Trail of the Twisted Cros by Buck Sanders Page B

would
     muddle through the current ills of Britain if none around them could hold their own.
    Each evening at closing time, which in all of Britain is 11 p.m., the Warrys hold court to a small group of village regulars,
     a select number of whom are usually invited upstairs for a late supper and an accounting of the evening’s gossip.
    Tonight, Mavis bustled around upstairs with pots filled with curried lamb and chips. She was assisted by a local maid named
     Lynfa, who was quite hopeful of attracting the favors of a man named Leo Thatcher.
    Mavis was not hesitant in voicing her disapproval.
    “The man comes into town without a copper to his name and he’s got a job at the only colliery in operation, way over to St.
     John’s, and he sits up here in his room day after day between times he’s called to work, all by himself,” she said.
    Lynfa said nothing in response. She had learned about getting along with Mavis. It was quite simple, really. One just listened
     to her opinions, which were delivered on everything, and then did exactly what one wished to do, regardless of anything Mavis
     said. Somehow, Mavis didn’t notice, and everyone seemed happy with the result.
    “I suppose you’ll be with him… tonight?” Mavis asked.
    Lynfa colored and flashed dark brown eyes at her friend.
    The subject was dropped as Jack entered the room where the women were preparing the meal.
    “I would like your view on something,” Mavis said to her husband.
    Jack Warry feigned a stroke.
    “When you’re through with the bloody theatrics, you might let me know what you think of this Thatcher bloke. Queer duck, don’t
     you think?” Mavis asked.
    Lynfa bustled about the kitchen, oblivious to this discussion.
    “I think I like a bloke what pays his bills, and if that’s all he wants to do around this place, it’s a fine thing with me,”
     Jack said.
    “He’s too quiet,” Mavis said. Her voice rose. “He doesn’t fit in here. It’s spooky, the way he sits in that room, writing
     and reading and whatever in the name of all that’s evil he does with himself in there.”
    “What are you complaining about, flower?” Jack asked her, placing his arm around her shoulders, hoping to hush her a bit,
     as he heard Leo Thatcher and the other guests climbing the stairway. “He rents a room from us regular, and he pays the rent
     regular, and we could use a half-dozen more like him to keep the place going.”
    “He comes and goes. I don’t mean just from this place, or even from the Valley. I mean, I hear he comes and goes all over
     the blinkin’ planet and him being just a coal miner from Wales…”
    She wasn’t able to finish her thoughts. Leo Thatcher was among the first of the small group who entered the room.
    Meanwhile, there was the supper to serve up. Lynfa was busy at it already, making certain that Leo Thatcher received the lion’s
     share.
    FAIRMONT, West Virginia
    “We was afraid you was another one of Johnny Lee Rogers’ goons,” Mrs. Hays explained, “and so that’s why my brother and me
     opened fire on you. They been comin left and right for a week now, mean-lookin cusses every one of them, even if they was
     dressed up nice and all.”
    Slayton had difficulty taking comfort in the explanation for his nearly being shot. He busied himself removing Mrs. Hays’
     laundry from the line. It had taken two days of ingratiating himself with her before she would open up to him, before she
     would provide the link between Johnny Lee Rogers and her husband, who had been missing now since the mine explosion.
    So far, Slayton had learned that Colin Hays, like many of the ill-educated, underskilled men in this part of the country,
     demonstrated their importance by robbing others of theirs. At first, Hays was a member of the local Klan chapter, elevating
     himself to “Klavern Kleagle.”
    Then came his intellectual days, when he was enamored of the John Birch Society. But somehow, following the writings of a