Six Ways from Sunday, page 15
I swore a few times that someone was watching, but we made it into the pine forest and only then did we whisper a little.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Scruples wanted to spend the night with me. But I told him I’d turn him into a soprano if he did. That cooled his ardor some. He was still hurting from the fist you landed. He’s got a big black and blue spot coming up on his jaw.”
“Then they put you out there?”
“They didn’t know what to do with me. They thought I’m a lady friend of yours.”
“That explains why they didn’t just bury you somewhere.”
She eyed me silently. A quarter moon was rising.
“I don’t ever want to be locked in an outhouse again.”
I led her to a rill I knew of, and she knelt beside it and washed herself, cupping her hands in the cold water and rubbing every inch of flesh she could.
“My clothes stink,” she said. “I’d like to go to my rooms and change.”
“Well, there might be a little surprise in there.”
She eyed me, waiting for an explanation.
“Critter’s in your parlor.”
“Say that again?”
“I had to hide him. They was all in town lookin’ for me, and lookin’ for Critter, and I knew if they found Critter, my goose was cooked. So I got him up to your rooms.”
“Up those wooden stairs?”
“Yep. He didn’t like it none, but I told him he’d get some oats soon. So I got him in your parlor. I pulled that rug aside, so I can clean up the apples.”
“And what happens if he hoses that floor? It’s just plank, Cotton.”
“I guess them fellers down there at the bar’ll get their beer improved.”
She smiled, and darned if she didn’t give me a hug. I hardly ever got hugged before, except for my mother and she did it about twice. But there Celia was, huggin’ away, so I hugged back just as enthusiastic as I could. I took to huggin’ like I was born to it.
We filtered through them piney slopes toward town. It sure was late, and the town had quieted down, at least until the shift miners from Big Mother hit it. There was only a lamp or two glowing, and I thought probably them toughs from Scruples’ outfit had gone home. But I had Celia to look after, and I wasn’t sure of nothing, so I parked us in the woods across the creek and waited. There was a bit of moon now, so anything moving would have a little white light falling on him.
It was a good thing I waited, because big Arnold and his deadly little sidekick, they were patrolling, and came drifting by, The Apocalpyse in black, looking like a moving shadow, and that slab of meat Arnold twice his size. They made a pair, all right.
So we just settled down in the grass since we couldn’t get into town. It sure was a long wait, but maybe an hour before dawn, them two finally gave up and drifted toward the Palace Car on the hill. I eased down real cautious to one of them outhouses that spanned the creek, and crossed over to the town side, and had me a look around. The next shift of miners was about due to tumble out of the Big Mother, and then Swamp Creek would come alive again, with them miners downing boilermakers until they fried their brains.
I kind of beckoned Celia, and she come across and we slipped up them wooden stairs and into her rooms. Critter, he butted me so hard I toppled back, but after some cussing, Critter and I got peaceable. Celia, she lit a lamp and looked around. Everything was all right until she got to her bedroom, when she started cussing with words I didn’t even know sixteen-year-olds knew.
I walked in there, and saw the trouble right away. There was a pile of horse apples on her bed. It sort of stained the coverlet.
“I’ll fix it,” I said.
“No, you’re going to get that animal out of here and keep him out of here.” She paused a little. “Thanks for cutting me loose. If you can get the mine back, I’ll find some way to thank you. But you and Critter can’t stay here.”
I was sort of disappointed. I thought maybe me and her and Critter could make a threesome up there in her rooms, but she wasn’t having no part of that.
“All right, I’ll get him out,” I said.
That wasn’t easy. Critter, he pretty near had a conniption fit when I started to lead him down them wooden steps. They sort of creaked and gave under him, and he knew it, and if he’d blown up and starting kicking every slat and plank, the whole stair would have tumbled down, and Critter would have been ruined, along with me.
“You quit that or I’ll punch you in the nose,” I said to him, and he sort of sighed, cut loose with a mighty fart, and stepped down one stair at a time, being real careful. Soon as we hit bottom, I saw Celia up there shaking the horse apples out of that coverlet and cussing away. There went my dreams.
I was about to ride off when a voice stopped me.
“You owe me,” someone said.
I turned and found the barkeep from below standing there.
“My saloon’s a mess,” he said. “You ruint it. That horse got a bladder bigger than a fire barrel, and it all come down on my customers.”
I didn’t know what to do, but I remembered that eagle in my pocket.
“Here, this’ll fix it,” I said, and handed it to him.
“Fix about half of it,” he grumbled, but he was gettin’ more than he figured on, so he wasn’t grumbling too bad.
“You can fix me a sandwich, and I’ll be gone,” I said.
He did it. I went in there and he cut me a slab of beef rustled from some ranch, and laid it between two slabs of sourdough bread and handed her to me. It sure tasted fine.
“See ya,” I said.
“You’re Cotton, ain’t you?”
I nodded.
“Them thugs was lookin’ hard.”
“I’ll be lookin’ hard for them, soon as I figure what to do.”
He just shook his head. I’d seen that sort of head shake before. It’s how sane people dismiss crazy people. They just shake their heads, and we all know what they’re thinkin’.
I peered around real sharp, but there was nothing around, and some few clouds was chasing the moon, so I climbed onto Critter and forded the creek and headed into the woods. I sure didn’t know where I would go. A hunted man ain’t got many choices.
It wasn’t far from dawn.
“Critter, take me where you will,” I said.
Critter snapped at me and turned downstream, away from the mines, and settled into a cheerful jog. He was plumb happy to get out of that upstairs jail.
We were jogging along when we got to the big place owned by Cletus Carboy, owner and proprietor of the Big Mother gold mine. And that blasted Critter turned in then and there, and followed a graveled road toward the man’s house. Well, I thought, that wasn’t a bad idea. It might be the safest place for me in the county, the one place that Scruples didn’t control. So we jogged in there at a fine time when dew was on the grass and all the world was hushed and peaceful.
Then a Chinese fellow, he sort of appeared out of nowhere. He smiled and pointed toward the house, and said something I couldn’t quite figure out, but his gestures said I should tie Critter to the hitch rail and meet the boss. Least that’s how I took it.
So I tied old Critter and looked around. It sure was quiet and dewy there.
“Good morning, Mr. Cotton. I’ve been expecting you,” a man said.
He was standing in the deep dark of the veranda, and I’d missed him. I looked around, trying to make sense of it.
“In a few minutes there will be light enough. I’m Cletus Carboy,” the voice said. “This was the right place to come. Now that Scruples’ men have turned you into a bull’s-eye, and Mrs. Argo has evicted you and your horse from her rooms, and you have turned down Amanda Trouville’s advances, and that thug Arnold has knocked you senseless a few more times than you appreciate, I imagine you would enjoy a haven.”
“How’d you know all that?”
“Snitches, Mr. Cotton. I have ten times more snitches than Scruples, and I pay them well. I even have snitches in Scruples’ own little army. I have snitches in every saloon. Not much escapes me. I’ve known most everything that has happened to you for some while. But by all means, come join me here on the veranda. I am awaiting the sunrise.”
Indeed, a streak of soft blue in the east was heralding the new day. I stepped up to the veranda, which stretched around three sides of his house, and discovered something I could hardly imagine. This man was dressed in a swallowtail black tuxedo with a boiled white shirt and a black bowtie. His dark hair had been slicked back real nice, and he held a little white stick in his hand. He had a little white pointy beard, and a gold ring on his finger.
“Have a seat,” he said, pointing to some porch furniture.
“I was sort of looking for a place to stay,” I said.
“My baton,” he said, waving that ivory stick. “As soon as the light quickens a little, I shall conduct the bird chorus. It is my delight. From the first soft note, tentative on the morning breeze, to the full symphony of cheeping and trilling and whistling and singing, we shall have our morning symphony. The meadowlarks and jays and crows and robins all have their own way of celebrating the new day. I like to think they take direction from me as I conduct their serenade. This is the perfect dawn, the best of the year. No breeze. A clear heaven. A soft dew on the meadows. A bold and brassy sun even now gathering itself to burst over the eastern horizon, and when it does my whole orchestra will play.”
Well, I thought, I had nothing to lose.
Chapter Twenty-two
Even as the light quickened, the birds started chirping. There was a slow peep, and then a chirp, and finally even the doves were cooing. Cletus Carboy, he listened with a little smile lifting his lips, and an ear cocked toward the trees, and then he waved that ivory stick, and a few more birds began tweeting, and pretty soon it built up into a bunch of birds all bursting their hearts out, greeting the sun as it got strength and began rolling toward the horizon. I never seen nothing like it.
Carboy, he looked like a band director, only he was all dressed up in one of them swallowtails, and every time he twitched that there ivory stick, another bird joined the crowd. He knew just where them birds was sitting, and he’d look at a big old cottonwood, and next I knew, them birds up there would start a full-throated melody, chirpin’ like there was no tomorrow. Carboy knew where ever’ last bird was hiding, and knew when every last sparrow would start whistling and twittering. He knew them meadowlarks and he knew when the crows would start cawing and the jays would start rattling like snare drums and the pigeons would start wooing. He stood there on the veranda on the balls of his feet mostly, his arms a-flailing away, as the music got rolling. Me, I sat behind him in deep shadow, watching the sun bust over the eastern side of the world, and watched that sun start to turn him yellow, like he was wearin’ gold.
And then off yonder near the creek, I saw the sun glint off of metal, and I didn’t think none, I just dove for Carboy and slammed into him and toppled him even as a shot chopped away the serenade, and struck the house just behind where he was standing.
He looked outraged. “How dare you!” he snarled as he started up from the porch planks, but I landed on him again until he quit the struggling, and I pointed at that there bullet hole, big as a fist, in the window frame behind him, and he quieted some.
“Crawl in there and get a gun,” I said. “I’m going after the bastard.”
He shook a little. “Rudolph Costello Glan,” he muttered. “I’ve been expecting it.”
If he was expecting it, why was he standing on that porch as the sun came up? I was going to have a little talk with that one.
“Stay covered,” I said.
I didn’t see sunlight on that rifle no more, but that didn’t mean nothing. I began dodging this way and that, zigzag, straight for the woods along the creek, finding cover here and there, but never quitting. I pulled my revolver out and was plain ready to unload every shell in it if I got close enough. My heart was sure hammering, but it didn’t matter. I came right at that place, and plowed through brush and trees, never giving him a chance to aim, and finally I got to the place and he was gone. I couldn’t even say someone had been there. I didn’t even find no brass. He’d picked up the spent shell. I didn’t trust nothing, so I circled around, this way and that, ready to blow that swine to kingdom come. But he’d plain disappeared, and there was no sayin’ where he’d gone. I hunted along the creek, and thought maybe I saw a place he had used to cross to the other side, but he’d vanished.
“Glan, I’m coming for you,” I yelled. “I’ll get you. You ain’t gonna kill again.”
But all I got for that was silence.
I made my way slow and careful back to the big old house that Carboy had put up there, near the creek, on an open flat. I didn’t like crossing that open meadow the last hundred yards, so I dodged this way and that, never giving Glan time to fire, and then I reached the porch.
The door opened smoothly, and Carboy, standing in deep shadow, motioned me in. He was holding a small revolver.
“You saved my life,” he said.
“For the moment,” I replied. “He vamoosed.”
“The birds are quiet,” he said. “The symphony stopped.”
He was right. There wasn’t one chirp. It was like a dawn funeral around there.
He sighed. “Settle yourself in the parlor whilst I abandon my swallowtail,” he said. “Tea?”
“Ah, I ain’t never tried it.”
“It’s time for you to try it,” he said. “A most vigorous beverage.”
I nodded. I hardly knew what a vigorous beverage was.
“Excuse me for a moment,” he said.
He vanished somewhere, and I looked around that parlor of his. It had wallpaper on the walls. I hardly never seen it before, but I heard tell of it. There was them oil paintings of nature scenes, and stuffed furniture, and shiny cabinets, and fancy carpets, and everything smelled nice. I never been in such a place. The man spent a lot of money for a place out in the middle of nowhere.
Pretty soon, a Chinese woman, she come in with a tray with a sort of blue teapot on it and cups and saucers. She smiled, poured some tea, and held up the sugar bowl.
“I guess I’ll just try her raw,” I said.
She nodded and handed me that blue cup, and left the tea tray on a little table there.
I sipped the stuff, and it were pretty meek compared to coffee, but I didn’t see nothing wrong with it. Just meek is all. Some people live life meek, but not me.
So I sipped away, and sort of liked it, except it was too meek, and waited. It sure was a fine sunny morning, and them birds had started up again. You’d hardly know that a little earlier someone had tried to kill Carboy.
I just sat there. I noticed they’d taken Critter to a pen and given him a bait of hay, which was mighty kind, and got him out of rifle range of someone shootin’ at Carboy. Critter was back there, protected by the barn and some other stuff, chomping like he was enjoying some good chow.
Me, I just waited, and pretty soon, old Carboy come into the room, dressed more casual, sort of like a king would out in the country, with an open shirt and a wool jacket on, and shoes with a little black on them, all clean and nice.
“I’m glad you came by, for more reasons than one. And I’m indebted to you,” he said, pouring some of that tea. “Do you like the tea? It’s summer Darjeeling.”
“I sort of swill her around and down her,” I said.
“It’s an acquired taste. Coffee’s an acquired taste, too.”
“I ain’t acquired it yet,” I said.
“You know, sir, I don’t really know your name. Is Cotton your surname?”
“Well, it ain’t rightly no name. I just got stuck with her.”
“It’s neither then.”
“This here’s making me plumb uncomfortable, Mr. Carboy.”
He laughed softly and sipped his tea.
“I can well understand it, sir. I’ll call you whatever you wish, or just sir if you’d prefer. The truth is, I was born under a name that has visited me with grief and disgust.”
I sort of thought he might not like that name of his.
“Cletus, sir, is not a name I would wish upon anyone. The question was, what to do about it. I could live with it and suffer, or I could change my name, but I chose another course. I decided I would triumph over my name. I gradually transformed myself into a person quite the opposite of Cletus Carboy. Now, when the sun rises, I conduct symphonies, and I support myself with one of the finest gold mines in the territory, and live in comfort and elegance. I have servants I pay well and who enjoy being here. I pay my men at the Big Mother—that was the name of the mine when I bought it, not a name I would have chosen—an extra two bits a day, and also give them a shorter shift. The result, sir, is that I earn more, not less. I do not suffer from turnover. They work hard. They remove more tons of ore per man than any other mine in the area. We share in the benefits. I’ve given them year-end favors also, if the mine has yielded good fruit.”
I sort of got the drift of this. He didn’t like his name none, so he licked it. I envied him. I wish I coulda licked my name, but I hardly gave it a thought. I just buried it and hope no one will never know. Cotton ain’t my name and Pickens ain’t either, and I’d rather die dead than confess how I got named.
He eyed me with a faint smile on his face. “More tea?” he asked.
“It ain’t got character,” I said.
“How shall I address you?” he asked. “If you object to Cotton, how about boll weevil?”
He was funning me, and I didn’t like it.
“Or Gin? Eli Whitney invented the cotton gin, which spun the seeds out of the cotton, and made it much more usable.”
