Moments later, Righty was in his wagon, head full of thoughts, and headed back towards Ringsetter at a brisk pace. One of the thoughts racing through his head was the barrels. Although he knew it was logical to bring them at the time (he didn’t want to risk Rog seeing him driving around an empty wagon), now they were a bit of a liability. He didn’t want to come up with some fishy story about why they were in there. He’d already taken his share of risks. No needless risks needed to be added to the equation.
Swinging back by his place to drop off the barrels would definitely go into the Needless Risks category. And, thus, although he hated to discard the barrels, he realized it was something he would just have to look at as a business expenditure, and he determined that as soon as he was comfortably outside Sivingdel he was going to toss those barrels from the wagon.
But that was the least of his concerns. He was analyzing Mr. Hoffmeyer. He didn’t like the fact that he had seen through just about everything. He may have even known Righty just happened to be that lucky customer who “purchased” the seeds, but it seemed to Righty that, while Mr. Hoffmeyer realized that the unique nature of the product combined with its sudden damage strongly suggested a profitable transaction had taken place, he hadn’t seemed to insinuate he thought Righty might have just flat-out swiped them.
Thus, Righty was reasonably calm that old Hoffie hadn’t sniffed out quite as much as he thought he had. But he sniffed out that he had been presented with a lie and had opened Righty’s eyes to the true scope of what he was possibly embarking upon. While Righty realized the prospect of a decent profit existed, the potential enormity of the situation as described by Hoffie truly dwarfed Righty’s analysis of the situation.
Furthermore, Righty felt somewhat of a righteous anger towards the hypocrisy that was being displayed by the government, outlawing the product for everyone but the rich! He admitted to himself that this was after-the-fact knowledge and that it played no role in his decision to steal the seeds, at which time he believed the product was going to be illegal for everyone.
He wasn’t particularly interested in the morality of this endeavor. He was interested in one thing: The Promise. That was a sacred oath he had made to himself when he was spoken down to by Oscar Peters that he was going to become rich someday no matter what. That was what this was about. This was a world where those who played by the rules got left behind. Oscar Peters had already showed him that.
Nonetheless, a little sense of vindication didn’t hurt, and the more he mulled over the hypocrisy of the new law, the more justified he felt in the path he had already begun.
He was feeling rather optimistic about the way things were going so far, and optimism is the progenitor of an adventurous spirit, so he decided to do a little sight-seeing and leave the city via a different route. In the process he went through a particularly unpleasant area where the smell could make a flower wilt.
He pulled a handkerchief out of his shirt pocket and wrapped it around his face and nose, the irony of him now appearing to be a bandit not being lost on him.
CITY REFUSE
He noticed the sign as he drew nearer and nearer a large hill that was absolutely covered in trash. To his astonishment he saw quite a few people rummaging around in that mountainous cesspool, and his heart nearly broke when he saw that along the top of the ridge were row after row of tents, which presumably were the homes of some hapless rabble.
But his brief moment of atypical sympathy for others was interrupted when he noticed a small gang of toughs just up ahead of him. Two were seated on a bench, while the other three were standing there. Regardless of their differing positions, they all had one thing in common: They were looking right at Mr. Righty Rick. And their expression could be reasonably described as less than friendly.
One tough in particular stood out to Righty. He had short-cropped hair on top, and it was shaved bald on the sides. A tattoo was visible on his left temple, though Righty couldn’t tell what it was. All ten tough eyes glared at Righty, clearly sizing him up. Righty noticed the others broke their gaze a couple of times to look at Mr. Short-Cropped, like privates awaiting orders from their sergeant.
Mr. Short-Cropped’s eyes grew meaner and meaner as Righty drew closer, or perhaps Righty was simply getting a better look at them. He wasn’t looking for any trouble, but his bare-knuckle boxing instincts kicked in, and he realized he needed to stare down Mr. Short-Cropped fast, or else he was going to have to belt the lot of them.
He might have enjoyed it, but he had a schedule to keep.
Righty’s ferocity in the ring during his bare-knuckle days did not merely consist of his bone-shattering right hooks. His gaze at his opponents had often been compared to a mixture between that of a tiger and a cobra. Righty shot a look just like that at Mr. Short-Cropped, and although it took a few seconds, he saw the young tough pretend to smirk at him.
He knew how to read that body language well enough. That meant Mr. Short-Cropped wasn’t going to be reaching into his waistband, pulling out a knife, and lunging at him. Instead, he’d be laughing with his sidekicks and telling them this guy was broke and wasn’t worth their time but that they’d get him next time he made the mistake of coming through there, just to teach him a lesson.
About an hour later, Righty noticed he was getting into a rural area. He turned around and saw a speck behind him, which was the city of Sivingdel. He looked from left to right, saw no one, and halted the horses. Seconds later, the barrels were discarded along the road, and he was back on his way towards Ringsetter.
At approximately 9 p.m. that night he arrived at Roger’s Grocery Store, parked the wagon in the back, and tied up the horses. He then got on his own horse, which was tied in the back. He looked happy to see Righty. Righty hopped on and headed towards home.