The Cordwainer

by Christopher Blankley

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Ghost of Tom Mixx

  I awoke on the hard ground, the stars twinkling in the sky above me. I sat up suddenly, only to be forced back down flat by the throbbing in my head. I could hear the crackle of a campfire and I rolled onto my left side to look over at the embers. By the fire, the still mounds of Fluky and Mitty were sleeping nearby. I attempted to sit up again, this time cautiously, and I raised a hand to my bandaged forehead.

  It was a clear, warm night. Wherever we were, we were still within sight of the massive domes of Sodom and Gomorrah – I could just make them out silhouetted against the night sky off to east. We were camped at the brow of a small, grassy hill, The Cordwainer sitting silent, inert, perhaps two hundred yards away.

  I let out a soft moan as the pain in my head readjusted itself. I kicked off the dirty Mitty blanket that was covering my legs and attempted to stand. My legs would not cooperate. Instead, I crawled closer to the fire and took a drink of water out of a billy can that sat by the fire. It tasted vaguely of old coffee. I contemplated waking up Fluky or Mitty, asking them how long I'd been out. An hour? A whole day? But they were slumbering peacefully away and I thought better of disturbing them. I was still wearing Barry's watch. I tried to see the tiny date dial on the face, through the cracked crystal, but couldn't make anything out in the darkness. I tilted it towards the fire, but I was no better off. I thought of Mitty's penlight in the caboose of the train and attempted again to climb to my feet. This time I was more successful and I wobbled for a second by the campfire.

  Presently, I took a step, then another, and soon found that I could walk under my own power. Dizzily, I made my way down the slope of the low hill towards The Cordwainer, holding my head sensitively in my hands. At the caboose, I opened one of the side doors, reached in and pulled the penlight off the table, clicking it on. I shined it on my watch and saw that a whole day had passed since the shots at the railroad crossing. How far had we traveled in the interim? It was hard to gauge with only the domes of the reactors as landmarks.

  I flicked off the penlight and was returning it back to the table when I realize that I wasn't alone.

  I spun around to see a shadowy mounted figure not twenty yards away from me, the horse standing idle, the face of the rider cloaked in darkness. My mind instantly thought of Deputy Aesop on his ancient white pony – that he'd somehow tracked us and found us – but the mounted figure was too rigid in the saddle, too erect. The Smith & Wesson was sitting on the table by the penlight in the caboose. I leapt for it, grabbing it up and turning to face the silhouette.

  I still couldn't make out the face of the rider, but now I could see the gleaming six gun in his hand, leveled at me.

  “Howdy,” the figure said, the gun not faltering.

  “Err... Hi...” I replied. The revolver suddenly felt very heavy in my hand. I let it droop slowly then gave in and dropped it into the grass.

  “Nice night,” the figure said, his pistol vanishing away into a holster at his side, almost as quickly as it had appeared. He prodded his horse forward and the two slowly resolved into view. The rugged features of a rugged face looked down at me from the back of the bay stallion. The man removed his large Stetson and looked up at the stars, squinting. “Ain't a cloud in the sky,” he said, “but still ain't too cold.” I attempted to speak, realizing we were talking about the weather, but nothing emerged from my mouth. “That's quite a contraption,” he went on, nodding at The Cordwainer.

  “Yes, yes it is,” I said slowly. He held up his horse and dismounted. His spurs jingled as his boots touched the ground and I saw he stood a good few inches taller than six feet. He looked, somehow, familiar...

  “You folks on a camp out?” he asked, tending to the horse's bridle.

  “What? No, I...” I touched my forehead. The bandage.

  “I'd be much obliged if you folks got some coffee...” he said, looking back up the hillside towards the fire. Fluky and Mitty were still snoring away.

  “Yes, yes, sure.” I reached down automatically and picked up the handgun – not to use it, but like I was cleaning up for a guest. I returned the gun to the caboose's table and trotted back up the hill towards the campsite. The cowboy in his boots followed behind.

  At the fire, I tossed some more firewood onto the dying embers and balanced the water can in the center of the fire. I was digging around amongst the supplies as the cowboy sat down beside the fire and removed his gloves, warming his hands.

  “You're out late?” I asked, finding the instant coffee, adding it to the water.

  “Got a gross a cattle on yonder,” he said, pointing north. “Beef on the hoof. Grazing them higher up in summer, when the grass is long. All of this is Concession land,” he continued, “but they don't mind none, no one's using it. Says it's contaminated – from the reactors – but it don't seem to hurt the cattle none. Good grazing, and folks tend to avoid it.”

  “Sounds lonely.”

  “Yep,” he smiled. “I ain't, as they might say, one who craves the company of his fellow man.”

  I laughed. I found some cold beans and canned meat and offered it to the cowboy. He gratefully accepted.

  “Why you folks out here?” he asked after a few mouthfuls of stew. “That there some kind of train?”

  “Yes, we built it,” I said with pride. The coffee was starting to boil.

  “My, ain't that somethin'. And you brought it out here for a camp out? From Shadrach?” he asked.

  “No, Boot Hill.”

  “Well, that there's a long haul.”

  “But we ain't camping,” I corrected. “We've got a load of boots, there in the hoppers. We're heading for the Big City. To sell.” It felt good to speak of Mitty's Plan with no thought to secrecy. The cat was out of the bag and I could speak with justifiable pride at what I'd accomplished. The cowboy was suitably impressed.

  “Well now, ain't that somethin'... Folks at the Concession ain't gonna look at that too favorably, I hope you know.”

  “Yes, I know all too well,” I said, touching my forehead.

  The cowboy munched away at his beans. I found it hard to believe that Fluky and Mitty were still sleeping. The cowboy and I were making no attempt to be quiet, but they just lay there, slumbering, not three feet away.

  “Exactly how many boots you got in that there whirligig?” he asked, craning his head around, looking down the hill at The Cordwainer.

  “Ten thousand pairs.”

  “Heck, and you're taking them all the way over there?” he pointed up into the darkness, at the mountains looming silently above us.

  “Yep.”

  “In that thing?” he pointed back down again at The Cordwainer.

  “Yep,” I stressed.

  He laughed, shook his head in bewilderment, finishing up the food on his plate. “Better you than me,” he went on. “Ain't ever been very good with machines.”

  “I got these two to help,” I indicated the sleeping lumps of Mitty and Fluky. The cowboy didn't seem terribly impressed. I poured out two cups of coffee and traded the cowboy his empty plate for a full cup. He took a sip of his, blanched at the heat, and put it down in the grass to cool. “Bet you had to raise holy hell to get that contraption out of Boot Hill, loaded for bear.”

  “Yes, it was quite an adventure,” I said.

  “Folks just don't appreciate the entrepreneurial spirit no more,” he replied.

  I sighed, thinking of Sophie. “Guess they think we're being selfish, trying to make a buck.”

  The cowboy scoffed, “Good for you, son. Selfishness is something this world needs a little more of...”

  I raised an eyebrow, squinting at the cowboy, and took a sip of my coffee. Hot.

  “Now greed, I agree,” he went on. “Ain't ever done no one no good. But selfishness... A selfish man has to learn to appreciate things, what he's got, what it's worth. Looking out for number one, that makes a man independent. Go expecting things from other people – things yo
u ain't earned – that's greed. But a man who can stand on his own two feet and understand the value of the things he's labored for, that's a man with the right to be selfish. If all they can cuss you out for is bein' selfish, son, then you're doin' all right. Now, if you been greedy...”

  “Well, they weren't exactly our boots...” I admitted.

  The cowboy laughed, “Well, this ain't exactly my grazin' land, either.” He tried his coffee again, found it acceptable, and drank it down in a long gulp. “That don't make it greedy for me to take a mouthful of grass.”

  “Some folks would call that stealing.”

  “Yep,” the cowboy said with a nod. “And it ain't for me to say it ain't. Fella's got to decide for himself. However, a fella can't just stand on the say of others. You of the mind that you stole them shit kickers?” he asked.

  “No,” I said with all honesty.

  “Then there you go.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and leaned forward to help himself to another cup of coffee. I finished mine and put the cup down. It tasted vile. “See, the law's got the nerve to be callin' a lot of things stealin' that really ain't.”

  “Doesn't make it right, though,” I countered.

  “Don't make it wrong, neither,” he fired back. “Ain't nobody can decide right from wrong but ya'self. Lots of folk might want to tell ya, but they can't decide it for ya.”

  We passed into silence as I thought on what he was saying – attempting a response.

  “It's different out here,” I finally said. “You're free to make up your own rules.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you can say that.” The cowboy rested back on his haunches, sipping at his scalding coffee. “Can also say I got a mess more rules out here, than folks got livin' in civilization. Hard livin' out here in the open. Comforts of town, that's a kind of freedom – freedom from want, freedom from need. If ya ain't ever had an empty belly ya don't know what a noose that is around a fella's neck. That a rule, believe you me. Out here, there's a whole mess of rules like that – rules you don't want to be goin' around breakin'. Breakin' them rules will get you in big trouble real quick. Big trouble and dead.”

  He went on speaking, looking up at the stars, as his coffee made whirls of steam in front of him, “Though, folks are all to quick to be mistakin' freedom for liberty. They ain't the same thin', ya know. Freedom – now, freedom is the lack of chains holdin' a man down. Real-life chains, for sure, but also them chains like the empty belly I was speakin' of. The essentials of life. Man ain't free if he has to grub around for essentials, them can be chains holdin' a man down, just as tight and hard to break as any chains of a jailer or a tyrant. But liberty – liberty is the power to do things – things a man wants to do. And here, out here, in that respect, we got the townie well and truly beat. Out here, on the land, we can be free or we can't be. But what we really got – what we got a whole sky full and all a man could drink for a thousand years – is liberty. A man's fate is his own fate out here, nobody else's.

  “See, what you got in town is a predisposition to organize things that ain't got no earthly reason to get organized. Hell, I love my momma, yes I do, and I love Jesus. But on a Sunday I don't get all fired up 'bout sittin' around with folk and talkin' on how sweet and nice my mother is. Why do folk have to go and do that for Jesus? Ya think he wants ya to? Hell. Ain't nothin' but an excuse for some fella to get up in front of everyone and tell 'em what to think. Jesus ain't wantin' none of that – that's why he wrote what he got to say down in a book, like a sensible sort. It's all right there, written down, if a fella wants to know what Jesus wants. Ain't got to go and ask no preacher.

  “And then there's them City Hall types that's just as bad, with their spittin'-on-the-sidewalk laws. How can folk get a damn thing done with that kind always interferin'? No parkin', no sittin', no cussin', no breathin'. It gets to the point that a fella can do nothin' but keep his hands in his pockets – except some lady folk might take offense at that, too. Now, I'm all in favor of everybody being civil – my momma raised a good boy, who knows his pleases and thank yous – but when you start a-thinkin' it's your business to tell other folk how to behave... Ain't no reason for it.

  “It all gets to the point in town when a fella is facing other folks every way he wants to jump, can't hardly take a walk without steppin' on a pair of toes. That wears on a soul. Ya start lookin' over to other folk to catch wind of what ya supposed to be thinkin'... That's the rot of it. Makes a man lazy. Lazy in the head. Can't be bothered to think up right and wrong for himself, so he shops out his thinkin' to others. Calls it 'The Law' and gives up on being a thinkin' soul entirely. No, can't be livin' like that, ain't nothin' a fella can build a life on. No sir.”

  He tapped at his temple, continuing, “There's liberty. Right here. To be free, that's a physical thin', but liberty is inside a man. In his head and his heart. When a fella takes a notion to dream – thinkin' big – that's liberty for ya. That's what the towns take away. That's what the law writes right off the books. Fella's got to be able to figure right from wrong for himself, or he'll be so tied up in his head he can't be figurin' out nothing else. Start tellin' a man what's right and what's wrong and you're tellin' him, not just that, but how to be.”

  My thoughts turned to my sister, the day before, back in Boot Hill. Up until then, I hadn't had a chance to think it over. It was all still just a blur in my head, a lingering sense of unease. Why had she done what she did? First, helping us build the engine, then betraying us – and it – to the Concession? It was inexplicable, both a personal and moral betrayal. But what the cowboy was saying fit Sophie all too well. With all the brains and all the potential, she was still tied down by her social conscience. She could see the marvel in The Cordwainer in one breath, understand its technical importance; and fear and loath it in another, for its selfish purpose.

  “Aren't we supposed to be a Nation of Big Ideas?” I asked absentmindedly, quoting the slogan. “Doesn't that take cooperation?”

  “Ha!” the cowboy laughed, mirthlessly. “Ain't nothin' but another way of sayin', 'Do what ya told'. We'll be havin' the Big Ideas, thank you very much, you folk just do what we say. Ain't no nation that has ideas, now is it? It's people. Powerful ones and weak. Ain't nobody needin' no one sitting behind no desk thinkin' up their big ideas for 'em. Seems like a fella can have his own Big Ideas all on his lonesome. God gave him at least that.

  “What a fella does need, on the other hand, is for his Nation to get outta the way so he can make something of those Big Ideas other than just wishin'. But you don't see much of that now-a-days, no sir. Fella in the White House might say he wants to see Big Ideas, but he can't let go and just let folks have 'em. No, can't give up control. Not when ideas might make someone a little richer, or some other fella a little poorer, or might make the weather a little hotter. That right there puts a stop to just about all the good ideas – them summers just gettin' hotter and hotter – nothing you can do up against worries like that...”

  We trailed off into silence, listening to Fluky and Mitty snore away. A weariness suddenly washed over me. I remembered the late hour. My brain was again starting to throb in my skull. I closed my eyes and I could feel the world spinning around me.

  “You think, maybe,” I stopped, picking up a thought half finished, then started again. “That maybe we've been cutting off our nose to spite our face?”

  “Come again?” the cowboy said, finishing off his coffee.

  “The Concession? Global overheating...” I realized I'd wandered sleepily off on my own tangent, in my head. “The summers just getting hotter and hotter...” I mused.

  “Think we're heading down the wrong trail, took the wrong road?” The cowboy said, but I couldn't see him speaking in the darkness.

  “Yes, I-”

  “That maybe cutting back, locking things down was the wrong way to go? That in the end, we ended up consuming more, not less? That now there's so much catching up to do and we have so much less now to work with that we can'
t help but fall further behind, burning away hotter than ever trying to catch up, but only falling further behind, in a vicious circle – digging down deeper, down and down? Is that how it seems?”

  “Yes, but-” I woke up, sitting up. The cowboy was sitting still, studying the stars. It had sounded like his voice speaking, but then again it hadn't... I shook my head, but it just made my brain spasm in pain.

  I was about to speak, when the cowboy climbed to his feet, dusting down his pants. “Well, I can't rightly say,” he shrugged. “I'm mighty grateful for the coffee and the chow,” he said. He held out a hand across the fire and I shook it. For the first time I saw his face, fully lit by the fire and the feeling of recognition hit me once again.

  “You're welcome,” I replied. “Thanks for not shooting me back there.” I pointed down, past his horse, at The Cordwainer.

  “Fella can't be too careful in these parts,” he said. “You did all right.” He walked back to his horse and unhooked the bridle, patting the animal tenderly on its nose.

  “Plenty of room out here for you?” I asked as he was mounting up onto this stallion.

  He returned his Stetson to his head and gathered up his reins, “Always room for one more,” he chuckled. He turned his horse's nose and pointed him down the hill. “Good luck with them there boots,” he said back over his shoulder. “Careful there with that rollin' bathtub...”

  “Good night,” I called after him, waving a hand.

  He cantered his horse down the hill and I noticed that a false dawn was starting, raising majestically behind the domes of Sodom and Gomorrah. He was riding into the dawn. As he passed The Cordwainer, I noticed the old advertisement on the side of the rear-most hopper, the one for Tom Mixx Trail Ready Cereal. The rider in the advertisement and the cowboy who'd just shared the campfire looked awfully similar...

  But then I had just been shot in the head.