Visions (10 page)

“At least three,” said Jake.

“Okay, so we have a minimum number, and maybe they’re dangerous, but I don’t want any of you men turning vigilante, and shooting innocent people. Bad enough y’all ride around with guns in your wagons.”

“You’re just not a hunter,” said Ed.

“Hunter, my foot. I see a man with a rifle in his wagon, I see a man lookin’ for trouble. I say let’s wait till Tom gets back, and find out what kind of help we can give him. Agreed?”

More grumbling in the room, Pete only watching and listening, unusual for him, but nobody seemed to notice.

“Yeah, sure, Ned, we’ll wait for Tom, but then we’ve got to do something. And everyone check up on their kids. Know where they are at night. If worst comes to worst, we don’t want to end up shooting one of our own; we’ve got wives can do that.” Ed laughed, but alone. Everyone had begun to leave the room, Ned in the lead.

People were still talking on the porch, and a few had gone home when another wagon rattled into town and stopped across the street from the hotel. Lyle Nygaard owned a chicken ’n’ egg ranch several miles south of town, and his wife Melinda was with him. He got down from the wagon and went straight to Ned, who was talking with Pete and two other men. “Evenin’, Ned—Pete. I miss somethin’ important?”

Ned told him about the meeting. Lyle rubbed his jaw with a stained hand. “So you’re waitin’ to see Tom, huh? Well, I stopped by to tell you his wagon is sittin’ on the road about three miles south of here, thirsty horses, and a nice telescope layin’ on the seat just askin’ to be stole’, and Tom nowhere in sight. Called out, got no answer. Inky black out there, and I didn’t bring a lantern. Needs lookin’ into, I think.”

It got real quiet on the porch.

“Any of you men got lanterns?” asked Ned. A couple of hands went up. “I’m asking for volunteers to look for Tom.” Several hands went up this time, and men started towards their wagons and horses.

“I’ve got a couple of extra lanterns in the hotel,” said Pete. “Ned, can I ride with you?”

“Sure thing.”

Lyle turned towards his wagon. “I’ll meet you over there. The wagon’s right on the road, by the meadows. Gotta take the missus home first, then I’ll be along.”

“Thanks, Lyle,” said Ned.

Pete came out of the hotel with three lanterns a minute later, and mounted up with Ned. A caravan of ten wagons left town that night, headed south and moving slowly. Most of them had rifles and shotguns, and the men were grim-faced. They drove slowly in the moonless night, total blackness closing in on them, apprehension heavy in each man. There was no conversation. They crossed a bridge and the road turned gently, then ahead they saw a shadow off the road to the right. Tom’s wagon appeared in dull light, and the caravan stopped along the road on either side of it. Two men swung lanterns above their heads, and shouted out “Tom!” several times, and everyone else was as quiet as death. There was no answer.

“Anyone know what’s out there?” asked Ned.

“Good place to see deer in the evening,” said somebody, “and people have camped by some rocks out there.”

“Well, let’s take a look.”

Everyone dismounted, a few rifles coming with them, but Ned was not in a mood to protest the presence of weapons on an inky-black night when a good man was missing. He led them into the meadows, Pete walking right behind him. Lanterns cast a soft glow in every direction. Gradually they spread out into a line fifty yards wide, moving slowly, dull light spilling on long grass and occasional wildflowers. They came to a hollow circled by boulders and smaller rocks; in the center was a small pit, and the burned out remains of a fire. Ned and several others walked around the hollow while the rest searched the fields beyond, still moving along a line. Pete stooped down suddenly, and picked up something, looking at it closely. “Found a cartridge case,” he said, and Ned went over to look at it.

“A thirty-thirty, pretty common, better hang onto it.” Ned took the case from Pete and put it into his pants pocket, He had started to turn away from Pete, when Ed suddenly said quietly, “Ned, you’d better come over here.” Nobody else seemed to hear at that moment, and Ned went over to where Ed stood by a large boulder slab, holding his lantern down close to it. In the glare of the light, he could see something staining the rock, something dark, running down the rock and into the grass. He got down close, turning the light this way and that, and then the odor hit him. A musky, salty odor he had last smelled when watching a friend butcher a freshly killed deer. He touched the stain with his fingertips, and sniffed them. “Blood,” he said.

“Some more there, too,” said Ed. “Runnin’ down the rock, and into the grass. See there?”

There was more blood in the grass, a big splash of it.

“Doesn’t look good, Ned.”

Ned thought for a minute. “You still keep those hounds of yours, Ed?”

“Best trackers in the county.”

“I’ll wait here with the others while you go get those dogs. They’ve got some important work to do.”

Ed left in a hurry, without a word. Ned touched the blood stains again. Coagulated, but fresh. “Okay, men!” he shouted. “Everyone in, and gather around here. I’ve got something to show you—and sorry to say it’s gonna be a long night.”

INTEGRATION

“I can get you a job in Quincy, Peter. I know people. But we’ll have to give you some identity.”

Savas got up from his chair, grunting at an audible pop from one knee, and shuffling across the room to one end of the couch, where a small, green chest was pushed up against a wall. He carried it back to the table, and flopped back in his chair as Peter closed the book he’d been reading out loud to his teacher, in between arguments.

They argued often, now, but not in a heated way, as Peter’s mind worked to absorb and analyze all the material Savas brought out for him to read. They had been discussing a journalist’s book about the Indians, and Peter had suddenly vented emotion at a speculation of ritual child killing during food shortages, but Savas was tired, wanted no more serious talk for the moment, and tried to change the subject. He opened the chest, and looked inside.

“The killing of children for any reason is immoral and destructive. I don’t believe they did that,” said Peter. “Look at the mix of people in these books, and ask how it could happen if certain children were selectively destroyed. Whole races wouldn’t exist!”

Savas piled handfuls of papers, cards, inks and pens on the table. “Human history is full of genocide, Peter. Look how close we’ve come with the Indians. Killing off the buffalo was done for that reason, you know. We’ve all tried it, Peter. Here, I want to show you some things I haven’t looked at in years.”

But Peter would not let go just yet. “We’re all descended from common ancestors. It is in our faces. If an early race had been wiped out, would we now be the same?”

Savas opened a bottle of ink, and sniffed at it. “Oh Peter, I don’t know. Maybe we wouldn’t be quite as strong, or quick, or smart. The best have led to the best of us. The strongest select the strongest to mate with. Screwing selection, Peter, not killing selection. It’s the best way, every time.”

Peter’s intensity suddenly vanished, and he relaxed back in his chair. “Yes—perhaps it’s so. Now, what is this on the table? I’ve already shown you my writing for the day.”

“These are the legalities of your new life,” said Savas. “You see this? Immigration registration card, and blank. There used to be a name on this card, but I’ve bleached it off. Can you tell?” He held it up admiringly to the light. “I can’t even find the chemicals anymore. You see how simple it is. I write your name here, so—Peter—Pelegeropoulis. This means you can work, earn money, own land, but we need other things.” He rummaged in the pile of papers once more, held up a single sheet with a seal and signature near the bottom. “And here it is—a birth certificate, nicely laundered, signature intact. You will be born in Athens—parents—hmmm, we’ll think of some names. They’re deceased, of course, year—let’s make you twenty-one—no, twenty-three, and seven years of schooling before working for me.” More rummaging. “I will be your reference to start. Ah, here it is, and from the same man. I assure you he will not mind if we use it.”

Leaning closely over the table, Savas practiced several times on a blank sheet of paper, then carefully scrolled Peter’s name in Greek and English on the laundered documents, and held them out to admire his handiwork.

Peter was puzzled, but interested. At first he’d pretended indifference, opening his book and paging through it, but finally standing at Savas’s shoulder as pen stroked paper. “Why are you doing this?”

“So you can go to work. You want that, don’t you?”

“I’m not sure.”

“But we’ve talked about it, Peter. You said you wanted to be a real part of the world, and you’re ready for it now. Why wait any longer? Do you want to talk it over again with your kin?”

“I’ve done that, and they tell me to do as you say. I do this for them, so they can all join me someday.
But am I ready to be alone in the Hinchai world?

As if they care
, thought Savas. “I’m not saying it’ll be easy, but yes, you’re ready. I have the contacts, and I can get you started, but the rest is up to you. Quincy is close, and I can see you regularly, if you want it.”

“Oh, yes, I would want that.”

“Start with a simple job, and work your way up. Living in town will be different than here. Work hard, and save your money. You can be whatever you want to be, have whatever you want to have, if you focus on it, and believe in yourself. Some people don’t believe that, but I do.”

Peter took a deep breath. “It all seems too soon. I still fumble around buttoning this shirt.”

“The rest of us don’t? Look, you think about it as long as you want, talk it over with your people, the ones I never ask you about. In a day I’ll have arrangements ready for you. You give the word, and we’re out of here for you to make a start. If you can’t do it, nobody can.”

Peter was silent a moment, nervously fingering his book, then he turned towards the door, and said, “I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

* * * * * * *

In the morning, they packed some clothes, climbed into the wagon, and drove south.

It was the first time Peter had been on the big road and near the Hinchai, but as usual his emotions were tightly guarded, and he showed no reactions to new things. In three hours they reached the town called Quincy and drove straight to the bar and grill patronized by Savas for some twelve years, though two owners had come and gone since he’d started drinking there. The latest and perhaps most inept owner was Rudy Mueller, a heavy, agreeable man with a swollen nose and red tracks running horizontally across both cheeks, a man expert in the consumption of that which he sold to his many customers, mostly miners and ranchers, and drifters searching for a new life. Rudy was cook, waiter, and bartender at the time, and although service was less than fast and food more than cooked, the drinks were generous and so business was brisk. Unknown to Rudy, his liver was already nearing retirement, and in only a few years the River Bar and Grill would once more be seeking a new owner.

It was noon when they entered. The place was dark except for the lamp over a card table at the back, where two miners were playing for gold dust, two others watching, nursing beers. The four men at the bar had begun serious drinking when the place had opened at eleven, and were now well along the path to euphoria and enlightenment, one already snoring peacefully. Those conscious turned to look closely at Savas and Peter as they found two places at the end of the bar, then at Rudy when he yelled from the kitchen.

“Hey, Savas! You’re early for dinner!”

“Came in on business, Rudy. Got my cousin with me.”

Rudy came out of the kitchen, wiping greasy hands on an unwashed apron, then stuck a fat paw across the bar at Peter, who took it immediately and shook it firmly. Rudy grinned at Savas, who introduced them.

“Kid’s got a grip like a hard-rocker. Relative, eh?”

“Yup. We came to town to find him a job. Know of anything?”

Rudy thought for a minute while he poured two shots of whiskey in a glass, and drank it down in a gulp. “Kind of slow in mining, now, and the mill is filled up. What kind of work you looking for?”

“Anything I can get,” said Peter before Savas could answer. “I can read, and write—and I like people.”

“Yeah? Regular schoolin’?”

“Yes.”

“We brought his papers along,” said Savas quickly.

“No shit? How ’bout a drink?”

“Sure. A couple of beers,” said Savas, and Peter nodded. Rudy poured two of them slowly, pushed the big glasses across the bar and watched Pete sip, then poured another drink for himself.

“Hardware store may need some help clerkin’ or stockin’, but the pay ain’t much. You can get sweepin’ jobs lots of places. I can even—”

“Hey, Rudy, we’re thirsty down here!” One patron, a red-faced man with a hawk-nose, and a chewed up cigar hanging from a corner of his mouth, banged down a glass at the other end of the bar. The sound registered vaguely with his companion, whose half-opened eyes suddenly showed signs of life as they moved in an attempt to locate the source.

“Now, Rudy! I ain’t got all day!”

“Be right there, Mac.”

But that wasn’t fast enough. “Aw shit,” said the man, sliding off his stool and holding on for support as he turned one corner of the bar and staggered towards them with an angry look on his face.

“Watch out for this one,” said Rudy softly. “Bad fight two weeks ago in here; bloodied a guy up.”

Savas stiffened, right hand going by reflex into his pocket and out again, a thumb moving, and with a sharp snick four inches of shining steel became a new finger. But then a big hand touched his gently; when he looked around, Peter’s face was close, eyes fixed on his. By the time the drunk reached them, Savas had somehow closed the knife and put it back in his pocket.

As the drunk lurched around the final corner, Rudy said nervously, “This is John Macavee, men. Mac, meet Savas and Pete.” And then he stepped backwards to get out of the way.

John careened into Peter, who was nearest the corner of the bar, bounced off surprised at the mass he’d encountered, then bored in on Savas, whose hand was moving again towards his pocket.

“Ain’t nice takin’ the man’s time so’s he can’t even serve a thirsty customer who drops a lot of dough in this Goddamned place. Don’t nobody hear so good anymore? I want a fucking drink!”

“Comin’ right up, Mac, so relax.” Rudy grabbed bottle and glass, and started pouring.

John watched for a second, and turned rheumy eyes towards Savas. “What’re
you
looking at?”

“A man who wants to die,” said Savas quietly, eyes like those of a shark, black and fathomless. He turned towards the drunk, hand coming out of his pocket, but then the man was being pulled back by another big hand over one shoulder, twirled and hugged against Pete’s side so he couldn’t move, and at first didn’t even think of struggling.

“Good drink you’ve got coming there,” said Peter affably. “You’ll have to forgive my friend, ’cause he don’t like it when people get so close up to him like that. Makes him feel closed in, you know, like bein’ in a jail cell. I don’t mind, though. I’m buyin’ this one for you.” He threw a half eagle—a five dollar gold piece—on the bar.

“Yeah?” said Mac, looking up at the wide, square jaw near his face. Peter’s big arm had totally immobilized him, but he showed no fear. “Thanks,” he said finally.

“You know,” lied Pete, “I had a lady once who dumped me for a guy she thought had more’n me. She ended up nearly starving to death. Sometimes women have no sense, just don’t know what they’re losin’. You get over it, and find someone better. Here’s to all the better ones out there.” Pete raised his glass, Mac picked his up, too, and they drank together.

“Well,” said Mac, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “nice talkin’ to ya. Better get back to my friend, now. See you around again.” He lurched away, made one turn, and cocked a thumb back at Pete as he spoke to Rudy. “Big one’s okay, but the other one’s a little nervous.”

Rudy’s breath whistled between his teeth. “Jeezus, how you handled that. One of my best customers, but he can be
real
trouble. You used to dealing with drunks?”

“No,” said Peter.

“You want a job here, you’ve got it,” said Rudy. “Be my bouncer, and tend some bar, I’ll pay you better than anywhere else in town. I’ve been tryin’ to run this place by myself, and it would sure go better with help. Ten bucks a week to start, and your meals here. Extra from customers when you tend bar at nights. I’d rather cook. What do you think?” Rudy looked at Savas for support.

“Sounds good to me,” said Savas. “It’s a start, Peter.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know anything about bars.”

“Hell, I can teach you all that in a month. I been in this business twenty years one place or ’nother.”

“He learns fast,” said Savas.

Peter looked at Savas, and both of them smiled. “When should I start?” said Peter.

“How about tonight? And here’s an address, a lady friend of mine who rents out two rooms, nice and clean, no other expenses. Just down the street. Hell, your living expenses will be nothin’.”

“Thanks, Mister Mueller,” said Peter.

“It’s Rudy. Come back at six, I’ll fry you both up some veal and my own special kraut, then Pete can get started.”

“Good enough,” said Savas, draining his glass. “See you then.”

As Peter and Savas left the bar, John Macavee gave them a friendly wave. “See ya later.”

Outside, Savas turned to Peter with a frown. “How
did
you calm that guy down? His eyes were slits. Very dangerous.”

“I was just friendly,” said Peter.

“Right. And what was all that bullshit about women?”

“Man lost his lady.”

“How the hell did you know that?”

“He was telling his friend about it.”

“At the other end of the bar? And you heard it? Come on, Peter, was it a lucky guess or something?”

“Or something,” said Peter, grinning. “I guess I pay better attention than my teacher thinks I do.”

Four weeks later, at the age of twenty, Peter Pelegeropoulis was the new bartender at the River Bar and Grill.

In two years he was bookkeeper, and partner.

In five years he was sole-owner of a thriving business, financed by gold once kept hidden beneath the floor of a Greek’s cabin in the hills.