'No, sir, there ain't. With rattlesnakes, you got to keep them out of your bedroll, and that's all there is to it.'
Mr. Kane blinked. 'What?'
'After all, it ain't us that started the killing.' Having made this slip, Matthew decided he'd better tell Mr. Kane about Delanny. 'There's something you ought to know, sir. Mr. Delanny is dead.'
'They killed Mr. Delanny?'
'Well… yes… well… ' and he told what had happened in the Traveller's Welcome, omitting the nastier details of Lieder's taunting and baiting, and winding up with: '… and B. J. said it wasn't really Frenchy that killed him, she had just put him out of Lieder's reach, so's he couldn't torment him anymore and… well, that's pretty much what happened.'
Mr. Kane shut his eyes. 'Oh, God.' He scrubbed his face hard with his palms. 'So, what did they do to Frenchy?'
'Mr. Lieder said that if he ever saw her ugly face again, he'd kill her, so we got her out of there, B. J. and me, and now she's hiding out. I wish you'd try to eat something, sir. I know my cooking ain't much compared to yours, but…'
'THIS IS THE BEST cup of tea I've had in all my born days, ma'am,' Lieder said, carefully setting Mrs. Bjorkvist's cup back on its blue-and-white saucer, the only two pieces of family china that survived the trip from Sweden to provide testimony to her respectability. The fragile wicker armchair was too tight at his hips, but he was perfectly at ease as he smiled and told her that it wasn't every day that a traveling man like himself was greeted with such hospitality, and he appreciated it.
Mrs. Bjorkvist was sitting nervously on the edge of her chair; Kersti stood by the window twisting the hem of the curtain insensibly; and the Bjorkvist men hovered in the archway with a blend of sulky menace and cowed diffidence. Lieder sipped his tea.
Unable to stand the tension any longer, Mrs. Bjorkvist asked if he was satisfied with the food she'd sent over to the hotel for their dinner. It was just fine. She knew it wasn't fancy, just everyday cooking, but-he preferred everyday cooking. Well, that's good. But if there hadn't been enough to satisfy everybody, she could make more come sup-No, it was just fine! If there was one thing she liked to see, it was men tucking in hearty, and no one could say she was stingy or-'Mrs. Bjorkvist? I think I'd better explain why I've come calling. First, I wanted to invite your husband and son to participate in fellowship over to the hotel again tonight.'
'Vell, I don't tink dey feel-'
'And second, I wanted to tell you how bad I feel about the way my followers punished them yesterday. Oh, it's true that your menfolk were disobedient and disrespectful, but having their faces banged together like that… well, I wanted to apologize and tell you that I'll do everything in my power to see it doesn't happen again.'
'Vell, dat's-'
'But I got to be honest with you, ma'am. Those boys of mine aren't what you'd call civilized. They tend to hold grudges something fierce. Of course, I'll do what I can to keep them from coming over here and busting things up, but-'
'Busting tings-!'
'Into smithereens, ma'am. Smithe-r-reens. Lord love us, I remember when they took a grudge against this one family? You'd think they'd be satisfied with smashing up the menfolk and making a bonfire with the furniture. But no! No, those animals had to grab the womenfolk and drag them out into the barn, where they… well, I won't describe how they used those poor women every-which-a-way a woman can be used, but…' He sucked his teeth and shook his head.
'But… but… why us? We ain't done notting.'
'It doesn't seem fair, does it? But then, life is seldom fair, and justice is rarer than virtue in a brothel, as Paul told the Iowans in 7, 13. Well, ma'am…' He stood up. 'I better be getting back. The good Lord only knows what those savages are up to at this very minute.' He started toward the door; both the Bjorkvist men backed up clumsily to make room for him, treading on one another's toes. At the archway he stopped and touched his fingertips to his forehead. 'What's wrong with me? I am getting so forgetful!' He turned to her and smiled. 'I declare, I'd forget my own head, if it wasn't screwed on tight. There was something else I wanted to ask you, Mrs. Bjorkvist. My men, they've been relieving their needs with the help of that Chinee girl over at the hotel. You know the one? Now me, I can't do that, because I don't think it's right for a white man to give his sap to women of the lower races. Don't you agree, Mrs. Bjorkvist?'
She pursed her lips and puffed. 'Dose girls over dere! But, no, it ain't right for white men to-'
'But I'm a man. Mrs. Bjorkvist. A frail thing of flesh, bone, and gristle. And I too have needs that must be relieved. So here's what I've been thinking, ma'am. I've been thinking that-with your permission-I might give my sap to young Kersti here, because she's a strong, healthy, well-brought-up girl, and a credit to her family. But of course I'd only take her if she was willing, and if her family agreed, 'cause I am not a man to force himself on a girl, and I know you wouldn't let your daughter have anything to do with the sort of man who would. I'm pretty sure those animals of mine wouldn't dare come over here and hurt your men and bust things up, if they knew that Kersti and me were upstairs in the hotel comforting one another. Now, I want you folks to talk things over and do whatever you think is right. Just follow your consciences. A body never goes wrong following the dictates of his conscience, that's my view of it.' He put on his hat, tugged the brim to Mrs. Bjorkvist, and turned again to go. At the front door he stopped and said over his shoulder, 'I'll be wanting her in about an hour.'
MATTHEW LAY ON HIS bed with his fingers laced behind his head, listening to the wind that had begun to moan in his stovepipe. While walking back from the Mercantile, he had seen the first dark-bellied cloud come pressing over the mountain, its leading edge churning wrathfully.
… How could he get close to those men carrying that gun, without them…?
He took the shotgun down from above the door and held it. But his grip went limp with disgust, so he hung it back up and sat on the edge of his bed for a time, staring defocused at the floor. In time, he shook himself and reached far under his bed to pull out the canvas sack and spill its contents over his bed… his treasures. Twelve oversized handmade shells, the six-pointed star Ruth Lillian had given him, the small blue glass bottle somebody had buried (why?), the marble with an American flag suspended in the middle (how?), the rock crusted with glittering flakes that his pa had scoffed at and called fool's gold (but who knows?… maybe not).
… How to get that shotgun over to…?
He took one of the Ringo Kid books from the neat row on his table and hefted it in his hand, as though it might inspire him osmotically, then he put it back and pressed his thumb along the spines of the books, lining them up exactly.
Twice he went to the window and looked across to the Traveller's Welcome. Then he threw himself across his bed and examined the ceiling, his eyes narrowed, searching for inspiration.
The rising wind fluted in the stovepipe and wuthered at the corners of the marshal's office, pleading for entrance.
… How would the Ringo Kid…?
TINY WAS BORED. HE leaned against the sill of the hotel's front window, watching the wind scurry dust swirls down me street. Bored… bored… bored. Lieder had taken that Swede girl upstairs more than an hour ago, and Bobby-My-Boy was sitting in the corner with Chinky, making her play with his pecker. Bored! He aimed the hunting rifle he had taken from Sven Bjorkvist at the heart of a dust swirl and squinted down the sights, tracking it until it got momentarily caught in the corner of a building, then he tightened his finger on the trigger and made a keesh sound in his cheek. A movement to the left of his sights caught his attention, and he lifted his cheek from the stock.
'Well, I'll be damned!'
It was that kid, the one the boss had taken a shine to. He was coming across the street carrying one huge sonofabitch of a gun! He had it over his shoulder with the barrel in his fist and the butt sticking up in the air, like it was a club.
Tiny cocked his rifle and moved to the bat-winged bar doors, over which he shouted, 'You can stop right there, kid!'
Bobby-My-Boy left his table, his flies unbuttoned, and came over to the door. He pulled the pistol from his belt. 'You can stop right there, kid!'
Tiny gave him a weary glance.
