Them blue eyes was lookin’ at me mighty unfriendly now. But I’d a idea Baldy weren’t the kind to shoot a man in cold blood. So I figured I’d keep on explainin’ things till he had some time to cool off.
“I’d of been good for it,” I said truthfully. “Tate Barkley ain’t never yet took on no obligations what he didn’t re-pay the minute he was able. Only I couldn’t think of no other way just now to get holt of the gun I needed to take back what’s mine.”
I went on then and told him everthing I could remember, about the bushwhackin’ that morning, how I’d got myself whipped and had my outfit stole by Purv an’ Lila an’ big Jube, how they all acted like they knowed me although I’d never set eyes on ’em till that minute, and how I’d been followin’ their trail on foot ever sinct.
The squat little Perfessor stood leanin’ against his wagon listenin’, his eyes narrowed down to slits with nothin’ on his face what even give a hint as to whether he believed a word I was sayin’. I noticed that shotgun under his arm never lowered a fraction though, from beginning to end.
“You can call me a liar if you like,” I finished up, “and I reckon maybe you’ve earned the right to be doubtful. But ever word I’ve spoke is the God’s truth.”
Baldy kept squintin’ hard at me for several more long seconds. Then he lifted up his sawed-off shotgun and put it back in the wagon, underneath the seat.
“That’s quite a story,” he said, climbin’ up on the box without entirely takin’ his eyes off me. “I expect it’s got to be true. There aren’t many who’d be clever enough to make something like that up out of whole cloth. And in your case …” He shook his head and reached to gather the reins. Me, I just watched him.
“Well, come on.” Baldy’s voice sounded impatient all of a sudden. “Climb aboard and let’s get going. I assume you’d rather ride than walk. —And since we seem to be headed in the same direction … He glanced at me. “I’ve in mind to reach Micanopy before noon tomorrow.”
I didn’t wait to be asked twice. That big old wagon with only the two mules pullin’ her weren’t a whole heap faster than my shank’s mare had been. But it was sure a sight easier on my corns, and I was grateful for the offer.
We drove along pretty steady through what was left of the afternoon, stoppin’ only now an’ again to give the animals a blow, and me a opportunity to climb down and study the ground for sign. Not that that last seemed so awful important after we’d been on the road awhile together. ’Peared like Baldy had his own way of followin’ a trail onct he took the notion. And I had to admire the offhand casual way he went about doin’ it.
He was a right well-knowed character all through these parts it seemed, having pushed that outlandish rig here an’ yon between Jacksonville and Tampa for some several months now. And there weren’t a single one of them local folks he couldn’t spare five, ten minutes for, to pass the time of day whenever they was close enough for conversation.
They’d be chawin’ the fat, sharin’ views on the weather or some new trinket Baldy was offerin’ for sale, or somethin’ else, when all of a sudden he’d snap his fingers and push his high hat back off’n his forehead with a remark like: “You know, I almost forgot. I sold one of these stock pots (or lightnin’ rods or potato mashers or whatever) to some folks just this morning, 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