The Lincoln Hunters

by Wilson Tucker

  “Bobby’s brother can’t expect a long life, not in his present condition,” Dobbs added reflectively.

  “I suppose that’s a blessing—for him.”

  “Perhaps. But cataclysmic to Bobby. He sees his own image in his brother, and believes he is destined for the same end. He was pathetically grateful for being called on this job.”

  Steward studied the pattern of the floor. “Can we rely on him tonight?”

  “I believe so. He’s trying desperately to get back in good graces. Liquor and that Egyptian thing are marks on his record which he is determined to erase, if that’s possible. This shoot will help him considerably. Yes—I think we can rely on him to carry his end. And I’m willing to help cover, if he stumbles.”

  “Same here,” Bonner added. “We can always fake a recording for him.”

  “Okay.” Benjamin Steward knew he would have said that even in the face of an unfavorable opinion. On another shoot and another day—perhaps not. But right now Bloch’s troubles seemed larger than his own. “We’ll go ahead, as scheduled. Keep the lad in the sack. That town has a saloon for every five inhabitants. I’ll snag an extra wire to pass off as his, if it’s necessary.”

  He looked up as Evelyn entered the room.

  “What’s the good word, fair maid?”

  “The information on Mr. Lovejoy will be ready soon, Benjamin. And in the meantime the engineers have decided a shooting time. Five hours and forty minutes from now. They are plotting a ten o’clock arrival in the field.”

  “Plus or minus a fortnight,” Steward replied. “Poo, and a yobber to boot. Five hours and forty minutes; what do you want to do, gents? Knock over a couple of games?”

  “Sounds reasonable.”

  “You must change your clothes if you go outside, Benjamin.”

  “By the gods, yes! This stuff itches.” He undid the shirt to reach inside and scratch vigorously. “Let’s all go outside for a few hours, Evelyn. I can’t remember a thing you said this afternoon.”

  “Now, Benjamin!”

  “Do you have to alibi to Whittle? Then put it this way for the record: Dobbs and Bonner are taking me out for an extended briefing; they want a minute description of that First and Last Chance Saloon. They fear to stray, you know—weak-willed and all that. You should be present.”

  “Benjamin, that isn’t fair.”

  “Of course not. I’m a villain. You may hiss me.”

  “Benjamin, I . . .” She hesitated with indecision, and was suddenly lost when he shrugged out of the shirt. “I’ll have to make arrangements, Benjamin.”

  “Make ’em fast. I’m peeling the underwear next.”

  Evelyn whirled and ran from the room.

  “Touching sort of romance,” Dobbs commented dryly after she had gone. “Old-fashioned-valentine sort of thing.”

  “She’s the old-fashioned kind of girl,” Steward said. “But not the old old-fashioned kind daddy used to make. What say we lose a few hours at the Madam’s house? And when we get there, you chaps take a powder. A man can’t manage a briefing with a crowd hanging over his shoulder.”

  6

  FUN AND GAMES

  DOC BONNER whistled up a car in deference to Evelyn. The Characters would have preferred to walk the short distance to the nearest house.

  The early but already forgotten proprietors of the very first house of games had availed themselves of the services of Time Researchers. Games new and old, skillful and silly, sweet and sour, innocent and dangerous were culled from numerous historical ages for the amusement of the New Nation city-states. Each succeeding—and competing—games house had improved upon the diversions available to the citizenry. The popularity of the sporting houses was enormous; they remained open around the clock. It was whispered that even the Emperor sometimes patronized them—carefully disguised of course.

  A staggering amount of research and planning had gone into the operation of the house of games. Sometimes the results were ludicrous, where the origin of a particular sport or amusement was obscured by time and legend—this despite the valiant efforts of Time Researchers. And sometimes an historical contest was deliberately twisted to satisfy the players. They would not have it any other way.

  Item: in the cardroom, some tables were reserved for Dead Man’s Hand.

  It was an ordinary draw poker game with two variants. Hovering over each table—and reading the cards of all players—was a referee officially known as Wild Bill Hickok. This man was dressed in authentic Old Western garb: a ten-gallon hat, loud shirt and vest, trousers and silver-spangled chaps, boots and spurs. He also wore a pair of reasonably authentic forty-fours strapped to his legs. If and when, in the course of a game, some player drew a hand containing two pair or a full house of aces and eights, the referee pulled his guns and shot the unlucky fellow in the back. As might be anticipated, it broke up the game.

  The survivors divided the pot and whatever money the loser had on the table and on his person. Not dead, but stunned and unconscious for hours to come, the unlucky participant was carried out and sent home by car. Sporting-house tradition decreed that a dollar be left in his pockets. Wild Bill Hickok usually received a generous tip for his role in the proceedings. And a new game would begin.

  Item: in the basement galleries were numerous games of pure chase, having a variety of names.

  Cops and Robbers, Cowboys and Indians, Hare and Hounds—and for the ladies—King’s Women and Robin Hoods. Each gallery was appropriately named. City Jungle, The Reservation, The Dismal Swamps, and The Green Forest. The younger people liked to play Drop the Gat. Each game had its peculiar set of rules, rewards and penalties. Mixed sexes were not permitted to participate in any but the most innocuous of contests, inasmuch as the losing teams were frequently in need of medical attention. These games, so the whispers ran, were the royal favorites. The Emperor was especially fond of archery.

  And much of the games house bore a reliable similarity to carnivals and amusement piers. There were shooting galleries, hurling tournaments, small change gambling and ultra gaudy roulette wheels which paid off in worthless bric-a-brac.

  Always popular and always crowded was the Twenty Questions game. Standing in a soundproofed booth with a distractingly pretty girl, the contestant pitched twenty legitimate questions on any subject at a panel of experts. The monetary rewards mounted in direct proportion to the number of questions the panel failed to answer before a bell rang signaling the commercial interlude.

  Madame Jennifer’s House of Games had a free gate.

  Dobbs and Bonner moved away by themselves. They had decided to try their luck at ghoodminton, although Bonner loudly proclaimed it to be a sissy’s game. He would rather bowl, or join one of the baseball teams being organized. (A complete nine innings every hour on the hour.)

  Evelyn glanced up at the silent Character who was drifting along beside her. His face was blank.

  “I think that was prearranged, Benjamin.”

  He laughed. “I do like a little bit of butter to my bread.”

  “It was too obvious.”

  “Ah, well, four’s a crowd.”

  “And what do you have in mind?”

  “Nothing that I haven’t done before. I thought I’d whisk you away to some cozy place-like a park bench—and whisper sweet nothings in your ear.”

  “And, I suppose, explain peacheroo?”

  “By all means.”

  As they walked along they passed the entrance to a darkened side room which housed a kind of entertainment called The Marriage Game. It was designed for persons who wished neither a six-months’ trial contract nor a permanent marriage. Mixed sexes were the rule, and the period of occupancy of the heart-shaped “honeymoon cottages” was unrestricted so long as the participants paid the proper fees. (Each cottage contained a small printed notice informing the couples that a notary public was in residence, in the event they changed their minds and decided to marry.)

  Evelyn glanced away, disgustedly, and covertly studied the
Character. After a moment’s reflection she decided he had not deliberately brought her this way. She slipped her hand in his.

  “There is something on your mind, Benjamin. I find you uncommonly solemn.”

  “There certainly is.” He did not smile. “I want to ask you a personal question.”

  “Very personal?”

  “Oh, very.”

  “I warned you not to grow serious, Benjamin.”

  “Cross my heart and spit, Evelyn. Beneath this rugged chest beats a heart of gold. And if I must confess the truth, I simply like to talk to you.”

  “That is a compliment. Thank you.”

  They strolled into a Lilliputian park. It was equipped with a tiny artificial lake, facsimile swans, soft music emanating from concealed speakers in the shrubbery, and a romanticist’s idea of park benches. The benches were just wide enough to accommodate two people, were comfortably upholstered, and each was set off the curving walk in a location affording semi privacy. A coin meter was fastened to the side of each bench, and later, when the time limit expired, a bell tinkled insistently until another coin was inserted or the bench vacated. Songbirds, or the recorded equivalent, could be heard in the trees.

  Steward seated himself beside Evelyn and draped a casual arm around her shoulder. He glanced into the trees.

  “Ersatz.”

  “What?”

  “You ought to see the real thing. Real birds. Nesting in real trees in real parks. This ersatz stuff reminds me of our motto.”

  “Benjamin, you must be more careful. Mr. Whittle is quick to notice disrespect.”

  “Hah!” he said. “Comes the revolution—Sic transit gloria Whittle.”

  “I don’t believe I understand.”

  “Neither do I.” And he lapsed into a moody silence.

  “Benjamin,” she prompted after a while.

  “Yes, my love?”

  “The very personal question.”

  “Tush. I’m working up to it. After all, I’ve only known you for six years.”

  “Stop teasing!”

  “Okay, Evelyn. It’s probably anticlimactic, but that’s my question. Evelyn what?”

  “What?” she repeated, nonplused.

  “Yes, what. I’ve known you for six years and you have always been Evelyn—just Evelyn. Don’t you have a family name?”

  She stared at him with surprise and then, slowly, growing amusement. Finally she burst out laughing.

  “That is the question?”

  “It’s legit,” he said defensively.

  “You . . . you silly!”

  “Are you nameless?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Well, then?”

  “Benjamin, are you serious? My full name is Evelyn Kung Fu-tza. I do not use the last.”

  He considered that. “Why not?”

  “It is a descriptive label meaning ‘the teacher.’ I am simply Evelyn Kung.”

  “Not so simply,” he contradicted. “But there’s nothing wrong with the name. Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “You did not ask, Benjamin.”

  He pursed his lips and decided against choking her. Instead, his questing mind turned in another direction.

  “There’s a game in here called The Chinese Water Torture. Have you seen it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it as goofed-up as the other games?”

  “Definitely. The original was not a game but a method of torture used on recalcitrant prisoners. It bore not the remotest relation to gambling stakes and the number of drops of water falling in a given time in a given container.”

  Steward looked around the park but his comment embraced the whole.

  “Rum place.”

  “And yet the peoples of the Old Nation had their places of amusement.”

  “Everybody did—as far back as we’ve gone. But none of them seem as goofy as this place.” He stretched his long legs and tightened the arm around her shoulder. “Is there anything else I should know? Anything else I haven’t asked?”

  “There could be many things. It depends.”

  “On my seriousness?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’m this much serious—but not too much.” He scratched his chin and grinned at her. “I’m a mite too young to settle down.”

  “I think I can judge the extent of your intentions, Benjamin. I have used the past six years in study, if you have not. And I shall not go shopping for a wedding ring, nor shall I reveal the amount of my dowry.”

  “Well, no,” he agreed judiciously. “I wasn’t up to that point—not this week, anyway.”

  “Nor this month, nor this year.”

  “But it’s nice to think about,” Steward said.

  “I can agree to that. Benjamin, there is so much more to marriage than you seem to realize. It is not all an entertainment, like that place back there. You would find it necessary to entirely revise your viewpoint of life-perhaps your way of life—if you desire a successful marriage.”

  “ ’Sdeath, you don’t have to make a man over.”

  “Benjamin, have you ever known a successfully married Character? Or a married, successful Character?”

  He thought a moment and said, “Solly Blaisdell?”

  “Mr. Blaisdell is restricted to non-risk shoots. At his own request. Which means at his wife’s request.”

  “Well—now, yes, I had missed him around lately.”

  “Any others come to mind, Benjamin?”

  He shook his unkempt head. “Can’t think of any.”

  “Very well,” she pressed, “how many Characters resigned and sought other jobs after they married?”

  “A flock of them, I reckon. The wives, huh?”

  Evelyn nodded. “Their wives, and the arrival of children.”

  “Poor buggers,” he said with a burst of sympathy. “They must be missing it, now.”

  “As you would miss it.”

  “Me? Hold up, Evelyn. You aren’t the kind of a woman to make me quit.”

  “How do you know what kind of a woman I am?” she asked sharply.

  He turned to stare at her.

  After a lengthy silence he said, “I don’t know.”

  “I am afraid that is correct, Benjamin. So it is best that you do not become serious. I think you would be very unhappy at the consequences.”

  He did not reply at once, but listened to the electronic birds singing in the mock-up trees. In the near distance a hidden waterfall tumbled musically over the rocks and there was a subtle, undefined humming sound in the air. In long gone ages that humming had been bees. Time Researchers’ vast libraries of wire-recorded sound had supplied the original chorus of birds and bees.

  This was a wholly new and unprecedented Evelyn. He must have rubbed salt in an unexpected wound.

  Ruefully, he admitted that he didn’t really know the woman very well, despite the six years they had worked together. Plus the last couple of years they had played and dated together. He hadn’t even known her name; had known nothing of her background. He hadn’t known the swift turning of her mind, the rebuke on her tongue, or the velvet threat only half concealed in the tart reply. He hadn’t known this Evelyn at all. Aye, woman at best is a contradiction still.

  “Evelyn Kung,” he said pensively. “Maiden name?”

  Her voice turned strangely soft. “Yes, Benjamin.” It should have warned him.

  “I guessed at it.” Steward avoided her eyes. “I owe you an apology, Evelyn. I’ve put my foot in my mouth once too often. You didn’t look married—you know what I mean?—but that’s no excuse.”

  “I am a widow.”

  “Double blunder, and I’m doubly sorry.” Belatedly, a lightninglike suspicion smote him. He whirled on her.

  “Evelyn—one of the Characters?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hell and high water!” Stung with embarrassment, Steward got to his feet awkwardly. No wonder she had so forcefully rejected his tentative proposal. “I’d better take you h
ome.”

  “To the chamber, Benjamin. I am with your crew for the duration of the shoot.”

  “That’s what I meant,” he mumbled. His senses were still reeling from the shock.

  Evelyn stood beside him to put a hand on his arm. It was a small and reassuring touch.

  “There is one more question to be asked, Benjamin.”

  “I don’t want to ask it.”

  “You have little choice. It is necessary.”

  “No.”

  “Then I will tell you. And you must believe that I bear no malice toward you, or anyone. For heaven’s sake, Benjamin, not once have I been vindictive toward you; nor do I expect to be. Admit that.” She spoke earnestly and quietly, gazing up into his face. Her saffron skin was very pale.

  He could only nod.

  “My husband’s name was Sam Wendy. I think you have already guessed that. We kept our marriage a secret; not even the people at T-R knew. And I will be grateful, Benjamin, if you do not mention it now. It is over.”

  When Steward did not reply or move, but only stood woodenly before her, Evelyn slipped her arm through his and turned him about.

  “Come along, Benjamin. The time is short.”

  She guided him out.

  He stood in the deserted tailor’s fitting room, off the Library, absently contemplating a pile of clothing.

  By the gods, he had played it dumb!

  For six years he had worked with Evelyn Kung, and for the last two of those adventurous years he had haphazardly courted her—never dreaming she was first Sam Wendy’s wife and then his widow. Benjamin Steward dating Sam Wendy’s widow. What an absurdity!

  He could only marvel at Evelyn’s unbounded patience, at her rigid self-repression. She had not shown the slightest trace of resentment, had not spoken a vindictive word. Nor, during or following his guild negotiations to double the size of the minimum crew, had she said anything about closing a barn door after it was too late.

  He wondered if he could ever ask her out again? Could he knowingly date the widow of the man whose death was on his hands?