by Luke Short
He handed Gibbs his drink, picked up his own, and sank into the chair. Then he lifted his glass and said with a wry humor, “Here’s to back-alley fighting.”
Gibbs said nothing, only grinned faintly, but without derision.
“I’d like a return engagement sometime,” Ben said.
Gibbs looked at him obliquely, sardonically. “The footing isn’t so good this afternoon, but if you insist….”
He left his invitation hanging and Ben laughed suddenly. “Good God, man, give me time for my bruises to turn green.”
Gibbs didn’t smile this time and Ben regarded him curiously. His lean face seemed strained and overlaid with a kind of tension that was foreign to Ben. He was, Hodes thought grudgingly, not exactly handsome and certainly not homely, but there was an engaging directness about him that was undeniable.
Ben wondered what he wanted and thought, I’ll let him fry. However, after a minute’s silence, it was Ben who was the more uncomfortable. Gibbs sat staring into the fire occasionally sipping his drink, utterly content with the quiet of the room.
Ben leaned forward. “Look, if you’ve come to crow, get it out of your system.”
Gibbs looked closely at him and said, “You don’t remember then?”
Ben scowled. “Remember what?”
“Our bet?”
Ben’s scowl deepened. He cast memory back over last evening for the dozenth time and now something new served as a prod. He’d been pretty well loaded, he recalled. The mention of a bet seemed to focus memory. Of course there had been a bet, he recalled distinctly. But what was it? He said aggressively, “Of course, I remember. You were to leave Sarah alone if I licked you.”
“And you didn’t,” Gibbs pointed out.
Ben laughed. “All right, you don’t have to leave her alone.”
Gibbs looked sharply at him. “Is this the beginning of a welsh?”
Ben’s anger was immediate. “If you’re looking for a hassle right in this room, that’s the way to get it.” He pushed his pride aside. “What was the bet, then?”
“Your signature on a ten-thousand-dollar, hundred-and-twenty-day note at your bank.”
Ben slowly sat back in his chair digesting this bit of information. Now that it was recalled to him, he remembered it. But why did he ever make the bet, he wondered. He asked Tully, “What did you put up?”
Gibbs said sardonically, “You seemed so anxious form to stay away from Miss Moffit that that was all I had to put up—my promise that I’d let her alone if I lost.”
Ben flushed. “Come to collect?”
“That’s the general idea.”
Ben finished his drink and then asked abruptly, “That’s an odd way to get a bank loan. What’s the dough for?”
“That’s my business,” Gibbs answered coldly.
Ben shrugged and stood up. “All right, I’ll call the bank tomorrow and tell them to let you have it.”
“I’d just as soon you’d call them now.”
“Are you still afraid of my welshing?”
Gibbs looked at him carefully. “Yes.”
The insolence of his reply brought a swift anger to Ben and a moment later a kind of wry appreciation of Gibbs’s gall. Momentarily, he wished he knew more about the man—why he was here and how long he would stay. Sarah and the boys around town had told him only that Gibbs was Jimmy Russel’s pilot and had been shot down along with Jimmy.
He rose now and said amiably, “If I go on your note, it’s elementary common sense to ask you how you expect to pay me back.”
“Either you make a bet and keep it, or you don’t,” Gibbs said. “What’ll it be?” He got up too.
They eyed each other warily for a long moment and then Ben moved over to the phone by the table in front of the window. He called Harry Bogue’s house and instructed him to give Gibbs a certified check for ten thousand dollars tomorrow morning. He further instructed him to draw up a one hundred and twenty day note for that sum for Tully to sign. At Bogue’s murmur of protest, Ben slammed down the receiver, turned and said, “That satisfy you?”
Gibbs nodded, moved across the room to set his glass on the bar top and said, “Thanks very much.”
“You’re not going to see Sarah any more, you know,” Ben said easily.
“Want to make a bet on that, too?” Gibbs retorted.
Ben shook his head and smiled. “Nope, I just know it.” He moved out into the hall and let Gibbs out and neither said goodbye.
When Ben turned away from the door he saw Beth standing motionless on the stairs. He halted, and they looked at each other a silent moment.
“How much of that did you hear?”
“Almost all of it,” Beth said softly. She came down the stairs and turned into the living room. She was wearing a denim skirt and red checked blouse, and as she crossed the room she ran her hand through her dark unruly hair. It was a gesture of his mother’s, Ben remembered, and for a moment he felt fierce and overwhelming protectiveness for his sister.
Beth took a cigarette from a box on the coffee table, lighted it, and then stood with her back to the fire. She eyed Ben closely as he tramped across the room and slacked into one of the leather chairs facing the fire place. Her face, broad at the cheekbones, held a sort of resigned serenity at the moment. In repose and not animated as in conversation, it held an almost sad maturity. Now it was possible to believe that she was two years Ben’s senior and truly his older sister.
Ben said sullenly, “Go ahead.”
“All right. Who is he?”
“The guy that licked me last night.”
“I know that.”
“Then why’d you ask?”
Beth said tranquilly, “Because you loaned him money. On what collateral, may I ask, and why, since you must hate his liver and lights?”
Ben leaned back and crossed his legs. “Don’t play the heavy banker, sis.”
“It’s as much my money as yours.”
“You tried to prove that once and got tossed off the Board of Directors for a while, remember?”
Beth flushed and said nothing.
“What are you going to do about it?”
“The same as usual. Nothing.”
At her reply Ben smiled. “That’s right. And since you won’t I see no reason to go into it.”
Beth watched him a moment and then said dryly, “You’re a lovable cuss, little brother. Sometimes I wonder why you’ve been allowed to live as long as you have.” She spoke without passion or anger. It was as if their basic conflicts, vitiated by a thousand scenes, had become only a formality of calm name-calling. All the anger was long since washed out and it was routine.
“Thank you, my dear,” Ben murmured. He regarded her carefully now. “You aren’t getting any ideas, are you?”
“About what?”
“That Gibbs.”
Beth eyed Ben a long moment, and a faint humor crept into her dark eyes. “I’d love to hire you out for a toad.”
“Because if you are,” Ben said flatly, “get it out of your head. Remember Frank Nichols.”
“Oh, but Gibbs doesn’t work for you. You can’t fire him like you did Frank just for calling on me.” She paused, and unable to resist the impulse, she said, “You can’t even lick him.”
“I can see that he’s licked,” Ben said levelly.
Beth stared at him a long moment. “I believe you would. Only you have nothing to worry about. I’m too well trained to look at a man.” She continued with a certain grimness in her levity. “I haven’t thanked you for letting me out to go to the dance last night. I enjoyed talking with the ladies, and I didn’t speak to more than two men under sixty-five.”
“That’s two too many,” Ben said. “Next time, don’t.”
“Yes, master,” Beth said with a mock meekness that did not quite come off. “Let’s fight about something else.”
“I meant what I said,” Ben said flatly. “Don’t get any ideas about Gibbs. I’m already fighting him off my girl. Damned
if I want to fight him off my sister.”
Beth turned and threw her cigarette in the fire. “If you’re through with my Sunday scolding, I think I’ll go up and bathe.”
Ben moved toward the bar, wanting a drink. At that moment the doorbell jangled softly. Ben looked over at Beth and growled. “You’d think this damn house was a railroad station.”
Beth, who was closest, moved through the living room into the hall and opened the door. Sam Horne stood there, hat in hand, an almost sheepish smile on his face. “I believe we were interrupted in a conversation last night,” Sam said, then added grinning, “That’s a lousy way to say I’d like to see you again.”
For a moment Beth hesitated. She knew her smile was artificial, and that she was already afraid of what Ben would do. Then the recklessness of desperation came to her. “Then come in, Sam.”
She stepped aside, and Sam entered the hall, shucking off his coat and handing it and his hat to Beth. Beth put them on the hall-tree and fearfully led the way into the living room.
Ben, standing by the portable bar, a fresh drink in his hand, was glaring at Sam as Beth said, with only a small quaver in her voice, “Sam, you know my brother, Ben, of course.”
Sam nodded. Ben said nothing, only glared as Sam moved over to the big sofa in front of the fire.
“Like a drink?” Beth asked. She had not looked at Ben yet but she could almost feel the tension building up in the room. She knew what was coming, what always came when a man called on her.
“I don’t think it would cripple me. Bourbon, please, if you have it.”
Beth moved over to the bar which Ben was blocking. She said, “Excuse me, Ben,” and looked fleetingly into his face. The sullenness which was never entirely absent from Ben’s face was plain now. He took a grudging step aside, and Beth began to mix two drinks.
Sam said, conversationally, “What did Notre Dame do yesterday?”
“I don’t follow them,” Ben said curtly.
There was an awkward silence, during which the sound of Beth’s drink-mixing was the only thing that could be heard in the room.
Desperately now, Beth returned with Sam’s drink and handed it to him. Her hand was shaking so that the ice tinkled in the glass. Sam, noting it, grinned and observed, “You must have had a big night.”
Beth smiled shyly at him. “No. Ben brought me home early.”
“She’s always home early,” Ben said heavily. “I see to that.”
Sam glanced over at him. “You don’t approve of late hours?”
“No.”
“Except for yourself, you mean?”
“I don’t approve of late hours for Beth,” Ben said.
Sam gazed speculatively at Ben for a moment, and then shifted his glance to Beth. “I’ve always known your brother as a mining man, but never as a house mother,” he observed.
His jibe stirred Ben into movement, and Beth thought miserably, Please, Sam, be quiet.
Ben tramped over to stand beside Beth, his back to the fire. He said now, with total boorishness, “Why are you here, may I ask?”
Sam regarded him coldly. “I had the impression I was going to call on your sister.”
“She doesn’t like callers,” Ben said flatly.
Sam raised his eyebrows and said, “Oh?” and Beth caught the question in his eye as he looked at her.
“That’s not true, Ben!” she said warmly. And then, to cover up her brother’s rudeness she said, “You had too much to drink last night and you’re grouchy. Why don’t you go up and take a nap?”
“I’ll stay here.”
Beth knew she was defeated, and that something dismally unpleasant was going to happen. This was confirmed by the look of mockery in Sam Horne’s eyes. “Can you think of any pleasant three-cornered conversation?” Sam asked.
“No,” Ben said bluntly.
“Canasta, maybe,” Sam went on. “It’s cold outside and this whiskey’s good.”
Beth pounced on Sam’s suggestion. “That’s a good idea, Sam. I’ll get the card table.”
“No, you won’t,” Ben said flatly.
Beth had started to move. Now she halted obediently, and looked desperately at Sam.
“Maybe I could get it,” Sam said easily.
“You won’t get it either.”
Sam sighed and stood up.
“Well, they say every man’s home is his castle, and brother, you’ve certainly made a dungeon out of this one.”
Alarm came to Beth, and she said, “Sam, please don’t.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” Sam said. “The big lug will swing on me.” His glance shuttled to Ben. “I don’t think he will. Some prep-school master a long time ago told him that gentlemen don’t do that to guests in their home. He thinks he’s a gentleman.”
“Please, Sam!”
“Let him talk,” Ben said solemnly. “After he’s through, he can leave.”
Sam set his glass down on the end table. “With your permission I’ll just do that. Hodes, just what are your plans for Beth?”
Ben scowled. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean, she hasn’t any plans for herself. You must have some for her.”
“Are any plans necessary?”
“Not always, but they help. For instance, you could say that a good third of the guys in Sing Sing have no definite plans. Most people do though, for their families—even their sisters.”
Ben said sullenly, “That’s no concern of yours.”
“No, I’m very concerned about what’ll happen to a nice girl. You haven’t got to the stage of a chastity belt and hiding her shoes yet, but you’re warming up.”
Beth listened to this interchange with increasing despair. She could see that Sam Horne was angry and that his anger, oddly enough, was beginning to amuse Ben. Her brother’s total arrogance and total confidence went beyond swinishness. It was as if he knew that he could not help but win in the end, and that those pinpricks were not even bothersome.
Ben observed now, “You’ve got quite a lip for a Sunday afternoon caller.”
Beth saw that Sam was ignoring Ben now; he was looking at her with an open pity in his dark eyes.
“I’m sorry about this, Beth. You always seemed to me a pleasant, lonesome girl. I wish I could help.”
His glance shuttled to Ben. “May I say that in my time I have been a loving collector of SOB’s, but you, my friend, are a cabinet piece. It’s my fondest wish that Beth present you with an illegitimate nephew.”
To Beth he said, “I hope you understand. Goodbye.”
Belatedly, Beth followed him, but Sam left the room, snatched up his coat and hat and let himself out. When she saw she was too late, she halted, then turned and looked at Ben.
“I’ll never forgive you for that, Ben! Never!”
“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, I don’t want men hanging around you.”
“But what am I supposed to do!” Beth cried passionately. “Live out my life like a nun?”
“The men in this town are trash. You’re too good for them.”
“Then find me a good man!”
“He’ll come along.”
“How will I ever meet him? You’d insult him and order him out of the house!”
She came over to him now and halted before him. Her anger was dead, and all she felt was the naked need to tell Ben.
“Ben, please, please!” she begged. “Give me back my life! I can’t live like this. I’m not meant to! Nobody’s meant to! I’m an old maid. I’ve only been kissed once in my life. Is that what a woman’s supposed to be?”
“You’re getting hysterical. You’re attractive, and some day the right man will come along. Until then—”
“I know,” Beth said bitterly, “I mustn’t be friendly with any man who hasn’t gray hair.”
Suddenly she struck out at Ben. Effortlessly, Ben put out his hand, caught her wrist before her palm could touch his face and held it with a great gentleness.
Beth wrenched free and ran out of the room.
When Tully was finished shaving Monday morning, he was faced with a mild dilemma. Should he impress the commissioners as a solid mining engineer with big city backing by wearing his pin-stripe suit, or would they be less suspicious of him if he came before them in the careless clothes of a working miner? He chose the suit, dressed carefully, had a late, leisurely breakfast and was standing on the red sandstone steps of the Grant County Bank when it was opened at ten o’clock by a harried looking middle-aged man whose rimless glasses added to the normal chill of his gray eyes.
This was Mr. Harry Bogue, and his disapproval of Tully was massive. He let himself into his office and soon appeared behind the wicket with the cashier’s check. He proffered it and the note in silence and Tully accepted the check and signed the note in the same manner. They nodded coldly to each other, and then Tully stepped out, heading downstreet for the courthouse and the commissioners’ meeting.
The commissioners’ room was on the first floor, a high-ceilinged, spacious room holding a long table. The walls were lined with chairs, some of which were occupied by petitioners like himself. Three men sat at the big table in old-fashioned swivel chairs and Sarah, as the clerk’s deputy, was just finishing reading the minutes of the last meeting as Tully slipped into the chair nearest the door.
Sarah was wearing an orange wool dress—probably, Tully thought, out of protest against the dun-colored walls and the drab countrymen’s clothes of the commissioners. The wicker bottom of the chair creaked as Tully eased into it. Sarah looked up and for one astonished moment, beholding Tully in his business suit, she looked only surprised, then she smiled her greeting and returned to the reading of the minutes.
Tully had a chance to study the three commissioners and, remembering Sam Horne’s description of them, he identified the slight, wiry man in denim pants and jumper at the head of the table as Bill Wishnack, their chairman. Wishnack’s lean, weather-burned face contrasted sharply with the pale skin of his forehead and his almost bald head which was crossed from ear to ear by a thinning saddle of jet-black hair. He was bored and impatient and kept glancing at Tully with a covert suspicion, as if wondering why anyone would wear a suit unless he were attending a funeral.
