36
“Mr. Siringo—”
“I wisht you’d call me Charlie.”
She shook her head with a smile, wrinkling her nose. “I’d rather keep this on the same basis where it started.”
“What was you about to say, Mrs. London?”
“Is your leg up to a brief walk? I think Becky and Mr. Hammett would appreciate some privacy.”
“He’s getting married in June.”
“It shows, though he doesn’t seem to know it. She’s quite capable of looking out for herself.”
“I see that. There’s nothing wrong with my eyes.”
The moon was nearly full, washing The Valley of the Moon in silver light. They walked down the lane that led between the stable and the pigpens. Despite the competition from both buildings, the smell of Kennedy’s engine exhaust was still strong ten minutes after he and his pilot had taken off, bound for San Francisco and the package waiting in General Delivery. All the hands were back at work at their various chores.
“I had ’em all wrong,” Siringo said, watching them. “They’re a good bunch of fellows.”
“They haven’t had so much excitement since we lost Jack.” She caught him when he stepped in a small depression, wrenching his knee. “Should we go back?”
“No, but I wouldn’t mind a little support just in case.”
“You’re incorrigible, aren’t you?”
“I wouldn’t say that, but there was a time.”
“You could have been rich, you know.”
“I had my shot at pay dirt before. It ain’t as much fun as you’d think. It was my bad roof got me into this business. It don’t pay to lose sight of things.”
“You’re just too modest to say you don’t agree with Mr. Hammett about dirty money.”
“Not modest, just the opposite. A lot of folks think you’re a fool when you’re honest, so you learn not to advertise it.”
“What do you think will happen now?”
“I got to decide betwixt tin and wood shingles, and you can afford to blow up that pile of firewood you call Wolf House. I reckon Becky’ll marry someone who ain’t afraid of willful women and Hammett’ll write Moby Dick.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean Teapot Dome.”
“Nothing can stop that, now. We’re all going to get sick reading about it. Some of the small fry will lose their jobs, that’s sure, and one or two big shots for show. It don’t signify, because this time next year or the year after, another gang of bandits will be in the saddle. Kennedy wasn’t lying about folks’ short memories.”
“Do you think he’ll get his presidency?”
“He didn’t strike me as the kind to give up riding the first time he got throwed.”
“Me, neither. How can I ever thank you for what you’ve done?”
“You won’t let me court you, so let’s just forget it.”
“I wish you’d known Jack. He’d have liked you.”
“Maybe. I ain’t a Socialist, though.”
“I’ve a confession to make. I have only the vaguest idea what Socialism is all about.”
“It’s an ism. That’s all I need to know to ride clear of it.”
“Do you ever wonder what it all means?”
They were at the corral now. They leaned their elbows on the top rail and watched the new stable boy leading Washoe Ban around the track. A puff of breeze brought the sweet smell of grain from the silos and blew a lock of Charmian London’s black hair across her cheek. She reached up to push it away. Siringo smiled at her.
“This here,” he said. “This right here is what it means.” He kissed her good-bye.
* * *
Becky asked Hammett how he was feeling.
“I’ve been thrown off a train and almost off a silo, shot, hit on the head, and forced to listen to a political speech. Under the circumstances I’m swell. How about you?”
“I’m short of breath and my heart is pounding. I haven’t felt like this since my father was alive.”
“Maybe you’ve got the Spanish flu.”
“What are you doing?”
He got up from his chair, levering himself with his bamboo cane. “I’m getting saddle sore like Siringo.” He spun the cane’s crook. “This is a peachy thing to carry. I think I’ll hang onto it after I heal.”
“I’ve treated you very badly, I’m afraid.”
“Not as bad as the eel. But you were kind of rough on me just because I saw a pretty girl I liked.”
“I think you’re going to give your wife a hard time.”
“You don’t know Jose. She’s a rock.”
“Don’t count on that just because she looks like she is.” Her lower lip trembled.
He leaned over her chair, took her chin between thumb and forefinger, and tilted up her face. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
“You, too. I suppose you think I want some version of my father.”
He let go. “I’ve got the advantage there. I never knew mine.”
“Neither did Daddy, really. His father never acknowledged him. But he survived. Will you?”
“I’ve had plenty of practice.”
She rose, went up on her toes, and gave him a brief peck on the lips. Hers tasted of a single sip of beer.
“First kiss?” He gripped her upper arms.
She smiled at last.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
He grinned.
“You’re good. You’ll be okay once you climb out from under your old man’s ghost.”
“As will you, once you get over the conviction the world owes you something because of a little cough.”
* * *
Charmian called for a taxi. Siringo turned to look through the rear window at the two women standing on the front porch of the cottage.
“They didn’t wave,” he said, turning back around.
“Good. I never saw the reason for it. We said our good-byes.”
“You ain’t a sentimental man, Hammett.”
“Nuts to that. I’m a romantic. I’ve got a question.”
“Some detective. I got hundreds.”
“When you go under the blanket and change your name, how come you always keep Charlie?”
“It’s just smart. You never know when an old pard might see you and sing it out when you’re with folks who think you’re somebody else. Also you answer to it quicker. They take it suspicious when you don’t right away.”
“That is smart.”
Hammett rolled a cigarette, concentrating on the operation.
“My first name’s Samuel, you know. My friends call me Sam.”
“Bully for them.”
“Maybe I’ll use it in a story.”
Siringo reached for his pipe, then remembered. He let his hands drop in his lap.
“My middle name’s Angelo. I don’t use it anyplace. I’m part Mexican.”
“Which part?”
“The middle part. Wasn’t you listening?”
They rode for a while in silence, miles of vines rolling past the window.
“You going to get that new roof or drink up what Kennedy paid you?” Hammett asked as they turned onto the main road, leaving Beauty Ranch behind.
“Come see me next year and we’ll find out.”
Hammett grinned.
“Charlie, are you inviting me to visit?”
“Don’t call me Charlie, you bomb-throwing bastard.”
* * *
They sang, startling the driver:
“Oh, see the train go ’round the bend,
Good-bye, my lover, good-bye;
She’s loaded down with Pinkerton men,
Good-bye, my lover, good-bye.”