Linda Miller - The Man from Stone Creek

Singleton rubbed his rope-chafed wrists to restore the circulation, but he showed no inclination to stand up just yet. Poor little fella must have had noodles for legs, Sam reflected, after hanging upside down in the well like that. “Call me Tom,” he said affably. “I am much obliged for your quick action on my behalf.”

Sam let one corner of his mouth quirk upward. He was sparing with a smile; like names for horses, they meant something to him, and he gave them out only when he was good and ready. He made a stalwart friend, when he had a high opinion of somebody, but he took his time deciding such matters. He knew a little about Tom Singleton, much of it hearsay, but as to whether he liked the man or not...well, the vote was still untallied.

Small feet rustled the bushes nearby and a giggle or two rode the warm afternoon breeze. Valiantly, Singleton pretended not to hear, but there was a flush pulsing on his cheekbones. It had to be hard on a small man’s dignity, being cranked up out of a schoolyard well by a big one, hired to take over his job. Sam wanted to tread lightly around what was left of Singleton’s pride.

“You hurting anywhere?” Sam asked, rising to his feet and scanning the schoolyard. Just you wait, he told the hidden miscreants silently.

“Fit as a fiddle!” Singleton insisted. He tried to get up then, but Sam saw that he was fixing to crumple and withheld his hand out of regard for the fellow’s self-respect. Sure enough, he went down.

“Best sit a spell,” Sam said.

Another bush shivered, off to his left— No time like the present, he thought, and waded in, snatching up one of the offenders by his shirt collar and dragging him out into the open. The giggles turned to gasps and there was some powerful shrub-shaking as the rest of the gang lit out for safer ground. “And your name would be?”

The lad looked to be around twelve or thirteen, with a cap of chestnut-brown hair and strange, whiskey-colored eyes peering, at once scared and defiant, out of a freckled face. His clothes were plain, but of good sturdy quality, and he wore shoes, which marked him as somebody’s pride and joy.

“Terran Chancelor,” he answered, clearly begrudging the information. His gaze darted briefly to Singleton, who was just summoning up the gumption for another attempt at gaining his feet, and the sly pleasure in the kid’s face made Sam want to shake him.

Forbearing, Sam held him suspended, so the toes of his fine mail-order shoes just barely brushed the grass. “You the leader of this bunch of outlaws?” he asked.

“No,” Chancelor snapped. “Put me down!”

Sam hoisted him an inch or two higher. “Maybe you’d like to hang upside down in the well for a while,” he mused. It was a bluff, but the kid didn’t need to know that. His eyes widened and he went a shade paler behind that constellation of freckles.

“I hope you’re not the new schoolmaster,” Terran Chancelor said with brave disdain. Sam wasn’t sure how smart the kid was, but he had to credit him with grit.

He allowed himself a slow, wicked grin. “‘Abandon hope, all ye who enter here,’” he quoted.

Chancelor frowned, gnawed at his lower lip. “What does that mean?” he asked, peevish. “Sounds like something out of some high-falutin’ book.”

Sam released his hold on the boy’s shirt, watched as he dropped, swayed and found his balance. “It means, young Mr. Chancelor, that when you sit down at your desk bright and early tomorrow morning, here in the hallowed halls of learning, I’ll be standing in front of the blackboard.”

“Well, hell,” the kid complained.

Sam suppressed a grin. “Peculiar that you should mention Hades,” he said evenly. “That quote you just asked about is carved over the gate.”

The boy’s eyes widened again, but his color was high with fresh temper. He darted another glance at Singleton. “We were just having a little fun after school let out for the day, that’s all. No harm done.”

“I guess that depends on your viewpoint,” Sam said mildly. “Whether or not there was any harm done, I mean. You tell your friends that I’ll be happy to give any or all of them the same perspective Mr. Singleton here just enjoyed, if they’re curious about how it feels.”

Chancelor narrowed his eyes, looked as if he might be deciding whether he ought to spit in Sam’s face. Fortunately for him, he didn’t pursue that inclination. Unfortunately for him, he chose to run off at the mouth instead.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he said.

Quick as if he’d been wrestling a calf to the ground for branding, Sam hooked an arm around the boy’s middle, tipped him over the rim of the well and caught a firm hold on his ankles. “There’s where you’re wrong, young Mr. Chancelor,” he replied.

“My sister will have your hide for this!” the boy yelled, but his voice quavered as it bounced off the cold stone walls.

Sam chuckled. Singleton stared at him in horrified admiration.

“He’s right, you know,” Tom whispered earnestly. “Maddie Chancelor’s got a tongue on her. She’ll flay you to the bone.”

“That right?” Sam asked. Bracing his elbows against the edge of the well, he let the kid dangle.

“The blood is probably rushing to his head,” Singleton advised fretfully.

“Good for his brain,” Sam said companionably.

“Get me out of here!” Terran sputtered, squirming. “Right now!”

“I wouldn’t flail around like that, if I were you,” Sam counseled. “Hell of a thing if you came out of those splendid boots of yours and took a spill. Fall like that, you’d probably break your fool neck.”

The boy heeded Sam’s advice and went still. “What do you want?” he asked, sounding just shy of reasonable.

“For a start,” Sam answered, “a sincere apology.”

“What do I have to say ‘sorry’ to you for?”

Sam wondered idly about Maddie Chancelor and what kind of influence she might have in this little cowpattie of a town, plopped right along the border between Mexico and the Arizona Territory like an egg on a griddle. If she was anything like her brother, she must be a caution, as well as a shrew.

“Not a thing,” he replied at his leisure. “But a kindly word to Mr. Singleton here wouldn’t go amiss.”

Sam felt a quiver of rage rise right up the length of that boy, then along the rope, like grounded lightning coursing back through a metal rod.

“All right!” Chancelor bellowed. “I’m sorry!”

“‘I’m sorry, Mr. Singleton,’” Sam prompted.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Singleton,” the boy repeated. His tone was neither as dutiful nor as earnest as it might have been, but Sam yanked him up anyhow and set him hard on his feet. The fury in the kid’s eyes could have singed the bristles off a full-grown boar, but he held his tongue.

There might be hope for this one yet, Sam concluded silently, folding his arms as he regarded the furious youth.

“Go home and tell your sister,” Sam said, “that the new schoolmaster will be stopping by shortly to discuss the calamitous state of your character.”

The boy glowered at him in barely contained outrage, fists clenched, eyes fierce. “She’ll be expecting you.” He spat the words, simultaneously leaping backward, out of reach, ready to run. “Don’t bother to unpack your gear. You won’t be around here long.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, took a step toward the kid.

He turned and fled down the road Sam had just traveled, arms pumping at his sides, feet raising little puffs of dust.

By then, Singleton had recovered his composure. “You’re in for some trouble,” he said with friendly regret, consulting his pocket watch and starting for the schoolhouse. “Might as well show you around, though. I have an hour before the stage leaves for Tucson.”