Memories of Another Day

by Harold Robbins

  Morris almost fainted with the pain as the deputies unceremoniously hauled him to his feet. They started down the steps, the crowd staring at him with curiosity but making a path for them.

  Behind him, he heard the sheriff’s voice. “Now all you good folk clear the square an’ go home. Leave the law to take its rightful course.”

  Chapter 16

  Jeb had just hitched his mule to the plow on the west field when he saw the wagon coming out of the forest down the road. There were two men sitting up front as the mule pulled wearily at the wagon behind it. They were still too far away for Jeb to recognize them. He clucked to the mule and began to plow the first furrow. It would take them another half-hour at least to reach him.

  It was almost an hour, and Jeb had started his third long furrow, by the time they got there. He halted his mule, dropped the reins and walked over to the road to greet them. He recognized one of the men by the heavy broad-brimmed black hat he wore. It was Preacher Dan, the circuit-riding minister who covered the countryside around Fitchville. Idly he wondered what the minister was doing up this way. Usually he showed up only for weddings, christenings and funerals.

  As the wagon drew opposite him, he recognized the other man. Roscoe Craig. He took off his hat and wiped his forehead with his bare arm. It was warm in the morning sun. The wagon stopped. He started toward it, smiling. “Preacher Dan,” he began, then stopped abruptly, the smile fading.

  The minister, a tall, heavyset man, climbed down from the wagon and came toward him. “I got bad news fer you, Jeb.”

  Jeb looked at him, then up at Roscoe. Roscoe’s face was gray and weary. Without speaking, Jeb walked around to the back of the open wagon and looked in. The two coffins, covered by a tarpaulin, lay side by side.

  He heard the minister’s heavy footsteps as he came to his side. Without looking at him, he asked, “Molly Ann an’ Jimmy?” He didn’t need an affirmative answer. He already knew.

  Still staring at the cheap pine coffins, he asked in a dull voice, “What happened?”

  The minister didn’t answer. It was Roscoe who turned to him from the front of the wagon. “They were shot in front of the courthouse, the day before yesterday.” His voice was bitter. “We would’ve brung ’em before, but the coroner wouldn’ release us the bodies. We figgered you’d want ’em buried t’home ruther than in town.”

  Jeb nodded. “That’s right. Thank ’e kindly.” He looked up at Roscoe. “Who done it?”

  “Clinton Richfield and two Pinkertons,” Roscoe said. “They was layin’ fer him, aroun’ the corner of the porch. He didn’ stan’ a chance. He didn’ even have no gun on him. Molly Ann ran to he’p him an’ they shot her too.”

  The lines of Jeb’s face were stonelike. He climbed into the wagon and lifted the tarpaulin from the coffins. He raised the lid of each coffin in turn and looked inside. He took a deep breath, his mouth suddenly dry. Slowly, his hands trembling, he lowered the lids. He looked up at Roscoe again. “The sheriff that done this in jail?”

  Roscoe shook his head. “It was self-defense, they claimed. He got off.”

  “But you said Jimmy had no gun,” Jeb said.

  “He didn’t. I was there when he put it in the drawer in his kitchen,” Roscoe said quickly. “They lied.”

  Jeb’s pale eyes were cold. “Where are they now?”

  “The Pinkertons lef’ town,” Roscoe said. “On’y one around is Clint.”

  Jeb nodded. He turned and looked down at Preacher Dan, standing in the road behind the wagon. “You come with me up to the house to tell Miz Huggins. Then while you’re comfortin’ her, Roscoe an’ me’ll prepare the graves.”

  Preacher Dan returned his gaze. “I don’t want you to be thinkin’ evil thoughts, Jeb. There’s been too much killin’ already. Remember, ‘Vengeance is mine,’ saith the Lord.”

  Jeb climbed down from the wagon without answering. “I’ll fetch my mule an’ we’ll go up to the house,” he said, going toward the west field. He paused at the edge of the field and looked back. “Nail the coffins shut,” he said. “I don’ want fer Miz Huggins to see Molly Ann all shot up like that.” His voice broke. “She was sech a purty girl.”

  ***

  The last shovel of dirt fell on the graves. Slowly, Jeb picked up the two small wooden crosses and pressed them into the earth, one at the head of each grave. He stepped back and looked at them.

  The language burned into the wooden crosses with a hot iron poker was simple. One read, MOLLY ANN SIMPSON, our daughter; the other, next to it, said simply, JIMMY SIMPSON, her husband.

  He looked at Marylou, standing at the foot of the graves, the children around her. Her face was lined and filled with pain. Unconsciously her arms had spread out, seeming to draw the children to her. She raised her eyes and met his gaze. “I’ll fix Mr. Craig and the minister some lunch before they start back.”

  Jeb nodded.

  “Come, children,” she said. The children began to follow her. All through the service they had been very quiet. Jeb wondered if they really understood what had happened. Now they all began to chatter almost at the same time.

  Only one question stood out in Jeb’s mind. It came from Alice, the youngest girl, who was now eight. “Does it mean now that Molly Ann’s in Heaven, she cain’t no longer come to visit us?”

  Richard, with the superiority of his eleven years, answered, “When they’re dead, nobody comes back, ’cept if’n they’re a ghost.”

  “Will she be a good ghost or a bad ghost?” Alice wanted to know.

  Rachel, now the oldest daughter, answered in an annoyed tone of voice, “There is no sech things as ghosts. Besides, Molly Ann is now an angel in Heaven at God’s side. An’ he ain’t about to let her come back.”

  By that time Marylou and the children were down the hill out of earshot. Jeb turned to the two men. “I think a bit of squeezin’s mought be of he’p.”

  Preacher Dan nodded. “Cain’t hurt none. I’m bone-dry.”

  “Foller me up to the still,” Jeb said. “I’ll lead the way.”

  ***

  After lunch, Jeb and Roscoe went out front, while Preacher Dan remained in the kitchen to speak to Marylou. The men sat down on the steps and lit up small black cigars. “I don’ unnerstan’,” Jeb said.

  Roscoe looked down at the ground. “It was the on’y way they could break the strike. Ever’body trusted Jimmy. Now that he’s gone, they’s nobody. Already some of ’em are goin’ back to the mill.”

  “I don’ know ’bout that,” Jeb said. “The Richfields allus been good friends. Why’d Clint do a thing like that?”

  “His pappy’s a mill foreman. The whole family’s scabbed through the strike.”

  “That’s no cause fer killin’,” Jeb said. “We never done nothin’ to them.”

  Roscoe glanced at Jeb. The mountain man had no conception of the differences between the workers and the millowners. To Jeb, everything was translated into very personal terms. Feuds were one thing—he had grown up with that; the strike was something else. He would never understand it. But then again, he couldn’t blame Jeb. He himself had not understood until after his father and his eldest son had been killed. At first, he too had been fighting a very personal war. But then he had come to understand just what it really was. It was obvious to him now that it was power and money feeding on the labor of people to create more power and money for itself.

  “I know how you feel, Jeb,” he said awkwardly. “I los’ my paw and my oldest to them.”

  Jeb looked at him. “And what did you do?”

  “You know what I did,” Roscoe answered. “I fought back. But now I don’ know.”

  “Don’ know what?”

  “We been talkin’, my woman an’ me,” Roscoe said. “We don’ see no chance here now. Mebbe we’ll go up Detroit way. We hear the auto companies are hirin’.”

  Jeb was silent. After a moment he spoke. “I don’ know as you’d be content up there. Yer farmin’ people, not city folk.”

/>   “What other choice we got?” Roscoe questioned. “It’s between workin’ an’ starvin’. My woman got letters from her kinfolk. They makin’ good money up there. Three dollars a day, sometimes more.”

  They fell silent for a long while. Finally, Jeb spoke. “I’ll be comin’ down to town.”

  Roscoe looked at him. Jeb’s face was impassive. “When?” he said.

  “Tomorrow mornin’.” Jeb looked at Roscoe. “Kin I count on you?”

  Roscoe didn’t say anything for a moment, then nodded slowly. “You know you kin.”

  ***

  She heard him stirring in the night. Then she felt him leave the bed and walk silently from the room. She lay there until she couldn’t stand it any longer. She got out of bed and went into the kitchen. It was empty.

  She opened the door and looked out into the yard. He wasn’t there either. She went out into the chill night air and looked up the hill to the small cemetery. He was standing in the pale moonlight, looking down at the graves. The night chill ran through her.

  Quickly she went back into the house and wrapped a warm shawl around her, then went up the hill to him. He heard her footsteps but did not look up. The small wooden crosses shone silver with the dew of night.

  After a moment he spoke. “There was no reason fer Clint Richfield to shoot her. She was on’y a girl an’ no part of their fight.”

  “You musn’t dwell on it,” she said. “I’m tryin’ not to.”

  “The Richfields ’n’ us’n has allus been friends. It don’ make sense.”

  “The Lord’s will be done,” she said. “We got to count our blessin’s. We got the other children, an’ Dan’l’s doin’ us proud. We got to be thankful fer that.”

  He turned to her. “Yer soundin’ like Preacher Dan.”

  She looked up into his face. “He makes sense. Look to the future, not the past, he says.”

  “It’s easy fer him to say.” Jeb’s voice was flat. “It’s not his daughter layin’ in that grave.” Abruptly he started back down the hill to the house.

  She watched him walking down the hill, then turned to look at the grave for a moment before starting down the hill after him. By the time she entered the kitchen, he was sitting at the table with the shiny black Winchester rifle in his hand and was slipping shells into the magazine. A cold dread came over her. “No, Jeb,” she said. “Don’ do it.”

  He looked at her with the distant eyes of a stranger. He didn’t answer.

  “No more killin’, Jeb,” she said. “It won’ bring ’er back.”

  “You don’t unnerstan’,” he said. “It’s a matter of honor. How would it look if’n I let Clint git away with it?”

  “I don’ care how it would look!” she said passionately. “You prove nothin’ startin’ a blood feud with the Richfields. They’ll come right back fer us an’ then we’ll go after them an’ soon there’ll be none of us lef’ to matter.”

  “I didn’t start it by killin’ one of them,” he said stubbornly.

  “It don’ matter who started it. On’y that you don’ continue it! We got other children to think about. I don’ want ’em to be growin’ up ’thout a father.”

  “Nobody goin’ to kill me,” he said.

  “How can you be sure?” she cried.

  He didn’t answer for a moment. Then he got to his feet. “Better I’d be dead an’ layin’ in a grave up there beside my daughter than to have the worl’ lookin’ down on me fer a coward.”

  She moved toward him, pressing herself against him, her hands gripping his shirt. “We kin have another baby, Jeb,” she whispered. “Another Molly Ann.”

  He took a deep breath and slowly unfastened her hands and placed them back at her sides. “No, Marylou,” he said gently. “That’s not the answer neither, an’ you know it.”

  Through a blur of tears, she watched him walk to the door. He stopped and looked back at her. “I’ll be back by nightfall tomorrow,” he said.

  Somehow she found her voice. “Better wear somethin’ warm,” she said. “The night air is cold.”

  He nodded. “I’m takin’ my sheepskin coat.”

  Then he was gone, and she sank numbly into a chair. After a moment, she heard him clucking softly to the mule, then the rattle of the wagon as they went out of the yard onto the dark night road.

  Chapter 17

  Sheriff Jason Carter stomped angrily around the office in the rear of the courthouse. Through the open door at the back of the room he could hear a deputy giving coffee to the occupants of the small detention cellblock. Only four of the cells were occupied this morning. The usual haul of nighttime drunks and fights. Nothing special about them. For the first time in more than a year, the town was really quiet. There had been no demonstrations by the strikers. Already some of them were drifting back to work. There was no reason for him to feel the way he did. Still, he had a sense of danger that was making him nervous and jumpy as a skittish mule.

  The deputy returned from the cellblock. “They all fed, Jase,” he said. “What ya want done with ’em?”

  Carter looked at them dourly. “They got any money on ’em?”

  The deputy shrugged his shoulders.

  “If they have, grab a dollar fine off’n each of ’em an’ throw ’em out,” the sheriff said.

  “An’ if they haven’t?” the deputy asked.

  “Throw ’em out anyway. No reason fer us to buy ’em lunch.” He turned to the cabinet as the deputy left the office and pulled out a sheaf of papers. Swearing softly to himself, he went back to his desk and sat down, spreading the papers in front of him. He picked up a pencil and began scribbling laboriously on the sheets. This was the worst part of the job. Too many forms to fill out. Damn nosy state government. What business was it of theirs what went on in his county anyway?

  Concentrating on his paperwork, he almost jumped out of his skin when the outside door burst open and Clint Richfield came in.

  Clint was pale and sweating. “I think Jeb Huggins is in town!”

  The sheriff’s anger erupted. “God damn you, Clint!” he roared. “Why didn’t you git outta town lak I tol’ you?”

  “I couldn’ see no reason to run,” Clint said. “I was jes’ performin’ my sworn duty.”

  “Your sworn duty didn’ include killin’ the girl,” the sheriff said sarcastically.

  “I tol’ you I saw him goin’ fer a gun,” Clint said.

  The sheriff stared at him. “Dead men don’t reach fer guns.”

  “How’d I know he was dead?”

  “Christ!” the sheriff swore. He looked down at his desk. Clint had been so well drilled in the story that he believed it himself. He pushed the papers on his desk back into a pile and looked up. “How d’ya know Jeb’s in town?” He got to his feet heavily. “Anybody see him?”

  “My kid brother saw a strange mule ’n’ wagon out front of the Craig house on his way to school this mornin’. He came back to tell me.”

  “Mought be somebody else’s,” the sheriff said. Inside himself he knew better. He drew a deep breath and took his gun belt from the peg on the wall behind him and strapped it on. He took out his big Ingersoll and looked at it. “The eight-fifteen’ll be through here in about a half an hour. I’m goin’ to put you on it.”

  Clint stared at him. “I gotta git home an’ git my clothes.”

  “We’ll send you your clothes,” the sheriff said. “I got ’nough to fret about ’thout havin’ another blood feud on my han’s.”

  The deputy returned from the cellblock. “They gone,” he said, placing three crumpled dollar bills on the desk. “They all paid up ’cept Tut. He didn’ have no money.”

  “Tut never has no money,” the sheriff said, picking up the bills and putting them in his pocket. “The cells clean?”

  The deputy nodded. “I made ’em sweep an’ clean up afore I let ’em go.”

  “Good.” The sheriff nodded. “Now you take over here. Clint an’ me’s goin’ out fer a bit.”

  “
Ain’t you goin’ to git some deputies?” Clint asked nervously.

  The sheriff shook his head. “Don’ want to attract no attention. I know Jeb Huggins, we was kids together. An army wouldn’ keep him off’n yer back. The way I figger it, we mosey along nice ’n’ quiet down the back streets an’ come up on the railroad station from the far side of town.”

  The sweat ran down Clint’s cheeks. “But what if he finds us?”

  The sheriff’s voice was grim. “Then you better start prayin’ that I kin talk him out of it. Jeb’s won every shootin’ contest ’roun’ here fer the past twenty years.” He paused for a moment, then, seeing Clint’s fear, added, “But don’ worry—he won’ fin’ us.”

  Clint nodded, his Adam’s apple working tightly.

  The sheriff reached for his hat. “Okay, let’s go.” Clint started for the door. The sheriff stopped him. “Not that way,” he said. “We’ll go out through the jail door back of the building.”

  ***

  They came out back of the signal tower on the far side of the station. In the distance they heard the faint hoot of the train whistle. “You wait here,” the sheriff said, “whilst I go down to the station and have a look-see. Don’t you come out less’n I signal you.”

  “Yes, Jase.”

  “Stay outta sight, now,” the sheriff cautioned. “I don’ want anybody spotting you.”

  “I will, Jase,” Clint said, stepping back against the shadowed wall of the signal shack.

  The sheriff glanced at him, then crossed the tracks toward the station. From what he could see, there was no one there except the usual station crowd. Pokey, the stationmaster, was trying to look important, even though he had nothing to do. A few old men and George, the porter, were waiting for the train.

  Pokey was the first to see him as he stepped up onto the wooden platform in front of the station. “Howdy, Sheriff,” he called out in his singsong trainman’s voice. “What brings you down our way this mornin’? Plannin’ to leave town?” He broke into a laugh at his own joke.

  The sheriff didn’t laugh. “Not ’zactly.”