A Manner of Speaking by Margaret P.
(With thanks to my beta, Terri Derr) (2018: Words: 3,089)
Chapter Four
"Why so grim if everything looked normal?" Murdoch shook out his napkin as the family sat down to supper that evening.
Johnny fingered the top of his wine glass, arm and elbow resting on the white damask tablecloth, ignoring the food in front of him.
"Well?"
"It felt like the school was being watched."
Scott accepted a serving dish from Teresa. "Maybe you imagined it." He spooned a large helping of mashed potatoes onto his plate and passed the dish on to Johnny. "Too much time for daydreaming—unlike those of us digging ditches since dawn."
Johnny chuckled; he wasn't sorry to have escaped that job. "You tossed the coin."
Murdoch chewed slowly and took a sip of wine. "We should be able to spare you for a few more days. Why don't you go back to Green River and give Val a hand?"
Johnny met his father's eyes and nodded.
He started adding pot roasted beef and vegetables to his plate. Murdoch often trusted his judgement these days. Why he valued each instance as though it was something special, he wasn't sure, but he did. They had come a long way since the spring of 1870; the fact that Scott and Teresa didn't bat an eyelid proved it. They went back to debating the merits of A Midsummer Night's Dream over Under the Gaslight as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
The next morning Johnny said goodbye to Scott and the rest of the culvert crew outside the barn. "Have fun digging holes, fellas."
"Your turn will come. Stay out of trouble."
Johnny saluted and spurred Barranca to a canter. He reached the outskirts of Green River, humming 'Clementine', as shopkeepers began unlocking their doors. A few carts rolled along the rutted street and clerks and others with clean fingernails hurried to their place of work.
Up ahead the Majestic Hotel came into view on the right. A man swept the boardwalk outside and a maid dressed in a frilly apron and cap watered hanging baskets.
One of the leading lights of the Temperance Society bustled out of the jewellery store next door, rummaging in her purse as if she had lost something. It was the beak-nosed woman with the voice that scratched the inside of his ears like barbed wire. Johnny was sorry for the wives of drunkards, but any man married to that Bible-thumbing crow needed a saloon once in a while.
Closer to him, on the left, three girls carried primers and lunch pails on their way to school. As he drew near, they started to cross the street. The youngest dawdled and stopped in the middle to examine something on the ground. One of the older ones ran back and tugged at her sleeve. "Come on, Alice. You heard what Ma said." They glanced towards the Johnson place and then ran to their friend waiting on the boardwalk outside Jed Barkman's workshop.
A lump formed in Johnny's stomach. Not feeling much like humming anymore, he tied Barranca to the new hitching post by the Johnson's gate and headed up the path.
"What the hell?" He stopped before reaching the stairs.
Kit got to his feet, a paint scraper in hand.
"What happened?" Johnny took the steps two at a time and pointed at the scorch mark, stretching from the porch floorboards up to the top of the front door. Except for where Kit was working, the once blue and white paint was crinkled and charred.
Kit scowled and pulled the burnt remains of an old shawl out of a bucket sitting on the bench seat.
Taking the ruined garment from Kit's hands, Johnny sniffed: kerosene, wool and… "Gunpowder?"
"Firecrackers."
The shawl was wet from being doused with water. Johnny looked more closely and picked bits of burnt red paper from the knit. "Dang stupid prank."
"Prank?" Kit exploded like a firecracker. "Someone tried to burn the house down with us inside."
"Whoa. Take it easy. Most folks around here know wool burns slow, and the crackers were likely to make sure Molly woke up."
"Well, she didn't. Molly's bedroom is out back, and she sleeps like a log."
"Shoot." Johnny stared at the door again. It was badly scorched at the bottom, far worse than could be expected from smouldering cloth, and that was heat damage, not just smoke stains, higher up.
"The door was on fire and the house full of smoke by the time Sheriff Crawford woke us." Kit sounded more like a snarling bear than a man speaking words.
"Are the kids okay?"
"Scared stiff."
"But no one was hurt?"
"No, no one actually got hurt." Kit glared at the shawl. "Come and see this."
Johnny followed him around to the side of the house, passing a discarded paint can and brush in the rose garden. They must have been the ones left in the shed after the front door and shutters were repainted, because a small river of blue paint trailed over the now weed-free soil.
"Well?" Kit pointed at a message painted on the wall:
DUMMIES GO HOME!
FINAL WARNING!
Johnny swallowed a curse. "Does the sheriff know about this?"
"Not yet. He came running last night, but he was at the other end of town when the fireworks went off. Whoever did it was long gone by the time he got here, and it was too dark to check much. We found the message this morning."
"I think I'll go tell him." Johnny turned towards the street, striding across the lawn and jumping the fence instead of going through the gate.
After some searching, he found Val coming out of the hardware store.
"Whoever lit those firecrackers last night painted a 'Go Home' message."
"Yeah, well, I'm pretty sure I know who done it."
"Who?"
"You'll see." Val led the way towards the north end of town. "I might need your help, but stay out of sight until I call you."
Johnny raised an eyebrow.
"Trust me." Val waved him down the alley between the school and the town hall. "Hide around the side of the woodshed. Go on." He grinned and headed around the front of the schoolhouse.
Johnny rested his shoulder against the side wall of the shed and waited until he heard voices in the alley.
"We ain't done nothing, sheriff."
Johnny peeked around the corner, taking care not to be seen. Val had extracted Kyle Dobson, the butcher's son, and another boy from their lessons. Kyle was whining as he tried to wriggle free of the grip Val had on his collar.
The other boy backed towards the woodshed. "Why'd you always think it's us?"
Val pushed Kyle forward to join his friend. "One: because it usually is, and two: because Mayor Higgs says you were in his store wanting to buy firecrackers on Tuesday."
"Yeah, but he didn't have none. Too long past Independence Day, he said." The second boy sounded bitter, as though he didn't believe what they'd been told.
"What did you want them for?"
"Just some fun."
"Like scaring the kids at the new school?"
"Don't know what you're talking about." The boy kicked at a stone, and Johnny fell back as it bounced within an inch of his boot.
"My pa says those dummies should go back where they came from." Kyle was a cocky so-and-so. He'd better hope Val was in a good mood or he'd get a clout around the ear.
"Funny, that's pretty much what someone painted on the wall of the Johnson place."
"Yeah? Well, you can't prove it was us. Everybody hereabouts calls them dummies."
"It's a school for the deaf. That's folk who can't hear right good. They think just fine—which is more than I can say for you and Dick." Val crowded the boys further into the vee formed by the schoolhouse and shed walls, well clear of any windows and out of easy sight from the street. "Mayor Higgs says he told you to try the hardware store on South Street."
Dick fiddled with his braces. "We don't go there. Old Man Ferguson doesn't like us."
"Well, ain't that peculiar? Seems like he'd be real fond of fellas who let a bunch of roaches loose in his store." Val stroked his chin. Then he took a plug of chewing tobacco out of his pocket and bit a piece off. "Thing is, boys, Mr Ferguson is mighty good at stocktaking. He's positive he had fireworks out back, but when we looked the box was empty."
"That don't mean nothing." Kyle swaggered forward, but Val blocked his path. They exchanged looks, and Kyle stepped back again.
"Stealing means something all right, son, but we'll talk about that later. For now I just want to know why you're so set against those nice folks at the deaf school."
"We told you already; we ain't." The smirk had returned to Kyle's voice.
Val's face darkened.
"It wasn't our…"
Kyle elbowed Dick hard in the ribs.
"Ah, now we're getting somewhere. Go on."
Dick bowed his head and shuffled his feet.
"We ain't saying." Kyle puffed out his chest and tried to maintain the bravado. "You can't make us. Innocent until proven guilty."
"You don't say?"
"Lock us up if you want; I dare you. My pa is on the town council. He'd get us out real quick. You'd get the sack."
Dick's head shot up. "Yeah. And then my pa would knock your block off."
Val chortled as he scratched the back of his neck. "Well, that's me put in my place, but thing is, I ain't aimin' to put you boys in jail. I got better things to do with my time than listen to you two belly-aching while I drink my coffee."
Johnny sensed the boys' confusion. He would have laughed, except he had a gut feeling he knew what was coming next.
"So we can go back to class?" Kyle sounded hopeful and nervous at the same time as if he thought freedom was too good to be true—which it was.
"Hell no."
Johnny leant against the shed wall, not bothering to spy anymore. He didn't need to see the boys' faces to know they looked like a pair of scared rabbits. As sheriff, though, Val had gone about as far as he could go without getting the boys' parents involved. He could finish it himself, but it would take time they didn't really have.
"Fact is, fellas, I ain't the only one wanting to know who put you up to this." Val raised his voice a little. "Johnny, you still there?"
Damn you Val Crawford. Johnny watched a wisp of cloud float out of sight over the roof tops; it would serve Val right if he walked in the same direction and left him hanging.
But, they needed to find out what was going on with the school—the sooner the better—and this was their only lead. Even if they followed the sheriff's rule book, they couldn't be sure the boys' fathers would help.
"Johnny?"
Taking a deep breath, he slipped around the corner, ambled up and circled his quarry real slow. Kyle and Dick's eyes widened and their bodies stiffened as he approached; they didn't even dare to turn around when he stopped behind them. Throwing Val a look that said he might have to reconsider their friendship, he completed the loop and came to a standstill beside him.
Chewing with his mouth open, Val glanced over. "You want a word with these boys?"
Johnny relaxed his weight onto one foot and rested his hand on his Colt. The game had begun.
He fixed his eyes on the rabbits and smiled.
Kyle and Dick paled.
"You can't..." Kyle grabbed Val's arm. "You can't give us to him."
Val stared down at the fingers clutching his shirt. The boy let go and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Sorry."
"Mr Lancer here wants to have a little chat. Is there a problem?"
"He…he's a gunfighter."
"He's Johnny Madrid." Dick shuddered.
"He's Mr Lancer to you boys and he's retired from gun fighting. He's a respectable rancher now." Val picked at a scab almost hidden by his day-old stubble as the boys stood goggle-eyed like goldfish. "Okay, I'm off. Don't look so worried; I'll look into any accidents." He touched his hat and without waiting for a reply, sauntered towards the street. "Innocent until proven guilty. Good rule. I like it."
"Wait. You…." Dick's head swivelled desperately between Johnny and Val's retreating back. "We'll tell our pas."
Val stopped. He leaned forward slightly with his hands on his hips as if giving Dick's threat due consideration. Then he spat on the ground and kept on walking.
As he rounded the corner of the schoolhouse into the street, the boys backed away towards the shed.
Johnny frowned. It suited his purpose for the boys to be a little scared of him, but they weren't just scared; they were terrified. What was he? Green River's boogeyman? The possibility hit him hard in the pit of his stomach. Val must have known it too. Why else would he have thought up this scheme?
Folding his arms over his chest, Johnny gritted his teeth and stared down at the fine coating of dust covering his boots. Wasn't it time folks got over his past? Damn it, he'd bought those boots with calluses and back-breaking ranch work, not his reputation with a gun. After nearly two years, he deserved the benefit of the doubt as much as Kit and his students.
"You can't hurt us," Kyle blustered, breaking through Johnny's thoughts. "We're still at school. We just turned fifteen."
Johnny lifted his head. Talk about a different world…but he had a job to do. Adjusting his hat, he took a step closer. "Well, now that's real interesting, but it don't make no difference." He clamped Dick's shoulder with his left hand and crowded Kyle into the schoolhouse, planting his right hand on the wall behind the boy's ear. "Now are you two going to tell me what's going on or do I need to teach you a few things I learned at fifteen?"
Kyle gulped and looked for a way out— there wasn't one. He licked his lips. "He said not to tell anyone."
"Who said?"
"The man." Spine pressed hard to the rough-sawn timber, Kyle tried to increase the gap between him and Johnny by sidling into the vee of the walls.
"What man?"
"Dunno."
Johnny raised an eyebrow.
"Honest."
He turned to Dick. "Do you know him?"
The boy shook his head, lips tight shut as if he was about to puke.
Johnny straightened. He'd better get this over with quick.
Letting go of Dick, he pulled a soft leather glove from his pocket. The boys watched as he wriggled his left hand into it, but before he was done he aimed another question at Kyle. "What did this man look like?"
"W-wore a suit….About your height."
"Young? Old?" Johnny pushed his hat back a little and stood with hands on hips.
"I dunno. Older than you. Y-younger than my pa." Kyle scuffed the toe of his boot in the dirt. "He had oil in his hair…and he talked funny."
"American?"
"Not from around here."
Johnny pondered for a second. "Did he sound like my brother?"
Kyle shrugged. "Sort of."
But Dick shook his head.
"What did he say?"
Neither boy answered. For a second Dick looked like he was going to say something, but he thought better of it.
"Well?"
Kyle breathed in some courage. "We can't remember."
Johnny grabbed the front of the boy's shirt, and he squawked.
"Well, start remembering. How come you did his dirty work?"
"W-we can't."
"Pfft." Johnny shoved Kyle back and then pushed him and Dick roughly together. "You know one thing I learnt at fifteen, fellas? There are worse punishments for a smart mouth than a whupping." He stepped back and flexed his un-gloved hand.
"Tell him, Kyle."
"Yeah, Kyle, I'm losing patience." Johnny's right hand hung loose by his Colt.
Kyle eyed the gun. "He...he blackmailed us."
"Is that so?" Johnny cocked his head and hooked the thumb of his gun hand into his belt. "Go on."
"He reckoned unless we helped him he'd say he'd seen us untie the gate on the livery corral and scare the horses out."
"You scared them, huh? Let me guess: with firecrackers?"
Kyle nodded.
"What did he want you to do?"
"Cause a ruckus. Leave a message."
"Who's idea was 'Final Warning'?"
"His. He said it would have more…more...impact." Kyle's relief when he remembered the word made Johnny want to laugh. "He said we'd be doing the town a favour."
"The lying bastard didn't see anything. He only guessed."
"So what? After last time Madman Miller would have scalped us. We had no choice."
Well, it was good to know Johnny wasn't the only fella to scare the shit out of kids in this town. A small consolation though; even Val thought Miller was crazy.
"Okay, let me get this straight. You had fireworks left over so you decided it would be a good idea to set the Johnson place on fire? Someone could have been killed."
Dick squirmed uncomfortably. "We just wanted to frighten them."
"It wasn't our fault. The lady teacher must have been liquored up to sleep through that racket."
Johnny cuffed Kyle around the ear. "How much did he pay you?"
Rubbing the side of his head, Kyle avoided Johnny's eyes.
"I said 'How much'?"
"Fifty cents each. A dollar once we'd done it."
"Hand it over."
Grumbling and scuffing the ground with their boots, the boys ponied up.
"That's for the damage." Johnny dropped the coins into his shirt pocket. "Where'd you get paid?"
"We met him around back of the Majestic before school started," Kyle growled.
"Is he staying there? Working there, maybe?
"Dunno." The boys answered together.
Dick looked up with pleading eyes. "Honest injun, Mr Lancer, we've told you all we know."
Johnny studied the two troublemakers, weighing up whether they could tell him anything more worth knowing. Then he heard children laughing. He checked his watch; the morning's lessons were over.
"Report to Kit Johnson after school. He'll have chores for you." He thumbed the boys away, and they edged past him with their backs scraping the wall. "Don't make me come looking."
"No, sir." Touching their hats, they made a dash for the schoolyard.
Notes:
Under the Gaslight is a 1867 play by Augustin Daly and a primary example of melodrama, best known for its suspense scene where a person is tied to railroad tracks as a train approaches, only to be saved from death at the last possible moment. A Midsummer's Night Dream is of course by William Shakespeare.
