Chapter II

7

STRANGE FISH

The screech wasn't necessary. Big Bird, the Osage woman who had charge of the house, was running to the car already. “Paris, oh Paris darling!” she cried.

Johnny Toms claimed Big Bird was his aunt. This was doubtful. Paris hugged her. Big Bird was wonderful.

Johnny Toms leaned over the wheel of his car, seemingly asleep. Suddenly he said, “Paris, you scared?”

Paris stared at him. “What gave you such an idea?”

“Ugh. What eyes for?” Johnny Toms said, and drove off toward his cabin.

Big Bird had everything ready in the house. “That Johnny,” she said, “gets worse every day. What kind of a show did he put on?”

“He took the muffler off his car and drove up and down every street in Tulsa,” Paris said. “It's a wonder we weren't thrown in jail.”

“Probably had it all fixed up with the police chief,” Big Bird said knowingly. “He's a fake. You know what? I don't believe be has any Indian blood at all in him.”

“I wouldn't be surprised,” Paris said.

“He's glad to see you.”

“Yes, I could see that,” Paris agreed. “His welcome did me a lot of good. I was feeling pretty low when I got off the train.”

She went to her room, which was big, many−windowed and gave a picturesque view of the rolling Osage hill country. The room had a western decorative theme. Guns, blankets, guns, cow brands, hides, guns.

Six−shooters and flintlocks and buffalo guns. Paris stared at the walls. The theme of the place was violent.

Uneasily, Paris changed into slacks. By that time, the wild−and−woolly atmosphere of the room had frightened her noticeably.

“Big Bird,” she called. “Will you ask Johnny Toms to come back to the house?”

JOHNNY TOMS said almost nothing while Paris was telling him about the fat man. Johnny was plaiting a horsehair quirt. He gave, seemingly, most of his attention to the quirt.

Paris left out nothing. She was, she realized, relieved to get the story told to someone she trusted. She discovered it made her feel better to go into great detail, so she did.

After she finished, Johnny Toms was silent. He finished three or four plaits in his quirt.

“No idea who this fat boy is?” he asked.

“He told Callahan his name was Ben Watt.”

“That wouldn't mean it was.”