Jingo Django

by Sid Fleischman

  The leading citizen of Crooked Elbow joined us between the horses, and you never heard such whispering.

  “Wouldn’t you like to dislodge Mr. J. Cooter Williams from your hotel porch, sir?”

  “Indeed, I would,” answered Mr. Bodger. “But he’s too ornery to move on. Won’t do a lick of work, except to keep his boots polished. Racing’s his game.”

  “What would happen if we beat him in this contest, sir?”

  “He’d be laughed out of town. Couldn’t show his face.”

  “You’re a man of property here in Crooked Elbow. A reversal in fortunes this morning has reduced us to an acute embarrassment of funds. We can’t match Mr. William’s purse. I’m asking you to put up the necessary stakes for us.”

  Mr. Bodger began to scratch through his squirrel tail sideburns. “It’s a terrible temptation, sir. But you can’t beat his filly.”

  “There’s always a first time, Mr. Bodger, and if you’re any judge of character you can see that I’m not a fool.”

  There was a silence and then J. Cooter Williams called out impatiently. “We going to race horses or have a jawing match?”

  Mr. Bodger glanced at the porch and tightened down one eye. “Cooter, I reckon you’ve met your match. Sheriff, is my word good enough for you? I’m backing these plow horses, five hundred dollars guaranteed.”

  J. Cooter Williams whipped his hat to the ground and almost laughed himself out of his boots.

  “Mount your filly, Cooter,” said the sheriff. Then he turned to Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones. “Cooter has agreed to your conditions, sir, but I don’t recall hearing what they was. Do you mind repeating them? We want everything legal-like.”

  By that time I was so thirsty I was gazing longingly at the water in the horse trough. But Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones had firmly instructed me not to touch a drop of water.

  “As I am unable to engage in equestrian competition,” he said, “the boy here will substitute for me, riding my veteran racehorse, Sunflower. That’s the first condition. Now let me see, gentlemen. The second. I counted five saloons along this side of the street and six on the other. At the shot of a pistol each rider will race to the first saloon, dismount, rush in, have a drink, rush out, mount up, ride to the next saloon, dismount, rush in, have a drink, rush out, mount up, ride to the next saloon, dismount, rush in, have a drink, rush out, mount up and continue in this manner. The first one to make it back, without missing a single saloon — wins the race.”

  “Agreed!” J. Cooter Williams roared, and began barking again. “Agreed! Agreed, sir!”

  “The beverage will be milk.”

  The laugh strangled in J. Cooter Williams’ throat. He turned chalky white. “Milk!”

  “Certainly, sir,” said Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones. “I don’t intend to have the boy served hard liquor.”

  I was perishing with thirst. I won the race by three saloons.

  24

  THE MAN IN THE DARK

  The last time I saw Mrs. Daggatt and General Dirty-Face Jim Scurlock they came straggling into town, leading their horses and wagon. They scuttled along, red as lobsters.

  She was so hornet-stung and puffed up you could hardly see the eyes in her face. General Scurlock’s nose had blossomed out like a ripe tomato. I think they would have snarled at each other, but I calculated it hurt too much.

  “Howdy,” Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones said, tipping his straw hat to them. But they weren’t feeling exactly social toward us and when they learned there was no doctor in town they kept moving. As far as I know they didn’t stop until they reached Matamoros.

  I spent a good part of the afternoon on the hotel porch with my buckskin boots propped on the rail. Once or twice I thought about the quicksand sucking down the saddlebag treasure deeper and deeper. It was enough to make a parson cuss, but Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones had shrugged it off and I shrugged it off, too. I reckoned myself uncommon lucky. He had plucked me out of the orphan house and here we were more than two thousand miles away in Crooked Elbow, Texas.

  When I thought of my pa it was only to hope that he would lead us an everlasting chase. Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones and I would go on traveling the roads together. Maybe for years to come.

  I felt mortal sorry for him, though. I had a hornet sting on my neck and three on my arms. But he had to eat his supper standing up.

  I awoke in the night. Somewhere in my dreams I thought I heard the thump-thud-thump of a one-legged man approaching along the hall.

  Now that I was awake I still heard it.

  I sat up. The room was darker’n the inside of a wolf’s mouth and I sensed that I was alone. The thumping drew nearer. It stopped outside the room. I’m certain I stopped breathing. The door opened silently and I broke into a fierce sweat.

  The door closed and a man was standing in the room with me. I could hear him breathe and fancied I could almost see his black teeth.

  “Don’t come a step closer!” I said. “I know who you are. You’re my pa!”

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t move either. He just kept breathing in the dark.

  “You followed us from Matamoros, didn’t you?” I declared. “Well, don’t think you’re going to fetch me off with you!”

  I could feel his eyes peering at me through the blackness.

  “No, sir,” I rattled on. “I won’t go with you. I’m going with Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones. You may be my pa, but he’s my friend. And he’ll be enormous mad if he catches you, sir!”

  Not a sound from him.

  “Enormous mad! I’m warning you, sir. Get!”

  I could hear him shift his weight. He just let me talk and I was talking a blue streak. I couldn’t help myself.

  “You’re no match for him!” I declared stoutly. “No man is — no sir! You’ll do yourself a service by making a straight shirttail out of here. Why, he might walk in any second!”

  But he wouldn’t scare off. I could hear him rustling in his clothes. And then he struck a match.

  It wasn’t my pa. It was Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones.

  “I’m sorry I frightened you,” he muttered, and lit the lamp.

  He was carrying a heavy walking stick. I wiped the cold sweat from my face and gazed at him. His jaws were grimly set and his eyes avoided me.

  “Mr. Bodger decided to outfit me with this mesquite stick,” he said. “It’s noisier than necessary, isn’t it?”

  “You might have said something,” I answered. “I mistook you for my pa.”

  He turned slowly. He spoke in a voice so soft it barely carried. “I am your pa,” he said.

  I’m certain I didn’t blink for a full minute. I wanted to believe him, but I couldn’t.

  “My pa is a one-legged man,” I said.

  “No he isn’t.”

  “He’s a gypsy.”

  “No. I lived among gypsies. And I married a gypsy girl. Your mother was the most beautiful woman I ever painted. I tried for years to put her out of my mind, but I could paint her still.”

  The lamplight flickered about his face and cast a long, roving shadow across the walls. “After she died I wasn’t myself for months on end. I thought I didn’t want to be burdened with a child. I think now I wanted nothing about me to love, Django. Never again. Not even you. And I did a terrible thing. I told an old horse trader named Claudio to turn you over to the orphan house.”

  I gazed at him, but still his eyes avoided me.

  “You were five years old. I’m aware of how terrifying it was for you. Claudio’s stump leg froze itself in your mind. As the years went by you even blackened his teeth. I had discarded you. That was your way of discarding me.”

  I started to speak, but had to clear my throat. The few things I had always believed about my pa were false. The stories I had made up were closer to the truth. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I muttered finally. “All these months traveling the roads, and you didn’t tell me.”

  He stopped at the window and stood gazing into the darkness. “I was planning to wait
until we got back to Matamoros. I had to be certain the time was right. I knew I had lost any claim to your regard. I wanted an opportunity to gain it back.”

  I stared at him. “Is that why you took me traveling?”

  “Your scrimshaw map seemed the perfect excuse. We’d have a chance to get to know each other. If I were lucky, chavo, you might get to like me. You might even want to keep traveling the roads with me.”

  For the first time his eyes settled on me. But I turned away. He was my pa, and that changed everything.

  We stayed in Crooked Elbow another day. I kept to myself. I had to rethink all my thoughts. I had spent all the years I could remember thinking of my pa one way and I wasn’t certain I could ever think of him another. Mr. Bodger saw that something was bothering me and took it upon himself to cheer me up by talking about the weather.

  “Awful hot in these parts, wouldn’t you say, lad? But healthy. Awful healthy. Folks live forever around here. Why, we had to shoot a man to start a cemetery.”

  And then we left, heading back for Matamoros.

  “That horse race money is yours,” Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones said. “You’re about old enough to make your own way, if that’s what you want.”

  It must have been an hour before I replied. “What does a vardo cost?”

  “I don’t think there are any gypsy-style wagons to be had in Matamoros. It would have to be special-made and carved by an expert and painted by an artist.”

  “You’re an artiste extraordinaire.”

  “Indeed I am. It’s an idea.”

  “A splendid idea,” I said.

  “First rate,” he smiled.

  “First rate and a half,” I smiled.

  “By thunder, we’ll do it!” he laughed.

  “Indeed we will!” I laughed.

  “The fanciest, brightest gypsy wagon ever drawn by two racehorses!” my father roared.

  THE END

  If you’ve enjoyed this ebook, you may also wish to read the Boston Globe-Horn Book Award winning HUMBUG MOUNTAIN, also by Newbery Award-winner Sid Fleischman. The ebook is available from AudioGO.