Читать книгу Ghosts of the Green Swamp - Lee Gramling - Страница 11

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I’D PLUMB FORGOT ABOUT THAT CANTEEN of firewater I was holdin’. But when I realized what Baldy meant, I took time out for another healthy snort before passin’ it back — wonderin’ as I did what happened to all that fancy perfessor talk I’d heard him spoutin’ only a minute earlier.

He took the canteen and downed a good-sized wallop his ownself, before slappin’ the cork back in place and turnin’ to close up the cabinets at the side of his wagon. Whilst he was doin’ that I recollected the thing I’d meant to ask him about when first he opened ’em up.

“I don’t suppose you got any kind of a tol’able shootin’ iron inside there? One you’d be willin’ to part with?”

Perfessor Baldy looked at me kind of thoughtful-like over his shoulder. “I might,” he answered after a second. “If the price was right.”

I smiled at him. “Why don’t you just go ahead an’ show me what you got? Then afterwards maybe we can talk price.”

He eased hisself a hair closer to the front of the wagon before turnin’ to meet my eyes.

“I didn’t just ride into this country on a load of turnips, friend. Either you’ve got what it takes to purchase a firearm from me or you don’t. And if it should happen that you’re as flat busted as you look to be, there’s no way in the world I’m going to put any kind of weapon in your hands right now, loaded or unloaded.”

His arm snaked up into the driver’s box and come out a instant later with a wicked-lookin’ little sawed-off shotgun about a foot and a half long. Them two 12-gauge barrels swung down to fix theirselves square on my belly.

“So if you’ve a mind to trade in guns,” Baldy went on mildly, “I’ll just be obliged to ask to see the color of your money first.”

I took a step backwards and kind of shrugged, hookin’ my thumbs into my galluses real slow and easy. “All right,” I said, testin’ out another grin what Baldy didn’t return. “I reckon you got me.”

Since there didn’t appear to be a whole lot of use in lyin’ from that point on, I decided I might’s well tell him the honest truth.

“It’s a fact I ain’t got two thin dimes to rub together at the moment. And I guess the thought did sort of cross my mind to pop you upside the head whilst we was examining shootin’ irons, just so’s I could have me the borry of one till I got a chanct to pay you.”

Them blue eyes was lookin’ at me mighty unfriendly now. But I’d a idea Baldy weren’t the kind to shoot a man in cold blood. So I figured I’d keep on explainin’ things till he had some time to cool off.

“I’d of been good for it,” I said truthfully. “Tate Barkley ain’t never yet took on no obligations what he didn’t re-pay the minute he was able. Only I couldn’t think of no other way just now to get holt of the gun I needed to take back what’s mine.”

I went on then and told him everthing I could remember, about the bushwhackin’ that morning, how I’d got myself whipped and had my outfit stole by Purv an’ Lila an’ big Jube, how they all acted like they knowed me although I’d never set eyes on ’em till that minute, and how I’d been followin’ their trail on foot ever sinct.

The squat little Perfessor stood leanin’ against his wagon listenin’, his eyes narrowed down to slits with nothin’ on his face what even give a hint as to whether he believed a word I was sayin’. I noticed that shotgun under his arm never lowered a fraction though, from beginning to end.

“You can call me a liar if you like,” I finished up, “and I reckon maybe you’ve earned the right to be doubtful. But ever word I’ve spoke is the God’s truth.”

Baldy kept squintin’ hard at me for several more long seconds. Then he lifted up his sawed-off shotgun and put it back in the wagon, underneath the seat.

“That’s quite a story,” he said, climbin’ up on the box without entirely takin’ his eyes off me. “I expect it’s got to be true. There aren’t many who’d be clever enough to make something like that up out of whole cloth. And in your case …” He shook his head and reached to gather the reins. Me, I just watched him.

“Well, come on.” Baldy’s voice sounded impatient all of a sudden. “Climb aboard and let’s get going. I assume you’d rather ride than walk. —And since we seem to be headed in the same direction … He glanced at me. “I’ve in mind to reach Micanopy before noon tomorrow.”

I didn’t wait to be asked twice. That big old wagon with only the two mules pullin’ her weren’t a whole heap faster than my shank’s mare had been. But it was sure a sight easier on my corns, and I was grateful for the offer.

We drove along pretty steady through what was left of the afternoon, stoppin’ only now an’ again to give the animals a blow, and me a opportunity to climb down and study the ground for sign. Not that that last seemed so awful important after we’d been on the road awhile together. ’Peared like Baldy had his own way of followin’ a trail onct he took the notion. And I had to admire the offhand casual way he went about doin’ it.

He was a right well-knowed character all through these parts it seemed, having pushed that outlandish rig here an’ yon between Jacksonville and Tampa for some several months now. And there weren’t a single one of them local folks he couldn’t spare five, ten minutes for, to pass the time of day whenever they was close enough for conversation.

They’d be chawin’ the fat, sharin’ views on the weather or some new trinket Baldy was offerin’ for sale, or somethin’ else, when all of a sudden he’d snap his fingers and push his high hat back off’n his forehead with a remark like: “You know, I almost forgot. I sold one of these stock pots (or lightnin’ rods or potato mashers or whatever) to some folks just this morning, and when I went to get my cash box so I could count out their change, they’d ridden off without even waiting for it. I don’t suppose you’ve seen them? Man and a young woman in the company of a large Negro, leading an extra horse? Seems to me they said they meant to be traveling this way.”

I never seen Baldy make change out of anything but his pockets, and I reckon nobody else had neither. He prob’ly didn’t even own no cash box. But folks was so willin’ to help them poor short-changed travelers get their couple cents back, that they’d rack their brains and call their husbands out’n the fields or their wives an’ young-uns out’n the house, just tryin’ to put together some little piece of information what might help us locate Lila and her companions.

Upshot of it was, time the shadows was gettin’ long and we’d passed by this place called the Haile Plantation on the way to Arredonda, we was mighty certain them three was still trailin’ south ahead of us, even though with the fadin’ light and the churned-up sand of the road thereabouts it was near impossible to pick up their tracks. ’Peared like they hadn’t gained so awful much distance on us in the meanwhile, neither.

I’d been ridin’ alongside Perfessor Baldy for a good three, four hours by then, and I’d got to know a heap more about the little gent than I’d ever expected to know — where he come from and what-all he’d done and the places he’d seen. He was a natural-born talker, and any time there weren’t no farmers or travelers close enough for him to do his jawin’ with, it seemed like he’d just got to turn it loose on whoever was handiest. Which happened to be me.

He’d been born an’ raised away up north in some settlement called Wells River in the state of Vermont. When I ’lowed as how I hadn’t never heard of it, he didn’t act surprised. Said they was a-plenty of native-borned Yankees who never heard of it neither.

Bein’ the youngest of ten on this li’l rocky farm what couldn’t ever seem to grow food enough for nine, he started out to drift at a pretty young age. Wound up in New York City after a time, doin’ whatever it took to get by, which meant livin’ and workin’ in some pretty rough places. That’s when Baldy discovered he’d got a talent for rasslin’.

After a couple free-for-alls where there weren’t no more at stake than his own pride an’ survival, he was spotted by these big-city gamblers. It was them who put up the money and set him to rasslin’ professional. With the bettin’ generally heavy against him because of his youth an’ size an’ all, pretty soon he was makin’ a right fair livin’.

I reckon I looked kind of funny at Baldy whilst he was explaining all this, but he just shrugged an’ grinned. Said something about how it was a long time ago, back before the war.

He’d signed up for the fightin’ when the call come, same as I did. Only we was on opposite sides. After comparin’ notes, we figured we might even of traded shots a time or two that last day at Gettysburg. There weren’t no hard feelin’s about it though. What’s past is past, and I reckon we both just counted ourselves plumb lucky to of managed to live through it.

Afterwards he’d kind of got the wanderin’ bug, like a lot of us what lost our youth in that ruckus, and he spent the next five, six years tourin’ the country with travelin’ shows and such-like, offerin’ to rassle all comers for prizes and side bets.

“But at last I started to get smart,” Baldy said as he guided the mules acrost this li’l crick somewheres west of Gainesville. “I was losing a bit of quickness as I got older, and it seemed like the local boys they’d put up to match me kept growing bigger and faster all the time. I was still winning more often than I lost. But when I did get whipped I’d nothing to show for it but bruises and sprains and a long hard ride to the next settlement. Hell, I even lost money — whatever I’d sprung loose to lay out on side bets.

“One day I just took a long look in the mirror and said to myself, ’Monk my lad, there’s got to be some easier way of making a living than this!’ …”

“Monk?”

It come to me then that I still hadn’t heard my travelin’ companion mention his name. I’d been thinkin’ of him as “Baldy” right along, but without ever sayin’ it to his face. I reckon if I’d had occasion to call him anything, it would of been “Perfessor,” or maybe “Mr. Maximilian.” It sure’s the dickens wouldn’t of been “Monk,” nor nothin’ even close.

I could tell he’d a idea what I was thinkin’, and that he weren’t generally in the habit of sharin’ that “Monk” handle with ever perfect stranger he met along the road. It just slipped out accidental-like when he weren’t payin’ too close attention.

He glanced at me real quick an’ funny when I repeated it. Then it was a couple seconds longer before he went on to explain:

“It’s a nickname from my wrestling days. Based on my size I suppose, together with somebody’s idea of how I move in the ring.”

After that he didn’t say nothin’ a-tall for a good four, five minutes. Longest I could remember him holdin’ his peace since we’d started out ridin’ together.

Me, I couldn’t leave good enough alone.

“Monk Maximilian?” I asked, havin’ to turn my face away to hide the grin I felt spreadin’ out between my ears. I’d already seen how peevish this little gent could get whenever he thought somebody might be laughin’ at him. And here I was, just a frog’s whisker from doin’ it all over again.

Only this time I had a surprise. ’Cause when ole Baldy-Monk had got through castin’ a sharp look in my direction, he started to get tickled his ownself. Finally he just let out with a great big guffaw and slapped his knee with his free hand.

“All right, Barkley,” he said, shakin’ his head and grinning fit to kill. “I guess the game is up.” He chuckled some more, and had to take a deep breath before continuing:

“Martinus Drucker’s the label my ma and pa pinned on me. It’s an honorable name — Grandpa Drucker came to this country after serving as a sergeant in the Napoleonic wars. But different places have different customs, and what a man’s called can have a lot to do with the way local folks act toward him.

“In New York I started out wrestling under the name of Maxey Dugan, then later as Monk Dugan. In Toronto I was Maxime DuBecq. When I moved south after the war I called myself Marsh Dixon in one place, and Milt Davis the next. One time down in Matamoros, I even won a couple of matches as Manuelito Delgado!

“In fact,” Baldy went on, lettin’ his grin fade for a instant, “I guess almost the only time I’ve used my real name since leaving home at thirteen, is when I signed on the rolls of the Seventy-First New York. Maybe that’s because I didn’t want the good Lord to have so much trouble recognizing me in case things didn’t work out and I turned up at the Pearly Gates.”

“So what you’re sayin’ is, this here Perfessor Maximilian handle …”

“… is as phony as all the rest. Or as real, depending on how you look at it. I’d rather you didn’t go telling that to all the rub—, locals we meet along the way though. Ask yourself: Would you buy a bottle of curative elixir from somebody who called himself just plain Monk Drucker?”

Well, the honest truth of it was I wouldn’t buy none of that snake oil tonic from the Pharaoh of Egypt hisself if I met him floatin’ down the Nile with his thousand wives an’ concubines, each a-beggin’ me to have a swaller. I’ve tasted them homemade cure-alls time to time, offered to me by well-meanin’ folks who absolute swore by ’em. But close as I could tell nary one had the healin’ power of two-day-old bayhead whiskey. And without none of the smooth flavor that rotgut offered when it slid past your gullet neither.

I weren’t of no mind to hurt Baldy’s feelin’s, though, now we was finally startin’ to get along. So I just nodded and allowed as how I reckoned he had a point.

We come into the little settlement of Arredonda along about dark, and I’d the idea maybe Perfessor Monk would be wantin’ to stop there and make camp for the night.

Me, I’d already decided what I was goin’ to do if that happened. Which was bid him a thankful farewell and start right on in to hoofin’ it again. I’d no plans a-tall to let Lila an’ them other two scoundrels get any further ahead of me than they already was, and I’d a idea I might manage to come up on their camp somewheres durin’ the night. Then we’d have us a little settlin’ of accounts.

But as it turned out my new-found travelin’ compadre weren’t of a mind to call it a day his ownself just yet. He told me he’d done a fair piece of gettin’ around during the dark hours hereabouts, and he reckoned he knew the trails an’ roads through these Florida woods ’bout good as anybody ’cept maybe a Injun or a moonshiner. Figured the more distance he could put behind hisself now, the less he’d have to cover in the mornin’ before settin’ up shop in Micanopy.

Leastways that’s what he told me. I was startin’ to get the idea Monk Drucker had begun to take more’n just a passin’ interest in this outlaw chase of mine, though I couldn’t imagine why he’d want to do it.

But when he come back from knockin’ at the door of a cabin near the railroad tracks to ask after Lila and her friends one more time, he sort of grinned an’ winked at me. Then he went to rummagin’ through one of them cabinets behind the seat of his wagon, and handed me out a brand-new Smith an’ Wesson pistol in a shiny leather holster.

I glanced at him mighty curious when he done that, but I didn’t ask no questions. I just took it and begun checkin’ her over in the light from this coal-oil lantern Monk had hangin’ up front above the driver’s seat.

She was a beauty, all right: .45 caliber with polished walnut handles, nice feel an’ balance. And a whole heap lighter than my ole Colt Dragoon. It was all I could do to keep from tryin’ her out right there on the spot. But I didn’t figure it’d be a good idea to go alarmin’ the populace that-away, callin’ special attention to myself an’ all. So I just hefted her a couple times, tried the action, and then climbed down from the wagon to strap her on.

Monk couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Well,” he asked, leanin’ forward on his toes, still grinnin’. “What d’ya think?”

I kept my peace whilst I tied the rawhide thongs about my leg. Then I spun on my heel and tried a couple, three fast draws from the hip before lookin’ back over my shoulder at him.

“If she shoots as pretty as she handles,” I answered, “I reckon she’ll do the job just fine.”

When I started to climb back up in the wagon I noticed Monk didn’t move to join me right away. And when he finally did, he was lookin’ at me awful peculiar.

“Y’know, Tate,” he said. We’d both been usin’ first names for awhile now. “I’ve run across a gunfighter or two in my travels, out in Texas and elsewhere. Most of them weren’t especially quick, just a little more ready to shoot than your average man. But among those few who did manage to get their guns into play in a hurry, I’ve never seen anybody do it faster than you did just now.”

He paused to take up the reins and cluck to his mules. After we’d started rollin’, he went on more thoughtful-like: “I hadn’t realized until now that I was in the company of a professional.”

I looked at him from underneath my hat-brim.

“Well,” I replied, “that there ‘professional’ is a interesting word. Most folks would take it to mean the way a gent chooses to earn his livin’. But if it’s your idea I’m some kind of a warrior for hire, I got to inform you you’re flat dead wrong.” I fell silent, keepin’ my eyes on the swaying rumps of the mules out in front of us.

“I’ve drawed fightin’ wages a time or two,” I admitted finally, “whenever the cause seemed right and I needed the work. But mostly I just ride for the brand. If a man hires Tate Barkley he hires all of me, and that means anything I’m able to do middlin’ good. Happens usin’ a gun is one of those. Along with breakin’ horses, whippin’ steers out’n the brush, followin’ a trail, ridin’ night herd, or you name it.”

Monk Drucker nodded and didn’t reply for a couple seconds. Then he glanced at me out of the corners of his eyes and observed, “You’d better douse that lantern. It can be seen for several miles out here in the woods. If that trio’s made camp somewhere up ahead I’d rather we saw their light first, instead of the other way around.”