Free Butcher's Crossing by John Williams Page A

so that it gave the fleeting appearance of a flat-bottomed boat supported by massive wheels; faded blue paint flecked the sides of the wagon, and the vestiges of red paint could be seen on the slow-turning spokes near the centers of the scarred, massive wheels. A heavy man in a checked shirt sat high and erect on a wagon box seat clipped near the front; in his right hand was a long bull-whip which he cracked above the ears of the lead team. His left hand pulled heavily against an upright hand brake, so that the oxen, which moved forward under his whip, were restrained by the heavy weight of the wagon above its half-locked wheels. Beside the wagon, slouched in his saddle, Miller rode a black horse; he led another, a sorrel, which was saddled but riderless.
    The procession passed the hotel and passed Jackson’s Saloon. Andrews watched it go beyond the livery stable, beyond the blacksmith’s shop, and out of town. He watched until he could see little but the moving cloud of dust made brilliant and impenetrable by the light of the falling sun, and he waited until the dust cloud stopped and thinned away down in the hollow of the river. Then he went back to his bed and lay upon it, his palms folded beneath the back of his head, and stared up at the ceiling.
    He was still staring at the ceiling, at the random flickerings of light upon it, an hour later when Charley Hoge knocked at his door and entered without waiting for a reply. He paused just inside the room; his figure was shadowy and vague, enlarged by the dim light that came from the hall.
    “What are you laying here in the dark for?” he asked.
    “Waiting for you to come up and get me,” Andrews said. He lifted his legs over the side of the bed and sat upright on its edge.
    “I’ll light the lamp,” Charley Hoge said. He moved forward in the darkness. “Where is it?”
    “On the table near the window.”
    He pulled a match across the wall beside the window; the match flared yellow. With the hand that held the match, he lifted the smoked chimney from the lamp, set it down on the table, touched the match to the wick, and replaced the chimney. The room brightened as the wick’s burning grew steadier, and the flickerings from the out-of-doors were submerged. Charley Hoge dropped the burnt match to the floor.
    “I guess you know Miller’s back in town.”
    Andrews nodded. “I saw the wagon as it came past. Who was with him?”
    “Fred Schneider,” Charley Hoge said. “He’s going to be our skinner. Miller’s worked with him before.”
    Andrews nodded again. “I suppose Miller got everything he needed.”
    “Everything’s ready,” Charley Hoge said. “Miller and Schneider are at Jackson’s. Miller wants you to come over so we can get everything settled.”
    “All right,” Andrews said. “I’ll get my coat.”
    “Your coat?” Charley Hoge asked. “Boy, if you’re cold now, what are you going to do when we get up in the mountains?”
    Andrews smiled. “I’m not cold. I’m just in the habit of wearing it.”
    “A man loses lots of habits in time,” Charley Hoge said. “Come on, let’s go.”
    The two men left the room and went down the stairs. Charley Hoge went a few steps in front of Andrews, who had to hurry to keep up with him; he walked with quick, nervous strides, and his thin, drawn-in shoulders jerked upward with his steps.
    Miller and Schneider were waiting at the long narrow bar of Jackson’s. They stood at the bar with glasses of beer in front of them; a light mantle of dust clung about the shoulders of Schneider’s red-checked shirt, and the ends of his straight, bristling brown hair visible beneath a flat-brimmed hat were caked white with trail dust. The two men turned as Charley Hoge and Will Andrews came down the room toward them.
    Miller’s flat thin lips curved upward in a tight smile. A precise swath of black beard shadowed the heavy lower half of his face. “Will,” he said softly. “Did you think I wasn’t coming