Chapter Two
I half turned as he went by, walking to the back part of the adobe where Brady's rolltop desk was next to the door that led to the store part. He was carrying a push broom.
Brady called over the bar, 'John, you don't have to do that now.'
'It's all right,' he answered. His voice sounded natural, but like there wasn't a speck of enthusiasm in him if he ever wanted to bring it out.
'No,' Brady said. 'Wait till later. These people will just mess up the place anyhow.'
He nodded, then leaned the push broom against the wall and stood at the desk with his back to us.
'I never know how to talk to him,' Brady half whispered.
'Mr. Brady '
Brady looked up and saw John Lefton at the end of the bar now. As he walked down to him, Chris and Kite and Vicente stopped talking. They stood at the bar pretending like they weren't trying to hear what was said, as Brady and the one armed man talked for a minute. Then Brady came back for the mescal bottle and poured him a good shot of it.
'I wonder what he's trying to forget,' I said, when Brady was opposite me again.
'His wife,' Brady said, and didn't add anything to that for a minute. Then he said, 'He's been here three weeks and he's gotten three letters from her, forwarded from the last town he stayed in, but he hasn't answered one.'
'How do you know it's his wife . . . he told you?'
Brady hesitated. 'I read one of the letters.'
'Joe!'
He gritted his teeth, meaning for me to keep my voice down. 'After he got the last one he started drinking and kept it up till it put him asleep. He was sitting at that table there and the letter was right in front of him. Listen . . . I just stood there trying to figure him out, wanting to help him, but I couldn't help him till I knew what his trouble was.
Finally I decided, hell, there's only one way to do it, read the letter.'
'Go on.'
'She asked him why he never answered any of her letters and when he was going to send for her, and telling how much she loved him,' Brady paused. 'You see it now?'
I could see it all right. Him coming back from the War lacking an arm and somehow figuring he'd be a burden and being sensitive about how he looked. Then running away to prove himself . . . then doing more running than proving. Promising to send for her at first, but each day knowing it would be harder as the time passed. Her at home waiting while he wanders around losing his selfrespect. That would be eight years of waiting now.
'Maybe,' I said, 'he don't want her anymore.'
Brady shook his head. 'You never saw him read the letters.'
About a minute later, this Tobin Royal came up next to me and slapped his left handed quirt down on the bar. 'Give me another one,' he said.
Brady said civilly, 'You haven't paid for the first two yet.'
'We'll settle when I'm through,' Tobin told him.
He drank off part of the whiskey that Brady poured and stood fiddling with what was left, turning the glass between two fingers. His eyes lifted as Brady moved down the bar to where John Lefton was standing and poured him another mescal.
Tobin leaned away from the bar to look at Lefton. He came back then and said, loud enough for everybody to hear, 'I guess even a man without all his parts can drink mescal.'
I couldn't believe he'd said it, but there it was and at that moment the room was quiet as night. I half whispered to Tobin, 'What'd you say that for?'
But he didn't answer me. He moved from the bar the next moment and went down to stand next to Lefton who glanced at him, but looked down at his drink again.
'Before you go sloppin' up the mescal juice,' Tobin said, 'I want to understand my horse is cared for. You rubbed him good?'
Lefton was raising the mescal glass, ignoring Tobin, and suddenly Tobin's quirt came up and lashed down on Lefton's arm and the mescal glass went slamming skidding over the bar.
'I asked you a question,' Tobin said.
For a shaded second Lefton's face came alive, but as fast as it came the anger faded from his eyes and he looked down at his wrist, holding it tightly to his stomach. 'No,' he answered then. 'I didn't rub down your horse.'
'Do it now,' Tobin said.
Brady moved toward them. 'Wait a minute! You don't order my help around!'
'He wants to do it,' Tobin answered. 'Don't you?'
Lefton's eyes raised. 'It's all right, Mr. Brady.'
'I'll tip him something,' Tobin grinned. He looked at Lefton again. 'One hand's as good as two for rubbing down a horse, ain't it?'
Lefton hesitated. Before he could answer Tobin's quirt came down cracking against the bar edge and Lefton went back half a step.
'You're not much for answering questions, are you?'
Lefton's eyes raised momentarily. 'I'll tend to your horse.'
Tobin grinned. 'I want to ask you something else.' He waited to make Lefton speak.
'All right,' Lefton said.
'Where did you leave your arm?'
Again Lefton hesitated and you had the urge to poke him to make him hurry up and answer. 'On Rock Creek,' he said then. 'East of Cemetery Ridge.'
'What was your outfit?'
'Seventh Michigan.'
Tobin's face brightened. 'Damn, I thought you looked like a blue belly! One of Wade Hampton's boys cut you good, didn't he?' He looked around at the rest of us and said, 'A brother of mine was with Wade, all the way to Yellow Tavern.'
Lefton didn't say a word and Tobin studied him.
'What rank did you hold?'
'Lieutenant.'
'From lieutenant of cavalry to rubbin' down horses,' Tobin said. He stuck out his quirt as Lefton started to walk past him. 'I didn't say you could go!' The quirt moved across Lefton's chest and the tip of it poked at the empty right sleeve.
'Above the elbow,' Tobin said. 'Were you righthanded or left?'
'Right.'
'Now that'd be a hardship,' Tobin said.
'Teaching the left what the right used to know.'
The quirt end kept slapping gently at the empty sleeve as he spoke. 'But the left's good enough for sloppin' mescal juice, huh?'
Lefton did not answer.
'You hear me?'
'Yes . . . it's good enough.'
'I thought stable boys were supposed to say yes sir.'
'That's enough!' Brady said. His big face was red and had a tight look about the mouth. 'You leave him alone now!'
Tobin looked at Brady. 'You ought to learn your stable boy proper respect.'
'This man isn't a stable boy!'
