Free Hot Valley by James Lear Page A

to turn away from such uninvited familiarity, or to mutter something like “Are we acquainted, sir?” But now I was a traveler, an independent young man seeking his fortune, and it ill became me to turn down the hand of friendship, however specious it might prove to be.
    â€œThirsty indeed.”
    â€œMay I join you?” the stranger asked.
    â€œGladly.”
    He snapped his fingers and gestured to my table; the serving girl followed with a tankard of beer. He turned a chair
around and sat astride it, spreading his legs and resting his arms on the back.
    â€œGood health, prosperity, and happiness,” he said, holding up his tankard. Foam ran down the side; he swiftly licked it up with a pink, darting tongue.
    â€œGood health to you too.” We drank, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He couldn’t have been much more than my age, but with his military air, his tanned face, and his swaggering manner he seemed very much my senior.
    â€œDo you travel alone?”
    This was the kind of question I had been raised never to answer, but in the event I blurted out, “Yes. I’m going to Montpelier.”
    â€œMontpelier! Christ, that’s a dull place. All bankers and bankers’ wives. What’s a youngblood like yourself doing in Montpelier?” He dragged out the “e”—Mont-peeeeeelyer—to make it sound like the dullest spot on the planet.
    â€œI’m going to see a friend.”
    â€œA friend? A sweetheart, you mean.” I blushed, remembering some of my more tender moments with James in days long past.
    â€œNo, I assure you—”
    â€œAh, you don’t have to assure me of anything, young fellow. Drink!” He drank deep. “Hey! Over here! There are thirsty men! More beer!”
    â€œI don’t think—”
    â€œGood lad. Don’t think. Drink. Here.” He held up his tankard and waited for me to do the same. “Down it goes.”
    We tossed our drinks off together. I felt elated, and slightly sick. An earthenware jug of beer appeared on the table between us.
    â€œAnd what will you do with yourself when you get to Montpelier?”
    â€œI’m working—”
    â€œAh, don’t tell me they got you in one of those damn banks.”
    â€œWell, yes.”
    â€œWhich one?”
    â€œThe Vermont State Agricultural Bank,” I said.
    â€œOn Woodstock Avenue.”
    â€œYou know it?”
    â€œI’ve had dealings there.”
    â€œWhat a coincidence.”
    â€œNot so great a coincidence. I was the paymaster for my regiment not long back. I’ve had dealings with most of the banks in the state.”
    â€œHow interesting.”
    â€œSo you’ve not started work there just yet?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThen you don’t know the manager. A Mister Swales. Terrible old bastard, if I’m frank with you. Don’t envy you.”
    â€œI have not yet met him.”
    â€œDon’t listen to me. I’ve no patience with men in stiff collars and ties. I prefer the outdoors, the road, the camps, the fellowship of comrades. It’s a grand life.”
    â€œYou’re in the army, I take it.”
    â€œLieutenant Bennett H. Young, sir, at your service.”
    â€œJohn Edgerton.”
    â€œGood to meet you, John Edgerton.”
    â€œMy friends call me Jack.”
    â€œOf course they do. Well, Jack, here’s to you.”
    We drank again.
    â€œWhat regiment are you with?” I asked, thinking it was polite to make conversation, and in truth charmed by his twinkling eyes, his easy manner. I wished I was like him, the sort of confident young buck always ready with the right word.
    â€œWe’re a sort of advance party, Jack, drawn from several regiments.”

    â€œBut are you Union?”
    â€œYou could say so.” He lowered his voice. “We’re working for the government.”
    â€œThe government in Washington? Or the