Free Doubtful Canon by Johnny D. Boggs Page B

but never pointing it toward us. Whitey Grey laughed and slapped my back so hard, I almost fell to my knees. Next, he offered his right hand to both men, who reluctantly took it, if only briefly.
    “Never seen nothin’ like ’em things afore,” Whitey Grey said.
    “New,” the first man said. “From the George S. Sheffield and Company of Three Rivers, Michigan. They call it a velocipede car.”
    The brace connecting the third wheel, less than a foot in diameter, held the velocipede, with its 24-inch wheels, upright. Ball bearings, a driving chain and gears, handlebars, cranks, and pedals. Progress amazed me. The first man patted his ride. The second looked more interested in keeping the rifle handy, ready.
    “’Tain’t no mule or horse,” Whitey Grey said, still staring at the velocipedes. “Michigan, eh? I was up in Michigan a spell. Detroit. Too cold for my likin’.”
    “Mister,” the red-bearded man said, his voice on the surly side, “what are you-all doing out here?”
    “Caught these here runaways,” the white-skinned man lied. “Run off from the orphanage in Shakespeare. I’m supposed to deliver ’em to this nun or her hired boy at Stein’s Peak.”
    “Orphanage?” the striped-britches man said in astonishment. “Shakespeare?”
    The man with the rifle said: “Stein’s?”
    “Yeah,” Whitey Grey said, and his ability at telling lies, his embellishments, and fast-thinking astonished me. “I wasn’t sure when or where I’d catch up with these here chil’ren. I tell you, boys, they was a-footin’ it. Almost made it to Silver City afore I slicked ’em. That’s why I’m supposed to meet that sister at the station in Stein’s. Lost my horse ’bout ten miles north of here. I’d be grateful if you could let us borrow ’em centipede cars and deliver ’em. That nun, I mean she’s worried sick. Frail thing. Must be nigh eighty year old.”
    “Shakespeare?” the first man repeated.
    The second man’s finger slipped inside the Winchester’s trigger guard.
    “They’s a reward,” Whitey Grey said. “Hunnert dollars. I be of a mind to split it with you, say give you each twenty-five.” He slapped his hand on his dusty britches. “Or even just rent ’em things…I’ll need both of ’em with these chil’ren…for fifty and give you a little rye whiskey for the walk home. Either way you fancy it.”
    The second man put his thumb on the rifle’s hammer.
    The first man said: “Mister, there ain’t no orphanage in Shakespeare.”
    “Not a real one,” Jasmine fired off. “Not officially. It’s part of the church.” She kept adding to her lies, and I found her pretty skilled at it, too. Ian Spencer Henry’s mouth fell open in wonderment. I watched the two strangers, their eyes full of suspicion.
    “They just started in within the last month,” Jasmine said. “To help all the kids who lost their parents. Big cave-in, you know. And a diphtheria epidemic. You-all haven’t heard?”
    Even Whitey Grey looked puzzled.
    “I don’t want to go back,” Jasmine added. “They beat me. See.” She showed her bruises and the cuts on her hands.
    The first man asked Jasmine: “What church?”
    “Methodist.” She answered too fast, without thinking, and I cringed. My friend’s newfound ability at lying had limits. A nun at an orphanage run by Methodists? I thought angrily. Come on, Jasmine. Think!
    “Little sister,” said the first man, “there ain’t no Methodist church in Shakespeare.”
    “It just started,” Jasmine tried.
    “Ain’t no Presbyterian church. No Catholic. No Israelite temple.”
    “No God in Shakespeare, neither,” the second man was saying, and in a quick motion his rifle bore now trained on Whitey Grey’s gut.
    The silence that followed didn’t last long, for suddenly Whitey Grey let out a loud howl, and ran his rough fingers through Jasmine’s hair. “That was a good try, li’l’ girlie.” He patted her head, slapped his hat on his head, and