Jingo Read online

  “That’s right,” said Jingo. “You know the place?”

  “I’ve got a second cousin of my sister’s aunt living there right now,” said the bartender. “He stays there for his complexion and the shooting.”

  Jingo rested his foot on the bar and called for another drink.

  “When the season comes in,” he said, “all you can hear, from morning to night, is the booming of the guns in the hills, as steady as the roaring of waterfalls in the spring floods. That’s the way it is when the season opens in Jingoville.”

  “The season for shooting what?” asked a bystander.

  “Grasshoppers,” Jingo stated, and pushed back from the bar.

  He left the saloon while the uproar was still continuing, and went out onto the street.

  “Where is Jake Rankin?” he asked a man at the first corner.

  The man had a sour face and a sour temper.

  “Jake Rankin lives at the corner of Hope Alley and Hell Street,” he said, and walked on down the boardwalk.

  Jingo was pleased. He liked what he had heard, and he liked the set of the stranger’s shoulders, and the towering height of him. He hurried to catch up with him.

  “Tell me about yourself, brother,” said Jingo. “It seems that I’ve met you somewhere. In a dream, perhaps.”

  “I meet a lot of people ... in crowds,” said the big man.

  “It’s your eyes and your smile, I guess,” said Jingo. “They’ve been haunting me.”

  The big man halted, put his hand on a hitch rack, and stared.

  “All that I can’t remember is your name,” said Jingo.

  “I haven’t got a name,” said the stranger.

  “Your parents never able to make up their minds?” Jingo commented with sympathy.

  “No. Up in my part of the country they never give names to the kids. They just say ‘You.’”

  “You’re just a sort of a roustabout up there?” asked Jingo.

  “That’s all. I help out in the kitchen, too, and dry the dishes after dinner, and get the mail, and run the errands. What’s your name, mister?”

  “Jingo is my name.”

  “That’s a good name. Jingle is a good name for a gent that rattles such a lot. Your folks have got you all dressed up in long pants, I see.”

  “I dress up like a man once a week,” said Jingo. “It’d surprise you what a lot of people I fool.”

  “I’ll bet it would,” said the big fellow. “If you’re through remembering about me, I’ll go along.”

  “I’m sorry you’re not going my way,” Jingo said. “I thought maybe you were a neighbor of Jake Rankin on Hell Street.”

  “Are you going to see Jake on that street?”

  “I hear he intends looking me up, so I thought I’d just call on him and save his time.”

  “What you intend to peddle on Hell Street?” asked the big man.

  “Lead,” Jingo answered.

  “That’s heavy stuff for a kid in his first pair of long pants.”

  “It’s easy to sell, though,” said Jingo.

  “Yeah, if you can make the right kind of a talk. Maybe I’ll walk along with you, after all. We’ll go this way.”

  He turned and went up the street with Jingo.

  “What part of the world d’you come from?” the stranger asked.

  “Jingoville,” said Jingo. “Maybe you’ve heard about that town?”

  “Where the pastures is all covered with blue forget-me-nots? Is that the place?”

  “That’s the place. They graze herds of suckers.”

  “There’s always a market for that sort of meat,” said the big man.

  His sour, long, heavy-featured face relaxed in something that approximated a smile.

  “Still,” Jingo said, “I can’t place the right name for you.”

  “Some people call me the Parson. But I never studied for the church, neither.”

  “It all comes back to me,” said Jingo. “Of course, you’re the Parson.”

  “And how long might you’ve known Jake Rankin?” asked the Parson.

  “I never met him,” said Jingo. “But I met his brother a little while back.”

  “You know Wally? He ain’t lucky, I’d say. He’s kind of a mongrel.”

  “What’s the cross?” asked Jingo.

  “Fast brains and slow hands. They never come to no good,” said the Parson.

  “I hope,” said Jingo, “that Jake Rankin is a purebred one, though.”

  “He’s all right,” answered the Parson. “If you don’t believe me, go and knock at the door of that house and ask for Jake. He only stands about five two, but he can win a lot of races with two guns up in the saddle.”

  Chapter Three

  Jingo saw a little unpainted shack that had for a front yard a hitch rack with plenty of hoof holes pawed into the bare dirt. Boards from apple boxes had been nailed up to take the place of several missing panes in the windows, and the stovepipe leaned awry above the roof.

  “Nobody’s wasted any time keeping up the face of that house,” Jingo commented.

  “It ain’t the stable that counts, but the horse inside it,” said the Parson.

  “So long,” said Jingo.

  “I’ll wait here. If you get throwed, I might haul you to a piece of soft ground to lie on,” answered the Parson.

  So Jingo crossed the street, singing softly to himself. As he came toward the front door of the shack, he heard groans distinctly that welled heavily through the interior of the little house. He knocked at the door.

  “Who the devil?” asked a harsh voice.

  “Flowers for Wally,” Jingo said.

  A rapid footfall approached the front door. It was jerked open, and Jingo found himself looking at a small edition of Wally Rankin. A smaller edition and a harder one. The iron of Wally had been hammered down to the rigid, compacted steel of a smaller frame. The stern mind of Wally had been concentrated to a burning point that glinted out of the eyes of his older brother.

  “What kind of funny business you got in your head, drunk?” Jake Rankin asked. “And who are you, anyway?”

  “My name is Jingo,” he answered, and smiled.

  Jake Rankin grew calm.

  “So you’re the gent, are you?” he said.

  “Thank you,” said Jingo. “I heard that you might be looking for me. So I thought I’d save your shoe leather.”

  “Who told you that I’d be looking for you?” asked Jake.

  “The sheriff.”

  “The sheriff’s a thoughtful sort of an hombre,” Jake Rankin remarked. “One of these days he’s going to think himself right into a grave of some kind or other. Listen to me, kid.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Jingo.

  “And none of your lip,” Jake said.

  “No, sir,” said Jingo.

  Jake Rankin licked his lips and ran his hungry eyes over the lithe body of Jingo. He was a judge of men, was Jake, and he could appreciate the way the parts of Jingo were fitted together. He handled him with his eyes the way a horse dealer handles a horse, judging bone and sinew, and the quality of the long muscles that make for speed, or the bulging muscles that make lifting strength. The muscles of Jingo were all long and cunningly worked together. He looked as capable of speed, say, as a well-braided whiplash of new leather.

  Jake Rankin missed not a single point.

  “Jingo,” he said, “it ain’t hard to see that you been well raised, and you know when to go and pay your respects to your elders. Now I’m going to explain something to you. Walk down the hall and look into the back room without letting yourself be seen, will you?”

  Jingo hesitated as long as a running horse pauses at a jump.

  “Sure,” he said, and walked right in through the open door and past the grim face of Jake R
ankin, so that his back was presently turned on that famous warrior.

  Down the hallway, with a very careful, soundless step moved Jingo, pausing at the door of the back room. That door was half ajar, and through the crack at the back of it he could see a widening slice of the room. He could see the head and the heavily bandaged shoulders of Wally Rankin, and he could see an old, gray-headed woman sitting by the bed, her shoulders hunched up as she leaned toward the invalid. The head of Wally kept turning uneasily from side to side as the agony burned him deeper and deeper.

  Then a great groan came shuddering out of his throat again.

  The old woman said: “Shame on you, Wally. Shame on a man actin’ like a dog that’s been run over. Shame on the throat that’ll go mournin’ for pain, like a lovesick wolf. Shame on a man that’ll bray like a fool of a donkey in the middle of the night. I wouldn’t own you. I wouldn’t have you if I thought you didn’t have nothin’ better inside of you.”

  Wally was silent.

  The agony struck him again with a heavy hand, but though his lips furled back over the glistening white of his teeth, he uttered not a sound. The bright sweat ran down his face as he endured in silence.

  Jingo came slowly back down the hallway and confronted Jake Rankin.

  “Thanks, Jake,” he said. “I understand.”

  He stepped outside the doorway and paused a moment politely.

  “I’ll have to be going along,” he said.

  “Wait a minute and have a drink with me,” suggested Jake.

  “Any liquor you gave me would suit me fine,” Jingo answered. “But I’ve got a friend waiting for me across the street.”

  “Ask him in, too,” Jake Rankin suggested. “I ain’t seen the Parson for a long spell.” And Jake stepped out and waved.

  The Parson, with enormous, slow strides, crossed the street and came up to them.

  “We’re having a drink, Parson,” said Jake. “Come along in and join us.”

  There was no handshaking between the pair.

  The Parson said: “Sure. I guess your whiskey ain’t spoiled.”

  The three of them went into the front room. It was the ghost of a parlor. There was a faded round rug on the floor, and a round center table on the middle of the rug, with a brass-bound Bible, Robinson Crusoe, and a picture album on it. Some striped wallpaper was beginning to come off the wall in tatters.

  Jake Rankin disappeared and came back again, carrying three heavy glasses and a stone jug. He tilted the weight of the jug with one hand, over his forearm, and poured out three large drinks of the whiskey.

  “It’s thirty years old, and it’s lost all its teeth,” Jake advised.

  “There was never anything cheap about a Rankin,” said the Parson thoughtfully. “That was a good doctor you sent me, Jake.”

  “Yeah, he was good,” Jake agreed. “He fixed you up pretty good, I see.”

  “I limp a little in cold weather,” said the Parson. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t know nothing. A funny thing how clean your bullets went through me.”

  “They seemed to kind of dodge the bones, I guess,” Jake surmised. “Maybe I’ll have better luck next time.”

  “Yeah,” said the Parson. “I’m getting ready for the next time.”

  “I’m always ready,” said Jake. “Which I mean I gotta kind of apologize to the kid here.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Jingo said.

  “I mean,” Jake Rankin went on, “him walking all the way here on his feet and tiring himself out and getting all dusty to give me a fair chance at him. But the old woman has had kind of a shock, seeing Wally brought home on a door today. She’s kind of partial to Wally, even if he’s a bum with a gun. She kind of likes him. He’s the baby of the family, if you know what I mean.”

  “Sure,” said the Parson.

  “It might put her back a lot,” Jake said, “if she was to hear of a second gunfight in the family in one day. It might be kind of rough on her.”

  He set his jaws at the end of this speech. The muscles stood out in great ridges. The fore part of his face seemed to sharpen; his eyes narrowed. He looked like a wolf about to leap into a fight.

  Only then was Jingo able to appreciate the frightful effort of self-control that Jake Rankin was using.

  “You take a woman,” said the Parson, “and hitting them twice in the same place is what breaks them up. You gotta be careful.”

  “That’s what I thought about Ma,” Jake Rankin said. “Just the same, I’m mighty sorry to disappoint you, Jingo. You coming up here to see me was mighty handsome, is all I gotta say.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Jingo said. “We’ll meet again. How’s Wally coming along?”

  “He’ll never use his left hand again,” Jake answered.

  “That’s too bad,” remarked Jingo. “Because he was twice as fast with his left hand as he was with his right.”

  “You got the eye to see with,” remarked Jake, nodding. “He was straighter with his left, too. Well, here’s to you, boy. Here’s to you, Parson. I hope I get a chance to put some lead through you before long.”

  “All right,” said the Parson. “Here’s hoping that we meet head-on along a one-way trail. And heaven help the one that’s gotta go over the edge.”

  “Here’s to you, Jingo,” went on Jake Rankin. “I dunno when a young gent has pleased me much more’n you pleased me today. Walking down the hall with your back to me ... that was pretty good. Believe me, I’m going to really enjoy cutting the heart out of you, Jingo.”

  “Thanks,” Jingo said, holding up his glass. “Here’s in your eye, Jake. The next thing you get from me will be a lot heavier than good wishes.”

  They tilted their glasses at their lips, and Jingo, after tasting the excellent old whiskey, let it roll very slowly down his throat. He put down the glass with a sigh of pleasure.

  “That,” he said, “is the pure quill.”

  “Have another, Jingo,” urged Jake Rankin.

  “I’d like to,” Jingo said. “But I’ve had one drink today already. And more than two is more than my rule. What with all the sport that a fellow can find if he looks around in this town.”

  Jake Rankin smiled.

  He accompanied the two through the front door and stood there, resting his elbow on the hitch rack.

  “Glad to’ve seen you boys,” said Jake.

  “You’ll be seeing us again,” said the Parson.

  “But one at a time,” added Jingo.

  Jake held up a hand in protest.

  “I know a gentleman when I see one,” he said seriously. “It’s going to be a pleasure. It’s going to be a real pleasure. I’m going to look forward to it. Shall I give your regards to Wally, Jingo?”

  “Give him my best regards,” Jingo said. “I’ll try to find something he likes and send it to him. Does he take to venison?”

  “Venison is his favorite fruit.”

  “I’ll have a deer here by night,” said Jingo, “if I have to go out and get it myself. So long, Jake.”

  “So long, Jingo.”

  So Jingo walked back downtown with the Parson, and they said not a word to one another all the way. Speech was not needed between them just then.

  Chapter Four

  As they went down the street through the warmth of the late afternoon, Jingo said: “Parson, it sort of appeared to me that you were a little off your feed when I first met you. Or does your face always look like that when you haven’t got a feedbag tied to it?”

  “Jingo,” the Parson said, slowing his step a little, “it kind of comes over me that I gotta do something about you one of these days, and maybe this is the day.”

  “You don’t follow my drift,” Jingo said. “The fact is I’m making friendly motions.”

  “You are?” the Parson said skeptically. “Because if you ain’t ...”
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  “I am,” Jingo assured, “and I don’t want any part of the bad time that you could give a man.”

  At this the Parson relented.

  “You son of a double-jointed lightning flash,” he murmured, “it sure does me good to hear you talk soft. Which I wouldn’t mind saying that I was a trifle peeved some time ago, and I’m still peeved. And I wouldn’t mind telling you the reason, neither ... which is I’ve gone and lost Lizzie.”

  “You’ve lost her?” Jingo said, regarding with a side glance the long and frightfully ugly face of his new friend.

  “I’ve lost Lizzie,” the Parson repeated, shaking his head sadly.

  “How?”

  “I got drunk,” said the Parson. “I got boileder than an owl, and I lost Lizzie.”

  “Sometimes they act up when a fellow puts on the paint,” agreed Jingo. “How boiled did you get?”

  “Faro, and a lot of noise.”

  “Cleaned out?”

  “Clean as a whistle.”

  “Tell me about Lizzie, will you?” asked Jingo.

  “That’s a thing that I don’t like to talk about much. It kind of gripes me when I think about losing Lizzie.”

  “What’s she like, though?”

  “There ain’t anything like her. She’s all by herself.”

  “Pretty?”

  “To me she’s beautiful,” said the Parson. “There’s some that differ. There’s some that say she’s too big in the head and too lean in the neck. There’s some that say her legs ain’t all that they should be. She’s kind of humped in the back, too. But to me she’s beautiful. Lizzie is the kind,” the Parson said, looking into the distance in the pale sky, “Lizzie is the kind that will stay with you. She’ll never let you down, and she’ll never say no.”

  “The kind you can depend upon, eh?” Jingo said sympathetically.

  “Exactly. Day or night, Lizzie is ready for the fun. She’s ready to step out and travel.”

  “Just for you, or for any of the boys?”

  “For any of the boys?” exclaimed the Parson. “What would I be mourning about if Lizzie was one that anybody could take in hand? No, sir. I’m the only man in the world that can handle her. And I’m the only man in the world that puts the full worth on her. It’s going to practically break her heart when she finds that I’m gone for good. And she’s going to maybe never forgive me for selling her out.”