Chapter 18

Mrs. Kuiper’s Sunday dinner, which she served at half-past one o’clock, rather than the customary noon hour, was always a large spread of meat, potatoes, gravy, vegetables, biscuits, dressing, and dessert. The lighter Sunday evening meal, at six-thirty, was a limited buffet of meat, bread, sandwich relish, and a salad—three bean, potato, cucumber, or some such. That Sunday, after the usual big dinner, Malik and Cowboy took a couple of the long bamboo fishing poles Mrs. Kuiper kept in the barn. They carried them down past the railroad bridge where they dug up some grubs. They baited the hooks and dropped their lines into the eddies that swirled downstream of the bridge abutments.

After making sure they were far enough from any cover sufficient to conceal anyone who might overhear their conversation, Malik, in a nonetheless quiet tone, said, “Two things I take from that bakery dust-up, yesterday. First was that those men were nearly worthless in support of Banks’ or Ranford’s purposes. They were like ... like the naughts in a number, like one hundred. They have no value themselves, but just hold a place for someone else to function. Those three were deputies just so Banks could have deputies.”

“The other is that they were brought into this and paid for in Baltimore, which is close to Washington City, about the same as the thirty-five mile train ride from here to the Crossin’.”

“Ranford hired ‘em, you think?”

“That’d be my guess. Likely somebody workin’ for ‘im. What I draw from it is that Banks hasn’t the funds to hire anyone substantial, that Ranford’s takin’ a more direct interest in the details out here, and that Ranford ain’t sharin’ that subsidy money I suspect he diverted.”

They were quiet for a minute.

Cowboy said, “He might a’ had to use that subsidy money as bribes for that Sonora reservation takeover he’s got planned.”

“Hadn’t considered that. It’s very possible.”

“You get anything from that book the kid was writin’ in?”

“Nothin’ important that we didn’t hear elsewhere. Kid could turn a phrase, though. Shame.”

“Mind if I look it over?” Cowboy asked.

“Of course not. It’s at my room. You can pick it up later.”

Malik checked his bait, then said, “Have you spoken with Matilda?”

“Said howdy just yesterday.”

“You know what I mean.”

Another moment of silence.

“She’s a lot younger than me,” Cowboy said.

“Eight years, by my count. How is that remarkable?”

“Nearly a decade.”

“Well, now that you say it that way...” Malik added a sarcastic overtone.

“Different things are important at different ages.”

Malik scoffed, “It’s not as if she’s still playing with dolls or climbing trees. What do you imagine she thinks about in her spare moments? Frilly dresses? Knights in shining armor? She’s a full-grown woman, for heaven’s sake, and nicely grown at that.”

“Not arguin’ that.”

“She’s friendly, she’s bright, she’s a hard worker, been working at the bakery for five years,...”

“Misses my point about age.”

“ ... and she’s been sweet on you since she was five years old.”