Savage Texas: The Stampeders by William W. Johnstone, J.A. Johnstone

dark with a basket of leftover Cattleman’s food in his hand. He nearly dropped the basket. The man he’d nearly collided with stumbled off to one side and almost tripped over his own feet.
    Timothy caught a strong whiff of whiskey on the man’s breath. It repelled him. Timothy’s late father had been a hard-drinking man, and as a small boy Timothy had earned some bruises and even scars because of his father’s habits. His mother had protected him as best she could, but often that wasn’t good enough. And when Timothy’s father hurt him, she always tried to smooth over the situation by saying, “He’s been drinking, Tim. That’s why he hit you. He’s been drinking, that’s all.”
    It was only natural that Timothy had come to despise liquor and what it did to those who abused it.
    The man, a small-built fellow, corrected his stumbling and steadied himself with a hand against the nearest wall. Then he studied Timothy through the thick lenses of his spectacles.
    “I know who you are,” he said, tongue tangling and distorting his words. “You’re that feeble-minded fellow who sweeps at the big store. Timothy, I think.”
    “I know you, too,” Timothy answered. “You’re that man who takes pictures of people.”
    “Otto Perkins, and pleased to meet you.”
    “Same, sir. But you’re drunk, Mr. Perkins.” Timothy surprised himself with his own boldness.
    “I think maybe I am. I don’t drink much, but today the temptation struck and I visited the Dog Star. I planned to drink only a little, but there’s a photograph there that I made myself, a very unpleasant image of a dead man I and Mr. Sam Heller found on the road some days ago, and seeing that face looking at me off its easel was distressing enough that I drank more and more.”
    “My papa drank a lot. It finally kilt him. That’s what my mama says it was. All I know is he went out to pee one day and dropped dead.”
    “Very sorry. Sad for you, I’m sure. Why are you out roaming the alleyways just now, by the way? What’s that in your hands?”
    “It’s food. The cook down at the Cattleman Hotel shares food with me and my mama.”
    “I’m sure that’s a big help. You can’t make much money sweeping for a shopkeeper.”
    “No. Who sweeps at your shop?”
    “Any sweeping done there is done by me. Which usually means the place stays dirty.”
    “I could sweep for you if you’d pay me some like Mr. Lockhart does.”
    At another time, Perkins would have bypassed that offer without a thought. Being uncharacteristically drunk, though, he reacted with equally uncharacteristic magnanimity. “That’s a good idea, Timothy. I’d be glad for the help. Can you do it and still have time to sweep at the Emporium, though?”
    Timothy foresaw no problem with seeing to the needs of both businesses, and within moments an evening’s chance alleyway meeting had turned into a new opportunity for a simple man who encountered few of those.
    “Want to come meet my mama, Mr. Perkins? She’d like you for hiring me.”
    “Will that food you got there be for sharing?”
    “You . . . you can have my part of it, sir. Since you’re going to let me sweep for you.” Timothy gave the warmest grin he could. In the shadow-casting light from a nearby window, the grin gave Timothy a ghastly look, heightened by the puffiness of his eyes. He’d wept hard a little earlier, grieving over his rejection by Julia Canton.
    “You all right, boy?” asked Perkins.
    “Please, sir, don’t call me boy, if you would.”
    “Sorry . . . Tim. Timothy. Are you all right, though?”
    “Sir, I was . . . I was weeping some earlier.”
    “You hurt? Sick?”
    “Heartbroke.”
    “Over what?”
    “There’s a lady in town, name of Canton. I thought she was a friend of mine and liked me, but she wouldn’t say she’d go to the dance with me. There’s a dance in town before long and I really wanted to have her go with me to it.”
    “Canton . . . I’ve seen her,” Perkins said.