Laurie Kingery - A Hero in the Making

Nate felt a renewed surge of guilt at being part of a shady enterprise. “You know, friend, I’m going to let you in on a little something,” he said, lowering his voice as if he were about to impart a valuable secret. “That stuff really didn’t do half of what it was supposed to do. You’re better off without it.”

Perry nodded slowly. “I ’spose you’re right, mister. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask, though.” Without another word, he turned and trudged out of the saloon.

Never again, Nate thought. Never again would he get himself involved in something he knew to be dishonest.

Detwiler returned about an hour later, his buckboard loaded with several crates full of whiskey bottles. Nate had just finished tuning the piano, and ran his fingers over the keyboards to demonstrate.

“Sounds mighty fine,” the saloonkeeper said. “I ran into a fella on the way back who might be able to come play most nights, so that’s taken care of. Now, if you’ll just help me carry these crates in, we’ll lock up and call it a day.”

Just as they’d stashed the last crate in the storeroom behind the bar, Nate’s stomach rumbled so loudly that the other man couldn’t help hearing it.

He chuckled. “Reckon you worked right on through supper, didn’t you? Miss Ella didn’t bring you any supper over from the boardinghouse?”

Nate shook his head. “I reckon she thought my meals were supposed to start tomorrow,” he said. He didn’t want to admit he didn’t have even four bits to his name to go buy something to eat at the hotel. “Anyway, I don’t think Miss Ella likes me very much, so I didn’t want to ask.” Not liking him was one thing, but he didn’t want to tell the other man what the girl had actually said about not trusting him.

“Shucks, just give her some time. Miss Ella’s a bit...shy, let’s say, around menfolk she doesn’t know, and she had a shock today, too, with what happened. Meanwhile, I’m headed home—Ma’s got supper waitin’ for me. She always makes plenty, so you come along with me and we’ll see you get fed right enough.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he murmured. Nate could imagine how unwelcome it would be to have a stranger show up for supper, especially a stranger associated with the man who had wrecked the saloon. Detwiler’s “Ma” had to be elderly, since the man himself looked to be forty or so.

“Horsefeathers. My ma’s like the mother of this town, and she loves having folks to feed,” George said. “Come on an’ git in the wagon. Our house is just a hop an’ a skip down the road leadin’ south.”

It felt good to be welcome, to belong. It had been a long time since Nate had felt that way.

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