Read Online The Nail and the Oracle by Theodore Sturgeon - Free Book Online
Authors: Theodore Sturgeon
Ads: Link
man.
“Well now,” said Macleish.
“Sign this,” said the gray-headed man softly, “and nobody reneged, and nobody’s mad.”
“I ain’t mad,” said Macleish. He rose suddenly.
The little gun swung to point steadily at him. Late, as usual, the beery man said a wordless
hup!
and his gun was out and, noisily, cocked. The loco-looking youth began to breathe loudly with his mouth open.
“Foot’s asleep,” said Macleish. He jiggled on it a couple of times and then sat down again.
After that nobody said anything until Brannegan got back.
The gray-headed man went back to his desk chair as Brannegan came in. Brannegan glanced at no one, but went straight to the desk and put down a packet of letters, a piece of polished rock crystal hanging from a fine gold chain, and a pincushion made like a little shepherdess with a full skirt. “Looky yere,” said Brannegan. “He plays with dolls.”
The gray-headed man was interested only in the letters. He fanned them and dealt them, one by one, picked up one and glanced through it, opened another and closed it right up again. He stacked them neatly and put them away from him next to the doll and the crystal pendant. Then he folded his long pale hands and seemed to close his eyes.
Macleish looked at the things on the desk and wondered if one or the other sister would get the pincushion and the pendant, or if it would be the schoolteacher after all.
The gray-headed man didn’t move, but his sharp bright eyes were suddenly on Younger Macleish. “You’re really just riding in, riding out.”
“I told you,” said Macleish.
The gray-headed man cursed. Coming from him, and coming as it did with such violence, the effect was like that match flame a little earlier, which had made Macleish grunt.
“Mr. Brannegan,” said the gray-headed man mildly, after he had his breath again, “We’ve got the wrong man.”
Brannegan eyed Macleish with enmity, and said, “All that trouble.”
To Macleish, the gray-headed man said, “Say you had a man to see, and you knew he was so good-looking he was practically pretty, and he’d dress so fancy he looked like a clown; and say you knew about him that he’d smoke the best cigars, call for the oldest brandy, and make for the nearest pretty face; and say you set up a trail he had to follow and an ambush he had to walk into. Then suppose just such a clown walked into it.”
“I’d say you made a mistake,” said Macleish.
“Just so, a mistake.” Then he added, showing he was thinking, “A mistake.” He sighed. “Mr. Brannegan, we’ve got to make it up to this young man.”
“Sure,” said Brannegan heavily.
“Return this man’s property to him, Mr. Brannegan.”
Brannegan got the things off the desk and gave Macleish his matches, his cigars, his poke, his letters, the crystal pendant. “That’s awful pretty,” he murmured as he gave Macleish the doll.
Macleish stowed the things in the various pockets of his fancy vest while the gray-headed man went on talking. He said, “I wouldn’t want you to resent any of this, you know. An honest mistake. And I wouldn’t want you to complain to the sheriff or anything like that. Not that it would make any difference. And I would be especially sad if you should talk about this to anyone you might meet on the trail.” He stopped then, and waited.
Younger Macleish said, “I don’t never complain.”
“Oh fine,” said the gray-headed man. Then he said it again, and, “I’d like to be sure of that. I really would.”
Macleish shrugged at him. He couldn’t think of anything to say.
The gray-headed man placed all the tips of all his fingers together and stared at them mournfully, and said, “A long and eventful life has taught me that there are after all only three kinds of men. One kind gives his word and that’s enough. One kind, you pay, and that’s enough. And one kind needs a boot in the tail to show that you meanwhat you say.” He paused and said, without
“Well now,” said Macleish.
“Sign this,” said the gray-headed man softly, “and nobody reneged, and nobody’s mad.”
“I ain’t mad,” said Macleish. He rose suddenly.
The little gun swung to point steadily at him. Late, as usual, the beery man said a wordless
hup!
and his gun was out and, noisily, cocked. The loco-looking youth began to breathe loudly with his mouth open.
“Foot’s asleep,” said Macleish. He jiggled on it a couple of times and then sat down again.
After that nobody said anything until Brannegan got back.
The gray-headed man went back to his desk chair as Brannegan came in. Brannegan glanced at no one, but went straight to the desk and put down a packet of letters, a piece of polished rock crystal hanging from a fine gold chain, and a pincushion made like a little shepherdess with a full skirt. “Looky yere,” said Brannegan. “He plays with dolls.”
The gray-headed man was interested only in the letters. He fanned them and dealt them, one by one, picked up one and glanced through it, opened another and closed it right up again. He stacked them neatly and put them away from him next to the doll and the crystal pendant. Then he folded his long pale hands and seemed to close his eyes.
Macleish looked at the things on the desk and wondered if one or the other sister would get the pincushion and the pendant, or if it would be the schoolteacher after all.
The gray-headed man didn’t move, but his sharp bright eyes were suddenly on Younger Macleish. “You’re really just riding in, riding out.”
“I told you,” said Macleish.
The gray-headed man cursed. Coming from him, and coming as it did with such violence, the effect was like that match flame a little earlier, which had made Macleish grunt.
“Mr. Brannegan,” said the gray-headed man mildly, after he had his breath again, “We’ve got the wrong man.”
Brannegan eyed Macleish with enmity, and said, “All that trouble.”
To Macleish, the gray-headed man said, “Say you had a man to see, and you knew he was so good-looking he was practically pretty, and he’d dress so fancy he looked like a clown; and say you knew about him that he’d smoke the best cigars, call for the oldest brandy, and make for the nearest pretty face; and say you set up a trail he had to follow and an ambush he had to walk into. Then suppose just such a clown walked into it.”
“I’d say you made a mistake,” said Macleish.
“Just so, a mistake.” Then he added, showing he was thinking, “A mistake.” He sighed. “Mr. Brannegan, we’ve got to make it up to this young man.”
“Sure,” said Brannegan heavily.
“Return this man’s property to him, Mr. Brannegan.”
Brannegan got the things off the desk and gave Macleish his matches, his cigars, his poke, his letters, the crystal pendant. “That’s awful pretty,” he murmured as he gave Macleish the doll.
Macleish stowed the things in the various pockets of his fancy vest while the gray-headed man went on talking. He said, “I wouldn’t want you to resent any of this, you know. An honest mistake. And I wouldn’t want you to complain to the sheriff or anything like that. Not that it would make any difference. And I would be especially sad if you should talk about this to anyone you might meet on the trail.” He stopped then, and waited.
Younger Macleish said, “I don’t never complain.”
“Oh fine,” said the gray-headed man. Then he said it again, and, “I’d like to be sure of that. I really would.”
Macleish shrugged at him. He couldn’t think of anything to say.
The gray-headed man placed all the tips of all his fingers together and stared at them mournfully, and said, “A long and eventful life has taught me that there are after all only three kinds of men. One kind gives his word and that’s enough. One kind, you pay, and that’s enough. And one kind needs a boot in the tail to show that you meanwhat you say.” He paused and said, without
Similar Books
