Red Prophet: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume II Read Online Free Page A

Harrison. “We already agree completely.”
    “Then why is it that you keep your headquarters as full of Reds as Independence Street in Washington City? They have Cherriky men acting as clerks and even holding government offices in Appalachee, right in the capital, jobs that White men ought to have, and then I come here and find you keep Reds around you, too.”
    “Cool down, Mr. Jackson, cool right down. Don’t the King keep his Blacks there in his palace in Virginia?”
    “His Blacks are slaves. Everybody knows you can’t make slaves out of Reds. They aren’t intelligent enough to be properly trained.”
    “Well, you just set yourself there in that chair, Mr. Jackson, and I’ll make my point the best way I know how, by showing you two prime Shaw-Nee specimens. Just set down.”
    Jackson picked up the chair and moved it to the opposite side of the room from Hooch. It made something gnaw in Hooch’s gut, the way Jackson acted. Men like Jackson were so upright and honest-seeming, but Hooch knew that there wasn’t no such thing as a good man, just a man who wasn’t bought yet, or wasn’t in deep enough trouble, or didn’t have the guts to reach out and take what he wanted. That’s all that virtue ever boiled down to, so far as Hooch ever saw in his life. But here was Jackson, putting on airs and calling for Bill Harrison to arrest him! Think of that, a stranger from Tennizy country coming up here and waving around a warrant from an Appalachee judge, of all things, which didn’t have no more force in Wobbish country than if it was written by the King ofEthiopia. Well, Mr. Jackson, it’s a long way home from here, and we’ll just see if you don’t have some kind of accident along the way.
    No, no, no, Hooch told himself silently. Getting even don’t amount to nothing in this world. Getting even only gets you behind. The best revenge is to get rich enough to make them all call you sir, that’s how you get even with these boys. No bushwhacking. If you ever get a name for bushwhacking, that’s the end of you, Hooch Palmer.
    So Hooch sat there and smiled, as Harrison called for his aide. “Why don’t you invite Lolla-Wossiky in here? And while you’re at it, tell his brother he can come in, too.”
    Lolla-Wossiky’s brother—had to be the defiant Red who was standing up against the wall. Funny, how two peas from the same pod could grow up so different.
    Lolla-Wossiky came in fawning, smiling, looking quickly from one White face to the next, wondering what they wanted, how he could make them happy enough to reward him with whisky. It was written all over him, how thirsty he was, even though he was already so drunk he didn’t walk straight. Or had he already drunk so much likker that he couldn’t walk straight even when he was sober? Hooch wondered—but soon enough he knew the answer. Harrison reached into the bureau behind him and took out a jug and a cup. Lolla-Wossiky watched the brown liquid splash into the cup, his one eye so intense it was like he could taste the likker by vision alone. But he didn’t take even a single step toward the cup. Harrison reached out and set the cup on the table near the Red, but still the man stood there, smiling, looking now at the cup, now at Harrison, waiting, waiting.
    Harrison turned to Jackson and smiled. “Lolla-Wossiky is just about the most civilized Red in the whole Wobbish country, Mr. Jackson. He never takes things that don’t belong to him. He never speaks except when spoken to. He obeys and does whatever I tell him. And all he ever asks in return is just a cup of liquid. Doesn’t even have to be good likker. Corn whisky or bad Spanish rum are just fine with him, isn’t that right, Lolla-Wossiky?”
    “Very so right, Mr. Excellency,” said Lolla-Wossiky.His speech was surprisingly clear, for a Red. Especially a drunken Red.
    Hooch saw Jackson study the one-eyed Red with disgust. Then the Tennizy lawyer’s gaze shifted to the door, where the tall,