Words failed me as he said out of the twisted corner of his mouth, “Ready to git, Donny.”
Talk about walking like Winnetou and Manitou in the tracks of braves through all time—I was overawed at the amount of guts it took to bring out that grotesque wound for the world to see. I could not help staring, and no doubt people would. But chances were the only resemblance anyone could take away would be to a beached, one-eyed pirate in Treasure Island.
I barely got out, “Didn’t know you could do that with your peeper.”
“All kinds advantages to have glass in your head, ja,” he said tartly. “Hurry, let’s buy tickets before somebody sees Killer Boy Dillinger under my hat.”
? ? ?
AT THE TICKET COUNTER, the clerk idly doing a crossword puzzle took in my suitcase and Herman’s duffel with a bored glance as we stepped up. The missing eye didn’t faze him a bit. “You boys for the special?”
I answered with a question. “How do you mean?”
“The special,” the clerk recited as if it were common knowledge. “Last bus to Wisdom.”
The last?
That makes a person think. As in, last chance ever? Or something like dead last, some kind of bus especially for unswift customers who missed out on the real thing?
I still was trying to digest the meaning, Herman now squinched up in thought as well as one-eyed nearsightedness, when the clerk put down his puzzle and pencil and took fresh account of the two of us and our ratty luggage. “Or am I seeing things, and you aren’t that sort?”
“Uhm, sure, that’s where we want to go. To Wisdom, you bet.”
“Then let’s see the color of your money, gentlemen.” As Herman dug out the fare, which may have been special but still took nearly all of what we had left, the clerk spun on his stool and called to an arthritic-looking man dabbing away at paperwork in the cubbyhole office behind the counter. “Two more, Hoppy.”
“The merrier,” the man croaked, clapping on a battered-looking Greyhound driver’s hat and strapping on the holster for his ticket punch. “Makes a full house, Joe. Any other ’boes are gonna have to hoof it.” Rounding the counter with a hitch in his gait about like Louie Slewfoot’s, he jerked his head for us to follow him. “Let’s git to gitting,” he said, instantly winning Herman over.
? ? ?
AS WE TRAILED the gimpy driver past departure gate after departure gate to the loading bay at the very end of the depot platform, I was more than curious to see what was up with this special bus. As we neared, it became evident this was not one of the sleek modern fleet, but a stubby early model that had seen more than its share of miles—even the galloping greyhound on its side looked like time was catching up with it, its coat of silver dimming to dusky gray—and plainly was brought out only as a spare. That description probably fit the aged driver hopscotching along ahead of us as well, Herman and I realized with a glance at each other.
What really caught our attention, though, was the horde waiting to board. It was all men. If we thought the Butte waiting-room crowd were tough lookers, they were an Easter parade compared with this ill-assorted batch of customers, lounging around on bedrolls that looked none too clean and smoking crimped roll-your-own cigarettes, giving every appearance of having come straight off freight train boxcars. Most of them wore the cheap dark gray work shirts known as Texas tuxes, which didn’t show dirt, but even so, the wearers appeared to be badly in need of a wash day.
The driver halted under the overhang of the depot just out of earshot of the mob and gave us a dubious look.
“Free advice, worth what it costs, but maybe you gents ought to find some other way to git to Wisdom. ’Gainst regulations, but I can sneak you a refund.” He inclined his head toward the squat old bus. “This is what’s called the hay wagon, unnerstand. These scissorbills aim to hire on in haying, down there in the Big Hole.”
“Yeah, well,” I spoke right up, Herman backing me with vigorous nods, “that’s us, too. Haymakers.”
“I dunno.” The driver looked us over even more skeptically. “Nothing personal, but one of you seems sort of young and the other one pretty much along in years, to keep up with fellas like these.”
To my surprise, Herman now said a piece. “Not to worry. Ourselfs, we are from Tough Creek, where we sleep on the roof of the last house.”
Whatever western he had that from, it was enough to make the driver croak out a laugh and stump off toward the bus. “Join the fun, then. Let’s go.”
I didn’t, though, holding Herman back by his sleeve, too. A vision had come to me from the funnies, unsought but vividly there, of PeeWee the dim-witted little bum and his shabby pals mooching along in Just Trampin’, from the looks of it about like these hard-boiled excuses for humanity we were about to join. The question quavered out of me.