Blind Tiger, page 5
He hefted the duffel bag up by the strap and slid it onto his shoulder, then put on his hat. “Do you know anybody in town with a spare room? Doesn’t have to be fancy.”
“Near the railroad tracks. Room and board. Big yellow house.”
“I’ll find it.”
“I must remember to ask Mr. Hancock to remove the sign.”
“It’s not that conspicuous. I wouldn’t have noticed it if someone hadn’t told me where to look.”
“Oh? Who was dat?”
“Lady named Laurel Plummer. Lives out a ways.”
“Young woman with baby?”
“That’s right. I passed their place this morning. She gave me a drink of water. You’re acquainted?”
“Only one time I see her. Her baby girl had bad croup. She brought her to my husband for medicine.”
Little good it had done, Thatcher thought. “How old’s the baby?”
“Infant. Tiny.” She held her hands apart, about the length of a loaf of bread. “Poor Mrs. Plummer was very anxious.”
With reason. Living in such a squalid place couldn’t be good for a sick baby. “I didn’t meet her husband. What’s he do out there?”
“No husband. Father-in-law.”
He scratched his chin with his thumbnail. “That so?”
“Her husband…” Shaking her head, Mila Driscoll tsked. “He died.”
Huh. So it had been her father-in-law who’d had his shotgun at the ready. Thatcher hadn’t let on that he’d seen him, but he’d caught sight of that side-by-side as the woman had disappeared into the shadows inside the shack.
She’d told him her husband had come back from the war, and that must’ve been the truth if her baby was that young. He couldn’t stop himself from asking, “How long since her husband passed?”
“Two months? Three? The story…” She paused as though reluctant to gossip. Thatcher didn’t encourage her to continue, but he hoped she would. He was itching to know why the elder Mr. Plummer was so trigger-happy. Maybe he was just overprotective of the recent widow and his sick granddaughter. Fair to say, too, that a stranger who showed up out of nowhere could be cause for concern to people who lived in such a remote spot.
Mrs. Driscoll overcame her reticence. “The story is that her husband took her and the baby to his old papa out dere, then shot himself the same night.”
Jesus. No wonder she’d looked gaunt and wound up.
“Such a shame for her,” Mrs. Driscoll said.
“Yes, ma’am, it is.” They were quiet for a moment, then he said, “I’d best see if they have any vacancies in that boardinghouse. Thanks again for the shortbread.”
“You’re welcome. Good luck to you, Mr. Hutton.”
He doffed his hat to her, and then, when he reached the street, he tipped it to the busybody who was still observing them from behind the lacy curtain.
Seven
The large house near the railroad tracks was indeed yellow. In its day, it might have been considered grand, but Thatcher figured the loud color was an attempt to draw attention away from the overall seediness of the place.
If he planned to stay longer, he would have passed on it. But, reminding himself that the quarters would be temporary and probably affordable, he pulled on the bell at the front door.
Through the screen, he saw a woman walking toward him down the length of a long central hallway. He’d seen scarecrows that were more comely. As she neared, she slung a damp cup towel over her shoulder and peered at him through the mesh. “Whatever you’re selling, I ain’t buyin’.”
Friendlier scarecrows, too. “I’m not a salesman.” He stated his purpose and asked if she had a vacancy.
She shifted a toothpick from one side of her mouth to the other. “You railroad?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Most of my boarders are railroad men. They rotate in and out.”
“I don’t plan on being here long term, either.”
She pushed open the door, and motioned him inside. “Name’s Arleta May. May’s the last name. I got one vacant room. Rents by the week. No refund if you cut out early. Three meals a day, but supper is cold, and you serve yourself off the sideboard.”
She passed him a piece of paper on which was a badly typewritten list of house rules. He was allowed barely ten seconds to scan it before she took it back. “Basically, no women, no liquor, no cussing, no fighting, no smoking in bed. I’ve got beans about to boil dry. You taking it or not?”
He took it. She went over to a cabinet, sorted through a drawer full of keys, and exchanged one of them for his first week’s rent money. “Third floor, number two. You can find your own way.” She shuffled off down the hall from which she’d come.
Thatcher climbed two sets of stairs to the third floor. Room number two met his expectations. The mattress on the rusty iron bedstead sagged in the middle. Water stains spotted the ceiling. The single window was cloudy with grime. He raised it to let in some fresh air.
A set of sheets and a folded towel had been left on the bed. He took the towel with him into the bathroom midway down the hall, used the toilet, washed his face and hands, and returned to his room only long enough to hang the towel on the footboard to dry and to retrieve his hat.
He descended the stairs and followed the aroma of cooking beans to the kitchen. “Uh, Miz May?” She turned to him, scowling. “Sorry to bother you. Is there a public stable in town?”
“Old man Barker’s. North side of town, across the bridge.”
* * *
An advertisement for Goodyear tires was painted on one exterior side of Barker and Son Automobile Parts & Repair. In front were two gasoline pumps, and, even as Thatcher crossed the bridge, he could smell motor oil. Several vehicles were parked both inside and out of the open garage. One was being worked on by a young man in dirty overalls, no shirt.
“Mr. Barker?”
“He’s out back.” Without even glancing at Thatcher, he hitched his thumb over his shoulder.
Thatcher walked around the building and found an older man lying on his back beneath a milk delivery truck. He was banging metal against metal and cussing a blue streak.
“Mr. Barker?”
The man slid from beneath the truck and shaded his eyes against the sun. “Yeah?”
“Thatcher Hutton.” He walked over, bent down, and extended his right hand.
“Never mind that. My hands are greasy.” As Barker came to his feet, he pulled a red shop rag from the pocket of his overalls and wiped his hands. “What can I do for you?”
“You stable horses?”
Barker tipped his head toward a large barn about thirty yards distant. “Stable, shoe, groom. Whatever you need.”
“I need a job.”
The older man scoffed and looked him over. “Doing what?”
“Whatever needs doing.”
“You ever seen the inside of a stable, young man?”
“Spent most of my life in one. Before being drafted, cowboying was all I ever did. I mustered out of the army a month ago in Norfolk, Virginia. I’ve been working my way back up to the Panhandle. The Hobson ranch?”
He posed it as a question to which Barker shook his head. “Don’t know it.”
“South of Amarillo, along the Palo Duro. I started working for Mr. Hobson when I was eleven years old. I’m handy with horses.”
“That may be,” Barker said, still looking unconvinced. “But I ain’t hiring.”
Thatcher glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the garage before coming back around. “Looks to me like you’ve got more than you can handle on the automotive side of your business. For the next few weeks, I could relieve you of stable chores, free up you and your son to do the other work.”
“That nitwit ain’t my son. I’m the son. My daddy had a smithy and stables at this location for forty years. Henry Ford changed that. I had to adapt or starve.”
Thatcher had figured such was the case. “How many horses are you stabling?”
“Currently six. Plus four of my own that I rent out. And one ill-tempered sumbitch that a fellow left here for me to break.”
“Yeah? How’s that coming?”
Barker shifted his chaw and spat into the dirt.
Thatcher smiled. “That ill-tempered, huh?”
“High-steppin’ stallion. Owner won’t hear of gelding him yet.”
“Let me take a look at him.”
“What for?”
“Why not?”
Barker thought it over, then said, “What the hell? I’s tired of working on that clutch, anyway.” He kicked the front tire of the milk truck as he walked around the hood. “Come on.”
Thatcher followed him around the far side of the large stable to a corral of respectable size, but confining to the bay stallion who was running along the encircling fence, making abrupt directional changes, bucking occasionally, demonstrating his anger and frustration over being penned. When he sensed them coming toward the corral, he pinned back his ears, and his nostrils flared.
“I had to put him out here. He kept the other horses stirred up. Especially the mares.”
Thatcher chuckled. “I don’t doubt it. He’s a handsome devil, and he knows it.”
He was a large horse, sixteen hands, perfectly formed. He had the classic black points and a deep red coat that would gleam if he were groomed. Thatcher propped his arms on the top fence rail and watched the stallion strut, tail high.
“Does the owner want him trained to race?”
“To ride,” Baker said, adding dryly, “for longer than three seconds at a time.”
Thatcher smiled at the quip. “Does he have a name?”
“Ulysses.”
“I’d be throwing my owner, too.” Thatcher shrugged out of his coat and draped it over the fence rail. “How does a dollar and a half a day sound, Mr. Barker?
“Hold it. What are you doing?”
The stallion was snorting and eyeballing Thatcher as he unlatched the gate, slipped through it, and closed it behind himself. The horse didn’t like any of it. He became even more agitated, picking up speed on his next go-around of the corral and coming dangerously close to Thatcher who stood stock-still.
Barker said, “Get out of there. You ain’t even dressed for this.”
“I had to leave my gear behind when I went into the army. But he doesn’t know city shoes from boots.”
“At least take this rope.” Barker lifted a coiled lariat off the top of a fence post.
“Not for our first meeting.”
“That bastard’ll kick you into next week.”
“I’m mindful that he’d like to. But he also wants to know what I’m up to.”
“I want to know what you’re up to.”
“Earning my buck fifty.” Thatcher calmly walked to the center of the corral.
“I haven’t agreed—”
Thatcher said, “Mr. Barker, I don’t want him to see me as a threat, but I do want his undivided attention, and, no offense, you’re a distraction. If you could back up a little, please.”
Thatcher heard Barker spit another wad of tobacco into the ground before muttering, “Your funeral.”
There was a lot to be learned about the horse just from watching how he maneuvered. Thatcher faked indifference, but, without appearing to, he studied the stallion’s movements as he cantered along the fence, tossing his head, whinnying, stamping, making sudden shifts in direction, asserting himself.
After several minutes, Thatcher spoke softly, “Won’t do you any good to keep that up. You’ll wear yourself out before I leave this corral.”
He partially turned his back to the animal, remaining very aware of where he was, but intentionally keeping his head turned away from him as though uninterested in his arrogant posturing.
“See, I’m not scared of you. And you don’t have to be scared of me.”
It didn’t take long. The horse slowed his gait and eventually came to a standstill. He stomped a couple of times, then turned toward the center of the corral to face Thatcher. “Well, are we going to be friends?” Thatcher made a nicking sound. Not yet ready to concede, the stallion shook his head.
“All right. Stay there and think it over. I can wait. Sooner or later, your curiosity is going to get the better of you.” Thatcher stayed as he was, acting nonchalant. “Those mares you’ve got stirred up. Are they pretty?” The stallion’s ears flicked forward. Thatcher made the nicking sound again.
Slowly the stallion walked toward him and came to a stop, head down. “Good boy. We’re making strides. Ulysses, huh? Guess you’re stuck with it.”
The stallion snuffled and jerked his head when Thatcher reached up to stroke his forehead, but after one more rejected attempt, the horse allowed his touch. “Thata boy.” Moving slowly, speaking softly, he praised the stallion’s cooperation. As Thatcher rubbed the horse’s neck, he looked over at Barker. “A dollar and a half a day?”
Barker spat. Thatcher took that as a yes.
* * *
After spending another few minutes smoothing his hands over the stallion, building trust, he left the corral and reclaimed his coat. Barker led him into the stable, introduced him to the horses in the stalls, and showed him where tack and supplies were kept.
“I’ll have to borrow one of your saddles,” Thatcher told him. “Mine’s at the ranch.”
“Help yourself. What they’re there for.”
As Thatcher was leaving, Barker told him there was a secondhand clothing store in town. “You might find yourself a pair of boots, at least.”
Thatcher got directions to the shop, but it was closed for the day. He had planned on sending Mr. Hobson a letter tomorrow telling him that he could start looking for him in about a month. In the letter, maybe he’d ask Mr. Hobson if he would send him his gear by train and take the expense out of his salary once he was back.
He made it to the boardinghouse before the cold supper was cleared off the sideboard. After finishing his meal, he wandered out onto the porch where several other boarders were chewing the fat.
Laconically, they all introduced themselves and shook hands, but he didn’t get the impression that fast friendships were formed among them, probably because of their transiency.
One thumbed through a magazine. One was quietly playing a harmonica. Some puffed smokes. Thatcher noticed that one of the younger among them slid a flask out of his pants pocket, uncapped it, and took a sip.
Another, an older man who had laid claim to a rocking chair, said, “That’s against house rules and against the law.”
“Now that’s a fact,” the young man said. “It is.” Then, leaning toward the man in the rocker, he whispered, “And teetotaling is against the laws of nature.” He took another drink then taunted the older man by smacking his lips and saying a long, drawn-out ahhhh.
Sensing the growing tension, the man with the harmonica stopped playing.
The older man didn’t let it drop. He said to the young man, “I doubt you respect any rules.”
“That’s not so,” the young man retorted. “I set rules for myself.”
“Such as?”
He seemed to ponder it, then snapped his fingers and said, “I only get half as drunk on Sundays.”
The others on the porch were equally divided as to who thought that was funny and who didn’t. The one in the rocking chair took umbrage. He excused himself, left the rocker, and stamped into the house, letting the screen door slap closed behind him.
The younger man chortled, “He’s a barrel of laughs.”
Another man, who Thatcher had noticed earlier because of his sporty attire, left the corner of the porch where he’d been smoking in solitude and sidled up to the younger man. “What’s your name?”
“Randy Wells. Who’s asking?”
“Chester Landry.” He motioned to the flask. “Where’d you get the booze?”
Randy cast a wary look around. When his gaze lighted on Thatcher, he squinted suspiciously. “I feel like a stroll.” He indicated for Landry to follow him. They went down the porch steps and set off across the yard, talking softly together.
No one said anything for a moment, then the harmonica player picked up his tune where he’d left off, and another commenced to talk about baseball. Thatcher stayed only a few minutes longer before going inside.
He took a turn in the third floor bathroom, then went into his room, undressed, and took the piece of shortbread to bed with him. As he stretched out on the lumpy mattress, he released a sigh of relative contentment.
It had been a damned long day, but he’d accomplished a lot, too. For a start, he’d survived the fight in the freight car and the jump from it without serious injury.
The miles he’d walked had fatigued him, but hadn’t completely exhausted him like the long marches he’d made through the French countryside, fully armed, cold, hungry, and hoping an enemy bullet didn’t have his name on it.
His landlady, Arleta May, was scary, but he had a roof. The mattress was bad, but still better than wet ground or the floor of the boxcar.
He had a headstrong horse to train, and if he did that successfully, word would get around, and more work could come from it until he’d earned enough to get him the last few hundred miles to home.
All things considered, he had it pretty good.
He polished off the shortbread and licked the crumbs from his fingers before reaching up for the string attached to the bare-bulb light fixture mounted to the wall above the headboard.
When he closed his eyes, an image of Laurel Plummer came to mind. He fell asleep thinking about her in profile, the wind toying with her hair and holding her shapeless dress tight against her front.
Eight
Sheriff William Amos was awakened by the shrill ringing of his telephone. He squinted the clock into focus and cursed under his breath. Nobody called at three o’clock in the morning to impart good news.
As he threw back the sheet and got up, his wife murmured sleepily. He patted her on the rump, then went to the downstairs hall, where the telephone sat on a small table. He picked it up by the stand and lifted the earpiece from the fork, saying into the mouthpiece, “Bill Amos.”
