Mr. Delanny's eyes narrowed in evaluation. Then: 'You know, I think Dubchek just might be your real name. It isn't one that a natural-born con would make up. Too foreign. Well then, Matthew Dubchek, why don't you start tomorrow morning? You can give Calder there a hand.'
'I don't need no hand!'
Mr. Delanny ignored this and told Matthew he could help Jeff Calder make breakfast for the girls and…
'But I don't need no help.'
… then he could do whatever other chores Calder set for him. Might be washing the dishes, or making the girls' beds, or doing the laundry up at the spring, or throwing garbage over the cliff. Whatever Calder said needed being done.
Matthew rose from the table and went to the bar. 'Well then, Mr. Calder, I guess you're to be my boss.'
'Yeah, but I don't need-'
'I gotta be honest with you, Mr. Calder. I ain't any great shakes at cooking. But I'm a quick learner!'
Matthew smiled, and the peg-legged veteran grunted and muttered that he'd damn well better be a quick learner, because he didn't have time to tell somebody how to do something more'n once!
'I understand that, sir. And I'll see you tomorrow morning, bright and early.'
'Not too bright and early,' Jeff Calder said, making it clear right from the beginning who was boss.
Matthew nodded and put on the hat he had been holding by its rim. His broad smile concealed the nausea that the barroom medley of stale cigar smoke and whiskey brought to the back of his throat. Particularly the whiskey. He hated that smell! He had turned to leave when Mr. Delanny's beckoning flick of a forefinger brought him back to the card table, where he took off his hat and sat.
'Tell me, young Dubchek, how did you happen to come-'
'Excuse me, sir. I'm sorry to interrupt you, but I'd just as soon you didn't call me Dubchek because… well, you see, somehow Mr. Kane got the idea that my name was Matthew Bradford Chumms- same as the book- writer? — and I didn't bother to set him straight because, well, because I didn't know I was going to stay in Twenty-Mile long enough for it to matter one way or the other. But now if I tell him that Chumms isn't my name, he'll think I was lying to him, and-' Matthew stopped short and looked into Mr. Delanny's amused eyes. He lowered his own eyes to his lap. 'All I been saying is a lie, sir. Fact is, I told Mr. Kane my name was Chumms.'
Mr. Delanny chuckled through his nose without smiling. 'That's a well-worn, but nevertheless effective, ploy: confessing that you've been lying when you realize the other fellow's got you cold to rights, in the hope that you'll end up seeming honest because you've admitted to being a liar.'
Matthew didn't look up. 'I don't lie, Mr. Delanny. Not really what you'd call lie. I just… I tell people what I think will please them, or interest them, or make them respect me.'
'Is that what you want from people? Respect?'
'More'n anything, sir. But it's hard to get respect if your name's Dubchek, and everybody knows who your pa is. And what he is.'
'I see. So you're not to be called Dubchek.'
'No, sir. Just plain Matthew will do. Well, you could call me Ringo, if you want. That's what Professor Murphy calls me.'
Mr. Delanny didn't laugh because he couldn't afford to trigger another cough, but his eyes glittered. 'It would be a pity for you to waste such a natural gift for duplicity on Twenty-Mile. There's nothing for you here, boy. Not even any respect worth having. The people in this town, they're just driftwood carried here on the crest of the silver boom, then left beached when that flood subsided, and they hadn't the strength or the courage to get back into the current.'
Matthew smiled crookedly. 'Even you, sir?'
'Even me.'
'Why do you stay here, if it's all that bad?'
Delanny's mouth creased in an ironic smile that did not illuminate his eyes. 'I'm here for the mountain air. It's good for my lungs. Keeps me alive-if moving cards around on a table and watching the days sift away can be called living. All right then! You can start tomorrow morning. The girls eat and sleep here in the hotel because Mrs. Bjorkvist wouldn't have them at the boarding house. She'll take money from the miners who use them, but she won't have the girls. A typical Godfearing Bible-pounder who believes that money in the bank is a sign of God's approval.'
'She's certainly that, all right!' Matthew agreed with a knowing chuckle.
'Oh? You know Mrs. Bjorkvist, do you?'
'Well, no, not exactly. But if you say she's Godfearing, your word is good enough for me, sir.'
Mr. Delanny sniffed and shook his head. 'You're a real chameleon, boy.'
Matthew rose. 'Well, I promised I'd get back to Mr. Kane's so we could figure out what sort of chores I'll be doing for him.' He raised his voice. 'Good-bye, Mr. Calder. I'll be back in the morning — but not too bright and early, like you said.'
Mr. Delanny, who had returned to his solitaire layout, glanced up when Matthew asked, 'Sir? Excuse me, but just what exactly is a kameel-keemel-what you said?'
'A chameleon is a lizard that protects itself by changing its coloring to match its surroundings.'
'I see.' The boy nodded slowly. 'Well, then!' He waved and went out into the glaring sunlight.
MATTHEW HAD NO LUCK with the Bjorkvists, even though he found a way to mention right off that his ma, who had passed over into Glory only the week before, used to read every night from the Bible, which he, for one, reckoned was the finest book in the world, even better than those Ringo Kid books written by Mr. Anthony Bradford Chumms, after whom he was named-except for his first name, which was Matthew… like the Matthew who helped write the Bible?
He stood in the doorway to the big dining room, further penetration into the boarding house being blocked by Mrs. Bjorkvist, whose arms were folded over her chest. Her husband sat at one of the back tables, sullen and silent in a long-sleeved red undershirt that was sweat-bleached under the arms. Curiosity had drawn the thick-featured Kersti Bjorkvist to the doorway of the steamy kitchen, where she stood dabbing at her glistening neck with a cool dish cloth, while her slack-eyed brother, Oskar, stood against the wall, sizing Matthew up, wondering who'd win in a fight.
No, Mrs. Bjorkvist did not have any work she needed done-particularly by somebody who'd come to her directly from Delanny's den of vice, after spending time up at the Livery with that B. J. Stone and that Coots of his! Didn't he know that this Coots used to be a gunman in wicked river towns, protecting gamblers and Jezebels from being strung up by righteous citizens, like they deserved? No, she didn't need any help, but if Matthew wanted to stay at her boarding house, it'd be a dollar a day for two meals and a bed. Matthew said that he was sure that was a fair price, but to tell the tru-he wasn't even sure he'd be making a dollar each and every day, but maybe he could work off his bed and board by doing odd jobs around the-Didn't he hear her say that she didn't need no odd jobs done!? She had her own men to do odd jobs. And it was a dollar a day, take it or leave it.
'Well, ma'am, I guess I'll have to think about it. Nothing would please me more than to be a regular guest with a family that lives by the Good Book, but at a dollar a day… Well, ma'am, I want to thank you for your help and advice, and I… well, I guess I'll just be on my way.'
'DON'T SAY I DIDN'T warn you,' B. J. Stone said, looking up from the month-old Laramie newspaper he had been picking clean, down to the social announcements and 'for sale' notices. He had devoured the paper that came up with the train, and now he was reduced to rummaging through his stack of back issues for something he hadn't read to the bone. 'I told you there wasn't any work in town.'
'Yes, sir, you did. But, you know, it's amazing how helpful people can be. Everyone found some little job that I could do. Everyone except for Mrs. Bjorkvist.'
'That doesn't surprise me none,' Coots said as he continued sharpening a knife on a whetting wheel that was no longer round and had to be 'chased' to keep the blade in contact. 'That woman wouldn't give you the time of day. She might sell you the time of day at so much the minute, but give it? Not hardly.'
'She said you used to be a gunman in river towns.'
'Did she, now?'
'Yes, and she said you used to shoot people and break up lynching parties and all.'
'Well now, how about that? Sounds like I was a real heller.'
'Why don't you get our young guest here a cup of coffee, Mr. Heller?' B. J. said.
