What Frees the Heart

by Karen A. Wyle

  Burgess laughed a while longer, with Tom laying there grinding his teeth, and then crouched down. “Here, didn’t I tell you? Let me help you on up.”

  Tom spit at the miller’s nearest knee. “You get away from me. I can manage without you and your help.”

  Burgess hoisted himself to his feet. “All right, young feller, all right. Sorry I got you stirred up. I shouldn’t take advantage of someone in your condition. I’ll leave you to it.”

  Tom waited for Burgess to walk on, cussing again as the man stopped and looked back before finally getting some distance away. It took him a few long minutes to struggle to his feet.

  Brooding like he was the next day, it took something special to get Tom’s attention, and he was fair glad when it did.

  People talked about veterans with missing legs often enough, but Tom hadn’t seen one since he lost his own. There the man was, still wearing the torn and beat-up jacket from his uniform, coming in Finch’s door and settling himself down in the chair near the door. Finch hustled up to him the way he did for customers dressed a lot finer, and with his best imitation of high-class talk. “Welcome, sir! How may I assist you?”

  Tom had to allow that was interesting, not to say plumb surprising, and to Finch’s credit.

  The man had a boot on his wooden leg and now pulled it off. “I could use a new sole on this here footwear, if you please.”

  Finch gave a little bow. “Of course, sir. Will you be waiting for it? I can do it right now. There’s nothing else as — that can’t wait.”

  The veteran shook his head. “No, I can stump around without it for a bit, so long as I don’t go too far. Where’s the nearest saloon?”

  Finch pointed it out and said, “I should be done with your boot by the end of the day. I’ll have the boy bring it to you. And no need to pay anything, sir. It’s on the house.”

  Well, that was a first and no mistake. If Finch hadn’t been in the war, he must’ve managed not to be and felt bad about it. Whichever, it gave Tom a chance to see the veteran again, and maybe talk to him man to man.

  Tom had something pretty important to talk about.

  An afternoon sure lasted longer when you had a reason to be somewhere else. And then Finch started making grumbling noises, as if the boot was somehow causing him trouble. Would Finch work late for once to finish it, and send Tom along home?

  But just when Tom had about given up, Finch started polishing the boot. He took a fair long time over it, which was probably his way of showing respect to the owner, as much as it aggravated Tom to keep waiting. Finally Finch wiped off the extra blacking and plunked the boot down on the work table. “All done. You go on and take it to the customer before you go home.” He stopped to bray out a laugh. “And don’t you go getting too drunk to find your way!”

  Tom wrapped the boot in a clean polishing cloth and left before Finch could annoy him some more. When he got to the saloon, the veteran was sitting at a stool at the counter, an empty glass in front of him, looking like he was daydreaming or maybe remembering. Tom took the stool next to him, nodded to the barkeep, and put the boot on the counter. When the veteran came back from wherever he’d been wandering and reached for the boot, Tom said, “I’d be honored to buy you a drink, Mr. —”

  The veteran smiled, which made him look years younger than Tom had been figuring. “My name’s Conrad, Miles Conrad. Thank you, son, I could handle one more. Whiskey.”

  Tom ordered the whiskey and a beer for himself while Conrad put the boot on, as casual as if every other man in the place had one leg of flesh and one of wood. When the drinks came, Tom took a gulp of bottled courage, waited for the veteran to take a sip of whiskey, and forced out the question he’d been stewing on all afternoon. “Sir, unless the folks you’ve been around since the war are a lot different from folks here, I’d wager some of ‘em like to make sport of you one way and another. Or treat you like . . .” He knew what he wanted to say, but couldn’t get the words out. The man could easy take it wrong.

  “Like I’m not really a man any more, and they’re doing me a favor by not expecting me to act like one?” Conrad’s mouth twisted in a grimace. “Oh, yes. I encounter folks like that often enough.”

  Tom took another gulp and blurted out, “What do you do about it?”

  Conrad drained half his glass. “Mostly I ignore it, act like they’ve said nothing — or said something else altogether. That can be entertaining, watching them wonder whether they heard wrong or I’ve gone off my rocker or what.”

  Tom pictured trying that, next time some fellow in town made a wisecrack or treated him like a halfwit. It didn’t sound all that satisfying.

  “Of course, sometimes there’s nothing for it but to fight. Word of that gets around pretty quick and makes a difference.”

  Tom put his glass down hard enough for the barkeep to look sharp at him. “Fight? How? I tried that —” He remembered yesterday, laying sprawled in the dirt.

  Conrad looked at him with a little smile. “I’ll bet you stood up as tall as you could and tried to punch the man’s head.”

  Tom stared at him. “That’s right.”

  The veteran shook his head slowly and finished his drink. “That’s not how you go about it, not any more. You need to work with what you’ve got, and in ways they won’t expect. Here, I’ll show you.”

  He stood up, looked around the room, and went over to where O’Connor the blacksmith and Davis the tobacconist were sitting at a table, each with a glass almost empty. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I’m looking for a volunteer.” The echo of his own words seemed to bother him for a second before he shook it off and went on. “I need to show young —”

  “Tom.”

  “— young Tom here how a cripple fights. Will one of you assist me with a demonstration?”

  Just as Tom could’ve told him, the two men looked at each other with their eyes bugged out in a “did I just hear that?” sort of way. The blacksmith turned to Conrad and said, in a tone Tom had heard plenty times too many, “Sure, and I wouldn’t want to be harming someone who fought for our country.”

  Conrad snorted. “If I was that easy to break, I’d never have made it through the war. I swear I won’t hold it against you if I get banged up a little.”

  The blacksmith shook his head, but the tobacconist, a sight thinner man, stood up. “If you’re really wanting to do this, I could oblige you.”

  From the look on his face, he was thinking something like and that’ll teach the youngster what fool things he shouldn’t do. But Conrad clapped him on the back and said, “Excellent! Let’s go out back, shall we?”

  By now, a few other men were listening, and as Conrad, Tom, and the tobacconist headed out back, they trailed along after. That got the attention of a few more, and by the time Conrad and the tobacconist faced off, they had a circle of rowdy men around them, calling out encouragement to one or the other, or friendly insults to the tobacconist. Even the barkeep left the counter to come watch, though standing near the door in case someone called for another drink.

  Conrad turned to Tom. “Will you do the honors? Give us the word to start. And then watch closely.”

  Tom cleared his throat, which had somehow got awful dry, and said, “All right then — now!”

  The tobacconist looked around as if thinking better of the whole idea, but took a swing at the veteran’s head — which suddenly wasn’t there to hit. Conrad had dropped to the ground on his hands and his good knee. Next second, he’d lunged at the tobacconist’s legs, grabbing one of them and jerking it sideways. Taken by surprise, the tobacconist waved his arms wildly and fell over, dust billowing up where he landed. The veteran scrambled on top of him, sitting on his chest and holding his arms. He said without turning his head, “Now if this were someone who’d done me wrong or meant me ill, I’d be holding his right hand, guessing he was right-handed, and punching his face with my left.” He let go. “But seeing as the gentleman has done me no wrong, and means me no harm, and has in fact been
most obliging, I’ll do nothing of the kind.” He rolled off the tobacconist and stood up quicker’n Tom could, dusting off his trousers.

  The crowd around them had gone quiet at the unexpected turn of events, but now broke out in cheers and applause. Conrad bowed toward where the thickest cluster of men stood and headed back into the saloon. “Come on, Tom. I’ve more to say about what I’ve showed you.”

  As they sat back down, the barkeep put another whiskey in front of the veteran, with a big smile suggesting it’d be free. But Conrad waved it off. “Thank you kindly, but I’ve had as much as I think wise. Perhaps my companion would enjoy it?”

  Tom didn’t drink whiskey that often, and wasn’t real sure he could walk straight if he drank it now, but he didn’t like to say no. He picked up the glass and took as small a swallow as he thought fitting for a man. Meanwhile, the veteran looked hard at the barkeep, as if suggesting he busy himself elsewhere. When the barkeep had moved on down the counter, Conrad said under his breath, “That audience we collected was less than helpful, as far as your using what I showed you. That trick won’t work as well on a man who’s expecting it. So you need more.” He looked around, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Here’s something they won’t expect. It takes practice ahead of time. You need to start standing on your wooden leg — just on that leg — for as long as you can. And when you can do that, start jerking yourself one way and another, and try to stand up notwithstanding. Can you guess why?”

  Tom puzzled over it. Why would he want to stand on that leg? Why not . . . oh! “So’s I can kick the other fellow with my good leg?”

  “Right! Glad to see you’re thinking. It’s the element of surprise again. You’ll need to aim for a spot you’re pretty sure you can reach and where the kick’ll do enough good, like his ankle or the back of his knee.”

  Tom could hardly wait to get home and start practicing. “Anything else? Anything that works as well on a man who’s seen it before?” After all, some fellows would get boiling mad if a gimp beat ‘em in a fight, and come back for more to show it weren’t nothing but a fluke.

  The veteran got real serious. “Don’t kid yourself. You’re at a disadvantage in a fight whether or not the man knows what’s coming. A bright lad like you might be able to think up some other tricks, but you keep that in mind. That’s why you don’t fight every time someone riles you. And you never pick a fight to show how tough you are. You fight if you have to.”

  Tom chewed that over, not liking the taste. “Did you learn those tricks just from fighting when you had to?”

  Conrad blinked like he was surprised, and then laughed quietly. “Well, I confess I might have been a little too ready to fight, the year or two after the war.” He went sober again. “Like I figure you are. But I was lucky. If there’s one thing the both of us should have learned by now, it’s not to count on luck.”

  Well, he couldn’t argue that. But still. “I don’t know about you, sir, but I figure if I don’t keep hoping for some luck now and again, I’ll just give up altogether. I need more luck’n the next man, if I’m to have any sort of a life. So I’ll hope for it, and try to remember to pray for it. And then see what happens.”

  Conrad raised his eyebrows. “You might be right at that. And if you’re wrong, there’s no rush about learning as much. Good luck to you, Tom. And thanks for bringing my boot.”

  Tom had to swallow before he could talk. “Thank you, sir. For what you showed me and what you told me, both. It won’t go to waste.”

  Tom snuck out early next morning, hoping no one would be awake to watch him. For a few minutes, he thought he’d managed it. But then his sister’s voice drowned out the clucking of the chickens.

  “What in the world are you doing? You look like a drunk turkey.” Martha stared at him like he’d lost his wits, such as they were.

  Tom, taken unawares, had to grab the corral fence to keep from falling. He did his best to look dignified notwithstanding. “I’m practicing.”

  “Practicing what? Being a fence post?”

  Tom dearly longed to stick out his tongue at her the way he used to. “I’m improving my balance. You never know when it could come in handy.” She’d no need to know just when it might.

  Martha shrugged. “Well, you stop practicing or whatever it is you’re doing. Pa says finish your morning chores and then come have your breakfast.”

  Chapter 20

  Mamie stood up from her desk and snapped her fingers in Jenny’s face. “Come back here, girl! Where’d you drift off to? I was telling you about that gentleman I’ll likely be sending your way, next time he comes in.”

  Jenny hadn’t heard a word of it. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Could you tell me the most important part over again?”

  Mamie studied her face and said, in a tone close to a warning, “I hope you’re not still fretting about that harpy in town. You’ve had plenty of time to get over her.”

  It probably wasn’t the time to ask Mamie what a harpy was. “No, ma’am. I mean — I’m not, and yes’m, I’ve had time enough.”

  Mamie shook her head, closed the door, and pointed to a chair. As Jenny lowered herself into it, Mamie leaned back against the desk instead of going back behind it. “Set yourself down. Whatever’s cluttering up your mind, you’d best spill it so there’s room for what I tell you.”

  She’d been trying to get up the nerve to ask Mamie a question, and here Mamie was ordering her to. “Ma’am, I was just wondering, that is . . . have any of your girls got married? To a customer, or someone in town, or anyone?”

  Mamie looked a little smug, like she’d guessed what she was going to hear. “You were just wondering. Curiosity out of nowhere. Not because you’ve grown fond of a particular customer.”

  Jenny usually knew better than to answer back to Mamie, but Mamie was poking her in a tender spot. “I don’t see how my reason changes the answer none.”

  Mamie’s hand twitched like it might want to give Jenny a slap. Jenny held her breath, trying not to scoot her chair any farther from the desk. But Mamie put her hand back on the desk and even chuckled. “I’d rather a girl have spirit than bore the life out of me. All right, then, we’ll start with my answering your question. I’ve seen it three times in the years I’ve run this place, and once before then. And now, before you get all starry-eyed, you should ask me how it worked out.”

  Jenny slumped back in the chair. “Yes, ma’am, please.”

  “The one who got married when I worked elsewhere, I never did find out about, being as I left not long after. The first one of my girls who married was back here inside of three months. The man’d gone back East and left her. Later she heard he’d gone and got married again, no doubt not bothering to tell his new bride she was the second of two — or maybe more.”

  Jenny gasped, and right away felt a fool. Mamie kept going. “The second one stayed married, ‘til she died in childbed. The third, well, they left town, heading farther west. I got a letter from her a while back. She was still married, but he didn’t treat her too well. Kept throwing what she’d been up to her, and spending his evenings at a dirty little hookshop in their dirty little town. She daren’t complain, naturally, and he knew as much.”

  Jenny put her chin down, knowing it probably made her look like a sulky child. “But it doesn’t have to turn out that way. The one who died, she might’ve been happy if she’d lived. Not every man would treat a woman like that last fellow.”

  Mamie slumped a little, which hardly ever happened, and sighed, which happened even less. “Not every man, it may be, but if you were betting — such as betting your heart and your future — that’s the way to bet. A man might think he can handle his woman having been a soiled dove, but after a while it eats at him. It’d be a rare kind of man who can live with it. Maybe one who actually thinks that men and women aren’t so different deep down, and that if a man can lie with a passel of women and then love and be true to just one, a woman can do the same with a man.” Now it was Mamie who had a far
away sort of look. “Don’t know as I’ve ever met a man like that, at least to know he was.”

  A new thought stung Jenny like a bee. To credit it, she’d have to think she was valuable property in Mamie’s eyes, but that stood to reason, really. She let herself sound sarcastic, half expecting that overdue slap. “And you’re telling me all this for my own good and nothing else, I guess.”

  To her relief, Mamie gave a little smile, like she approved of Jenny thinking clear. “Partly. I care about all my girls, whether or not any of you believe it, and I hate to see them making old mistakes. But yes, I’d be sorry to lose you. You’re coming along pretty well so far. I can see you making me a lot of money and yourself a pretty little nest egg. Which you could use to go anywhere you like, without some man telling you where and when.”

  Jenny had traveled alone after the city slicker left her high and dry. She couldn’t say whether she’d been more scared or more lonely, but plenty of both. Of course she’d been younger then. Would it be any different if she did it in a few years, and with money in her pocket?

  Mamie brushed her hands together like she was brushing away all Jenny’s trouble-making questions. “Now then. Mr. Hendershot, as I was saying, saw you on his way out and was quite taken with you — your shape and your hair. Talk to Adeline about his tastes and how to satisfy him most efficiently. I don’t know just when we’ll see him again, but he’ll be in town for a while, so it could be soon. Off you go.”

  * * * * *

  Ma came into the barn where Tom was working on his latest saddle with two lanterns to help him see. Her eyes fair popped when she saw it. “That’s real different, isn’t it? Where did you learn that?”

  Tom looked at his work, still almost as surprised as Ma by what he was doing. “Two cowboys came by, and one of ‘em’d been down south into Mexico, got a fancy saddle there. Them Mexicans put silver on saddles, and this saddle had these round engraved silver circle things, with slots for the saddle strings to go through or sometimes just to make the saddle fancy. I told the other feller I couldn’t do exactly that, but if he got me some silver, I could maybe get it melted into shapes and put those wherever it’d look nice. It’d cost plenty, but I guess cowboys down south can earn that much somehow.” He stopped to push away his old dream of being such. “And that saddle had more carving in the leather that most cowboys around these parts have, which I could do right enough.” Though some of it must’ve been done with tools he didn’t have, and had no way to get. Even if he knew where to order them, he could hardly do it without word getting out once they showed up.