But the man stiff-armed it and strode into the room.
'If you don't mind, we'll look the situation over.'
With a sinking feeling in his belly, Doyle remembered the rolla.
He spun around.
The rolla was not there.
The bedroom door opened and Mabel came out. She was calm as ice.
'You live here, lady?' asked the man.
'Yes, she does,' the woman said. 'I see her in the hall.'
This guy bothering you?'
'Not at all,' said Mabel. 'We are real good friends.'
The man swung around on Doyle.
'You got blood all over you,' he said.
'I can't seem to help it,' Doyle told him. 'I just bleed all the blessed time.'
The woman was tugging at the man's arm.
Mabel said, 'I tell you, there is nothing wrong.'
'Let's go, honey,' urged the woman, still tugging at the arm. 'They don't want us here.'
The man went reluctantly.
Doyle slammed the door and bolted it. He leaned against it weakly.
'That rips it,' he said. 'We got to get out of here. He'll keep mulling it over and he'll up and call the cops and they'll haul us in…'
'We ain't done nothing, Chuck.'
'No, maybe not. But I don't like no cops. I don't want to answer questions. Not right now.'
She moved closer to him.
'He was right,' she said. 'You are all bloody. Your hands and shirt…'
'One leg, too. The rolla gave me a working over.'
The rolla stood up from behind a corner chair.
NO WISH EMBARRASS, he spelled out. ALWAYS HIDE FROM STRANGERS.
That's the way he talks,' said Doyle, admiringly.
'What is it?' asked Mabel, backing away a pace or two.
I ROLLA.
'I met him under the money tree,' said Doyle. 'We had a little fracas. He has something to do with the tree, guarding it or something.'
'And did you get some money?'
'Not much. You see, this rolla…'
HUNGRY, said the rolla.
'You come along,' Mabel said to Doyle. 'I got to patch you up.'
'But don't you want to hear…'
'Not especially. You got into trouble again. It seems to me you want to get in trouble.'
She headed for the bathroom and he followed.
'Sit down on the edge of the tub,' she ordered.
The rolla came and sprawled in the doorway, leaning against the jamb.
AINT YOU GOT NO FOOD? it asked.
'Oh, for heaven's sake,' Mabel exclaimed in exasperation, 'what is it you want?'
FRUIT, VEGETABLES.
'Out in the kitchen. There's fruit on the table. I suppose I have to show you.'
FIND MYSELF, the rolla said and left.
T can't understand that squirt,' said Mabel. 'First he chewed you up. Now he's palsy-walsy.'
T give him lumps,' said Doyle. Taught him some respect.'
'Besides,' observed Mabel, 'he's dying of starvation. Now you sit down on that tub and let me fix you up.'
He sat down gingerly while she rummaged in the medicine cabinet. She got a bottle of red stuff, a bottle of alcohol, swabs and cotton. She knelt and rolled up Doyle's trou-ser leg.
This looks bad,' she said.
'Where he got me with his teeth,' said Doyle.
'You should see a doctor, Chuck. This might get infected. His teeth might not be clean or something.'
'Doc would ask too many questions. We got trouble enough…'
'Chuck, what is that thing out there?'
'It's a rolla:
'Why is it called a rollaT
I don't know. Just call it that, I guess.'
'I read about someone called a rolla once. Rolla boys, I think it was. Always doing good.'
'Didn't do me a bit of good.'
'What did you bring it here for, then?'
'Might be worth a million. Might sell it to a circus or a zoo. Might work up a night club act with it. The way it talks and all.'
She worked expertly and quickly on the tooth-marked calf and ankle, cleaning out the cuts and swabbing them with some of the red stuff that was in the bottle.
There's another reason I brought the rolla here,' Doyle confessed. 'I got Metcalfe where I want him. I know something he wouldn't want no one else to know and I got the rolla and the rolla has something to do with them money trees…'
'You're talking blackmail now?'
'Nah, nothing like that. You know I wouldn't never blackmail no one. Just a little private arrangement between me and Metcalfe. Maybe just out of gratitude for me keeping my mouth shut, he might give me one of his money trees.'
'But you said there was only one money tree.'
'That's all I saw, was one. But the place was dark and there might be more of them. You wouldn't expect a man like Metcalfe to be satisfied with just one money tree, would you. If he had one, he could grow some others. I bet you he has twenty-dollar trees and fifty-dollar trees and hundred-dollar trees.'
He sighed. 'I sure would like to get just five minutes with a hundred-dollar tree. I'd be set for life. I'd do me some two-handed picking the like you never see.'
'Shuck up your shirt,' said Mabel. 'I got to get at them scratches on your ribs.'
Doyle shucked up his shirt.
'You know,' he said, 'I bet you Metcalfe ain't the only one that has them money trees. I bet all the rich folks has them. I bet they're all banded together in a secret society, pledged to never talk about them. I wouldn't wonder if that's where all the money comes from. Maybe the government don't print no money, like they say they do…'
'Shut up,' commanded Mabel, 'and hold still.'
She worked swiftly on his ribs.
'What are you going to do with the rollaT she asked.
'We'll put him in the car and drive down and have a talk with Metcalfe. You stay out in the car with the rolla and if there is any funny stuff, you get out of there. Long as we have the rolla we got Metcalfe across the barrel.'
'You're crazy if you think I'll stay alone, with that thing in the car. Not after what it done to you.'
'Just get yourself a stick of stove wood and belt him one with it if he makes a crooked move.'
Til do no such thing,' said Mabel. 'I will not stay with him.'
'All right, then,' said Doyle, 'we'll put him in the trunk. We'll fix him up with some blankets, so he'll be comfortable. He can't get at you there. And it might be better to have him under lock and key.'
Mabel shook her head. 'I hope that you are doing right, Chuck. I hope we don't get into trouble.'
'Put that stuff away,' said Doyle, 'and let us get a move on. We got to get out of here before that jerk down the hall decides to phone the cops.'
The rolla showed up in the doorway, patting at his belly.
JERKS? he asked. WHATS THEM?
'Oh, my aching back,' said Doyle, 'now I got to explain to him.'
JERKS LIKE HEELS?
'Sure, that's it,' said Doyle. 'A jerk is like a heel.'
METCALFE SAY ALL OTHER HUMANS HEELS
'Now, I tell you, Metcalfe might have something there,' said Doyle, judicially.
HEEL MEAN HUMAN WITH NO MONEY
Tve never heard it put quite that way,' said Doyle, 'but if that should be the case, you can count me as a heel.'
METCALFE SAY THAT WHAT IS WRONG WITH PLANET. THERE IS TOO LITTLE MONEY
'Now, that is something that I'll go along with him.'
SO I NOT i
ANGRY WITH YOU ANY MORE.
Mabel said: 'My, but he's turned out to be a chatterbox.'
MY JOB TO
CARE AND
GUARD TREE.
I ANGRY AT
THE START.
BUT FINALLY
I THINK
POOR HEEL
NEED SOME MONEY
CANNOT BLAME
FOR TAKING.
That's decent of you,' Doyle told him. 'I wish y
ou'd thought of that before you chewed me up. If I could have had just a full five minutes — '
'I am ready,' Mabel said. 'If we have to leave, let's go.'
III
Doyle went softly up the walk that led to the front of the Metcalfe house. The place was dark and the moon was riding homeward in the western sky, just above the tip of a row of pines that grew in the grounds across the street.
He mounted the steps of mellowed brick and stood before the door. He reached out and rang the bell and waited.
Nothing happened.
He rang again and yet again and there was no answer.
He tried the door and it was locked.
'They flown the coop,' said Doyle, talking to himself.
He went around the house into the alley and climbed the tree again.
The garden back of the house was dark and silent. He crouched for a long time atop the wall and the place was empty.
He pulled a flashlight from his pocket and played it downward. It cut a circle of uncertain light and he moved it slowly back and forth until it caught the maw of tortured earth.
His breath rasped in his throat at the sight of it and he worked the light around to make sure there was no mistake.
There was no mistake at all. The money tree was gone. Someone had dug it up and taken it away.
Doyle snapped off the light and slid it back into his pocket. He slid down the tree and trotted down the alley.
Two blocks away he came up to the car. Mabel had kept the motor idling. She moved from behind the wheel and he slid under it and shoved the car in gear.
They took it on the lam,' he said. There ain't nobody there. They dug up the tree and took it on the lam.'
'Well, I'm glad of it,' Mabel said defiantly. 'Now you won't be getting into trouble — not with money trees at least.'
'I got a hunch,' said Doyle.
'So have I,' said Mabel. 'Both of us is going home and getting us some sleep.'
'Maybe you,' said Doyle. 'You can curl up in the seat. Me, I got some driving to do.'
There ain't no place to drive.'
'Metcalfe told me when I was taking his picture this afternoon about a farm he had. Bragging about all the things he has, you know. Out west some place, near a town called Millville.'
'What has that got to do with it?'
'Well, if you had a lot of money trees…'
'But he had only one tree. In the backyard of his house.'
'Maybe he has lots of them. Maybe he had this one here just to keep him in pocket money when he was in town.'
'You mean you're driving out to this place where he has a farm?'
'I have to find an all-night station first. I need some gas and I need a road map to find out where is this Millville place. I bet you Metcalfe's got an orchard on that farm of his. Can't you see it, Mabel? Row after row of trees, all loaded down with money!'
IV
The old proprietor of the only store in Millville — part hardware, part grocery, part drugstore, with the post office in one corner — rubbed his silvery mustache.
'Yeah,' he said. 'Man by the name of Metcalfe does have a farm — over in the hills across the river. He's got it named and everything. He calls it Merry Hill. Now, can you tell me, stranger, why anyone should name a farm like that?'
'People do some funny things,' said Doyle. 'Can you tell me how to get there?'
'You asked?'
'Sure I asked. I asked you just now…'
The old man shook his head. 'You been invited there? Metcalfe expecting you?'
'No, I don't suppose he is.'
'You'll never get in then. He's got it solid-fenced. And he's got a guard at the gate — even got a little house for the guard to stay in. 'Less Metcalfe wants you in, you don't get in.'
Til have a try at it.'
'I wish you well, stranger, but I don't think you'll make it. Now, why in the world should Metcalfe act like that? This is friendly country. No one else has got their farms fenced with eight-foot wire and barbs on top of that. No one else could afford to do it even if they wanted to. He must be powerful scared of someone.'
'Wouldn't know,' said Doyle. 'Tell me how to get there.'
The old man found a paper sack underneath the counter, fished a stub pencil out of his vest pocket and wet it carefully with his tongue. He smoothed out the sack with a liver-spotted hand and began drawing painfully.
'You cross the bridge and take this road — don't take that one to the left, it just wanders up the river — and you go up this hollow and you reach a steep hill and at the top of it you turn left and it's just a mile to Metcalfe's place.'
He wet the pencil again and drew a rough rectangle.
'The place lies right in there,' he said. 'A sizeable piece of property. Metcalfe bought four farms and threw them all together.'
Back at the car Mabel was waiting irritably.
'So you was wrong all the time,' she greeted Doyle. 'He hasn't got a farm.'
'Just a few miles from here,' said Doyle. 'How is the rolla doing?'
'He must be hungry again. He's banging on the trunk.'
'How can he be hungry? I bought him all of them bananas just a couple hours ago.'
'Maybe he wants company. He might be getting lonesome.'
T got too much to do,' said Doyle, 'to be holding any rolla's hand.'
He climbed into the car and got it started and pulled away into the dusty street. He clattered across the bridge and instead of keeping up the hollow, as the storekeeper had directed, turned left on the road that paralleled the river.
If the map the old man had drawn on the sack was right, he figured, he should come upon the Metcalfe farm from the rear by following the river road.
Gentle hills turned into steep bluffs, covered with heavy woods and underbrush. The crooked road grew rougher. He came to a deep hollow that ran between two bluffs. A faint trail, a wagon-road more than likely, unused for many years, angled up the hollow.
Doyle pulled the car into the old wagon road and stopped. He got out and stood for a moment, staring up the hollow.
'What you stopping for?' asked Mabel.
'I'm about,' Doyle told her, 'to take Metcalfe in the rear.'
'You can't leave me here.'
'I won't be gone for long.'
'And there are mosquitoes,' she complained, slapping wildly.
'Just keep the windows shut.'
He started to walk away and she called him back.
'There's the rolla back there.'
'He can't get at you as long as he's in the trunk.'
'But all that banging he's doing! What if someone should go past and hear all that banging going on?'
'I bet you there ain't been anyone along this road within the last two weeks.'
Mosquitoes buzzed. He waved futile hands at them.
'Look, Mabel,' he pleaded, 'you want me to pull this off, don't you? You ain't got anything against a mink coat, have you? You don't despise no diamonds?'
'No, I guess I don't,' she admitted. 'But you hurry back. I don't want to be here alone when it's getting dark.'
He swung around and headed up the hollow.
The place was green — the deep, dead green, the shabby, shapeless green of summer. And quiet — except for the buzzing of mosquitoes. And to Doyle's concrete-and-asphalt mind there was a bit of lurking terror in the green quietness of the wooded hills.
He slapped at mosquitoes again and shrugged.
'Ain't nothing to hurt a man,' he said.
It was rough traveling. The hollow slanted, climbing up between the hills, and the dry creek bed, carpeted with tumbled boulders and bars of gravel, slashed erratically from one bluff-side to the other. Time after time, Doyle had to climb down one bank and climb up the other when the shifting stream bed blocked his way. He tried walking in the dry bed, but that was even worse — he had to dodge around or climb over a dozen boulders every hundred feet.
The mosquitoes grew worse as he advanced. He took out his hand
kerchief and tied it around his neck. He pulled his hat down as far as it would go. He waged energetic war — he killed them by the hundreds, but there was no end to them.
He tried to hurry, but it was no place to hurry. He was dripping wet with perspiration. He wanted to sit down and rest, for he was short of wind, but when he tried to sit the mosquitoes swarmed in upon him in hateful, mindless numbers and he had to move again.
The ravine narrowed and twisted and the going became still rougher.
He came around a bend and the way was blocked. A great mass of tangled wood and vines had become wedged between two great trees growing on opposite sides of the steep hillsides.
There was no possibility of getting through the tangle. It stretched for thirty feet or more and was so thickly interlaced that it formed a solid wall, blocking the entire stream bed. It rose for twelve or fifteen feet and behind it rocks and mud and other rubble had been jammed hard against it by the boiling streams of water that had come gushing down the hollow in times of heavy rain.
Clawing with his hands, digging with his feet, Doyle crawled up the hillside to get around one end of the obstruction.
He reached the clump of trees against which one end of it rested and hauled himself among them, bracing himself with aching arms and legs. The mosquitoes came at him in howling squadrons and he broke off a small branch, heavy with leaves, from one of the trees, and used it as a switch to discourage them.
He perched there, panting and sobbing, drawing deep breaths into his tongs. And wondered, momentarily, how he'd ever managed to get himself into such a situation. It was not his dish, he was not cut out for roughing it. His ideas of nature never had extended any further than a well-kept city park.
And here he was, in the depths of nowhere, toiling up outlandish hills, heading for a place where there might be money trees — row on row of money trees.
'I wouldn't do it,' he told himself, 'for nothing less than money.'
He twisted around and examined the tangle of wood and vines and saw, with some astonishment, that it was two feet thick or more and that it carried its thickness uniformally. And the uphill side of it was smooth and slick, almost as if it had been planed and sanded, although there was not a tool mark on it.
He examined it more closely and it was plain to see that it was no haphazard collection of driftwood that had been built up through the years, but that it was woven and interlaced so intricately that it was a single piece — had been a single piece even before it had become wedged between the trees.
The Creator and Other Stories Page 16