Chester was twitching, dead asleep, and would have stayed that way all the way to Dodge if someone hadn't started humming, or something like it. Ordinarily that would hardly jar him awake. If the stage had been robbed, or lost a wheel, that probably wouldn't have, either. But this was real, hard-to-come-by tunelessness, enough to stub your toe on. Besides, whomever he was, he was cutting himself off now and then to say,
"Well. Did you ever see the like?"
Chester opened one eye just a crack. The man across from him must have gotten on in Abilene. There was nobody else. That was as much as Chester had the strength too ascertain, and he'd snored twice when the stranger suddenly came up with something new to declare.
"'It's simply vulgar with dust out there." Chester opened the same eye a bit further. The fellow might have been talking to himself. He probably was. He wasn't looking at Chester, he was squinting out the window in revulsion. "Oh, that's just exactly what it 'tis. Why, it ain't even hot. Just pure dus–" Chester wriggled violently into wakefulness, scrubbing his hands through his hair. He ended sitting a little straighter, eyes still bleary. His new neighbor had been sitting with his feet on either side of Chester's outstretched leg, but now he held them warily off the floor. He looked Chester up and down before settling.
"You sleep awful sound, don't ye," he said at length.
"Yeah, well, I guess I do, alright. See, I figure any time you ain't doing nothing else you're sorta missing a fine opportunity if you don't try and, oh, rest a little." Chester nodded. The stranger nodded back. "You never know when you're gonna have to be ready."
"Mm."
"For action."
"I guess that's so."
Chester cocked his head and studied. There was no use trying to sleep now. The dust was too trying.
The stranger was older than Chester, but not rightly old. He was not short but little, not shockingly so but in that striking way of people who never had enough to eat when they were growing–but he didn't seem to be suffering for nourishment now. Under a duster he wore a buckskin vest–Chester would've called it Indian-style, it had some sort of flower painted abreast of it–and a shirt of red calico. His kerchief was green and his pants were striped, and altogether it might have been garish if it weren't all well-incorporated with dust and use. His hair was long-ish, but it went askew more than down–the texture of felt and the color of the dust that coated it. His eyes were some nothing color Miss Kitty would've called hazel, and some sad. He needed a shave. There was something crooked about his face, even though he was making no face at all.
"What's your name, stranger?" Chester asked.
"Chester Proudfoot," the stranger replied, and held out a hand. Chester snorted. Proudfoot took it back.
"Oh, I don't mean nothing, that's my name too, that's all. I'm Chester Goode." Proudfoot was a foolish name, but if it really was his name, well, he couldn't help it. It was up to Chester to shake hands now, which was alright, though in the midst of it Proudfoot suddenly began to cackle. It was a strange, soft laugh. He had kind of a strange, soft voice. Like he had dough on the roof of his mouth.
"Ain't that curious," he said. "Us having the same name, I mean."
"Waal, yeah. 'Course, there's no shortage of Chesters," said Chester. "Just underfoot about everywhere you turn these days."
"It's a fine name."
"Uh-huh." Chester stretched and leaned back. "Waal. Where're you headed, Chester Proudfoot?"
"Dodge."
"You don't say!" Chester leaned forward. Proudfoot blinked. "Would you believe I'm headed that way myself?"
"Y'are?"
Chester nodded enthusiastically.
"Guess you found the right stage, then," said Proudfoot. "It ain't stopping nowheres else, not now. You been in Dodge before?"
"Oh, you just best believe I have, I live there!"
"Is that right? I never seen you around there that I can think of."
"Waa-al, I slip by kindly quiet, time-to-time."
"Oh, I don't believe that."
"...You mean to tell me you live in Dodge yourself?"
"I surely do."
"Right in town?"
"Just off Front Street, most often."
"Most often? You mean you moves around?"
"Well, yes. Well...yes." Chester opened his mouth to ask where between, but it occurred to him that batty-looking like he was it was possible this Proudfoot was some very quiet-living Persons of No Fixed Abode.
"Huh!" he said instead, after a second. "Figure we'll see lots of one another then, now that we know ourselves."
"Be proud to," said Proudfoot. He took out his watch, and opened and closed it too quickly to actually be checking the time. He kept doing it. It had a good click.
"Handsome watch you got there," Chester said. Proudfoot looked up and grinned. It improved him.
"Why, sure 'tis! You wanna see it?"
"Waal, now–" Proudfoot had already unhooked it for his inspection.
"A man oughta have a watch." He slapped it into Chester's hand. "A friend give it me. Right nice, ain't it."
Having received it, Chester took a look. The watch really was a handsome one–filigreed–and it had a compass on the other side of the lid.
"That sure is purty, mister."
"Thank you."
"Is it new?"
"'Tis, or nearly. Got it in June. That's when I change m'age."
Chester clicked the watch a few times. "My momma says they all of 'em had the Ague when I was born...I take that to be sometime along about June. May or June."
"Yeah?" Chester might get him a watch like this, if he could afford it.
"Usually hits you when the skeeters come out...You mind if I smoke?" Proudfoot asked. Chester shrugged. "I'll kindly blow it out the window...well. Ne'ermind. Forget I said anything." Chester shrugged again and clicked it faster, and was about to say something else pleasant when Proudfoot snatched it away.
"Why–"
"Ague's a terrible fever," Proudfoot said, as he hid the watch away in his vest, as if he'd merely paused for thought. "Makes a man feel like a harp with a thousand strings."
"Waal, I never had it," said Chester. He hadn't wanted the watch in the first place. He crossed his arms.
"I ain't since I was a boy, myself," Proudfoot went on. "Fella what gave me the watch, though, gets it practically regular."
"Oh, is that so."
"'Tis."
"You got a cold, or something?" Proudfoot blinked.
"No. What makes you say that?" Chester shrugged. "I look sick?"
"You sound it is all, kinda."
"What a thing to say. A body can't help the way they sound."
"Maybe you oughter get your adenoids took out."
"My what?"
"Your adenoids. That's like your tonsils, sort of. Little Jessica Barry, she had 'em took out, and she used to sound just like you. Sorta–I mean, she's a little girl, but, you know, sorta stuffed-up and all like that." Proudfoot shook his head and muttered incredulously to himself. To Chester's point, he didn't quite catch it. "What's that, feller?"
"Why, you–I said you're one to talk."
"Huh?"
"That's right." Proudfoot hooked his thumbs into his vest and stared at the floor. Chester was a little sorry. He grappled for something friendly to say.
"Where ya from?" he said.
"Where am I from," Proudfoot repeated, as if this was a foolish thing to ask. "Texas. Waco." Chester had planned to say 'that's mighty interesting' no matter what the answer was, but instead he heard himself say,
"You don't talk like no Texan."
"Oh, for pity's sake. You're so het-up o'er my talk, don't listen to it."
"Aw, I didn't mean nothing by it."
"Well...don't worry on it. I guess you've got to be Texan."
"That's right. You know, I was borned in Waco."
"Huh. I wonder I don't know your people. The Goodes, you say?"
"Yeah. They're dead some years now, though. Since I was a little bitty feller. After that I been sent down to an uncle in Laredo what brung me up. Ain't got no family otherhow, except for my brother."
"Oh. I'm right sorry."
"Ain't nothing," said Chester. That talk made him sound sad, he knew, but he was only thinking.
"Laredo's pretty well down there, I been through that way but once. Finest Mexican food I ever had."
"They got that alright."
"You talk Mexican, living down there like you done?" Proudfoot said Mexican like Messican.
"Yeah. That is, I used to, some. Just sorta words here and there, though, you know."
"Sure. Better'n none. I could never get the 'r's right for that."
"Oh, takes practice, is all." Chester trilled an r and yipped. Proudfoot looked duly impressed.
"I talk some Kiowa an' some Arapaho," Proudfoot said. "Just words here an' there, like you say–but that t'ain't hard, they don't do no throaty sounds nor fancy letters–course, they don't do no letters t'all. You got any family stayed in Waco?"
"What?"
"I said–" but Chester had caught up. He shook his head.
"No. It was only just me and my baby brother left, and he run off directly. Next day, it was. Yeah."
"He did?"
"Clahr to the Dakotas." Proudfoot looked puzzled. "He's over in Arkansas now, last I heard."
"My. Weren't he awful young?"
"He was twelve. I was fifteen."
"That ain't so little. 'Course I don't guess it matters, losing your momma at any age, it's...t'ain't ever easy."
"Reckon not... You got a brother, mister?"
"Not hardly." Proudfoot looked grim. "I got ten."
"Forevermore, ten? Bigger or littler than you?"
"Well," said Proudfoot, "I ain't too sure what became of 'em all, but I'm about mid-size of 'em, I'd guess." Chester didn't dignify that. Moreover he didn't follow. Proudfoot snickered and sighed and went on. "They was seven of 'em older'n three younger. Two of the little ones is twins, though, so they didn't never have much to do with me. You know. Twins d'rather live amongst themselves, they can talk without talking. So it's kindly more like only having nine brothers. Nine and a half, you might say."
"They all down in Texas still?"
"My gracious, no."
"What about your folks?"
"My momma is...she don't know where I'm at, though, not no more, so I ain't...I left in '62 to join the army, I ain't been back since, and most of 'em can't write a lick, and don't care to, anyway..."
"Is that right."
"Uh-huh. But I hear Oscar's a banker in Albuquerque. And Ephraim's a hermit."
"A hermit?"
"Means he don't talk to people, hides out in the woods, like. But that was some years ago, see, most of 'em left when I was still little. My Pa, well. He was meaner'n a slathery dog. He left when I was four, but he come back whene'er he got...lonesome enough. An when he was about he kindly given everyone idees. Made 'em hate the place, made 'em ashamed. Pa's a smart man. They known him more'n I did, my big brothers. Some of 'em's mean, too...really just Oscar's mean like that, and sometimes Jake…" Chester felt his eyes getting heavy. "Maybe it's Ma's fault marrying him a'tall. She sure ain't too bright. Finest lady ever was, but practically ignorant when it come down to it."
"She couldn't'a been, bringin' up all them young'ns."
"Well, she know'd all about that. Never lost a one, and we had just about e'rything, one time or another. But she never know'd how to keep from getting beat on."
"Oh...my," said Chester. Proudfoot seemed unperturbed.
"She figured all a body need know is how to care for your own, keep clean, an' get to church come Sunday, and she had all that down pat. Taught us the best she knew how, those of us as would listen. But my land, she'd'a had better sense if she'd a' kept well enough clear of Pa." There was something in all that that didn't sit right, but Chester wasn't sure what, just that it made his chest feel heavy. "Why, just walking about she troubled him no end." Chester knew.
"It ain't a lady's fault if a man beats on 'er," he said.
"Oh, of course it ain't, but if he gets of a mind to beat her...you hope he don't, but…it's a man's right."
"That don't make no sense."
"How's that?"
"Waal, it…" Chester thought frantically for a long moment. "You said your Ma oughter've not got herself beat, but now you're saying there weren't nothing she could do to stop it. Sounds like your Pa oughter've jest not beat her. Or all them boys a' hers oughter've beat 'im back, some."
"Well, they ain't," said Proudfoot shortly. "You may be right, but they ain't. He had 'em buffaloed, maybe. I didn't know there was men in the world as didn't beat their wives."
"You ain't married," Chester hoped aloud.
"My gracious, no. But my ma–time come Pa let her alone, anyhow. I got to be near so big as him–I couldn't'a stopped him, but reckon he kindly thought I might. N'it like enough weren't fun for him no more. Anyhow, the day come Magnus cut him when he tried." Proudfoot smiled dreamily at that, as toothy and hard as a bite. "Cut 'im 'round there, with a big ol' bowie knife." He traced lines from behind his ears to the underside of his chin. Chester's eyes widened.
"Oh, t'ain't hurt him bad," Proudfoot said. "Just bled him like a stuck pig. Right up agin' the door, calm as anything. His own Pa. Magnus is crazy," Proudfoot explained.
"M...Magnus, you said?"
"He's my baby brother. You know, I figured he weren't fit t'live with people, but he growed up real fine in the end. I'm right proud a' him. Teached hisself to write, too–wrote me last Christmas he was wintering in Canada! You know how to write?"
"Uh. You see, I...well. Um. Yeah! Yeah, I kin write. Wouldn't you know it, my brother–"
"I learned t'in the army. T'isn't easy."
"No, it ain't. It's hard work is what it is. I–"
"Now, I'm not no scholar, but it's a right important thing to know. Especially in my line of work."
"Sure, sure...what sorta work you do, anyhow? You ain't in the army no more, are ya?"
"Gracious no, I done all sorts a' things since I got outta the army. I been a cook, a muleskinner––not for very long, but I done it. I had a job helping a dentist, once...I made it all the way over to Richmond at one time, an' I was a mail carrier there. They got mail carriers there, a' course...I was a salesman..."
"What'd you sell?"
"Lightning rods. Dogs an' lightning rods. Not at the same time."
One of the horses gave a piercing whinny, and the stage ground to a sudden halt. They both breathed soft and listened. They couldn't be at Wagonbed Springs already. The horses shuffled uneasily.
Proudfoot said something under his breath.
"What?"
"I said there ain't no shotgun messenger."
"Must be a holdup," Chester whispered. "Reckon we oughta–" Proudfoot put a finger to his lips. A horse came up beside them. The curtains were drawn on that side. Chester couldn't sit frozen much longer.
"Geddown on the floor," Proudfoot whispered. Chester did. Proudfoot crouched awkwardly to the side of Chester's leg, and moved his duster clear of his gun.
"Okay, mister," said the man on the horse. "You gone and made this real easy for yourself. Just keep your hands where they're at, and tell me where the cashbox is stowed."
"That's a fool way to do it," muttered Proudfoot. Chester listened for the driver.
"It's under my feet," the driver said–he wasn't one Chester knew. "I'm gonna have to move my feet…"
"T'ain't nothin' to worry on," Proudfoot said. Chester glanced his way and found Proudfoot looking at him, patient and crooked. "If he gets the cashbox, well, he gets the cashbox, and it's the bank's worry. If he orders us out, you just do as he says, just the way he says, and t'ain't likely he'll shoot nobody."
"Oh, for heaven's sake, this ain't the first time I been held up." Proudfoot turned back to the window.
"You haven't got no gun hid out, have you?"
"Just a shotgun. On the roof."
"Well. That's okay." Proudfoot wrinkled and unwrinkled his nose. "But can you shoot?"
"A pistol?"
"Yeah."
"Of course I can."
"Okay. If he shoots I'll shoot him, but if he should get me, you get my gun and you hold him, that's all."
"Wh–"
Somebody yelled. A shot went off. The stage lurched, the horses screamed, and one of them galloped away–the bandit's, Chester presumed. Proudfoot drew his gun, threw the door open and stood on the seat. He disappeared, accordingly, from the waist up, but Chester could still see him holster his gun and limpen-up a little. Proudfoot and the driver's voices came muffled through the roof.
"You alright, Jim?"
"Yeah, I'm alright! No thanks to you! You had a gun all the time?"
"'Course I had, but t'weren't no good. If he put the gun down I'd'a tried to pin 'im, but he'd'a shot you sure f'I'd'a started hollering."
"You coulda been riding on the box in the first place–"
"I done told you, I paid my way clear and fine and I ain't no shotgun messenger."
"Well. Don't make much difference now, I guess. Lucky for us he was fool enough to get his head upside of my feet."
"My gracious, Jim, you musta kicked him pretty hard."
Chester scooched out the other door and limped around back. It was a windy day, bright and quiet but for the creaking of harness leather and the wheezing of the bandit, who lay sprawled on his back in the dry grass. Chester stepped up, blinking in the dust, and kicked the gun from his hand. He met no resistance.
"I weren't about to kick him gentle!" the driver went on.
"Well. Let's have a look at 'im." Proudfoot landed squarely in the dirt, and looked surprised to be face-to-face with Chester.
"I done kicked his gun," Chester offered.
"I declare, you do get around quick," said Proudfoot.
"Waal…"
Proudfoot shook his head in amazement and took a knee.
"He dead, Chester?" called the driver.
"No, he ain't dead," said Proudfoot. "He's none too quick coming around, though." He pulled the bandit's kerchief down.
"Oh, it's only a little old feller," Chester observed. It looked to Chester as if he'd be likely enough to faint with or without any boot to contend with.
"Got any water, Jim?" Proudfoot called.
"Sure."
The man moaned.
"You knocked the wind clahr outta me," he said.
"What'd you expect, tryna rob a stage?" said Chester. "There'd been a guard you'd like to've been killed."
Proudfoot returned with a flask and held it out to the bandit, who still lay prone.
"I'm much obliged to ye."
"Sit up first so's you don't choke on it," said Chester. The man did. His breath was whistley. He took a draw, then sprayed it.
"Hey! That's good water!" said Proudfoot.
"Water? What I need's a dram a' corn."
"What you need's another firm kicking and someplace to set quiet an' repent, like. Man's lived so long as you oughta have more sense than to try and rob a stage. There'd'a been somebody riding shotgun you wouldn't be here bellyaching a t'all."
"He already said that."
"Well, he's right, that's all. Drink that down and don't you spit it out."
"What fer?" The bandit drank piteously. "Yer gonna leave me here, ain'tcha?"
"Leave you he–? Why no. You're coming with us rest a' the way to Dodge, and the Marshal'll decide what to do with ye."
"Yeah," said Chester. They both glanced at Chester, then back to each other.
"What's your name, anyway?" said Proudfoot.
"Stubbs."
"That all?"
"Aloysius Stubbs."
"When'd you eat last, Stubbs?" asked Chester.
"Mundy," said Stubbs, and spat. Chester tried to remember what day it was today.
"Well, they et pretty good in jail where we're headed," said Proudfoot, less irascibly. Chester smiled. "Don't you worry none about that. Now come on." Proudfoot pulled Stubbs to his feet from behind.
"We'll eat before we get there, too. In Wagonbed Springs," said Chester brightly. They trudged back to the stage.
"I ain't got no money," said Stubbs. It occurred to Chester that if a body eats in jail, it generally means they're in it.
"Well I kindly figgered as much," said Proudfoot. "Don't you worry none about that, neither."