But everything about him, from the rigidity of his body to the iron-hard cast of his face, said that he knew. And Wirt saw that telling him was going to be more difficult than he had imagined.
“It was a mistake, Jeff,” Wirt said. “I know it was a terrible thing for Nate, but mistakes sometimes happen. Your aunt simply mistook another man for your pa.”
It was strange that he felt no anger; there was only shock and emptiness as full realization forced its way through the barriers of his mind. It was the wounded man's instant of numbness before the pain begins. He turned slowly away from Wirt and faced his aunt.
“Was it a mistake, Aunt Beulah?”
Beulah could not take her hands from in front of her face. She could not look at him.
“Was it a mistake, Aunt Beulah, or did you do it on purpose?”
She ducked her head quickly, like a child that had been scolded. To Jeff the gesture seemed ridiculous. Then her shoulders began to jerk and he knew that he was seeing his aunt cry for the first time in his life, and that seemed ridiculous too. Suddenly Beulah made that thin little wailing sound again. She threw her apron over her face and ran blindly from the room.
There was a look of worry, almost fear, in Wirt's eyes as he quickly shoved himself up from the table. “Jeff, whatever she did, she did because she loved you. She didn't want anything to hurt you.”
Jeff turned and looked at Wirt without actually seeing him. Then he turned and walked stiffly, out of the kitchen and through the parlor. The front door closed quietly, and Wirt Sewell bent over the table and struck it several times with his fist....
A shocking thing happened later that night. The regular Saturday-night dance on the second floor of the Masonic Temple building was going full swing when Jeff Blaine arrived half drunk and mean, spoiling for a fight. When one of the Cross 4 hands asked Amy Wintworth to dance, Jeff hit him full in the face with his fist. A brawl was started and Elec Blasingame and his night deputy had to break it up, barring all Cross 4 men from the hall and locking Jeff up until he cooled off. “Blood will tell!” the dancers sniffed in disgust.
“Young Blaine—exactly like his pa! They'll both hang at the end of a rope before it's over!”
Elec and Ralph Striker wrestled Jeff out of the hall fighting and kicking, swearing to kill every man in sight. When Amy Wintworth tried to talk to him, he snarled like a tiger.
Striker had his big right fist cocked. “Let me take care of this young tough, Elec!”
“Let him alone!” the marshal snapped. Together, they fought him down the stairway, down to the basement and into the cell.
“What that kid needs,” Striker said angrily, “is a good beating.”
“Ralph,” the marshal answered wearily, feeling the heavy weight of his age, “I figure young Blaine has taken enough beating for one day. Go back to the dance and keep the boys under control. And,” he added, “see if you can find Amy Wintworth—that's Ford Wintworth's girl. Tell her I want to see her.”
A few minutes later Amy and her brother Todd came timidly into the marshal's office. Elec brightened a bit, for he was not so old that he could not appreciate the freshness and beauty of young womanhood. “Thanks for coming,. Amy. And you too, Todd. If young Blaine has any friends in Plainsville, I guess it's you two. And he needs friends now about as much as anybody I ever saw.”
Todd shook his head with a solemn, bitter smile. “Sometimes I wonder if it's possible to be Jeff's friend.” He laughed quietly, without humor. “It's like trying to tame a coyote. No matter how well you think you know him, he's sure to snap at you when you least expect it.”
“And you, Amy?” Elec said quietly. “Long as I can remember, almost, you've been seein' quite a lot of Jeff Blaine. Do you think he's a wild thing that can't be tamed?”
Amy's eyes were wide and hurt by what had happened. A tall, graceful girl with gentle features, she dropped her gaze and murmured, “No, I don't think that.”
“You like him, don't you?” Elec asked bluntly. And when color suddenly came to her cheeks, he said with surprising gentleness, “Never mind an old man's clumsy questions. Sit down, both of you.”
Amy and her brother sat uneasily on the edges of leather-bottom chairs, and Elec Blasingame wondered where all the years had gone. It seemed only yesterday that they had been children—now Todd was a young man, and his sister was old enough to think about getting a husband. Now, with these two youngsters before him, Elec felt vaguely restless and did not know what to say. He wasted a minute lighting a frayed cigar, and then turned to Amy.
“Maybe I'm just an old fool,” he said. “In a way, I'm responsible for the way Jeff Blaine acted tonight. I won't tell you why—more than likely, though, the story will be around town by tomorrow. Anyway, I've got no right to ask you and your brother to help patch up a mistake of mine. If you want to leave, it's all right.”
Amy and Todd looked puzzled, and did not move.
Amy asked quietly, “Is there something I should know, Marshal?”
“Yes, Amy, but it's not my right to tell you. All I can do is ask you to try to understand young Blaine. He's had a hard knock—-he'll need all the help he can get.”
Todd, with a touch of self-righteousness in his voice, said, “There's no excuse for what Jeff did tonight. The Mason's dance is the only place left for decent people in Plainsville, and he did his best to ruin that. If he's going to behave like a dancehall tough, then let him hang out in Bert Surratt's place.”
The marshal sighed. “I was afraid that's the way you'd take it.”
“And I don't think it would be good for Amy to see so much of Jeff,” Todd added with a note of male authority.
Elec noticed that Amy's back stiffened, although she did not look in Todd's direction. She came to her feet, smiling faintly. “Todd, perhaps you should take me home.” She added to the marshaclass="underline" “Thank you for what you tried to do for Jeff. I understand more than you might think.”
Blasingame sat in deep thought after Amy Wintworth and her brother disappeared up the steps to the street. He was disappointed with his efforts to get the Blaine boy straightened out. He could only hope that Amy Wintworth was wiser and more understanding than he had any right to believe a young girl could be.
Chapter Twelve
IN THE MIDDLE OF THE block, on a dusty, nameless cross street, the Wintworth house stood proud and glistening in its new dress of white paint. Ford Wintworth, a lean, sharp-faced man, stood on his front porch smoking an after-dinner pipe. A dazzling sun beat down on the red clay and frame houses—hot, even for August—and Ford wondered vaguely if there would be a dry-up in the hills.
It was time to be getting back to the wagon yard where he worked, but he kept finding excuses to put off the moment of departure. There was worry in Ford's quick brown eyes as he stared out at the haze of dust that hung over Main Street; there was uneasiness in his stance.