by Howard Fast
What else do you remember?
Well, then, I also remember these things: the children who played in the streets, they the inheritors, and I was grown now and saw them as children. The fresh-baked bread we had for our dinner—oh, honored guests. We shared our bread with the children, who made us at home as you do when a guest is no longer a stranger. There were also things to be done, arrangements for the new guns, which were coming down from France, arrangements for officers and for a table of organization, arrangements into the sunset, the sweet, cool night. I was bedded with a cobbler’s family, and we sat before bed with a glass of wine and a piece of sausage.
Partake, oh cousin, and tell us about how it goes in the South. Is there death in the South? Will there be victory or defeat? Will the fascists be driven back?
A su tiempo.
Cunning words from an old fighter. You are one of the new ones, a machine gunner?
An artilleryman.
Drink the wine and don’t spare the sausage. When will Spain see better men? A glass of wine makes the couch easy.
And then I slept until a whistle wakened me, and this was it, was it not? We formed into ranks and then onto the train, and nobody really knew except—rumors; but after a while we understood. The train was going north, not south. Barcelona would not be held; the last of the Internationals were going away. This was a night train for the border, salute and farewell. Somewhere, men were afraid; somewhere men lost heart and hope, and they had opened the doors and said: Take this maiden for yourself, she with the lips as red as poppies and the lissome stride. I had only hatred and contempt for those whose eyes were wet now.
“What is it, kid?”
“To hell with you! To hell with you!”
And when the train stopped in the morning, we were in France.
The Old Wagon
ON THE SEAT of the wagon, as it drove into the little town, were a man and woman, and a child of six. The man drove two jaded horses; the child, sitting between the man and woman, twisted his head from left to right with never flagging interest. The woman, who was small, sat primly in the seat, as if she knew what a poor impression the wagon made, and desired to counteract it.
The old wagon was piled high with household goods, with pots and pans and chests and chairs and quilts, with much that was no better than junk. Over all, a patched canvas cover was drawn. Roped onto the side were two water barrels. And in back, with bare, dusty legs hanging over the tailboard, were two more children, a boy of eleven, a girl of nine.
The horses were tired, and they walked into the town slowly. The man was tired, and he slouched over his reins, a long, rawboned man with a stubble of beard on his face. Only the woman seemed as fresh as if she had just got out of bed and washed and dressed. She was a little woman, and she sat primly, with her hands folded in her lap. She wore a plain blue cotton dress that fell to her ankles, a duller blue than the color of her eyes, which were large and round and warm. The eyes were the one prominent feature in her small plain face. Her black hair was drawn back tightly under a black bonnet.
It was a few hours past midday, hot, sunny, when they drove into the town. The town consisted of one long street, carpeted with dust, and at this hour it was empty, except for a dozen or so horses standing in front of two saloons.
Briefly, the woman glanced at the town, at the flat house fronts, at the saloons and the horses, after which she folded her hands again a little more firmly in her lap. Her lips compressed, and a click of her tongue told her husband she didn’t like the town.
“Don’t like it much myself,” he admitted. “Got a name for being bad.”
“Just shiftless, looks to me,” she said. “Now don’t stop, but go right through.”
“Now, Martha,” he complained, “I got to rest the horses.”
“Rest them plenty tonight.”
He pointed ahead to where the single street of the village lost itself in flat land that was brown and yellow, hot and baked. “How do I know there’s water out along there, Martha?”
“You don’t know. But if we’re a goin’ to live there, there’s water. That’s all.”
The child said: “Maw, I’m thirsty.”
“See,” the man said. “Ain’t no reason why the little shaver shouldn’t have a nice cool cup of water.”
“No reason except that a saloon’s the place you’ll look for it.”
“Martha, there’s a trough out there, an’ you can’t drive dry, tired horses past water without giving them to drink.”
“All right,” she nodded.
The team scented the water and quickened their pace. They found the trough themselves and plunged their dusty heads into it. The man sighed. The woman clicked her tongue and looked straight ahead of her. The boy began to climb down from the seat.
“You stay here,” she ordered.
“Maw, I want a drink.”
“Stay here.”
“Suppose I get the little shaver a cup of cool water,” the man suggested.
“We ain’t got money to throw away.”
“Now, Martha, why talk that way. I took a pledge nine month past, an’ I ain’t broken it.”
She looked at him a moment. “Guess I shouldn’t a said that, Jim.”
Awkwardly, stretching his cramped legs, the man climbed down from the wagon. He drew himself up to his full height, worked his neck. Then he ambled behind the wagon and ordered the boy and girl to stay where they were. He came back and patted the horses, and the woman looked at him fondly. He grinned at her, and said:
“Maybe this here’s where our luck turns, Martha. Seems we had just about enough bad luck to last folks a lifetime.”
“You go get that water.”
As he turned to the saloon, the door opened, and two men came out—one short, bowlegged, small of face, wearing blue jeans, booted; the other larger, heavier, better dressed. Both were armed. Both grinned as they looked at the heavily loaded wagon. They came down the steps and stood by the water trough, grinning.
The shorter one said: “Mister, that’s a fine load you’re packing there.”
The other one: “Mister, you buying junk or selling it?”
The woman stared straight ahead of her. If any change came over her face, it was a tightening of her lips, a finer etching of the little lines of pain, of hope, of anxiety about her mouth.
From the shorter one: “Mister, them nags of yours had just about enough water, wouldn’t you say? You don’t want them to drink the trough dry.”
“Jim—” She left off her words and still looked straight ahead of her.
“I never yet been begrudged water,” he muttered, shifting uneasily from foot to foot, conscious of the old, patched wagon, conscious of his dirty brown overalls.
“Maybe we begrudge a lot of things to your kind,” the taller man said. “Maybe we don’t like your kind nice enough to be perlite. Maybe this is cattle country an’ not for groundscrapers.”
She saw the stiffening of her husband’s body, and she said, quickly: “Jim, we got to get goin’.”
“I’ll get the shaver a drink of water,” he said softly. Then he walked up the wooden steps into the saloon. The two men glanced after him, turned slowly, and followed.
She waited, and it seemed to her that she waited a long time, but actually it couldn’t have been more than four or five minutes. Further up the street and across from her was a sign which said CLOVER CITY EXPRESS. It hung over the front of a store, and now, as she watched, a man stepped into the street, and stood under the sign, mopping his brow, a short, stout man in his vest and shirt sleeves. He looked up the street, and then down at the wagon. He met her eyes and nodded.
She felt cold, in spite of the heat. She felt an ominous uncertainty, as before a thunderstorm.
“I’m thirsty,” the boy said again.
She heard her husband’s voice from behind the saloon door. She unclasped her hands, and they were clammy with sweat. She climbed down from the wagon, instructing the boy, “Sit th
ere—don’t you stir.” Walking around the wagon, she saw the boy and girl on the tailboard, leaning back and halfasleep. The girl smiled at her, drowsily.
Then she made up her mind and went into the saloon.
A big place, almost empty, tables and a high, raftered roof, a long bar. She stood just inside the door, her heart throbbing, her hands wet, afraid for herself, afraid for her husband, remembering how he had grinned and told her that their hard luck was broken. She recalled the stretch of their hard luck, the child dying, her husband breaking his leg, the farm taken away from them, their long, painful journey westward.
Her husband stood at the bar. There were about a dozen men at the bar now, men in jeans, booted, armed, their hats tilted back, men somehow different from her husband. At first, she couldn’t understand the difference, why it made her afraid; then she realized that they were not men who had ever worked with their hands for a living, not farmers, not cowpunchers.
Her husband was saying: “I came for a cup of water, an’ I aim to get it.”
The bartender was polishing glasses, ignoring him.
“Jim,” she said, “come along.”
One of the men said: “Come in, sister. Have a drink.”
She saw her husband turn, walk to the man. “That’s my wife,” he said.
“Sure. I aim to buy her a drink.”
“That’s my wife you’re speaking about.”
“Jim!”
She saw his long brown form unlash, saw the booted, armed man sprawl across the room, crash into a table and chairs. She screamed. Her husband didn’t move as the fallen man fired. Then, slowly, he bent over, held the bar for support. It had all happened too quickly; it was over, and it was like a dream, like something that had never been. Her husband was bent painfully, holding onto the bar. The others, the booted men, the bartender, were watching. They hadn’t moved; they were watching, calmly, curiously. The fallen man picked himself up.
She ran to her husband, and he twisted his head to look down at her. She put her arm around him. “You’re not hurt,” she said. “Jim, you’re not hurt—”
“Maybe—a little.”
The others hadn’t moved. They were still watching, calmly. She looked at them, started to speak, then clamped her mouth shut. Her hand was wet with blood.
“I’ll help you outside,” she told her husband.
“All right, Martha.”
He leaned on her heavily, and they went through the door. None of the men moved. She shouldered the door open, helped her husband through.
“Looks like our luck kinda run out again, Martha,” the man said.
There were people in the street now, a little crowd in front of the saloon around the wagon. The children were standing by the wagon, wide-eyed, excited. When she saw her mother and father come out, the girl began to cry.
She paused on the steps, her husband heavier now, as if all his weight was leaning on her. She felt his blood on her hands. She stood there, feeling his weight, feeling weak, sick, looking at the people around the wagon.
“Some of you—help me,” she cried.
They watched her, but nobody moved. She heard the door of the saloon open, and realized that the men inside were coming out.
One man detached himself from the crowd and came up to her. She recognized the stout man she had seen on the street before. He nodded to her, and without speaking put an arm around Jim’s waist. They went down the steps, and the three children edged up, shyly, the girl still crying. The people made way for them.
“You can’t put him in the wagon, missus,” the stout man said. “Take him to my place.”
She looked at him, gained confidence from his fat, mustached face, and nodded. They went toward the shop. The children followed. The team walked slowly after them.
From the saloon to the door of the Clover City Express, a trail of blood was left. The children walked in it; the team walked in it, and the old wagon rattled after. The six-year-old was crying now, but through his tears his wide, curious eyes continued to gather everything in. They came to the door of the shop, and when the children stopped, the team stopped too, more satisfied not to move in the hot sun. Some of the bystanders had followed, and now they stood on the side of the wagon where there was some shade, peering into the shop. Two of the men from the saloon stood across the street.
Inside the shop, the woman and the fat man had stretched Jim on a bench. The woman unbuttoned his shirt, bared his breast, and wiped away the blood. His eyes were open, and he tried to smile at her.
“I guess I should a kept the pledge an’ not gone near the saloon,” he whispered.
“You’ll be all right, Jim. You’re not hurt bad.”
“Where’re the kids?”
“Outside.”
“That’s good. It ain’t nice they should see this. What kind a place is this?”
“A newspaper shop, I guess.” She glanced around, at the racks of type, at the presses, at the wet proof sheets hanging from a line.
“My shop,” the fat man said. “You’ll be all right, mister. I’m going for Doc.” He nodded at the woman, and went out. She glanced after him, saw the wagon, the children crouched close to it, the bystanders, and across the street, the two armed men from the saloon, standing close to the wall, rolling cigarettes.
When she turned to her husband again, his eyes were closed. He breathed through slightly parted lips, slowly, with effort. She made a pack of cloth over his wound, smoothed back his hair. She looked at him out of her strangely mild blue eyes, and there was no sign of sorrow on her face except the little etched lines of pain about her lips.
She shook her head and went to the door. The bystanders watched her as she came out of the shop. The six-year-old ran to her and buried his face in her skirt. The other two children stood by the wagon, their frightened faces lifted to hers.
“Now, now,” she said, “it’s all right—you understand? Your pa’s just a little hurt, but he’s all right.” With surprising strength for so small a woman, she lifted the six-year-old onto the wagon seat. “Now you stay there, out of the sun.” She turned and saw that the bystanders had drifted away. The two men from the saloon had crossed the street and were standing near the wagon.
“What do you want?” she demanded of them.
“Nothin’, missus—only that’s a pretty boy you got a settin’ up there, a hell of a pretty boy.”
Slowly, softly, she said: “I’m not a person to hate. I’m not a person to hold bitterness. What you done, you done. Now get away from here.”
“Sure, missus, that’s what we like to hear, an’ maybe we won’t hold no grievance either. Only we were thinking maybe you didn’t see nobody shoot your man. Maybe there didn’t anybody shoot him, an’ it was just an accident. Maybe you could make up your mind that it was an accident because that’s one hell of a pretty little boy you got up there.”
She turned to glance at the child, and then back to the two men, who were puffing on their cigarettes, their hats tilted back on their heads.
“Get out of here,” she whispered.
“Sure, missus. That’s a right pretty kid.”
“Get out of here!”
They strolled away. The girl and boy pressed close to her, but she seemed hardly to notice them, staring straight ahead of her at nothing.
“You get into the wagon, both of you,” she said. “A body’s got trouble enough. You get into the wagon an’ mind your brother.”
She went back into the store, and sat down by her husband. She made a fan of some old newspaper, and waved it over him to cool him. He still lay with his eyes closed. She was sitting like that when the fat man returned with the doctor. The doctor was an elderly man; thin, unshaven, he had a white mustache and a small white beard.
“This is the doctor, ma’am,” the fat man said. “I don’t know your name; mine’s Jed Logan. This is Doc Hartly. He’ll see to your husband.”
The doctor nodded, took off his jacket, and started to roll up his sleeves
. He had small gray eyes that darted from her to her husband.
She rose and turned to the doctor. “My name’s Martha Wesley. That’s my husband, Jim. I guess he’s hurt bad.”
“Maybe he is an’ maybe he ain’t,” the doctor said. “There ain’t no use thinkin’ he is—yet.”
“Thank you. We don’t have much money, but I guess I can pay what you ask.”
“I ain’t askin’ yet.” He opened his bag and bent over the wounded man. Logan took her arm and led her to the back of the shop, through to a little room that held a cot bed, a table and a few chairs.
“Sit down,” he told her. “you sit down and rest. I guess you need some rest. I’ll fix you a cup of coffee.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Sure. Sometimes, there’s nothing I like much as a cup of coffee, hot as the weather is.”
There was a coffeepot warming on the stove. He poured a cup of coffee and set it in front of her.
“Thank you. You’ve been good to me.”
“I’m sort of making up for the way our town treated you, I suppose. Clover City’s an up-and-coming place, but a little strange, a little strange.”
She drank the coffee. It was good, warm; in spite of the heat, she was cold inside. She liked the fat man who sat across from her. She wanted to like someone, not to feel completely in terror of the place.
“Why did they shoot him?” she asked. “Why?”
“They’ve shot others, ma’am. They’ve thieved and murdered.”
“But why?”
“Because they’re bad, ma’am. Because they’re strong, and here, on the edge of things, strength counts. Because there’s no law here yet, except the law of the gun, and they’ve got the guns.”
“Aren’t there decent people here, men with wives and children?”
“Sure,” the fat man nodded. “I’m decent sometimes, so is Doc. There are plenty of small dirt farmers, small cattlemen. But they’re afraid. We’re all afraid. They were even afraid to help you with your man.”
“You weren’t,” she said.
“No—” The fat man leaned back and looked at the ceiling. “I got no wife, I got no kids. I’m a used-up newspaperman and Doc’s a used-up medico. I’ve seen it coming, and I’m beginning to talk back. It’s a pity I’m not a fighting man, Mrs. Wesley, but I can set type. If you can tell me who shot your husband …?”