Jingo Django (15 page)

When I thought of my pa it was only to hope that he would lead us an everlasting chase. Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones and I would go on traveling the roads together. Maybe for years to come.

I felt mortal sorry for him, though. I had a hornet sting on my neck and three on my arms. But he had to eat his supper standing up.

I awoke in the night. Somewhere in my dreams I thought I heard the
thump-thud-thump
of a one-legged man approaching along the hall.

Now that I was awake I still heard it.

I
sat up. The room was darker'n the inside of a wolf's mouth and I sensed that I was alone. The thumping drew nearer. It stopped outside the room. I'm certain I stopped breathing. The door opened silently and I broke into a fierce sweat.

The door closed and a man was standing in the room with me. I could hear him breathe and fancied I could almost see his black teeth.

“Don't come a step closer!” I said. “I know who you are. You're my pa!”

He didn't answer. He didn't move either. He just kept breathing in the dark.

“You followed us from Matamoros, didn't you?” I declared. “Well, don't think you're going to fetch me off with you!”

I could feel his eyes peering at me through the blackness.

“No, sir,” I rattled on. “I won't go with you. I'm going with Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones. You may be my pa, but he's my
friend.
And he'll be enormous mad if he catches you, sir!”

Not a sound from him.

“Enormous mad! I'm warning you, sir. Get!”

I could hear him shift his weight. He just let me talk and I was talking a blue streak. I couldn't help myself.

“You're no match for him!” I declared stoutly. “No man is — no sir! You'll do yourself a service by making a straight shirttail out of here. Why, he might walk in any second!”

But he wouldn't scare off. I could hear him rustling in his clothes. And then he struck a match.

It wasn't my pa. It was Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones.

“I'm sorry I frightened you,” he muttered, and lit the lamp.

He was carrying a heavy walking stick. I wiped the cold sweat from my face and gazed at him. His jaws were grimly set and his eyes avoided me.

“Mr. Bodger decided to outfit me with this mesquite stick,” he said. “It's noisier than necessary, isn't it?”

“You might have said something,” I answered. “I mistook you for my pa.”

He turned slowly. He spoke in a voice so soft it barely carried. “I am your pa,” he said.

I'm
certain I didn't blink for a full minute. I wanted to believe him, but I couldn't.

“My pa is a one-legged man,” I said.

“No he isn't.”

“He's a gypsy.”

“No. I lived among gypsies. And I married a gypsy girl. Your mother was the most beautiful woman I ever painted. I tried for years to put her out of my mind, but I could paint her still.”

The lamplight flickered about his face and cast a long, roving shadow across the walls. “After she died I wasn't myself for months on end. I thought I didn't want to be burdened with a child. I think now I wanted nothing about me to love, Django. Never again. Not even you. And I did a terrible thing. I told an old horse trader named Claudio to turn you over to the orphan house.”

I gazed at him, but still his eyes avoided me.

“You were five years old. I'm aware of how terrifying it was for you. Claudio's stump leg froze itself in your mind. As the years went by you even blackened his teeth. I had discarded you. That was your way of discarding me.”

I started to speak, but had to clear my throat. The few things I had always believed about my pa were false. The stories I had made up were closer to the truth. “Why didn't you tell me?” I muttered finally. “All these months traveling the roads, and you didn't tell me.”

He stopped at the window and stood gazing into the darkness. “I was planning to wait until we got back to Matamoros. I had to be certain the time was right. I knew I had lost any claim to your regard. I wanted an opportunity to gain it back.”

I stared at him. “Is that why you took me traveling?”

“Your scrimshaw map seemed the perfect excuse. We'd have a chance to get to know each other. If I were lucky,
chavo,
you might get to like me. You might even want to keep traveling the roads with me.”

For the first time his eyes settled on me. But I turned away. He was my pa, and that changed everything.

We stayed in Crooked Elbow another day. I kept to myself. I had to rethink all my
thoughts.
I had spent all the years I could remember thinking of my pa one way and I wasn't certain I could ever think of him another. Mr. Bodger saw that something was bothering me and took it upon himself to cheer me up by talking about the weather.

“Awful hot in these parts, wouldn't you say, lad? But healthy. Awful healthy. Folks live forever around here. Why, we had to shoot a man to start a cemetery.”

And then we left, heading back for Matamoros.

“That horse race money is yours,” Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones said. “You're about old enough to make your own way, if that's what you want.”

It must have been an hour before I replied. “What does a
vardo
cost?”

“I don't think there are any gypsy-style wagons to be had in Matamoros. It would have to be special-made and carved by an expert and painted by an artist.”

“You're an
artiste extraordinaire.”

“Indeed I am. It's an idea.”

“A splendid idea,” I said.

“First rate,” he smiled.

“First rate and a half,” I smiled.

“By thunder, we'll do it!” he laughed.

“Indeed we will!” I laughed.

“The fanciest, brightest gypsy wagon ever drawn by two racehorses!” my father roared.

THE END

If
you've enjoyed this ebook, you may also wish to read the Boston Globe-Horn Book Award winning
HUMBUG MOUNTAIN
, also by Newbery Award-winner Sid Fleischman. The ebook is available from AudioGO.