those Sodomites up to the Livery, and everyone knows what that means.
'But I ain't been up there for a long time.'
'What does that prove?'
'Well, I can tell you that neither B. J. nor Coots has ever done anything wrong when I was around.'
'That's what you say.' She was struggling into her dress.
'But it's the truth!'
'It don't matter what's true and what ain't. It's what people think that matters! Now look what you done! You made me rip my dress!'
'I didn't mean… I'm sorry.'
'Sorry don't get the barn painted!' She stormed out, slamming the back door behind her.
He sat on the edge of the bed, shaking his head. '… the barn?'
'AFTERNOON!' MATTHEW GREETED. HIS jovial tone was calculated to make up for his failure to drop by for more than a week… or at least to deny B. J. a chance to comment on it.
'Mm-m… ' B. J. didn't look up from the two-month-old copy of the Nebraska Plainsman he had found at the bottom of the pile when he was desperate for something to read.
Matthew chafed his hands together vigorously. 'Hoo-birds! There's a nip in the air! Winter's on its way, and no mistake.'
'You reckon?' B. J. turned the page and read for a third time an article written in succulently ghoulish journalese that fleshed out the headlines: TRAGIC INCIDENT AT BUSHNELL GORY SCENE GREETS CURIOUS NEIGHBOR 'Yes, sir,' Matthew pursued with dogged verve. 'Early this morning, I could see my breath in the air, and I was indoors!'
'See your breath, could you? Well now, how about that?'
Matthew couldn't help glancing thirstily at the tin mug of steaming coffee beside B. J.
'Where's Coots got to?'
B. J. carefully folded the paper, set it aside, and leaned back against the wall, his mind still on the article he had been reading. He regarded Matthew with a long, defocused gaze as he hefted various possibilities. Then he blinked and said, 'I'm sorry, Matthew. What were you saying?'
'I was just wondering where Coots was.'
'He took the donkeys up to the Lode by the back trail.'
'Hey, maybe he'll run into Reverend Hibbard up there! Maybe he'll get a free sermon! A nice long juicy one, with plenty of hellfire and goddamnation!'
'That would be a real treat for him. Well, Matthew! I don't believe we've seen you around here for a spell.'
'Yes, well… I've been… you know… real busy.'
'I see. ' B. J. drew a breath as though to ask about something… then he decided to take a different tack. 'Matthew?'
'Sir?'
'May I give you a bit of advice?'
'Yes, sir.'
'There are two are things in this life that are easily squandered, and too late regretted: time and friends. The wise man either spends his time well or wastes it gracefully. But he never, never lets a friendship shrivel and die for lack of attention. Friendships are just too precious. Too rare. Too fragile.'
Matthew knew he should try to explain why he hadn't been around, but instead he said, 'I don't have to worry. I've got plenty of friends.' And he instantly regretted the cocky sound of that.
'Have you?'
'Sure.'
'Like Reverend Hibbard? Or Professor Murphy? Or the Bjorkvists?'
'I was thinking of the Kanes. And the folks at the hotel.'
'The Kanes? Yes, probably. The hotel? Well, I suppose you might count on the girls as friends… in their way, and to their limits. One often finds a residue of sentiment in girls like that. The lees of love at the bottom of the bottle. But sentiment is to love what ethics are to morality, or what legality is to justice, or justice to compassion- all degraded forms of a loftier ideal. But yes, the girls might come to your aid, should you fall upon evil days. But as for Delanny and Calder…?' B. J. made a dry three-note laugh. 'Delanny doesn't care about people. Dying is a selfish business, Matthew. Ask anyone who's cared for an aging parent. And Jeff Calder is no one's friend. He's a man of prejudices, rather than values; of appetites, rather than tastes; of opinions, rather than ideas. He doesn't care who's right, only who wins. There are millions of Calders out there. They elect our presidents, they fill our church pews, they decide our- What in hell are you smiling at?'
'The way you talk, sir. There's no doubting that you used to be a schoolteacher. Hoo-birds!'
B. J. Stone chuckled. 'I guess I was waxing a little pedantic. Cup of coffee?'
'I'd like nothing better. No, don't get up. I'll fetch it.'
From the kitchen, he raised his voice to ask, 'Ah… did you know Coots back when you were the schoolteacher here?'
There was no answer. When Matthew returned, rolling his mug between his palms to warm them, he repeated, 'Is that when you two met? Back when you were teaching school?'
'Why this interest in Coots and me?'
'Just curious.'
B. J. looked at him through narrowed eyes. Then he lifted his shoulders as though to say, 'Well, why not?'
'No, I didn't meet Coots until what I thought would be my last day in Twenty-Mile. The town was dying and there weren't enough children left to support a teacher. The lawyer had already gone, and the blacksmith, and the town marshal-this last taking with him the wife of our principal merchant. The time had come for B. J. Stone, Esquire, to drift on to the next town and try to teach a love of books to a new batch of kids who'd give the world to be anywhere but in that schoolroom.' He leaned toward Matthew and informed him in a mock-confidential tone, 'Teaching, you understand, is not just a profession. It's a calling.'
'So how'd you meet Coots?' Matthew perched up on the work bench with his cup of coffee.
'Coots had the misfortune to blow into Twenty-Mile just as the dried-up town was beginning to blow away. For a couple of weeks he worked here at the livery stable. Then one morning, the owner told him he was fed up, and Coots could have the goddamned Livery, lock, stock, and unpaid debts. The lock didn't have a key, and there wasn't much stock, but there were plenty of debts. Luckily, the creditors had all left town, too. ' B. J. scratched his chin stubble with his thumbnail and lowered his eyes. 'I'd planned to leave a box of books at the Livery to be forwarded when I found a town that needed a burned-out teacher. We fell to talking, Coots and I. I don't remember about what. Just… talking. And that was it. Just like that. It's silly, really: two old farts in their fifties. Ridiculous. But… ' B. J. shook his head at the capricious vagaries of human emotion. 'Coots had known about himself for a long time. I, on the other hand, had not known. Oh, I'd surmised, but I had never let the truth get close enough to read its name.' He drew a breath, and his attention focused back to Matthew. 'You understand what I'm talking about, don't you, Matthew?'
'Yes. Well… sort of.'
'And does it trouble you? Or upset you?… Matthew?'
But Matthew was looking past B. J.'s shoulder, out across the donkey meadow.
'About Coots and me? It's neither good nor bad. It's just… the way we are. You understand?'
'Somebody's coming.'
'What?'
'Three men. Look.'
B. J. turned and stood up. One of the men was on foot; the other two were mounted on coffee-colored mules that were so spent and stumble-footed that the men had to rib-kick them ceaselessly to keep them moving. They were crossing the donkey meadow, having worked their way up from the tangled labyrinth of cuts and blind ravines below.
'Prospectors?' Matthew asked.
'No,' B. J. said. They weren't dressed like prospectors, at least not the one wearing that fancy waistcoat. And
