Read Online A Hanging at Cinder Bottom by Glenn Taylor - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Glenn Taylor
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ear and lit it. He said, “Somebody’s got that carriage loaded with pickled egg jars.”
Sallie hadn’t looked away from Abe. She swung the baby to opposite hipbone. “Samuel!” Sallie called.
“Yes ma’am?” He’d sat down on Abe’s bed and was fixing to recline.
“Go unload the carriage and roll it to the street.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Jake opened the dresser drawer and looked at the newspaper lining. He slid his fingers underneath.
Abe turned, stepped to the dresser, and slammed it shut, Jake pulling clear just in time. “Don’t forget whose room it is now,” Abe told his brother.
The door closed, and they turned, and their mother was gone.
“You got the gold pieces?” Abe asked.
Jake produced a small burlap sack tied with twine.
Abe took it and tossed it on the bed. He retrieved his jacket from the wardrobe, stuck in one arm, and pulled the sleeve inside out. In the silk lining there was a long, buttoned sheath at the seam. He loaded into it, one by one, the little cedar pieces painted gold. They were hand-cut by Jake,just like the saloon’s poker chips. Abe rebuttoned, righted the sleeve and put the jacket back on.
Jake laughed. “Goldie sew that?”
“She is possessed of many talents.”
He opened a vest button and put a hand inside. There, in a seam in the lining, were four slick pockets where he customarily kept two of each bill, one to ten. He took out a five and handed it to Jake. “Just watch you don’t catch Cupid’s plague,” he told him.
Jake smiled. “Whatever you say highpockets.” He shook his head. He admired the insistent spirit with which his younger brother lived. He only hoped that Abe would stay alive long enough to tamp it down, and that tamping it down might buy him a few more years, and that those few years might carry him to the time in a man’s life when he quits carousing, when he’s content to read books again, like he’d done as a boy, and Jake and Abe and Sam might get old together, telling stories about how it is to go bald or to watch your shot-pouch sag to your knees.
“You got any of that Mingo shine?” Jake asked.
Abe shook his head no. “I’ve got to get downstairs.” He took a fresh deck from a stack on the dresser.
“You planning to play at Trent’s hotel?”
“Not tonight.”
“Tomorrow?”
“No.” Abe pulled on his shirt cuffs. “But Jake,” he said, “I might soon play there every day, and if I do, the money willcome back here and up to Hood House both. You can have all the tools and timber you want.” He knew his brother was happiest when he built. “Frame another house on the hill, and down here a proper stage, new card room.”
Jake shook his head. His cigar was burnt out again. “Trent won’t ever give you that,” he said.
“Like hell he won’t.”
After they’d stepped from the bedroom, Abe locked the door again. There was hollering from the storeroom downstairs. They descended.
Sam had dropped a two-gallon jar of pickled eggs. Thick sharp wedges of curled glass sat dead against the cold soak. Brinewater marked the floor in a hundred-point burst. Sam pushed a broom at the eggs, and they rolled, soft and lopsided on the dirty floor, brine-red, some of them split yellow. Sallie had the baby in the emptied maple carriage. She used it like a battering ram to open the swinging door and depart. She didn’t look at any of her boys.
Abe told Sam not to worry. As long as there were chickens, there’d be eggs, and as long as there were eggs, people would pickle them with beets, and the world would be a proper place.
He swung through the door, arrived at the stage in three long strides, and leapt upon it to take his rightful place beside his queen. The men at the foot of the stage nodded to him and he bent to shake the hands of twenty or more, patting their shoulders with his free hand. The week prior,a track liner had told another man that his poker luck had swung high since he’d shaken the hand of the Keystone
Sallie hadn’t looked away from Abe. She swung the baby to opposite hipbone. “Samuel!” Sallie called.
“Yes ma’am?” He’d sat down on Abe’s bed and was fixing to recline.
“Go unload the carriage and roll it to the street.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Jake opened the dresser drawer and looked at the newspaper lining. He slid his fingers underneath.
Abe turned, stepped to the dresser, and slammed it shut, Jake pulling clear just in time. “Don’t forget whose room it is now,” Abe told his brother.
The door closed, and they turned, and their mother was gone.
“You got the gold pieces?” Abe asked.
Jake produced a small burlap sack tied with twine.
Abe took it and tossed it on the bed. He retrieved his jacket from the wardrobe, stuck in one arm, and pulled the sleeve inside out. In the silk lining there was a long, buttoned sheath at the seam. He loaded into it, one by one, the little cedar pieces painted gold. They were hand-cut by Jake,just like the saloon’s poker chips. Abe rebuttoned, righted the sleeve and put the jacket back on.
Jake laughed. “Goldie sew that?”
“She is possessed of many talents.”
He opened a vest button and put a hand inside. There, in a seam in the lining, were four slick pockets where he customarily kept two of each bill, one to ten. He took out a five and handed it to Jake. “Just watch you don’t catch Cupid’s plague,” he told him.
Jake smiled. “Whatever you say highpockets.” He shook his head. He admired the insistent spirit with which his younger brother lived. He only hoped that Abe would stay alive long enough to tamp it down, and that tamping it down might buy him a few more years, and that those few years might carry him to the time in a man’s life when he quits carousing, when he’s content to read books again, like he’d done as a boy, and Jake and Abe and Sam might get old together, telling stories about how it is to go bald or to watch your shot-pouch sag to your knees.
“You got any of that Mingo shine?” Jake asked.
Abe shook his head no. “I’ve got to get downstairs.” He took a fresh deck from a stack on the dresser.
“You planning to play at Trent’s hotel?”
“Not tonight.”
“Tomorrow?”
“No.” Abe pulled on his shirt cuffs. “But Jake,” he said, “I might soon play there every day, and if I do, the money willcome back here and up to Hood House both. You can have all the tools and timber you want.” He knew his brother was happiest when he built. “Frame another house on the hill, and down here a proper stage, new card room.”
Jake shook his head. His cigar was burnt out again. “Trent won’t ever give you that,” he said.
“Like hell he won’t.”
After they’d stepped from the bedroom, Abe locked the door again. There was hollering from the storeroom downstairs. They descended.
Sam had dropped a two-gallon jar of pickled eggs. Thick sharp wedges of curled glass sat dead against the cold soak. Brinewater marked the floor in a hundred-point burst. Sam pushed a broom at the eggs, and they rolled, soft and lopsided on the dirty floor, brine-red, some of them split yellow. Sallie had the baby in the emptied maple carriage. She used it like a battering ram to open the swinging door and depart. She didn’t look at any of her boys.
Abe told Sam not to worry. As long as there were chickens, there’d be eggs, and as long as there were eggs, people would pickle them with beets, and the world would be a proper place.
He swung through the door, arrived at the stage in three long strides, and leapt upon it to take his rightful place beside his queen. The men at the foot of the stage nodded to him and he bent to shake the hands of twenty or more, patting their shoulders with his free hand. The week prior,a track liner had told another man that his poker luck had swung high since he’d shaken the hand of the Keystone
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