The All-True Travels and Adventures of Lidie Newton_ A Novel - Jane Smiley [90]
"Now, Mrs. Newton—for you see, I recognize you perfectly—" said Mr. Graves when we called him out, "I take the arrival of you two young persons as a sign that my southern friends have shown their usual forbearance in refraining from burning out and looting the noble city on the hill, or rather, under the hill." I saw that Mr. Graves had altered, or developed, his mode of speaking yet again. He was a mysterious man, possibly more dangerous than he allowed himself to appear.
"Still might," said Frank cheerfully. "They got some fieldpieces over there."
"Do they, indeed," said Mr. Graves, doubtfully. He showed no signs of asking us in, bitter cold though it was, and now that I was here, I realized that I had not developed a plan for gaining his supplies, should he have any. I said, "How are your warts, Mr. Graves?"
He lit up. "Now, ma’am, I’d forgotten that you were a party to, or at least a witness of, that most successful medical strategy. Yes, indeed, not one week after I left that package beside the road, I woke up miraculously—and I say miraculously, but indeed, the remedy was pure science— relieved of that dermatistical burden. I may say that the Indians of Kansas Territory look upon me as nearly a god."
"Are you running a store, Mr. Graves?"
"A store, a school, a church, a surgical dispensary, of sorts. I have four cows to be milked, and I sell the milk. It’s a quiet life, somewhat remote from the concerns of society—"
"But I thought you enjoyed—"
"I go among them, they come to me. It’s all much the same. You, for example, have come to me. Bringing with you a most prepossessing young man."
"You a trader?" said Frank.
"I am."
"Look at this, then." Frank pulled a large kerchief from his pocket and opened it on the footboard of the wagon. Mr. Graves stepped over to look. Along with a paper of needles, a tarnished spoon, half a dozen square nails, a small bit for a pony, and the head of a hammer, I was amazed to find myself perusing a pair of woman’s earbobs, elaborately fashioned of what seemed to be gold, small diamonds, and large, tear-shaped pearls. Mr. Graves said, "How much you want for that hammerhead, boy?"
"You got money?"
"I do."
"K.T. money? Or U.S. money?"
"Silver money."
Frank whispered to me, "I got that for an old bucket I found. How much should I ask?"
"Fifty cents."
"Four bits," said Frank to Mr. Graves.
"Pah!" said Mr. Graves. "An’t got a shaft. I can get a new hammer with a shaft made in Cincinnati, Ohio, for four bits."
"If," said Frank, "you intend to wait to do your hammering, but if you want to hammer now, this is the hammerhead I got."
Mr. Graves laughed and put his hand in his pocket. He handed Frank two quarter dollars and pulled his ear for him. Frank handed him the hammerhead.
"Mr. Graves," I said, "how are you supplied for, uh, powder and lead?"
"My needs are taken care of. Powder and lead have come under heavy demand lately, I will say."
"Other things, too, I’m sure," I said, cocking my head toward the wrapped-up keg of whiskey.
Mr. Graves now looked directly at that and, I think, realized for the first time what it was. He grew very smooth, saying, "When the first two are in requisition by my compatriots, the last is highly likely to be wanted, as well."
"Yankee owned, Mr. Graves, but Kentucky made, I’m told."
Mr. Graves walked around the buggy. The keg of whiskey seemed to take on a rather queenly bearing, wrapped as it was in a crazy quilt made of silks and satins. He looked again, then walked forward to Jeremiah’s head and gave his ears a tickle. Jeremiah flicked them back and forth.
"Sir," said