The Nick Adams Stories

by Ernest Hemingway

  “I don’t want to do anything bad,” Nick had said.

  “I don’t want you to,” Mr. John had said. “But you’re alive and you’re going to do things. Don’t you lie and don’t you steal. Everybody has to lie. But you pick out somebody you never lie to.”

  “I’ll pick out you.”

  “That’s right. Don’t you ever lie to me no matter what and I won’t lie to you.”

  “I’ll try,” Nick had said.

  “That isn’t it,” Mr. John said, “it has to be absolute.”

  “All right,” Nick said. “I’ll never lie to you.”

  “What became of your girl?”

  “Somebody said she was working up at the Soo.”

  “She was a beautiful girl and I always liked her,” Mr. John had said.

  “So did I,” Nick said.

  “Try and not feel too bad about it.”

  “I can’t help it,” Nick said. “None of it was her fault. She’s just built that way. If I ran into her again I guess I’d get mixed up with her again.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “Maybe too. I’d try not to.”

  Mr. John was thinking about Nick when he went out to the back counter where the two men were waiting for him. He looked them over as he stood there and he didn’t like either of them. He had always disliked the local man Evans and had no respect for him but he sensed that the down-state man was dangerous. He had not analyzed it yet but he saw the man had very flat eyes and a mouth that was tighter than a simple tobacco chewer’s mouth needed to be. He had a real elk’s tooth too on his watch chain. It was a really fine tusk from about a five-year-old bull, it was a beautiful tusk and Mr. John looked at it again and at the over-large bulge the man’s shoulder holster made under his coat.

  “Did you kill that bull with that cannon you’re carrying around under your arm?” Mr. John asked the down-state man.

  The down-state man looked at Mr. John unappreciatively.

  “No,” he said. “I killed that bull out in the thoroughfare country in Wyoming with a Winchester 45-70.”

  “You’re a big-gun man, eh?” Mr. John said. He looked under the counter. “Have big feet, too. Do you need that big a cannon when you go out hunting kids?”

  “What do you mean, kids,” the down-state man said. He was one ahead.

  “I mean the kid you’re looking for.”

  “You said, kids,” the down-state man said.

  Mr. John moved in. It was necessary. “What’s Evans carry when he goes after a boy who’s licked his own boy twice? You must be heavily armed, Evans. That boy could lick you, too.”

  “Why don’t you produce him and we could try it,” Evans said.

  “You said, kids, Mr. Jackson” the down-state man said. “What made you say that?”

  “Looking at you, you cock-sucker,” Mr. John said. “You splayfooted bastard.”

  “Why don’t you come out from behind that counter if you want to talk like that?” the down-state man said.

  “You’re talking to the United States Postmaster,” Mr. John said. “You’re talking without witnesses except for Turd-face Evans. I suppose you know why they call him Turd-face. You can figure it out. You’re a detective.”

  He was happy now. He had drawn the attack and he felt now as he used to feel in the old days before he made a living from feeding and bedding resorters who rocked in rustic chairs on the front porch of his hotel while they looked out over the lake.

  “Listen, Splayfoot, I remember you very well now. Don’t you remember me, Splayzey?”

  The down-state man looked at him. But he did not remember him.

  “I remember you in Cheyenne the day Tom Horn was hanged,” Mr. John told him. “You were one of the ones that framed him with promises from the association. Do you remember now? Who owned the saloon in Medicine Bow when you worked for the people that gave it to Tom? Is that why you ended up doing what you’re doing? Haven’t you got any memory?”

  “When did you come back here?”

  “Two years after they dropped Tom.”

  “I’ll be goddamned.”

  “Do you remember when I gave you that bull tusk when we were packing out from Greybull?”

  “Sure. Listen, Jim, I got to get this kid.”

  “My name’s John,” Mr. John said. “John Packard. Come on in back and have a drink. You want to get to know this other character. His name is Crut-Face Evans. We used to call him Turd-Face. I just changed it now out of kindness.”

  “Mr. John” said Mr. Evans. “Why don’t you be friendly and cooperative.”

  “I just changed your name, didn’t I”? said Mr. John. “What kind of cooperation do you boys want?”

  In the back of the store Mr. John took a bottle off a low shelf in the corner and handed it to the down-state man.

  “Drink up, Splayzey,” he said. “You look like you need it.”

  They each took a drink and then Mr. John asked, “What are you after this kid for?”

  “Violation of the game laws,” the down-state man said.

  “What particular violation?”

  “He killed a buck deer the twelfth of last month.”

  “Two men with guns out after a boy because he killed a deer the twelfth of last month,” Mr. John said.

  “There’ve been other violations.”

  “But this is the one you’ve got proof of.”

  “That’s about it.”

  “What were the other violations?”

  “Plenty.”

  “But you haven’t got proof.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Evans said. “But we’ve got proof on this.”

  “And the date was the twelfth?”

  “That’s right,” said Evans.

  “Why don’t you ask some questions instead of answering them?” the down-state man said to his partner. Mr. John laughed. “Let him alone, Splayzey,” he said. “I like to see that great brain work.”

  “How well do you know the boy?” the down-state man asked.

  “Pretty well.”

  “Ever do any business with him?”

  “He buys a little stuff here once in a while. Pays cash.”

  “Do you have any idea where he’d head for?”

  “He’s got folks in Oklahoma.”

  “When did you see him last?” Evans asked.

  “Come on, Evans,” the down-state man said. “You’re wasting our time. Thanks for the drink, Jim.”

  “John,” Mr. John said. “What’s your name, Splayzey?”

  “Porter. Henry J. Porter.”

  “Splayzey, you’re not going to do any shooting at that boy.”

  “I’m going to bring him in.”

  “You always were a murderous bastard.”

  “Come on, Evans,” the down-state man said. “We’re wasting time in here.”

  “You remember what I said about the shooting,” Mr. John said very quietly.

  “I heard you,” the down-state man said.

  The two men went out through the store and unhitched their light wagon and drove off. Mr. John watched them go up the road. Evans was driving and the down-state man was talking to him.

  “Henry J. Porter,” Mr. John thought. “The only name I can remember for him is Splayzey. He had such big feet he had to have made-to-order boots. Splayfoot they called him. Then Splayzey. It was his tracks by the spring where that Nester’s boy was shot that they hung Tom for. Splayzey. Splayzey what? Maybe I never did know. Splayfoot Splayzey. Splayfoot Porter? No it wasn’t Porter.”

  “I’m sorry about those baskets, Mrs. Tabeshaw,” he said. “It’s too late in the season now and they don’t carry over. But if you’d be patient with them down at the hotel you’d get rid of them.”

  “You buy them, sell at the hotel,” Mrs. Tabeshaw suggested.

  “No. They’d buy them better from you,” Mr. John told her. “You’re a fine-looking woman.”

  “Long time ago,” Mrs. Tabeshaw said.

  “Suzy, I’d
like to see you,” Mr. John said.

  In the back of the store he said, “Tell me about it.”

  “I told you already. They came for Nickie and they waited for him to come home. His youngest sister let him know they were waiting for him. When they were sleeping drunk Nickie got his stuff and pulled out. He’s got grub for two weeks easy and he’s got his rifle and young Littless went with him.”

  “Why did she go?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. John. I guess she wanted to look after him and keep him from doing anything bad. You know him.”

  “You live up by Evans’s. How much do you think he knows about the country Nick uses?”

  “All he can. But I don’t know how much.”

  “Where do you think they went?”

  “I wouldn’t know, Mr. John. Nickie knows a lot of country.”

  “That man with Evans is no good. He’s really bad.”

  “He isn’t very smart.”

  “He’s smarter than he acts. The booze has him down. But he’s smart and he’s bad. I used to know him.”

  “What do you want me to do.”

  “Nothing, Suzy. Let me know about anything.”

  “I’ll add up my stuff, Mr. John, and you can check it.”

  “How are you going home?”

  “I can get the boat up to Henry’s Dock and then get a rowboat from the cottage and row down and get the stuff. Mr. John, what will they do with Nickie?”

  “That’s what I’m worried about.”

  “They were talking about getting him put in the reform school.”

  “I wish he hadn’t killed that buck.”

  “So does he. He told me he was reading in a book about how you could crease something with a bullet and it wouldn’t do it any harm, it would just stun it and Nickie wanted to try it. He said it was a damn fool thing to do. But he wanted to try it. Then he hit the buck and broke his neck. He felt awful about it. He felt awful about trying to crease it in the first place.”

  “I know.”

  “Then it must have been Evans found the meat where he had it hung up in the old springhouse. Anyway somebody took it.”

  “Who could have told Evans?”

  “I think it was just that boy of his found it. He trails around after Nick all the time. You never see him. He could have seen Nickie kill the buck. That boy’s no good, Mr. John. But he sure can trail around after anybody. He’s liable to be in this room right now.”

  “No,” said Mr. John. “But he could be listening outside.”

  “I think he’s after Nick by now,” the girl said.

  “Did you hear them say anything about him at the house?”

  “They never mentioned him,” Suzy said.

  “Evans must have left him home to do the chores. I don’t think we have to worry about him till they get home to Evans’s.”

  “I can row up the lake to home this afternoon and get one of our kids to let me know if Evans hires anyone to do the chores. That will mean he’s turned that boy loose.”

  “Both the men are too old to trail anybody.”

  “But that boy’s terrible, Mr. John, and he knows too much about Nickie and where he would go. He’d find them and then bring the men up to them.”

  “Come in back of the post office,” Mr. John said.

  Back of the filing slits and the lockboxes and the registry book and the flat stamp books in place along with the cancellation stamps and their pads, with the General Delivery window down, so that Suzy felt again the glory of office that had been hers when she had helped out in the store, Mr. John said, “Where do you think they went, Suzy?”

  “I wouldn’t know, true. Somewhere not too far or he wouldn’t take Littless. Somewhere that’s really good or he wouldn’t take her. They know about the trout for trout dinners, too, Mr. John”

  “That boy?”

  “Sure.”

  “Maybe we better do something about the Evans boy.”

  “I’d kill him. I’m pretty sure that’s why Littless went along. So Nickie wouldn’t kill him.”

  “You fix it up so we keep track of them.”

  “I will. But you have to think out something, Mr. John. Mrs. Adams, she’s just broke down. She just gets a sick headache like always. Here. You better take this letter.”

  “You drop it in the box,” Mr. John said. “That’s United States mail.”

  “I wanted to kill them both last night when they were asleep.”

  “No,” Mr. John told her. “Don’t talk that way and don’t think that way.”

  “Didn’t you ever want to kill anybody, Mr. John?”

  “Yes. But it’s wrong and it doesn’t work out.”

  “My father killed a man.”

  “it didn’t do him any good.”

  “He couldn’t help it.”

  “You have to learn to help it,” Mr. John said. “You get along now, Suzy.”

  “I’ll see you tonight or in the morning,” Suzy said. “I wish I still worked here, Mr. John.”

  “So do I, Suzy. But Mrs. Packard doesn’t see it that way.”

  “I know,” said Suzy. “That’s the way everything is.”

  Nick and his sister were lying on a browse bed under a lean-to that they had built together on the edge of the hemlock forest looking out over the slope of the hill to the cedar swamp and the blue hills beyond.

  “if it isn’t comfortable, Littless, we can feather in some more balsam on that hemlock. We’ll be tired tonight and this will do. But we can fix it up really good tomorrow.”

  “it feels lovely,” his sister said. “Lie loose and really feel it, Nickie.”

  “it’s a pretty good camp,” Nick said. “And it doesn’t show. We’ll only use little fires.”

  “Would a fire show across to the hills?”

  “It might,” Nick said. “A fire shows a long way at night. But I’ll stake out a blanket behind it. That way it won’t show.”

  “Nickie, wouldn’t it be nice if there wasn’t anyone after us and we were just here for fun?”

  “Don’t start thinking that way so soon,” Nick said. “We just started. Anyway if we were just here for fun we wouldn’t be here.”

  “I’m sorry, Nickie.”

  “You don’t need to be,” Nick told her. “Look, Littless, I’m going down to get a few trout for supper.”

  “Can I come?”

  “No. You stay here and take a rest. You had a tough day. You read a while or just be quiet.”

  “It was tough in the slashings, wasn’t it? I thought it was really hard. Did I do all right?”

  “You did wonderfully and you were wonderful making camp. But you take it easy now.”

  “Have we got a name for this camp?”

  “Let’s call it Camp Number One,” Nick said.

  He went down the hill toward the creek and when he had come almost to the bank he stopped and cut himself a willow stick about four feet long and trimmed it, leaving the bark on. He could see the clear fast water of the stream. It was narrow and deep and the banks were mossy here before the stream entered the swamp. The dark clear water flowed fast and its rushing made bulges on the surface. Nick did not go close to it as he knew it flowed under the banks and he did not want to frighten a fish by walking on the bank.

  There must be quite a few up here in the open now, he thought, it’s pretty late in the summer.

  He took a coil of silk line out of a tobacco pouch he carried in the left breast pocket of his shirt and cut a length that was not quite as long as the willow stick and fastened it to the tip where he had notched it lightly. Then he fastened on a hook that he took from the pouch; then holding the shank of the hook he tested the pull of the line and the bend of the willow. He laid his rod down now and went back to where the trunk of a small birch tree, dead for several years, lay on its side in the grove of birches that bordered the cedars by the stream. He rolled the log over and found several earthworms under it. They were not big. But they were red and lively and he put them in
a flat round tin with holes punched in the top that had once held Copenhagen snuff. He put some dirt over them and rolled the log back. This was the third year he had found bait at this same place and he had always replaced the log so that it was as he had found it.

  Nobody knows how big this creek is, he thought, it picks up an awful volume of water in that bad swamp up above. Now he looked up the creek and down it and up the hill to the hemlock forest where the camp was. Then he walked to where he had left the pole with the line and the hook and baited the hook carefully and spat on it for good luck. Holding the pole and the line with the baited hook in his right hand he walked very carefully and gently toward the bank of the narrow, heavy-flowing stream.

  It was so narrow here that his willow pole would have spanned it and as he came close to the bank he heard the turbulent rush of the water. He stopped by the bank, out of sight of anything in the stream, and took two lead shot, split down one side, out of the tobacco pouch and bent them on the line about a foot above the hook, clinching them with his teeth.

  He swung the hook on which the two worms curled out over the water and dropped it gently in so that it sank, swirling in the fast water, and he lowered the tip of the willow pole to let the current take the line and the baited hook under the bank. He felt the line straighten and a sudden heavy firmness. He swung up on the pole and it bent almost double in his hand. He felt the throbbing, jerking pull that did not yield as he pulled. Then it yielded, rising in the water with the line. There was a heavy wildness of movement in the narrow, deep current, and the trout was torn out of the water and, flopping in the air, sailed over Nick’s shoulder and onto the bank behind him. Nick saw him shine in the sun and then he found him where he was tumbling in the ferns. He was strong and heavy in Nick’s hands and he had a pleasant smell and Nick saw how dark his back was and how brilliant his spots were colored and how bright the edges of his fins were. They were white on the edge with a black line behind and then there was the lovely golden sunset color of his belly. Nick held him in his right hand and he could just reach around him.

  He’s pretty big for the skillet, he thought. But I’ve hurt him and I have to kill him.