. I think Ruth Lillian better stay out of sight until they're gone."

  "Yes. Yes, of course."

  "B. J. and me talked things over, and he said we should get together and decide how to protect ourselves."

  "The whole town?"

  "No, just him and you… and me, I guess. He doesn't trust the others. He told me to keep an eye on those strangers. Then I'm supposed to come here after dark and meet with you and him."

  "Yes, yes. I'm…" Mr. Kane's attention seemed to drift away. Then he blinked and said, "Yes, I'm sure that's a good idea."

  "Do you know where they went from here?"

  "One of them kept saying he was hungry. The boss asked if they could get something to eat at the hotel, and I told him no, they'd have to go to the boardinghouse across the street. And that's where they went."

  "Are they still there?"

  "No. They left and went up to the Traveller's Welcome. One of them was carrying two rifles and a couple of pistols. The Bjorkvists' guns, I assume."

  "And they took Coots's rifle away from us. Looks like B. J. was right. They're rounding up all the guns in town."

  Mr. Kane nodded thoughtfully. "Which puts us at their mercy. " He closed his eyes and pressed his hand against his chest, where strangely pleasant ripples had been fluttering ever since his tense encounter with the three men. "… At their mercy," he repeated. "And how much mercy do you think those men have, Matthew?"

  Matthew raked his lower lip with his teeth and looked through the store window up the street toward the hotel. "Not a whole heck of a lot, sir."

  MATTHEW HAD PLACED HIS chair so he could keep watch on the front of the hotel diagonally across the street from his marshal's office. The westering of the sun had caused the shadow of the hotel's false front to wriggle most of the way across the rutted street by the time Bobby-My-Boy slammed out through the bat-winged bar doors and lurched down towards the Mercantile. Clearly he'd been drinking, and Matthew worried that Ruth Lillian might disobey her father's instructions to stay upstairs. He was trying to decide between following B. J.'s orders to keep an eye on things, and obeying his impulse to run down there to make sure she wasn't in danger, when Bobby-My-Boy came back out onto the street clutching to his chest a toppling stack of small boxes hooked clumsily beneath his chin. That would be the ammunition Mr. Kane kept for the miners. Bobby-My-Boy returned to the Traveller's Welcome, and for the next hour Matthew heard and saw nothing out of the ordinary.

  He was watching the sun melt, dull red and plump, onto the foothills, his eyes gritty with staring toward the brightness, when his breath suddenly caught in his throat. Lieder was crossing the street, heading directly for the marshal's office. Matthew barely had time to drag his chair to beside the table and snatch up a Ringo Kid book before the door banged open and Lieder was standing on the threshold, silhouetted by the setting sun. Matthew looked up from his book, blinking and shielding his eyes with his hand. "What is it? What do you want?"

  "So you're the marshal, are you? Well, how about that!" His tone was yeasty with derision.

  "Shoot, no, I'm not the marshal!" Matthew said with a dry chuckle. "This place was abandoned when I come to town. Its roof looked pretty tight, and the privy hole hadn't caved in, so I… well, I just moved in."

  "I'm awful disappointed. I was looking forward to an epic face-off: me against that famed and feared lawman, the marshal of Twenty-Mile."

  Matthew forced a deprecatory laugh. "Twenty-Mile ain't had a marshal since heck was a pup. So… ah… have you decided what you're going to do?"

  Lieder glared at him for a moment, then he laughed aloud. "That's a pretty subtle way you've got of prying information out of a man, boy. You'd make one hell of a spy." He chuckled. "No, I haven't decided… other than to make myself comfortable until that silver shipment comes along to fill my war chest. Meanwhile, I'll just gather up all the guns in town, because I am concerned for the welfare of my fellow man. Everybody carrying weapons inevitably leads to dispute and conflict. But once all the guns are in my hands, the weeds of dispute will blossom into cooperation, and the tares of conflict will flower into obedience. Chapter 7, verse 13, Paul to the Democrats." He winked.

  Matthew's eyes flinched from the sunset halo behind Lieder, but he didn't allow himself to glance up toward the big shotgun, hanging directly above Lieder's head. "The fact is, sir, there ain't much call for guns in Twenty-Mile. It's a peaceful place, and there's no hunting worth talking about. The blasting up at the Surprise Lode has scared off all the game. But heck, I don't know, there might be a few guns around. Maybe M
r. Kane down to the Mercantile keeps guns to sell to the miners."

  "I already had a little talk with Mr. Kane," Lieder said, stepping into the room. "He doesn't keep guns. Says he hates them. Now, isn't that a funny thing for an American to say, considering how our forefathers fought and died for our constitutional right to bear arms? But then of course… Mr. Kane ain't a true-born American, so I suppose we've got to expect him to scorn and ridicule all the things that made this land of ours great."

  "You're right. Mr. Kane is kind of strange. If you ask me, it comes from living all alone like he does." Suddenly Matthew realized that when Lieder turned to leave, he would see the gun hanging over the door. He stood up. "Sir?"

  "What?"

  Matthew sucked air in through his teeth. "Gee, I hope you won't get mad."

  "Mad about what?"

  "Well, I just realized that I've been lying to you."

  "Lying to me?"

  "Yes, sir. Fact is, I do have a gun. The granddaddy of all guns, you might say. But it slipped my mind because… well, because it can't be shot. There ain't no shells for it. But if you want it, there it is, hanging over the door right behind you."

  Lieder turned. "Well, I'll be damned! Look at that monster, will you?" He took the antique shotgun down. "I ain't never seen the likes."

  "It's handmade. The only one like it in the world."

  "Where'd you ever find a thing like this?"

  "It was my pa's. He got it from his grandpa. I don't know where he got it. From Methuselah, maybe."

  "Just look at this thing, will you? It's a wonder that hammer doesn't get blown back into someone's face." He broke it open and looked into the breech. "Lord love and protect us! If a man fell into there, it'd take a search party to find him!" He shouted down into the breech, "Hello! Hello-o-o!" Then he cocked his head as though he were listening for an echo. "You say there's no shells for this cannon?"

  "No, I'm afraid not. They was handmade too, and my pa shot off the last of them years ago."

  "Too bad. Wouldn't you love to walk down the street with that thing over your arm? The citizens would take one look and they'd know they was dealing with a force of nature!" Lieder snapped the gun shut. "Damn thing must weigh a ton."

  "You don't have to tell me! I lugged it here all the way from Nebraska."

  Lieder looked at Matthew, and the amused glitter in his eyes faded out. "How come you lugged it all that way, if it can't be shot?"

  "Well, sir, the truth is…" Matthew lowered his eyes. "That gun's all I've got to remind me of my pa."

  "Yeah? Well, count yourself lucky, boy! When my pa died, I had lots to remember him by. A broke collarbone, welts all down my back from his razor strop, a busted nose. I wish I'd of had a cannon like this when he was beating on me. You shoot a man with this thing, and you don't have to worry about burying him. You can just dab him up with a cloth and toss it into the stove. You're cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die sure there ain't no shells for this gun?"

  "I only wish there was!"

  "So's you could shoot me and become the town hero?" He grinned.

  "No, sir. I wish there were shells for it, so's I'd be able to sell the damn thing. Boy, if I could scrape together a little money, I'd be out of this town so fast that all you'd see was the dust settling where I used to be standing."

  "I take it you ain't overfond of this town."

  "No, I ain't. Nor of the folks that live here. They pay me next to nothing for my work, and they don't respect me."

  "Why'd you come here in the first place?"

  "No reason. I just drifted west along the Union Pacific line, looking for a place where people wouldn't come looking for you. I didn't have nothing special in mind."

  "Just like me! I left prison and attended to some business, then I drifted up in this direction because I needed riches to finance my struggle. I'd never even heard of Twenty-Mile before that old prospector told me about the silver train. But I'm convinced there's no such thing as coincidence. There is a great plan behind everything that happens. I have been sent to Twenty-Mile for a reason. Why were you looking for a place to hide, boy? What did you do?"

  "Well… the fact is, I run off. My pa was pretty free with his fists, like yours. That's why I took his gun. To spite him."

  "I see." He settled his eyes on Matthew, then he said quietly, "I thought you said your pa was dead."

  "No, sir. What I said was that the gun was all I had to remember him by. Say, you wouldn't want to buy it by any chance? I mean, you travel around a lot. Maybe you'd run across some ammunition for it. I'd sell it real cheap. I'd only ask… oh, say about-"

  "If I wanted this gun, boy, I wouldn't buy it. I'd just take it. That's how I do business. I don't only cut out the middleman, I cut out the wholesaler and the retailer too! But the last thing I need is a ten-ton chunk of useless hardware to weigh me down. Here!" He tossed it to Matthew with such force that it stung his hands when he caught it. As he was hanging it back over the door, Matthew thought of the canvas sack under his bed containing the last dozen of his pa's handmade shells. He'd better draw Lieder out of the marshal's office before he got to snooping around. So he nonchalantly stepped out onto his porch as though to take in the sunset and said over his shoulder, "Tell me, mister. Where you planning to go after you-?"

  "Well now! What's this I see?"

  "Sir?" Matthew returned to the room, his stomach cold.

  "As I live and breathe! A Ringo Kid book! They all got the same gaudy covers."

  "You read the Ringo Kid?"

  "Time hangs heavy when you're locked up in a stinking punishment hole. A man'll read just about anything." He tossed the book aside and stretched out on Matthew's bed, dangling his boots over the edge and tipping his hat down over his eyes. "I've read more'n forty books a year for twenty years. A thousand books!"

  "You were in prison for twenty years?"

  "Give or take. Not all at one stretch, of course. I used to take little vacations. Just to break up the monotony, you know. But my prison years are behind me. I'm out for good, and the world better practice trembling!" He laughed as he scratched his nose with his thumb.

  "How'd you get all those books in prison?"

  "The screws gave 'em to me," Lieder said, his hat still over his eyes. "They gave 'em to me because of my warm and winning manner, and also because they were scared of what I might do to them. Sugar 'n spice. That's how to handle people, boy. Keep them off balance with sugar and spice. Sweet and smiling one minute, and the next thing they know you're holding the jagged top of a tomato tin to a guard's throat and asking him if he's ever seen the foam and bubbles a man makes when he tries to scream through a slit gullet. That's how I got books. By being the baddest thing those guards ever met. That's the way it works in this world, boy. If you're just a little bad, they beat you and punish you. But if you're huge bad, then they back away in awe and ad-mir-ation. It's the same way with stealing. If you're going to steal, steal big. A man who steals bread for his kids ends up on a chain gang, making big rocks into little rocks. But if you steal big, really big, then you are praised and emulated, like the Rockefellers and the Morgans and the Carnegies of this world. Of course, men like that don't break the law. They make the laws, so their stealing is called 'enterprise' and 'high finance.' When it comes to stealing or being bad, you got to do it big to be respected." He chuckled. "But I'll tell you one thing. You won't get much respect reading that Ringo Kid garbage."

  "Garbage?"

  "Shit like that will rot your brains, kid."

  "Mr. Anthony Bradford Chumms is the best writer there ever was."

  "Is he the one that pissed out the Ringo Kid books?"

  Matthew's jaw tightened. "Mister, I better tell you that I particularly like the Ringo Kid books, and I really hate to hear anybody bad-mouth them."

  Lieder tipped his hat up with his thumb and looked out from under the brim with a menacing scowl. "Well now! Is that so?"

  Matthew straightened his shoulders. "Yes, sir, that's so.
"

  Lieder's scowl flattened into a grin. "Well, I'll be damned! I will be god-good'n-damned! You remind me of myself when I was your age! You got guts, boy!" He let his hat fall back over his eyes and lay back. "But I'd sorely hate to see you end up sitting in the middle of the street, trying to hold those guts in with your hands, all because you'd made the mistake of crossing a crazy, vicious old bad-ass like me." He lifted his hat again and winked.

  "I ain't meaning to cross you, sir, but I… well, I don't want to hear any bad things about the Ringo Kid books."

  Lieder's eyes flicked from one of Matthew's eyes to the other. Then he laughed and sat up on the edge of the bed.

  Matthew couldn't help glancing down to assure himself that the canvas sack wasn't sticking out, then he turned away, as though still angry, and went back out onto the porch. He could feel a tingle up his spine when Lieder didn't immediately follow him out as he had hoped he would, so he lifted his voice to be heard inside the office. "You say you're out of prison for good this time. How do you know they won't catch you again?"

  "I can't let 'em catch me again," Lieder said from the bed. "There's been people killed, so if they get their hands on me… But the forces that brought me to Twenty-Mile won't let 'em catch me. And you know why?" A grunt in his voice revealed that he was rising from the bed. "Because I have a mission to fulfil. A sacred Mission. Did you ever hear tell of a book called The Revelation of the Forbidden Truth?" He was standing in the doorway behind Matthew.

  "No, sir."

  "Now there's a book. It changed my life. It illuminated my path and gave my days a purpose. That book made me-" He stopped short and changed the subject. "Tell me, boy. Have I met everybody in this fine, prosperous town of yours?"

  "I couldn't say. I don't know who you've met."

  "Well, there's you, fine young man that you are, despite reading garbage-whoops, sorry! And there's that all-mouth-no-balls schoolteacher. And the four Swedes down at the boardinghouse. And that Jew over at the store." He stepped out onto the porch and sat next to Matthew on the step. "Then there's that snide-mouthed pimp who runs your whorehouse."