Ghosts of the Green Swamp. Lee Gramling

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СКАЧАТЬ and when I went to get my cash box so I could count out their change, they’d ridden off without even waiting for it. I don’t suppose you’ve seen them? Man and a young woman in the company of a large Negro, leading an extra horse? Seems to me they said they meant to be traveling this way.”

      I never seen Baldy make change out of anything but his pockets, and I reckon nobody else had neither. He prob’ly didn’t even own no cash box. But folks was so willin’ to help them poor short-changed travelers get their couple cents back, that they’d rack their brains and call their husbands out’n the fields or their wives an’ young-uns out’n the house, just tryin’ to put together some little piece of information what might help us locate Lila and her companions.

      Upshot of it was, time the shadows was gettin’ long and we’d passed by this place called the Haile Plantation on the way to Arredonda, we was mighty certain them three was still trailin’ south ahead of us, even though with the fadin’ light and the churned-up sand of the road thereabouts it was near impossible to pick up their tracks. ’Peared like they hadn’t gained so awful much distance on us in the meanwhile, neither.

      I’d been ridin’ alongside Perfessor Baldy for a good three, four hours by then, and I’d got to know a heap more about the little gent than I’d ever expected to know — where he come from and what-all he’d done and the places he’d seen. He was a natural-born talker, and any time there weren’t no farmers or travelers close enough for him to do his jawin’ with, it seemed like he’d just got to turn it loose on whoever was handiest. Which happened to be me.

      He’d been born an’ raised away up north in some settlement called Wells River in the state of Vermont. When I ’lowed as how I hadn’t never heard of it, he didn’t act surprised. Said they was a-plenty of native-borned Yankees who never heard of it neither.

      Bein’ the youngest of ten on this li’l rocky farm what couldn’t ever seem to grow food enough for nine, he started out to drift at a pretty young age. Wound up in New York City after a time, doin’ whatever it took to get by, which meant livin’ and workin’ in some pretty rough places. That’s when Baldy discovered he’d got a talent for rasslin’.

      After a couple free-for-alls where there weren’t no more at stake than his own pride an’ survival, he was spotted by these big-city gamblers. It was them who put up the money and set him to rasslin’ professional. With the bettin’ generally heavy against him because of his youth an’ size an’ all, pretty soon he was makin’ a right fair livin’.

      I reckon I looked kind of funny at Baldy whilst he was explaining all this, but he just shrugged an’ grinned. Said something about how it was a long time ago, back before the war.

      He’d signed up for the fightin’ when the call come, same as I did. Only we was on opposite sides. After comparin’ notes, we figured we might even of traded shots a time or two that last day at Gettysburg. There weren’t no hard feelin’s about it though. What’s past is past, and I reckon we both just counted ourselves plumb lucky to of managed to live through it.

      Afterwards he’d kind of got the wanderin’ bug, like a lot of us what lost our youth in that ruckus, and he spent the next five, six years tourin’ the country with travelin’ shows and such-like, offerin’ to rassle all comers for prizes and side bets.

      “But at last I started to get smart,” Baldy said as he guided the mules acrost this li’l crick somewheres west of Gainesville. “I was losing a bit of quickness as I got older, and it seemed like the local boys they’d put up to match me kept growing bigger and faster all the time. I was still winning more often than I lost. But when I did get whipped I’d nothing to show for it but bruises and sprains and a long hard ride to the next settlement. Hell, I even lost money — whatever I’d sprung loose to lay out on side bets.

      “One day I just took a long look in the mirror and said to myself, ’Monk my lad, there’s got to be some easier way of making a living than this!’ …”

      “Monk?”

      It come to me then that I still hadn’t heard my travelin’ companion mention his name. I’d been thinkin’ of him as “Baldy” right along, but without ever sayin’ it to his face. I reckon if I’d had occasion to call him anything, it would of been “Perfessor,” or maybe “Mr. Maximilian.” It sure’s the dickens wouldn’t of been “Monk,” nor nothin’ even close.

      I could tell he’d a idea what I was thinkin’, and that he weren’t generally in the habit of sharin’ that “Monk” handle with ever perfect stranger he met along the road. It just slipped out accidental-like when he weren’t payin’ too close attention.

      He glanced at me real quick an’ funny when I repeated it. Then it was a couple seconds longer before he went on to explain:

      “It’s a nickname from my wrestling days. Based on my size I suppose, together with somebody’s idea of how I move in the ring.”

      After that he didn’t say nothin’ a-tall for a good four, five minutes. Longest I could remember him holdin’ his peace since we’d started out ridin’ together.

      Me, I couldn’t leave good enough alone.

      “Monk Maximilian?” I asked, havin’ to turn my face away to hide the grin I felt spreadin’ out between my ears. I’d already seen how peevish this little gent could get whenever he thought somebody might be laughin’ at him. And here I was, just a frog’s whisker from doin’ it all over again.

      Only this time I had a surprise. ’Cause when ole Baldy-Monk had got through castin’ a sharp look in my direction, he started to get tickled his ownself. Finally he just let out with a great big guffaw and slapped his knee with his free hand.

      “All right, Barkley,” he said, shakin’ his head and grinning fit to kill. “I guess the game is up.” He chuckled some more, and had to take a deep breath before continuing:

      “Martinus Drucker’s the label my ma and pa pinned on me. It’s an honorable name — Grandpa Drucker came to this country after serving as a sergeant in the Napoleonic wars. But different places have different customs, and what a man’s called can have a lot to do with the way local folks act toward him.

      “In New York I started out wrestling under the name of Maxey Dugan, then later as Monk Dugan. In Toronto I was Maxime DuBecq. When I moved south after the war I called myself Marsh Dixon in one place, and Milt Davis the next. One time down in Matamoros, I even won a couple of matches as Manuelito Delgado!

      “In fact,” Baldy went on, lettin’ his grin fade for a instant, “I guess almost the only time I’ve used my real name since leaving home at thirteen, is when I signed on the rolls of the Seventy-First New York. Maybe that’s because I didn’t want the good Lord to have so much trouble recognizing me in case things didn’t work out and I turned up at the Pearly Gates.”

      “So what you’re sayin’ is, this here Perfessor Maximilian handle …”

      “… is as phony as all the rest. Or as real, depending on how you look at it. I’d rather you didn’t go telling that to all the rub—, locals we meet along the way though. Ask yourself: Would you buy a bottle of curative elixir from somebody who called himself just plain Monk Drucker?”

      Well, the honest truth of it was I wouldn’t buy none of that snake oil tonic from the Pharaoh of Egypt hisself if I met him floatin’ down the Nile with his thousand wives an’ concubines, each a-beggin’ me to have a swaller. I’ve tasted them homemade cure-alls time to time, offered to me СКАЧАТЬ