Digital Systems Design Using Verilog 1st Edition Roth Solutions Manual
Digital Systems Design Using Verilog 1st Edition Roth Solutions Manual
Digital Systems Design Using Verilog 1st Edition Roth Solutions Manual
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22. "You could clean it up."
"Me?" She seemed genuinely surprised.
"You and the town council. And the marshal. Maybe he'd need a
deputy or two."
"I don't know. The trouble is that we're making money."
"That's always the trouble. At least, it's always the argument. But
there's a good deal of honest business in town. There's a livery barn
and smithy, a general store, hotel, barber shop, restaurant...."
"Most of those aren't doing very well, Mr. Tesno."
"Has it occurred to you that the saloons and gambling tables are
hurting them?"
"No," she said thoughtfully. "I suppose there's money spent in the
saloons that could be spent elsewhere. But, Mr. Tesno, three of the
members of the council are saloonkeepers. The other is the hotel
man."
"Is Pinky Bronklin on the council?"
"Mr. Bronklin? Yes."
"Mrs. Parker, would you call a meeting of the council and tell them
what I want?"
"There's a meeting of the council tomorrow night."
"Fine. On second thought, I'll tell them myself."
"That's probably best. But what do you want, Mr. Tesno?"
"Midnight and Sunday closing. No booze sold to drunks. No
gambling. That will do for a start."
Persia sighed heavily, then quickly smiled as if amused at herself.
"I've heard those words so often from Ben Vickers. The council has
heard them, too. What makes you think you'll get them to listen?"
"They'll listen," he said.
23. "Maybe they will," she said soberly. "I guess if they'll listen to
anyone, it will be you. I wish you luck."
He grinned his lopsided grin and started to rise, but she was on her
feet ahead of him. She brushed past him, laying a hand on his
shoulder to keep him in his chair.
"I'll get you some brandy," she said. Before he could protest, she
was gone, and he chided himself for the surge of warmth that her
casual touch aroused in him.
She was back at once with a brandy bottle and a glass, saying that
she had neglected her duties as a hostess. She poured him a drink
and sat down again, not having one herself.
"I'm taking up your evening," he said.
"Mr. Tesno, you have a cigar in your pocket. I wish you'd smoke it."
He smoked it, remembering not to chew the end. They talked and
laughed softly and got acquainted. She told him about herself; how
she had grown up in her aunt's Tacoma boarding house, how she
had met Duke Parker there and run away with him. She would have
married anyone, she said (curiously, he thought), who would take
her away from the dawn-to-after-dark routine of cooking, cleaning,
and table-waiting. She spoke, too, of the house Duke had built on
the bluff above Commencement Bay, of sailing parties and picnics
and clam-digging at Gig Harbor.
He might have wearied of such talk from another woman, but he
cherished every word Persia Parker spoke, weighing it for the subtle,
personal message that seemed to be hidden in it. It was as if some
strange, almost mystic accident were giving him a glimpse of a world
he had never known could exist—not the world she spoke about, but
the lovely mysterious world of herself.
At last he rose to leave, reluctantly, the cigar long since discarded.
She went to the door with him. When he had walked a few steps
into the night, he turned, and she was a waving silhouette in the
bright frame of the doorway. Jauntily, he threw her a kiss, wondering
24. if she could see him plainly enough to make out the gesture. She
waved again. The door closed. Picking his way in the thick darkness,
he moved along an unfamiliar path toward the scattered lights of the
main street.
Persia stood frowning at the white surface of the closed door.
Footsteps in the parlor told her that Sam Lester had come in from
the other part of the building. After a moment, she went to meet
him.
"I didn't expect he'd be quite so ... nice," Persia said.
"What did he say?" Sam seemed an emotionless little robot as his
thick lenses caught the light from a lamp.
"He's going to be at the council meeting tomorrow night."
"I don't think so," Sam said.
"Why not? It's best to have him dealing with the council."
"He has to go. It's been decided."
"Why? Is he so fierce? Mr. Madrid took his gun."
"Mr. Jay wasn't impressed," Sam said. "He said Vickers has hired
himself a he-coon." Sam sat down beside the brandy bottle and
poured himself a stiff drink.
"Sam," Persia said, "I wish I owned this town as everyone thinks I
do. I'd cash in and get out. Ben Vickers would pay a pretty price for
it."
"Get out anyhow, Persia."
"No!" she said emphatically. "Not till I can take a lot of money with
me."
"I'd take care of you. You know that."
25. "Please, Sam. Don't start that."
She sat down at the far end of the sofa to avoid looking into the
thick lenses. She didn't want to hurt his feelings. He was forty—an
old forty—and she was twenty-three. He was a dull, ugly little man;
a twenty-dollar-a-week bookkeeper when Duke had picked him up.
But he was smart about accounts and legal documents. And he was
loyal. He protected her from any shenanigans Mr. Jay might have in
mind.
Mr. Jay and Duke had been partners of a sort, although this had
been a tightly kept secret. The townsite papers were in Duke's
name; but it had been Mr. Jay's money that had built the town and
he had put himself firmly in control by tying Duke up with notes and
contracts and such. Duke had found himself a mere front—just as
she was now, passing Mr. Jay's decisions on to the council as if they
were her own. She, Sam, and Mr. Madrid, and possibly Mr. Pinky
Bronklin, were the only ones who knew this.
Mr. Jay's determination was sometimes frightening. He meant to
take over Ben Vickers' contract, and he wanted as wild and dirty a
town as possible in order to slow down the work. Some of Vickers'
key men had been drugged or beaten. Without coming right out and
saying so, Sam had made it clear that Mr. Jay had arranged these
incidents. Oh, it was all a pretty rotten business, but there was a
chance to make money here, a chance a woman didn't often get.
She thought of that boarding house in Tacoma and shuddered. She
would die before she went back there.
All the income from rents, leases, and the sale of real estate was
going to pay off Duke's debt to Mr. Jay. The only thing in the clear
was a three-quarter interest in the Pink Lady, which was in Persia's
name and not part of Duke's estate. Since the town paid her living
expenses out of tax money, she was able to put aside this income
from the saloon each month. It was a tidy little sum but not enough
to make a person rich—not in the year or so of existence the town
had left.
26. Her great hope was that Mr. Jay would take over the tunnel contract
soon. He could then come out in the open and he would buy the
township proprietorship from Duke's estate, writing off the debts and
putting up a tidy bit of cash besides. He would also buy the Pink
Lady. And thanks to Sam Lester, Persia had this agreement in
writing.
Sam set down his glass and refilled it. "You're honest enough with
me, Persia. I'm grateful for that."
Before he could go on, she switched the subject back to Tesno.
"Sam, how are they going to get rid of him?"
"There's nothing we can do about it."
"Sam, I want to know."
"They're going to put him in the hospital."
"I won't have that!" Persia sat up straight. "I ... I'll see Mr. Jay first
thing in the morning!"
Sam sipped his drink. "Persia, I never wanted to marry, but now—"
"Sam, please!" She spoke harshly, sharply. Then she smiled and said
softly, "Please."
Sam sighed, drained his glass, and looked speculatively at the bottle.
"Forget about seeing Mr. Jay in the morning. It will happen tonight.
It's probably happening right now."
Persia found herself on her feet, hurrying to the door. There she
stopped, frowning thoughtfully.
"There's nothing anybody can do," Sam said from the parlor.
Then she went back to the sofa and sat down. Sam spoke tonelessly.
"Madrid took his gun; now some money fighter is going to put him in
the hospital. It will be a joke around town, Mr. Jay said, all that
happening to the big troublebuster the first night he gets in town. It
won't be too bad, I guess, Persia. Maybe it's all over by now. Put it
out of your mind."
27. "Yes." She gave a curious little shrug. "Put it out of my mind. There's
nothing else to do."
They sat in silence for a time. Then she said, "Sam, if we went away
from here, where would we go?"
28. IV
The main street was an empty, lonely place in spite of the humming
bright tunnels of the town's saloons. Tesno stepped off the
boardwalk into the dark river of the street, angling toward a dim
white globe with HOTEL lettered on it. The pasty-faced night clerk
looked up from a game of solitaire as he entered the cluttered lobby.
The air was heavy with stale smoke and the smell of unpainted
wood.
"I had your saddlebags and blanket roll brought down from the
livery," the clerk said, slapping Tesno's key on the desk. "And, oh, a
Mr. Warren wanted to see you. He said to tell you he'd be at the Pink
Lady. That's a saloon."
"Warren? Did he say what he wanted?"
"He said Mr. Vickers' sent him."
Tesno muttered thanks. He stood toying with his key, then dropped
it on the desk and wheeled back into the night. He quickly walked
the short block to the Pink Lady, passing no one, not liking the
darkness of the town.
The saloon was full, the jangle of the piano half-smothered by the
roar of voices, the clink of glasses and faro checks, the whir and
clatter of a wheel of fortune. But as he paused inside the batwings,
squinting against the stale brightness, the noise ebbed. Heads
turned toward him, then cautiously away. And he knew at once
something was in the air.
He sauntered on into the place. A little Irishman turned away from
the bar and hissed at him as he passed.
"Watch it, Bucko."
29. Tesno nodded at the man, who looked vaguely familiar. So I walked
into it, he thought. They set me up, and I walked into it. It would be
a fight, he guessed. Otherwise the crowd wouldn't know, wouldn't
be waiting for a show. Some hired tough had been bragging himself
up to it, probably, mouthing off about some pretended grudge.
Men made a place for him at the bar, and he took it. Pinky Bronklin
slid up and laid his pincerlike hand on the wood. He looked
downright cheerful.
"Man named Warren asked me to meet him here," Tesno said. "You
know him?"
Pinky shook his head. The white scar glistened on his flushed face.
"You want a drink?"
"I'll have a cigar."
Pinky moved away. Tesno turned casually away from the bar. A huge
blond man with a broken nose got up from a table and swaggered
toward the bar. Tesno made room for him but still got an elbow in
the ribs. The man was half a head taller than Tesno's six feet,
outweighed him by forty pounds.
Silence clamped the room now. Even the piano had stopped. Pinky
came up with a box of cigars. Tesno took five, laid a quarter on the
bar.
"Beer," the big man said. He turned to Tesno, looked him over,
grinned. There was a tooth missing from the grin.
"Your name Warren?" Tesno said, biting off the end of a cigar.
"This here is Hobo Hobson," Pinky said, setting a bottle of beer on
the bar. "Hobo, meet Mr. Tesno."
"I figured this was him," Hobson said loudly. "He killed a friend of
mine at Pend Oreille. Shot him in the back."
"Not so!" A high-pitched voice came from near the door, and Tesno
saw that the little Irishman had stepped out from the crowd. "I was
30. there. Ace Gandy was blazing away with a revolver when he died.
Tesno took a slug in the leg before he even fired."
Someone pulled the man back. Hobson faced the bar as if to pick up
his beer; instead, he swung at Tesno's head with a vicious
backhanded blow. Tensed for something of the kind, Tesno stepped
back. Hobson's hand missed its target but sent the cigar flying from
Tesno's mouth.
"My fault," Tesno said mildly, giving the man room.
Hobson's grin was broader than ever. A shock of blond hair had
fallen across his forehead, and he seemed more animal than man. A
stand-up-and-swing, stomp-a-man-when-he's-down fighter, Tesno
thought. A bear-hugger and an eye-gouger. But a man who
depended on his own monstrous strength and fighting knowledge
rather than on weapons. Not the sort to pull a knife or a Henry D.
"It seems this Tesno backs away from a fight when he ain't got a
gun," Hobson said.
"Depends," Tesno said. He sent his glance over the crowd, which
had coagulated into a half circle. In front of a faro table near the far
wall, he spotted Madrid's barber-pole shirt. He raked a match across
his rump and lighted another cigar.
"Who sent you?" he asked Hobson.
"Sent me? Sent me where?"
"I've seen back-country pros before. You're a Sunday-afternoon pug,
a winner-take-all man who doesn't fight for fun. Who's paying you?"
"You killed a friend of mine. That's enough."
Hobson tipped up the bottle of beer, drank deeply, set it down.
Tesno laid his cigar on the edge of the bar.
Hobson took one leisurely step forward, then charged, lashing out
with his great fists. Throwing up his hands to guard his head, Tesno
turned sideways and aimed his left foot at Hobson's left knee. He
took a sledgehammer blow on the shoulder that knocked him off
31. balance, but not till he had got his boot sole against the knee.
Twisting with his weight against it, he felt the kneecap slide out of
place.
Hobson gave a strange little yelp of pain. Stumbling, he grabbed his
knee with both hands. Tesno was on him like a cat, seizing him by
the hair, hauling him forward. Then he plunged his own knee into
the man's face to send him careening into a poker table and off it to
the floor in an avalanche of cards and chips. Dazed and awkward,
bleeding from his mouth, Hobson struggled to get to his feet. Tesno
caught him at the base of the skull with a short brutal rabbit-punch
that dropped him open-mouthed and motionless in the filthy
sawdust of the floor.
For a moment, nothing broke the silence. Then someone cursed
reverently. "God! God almighty damn!" And a rooster cry rose from
the end of the bar—the little Irishman, no doubt.
Tesno sauntered to the bar and stuck the cigar between his teeth.
"Some of you boys pick him up," he said. "Lug him to the jail."
The little Irishman broke from the crowd, gesturing to others. Four
of them turned Hobo Hobson on his back preparatory to lifting him.
But Pete Madrid stood over them, muttering something, and they
straightened. Madrid faced Tesno tensely.
"Who in hell do you think you are?" Madrid said. "You've no
authority to jail a man."
"I want him locked up for the night. And a doctor had better look at
him. We'll use the town jail, Marshal."
"You'll use it. You and Hobson both."
"Maybe you haven't got the straight of it," Tesno said. "I tried to
back off. Every man here witnessed it."
Madrid's hand made a snake-strike at his hip and came up with his
revolver. He gestured toward the door with it and said, "Get moving,
cowboy."
32. The cigar had gone out, and Tesno relighted it. Madrid aimed the
gun at Tesno's feet. "Walk to jail or go there crippled. It makes no
difference to me."
Tesno headed for the door, swaggering a little, puffing the cigar. As
he passed Madrid, he said, "This is the second mistake you've made
today, Marshal."
The marshal's office was in a squat log building at the foot of the
street. Tesno entered it first. Madrid followed and turned up a low-
burning lamp in a wall bracket. The jail was a single cell at the rear
of the office. Its iron-bound wooden door stood open. Tesno stopped
beside a flat-top desk in the center of the room. The men from the
saloon lugged Hobson past him and deposited him on a bunk in the
cell. He was still out cold.
"He needs a doctor," Tesno said.
Madrid still held the revolver. He made no reply except to gesture
toward the cell with it. Tesno stepped inside the cell and pulled the
door shut behind him. He peered out through the small barred
window in the door.
Madrid waved the men who had carried Hobson to one side. "Step
back from the door," he said to Tesno.
Tesno backed up two short steps. Madrid holstered his gun and
moved forward to lock the cell, which was fitted with a hasp and
staple. A huge padlock with the key in it hung from the staple.
Tesno raised his hands and plunged into the door. It smashed into
the marshal, knocking the padlock from his hand as he staggered
backward. Tesno dived into him, seizing his gun hand as it flashed to
his hip, driving him hard into a corner of the desk, falling on top of
him as he hit the floor.
Tesno was quickly on his feet, the marshal's gun in his hand. Madrid
lay on his back, hurt by his collision with the desk, struggling noisily
for wind. Tesno seized him by the heels, dragged him roughly into
33. the cell, snapped the lock into place. The little Irishman burst into a
high-pitched laugh.
"Now who ever heard of such a thing? He jailed the marshal."
"Get a doctor, Mike."
"Only one's at Vickers' camp."
"Get him. I'll be back at the Pink Lady."
He yanked open desk drawers till he found his own revolver and
gunbelt. He buckled it on, feeling weariness rise in him like a quick-
acting drug, wanting nothing so much as his hotel room and its bed.
But it was necessary now to show himself back at the saloon, to buy
these men a drink. That was the way the game was played. You
came in tough. And you swaggered a little for the crowd.
34. V
"Stupid, stupid, stupid!" Mr. Jay said when he answered the knock
on the door of his suite at the hotel.
"Take it easy," Pete Madrid said, pushing past him. "I'm the one who
got hurt."
Mr. Jay's beard jerked angrily. "Did you have to come straight here?
Don't you know he'll be watching you?"
"I'm not that stupid. He's having breakfast at the restaurant."
They went into Mr. Jay's little parlor. Madrid eased himself into a
chair. Mr. Jay stood glaring at him.
"So he let you out. Hobson too?" Mr. Jay said.
"He and Hobson are having breakfast together."
"Will Hobson talk?"
"Maybe. But all he can say is that Pinky promised him ten dollars if
he'd break some bones. Pinky had a grudge from back in Idaho, so
there's nothing to point to anybody else."
Mr. Jay considered that. When he spoke, his tone was milder. "We've
all been stupid. We underestimated the man. How bad are you
hurt?"
"Busted rib. It isn't so bad since Doc strapped me up."
"Vickers' doctor?"
Madrid nodded. "I can still draw a gun."
Mr. Jay's beard jerked sternly. "We won't have any of that."
"Seems like the only way left."
35. "It's what we should have done in the first place, maybe. But after
what's happened it would be too raw. We'd have the railroad down
on us, the county sheriff up here. No, for the time being well play
Tesno's game."
"That means a clean-up."
"We'll go through the motions. We'll enforce a curfew for a while,
send a few gamblers packing. The important thing is for us to do it,
not him."
Madrid scowled, as if he didn't understand or didn't agree. Mr. Jay
walked to a window and stared out, hands behind his back.
"In the meantime," Mr. Jay said, "you're to get along with him. He's
top-dogged you, and you're going to have to live with it. Do you
understand that?"
"I try to get along with everybody," Madrid said. "It makes things
easier."
Mr. Jay turned his back to the window, moving in the quick irritable
way that he had. He studied the marshal a moment, then he sighed.
His manner suddenly became paternal.
"You're young, Pete—which is a polite way of saying you're a fool.
Pride, being top dog, paying off a grudge, these things are a waste
of energy unless there's money involved. Maybe you'll learn that
some day." Mr. Jay faced the window again, looking across the patch
of woods toward Vickers' camp. "If you live long enough."
Tesno found Ben Vickers at the tunnel. Ben had heard about his
jailing the marshal and was in a jubilant mood. After he had slapped
Tesno's back innumerable times, they entered the portal and he
enthusiastically explained his method of tunneling.
There were a lot of niceties to it, but the basis was the digging of an
eight-foot heading in advance of the lower part of the bore. Shoring
36. was put in behind the heading crew, then replaced by another set of
timbers as the bench was removed.
"Most expensive procedure ever devised for tunneling through rock,"
Ben said, grinning. "But damn it, it's the fastest, too. At least in
theory. In practice—well, we have to get those Ingersoll drills
working, that's all."
When they emerged from the dim, dust-filled chamber, the world
had taken on a strange new vividness, Tesno thought. The
panorama of men and horses at work on the side cuts seemed a
distant creation. The sunlight itself and the nagging mountain wind
had a foreign quality. It was as if he had strayed onto some
unsuspected reality that he could observe but never be a part of.
He noticed that the slashing was in progress in the timber high
above, and he remembered hearing that the railroad would use a
switchback over the mountain till the tunnel was completed. He
asked Ben who was building it.
"Three different contractors," Ben said. "I have a piece on this side.
Mr. Jay has one of the far sections."
It seemed a cumbersome, impatient bit of railroading. And in that
curious moment of detachment, Tesno felt that he was watching a
race of madmen at play. Obsessed with money and mechanics, they
wouldn't rest till they had driven steel toys over this ragged sea of
mountains to a remote corner of the land. And why? Was it really an
accomplishment to bring the thing called civilization to Puget Sound?
"All this to reach a little bay tucked away between the fingers of land
on the West Coast." The thought amused him and he laughed aloud.
"What's funny?" Ben demanded.
Tesno grinned uncomfortably. "Sort of a private joke."
Ben shot him an impatient look and went to consult with a pair of
engineers who were studying a diagram, holding it between them
with their backs to the wind. Hearing a chuckle behind him, Tesno
37. turned and found himself confronting a tall, hawk-faced man leaning
on a shovel.
"A gun tough who's a philosopher," the workman said. "Now that is
something."
"And a shovel bum with educated diction. That's something, too."
The man hesitated, then extended his hand. He was bone thin, a
little stooped, and his smile was sad. "Name's Dave Coons. Itinerant
actor, confidence man, peddlar, phrenologist, and what have you.
Currently a shovel bum, doing a bit of soul-saving on the side."
Tesno shook hands without heartiness. "A preacher?"
"Somebody has to carry the word to these poor bastards." Coons
waved a hand to indicate the workmen around him.
"And take up a collection?"
"No. I sweat for my pay like everybody else. Mostly I just sit in a
corner of the bunkhouse and talk about God. Those who want to
listen join me. There are damn few, of course."
"You don't talk like a preacher."
"I make it a point not to. I've been known to get a snootful, too, and
last week, I had a fist fight with a heckler. He thumped the daylights
out of me. You here to boss Tunneltown?"
"Depends," Tesno said.
"The booze is rotten and the games crooked. The town brings
Vickers' payroll right back to him."
"What do you mean by that?"
"He and the Parker girl are in together, aren't they?"
"Then why would he hire me?"
"How do I know? He's a cagey man."
"You're badly informed," Tesno said. "Tunneltown is a thorn in his
side. It's slowing down his operation and he wants it cleaned up."
38. Coons' hollow-set black eyes were skeptical. "I'll believe it when I
see it," he muttered.
"Believe what you please," Tesno growled.
He started to turn away, but Coons drew himself up with mock
solemnity, placed a hand against his chest and recited:
"'Oh, it is excellent To have a giant's strength; but it is tyrannous To
use it like a giant."
He smiled and said, "Nice to meet you, Mr. Tesno. I have a feeling I'll
be seeing you later." He wandered off, shovel on his shoulder, and
joined a crew working on a small fill.
Ben came up, his eyes following Coons.
"What did that crackpot want?"
"I don't know," Tesno said.
"He usually has complaints about the food or working conditions. He
considers himself a spokesman for the men. That kind can make
trouble."
"I liked the man," Tesno muttered.
He rode back to camp alone, letting the company mule pick its way
down a steep trail that clung to the gulch wall. Ben was a slave-
driver, he thought. What successful contractor wasn't? Somewhere in
the process of clawing and gambling his way up from the ranks, he
had lost the capacity to understand a man who sat around the
bunkhouse and talked about God. We were all crackpots, Tesno
thought, each man in his own way.
He left the mule at the company corral, lunched at the cookhouse,
and made the short walk to town. He found the saloons already busy
with cooks, freighters, and a few night-shift men having a midday
drink or a try at the games. He counted fifteen faro tables in town,
not all of them operating at this hour. He spotted one game that was
definitely crooked and he suspected there were more.
39. He visited the Pink Lady last, finding Madrid at the bar in
conversation with Pinky Bronklin. They drew apart as he
approached, and customers turned to watch.
Tesno stepped a few feet away, glad of a chance to face the marshal
before witnesses. Madrid was freshly shaved and had put on a clean
shirt. This one had broad green stripes. Its sleeves were encircled by
red garters.
"My god," Tesno said. "You look like a Christmas tree."
"What's the matter with a little style?" Madrid said defensively. His
tone was not that of a man looking for a showdown.
"Black is for corpses," Pinky muttered. His eyes raked Tesno. "It will
look nice on you."
"Hobson sang, Pinky," Tesno said, stepping up to the bar.
"What's that to me?"
"You know what it is, but I'll say it. You paid him to pick a fight."
"He said that? He's a liar," Pinky said.
"I'll bring him in here. You can say it to his face."
"No chance of that," Madrid put in. "Hobson left town. Took the
Ellensburg stage." The marshal swung away and idled over to a faro
game.
Tesno eyed Pinky silently.
"Hobson lied," Pinky said desperately. "He must be covering for
somebody else."
"You protest too much," Tesno said.
He caught Pinky by the hair, pulled him forward, and slapped him
resoundingly on one cheek and then the other. He suddenly shoved
him away and Pinky staggered into the back bar.
The customers watched in silence. Madrid made no move; he
scarcely looked up from the faro game. Pinky glared, his face
40. flushed. There would be a gun behind the bar somewhere, Tesno
thought. But the saloonkeeper made no attempt to go for it. Tesno
spun on his heel and walked out of the saloon. As he pushed
through the swinging doors, there was a tide of low talk and uneasy
laughter. A muffled comment met his ears:
"Damned high-handed troublebuster! Due for a takedown."
Loneliness stung him like a mountain wind as his bootheels
drummed the boardwalk. Pinky had got off easy. Didn't the crowd
understand that? The words Dave Coons had quoted rang in his
memory:
Oh, it is excellent
To have a giant's strength; but it is tyrannous
To use it like a giant.
Tyrant, he called himself. Damned high-hander! And Ben Vickers is a
slave-driver. And Coons a crackpot. And we are all working hard at it.
As he reached the hotel, someone called his name from across the
street. It was Whisky Willie Silverknife, who fell into a dog-trot and
arrived waving a folded paper.
"M-m-message for you. From M-Miss Persia."
Tesno had the note unfolded by the time Willie got the words out.
Dear Mr. Tesno:
The council meeting is at seven. Will you join me for dinner
afterward?
Persia Parker
"S-she s-said to t-tell me yes or n-no," Willie said.
"How come you're running her errands?"
"I hit her for a j-job, like you s-said." Willie blushed under his
freckles. "She d-didn't have one, not right away, b-but she s-said
maybe she'd think of s-something. She s-said if I was b-broke, which
41. I am, to come around to the k-kitchen for m-meals. After l-lunch she
g-gave me that n-note."
Willie slid the flask from his hip pocket and took a short drink. Tesno
re-read the note, searching for the sound of Persia's voice in every
word.
"Tell her yes."
Willie nodded, taking a deep breath to chase the whisky. "She's r-
right interested in you. When she found out I rode up here with you,
she asked all about you. I told her when I first s-seen you, you was
laying in the grass naked as a p-pup p-possum."
Tesno gave him a murderous look. Willie grinned.
"She l-laughed like hell," he said.
42. VI
The council meeting took place in a large, unpainted room in the
townhouse. Persia presided, just as if she were the legitimate mayor.
She sat at one end of a table, wearing a dark serge suit and looking
both businesslike and beautiful. Sam Lester sat at the other end,
inscrutable behind the crystal mask of his spectacles. The four
council members sat in between. Tesno drew up a chair to one side
of Persia.
He listened impatiently while the members quibbled over the
location of a town watering trough. A rasp-voiced man named Parris,
who operated the hotel, did most of the talking. The three
saloonkeeping councilmen kept glancing at Persia as if she would
make the decision and the debate was a mere formality. Pinky
Bronklin sat with his talonlike hand on the table where all could see
it and said hardly a word.
Persia introduced Tesno with some little formality. He stated his
demands as concisely as possible. He tried to avoid a dictatorial
tone, yet he made it clear that one way or another he intended to
see a drastic change in the town. When he had finished, the
saloonkeepers sat sullenly quiet. It was Mr. Parris who spoke up, and
he was angry.
"I agree that we could stand some improvement around here," he
said. "But to request co-operation is one thing, to tell us what to do,
another. Begging your pardon, Persia, I move that we tell Mr. Tesno
to go to hell and then face our problems in our own way."
"That'll suit me fine, if you will face them," Tesno said. "But you'll
clean up or I will. Take your choice."
"You'll clean up! Have you forgotten there's law in the land—and in
this town. And it's on our side!" Mr. Parris slapped the table and
43. glared.
"Law?" Tesno said icily. "You were elected by the drifting labor that
built this town. You run a town full of thugs and card sharks. And
you talk about law! Bring it on, Mr. Parris. While you're doing it, I'll
close your town down tight. And I'll guarantee you you'll wind up
with your charter pulled out from under you!"
"This won't do," Persia said. "You two agree that we ought to do
something. Mr. Tesno is willing to let us do it in our own way—
provided we do get results. Right, Mr. Tesno?"
"Right," he said.
"Then I don't see what you are arguing about. Mr. Tesno, now that
you've told us what you want, would you mind leaving us and letting
us thrash this out?"
"Fair enough," he said.
She had spoken crisply, almost hostilely. Now she said with a smile
and in an entirely different tone, "Wait in my parlor."
He followed a long hall that led to the other part of the house. He
entered the parlor and sat down to wait, musing about his abrupt
dismissal. He had the impression that Tunneltown council meetings
were little more than a mockery, that the members gathered to
receive instructions rather than to make their own decisions. Even
Mr. Parris had seemed to be arguing out of mere cantankerousness
and not with any real hope of seeing his views prevail if Persia was
against them.
Probably Persia was now telling them exactly how far they would go
in co-operating with him. Or would it be Sam Lester who was doing
the telling? That Lester was a power behind the throne seemed a
real possibility. In any case, the council was a convenient device to
avoid the pinpointing of responsibility on an individual.
Annoyed, he strolled into the dining room and poured himself a glass
of brandy from a bottle on the sideboard. He could hear voices in
the kitchen—Stella's and a stammering tenor that could belong only
44. to Willie Silverknife. Returning to the parlor, he lighted a cigar and
sat sipping the strong and fragrant liquor.
Persia appeared sooner than he expected. She was alone, and he
wondered if Sam Lester would join them later. She insisted on
getting him another brandy, and she poured herself a glass of wine,
which she scarcely touched.
"You're going to get your blue-nosed town," she said gayly. "All I ask
from you, Mr. Tesno, is a small amount of patience."
He frowned, but before he could reply she went on.
"We passed a couple of ordinances. Midnight closing. No liquor sold
to drunks. We also agreed that a one-man police force isn't
adequate, so we're going to hire a deputy. Satisfied?"
"How about the gambling?"
"That's where the patience comes in."
He shook his head. "The gambling has to go, Persia."
She smiled at him very slightly, as she might at a stubborn child. "I
suppose you'll have your way, but, I shouldn't tell you this, Jack, but
I will." She used his first name so naturally that he didn't notice for
an instant. "Duke had to borrow heavily to build Tunneltown. He left
me broke and in debt. The town brings in quite a little money now—
though maybe not as much as most people think. But when I've
made a monthly payment on the debts, there's very little left. If the
town didn't give me my living expenses, I could scarcely get by. Now
if the gambling goes, at least two saloons will have to close. If I lose
the money from those leases, I'm ruined. There won't even be
enough even to make the payments to my creditors."
He made a small gesture of helplessness. "The last thing I want to
do is hurt you. But the gambling...."
"If we could just have a little time, we might find other kinds of
business that would lease those buildings."
45. "It isn't my time to give away," he said. "It's Ben's. And he hasn't got
much of it. How much do you need?"
"I've no idea."
"The crooked gamblers have to go right now along with the rest of
the riffraff. There can be no delay about that."
She nodded to this. "If I'd had my way, they'd have gone long ago."
"Don't you always have your way, Persia?"
She seemed mildly startled. She gave a little shrug. "How do you tell
which are crooked?"
"I can spot them for you."
"Jack, please. Keep out of it entirely. I ... I can't have Vickers' man
butting in. You can understand that."
"Yes." It stung him to have her call him somebody else's man,
though it wouldn't have bothered him if another person had said it.
She seemed to sense that he was hurt, and she gave him a long,
sympathetic, almost maternal look. She didn't speak, and it pleased
him to feel a communication between them that needed no words.
They would put aside their differences now and speak of other
things.
"I'll tell Stella we're ready for dinner," she said.
As she passed his chair, she laid her hand on his shoulder as she had
the night before. Now he laid his over it. She stopped beside him,
and her eyes were gold-flecked as they caught the lamplight, and
she squeezed his fingers and moved away.
Hours later when she had gone to the door with him, he touched her
arms and drew her to him. She came against him willingly, her arms
slid around him, but she turned her head to avoid his kiss. She
buried her face against his shoulder, and he laid his cheek against
her hair.
46. "Persia," he said, "I've known little in life except roughness. You
represent something that I didn't know could exist for me."
She pushed firmly away. "I've been a widow less than three months,
Jack. I've no right to listen to such talk. Not now."
Her face was faintly flushed, her eyes dancing. Her smile carried a
reprimand and a promise that was as old as womankind.
"You leave right now, Mr. Tesno," she said.
"I'll see you tomorrow?" he said.
"Yes!" she whispered. "Yes!"
She closed the door the instant he was over the threshold. He stood
there a long moment, sure that she, too, was waiting only inches
away. His fingers touched the doorknob, then fell to his side. He
drew the restless night air deeply into his lungs and walked into the
darkness.
Off to the west, lightning shattered the sky, and the town leaped
fleetingly into being. Thunder pulsed distantly, and, swelling, rolled
into the gulch.
47. VII
Tesno circled the buckboard in the wide street and pulled it up
parallel to the hitchrail in front of the Pink Lady. Not liking his errand,
he swung slowly out of the seat and fussed over the tying of the
team.
As always, Tunneltown depressed him. Midnight closing was
observed now, but rather loosely. As far as he knew, only one
gambler had been invited to leave, and he, Tesno suspected, had
been cheating the house. Aside from a sarcastic quip or two about
the council's half-hearted progress in doing what it had agreed to
do, Ben Vickers had said nothing. But there were signs that his
patience was nearing its end.
Tesno vaulted the hitchrail and moved toward the open doorway, the
hum and stench of the saloon setting his nerves on edge. A voice
called his name, and he found himself gaping at the figure
approaching along the boardwalk.
"Howdy," Whisky Willie Silverknife said. He was wearing a black vest
with a star pinned on it. He was grinning from ear to ear. The star
flashed mirror-bright in the afternoon sun.
"Howdy," Tesno said.
"I got me a d-d-deputy m-marshal job."
"I see. When did you start?"
"L-last night. Not that I arrested anyb-body yet."
"Madrid hire you?"
"Yes. Miss P-Persia had it all fixed." Willie frowned. "I d-don't know
how I'm going to get along with Madrid. I mean, he d-don't give me
instruction or anything. He says, 'Sit on your d-duff, d-draw your p-
48. pay, k-keep your mouth shut and your nose c-clean.' Mr. Tesno, c-
could I have a t-talk with you?"
"About what?"
"I want to l-learn this b-business of b-being a p-p-peace officer."
"I've got a chore to do right now," Tesno said. "How about
tomorrow?"
"F-fine. I'm off d-duty in the morning."
Willie's hand slid around to his hip and came up with the flask he
carried there. It was filled with a colorless liquid, of which he took a
long swig.
"Lemon soda," he said, licking his lips. "Miss Persia says st-stammer
or not, a deputy can't go around nipping whisky all day."
He seemed to be completely serious, and Tesno suppressed a laugh.
"Does it work as well?"
"Miss Persia says it will. She says the important thing is to w-wet my
wh-wh-whistle."
Persia hand-picked this kid for the job, Tesno thought. Why? He
said, "See you tomorrow," and pushed on into the saloon. He stood
blinking after the bright sunlight of the street, searching the big, dim
room till he spotted Vickers' general superintendant, Keef O'Hara,
who was seated alone at a back table behind a bottle and glass.
O'Hara was a tall, muscular man with wild gray hair and wild blue
eyes. When he was sober, he had an air of competence and of
bouyant energy that commanded respect. Now he sat slumped
forward on one elbow, slack-faced and limp.
"And what'll the trouble-man be wanting?" he said when Tesno
approached. "Surely it'll not be whisky with the dew still on the grass
and the sun scarce clear of the ridgetops. Only the Irish drink at this
hour."
49. "It's three in the afternoon, Keef," Tesno said. He pulled out a chair
and sat down across the table.
O'Hara sighed alcoholically and poured himself a fresh drink. "And
ye've come to sober me up for the night shift, eh, laddy-buck? I
might've expected it. What Ben Vickers can't do himself, he sets his
man to."
"Ben didn't send me, Keef. Far as he knows, you're asleep in your
cabin." Tesno extended a hand to restrain O'Hara from lifting his
glass. "Time to break it off now, get some coffee."
"I can stand another nip or two, lad." O'Hara slyly transferred his
drink to his other hand and sloughed it down. "Don't ye know I've
been working all night?"
"I know. You and a bottle. You're due back on the job in three hours,
and you've had no sleep."
O'Hara stared belligerently and reached for the bottle. Tesno beat
him to it and kept it out of his reach. The superintendant seemed
about to leap for Tesno's throat, then he was suddenly meek.
"Keef O'Hara a slave to the demon rum! 'Tis a sad end for a man."
"Keef, you've bossed tricky construction jobs all over the world. If
your skill was ever needed, it's here and now. You know what Ben's
up against. Now let's get out of here and sober up."
"Lad, why do you think I signed on with Ben Vickers?... For the same
reason half the terriers came up here. We're a breed apart, lad—
superintendant or shovel bum. We can't live with civilization. We're
boozers or fighters or skirt-chasers or wife-beaters or all of those.
Try to live in a town and we wind up in jail or sick or dead. So we
seek out a camp where there's work and good air and no
temptation, where a man can sweat off the blubber and save his pay
and be at peace with himself. And what did they do to us here
amidst the wildest mountains in the land? They built a town! A fine
manner of town with all the temptations...."
50. Tesno stood up impatiently. "We've finished with the preliminaries,
Keef. Now we're going back to camp."
O'Hara got to his feet, drawing himself up straight. His big frame
teetered and he almost fell. "I'll fight ye another day, Bucko," he
said. "When the spirits are better and I've not been the night on the
job."
He allowed himself to be led away.
At the far end of the bar a nattily dressed little man drained his glass
of buttermilk and dabbed at his beard with a silk handkerchief. Pinky
Bronklin removed the empty glass.
"J. Keef O'Hara," Mr. Jay said, tucking the handkerchief into his
breast pocket. "He's still the best engineer in the Northwest. I'll
wager he's the only man here who's had experience with
compressed air drills."
"Except you, Mr. Jay," Pinky said.
"Except me," Mr. Jay said.
That evening Tesno had dinner with Persia, as he often did now.
Sam Lester was there, too, and he spent the whole time with them
instead of returning to his office when the meal was finished. He sat,
sipped brandy, read a newspaper; once in a while he even entered
the conversation. When they had moved into the parlor and were
sipping brandy, Persia mentioned that they had put on a new deputy.
"I know," Tesno said. "I'm wondering why you picked Willie."
"The council thought him suitable."
"He said you recommended him."
Persia shrugged. "He's a nice boy. He seems qualified."
"A breed kid who stutters?"
51. "What do you mean?"
"He's part Indian."
"He's not a reservation Indian. He's a citizen, and—"
"Then you did know," Tesno said.
"He doesn't look Indian," Sam put in. "He'll be all right if he keeps
his mouth shut."
"If you know him at all, you know he won't," Tesno said. "And that
bottle of lemon pop! Seems to me you went out of your way to pick
a man nobody will listen to."
"You wanted a deputy," Sam grumbled. "The town will be better
patrolled. Aren't you ever satisfied?"
"Never!" Persia said, laughing. "That's one of the things I like about
him." Her eyes sought his, and they were amused and affectionate
and possessive. "How about a game of three-handed euchre?" she
said.
52. VIII
Tesno was rousted out of bed the next morning by Ben Vickers, who
had spent a good part of the night translating his troubles into
arithmetic. He was waving a sheaf of papers which recorded exactly
how bad things were going in terms of dollars and cents, mean feet,
and work days.
Among other things, the figures spelled out what everybody knew
already: with every day of hand drilling, the odds against the tunnel
being finished on time went up. The huge boiler necessary to the
use of compressed air still hadn't arrived at end of track. Even when
it did, there would be the slow and tricky problem of dragging it
forty miles into the mountains.
"What I want you to do is get down to Ellensburg and get on the
telegraph," Ben said. "Find out where that thing is. And on the way,
study the road. Figure out where the trouble spots are going to be.
Maybe we can save time by doing some grading, building a bridge or
two."
Tesno agreed grumpily, wondering why Ben couldn't send somebody
else. When Ben had left, he dressed leisurely and went down to the
restaurant for a late breakfast. The thought of the long ride and
several days away from Tunneltown didn't appeal to him. He lingered
for a time over coffee and a cigar, wondering at his own reluctance
to get started, thinking that he might stop by and see Persia before
he left.
He had returned to his room and was shaving when Whisky Willie
came in. Willie turned a chair around backwards and straddled it.
"That Madrid p-p-protects crooks," he asserted.
Tesno beat up a lather in his shaving cup. "For instance?"
53. "There was this feller b-bucking the t-tiger in the P-Pink Lady. He
called me over real polite and orderly and said the dealer was
double-dealing and that he could prove it by the case board. Before
you could say J-J-Jack R-R-Robinson, Pinky had him by one arm and
a barkeep had him by the other and he was out in the s-street.
Nobody paid any at-t-tention to me. I told Madrid about it. He
cussed me and said we leave the dealers alone."
"Which table was this?"
"S-second from the d-door. The d-dealer's name's Cardona."
Tesno stropped his razor vigorously. "A mechanic. He uses an odd-
even setup."
"A what?"
"I'll demonstrate," Tesno said. He waved the razor toward the
saddlebags that hung over the foot of his bed. "There's a pack of
cards in there. Get it and separate the odd cards from the even. This
afternoon we'll call on Mr. Cardona."
"What we g-g-going to do?"
"Not we, you. I'll show you the trick. Then you'll expose Cardona
and run him out of town. In order to pull it off you're going to have
to be well rehearsed. Got anything to do for an hour?"
"Not till three this afternoon. I'm on d-duty from then till eight in the
morning."
By the time Tesno finished shaving, Willie had the cards separated.
Tesno squared up the two packets and pressed their ends together,
interlacing the cards evenly.
"You shuffle like a dealer," Willie said.
"Not quite so well. A good mechanic can get a perfect dovetail. That
means the odd and even cards will alternate all the way through the
deck...."
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