But maybe he could fight his way out. What if I could slip him something small, like the dagger? Then Gentleman Jack could give me the Sheriff’s dirty penny and the dagger couldn’t hurt him. Then he could take the Sheriff by surprise.
“It would be excellent to help Gentleman Jack!” said the dagger.
Into the office again, where the picture of Gentleman Jack stared from the wall. The artist had gotten his face just right: the square jaw, the lightish eyes, which you were supposed to call Green. The Judge had a coat with capes, and boots with silver stitching, but no one was as beautiful as Gentleman Jack.
The stagecoach driver was in the office, sitting in a chair, his long legs on the desk. He still wore his great white jacket with all the fringes, but now he had a star on his coat.
“He’s the Deputy Sheriff,” said the dagger.
They were all so tricky, the Judge and the Sheriff and the Deputy. The Deputy had taken off his star so I wouldn’t suspect anything when I stopped the stage. No wonder they’d captured Gentleman Jack, with a sheriff and a judge and a deputy sheriff. That was too many people to beat.
“The girl refuses to testify against Gentleman Jack,” said the Judge.
“Should we remind her?” said the Sheriff.
“About the Federal Marshal?” said the Deputy.
If I slipped the dagger to Gentleman Jack, he’d have to fight the Deputy Sheriff, as well as the Judge and the regular Sheriff. That was too many people to fight.
“About how he died in agony,” said the Sheriff.
“About how Gentleman Jack snuck up on him,” said the Deputy, “and didn’t give the Marshal a minute to draw his revolver.”
But Gentleman Jack hadn’t snuck—Gentleman Jack didn’t sneak! I was there—I’d seen it all. Gentleman Jack had been on horseback. I’d been beside him, on the pinto. And there’d come Marshal Starling, riding toward us.
“The men of the Territories never take unfair advantage,” said the Deputy. “Not even of an enemy.”
Gentleman Jack didn’t take unfair advantage. He’d even yelled at the Marshal. That was warning him. That was giving him a chance to draw his revolver. Gentleman Jack yelled that he had a lawful claim to the gold in the Heart.
“Gentleman Jack laid a trap for the Marshal,” said the Judge. “He never gave him a chance to draw his revolver. He shot him, then ran like a coward.”
But Gentleman Jack hadn’t run. He’d dismounted and picked through the Federal Marshal’s pockets. I didn’t exactly watch him, but I knew he was brave not to run away.
Lies, lies, all lies. Gentleman Jack had told me they’d lie about him. I’d never believe anything they said. Anyway, it was the Marshal who’d acted dishonorably. He’d driven Gentleman Jack from the Indigo Heart because he didn’t want Gentleman Jack to have any gold.
“You laid a trap for Gentleman Jack,” I said, “with the gold and the stagecoach.”
“But—” said the Deputy.
“Wait,” said the Judge. “The girl makes an excellent point. Let me explain how the two situations are different. We did lay a trap, but the success of the trap was predicated on—”
“Predicated?”
“Based on,” said the Judge. “Gentleman Jack had to do something illegal to fall into the trap. He had to try to hold up the stage. The same was not true of Marshal Starling. Marshal Starling did nothing illegal. In fact, he was upholding the law. He was responding to a report of a disturbance, but that disturbance was created by Gentleman Jack.”
I remembered the disturbance. Gentleman Jack had been shooting into the road until Marshal Starling rounded the corner.
“Also,” said the Judge, “Gentleman Jack shot him in the belly, which is particularly painful and deadly. If the shot doesn’t kill you, infection probably will.”
But Marshal Starling should have had his revolver drawn if there was a disturbance. I couldn’t say so, though. I couldn’t admit I’d been there.
There was nothing more to say. We stepped out from the worn-out leftovers of the Sheriff’s office into the clatter and roar of Main Street. And also into the smell of something rich and fatty and salty.
Peanuts! I thought, even though I didn’t know I knew the smell of peanuts. I expected we’d turn back the way we’d come, toward the cottage, and I was thinking, thinking about how to slip away from the Judge. But he surprised me by turning left, which was toward the Shrine, and also toward the Sapphire.
The gold dome of the Shrine shone over everything. It reminded me of what the Judge had said about how you couldn’t hide a city on a hill. A city on a hill was so different from a cave in a ravine. The Judge must have been thinking the same thing, for he said, “We like to have the Shrine where everyone can see it, and think of the Blue Rose, and worship her and crave a boon of her.”
Down the street came a whistling. I stopped and looked around. It was not an ordinary whistle. I heard—oh, I was sure I heard—
I tugged at the Judge’s coat.
“Yes?”
“Are there words in the whistle?” I said.
“You understand them!” said the Judge.
I almost understood them, and when the whistling repeated the words, I understood them perfectly.
“Peanuts, peanuts! Fresh, hot peanuts!”
“He’s selling peanuts,” I said.
“My stars!” The Judge looked at me for a long time. “Not many people understand the Whistling. And only Songbirds can speak it.”
“What’s the Whistling?” I said.
“It means being able to put words in your whistle, just as he’s doing,” said the Judge. “It’s useful in the mountains in order to reach other people across long distances. But the most special thing about it is that the Blue Rose can hear the Whistling, wherever she may be, so it’s the best way to thank her and praise her.”
The words from Grandmother’s task rhyme sprang into my head. I’d been remembering them a lot today and yesterday.
Fetch unto me the mountain’s gold,
To build our city fair.
Fetch unto me the wingless bird,
And I will make you my heir.
“He’s kind of like a wingless bird,” I said.
“Precisely!” said the Judge.
It was all so beautifully simple. Wingless birds were regular people, except that they could whistle with words. That’s why they had no wings.
But then I remembered what Gentleman Jack said about whistling. “It’s bad luck to whistle,” I said.
“We think it’s good luck,” said the Judge. “It’s considered a rare talent to be able to understand the Whistling.”
But it didn’t seem rare to me. You just heard the whistle and you understood the words.
“I have to see Gentleman Jack,” I said. I had to tell him I’d found a wingless bird. Or I could also call it a Songbird. Would Gentleman Jack like it better if I called it by both its names? Then Gentleman Jack would have one of the things Grandmother wanted. Then he’d be happy.
“You can see Gentleman Jack later,” said the Judge.
“Now,” I said.
“The snow is coming,” said the Judge. “After the snow.”
But I couldn’t wait until after the snow. I couldn’t wait to shine like a star.
The Judge paused at a shop. He pulled at the glass door. Gold letters flashed, the door opened. I looked at him. Didn’t we have to beat the snow?
“Mrs. del Salto has given me a commission,” said the Judge.
Commission?
“A commission is something you have to do for somebody,” said the dagger. “It’s a taming thing.”
Maybe I could separate myself from the Judge in the store. I could slip out while he wasn’t looking and run to the Sapphire and to Flora. Maybe she would help me get back to the hideout.
“But Gentleman Jack told me to go to the Sapphire,” I said. “Isn’t that a commission?”
“That was an order,” said the dagger. “Commissions a
re tame, orders are wild.”
The Judge was tame, I was wild. I would get back to the hideout. Rough Ricky would be there, and some of the others, and together we’d plan how to break Gentleman Jack out of jail. Then I’d come back with Rough Ricky and we’d steal the peanut man and make him be a Songbird for Grandmother.
I would go to the Sapphire. I would obey Gentleman Jack’s order. I would be wild.
I’D BEEN IN STORES BEFORE, but not one like this. Not where a little bell rang as you entered. Not one that was so warm and huge and quiet. You could hear the smallest sounds, shears snipping and nails clinking and paper crinkling.
It smelled of something sweet—
“Perfume,” said the dagger. “Taming.”
And of something spicy—
“Cinnamon,” said the dagger. “Wild.”
Everywhere you looked, there were things to buy, and all of them were bright. Even the ceiling was bright. It gleamed with pots and pans and lanterns. There were two kinds of lanterns. There were lanterns you could buy, and there were lanterns that belonged to the store. The store lanterns lit up the other lanterns so shoppers could see them and want to buy them.
There were tables of fabric in tumbles of designs. Flowers and checks and stripes. Who could have thought up all those patterns? Who could have thought up all those colors?
“No one thinks up colors,” said the dagger. “Colors just are.”
There was a whole wall of knives. They sat on brackets set into the wall. The knives were old friends, grinning and winking at me. There were cutting knives for meat, with jagged blades and strong tips. There were slashing knives with clean-edged blades.
“I have a clean-edged blade,” said the dagger.
“And a double-sided blade,” I said.
There were slicing knives with curved bellies; there were skinning knives with dull tips.
“I have a deadly tip,” said the dagger. “That’s why Gentleman Jack gave me to you.”
“You are just right for me,” I said.
The dagger’s tip was more fragile than the tip of a skinning knife, but it would slice into flesh with little force. That was better for a smaller person, like me, even though the tip was the weakest part of any knife. “Take care of the tip,” Gentleman Jack always said, “and the rest of the blade will follow.”
Knives were the only things I understood in this place. Knives and footsteps . . . footsteps coming up behind me. I was wild, so I could read a person’s footsteps. These footsteps belonged to a child about my age. A girl maybe. I turned around. Yes, a girl, taller than me but about the same age. Maybe ten, maybe eleven.
“You’re Gentleman Jack’s little girl?” The girl was as bright as everything else. Her dress was the color of poppies, with red-and-white polka-dot trimming.
“It’s rude to stare,” said the girl, “but you wouldn’t know because you’re a robber girl. You wouldn’t know these are my everyday clothes. They’re just flannel.”
I’d heard of flannel. You could sleep in flannel. It made you warm. The girl wore flannel because it was about to snow.
“I have lots of special clothes at home,” said the girl. “That’s because it’s my mama and papa’s store, which means it’s my store.” The girl had shiny yellow hair; it made spirals down to her shoulders.
She saw me staring and said, “I have ringlets. Ringlets are a kind of curl. You don’t know about ringlets.”
“I have ringlets.” I took off my hat and shook out my hair.
“Your hair is too messy for ringlets,” said the girl.
That was because I was wild.
“Mama is astonished Mrs. del Salto let you spend the night,” said the girl. “Mama said you’ve learned all Gentleman Jack’s tricks and that the del Saltos should thank the stars you didn’t set fire to their house while they slept.”
“Not while they slept,” I said.
“What do you mean?” said the girl.
“I’d burn them while they’re awake.”
I wanted to say that setting fires wasn’t one of Gentleman Jack’s tricks. It belonged to Rough Ricky. But the girl wasn’t listening. She beckoned me deeper into the store. “I’ll show you everything that’s best.” I didn’t follow her right away. Shouldn’t I be slipping off to the Sapphire? The Judge had a commission from Mrs. del Salto, but I had an order from Gentleman Jack.
“Not now!” said the dagger. “The Judge is watching.” The dagger saw everything I saw, but sometimes it noticed different things. That was useful.
I followed the girl past a case with a glass top and front, so you could look inside and see that everything was shiny. It was especially shiny because it was filled with opals, which glimmered with underwater colors.
“We call this our good-luck case,” said the girl.
I wondered how we could get one of the opals for Gentleman Jack.
“Stealing is always good,” said the dagger.
I followed the girl toward a wall of silver—no, not a wall, a mirror, and the girl and I were reflected in it. The girl was tall and strong-looking. I looked smaller than I’d thought. The girl had bright corkscrew curls. I had wild black robber hair. The girl’s face was pink and round and freckled. My face was—I couldn’t find a word for it. Gentleman Jack always said I didn’t know enough words. I could only think of descriptions that began with Not. My face was not freckled. It was not round. It was not pink.
We passed a table of boots, white and gray and black. I’d never seen such clean boots, all polished, with beautiful rows of buttons.
The girl paused and stuck out a foot. Her boots were white; the buttons shone like pearls. I knew about pearls because Gentleman Jack had shown me one. He said Grandmother had a whole necklace of pearls. He said when we lived with her, she would let me try it on. She would fasten it around my neck and show me how it looked in a mirror.
What if—what if I saw my mother while I was in Blue Roses? Would I recognize her? Would she recognize me? Probably not, because she hated me.
We passed a table piled with tools. The wooden handles gleamed; the metal bits were beautifully clean, with no pitting or rust. They were clean and dry and sharp, just the way Gentleman Jack had taught me to keep the dagger. They were even prettier than the buttons. Some of them lay in boxes made to fit them, like little houses. One of the hammers had a red handle.
“My name is Betsy Elton,” said the girl. “I know you don’t have a name, except for Robber Girl.” Betsy stopped at a fat, jolly barrel that came up to my chest and swelled out at the sides. She unhooked a silver scoop from the handle.
“Candy is one of the best things,” she said. “But you wouldn’t know about it. You don’t get candy when you live with thieves and murderers.”
“Gentleman Jack’s not a thief and murderer!” You don’t have to know a lot of words for your words to come out hot.
“He was going to steal the gold from the stagecoach,” said Betsy. “That’s being a thief.” She didn’t wait for me to answer. “I can have as much candy as I want.” She jiggled the scoop in front of me. “Look how pretty it is.”
I’d seen plenty of candy before, because of Gentleman Jack’s sweet tooth, but not like this. Not candy that came in all different colors, pink and yellow and green. One of the green candies had a flower buried below the surface. It was like looking through green water into a garden.
“You can pick a piece,” said Betsy. “Take it from the scoop.”
I looked at the green candy. I already knew how I’d eat it. I’d put it on my tongue and let it melt away. If I was slow and careful, I could melt away the surface, down to the flower.
My hand reached out. I saw my fingers take the candy. I saw the dirt beneath my nails. I held the candy in my palm.
“You’re supposed to eat it.” Betsy bit into her candy. It cracked between her teeth.
I didn’t know how anything worked. I didn’t know there could be a candy with a flower swimming beneath its surface. I didn’t
know candy came in a silver scoop.
“Just the color silver,” said the dagger.
“Don’t you know how to eat candy?” said Betsy.
But I didn’t want to eat mine the way she was eating hers, which was all crack and no melt. I wanted to melt the surface away, down to the flower.
Everyone was watching me not know how to eat candy. When you’re wild, you keep track of everyone and everything—people, animals, weapons. I knew about the three women who didn’t look at me. They pecked their heads toward one another like chickens, gobbling up their words. I knew about the men in tired-looking hats who didn’t look at me, and about the biggish girl on a stepladder, reaching to a high shelf. No one looked at me, but they all noticed me not eating the candy.
The Judge was still up front. I couldn’t leave.
“I can have as many pieces as I want,” said Betsy. Crack went her teeth. “Come on, I’ll show you more of the best things.”
I held the candy in the cup of my hand and followed Betsy around the barrels, past buckets and shovels, around a corner—
“Toys!” said Betsy.
Toys were everywhere. At least the candy had been in a scoop. At least I’d known where to look. But there were too many things here. I made my eyes look at one thing at a time. There were baskets heaped with pieces of wood. The wood was cut into different shapes, triangles and arches and blocks, painted in bright, clear colors.
“You build houses with them,” said Betsy.
But I didn’t need a house. I had Grandmother’s house. Grandmother’s house was made of yellow brick and it was big. It was bigger than the cottage. Big houses were the best.
I let my eyes look at other things. At a pole with a horse’s head on top, at another horse standing on curls of wood, like a sleigh. At a purple yo-yo. At balls of all different sizes. One ball was painted with yellow smiling suns. You could tell it was a ball for kicking.
The Robber Girl Page 7
