felt Frenchy's concentration on him. She stared at his boot and slightly lifted her chin in an effort to tell him to use it. Use it! She was sure he understood, but he pursed his lips and lowered his eyes with a ghost of a shrug, and she realized that he was going to accept his humiliation. Just as greed for a few more years of life, however empty and dull, had caused him to stay in this dead town for the sake of its clean mountain air, so he would swallow the indignity of sitting in cowed silence in his own barroom. And when he could hold it no longer, would he just sit there and piss himself? Or would he take his chance? She thought she knew. She turned and looked out the window, feeling pity for him but also, for the first time, contempt.
With the approach of evening, Lieder decided to meander down the street 'to get the lay of the land.' He crossed over to the marshal's office and had a long talk with Matthew, during which he told him that if he played his cards right, he might become one of his army, maybe even his prince regent. Then Reverend Hibbard returned from preaching up at the Surprise Lode, so he walked him down to the old depot to collect the pistol he kept in his bedside table beneath his Bible.
Kersti kicked open the hotel's kitchen door and heeled it shut behind her. As her hands were occupied with two cast-iron pots, one full of stew and the other containing beans with salt pork and onions, she had to duck under the sodden underwear the girls had hung up on lines looping around the kitchen. Annoyed at getting some drips down her neck, she banged the pots onto the stove just as Jeff Calder scuttled in, 'Here's your grub,' she said curtly. 'Ma says there's plenty for all.' The two of them began to dish up the food.
'Never mind the high-and-mighty Mr. Delanny,' Lieder said from the doorway, having returned from collecting the Reverend's gun. 'He won't be dining this evening. He's far too refined and uppity to eat with us riffraff. And anyway, the poor fella appears to have lost his appetite. He just sits in his chair, pouting. You're the girl from over to the boardinghouse, ain't you? What's your name, darlin'?'
'Kersti Bjorkvist,' she said sullenly, not pausing in ladling out the stew onto tin plates.
'Well now, just look at you, Kersti Bjorkvist! My, but you are one healthy piece of girl-meat, and that's no lie! You're no decorative bit of fluff. No, sir! You're built for long wear and rough use. Look at those shoulders, will you? And those hips! You are destined to bear children easily, girl. You'll just grunt 'em out in the morning and be back digging in the fields by afternoon. And it looks like you won't have much trouble feeding them either. But Lord love us, Kersti my darling, for all your big udders and that fine thatch of straw hair, you are the plainest thing these weary eyes have seen in a long, long time! Were you hiding behind the door when the angels was dishing out the looks? But hey, don't you worry about it. Ugly ain't as bad as dirty, and neither one is as bad as having the clap. Matter of fact, ugly can be thought of as a gift from God, 'cause it makes it easier for a girl to maintain her virtue!'
Tightening her jaw, but refusing to look at Lieder, Kersti told Jeff Calder that she'd want the pots back after they'd eaten. Her ma'd need them for tomorrow's noon meal. Then she left, slapping the wet laundry out of her way and banging the door behind her.
Lieder laughed and went back into the barroom just as Professor Murphy, having slept all day, entered through the bat-winged front doors for his supper. At the sight of the strangers, he froze, still holding the doors open.
'I'll bet a shiny new silver dollar against a kick in the ass that this is the famous Professor Murphy!' Lieder strode toward him, his hand outstretched. 'Come right in, Professor! Make yourself to home! I've been informed that you eat your meals here at the hotel, and I've been looking forward to your company.' He squeezed the barber's soft, hesitant hand and drew him to the bar. 'But first things first. I see you ain't wearing a gun. But surely you keep a gun somewhere in your shop? For protection against mean and vicious people?' He grinned. '… Like me, for instance?'
Murphy blinked and looked over at Mr. Delanny, who was folding his linen handkerchief to hide the smear of red he had spat into it. Frenchy was leaning against the wall, watching him from beneath half-closed eyelids; and two rough-looking strangers, one big and one little, were sitting at a table with Queeny, who was downing a glass of rye and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, while Chinky was turning her head from side to side to avoid the whiskey Bobby-My-Boy was trying to force on her. Murphy's worried eyes returned to Lieder just as Jeff Calder came in from the kitchen, carrying two steaming tin plates.
'Set 'em right over here, Mr. Calder,' Lieder said. 'The professor and me'll eat at the bar. Excuse me, Professor Murphy? I didn't quite hear you. Was that 'thanks a lot' you said?'
'Ah… thank you…'
'You're entirely welcome, I assure you! And those guns you keep to protect yourself from us mean and vicious people? Just exactly where are they?'
'I… ain't got but one. An old double-action Colt.'
'Now, don't you feel bad about having only one gun to offer. It's the spirit of the gift that matters. Tiny, go over to the barbershop and gather up Mr. Murphy's donation. Where'd you say it was, Professor?'
'Ah… it's… under my pillow.'
'O-oh, now! That is a dangerous place to keep a gun! Say you was having a nightmare, and there you are, pounding at your pillow, trying to fight off some monster, and all of a sudden bang! and you got an extra eye right in the middle of your forehead. Tiny, are you going to stand there gawking like a stupid moonberry, or are you going to get that gun?'
Tiny left through the bat-winged doors.
'Give us that food while it's hot, Peggy. Tell me, Professor Murphy, just what are you a professor of?'
'Oh, it's… you know. Barbers always call themselves professor… it's just…'
'Ho-no-ra-ry,' Lieder pronounced. 'It's what they call a ho-no-ra-ry title. Murphy. Now, that's an Irish name, ain't it?'
'Ah… yes?'
'Dig in! Eat up, Professor! Down the hatch! And I suppose your folks came to this country to escape the potato famine?'
'Ah… well…'
'And why not, for crying out loud? All the riffraff and scum from the old world comes swooping down on America to gorge themselves on the richness produced by the sweat of my forefathers, so why shouldn't the Irish join the feast? The more the merrier, I say! Get your snouts into the trough!' As though accepting his own invitation, Lieder began to down the food on his tin plate, gripping his spoon in his fist like a child, and talking while he ate. 'You've heard of the Statue of Liberty, Professor Murphy? It sits out there in New York Harbor, a beacon for the world's garbage to come gobble up this beautiful land's bounty! Well why not, eh? Why the hell not? Streets paved with gold! You can say what you want about niggers, but they ain't as bad as the immigrants. It ain't their fault they're over here, loafing and stealing and raping our women. It's our own selves that's to blame. We brought them here and we made them breed for the auction block, and now we got to pay the price of our folly. ' He choked on the food he was shoveling in, but as soon as he regained his breath, he pursued, 'And what does Washington D. C. do to protect native-born Americans from these European locusts? Not a goddamned thing, that's what! Come on over, they say! Just push your way up to the trough! And do you know why the government wants all them immigrants over here? You ought to know, if you're a professor, but I can see you don't have the slightest idea, so I'll tell you. It's so's the rich factory owners will have cheaper labor than they can get from real Americans. But don't you worry, Professor. The immigrants ain't going to get this country without a fight. Fate has brought me to this town, where there's silver a-plenty to buy arms for my American Freedom Militia, and we shall battle against the plague of immigrants come to infest this blessed land. Hey! Eat and drink, everybody! We are celebrating the Second American Revolution!'
Tiny had no sooner returned with Professor Murphy's revolver than Lieder announced that he would be pleased to have that preacher Hibbard join their celebrations. 'And fetch along those men down at the boardinghouse. Take Bobby-My-Boy with you.'
'But I ain't ate yet!'
'Well shovel it down! Then go fetch our neighbors for a night of joy and ju-bil-ation. I'd a hell of a lot rather have them in here drinking and singing than out there skulking around in the dark, plotting to do me hurt!'
While Bobby-My-Boy gulped down his meal, Tiny asked if they should bring in the Bjorkvist women, too.
'No, let's just have a stag party. Only men and whores.'
'What about that kid? And the old fart at the Livery? And the one over to the store?'
'Don't mess with the kid. He's all right. He's got grit. As for the old farts? No danger there. One of them ain't
