Mr. American

by George MacDonald Fraser

  `Dear old Deadwood. Sure has changed, though, hasn't it, Harry? How often we been in that old bank of theirs? Hell, you'd think they'd know by now to leave the door wide open. Wouldn't you, Harry?'

  `Yeah. Remember how it used to be in the old days, Butch? Pinkerton men cat footing around with their shotguns, peeking at all the little old ladies, in case it was you and me in poke bonnets?'

  `Sure, Harry. They say there's a new Pinkerton man come out of Denver a couple of months ago. Name of Siringo. Comes from Texas, wears two guns, tied down, butts forward. Tod Carver reckons he's just about the fastest man around, this Siringo. You hear of him, Kid?'

  `I beard of him. And I know how much I value Tod Carver's opinion - he reckons anything with a Texas accent and two guns is a mixture of Curly Bill and Wyatt Earp. I'll take care of Mister Goddam Siringo.'

  `You'll take care of him when he tries to take care of us. Not before. We don't go looking for trouble.'

  `What do we go looking for, Cassidy? What say we go down and look at that goddam bank, huh? And never mind chewing the rag about some dandy Pinkerton gunslick while our asses freeze off with sitting here all night! What d'you say, Sundance?'

  'I say always look out for anybody that wears his gun-butts turned forward. That's the old-timers' way, so they could spin their pieces out on one finger, real quick. Hickok used to do that, so they say. I guess this fellow Siringo must be real good.' A pause. `They say he packs a derringer in his hat, too.'

  `He can pack his goddam pecker in his hat for all I care. Pinkerton men! We seen 'em before, haven't we? What's so great about this one? You tell me that, Butch.'

  `This one's smart, Kid. He uses his brains, and he ain't just a gun-slinger; he's a detective, a real one. They say McParland picked him special, to track us down and find out all about our plans, figure out just exactly what we'd do next, keep his ear on the ground.'

  `Oh, that's just bully! And what are our plans, Butch? To sit up here belly-aching until that goddam bank falls down with old age?'

  `Take your time, Kid. I want someone to go down and look that bank over before we move in. Where's the new chum, Charley Carter? You there, Charley? Now I want you to slide down there, Charley, and take a good look, understand? Take a real good look - we've got all night. You take in that bank real close - then come on back. Off you go now, Charley; easy does it.'

  The stealthy scuffling as Carter stole down the slope in the starlight, his shadow dwindling into those other shadows beneath them; the silence as they waited, Cassidy watchful, Longbaugh whistling softly through his teeth, Curry squirming with impatience.

  `For Chrissakes, Butch, why send him down? We know where the goddam bank is! Hell's bells, we ought to!'

  `Sure, Kid. You know, I reckon it's true what Sundance says about wearing the butts forward - gives this tricky quick draw, or you can grab 'em by reaching across your body. They say old English Ben Thompson used to do that. I tried it myself a few times, but I kept dropping the goddam gun. That Siringo must be a likely enough fellow; I'd rather not tangle with him.'

  'Ah, Siringo! Who the hell cares about him! Just let him come within shot of me, that's all! Just let him!'

  `You reckon, Kid? Say, now, why don't you just go on up the hill, see the horses are OK? We'll follow after; I reckon it's time we were riding out.'

  `Riding out? You gone crazy? What are you talking about - riding out? What about the goddam bank?'

  'Oh, we're going to find us a bank, Kid, but not the one in Deadwood. There's a real pretty bank over in Winnemucca, Nevada. I thought we might try that.'

  'Nevada? What the hell's the matter with you, Cassidy? Haven't we been planning this Deadwood job for weeks, every - ing last detail, and the thing's sitting there, down the hill, waiting to be busted? You hear this crazy bastard, Mark? What the hell d'you mean by it, Cassidy?'

  'I mean we're going to Winnemucca. Take that bank instead. The hell with Deadwood. I'm tired just looking at it.'

  `Why, you loco son-of-a-bitch! What did we ride all this way from Powder Springs for? Hey, Butch, come back here! Listen - what about Charley Carter down there? We gotta wait for him.'

  `Oh, never mind him, Kid. You ready, Mark? Sundance? Come on, let's high-tail it out of here!'

  'Goddam you, Cassidy! Wherever we're going, how the hell is Carter gonna catch us up, if he don't know where we're headed?'

  'I don't want him catching us up. Not never.'

  'Why the hell not? You are goddam crazy! He's a good man!'

  'Bet your life he is. But it just happens his name ain't Carter. It's Siringo.

  Now will you get up that goddam hill, Kid?'

  '. but the genius of Hirst is that every ball looks the same - wrist action, delivery, flight, absolutely identical. Only they're not - nine or ten, perhaps, and then the eleventh comes through that fraction faster, or pitches that inch shorter - and you're gone. Medium-pace bowling raised to the realm of fine art. Mark, I don't believe you understand a word we're saying!'

  Laughter round the table brought him back from the starlit slope, from the chill Dakota dark to the warm dining-room, from the shadowy figures hurrying and blaspheming through the brush to the flushed smiling faces of his friends. He smiled and made his apologies, and Colonel Dammit clapped his shoulder as they rose from the table.

  'We should apologise- talking religion with no thought for the stranger within our gates. But you won't be properly acclimatised, you know, till you know what a yorker is. Why not let me take you to the Gentlemen and Players match this summer - start your education properly?'

  'It's a deal,' said Mr Franklin, 'if you'll come with me to watch the White Sox play the Giants. It's time you assimilated some colonial culture, too, you know.' But the choleric sportsman refused to believe there were any such teams.

  And afterwards, when the others had gone, and Mr Franklin and Sir Charles were sharing a last nightcap before the fire, the American remarked idly on the train of thought that had been in his mind after dinner. 'They're good men, those. I was thinking, through there - comparing them with a bunch of fellows I used to know out West. Very different - and yet very like, too, in some ways. Good friends to have, I guess; good neighbours.'

  'They don't come much better,' said Sir Charles comfortably. 'I must say, it's pleased me to see how you've settled in among them, Mark; quite a compliment - to you and to them. Yes, they're good neighbours.' He stared into the fire and added casually: 'Which reminds me - ever see Lacy these days?'

  Mr Franklin was mildly startled. 'Frank Lacy? No - at least, never to talk to. If we happen to catch sight of each other in Thetford High Street we keep right on going. Why?'

  Sir Charles was silent for a moment. 'It's a pity,' he said at last. 'Oh, not that I blame you. He behaved quite scandalously over that tenant of yours ... Mrs Reeve, wasn't it? Nasty business, that.' He pondered. 'Still, it's a while ago now. I was just thinking, at dinner - you get on so well with everyone hereabout; they accept you absolutely as one of themselves ... it seems a pity you and Lacy are still at odds. Well, it's better to have friends than enemies next door, isn't it?'

  'Lacy's friendship,' said Mr Franklin, 'would be no great bargain from where I'm sitting.'

  'He's not the most likeable of creatures,' Sir Charles admitted, 'or the neighbour one would choose. Still, there he is, and you're going to have to live with him for many years, I hope. It might be no bad thing ... if you buried the hatchet.'

  'In my skull, if he had his way.' Mr Franklin glanced curiously at the baronet. 'Sounds as though you've changed your mind about him.'

  'Not at all. I showed him the door four years ago, and in the same circumstances I'd show it him again. But - I tell myself that it's water under the bridge, and my reason for keeping him at arm's length disappeared when you married Peggy - '

  'He did his best to queer that, too,' said Mr Franklin, recalling his eavesdropping in the passage that Christmas Day.

  '- but I'm really thinking of your own inte
rests, Mark. After all, like him or not, Lacy's a big man in the county. To put it at its lowest, it might do our business here no harm - some day - to be on good relations . . . you know what I mean?'

  'It's a beautiful thought,' said Mr Franklin without enthusiasm. 'But somehow I don't see him ever forgetting the shellacking I gave him that night the King was here - or my crossing him over Lye Cottage.'

  'That's exactly what I meant,' said Sir Charles. 'Lye Cottage. Why not sell it to him, Mark?'

  Mr Franklin had been lounging back comfortably; his head came up sharply.

  'How's that?'

  'Sell him the cottage. Is there any reason why you shouldn't - now?

  The old woman's dead, and the place has been standing empty. You don't need it - do you? It would be a splendid gesture.' 'Has he asked you about this?'

  'Not directly, no. But Blake has dropped hints about it; apparently they have a scheme to build model farm cottages down the Lye side, for estate workers - an admirable thing, by the sound of it, and would certainly benefit the village. And say this for Lacy, he's done wonders in farming development, and seems to be heart-set on this scheme. But even that's probably not his main reason.'

  'What is it, then?'

  'Pride, Mark. It's something you've denied him. He's locked horns with you - and lost. If you've a nature like his - '

  'Being a spoiled, arrogant pup, you mean?'

  'No doubt. But if you're Lacy, a thing like Lye Cottage can become an obsession - especially when the man who's got it is the man who knocked you down and stole your girl - which is how he regards you.

  But ... well, I know Frank, warts and all; he's an odd bird. A few coals of fire might well alter his whole attitude to you - and much more important, you'd have done the decent thing, and everyone would know it, and think the better of you. And that matters - in the county, among the sort of men who were here tonight. You gain credit by it - face.'

  There was a silence while Mr Franklin contemplated the ceiling. Then he smiled at Sir Charles, shaking his head.

  'You're a persuasive advocate, father-in-law. But the fact is - and we both know it - that Lacy's the kind of skunk who doesn't deserve favours, so why should I go out of my way to do him one?'

  'Not for his sake, I agree absolutely. But I was thinking of your own, really. Your own eventual peace of mind, perhaps. Your children, possibly - his, if he has any. It isn't good to carry a feud.'

  'You'd be surprised how lightly I've carried this one,' said Mr Franklin. He mused for a moment. 'I don't know. It goes against the grain ... But you really think I ought to sell?'

  'Yes. I've no doubt of it.'

  'Well,' said Mr Franklin, 'I'll tell you what I'll do. I don't want Lye Cottage, personally, and while I haven't got five cents' worth of use for Lacy, I don't mind all that much if he gets it. But I do mind about Castle Lancing. His model cottages sound fine, and if his plans will help the village then I'm for them, every time. But I want to satisfy myself on that score, first. If they look good . . .' he shrugged and gave his father-in-law a resigned smile '... then fine. He can have Lye Cottage. Is that fair?'

  Sir Charles, knowing his man, was well satisfied; if he had known precisely what was in Mr Franklin's mind he might have been less so. For the American was sincere in his determination that the general good of Castle Lancing should be decisive, and it was in his mind that the best way of testing that would be to canvass opinion in the village itself - a notion which would have struck Sir Charles as setting a dangerously communistic precedent. In the event, Mr Franklin did not make general soundings; a casual mention of the possible sale, to old Jake and Jack Prior over a pint in the Apple Tree, was enough to convince him that the exercise would be neither rewarding nor, by local standards, even fitting. Jake contemplated his beer with the air of Asquith pondering the Home Rule bill, and observed that that there Lye Cottage thing was a thing, right enough; yeah, it was a thing, all right. Prior simply nodded and said nothing.

  Slightly puzzled, and vaguely irritated, Mr Franklin loafed up to Thornhill's place to seek advice; here at least it was uncompromising.

  'I wouldn't give that swine Lacy the time of day,' said the don. 'The brute's a total outsider-the type who gave the Middle Ages a bad name. Can't you just see him roasting witches and hanging peasants and ravishing milkmaids? Have some beer. However, I wouldn't let that stop me from selling him something he wanted - and seeing he paid through the nose for it. Trouble with you is you're an altruist, which is a rare bird in this country. Last one was Sir Thomas More - although I'm by no means sure he wasn't an ecstatic old hypocrite underneath. That by the way ... no, I can't see it would do anything but good to have model dwellings down that side of the village; old world charm's all very well, but it doesn't hold a candle to decent drainage.'

  'The villagers didn't seem to mind much,' said Mr Franklin, and recounted his experience at the Apple Tree. Thornhill stared at him.

  'By George, I always knew you were eccentric. What did you expect 'em to say? "Well, now, we'll have to think about that - can't have you disposing of your personal property just as you see fit. What did you think it had to do with them?'

  'Well, it's their village - '

  'Is it? I understood that it was owned by the Dean and Chapter, and Lord Lacy, and Franklin, and Thornhill - they're the chaps with title deeds. Everyone else just rents. Of course they weren't going to offer an opinion on a private transaction between you and Lacy. I daresay it looks different to American eyes - your history has given you this sense of common good based on democratic decision. Absolutely necessary for survival on a dangerous frontier. But the communal sense here, while just as strong, is rather different; it's based on individual - and I mean individual - right within the law, and minding one's own business. A man's private acts - so long as they're legal - are simply nobody else's concern. He can offend the community as much as he likes, provided he stays within the law. Mind you,' added Thornhill, 'someone will pretty soon get a law passed, prohibiting him, but that's beside the point. It's all a question of privacy, really. More beer?'

  'They surprised me,' admitted Mr Franklin. 'I thought they'd be interested.'

  'Oh, they're interested, all right. But that doesn't mean they feel qualified to judge your affairs, any more than they'd think you qualified to judge theirs. Try telling Jake how to dig a grave sometime. Mind you, he might be prepared to consider what you said - but he wouldn't pay the slightest heed to me.'

  'How d'you mean?'

  'My dear chap, you're the squire! Don't you see? Dear me, no wonder they stood in stony silence at the pub.' Thornhill drank his beer meditatively. 'Anyway, don't go asking the women at Laker's shop what they think, or we'll have a bloody revolution. They think you're cranky enough as it is.'

  Mr Franklin decided there were things about England he had still to learn, but at least he was satisfied that if he sold Lye Cottage to Lord Lacy it was unlikely that the villagers of Castle Lancing would burn him in effigy on the village green. So he gave his final agreement to Sir Charles, and a couple of days later Major Blake's smart Lanchester rolled up the drive at Castle Lancing, to decant the agent of Gower Estate, who came bearing the necessary documents and an air of genial satisfaction. Of the painful scene in his office four years earlier not a word was said; the Major was all brisk good nature and business, accepting Mr Franklin's offer of whisky and soda, expressing gratifying professional interest in the charro saddle in the hall-very different from the camel saddles of his own days in the Sudan - and commending in glowing terms the progress of the Oxton Hall stud, which he had been shown by Sir Charles.

  Mr Franklin returned the compliment by expressing polite interest in Gower Estate's plans for Castle Lancing. There were to be between a dozen and twenty model homes, the Major told him; work would begin in late spring or early summer, and those villagers employed by the estate might expect to be into their new homes by the year end. His lordship, who was abroad at the moment, would be gratified beyo
nd measure when he learned how unexpectedly his hopes had been realised; the Major would be writing to inform him at once. On this cordial note Major Blake handed over a cheque for £200, and took his leave, his motor-horn honking as he rolled down the drive. To Mr Franklin it sounded almost like a note of triumph, and he chided himself for being unduly sensitive.

  Shortly thereafter, on the eve of his return to London, he received a letter from Peggy, announcing that she was extending her Swiss holiday for another fortnight. It was a gossippy, affectionate letter, and while he was disappointed that she was not coming home, it cheered him to read her happily malicious witticisms at the expense of her fellow-guests - this, he decided, was the ideal way of keeping in touch with the social scene. She had skied, skated, ski-jored, and gone down the Sanloup bob-sleigh run at Les Avants - which Arthur, the great show-off, says is just baby stuff, and not to be compared with the Cresta! Brothers are the limit!! The big stiff has gone back now to Ireland. Oh, your old admirer Poppy Davenport has sprained her ankle skiing, and sits on the terrace all day whimpering at me and devouring chocs. Personally I think the skis broke under her weight ...'