[Continuing chapter fourteen]
A massive grotesque, dressed like the most decrepit Canadian mountain-man who ever drew breath, stomped toward him, right hand resting on the hilt of an enormous pistol. “You wish to speak with me?” Stewart adopted an exaggerated extension of Uncle James’s cultured drawl, guessing it would probably irritate his interlocutor—with luck to the extent the man wouldn’t think beyond it.
“Well ain’t we just God’s special creature,” the man rasped. “What you doing on the street, boy? Don’t you remember they’s a curfew?” Now he was getting closer, the outrageous specimen drew his pistol. It was a revolver, but bigger than any Colt-system weapon Stewart had ever seen. The man’s face was pocked with red scars, from some of which grew components of a vile beard in which Stewart was certain he could see the remains of a number of meals. A red-orange sash tied around a swollen waist suggested some sort of official occupation, and Stewart wondered—taking in the stained leathers and enormous, wide-brimmed hat and odd-looking boots—if this might be one of the legendary Texas Rangers.
“I cannot remember something I’ve never been told,” he told the man. Looking past him, Stewart realized he must be in front of some sort of official building, a residence perhaps. Yes, that must be it: a self-possessed looking, middle-aged man had just appeared on the broad porch and was now striding toward him. “I’ve only just arrived in town. Could you tell me what’s going on here?”
“All you need to know’s that you ain’t supposed to be getting in the way,” the man began.
“What seems to be the problem, Captain Cooper?” Definitely a Ranger, then, Stewart thought, turning to face the new arrival.
“Jest another ignorant gawker, Mister President,” Captain Cooper said. He did not, Stewart noted, lower his pistol. Then: Mister President? Stewart hadn’t done much in the way of planning, but he knew what President Mirabeau Lamar looked like, and this man did not resemble any of the wood-cuts or engravings of the Texas president Stewart had examined.
“I have to confess,” he said, continuing the vocal imposture, “I’m completely at sea here. Curfew? I was hoping to speak to someone about a land-claim.”
“Ah, I understand,” Mister President said. “You’ve come at an unfortunate time, I’m afraid. There’s been some treacherous dealings discovered, and the government has had to take—well, steps to check a plot that would deliver us to the British.” Stewart found himself nodding, because this was definitely from the script Uncle James had written. I have to get out of here, he decided.
He kept his expression fatuously puzzled, though. “Sorry to hear that,” he said. “But truly, I just wanted to register a claim with the Department of the Interior.” He paused for effect. “They won’t be open for business, will they?”
“Not today, I’m afraid.” Mister President extended his hand. “I’m Thomas Reynolds,” he said. “If you can wait a couple of days I’m sure we’ll be able to help you. Mention my name at the department, you hear?”
“A couple of days,” Stewart said, making himself sound both uncertain and ineffectual.
“Nothing for it, I’m afraid,” Reynolds told him. “Sorry, young man. I hope you’ve arranged for a place to stay?”
“I hadn’t intended to be here more than a few hours,” Stewart said. “I suppose I could afford a few nights in a hotel.”
“Ain’t any rooms,” Cooper said. “Gubmint’s using ‘em all.”
“Perfect.” Stewart sighed. “By your leave, then, gentlemen, I suppose I’ll start walking back to my camp.”
“Without you got a weapon?” Cooper said. “Pardon me for not thinking you been walking those hills with no gun.”
“I wasn’t,” Stewart said. “I may not have known what transpired here, but I am not stupid. My rifle is safely stowed out that way”—he pointed to the north-west—“and I trust I won’t be attacked by Indians or Mexicans before I reach it.”
“I’m not sure, hear, how safe those hills are now,” Mr. Reynolds began.
Stewart interrupted before he could elaborate. “I’ll be safe enough once I’m out of town.” And you’ve made it quite clear to me I won’t be safe at all if I try to stay here. “Thank you for your advice, sir.” He set out in the direction from which he’d come, walking briskly and ignoring Cooper’s sputtering, blasphemous complaints. He did not look back; if they were going to pursue there wasn’t a lot he could do about it.
Once he had put a flower-covered hill between himself and the capital he began to move back east. After twenty minutes of skirting hills and the occasional farmer returning from market Stewart decided to take the risk of a second reconnaissance. From the top of a hill he was able to see a crowd of men smashing up what, on closer inspection, appeared to be a newspaper office. Appeared to have been, he corrected himself. What he was seeing, he realized, was the destruction of a printing press.
“Well ain’t we just God’s special creature,” the man rasped. “What you doing on the street, boy? Don’t you remember they’s a curfew?” Now he was getting closer, the outrageous specimen drew his pistol. It was a revolver, but bigger than any Colt-system weapon Stewart had ever seen. The man’s face was pocked with red scars, from some of which grew components of a vile beard in which Stewart was certain he could see the remains of a number of meals. A red-orange sash tied around a swollen waist suggested some sort of official occupation, and Stewart wondered—taking in the stained leathers and enormous, wide-brimmed hat and odd-looking boots—if this might be one of the legendary Texas Rangers.
“I cannot remember something I’ve never been told,” he told the man. Looking past him, Stewart realized he must be in front of some sort of official building, a residence perhaps. Yes, that must be it: a self-possessed looking, middle-aged man had just appeared on the broad porch and was now striding toward him. “I’ve only just arrived in town. Could you tell me what’s going on here?”
“All you need to know’s that you ain’t supposed to be getting in the way,” the man began.
“What seems to be the problem, Captain Cooper?” Definitely a Ranger, then, Stewart thought, turning to face the new arrival.
“Jest another ignorant gawker, Mister President,” Captain Cooper said. He did not, Stewart noted, lower his pistol. Then: Mister President? Stewart hadn’t done much in the way of planning, but he knew what President Mirabeau Lamar looked like, and this man did not resemble any of the wood-cuts or engravings of the Texas president Stewart had examined.
“I have to confess,” he said, continuing the vocal imposture, “I’m completely at sea here. Curfew? I was hoping to speak to someone about a land-claim.”
“Ah, I understand,” Mister President said. “You’ve come at an unfortunate time, I’m afraid. There’s been some treacherous dealings discovered, and the government has had to take—well, steps to check a plot that would deliver us to the British.” Stewart found himself nodding, because this was definitely from the script Uncle James had written. I have to get out of here, he decided.
He kept his expression fatuously puzzled, though. “Sorry to hear that,” he said. “But truly, I just wanted to register a claim with the Department of the Interior.” He paused for effect. “They won’t be open for business, will they?”
“Not today, I’m afraid.” Mister President extended his hand. “I’m Thomas Reynolds,” he said. “If you can wait a couple of days I’m sure we’ll be able to help you. Mention my name at the department, you hear?”
“A couple of days,” Stewart said, making himself sound both uncertain and ineffectual.
“Nothing for it, I’m afraid,” Reynolds told him. “Sorry, young man. I hope you’ve arranged for a place to stay?”
“I hadn’t intended to be here more than a few hours,” Stewart said. “I suppose I could afford a few nights in a hotel.”
“Ain’t any rooms,” Cooper said. “Gubmint’s using ‘em all.”
“Perfect.” Stewart sighed. “By your leave, then, gentlemen, I suppose I’ll start walking back to my camp.”
“Without you got a weapon?” Cooper said. “Pardon me for not thinking you been walking those hills with no gun.”
“I wasn’t,” Stewart said. “I may not have known what transpired here, but I am not stupid. My rifle is safely stowed out that way”—he pointed to the north-west—“and I trust I won’t be attacked by Indians or Mexicans before I reach it.”
“I’m not sure, hear, how safe those hills are now,” Mr. Reynolds began.
Stewart interrupted before he could elaborate. “I’ll be safe enough once I’m out of town.” And you’ve made it quite clear to me I won’t be safe at all if I try to stay here. “Thank you for your advice, sir.” He set out in the direction from which he’d come, walking briskly and ignoring Cooper’s sputtering, blasphemous complaints. He did not look back; if they were going to pursue there wasn’t a lot he could do about it.
Once he had put a flower-covered hill between himself and the capital he began to move back east. After twenty minutes of skirting hills and the occasional farmer returning from market Stewart decided to take the risk of a second reconnaissance. From the top of a hill he was able to see a crowd of men smashing up what, on closer inspection, appeared to be a newspaper office. Appeared to have been, he corrected himself. What he was seeing, he realized, was the destruction of a printing press.
Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen
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