Guy Vanderhaeghe - The Englishman’s Boy

The boy carried on to the bar, ordered his drink, hooked the heel of his boot on the rail and turned to face the room, glass in hand. The man in Dawe’s top hat had his eyes fixed on him. As the boy lifted the tumbler to his lips, a tremor disturbed the surface of the whisky. He held off drinking until it steadied and went smooth as glass, rewarding his coolness with a sip, aware the hotel-keeper had moved in on him, was hovering almost at his elbow.

“You’re the son of a bitch who don’t pick up after himself, ain’t you?” said the hotel man. “Left a corpse in my best bed.”

The boy didn’t answer. He took another sip of whisky and surveyed the occupants of the saloon.

The hotelier was crowding in, thrusting his face at him. “Left a bill behind, too. Unpaid bill and an Englishman gone high in the heat.”

“I settled with your man,” the boy said. “You got all was owed – and more.”

“You filched the Limey’s gear,” said the hotel man. “By rights it’s mine. I got claim on his chattels. You got movables belong to me.” He pointed to the boy’s holster. “That fine ivory-handled pistol for one.”

“I got nothing belongs to you. The gun is for wages he owed me.”

The hotel man smiled. “Wages of sin is death, boy.” He brushed back the skirts of his coat and tucked them behind the butt of his pistol. The bravado of a drunken man.

“No wages is starvation and that’s death, too,” said the boy.

“You goddamn little scut,” the top hat said angrily. “Threatening to fire my hotel. You and your Mr. Biggity Big Englishman.”

“He couldn’t been too big,” said the boy. “His hat fits you just fine.”

The men nearby were beginning to follow these interesting proceedings. One of them laughed loudly.

Spurred by the laughter, the hotel-keeper cried, “You little son of a bitch! I’ll have that gun or I’ll have your hide! Depend on it!”

To those looking on, the Englishman’s boy raised his voice and said, “This man here is aiming to rob me. You heard him say it. You’re witnesses.”

The loud announcement attracted attention. Several nearby tables of faro and poker suspended gaming to see how this was going to play out. A portly man in a good coat and good hat shouted, “What you doing, Stevenson? Stealing this sprat’s sugar tit?” Everyone around the table guffawed appreciatively at his sally.

“I’m a stranger here,” said the boy in a voice which rose above the slackening din. “Whatever falls out here ain’t my doing.”

Suddenly Stevenson seized him by the wrist of his gun hand. There was no use in struggling. He could sense the power of the man’s grip, knew he was not strong enough to break it. He remained very still. Stevenson grinned in his face. “Hello,” he said, and suddenly struck him a savage blow to the ear with his fist. The Englishman’s boy staggered with the force of it, was jerked up short by the wrist.

Dizzied, the boy said to the room, “I ain’t got nothing of this man’s. I ain’t asking for no trouble.” The ringing in his ear made his own voice sound as if it were coming from somewhere distant and deep, the words from his very throat rising out of some unplumbable well.

Stevenson dealt him another blow to the ear. The ear caught fire, the fire sank into his jaw, coursed burning down the side of his neck, running hot in its cords. Stevenson smiled and said “Hello” again. The Englishman’s boy could not hear him this time, could only read his lips mouthing the word. The fist cocked again, and the boy dropped his free hand to his boot-top. The hand jumped up with a metallic glitter.

Stevenson’s face was all bewildered surprise. He stared down at the knife embedded in his armpit. Then the first shock passed; the steel bit bone like a desperate dog, warping and knotting his face beyond all recognition.

“Leave go my hand,” said the boy as he jammed Stevenson up on his toes with the point of the knife. Blood was pouring down the blade like rainwater down a drain spout, soaking the cuff of his jacket sodden and heavy, turning his fingers hot and sticky and reeking.

Stevenson seemed beyond comprehending. Agony was clamping the fingers of his good hand even tighter to the thin wrist.

“Leave go my hand,” the boy repeated, twisting the knife hard where it lodged. The knife grating in the joint tore a hoarse screech out of Stevenson and he loosed the wrist.

The pounding piano at the far end of the saloon went silent; the dancers stood still, arms draped around one another; the gamblers sat frozen with cards in their hands.

As Stevenson stood spitted on the knife, the boy pulled the Colt, jammed the muzzle to his head. “Hello,” he said between his teeth. The hotel man’s eyes bulged. Someone entered the saloon and scurried back out again when he saw what was happening. The hinges of the flapping bat-wing doors wheezed in the silence.

“For Christ’s sake, don’t kill me,” Stevenson whispered hoarsely. “I got a sick wife in Missouri.”

Hardwick rose from the table next to the window. The boy swung the pistol on him, Stevenson flinching with the sudden movement. Hardwick spread his hands before him, demonstrating he had no weapon. “Word of friendly advice, son,” he said. “You kill him where he stands – they’ll hang you.”

The truth of this statement contorted the boy’s face. He jerked the knife out of Stevenson and drove it, twice, with blinding rapidity into the man’s buttocks. The hotel-keeper gave a great hollow groan as his knees gave way under him, capsizing him to the floor in a dead faint.

The boy stepped over the body to where the black silk hat had rolled and trampled it savagely under his dirty boots. No one moved as this was accomplished. “None of this was my doing,” he told the room, brandishing the pistol above his head for all to see. “I’m walking now. If this bastard has any kin or friends setting here making plans – you’ve seen my gun. It’s cocked.” He took a step toward the door, then pivoted on his heel and kicked the senseless body in the head. “Hello,” he said to it one last time.

Now he was moving for the door, the hushed crowd falling back out of his path, falling back from the pistol he carried flush against his right leg, falling back from the strange little figure in the scavenged clothes. He thrust open the swinging doors and strode quickly down the darkened street ten paces, whirled around in his tracks to catch anyone pursuing. He did. Throwing up the pistol he called out, “Stand or I’ll fire!”

The figure stopped in the street. “It’s Tom Hardwick. Lower your gun.” He did. Hardwick advanced. “If you’d been anyplace but where you was,” he said, “I’d advised you to kill that man. But there was too much public and it would have looked cold-blooded. There ain’t much law in these parts, but there’s that much.” Hardwick stopped, took a cigar from his shirt pocket, struck a match. He kept on talking around the cigar as he lit it. “You looking to kill that son of a bitch and walk, you ought to put your knife in his belly the second he hit you.”

“I give him a chance to back off,” said the Englishman’s boy.

“Bad policy,” said Hardwick. “Don’t give nobody a chance.” They resumed walking. Hardwick said, “I’d scoot if I was you. That man’s a innkeeper and a publican. I never seen a fellow who deals in whisky that was short of friends.”

“I can’t scoot. I ain’t got a horse,” said the boy.

“You want to ride with us in the morning I can scare you up a horse,” said Hardwick.

For a time the boy walked on without responding. “What would I have to do?” he said finally.

“Whatever circumstances call for,” said Hardwick.