Drum's Ring by Richard S. Wheeler

Author:Richard S. Wheeler
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: western fiction, cattle drive
Publisher: Richard S. Wheeler

Chapter 22

They finished the press run about one. The formidable Aunt Gladys not only soused Mr. Purser whenever his tongue wagged, but helped with the proofing and the printing.

Angie settled the last sheet on the stack to dry, and straightened up, wearily. Before her was an edition that would shake Opportunity. It contained two bedrock stories about municipal corruption, and Gladys’s prussic acid-tinged editorial. Now it would be up to the town to decide whether to purge itself of its injustices. Or maybe the state. With the publication of this issue, the venal justice system would not escape the attention of the attorney general.

She felt proud and fulfilled. Oh, how sweet it was! Against all odds she had put out this telling edition. She had found the one crack in Marty’s armor and slid through it.

The printer lay peacefully on the grimy floor, the half-drained quart of the lord of all bourbons clutched to his bosom like a relic of a saint. Earlier he had posed an unexpected problem when he slid into oblivion atop the stack of newsprint. But Angie and Gladys had rolled him off, watched him plummet to the planks without harm, and restored the quart bottle to his yearning hands.

“We’re done, Aunt Gladys. Thank you for staying.”

The woman pouted. “I’ve violated my oaths. I’m doomed,” she said.

“Straight to perdition,” Angie retorted tartly.

“Spirits have passed my lips.”

“Fumes, if you ask me. You didn’t sip enough of that stuff to fill a teaspoon.”

“I’m dizzy and sick and nauseous and you make sport of me.”

“Absolutely schnockered,” Angie said, enjoying Gladys’ turpitude.

“Yes, to my everlasting shame.”

“You’re a fallen woman, Gladys.”

Mrs. Busby blinked and pushed back tears while Angie wearily wiped down the old press.

“I did what you required of me,” she said, dolefully.

“I’m going to require one more thing,” Angie said. “We’ve got to get this galoot out of here.”

The women eyed the Bunyon-esque printer.

“I shall wake him up,” Gladys said.

She knelt over him. “Fox, Foxy my fiendish friend, it’s time for you to go home to your little beddy-bye.”

Nothing happened. Mr. Purser was with the angels, archangels, cherubim and seraphim.

Aunt Gladys prodded him decorously. The printer mumbled and resumed his snoring.

Angie decided on sterner measures, fetched a dipper full of water from the drinking pail, and dashed it into Mr. Purser’s serene mug.

“Ah! Ooh! A torrent! I’m drowning!” the printer said. His eyes opened and focused slowly.

“We’re closing up, Mr. Purser.”

He struggled to sit up, his wounded countenance surveying the gloomy corners of the shop, and then the women.

“A fine evening,” he said, discovering his bottle in hand.

“The Attila the Hun of whiskeys,” Angie said.

“Is that so? I hadn’t heard it.”

The women helped him rise and steered him to the door. He stumbled into the night and promptly settled down on the front step, his bottle in hand.

That would have to do, Angie thought. Kansas Street was as good a place as any for tramp printers. She turned down the wick, shepherded the groaning Mrs. Busby into the night, and locked carefully.

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