Jerry leaves

 This sufficiently explains why Jerry marched into camp with long strides and bowed head. With a sharp command, he ordered the expedition to set off.

Seriously worried, Scovil steered his horse close to him.

"I mean," he began, speaking so quietly that no one else could hear.

Jerry turned his head slowly.

"What happened?"

"Nothing." Jerry laughed wryly. »Nothing at all. And starting tonight, you can continue your trip alone.»

But as they rode across the sand-covered, naked hills, the girl behaved so obediently that Jerry almost changed his mind. Not once did Nancy hesitate and asked Pete or Punainen something about that, almost enthusiastically. Only when the sun was at its hottest did he start dozing and dozing in the saddle, and then it was as useless to talk to him as to a statue of a rider. At dusk they camped on a dry spot.

Jerry, usually bursting with life and humor, was now silent and boisterous; and the face of jovial John Scovil was like a thundercloud as he moved to and fro. But the Dwarf and Red were not silent for a moment. They sang scraps of cowboy songs — strange songs and strange tunes; they galloped gallantly at each other and even spoke to the mules fluently and gracefully.

Jerry didn't sneak anything to anyone. He didn't even disturb Nancy Scovil as usual, but grumpily opened the scrolls and shared their contents. It was during this work that an accident happened. He picked up Nancy's backpack from the luggage rack and threw it at the girl. It landed on the intended spot, on a flat stone, and there was a sharp crack of shattering glass. The last of the Florida water was gone, and the girl took the splintered shards from the backpack. The bottle was completely shattered, and its contents were wasted to the last drop.

Jerry stood as if he had been hit squarely in the face. He didn't care about the angry expressions of the Dwarf and Mack, but stared into Nancy Scovil's eyes as if under a spell. The girl turned towards him and put the neck of the bottle at his feet.

»A memory for a clumsy man,« he said calmly. «You should go to work in a china shop, Mr. Aiken.»

"Nancy," said he suddenly, "I assure you that—that—"

"Jerry!" interrupted Scovil.

Aiken startled, raised his head and moved forward like an awakened sleepwalker. For a long time he didn't say anything, but seemed to silently brood over his thoughts. Once his gaze met the girl's dark, expressionless eyes, and with a start he turned away.

In order to banish Nancy from his mind, he indulged in a conversation with Red

Mack.

"Quite a desolate desert, Red," he remarked.

The last mentioned did something.

"It seems like we're in the middle of nowhere," Jerry continued.

"That's what this ridge usually looks like on a tenderfoot," answered Mack. »Actually, Number Ten is not far behind those hills.»

He waved his hand, pointing in the direction, and Jerry left in his thoughts. He took care of his horse and after tying the horse's front legs together with a noose, he slapped it hard on the plates. The animal slowly left the camp along the gorge. Even if it had gone straight without straying here and there, if it had been connected like that, it would not have been within a kilometer of the camp before morning. Now it circled between the hills and soon disappeared from sight.

In the meantime, Red Mack and the Dwarf put their best effort into preparing dinner. Their master specimen was shown such a high value by Nancy Scovil that they both looked at her with beaming faces. But Scovil and Aiken ate in silence, and immediately after the meal all the members of the party rested wrapped in their blankets. During the entire trip, this was the first time that Nancy Scovil had not had to move a finger while working.

Jerry crawled awake, listening to the breathing of others and waiting for complete darkness. And as he leapt, he began to think and remember. At first he had planned to slip in without any other twists and turns, as he had threatened Scovil, but as he lay in undisturbed silence, he remembered Nancy's dark, expressionless eyes. Yes, they lingered in his mind for many, many days afterward.

If he could get even a single pang of life, a single glimmer of enthusiasm, into them, he might forget them—them and their owner. Otherwise, Nancy would remain an enigma, calling him back to her like a screaming voice. Actually, the words he spoke to the girl that afternoon weren't just a pretty lie. For example, what could make Nancy smile?

And then a great thought flashed into his mind. It was so goofy that he blushed, but he felt he was going to make it.

That night did not dawn dark, for when the reddish and yellow mottled brown of the sunset turned to a deep purple, the moon rose and rolled its narrow, golden edge over the lower hills. It rose from its rise, still spinning in Jerry Aiken's eyes, as it had seemed to do when it emerged from the twilight. Now its reddish gold color changed to yellow and finally to a metallic white, reminiscent of polished steel. It transformed the undulating desert to an astonishing extent like an ocean covered with frozen waves. For the moonlight glistened on the top of every ridge and cast dark shadows on the slopes. Jerry Aiken, resting on his elbow, wouldn't have been surprised if the desert had begun to move fluidly.

It was pointless to prevent darkness that would not come. He could tell by the breathing that everyone else was asleep.

Soon, he carefully crept out of his bed blanket and picked up his saddle from the ground. Then he stopped once more to glance at the sleepers, but not a single head raised to observe him. So he went out into the night, walking carefully so his feet wouldn't dislodge the cobblestones and send them clattering down the slope.

His horse was even closer to the camp than he had hoped, but still far enough that it wouldn't startle the other horses as it rode. He saddled it quickly, swung on his back, and then broke into a slow trot across the hills. In a few minutes he had recorded to the soundless of the camp; he touched his horse's flanks with his spurs and began to gallop towards Number Ten.

XIX luku

Number Ten

No one knew the reason or purpose of Number Ten's existence. As a city it was exceptional; there was nothing like it even in the mountain desert, where so many extraordinary phenomena thrive. Lumber, cattle, railways, mines, health springs — there was nothing here as a nucleus around which the life of the city would have clustered. On each side high, bare hills led to a little plain—a mere depression of sand—and in the center of this depression was Number Ten.

If it didn't bloom, it didn't completely wither either. It was actually one of those points where thousands of scattered desert trails converge for no discernible reason. And if cattle, logs, mines, health springs, and railroads did not visibly support its existence, they all contributed to it. All of them were on the edges of the circle, with Number Ten as its center, and because of that, there became a group of travelers who stayed there only long enough to eat, drink, sleep, curse, and move on.

At one time, in the days of the feverish turmoil, five hundred people had swarmed in its poor shacks. Sometimes the population was reduced to a mere dozen — a merchant, a blacksmith, a hotel owner, a gambler, and so on. There were no women in Numero Kymmene, because women only go where a settlement can take root, and Numero Kymmene's roots could only sink to a depth of less than a meter in the barren, waterless sand before they met solid rock. It's true that sometimes worn-out women with hardened hands and even more hardened souls drifted into Number Ten, but soon they drifted away again.

But Number Ten stubbornly remained upright. It did not submit to death.

It was named after a mountain desert. The lonely places of the desert are said to be but ten paces from hell, and some wanderer passing through this little village had named it instead of ten paces; hell was behind the first bend, if all the signs didn't disappoint. Such an apt remark could not be allowed to slip into oblivion. It was preserved as oral memory, and then immortalized by painting on the hotel's nameplate:

NUMBER TEN

At least Number Ten was rightfully proud of one of its traits, namely its law enforcement officer. However, that feature was not entirely unique. Many a city could boast of having seen a federal law enforcement officer at work, but few could claim an American law enforcement officer as their private property. But that was the case with the group of shacks named Number Ten. The speedy travelers stopping at Numero Kymmene had very often reason to wander across the vast desert that spread on every side of the city; and very often in the Number Ten there was a flash of bladed weapons and a bang of revolvers, when the voyagers met and clashed.

In this center of unrest, danger concentrated in one particular spot. The law enforcer often said: »If this town is one step away from hell, then hell must be in Grogan's house.»

Grogan's house was a tavern and an arcade. And Grogan didn't care a bit about the lawman's words. He had seen too many law enforcers. Their average life in Number Ten was eight months. Nor did Grogan pay attention to the remarks of such ephemeral beings.

This enforcer—Bud Levine was his name—had been in Number Ten for a full six months, which meant he didn't have long to live; and some liberties are always desirable for people on the verge of death. Law Enforcement Officer Bud Levine knew as well as anyone that his time was almost up, but he was one of those half-resolute, half-laughing men who take every case as it is and do the work and don't worry. He never cast a suspicious, scrutinizing glance at the newcomers to Number Ten. He waited for disturbances and opposition without looking for them, and he never had to wait very long.

Sometimes a revolver hero who had escaped from some cattle ranch had arrived at Numero Ten a cock's pace ahead of his pursuers and engaged in battle on the town's only sandy street. Now and then a card-trickster would come from a mining town, swaggering across the desert and flinging his cardboard note at Grogan, until a sharp eye detected the deception, and a smoking revolver spoke of the revelation in a short, sharp voice. When did Numero Kymmene get lonely riders, quiet, calm men who were driven into a frenzy by cognac or boredom.

But ever-so-slightly grinning death moved down the street of Number Ten and knocked at the lawman's door, and he always rose to answer the call and returned alive, knowing each time that he had diminished his chances of living — that he had stepped one step closer to his own destruction.

To this town rode Jerry Aiken in search of — Florida water!

Of course, he went to the only place that could possibly have it, the general store. It was a spacious shed, unpainted; its roof was low on the facade and then rose gently back, so that the whole structure looked like the beginning of a more elaborate building. It was not many years old, but the sandstorms and the winter's driving hailstorms had already worn it down, and the scorching sun of the mountain desert had warped and bulged the planks, so that it looked as if there was some liquid substance inside, which greatly questioned the durability of the walls. Every statue and corner of the walls was tilted. One day that store would collapse like a house of cards.

It was the sign of the general store that Jerry looked for as he descended the last slope of the hills to the only street in town. When he reached flat ground, he slowed his horse down to a walk.

It was very quiet and very dark everywhere. The moon was hidden behind a thick mass of cloud, so he didn't get even a hint of illumination, and Jerry kept a close eye on each shack so he wouldn't ride past his destination. But not even the flicker of a match could be seen in any of the houses he ignored.

The meager shacks seemed to crouch further away in the darkness, as if aware of their own frailty. Jerry didn't notice a single sign of life except the smell of his own sweaty horse and the constant, rhythmic creaking of the tightened saddle straps. Otherwise, he could distinguish the strongly alkaline lemu of the desert as clearly as if he had been a thousand kilometers from the nearest human habitation. There was nothing to greet him; not the indescribable tingle of the shriveling smooth; no child's barking, which would comfortingly remind of women's tenderness and care; no man's laughter; no shrill, quick sounds of hurrying women; not even a dog whining or howling.

Everywhere was quiet, silent, and waiting until he had reached the middle of the street; then he saw a spot of light shining through the open door of the general store. It was impossible for anyone to mistake the place for anything else with a single glance inside. With a sigh of relief, he swung from the saddle, threw the bridle around the horse's neck and entered.

The interior was standard. On one wall were spices piled on the floor and stacked on shelves, sacks of flour and a flickering pile of canning jars. In front of them were leather goods, saddles, bridles, various harnesses, bridles, and so on, and on the table between were spread shirts, waistcoats, and hats. Somewhere in those dim nooks and crannies of the rear, there were firearms, and other cavities and hiding places could hold an incredibly diverse collection of items.

A grocer gathers its inventory from thousands of sources. Commercial travellers, peddlers, and others of their ilk procured part of the stock; the other parts are pledged rebels, and this store contained a great many belongings of people who had left Number Ten suddenly, too hastily to collect their knapsacks before they left. They were usually bought by Balju Matt-vanhus at a hotel or from a law enforcement officer at a ridiculous price.

When Jerry entered, Kalju tilted his chair forward, so that it crashed. His baldness began at his forehead and continued smooth and bright red to his nape; it was interrupted only by a tuft of stiff, white hair that stuck out right in the middle of his bald cap, reminiscent of an Indian skinning club. On the cups of this smooth head, the ears caught the eye, round like a bear's ears and without tufts. And between the ears was a round, reddish face, small, sharp eyes and a shapeless nose squatting in the middle of the face. Long-term sitting and heavy eating had changed Kalju's once slender body into a different look. From the shoulders, his body continued undulating to his bulging stomach, and when he stood, because of his long, thin legs, he looked short, fat, from an old man walking on stilts. He was smoking a black pipe, the stem of which had been milled off almost to the nest.

»Evening», Jerry greeted this shot.

»Evening», answered the other in his sharp voice.

Kalju didn't even try to stand up to inquire what his likely buyer would like.

"This town of yours is pretty quiet," continued Jerry.

»Quiet in places, noisy in places», noted Kalju's sharp throat.

»Not even a single dog on the street when I came here,« Jerry continued kindly, leaning his elbow on the piled up waistcoats.

Stifling his short, thick neck a little, Balju turned his head to keep a close eye out for some vests to be secretly grabbed. Even stranger things had happened in his store. Now he noticed that the stranger had no revolver. It was peculiar.

"Not like that," he finally answered. »This is not a particularly healthy city for dogs.»

»What's new, neighbor?»

"Nothing special. Elder Jenkins died last week.»

"Huh? How old?”

»He was ten years younger than me,« said the old man.

»How did he die?»

"He was shot."

"Really? Was the shooter caught?"

»That's it.»

"What?"

»You are standing in that place.»

Jerry looked at the large stain on the floor, with uneven edges. He carefully moved aside like a cat rising from water.

"Bud met him," continued Bald. »Two shots were needed. The first one only wounded him, and Bud had to shoot a second time to finish him off. Bud begins to use his revolver quite a bit more slowly than before.»

»Hm!» smiled Jerry. »What else is new?»

"Nothing much. Two swords were sharpened in the second week.»

"Here?" asked Jerry with a grin.

»No», answered the adamant old man. »On the porch.»

He nodded.

»I saw them fall right off my chair without even having to stand up.»

»Hm!» called Jerry again, "Any word yet?"

»No fresh ones», answered Kalju. »Life here has been pretty quiet lately.»

Jerry took a long breath and blew air out of his lungs, whistling for a long time.

»I would love to be there for a week or two, when life is at its most intense,« he said. »Where is everyone tonight?»

»There, where always before», was the answer. »At the other end of town on Grogan.»

»Then I'll go there too. But before that, do you have any perfume in your storage?”