Dutch Uncle

by Marilyn Durham

  There was a profound silence.

  ‘I’ll be a sonofabitch,’ Jake said at last.

  Clement Hand cleared his throat. ‘As I was about to say, Carrie and I don’t have the room, just two little cubbyholes and a kitchen behind the office. But our brand-new, Unattended jail is empty, if it wouldn’t bother you to stay there. There’s the room I mentioned, and there are bunks in the cells that the little ones could use, for now. I have the key. Unless you’d rather stay here or try for a berth at the Moon.’ Jake felt properly humbled. ‘Thanks for giving me the choice. Jail sounds good to me, right now. I’ll pay you for the bunk.’

  ‘Oh, it’s better than a bunk. And there’s no charge. I’ll put it in the paper that the famous Dutch Hollander once hung up his gun in our jail. Or don’t you wear one now?’ Jake tapped his chest. ‘Of course. Less conspicuous. A man in your present profession must try to look like a gentleman.’

  He pushed back his chair and stood up while Jake was weighing the stress put on the verbs in that sentence.

  ‘I’ll get the key and some extra blankets and open the place up. You can bring the boys over whenever you’re ready. Do you know where it is? Across the street and past my office four doors. Adobe, with bars. If you give us twenty minutes or so to get things aired out, you can put the boys straight to bed.’

  Jake watched Clem leave the cantina. One or two of the customers looked up as he passed, but he hurried by them without acknowledgment. He was certainly a regular member in the place, unlikely as his appearance made that seem.

  He was younger than Jake, but looked older now, with his gold-rimmed spectacles and his blond hair fading rapidly into gray. He was a shopworn edition of that young fireball who had so transformed his father’s bland journal with his abolitionist fervor and attacks on the unrighteous that some Willow Bend wit had dubbed him ‘the Daniel of the Cowpens.’ Time should have rendered some of the fat out of his head, but Jake thought not.

  He poured a last drink and shifted his weary tail on the chair, preparing to give Clem the time he asked for before going over to the jail. The free accommodations were a minor piece of luck, but he didn’t plan to use them long. It was ridiculous to think he’d wait a month in this hole. Tomorrow he’d find somebody he could hire to take him out of Clem’s anxious grasp, and out of Carrie Hand’s sight, too. He didn’t relish being watched for a month by a woman he had known too long ago to remember clearly but who looked at him as if her memory had survived the years intact.

  After a while he glanced down at Paco, whose eyes were too tightly closed. ‘You’re not asleep,’ he said. The lids quivered. ‘Listen, kid. I didn’t mean to hurt you. You just took me by surprise,’ he added. He was feeling a bit drunk on the tequila. Paco’s eyes opened, mirroring Jake.

  ‘It didn’t hurt.’

  ‘Yes, it did. And I’m sorry. Lo siento. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  They were silent together.

  ‘Are you a famous man?’

  ‘No, I’m not a famous man! Where the hell did you get that?’

  ‘You said.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I was mocking the señor for his loco ideas. If you heard that, then maybe you heard that we’re spending the night in jail here. How do you like that?’

  ‘I ain’t never been in jail,’ said Paco soberly.

  ‘Neither have I. By God, that’s a fact.’ He laughed then because he knew he must be drunk. ‘Come on, wake up Urraca and let’s go see what it’s like.’

  Urraca was slow to stir, being drugged with beer and sleep, but Paco was wide awake and suddenly in a tearing good mood. When they got outside he took her hand and began to gallop around in the street, hooting and singing tunelessly, while Jake walked behind with deliberation — and a suitcase in each hand to keep him balanced. The air felt twenty degrees cooler than it had that afternoon. He hoped it would clear his head a bit before they reached the jail.

  There were no lights on the street and no lanterns hung by the doors or in the hands of pedestrians. The saloons were all going strong, but their small, dingy, oilpapered windows gave no light to the night.

  The street looked empty at the moment. He wondered how late it was. A mining town this quiet in the shank of the evening hardly seemed to merit so much concern on the part of Clement Hand’s tea-drinking Citizens’ League. Their law-and-order money would be better spent on street lamps. He couldn’t see Paco or his sister any longer, but he could hear them sneaking up on him from behind.

  At the last moment he realized the footsteps were too heavy and too stealthy for a pair of prank-playing brats. He dropped the valise in his right hand, but before he could reach the gun under his coat his whole head seemed to explode in pain and a kind of reversal of light. He fell heavily, fighting to hold on to consciousness. He felt himself being grabbed and rolled over, then nothing more.

  *

  He could hear again, but he still couldn’t move. Someone was crying and clutching at him, while others were running on the wooden walk. The jarring of their feet woke the pain in his head like a wild thing. He was cold and sick. When they hauled him to his feet his legs were like a baby’s, and he had to put most of his weight on whoever it was that had Jake’s arm pulled over his shoulders.

  Paco was jabbering somewhere in front of him, and a woman’s voice answered briefly. The nausea overwhelmed him. He got his legs under control long enough to pull away from his supporter, then fell to his knees and vomited in the street.

  ‘He’s sick!’ wailed Paco. ‘That damn cantinero try to kill him.’

  ‘He’s drunk,’ said the woman coldly. Carrie. It would be Carrie.

  ‘He had been drinking quite a bit,’ temporized her brother. ‘But I don’t think he was drunk.’

  When he was empty and shivering with cold sweat from the reaction they got him on his feet again and piloted him to the jail. The door was open, and a dazzling kerosene lamp on the table made him close his eyes in pain. Somebody put a chair under his knees and he fell into it, with his head and arms on the table.

  Clem touched the back of Jake’s head carefully. ‘Look, he’s bleeding here. And he’s got a lump the size of a plum. Somebody hit him.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense,’ said Carrie. ‘He must have hit his head when he fell down drunk. You can smell it. Judd, run and get me a jug of water and a clean cloth. And a piece of ice from Mr Sánchez. Wait! Here’s a penny. I know he’ll want something for it.’

  Jake groaned and tried to sit up to see who Judd was, but felt himself restrained by a cool hand on the nape of his neck.

  ‘Sit still, you idiot,’ she said in a voice that shook slightly, ‘or you’ll just be sick again, and on this clean floor.’ She pulled off his coat with Clem’s help, removed his collar, and began to massage the back of his neck gently.

  ‘Little boy, when that water comes I want to see you use some of it, too. And your brother. You’re both absolutely grimy.’ There was no reply from Paco.

  By the time the water and ice did arrive Jake was determined to escape from her controlling hands. He took off his shirt and washed his face, then doused his head while Clem made an ice pack for his skull.

  His brain wasn’t working at peak efficiency, but he had corralled enough of his scattered wits to realize one thing: his money belt was gone. His luggage, his watch, and the small roll of bills and coins in his pockets were still there.

  Whoever had rolled him had done so with a minimum of time lost and a maximum danger of discovery, with witnesses so near. Somebody had known what he had and got it without wasting any time searching him.

  Who knew? Urraca? She couldn’t talk and Paco couldn’t roll him. He had to be addled to waste time thinking of them.

  Clem. He’d asked about Jake’s money. ‘You must be walking pretty heavy. Better be careful.’ Was that a thing to say to a man you were planning to rob twenty minutes later? Maybe; if you were a self-possessed sonofabitch like Clement Hand.

  ‘How do you feel now, Dutch?’ Cle
m asked, hovering over him with the ice pack. Jake twisted around painfully and examined him. He thought Clem’s eyes seemed over-large, even considering the glasses. His face was slick with sweat and had a greenish pallor. He looked almost as sick as Jake felt.

  ‘I’ll live,’ Jake growled. ‘But I won’t be so heavy on my feet now.’

  Clem blinked at him, then nodded slowly with understanding.

  ‘Yes, that’s what I feared when I saw you weren’t wearing a money belt. The marks of it are still there on your skin. Did you lose much?’

  A shadow moved behind him, and Jake noticed Judd. He was the big ox who had been sorting type in the office.

  Haven’t the two of you had time to count it yet? he thought. Aloud, he said, ‘Ten thousand.’

  The ox looked stupid. Clem looked incredulous.

  ‘My God, that much? And you won it all?’

  ‘I earned it. And it took a while.’ How long would it take to earn it again, if he had to play for it against two such poker faces as these?

  Carrie hadn’t put in a word, but he didn’t realize she was gone until she came back through the door with another bucket of water, a pillow, and some clothes.

  ‘Here you are, young man,’ she said to an unnaturally quiet Paco. ‘Water to wash with and something to use for nightclothes. Jake off those filthy things you have on and I’ll wash them tonight. Then climb into those beds in the first cell.’ She plumped the pillow energetically.

  ‘Jacob, you had better go to bed, too. Here’s a pillow for your head. You’ll feel better when you lie down.’

  Whatever it had been that had made her voice quiver earlier, she seemed to have it well under control. No female had spoken to him with such cool command since he escaped from the schoolroom. But he obeyed without an argument, relieved to get away from the naked glare of the lamp.

  He heard her shoo Judd and Clem out. There was some clanking and splashing from the cell area, then a sudden exclamation of surprise from her and a laugh from Paco.

  More water was poured. Small rustlings. Near silence. He was beginning to drift into a limbo of concussive sleep when he felt her presence in the room with him. She bent over him, so close he could feel her breath on his face.

  ‘Jacob Hollander, what in the world are you up to with those two children? Do you know one of them is a female?’ she whispered.

  The snort that escaped him jarred his battered head. ‘Run back and check on the other one, Carrie. I think he’s different.’

  She left without another word.

  6

  When he woke, his head felt like a belfry where the bells had just stopped ringing. He sat on the edge of the narrow cot and felt his damaged scalp with careful fingers, waiting for the vibrations to stop. There was a local soreness on the back of his skull, but it was nothing to the rage inside it. He found his boots and his shirt, then went out to look for medical aid.

  The nearest saloon was called the Red Front. It was open and dispensing the only pain reliever he could tolerate. He took the first dose quickly, and the second with greater care while reasoning with his panicked stomach. The staring eyes of a plateful of sardellos on the bar made him cringe. When he had won out over the fire in his belly, he paid and went to find and shake the stolen money out of Clement C. Hand.

  Their seamed office window showed him Clem and Carrie at work on the press. Paco’s and Urraca’s bobbing heads were just visible beyond the railing that separated the office from the print shop. He hadn’t missed their presence when he woke. They weren’t a habit yet, and they weren’t going to become one.

  He threw open the office door and thought about slamming it, but he already had their attention. Clem had just unhooked the swinging frisket and brought it down to cover his margins. Carrie stood ready to pull the freshly printed sheet.

  ‘Good morning, Dutch. How’s your head? Be with you in just a second.’ Clem rolled the press bed under the platen and heaved, on the devil-tail lever that pressed them together, then rolled back the bed: clunk, clink, BANG. When he released the sheet Carrie reached forward and took it, holding it up for a brief inspection. She didn’t look at Jake.

  ‘The kids woke up early and came over. Carrie fed them. Have you had your breakfast yet? How about some coffee?’ Clem wiped his fingers on a rag and came through the swinging gate into the office, smiling. Jake stood in the middle of the small room waiting for him.

  ‘I’ll bring some coffee in here,’ said Carrie, and vanished through a door to her right.

  When she was gone Jake grabbed Clem by the necktie and jerked him close. ‘All right, where is it?’ he snarled. ‘And don’t say, “Where’s what?” or play innocent behind those glasses, or I’ll stick your damned head under that press!’

  Clem’s arms and shoulders were well developed from years of rolling his press. He tore himself free at the expense of his necktie, but Jake caught him again, both hands around his throat this time, and pushed him back against the rail.

  ‘I — don’t — have it!’ Clem wheezed through the pressure of Jake’s thumbs.

  ‘Don’t bulishit me! You had that big ox club me and take it. Now where is it?’ He shoved him through the gate to the press. Clem’s glasses were lopsided and steamed from the heat of his scarlet face when Carrie returned from the kitchen with the coffee. She dropped the cups, and in another second Jake had a tiger on his back. Her arms clamped off his own windpipe as she swung her weight from his shoulders. Her nails made vicious sweeps at his head and ears. She had more hands than a heathen idol.

  Overbalanced and strangling, the three of them fell against the press to the accompanying cries of Paco and Urraca. Jake was forced to release Clem to defend his own head from Carrie’s fists. When rescue came its source surprised him.

  ‘Stop it! Stop it, Carrie! You don’t understand,’ Clem gasped as he tried to catch her wrists.

  She drew back, glaring at Jake. ‘I understand that you might well have saved his life last night, and this ungrateful whiskey sponge came in here this morning and tried to kill you.’

  ‘Well, he’s — understandably upset, Carrie. You didn’t hear, last night. Whoever hit him took his money, too. Quite a lot of money. And he thinks it must have been me or Judd.’

  For an instant she stood perfectly still, looking at Jake. Then she rallied. ‘What? Of all the stupid—! Your, filthy money was right there in your pocket with your ticket and your other trash. I saw it when I came over this morning to pick up your filthy shirt and wash it.’

  ‘I had ten thousand in a money belt that your big brother inquired about no more than twenty minutes before it was taken off me. Ask him!’

  Carrie’s face went a deeper pink as she looked at Clem.

  ‘He’s telling the truth about the belt, Carrie. I mean, I could see the marks it had left on him last night. And I’m afraid I did ask him if he was carrying a lot of money. I told him it could be dangerous here.’

  ‘Dangerous!’ Jake snorted. ‘Damned near fatal, with that two-legged sledge hammer you hired to get it. Where is he?’

  ‘Oh, stop shouting, you — you sot! You have been drinking already this morning, haven’t you?’ Carrie’s voice was full of angry tears.

  ‘Please, Carrie, dear. Try to see it from Jake’s point of view. He has been robbed of a great deal of money, apparently. I’m afraid I would look bad to him, in such circumstances. But, Dutch, I give you my word I didn’t take your belt. And I’m sure Judd doesn’t have it either. He’s not very bright, it’s true, but he’s always been honest.’

  Jake was not convinced. ‘Is that the kind of fine-haired truth that’s kept you out of jail all your life? You didn’t take it and Judd doesn’t have it. Try it the other way around. Judd took it and you have it!’

  Carrie stepped between them and drew herself up to within six inches of Jake’s accusing eyes.

  ‘My brother was in the jail with me the whole time. When the children came and you didn’t follow, we sent them out to see why, and th
ey ran back and told us you were lying on the walk.

  ‘Judd sweeps out the Red Front and the feed store at night, besides working for us. He’s a little simple. He came out of the Red Front on the corner and saw us bending over you. I think there might have been several other people on the street by then. None of us was alone with you after we found you and brought you to the jail. That is how it all happened, exactly. Unless you think I’m in on the theft, too. Do you? Do you want to ask me whether I have your money belt?’

  Jake had nothing to say. He slumped against the press, his head a merry dancing hell.

  ‘Carrie, dear, since the coffee seems to have got spilled, would you get us some more, please? We could all use it.’ Her brother’s voice was soothing, almost apologetic, as if Jake had already made the charge against her. She moved to obey him, her eyes still fierce on Jake. Paco and Urraca followed her.

  ‘Where is Judd this morning?’ Jake asked into the succeeding silence.

  ‘He only comes in a couple of times a week, to help set up for a print and to clean up after.’

  ‘You’re printing today.’

  ‘It’s a special edition. I decided on it after Judd went home last night. It’s nothing.’ But Jake reached for the proof anyway.

  It was a one-page edition devoted entirely to the issue of progress and order in Arredondo. There was an editorial recounting the many efforts of the town to get help from the territory and county, in vain. There was a small story about the recent robbery of an innocent traveler. There was a general review of other unavenged pieces of criminal impudence in the last two lawless months, which could be put to rights only by the hiring of a special town marshal.

  But most of the page was filled with a stirring account of the early life and exploits of Jacob ‘Dutch’ Hollander, in all the splendid dime-novel language Clement Hand could muster.