Chapter Nine
I went to see the medicine show off at dawn. I sort of hated it; I hadn’t figured out who nipped the boodle in Zimmer’s cash box, and I hadn’t come up with any suspects at all. I wished I could set it right with him.
I wrestled myself out of my cot at Belle’s Boarding House and got out there just as the outfit was fixing to roll.
“You, is it?” Zimmer asked. “You found some hard-won and easily nipped greenbacks that belong to me?”
“No, sir, I reckon I ain’t. Not even a likely prospect. But I want an address so if I get aholt of it, I can return it.”
Zimmer sighed. “I have none, sir. I hope to retire in Ames, Iowa, when I’ve advanced a few more years, but my home, sir, is only a soft and seductive dream.”
The feller sounded sort of lonely. It would be a strange sort to run around the country peddling tonic all his life, with nary a hope of home and family. But the world’s full of odd sorts like him.
“You do well here?”
“I would have, but for the theft, sheriff.”
“You sure it ain’t someone in your company? Someone who wouldn’t be noticed sawing away on the padlock in your wagon?”
“It pains me to see you drive a wedge between my loyal people and me, sir. No, they are stalwarts. The visit to Doubtful was a wash, thanks to some culprit in your town. And now, sir, we make haste for Douglas, up north a way.”
Those people were standing around, waiting for me to let them loose, it seemed, so I waved them off. For once the professor wasn’t in his tux and tails. He wore soft britches and shirt, and was going to drive one wagon.
The whole business seemed unfinished to me, but that’s how it is with law enforcement. Stuff goes unresolved. For all I knew, this outfit pilfered all the stuff from George Waller’s mercantile, and maybe more.
“One last word, sheriff. People in towns like yours are suspicious of road shows like mine. There’s a sentiment that we’re knaves and thieves, and that we’re not to be trusted. I’ve run into it time after time. So, if there’s doubt in your bosom, feel free to examine any of my wagons and their entire contents. Maybe that’ll put to rest whatever’s bothering you; whatever brought you here at dawn to look us over.”
“Well, Rusty, he had a look already, so you just get on the road now. I got a mess of new troubles, including an orphan sale this morning.”
Zimmer smiled. “I’ll sell you a bottle of tonic for fifty cents, sheriff.”
“Naw, my ma always said, don’t use crutches if you can walk upright.”
Zimmer nodded, clambered up to the high seat, cracked the lines over the croups of the draft horses, and the wagons slowly rumbled away. I watched them go, itchy and unhappy, wanting to finish business that lay hanging over me. It put me in a bad mood, and when I thought of those little hooligans I had to go back to the jail and feed, I got myself into an even badder mood. Them two, unless King Glad could square them up, was headed for a hanging, and likely their own.
The brats were awake and rattling the cage. When they saw me, one reached for the slop bucket, and I knew what he had in mind.
“Toss that at me, boy, and I’ll put a bullet between your eyes.”
That was a slight exaggeration, but it stopped him. Some people, force is the only language they understand. He edged away from the bucket, which stank from the night’s accumulation.
“You want some chow, do you?”
“Nah, we don’t need nothing,” Big Finn said.
“When do we get outta here?”
“When I feel like it,” I said. “You have to get on the good side of me to get what you want.”
“There ain’t a good side to you,” Mickey said.
“You got that right, boy.”
Rusty, he came in with two bowls of oatmeal from Barney’s Beanery, eyed the prisoners, smiled, and looked over the logbook.
“Hey, we want the feed,” Mickey said.
“You gotta work for it,” I said.
“Doing what?”
“Talk,” I said. “Tell me all about yourselves and you’ll get your chow.”
“Talk?”
“You bet. Start yakking away. Talking’s hard work. Who are you? Where’d you grow up? Who are your folks? Who are your grandparents? What do you want from life? You got any dreams? You talk, work hard at it, you eat. You slack off, you don’t eat.”
Mickey and Big Finn stared at each other.
“I got nothing to say,” Big Finn said.
“Tell me everything that’s happened to you.”
That met with silence. Rusty, he was enjoying this.
Neither boy talked. The clock ticked. The boys eyed the cold gruel malevolently. I finally relented, handed them their gruel and spoons, and they wolfed it down.
“You want to talk now?” I asked.
“We ain’t worth it,” Mickey said.
“You’re worth it. I want to know all about you.”
“Yeah, so you can throw the book at us.”
“Think whatever you want. Mostly I want to know who you are. I like me, but you don’t like you, is that it?”
I wasn’t making any headway with the boneheads, but pretty quick I was rescued by King Glad. He had indenture papers in hand, had made the legal arrangements with the McCoys and the Children’s Aid Society, and had come to collect.
“They’re in there. You got some help? You’ll need it,” I said.
“Big Nose George and Spitting Sam are right outside.”
“Yours, then,” I said. I unlocked the cell, while the brats watched, ready to bolt, but King Glad and I, we collared the pair and marched them to the door. Out there, Big Nose and Spitting Sam were waiting with two empty saddle horses.
“Who’s this? What’s he want?” Big Finn asked me.
“This is King Glad. He’s got a big ranch near here. He’s indentured you both.”
“Indentured? What’s that?”
King Glad replied, “I get to stuff food into you until age sixteen, and you get to work for me and learn a trade until age sixteen.”
“Work? I ain’t gonna let you sucker me into that.”
“That’s fine. I won’t let you sucker me into feeding you.”
“We’ll bust loose, sucker.”
“I’m sure you’ll try. Want to try right now?”
The hooligans, they eyed me, and eyed Glad, and eyed the door, and allowed themselves to be taken outside, where the horses were waiting, along with Glad’s men.
“You’re gonna hafta drag us,” Mickey said, and immediately quit walking. So we dragged him down to the street, and then dragged Big Finn, too.
“This here’s Big Nose George, he’s my ramrod, and this here’s Spitting Sam, he’s my second ramrod. You boys climb up on those nags and we’ll head out,” King said.
Instead, Mickey and Big Finn sat down in the street. “Make us,” snapped Finn.
Them hooligans never knew what landed on ’em. Next they knew, they was stretched out in the horse dung, on their bellies, and the ramrods were sitting atop them. Spitting Sam, he dug into his pockets for some chaw, put a pinch into his mouth, and handed the tin to Big Nose, who took some and slid it under his tongue.
“You had breakfast yet, Sam?” Big Nose George asked. “A rank horse sure makes me hungry.”
“We’ll send someone to the Beanery,” Spitting Sam said. “I got a bucking bronc here.”
“Hey, let us up,” Big Finn snapped.
“You hear something, Sam?” asked Big Nose.
“Just the crickets,” Big Nose said.
By then they were attracting spectators, who eyed the odd scene with displeasure.
“Don’t mistreat the orphans,” said one lady. “This is inhumane.”
“I only weigh a hundred forty, ma’am,” Spitting Sam said. “You mind telling me how I’m mistreating these fine young fellers? We’re just having a chew and some breakfast.”
She glared at him and stalked off. The rest of them folks, they just snickered.
This whole deal lasted about ten minutes, and then Big Finn said, “Yeah, let me up and I’ll get on that plug.”
“Glad you see it our way, boy,” Spitting Sam said, and stood up. Big Finn rose slowly, and climbed on the horse, looking whipped. Mickey followed. In moments, King Glad and his foremen were riding out of Doubtful with their two indentured boys riding slow plugs just in case they got notions. Neither of them had ever been on a nag before, so the ride out to the ranch was going to be an education that would improve their butts. I didn’t think it was going to go well for anyone, but I’m not very good at predicting the future. The thing that clawed at me was a hope that the little hooligans were treated fair, and not hurt. They didn’t know any better, and I hope King Glad understood that.
It was time for the adoptions, and there were a mess of people, mostly curiosity-seekers, milling around the courthouse steps. I was glad most of them didn’t see what was going on in front of my office. I saw the McCoys over there, with their orphan wagons, and all them young folks looking for a new ma and pa, or maybe not wanting one. But they didn’t have any say in it, being minors, so most of them were just standing there, half afraid, awaiting their fate. The girls were quieter and sadder; the boys were scared, anyone could see that. The girls didn’t look at the people, but stared at the clay, while the boys, some looked bitter, and others were real hopeful, and wondering if they were entering heaven, or hell, or no place at all.
The McCoys, they got their show on the road right at ten.
“All right, friends, these are orphaned youngsters, or children without shelter, and they’re looking for good homes and parents who’ll protect them, love them, raise them up straight and true, and welcome them into their families. You’ve had a chance to look them over. They’re all sound of limb and teeth, and speak English. They’ll all be good little workers and affectionate and obedient young people. So, let’s begin. Are there takers?”