Incident at Twenty-Mile Page 4

  Tillman reminded him that despair is the greatest sin of all. Despair is a trick of the Devil, making us doubt the Lord's promise of salvation for even the least and lowest of us, but Lieder only shook his head miserably and turned his face to the wall.

  Tillman sighed and returned to the watch-desk.

  It was almost dark when Tillman made his last round of the moonberries. Through the spy-hole he found the acid-thrower sitting on the edge of his cot, rocking himself and humming, as always. "The Politician" was disagreeing violently with a space in the corner that he addressed as "you ignorant little pinch of duck-shit!" At the sound of the spy-hole opening, "the Spook" cowered in the corner. "Don't hurt me! I didn't mean to do it! Honest to God, I didn't mean it!"

  The next cell had long been empty, but now it contained two men who had been transferred to the moonberry wing to protect new young prisoners, whom they routinely dragged into dark corners and… "broke in" was the prison term for it. As he approached the door, Tillman heard sounds of grunting and panting as though a fight was going on. He opened the spy-hole and found a neckless, bullet-headed giant bent over the end of his cot, and behind him was a little gnome with a twisted face. They were both panting and grunting. The gnome leered toward the open spy-hole, and only then did Tillman realize that they were… Lord Jesus in Heaven! He snapped the spy-hole shut and turned away.

  He took several deep breaths to settle his stomach before going on to Lieder's door. He had been rehearsing the words of comfort he would share with the despairing sinner who- But Lieder wasn't on his bunk. Through the twilight gloom, Tillman could see him over by his barred window, half-standing and half-kneeling, as though-Lord Jesus! He had torn a strip off his blanket! One end was tied to a bar and the other around his neck! Don't let this be happening, I ask it in His name! He yanked down the locking lever, threw back the thick iron bolt, rushed in, and lifted Lieder to take the weight off the blanket strip around his throat. He held the sagging body in his arms, then sighed with relief when Lieder's eyes fluttered open. Tillman breathed a prayer of thanks that he hadn't been too late, but something had snagged on the leather lanyard his wife had given him, and it was tightening around his throat so that… Argh! The two men were pressed face-to-face, the lanyard threaded through Lieder's strong fingers. He made a fist and twisted, and Tillman's eyes bulged.

  Lieder gently lowered the boneless weight in his arms to the floor.

  Now! Now, he was free to follow The Warrior's instructions as set forth in The Revelation of the Forbidden Truth. He had thought about releasing the moonberries to form the nucleus of his American Freedom Militia, but he rejected the men at the end of the corridor as too old and crazy to be useful. He would take only the new pair in the double cell, the gnome and the bullet-headed one.

  He felt sorry for young Tillman. But… a man's got to play the cards he's dealt. And anyway, going a little early to collect your reward ain't all that bad, is it? Not for a true believer.

  RUTH LILLIAN KANE WAS alone in the Mercantile, her father having gone up to the living quarters to make their noon meal. He had done all the cooking, even when her mother was with them, because Mrs. Kane had had no intention of ruining her looks with domestic work. Ruth Lillian inherited her mother's looks and love of pretty things, but her father's no-nonsense brand of crisp, practical intelligence. She had arranged the new stock on the shelves attractively-she had her mother's eye for that sort of thing-and she was standing behind the counter, paging through a pattern book from the Singer Sewing Machine Company, approving styles that would suit her with a little nasal sound of appreciation, and dismissing unsuitable ones with a slight frown and a curt shake of her head, when the spring bell over the door jangled. It was so bright out in the street that she had to shield her eyes to see the customer silhouetted in the doorway. "Can I help you?"

  "I truly hope so, ma'am." He approached the counter, taking off his wide-brimmed hat.

  For a second, she stood with her hand still shielding her eyes. A stranger in Twenty-Mile? And a young one. "What can I do for you? Like our sign says, we got everything a person really needs." She smiled. "You'll notice it doesn't say everything a person might want, just what he really needs."

  "I'm glad to hear that, because what I really need is a job." He smiled. "My name's Matthew."

  "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Matthew. I'm Ruth Lillian Kane. This is my pa's store."

  "I don't believe it."

  "Well, it is. Why would I lie?"

  "No, I mean I don't believe your name is Ruth Lillian."

  "What's wrong with my name?"

  "Nothing! It's just that…" He shook his head. "Well, I'll be!"

  "What'll you be?" Ruth Lillian asked.

  "Well, to tell the tru-Ruth Lillian was my ma's name, believe it or not!"

  "There's lots of people named Ruth. It's a Bible name."

  "If you were both called Ruth, that'd be a coincidence. But to have the same middle name too! Now, that's something more than coincidence."

  "Like what?"

  "I don't know what to call it. But it's something, that's for sure." Matthew became aware that Mr. Kane was standing at the back of the store, having come down to tell Ruth Lillian that dinner was ready. "Good afternoon, sir. I was just telling your daughter here that her name and my ma's-"

  "I heard you," Mr. Kane said dryly.

  "He came looking for a job, Pa," Ruth Lillian explained, and she flushed with resentment at being made to feel she was in the wrong in some way.

  "There's no job here, young man. Nor anywhere else in Twenty-Mile, to my knowledge."

  "Yes, sir. Mr. Stone up to the livery stable told me the same thing. But it's an awful long walk back down to Destiny. And I'm pretty near tuckered out. To tell the truth-What I mean is, I'm not exactly sure what I should do." He looked at Mr. Kane with an open expression that invited him to make a suggestion.

  "Have you got any money?"

  "Yes, sir, a little."

  "Well, the Bjorkvists would probably put you up tonight. You could start back down in the morning."

  "Yes, sir, that's a possibility. I'll give it some thought. Thank you."

  "I don't suppose Matthew has eaten in a spell, Pa," Ruth Lillian said, ignoring her father's frown.

  "I didn't make a meal," Mr. Kane said. "Just leftovers."

  "That'd suit me just fine, sir," Matthew said cheerily. "Left-overs is my favorite dish. My ma used to say that when it comes to vittles, I'd eat anything I could outrun!"

  Ruth Lillian forced a little laugh at this, then looked at her father with calmly arched eyebrows until he shrugged, turned on his heel and started up the stairs, saying, "Well, we might as well eat before it gets any colder."

  During the meal, which Matthew praised frequently and lavishly, he mentioned that he hadn't eaten this well for weeks, because he'd been on the road since the day his ma and pa had died within a couple of hours of each other.

  "The fever, was it?" Ruth Lillian asked.

  Matthew settled his eyes on her. "Well, you know how it is, Ruth Lillian. Sometimes the fever comes swooping down and takes a whole town. Other times it takes some folks and leaves others to get on as best they can in this world."

  "You were left all alone?" Mr. Kane asked. "No brothers or sisters?"

  "No, sir. I was their only child."

  Ruth Lillian nodded slowly. She was an only child too. "How old are you, Matthew?"

  "Eighteen going on nineteen. But I suppose everybody that's eighteen is going on nineteen. If they don't die first!" He grinned at his joke.

  "Where are you from?" Mr. Kane asked dryly.

  "Well, sir, the truth is, we moved around a lot, my folks and me. We ended up in a little town back on the Nebraska border. But my pa never had much luck getting jobs and even less keeping them, so we were fixing to move on when the fever come and…" He lifted his palms and made a little sucking sound with his teeth.

  "What did you say your name was?"

&n
bsp; "Chumms," Matthew said quickly. "Matthew Bradford Chumms. Ma named me after the writer. The Ringo Kid books? I guess that's why most people call me Ringo. Except for Mr. Stone up to the livery stable. Him and Coots, they call me Matthew."

  "Oh, you know B. J. Stone, do you?"

  "Well, I wouldn't want to say we're close or anything. But we sat around talking about Cuba and books and Romans and such like. Mr. Stone particularly admires Mr. Anthony Bradford Chumms, so naturally we hit it off. I told Mr. Stone how I didn't think our victory in Cuba was all that glorious, what with how we snatched islands off of the Spaniards just to sell newspapers, and them not even having any ammunition while Teddy Roosevelt was running away from the yellow fever, and all. I think he pretty much agreed with me. Sir? Excuse me, but there's something I've really got to fess up about."

  "Oh? What's that?"

  "A while back you asked if I had money, and I said I had a little. Well, actually, sir, that was…" He swallowed. "That was a lie. Fact is, I ain't got a thin dime. I spent my last cent getting something to eat down to Destiny yesterday afternoon." He looked down into his plate. "I know a person shouldn't lie, sir. My ma was at me often enough about lying, but… Well, my folks and me, we've always been poor. And I've always been ashamed of it. When I was little, I used to pretend to have things I didn't have. Spending money. Toys. I even used to pretend I had brothers named after the other three evangelists. I don't know why. Maybe I thought that made me seem interesting." He looked into Ruth Lillian's eyes with the simple sincerity of a person wanting very much to be understood. "I guess what I've always wanted more than anything is for people to respect me. Like they respect the Ringo Kid. But people don't respect you if you're dirt poor." He turned his eyes to Mr. Kane. "And that's why I lied to you about having money, sir. But it's not right to lie to people who've been good enough to invite you into their home and set you down to their table."

  Mr. Kane cleared his throat and grunted. "Well, lots of good men have been poor. That's nothing to be ashamed of. A man can hold his head up, so long as he's willing to work for what he gets, and play fair with-"

  "Oh, I'm willing to work, sir! Don't you worry about that. You just point me at what needs being done, and I'll do 'er!"

  "I told you there's no work here."

  "Yes but, I'm not talking about a permanent job. Just odd chores like chopping wood, or touching up a little paint, or fixing things that's busted, or toting stuff from here to there. Little stuff like that."

  "There's lots of things we never get around to doing, Pa," Ruth Lillian put in, braving her father's dour glance. "You know you could use help with the heavy work."

  Matthew had noticed that Mr. Kane had been slow in mounting the stairs and that he had stood at the top, drawing shallow breaths and pressing the flat of his hand against his chest.

  But Mr. Kane was not going to be forced into a decision against his better judgment. "I don't need help. Not even temporary. I'm sorry, son, but that's how it is."

  "I understand what you're saying, sir," Matthew agreed reasonably. "Look, I'll tell you what. Why don't I just go off and look around town while you two talk things over?" He pushed his chair back from the table and rose. "I don't know how to thank you for that fine meal, sir. It was what the Ringo Kid would call 'fair to middlin'. That means it was real good. Mr. Anthony Bradford Chumms always has the Ringo Kid express himself that way-saying things are less than they are. Like calling a wild shoot-out 'a bit of a dustup,' or like saying he's not feeling all that jaunty when he's been shot in the shoulder and lost buckets of blood. So when I say that dinner was fair to middlin', I really mean that it was-gosh, I don't know why I'm blabbering on like this! I guess I'm nervous because your decision means so much to me. So I'll just leave you to talk things over in private. I'll come back in a few hours, and you can tell me what you've decided about the job." He turned to his hostess and made a gesture like tipping the brim of the hat he'd left downstairs on the counter. "Much obliged, Ruth Lillian."

  "I'll walk you down and unlock the door for you."

  "That's mighty civil of you." He stood aside to let Ruth Lillian precede him down the stairs. Before following her, he put his head back into the dining room, where Mr. Kane was resting, his elbow on the table, his head in his hand, his eyes closed. "Thank you again, sir."

  Without opening his eyes, Mr. Kane waved him away.

  "THE THING IS THIS, sir," Matthew explained as he handed Professor Murphy the long-handled brush he used to scrub out his bath barrels after the miners went back up to the Lode. "Mr. Kane just doesn't have enough chores and odd jobs to keep me busy full time. Lord knows he wants to help me out, what with my ma and Ruth Lillian being so close and all."

  The barber lifted his splendidly curled head out of the barrel and cocked a dubious eye at the young man. "You're related to the Kanes?"

  "Oh, I wouldn't say we was related. But Ruth Lillian has the same name as my ma. You know how it is, sir. There's small towns back East where just about everybody's related to everybody else. My pa used to say that the dogs was even related to the cats!"

  Professor Murphy contributed no more than a snort to the boy's self-appreciative laughter as he grunted his belly over the edge of the bath barrel and continued to scrub it with strong-smelling Fels-Naphtha soap. "Well, I'm afraid I ain't got any work for you," his voice echoed woodenly.

  "Yes, sir, I understand that. The only reason I asked was because Ruth Lillian's pa and old B. J. Stone both thought maybe you could use some help with the dirty work. Like scrubbing out those barrels and such. But if you can't afford it, I'll just tell them so. I'm sure they'll understand."

  Professor Murphy emerged from the barrel again, his splendid head of salt-and-pepper curls slightly askew. "It ain't a matter of being able to afford it!" He straightened his hair with a deft jerk. "It's a matter of needing help or not needing help!"

  "You're absolutely right, sir. And I can see I'm wasting your time, and like my pa used to say: time is money. Matter of fact, I figure that scrubbing out those four barrels real good, then sweeping up your place, and washing the windows and stuff like that, would take me about… oh, about two hours. And I wouldn't be able to work for less than two bits an hour, so the whole job would cost you half a dollar, and the good Lord knows that half a dollar ain't chicken feed. Not in these hard times."

  Twenty-Mile's only licensed purveyor of Chief Wapah's Patented Tonsorial Rejuvenator snorted. "If you think you could do all that work in two hours, boy, you been chewing on crazy-weed."

  Matthew looked at the barrels with a measuring eye. "Hm-m-m, well, I'm pretty sure I can do it in two hours… three at the most. Tell you what. I'll do the job for six bits, and if it takes me all day, well then that's just skin off my own nose. I honestly don't believe a man could say fairer than that, do you, sir?"

  "Six bits? Four barrels, scrubbed as clean as I want 'em? And my shop swept out? And my windows washed? And the trash dumped over the cliff, down across the tracks? And the sink scrubbed? You're saying you'd do all that for six bits?"

  "Yes, sir, that's my price for the first two weeks. And after that, if you don't think that's fair-or if I don't-well then, we can work out some sort of agreement."

  "Hm-m. Yeah but, even at six bits, the fact is I don't need no help."

  "… plus advice."

  "What?"

  "My price would be six bits plus some advice."

  "Advice? What sort of advice?"

  "Well, sir…" Matthew smiled slackly and looked around in embarrassment. "It's my hair, sir. I'm afraid I'm starting to lose it."

  "You?" The Professor regarded the boy's oak-brown, sun-glistered mop with a mixture of envy and irritation. "It's your mind you're losing, boy, not your hair. You'll have that hair till hell freezes over."

  "I wish I could believe that, sir. But my pa, he was only forty-two years old when he died, and he was already getting a little thin on top. He used to say that early balding was a sure sign that a man was st
rong with the women! My ma'd get mad when he said that because he had a reputation for… well, you know. So along with six bits for doing your chores, I'll be wanting advice about what to do, if I want to have a head of hair like yours when I'm your age."

  "You want hair like mine, do you? Well then, here!" He snatched off his wig and thrust it toward the boy, who jumped back startled. In fact, he actually was a little startled to see that the Professor was a good two inches shorter without his thick salt-and-pepper curls.

  The Professor sputtered with laughter, and Matthew stood blinking. "Well sir, you fooled me, and that's for sure! I never in the world would of guessed!"

  As he replaced his hair, still chuckling at the effect of his wit, Professor Murphy agreed to give their arrangement a try. "In fact, you can start right now." He tossed him the long-handled brush. "What'd you say your name was?"

  "Folks call me the Ringo Kid. Sir, would it be all right if I started first thing tomorrow morning? You see, I'm supposed to talk to the man who owns the hotel. What's his name again?"

  "Delanny. And it ain't a hotel! He gives himself airs, calling that three-stall whorehouse a hotel."

  "Ain't that the truth? Some people do just love to give themselves airs. But I got to get me a little work from Mr. Delanny, too. Old B. J. Stone confided in me that there wasn't a real job to be had in Twenty-Mile, so I guess I've got to build me one out of bits and scraps. I'll be back bright'n early tomorrow, and seventy-five cents later, those tubs'll be cleaner than a… a… Gosh, I can't think of what you say things are cleaner'n a…"

  "Whistle."

  "Whistle? I thought things were slicker than a whistle."

  "I always heard cleaner!"

  "You know, sir, I believe you're right. I believe smart folks say cleaner'n a whistle, and only us country folks say slicker'n a whistle. Well then, I'll be seeing you tomorrow morning."