the bag and went on one knee beside him, his eyes very solemn. "Your mother
and Dallas
knew each other a long time ago," he told him in an adult way.
"They had a fight, and they never made up. That's why she cried. They're both
good people, Stevie, but
sometimes even good people have arguments."
"Why are they mad at each other?"
"I don't know," Eb replied not
quite factually. "That's for them to say, if they want you to know. Dallas
isn't a bad man, though."
"He's all banged up," Stevie replied solemnly.
"Yes, he is. He was shot."
"Shot?
Really?" Stevie moved closer to Eb and put a small hand on his
shoulder. "Who shot him?"
"Some very bad
men," Eb told him. "He almost died. That's why he has to use a walking
stick now. It's why he has all those scars."
Stevie touched Eb's face. "You got scars, too."
"Yes, I have."
"You ever been shot?" he wanted to know,
"Several
times," Eb replied honestly. "Guns can be very dangerous. I
suppose you know that."
"I know
it," Stevie said. "One of my friends shot him self with his dad's
pistol playing war out in the yard. He was hurt pretty bad, but he's okay now. Mama
told me that
children should never touch a gun, even if they think it's not
loaded."
"Good for your mom!"
"That man
doesn't like my mama," he continued wor riedly. "He frowns and frowns at
her. She can't see it, but I see it."
"He wouldn't ever hurt her," Eb said firmly. "He's
there to protect her when you're away
from home," he added wryly.
"That's right, I
protect her at home. I'm very strong. See what I did to the bag?"
"I sure
did!" Eb grinned at him. "Those were nice kicks, but you need to
snap them out from the knee. Here—" he got to his feet "—let me show
you."
Sally watched them with lazy pleasure,
smiling at the born rapport between them.
It was a pity that Stevie didn't like
Dallas. That would matter one day. But she had enough problems of her own to worry about.
Eb stopped by the
local sandwich shop and bought frozen yogurt cones for all three of them, a
reward for the physical punishment, he told them dryly.
While the two adults
sat at a table and ate their yogurt cones, Stevie became engrossed in some
knickknacks on sale in the same store.
"He's a natural at this," Eb remarked.
"I'll bet I'm
not," she mused, having had to repeat several of the moves quite a number of times before she did them
well enough to suit her companion.
"You're not his
age, either," he pointed out. "Most children learn things faster than
adults. That's why they teach
foreign languages so early these days."
"Do you speak
any other languages?" she asked sud denly.
"Only a
handful," he replied. "The romance languages, several dialects of African languages, and
Russian."
"My goodness."
"Languages will
get you far in intelligence work these days," he told her. "If you're
going to work in foreign countries, it's stupid not to speak the language. It
can get you killed."
96 MERCENARY'S WOMAN
"I had to have
a foreign language series as part of my degree," she said. "I chose
Spanish, because that's pretty necessary around here, with such a large Hispanic popu lation. I hated it at
first, and then I learned how to read in it." Her eyes brightened. "It's the most exciting thing
in the world to read something in the
language the author created it in. I never dreamed how delightful it
would be to read Don Quixote as
Cervantes actually wrote it!"
"I know what you mean. But the older
the novel, the more difficult the
translation. Words change meaning. And a
good number of the more modern novels are written in the various
dialects of Spanish provinces."
She grinned.
"Like Blasco-Ibanez, who used a regional dialect for his matador hero, Juan
Gallardo, in dialogue."
"Yes."
She finished her cone
and wiped her hands. "I became really fascinated with bullfighting after I
read the book, so I found a Web site that had biographies of all the matadors. I found the
ones
and Dallas
knew each other a long time ago," he told him in an adult way.
"They had a fight, and they never made up. That's why she cried. They're both
good people, Stevie, but
sometimes even good people have arguments."
"Why are they mad at each other?"
"I don't know," Eb replied not
quite factually. "That's for them to say, if they want you to know. Dallas
isn't a bad man, though."
"He's all banged up," Stevie replied solemnly.
"Yes, he is. He was shot."
"Shot?
Really?" Stevie moved closer to Eb and put a small hand on his
shoulder. "Who shot him?"
"Some very bad
men," Eb told him. "He almost died. That's why he has to use a walking
stick now. It's why he has all those scars."
Stevie touched Eb's face. "You got scars, too."
"Yes, I have."
"You ever been shot?" he wanted to know,
"Several
times," Eb replied honestly. "Guns can be very dangerous. I
suppose you know that."
"I know
it," Stevie said. "One of my friends shot him self with his dad's
pistol playing war out in the yard. He was hurt pretty bad, but he's okay now. Mama
told me that
children should never touch a gun, even if they think it's not
loaded."
"Good for your mom!"
"That man
doesn't like my mama," he continued wor riedly. "He frowns and frowns at
her. She can't see it, but I see it."
"He wouldn't ever hurt her," Eb said firmly. "He's
there to protect her when you're away
from home," he added wryly.
"That's right, I
protect her at home. I'm very strong. See what I did to the bag?"
"I sure
did!" Eb grinned at him. "Those were nice kicks, but you need to
snap them out from the knee. Here—" he got to his feet "—let me show
you."
Sally watched them with lazy pleasure,
smiling at the born rapport between them.
It was a pity that Stevie didn't like
Dallas. That would matter one day. But she had enough problems of her own to worry about.
Eb stopped by the
local sandwich shop and bought frozen yogurt cones for all three of them, a
reward for the physical punishment, he told them dryly.
While the two adults
sat at a table and ate their yogurt cones, Stevie became engrossed in some
knickknacks on sale in the same store.
"He's a natural at this," Eb remarked.
"I'll bet I'm
not," she mused, having had to repeat several of the moves quite a number of times before she did them
well enough to suit her companion.
"You're not his
age, either," he pointed out. "Most children learn things faster than
adults. That's why they teach
foreign languages so early these days."
"Do you speak
any other languages?" she asked sud denly.
"Only a
handful," he replied. "The romance languages, several dialects of African languages, and
Russian."
"My goodness."
"Languages will
get you far in intelligence work these days," he told her. "If you're
going to work in foreign countries, it's stupid not to speak the language. It
can get you killed."
96 MERCENARY'S WOMAN
"I had to have
a foreign language series as part of my degree," she said. "I chose
Spanish, because that's pretty necessary around here, with such a large Hispanic popu lation. I hated it at
first, and then I learned how to read in it." Her eyes brightened. "It's the most exciting thing
in the world to read something in the
language the author created it in. I never dreamed how delightful it
would be to read Don Quixote as
Cervantes actually wrote it!"
"I know what you mean. But the older
the novel, the more difficult the
translation. Words change meaning. And a
good number of the more modern novels are written in the various
dialects of Spanish provinces."
She grinned.
"Like Blasco-Ibanez, who used a regional dialect for his matador hero, Juan
Gallardo, in dialogue."
"Yes."
She finished her cone
and wiped her hands. "I became really fascinated with bullfighting after I
read the book, so I found a Web site that had biographies of all the matadors. I found the
ones
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