But Matthew continued to shake his head, his eyes fixed wretchedly into the corner of the room.
The stove was radiating heat by now, and she turned to warm her other side. He stood and walked to the window. The wind seeping in through the ill-fitting panes made his shoulder cold where it was damp with Kersti's tears and saliva. Through the tattered screen of rain from his roof, he could see the street's shallow chocolate- colored ponds, their surfaces dancing beneath the torrent of drops.
He had to clear his throat to ask, 'How'd you get away?'
'The boss sent his men to round everybody up for the night's party. When he went down to join in, he locked me in the room. I waited until I figured they couldn't hear anything down there, what with the storm and their singing and all, then I went out the back window onto the shed roof, and I slid down from there. I went home and started to blub, telling my ma what had happened to me, but she said there wasn't no use crying over spilt milk, and maybe I should of stayed at the hotel where I'd be handy to that boss man. She wasn't saying it was my fault. But damaged goods is damaged goods, and there's no repairing them. The last thing she wanted was to have that man coming around looking for me. I got mad, and I told her that if she wanted me to go to the whorehouse, then fine! That's what I'd do! I'd go be a whore! And as for her, she could go to hell. Go straight to hell! And I walked out and slammed the door, and there I was in the rain, and up at the hotel everybody was singing and laughing. So I come here. I didn't know where else to go. I mean… where could I go?'
Matthew told her she was welcome to stay there until she got warm. But then she'd be safer up in B. J.'s loft, with Frenchy and… with Frenchy. He knew that Ruth Lillian would soon go over to her pa's store. 'I got to go down to the Mercantile in a while. You better keep my blanket, lest you catch your death.'
'Matthew?'
'Hm-m?'
'You're mad at me for telling about Ruth Lillian, ain't you?'
'No, not mad, I just… Lord God, Kersti! How could you tell him? What were you thinking of?'
'I ain't to blame!'
He stared at her hard. Then closed his eyes and shook his head.
'And anyway,' she said with a defensive hitch in her voice, 'that sonofabitch was so het up he probably didn't pay me any mind. I'll bet he didn't even hear me.'
Matthew looked at her sadly. 'No, he heard.'
WITH THE COMING OF darkness, lightning could be seen blooming within the bellies of storm clouds all along the horizon, but the continuous mutter of disgruntled thunder was barely audible beneath the din of the heavy diagonal rain that kept up a relentless assault on tin roofs and wooden walls. As Matthew made his way down to the Mercantile by short dashes from one abandoned building to the next, he got glimpses of the Traveller's Welcome through the rain. All the lamps, were lit, and the windows shone through the rain, making wriggly golden smears in puddles that simmered with drops. He couldn't hear singing or the player piano, but shadows loomed and lurched across the windows; the 'deacons' were enjoying another night of gruff fellowship.
Matthew found Mr. Kane upstairs in the kitchen, still sitting in the dark before his untouched dinner.
'Ruth Lillian's not here yet?' Matthew asked.
Mr. Kane shook his head.
'Well, don't worry, sir. She'll be here in no time.' He lit the oil lamp on the kitchen table, and Mr. Kane blinked at the light that intruded on his somber ruminations. 'I'd better heat something up for Ruth Lillian,' Matthew said. The concoction of canned beans and canned tomatoes (with onion for 'crunch') was still on the back of the stove, half-congealed and crusted at the edges. Matthew was able to blow a few ash-scabbed coals into a glow, and it wasn't long before he had the fire going. He scraped Mr. Kane's plate into the pot to avoid waste, then he opened a tin of corned beef, broke it up with a fork, and added it, together with another can of tomatoes. Mr. Kane watched these preparations with bewilderment. By the time the stew began to simmer, thunderheads had advanced across the lowlands beyond the cliff and were booming, deep-throated and angry.
They heard the back door of the store bang open, snatched from Ruth Lillian's grasp by the wind. 'Pa?'
As his daughter rushed up the stairs, Mr. Kane stood to take her in his arms, but the table was in the way, so the embrace was clumsy, as were most gestures of affection for this essentially verbal and rational man. The awkwardness was increased by the voluminous, dripping-wet parka she had borrowed from Coots.
'I've been… so worried…' Mr. Kane said brokenly. 'I imagined… all sorts of… terrible…'
'I'm all right, Pa,' she assured him as she took off the parka and put it over in the corner. 'I'm just fine.'
'She is nor just fine. She's splendid!' B. J. said, coming up the stairs, having had a struggle trying to close the door against the wind. He had decided to come with her because he couldn't abide waiting around for Coots to go out to face… Christ only knew what dangers. 'She saved Coots's hide by alerting him. But it's a good thing he made her turn back. This rain would have turned that trail into a death trap.'
'Yes, I suppose so. But still… ' Mr. Kane returned to his place at the table, while Matthew found a plate for B. J. and served up his stew. Ruth Lillian ate with appetite, B. J. with caution, and Mr. Kane not at all.
'Does this substance have a name?' B. J. asked, gingerly prodding a lump with the tip of his spoon.
'Yes, sir,' Matthew said, reading B. J.'s intention to distract Mr. Kane from his worries, 'I call it Twenty-Mile Stew.' '
'Hm-m. Well, perhaps twenty miles is a sufficient distance. Provided you're upwind of it.'
'I think it's delicious,' Ruth Lillian averred loyally, offering her plate to be refilled by Matthew.
'Well, de gustibus non disputandum est, or so those who lack taste are constantly telling us.' He turned to Matthew. 'Kersti Bjorkvist came up to the Livery just as I was leaving. She said she'd been at your place.'
'Did she tell you about… anything else?'
'Just that her mother threw her out. I wonder why?'
'Oh… some sort of fight.' Matthew knew that Mr. Kane mustn't find out what had happened to Kersti over at the hotel.
'She and Frenchy are keeping the lamps lit and the fire going in the Livery office, in case those men look across.'
'When is Coots-'
'Any time now!' B. J. snapped. Then he tightened rein on his nerves. 'He'll go pretty soon, I guess. He said he'd wait until the storm breaks over the town. He figured it would cover any noise he might make.'
'He's very brave, your friend,' Mr. Kane said.
'Yes. ' B. J. said simply.
'There's no alternative, I suppose? No way other than…?'
'Not with those men. Matthew told you about what they did to Mr. Delanny?'
Mr. Kane nodded and glanced apprehensively at his daughter, who looked down at her plate. Frenchy had told her what she'd done. And why.
'No,' B. J. said. 'With men like that, there's no other way.'
'I suppose you're right, but…'
'But what?'
'It's all so complicated. I know that man is vicious and dangerous, but on the other hand, Matthew told me how he let Frenchy go. Just let her walk away, after she had deprived him of his prey. Why would he do that?'
'I don't know,' B. J. said. 'Maybe like dogs can smell fear on people, some men can sense panic on their victims, and it sends them into a frenzy of violence. But if you're not afraid-if they can't see it in your eyes-then they won't attack, because all bullies are cowards down deep. I remember an Indian tale about a young buck off alone on a purification fast. He emerged up from his meditation to find himself surrounded by hungry wolves, but he survived by locking his concentration on a mental image of his beloved mother, and he was able to walk slowly through the wolves, who couldn't smell fear on him. Maybe the fact that Frenchy stood up to Lieder… looked him straight in the eye and defied him… ' B. J. shrugged. 'While poor Chinky is shy and submissive… the perfect victim. Her terror excites her tormentors.'
'Maybe you're right,' Mr. Kane said. 'But what about Matthew here? That leader seems to have taken a shine to him. Why?'
'No idea,' B. J. admitted. Then to Matthew: 'What happened when he came over to your place? Did you stand up to him? Refuse to back down?'
'Not as I remember. We just talked about… oh, yes! He made some remark about Mr. Anthony Bradford Chumms-the man who writes the Ringo Kid books? — and I told him that I wouldn't stand for any bad-mouthing of
