She did not respond. He raised the paper, and after a minute lowered it again.
"I defended myself, that was all. As any man worth his salt would do."
"My roomers are gone," she said. "The first thing this morning. Now I have no income except from you. Thanks to you, I am dependent on a dying man, and his guns. I have already lost my son. Now there's every possibility I will lose my home."
He reflected. "We are both in a tight," he admitted. He frowned. "I will make it up to you, ma'am. I swear on a stack of Bibles."
He waited, but she would not speak. When finished, she picked up her bucket and studied the carpet.
"Does the livery have a telephone?" he asked.
"I think so."
"Will you telephone them for me? Tarrant, that's his name. Tell him to come over here. I want to see him. Today."
"I am Books. How much of a bill have I run up at your establishment?" Moses Tarrant could only stare. "How much do I owe you?"
"Seven-fifty for the horse. So far."
"How much for the hire of the phaeton?"
"Ten dollars."
"Ten dollars!"
"Includes the team."
"It better. So, seventeen-fifty. All right, I want to sell the horse."
Moses Tarrant had a cold. With each breath he snuffled. From a pocket he drew a damp, dirty bandanna, unwadded it to locate an area as yet unused, located one, wrapped the bandanna about his nose, blew loudly, examined the area to see what he had blown, wadded the bandanna, and returned it to his pocket.
"Mr. Books, you joshing me?"
"I am not."
"You already sold that horse."
"The hell I have."
"You did so. This morning. Mrs. Rogers' boy, what's-his-name, come down and told me you wanted to sell. I give him a hundred dollars for it."
Books hauled himself from his chair. "What in hell did you do that for? It isn't his horse, it's mine!"
"He told me! Just like he did about that phaeton! He told me you told him—"
"Tarrant, you have lost a hundred dollars."
His meaning did not immediately penetrate. When it did, a look of tragedy too real to be four-flush gripped Moses Tarrant's features. Perhaps he tried, in order to estimate the dimensions of his loss, to calculate how many nickel beers a hundred dollars would obtain. A fit of coughing overtook him. In dire straits he scanned the carpet and the corners of the room for a place to spit and finding none, took out his bandanna and employed it for the purpose.
"But he told me, that kid—"
"I don't give a damn what he told you. It's my animal, not his. Do you still want to buy it?"
"Reckon I might."
"I thought as much. I will have two hundred more for him."
"Two hunderd!" Tarrant hawked. "He's fistulowed!"
"Of course he is. And you should have him cured by now—you know how. Cauterize and the air will heal it. Otherwise he's in good condition."
"I might go a hundred."
Books glared at the liveryman. "You cheap snotnose. You know damn well you will sell him for a lot more because he belonged to John Bernard Books. Two hundred, and I will throw in my saddle. Cash."
"A hundred fifty?"
"Two hundred. Do you want to argue with me?"
"What about my bill?"
"You throw that in."
"That's three hundred seventeen-fifty! I ain't made of money!"
Books considered him. To avoid the consideration, the liveryman used his bandanna for lack of anything better to do. He snuffled; he blew. He coughed; he spat. But when done, when his respiratory problems had been temporarily solved, his pecuniary remained, and he was still the center of attention.
"Robbery," he insisted.
"So was stealing him from a kid for a hundred dollars."
Tarrant accepted the inevitable. Reaching into a pocket, he extracted a long leather snap-top purse which bulged, fished out a roll of bills and, wetting his thumb, peeled off two hundred dollars.
Books handled the bills with care, by the corners, and spread them on the library table to disinfect. "Now you take damned good care of that horse."
"Robbery."
"And on your way out, ask Mrs. Rogers and her son to come in here."
When they appeared, after several minutes, Books stood behind the armchair, arms folded across his chest, his attitude controlled but temperish.
"Boy," he said without preamble, "you sold my horse to Tarrant this morning. You kept the money."
"Gillom!" his mother gasped. "You didn't!"
"Speak up," Books ordered.
"What if I did? How much'll you be riding from now on?"
"That's theft, or something kin to it. You got a hundred dollars for him. Where is it?"
Gillom chewed a sullen lip.
"I don't know what to say," Bond Rogers appealed. "Gillom, you make me ashamed of you. I can't—"
"Stay out of this," Books interrupted. "All right, son, produce that money or I will turn you upside down."
Gillom produced, and unfolded, two fifty-dollar bills.
"Give it to your mother."
"But it's yours," she protested to Books.
"It will pay for the bedding," he said. "And some of the inconvenience. Take it."
With a small bow and a smirk, Gillom placed it in her hand.
"Now I wish you'd leave us, ma'am. I want a few words with him."
It was an injunction. She started to say something about prerogative, then deferred to the male and left them, closing the door behind her.
"Now then, son," Books said. "You account to me."
"I told you. The name's Gillom."
"The name's 'thief' as I see it. And you'd better account to somebody."
"I don't have to. You got your money."
Books moved from behind the armchair. "You know, I started to take a liking to you. You are making it mighty hard for me, though. The more I learn about you, the less I approve. Catching you spying on me. Quitting school to smart-aleck around Utah Street. And now this, selling my horse out from under me. As I understand it, you are a sorrow to your mother."
"So are you."
They were chin to chin. They were like two cottonwoods, but the ditch between them was deep, not shallow, and the water in it tainted.
"What did you plan on doing with the money?" Books asked.
"I planned to get the hell out of here."
"And do what?"
"Buy a gun and some fancy clothes. Kill a few barflies and get me a reputation."
"Don't get cute with me," Books warned.
"Don't you bullyrag me."
"If this house had a woodshed, we would do some business you wouldn't get over in a month of Sundays."
"Well, it don't. And you're not my father."
"No, thank God."
"Even if you would like to go to bed with my mother."
Books slapped him.
Gillom lunged, half in anger, half in fear, throwing one arm about the man's neck, the other about his waist. They grappled. And suddenly, to his amazement, almost to his dismay, the boy found his strength superior. They wrestled into the chiffonier. Gillom braced himself against it and, as the man seemed to give way, to collapse, with a shove threw him backward onto the bed.
J. B. Books lay on his back, breathing hard, shielding his face and his helplessness with a forearm. Gillom Rogers bent over him, triumphant.
"Haven't I learned a lot, though?" he gloated. "I'm as good with a gun as you. And you can't fight for sour apples, not any more you can't. So you just remember, Mister Blowhard —I've got my own laws now, just like you, and I live by 'em. I won't be laid a hand on either, or showed up. And I won't be treated like a kid, ever again."
Books groaned. "You sneaking little bastard."
Gillom laughed softly. "Hah. You dying old son of a bitch."
East of El Paso several miles the Rio Grande in its meanderings had divided, and by division formed between its halves an island. Consisting of some twenty acres of sand and brush, it was inhabited by snakes and insects, by bilingual cattle being rustled to and fro between Texas and Mexico, and by humans of two disreputable sorts: those commercially interested in the transit of the cattle and those preoccupied with their own transit between the jails of one country and the wide-open spaces of the other.