Alvin Journeyman: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume IV (21 page)

Arthur reached out and patted Horace’s hand. “I’ll be all right, Papa,” he said.

Alvin looked at Horace’s face and was relieved to see that instead of annoyance, his eyes showed a kind of rueful gladness at hearing the name of Papa. Maybe he was thinking of the one person who had the true right to call him that, his daughter Peggy, who had come home in disguise and was too soon gone, and who knew if he’d ever see her again. Or maybe he was thinking of the one who taught Arthur Stuart to call him Papa, the dear wife whose body lay in the hilltop plot behind the roadhouse, the woman who was always faithful to him even though he never deserved her goodness, being (as only he in all the world believed) a man of evil.

Soon Horace backed on out of the room and closed the door, and Arthur Stuart quietly cried himself to sleep in Alvin’s arms. Alvin lay there, wanting to doze, too, for a little while. It was good to be home, or as near to home as Alvin could figure in these days when he wondered what home even was. Carthage City was where he was bound to end up, eh? Why would he go there to live? Or would he only go there to die? What did this Vilate Franker actually know, anyway? He lay there, sleepless, wondering about her, wondering if she could really be as evil as Horace Guester said. Alvin had met true evil in his life, but he still persisted in thinking it was awful rare, and the word was bandied about too much by those who didn’t understand what real badness was.

What he could not let himself think of was the only other
woman he had known who fenced herself around with hexes. Rather than remember Miss Larner, who was really little Peggy, he finally drifted into sleep.

What an interesting boy, thought Vilate as she walked away from the roadhouse. Not at all like the shifty little weasel I expected after the things Makepeace Smith has said. But then, nobody trusts shifty little weasels well enough to be betrayed by them—it’s strong, fine-looking men as tricks folks into thinking they’re as open-hearted as they are open-faced. So maybe every word Makepeace said was true. Maybe Alvin did steal some precious hoard of gold that he found while digging a well. Maybe Alvin did fill up the well where the gold was found and dig another a few yards off, hoping nobody’d notice. Maybe he did shape it like a plow and pretend that he had turned iron into gold so he could run off with Makepeace’s treasure trove. What’s that to me? thought Vilate. It wasn’t my gold, and never could be, as long as Makepeace had it. But if it happens to be a golden plow that Alvin has in that bag he carries over his shoulder, why, then it might end up being anybody’s gold.

Anybody strong enough might take it away by brute force, for instance. Anybody cruel enough might kill Alvin and take it from the corpse. Anybody sneaky enough could take it out of Alvin’s room as he slept. Anybody rich enough could hire lawyers to prove something against Alvin in court and take it away by force of law. All kinds of ways to get that plow, if you want it bad enough.

But Vilate would never stoop to coercion. She wouldn’t even
want
that golden plow, if it existed, unless Alvin gave it to her of his own free will. As a gift. A love-gift, perhaps. Or . . . well, she’d settle for a guilt gift, if it came to that. He looked like a man of honor, but the way he was staring at her . . . well, she knew that look. The man was smitten. The man was hers, if she wanted him.

Play this right, Vilate, she told herself. Set the stage. Make
him
come after you. Let no one say you set your cap for him.

Her best friend was waiting for her in the kitchen shed back of the post office when she got there. “So what do you think of that Alvin?” she asked, before Vilate even had time to greet her.

“Trust you to get the news before I can tell you myself.” Vilate set to work stoking up the fine cast-iron stove with a bread oven in it that made her the envy of the women in Hatrack River.

“Five people saw you on the roadhouse porch greeting him, Vilate, and the word reached me before your foot touched the street, I’m sure.”

“Then those are idle people, I’d say, and the devil has them.”

“No doubt you’d know—I’m sure the devil gives you a new list every time he makes another recruit.”

“Of course he does. Why, everyone knows the devil lives right here in my fancy oven.” Vilate cackled with glee.

“So . . .” said her best friend impatiently. “What do you think of him?”

“I don’t think he’s that much,” said Vilate. “Workingman’s arms, of course, and tanned like any low-class boy. His talk is rather coarse and country-like. I wonder if he can even read.”

“Oh, he can read all right. Teacher lady taught him when he lived here.”

“Oh, yes, the fabled Miss Larner who was so clever she got her prize student to win a spelling bee, which caused the slave finders to get wind of a half-Black boy and ended up killing Horace Guester’s wife, Miss Larner’s own mother. A most unnatural woman.”

“You do find a way to make the story sound right ugly,” said her friend.

“Is there a pretty version of it?”

“A sweet love story. Teacher tries to transform the life of a half-Black boy and his rough-hewn friend, a prentice smith. She falls in love with the smith boy, and turns the half-Black
lad into a champion speller. Then the forces of evil take notice—”

“Or God decides to strike down her pride!”

“I do think you’re jealous of her, Vilate. I do think that.”

“Jealous?”

“Because she won the heart of Alvin Smith, and maybe she still owns it.”

“Far as I can tell, his heart’s still beating in his own chest.”

“And is the gold still shining in his croker sack?”

“You talk sweet about Miss Larner, but you always assume
I
have the worst motives.” Vilate had the stove going nicely now, and put on a teapot to boil as she began cutting string beans and dropping them in a pan of water.

“Because I know you so well, Vilate.”

“You
think
you know me, but I’m full of surprises.”

“Don’t you drop your teeth at
me
, you despicable creature.”

“They dropped by themselves,” said Vilate. “I never do it on purpose.”

“You’re such a liar.”

“But I’m a beautiful liar, don’t you think?” She flashed her best smile at her friend.

“I don’t understand what men see in women anyway,” her friend answered. “Hexes or no hexes, as long as a woman has her clothes on a man can’t see what he’s interested in anyhow.”

“I don’t know about
all
men,” said Vilate. “I think some men love me for my character.”

“A character of sterling silver, no doubt—never mind a little tarnish, you can wipe
that
off with a little polish.”

“And some men love me for my wit and charm.”

“Yes, I’m sure they do—if they’ve been living in a cave for forty years and haven’t seen a civilized woman in all that time.”

“You can tease me all you want, but I know you’re jealous of me, because Alvin Smith is already falling in love with me, the poor hopeless boy, while he’ll never give a look at you, not a single look. Eat your heart out, dear.”

Her best friend just sat there with a grumpy face. Vilate had
really hit home with that last one. The teapot sang. As always, Vilate set out two teacups. But, as always, her best friend sniffed the tea but never drank it. Well, so what? Vilate never failed in her courtesy, and that’s what mattered.

“Makepeace is going to take him to court.”

“Ha,” said Vilate. “You heard
that
already, too?”

“Oh, no. I don’t know if Makepeace Smith even knows his old prentice is back in town—though you can bet that if the word reached
me
that fast, it got to him in half the time! I just know that Makepeace has been bragging so much on how Alvin robbed him that if he don’t serve papers on the boy, everybody’s going to know it was just empty talk. So he’s
got
to bring the boy to trial, don’t you see?”

Vilate smiled a little smile to herself.

“Already planning what you’re going to bring to him in jail?” asked her friend.

“Or something,” said Vilate.

Alvin woke from his nap to find Arthur Stuart gone and the room half-dark. The traveling must have taken more out of him than he thought, to make him sleep the afternoon away.

A knock on the door. “Open up, now, Alvin,” said Horace. “The sheriff’s just doing his job, he tells me, but there’s no way out of it.”

So it must have been a knock on the door that woke him in the first place. Alvin swung his legs off the bed and took the single step that got him to the door. “It wasn’t barred,” he said as he opened it. “You only had to give it a push.”

Sheriff Po Doggly looked downright sheepish. “Oh, it’s just Makepeace Smith, Alvin. Everybody knows he’s talking through his hat, but he’s gone and got a warrant on you, to charge you with stealing his treasure trove.”

“Treasure?” asked Alvin. “I never heard of no treasure.”

“Claims you dug up the gold digging a well for him, and moved the well so nobody’d know—”

“I moved the well cause I struck solid stone,” said Alvin.
“If I found gold, why would that make me move the well? That don’t even make sense.”

“And that’s what you’ll say in court, and the jury will believe you just fine,” said Sheriff Doggly. “Everybody knows Makepeace is just talking through his hat.”

Alvin sighed. He’d heard the rumors flying hither and yon about the golden plow and how it was stolen from a blacksmith that Alvin prenticed with, but he never thought Makepeace would have the face to take it to court, where he’d be proved a liar for sure. “I give you my word I won’t leave town till this is settled,” said Alvin. “But I’ve got Arthur Stuart to look after, and it’d be right inconvenient if you locked me up.”

“Well, now, that’s fine,” said Doggly. “The warrant says you have a choice. Either you surrender the plow to me for safekeeping till the trials or you sit in jail
with
the plow.”

“So the plow is the only bail I can pay, is that it?” asked Alvin.

“Reckon that’s the long and short of it.”

“Horace, I reckon you’ll have to look after the boy,” said Alvin to the innkeeper. “I didn’t bring him here to put him back in your charge, but you can see I got small choice.”

“Well, you could put the plow in Po’s keeping,” said Horace. “Not that I mind keeping the boy.”

“No offense, Sheriff, but you wouldn’t keep the plow safe a single night,” said Alvin, smiling wanly.

“Reckon I could do just fine,” said Po, looking a mite offended. “I mean, even if I lock you up, you don’t think I’d let you keep the plow in the cell with you, do you?”

“Reckon you
will
,” said Alvin mildly.

“Reckon not,” said Po.

“Reckon you think you could keep it safe,” said Alvin. “But what you don’t know is how to keep folks safe from the plow.”

“So you admit you have it.”

“It was my journeypiece,” said Alvin. “There are witnesses of that. This whole charge is nonsense, and you and everybody else knows it. But what’ll the charge be if I give you this plow
and somebody opens the sack and gets struck blind? What’s the charge then?”

“Blind?” asked Po Doggly, glancing at Horace, as if his old friend the innkeeper could tell him whether he was having his leg pulled.

“You think you can tell your boys not to look in the sack, and that’s going to be enough?” said Alvin. “You think they won’t just try to take a peek?”

“Blind, eh?” said Po.

Alvin picked up the sack from where it had lain beside him on the bed. “And who’s going to carry the plow, Po?”

Sheriff Doggly reached out to take it, but no sooner had his hands closed around the sack than he felt the hard metal inside shift and dance under his hands, sliding away from him. “Stop doing that, Alvin!” he demanded.

“I’m just holding the top of the sack,” said Alvin. “What shelf you going to keep this on?”

“Oh, shut up, boy,” said Doggly. “I’ll let you keep it in the cell. But if you plonk somebody over the head with that thing and make an escape, I’ll find you and the charge won’t be no silly tale from Makepeace Smith, I promise you.”

Alvin shook his head and smiled.

Horace laughed out loud. “Po, if Al wanted to escape from your jail, he wouldn’t have to do no head plonking.”

“I’m just telling you, Al,” said the sheriff. “Don’t push your luck with me. There’s a outstanding extradition order from Appalachee about standing trial for the death of a certain dead Slave Finder.”

Suddenly Horace’s genial manner changed, and in a quick movement he had the sheriff pressed into the doorjamb so tight it looked like it might make a permanent difference in his posture. “Po,” said Horace, “you been my dearest friend for many a year. We done in the dark of night what would get us kilt for doing in daylight, and trusted each other’s life through it all. If you ever bring a charge or even
try
to extradite this boy for killing the
Slave Finder
who killed my Margaret in
my own house, I will do a little justice on you with my own two hands.”

Po Doggly squinted and looked the innkeeper in the eye. “Is that a threat, Horace? You want me to break my oath of office for you?”

“How can it be a threat?” said Horace. “You know I meant it in the nicest possible way.”

“Just come along to jail, Alvin,” said Doggly. “I reckon if the town ladies don’t have meals for you, Horace here will bring you roadhouse stew every night.”

“I keep the plow?” asked Alvin.

“I ain’t coming near that thing,” said the sheriff.
“If
it’s a plow.
If
it’s gold.” Doggly gestured him to pass through the door and come into the hall. Alvin complied. The sheriff followed him down the narrow hall to the common room, where about two dozen people were standing around waiting to see what the sheriff had been after. “Alvin, nice to see you,” several of them greeted him. They looked kind of embarrassed, seeing how Alvin was in custody. “Not much of a welcome, is it?” said Ruthie Baker, her face grim. “I swan, that Makepeace Smith has bit himself a tough piece of gristle with this mischief.”