mountain men know how to treat mules. All three men had pistols stuck into their belts. No holsters. B. J. recognized this to be a bad sign.
The men threaded their way toward the Livery, but it wasn't until they were almost at the shoeing yard that B. J. stepped out from the shadow of the lean-to into the sunlight.
'Nice-looking herd you've got there!' the one in the waistcoat said, flicking his thumb toward the scraggly beef standing forlorn in the empty meadow. 'Need many ranch hands to look after it?'
'Looks like you've lost a mule,' B. J. said in a tone bereft of either friendliness or curiosity.
The man in the waistcoat slipped down from his mule and stepped forward, grinning. 'That we did, friend! Couple of hours back. The poor beast just balked and wouldn't go another step. I tried reasoning with it, but we were on a narrow cut with sheer rock on one side and a whole lot of nothing on the other-a real awkward place for a mule to get ornery. Well, I gave that mule a tug or two, sort of inviting it to have second thoughts about its uncooperative behavior. But, no. No, the poor old beast had made up its mind that it was going no further. So I did what any reasonable man would do when friendly persuasion fails. I sent a slug into his stubborn head and pushed him off into the ravine. He made a fair splat when he hit the bottom, I got to give him credit for that. As a comfortable ride and a willing companion, that mule was no great shakes, but when it came to splatting…! Well, that just goes to show that all God's creatures have their own special gifts. Some are strong; some are wise; some possess the ability to comfort and console. And that mule? He was a natural-born splatter. ' Lieder grinned, and B. J. could tell that he took pleasure in his ability to turn a colorful phrase.
The man who had come on foot chortled, a gnarled gnome of a man with a barrel chest and facial features that were flattened and askew, as though someone had pushed the heel of his hand into the face of a soft clay statue and given it a twist. Lieder turned and raked him with a theatrical glare. 'Don't you dare laugh at that poor beast, Tiny! That poor mule was one of God's creatures, and its journey to the great pasture up yonder is not to be laughed at!' Then he turned his eyes to B. J. and winked. '… But it did make a fine splat.'
B. J. spoke dryly. 'If you're thinking of buying a fresh string, we don't have any mules. We only keep donkeys. And they're all on their way up to the mine.'
'I see. Well then, I guess we'll have to make do with horses.'
'We don't keep horses.'
'But wait a minute, here.' He stepped back and squinted up at the weathered sign over the barn door. 'Doesn't that say livery stable? And yet you stand there telling me you don't have any horses. I'm confused. I don't understand how a livery stable-You! Boy! Don't you hang back in the shadows where a man can't see you! Step out here!' Then his voice suddenly returned to its tone of honeyed menace. 'Just be so kind as to step out here and tell me how come a livery stable doesn't have any horses. I seek to be enlightened upon this point.' The two followers grinned; they had come to delight in their leader's slick flow of talk.
Matthew stepped out into the autumn sunlight. 'There's no use for horses up here. The only way in or out of town is by the mule track you come up.'
'And the railroad! You weren't going to forget to mention the railroad, were you, boy?' He turned to his followers. 'I fear that this boy was not going to mention the railroad that brings a load of silver down to Destiny every week, regular as clockwork. Now, why do you imagine he'd try to baffle a weary traveler thataway? Is it not written: baffle not the weary traveler, nor seek to deceive the humble passerby?… Paul to the Georgians: 7, 13.'
The third stranger, a long-faced giant with a fleshy little bow of a mouth that was puckered into a permanent kiss, slid off his mule and pulled down the crotch of his trousers to ease the irritation of his long ride. 'I'm hungry,' he complained in an incongruously thin, high voice.
'All things in their season, Bobby-My-Boy.'
'Those mules are finished,' B. J. said. 'You've ridden them too hard.' Their backs had been rubbed raw; they suppurated at the edges of their saddles, and constant heel kicks had opened the skin along their rib cages. They stood with their heads low, long threads of saliva hanging from open jaws.
'Do I detect recrimination in your tone, friend? You shouldn't be hard on us. We're just three poor sick boys doing the best we can in a cold, harsh world. Ain't we, Tiny?'
The gnome with the smeared face showed a big yellow grin.
'There's something strange about Tiny's name. Mostly people called Tiny are big strapping fellas, just like most men called Curly are bald. But our Tiny is… tiny. Now, ain't that fascinating? But you were right, friend, when you pointed out that these poor old mules are broke and useless. I guess there's no point wasting good feed on them, is there? Tell you what I'll do. I'll just leave them with you, and you can have them as a free and complimentary gift. A memento of our meeting.'
'I don't want them.'
'Oh-oh! Now look what you've done. I just got through telling you what I was going to do, and there you come sassing back, telling me that I can't do it. That's the kind of thing that just frustrates the living hell out of me. But I'm a reasonable man. You say you don't want them? Well then… ' He drew the pistol out of his belt and shot first one mule, then the other. They both dropped onto their knees, snorting and blowing wetly in their agony. The leader turned to B. J. and raised his palms. 'Now look what you done! Your bickering and contradiction has brought pain and suffering to these poor dumb beasts. But you have my permission to put them out of their misery, if that's your desire.'
B. J. stared at the man, his disgust undisguised. Then he turned to Matthew. 'Go fetch Coots's old rifle.'
'You do that, boy,' Lieder said. 'You fetch this old coot's rifle. Say, I got an idea! It might be interesting to see if our new-found friend here has any guts. What's your name, new-found friend?'
'Stone.'
'Stone, eh? I like to know a man's name. Permit me to introduce my followers. The little one's called Tiny, like I said. And the big one, that's Bobby-My-Boy. They're both pretty ugly, as you can see, but they try to make up for it by being mean and low-minded. Real mean. And real low-minded. Me? My name's Lieder. L-i-e-d-e-r. It's a Pennsylvania Dutch name. When I tell people my name, they sometimes think I'm claiming to be a leader. And you know what? Maybe there's something to that. I don't believe in coincidence. I think our lives are directed by forces 'beyond our ken'-as they say. Those forces chose to call me Leader for a good reason. And I'm pretty sure I know what that reason was. So your name is Stone, eh? Now, that is what I call interesting! Anyone can see you're a hard man, Mr. Stone, the way you talk so mean and harsh to strangers. You're a Stone who's hard. That's like Tiny being small, or like me being a leader, if you see what I mean. Funny old world. ' He turned to his men. 'You know, boys, I'm curious to find out just how hard Mr. Stone is. I wonder if he's hard enough to use his gun on me, rather than the mules, 'cause I can tell from the way he looks at me that he thinks he's an altogether higher and nobler example of mankind than this poor contemptible creature standing before him. ' He turned back to B. J., still smiling. 'I've got that right, haven't I, Mr. Stone? You do find me contemptible, don't you? Come on, fess up.'
Matthew emerged from the kitchen with Coots's rifle and a box of cartridges.
'Well, look there, will you?' the leader said. 'I haven't seen an old rimfire Henry in a coon's age. You cut a good deep cross on the nose of that Henry's. 44 slug, and you've got yourself a real stopper! It'll blow everything out of a man but his bad intentions!'
The mules were still snorting in pain, but Lieder spoke comfortably and easily as his followers grinned along, spectators to the fun. 'You know how to load that Henry, boy?' the leader asked, his eyes never leaving B. J.'s.
'Yes, sir.'
'Do it, boy. Do it! We are about to learn something. We're going to find out how hard the stones on this barren old mountain are. Ain't that right, Mr. Stone?'
B. J. didn't answer.
While Matthew was loading the gun, the man with no neck and lips in a permanent pucker complained again that he was hungry.
'Patience, Bobby-My-Boy, patience. First I got to sort out what's what in this town, and… ' He turned to B. J. '… and who's who. Then we'll eat, drink, and make merry. Make merry! Hey, wouldn't it be something if in your den of vice-the Traveller's Welcome, if I'm not mistaken-one of the girls turned out to be named Mary? That'd make what I said about 'making Mary' pretty goddamn witty! And as the Book so truly tells us: Laughter colors our lives and lightens our burdens… Paul to the Virginians: 7, 13. Give that gun to Mr. Stone, boy!' he spat out, in a sudden rage. 'Give it to him! Go on, give it to him!'
As Matthew numbly passed the rifle to B. J., one of the mules died. Died with pathetic simplicity. It stretched
