It was early morning, but already hot. The sun beat down on his upturned
face as he gazed up at an endless blue sky. Then he leaned forward in the
saddle and kicked his horse gently in the ribs. It responded to his touch,
and they flew across the open yellow fields. The breeze whistled in his
ears, and he threw back his head, yelling to the wind. But his horse
stopped suddenly, turned its head round, and said "Wake up!"
"Cowboy! Come on, wake up, Cowboy!"
Sullivan opened his eyes slowly, looking irritably into the eyes of the boy shaking him awake. "Stop it. I'm awake. Waddaya want?"
"Nothin'. Snyder's comin'!"
Sullivan sat up, fully awake now. Visits from Warden Snyder were rare, especially late at night, and they usually meant trouble. It would not pay to be in bed when he arrived. "Others up?"
"Yeah. Come on!"
Sullivan scrambled out of bed just as the door opened. Warden Snyder approached, pushing a small boy of eleven or twelve in front of him. They stopped next to a bunk, and Snyder gestured toward it. "This'll be yours, boy. The rules of this establishment are simple: Do what you're told, stay quiet, and don't make trouble. Break the rules and you will deal with me personally. If you think that doesn't sound like much, ask Sullivan. He'll tell you." The Warden smiled over at Sullivan, showing far to many teeth. "Won't you, Sullivan?"
Sullivan looked Snyder right in the face and smiled back at him, showing just as many teeth.
As the door closed behind him, all of the boys in the room relaxed slightly, then turned to eye the newcomer suspiciously. There was no child in the ineptly-named Refuge who had not lived on the streets for at least some of their lives, and most had a story to tell that could either break the heart or fill it with fear, and often both. The Refuge could be a dangerous place if you didn't decide quickly who your friends and enemies were, and any unknown quantity was subject to suspicion.
So it was not with friendliness that Francis Sullivan circled the new boy, noting everything about him from his short, wiry stature to the cocky, what- the-hell-do-I-care-what-you-think expression in his pale eyes. Real sure of himself, Francis decided. On the scrawny side, pretty smart though. What do you wanna bet his middle name's Trouble.
Having made a full circle around the new kid, Sullivan stopped and gazed at him condescendingly. "So you got a name, Shorty, or do we have to beat it out of you?" Let's see how deep that sass streak goes.
"Names come cheap. Mine's Spot Conlon."
"Spot, huh? That don't sound too promisin'. You get that name cause you're so short? Or cause you got a brain to match your size? Or cause that's what you look like when the hard knocks come, just a greasy little spot on the-"
Jack was testing him, to see how far his courage would last under verbal fire... but the cocky little prick didn't even let him finish. "I do fine under knocks, I got a brain better'n anybody. And if I'se got anythin' to say about it, I'm gonna be taller'n you someday."
"Yeah, if you'se standin' on coffeecan stilts. Drop the cheeky talk for a sec and just tell me straight how come you'se called Spot."
The boy pulled out a worn slingshot from his belt, holding it up for his curious audience to see. "'Cause I's the best shot in New York."
There was a silence as the boys tried to decide whether to laugh this off as a joke, or to soak the boy for bragging. But something in his manner made them believe that this presumptuous statement was nothing but the simple truth.
It was Sullivan who spoke next. "You wanna prove that?" He expected somehow that the boy would bluster, take it back. But Spot seemed absolutely unmoved.
"Sure. I'll hit anythin' you can see."
The boys recognized a challenge when they heard one. They began to murmur excitedly, crowding around for a better view.
"Right. how 'bout the top of the post on that bunk three over from y'left?"
Conlon sneered. "A half-dead drunk wid a broken arm could hit that," he said contemptuously. "Who do y'think I am?"
Sullivan grinned. "Fine." He strolled over to the tiny window clear at the other end of the room and touched the place where the bars crossing the window intersected. "Hit this."
It was an impossible challenge. The room was only dimly lit, the bars scarcely visible against the blackness outside, the target tiny. But Spot Conlon was absolutely unmoved. He merely pulled a small blue marble from his pocket and was about to position it in the slingshot when Sullivan stopped him, incredulous that anyone would consider accepting a challenge that was so clearly impossible.
"Wait!"
Spot lowered his arm and lifted an eyebrow inquiringly.
"You can't hit that."
Spot laughed.
"I mean it. If you break the window, Snyder'll see you don't eat for a week, never mind the beatin' you'll get. " Sullivan said.
Spot made no reply at all. He positioned the shooter with practiced ease, pulled the band back carelessly. and fired.
There was an audible gasp from the onlookers as the marble whizzed from the slingshot. Several boys shut their eyes, waiting for the crash of breaking glass, followed by the inevitable roar of rage from Snyder's office below.
But there was no shattering sound. Only a sharp crack, followed by complete and utter silence.
The boys gazed at the window frame. There was a small dent on the cross between the bars, and the stone Conlon had shot lay on the floor beneath the window.
Slowly heads turned to stare at the supernatural being in their midst. Spot, impervious to the many pairs of astonished eyes fixed on his face, calmly tucked the slingshot back into his belt. There was an almost imperceptible smile of quiet satisfaction on his face, and he gave Sullivan a look that clearly said, "Well?"
After a long pause, Sullivan turned on the little crowd.
"Don't stare at the guy. Come on, let's go to bed."
The boys slowly wandered back to their bunks. Sullivan's word was law, although they were all aching to pepper this phenomenal stranger with questions.
When the boys were climbing into their bunks, Sullivan turned to Spot, speaking with far more respect than he had ever bothered to show any of the other newcomers.
"Where'd you learn t'shoot like that?" he demanded.
Spot shrugged. "A kid I met once made me the slingshot. I guess I taught myself pretty much. You gotta have somethin' t'defend yerself with when you live in the streets."
"You'se a street kid too, then?"
"Yeah. Ever since I could remember. I tried workin' for a while, at a dry goods shop on the East side, but the guy kept cheatin' me out of what he owed me. Finally I just decided to take my due." Spot face clouded. "But I got caught, and nobody cared about the truth, they just put me in here." He spoke with bitterness in every syllable. "For them, street rats like us ain't even human. We got no voice or rights. It don't even matter whether we tell the truth or not. All those high and mighty people want is to get us out of their sight, forget we exist, so they don't have t'feel guilty." He hunched his shoulders, staring rigidly at the floor, anger flooding his voice and face.
Sullivan watched Spot's grim expression for a moment longer, understanding. "Yeah, I know what you mean. I got put in here a year ago, for stealin' food when I couldn't stand bein' so hungry no more. But a thief like me ain't half as bad as the theives out there that's supposed to be so respectable."
He leaned back against the wall on which Spot had slumped. "Bein' in here is worse than bein' in the streets. At least out there you'se free, there's air t'breathe." He glanced at little Spot beside him, and acting on a wild impulse which he was never later able to explain, spoke from his heart. " Someday soon, I'm gonna break free of this damn jail. I'm gonna get a job, a real job, and save enough money that I can leave New York, go out west, and become a real cowboy. I'm not gonna spend my whole life bargaining for a crust of bread." He paused and looked again at Spot, who looked back at him, a little grin playing around his mouth.
"I guess it sounds stupid."
"Naw," said Spot. "I guess I got a dream like that too, but mine is even crazier." He took a deep breath and spoke seriously. "I don't wanna die a nobody. I want people to know my name. When I walk by, I want them to say 'Hey, ain't that Spot Conlon?' People's gonna remember me, who I was and what I did." He sat in silence for a moment, then, a little ashamed at having spoken with so little reserve, he chuckled, and continued more lightly. "And you know those carriages? Those big fancy ones the rich guys have? I always wanted to ride in one of those."
Sullivan laughed with him, grateful to have the subject changed to something less personal. "Yeah. Me too." Then he shifted and thumped Spot lightly on the shoulder. "Well. call it a night then, all right? Tomorrow I'll show you the ropes of the establishment- when you're in the refuge, you gotta know you're way around, or you'll starve t'death."
Spot lifted his head and gave Sullivan a grin, some measure of the cockiness he had shown earlier returning. "Thanks, Jack."
"Wait. Sullivan, not Jack."
"Yeah, I know. but you reminds me of something I heard a little girl on the street say once: 'Jack be nimble, Jack be quick.' You know?"
Sullivan smiled slowly, rolling the name around his head. "Jack. I guess I likes it."
"G'night then, Jack."
"G'night, Conlon."
"Cowboy! Come on, wake up, Cowboy!"
Sullivan opened his eyes slowly, looking irritably into the eyes of the boy shaking him awake. "Stop it. I'm awake. Waddaya want?"
"Nothin'. Snyder's comin'!"
Sullivan sat up, fully awake now. Visits from Warden Snyder were rare, especially late at night, and they usually meant trouble. It would not pay to be in bed when he arrived. "Others up?"
"Yeah. Come on!"
Sullivan scrambled out of bed just as the door opened. Warden Snyder approached, pushing a small boy of eleven or twelve in front of him. They stopped next to a bunk, and Snyder gestured toward it. "This'll be yours, boy. The rules of this establishment are simple: Do what you're told, stay quiet, and don't make trouble. Break the rules and you will deal with me personally. If you think that doesn't sound like much, ask Sullivan. He'll tell you." The Warden smiled over at Sullivan, showing far to many teeth. "Won't you, Sullivan?"
Sullivan looked Snyder right in the face and smiled back at him, showing just as many teeth.
As the door closed behind him, all of the boys in the room relaxed slightly, then turned to eye the newcomer suspiciously. There was no child in the ineptly-named Refuge who had not lived on the streets for at least some of their lives, and most had a story to tell that could either break the heart or fill it with fear, and often both. The Refuge could be a dangerous place if you didn't decide quickly who your friends and enemies were, and any unknown quantity was subject to suspicion.
So it was not with friendliness that Francis Sullivan circled the new boy, noting everything about him from his short, wiry stature to the cocky, what- the-hell-do-I-care-what-you-think expression in his pale eyes. Real sure of himself, Francis decided. On the scrawny side, pretty smart though. What do you wanna bet his middle name's Trouble.
Having made a full circle around the new kid, Sullivan stopped and gazed at him condescendingly. "So you got a name, Shorty, or do we have to beat it out of you?" Let's see how deep that sass streak goes.
"Names come cheap. Mine's Spot Conlon."
"Spot, huh? That don't sound too promisin'. You get that name cause you're so short? Or cause you got a brain to match your size? Or cause that's what you look like when the hard knocks come, just a greasy little spot on the-"
Jack was testing him, to see how far his courage would last under verbal fire... but the cocky little prick didn't even let him finish. "I do fine under knocks, I got a brain better'n anybody. And if I'se got anythin' to say about it, I'm gonna be taller'n you someday."
"Yeah, if you'se standin' on coffeecan stilts. Drop the cheeky talk for a sec and just tell me straight how come you'se called Spot."
The boy pulled out a worn slingshot from his belt, holding it up for his curious audience to see. "'Cause I's the best shot in New York."
There was a silence as the boys tried to decide whether to laugh this off as a joke, or to soak the boy for bragging. But something in his manner made them believe that this presumptuous statement was nothing but the simple truth.
It was Sullivan who spoke next. "You wanna prove that?" He expected somehow that the boy would bluster, take it back. But Spot seemed absolutely unmoved.
"Sure. I'll hit anythin' you can see."
The boys recognized a challenge when they heard one. They began to murmur excitedly, crowding around for a better view.
"Right. how 'bout the top of the post on that bunk three over from y'left?"
Conlon sneered. "A half-dead drunk wid a broken arm could hit that," he said contemptuously. "Who do y'think I am?"
Sullivan grinned. "Fine." He strolled over to the tiny window clear at the other end of the room and touched the place where the bars crossing the window intersected. "Hit this."
It was an impossible challenge. The room was only dimly lit, the bars scarcely visible against the blackness outside, the target tiny. But Spot Conlon was absolutely unmoved. He merely pulled a small blue marble from his pocket and was about to position it in the slingshot when Sullivan stopped him, incredulous that anyone would consider accepting a challenge that was so clearly impossible.
"Wait!"
Spot lowered his arm and lifted an eyebrow inquiringly.
"You can't hit that."
Spot laughed.
"I mean it. If you break the window, Snyder'll see you don't eat for a week, never mind the beatin' you'll get. " Sullivan said.
Spot made no reply at all. He positioned the shooter with practiced ease, pulled the band back carelessly. and fired.
There was an audible gasp from the onlookers as the marble whizzed from the slingshot. Several boys shut their eyes, waiting for the crash of breaking glass, followed by the inevitable roar of rage from Snyder's office below.
But there was no shattering sound. Only a sharp crack, followed by complete and utter silence.
The boys gazed at the window frame. There was a small dent on the cross between the bars, and the stone Conlon had shot lay on the floor beneath the window.
Slowly heads turned to stare at the supernatural being in their midst. Spot, impervious to the many pairs of astonished eyes fixed on his face, calmly tucked the slingshot back into his belt. There was an almost imperceptible smile of quiet satisfaction on his face, and he gave Sullivan a look that clearly said, "Well?"
After a long pause, Sullivan turned on the little crowd.
"Don't stare at the guy. Come on, let's go to bed."
The boys slowly wandered back to their bunks. Sullivan's word was law, although they were all aching to pepper this phenomenal stranger with questions.
When the boys were climbing into their bunks, Sullivan turned to Spot, speaking with far more respect than he had ever bothered to show any of the other newcomers.
"Where'd you learn t'shoot like that?" he demanded.
Spot shrugged. "A kid I met once made me the slingshot. I guess I taught myself pretty much. You gotta have somethin' t'defend yerself with when you live in the streets."
"You'se a street kid too, then?"
"Yeah. Ever since I could remember. I tried workin' for a while, at a dry goods shop on the East side, but the guy kept cheatin' me out of what he owed me. Finally I just decided to take my due." Spot face clouded. "But I got caught, and nobody cared about the truth, they just put me in here." He spoke with bitterness in every syllable. "For them, street rats like us ain't even human. We got no voice or rights. It don't even matter whether we tell the truth or not. All those high and mighty people want is to get us out of their sight, forget we exist, so they don't have t'feel guilty." He hunched his shoulders, staring rigidly at the floor, anger flooding his voice and face.
Sullivan watched Spot's grim expression for a moment longer, understanding. "Yeah, I know what you mean. I got put in here a year ago, for stealin' food when I couldn't stand bein' so hungry no more. But a thief like me ain't half as bad as the theives out there that's supposed to be so respectable."
He leaned back against the wall on which Spot had slumped. "Bein' in here is worse than bein' in the streets. At least out there you'se free, there's air t'breathe." He glanced at little Spot beside him, and acting on a wild impulse which he was never later able to explain, spoke from his heart. " Someday soon, I'm gonna break free of this damn jail. I'm gonna get a job, a real job, and save enough money that I can leave New York, go out west, and become a real cowboy. I'm not gonna spend my whole life bargaining for a crust of bread." He paused and looked again at Spot, who looked back at him, a little grin playing around his mouth.
"I guess it sounds stupid."
"Naw," said Spot. "I guess I got a dream like that too, but mine is even crazier." He took a deep breath and spoke seriously. "I don't wanna die a nobody. I want people to know my name. When I walk by, I want them to say 'Hey, ain't that Spot Conlon?' People's gonna remember me, who I was and what I did." He sat in silence for a moment, then, a little ashamed at having spoken with so little reserve, he chuckled, and continued more lightly. "And you know those carriages? Those big fancy ones the rich guys have? I always wanted to ride in one of those."
Sullivan laughed with him, grateful to have the subject changed to something less personal. "Yeah. Me too." Then he shifted and thumped Spot lightly on the shoulder. "Well. call it a night then, all right? Tomorrow I'll show you the ropes of the establishment- when you're in the refuge, you gotta know you're way around, or you'll starve t'death."
Spot lifted his head and gave Sullivan a grin, some measure of the cockiness he had shown earlier returning. "Thanks, Jack."
"Wait. Sullivan, not Jack."
"Yeah, I know. but you reminds me of something I heard a little girl on the street say once: 'Jack be nimble, Jack be quick.' You know?"
Sullivan smiled slowly, rolling the name around his head. "Jack. I guess I likes it."
"G'night then, Jack."
"G'night, Conlon."
