A Pair of Aces

  "I ain't going to kill nobody unless they mess with me. Get on out of here and leave me alone, or I'm going to blow a hole in your black face. Hear?"

  Albert held Billy Bob's gaze for a moment. "Have it your way, nephew," he said, and went away.

  A look came over Billy Bob's face like I'd never seen before. It was sort of anger and sort of confusion. He went after Albert, and I followed on his heels, and the crowd followed out onto the boardwalk.

  Billy Bob rushed out in the street, took hold of Albert's shoulder, and tried to spin him, but it was like trying to spin a tree. Billy Bob had to step around in front of Albert to stop him.

  I was off the boardwalk now, out in the rain, easing toward them, Skinny tagging at my heels, and I was close enough to hear Billy Bob say, in an almost whining voice, "You're embarrassing me, Albert."

  "I'm tired of this game," Albert said. "I could do worse."

  Billy Bob shook, and I don't think it was from the cold. He stepped out of Albert's way and said loudly, "And remember that, nigger. Go on back to the wagon. I'll be there dreck'ly to give you a beating."

  Albert wasn't paying him any mind. He'd started walking again.

  Billy Bob straightened his shoulders and walked back to the saloon, pushing me with his shoulder as he passed. I heard him say something to the crowd on the boardwalk about uppity burr heads, then I was running after Albert, Skinny running after me.

  I caught up with Albert and grabbed his arm. "What in hell was that nephew stuff about? He could have killed you. He's crazy, Albert. Can't you get it through your head. Crazy!"

  "Don't start on me too. Take your hand off.

  I let go and followed after him. "Albert, listen—"

  "Don't never call me nephew again," I heard Billy Bob say.

  Albert stopped walking.

  I turned to look, fearing to see Billy Bob standing there with his hands hanging over his gun butts. But the street was empty. The crowd had gone back inside the saloon. There was just Skinny standing there pointing his fingers at us.

  "Damn mockingbird," I said, snatching my cap off my head and slapping at Skinny with it. "You scared me half to death."

  Skinny fell down on his knees in the mud, started crying, and covered his head with his hands against my cap beating.

  "He didn't mean no harm," Albert said, grabbing my arm. "Leave him be." Albert took Skinny's elbow and helped him up.

  "I'm sorry, Skinny," I said. "I didn't mean nothing." I put my cap on his head and patted him on the shoulder. He seemed comforted, like an old dog you say some easy words to after you've lost your temper and yelled at it.

  Albert put his arms around both of us. "Come on, boys, let's go back to the wagon. Leave the town to those fools."

  CHAPTER 7

  We hadn't been back at the wagon for more than an hour, I reckon, just in some dry clothes, when there came a hammering on the door and I took my hands from over the top of the lantern-where I was warming them, and opened it.

  It was Billy Bob. His hat had washed down over his face, and there in the glow of the lantern he looked like a crazy man. He smelled like a drunk. Which is what he was. He shot out a hand, grabbed me by the shirtfront, and tugged me out of the wagon into the mud and rain.

  "And you nigger," Billy Bob yelled, "come out of there. And what's that idiot doing in here? Ain't them my clothes?"

  "Only dry ones that would fit him," Albert said. "Mine are too big, Buster's too small."

  I got up out of the mud, raked some of it off.

  Billy Bob hadn't bothered to turn and look at me, and I'll tell you, the back of his head looked real inviting. I wanted to pick something up and brain him with it. But I didn't. I was scared.

  "I don't care whose clothes are too big, and whose are too small," Billy Bob said. "You got no call to put my clothes on him. "

  Skinny was wearing one of Billy Bob's old, fringed outfits and some thick, wool socks. He was a hell of a sight. A sort of fool's version of Billy Bob, provided you could actually get more foolish than Billy Bob.

  "Come out," Billy Bob raved. "And bring that simple head with you. I'm going to give him a thrashing."

  Skinny's eyes darted ever which way. He was used to being in trouble for things he didn't understand, and he was used to looking for a way out. With the wagon wall back up in place there wasn't but one way to go, and that was out that door, right into Billy Bob's arms.

  "Tell you what," Albert said easing toward the door. "You give me that thrashing, nephew."

  "Don't call me that," Billy Bob said.

  "That's what you come here for, ain't it? Ain't that what you told them? That you was going to come back here and give your nigger a thrashing?"

  Albert stepped out into the rain, closed the door behind him.

  Billy Bob stepped back. He said something, but I didn't catch it because thunder rumbled real loud. Whatever it was, you can bet it was a mouthful of sin.

  "Thrash me," Albert said, and he took a step forward. "Get your nigger in line. Thrash me."

  Billy Bob stepped back. "You forgot whose wagon this is?" Billy Bob said.

  "I ain't never forgot whose wagon this is," Albert said.

  "You got no call to come over to the saloon like that, talk that way in front of my friends."

  "Friends? You call that mess friends? You just a circus passing through to them, nephew."

  "Don't call me that no more, don't never call me that no more, never, never, hear? It ain't right for a nigger to … Don't do it, you hear?"

  Albert stepped right up to him. "I hear, nephew."

  Billy Bob went for his pistols, and even drunk he was fast. But it didn't do him no good. When Albert had stepped close, he put his hands just above Billy Bob's pistol butts, and Billy Bob's hands pushed Albert's down on the guns.

  Albert drew the pistols out of Billy Bob's sash, stepped back and held them loosely. "Darky trick," he said. Albert put one of the pistols under his arm and began unloading the other, letting the shells drop in the mud. "Now don't do that, Albert," Billy Bob said. "That ain't right."

  Albert began unloading the other pistol. He stepped over to Rot Toe's cage, threw back the tarp, and tossed both pistols between the bars. Rot Toe waddled over, picked one of them up, and smelled of it.

  "You . . . you tell your grandpa to hand those out," Billy Bob said.

  Albert stepped toward Billy Bob quickly, and Billy Bob swung.

  Albert didn't even try to block or duck. Billy Bob's fist caught him on the side of the head, but Albert's head barely moved. Albert grabbed Billy Bob by the shirt collar with one huge hand, used the other to slap Billy Bob. He did that three or four times, real quick, then he shoved Billy Bob into the mud.

  Before Billy Bob could scramble up, Albert had him by the back of the collar and the seat of the pants, and he lifted and drove Billy Bob's head into the mud a few times, sucking the hat off his head, filling his mouth and eyes with muck.

  Rot Toe was hopping up and down in his cage, chattering wildly, banging one of the pistols against the bar. He was like a drunk at a girlie show.

  Now Albert had Billy Bob upright again, and had gone back to slapping. Every time he'd slap, mud would fly out of Billy Bob's hair and his knees would droop. When Albert got tired, he just let Billy Bob fall back on his butt in the mud.

  About that time, Skinny opened the door of the Magic Wagon and looked out. He saw Billy Bob sitting in the mud, the rain washing streams of the same out of his hair and down onto his face. Skinny let out with a strange laugh. It sounded a lot like a cow bawling. He jerked both fingers at Billy Bob, said, "Bang."

  Shivering more from anger than the cold rain, Billy Bob stood up. He looked first at Albert, then Skinny, then me, and when he did I felt weak. There was pure murder in his eyes.

  He picked up his muddy hat and shook the mud off of it and put it on. He pointed a finger at Albert. When he spoke he sounded almost winded, but it was just plain mad, is what it was. "You make that monkey hand over
my pistols now. You hear?"

  "You make him," Albert said.

  Billy Bob took a deep breath, cut Albert to pieces with a look, and went over to the cage. "You give me those," he said to Rot Toe, and he shot a hand out and grabbed at the one Rot Toe was holding.

  Rot Toe grabbed Billy Bob's wrist, jerked him forward until Billy Bob slammed against the bars. Using the pistol in his other hand, Rot Toe reached through the bars and slammed the butt against Billy Bob's noggin. It was such a hard lick it creased Billy Bob's hat to his skull and sent him dropping to his knees. Had Rot Toe not been holding him by the wrist he'd have fallen over. Rot Toe reached through the bars and whacked Billy Bob a couple more times with the pistol, and was just really starting to enjoy himself when Albert said, "Let him go, old man."

  Rot Toe looked at Albert. For a moment, I didn't think he was going to do it, but he let go. He waddled back to the center of the cage and sat down, huffed up like a kid that's had a toy taken from him.

  Albert went over and pulled the tarp down on the cage. He pulled Billy Bob up and pushed him back against it. He slapped Billy Bob on the face lightly a few times. One of Billy Bob's eyes opened, then the other. Albert let go and stepped back. Billy Bob managed not to fall down. He shook his head, took some long breaths, and staggered away from the cage toward the street. "You'll pay. All of you," he said. "You can't do this to the son of Wild Bill Hickok."

  He stepped into the street and squished across the mud and over into the woods. We heard him crashing around out there for a while, then Albert said, "Let's go inside," and we did.

  If my suit wasn't ruined, it was darn close. Except for Skinny, who was still high and dry, we were soaked to the bone. Albert and I took off our clothes and strung them on a line across the wagon, then we wrapped ourselves in blankets and sat on the stoop. I didn't feel so good. I had a slight fever and sniffles.

  When we were as warm as we could get, Albert said, "Little Buster, I think it's time I told you some things so you'll understand. I'd like you to just sit quiet until I'm finished."

  "When I was a boy, Little Buster, I was the son of an ex-slave during the worst time you can imagine, next to slave days themselves. It was called Reconstruction, and I know you've heard of it. We coloreds was supposed to be freemen that could work for our living, just like whites, but wasn't too many folks would hire us, not for any kind of work. Most of them had gotten used to getting it from us for free, and wasn't in the mood to start paying for it. Part of it was the Yankee government. They was telling folks they was supposed to hire us 'cause the Yankee president said so, and people didn't cotton to that much.

  "Lot of whites blamed us coloreds for-their misery, 'cause of the way the Yankees was pushing on them. And to tell it true, Little Buster, them Yankees hurt us all in the long run 'cause they turned their winning into such a mean thing.

  "Well now, I heard tell that the Army was hiring coloreds, and I heard too that they paid and you got to wear a pretty uniform. I heard they treated you near good as whites, and that some coloreds had even made sergeant, which was as far as they'd let a dark man go. Sounded like the life to me. I went out West and joined the Cavalry, was out there for years.

  "I'll tell you, Little Buster, the Army wasn't no paradise, fighting Indians and all. And we coloreds fought more Indians than damn near anybody, but you don't hear tell of that. Or if you do, you just hear it was the Army done it, and they don't mention it was a colored troop what was the ones doing all the shindigging.

  "Still, being a man in the Army was a whole sight better than being a nigger out of it, and sometimes I figure I should have stayed there. But I didn't. I quit and joined up with a fellow named Doc Madonna, and Madonna was a fine man. Didn't see no colors at all. He just saw a man. He made me a partner after a time, and we traveled the country selling medicine, not claiming it could do more than it could do, and we did some juggling and such. Wasn't bad at all.

  "But Doc died and the wagon was left to me. For a while I done what we'd been doing, but it just wasn't the same without him. I got tired of it and went back to East Texas, looked up my family.

  "When I got there I found that my daddy had died some time back, and wasn't long after my mama had taken up with a white man on account of she needed the money he paid her, and this white man gave her a child, and that child was thirteen when I come home. Her name was Jasmine. She was what you call a. high yeller. Pretty thing.

  "Well, I figure Mama done the best she could and all, having all them mouths to feed, so I didn't judge her none. And besides, that white man was long gone and all the kids except Jasmine had grown enough to go off on their own, get a little farm work and such, start their own poor families.

  "I got me some work fixing things here and there, working some in the blacksmith shop. Little farm work from time to time. Anything to turn a dollar.

  "Well now, to make a long story short, Little Buster, Mama died three years later, and Jasmine, she got in with this white boy and she got with child. That white boy got tired of her real quick-like, and he didn't come around no more. She didn't never tell me who he was, and it was a good thing, or maybe I'd have had to turn his head around on his shoulders some, and that wouldn't have done me or nobody no good.

  "This baby was born, and him being the son of a white man and a high yeller, he come out looking white as you. Only thing he had that was like the family was the little red star birthmark low on his back. Jasmine had it. I have it, though you can't see it as good on me 'cause of me being a colored. But on her and on this boy it showed up good.

  "Now there didn't seem a thing for her to do but to put this child on a white's doorstep. For Jasmine to have a white baby would have meant she and that child would have been treated worse than slaves, but she figured she could pass him for white and get him in with a good family and all, and he'd grow up having a chance. She picked this family, the Daniels, 'cause they had money and seemed like pretty good folks. She left the baby on the doorstep, and sure enough they took him in and they raised him white, as they didn't know that he wasn't.

  'This boy they named Billy Bob and he grew up not wanting a thing. He had coloreds at his feet cleaning the floors, dusting the house, and he never knowed he was one of them.

  "Jasmine got her a job working for the Daniels as a maid, and that way she got so she could keep an eye on him. And it didn't make her happy. He treated her and all the coloreds like dirt, 'cause the Daniels may have been good in their way, but they figured a nigger was just some kind of animal that you could teach to clean furniture, and wasn't good for much else, and Billy Bob, he was just like them.

  "There was this buggy accident, and the Daniels, the ones that had become Billy Bob's mama and daddy, was killed in it, and when that happened, the children started scrambling to get the inheritance. Billy Bob being just a took in child, and there not being no will, didn't end up with nothing but his name. They put him out of the house and on his own.

  "Jasmine should have just let it end there, let him go on and live as a white man, but I figure it was eating her inside, being his mama but not getting to tell him. And maybe she thought if he knowed he'd come from black folks well as white, he'd straighten some, not be so hateful toward coloreds, grow up to be a better man.

  "Well, she told him. Proved it with that red star on her back, and he went darn-near crazy, knocked her down and run off. Jasmine come and got me and I went to get him, had about half a mind to beat him to death, but I found him drunk in a ditch and took him home to Jasmine.

  "He wasn't no count even sober, and took to cussing his mama, saying it wasn't so, that he wasn't no nigger, and I don't have to tell you how bad it distressed her, Little Buster. But he was still her boy and she loved him. I reckon I felt for him too. He was my nephew and he didn't ask to be part white and part colored, but I couldn't help but think that boy just had him a bad streak, and knowing what he knew now was just making it wider, "He didn't go into town no more, he was so ashamed, though there wasn't
nobody knowed the truth but him and us. Still, it gnawed at him. He'd eat at the house, cut a little firewood, but most of the time he just stayed wandered off in the woods.

  "Wasn't long before Jasmine took the chest cold bad, and I think some of the reason she was so sick was worry over that boy. Well, she up and died. But before she did, she made me promise I'd take care of that boy, see to it that he got some kind of trade and such. He could already read, write, and cipher, so she thought if I could just get him on the right road, he'd grow up and be a good boy. Mama talk, you know?

  "I buried her the same day I made the promise, 'cause she didn't last long after I'd give her my word, and Billy Bob, he didn't even come watch the burying. He couldn't get out of his head that she was the same woman who'd cleaned his messes in the. Daniels house, and a part of him—the biggest part—seen her as nothing more than a nigger.

  "Like I said, he was my nephew and I made a promise to Jasmine, and I guess I figured there had to be some good in him, being partly of her blood, so I took to caring for him.

  "That old wagon I'd gotten from Doe Madonna was parked out back of my shack, which was a thing I'd throwed up next to Jasmine's place, and it come to me I could teach Billy Bob the medicine show business, as it was the only thing I really knowed about. Sort of let him run the show, you see. Him looking full white could make it a whole sight easier than me doing it by myself and being a colored.

  "That must have been where I messed up. Or maybe it just added to things. But him becoming boss and playing like he was full white just made him more that way in his head. Wasn't long before I'd have to come down on him hard when he got to playing it all too well.

  "Still, it wasn't bad for a time. Then he took to reading them dime novels, thinking about them gunfighters and how they was all so handsome-looking and brave—and white—and he was just looking for some reason not to accept being of colored blood, so he'd go off in these dream worlds, and wasn't long before he was pretty much believing them.

  "He took up the gun too. Started learning to trick shoot.