“There you are,” he told the mail carrier, shoving the pouch across the desk.
The mail carrier picked it up. “Got to get going,” he said.
He started toward the door, then turned back.
“If I was you, stranger,” he said, “I’d change my mind. That kid is pure poison with his hardware.”
“No,” said Clay.
“All right,” said the mail carrier, “have it your own way. Sorry I can’t stay and see it.”
He went out the door and the clerk and Clay stood silently and watched him climb into the buckboard and wheel the team out into the street.
“This marshal of yours,” asked Clay, “what might be his name?”
“Blaine,” said the clerk, “Gordon Blaine.”
Clay clutched the edge of the desk and hung on so hard that his fingers grew white beneath the tan of sun.
“Gordon Blaine,” he said, and he kept his face unchanged even while his fingers whitened. “Never heard the name before.”
“Nobody else did, either,” said the clerk. “He just came out of nowhere. This town killed four marshals before he took the job. Ain’t no one tried to kill Blaine now for a month or two.”
Clay laughed and turned away from the desk like a wooden man. He marched out through the door onto the porch.
The sun was setting.
Clay remembered the letter he’d called for at a post office up in Montana a year or two ago.
Gordon is going out west. There’s nothing I can do to stop him since you have done so well. He says there’s no use of anyone staying here and slaving for a living when one can make a fortune like you have in the West. Maybe you will see him out there some time …
The street was hushed and deserted but there were, Clay knew, faces at every window, faces waiting to watch the two men who would walk along the street.
The mail carrier’s buckboard was a dwindling dot on the prairie that stretched eastward from the town.
He saw the kid come down the steps from the marshal’s office and walk out to the center of the dusty street. There he stood and waited, guns on his hips, hands hanging at his side.
I could still unbuckle my guns and walk to meet him with them in my hand, Clay told himself. But even as he thought of it, he knew he couldn’t do it. It was an action that was counter to everything he’d ever done, everything he’d believed in, every code he’d followed.
He paced slowly down the steps and into the center of the street. He turned around and faced the kid and they started walking.
In a little while, Clay thought, John Trent will come riding in and he’ll only tell them who I am. Esther will never know, for the letter will be mailed sixty miles from here, although perhaps she’ll wonder why I don’t write from Mexico.
John Trent will come riding in and he’ll only know me by the name of Coleman Clay, with a price upon my head. No one else, absolutely no one, knows my other name. And the kid will never know.
Ten thousand dollars, Clay told himself, should set a young fellow up in fine style and his Ma will be right proud.
I Am Crying All Inside
This story was originally published in the August 1969 issue of Galaxy Science Fiction, and I’ve never been able to get it out of my head. It reminds me that at one time, when Cliff was told that his heroes were “losers,” his reply was: “I like losers!”
I do my job, which is hoeing corn. But I am disturbed by what I hear last night from this Janglefoot. Me and lot of other people hear him. But none of the folk would hear. He careful not to say what he say to us where any folk would hear. It would hurt their feeling.
Janglefoot he is traveling people. He go up and down the land. But he don’t go very far. He often back again to orate to us again. Although why he say it more than once I do not understand. He always say the same.
He is Janglefoot because one foot jangle when he walk and he won’t let no one fix it. It make him limp but he won’t let no one fix it. It is humility he has. As long as he limp and jangle he is humble people and he like humility. He think it is a virtue. He think that it become him.
Smith, who is blacksmith, get impatient with him. Say he could fix the foot. Not as good as mechanic people, although better than not fixing it at all. There is a mechanic people not too far away. They impatient with him too. They think him putting on.
Pure charity of Smith to offer fix the foot. Him have other work. No need to beg for it like some poor people do. He hammer all the time on metal, making into sheet, then send on to mechanic people who use it for repair. Must be very careful keep in good repair. Must do it all ourself. No folk left who know how to do it. Folk left, of course, but too elegant to do it. All genteel who left. Never work at all.
I am hoeing corn and one of house people come down to tell me there is snakes. House people never work outdoors. Always come to us. I ask real snake or moonshine snake and they say real snake. So I lean my hoe on tree and go up hill to house.
Grandpa he is in hammock out on front lawn. Hammock is hung between two trees. Uncle John he is sitting on ground, leaning on one tree. Pa he is sitting on ground, leaning on other tree.
Sam, say Pa, there is snake in back.
So I go around house and there is timber rattler and I pick him up and he is mad at me and hammer me real good. I hunt around and find another rattler and a moccasin and two garter snake. Garter snakes sure don’t amount to nothing, but I take them along. I hunt some more but that is all the snakes.
I go down across cornfield and wade creek and way back into swamp. I turn snakes loose. Will take them long time to get back. Maybe not at all.
Then I go back to hoeing. Important to keep patch of corn in shape. No weeds. Carry water when it needs. Soil work up nice and soft. Scare off crows when plant. Scare off coon and deer when corn come into ear. Full time job, for which many thanks. Also is important. George use corn to make the moon. Other patches of corn for food. But mine is use for moon. Me and George is partners. We make real good moonshine. Grandpa and Pa and Uncle John consume it with great happy. Any left over boys can have. But not girls. Girls don’t use moonshine.
I do not understand use of food and booze. Grandpa say it taste good. I wonder what is taste. It make Uncle John see snakes. I do not understand that either.
I am hoeing corn when there is sound behind me. I look and there is Joshua. He is reading Bible. He always reading Bible. He make big job of it. Also he is stepping on my hills of corn. I yell at him and run at him. I hit him with the hoe. He run out of patch. He know why I hit him. I hit him before. He know better than stepping on the corn. He stand under tree and read. Standing in the shade. That is putting on. Only folk need to stand in shade. People don’t.
Hitting him, I break my hoe. I go to Smith to fix. Smith he glad to see me. always glad to see each other. Smith and me are friend. He drop everything to fix hoe. Know how important corn is. Also do me favor.
We talk of Janglefoot. We agree is wrong the way he speak. He speak heresy. (Smith he tell me that word. Joshua, once he get unmad at me for hitting him, look up how to spell.) We agree, Smith and me, folk are genteel folk, not kind said by Janglefoot. Agree something should be done to Janglefoot. Don’t know what to do. We say we think more of it.