Coots turned the waxy, double-size shell between his fingers and shook his head. "I'll bet! A man'd get tuckered out, having to pick himself up and walk back to the firing line each time he shot it!" Coots tossed the shell back. "Seems a waste of time, making shells for a gun that's no good for hunting. You hit an animal with that cannon and there'd be nothing left but a tuft of fur and a startled expression."
The boy laughed. "Pa only shot it once in a blue moon. He'd blow old barrels apart, making the staves fly ever which-a-way. Showing off. He liked having a bigger gun than anybody else." He returned the shell to his bag. "To tell the truth, Pa didn't have all that much he could brag on."
"But that antique's dangerous, boy! And with handmade ammunition… whoa there! And you lugged that old monster all the way from Nebraska?"
"Yes, sir. I don't rightly know why I brung it along. I just didn't want to leave it behind. But heavy? A hundred times I thought about dropping it off along the trail."
"But you didn't."
"No, sir, I didn't."
"Why not?"
"I don't rightly know."
"You must like it a lot."
"No, sir, I don't like it. Fact is… I hate it."
"I don't blame you. Sooner or later that old thing's going to blow somebody all to hell."
"Yes, well… that's just what happened. It was this old gun that done for my pa."
Coots's knife stopped moving in the donkey's hoof. "I'm sorry, boy. I never… I mean, I was just blathering. Sorry about your pa."
The boy lifted his shoulders and said dully, "Things like that happen. They just… " He lowered his eyes and shook his head. "… happen." He idly picked up an old leather-bound book from the bench. It smelled like his mother's Bible, but he couldn't figure out the words.
"That's Latin, son," B. J. Stone said, returning with a tin cup in one hand and the coffeepot in the other, its hot handle swathed in a clump of rags. "It's a collection of Roman satire from Lucilius to Juvenal. I don't suppose you read Latin." He gave Matthew his cup.
"No, sir," the boy said, putting the book back gingerly, then holding out his cup to be filled.
"Satire deals with our vices and our-whoops!" B. J. Stone absent-mindedly over-filled Matthew's cup. "… deals with our vices and our absurdities-in short with the bulk of human activity." He turned to Coots. "Well, do you want some of this miserable sludge, or are you just going to keep on fussing with that hoof?"
"Somebody's got to do the work around here," Coots retorted, holding out his cup to be refilled.
"You wouldn't be interested in the Romans by any chance, would you, boy?" B. J. Stone filled his own cup.
"No, sir, I can't say I am. I know that one of them just washed his hands and let them kill Jesus, and… well, that's all I know about the Romans. To tell the truth, I don't read all that much."
"That's too bad. A book's a good place to hide out in, when things get too bad. Or too dull." This last seemed to be directed at Coots, who ignored it.
The tin cup was so hot that Matthew had to suck in a lot of air to keep from burning his lips, but the coffee felt good going down into his empty stomach. "What I said about not reading all that much? Fact is, we moved around a lot, and I was snatched from school to school so much that I can barely recognize my name."
"And what is your name?"
"Well, sir… they call me the Ringo Kid."
Coots and B. J. Stone exchanged glances.
"Do they, now?" B. J. Stone said. "The Ringo Kid, eh? So when your ma wants you for chores, she shouts out, 'Hey, Ringo Kid! Come here, and chop me some kindling!' Is that it?"
"No, sir, she doesn't say that." He paused a moment before adding quietly, "My ma is dead."
"And his pa's dead, too!" Coots hissed in a tone that accused his partner of lacking tact.
"Oh. " The teasing tone leached out of B. J.'s voice. "Have you been on your own for long?"
"About two weeks. After my folks died, I decided to pack up and go west and…" He shrugged.
"I see. Hm-m. " B. J. Stone took a long sip of coffee to conceal his discomfort.
After a silence, the boy volunteered, "My ma named me Matthew. She wanted to have four boys. Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John."
"And what became of the other three evangelists?"
"The fever took Luke when he was just a baby. And Mark, he ran off about two years ago."
"And John?"
"There never was a John. My ma stopped having kids after Luke died. I guess it didn't seem worth the trouble, if the fever was just going to come along and take them off." The boy drew a long breath and stared out toward the cliff that ended Twenty-Mile. Then his focus softened into a gentle eye-smile. "Truth is, I ain't really called the Ringo Kid. I just said that because… well, I don't rightly know why. It just seemed like a good name to start my new life with. I got it out of the books by Mr. Anthony Bradford Chumms. You know the ones? The Ringo Kid Meets His Match? Or The Ringo Kid Teaches a Lesson? Or The Ringo Kid Takes His Time? I've read every one of them over and over until the pages started falling out. On the back cover of The Ringo Kid Evens the Score, it says that Mr. Anthony Bradford Chumms is 'an English gentleman who lends a cultured richness of expression to exciting tales of the American West.' "
"Well, now!" B. J. Stone said with mock respect. "Lends a cultured richness of expression, does he? My, my!"
"Yes, sir. For my money, Mr. Anthony Bradford Chumms is the best writer in the whole wide world!"
"Me, I'll stick with old Lucilius. But I thought you said you could barely read your name?"
Matthew lowered his eyes and was silent for fully three seconds. Then: "Yes, sir, I did say that. But it was a lie. I said I couldn't read because the Ringo Kid can't read, but everyone respects him anyway, because he's honest and fair. And I've always wanted to be like him."
"Hm-m. You do a lot of lying, do you, Matthew?"
"I'm afraid I do, sir. I know it's a sin, but…" He shrugged. Then he grinned. "But it sure saves a lot of trouble."
"I see. Well, look here, Matthew-You don't mind me calling you Matthew, do you?"
"No, sir. You can call me anything, so long as you don't call me late for dinner!" He forced a chuckle at his pa's tired old joke.
B. J. Stone scrubbed his cheek stubble with his knuckles. "Uh-huh. Well, look, Matthew. If you're hungry-and boys usually are-you can get something to eat down at the Bjorkvists' place. I'm not saying their food's good, you understand. Matter of fact, the best that can be said for it is that a strong man can keep most of it down."
"Oh, I'm all right. I'm not hungry." In fact, he hadn't eaten for a day and a half.
"Suit yourself. But it would be a good idea to get something inside you before you push on up to the mine."
"The mine?"
"Aren't you on your way up to the Surprise Lode to look for work?"
"Well, no, I… To tell the truth, this is the first I heard about there being any mine in these hills."
"Didn't the people down in Destiny tell you about the Lode?"
"I didn't ask. Everyone was running around, hooting and shouting about our glorious victory in Cuba."
"Victory!" B. J. Stone snapped. "A strong young nation bashes a tired old one that has nothing but worn-out ships commanded by inbred aristocrats, and you call that glorious? Under the cover of spreading democracy, we snatch off the Philippines and Puerto Rico. And while we're at it, we just pocket the Hawaiian Islands too! Thomas Jefferson would be spinning in his grave if he knew we'd become imperialists!"