Wicked Temper Part 20

"Shhh--you betcha," he whispered. "Ain't n.o.body's joint open afore dinner."

They slipped around the barstools, Tizzy realizing for the first time that she was walking on new sawdust. She'd never seen a sinner's den like this.

Matthew was getting away from her.

The hinge barely whined as they eased into the backroom. The room was cramped. A backward man knelt behind a rolltop desk. A mandolin sat in his chair. His khaki-covered rump met them in the amber of a dangling bulb.

"Right there--!" Matthew barked, a sudden, nervy twitch of his gun. Tizzy twitched with it.

The man glanced over his khaki shoulder. He was elder enough to be her grandpa; his surprised face had fleshy jowls, the grey eyes set wide and even over ruddish cheeks. Tizzy hooked Matthew's belt loop for security.

"Who're you, son?" the man asked, his voice so steady it rattled both intruders. The gentleman had a shock of snow white hair creeping down over a bushy eyebrow: a strongbox in his left grip, his other held open the hatch of a small padlock safe.

"Lemme see them hands, and shut yer yap! I'd hate to kill ye--" Matthew grinned. "--but I'll do'er."

"I can see that," the man answered.

Why, Matthew was doing all right for himself after all, that jitterbug had left his throat. Tizzy let go of his belt loop.

The lanky boy's eyes went wild. "Okeedoke, you stand up. And fetch over that moneybox."

"Ain't no money, son..."

The big khaki-clad man arose with an arthritic cringe; he turned, and they both saw the star. A s.h.i.+ny, five-pointed badge clipped on his s.h.i.+rt pocket. Matthew's jaw sagged. Tizzy bit her lip.

"Aw gee, mister..." she said.

"Who're you now?!" Matthew demanded--suddenly the gun was foisted straight out from his body, nothing reckless about it. "h.e.l.l..." His muzzle held the star at bay.

"Sheriff Bull Hannah, from down in Ewe Spring. This is my place. I own it."

"Own it--?" Matthew yelped.

"--since before you was a seed, boy. Sheriffin don't fill the corncrib." The Sheriff dropped his strongbox on the desk blotter; the lid lay back, empty. "Like I say, they ain't no money hereabouts."

"Whyzzat?!" Matthew c.o.c.ked back the hammer. The Sheriff froze.

"Whoa there, sonny, I got mouths to feed. I just come back from the Farmer's National Bank o'Roanoke. I make the deposit twice a week."

"Matthew, maybe..."

"Shuddup---better not be a-razzin me mister, I got plans fer that money."

"We all do young-un, but how kin I oblige?" A hinting smile, rugged and kind.

"Change--" it dawned on Matthew "--you gotta make change fer yer people."

"Back at the house. In my wife's purse."

"Christamighty!" Matthew swore and smudged his damp lenses.

Then, the little girl in the cotton-print dress whispered something cute. "His billfold..."

"Oh yeah--oh yeah---howz about that billfold Mister High Sheriff. Just lay her right on down fer the count." The man's hand started to move. "But you watch yeself now, don't go fer no razor er nothin--"

The iron gaze held still under Sheriff Bull's bushy white brow. "No. I would not do that."

Sure enough, he handed a wallet over to Matthew who gave it to his girl. It was elkhide and worn to a s.h.i.+ne.

"Any cash in there?" the boy asked her. Tizzy opened the wallet fold and saw green.

"Yes."

This made Matthew happy enough to wag a finger at the Sheriff.

"Awww, Mister Sheriff, you figgered to make a fool outa me?"

"I would not do that either. I plumb forgot--"

"h.e.l.l ye say, well howz about ye steppin on out here and we'll take a gander at that fancy till. See ye ain't got no double-false bottoms full o'hunert dollar greenbacks."

"How many you know in these parts with a hunert dollars to they name?" the Bull asked.

But this meant little to Matthew. He had Tizzy check the empty safe for secret b.u.t.tons and compartments before guiding the Sheriff out to plunder his own cash register. It was folly. There were no trick deposits to be found.

"Awright, you stay right chere and don't be a-raisin no fuss till we got a good runnin start. Oh, I'd say a solid hour er I'm come back and shoot ye children, ye hear me?"

"I hear you son," Sheriff's hands were high. "You sure you wanna go through with this? Don't I know you? What, yer maybe seventeen--eighteen? And yer puttin this little girl in a world o'danger."

"s.h.i.+tfire! She likes it thisaway," Matthew blurted, the two of them backing toward the door. "Come to think of it--they's a Nash Rambler outside. I'll be a-wantin them keys."

The Sheriff unclipped the ring from his belt, tossing the keys to Matthew.

"The phone..." Tizzy remembered, half-hidden behind the boy.

The phone? Then, Matthew got her drift, whirled, but smashed his loose hand into the wallphone's crank. His pistol went slithering across the dark dance floor. Oh Lord, a ridiculous racket ensued as Matthew dashed for the gun.

Tizzy glanced at the Sheriff.

There was a window of opportunity, just a moment when the Sheriff could have taken a chance, made his move. But he didn't. He held his oats, unflinching, as he watched the kid recover the rusty weapon.

In that instant, Tizzy also saw a green bank note deep in the boar's gullet, above the Sheriff's head. She said nothing. She felt sorry for the poor Sheriff. Not that he needed it. The Sheriff's eyes kept track of Matthew's runaway revolver. That soft, waxy smile never left him.

A full recovery was made. Mad Dice got his gun.

"Don't be a-frettin bout me kids. Y'all jist drive keerful."

"Shuddup!" Matthew allowed; he was heating up as he ripped the phone line from the wall. "Heed my words ole boy--"

Tizzy felt him fall against her, the pistol betwixt them and the Sheriff at bay, as they burst into the sunlight. Outside they ran for the pickup. Matthew flung the keys across the asphalt into an elderberry bramble.

"Cain't ye stay outa the way?"

"Cain't you hold onto yer own gun?"

"Jist p.i.s.s off, Tizzy!"

Bounding into the truck cab, they tore out of the parking lot, out onto the highway. Behind them, Sheriff Bull Hannah pushed the front door open a few inches, stern now, like an old warrior he watched them go.

Racing hard down the white-line, Matthew hooted with wild, slaphappy relief. Tizzy was almost aglee. Still, this glee didn't pull their eyes off the cracked rearview. Why worry? Why fuss? n.o.body appeared in that mirror as the piney woods roared past. Matthew could hardly contain himself.

"He knew I'd kill him if'n I had too! You could see it in his face. He knew I was bigger stuff than he could handle. Yes, he did. It'uz writ all over his face "

"That was kinda fun," Tizzy allowed.

"h.e.l.l, it was a lotta fun--how much'd we git?"

A bottomless gorge opened up on one side of the highway, where a railroad trestle bent to meet them; howling, a cannonball express appeared suddenly, chugging black smoke, pacing the truck. Matthew talked. The train howled at them again. Tizzy counted.

"Twenty-two dollars," she said.

"Whadda ye mean?"

"It's twenty-two dollars."

Matthew scowled at Tizzy, his mad chatter ceased. "She looked like a lot more'n that."

"Well it ain't. It's all in one dollar bills."

"Gawd-f.u.c.k-me-dammit!"

She was fed up. "Well yer jist gonna have to stop and count it the next time, ain't ya?"

Matthew hit the steering wheel and boiled. She let him. She would make no mention of the greenback in the boar's gullet.

"Yeah, twenty-two s.h.i.+t," he shook his head. "Keee-ryste--"

"r.e.t.a.r.d boy."

"Fergit you."

They drove silent for almost twenty-two minutes worth of winding road. They met n.o.body but a pair of nosing goats headed for Cayuga Ridge. The goats came and went. Nothing was spaken until Tizzy pointed up at the cracked reflection. They were being followed. "Model A..." Matthew said. A flivver pickup had appeared, put-putting sprightly in the rearview mirror. It had a lot of power for an old flivver. Matthew slowed so he wasn't speeding. Boy and girl sat white-knuckled, breathless--as a yawnful farmer pulled around beside them--then spurted ahead, only to turn off at his pasture gate. Tizzy sank back in her seat.

Suddenly--Tizzy's window pa.s.sed a dark rider: a hunchman, astride a clanking, clopping mule--strange, she'd heard them clopping outside her window the night before. Today, they were all outward bound together. Sweeping past the slow figures, she noticed a stringer of junk bottles across the mule's flank and the shadowed, half-hung face of a Lych under the straw cap.

"Ole Ephran Lych," Matthew volunteered. "Packrat. Scrounges gla.s.s sc.r.a.ps, parfume flutes and sich fer small change. Sleeps Sundays."

"Jist Sundays?"

"Well, all day Sunday."

By now the Lych and mule had vanished back into blue mountain haze.

"I want somethin to eat," she said.

"Yeah, I reckon yer used to forkin three plates a day."

"Yer all dumba.s.s, hogboy."

Whereupon, Matthew Birdnell slammed his brakes, his wheels locked; the truck fishtailing to a stop. Clutter shot off the dashboard. He shot icicles down at Tizzy, seething. She made like she was aloof. She wasn't. He did his dead level best to act vicious, mad dog vicious. He growled, put the gear s.h.i.+ft through its pattern--then Matthew popped his clutch. The truck lurched forward. They were off and running again. Tizzy scrunched up her nose in disdain.

"Matthew, I swear. You are utterly depraved."

They rolled on, him sucking his sore thumb, her head against the door. Tizzy gazed out as a sinking filled her soul. These were the same hills and hollers, they never seemed to end.

"I wanna go home..." she finally heard her say.

"Naw ye don't," he sparked. "Ye think ye do, but ye don't..."

"How fer is it to Shanville?"

"Twenty-six mile."

"Maybe we kin git on Relief...er somethin. I could babysit."

"Hey--ladybug--"

"What?" she responded, dimly.

"We're a-fixin to gas up. Ye want a sweet roll er somethin?"

"Yeah."

"Well, yank-my-chain, yer in fortune's pocket with Mad Dice Birdnell. Mama's jelly biscuit is just t'other side o'this hill and we cain't tarry too long."

As the Studebaker left the highway at Hayden's Crossroad, a clean-cut jasper in white duds was racking a dolly out the door. The screen snapped and

he spun his load, six gla.s.s-clinking milk cases went rolling over to the milk-white truck, a clean wood-paneled affair whose promise was in gold: GOSPELTIME MILK - "Sweetest O'er The Land"

Tizzy read it three times before she noticed the milkman, back of his truck, loading cases in the twin doors. A diesel tractor sat a stone's throw away. Their slate pickup slid under the KENEBREW GROCERY/GAS awning, betwixt pump and doorscreen. Tizzy leapt out and walked around, asking Matthew what he was dreaming about. The boy looked up from his lap. He belched and said, "well, lets gitter," and they did. Matthew cut the engine and they went inside.

There were voices within. The store was dark, thick with the smoke of sorghum and damp tobacco. Tizzy let the screen creak closed on her heel. She was in a tight maze of tools, hullsacks and canned goods. Matthew was already fingering a harrow blade. Two large girls bent the ear of an old lady at the register. Both girls were a good six feet tall in overalls. The sister with tight strawberry curls and calamine lotion on her chins was man-voiced.

"--at it all day yesterdy and terday on the hide. I cut my hand open--"

The tired old lady shook her noggin, clucked her tongue. Tap. Tap. What was that? Tap. Her old finger tapped a silver thimble on the register. Tizzy surveyed the racks. There were rows of canned cling peaches and sardines and sugar beets. Black Draught. Tube Rose Snuff. Several upended crates sat empty near the woodstove, near the window. A Dr. Pepper box and candy were braced along the counter. Matthew was inside that box already, in fact, his arm swis.h.i.+ng the icy water. He caught Tizzy's eye and winked a tap.