“There’s not a man on the studio lot who doesn’t know I speak for Mr. Chance.”
“That’s for the small-time pictures, Fitz. This is closer to Mr. Chance’s heart.”
“Just do your job,” said Fitz. “That’s all he wants from you.”
“He’s a lonely man. What about friendship?”
“Don’t press your luck, Vincent. He’s got friendship. You get him Indians.”
“I think the time has come for us to lay our cards on the table,” I say to McAdoo.
He is emptying the box of supplies I brought from town. A kerosene lamp is lit against the falling dusk and it sends tall shadows leaping up and down the walls as Shorty stoops and straightens unpacking his bacon, his beans, his coffee, his sugar, his crackers, the box of ammunition for Wylie’s revolver. When the cartridges hit the tabletop Wylie snatches them up and bolts to his bunk where he breaks the pistol open and starts excitedly loading it.
“It’s too dark to go shooting now, Wylie,” Shorty warns him.
Wylie’s dismayed face shoots up. “It ain’t too dark. It ain’t hardly too dark at all.”
“Leave off until tomorrow.”
“I disbelieve it’s too dark, Shorty. I’m pretty sure it ain’t.”
“It’s blacker than Toby’s arse out there,” says McAdoo. “I ain’t telling you again. Get it out of your head.”
Wylie gives a downcast tuck to his mouth but doesn’t argue, only commences mournfully emptying the pistol with the lovesick air of a young girl plucking petals from a flower. One by one he carefully stands the bullets in a line on the floor, looks at them, and then takes each bullet up in turn, mysteriously sniffing its blunt lead nose before returning it to its place in the ranks.
“What the hell’s he up to?” I ask.
McAdoo shrugs. “I ain’t going to lay a guess. God himself don’t know what goes on in that boy’s head. I don’t reckon that gun was such a good idea. He’s shooting the property full of holes.”
Now Wylie is rearranging the cartridges in an X, extending the arms of the X with new ammunition recruited from the box, blissfully sucking on his bottom lip as he fusses with the alignment of the bullets like a little boy playing with his lead soldiers.
“What about these cards you want to lay on the table?” says McAdoo, as he watches Wylie tinkering with the cartridges.
“It needs to be said, Shorty. Don’t take it wrong.”
“Say it.”
“This crap you’ve been handing me doesn’t cut it. You’ve got to do better. My job’s at stake.”
I wait for Shorty to take the bait. He doesn’t.
“At first I thought, Shorty needs to get to know me. I have to establish confidence and trust before he’ll open up to me. I told myself, The money you’re paying him now is just seed money. Think of it as seed money. But where’s the crop, Shorty? I can’t wait forever for the crop.”
Shorty holds a can of beans in his left hand. His eyes avoid me.
“I think maybe I ought to lay the cards on the table for both of us, Shorty,” I say. “I’ve got a sick mother in the hospital. You want to take this boy to Canada with you.” Wylie glances up from his bullets when I mention him, eyes distrustful. “You and I have people depending on us. We have responsibilities. Responsibilities that require money. But nobody gives money away to get nothing in return. My employer is not getting what he wants, Shorty. Soon he’ll cut our water off.”
“Let him cut it.”
I raise my voice, turn McAdoo’s head with it. “That’s not good enough, Shorty. I deserve better from you.” I point to Wylie. “How’re you going to get him to Canada without money? And what the hell are you going to do for money when you get him there?”
McAdoo doesn’t respond. His face is set, emotionless.
“I am telling you a fact. There is a chance you can carry a substantial amount of money to Canada with you – if you tell me something I can use. But if you have nothing to tell, we are wasting each other’s time.” I pause. “You know what I am asking.”
“You asking me to put money in your pocket.”
“If it was just a case of money, don’t you think I could look out for myself? I’d sit down, make up a story, sign your name to it. I know what he wants and I can give it to him; I’m a writer. But more than money’s involved. There’s respect. I respect the man I work for. He’s trusting me to give him the truth and I’ll give him that or I’ll give him nothing. I respect you, too, so I won’t put your name to a lie. Because I don’t believe you’re a liar, Shorty.”
“No, I ain’t.” He records this as a fact, in a courtroom voice.
“I’m glad to hear it. Because if you aren’t, that must mean the things that are said about you are true.”
“I can’t answer on that. Depends on the things.” It comes out hard, a rebuke.
“They say you were an Indian-fighter.”
He smiles stiffly, mouth twisting lopsidedly with effort. “They say all the real Indian-fighters is dead. Like Custer.” He isn’t convincing.
“But if they aren’t? That makes a survivor damn valuable.”
He keeps smiling, his grin the rictus of a corpse.
“You a survivor, Shorty?”
“I done some surviving.”
“You ever fight Indians?”
He stares at me for a considerable interval. “Some,” he admits at last. The smile has vanished.
My heart is beating fast. I know I am getting close but I’m not sure how to finish. “Now was that so hard?”
“What you want, Vincent?”
“Not what I want, what he wants. He wants Indians. Indians plus the truth.”
“He don’t want no fucking truth. Not your man.”
“I assure you, he does.”
Shorty laughs sourly.
“Claiming he doesn’t want the truth gives you an out, doesn’t it? Because then you don’t have to bother telling it.”
“I know it. He don’t want my truth. It ain’t to his taste.”
“That’s what you say. I say different. Let’s see who’s right. Tell it.”
“For the money.”
“Money – for whatever reason you want.”
Shorty puts the can of beans down on the table. “Wylie,” he barks in a no-nonsense voice, “take your blankets, take your gun, go wait outside.”
Wylie squirms uneasily on the bed; he scoops up the box of cartridges in one hand and a fistful of blanket in the other. “Why I got to go outside, Shorty?”
“Because you’re the best shot here and I’m giving you the job of looking out for us.”
“Who’s it I’m a-guarding you from, Shorty?”
“You’ll know the bastards when you see them. Don’t let nobody close now. I’m counting on you.”
Wylie gathers pistol, cartridges, and blanket. “I’ll know them when I see them?” he asks doubtfully.
“They’re Mexicans,” says Shorty. “You see a Mexican, shoot first and ask questions later.”
“Christ, don’t tell him that.”
“Mexicans,” says Wylie to himself. “Mexicans.”
“Build yourself a fire,” Shorty tells him. “You going to be keeping watch a goodly spell.”
“How do I know if they’re Mexicans?” says Wylie.
“By the big fucking hats. Mexicans are big-hatted bastards. Sombreros. Look for the hats.” Shorty holds each of his hands out a couple of feet from his head.
Wylie nods and goes out full of purpose.
“What’s that about?” I say.
“He don’t need to see and he don’t need to hear.”
“See and hear what?”
“Us fattening on the dead.”
