Raintree County

by Ross Lockridge

  —I’ll do my best, folks.

  In front of the Saloon, Cash Carney was waiting, leaning against the plateglass. He took off his derby and fanned himself with it, though there wasn’t a trace of sweat on his elegant face, smelling of lotion. His hair was slicked back flat from a middle part. He tipped the ash from his cigar and swung open his coat, revealing a gold chain on his spotless shirt. He plucked out a watch and cradled it in his hand.

  —We got two hours, yet, John. Everything’s set. By the way, all of the other contestants withdrew from the Race, and it’s just between you and Flash.

  —Look, Cash, I’d rather not go through with this business of getting Flash drunk. I think I can beat him sober.

  —It’s all fixed, Cash said. Jake is all set with the fake bottle, and honest, it looks just like whiskey. Hell, they’ll never know the difference.

  —They say Garwood is riding herd on Flash to see that he doesn’t get drunk. Garwood and the Clarion crowd have a lot of money on this race, and they don’t aim to lose it if they can help it. Suppose Garwood smelled a rat.

  —I tell you, Cash said, only Jake and I and you and your brother, Zeke know anything about it. I told Jake if he blabbed to anybody, he’d lose his job.

  —Garwood has a way of finding things out, Johnny said. It’s been weeks since we made the plan.

  —A man has to take some risks, Cash said. After all, I got my money out at two to one. But I can’t get any more takers at those odds after the way you run in that race at Middletown Fair last Saturday. I told you to hold yourself in a little.

  —I was nervous.

  —You didn’t have to spreadeagle the field by ten yards, Cash said. How do you feel?

  —Nervous, Johnny said.

  In the plateglass of the Saloon, his young head was framed with rainbow colors. While he was fixing his bowtie, a familiar image emerged from the door of the reflected Court House and strode importantly through the crowd.

  —Well, men, Garwood Jones said, I see you’re here early. Suppose we have a little drink before the Race. On me.

  Garwood laughed a throaty baritone, removed his straw hat, and studied himself in the plateglass, touching his fat young cheeks and sculpturing his black hair. He took out a cigar and lit up, gently weaving his bulky shoulders as he puffed the tip to flame. Johnny watched Garwood closely, but the handsome blue eyes were veiled in cynical amusement.

  Small boys were already out with firecrackers. The Square was filling with people. Venders and showmen were drawing the crowd. Workmen were putting the finishing touches on a platform built halfway out from the edge of the court house yard into the street. American flags were limp flares of color in the windless air. It promised to be a hot day.

  —You wouldn’t want to take a little more easy money, would you, Garwood? Cash asked, watching Garwood sharply.

  —It would be stealing from a friend, Garwood said. By the way, Perkins is sober. I hired three strong boys to watch him.

  Several citizens were collecting around the Saloon, and now and then one went in for a drink.

  —Folks, said an oily baritone booming from a shady place on the court house lawn, I trust you all perceive this round, elongate object that I hold here in my hand. Why, Perfessor, you say, that’s nothing but a bottle, as any fool can plainly see. Ah, ha, my friends, so it is. But, friends, this bottle—this simple, plain, and ordeenary bottle contains . . .

  —The Perfessor’s open letter caused quite a sensation, didn’t it? Garwood said. By the way, did I show you the letter he sent me along with it?

  Garwood pulled a letter from his pocket and read,

  —Dear Garwood,

  Enclosed find a noble prose, the which I hope you will print in the columns of your paper. It is full of high sentence and pious fraud and alas! a certain seed of truth. If you see Lydia, tell her I love her. Spit in the Reverend’s face for me. As for yourself, boy, study my example, and get the hell out of Raintree County before someone gets to you with a shotgun.

  Your ob’t servant, etc., etc.,

  JERUSALEM WEBSTER STILES

  Garwood borrowed a copy of a New York paper from a near-by citizen and began to read it.

  —Shucks, a citizen said, nobody believed that letter, but it was a nice thing for him to do.

  —Tell you the truth, a second citizen said, I sort of hoped he’d git away with her.

  —Seems to me, the first citizen said, I recommember you were part of the posse and carried a rope.

  —I did that, the second citizen said. I already had the noose tied in it.

  —Tell you the truth, a third citizen said, I always liked that there Perfessor Stiles. He warn’t a bad cuss, at that. Shucks, you couldn’t zackly blame ’im.

  —If you fellers want my personal opinion, the second citizen said, I allays thought Reverend Gray was an old stinkball. I’m glad he’s went and left the County. Besides, my folks never believed in total immersion nohow.

  Several men were in front of the Saloon now, reading newspapers and talking.

  —That dern balloon went over Fort Wayne day before yesterday, a citizen said. I wisht we’d see one around here.

  Everybody looked up at the sky speculatively. This was the summer of balloon ascensions. The newspapers were full of stories about big canvas bags blowing around America like winddriven birds, tearing along on high gales, dropping ballast, collapsing unpredictably, spewing their occupants out on far waters and wildernesses.

  —It’s jist one dern thing after another this summer, a citizen said. Seem like ever’body’s tryin’ to think up some damfool way to git ’emselves kilt fancy. And folks eggs ’em on to it.

  —Like this dern Frenchman whatshisname, a second citizen said. The tightrope walker.

  —Blondin.

  —That’s him. He ain’t satisfied no longer to cross Niagara Falls on a wire. He’s got to carry a man across on his shoulders.

  —You mean tew stan’ thar and tell me he aims tew carry a man across with ’im?

  —That’s whut I said.

  —Well, I declare tew tell! thar might be one man dumb enough to dew a thing like walk a wire over Niagara Falls, but shorely they ain’t tew.

  —O, ain’t they! They’s another one besides—an American. Leave me to have that paper a minute, Garwood. Lookee here, now, here’s where it says—

  The man flapped pages, searching.

  —Yes, sir, friends, boomed the great voice of redemption from the court house lawn, if this bottle that I hold here in my hand doesn’t afford you all the marvellous . . .

  —Here she is, the man said. Right here. John, you read that fer us, will yuh? I ain’t got my specs.

  Johnny read:

  —’I am an American and a native of Rhode Island. This will show that Americans is as bold and as smart as a Frenchman. I have been in the business about 2 years and have performed on a slack wire, one so small that it is scarcely perceptible. But I could walk on the edge of a razor.’ A program of exhibitions is announced. Terrific ascension, etc. The Great American phenomena, Professor Sweet, Music by Full Military Band. Admission only 10 cents.

  A general invitation is extended all around

  To the people of the Union in every state and town,

  To come and witness this great and daring feat

  Of walking on the mammoth rope by the great Professor Sweet.

  —Hmmmm, Garwood said. Look what’s coming.

  Johnny looked up and saw Susanna Drake in a white dress walking between two other young women. Passing the Saloon, she saw Johnny and Garwood, and a smile of pleasure and confusion tugged at her pouted lips, fluttered and faded on her face. She touched her white satin dress at the shoulder and switched her red parasol back and forth with a lithe fury that seemed to flow from her body into the stalk of the parasol.

  —Hello, Johnny. Hello, Uncle Garwood.

  The boys said hello.

  —What a pair! a citizen said.

  Johnny felt wildly excited
as he thought of the party of young people who were going to Paradise Lake that afternoon.

  —That’s that there girl from the South, another citizen said. She’s goin’ to award the prize to the winner of the Race.

  —Say, a citizen said, they’ve done had another rape case down there. It’s in the paper.

  —Where’s that? Garwood said. I missed that.

  He took the paper out of Johnny’s hand, lipped his cigar, and flapped pages, eager fingered.

  —Page three, bottom of the second colyum, the citizen said. A nigger raped a white woman down in Alabammy. They lynched ’im.

  —Serves the black bastard right, Garwood Jones said, walking his cigar up and down his mouth while holding the paper in both hands. Here it is.

  —And now, friends, boomed the baritone voice from the court house lawn, I hope you will pardon me if I offer a little medical advice of an intimate character, but I am sure the enlightened intelligence of the audience I see before me makes it possible for me to talk on a subject highly important to both sexes. This little bottle which I hold here, and which—mark my words, Gentlemen and Ladies—and which, I intend to give away free with the other bottle I have just demonstrated . . .

  —Hi there! Garwood said. What are we wasting our time in Indiana for? And there’s a whole mountainful of gold in the glorious West. Folks are swarming out to Pike’s Peak. It’s like Forty-Nine all over again.

  Garwood plucked the cigar out of his mouth and peered keenly at the crowded buggies across the street.

  —Hold this paper for me a minute, sprout, he said.

  He walked across the street and leaning head and shoulders into a buggy helped a young woman down.

  It was Nell Gaither, whom Johnny hadn’t seen since a certain afternoon on the Shawmucky which had resulted in a letter requesting him to put from his mind forever all recollections of his unworthy but repentant Nell. From parasol to shoes, she was dressed in a complete new outfit. Her long, graceful body bent prettily as she stepped down. She pushed her heavy gold hair back a little from her ears and looked tranquilly up and down the street. Her eyes touched Johnny with a lingering look and poured a green excitement on him. A faint, faint smile touched the corner of her lovely mouth, her cheeks paled and were then faintly flushed with scarlet. She opened her parasol suddenly and knocked Garwood’s straw hat off.

  Everyone laughed, including Garwood, and Nell laughed nervously, and Garwood retrieved his hat, and Nell walked away into the crowd alone.

  Johnny studied the isthmus of her waist and the bellshaped continent of her skirt, green with flowered figures worked into the cloth. A rush of longing went over him. Shutting his eyes, he saw his strong young body floating in green water warm in the sunlight. And this water was between wide banks in summertime, and a smooth oar made wounds in the pale flesh of a river of floating flowers.

  A high, hornloud voice whipped across his ears.

  —Well, I’ll be hogtied and turned in a barl!

  Advancing the first of a throng, longlegged, opencoated, with a red bowtie at his throat, Flash Perkins was crossing the street toward the Saloon. Flash’s wide hat was pushed back on his head. The brown shag of his hair shot out and over his forehead. His white teeth smiled savagely through his beard. His forehead twitched upward. His blue eyes glared excitement and good humor. He walked flinging his feet out sideways and swinging his hands, half made into fists.

  Everyone within hearing stopped and began to move in toward the Saloon. Johnny didn’t shift his position against the window, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if Flash had walked right into him. Flash stopped, however, and putting his hands on his hips, and spreading his feet apart, leaned his powerful chest and shoulders far back and . . .

  PRE-BOUT SHOWDOWN

  (Epic Fragment from the Mythic Examiner)

  At the weighing-in ceremonies, these two marvellous specimens of American manhood flexed and unflexed their muscles for the delectation of an admiring throng. Small boys trampled each other for the privilege of palping the bicipital bulge of the Champion. When the two had stripped, the crowd withdrew to a reverent distance, while several ladies swooned with high yelps. Those who had suggested prior to the bout that the Champion had acquired too much embonpoint in the pleasant dissipations of vine and venery were obliged to confess that seldom had they seen a more magnificent marvel of mature manhood. In contrast, the Challenger appeared a very stripling. But the boyish mop of his sunset-tinted hair suggested the mane of the young lion. Tall, slender, and fair, he lacked the robust figure of the Champion, and yet there was a light in his blue eyes that bespoke a steely determination to win. All in all, the pre-bout meeting between these two worldfamous athletes was in the best tradition of good clean American . . .

  —Put ’er there, boy! Flash said. Le’s see have you got any force in your hand.

  Johnny Shawnessy, whose nervous hands were strong out of all proportion to his size, took hold of Flash’s big fist. They ground at each other’s knuckles, smiling at each other through gritted teeth. It was a draw.

  —How about a little drink with me before the Race? Flash said. This goddam Garwood Jones won’t let me have a drop, but I figger if we both had a drink, it’d be all right.

  Johnny almost gasped—it sounded so easy. Cash nudged him in the ribs.

  —Well, Johnny said, I don’t know as I ought to.

  —Now look here, John, Cash said, you’re to do no drinkin’. You aren’t use to it. You don’t know what it’ll do to you.

  Garwood didn’t say anything, but stood smoking his cigar and trying the flesh of his cheek.

  —Hell, I forgot this boy ain’t even weaned yet! Flash said. Flash’s toadies laughed.

  —You goin’ to let him git away with that, young Shawnessy? one of them said.

  —Heck, no! Johnny said. I can beat this man running or drinking. Come on.

  Flash Perkins gave a great laugh and hit Johnny between the shoulderblades.

  —Come on, Garwood! he yelled. It’s O.K. now, ain’t it, boy?

  Garwood didn’t say anything, but followed Johnny and the rest of the crowd into the Saloon, as Flash walked through the batwing doors without bothering to put out his hand. Johnny and Flash went over to the bar and each put a foot on the brass rail. Half a hundred men shoved into the Saloon and crowded around the two competitors. Everyone was talking at once.

  —Johnny Shawnessy is goin’ to drink with Flash Perkins, a citizen said.

  —Hell, he can’t do that, another citizen said. Ain’t nobody in Raintree County can drink with that crazy buck glass for glass.

  —Say, it’d be smart, a third citizen said, to take a little more of Carney’s money. They say this Shawnessy kid is fast as greased lightnin’, but that whiskey’ll kill ’im.

  —What’ll it be, boys? Jake the barkeep said.

  He was a nervous young man in a white apron.

  —You name it, and I’ll drink it, Flash said to Johnny.

  —What have you got? Johnny said.

  —Here’s a couple bottles bourbon, the barkeep said. Raw stuff. Right out a the still.

  He got two water tumblers and opened both bottles.

  —Each boy can have a bottle, he said.

  Just then two men in the Clarion crowd grabbed Cash Carney and pulled him out of the ring and began to talk bets at two to one. Meanwhile, the barkeep poured one of the tumblers full, set it down in front of Flash, took the other bottle, and started to pour for Johnny.

  —Just a minute there! boomed an authoritative voice.

  Garwood Jones leaned over the counter, pointed to the bottle, and said,

  —Let’s have those drinks poured from the same bottle.

  The barkeep looked at Johnny, and Johnny looked around for Cash, but Cash was clear out of sight. The barkeep hesitated and smiled a queer smile. He tried to bluff.

  —You mean to say——he began in a small voice.

  —I mean to say, Garwood said in his doublebass, full vol
ume, that I don’t want any shenanigans around here. Let’s have it fair and square and both boys drinking from the same bottle.

  The barkeep shrugged his shoulders, put the bottle back on a shelf. He took the first bottle and poured a short tumblerful for Johnny.

  —Fill it up! Garwood said, the trace of a laugh coming into his voice. Fill that goddam glass up!

  The barkeep shrugged his shoulders and complied. He set the glass down in front of Johnny.

  Johnny looked at the tumblerful of whiskey. It was a beautiful amber fluid with a few clear bubbles at the edges. A dense wall of sweaty male bodies and flushed faces shut him in.

  —Jesus, boy! a man whispered, you better quit right now. Flash Perkins was weaned on that stuff.

  Johnny looked around for Cash and saw him waving his cigar from the corner.

  —You all right, John? he yelled.

  —I guess so, Johnny said weakly.

  Everybody laughed. Garwood’s eyes were innocent and remote as he boomed,

  —All right, drink up, boys! Let’s get started here. I’ll have a little of that myself, Jake, but make mine just half. I can’t stick it with these Cold Water Army people.

  Everybody laughed. Flash Perkins took his glass and stuck it into his grinning beard. It gurgled in his throat like water. Johnny Shawnessy picked up the tumbler and . . .

  ROUND ONE

  (Epic Fragment from the Mythic Examiner)

  Without more ado, the referee withdrew and the bruising contest began. Nervous but plucky, the fairhaired hope from the Upper Shawmucky advanced with a tentative left hand while the Champion, serenely confident, took the opening gambit in stride. He seemed not to be conscious of the stiff wallop that caught him flush in the puss. The Challenger on the other hand was seen to absorb a jolt in the midsection that staggered him and made him stare and hang on. The remainder of the first round was without incident, and . . .

  —How did it go, John? Garwood said, after everyone had stopped laughing and the tears had left Johnny’s eyes.

  Johnny stood holding the empty glass.

  —Nothing to it, he said.

  —Come on, Flash yelled. Here, give us another glass. I’m thirsty.

  —Not that it affects me the least little bit, Johnny said, but I just don’t see what you guys get out of it. It tastes awful.